"I'm sorry," was the first thing John heard.
Groaning as the throbbing in his head morphed into a pounding, he started to get up, but a hand pushed him back down again. He really couldn't complain.
Attempting to speak, John managed a croak before quickly dwindling into a fit of coughing. Someone handed him a glass, and he downed the water with relish. Immediately after, it disappeared from his hands.
John rolled onto his side, rested his cheek under his hands, and squinted up curiously at the cross-legged figure he was now aware of. He lay there on the floor, staring up at Sherlock Holmes, wondering what the hell had happened.
"It'll come back in a second." Sherlock offered an empty smile.
Then, his eyes took on a sudden scrutiny. He picked up his wand, which was on his lap, and lightly tapped it on the back of John's head.
"Couldn't reach it from your previous position," he explained.
"Reach what?"
Sherlock sighed, laced his fingers together, and leaned down towards John.
"The dried blood from when Charles tortured you," he stated plainly, with a bit of a frustrated glare, waiting as the recollection flooded in.
"Oh," John said quietly, but with emphasis. "Right." He clicked his tongue, and smiled with a bit of a disorientated amusement. "Well, what's done is done. Now what?"
Sherlock flicked a strand of John's hair away from his face, eyes exasperated, but soft.
It then quickly changed to confusion, and he immediately drew his hand away, as if surprised at his own action. He shut his eyes briefly before speaking.
"John. You're—" something caught in Sherlock's throat but he pushed on, words coming out faster—
"You were my best friend, at the time, as you have discovered. I can only assume Charles had been driven by petty vindictiveness from some previous case, and decided you were the best option in order to hurt me."
There was a pause.
"To hurt you?" John finally said, softly but with malice. "I'm the one who had invisible knives all over me; you're telling me it's all about you again?"
Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes wide. "I—" whatever words came next were lost.
John sighed and looked away. "You know what," he muttered, "you did save me. So—just—just move on."
Sherlock nodded briskly, face tense and relieved.
"I am sorry about the injuries. You should go only about eighty five percent in quidditch."
A nod.
"Charles won't hurt you again," Sherlock declared.
A slower nod, with a small smile.
"And—I brought this onto you. If I hadn't, if we weren't, friends, this wouldn't've happened. I'm sorry."
No nod.
Sherlock's eyes were almost pleading. John deliriously remembered him commenting on them an eternity ago. Alien eyes, was that what he had called them? They seemed much more human now.
"John. Charles did this because of me. I know I was blunt before, ending our friendship, but now we're even. It's best if we just continue to avoid each other."
And then Sherlock gave John a smile to hide the pain.
It was a pain he's felt many times before, but this time? Strangely sharper than the others, though not unbearable. He'd even clock it up to second on the list. (No pain would ever beat the first.)
But it was something he was willing to handle.
Because it would just be like the others.
If six year old Sherlock hadn't spoken to that little blond-haired blue-eyed girl who had seemed so nice, he wouldn't've seen her abruptly lean in, her soft lips gently resting onto his, and he wouldn't've seen her immediately upon contact whip her face away as if stung, and saunter back to Thomas, and Thomas's awestruck Merlin, Steph, you actually did it, I can't believe you actually did it, that's insane, and he wouldn't've seen Stephanie's proud smile as she took Tommy's hand and they walked away.
She had cast Sherlock an apology with her eyes, but Sherlock didn't see it through his tears.
Because if Sherlock hadn't been so desperate to have a friend last summer, he wouldn't've found Charles Milverton, he wouldn't've whispered things into his ear, desperate murmurs about his parents and empty bottles. He wouldn't've heard Charles tell those exact things to Irene Adler. He wouldn't've spilled in, spitting his betrayal, you promised you wouldn't tell, I'm done, I'm gone.
Because…
Because every time, something happens.
Sherlock had no doubt that John Watson had every possibility of spilling his secrets or doing this for a dare or something of the sort (except, John's family was in good financial position, and Sherlock did not foresee anything in the future that would encourage John into getting information from Mycroft, so why would he, but then again, he didn't quite understand human motives, perhaps he would be wrong, but it didn't really matter now, did it?).
