Chapter Twelve

Rivalries

"Eat."

It wasn't John who was forcing the stubborn Ravenclaw to eat, but the other way around. Sherlock sat on the bench to the Gryffindor house table, bent over and trying to stare into the shorter boy's blue eyes. It was the morning of the first Quidditch match of the season, and the Gryffindor Seeker was refusing to touch his food. The younger boy didn't stir, and he stared at his breakfast glumly. He knew he was hungry because his stomach grumbled, but he lied to Sherlock anyway.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes you are," Sherlock argued. "You always eat at every meal whether you're hungry or not. So eat something." John's frown deepened and Lestrade joined in on the advice.

"Yeah. Come on, John. You need the energy for flying." He chewed a piece of his omelet and pointed to Watson's own food. "It's the rivalry game of the year. You better beat those Slytherins' butts, cause they deserve to be put down with their attitudes. I can't wait to see the look on Moriarty's face after your catch the Snitch."

Sherlock chuckled. Same here, he thought. "Do you know who the Slytherin Seeker is, John?"

"N‒No," the lion admitted. "I haven't seen them practicing. I guess I'll just have to find out," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"John!" A rough hand slapped his across his back, almost causing him to knock out a tooth. He braced himself with his hands on the table, and when he swiveled around in his chair he found Anthony Greyskir standing over him. The captain looked as cheerful as ever, and John greeted him with a brisk smile. His mouth tugged gingerly into a grin, and Tony could tell his newest player was nervous.

"Ready for the opening game today?" he asked, even though Tony knew John wouldn't respond as cheerfully.

"Yeah, sure…" There was no enthusiasm in the blond's voice. "Just, nervous I guess…"

"Oh, don't worry," Tony assured him, giving him another violent slap on his shoulder. "We all were on our first day. We'll beat those Slytherins, you'll see." With a hinting wink, he strolled down the table to eat with his fellow classmates, some of which were members of their Quidditch team.

A silence followed the older boy's departure and Lestrade looked nervously at Sherlock, who was no help whatsoever. "You figure out that Herbology homework yet, Lestrade?" John asked, undoubtedly trying to change the subject.

"No," he admitted. "I haven't touched it since Thursday. Thought I'd put it off until after the match." His sentence was hard to make out while he chewed on a bagel.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, leaning closer to him and cuffing a hand over his ear. Lestrade repeated his answer after swallowing and his housemate nodded, understanding.

Molly noticed that both house sports teams were rising from their benches, so John unwillingly stood to join them. "Come with me," he whispered, grabbing Sherlock on the wrist and dragging him out of the hall.

"See you at the match," Sherlock indicated to Lestrade and Molly, who both sat with questioning looks on their faces.

One by one, students and teachers began to file out of the school's open front doors to head down to the Quidditch pitch. Holmes kept looking over his shoulder to estimate how many followed them, but he eventually lost count. He unexpectedly nudged John on his elbow, and his friend turned sulkily to see what he wanted.

"Here."

Randomly, Sherlock slid a piece of toast into John's relaxed hand. The athlete couldn't help but take it so it gave him some comfort and energy. "Thanks," he mumbled, biting into the savoring bread. The yellow butter melted on his tongue and the crust was crunchy against his teeth. Jumping, John felt Sherlock's hand weave across his shoulder blades and rest on the opposite side of his torso. The taller boy pulled him in closer, and Watson stared at the grass as the Ravenclaw eagle squeezed him.

"Don't worry," Sherlock comforted him, adjusting the collar of John's white shirt as they stood outside the team's changing tent. "I know you'll be fantastic."

There was a squeeze on his wrist for good luck.

"Ready, John?" Greyskir asked him for the millionth time since they'd changed into their red and gold Quidditch robes. John didn't answer. He stood staring at the wood wall in front of him that supposedly opened, behind where the entire school sat waiting hidden by the barrier for the teams to fight it out for the win.

John's stomach lurched and his hand flew automatically to help settle it. Good thing I didn't eat, he told himself, feeling sick rather suddenly. He forced himself to answer Tony's question flatly.

"No."

Too late. The gate blocking the outside world from view lifted to send a blinding sunshine into their eyes. Well, at least there's perfect weather, John thought optimistically, noting that there weren't any clouds in the sky; yet to go along with the autumn day an early October breeze would cool them off as the game went on. All seven teammates stood in pairs with one uneven player in the back of the group carrying their brooms and for the Beaters, clubs.

