Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and co. They belong to BBC and Moffat.


Eight:

Playing

Mycroft Holmes looked out of place in The Three Broomsticks in his immaculate three piece suit and with his posh black umbrella at his side. John could not explain how an umbrella could be posh because an umbrella was just a tool you used to avoid the rain. He guessed that the umbrella just managed to not look just like a simple black umbrella because it was in Mycroft's possession. Everything Mycroft held managed to look expensive, even the dusty tankard of Butterbeer he was now lifting to his mouth.

"I haven't had this drink in ages," he admitted before he took a small sip that was better suited for ingesting Darjeeling.

Next to John, Sherlock slumped further down his seat and glared at his brother, looking quite like a five-year-old with his arms folded over his chest and his legs tucked in, his feet planted firmly at the edge of the chair. "Doesn't look like it," he jeered.

Mycroft sighed and John wanted to as well, but this was a war between two brothers and he was definitely not going to pick sides. "Must you be so childish, Sherlock?" he said as he set the tankard down. "May I remind you that you were the one who requested that I enter this," he paused then stared at his surroundings with disapproval, "establishment?"

"You've been here many times before."

"That does not mean I enjoy being here."

"Carter," Sherlock said, quickly getting to the point, "I need you to talk to the Head Auror and tell him to hand all cases related to Moriarty to me. Carter's incompetent, more so than George Lestrade."

And here was the part where Mycroft would refuse, Sherlock would turn into an angry cat, and John would stand there with his wand ready to try and appease them. He looked nervously to where Mrs Hudson had disappeared, dear sweet Mrs Hudson who, it seemed, saw both Holmeses as her own sons and would not fail to give them a good smack upside their heads if she saw them hissing at each other. It turned out that she had been in their employment as Sherlock's nanny, up until her husband landed in Azkaban and Mrs Hudson set off to handle The Three Broomsticks. How she had survived six years of living with these two, John didn't know, but she was the only person apart from John who could persuade Sherlock to eat.

John braced himself for the fight that would follow. He got the surprise of his life when Mycroft nodded, a pensive expression on his face. "Very well," he said. Sherlock shot John a triumphant look then quickly hid his smug smile by drinking copious amounts of Butterbeer.

"Excuse me?" John gaped at Mycroft. Those stern eyes stared at him suspiciously but John didn't back down. "He's your brother and there's a crazy guy who wants to play morbid games with him. Aren't you supposed to protect him or something?"

"I don't require Mycroft's protection!" Sherlock yelled, spitting Butterbeer all over John's face. There was something more to that but John wasn't going to ask, especially not with Mycroft here to make things worse.

"Moriarty is a danger to the wizarding world," Mycroft answered while Sherlock glared daggers at John. "And my brother is only one person. Protect Sherlock and the rest of the populace is left open for attack. My brother is old enough to handle himself when danger comes and this Moriarty will not stop until Sherlock participates. The triple murder in The Leaky Cauldron is enough to worry the masses and the faster this blows over, the better. People are beginning to think there's a new Dark Lord. The Unforgiveables haven't been used in years."

Sherlock scowled at his tankard. "Funny isn't it," he said in a tone that said it wasn't, "that people are always thinking of Voldemort's heir popping up?"

Mycroft said nothing but John saw a thin frown line appear on his forehead.

Looking at them, John suddenly remembered the last time he and Harry had fought. It was at the end of summer and Harry had let him see the new flat she and Clara shared. John had enjoyed it, right until Harry came home one night, drunk and accusing John of staring too long at Clara. Clara had not been there to see Harry rant and rave. Clara had also not been there to see Harry slap John when he shouted back and told her that she was the reason why their father was so upset nowadays. "Go back to Mom then!" Harry had yelled and John had gone ice cold at her words. "She always loved you best!"

But Harry was alright when she wasn't drunk and she had apologized afterwards, sobbing in his arms and telling him how sorry she was and that she would never pick up a bottle again (John had yet to see this happen). Mycroft and Sherlock, however, seemed to be in a perpetual feud.

"What about Knight?" John said when neither spoke again. He fidgeted a little in his seat when both Holmeses' eyes fixed on him. "Sherlock says he's innocent."