But if so, why didn't he leave before? Six months, Holmes! Why did he drag it on for so long? What if he's not using you as a prank, bet, or dare? What if he just… wants to be friends?
How he wished those thoughts were true.
But even if they were, even if, by some ludicrous chance, it was true, it would just be further proof.
Sectumsempra, Sherlock, bloodied and battered, sprawled across the floor, because of you, remember that!
But—
But you're too drained of willpower? To end this for both of you? You're too desperate, too yearning, too weak? You're in too deep, should've known it and ended it from the start—
Oh, had he known the consequences of Charles discovering how much he cared.
He would never have done this, Sherlock wouldn't've seen John and Charles take the wrong turn and he wouldn't've sprinted to follow, too panicked to apparate, and pounded at that stupid door that wouldn't open until Charles dashed away, and he wouldn't've been too busy being completely horrified at John's wounds to murder Charles, and John wouldn't be hurt.
And even still, he didn't understand. Why would Charles do this?
Was it because Sherlock ended their friendship, and he wanted to get revenge? But it was Charles who spilled Sherlock's secrets.
Was it because Sherlock had correctly identified Charles as the stealer of Anderson's ring? But surely he knew Sherlock would figure that out, it was so obvious!
Was it because Milverton was a vindictive brat and decided hurting John would be a good way to hurt Sherlock?
That was the line of reasoning that Sherlock decided to settle on.
And the scariest part was that it had worked. (the voice was still shouting at him, don't get attached, don't do it, don't you dare)
The thing was, all of those possible motives had something in common: they were all, still, because of Sherlock. No matter what, it was still Sherlock who had gotten John into all this.
He couldn't risk John's safety more than he already had, hell; more than he had before this.
(There was another, before John, also hurt. But much, much worse. Sherlock wouldn't let himself think of it.)
So he couldn't. Not just for his sake, not just to avoid mock or rumours or being used. Sherlock could manipulate, yes, he could weave his words, maybe even inflict pain, to get what he wanted.
But when it was a friend, and if they had gotten hurt because of his actions—that he couldn't handle.
That became his mantra. Alone protects him.
Suddenly, piercing through the argument, a spear from reality was driven into the hazy battlefield of his thoughts. John.
"How many times have you said that before?"
That, now, that was a real voice, John Watson in front of him (and yet somehow so far away) but another voice, this soft lilting sigh that was not real, merely a voice in Sherlock's mind, took it on, once a harmonious blend of many, zeroing in on one, until Sherlock was, continuing to, listening to John—only this time, it was in his head.
(But why should that mean it's not real?)
You know what I think, Sherlock? I think you're being an irrational prick. I can choose my friends myself. I'm a bloody Gryffindor, I thrive in danger for god's sake; I think you should let me decide whether or not it's too much for me to handle.
The realisation came quick and Sherlock abruptly found himself back in the secret room, face to face with John, who had just finished speaking.
Sherlock looked at John and cocked his head. Hmm.
Maybe he could give this a shot.
"It's best if we just continue to avoid each other."
And then Sherlock gave John such a pleased smile he wanted to punch it right off his face.
John stared and glared and contemplated his decisions, trying to think of a response that wouldn't be just a string of swears. (Meanwhile, unbeknownst to John, Sherlock went through a battle of reasoning in his mind, began an argument that John would very soon conclude, and come to a radically off-the-beaten-path decision.)
Drawing in a breath, John spoke curtly, coldly.
"How many times have you said that before?"
Sherlock's eyes sharpened suddenly, but at the same time it seemed he was not concentrating on reality—he seemed to be processing John's words with a steady vigor, but it was like he was someplace else, somewhere within his mind.
John was so startled by this, he hesitated for a brief second—and that seemed to be enough.
Sherlock's eyes focused back to reality onto John. He tilted his head, and pressed his lips together with thought.
"Well? Go on." John snapped irritably. "Because, however unsurprising it is, I can't help but think you've done this to all your 'ex-friends', and everyone who cares about you."
Sherlock blinked a couple more times.
"John—"
"You think you're so noble and heroic and deep, isolating yourself to 'protect' or something—"
"John—"
"Frankly, I don't even know what you're thinking—"
"John—"
"I just don't get it! Is it because of me?!"