As the gates at both ends of the pitch lifted painfully, John's ears rang with a blasting roar from the stands. From the limited vision he could see, most of the students were on their feet, cheering and waving banners of the house colors. The captain bowed his head to duck under the ceiling, and he led the other six teenagers out to the center of the field as the head player.

John followed Tony out across the field, passing over white lines painted in their proper spots. The three hoops at either end of the pitch towered over the students, and the familiar benches from practice were filled to the last seat. The professor who taught flying lessons stood in the middle of the white circle as both Quidditch teams approached. You could already tell the teams despised each other by the sneers being exchanged from opposite ends of the field.

All fourteen players stood positioned around the outside of the circle, with the fifteenth body of Madam Hooch being the point in the center. A shaking trunk was at her feet, and her black and white striped robes flowed behind her. Students longed to see clearer, and the teachers had reserved seats up higher in the stadium so they received the best view of the games.

"Before we begin," she indicated towards the players, nodding her head and glaring at them all dangerously, "I want a clean game. There's to be no breaking the rules; I will not tolerate it. Captains," she said, turning to face the oldest members on both teams, "shake hands."

Anthony and the Slytherin captain came forward, and more had a knuckle‒breaking fight than an exchange of handshakes. Both of them crushed with all their might on their opponent's hand, trying not to show that they were struggling to show pain as well. They returned to stand with their teams soon after, and John saw Tony fling off the tingling in his cherry red hand beneath his robes.

"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch announced. John flung one leg over his broom, gripping the handle tightly. Before being told to kick off the ground, he scanned the mischievous faces of the Slytherin team. He stopped at the person across from him, clearly assigned the same position. She was the only girl on the team. Hair pulled back completely off her face, lipstick the shade of blood red, eye makeup enhancing her lashes; she stared at Watson with demon eyes.

John blinked twice and probably needed a slap across the face to make sure it was true. He wasn't the only first year who was playing on a house team. But no one had mentioned this Slytherin girl. She played the exact same position as him, yet there was no news about it flowing through the school's halls, thus it was kept a secret.

Slytherin's Seeker was Irene Adler, the one person he never expected to be participating in a sporting event.

The fourteen players kicked off the ground, and John felt a swift breeze against his cheeks. Madam Hooch below on the ground unhooked the latch on the trunk, letting the Quidditch balls be release freely. Two black Bludgers busted from their binding chains, flying into the air and circling violently around the field. Then, pulling back the two halves of the Hogwarts crest, the tiny golden ball was seen in the palm of Madam Hooch's hand for a split second, then it flew off and vanished into the cloudless sky.

"And the players are lined up to begin the first match of the season. Madam Hooch is preparing to grab the Quaffle." A voice was ringing around the stadium through speakers, and the same full‒of‒herself tone echoed in Watson's ears. He scanned the crowd roughly, looking for the tan face.

And there she was. Among a group of teachers on a black and white stands post, Sally Donovan's job was to entertain the crowd as the announcer. Great, I can hear her loud mouth over speakers, John rolled his eyes. Tension rose between the rivals as the Chasers gathered to ignite the game and Beaters grasped their bats tightly. Madam Hooch bent down to grab the Quaffle, and the crowd held their breath as she threw it powerfully into the air.

"And the game has begun!" Sally's voice boomed out to the stadium, and an explosion of cheers rang out again. John zoomed up high above the crowd, launching his broom towards the sky and rocketing upwards. Spinning, he followed the directions that Anthony had told him; stay out of the way of the Chasers, but keep your eyes peeled for the Snitch.

John was aware that Irene was spying on him, or perhaps even tailgating him. She was a good twenty feet below him, yet she occasionally glanced up to see if he had dashed away.

"And Slytherin scores. Ten zero to the emerald and silver." John grumbled as a loud roar came from the green end of the pitch while the three other houses booed disapprovingly. Going back to his job, he scanned the entire stadium, aware that a tiny gold ball fluttered in the air somewhere. Even with his almost perfect vision, it was extremely difficult to find the Snitch in perfect weather. He'd had trouble catching it during some practices, since sometimes it tended to hide behind the stands or the goal posts. It was also more difficult with the hundreds of students waving distracting flags and wearing brightly colored scarves that made him go insane.