"Imperius Curse." Sherlock straightened himself a little; his arse had almost slipped off the chair. He grinned suddenly then fished out a photograph from his pocket. Apparently, Sherlock had somehow charmed his pockets to allow multiple items to be placed inside it. "This is a photograph taken as Knight was being sent away. Carter had it in his pocket and I took it from him when he pushed me aside."

"Another endearing skill," Mycroft muttered but he looked at the picture nonetheless. It was black and white and featured a frightened looking young man with large ears and short dark hair. "His pupils are still a little dilated," Sherlock pointed out.

"Authorities in Azkaban will be informed." Mycroft stared at the photograph with distaste and John knew that Carter would have to do a better job at being Auror if he wanted to keep it. "And as for you two, Nicholas Shacklebolt has been sent an owl informing him and the rest of your superiors of your whereabouts. Sherlock, you are allowed to skive off classes when Moriarty makes his presence known. You do it often enough that it won't come off as strange."

"I'll need John with me."

Mycroft glanced at John. "No, Sherlock—let me finish," he held up his hand and waited until Sherlock sat down again, "John is a model student and people will become suspicious if you drag him out of class. He may help you through texts but for the most part, keep John out of it. We're supposed to make this look like nothing terrible is happening."

"But—"

"No, Sherlock."

"I agree as well."

Sherlock rounded on him, his eyes wide as saucers. John did his best to focus his attention on a scratch on the tabletop as he spoke. "I mean, this isn't about coping with boredom anymore. Also, our O.W.L.S are coming this year and not everyone's like you. I really need to work hard for this if I want to be a Healer."

"Mycroft can pull some strings." He turned to his brother but Mycroft shook his head, making Sherlock snarl in frustration. It would have been funny but Sherlock looked like he was about to go into another tantrum. John downed the rest of his Butterbeer just in case Sherlock suddenly made it explode. "But you like it when we solve cases, John," he pointed out, his voice almost pleading, "You even write about it in that notebook you gave me."

John shrugged. "And there's that, too. I mean, when you solve cases…I don't really do anything."

"But I need you!" Sherlock repeated, his cheeks flushed red from anger. "Your presence is relevant!" John felt himself go red as well though anger was not the reason. Mycroft was staring at them with a strange look on his face that made John want to sink to the floor and disappear forever.

"I…"

"Please, John."

Agreeing meant a pleased Sherlock and a pleased Sherlock meant no sulking, no snapping at John for no particular reason, and no jumpers being burned just for the hell of it. But the cons were that Sherlock would occupy all of John's time and he did that often enough already. Lestrade had told him that once he graduated, he would appoint John as the new Captain, a position that John had always dreamed of getting. And he had to study for his O.W.L.S as well. There were so many things he hadn't quite gotten yet and Professor McCormic had warned them that they would soon try to make a corporeal Patronus, something that Lestrade and Sarah had warned was a very tricky charm. Bloody Harry Potter, John thought sullenly as he stared at Sherlock's hopeful face.

His heart nearly broke when he said no. Sherlock looked hurt. But…

"Don't," John warned, looking away quickly, "Don't use that Veela thing on me, Sherlock Holmes, or else I'll throw your precious violin in the Great Lake."

The sadness left Sherlock's face and was replaced with the cool blank mask he often wore. "Fine," he growled. He glared at Mycroft as if it was Mycroft who'd put the words in John's mouth.

They were going to shout, John thought, his heart racing. They were going to shout at each other and Sherlock would lose control and things would break and John might be able to witness a full Sherlock tantrum, something he had never seen before. Breaking glass was the first thing on the list and that was as far as John had witnessed. Lestrade hadn't warned him about the other things and John was sure he, too, had never seen Sherlock let himself go. Did Sherlock set things on fire when he got too angry? John looked at their surroundings nervously, wondering why Sherlock hadn't just let them stay in Diagon Alley where buildings were made of brick and not wood.

Relief washed over him when he saw Mrs Hudson coming toward them. There was a bit of flour on the sleeves of her purple dress, making her look more maternal than usual. John didn't care that she didn't look too presentable. As long as she could make them stop killing each other with their death glares, John wouldn't care, even if she'd walked up to them naked.

No! Delete, obliviate! Merlin, how did Sherlock delete horrible mental images?

"Sherlock, dear," she chided as John shuddered and massaged his temples, "How many times have I warned you not to frown so much?"

"Eighty-three times," Sherlock answered immediately without looking away from his older brother.

