John awoke too groggy to immediately remember where he was, but he knew he was more comfortable than he'd been in ages. He had no desire to wake up, to move—to even open his eyes. It wasn't even just physical comfort—he felt content but had no idea why.

Though even the physical comfort didn't make much sense, after another second of self-inspection, because he was uncomfortably warm with the weight of a thousand blankets over him. He wasn't even lying down. He was in a seated position against something smooth and almost too hot—definitely not a pillow.

He was sitting up… okay, he was in a chair. He then registered a fire crackling very close to him… had he fallen asleep in the common room? He never remembered going back to his common room, actually. He'd been in the Room of Requirement with Sherlock and then he'd—

That was when it all came back to him. John almost froze to death in the lake, and Sherlock was being uncharacteristically sweet in trying to help him and ended up sitting beneath the blankets with him, and Sherlock's heat had felt too good for John to want to question it…

And that's where he still was. Basically snuggling. With Sherlock.

He told himself that now that he'd realised where he was, he should probably want to move.

But he didn't. Not at all. The fact that the surface against his face was actually Sherlock's chest didn't faze him—if anything, the thought made his stomach knot up excitedly.

Which made no sense, of course. This was Sherlock. Just Sherlock. Even if the two liked each other—which was probably untrue for both parties—what were they going to do, start dating?

His mind almost seemed to go silent at that, all of the denial and protests and confusion shutting up and listening in to what he had just thought. Like every part of his brain agreed with the idea.

Yeah, do that, he nearly heard in his head.

No, he told himself firmly. John wasn't gay, to start. And there was no way Sherlock liked him anyway. Mycroft thought so but what did Mycroft know about his brother? Not a bloody thing.

But… here they were. Cuddling. And John knew the feeling in his gut—he'd felt it enough times before to recognise it.

But Sherlock only did it to warm John up!

Well, a voice in the back of John's mind said, he's amazing at magic, knows every spell in the book. Any old spell could have gotten you warm, but he did this instead. Ever consider that's because he wanted to be next to you?

The thought made John bite his lip pensively. Was it possible… was it at all possible…

"You're thinking so hard I can nearly hear your cogs racing along," said Sherlock amusedly.

John felt his face heat up as if he'd been caught doing something bad. "Sorry," John muttered.

"No apology required."

John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock wasn't moving. He figured Sherlock would jump at the chance to get out of this intimate position, but he seemed perfectly fine just sitting there with John.

"You didn't die during the night," Sherlock said eventually, "so I suppose you warmed up properly."

"Actually, it's bloody hot in here," John responded, throwing the blankets into a giant heap at his side… and he knew he had to get up, but he didn't want to. Now that the blankets were off, he wasn't so warm. What if he stayed just a little… no.

He forced himself to stand and stretch.

Wow, he felt good. Like he wanted to go on a run. He couldn't remember the last time he slept that good. Strange.

"Yes, best we get up," Sherlock said, standing as well and quickly dressing himself. "You've got to get to Defence Against the Dark Arts soon." Sherlock looked at the mirror on one of the walls and ruffled his hair the way he does, making John roll his eyes. He bent down to tie up his shoes. "While Professor Longbottom wouldn't be too angry if I was late, Professor Moriarty," he said the name like it tasted bad, "might murder you, considering you're Muggleborn."

John sighed. "Sherlock, for the last time, he's not evil."

Sherlock stood, ready to leave before John even had his shirt buttoned. "A book of apologies, John. Remember that."

Then he strode from the room.

Sherlock was without a doubt the most ridiculous person John had ever met.

John only marvelled at that for a couple seconds, because then he realised he was running more behind than Sherlock had let on. John had to choose between going to the common room to get ready properly and getting some breakfast… he immediately chose the latter. Uncombed hair would not screw him as thoroughly as a growling stomach.

John nearly ran to the Great Hall, knowing that, after having to go down seven stories to get there in a building where the staircases moved, he'd only have time to shove a piece of toast in his mouth. He was nearly to a plate loaded with exactly that when he was surprised by a voice.

"Damn, John, who've you been bangin'?"

John hadn't heard Sally Donovan's voice directed in his direction for more than a month now. Then again, it made sense that she took this moment to chat with him, since at the mo', Sherlock wasn't attached to his hip.

John turned to her and had trouble hiding his frustration at her ignoring him for weeks only to interrupt him when he was on a schedule. "That's a weird thing to ask first thing," he said.

She clearly didn't notice his mood. "You've got some major bedhead is all," she said, chuckling.

Yeah, after taking momentary stock of his haphazard clothes and his scent—a strange mixture of Enamouring Infusion, the lake, and sweets—maybe he chose the wrong option when deciding what to do with these precious minutes. Plus, had he gone to his room, he wouldn't be stuck here talking to Sally. Definitely a mistake.

"I woke up late and didn't have any time to get ready," John explained.

"Where's the freak, then?" she asked in a casual tone.

John stopped rearranging his clothes to glower at her. "You're referring to my best friend as 'freak' to my face? Really?"

Her eyebrow went up. "Your best friend?" she enquired dubiously.

"We've been together every day since this school year started. What did you think that meant?"

"That you were pitying him. That he followed you home one day and you never got him to leave you be. I dunno."

"Well, not that it's any of your business, but I spend time with him because I like him."

