John sat, head bowed, listening to the words currently being exchanged between Cedric Diggory and Professor Sprout.

"I could hear a bit of a ruckus up there, yeah… Apparently Watson… I'm not sure of the full story..."

John could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation with the two speaking in such hushed voices, but knew nonetheless that all the blame was going to be placed on him. Beside him sat James and Michael, the latter with a recently healed and cleaned nose, and the three purposely avoided all eye contact with one another.

"Now, boys." spoke Sprout, redirecting her attention. "Cedric tells me that the three of you got into a bit of a scuffle. Care to tell me the details?"

John remained silent, gaze locked on his tattered and hopelessly uninteresting shoes. Speaking wouldn't help him in this scenario. Sure, he had acted in retaliation, but retaliation from what? Being called a 'fag'? The word itself brought bile to the back of John's throat and he fruitlessly tried to redirect his thoughts.

"Somebody? Anybody?" prompted Sprout.

"John punched Michael, ma'am." muttered James. "There's not much else to it."

"And John? Why did you feel the need to punch Michael?"

John felt sick. This was hopeless.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Dunno." he muttered.

"You don't know?"

John shook his head, willing his eyes to remain dry for the time being. "No, ma'am."

"So…" Sprout paused, as though she was trying desperately to understand the situation. "You just felt like it?"

John clutched the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white and tried desperately to calm his breaths. "Yep." he replied, popping the 'P'.

Sprout was going to think he was a psychopath. But anything was better than the truth.

He heard her exhale loudly. "Michael? Anything to add? Anything that might have provoked John?"

John listened intently.

"No, Professor Sprout. Like we said, he just hit me for no reason."

And boy, he had never wanted to scream louder in his life. He resisted shooting Michael a side-glare and simply kept his head down.

"Right. Well, in that case, you two," John assumed she was gesturing to Michael and James, "are dismissed. And as for you John, just stay here a moment longer."

John waited until Michael and James had shuffled out of the room before lifting his gaze. Cedric was still standing in the corner of the office, hands in pockets. Their eyes met and John quickly diverted his gaze. "Is he gonna leave, too?" He was aware he sounded slightly rude, but John couldn't bring it within himself to care in that moment. There were too many emotions racing through his head and he just wanted to be left alone.

"We're just going to discuss your detention, John. Nothing personal. Unless there's something you'd like to add now?"

He was tempted. Merlin, was he tempted. But he simply couldn't bring himself to say it, and instead shook his head. "He can stay then, I guess."

"Alright. You honestly look really torn about all this, John, so how does this sound? Ten points from Hufflepuff and an evening detention with Professor Snape?"

John shrugged. "That sounds fine, ma'am."

"Good… I'm glad. Cedric could you escort him back to his dormitory, please? And Mr Watson..."

John looked up, surprised at having been addressed by his surname.

"If something is wrong, please don't hesitate in letting me know. I don't bite." Professor Sprout offered him a warm, motherly smile, and John attempted a small grin in return.

"Thanks, Professor. I'll keep that in mind."

"No worries, John. I'll see you in Herbology tomorrow."

With that, Cedric and he began to make their way from the Greenhouses and back towards the castle, John's head down shamefully.

"You know…" the prefect began out of the blue. "Whatever it was they said, you could have told her. She's probably the most understanding teacher at this school."

John licked his lips. "It was nothing, don't worry about it."

Cedric paused suddenly, and John looked up, startled. "It was about that apprentice, Sherlock, wasn't it?"

"W-How?" John stuttered, eyes wide with uncertainty.

Cedric offered a sympathetic smile. "Knew it. It's just, uh… They talk a lot. In the Great Hall, y'know? Pretty nasty stuff, so I just figured..."

Swallowing uncomfortable, John shoved his hands in his (pajama) pockets. "What kinda stuff?"