"Make that eight-four, young man." She placed her hands on her hips and John could not help but admire her for standing her ground. "Stop that right this instance or you'll ruin that pretty face of yours and we all know how important it is for you to make those young girls wet themselves." John began to choke on his own saliva at this. "And Mycroft, do not antagonize your brother any further. I've seen enough of your little spats and they all ended up with me cleaning up after the mess you've made."

They looked at her, their frowns evident and John could not help but see the family resemblance, often hidden when Sherlock put on his indifferent mask and Mycroft wore his arrogant smile.

She beamed again, the strict expression gone from her face, then said, "You two should be getting back to class."

"Someone's about to get killed by a Devil's Snare," Sherlock countered.

"That's lovely, Sherlock. But how about John?"

"I'll call my assistant," Mycroft answered before Sherlock could say anything. "Mrs Hudson is right, Sherlock. John does need to get back to school."

"But—"

Whatever Sherlock had to say died in his throat at the look Mycroft sent him. It startled John to see Sherlock be subdued by his brother until he realized that this was one of those things siblings did. They were using a language composed of subtle shifts in their facial expressions, a language that John and every other person in the planet would never understand. Possibly this was something the Holmes brothers had developed before their falling out. John understood perfectly well. He'd been close to Harry once.

Mycroft's assistant arrived a few minutes later to whisk John away. And if Sherlock heard him say goodbye, he gave no sign that he even heard him leave.


"Dennis Oswald."

The folder fell on the table with a loud splat, the sound almost mocking, more so than the smug smile of the boy in front of him. Carter gritted his teeth but said nothing. Bones was monitoring them for making the mistake of immediately sending Henry Knight to Azkaban. He wasn't going to complain; he had no right to. Knight had been trembling when they escorted him out of the wizard prison, shouting whenever a Dementor glided near them. It was lucky that they got Knight to St. Mungo's in time. If they'd been any later, the boy would have killed himself out of madness. And then Carter would have lost his job.

They'll give it to this kid for all the work I'm doing. Carter eyed Sherlock Holmes warily. The Holmes family had always been strange, and there were rumours about the youngest member being a wizard more powerful than Potter himself, rumours his older brother Mycroft seemed to encourage as he sometimes asked someone in their office to keep an eye on the boy, mostly when their father had just died. These rumours were true, though. Proof of this was making sure that the boy's Trace was intact as it seemed to be the weekly job of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Still, Carter knew little about him as he'd never been assigned to something so demeaning as guard duty. Well, until now.

"Oswald?" he grunted, making sure his voice showed how displeased he was about this arrangement. He couldn't believe Bones had allowed Mycroft Holmes to bully him into letting his little brother take charge of this case. Powerful wizard he might be but there was no escaping the fact that the boy was, well, a boy. He was fifteen-years-old and he looked even younger at times. Carter remember that George Lestrade had allowed (or rather, had been bullied by his brother) the kid to solve cold cases, mostly those things about dragon eggs smugglers that the Magical Law Enforcement had long given up and handed to them to be filed away, forgotten. But young Sherlock Holmes had solved every single one of them so that Azkaban was filled with more prisoners than they knew what to do with.

Carter kind of hated him.

"He's a Muggle." Sherlock seemed to be sneering at him. Merlin, how had George survived with this kid around? "Well, actually was. A researcher who died of colon cancer and offered his corpse for scientific study. His right hand was severed from his body which can be found in the morgue of St. Bart's hospital."

"How did you get in there?"

But the kid was already waving him off. He was filled with manic energy and Carter's suspicions that the boy was mad were confirmed just by looking at him. He'd gotten into a fight earlier and with the darkening bruises and those bulging eyes, Carter had half a mind to toss the boy in St. Mungo's. He exchanged a look with Keene, one of the few Aurors who hadn't followed George to Bulgaria. The other man shook his head in warning.

"He's not important," Sherlock told him. His hands were pressed together and he looked like he was praying. "The hostage is the important one."

"Then tell this Morgan fellow—"

"Moriarty," Sherlock corrected, rolling his eyes at him.

"Yes, well, call him!"

Beside him, Keene was shaking his head once more. Carter balled his hands into fists but closed his mouth and did his best to relax his body. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed at him, but once he showed that he wasn't going to order him around anymore, he continued, rambling on about test results and microscopes until finally, finally, he fished out that hideous pink phone. He began to text. Carter didn't have to wait for long. The phone rang as soon as Sherlock had finished sending Dennis Oswald's name.

