Sherlock had to do a double take as he spotted John in the corner of his eye. Had he learned to Apparate already? How could Sherlock not have heard the Alchemy lab door's loud screech? And why was John here now? Wasn't he supposed to be in Transfiguration? It had only been five minutes since Sherlock had set up his experiments. And yet John was holding out a sandwich that looked as though it'd come from the lunch table, rather than one he'd had custom-made by the elves in the kitchen.

"John?" he asked.

"Yes, hello, Earth to Sherlock. I've been trying to get your attention for like ten minutes," John said, ridiculously. He couldn't have done that if Sherlock hadn't been here yet ten minutes ago. But maybe, just maybe, the sandwich meant that Sherlock's estimation of the time was a little off.

"How's it going?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Still busy."

"I brought you something to eat," John said, "since it looked like you weren't going to show up for lunch."

Or perhaps it had actually been two hours. "I don't have time for food, John," Sherlock said, transferring a few drops of Armadillo bile to a plate, which started sizzling.

John sighed. "Of course you don't. I'll just leave it here then."

"Yes, fine."

"Is there anything I can do? Any way at all I can help?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have to identify whatever curse, spell or potion meant Carl Powers' end. You have no knowledge of Alchemy, so I doubt you'll be any use."

"Right. Won't there be a lesson in this lab?"

"Not today," Sherlock said. "And even if Professor Bell discovers I'm working here, I doubt she'd do anything but encourage me."

"Okay. I'll just head to Charms then."

This earned a huff from Sherlock. "Charms again."

"Well, I do have a thing or two to learn if a pair of shoes is charming you more than me," John said.

"Not the shoes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he turned to the extract of cut shoelaces he had made and picked up a clean pipette. "The murderer. The fact that, if my theory is correct, they actually want me to get into this. The way they provide a distraction and must be hoping that I in turn relieve their boredom."

John let out a strange sort of snort. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

By the time Sherlock could spare enough attention to look up at him, the solutions safely bubbling in a test tube, John was gone.

...

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Sherlock didn't turn away from the piece of parchment he'd put in a small glass tank. There was no doubt as to who would greet people with an apology.

"I only wanted to practise a little," Molly Hooper babbled. "I didn't get the hang of those symphonic metallisations and I thought the lab would be empty... But if you need the space, I'll just be out of your way."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, still following the blots on the parchment with the tip of his wand. "I think I've almost got what I need."

"Okay. But don't leave because I'm here," Molly said. "I didn't mean to chase you out."

Now Sherlock did look up for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the Ravenclaw. "Do you think you'd manage?"

She blushed. "Probably not."

For a moment she was quiet, putting down her bag and taking out some dusty books, while Sherlock waited for the fluid to reach the end line on the parchment.

"That's not homework, is it?" she asked when she'd turned back to him. Clearly she still hadn't learned her lesson about making conversation.

"Great observation, Molly," Sherlock sneered. "You're improving in leaps."

"Some personal project then?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Anything I can do?"

"Some silence would be marvellous." He opened the glass tank and plucked the parchment out of it, then put it down and dried it with a wave of his wand. A forceful tap made the blots light up. "Ha!"

Molly smiled, apparently not impressed by his request for quiet. "Found what you were looking for?"

"Obviously. I just need to confirm..." He turned away from her and tuned her out as he filled a few more test tubes. "Gotcha," he whispered when they got all the right colours.

Molly had, apparently, still not started on her own experiments and was now reading the labels on the mass of bottles Sherlock had stalled out on the nearest table.

"Are you doing an analysis on a Sopophorous plant?" she asked as she had read the ones closest to Sherlock.

"You're wasting your time here," Sherlock answered.

"Oh." Molly faltered. "Sorry, I told you I could go..."

"No, I don't really mind that you're here, especially if you'd be doing your own work in silence," Sherlock clarified. "But you don't need to be here. Your understanding of symphonic metallisations is already better than anyone else in our class's."

And she was blushing again. Why did she keep doing that?

"That's... that's actually nice of you to say," she said. "But it's not quite true, is it? I mean, you're in our class."