"Like hell I'm telling you, kid." Cedric chuckled. "Seriously though, if it becomes more of an issue, talk to Sprout. Trust me." Cedric winked before turning and continuing on to the castle. John frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean? With a frown, John vowed to forget about it before following after Cedric, hoping to Merlin that detention with Snape tomorrow evening wouldn't be absolute torture.


The next day, and more importantly, detention, came much too quickly for John's liking. He'd lasted the whole day on three hours of sleep, utterly exhausted by the amount of protective spells he'd cast over his own bed. Frustrated and confused, John had completely disregarded his daily meeting with Sherlock, wallowing in his bed until 7:00pm came and it was time for detention.

He knocked on the door to Snape's office, nerves coiling in his stomach.

"Enter," came Snape's voice, and John prayed to a higher being that Snape was in a good mood today.

He entered hesitantly, poking his head around the corner.

"Yes, yes, come in, Mr Watson." Snape drawled impatiently, eyes lifting to study John.

"Sorry, sir." John swallowed thickly. "What would you like me to do, Professor?"

Snape flicked his head towards a desk, on which sat a roll of parchment, a quill, and four dirty cauldrons. "One hundred lines followed by a squeaky clean cauldron. Continue until I dismiss you."

John wanted to sink into the floor and never reappear. "Okay, sir. And what would you like me to write?"

Snape offered John a sour grin holding more resemblance to a grimace. "'I will not barbarically assault my housemates."

John gaped in disbelief at the audacity.

"Problem, Mr Watson?"

Morphing his frown into a smile, John shook his head forcefully. "Not at all, sir. I'll get right to it."

He'd finished one hundred and fifty lines and one cauldron before Sherlock made an appearance.

"John!" he'd exclaimed upon entering, features morphing between disappointment and confusion. "Why weren't you… Why aren't you?–"

"Mr Watson is currently serving detention, Holmes. You'd be in your right mind not to distract him." interrupted Snape, shooting Sherlock a knowing glare.

Sherlock stumbled, biting his lip anxiously. "Right. I'll just… fix those up." he gesticulated to a random bundle of equipment on the shelves by John's work station, and John suppressed a grin at Sherlock's utter transparency.

Snape harrumphed nonchalantly, rolling his eyes and redirecting his gaze back to the pile of essays on his desk. Making his way over awkwardly in an attempt to appear inconspicuous, Sherlock's head peaked over to study what John was writing, eyes widening in disbelief.

"What happened?!" he mouthed, concern overcoming his features.

"Nothing, don't worry." mouthed John in reply, shaking his head firmly and staring resolutely at the parchment before him.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "John," he whispered. "Please tell me."

John's head shot up to glare at Sherlock. "What does it look like?" he spat back.

Stepping back as though scalded, Sherlock blinked at John confusedly. "You hit someone? James?"

"Michael," corrected John. But he wasn't in the mood to talk. Why couldn't Sherlock just understand that?

"But why? What did he say to you?"

John sighed, putting his quill down. "Nothing, Sherlock. I just felt like it, okay?"

Sherlock shook his head frantically, stepping forward to tap his fingers on John's desk. "No. You're not like that. What did he say?"

John breathed deeply through his nose in a desperate attempt to calm down. Apparently, silence was not the correct answer.

"John? What did he –"

"I said nothing, Sherlock! For fuck's sake, just piss off!"

The room fell silent.

Sherlock stood, staring at John with wide, heartbroken eyes. His chest was expanding heavily, as though he was having trouble breathing, before all of a sudden he turned away from John and stormed from Snape's office.

John pushed back his chair hurriedly, standing to chase after his best friend. "Sherlock, wait!"

He'd fucked everything up. Of course he had. He'd ruined it all.

"Mr Watson. Sit back down." Snape sneered. "You're still serving detention in case it… slipped your mind."

John's fists clenched helplessly by his side. "But, he…"

"Sherlock will be fine. After that god awful display he obviously needs some time to himself."

Resolutely shaking his head, John looked at Snape desperately. "Please, sir. I need to apologise."