Sherlock knew something was off even before the person at the other end of the line spoke.

"V-very g-good, dearest." Male, middle-aged, stammering, fear, the hostage, still under threat. "You…m-managed to…s-solve the p-puzzle…just in time. S-six h-hours…so impressive. I still…have much in store f-for you…but, I…I p-promise you that…they'll g-get…more interesting."

There was a pause where Sherlock could only hear the man's laboured breathing before a small explosion at the other end of the line interrupted the silence. He heard the man's gasp, a scream of pain though it sounded more like it had been caused by surprise. "What's happening?" Carter asked, taking one step forward, his hand reaching for the phone. Sherlock glared at him until he dropped it.

"OH GOD! OH GOD !" The man was in hysterics. "THE BLOODY PHONE EXPLODED IN MY HAND!"

Two phones then. One for calling him, another for reading what Moriarty wanted to say to him.

"The Devil's Snare?" Sherlock shouted over the man's panicked screaming. Why did they always have to scream so loud? "Where are you?"

"Dead!" the man gasped. "These vile plants are dead! It's boiling in here and I can't see a thing!"

"He's fine. Fingers might be missing but he's alive." He handed the phone to Carter who immediately began to question the hostage's whereabouts. Sherlock began to pace, ignoring the stares the Aurors were giving him.

What was important? What was the hostage's connection to Moriarty? Obviously Oswald wasn't the important one. He was only a lead to the hostage. But who was he?

"He's in Brixton," Carter said once the call was over. He handed the phone back to Sherlock. "He's got a few burns but he's unhurt. Name's Benjamin Schiff—"

Oh!

"I know him," Sherlock said suddenly. "He made my broom, custom made. Father gave it to me as a present and Schiff met me to know how I wanted it."

He remembered Schiff. Forty-two-years-old, happily married, three children, mild-mannered. He'd been all business when he met Sherlock, ignoring his protests that he didn't even want a broom. Sherlock wasn't fond of flying but he couldn't deny that the broom Schiff had made for him was better than most. Sherlock had only met him thrice so Moriarty's using him was a bit vague.

"But what's the connection?" Carter demanded when Sherlock didn't say anything else. "What's he to this Moriarty fellow?"

"It isn't a connection."

"Then what is it?"

"He's got nothing to do with Moriarty." Sherlock stared at Keene who looked at him worriedly. It was too early to tell, really, but the only reason why Schiff had been chosen was to serve as a warning to Sherlock.

Moriarty had been watching him for a long time now. But how?


"Goddamn it! Stop, stop right now!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and willed himself to calm down. His head hurt, his patience was worn thin, and he had the urge to grab the nearest thing and snap it into two. This wasn't the first time Lestrade had asked him to fill in for Quidditch practice so he could do his Head Boy duties, but it was certainly the first time he'd ever seen them work so sloppily. Sally was also not present—the Seventh Years were doing a project—which was why John was doing all the disciplining.

The soft thumps of feet landing on the grass made him open his eyes. Several of them were swaying slightly, their eyes glazed. The wince Bill made as he clambered off his broom confirmed John's suspicions.

"Fucking hell, how many times has Lestrade told us not to drink before practice? Or have you all got cotton in your ears?" John snapped. One of his chasers actually dared to throw up her breakfast right in front of him. "Who, what, and where?"

"Portia Simms, seventeenth birthday party, and Hufflepuff common room," Carl, Liliah's replacement and the only one sober other than John, said. He shrugged when John gave him a questioning look. "I'm thirteen. I don't drink firewhiskey."

"Thank god for that then," John said wryly as he glared at his hungover teammates."

"Come off it, John," Bill sniped. "The first match is three days away."

"We've only practiced four times and we have two new members on the team!" John yelled, making the others wince at the volume of his voice. A part of John's mind warned him not to get too snippy with Bill. The other boy wasn't agreeable after the first seven hours of drinking. Bill was glaring at him already and cracking his knuckles in warning. John, however, stood his ground.

But Bill's eyes moved away from John's face and settled somewhere over his left shoulder. A sneer crossed his friend's face as he muttered, "No wonder you're off your rocker. Trying to impress your boyfriend, aren't you?"