"I wasn't counting myself in 'anyone else'." Sherlock picked up the remains of the shoe sole and scraped the tip of his wand over it, then studied it.

"I like Alchemy," Molly said, as though she needed to defend herself in any way. "I don't feel like I'm good enough, but... if I keep trying, I think I'll figure out the bits that aren't clear."

"Well, don't let me hold you up," Sherlock said, finally satisfied and wiping his wand. "I'm finished here. Be a dear and put these bottles back in place, will you? I can never quite remember their places and I know you're brilliant at that."

"They're on the shelves in alphabetical order," Molly pointed out.

"Exactly." Sherlock gave her the smile he knew she reacted best to, then gathered his belongings and left.

...

A lot of people were leaving the Great Hall as Sherlock was heading for his common room. It was dark outside, so that must mean dinner was just finished. Once again, he'd been working for longer than he thought. But it had been worth it. Thirty-two hours after finding the shoes, he had the definite answer that no one had found in six and a half years. He couldn't wait to tell John. And they'd have to make plans; knowing the answer was one thing, but there had to be a way to contact JM and preferably meet them in person. They'd find out whether it was indeed boredom that drove JM into sending Sherlock clues, get the answers that really mattered and then they'd get rid of the threat.

It was rather inconvenient, really, that John didn't show up between the throngs of students. Or that he hadn't come to meet Sherlock at the lab after his lessons. He had been there around noon, of course, Sherlock remembered vaguely, but at the time he had been too busy. And then John's words echoed through his mind.

'I hope you'll be very happy together.' The short sentence bothered Sherlock more than he could explain. Maybe it was the tone in which John had said it. It had sounded so... resigned. As though he knew he couldn't expect anything better than disappointment from Sherlock. As though he had reason to wonder why he put up with his nonsense time and again. And of course Sherlock wondered too, but he'd hoped... He wasn't quite sure what he'd hoped. Surely not that John would be blind to his character. Sherlock knew he wasn't; John was his best friend and the only one who'd really made the effort to get to know him. Even Mike Stamford, who'd been kind to him since their first day at Hogwarts, had quickly produced another volunteer when Sherlock had complained that no one would want to work with him for the Transfiguration project in their first year. Of course he had been grateful for that later, when he'd actually met John Watson, an old friend of Mike's – which was, apparently, the title one earned after having been on a few play dates as little kids. Even as they had been working on that project, John hadn't been afraid to tell Sherlock when his ideas were brilliant, but had also spoken up when Sherlock was going too far – yet another trait that made John different from anyone Sherlock had met before. They'd all put up with him for a day at most and then went off in a huff. It had happened often enough during projects for classes Slytherin didn't share with Hufflepuff. But John had stayed and they'd grown into quite the team.

So yes, Sherlock was certain that John knew him for real, and that made him all the more proud that John chose to be with him anyway. When he had asked him to stay the night after Christmas... It had been a relief. Some sort of proof that John had also recognised all the clues that had told Sherlock months ago that what they had was not a friendship in the way most students defined it. It was something stronger, something beyond the coincidental contact between people who just happened to be in the same classes and decided to make do with each other. And that meant that there was no reason for them to keep the boundaries that were expected in such a friendship.

But it seemed that at least for today, John had had enough of him. Sherlock made a little detour to check the corridor to the Hufflepuff common room, but John wasn't waiting there, nor was he standing near the entrance of the Slytherin common room.

As Sherlock threw his bag onto his bed, he considered visiting the Owlery and sending Wiggins to John to inform him of the plan that had slowly formed on his way here. But he shouldn't. However hard it was, he should probably give John a night without him. Give him time to rest or catch up on his homework. Because if he didn't, he might well be ruining everything. He couldn't let John get tired of him. After finally admitting what he felt for him – sort of – he couldn't lose what they shared. So he'd do this alone. John might not approve anyway. Yes, he liked danger – sometimes it was a wonder why he hadn't ended up in Gryffindor like his sister – but this was something else than breaking a few rules or getting some bruises. This was about the possibility of meeting a wizard or witch who was creative with powerful spells to shape illusions, just to get their threats across. If he were honest, Sherlock didn't want John anywhere near this JM person. He could tell him all about it later. Impress him. Surely that would make him want to help Sherlock again next time.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled down a note.