"And Gryffindor answers!" The scoreboard changed, and they'd tied it at ten apiece.

"Come on, John!" the first year heard Tony shout from near his defending goalposts. "Find the Snitch and end this game quickly!" He had to fling himself five feet to block Slytherin's close shot, and Watson gave him a thumbs up, muttering to himself as he searched for the gold speck.

"Oh, that was an awfully close shot by Howard. And now it's Finn McKorrick with the Quaffle, followed closely by his teammate Heather Dagmarc. She's speeding forwards now…Ouch, that was a rough hit by Frankshore. Hope Heather is okay…"

"Donovan…" A familiar stern voice came onto the speakers, and the Gryffindor Seeker recognized it as Professor McGonagall's. "Don't take sides, even if your own team is playing."

"Sorry, Professor," she said, annoyance still in her tone. John tried to drown out Sally's voice, but every now and then she'd invade his head again. Still the Snitch was nowhere in sight, and Irene still stayed on his tail aggravatingly.

"What's he doing?" Lestrade was adjusting the zoom on a pair of binoculars, focusing on John's figure high in the sky. Molly stood by his side, her black and yellow scarf tied loosely around her neck. She elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to flinch and knock his forehead into the edge of the magnifying tool.

"What do you think he's doing?" she asked, pointing back at their friend. His scarlet Quidditch robes fluttered in the wind, and a small corner of his leg protectors were visible above his sports cleats. "He's trying to search for the Snitch. You can't expect him to find it so easily." She bent her fingers, asking for the Gryffindor to pass her the magnifier.

Molly jumped up in fright as a body grazed against her back, and the brunette who was taller than her stepped into view. He joined them on the bench among the scarlet and gold supporters, wearing a long black coat. The collar came up to cover his neck, and his cheekbones bulged behind his skin as he smiled.

"Sherlock!" Molly screeched, lowering the binoculars and spotting his Ravenclaw tie beneath the buttons on his coat. "I thought you claimed earlier that you were going to finish your homework."

"Change of plans," he said, burying his hands in his pockets and twisting his rib cage. "Couldn't skip the first Quidditch match of the season…" His voice sounded as though he hadn't finished his sentence, like he wanted to comment more but didn't. He pursed his lips together, squeezing them tight and focused his attention on the game. His eyes flew directly to John, but the younger Gryffindor was paying no attention to the crowd and continued to scoot around the stadium.

Suddenly, a glint of gold flickered in John's peripheral vision, and he spotted the Snitch hovering a few feet above the ground on the opposite side of the field. Not hesitating, he flattened himself against the handle of the school's broom, forcing the vehicle to imply its full speed. Irene wasn't foolish to take it as a joke, so she bolted right after him. The Slytherin Seeker was a good fifteen feet behind his trail as he took off, but he couldn't waste any precious seconds in the battle.

Before Watson could come within ten yards of the Snitch however, the tiny ball had darted away and out of sight. He jerked the handle up in a flinging motion so he avoided smash into the earth, and Irene pulled swiftly out of the air to look like she hadn't followed him from the start.

"And nothing happens after all," came Sally's voice over the speaker, depressed that the Snitch had slipped away.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered under his breath through gritted teeth. He stood slouching while sitting into his left hip, staring over Hooper's shoulder to observe the players zooming by. Lestrade and Molly both cheered loudly as the lions scored a few more goals, but one of the Chasers had the wind knocked out of her. Kelsey Monts, the fourth year Chaser was hit with a blow of a Bludger as one of the Slytherin players whammed his bat with all his strength.

A penalty shot was given to Gryffindor, but Finn missed by a mile because he was so frustrated. John heard Anthony shout a load of nasty swear words from his mouth, and Madam Hooch had to warn him about his language. Slytherin scored two more hoops not long after the missed shot, so the red team was only ahead by twenty points.

"Do you mind staying off my tail?" John bellowed, giving the serpent Seeker a sneer after the commotion calmed down and the game had resumed. Irene didn't answer him; she simply returned his rude comment with an attempting encouraging smile and an inappropriate gesture, something far too old for such a young student to be performing. But the asker didn't fall for her begging reply. She flew off to stop directly across from him, making the blond even more pissed off as she kept a watchful eye on him.

