"Sherlock."

Dizzy, dizzy...if the room would just stop spinning, maybe Sherlock would open his eyes. He feebly batted away the hands that were touching his cheeks, his forehead, his neck.

"Sherlock!"

Slowly, with a long groan, Sherlock cracked open his eyes. John was leaning over him- and was it sentiment or just the last vestiges of the potion that cast that aura around John's worried face? "You're glowing," Sherlock said idiotically. He licked his lips and tried again. "Irene..."

John frowned. "Gone. Along with her trunk and a lot of her things. I wasn't sure whether or not to report her disappearance to the headmaster, so I didn't."

"Good, good." Sherlock sat up slowly. His head felt three sizes too big; it tottered on his shoulders. A quick glance around the room affirmed what John had said, with one added detail: the Muggle photo strip was gone. He brought up the images in his mind and flipped through them, pausing on the last one, the kiss. That cheek; he knew that cheek. "Moriarty," he said softly.

"What?" John looked horrified. "Sorry, what? Moriarty? What's he got to do with any of this?"

"I don't know yet, but the link is there." Sherlock rubbed his cheeks, trying to snap himself back into full alertness. "I've got to find them, find them both-"

"Whoa, whoa," John said carefully, pressing his palm into Sherlock's chest. "Settle down. You're not going anywhere just yet. Tell me what happened after I passed out. I assume she drugged me."

"Both of us," Sherlock confirmed, annoyed with himself and John and Irene...and most of all, Moriarty.

John shifted uncomfortably. "In the same way?"

"Of course not in the same way," Sherlock snarled. "Do you think after I saw what had happened to you I'd just decide to go in for a quick snog?" He stood on shaky legs and leaned against the bed-post. "I found the memories, she attacked me, and that was that." Standing was going better than he'd expected, though he wasn't quite ready to walk. "Merlin knows where she's taken them, now."

Rising as well, John took Sherlock's shoulders in his hands and looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Hey, it's all right. No one expects you to solve every case-"

"The last thing I need right now," Sherlock growled, "is a motivational speech." He moved unsteadily towards the bedroom door. "I'm going to be gone for a few days, perhaps. Tell my professors... anything, I don't care. Tell them I'm dead, if you want."

"Sherlock-"

The boy detective ignored him. Irene on her own had been interesting enough, but Irene and Moriarty together? No way was he going to let that little duo slip between his fingers.

X

It was Saturday (three days after the episode in Irene's room) when Sherlock dragged himself back to school, temporarily defeated. He had been to all his preferred haunts and even most of his less-preferred ones; he'd spoken to the homeless, the orphans, the house-elves, and the goblins; he'd cast tracking charms and mixed finding potions and consulted more crystal balls than he cared to admit...and to no avail. It was as though Irene had simply disappeared.

Frustrated, angry, and tired, Sherlock fought through the milling weekend crowds in the corridors and slunk down to his room. Amid the usual detritus covering his floor were two new things, apparently pushed under the door: a square black envelope, and a little card of stiff burgundy paper. He picked them up with a frown.

The card bore the Hogwarts crest on one side and the name 'Arcadia Longbottom', in elegant gold ink, on the other. Sherlock made a face and crumpled it in his fist before flinging it away and tearing open the black envelope.

Dear Sherlock Holmes, read the letter inside. (Crisp new paper; inexpensive but wizard-made; bought at Flourish & Blotts for seven Sickles a ream, no doubt in the last weeks of summer.) I'm very sorry to have missed you during the annual mentor meeting. Your friend John Watson informed me that there was an illness in your family. I do hope everything turned out well. I'm rather good at Herbology- it's something of a family trait- so if you need any help, please do let me know.

Anyway, I had hoped to meet with you in order to discuss our mentoring project. I thought perhaps we could do a study on horklumps or streelers, or maybe even both! Of course, I'm open to suggestions-

"What is this drivel?" Sherlock asked the skull of Stanley Weiss. Stan only stared about him blankly, grinning his macabre grin. Sighing, Sherlock turned back to the letter and jumped to the end.