"John. Hamish. Watson!"
John immediately shut up, because that was a remarkable impression of his father.
"Yes?" he said automatically, rubbing his eyes that he hadn't even noticed were damp until now.
Sherlock suddenly seemed hesitant, but set his jaw and forced their eyes to meet. He spoke slowly, deliberately, carefully.
"Isolation does protects me, and others. That is a statement I will never deny. However, I have come to a conclusion, and I am about to make a decision that part of me is currently disowning me for even thinking of doing, but I have decided it is worth a try, and I will find it much appreciated if you listen."
John stared for a full three seconds before replying with,
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, talk like a normal teenager for once."
Silence. Sherlock blinked multiple times. Again.
Then he completely exploded in a fit of laughter.
John offence slowly descended into irrepressible giggles, which then ascended into a hysteria.
"John," Sherlock gasped out after a while where all they needed was to look at each other before their laughter would start with a new force again, "I'm sorry, but I really don't think I'm a normal teenager."
John tried to respond, but couldn't speak.
"Now, do you want to hear my radically irrational decision that goes against my entire life mantra or not?"
Still trying to ward off lingering giggles, John took a deep breath, and smiled.
"The answer is so obvious you must be a complete imbecile not to have predicted already," he drawled, in a voice that could only best be described as… slimy, trying his best to look condescending when Sherlock was a head taller.
"That is the most inaccurate impression of me I have seen in my life."
"That is the most inaccurate impression of me I have seen in my life."
"Are we really going to do this?"
"Are we—"
Sherlock clapped his hand over John's mouth.
John smirked under his palm.
Sherlock immediately yanked his hand away with a shriek of disgust. He gawped at John whilst furiously wiping his hand on his robe.
"You licked me," he said incredulously.
"Yes, Holmes, an excellent deduction," John said without not missing a beat.
"You licked me!"
"Oh, now you're repeating yourself? I thought that was, what was it again? a clear sign that someone is missing a few brain cells?"
Sherlock couldn't even respond. He looked at John with an expression that was so satisfying, John wanted to take a picture of it and frame it on his wall.
John's eyes twinkled with mischief. "You licked an actual shoe once to find out the last time someone's worn it, I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of it right now."
Sherlock suddenly found himself short of breath. How John had managed to evaporate the tension into utter oblivion within seconds—now that was a mystery he'd like to solve.
John's smile turned a bit more crooked, but also, somehow, a bit more serious.
"But, yeah, I do want to hear it."
"Oh, and also—" John looked slightly disturbed—"how do you know my middle name?"
Sherlock seemed to be quite unable to stop shaking his head.
"John Hamish Watson, you are unbelievable."
"Ah, well, thanks." John smiled for a second, then turned completely serious. "But actually. My middle name, Sherlock."
"You asked me once if I had one, and after denying, I asked you, which you denied profusely and with painfully obvious avoidance of eye contact. I assumed it was something embarrassing, and therefore probably funny." Sherlock snickered. "Your birth certificate, Hamish."
"One, 'birth certificate' is a very unclear answer that only leads to more questions, and two, if you make calling me that a habit I will personally replace all your conditioner with mayonnaise."
"The oil enriches hair."
John swore under his breath. Then, his face lit up.
"I'll force you to get eight hours of sleep daily, including three full meals a day, without skipping classes and without any cases to solve."
Sherlock's face took on a look of complete revolt. John snickered, and flicked one of Sherlock's curls.
"Joking. I'd never do that. But if you push it, I'll have second thoughts, so keep the nicknames to yourself, 'kay?"
"Ah." Sherlock nodded, thinking about how that one time in fourth year he had made a complete Anti-Paralysis Potion, conjured an owl, paralysed it, and used the potion on it to prove it worked—why was it that he could do all that before anyone else in the class had even finished the potion itself, but in this current moment, when John was talking only slightly faster than normal, he simply couldn't keep up?
"John, do you want to hear it or not?"
"What?" John looked confused for a second. "Oh! Right! Yeah, of course."
"Oh, well." All of a sudden Sherlock found all that earlier contemplation and arguing rather ridiculous. (But he'd never take back anything he said, so it wasn't ridiculous, of course not, not at all.)
