Chapter 9

Author's note:

Oh my God, this chapter has been killing me trying to get it done! Life is an irritating distraction, so I apologise for the obscenely long delay. I somehow couldn't get it right, so I hope the final result is okay. This is the end of Goblet of Fire, and I promise Order of the Phoenix will feature the Johnlock you probably clicked on this fic for, with Umbridge enforcing her own ideas about how boys should act. Thank you all for staying with me so far, and I hope you'll continue to read. Please tell me what you think of the chapter – it helps me so much in evolving my skills and inspires me so much to continue. This chapter is dedicated to Emily (aka SeptiplierAway13), who reminded me people were waiting! Love to all!

oOoOo

A slow breeze drifted across the surface of the lake, the late morning sun sifting through the trees, dappling the grass with golden light. The castle was reeling in the aftermath of the previous night's events. John sat on the lake shore, legs pulled up to his chin, his arms folded across his knees. A series of ripples floated along the water in the wake of some creature moving beneath. The leaves rustled in their listless dance, and somewhere in the forest, a bird or other-such animal called. All around was brimming with life, yet John barely felt any of it.

He'd slept fitfully and risen before any of the other boys. Sherlock was still asleep in the Common Room, his shirt open, one arm stretching towards the floor. He'd thought of waking him, but instead moved past and out of the Portrait Hole. He wanted to be alone for a while. He didn't meet anyone as he made his way through the castle. A respectful silence seemed to have fallen over everything, as if the stone structure itself were mourning the passing of such a valued student. Filch had already unlocked the Entrance Hall doors to the grounds, and John slipped out with no-one there to stop him.

The knot of barbed wire that had settled in John's stomach the night before had loosened a little, replaced with a dull pain that gnawed consistently inside him. His mind was still in doubt of whether it had actually happened – it was just so sudden and so strange, it couldn't possibly be true. One thing in particular was churning in his mind – the fact that Cedric had died thinking that John hated him. They'd never spoken again after that confrontation in North Tower, and there was nothing he could do to alter it. It was burned in history, unchangeable, just another point on the map of mistakes he'd made and would make throughout his life. He buried his face in his sleeve and whimpered in anguish, fresh tears spilling out of his eyes, dampening the fabric.

He vaguely acknowledged the hand on his shoulder, and felt himself being gently pulled into the curve of a warm chest, a set of long fingers cupping the side of his head. He breathed in that familiar smell and let out a shuddering breath. For at least ten minutes, neither of them spoke, and John allowed himself to be held, somewhat awkwardly, until his sobs had subsided.

"There is evidence to suggest that tears have a natural healing factor," Sherlock said. John could feel the vibrations of his voice as they leaned into each other.

"Whoever said that didn't know shit," he muttered, wiping his eyes on his robes and pulling himself back into an upright position.

"You could be right." Sherlock placed his hand beside John's. He was dishevelled from sleep, his hair tangled and his robes creased. John thought he seemed nervous, like he wasn't sure of the appropriate way to act in the case of bereavement. He was trying, though, and John loved him for that.

"It hurts so much," he said. "Everything feels like it's about to fall apart."

Sherlock didn't reply, he just reached out those long fingers and brushed John's hand.

"They'll never let me see him," John lamented.

Another pause.

"Do you really want to?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at him. "Yes."

"Why?"

John sighed. He hadn't expected Sherlock to fully comprehend the concept of grief and closure.

"Have you ever seen a dead body before?" Sherlock said.

It was such a strange and blunt question that John frowned and pulled away. There was a time and place for Sherlock's kind of tactlessness, and he wasn't in the mood for it now.

"I'll take that as a no," Sherlock sighed. "You shouldn't see him."

"Oh really?" John glared. "Well, you obviously know everything about what I should and shouldn't do. I probably shouldn't have set my eyes on Cedric, like you said I shouldn't. 'Someone less obvious', didn't you say?"

"Yes, and I was wrong." Sherlock's voice was so calm and reasonable that John looked round. Sherlock being reasonable, and admitting he was wrong? Unheard of. "I was jealous without realising it, and didn't want you near him. But that's not what I meant. John – dead bodies don't always look the way people think they do. When my father died, the Healers all tried to tell me how peaceful he looked and that he was in a better place. When I was allowed to see his body, I didn't see any of that."

John wasn't sure where this was headed. "What did you see?"

Sherlock sighed and looked out across the lake. "Nothing. He wasn't there anymore."

"They'd already taken him away?"

"No, I mean he was gone. It wasn't him anymore, just a lifeless thing with my father's face. Like a mannequin. He didn't look 'asleep' or 'at peace' or any of that poetic crap. There isn't any poetry in death. He wasn't breathing anymore, he was just gone. We were never really that close, but I wish now I'd never seen him. All the pride and character and that strength he'd had when he was alive wasn't there – he looked sad and weak. I wish I could have always remembered him as that scary man in our study, who always pushed me to be better even when I was just learning to walk and set intellectual challenges for me and Mycroft to compete against each other. At least then he had presence. Now all I remember is skin, bones and hair – everything that makes a body but not a person."