-looking forward to winning the Inter-House Challenge, and with you as my mentor I know I can do it! Just let me know what times are convenient for you so we can get this project underway.

Your new friend,

Arcadia Jane Longbottom

"Stanley, this needs to be destroyed." He crumpled up the letter and threw it through one of the skull's gaping eye sockets. Scooping up his violin, he settled in his chair and tore note after wretched note from the air.

X

Sherlock spent all of Sunday slumped on his bed, smoking (did Lestrade really think he wouldn't steal his cigarettes when they were such an easy target?) and reading a stack of Muggle newspapers, solving crimes under his breath. By Monday morning only one thing had become truly clear: however loathsome the task, he was going to have to shower, dress, and eat breakfast.

He expected a quip from John when he settled down on the bench beside him (and at the Gryffindor table, at that; why on Earth were they sitting at the Gryffindor table?) but his pint-sized friend seemed to pay him no mind. That was interesting. And annoying. Sherlock looked him over- clenched jaw, rapid blinks, drumming fingers- and sighed.

"You're angry," he said, reaching for John's toast.

John snatched his plate away and glared at Sherlock. "Damn right, I'm angry! Where have you been?"

"London, mostly." Sherlock looked at him askance. "Is that why you're angry? Because I went to London without you?"

"I'm angry," John seethed, "because you ran off after Moriarty alone and left me here to worry. I'm angry because you're my best friend, Sherlock, and if something happened to you..." He stopped and frowned at his plate. "I'm angry because you don't get it, do you?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock relented: "Don't get what?"

John only looked at him. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes tired and his mouth down-turned, before shaking his head and mumbling, "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Eat something, would you? I don't even want to know who long it's been since you ate."

x

Cross-legged, palms pressed together and placed under his chin, Sherlock sat in bed and considered. Irene and Moriarty. John. Arcadia Longbottom. Irene. Irene. Irene.

How long had she been Moriarty's cohort? (How sure was Sherlock that Moriarty's cheek was the one she'd been kissing?) Why did Moriarty choose her? (How did she outwit him?) Where was she now? (Why could he still smell her perfume on his clothes, even though they'd been washed?) It was infuriating. Insufferable. Almost more than Sherlock could stand.

He spread out across the bed and stared up at the ceiling. There was schoolwork to be done, an irritating girl to be mentored, and a best friend who's nerves needed to be settled. But Sherlock couldn't think of any of that. All he could think of was Irene.

X

"Frankly, Sherlock," John said, a few mornings later, "I'm tired of hearing about her. She's gone. She beat you. Game over."

Sherlock scowled at him, and when that lost its charm scowled instead at the nearby lake. They were outside, supposedly working on their homework. But what did Sherlock care about homework? Moriarty and Irene were out there right now...doing what? Using those memories for evil, no doubt. He had to stop them. He had to.

"You could ask about my life," John suggested, scratching away at his parchment. "Oh, John, how are things with Jeanette? Why, thank you for asking, Sherlock. Unfortunately Jeanette thinks I'm a total arse because of my gangly, ill-mannered best friend, and as such is only barely putting up with me. Dear me, John, that's dreadful. I know, Sherlock, isn't it?"

Leaning back on the heels of his hands, Sherlock gave John an appraising look. "Would you say you've fully lost your mind, or just a bit?"

"Says the boy obsessed with a girl he's only met once," John joked, but Sherlock sensed the bitterness underneath it.

"I'm not in love with her," he said, hoping that would sooth John's worries.

It didn't. John's eyebrows raised, and his mouth went small. "I didn't say you were."

"No, but you thought it."

John picked at a blade of grass. "It's fine if you are," he said at length. "I'm not...upset, or anything." Lie. "It's just..." He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes all iris in the bright sunlight. "I thought...Christ, I don't know what I thought."

Not sure what to say, Sherlock cleared his throat. "So. How're things with Jeanette?" John's ridiculous giggle filled the awkward spaces, and they both let the topic of Irene Adler drop.