"I see it!" Lestrade's cry startled both Sherlock and Molly as the exuberant boy squinted harder to get a better view. "The Snitch! It's beyond the stands over there!" He pointed over the heads of a few second years, and Sherlock saw it quicker than Molly did. Just beyond the far Slytherin goalpost, the tiny ball fluttered its wings madly and bounced in the light breeze of air. Holmes wanted to shout to John where it was, but there were two problems; one, John probably wouldn't hear him over the roar of the students, and two, even though Sherlock didn't care, it would be cheating.

It didn't matter. The blond Quidditch player had spotted the Snitch and dove once more at one of the uprights supporting the stands. Irene being closer saw it after John had but had a slight lead on his broom. Neck in neck, red and green robes intertwining, they sped towards the fans with great speed while the other half of the stadium hunched back in fear.

John tried to shove Irene off her broom, even though he knew it was rude to punch a girl. She had her hands on the handle of his broom and looked up just in time to watch the Snitch get away. Watson was trying to knock Irene off course now, and he sped faster and faster at the upright.

Time flew by incredible quickly and the upright soon towered over him as it dominated his vision. The green team member used her force to push off John's leg protectors, removing her from harm's way yet shoving her enemy deeper into danger. He collided roughly as the barrier came in contact with John's chest before he could control his broom to fly away. He smashed his head full on into the wood, causing his brain to go fuzzy and his vision went blurry. When he slammed into the pole, his broom gave way under him a few feet and he scraped the entire inside of his arm.

Some of John's skin shredded off with his torn sleeve, which floated down to the ground leisurely. Around where the scrape was forming the irritated skin turned bright pink. John heard some cries of worry from the crowd as he rebounded off the upright and stopped a few meters away.

He gritted his teeth in excruciating pain as his brain functioned properly again. He cradled his bad arm into his lap, adjusting his stance on his broom so he could sit comfortably. Water was beginning to boil in his eyes, and he bent over in a contracted position with his spine to avoid the attention from the crowd and as a result of the pulsing feeling around his bone. John's sleeve was completely torn and some loose threads hung down from his wrist. He applied pressure to his arm even though it seared with pain, and it shot through his entire arm when his hand came in contact with the skin tissues. Every time he flexed his muscles, the damaged skin popped out in a clump and twisted in a nasty and not normal way.

John was suddenly aware of the noise of liquid dripping nearby. He checked the barrier to make sure he hadn't splatter blood everywhere, and he whipped around to search for Irene. She'd come out of the fight unscathed.

Turns out the dripping noise was coming from his own body. John had been given a bloody nose when his head bashed against the stands, and he felt the hot liquid pouring from his nostrils. It soon clotted up and he couldn't breathe through it, so he inhaled and exhaled deeply through his mouth.

"How…" John whispered to himself, wondering how his uniform guard could've slipped to reveal his arm to the splintered wood. His voice was funny with his clogged nose, and he had a twang in his tone because of the lack of air flowing through his nostrils. His British accent almost seemed cut off from his limited speaking abilities. He ignored the question boiling in his mind and somehow managed to steer his broom without gripping the handle. He hovered in the air, left hand squeezing his right arm, lifting his head to find the stadium staring at him. He soon had to stop again and lie flat against his broom handle because the pain was too much to bear.

Molly's hand had flown to grab handfuls of her ginger ponytail, and Lestrade's was on the edge of his hairline. When the lone Hufflepuff turned to see Sherlock's expression, he wasn't there. He'd worked his way through the crowd without the two friends noticing.

Now John almost felt embarrassed. A single tear slid down his cheek, showing his emotions and how he was reacting to his injury. His face remained scrunched up, and his back heaved up and down as he took shaky inhales through his teeth.

"John!" Someone was yelling his name, but he didn't glance up to check who. Whoever it was, the voice came from slightly behind his right shoulder. It wasn't even a frightful shout; it was just to grab his attention.

There were the faint words of Anthony Greyskir saying, "Timeout," to Madam Hooch, and a whistle blew to halt the play of the game. A rush of wind fluttered John's Quidditch robes as the captain came to stop at his side. "John! Are you okay?" He was rushing his sentence and it slurred into one word.