He quickly organised his thoughts into a more coherent order, and gave it a quick review/skim over, before taking in a breath, staring John straight into the eyes, and speaking.
"At first I wanted to stop being friends because I was afraid you'd tell my secrets, or that you were simply trying to get information of that or the other, or that you were doing this for a dare of sorts.
"But I had not denied any of which Charles had told you in September, and you had not told anyone else about my lack of denial. Add that to yesterday, in your muggle club meetup, where from the others' behaviour I can only assume you have not told anything.
"You're family is not in financial crises of any sort, nor are you, unless you really are trying to save up money for a jacket that is not neon orange, in which case forget it, the coat is quite insulating and you look fine in it. Information I can understand, but you haven't exactly been discreet with your curiosity. If you'd wanted to find something out you'd've asked me earlier, and I will even go as far as saying I will try harder to provide it than I would with someone else.
"If this was a joke, it would surely be over by now, unless you are very, very, dedicated, in which case I would be so impressed I wouldn't even be hurt.
"The last reason was, simply, that I did not want you to be endangered. I get into more danger than a, I suppose, normal friend would. It's very hard for me to admit this, but I still do not fully understand Charles' motive, except that it was because of me. You know my enemies, and, after what had happened nearly an hour ago, you can see why I was so strongly convinced.
"However. You are a Gryffindor. You are a danger seeker. You have yet to back out of anything I've taken you on; actually, you seem to enjoy it quite a lot. So comes my decision.
"I have consistently closed myself off, for alone protects me, and I will still, and I will never, deny that. But, I have decided that there is a different option. Perhaps we can still be friends, and perhaps you will not abandon and betray me, perhaps you will not use me to your advantage, perhaps you will not get hurt, and in the scenario that you are, perhaps you have already accepted that as a risk, and perhaps I will finally have someone, and, perhaps, this may be a bigger help to me than, simply, alone."
Yet another silence. The… fourth, was it? Sherlock couldn't quite recall.
Finally, John spoke.
"I don't think 'perhaps' is a word anymore."
Sherlock jerked his head a bit in John's direction. He wants to say something like I literally rehearsed all that beforehand, and I never do that, and that's your response? but humour is, after all, a defense mechanism that John often relies on, so he stayed silent.
"But, jeez, Sherlock…" John wrapped his arms around himself. "You've got some baggage."
"No, I don't."
"It's a saying," John replied gently, but not bothering with a snarky comeback for once.
Sherlock was steadily becoming more and more unsure. Did he say too much? Oh, fuck, he did, didn't he? Now he's not just a creepy clingy stalker but now also one that John knows much too much about—
"I'm sorry," he stammered.
"What?" John's eyes turned on him, sharp and scrutinising, then softening, going wide with worry. "Oh, no, Sherlock, I—"
"No, no, it's fine!" Sherlock cringed at himself, since when was he so bad at lying? "I completely understand. If it makes it easier, I could erase your memory—"
John clapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth.
"Shut up!" John's eyes were wild, and if he looked close enough, Sherlock could see his own bewildered expression reflected in them. "I want to be friends with you! Why the hell would you think I don't?! Don't answer that.
"You think I hate you because you've dragged me into crazy things and I've become that guy who's always with Sherlock and because I, what, could get hurt?
"I like exploring creepy abandoned secret passages and I like being called that guy who's always with Sherlock and I love it! You think everything's about you. You didn't do anything wrong, I won't betray you, and the people who have are complete dickheads. I'd take this over charting constellations any day! If I get hurt, it's because of me and my reckless stupidity, and, if it helps you sleep at night (which I really hope it does because you really need some sleep) I'll, what, accept it as a risk for our friendship? Okay, sure! Bam, we're friends again! Whether you like it or not."
Sherlock's eyes were huge, startled, and staring straight at John with utter awe.
"What?" John looked a bit confused now.
Sherlock suddenly smirked.
John screamed and yanked his hand off of Sherlock's mouth.
Author's Note:
Long chapter today!
I know. It's still confusing. I'm so sorry, I'm not good at writing this type of stuff and I tried my best.