"What?" John spun around. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, walking towards them. He hadn't seen much of Sherlock in the past few weeks which was why John could not help but smile at the sight of him.

Bill's eyes didn't miss this. "Just go," he spat. John shot him a glare but didn't say anything else after he dismissed them.

"Don't antagonize Murray any further," was the first thing that came out Sherlock's mouth when he came within hearing range.

"Huh? Wha—He started it!"

"You value your friendship with him though to tell you the truth I cannot understand why as his behaviour is similar to that of your sister's." Sherlock sniffed as if this was very irrelevant. John supposed that for Sherlock, it was. "He's been drinking away his sorrows. Your friend shows signs of infatuation towards a Miss Simms. Unfortunately for him, the object of his desire is seeing the Captain of the Quidditch team so he chose to drown himself in drink rather than come out clean and tell her about—Sherlock wrinkled his nose—his feelings."

John blinked. "Never took you for a gossip."

"I am not a gossip, John Watson," Sherlock snarled, "One cannot help but know the obvious.

"Anyway, Murray isn't important. I have a case and I need you to accompany me."

John felt guilty for the sudden rush of adrenaline, one he hadn't felt in weeks as Sherlock rarely talked to him about the cases he was handling. "Moriarty?" he asked and the whispers of yes, yes, oh god yes did not die despite the rational part of his brain telling him that hoping it was the madman was a whole lot of not good. But Moriarty proved to be physically harmless to Sherlock and no one else had died yet. There was also John's need for a distraction from the stress of schoolwork and Quidditch practice. He needed a break.

Besides, he could afford to be selfish once in a while.

"Cancel your plans. We'll be out all night."

John had actually been asked to go to accompany his Divination partner, Jeanette, to Maddam Puddifoot's tonight. Jeanette was a pretty girl who was, maybe, a little bit too obsessed with him. She was fine, really, and had Sherlock not infiltrated John's life, John wouldn't have had any second thoughts about going out with her. But between braving whatever monstrosity Sherlock had in store for them, and being attacked by pink flowers and pink confetti and pink everything, the latter paled in comparison to the first choice.

John left his broom in the shed then sped off after Sherlock. "Where are we going?" John asked when they were far enough from Hogwarts territory.

"The Cultural Centre of Magic," Sherlock answered readily.

"The museum's closed on Saturdays."

"Yes."

"We're breaking in a museum?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do keep up, John." He rolled up his sleeve and asked John to do the same. A white patch was handed to him, one of those John had seen fall out of his pocket in The Leaky Cauldron. "Put that on," Sherlock ordered as he ripped and stuck one on his pale forearm.

John did the same. At the touch of his patch against his skin, John suddenly felt very strange. He didn't know how to explain it exactly but he felt a bit like a radio that had suddenly been covered with a thick fleece blanket.

"One of my inventions," Sherlock explained to him, "specially designed to momentarily block the Trace. I use it when I need to do additional research that my caretakers don't approve of."

"Is that why I couldn't locate you when we got back from the summer?"

A startled expression crossed Sherlock's face. "You can locate me?"

"Yeah…Not good?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his lips pursed and his head tilted to one side. It was the I'm-deducing-you-right-now face and John always hated it when it was used on him. "Interesting," Sherlock murmured before he snapped back to the I'm-on-a-case-and-everything-else-is-dull face. "Have you ever done Side-Along Apparition before? Because that's how we'll be travelling."

"You can Apparate—I mean, yeah. Once to go to the Ministry with my dad."

"Come here then." Sherlock grabbed his arm and pressed him against his side and John was suddenly aware that he smelled of sweat and the knees of his trousers were muddied and here was Sherlock with his clean-boy smell and his pristine clothes. Sherlock shook him slightly to get his attention and John focused, reminded by his father's warnings of Splinching.

Remembering didn't stop the sensation from being unpleasant. John felt as if he were being pressed flat by a roller, his lungs fighting for air so that when the spinning finally stopped, he gasped and would have dropped to his knees had Sherlock not grabbed him. The other boy looked fine, amused even, and when John asked why he was smiling, Sherlock answered, "You didn't pay much attention. One of your shoes is missing."

One of his shoes was missing, the left. John mourned the loss of it as his sock-clad foot felt very exposed without his shoe. "That was expensive," he said sadly as he followed Sherlock to the entrance.

