John should have known that Mycroft would intimidate everyone in the school into never bringing up his outburst again. It was a little disappointing that John's handiwork wasn't getting passed on to all the other students like it deserved, but their job was done—ever since, Mycroft and Greg were rarely seen apart. They held hands and sat too close and Greg had gotten away with continuing to call 'Myc'.

And even though people were forbidden to mention how it started, people endlessly talked about it once it began. It was the talk of the school for three days straight—you couldn't go anywhere without hearing about it.

"He's gay? He's the Head Boy!" was one of the main things heard 'round the castle. Though John wasn't sure what him being Head Boy and him being gay—or bi or whatever he was—had to do with each other.

And John was really happy for Greg, truly, but he'd been avoiding the older boy like the plague.

See, they saw each other the next day, and when John was going to congratulate him, Greg had wasted no time saying, "You said once Myc and I went public that you would talk to Sherlock."

Without a word, John had turned about and walked away and had taken to running away from him at all times. Well, not all times—it was alone time that was dangerous. In a group, Greg didn't dare bring it up, but the moment it was just the pair of them, John was gone. He was still giving Greg private training after the usual sessions, since Yancey was still out with noodle arms, but he'd convinced Mike Stamford to join them so they wouldn't have to be alone.

Mycroft and Greg might have continued to be big news for longer were anticipated social events not on the horizon. So after those three days, they were almost entirely forgotten because everyone was buzzing about two things: Halloween was on Thursday and the first Quidditch match, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, was on Saturday.

The prior was uneventful. They had the Halloween feast, at which John sat with Sherlock, Greg, Mycroft, and Molly. John didn't realise until they were all sitting together that he'd hardly seen Molly lately. And even now that she was sitting with them, she barely talked. She got up halfway through the meal and said she had to go to the library.

"Oi, Molly, is everything alright?" John asked quietly.

"I told you, I'm going to the library," she responded, almost sounding defensive. Then she ran off.

He figured he couldn't push her if she didn't want to talk about it, but he was beginning to get worried about her.

After Halloween, everyone was talking about the Quidditch match. And really, putting the two events so close together was stupid. Sure, the match was usually held on the first Saturday of November, but they should've changed it to next week because on Friday, 1) everyone was sleep deprived from staying up late with Halloween parties in the dormitories and devouring double their weight in sweets and 2) Nobody would shut up about the match the next day. Classes were full of crumpling foil, loud chewing, and theorising about which team looked better this year. The professors were all pissed off because of it, even the ones that were traditionally nice. Moriarty was in such a foul mood that day that John could almost believe that he was evil after all.

John was a little more nervous today than he usually was for a Quidditch match. Gryffindor's Seeker was new this year, as the old one decided not to try out this year—and almost got zapped by McGonagall for it, actually, until he explained that he wanted to focus on his NEWTs—and they were using their reserve Keeper, Greg. They both were looking good but were as of yet untested. He tried to comfort himself by remembering that Slytherin was looking rotten, according to Mike. Their team captain—who'd also been their Seeker—had graduated last year and the new Seeker was apparently rubbish. It'd probably be a pretty even match, to be honest, but he was inexplicably anxious.

At breakfast, John became even more concerned when he noticed Molly didn't show. She'd been showing her support for him since he was made Beater three years ago, even though she was a Hufflepuff. She'd never missed a match—she once went even when she'd been missing classes for half a week with a bad stomach flu—but now was conspicuously absent. John tried not to think about it, knowing he needed to focus on the match.

Sally was sitting with them, as she always was on Quidditch days. She and Phil both emphatically supported their own House's team, and if they talked on a Quidditch day, they'd murder each other. So she was forced to temporarily get over her boycott on John's company.

She didn't have a chance to get annoyed by Sherlock this morning anyway, as he was extra-pensive and hadn't said a word since John met him an hour earlier. Not that this was odd or anything, as sometimes Sherlock didn't talk for days on end for no obvious reason, but this morning he would've had several chances to make other people feel stupid, and Sherlock rarely skipped a chance to do that.