"And you can do so once the both of you have calmed down and collected yourselves. The faster you finish your detention the faster you can go find him. So sit down and finish your lines."

That was the end of the conversation. With tears threatening to spill, John finally surrendered and sat down, blurred vision spurring him to write even faster. Snape was a git, yeah. But John supposed he had a point.


John had never ended up finding Sherlock. After his detention with Snape he'd looked in all their usual spots – the Room of Requirement, the Black Lake and even the Great Hall – but alas, he was nowhere to be found. John wanted to die. It was no rocket science that Sherlock didn't have many friends, but John had let his anger get the best of him nonetheless. Their last conversation kept repeating itself in his head. How easy it would have been to say, "I'll tell you later when Snape's not around. It's not important, I promise." But instead, he'd chosen to be a massive twat, potentially chasing his best friend off forever (or an other indefinite amount of time.)

So when the first task of the Triwizard Tournament eventually rolled around, it was safe to say that John was a little less than enthused than the other students. He watched, of course, and cheered for Cedric. He had a little house pride, after all. But it just wasn't the same with that constant guilty conscience weighing him down. His year level housemates had all ditched him for the time being, John didn't have many friends in the other houses, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He was lonelier than ever. By the time all the Hufflepuff's were heading back to the common room to celebrate Cedric's success, John had had enough. He stayed for a short time to briefly congratulate Cedric, but excluding that, he made an effort to avoid everyone else. A majority of the seventh years (and a few of the sixth years) had made sure to bring an abundance of Firewhisky to share, meaning that John had no qualms in stashing some away in his satchel before ditching the after party.

He needed to find Sherlock.

Immediately, he headed for the Room of Requirement. It was the most logical place he could think of, and figured that if Sherlock wanted to be alone, that's where he would first go.

'I need a room to relax.'

'I need a room to relax.'

'I need a room to relax.'

He looked to where the door should have appeared, cursing at the sight of a simple blank wall. He gave it another go.

'I need to find Sherlock.'

'I need to find Sherlock.'

'I need to find Sherlock.'

His head shot over again, face melting with relief at the familiar large door in lieu of a wall. Breathing in deeply, John braced himself before pushing the door open, poking his head around the corner. While this room bore similarities to their usual, there were a few noticeable differences John found himself gaping at. First, all traces of the large bookshelf were gone completely. In its stead was instead another sofa on which Sherlock was currently lying, fervently playing a violin which John was certain he'd never seen before. He looked closer to gauge that Sherlock's eyes were closed, and decidedly shut the door behind him as gently as possible.

The music was, in simple terms, beautiful. John watched with wide, enraptured eyes as Sherlock effortlessly handled the fragile instrument, seemingly unaware of John's presence. It was a sight to behold, indeed. Carefully, John made his way to his usual armchair, collapsing onto it soundlessly and closing his eyes. He might have fallen asleep within a few minutes, too, if all of a sudden, the music hadn't come to a complete halt.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice quietly. Hesitantly.

"Hi, Sherlock." whispered John in reply. Turning his head around to face Sherlock, he tried to convey via expression how very remorseful he was. "That sounded beautiful, by the way."

Sherlock offered a half-smile in return, putting his violin down and moving to accompany John on the armchairs.

"It was the first task today, you know. Of the Triwizard Tournament."

"Oh?"

"Yeah… Hufflepuff are holding an after party to celebrate."

Sherlock quirked a brow. "And you aren't there because…?"

John shrugged bashfully. "Dunno. Figured I'd prefer to be here… with you."

At that, a kind of awkward silence overcame them and John looked away, licking his lips. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky and held it up to Sherlock. "Fancy a drink?"

Sherlock hummed. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

Grabbing a few glasses (which had miraculously appeared at John's will), John poured them both a sizable amount, reaching over to hand one to Sherlock. Sherlock took it from John's grasp gingerly, taking a sip and grimacing at the taste. John laughed fondly at his expression. "Let's just ignore the fact that it tastes like absolute bollocks, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned amusedly. "Of course."