There was a guard there, a truly incompetent guard according to Sherlock. The truly incompetent guard got one look at Sherlock and Sherlock did something that made the truly incompetent guard guide them in and treat Sherlock like a prince. John had absolutely no idea what Sherlock did to make people drool all over themselves. A part of him was curious while the other part screamed at him to run away if ever Sherlock decided to use his little trick on him.

John had been to the museum only once, a treat from his father during the days when he still had no idea that he was a wizard as well. John had marvelled at everything inside, had stopped and stared at the flying motorbike that had been Sirius Black for so long that his father had to drag him away from it. It wouldn't be like riding a broom at all, he mused as the three of them passed by the motorbike. He wondered what kinds of enchantments were protecting it. He could ask Sherlock…

No. Big no. Asking would only encourage Sherlock to steal it.

They went farther and entered a room where John had never been. The artefacts here were more impressive, more to do with wealth than fame. He paused at a display of jewelled eggs then turned around to ask Sherlock what they were looking for.

He regretted it immediately.

Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the man's waist and was staring at him beneath his eyelashes, whispering something John couldn't hear. The man was grinning at Sherlock like a shark, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's neck every now and then. John felt an urge to rip Sherlock away from him and punch the man until he bled oceans. The rage startled him and his mind was trying to bring him back to rationality but his body was having none of it. His hands were balled into fists, his nails biting in his palms and as he watched the pair all rational thought left him and he could only think mine, mine let him go he's mine!

What. The. Fuck?

The anger ebbed when Sherlock stepped away from the guard and rudely dismissed him. "What?" John stammered when Sherlock slipped back to his cold, cold self.

"Veela thing."

"It's just…I mean…thought those things, er, weren't…"

Sherlock scoffed at that. "I'm hardly a virgin, John."

Wait! Pause, rewind, what?

"Should I be offended by the shocked look on your face?" Sherlock drawled without looking back at him. John opened his mouth. "Do not ask. We're not here to discuss my sex life."

"Wasn't going to," John said a little too quickly for it to be believable. Still, John couldn't believe it. Sherlock had slept with someone and John hadn't yet. Sherlock who was antisocial and thought everyone besides himself was an idiot. It was like seeing a monkey on a unicycle.

But then Sherlock had that Veela thing which made him desirable to certain people. What did he do? Seduce someone he liked? But the thought of Sherlock being infatuated with someone was more unlikely than him having sex. Perhaps it was for experimental purposes. Yes, that seemed more likely—

"Stop thinking about me having sex."

"My thoughts aren't all about you, you arrogant bastard," John argued, again, a little too quickly. He cleared his thoughts then followed him to the back of the room.

"How come you don't have any Aurors with you?"

"They're still asking for permission to let me enter this room." Sherlock smirked. "Takes too long to process and you know how impatient I am. Moriarty sent me a text. I only have six hours to solve this and as I wasted time arguing in the Auror Office, I have less than three left."

"The hostage?"

"No photograph this time. Just a text of the time limit."

"And you brought me along because?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You needed a distraction."

You needed someone to call you brilliant, the nasty voice in John's mind supplied. His eyes widened and he cleared his thoughts quickly, hoping that Sherlock wasn't actually a mind reader as many suspected.

They stopped in front of a large tapestry with the words 'En stirps nobilis et gens antiquissima Black' inscribed above. "It's a replica," Sherlock explained. "But as I've never paid attention to all that history about Potter and his affiliates, I do not know where to begin."

John stared at the tapestry before him with wonder. It was old and moth-eaten and smelled faintly of dust. But through the thick layer of grime, the names of those related to the Black family still managed to stand out. John read the names: Arcturus, Phineas, Dorea…

"Holmes?" He rounded on Sherlock. "You're related to the Burke family?"

Sherlock shrugged but John noticed the tension around his shoulders, contradicting the nonchalance of the gesture. "Ignore that and help me search for the mistake here," he muttered. "It's my grandfather's fault we don't have a copy of this tapestry in our home."

"I mean, I knew you were rich but this, this is amazing!"

"John."

"They're like pureblood royalty, aren't they?"

"John!"

John jumped at the furious note in his voice.

"You don't like it, do you?" John said quietly. "You don't like your heritage?"

"Obviously," Sherlock spat, "Money is one of the best seducers ever created. You should see how people fall to their knees when they see my brother. Mycroft uses it to his advantage to have power over most in the Ministry. It's disgusting how humans fall prey to the lure of galleons. You can be as irritating as you like and they'll still give you smiles, just so they can have a bit of your wealth."