'FOUND! Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1976-1988). Juice from Sopophorous beans still present. Please collect. The lake. Midnight.'

He huffed as he reread his words. From the start, he'd had an inkling that some kind of plant would have been involved, complex enough to make identification difficult. If Sprout hadn't been so bloody stubborn, he would have found the solution hours ago.

He put the note down on his night-table and then decided to finally listen to his body and visit the bathroom. Then he'd figure out how to get the note to JM.

But when he returned to the dormitory, the parchment was gone.

...

Without making a sound, Sherlock got out of bed and pulled on his robe and coat, which he'd both laid out earlier so he'd find them in the absolute darkness of the dormitory. For a moment he stood still and listened, but everyone was still asleep, Wilkes making that annoying puffing sound with his lips again. As he softly closed the dormitory door behind him, he saw that there was still some faint light in the common room. A couple of seventh-years were sitting on a leather sofa, working on their Astronomy homework, going by the charts they'd spread out over the low black-wooden table. And in another corner, that annoying Malfoy kid was scribbling away on a piece of parchment – probably a letter to his father. None of them even glanced up as Sherlock crossed the room and went out. As long as you weren't stupid enough to get caught and lose House points, no Slytherin would stop you from going out at night. Many even made a habit of nightly walks on the grounds, simply because they could, or because it helped to clear their minds after hours of stuffy homework. But Sherlock hoped there wouldn't be too many people out and about tonight. If there were, his chances of meeting JM would be considerably smaller.

Once outdoors he buttoned his coat and tied his scarf around his neck. It was freezing, but at least there was no snow to show his marks. Everything was quiet as he walked towards the lake. It was still a few minutes before midnight, but he started walking slowly along the waterside, peering between the bushes, hoping to detect movement.

Suddenly he heard a soft splash behind him in the lake, and he jolted around. A figure had appeared about twenty metres away. Sherlock squinted his eyes and ran closer, then stopped short with a gasp.

"Evening," John said flatly. He was wearing a warm jacket with a fur-lined hood, but his jeans were pulled up and Sherlock suspected he wasn't wearing any shoes, as he stood to his shins in the water.

For a long moment Sherlock couldn't quite believe what he saw. He just stood staring.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said, just standing there, as though the ice-cold lake wasn't biting at his toes.

"John." Sherlock's voice was hardly more than a whisper. "What in Merlin's name..."

"Bet you never saw this coming." John's voice still had that strangely flat tone. Or maybe Sherlock's brain had simply stopped registering intonation. It seemed to have pretty much stopped all action. How could John be here? Surely he wouldn't have sent the JM messages himself. Sure, the initials weren't too far-fetched; simply turning the M upside-down might have been enough if he wanted to treat Sherlock to a little puzzle. But none of it was John's style. However capable and intelligent Sherlock knew his friend was, he doubted John was able to conjure those illusions. And his fright when the dragon had snapped at him had seemed genuine. He'd often thought that if John were a slightly better liar, it might have saved them some trouble with the teachers, so no. All the facts told him that this wasn't possible.

So what the hell was going on?

A flash of diffuse light appeared from the bushes and in the blink of an eye John was thrown up into the air, further away from Sherlock, floating above a deeper part of the lake. And yet he didn't seem shaken, but simply asked: "What… would you like me… to make him say… next?"

An irrational wave of relief flooded Sherlock's system as he grabbed his wand and pointed it in the direction where the light beam came from.

"Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer," John's voice taunted him.

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped.

"Nice touch, this," John said. "The lake where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too." The beam moved, dropping John almost a metre down, so his toes hovered just above the lake surface. "Stop his heart."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from John again, trying to quiet down his own panicked breathing. "Who are you?"

Something rustled in the bushes, and another voice answered, soft and with an Irish accent. "I sent you a message. I thought you might get in touch."

From the shadows, a short young man with dark hair and stylish black robes appeared and strolled up to Sherlock.