Greg looked like he was going to throw up. Mycroft was trying to comfort him, but it was clear comforting wasn't his forte, as he'd started listing statistics of how unlikely it was that Greg would die or get injured. Which was exactly what Greg didn't want to hear, considering how green he was getting.

Most of the Gryffindor team didn't hang out together outside of training and matches, but on the mornings before a match they all ate together—all their friends were scattered about in between, but the whole team was generally in the same area. But today, nobody seemed to want to sit with John—because of Sherlock, of course. John didn't care.

But then Mike, Gryffindor's other Beater, came and sat with them. Maybe he was willing to ignore Sherlock? But then, to John's shock, the first thing Mike did when he sat down was say, "You're well, Sherlock?"

Oh god. Sherlock wasn't good with small talk on any day, but on one of Sherlock's silent mornings such as this, he was likely to say something horri— "Fine, yes, thank you," Sherlock responded—sounding far more pleasant than Sherlock traditionally was with anyone but John. John blinked at Sherlock, but he immediately turned his attention to his empty plate silently, back to thinking in an instant. They had to know each other somehow. John had to remember to ask about that sometime.

"I'm not actually that surprised you two became mates," said Mike. "You're both too fond of getting into trouble to not gravitate towards each other eventually."

John didn't know what to say to that, but was kind of grateful to hear it. He was tired of people telling him he was mad for being friends with Sherlock—it was nice to hear someone say that their friendship made sense for once.

And even better, Sally seemed to have nothing to say to it.

After Mike arrived and realised how poor Mycroft was doing at comforting his boyfriend, he started bad-talking the other team to try to cheer him up and everyone joined in. It seemed to be working until a group of Slytherin players came in with their meanest glares—the rest of them were used to it by now, but Greg had never had the pleasure and almost got up and left before Mike held him down and started talking about how the new Seeker's nose wart was the size of a Quaffle.

After breakfast, when he got a half a second alone with Sherlock, he quickly asked, "So what are you thinking about?"

John thought he'd ignore him, for a moment, but then he said, "Does Molly ever miss your matches?"

John blinked, puzzled. "I didn't think you paid an ounce of attention to Molly."

"I often don't," Sherlock agreed, "but something's off about her."

"I know," John said. "I noticed on Thursday. But why has that got you like this?"

"I…" He seemed to have a realisation, shaking his head and looking at John, the thoughtful glaze over his eyes gone. "Don't worry about that now. Think about the match. Are you nervous?"

"A bit," John admitted.

"You'll do fine."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Did you just give me words of encouragement?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Problem?"

"No," John said quickly. If he wanted to hear it from anyone, it was Sherlock. It was just a bit unprecedented. He added hopefully, "Will you be watching?" Sherlock always went to training, but training was quiet and mostly vacant. It occurred to John that Sherlock might not want to go to the actual match.

He was incorrect there, however. "Of course. I have to gauge your courage some more through watching you at Quidditch."

John's mouth spread into a grin. "Or you just like me and are trying to be supportive."

"One of the two," agreed Sherlock with a smirk. "Good luck, John."

Then John was whisked away by his teammates.

The score was twenty to ten for Gryffindor. Slytherin was on point today, but Greg was making their efforts futile—they'd tried for four goals already, but Greg had blocked three of them. His green look of illness had gone away by now and he just looked like he was having a great time. John was more proud of him than he expected to be.

The match was tense, however, because one of the Slytherin Beaters was playing dirty. Even though Slytherin wasn't all bad, somehow their Quidditch team always had at least one arsehole that tried to hurt everyone. John had almost been hit himself several times. With Beaters though, it was hard to give any penalties for that kind of play, because their position on the team was already pretty violent in the first place.