"And you brought me along because?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You needed a distraction."

Lies, John realized. This was some sort of test to see if his attitude towards Sherlock would change. He felt his chest tighten a little. What had Sherlock experienced to be so suspicious of people? "Is this what you and Mycroft talked about when I left you in The Three Broomsticks?" he asked.

"No."

Too quickly.

John bit his lip then looked at his shoes. Well, shoe.

"I don't like you because you're rich, you know."

There wasn't an answer. John smiled a little. "Besides, all the money in the world can't hide the fact that you're a big-headed wanker."

There was a pause. And then Sherlock was laughing, his head thrown back as he lost himself. He looked so young, so un-Sherlock. John grinned at him.

"Oi!"

Shit.

The truly incompetent guard had woken up from his trance and was now approaching them, his wand held out threateningly. "You kids ain't allowed here!" he growled.

"Hold him off for me," Sherlock said, barely glancing at the guard.

"What?"

"Hmm, I knew I should have kissed him to make the effect last longer."

John stared at him. "You should have what?"

But Sherlock was already lost in his Mind Palace (John really did not want to ask). John stared at his friend then at the oncoming guard, back-and-forth and back-and-forth until the options blurred into one.

He had absolutely no intention of landing in Azkaban.

"Stupefy!"

A beam of red light shot out of his wand and missed the guard by a few inches. Instead, it hit a glass case filled with 12th century manuscripts.

I am dead.

The guard's mouth fell open at the sight of the manuscripts, now reduced to a pile of ashes. There was a squeak and John's eyes widened when he realized that it had come from him.

"You—you—you're in big trouble, young man!"

So dead.

John was thankful that, despite his height, he was a fast runner. It was the only explanation to why he didn't get hit with any of the hexes the guard was sending his way. A few more glass cases exploded and John wondered whether they were really that dangerous, or the guard was just trying to get himself fired. The air was alive with the scent of smoke and burning artefacts and John's legs were beginning to get tired.

"Sherlock," he gasped, doubling over, managing to avoid another jet of red light just in time. The other boy was just standing there in front of the tapestry in his favoured thinking pose. "You done?"

"Almost."

"Can you hurry the fuck up then?"

John yelped as another blast hit them. "Protego!" he cried. The shield went up immediately and the hex rebounded and nearly hit the caster.

"Sherlock!"

"Be quiet, John! I'm thinking!"

If they got caught, they'd only find one of them. Because John was going to kill Sherlock after he was done with this.

Another blast. John grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the floor.

One corner of the tapestry burst into flames. "Jesus!" John hissed as he grabbed Sherlock and moved him behind a statue of Emeric the Evil. "You okay?"

"Cigarette burns!" Sherlock cried, clapping his hands together.

"What?"

Sherlock grinned at him, his eyes shining brightly. "Cigarette burns, John," he said. "The names of the disowned were burned with a cigarette, not the end of the wand. See, magical burns tend to lean closer to red while in cigarette burns they—"

The guard was yelling murder again.

"Never mind that!" John grabbed him. "Disapparate! Disapparate us now!"

"We can't Disapparate in here. It's a museum."

"Get us out! I don't want to land in Azkaban!"

"You won't." Sherlock was taking something out of his pocket and John knew that it was the signal to shut up, sit back, and pray to the heavens that whatever it was Sherlock had in there, it wasn't going to kill the both of them.

John didn't expect the darkness. It was the kind of darkness that brought out all the old childhood fears. John was not and never had been afraid of the dark, but he could excuse himself for feeling frightened right now. This darkness was unnatural and suffocating and it made John think of ghouls under his bed and monsters in his closet. He felt like he was five-years-old and he was entering a horror house with a too-enthusiastic Harry holding his hand.

It made him want to kill Sherlock even more.

"Lumos?" the guard was saying, a frightened note in his voice. "Lumos?"

His voice was close, probably only six feet away. John scuffled backwards as silently as he could, freezing when an arm snaked around his waist and a thin, warm hand pressed hard against his mouth.

"Don't panic," Sherlock whispered. "It's Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth. Don't make a noise."

John, in retaliation, did the only rational thing and bit Sherlock's forefinger. Hard.