"I did get in touch," Sherlock said, raising his wand.

"Hmm..." the man said, smirking as he looked at it. "Is that a hard wooden stick you're pointing at me, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, keeping his wand in place. "Both."

The man finally stopped, mere inches away from the tip of Sherlock's wand, and met his eyes. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Sherlock didn't answer, waiting what the other would do and resisting the urge to turn his head and check if John was alright.

"Oh, don't bother saying anything," Moriarty said. "I already know all about who you are. And yes, I did get your little note. Took you long enough..."

"How?" Sherlock interrupted him.

"You wouldn't want me to ruin the magic by telling you, would you?" Moriarty's eyes gleamed.

There was another sound of movement in the lake, and Sherlock couldn't help looking round. John was still in place, his toes now indeed touching the water. For a moment, Sherlock wondered how the beam could still depart from the bushes while Moriarty was standing right in front of him.

"Don't be silly," Moriarty said, observing his gaze. "Someone else is holding him up there. I don't like leaving my mark." He shrugged. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see... Just like you want to be when you grow up." He grinned.

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "I have no recollection of a plan to send people intricate threats or dangle them above lakes."

"Oh, this is much bigger than you and that Hufflepet of yours," Moriarty said. "This is business. Everyone's wondering what you're going to do with that odd set of subjects of yours, but you've known all along, haven't you? All the way back since you realised you couldn't become a pirate..."

Sherlock swallowed, once again reduced to staring. No one knew this. Only John knew that he wanted to become a detective, and only his closest family was aware of his pirate phase. It was impossible that this man knew of both.

Moriarty smiled at his baffled expression. "I'm a consulting criminal. Feel free to tell me how brilliant that is. Because you know what: no one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

"I did," Sherlock said, taking a stronger hold of his wand.

"You've come the closest," Moriarty admitted, "but only because I gave you a hand. I've been dying to meet you, you see. Get a closer look at you." He bent his head a little and licked his lips, looking disturbingly reptilian as he glanced up at Sherlock through his lashes.

"Thank you," Sherlock said drily.

"Oh, I didn't say I appreciate what I see," Moriarty retorted.

"But you do."

"Yeah, okay, I do. But the flirting's over now, Sherlock..." He smirked and his voice rose in pitch as he sing-songed: "Daddy's had enough now!" He stepped even closer to Sherlock, completely ignoring his wand.

"I've shown you what I can do," he continued. "I've sent you those illusions, that little puzzle about Carl, a whole set of Daily Prophet articles just to get you to come out and play." Even though Moriarty was so close, Sherlock couldn't help his eyes flicking to John and back. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Stay away from those cases you're chasing after every flick through the papers." He smirked. "Although I must admit I'm loving this – this little game of ours. Getting to watch you dance. Hearing about all the naughty things you've been up to with Johnny boy over there... Who thought you'd have it in you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock said between his teeth. "Let... let him go."

"Oh no." Moriarty's smile turned even more malicious. "He'll go the same way Carl went, I think. Just to see what you'll do..."

"I won't let anyone else die," Sherlock growled.

Moriarty's gaze cooled at once. "That's what people DO!" he screamed.

"I will stop you," Sherlock said softly.

"No, you won't." Moriarty's voice was calm again and his expression rather amused.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What did you do to John?" he demanded.

"Oh, just a little Imperius Curse," Moriarty answered with a shrug. "You should feel him fighting. He's so strong, that sweet little pet of yours. I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets."

"Let him go," Sherlock snarled.

Moriarty let out a laugh. "Are you sure you want that? I don't think he'll come up, you see. The water is ice-cold and none of his limbs will function properly without the right order from me..."

Sherlock glared at him.

"No? Not funny?" Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You're more boring than I expected. But fine..." He clicked his fingers and the beam of light moved John over in Sherlock's direction.

"You can talk now, Johnny-boy," Moriarty said with a nod at John. "Go ahead."

As soon as the spell lifted, John grabbed his wand from his back pocket, pointing it at Moriarty.