Sherlock's eyes were dry, but there was a deep sadness in them that John didn't think he'd seen before.

"You didn't see Diggory's body properly last night – you can still remember him as he was to you, however that was. If you see him, he won't look the same, and that's the most vivid memory you'll have for years, if not longer. Even if you try and remember everything else he was, it'll always come back to death. Some mysteries are better left unsolved."

John could see exactly why the Sorting Hat had placed Sherlock in Ravenclaw. Behind all that bravado and smug intelligence, he was wise beyond his years, and John knew he was right.

Sherlock reached inside his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

"Diggory gave me this before the Task last night," he said. "He asked me to give it to you."

Placing the letter in John's hand, he rose to his feet and headed off back to the castle. John turned the parchment over in his hands, staring at his name written in Cedric's neat cursive script. Slowly, he lifted the flap.

John,

I know a letter is the coward's way out, but it seems to be the only way I can really say what I'm feeling. I can't begin to apologise for how I treated you, when you trusted me and I kept throwing it back in your face. Guess I really am a coward, right? I can't blame everything on my dad. Part of me just didn't want to properly accept the truth about myself. You were always so much stronger than I was, you accepted everything and just worked with it. I always admired the hell out of you for that even before I fell in love with you.

John pressed a hand over his mouth, but determinedly held back from crying again.

I suppose that's why you're in Gryffindor and I'm not. I know it's weird to say that I'm happy for you and Sherlock, but honestly I am. I know I could never give you what you wanted or deserved, but Sherlock's always so damn brazen about everything I'm sure it wouldn't matter to him!

John gave a short, tearful laugh.

At first I didn't really get what you saw in him, but I understand now. He's annoying and petulant and arrogant, but he's loyal and honest and unashamed of who he is, everything I wish I could be. I just hope he knows how lucky he is. After this year, we might not see each other again for a while, and I wanted to end things amicably, and offer my apologies for how I behaved. Most importantly, from the bottom of my heart, I hope you and Sherlock will be happy together. You both deserve that, and perhaps one day I'll muster some of your courage to be happy too.

I know what I said was awful, but I honestly did love you, and I still do, though that's my problem, not yours. I know you've had feelings for Sherlock for a long time, and I don't want to come between you. Whatever happens, wherever we end up, I just want you to know I'll never forget you.

Thank you for everything.

Cedric

John re-read the letter, absorbing every word, every stroke of ink. He wanted to remember Cedric's last words to him, but he knew he couldn't keep the letter. It was too personal and too dangerous – if the wrong kind of people got hold of it, it could damage Cedric's reputation and memory. Sherlock was right – sometimes it was better to remember someone as how you knew them best. Cedric was a hero of the school, and he should stay that way. Cedric might not have cared, but John did. He tore off just a tiny fragment of the letter – the last section, with Cedric's thanks and name. Nothing incriminating could come from that. The rest he burned with a quick incendio spell, watching until the last curl of parchment was gone. He knew now that Cedric had really loved him, it hadn't all been a lie or some twisted game. That was enough.

The pain in his stomach had lessened from one of agony, to something like a melancholy sigh. The sorrow was still there, and he knew it would take a long time to heal, but it was less raw now – more like a steady stream than a blaze. Maybe there was some poetry in death – death veiled in love, anyway.

He sat there for a few more minutes, rolling the tiny scroll of parchment in his fingers, before stowing it safety away in his inside pocket and getting to his feet. He could see the beauty around him more clearly now – the sun now risen above the line of the trees, the soft ripples across the surface of the water. Cedric wouldn't have wanted him to be miserable – he would have wanted him to go on noticing the good things in life, to learn that death could cause a shift, but not stop the entire world. At least not forever.

He saw a small group of people leaving the castle as he approached the front steps, and recognised them as the Diggorys and Professor Dumbledore. Mrs. Diggory was clutching a handkerchief to her face, while Mr. Diggory held a comforting arm around her shoulders. John hesitated. He wanted to approach them, to say something, anything, about how sorry he was and how much he would miss Cedric. He didn't know what they'd done with Cedric's body, or how it would be transported, but that didn't matter now. Before he could make a decision, Mrs. Diggory caught sight of him. She stared, taking in his appearance, before detaching herself from her husband and walking slowly over to him. Mr. Diggory didn't move to follow – he had obviously also guessed who John was and didn't trust himself to be civil to him. Mrs. Diggory stopped just in front of him and, to John's surprise, gave him a watery smile.

"Are you John?" she asked, and to which he nodded. Her eyes roamed his face. "You're just as Cedric described you."

"He told you about me?" John blinked in amazement.

She nodded. Her grey eyes – so like her son's – were still shining with tears. "He spoke of you often. Not so much to Amos, but to me. You meant a great deal to him."

John felt a catch in his throat and tried to swallow. "Me too," he croaked. "I'm . . . I'm so sorry, Mrs. Diggory."

She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You made him very happy, John. Thank you."