"That was uncalled for," Sherlock hissed. John's mouth tasted of soap and old cigarettes. It wasn't a good flavour.

"Your bloody fault," John whispered back. He couldn't make out anything in this darkness but he was all too aware of Sherlock's clean-boy scent.

"Lumos. Er, lumos?"

"Won't work," Sherlock informed him in his I'm-being-helpful voice. "You can only see through it with a Hand of Glory. The effect lasts for an hour, or so I was told. Well, it really depends on the dosage. I may have put too much."

"Hand of Glory now!"

"Shush. It's in my pocket. Somewhere."

"Here, let me—"

"Ngh…"

John withdrew his hands and was suddenly very thankful for the darkness that masked his red face. "That wasn't the Hand of Glory," he said lamely.

"Ah, no."

"Er, I'll burn my hands later…I'll just wait for you to find it then."

"Found it." He heard something rustle. A hand found his and John was being tugged to his feet.

"I can't see a thing."

"Only the holder of the Hand of Glory can see anything. Come on."

It wasn't a smooth trip. John stumbled often and his shoeless foot managed to land on some broken glass. By the time they reached the lobby, John's foot was bleeding heavily. "You know," he said when they left the vicinity, "They're going to find my blood and see it as evidence."

"I'll make you an alibi." Sherlock had slid to the floor, his back against the brick wall behind them. John followed suit and stretched his legs out. "Besides," Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft might be able to sway them."

"Why didn't you just ask Mycroft to let you enter the museum without all that nonsense?"

"Imagine all the paper work Mycroft has to deal with."

He should be mad. He should be closing his hands around Sherlock's throat right now and wringing him like a rag doll. But instead he was laughing, so much that his lungs were beginning to protest. And Sherlock was smiling at him, that tight-lipped smile that John only saw when Sherlock was amused with him. He was mad. Merlin, he was just as insane as Sherlock. He'd killed someone already and he would rather infiltrate a museum and destroy about half a dozen national treasures than go on a date with a pretty girl.

His laughter died when he saw that Sherlock was leaning towards him. Something inside him flattened his gut when Sherlock placed a hand on his jaw, tilting his face upwards so that his eyes were meeting too-blue-to-be-normal eyes that were looking at him like he was something in a petri dish, waiting to be placed under a microscope. And in John's head, all he could think of was that Sherlock, male as he might be, was actually very attractive and that he had a girly mouth and those weird eyes and that smell that practically screamed hygiene. Looking at him, John thought of Lestrade and that stupid mistletoe kiss they'd shared last year. And he thought of how different Sherlock was from Lestrade and that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to lean a little bit closer and, well…

He wondered if the person Sherlock had slept with kissed him as well. It wasn't impossible. Bill didn't always kiss the girls he got off with. Who was it? Was it someone John knew? Was it someone in France?

He really should stop thinking about Sherlock and sex.

"Ow!"

Something warm trickled down the side of his face. "You moved," Sherlock said, accusingly, holding up a small piece of glass that had been stuck to his eyebrow moments ago.

John looked at it then at Sherlock who was already moving away. "I didn't."

"You did."

Sherlock was frowning.

"I'm sorry."

He looked kind of sad and John thought it weird that he was thinking of Sherlock Holmes being sad. But he did look like a little kid whose toys had been stolen, sitting there curled in on himself with one hand still holding the creepy-looking Hand of Glory. John stared at the blue-grey, hopefully-not-made-out-of-flesh Hand of Glory and said, "That's not a real hand, is it?"

"This? No, it's sadly made of wax. Carter had it in his office so I took it."

"Poor man." He looked at Sherlock who was now stuffing the Hand in his pocket. "So can we go now?"

A hand slipped in his, warm and slightly calloused. And as the uncomfortable, crushing sensation of Disapparating fell on him, John realized that Sherlock wasn't wearing any gloves.


A/N: The next chapters are about to get…angsty (I also realize they're getting longer and longer because the latter chapters of the first part are mostly in Sherlock's point of view ( which means less of funny John) ). Mycroft's conversation with Sherlock appears in the next chapter so you'll know why Sherlock is upset. By the way, the family tree of the Blacks has a Permanent Sticking Charm but let's pretend that they somehow managed to take it off and that Harry donated it to the museum or something. As for the reviews, THANK YOU. You guys make me write and write and write and write and so on...