"Sherlock, run!" he cried, but Sherlock kept his wand raised, frozen to the spot, unable to even think of leaving John here.

Moriarty laughed in delight. "Good! Very good."

"Expelliarmus!" The red beam departed from behind the bushes. John's wand flew out of his hand and he fell to his knees in the water, fortunately close enough to the side that his head didn't go under. He tried to get up so he could look for his wand on the bank, but stumbled and his legs gave way once again.

"John..." Sherlock said, almost begging. They couldn't know what Moriarty was going to do. What whoever was holding the wand behind the bushes was going to do.

"A true Hufflepuff, isn't he?" Moriarty commented, still smiling. "They're so touchingly loyal. But oops!"

Sherlock felt a strong whoosh of air, and suddenly he was dangling in the air right in the spot where John had been floating. Reflexively he kicked his legs, but he was firmly caught up in the beam, and unfortunately still at an angle that he couldn't see who was hidden behind the bushes.

"You've rather shown your hand there, Watson boy..." Moriarty said.

John looked like he was ready to charge the man, never mind his wand or the fact that he was shivering all over, but with a glance at Sherlock he stopped. Sherlock shook his head slightly, hoping he would notice. They couldn't take any more risks.

John held his hands up, though he was still looking around for his wand, clearly preparing for any opportunity.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty sing-songed, looking up at Sherlock like a spider at a tasty prey in its web. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hoping his voice didn't shake as he drawled: "Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

Moriarty grimaced. "Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you." He ran his eyes briefly down Sherlock's body, then met his eyes again and his voice became vicious. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock said softly.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards John. "But we both know that's not quite true..."

Sherlock blinked, wishing he could feel the ground under his feet, that he was close enough to check on John and to protect him.

"Well, it was so nice to have a proper chat," Moriarty said, smiling.

Sherlock adjusted the aim of his wand. "What if I was to curse you now? Right now?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Moriarty opened his eyes and mouth wide, mimicking shock, and then grinned. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long... You'd drop in the water and John here would be dead right away."

"Isn't that a little disappointing too?" Sherlock asked. "I mean... You can be so inventive. You proved as much with Carl. Putting a Sopophorous bean in someone's shoe... Standing on it must be the perfect way to get the juice flowing, right? And you must have heard that little Carl would step into the water soon, which changes the active substance's structure enough that it's easily absorbed through the skin... He must have fallen asleep within a minute of setting foot in the lake."

Moriarty smirked. "Oh, it wasn't all that hard to come up with. But clever you, seeing through it all. I never liked that kid. A tiny little troll, but oh, he was a Gryffindor, Dumbledore's little favourite! Of course that gave him the right to laugh at me. Well, I stopped him laughing."

Sherlock snorted. "Great way to deal with an annoying eleven-year-old. Seriously, you must be proud of yourself. And I was supposed to, what, admire you?"

"Oh, you do," Moriarty said, smiling. "It's so nice to finally have someone clever around, isn't it? We end up feeling so lonely. Shows, too, if you have to let that little badger lick your toes."

"B-but," John spoke up, his teeth chattering incessantly, "w-why expose yourself like this?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say I'm exposed." Moriarty smiled. "You see, even if I let you walk away from here, what are you going to tell anyone? My name? Good luck proving I exist... I can't be linked to any of my business, definitely not by those incompetent fools who call themselves Magical Law Enforcement or a set of teachers who cling to their subjects like glue."

"So you really just wanted to have a look at me?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, not just," Moriarty said as though he was admitting a rather big secret. "I also wanted to tell you that you can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but..." He laughed and pitched his voice into that annoying sing-song again. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Clearly the young man was crazy. He did have a point saying that the teachers were idiots, not noticing that one of their students was a dangerous psychopath who'd killed a first-year. But Moriarty was also underestimating him and John. He had come out here because he believed that two students were not capable of stopping him. Sherlock looked down and met John's eyes for a moment, and John gave him a tiny nod.