With that, John slumped further into the sofa, taking a few large gulps. "I feel… rebellious." he confessed, grinning childishly.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, John. It's one drink."

"Mmm, that's where you're wrong." John teased, holding his bag up so that Sherlock could deduce the other bottle currently lying inside.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a bit, morphing into a grin. "Wow, John Watson really is a troublemaker. Who knew?"

John just smirked knowingly, taking another swig.

The two sat opposite, a companionable but slightly tense silence between them. In an effort to avoid talking about what had occurred a few nights ago, they simply continued to drink, half a bottle down much quicker than either had anticipated.

Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of courage, John straightened in his chair, a solemn expression overcoming his features.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, eyes partially dropped. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry. For yelling at you the other day. I was a prick and I had no right to treat you like shit."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh. Well then… Thank you for your apology, John."

John studied Sherlock's face carefully. "Do you forgive me?"

"That depends," started Sherlock, taking a small sip of his drink. "Are you going to tell me why you hit Michael?"

John took a sharp breath in. Of course. He should have expected the conversation to rear back this way. Mirroring Sherlock, John took a much larger sip of his drink, coughing slightly at the trademark burning sensation. "Maybe."

"John..." drawled Sherlock, sliding his foot forward to poke against John's softly. "Please, you can trust me."

John allowed his head to flop to the side. "I know I can trust you, silly. I just, I don't know… I don't even know why it scares me so much."

"Heh, silly. Here," Sherlock leaned forward to forcefully grab John's glass from his hand, pouring him another drink of Firewhisky which dribbled over the edges.

"Woah there, calm down." giggled John, taking the glass and bringing it immediately to his lips.

"Drink the whole glass. Then you can tell me why you hit Michael, I can forgive you, and we can live happily ever after."

"Are you encouraging me to get piss drunk so that I'll spill all my secrets?" John raised an eyebrow, attempting to wiggle it and failing miserably.

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face, concealing a chuckle. "Why John, your deduction skills are getting better by the day."

John's smile became wistful, and in high hopes, he brought his glass up to chug a few more mouthfuls of liquid courage. "Michael basically said he didn't want me sleeping near him anymore because I'm a fag."

And like warm breath in the morning air, Sherlock's smile was gone in an instant. "What?"

"That's why I punched him." John sighed. "I don't know, it was just all so sudden. They practically woke me up, started ganging up on me as though I owed them an excuse for hanging out with you, and then Michael went ahead and said that, and I just… snapped."

"John."

"And I don't even know why I got so defensive about it, y'know?"

"John."

"I mean. All that stuff they were saying, it's all... t-t –"

"John. Stop." Sherlock's voice was forceful this time, and John's voice drifted off into complete silence.

"Michael..." Sherlock spoke slowly, as though searching for the perfect word. "Is a dick. And I'm glad you punched him."

John stared with shimmering eyes, and wondered how someone so wonderful ever came into his life.

"And..." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'm gay. If that makes whatever you were about to say any easier."

Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

John could have died on the spot.

"Well," John coughed awkwardly. "Guess that makes two of us. Kinda. I mean… I'm bisexual. Not gay. But in a sense, we're both gay. 'Cause, you know, we both..." John was interrupted by an eruption of deep chuckles emitting from Sherlock.

"Very eloquent, John."

John felt his ears burn in humiliation. "Why, thank you."

Soon, they were topping up their drinks again, and John wasn't quite certain of when they'd gotten around to opening the second bottle.


"So I said to him, I said, "Listen here, Snapey. John was saving my ass from these nasty pricks, so you better let him off easy.""

John's laughter turned into a wheeze, throwing his head back joyously. "You didn't call him Snapey, Sher, don't tell fibs."

"John, John, John. Look, look here," Sherlock's fingers lifted to point at his nose, eyes crossing slightly in an effort to keep sight of them. "It didn't grow. I'm not telling fibs."

