HELLO YOU SEXUAL FIENDS. You should all know that your reviews make me happy to be alive, you guys are so nice to me. For those who are concerned that this story will become a slash, fear not. I am, for the moment, staying true to the characters and keeping them sexually frustrated but otherwise bromantic. Although, you know, don't mind my subtext. I sort of live and breathe this story, and I'm very excited to be writing it. Continue to leave your questions/comments/concerns/ideas in a review here or on my tumblr. Your feedback is, as always, my crack.
END SAPPYRANT.
Enjoy
Chapter 7
The first three days of the winter holiday was spent in a never-ending loop of pacing, cigarettes, and tea. Sherlock rarely left his darkened room, muttering to himself in anger and more than a little angst. Whoever had sent the note was smart, they knew there was little Sherlock could do by way of research without the castle's resources to support him. Mycroft knocked on his door twice a day, begging his brother to come outside, and each time Sherlock ignored him. His parents did similarly.
The Holmes house had never celebrated Christmas in a traditional way. There were no decorations throughout the large, cold country home. The only indication of the holiday was the snow in the yard. Sherlock, whose large bedroom dominated half of the third floor, did not have any interest in celebrating. His exchanging of gifts with John was about as festive as he was going to get. He preferred to spend his time thinking, and after the second day even Hudson couldn't stand to be in the same room as him.
Sherlock was beyond frustrated: all he knew of his stalker was that it was a male, judging by his handwriting, and that he had access to Sherlock and the Hogwarts grounds. Obviously a student or a faculty member. Sherlock was sure that the boy Moriarty had something to do with this, but what? Was he the mastermind, or a catalyst? And what did he want with Snape? Sherlock threw himself on the bed and groaned, his mind racing.
Tap tap.
Sherlock's head lifted to the window in surprise, and he tentatively pulled the curtain back. A horned owl was hovering there, letter caught in his beak. Sherlock opened the window and let the bird in; it dropped the letter on the bed and swooped out without a break. He frowned and took the letter, instantly recognizing John's handwriting on the address. He ripped open the parchment envelope and pulled out the two notes inside.
Sherlock,
I knew the name Moriarty was familiar, but I didn't know why. His dad works for the ministry: department of muggle safety. If your discoveries are making him look incompetent, it'd be a pretty damn good reason for his son to target you, don't you think?
Also, I've been thinking about that day at the lake. What spell was Severus about to use on James? I didn't recognize it.
Hope you have a happy Christmas. It is so boring without your psychotic obsessions pounding my ears every five minutes.
Your friend,
John.
Sherlock could hear John's sarcasm through the script on the page, and he smirked, taking the second sheet of paper: it was a cutting from the Prophet, saying that head of the Department for Muggle Safety Jonathan Moriarty was under scrutiny for being unable to solve cases within his own department. The photograph was of a haughty looking middle-aged man with cold, unforgiving eyes. He held his head high, a sneer on his pale face.
"Bless you, John Watson." Sherlock muttered and ran about the room like a hurricane, tacking up the article and letter on the wall, rifling through his collection of Prophets for any mention of Moriarty's father. In the end, an entire wall of Sherlock's bedroom was covered in articles, photos and notes, and Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips, fingers tapping against them, scanning the papers with determined gray eyes. He didn't even hear the bedroom door open, he was so enthralled, and when Mycroft's voice was suddenly behind him he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"What the bloody hell is this?" Mycroft's voice was caught between amusement and awe. Sherlock wheeled around, glaring at him, struggling to bring his heart rate down.
"Research." He muttered, glaring at his brother.
"On Jonathan Moriarty?" Mycroft speculated, stepping forward to examine the articles on the wall.
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and closed it again, eyebrows knitting together. "You know of him?"
Mycroft looked at him in bemusement, "My dear brother, have you not met me? I plan on taking his job, after all." He wagged a finger at him and turned back around. "What I want to know is why you care about him."
"I don't." Sherlock sniffed, and then sighed. He realized that Mycroft would probably be a valuable asset in this case, but that of course meant that he had to rely on his brother, which Mycroft would never let him hear the end of. Sherlock deflated with a sigh, "You cannot tell father about this." Sherlock warned.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, "If you are worried he is going to find out his baby boy is the SH causing the ministry so much drama then you're wasting your breath. Father wouldn't believe you even if you told him yourself; he believes what he wants. It's what makes him such a good politician."
Sherlock gaped at his brother, all snide comments he had worked up disappearing in the shock. Mycroft ignored him, reading an article on the wall intently, "How did you know about that?" he finally managed to choke out.
"Oh please, Sherly, I've dealt with your schemes nearly exclusively for sixteen years. Next time I suggest not using your own initials." He winked at Sherlock with a smirk, enjoying the shock on his younger brother's face. "So since I'm sure you are well aware I will find out eventually, why don't you go ahead and tell me what this is about?" he pointed his wand at the door, and it closed with a click.
Sherlock crossed his arms and sat in a leather armchair by the wall, frowning. He hated playing into his brother's hands. "That note, in Hogsmeade. It wasn't a love letter." Mycroft looked genuinely surprised at this, and Sherlock pointed to the note, which hung near his head. His brother read it, a grimace on his face.