"No!" the younger boy replied, more in an angry tone than in the sound of struggle.

"Come down to the ground." Tony's hand grabbed the front of the school broom and directed it down to earth, allowing the Seeker to hop off the vehicle and stand in the grass. His cleats sunk into the dirt and the studs left an imprint after he'd left.

Too many voices were asking the same thing; if he was fine. Finally, the Gryffindor captain pitched in and told his players to give Watson some air. "Get him a bandage, quickly!" he roared, and a figure in scarlet sprinted off to the locker room for a clean wrap.

Another sharp seer went through his veins as one of the Beaters Sherman began to protect his bruised arm a few minutes later, wrapping the bandage around so tightly it basically cut off his circulation. The rough hands from holding a bat weren't helping with the patching. "Geez, take it easy!" John shot at him, trying to speak through glued gums. A red splotch flowed through the thick fabric as the wound had opened even more, and the wrap wasn't doing much to cease the bleeding.

"There," Riley said, stepping back to show what a messy job he'd done.

Anthony gathered up his players in a huddle. "That'll have to do for the remainder of the match. Come on team; let's finish this thing as soon as possible!" The Slytherin team was laughing at their beat up Chaser and Seeker, but that didn't get the lions' hopes up. The seven players gathered in a circle and clapped hands, preparing to return to the sporting event.

John leisurely worked his way back into the game. An hour at least had gone by since the match had started, and twice the Seekers had fought to claim the Snitch for their team. Irene seemed to be hiding now. She was nowhere in sight, and the players continued on as though a timeout never was demanded. The Slytherin team had assembled on their brooms in the air a lot faster than the lions had, rudely tapping on their thighs and waiting for the opposing team to return and finish the game.

John had to swerve his body in order to avoid a rocketing Bludger, which missed his leg by a foot. Grabbing the broom handle with his good arm, he let his injured arm rest on his leg undisturbed. The side effects of his collision were already weaving in to distract him. He could tell his face was being drained of color and becoming pale, while he felt dizzy and sweat dripped in his blond locks.

Something emerald flew past him in a flash, and Watson realized it was the back of Adler's robes. She'd seen the Snitch for the third time, flying over the painted white line surrounding the circle in the center of the field. John flew after her, launching himself onto his ride and urging it to decline faster. "Come on. Come on!" he panted, his bad arm digging into his hip as he was getting terribly woozy from the speed. She was losing her advantage and he was gaining, not too far from the tail of her broom. His face became level with her knees, and she glanced over her shoulder as she heard him coming. Her face molded into an appalled frown, and the wounded boy seized the opportunity to get back at her for what she'd done.

His foot connected with her knee, and gently but with enough force he shoved her whole body a few feet away, just out of reach of the Snitch. She lost control and cursed under her breath. John sped up and flattened his chest to the handle, noting that the Snitch was a short distance away. Its wings were losing power and being drained of stamina, and with a tremendous effort and extension of his elbow, John felt his fingers wrap around the fluttering ball.

The Snitch's wings were beating against his closed knuckle, trying to escape and elongate the game. But as John was told thousands of times in practices, make sure to have a firm grip.

"Uh oh…" He wasn't slowing down and the ground was rising up to meet him quickly. Before smashing into the grass he flung himself off the broom, doing a somersault in mid air and rolling repeatedly through the field. With each topple his scrape let off another sharp pain, and he gathered his strength to lengthen his non‒bandaged arm out and stop his body from continuing on in a frightening position.

He'd knocked his skull on a hard surface once more, and his vision went blurry for the second time. Arm throbbing, he held the tiny golden ball in his clenched hand, and a small crowd of people was rushing over to where he lay sprawled on the ground. A faint obnoxious voice was bellowing over the speakers, saying something about the result of the match.

The colors around John in his vision melted together and all he could see was darkness. Before he completely blacked out, he saw a tall, lean figure with perfect curls kneel by his side. The slap on the face from the Ravenclaw wasn't enough though, and the Golden Snitch escaped John's weakened grasp as his eyes closed and he was isolated from reality. In fact, the hit from Sherlock's fingers had just led him to fall asleep, taking the memory of his first unlucky Quidditch match conclusion with him as his heart pumped and pounded. The world around him became silent and steady, and the faint screams reduced in his ringing, right ear.