She shook her head, her expression bewildered. "John, do you honestly know a thing about him? Like, really know him?"

"Are you under the impression that a few encounters with him means you know him better than someone who's with him all the time?" he countered.

Sally looked 'round for a moment, as if making sure nobody was eavesdropping, before pulling John to the side—out of arm's reach of the nearest table, at which John stared longingly. Damn his manners. Without them he'd have grabbed something while she was talking, but now he'd lost his chance.

"Do you remember in third year when Sabrina Morgan died and it was officially called an accident, but everyone really thought it was murder?"

Okay, where the hell did that come from? John grudgingly became interested in the conversation.

"Yeah, how could I forget?"

"Well, Sherlock was intrigued with the whole thing. And mind you, he was twelve at the time, since he was a second year. When he heard about her death, everyone else was sad for the loss, but he looked like he was about to jump for joy. Then he kept trying to get to the place where she died, but nobody would let him in… for days, he was happy like that. I've never seen him like that since. John, he likes death. He gets off on it. That's not normal."

John, it just so happened, had heard the situation from Sherlock's point of view once. When he was trying to get into the 'crime scene', or whatever they were calling it, he was trying to figure out how she died. He wasn't excited that she died, but to figure out how it happened. He was a detective, at heart, John had already known that. Sure, Sherlock was strange, but he didn't wank himself to the photo of a dead girl either.

"I'm not convinced he wasn't the one that killed her," Sally continued.

John almost snorted out a laugh. With the amount of times Sherlock had tried to convince John that Professor Moriarty had killed Sabrina, it was funny to hear someone accuse Sherlock of being the murderer.

"Well, thanks for letting me know, Sally," John said, trying really hard not to sound patronising as he said it—unsuccessfully, he was pretty sure. He glanced over to the tables, ready to run over and grab—the food had already vanished. Damn it.

That fact made John so angry that his politeness ran out. Without another word, he stepped 'round Sally so he could get to class.

"John, I'm only trying to protect you," she said to his back.

The sincerity in her voice made him stop. He sighed and turned to her. "I appreciate the concern, really I do, but I know Sherlock better than you might think. I trust him, whether you do or not."

And then John walked out, not wanting to hear another word from her. He turned the corner to get to Defence—

And Sherlock was in stride with him in seconds, and—bless him—he had a piece of toast in his hand.

"Oh, Sherlock, I could kiss you," he said, beginning to scarf it down.

Sherlock was quiet for long enough that John looked up at him. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked forward has he walked before explaining, "I knew Donovan was going to keep you held up long enough that you wouldn't get to eat."

"You heard all that then?" asked John with his mouth full of bread.

"She actually thinks I murdered Sabrina Morgan?" Sherlock scoffed, effectively answering John's question. "Honestly, how thick could she get? What motive did I have to murder a prefect when I was twelve?"

"Well, probably she figures it's because of the Pureblood thing," said John. "Since the girl was a Muggleborn."

"And that makes me guilty? That could be any Slytherin in the school—and some Gryffindors, at that. That makes her own boyfriend a suspect. But," Sherlock added thoughtfully, "that does include the person who actually did it."

"God, not this again."

"John, I'm telling you, something is wrong with him. Haven't you smelled him? His aftershave is far too sweet for—"

"Once you come to me with some solid proof, I'll believe you," John said. "But this is my classroom. See you later."

He went inside before Sherlock could say anything more about Moriarty being evil, especially considering he was entering Moriarty's classroom in the first place. Moriarty was pretty laid back, but even he would take offence to being called a murderer, John was sure.

"You look like shit."

Greg, for being a nice guy, said unnecessarily blunt things occasionally.

"Wow, thanks," John muttered. He'd heard it about a hundred times—people asking if he was sick, or—

"I just mean you look like you spent the night fucking," he said with a chuckle.

Or that.

"People are telling me that a lot today," John responded, rubbing his face.

There was a pregnant pause. "You didn't, did you?" he asked.

"What? No!"

"Only wondering," Greg said defensively.

"Who do you think I'd be sleeping with, anyway? I never spend time with any girls anymore—I'm too busy keeping Sherlock from burning the place down."

"Well actually—"

John cut him off, realising too late that he already knew Greg's theory. "Nevermind, don't say it."

This pause was even more loaded than the last one. "It's okay to like him, you know."

"Shhh," John muttered urgently. "He hears everything, okay? You can't just talk about it in the corridors."

"Why does it matter if he knows?" Greg said, not quieting down at all. "You both fancy each other. It's obvious."

"That isn't obvious in the slightest," John said. Even though everyone seemed to think so and for some reason John almost wanted to believe it…

No. No. He was not gay!

"It is. You both like each other and the only thing stopping you from being together is your big fat heads! Just talk to him, John."

John stopped walking, grinding his teeth in anger. "Fine. How about this. The moment you and Mycroft go public, I'll think about talking to Sherlock. Sound fair?"

"That's—that's not—" Greg went completely red. "I gotta go," he finally said, fleeing from the area.

But Greg's words had already done their damage. John knew in the privacy of his own mind that something was going on with Sherlock. It certainly felt like a crush. And Sherlock was acting strange in return, that was also obvious. And now the words were getting to him, crawling into his mind intoxicatingly.

Talk to him. It couldn't hurt, his mind said to him.

But it could hurt, that was the thing. It could hurt a lot.

And that's why John kept silent.