"The shop blew up after you read this." He looked to Sherlock, who nodded, "Dear lord, I thought you were psychotic." He muttered.
"Why do people keep calling me that?" Sherlock growled to no one in particular.
"Why didn't you go to a professor, or to the headmaster?" Mycroft asked.
"…I mean sociopathic, sure, but I am completely able to function."
"Sherlock."
"I am in full control of my mind and reality, therefore I am not psychotic."
"SHERLOCK." Mycroft snapped at him and Sherlock looked up at him wearily, "This is an extremely dangerous situation. You should have told someone. You still should."
"It'd give away my identity as SH." Sherlock replied in a clipped voice, "Obviously."
"You'd be famous." Mycroft replied, sounding shocked, "Sherlock, the ministry would hire you on the spot!"
"I have no interest in fame or the ministry." He rolled his eyes. His brother was such a conformist. "And obviously, the ministry has no interest in me." He gestured back to Jonathan Moriarty.
"You think the head of the muggle safety division gives a shit about a fifth-year student? Oh please, Sherlock, not even you are that narcissistic." He snorted, crossing his arms.
"Not him. His son. Jim. He's a sixth-year, and he's been working with Severus on something." Sherlock pressed his palms together, thinking.
"Working with him on what?"
"No idea."
"Well, what did they say?"
"Not much."
"Then how do you know?"
"I just do." Sherlock shrugged and Mycroft groaned, rubbing his temples.
"Let me know when you actually have some information, will you? And for God's sake, come down for dinner, you haven't eaten in days." With that, his brother stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Jonathan Moriarty is hiding something, trying to cover something up. Those cases were never meant to be solved. I think he's behind them. His son is helping him keep it covered, so obviously he would target John in order to get me to stop. But why not attack me personally? And, if this is the case, why is Severus helping him?"
Sherlock tapped his pen against his temple, hunched over his notebook. He was still obsessed, still spending most of his days in his room. Mycroft hadn't bothered him and Sherlock had only seen his parents in passing since arriving home. He hardly slept anymore, and John had sent him two letters since the first asking him where the hell he was and why he wasn't replying to his letters. Sherlock had scribbled a quick "Thinking –SH" on the back of the second letter to John as an answer, only eliciting more angry letters.
When Mycroft let himself into his room the next night claiming that it was Christmas and he was going to damn well have dinner with the family, Sherlock was a little shocked. Had he really been in this room for a week and a half? He begrudgingly followed his brother down the stairs, where his parents were already sitting at the table around a relatively normal supper. Sherlock sniffed in annoyance at sat next to his mother.
Marissa Holmes was not a particularly loving or sentimental woman. She was practical and quiet, analytical but didn't make a fuss about things. Sherlock had rarely seen her not perfectly polished, even in the early mornings or late into the night had her pale blond hair pulled up and out of her face, her gray eyes catlike and sometimes deadly under rimless glasses. It seemed odd to Sherlock that she would choose a mate who was equally brooding, silent, and deadly. Wolfgang Holmes was one of the most powerful men in the Ministry of Magic. He worked directly under the minister, and it was a known fact that the minister did not make a decision without consulting him first. Mycroft worshiped the ground his father walked on, and had dreamed of someday working with him at the Ministry: Wolfgang and Mycroft Holmes, taking the magical world by storm. Sherlock found it extremely dull, and it was evident that their father preferred Mycroft's charisma and ambition to Sherlock's sarcasm and genius.
"So. Sherlock. Mycroft said that you've made friends with a young John Watson." Wolfgang's voice was like a growl, resonating deep in his chest. His steely blue eyes were on his youngest son, and despite his deep voice Sherlock knew his father was merely curious.
"Yes, so what?" He already wished this dinner would end.
"Henry Watson's son, yes?" He pressed his palms together in a gesture very similar to Sherlock's. His son nodded. "I knew his father, of course. A very powerful Auror, but he was too trusting and one day…well, I'm sure you know the rest."
Sherlock nodded, casting his eyes downward. He had never asked John about it, knowing it was a sensitive subject, but he had found his obituary in an old copy of the Prophet at the library. He had gone to aid another auror who had been hurt and was killed by a dark wizard. A hero's death, they had written. It was clear that Wolfgang didn't believe that to be very heroic at all. Sherlock's hands were fists under the table, willing himself to control his emotions. The last thing he needed was a row with his father.
"And is this Watson boy your friend or your boyfriend?"
"Wolfgang!" Marissa exclaimed at her husband, looking scandalized. Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft, who was stifling a laugh.
"What? It is a perfectly valid question. I mean, if he is your boyfriend, that would be quite fine." He sniffed, taking a bite of his food.
"Yes. Yes there is nothing wrong with that, Sherlock." His mother agreed, glancing at her son.
"I am aware there is nothing wrong with that, thank you." Sherlock rolled his gray eyes again, "But John is just my friend. That's it."
Marissa gave a small nod and the rest of their meal was eaten in uncomfortable silence.