So far, the Seekers had been circling aimlessly above everyone, not yet bolting away at the sight of the Snitch. John was kind of glad for that, honestly. Sure, he liked to win, but he played Quidditch because he liked the game, so when either Seeker caught the Snitch in the first ten minutes, it was no fun. Last year they'd won a match against Ravenclaw in four minutes thanks to a boatload of luck and a very fast Seeker. John had been the only one that was disappointed rather than impressed.

It was unseasonably cold out. The sky was grey and too close—which wasn't terribly uncommon, but John's feeling of apprehension had never entirely gone away and the weather wasn't helping.

John was watching the Quaffle, which was on the other end of the field from him. Mike was already in the area, so he was staying back, seeing where he was needed.

Then, suddenly, his hands slid right off the end of his room, the top of his body falling forward so he was hanging with his arms dangling beneath him.

What the hell? It's not like broom wood was particularly sleek—that would be a bit counterintuitive. If it were raining, he might not be surprised—but even then he'd played in the rain a ton of times, even when it was cold enough outside for the water to potentially turn to ice, and still he'd never felt close to slipping before.

Someone to his left—John figured it had to be from the Slytherin team since he didn't know the voice immediately—asked, "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he replied quickly, trying to sit up again. But when he tried to grab his broom, his hands again slid off, and this time he lost his balance and had to squeeze his legs together hard to stay seated.

"John?" someone yelled. This time it was Greg. Most of the team hadn't noticed—the crowd definitely hadn't. John, Greg, and the concerned Slytherin were across the pitch from the current action.

Fly lower, he told himself. If you can't get a grip, fly lower so you don't—

And in that moment he lost his grip for good, plummeting to the ground. The last thing he was aware of was the one person that would always notice.

"JOHN!" screamed Sherlock from the stands, sounding like a mad beast in a way John didn't think Sherlock was capable. After a moment, it came from the pin in his uniform too. Usually the pin sounded warbled through clothes, but in this manic moment, he heard Sherlock loud and clear. "John, stay with me, don't you dare…"

Then it all went black.

John awoke groggily in a bright room with too many faces crowded around him. Then it got too loud, because now that his eyes were open, everyone was yelling. They were all meaningless blobs at first, but they eventually turned into the faces of the Quidditch team. Off to the side stood Sally and Phil. Farther off than them stood Mycroft—looking more concerned than John expected.

But farthest away was Molly. She was by the door, as far from him as she could be. He wondered if he was the only one who even knew she was there. But once she realised he was awake she stood, without a word, and left.

John looked back to the raucous group, trying to decipher the meaning of any words at all. John noticed that Sherlock wasn't one of the faces he could see and his stomach twisted in disappointment. He wasn't even sure what was going on, but he knew that Sherlock should be here.

The first that made sense only did so because he was yelling especially loud. "Oi, shut up, you fucking animals. Give him some bloody space."

Oh Greg, bless you, John thought earnestly. Nothing was making sense and the volume was more than half of the problem.

He focussed on Greg, the only one he could make out. "Greg—what—I don't underst—" John paused as it all came back to him. "I fell off my broom."

Greg, who was the one in front of the rest of the Quidditch team, nodded. "It was like you couldn't get a proper hold on the handle. Normally someone would've caught you, but none of the professors were watching you. McGonagall is livid with herself. I think she's getting you chocolates." Greg seemed unable to shut up, because he ploughed on. "You broke a few bones, but Pomfrey fixed those up really fast," said Greg. "It's just that you hit your head, so you've been out cold for a few hours. You're fine, though. No permanent damage or anything. Well, thanks to magic, that is. If you were at a Muggle hospital you'd have died. Since, you know, getting hit in the head like that kills normal people."

He blinked several times, gaping at Greg.

"You didn't really need to tell him that, Greg," said Ariella Fischer, their new Seeker, exasperatedly.

"Well he's not in a Muggle hospital, so he's fine."

"Were your palms sweaty or something?" Mike asked.

