7. Title : Lessons and Parallels

Crossover-ish with : Harry Potter

Pairing : Sherlock/John

Rating : PG-13 for innuendoes

Summary : Sherlock is a literature nerd. And a goddamn tease.

Lessons and Parallels

"So how are Sherlock and you dealing with the SMH?" Lestrade had asked during their last choke-a-beer session, adding that he'd be glad to lend John a hand if required. It had taken another bitter and a sudden lull in the constant ola of cheers in the telly corner for John to grasp that, no, the DI wasn't trying to talk him into a bit of triangular rough play.

"The Sunday Morning Hurdle," Greg explained patiently. "Took us four years to jump it properly, and that was before I got into djembe. Very relaxing, djembe, but the missus said it interfered with her Chi Gong. So I told her, June, I said, the djembe isn't noise, the djembe is a cultural heri —"

"Got your point," John cut in, knowing that Greg was prone to wax lyrical on behalf of the djembe after his third pint. "We, ah, we're doing fine. He's out most of the time - boxing or fencing, and God knows I envy him the vim at times. I stay home, read a book." Great, now he was sounding like some aggrieved Hausfrau. "Then he comes home, and we slap up some food, and he shoots— the time away, best as he can, until it's tea-time and news-time. No problem here."

Lestrade clapped twice, slowly, and John grinned. "All right, all right. Sunday mornings lack in home entertainment, but we get on."

"Tell you what," Lestrade said, summoning the bill with a practised sleight of hand. "Next Sunday, he and you are trading places. I have two tickets for Arsenal and, man, some arse they'll be kicking, I can tell you. He can stay home and read a book for a change."


"But you can't go out!"

Sherlock looked the very image of an eight-year old being told that his birthday had just been reassigned to February 31 by State decision. He crossed his arms and glared down his nose.

"I thought we'd both stay home today. And I need you to check on Mrs Hudson's home compost – it's hosting seventeen toxins that should be mature for analysis any time now. Asphyxiation by compost is tomorrow's mastercrime."

"Too bad." John slipped on an extra jumper, keeping an ear out for Greg's car. "You'll just have to babysit them yourself. Quality time, Sherlock. You've had plenty this winter, if I recall."

"But you won't be back before one!"

"So play the violin! Take Donovan fishing! Or if you want some home practice, what about the Strange Case of the Disappearing Potato Peeler? Even better – read a book for a change!"

But, even as the door shut him out, the look on Sherlock's face left John with an uneasy pinch in the region of his heart. He spent the next four hours trying to emulate Greg's hearty cheers – ("does wonders for your lungs, the djembe – you learn to vocalize as you play") – while wondering if Sherlock was busy blowing up 221B with compost fumes in retaliation.


It lacked a quarter to one when Lestrade left him on a slightly sore-throated invite to come over and share the missus' shepherd pie. John took advantage of the sore throat to excuse himself before re-entering 221B with a cautious step. He was more or less expecting a welcome committee made up of half-dead larvae, sulfur, high nitrogen and Miss Bacteria 2011.

Instead of which, he was greeted by the rich hot scent of chocolate wafting down from the top floor.

Blessing Mrs Hudson in his heart of hearts (as it uttered something suspiciously close to a gurgle), John jogged up the stairs, tugging at his vest. The door to their common room was ajar, and he pushed it to a chirping and crackling melody that came from their old chimney.

"Oh," Sherlock said, never lifting his head. "I'm afraid I've just poured myself the last dregs. There's that pack of six you left in the fridge, if you're thirsty."

John was no longer thirsty. Or hungry. He was, if anything, experiencing the condition once and memorably summed up by Wodehouse's Jeeves as: "The mind, sir, boggles". For his flatmate was half-seated, half-tucked on the couch, one leg stretching lazily onto the floor and the other crossed at the knee. A steaming mug stood on the coffee table; a book lay open on Sherlock's thigh; and Sherlock himself was sheathed in the closest, slimmest, stretchiest cord pants known to have hugged a male groin since Adam's of the pants, he wore a black turtleneck. As far as John recalled, it was the first time he had seen Sherlock in anything else than an open-necked shirt. It made him look slightly older, quite impregnable and dead sexy.

Of course, the older look might have come from the thick, black-rimmed glasses now framing Sherlock's elegant face.

Or wait, was that the sexy look?

"One of mine?" John asked, pointing to the book as he crossed over to the couch. He now felt as if he had piled on six layers of wool instead of two. Sherlock nodded, fingers drumming a light tattoo on his bare ankle as he bent his head to the page. Damn that fire, why did it make cardigan buttons so slippery ?

The book was a thick hardback, with a faded red and yellow cover that did look familiar.

"The... Order of the Phoenix?" John's gaze slid to the floor, where six other books were lying haphazardly. "You've read the whole saga in five hours? "

Sherlock hummed vaguely, reaching out for a sip of chocolate. John watched the soft full lips nudge at the rim, and found he was moistening his. "Any good? " he asked quickly.

"Very good." Sherlock's voice, when it came at last, was all cream and darkness, yet without one grain of bitterness. John looked on, entranced. "In fact, her deconstructionist take on the father figure is quite zeitgeistlich - I can see how it would tickle your inner Badiou." Sherlock had taken off the glasses and was waving them about, letting one of the branches tap against his lips. The lips parted, and the branch was sucked in slowly.

"My bad me," John repeated faintly. There was only one Rowling-esque thought in his mind at the moment, and it was that most of his blood had Apparated to a rather embarrassing locus on his anatomy. He pulled the cardigan swiftly over his lap.

A slender foot brushed his inner thigh: Sherlock was levering himself to his side of the couch. "Hmm-ah", Sherlock breathed out fervently, fitting the glasses back on. "But I'll grant you that adhesion to the generic code, in her case, does supersede the plurivocity of meaning. Take her portrayal of friendship, for instance. "

John nodded vigorously from his side. Here was a sentence that made sense at last, and might take his focus away from the burgeoning heat in his loins. He no longer trusted himself to speak.

"Sirius Black and Remus Lupin", the deep creamy voice went on. "Such an interesting duo. Do you know, John, I find that Remus is really my favorite character. The man unafraid to face his scars and fears. The warrior, the protective friend. The truly significant other to Sirius – bright, mad, uncontrollable Sirius, a star trailing a black vortex in his fall. Doesn't he remind you of someone?"

John's mouth opened on a soft plaintive noise.

"In a book, I seek lessons and parallels", Sherlock murmured, drawing himself still closer to the edge. "I seek new ways of looking at the familiar, John, and new urges to act on what I see. "

"And what have you seen?" John rasped, letting his hands tumble from his lap as a long finger, lifted from an open page, touched the curve of his cheek.

"Mmmm? Ah, you'll have to ask me again at tea-time." Sherlock shook off his glasses with a quick jerk of the head, jumping off from the couch. "Is it half past one already? Mrs Hudson's asked me over – home-made lasagna, I believe, and there's the compost to double-check. "

"What? But wait, wait — you can't just —"

But Sherlock was sauntering away, hands in his corduroy pockets. John vocalized quickly and fiercely, borrowing a few of Bill Murray's coarsest expletives. Then went to check the fridge. Sherlock, as always, had been right. The fridge held a pack of six beers. It didn't hold anything else.

John sighed and stepped out on the landing, resigned to eat humble pie before pasta.

It was only when Mrs Hudson opened her door that he realized he was still clutching the oval glasses to his chest.