John stood and watched as Mrs. Diggory and her husband bid farewell to Professor Dumbledore and walked to the school's boundaries, Disapparating just beyond the wrought iron gates. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and glanced up to see the headmaster standing beside him, his face sombre and kind.

"Love," the old wizard said sadly, "can be an insurmountable joy, and a heart-wrenching burden."

John nodded and rubbed his eyes dry.

oOoOo

In the days to come, Sherlock often found himself recalling the words of a famous Muggle wordsmith: "To weep is to make less the depth of grief."

He had always felt awkward around the tears of people he wasn't close to or didn't care about, and so spent most of the hours leading to the end of the year in the Library. Girls who, as far as he knew, hadn't even spoken to Cedric kept bursting into fits of hysterics at the drop of a hat, and it was the only place he could find solitude from their wailing. It was a nice reprieve for John, as well. John, who actually had reason to cry, had remained admirably calm and stoic. Sherlock knew better than to pester him for constant updates on his mental well-being, so he just kept a casual eye on him, proffering a comforting hand if he felt it necessary. Some may have thought this distant, but he trusted John to know him better than that.

Molly and Lestrade visited them often, with news from the outside world. Apparently Potter was keeping his distance from everyone as well, choosing instead to hide away with Weasley and Granger. Sherlock didn't blame him – if John was suffering, he couldn't imagine what it must be like for Potter, having actually seen Cedric murdered. Rumours that he had witnessed Lord Voldemort's revival was flying through the school, and Sherlock for one was inclined to believe them. He couldn't exactly call Potter one of his closest acquaintances, but he knew he was neither a liar nor an attention-seeker, especially with such a serious story. The thought that the most dangerous wizard ever to exist had risen to power again was enough to stop anyone in their tracks, but that wasn't what was primarily worrying Sherlock right now. The problem would be how the Ministry would react to such allegations. He knew Cornelius Fudge's nature from Mycroft – the man was bumbling and pompous, far too comfortable with his position, and would undoubtedly be quick to dismiss anything that might endanger that. He knew that Dumbledore would have already taken precautionary steps, but would it be enough? Could this really be the start of a Second Wizarding War?

Sherlock shook his head and sighed, leaning back in his chair. Crucially important as it all was, he couldn't quite bring himself to focus on it right now. He could allow himself just one more day of faked blissful ignorance.

oOoOo

The last day of term dawned clear and blue-skied, and John dragged his packed trunk down to the Entrance Hall just in time to meet Molly and Greg at the foot of the great staircase. Molly smiled and Greg gave him a thump on the arm by way of a friendly greeting.

The atmosphere inside the school seemed to have changed slightly since the speech Dumbledore had given at the end-of-year feast. Some people seemed almost uplifted by it, others confused, others rather unnerved. John, for one, felt somewhat apprehensive but thankful that the headmaster had acknowledged Cedric in such a way, as the kind and good person he had been. He may have imagined it, but he thought Dumbledore's eyes had focused on him for a brief moment during the speech. It was a mystery as to exactly how much Dumbledore knew about what went on inside the castle, but it seemed like he knew something of what John and Cedric had meant to each other. John appreciated that, too.

The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were leaving now. John noticed Greg gazing rather wistfully after the Beauxbatons girls as they descended the castle steps towards the great carriage waiting for them. He also spotted Harry and Ron talking with Viktor Krum near the front doors as the Durmstrang students also made their departure to the skeletal ship moored in the lake. John kept his eyes on Harry, while setting his trunk down to wait for Sherlock. Harry looked tired and a bit pale, but better in spirits than John had seen him the past few days. He'd occasionally contemplated speaking to Harry about Cedric, but had resisted. He'd probably had to relive the experience enough times, and John didn't want to be the one to disrupt his recovery by asking him to do it again just for his benefit. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the exact details of how Cedric had died. It was like Sherlock said – better to remember him how he'd known him best.

He caught sight of Sherlock at the top of the stairs behind a group of other Ravenclaws, Cho among them. While she might not have cared about Cedric in the exact same way he had, when their eyes had met in the corridors in the past few days, they'd shared some kind of silent understanding. Neither of them had spoken to the other about Cedric's death. John didn't specifically blame her for being the one everyone sympathised for, but it hadn't been easy. He didn't hate her, but he didn't particularly want to talk to her either, and Cho seemed to understand that. It was probably selfish of him to think like that, but that was a guilt he was prepared to deal with.

Sherlock politely pushed past Cho and her group of friends, descending quickly to John's side. John wanted to take his hand, lean his head against his shoulder, but surrounded by so many people, he didn't think Sherlock would like it. He hoped that one day soon they could go public with their new relationship, despite what the likes of Moriarty and Malfoy might say. He knew the current social climate wasn't exactly enthusiastic towards people of their sexuality, but perhaps one day that wouldn't matter.

That day certainly wasn't today, probably not tomorrow. But for now, in the throng of people crowding towards the Hogwarts Express, and home, nobody seemed to notice two boys holding hands.