"Were you nervous?" asked someone else.

People were starting to talk over each other again. John waited for Greg to shush them all before speaking. "I don't know what happened. My broom got slippery out of nowhere. Then I fell." Everyone was looking at him like there had to be more, but he didn't know what to tell them. That was it. That was all that happened.

Madam Pomfrey came in and started shooing people at that point. She got most of the team to leave, but Greg, Mycroft, Mike, Sally, and Phil stayed.

Once it was quieter, John asked, "But what about the match?"

Greg grinned, which told John the answer. "Funny story. About two seconds after you fell, Fischer got the Snitch. Honestly, I think it was before you even hit the ground. I think it materialised by sheer force of will. Then we all came straight here. Got here before you did, actually."

Thank god he didn't ruin it for them by being an idiot who couldn't fly. It was all ridiculous. There was no reason that should have happened.

Sally left soon after that with a quick, 'good job not dying' that made John wonder if he'd have even cared if she didn't show up at all.

Phil, of all people, stayed longer. Maybe only five minutes, but when he left, he said sincerely, "I'm glad you're okay." John afforded him a smile that she hadn't bothered to give Sally.

"You were good, Greg," John said now that the group was officially pretty small.

"Brilliant," Mike agreed.

They talked Quidditch for a little while before Mike left too. Which was all fine and good… until Greg nodded to Mycroft and he left as well.

And Greg never sent Mycroft away. Which meant Greg intended to ambush him when he couldn't run.

That was dirty for Sherlock, let alone a nice guy like Greg. Maybe it was Mycroft's idea.

Well. Clearly he wasn't getting out of this conversation, and John's denial had lessened a lot since the last time they had it, so he figured he might as well ask the question he'd been wanting to ever since he woke up.

"Where's Sherlock?"

Greg laughed, a deep belly laugh, which John didn't expect. "He got himself in trouble with Hooch," Greg said.

"What?" asked John. That was the last answer he expected. "How the hell did he do that?"

"When you fell off your broom, he kind of panicked. He ran out of the stands and went onto the pitch. Good job the match was already over by then. But anyway, Hooch told him to get off or he'd get in trouble, but he kept trying to get to you. She assigned him to polish all the sets of equipment as punishment, but I'm sure he's almost done by now."

John knew Sherlock would be cross if he knew John was laughing, but he found himself chuckling as he imagined the grumpy pout on Sherlock's face as he polished that damn equipment. He was flattered, honestly, though he couldn't imagine what possessed him to run out on the pitch like that.

Then John sighed. No point putting it off any longer, not now that he couldn't stop it happening. "So now's the part where you tell me to talk to Sherlock?" asked John resignedly.

"You seem surprisingly okay with that fact," Greg replied.

"I knew I was only postponing it. Though I didn't think you'd wait 'til I was incapacitated to do it."

"There was no other way to do it, clearly."

"Yeah. Guess I was making it a little difficult."

"A little," he muttered exasperatedly. "John, just—"

"I know, I know," John said. "But please try to understand where I'm coming from. He's my best friend. What if I tell him how I feel and he doesn't feel the same and it ruins everything?"

"Mycroft's positive he likes you too," said Greg.

John already knew that but decided not to mention that. "Fine, how about this. Even if he does like me, does Sherlock seem like the type that wants a relationship? What if he's ignoring how he feels on purpose and talking to him about it just makes him upset?"

"You'll never know until you try, John."

"It could destroy our friendship if it goes wrong."

"With the friendship you two have? No way."

Well, his surety was a bit comforting, John had to admit. He exhaled again, rubbing his eyes. "Fine. I said that when you and Mycroft got together, I'll think about talking to Sherlock. And I really will think about it… I just haven't decided if I want to risk it yet."

Greg pursed his lips for a moment. "Alright, fair enough, I suppose. I can't force you." He stood. "Well, I've got loads of Defence and Potions to do," he added. "But I'm glad you're okay."