"Sherlock!" John laughed. "You're not Pinocchio."

"But Jooohhhnnn," whined Sherlock. "I'm a real boy!"

That was the last straw. John was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, and it felt good. Leaning forward, John felt himself about to slip from the chair, and hurriedly moved to stabilise himself using Sherlock's knee.

He blinked, taking a moment to realise just how provocative a position it was, and awkwardly lifted his hand with a small shrug. "I don't mind." he found himself saying.

Sherlock grinned, cheeks flushed red. "Anytime." he mumbled quietly.

It was so nice. Sitting there, across from Sherlock. Nobody else mattered in that moment. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

"Have I ever told you how amazing you are?" he slurred, leaning back in the armchair and allowing his feet to slide forward. At some point in the night, their shoes had been disposed off, and John reveled in the comfort his woolen socks provided.

"Mm, I can recall a few occasions, yes." Sherlock grinned, dopey. His feet moved to meet John's, entwining somewhere in the middle.

"Well, it's true. You're the most amazing person I've ever met. Annnddd… I don't care that you're a squib, you know."

Sherlock chuckled. "I should hope so, by now."

John wagged his finger. "No, I mean, I never did… Because, you know, Sherlock, magic is what you call, an um..."

"Gift from god?"

"Nope." John grinned. "An... unnecessity."

"An unnecessity?"

"Yeah. Unnecessity." John giggled.

Somewhere through the conversation, Sherlock had found the time to lean in much closer, and John swallowed thickly at their sudden proximity. He looked up at Sherlock through his lashes, bashful, and closely studied the features of the other boy's face. "You're very handsome. Have I told you that before?" he mumbled softly beneath his breath.

Sherlock shook his head softly. "That's a new one, actually."

John grinned wistfully, Sherlock's breath ghosting over his lips. "Well you are. Very handsome. And I'd very much like to kiss you now. I think."

"I think I'd like that very much."

Slowly inching forwatd to close the distance between them, John realised with a start that this was finally happening.

The kiss was hesitant, tender, filled to brim with curiosity, and John unwillingly found himself grinning against Sherlock lips. He allowed himself to savour the sensation of being this close – this intimate – and made sure to catalogue every detail. The feeling of stubble against his cheek, his nose squished against Sherlock's, and the way Sherlock lips seemed to linger everywhere they touched.

John's hands lifted to gently hold Sherlock's face between them, angling his head slightly in an effort to deepen the kiss. Sherlock hummed before pulling away reluctantly. "This is great, I assure you, but this position is just a tad uncomfortable right now."

Grinning, John shuffled back in his chair, gesturing for Sherlock to join him. "C'mere."

Sherlock didn't hesitate, crawling over awkwardly to kneel between John's legs. "You sure this is okay?"

"Positive." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down gently, engaging their lips once more.

Fingers buried deep in Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock's hands currently braced against his shoulders, John took the liberty of deepening the kiss, hesitantly probing Sherlock's lips with his tongue. He was rewarded with Sherlock's enthusiastic compliance, and John squeaked in shock at the sudden sensation of their tongues intertwining.

"Why on earth," he breathed, "haven't we thought to do this before?"

"Because we're both gay idiots who have no idea what we're doing."

John huffed a laugh. "I'd argue that at the moment, you know exactly what you're doing."

"Well, I'm glad one of us does. You're absolutey hopeless." quipped Sherlock, evoking another loud bout of laughter from John. He pulled away to instead bury his face against Sherlock's stomach, body quivering with mirth.

"John, no, wait. I'm not done kissing yet."

"Don't worry, you berk, neither am I."

John didn't think he was ever going to be done with this brilliant boy. Not for a long, long time.

And with that thought, their lips were meeting once again, awkwardly and clumsily and John wouldn't have it any other way. Because he was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

And in that moment, everything else was just an unnecessity.