"Then probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock said, and he flicked his wand, thinking 'Stupefy!' very loudly. Yet Moriarty had already conjured a shield before the spell could hit him and he laughed. John was looking between them with a clear expression of panic, but the expected flash of green light didn't come from the bushes, and Sherlock and Moriarty just stared at each other, calculating, waiting for the next move. Moriarty smirked, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, ready.

Then the sound of flapping wings broke his focus. An enormous black owl came zooming through the air, its feathers brushing Sherlock's hair before it landed on Moriarty's shoulder, almost knocking him over.

Moriarty just raised an eyebrow and sighed in exasperation. "D'you mind if I get that?"

Sherlock huffed. "No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty looked down, unrolling the parchment, but he stepped closer to John as he did so, making sure Sherlock wouldn't have a clear aim.

"Oh," the criminal breathed softly as his eyes had skimmed the letter. "Oh, I hope they know that if they're lying to me, I'll find them and skin them."

Sherlock looked at John in confusion, but it looked like John wasn't really following Moriarty's words anymore. Even in the darkness Sherlock could see how pale he was, just sitting there in the mud without making any attempt to get further away from the icy water.

"Sorry," Moriarty said, reclaiming Sherlock's attention. "Wrong day to die…"

"Oh?" Sherlock asked. "Did you get a better offer?"

Moriarty glanced at the letter, then turned around and started to walk away. "I'll write to you, Sherlock." He clicked the fingers of his free hand and Sherlock was swooped back to the lakeshore. Once he had found his footing, he aimed his wand at Moriarty's back, but both the beam of light and the short man had disappeared, as though they'd never been there.

Sherlock spent a second more checking whether he was really gone, before he turned and ran to John. He stuck his wand in the pocket of his robe and embraced the shorter boy. "All right?"

John just clung to his warmth, his whole body shaking.

"We have to get inside," Sherlock said, pulling back so he could get out of his coat and scarf and wrap John in them. "John, are you alright?"

"F-f-fine…" John managed, and Sherlock cursed himself for asking. Of course he wasn't alright. He was hypothermic, had fallen victim to an Unforgivable Curse and who knew what Moriarty and his assistant had done to him before he'd ended up in the lake. Sherlock helped him to his feet, wrapped an arm around him and urged him towards the castle entrance. As he stepped on something hard, he recognised John's wand and put it in his pocket without even checking if it was damaged. It could wait.

They proceeded slowly but steadily, and once inside, Sherlock started pulling off John's wet clothes.

"I'm fine," John muttered weakly.

Sherlock pulled his jumper over his head and then opened his jeans.

"Sherlock," John protested, but Sherlock wouldn't stop. John would freeze if he did. He needed warm, dry clothing; blankets, a fire, tea. "Sh-sherlock!"

Only as Sherlock looked into John's eyes did he catch up on his own panic.

"Merlin's beard," John whispered, his knees buckling.

Sherlock caught him. "No, don't, the floor's too cold," he chided. "Come on. Please stay upright just a little longer. We'll get you to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey will give you something to warm you up."

He guided John's hand to the wall so he could keep himself up and had just started pulling his own robes over his head so he could give them to him, when footsteps and an outraged cry sounded.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock ignored McGonagall and let the Slytherin robe drop over John's head. "If your pants are wet too, you should probably take them off," he muttered, but John was just staring at McGonagall with an expression close to horror.

"Mr Holmes, if you could spare me your attention for a minute, you could explain to me what you are doing out after hours, and why you've just stripped Mr Watson of his garments in the Great Hall!" McGonagall's nostrils were flared, a clear sign that she was about to explode.

"Look, we need to get John to the Hospital Wing," Sherlock said impatiently. "He's been exposed to the cold for Merlin knows how long, with a dive in the lake to top it off."

"A dive in the lake?" McGonagall repeated. "Whatever for?"

"Do you honestly think it's a hobby of his in January?" Sherlock snapped. "Help me move him."

Sherlock was slightly surprised that she actually followed his order, but then again she must have seen the heap of wet clothes by his feet by now, combined with John's blue lips. They each put one of John's arms over their shoulders.

"Sherlock..." John muttered when they'd only taken a few steps, and then his legs gave way and he almost pulled McGonagall with him to the floor.