When he went out the door, John's only company was the noodle-armed Yancey sleeping across the room from him.

But it was barely two minutes when the doors slammed open dramatically and Sherlock ran in. Yes, ran. John was imagining a childish, sulking Sherlock would mope in here eventually, but the Sherlock standing beside his bed was hard lines and thinly-veiled panic.

"Erm… I'm alive," said John, inexplicably embarrassed by Sherlock's concern.

Sherlock dragged a chair over and sat down, pulling himself as close to the bed as he could as he said, "I'd have been here earlier, only that cursed Hooch—"

"You had to stay late to clean, I know. It's okay."

"John, it's not okay," Sherlock snapped. John took a better look at him then. Sure, John had already seen his panic but, on closer inspection… God. He looked horrible. He was… he was shaking.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John finally asked, sitting up.

Sherlock looked at him with an offended expression. "No, I am not alright. I didn't think I was even capable of being so worried. You scared the shit out of me, John."

Sherlock, worried? Scared? Cursing? Wow. John never thought he'd see the day.

Sherlock was way too manic for John to even think about teasing him though. "But it is alright, Sherlock. I'm fine. People get hurt in Quidditch all the time."

"But that wasn't an ordinary fall, you must know that."

"What?" John asked blankly.

"God, you're so stupid sometimes," he muttered before adding, his voice slow and patronising, "John, what happened before you fell?"

"Well… my broom felt slippery. Like I couldn't keep a grip on it no matter how hard I tried."

"Exactly."

John still didn't get it.

Sherlock groaned. "Come on, think John. That doesn't just happen to people."

John was still lost, but he knew that if he made it seem like he got it, Sherlock would speak over him and reveal the answer. So he said, "So you're saying—"

"I'm saying someone cursed you. They wanted you to fall and make it look like an accident."

What? That was his brilliant theory? "You can't be serious," he said.

"Deadly," Sherlock replied stonily.

"Who in hell would try to hurt me?"

"Hurt you? John, someone wants you dead. And when I get to that person, they will regret being born."

John didn't even know how to comment on that second half, so he stuck to the first. "But they must've known that I wasn't going to die. Pomfrey can heal pretty much anything—"

"Unless you had died on impact." Sherlock took an unsteady breath. "I was sure you had."

"Sure I had died?" John asked incredulously. No wonder Sherlock was so freaked out.

"Yes. For a time. Until someone slipped a note under the equipment room door that was supposed to be anonymous that said you were fine."

"Supposed to be?"

"It was Molly Hooper," he said quickly, as if annoyed he had to explain. "She doesn't matter now. The point is that someone is trying to kill you. That's what matters here."

Sherlock still wasn't calming down. And after having that conversation with Greg… he felt sentimental. So he rested his hand atop Sherlock's on the sheets and said, "I'm sorry I scared you, Sherlock."

Sherlock was frozen for a long moment before snatching his hand out of John's grasp. "That is not the point right now, John! What part of 'someone wants to murder you' don't you understand?"

John sighed. "Sherlock, it could've just been some Slytherin that wanted to win the match. Don't think too hard on it."

Sherlock's jaw set in his silence, showing he'd stop talking about it, but that he was still madly thinking about it.

John was kept in the hospital wing overnight, just to make sure his head was okay.

Sherlock stayed with John until he fell asleep… and when John woke in the morning, Sherlock's head was on the bed next to him and he was snoring softly. Their hands were rested so close to each other on the bed that John could feel the warmth radiating off Sherlock's fingers and he couldn't stop himself from reaching out and putting his hand over Sherlock's. He startled awake, but didn't immediately move his hand. In fact, he even smiled.

Pomfrey came in soon after to check that he was good to go—which he was. Good as new. Magic was a miracle.

"You didn't have to stay," said John as they walked out of the hospital wing.

"Yes I did," Sherlock replied, and John didn't ask what he meant by that.