Chapter Twenty‒One

Targeted Victims

The reluctant blond was practically sliding on the soles of his red All Stars as the Ravenclaw dragged him through the castle corridors. Sherlock was pulling his friend along by the end of his robes' sleeve, and the smaller boy was trying to avoid the brunette from hauling him into possible danger.

"Are you insane?" John questioned, doing his best to slip his wand in his pocket. "We could get into serious trouble!"

Sherlock let go of John's robes and swiveled around to face him, hands in flat 180 degree angles to prove an excuse. "John, how could I ignore this?"

"No!" Watson did his best to extract Sherlock out of it. He sounded like an adult, stern and fierce with demand. They were in the entrance hall now, and the shorter student regained his balance after tripping on the last marble staircase step. "I am not going to let you wriggle into this one, Sherlock!" Uh oh...John didn't like that. Bad move. That was stupid, Sherlock. Why did you do that?

"It is almost sunset and I don't fancy getting caught crossing risky borders or lines at this time of day." The younger boy's hands were on his hips now, giving the eagle a flatulent and presumptuous appearance.

"But, wait..." Sherlock stopped and the unknown evidence grew more false before his eyes the more he thought about. The lion cut him off before he concluded.

"Anyway," John continued, "you can't actually prove that there was some kind of monster out in the woods. So why should we just follow it? If there's nothing there, then we'll go out there for nothing. Either way it's pointless."

"But John, something happened to me." He sounded fooled, crushed in a way.

"Yes. You were scared. Sherlock Holmes got scared. I saw you with my own eyes. Don't deny it; yes, you can get scared."

"No John, it was more than that." The Gryffindor's head was thrown forward as the Ravenclaw pulled him in closer with a tremendous force. "It was doubt," he explained, seeing the blank look on the boy's chubby cheeks, "I felt doubt, John. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes until tonight."

"Like I said, you can't believe you saw some sort of hound —"

"No, I can't." John's twisted brain just got even fuzzier as Sherlock cut him off. "Wait," he rushed, thrusting a finger at his buddy, "you said hound. Bit odd isn't it? Why say hound?"

"It's just another name for a dog, you prat." The blond's use of a rude name made the eagle open his mouth in awe. After he'd gotten over their rough second with intensity in the shorter boy's tone, he was able to fire back a few repeating questions with the same pronunciation he always had. "But the question is, how? How?" He was really emphasizing the significance of the single‒worded wonder.

The younger kid shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head on his neck. "Yes." The thought was more of a deranged exaggeration. "Well, if you've got something to go on with, good luck with that." His Gryffindor cloak swayed in the bubble of wind he'd produced as he turned on his heel, and his silent feet carried him over to the base of the staircase.

"John!" There he goes again, trying to convince me to go along with him and cause trouble. "Come on! This could be our first real chance to have a shot at solving a mystery. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

The lion froze in place, one foot glued to the bottom step and his head bent down in consideration. "Vaguely so," he muttered. His arms moved to rest on his hip bones, and he couldn't believe how foolish he was and how easily it was for the detective to lure him into his trickery. "Fine," he particularly sided, rolling his palm in a smoothing motion. "But don't blame me if we get into trouble!" he called afterwards, pointing his index finger threateningly at his friend.

"Excellent," Holmes smirked, his British accent popping out. "Come on. Allons‒y!"

"Or perhaps Geronimo," the blond additionally shared.

Sherlock closed the front doors of the castle as unnoticeably as possible, and John kept a close distance from his back. His Hawthorne wand was in his hand, friction being rubbed between his twiddling fingers and his pulsing palm.

"You seriously think we can get to the forest without anyone noticing?" Watson asked as they were halfway done with crossing the emerald grounds. The sun was setting just beyond the horizon near the treetops, painting the sky with shades of pink and orange. The crescent moon was parting from the distant mountains, rising in the sky to look like a silver mouth amongst the evolving stars.

"Doubt it. There's a 75% chance or greater that someone will find it suspicious. Just keep moving," he beckoned his short friend, and the lion turned his back around to walk while keeping a watchful eye on the school.

"Screw this, run!" Sherlock suddenly blurted, and John found himself huffing with a great effort to keep up with the brunette's manly strides. He eventually started skipping to see if that would make him go faster, but it was no use. He only caught up to Holmes after he'd stopped at the edge of the rows of trees.

"Will you slow down!" the blond proposed, but Sherlock had his Phoenix core wand in his fist and ordered his loyal companion to stop.

"Shh!" Holmes froze, and next second John found himself flattened against the trunk of the closest tree.

"What are you doing?" he squeaked through rasping chugs of breaths.

"Shh!" The detective's hand flew to cover John's mouth, but the eleven‒year‒old figured out what was wrong about their situation on his own using clues. Cutting off his heart‒pumping spasms, both boys listened in on the forest surroundings. John's hand snatched hopefully at the tree bark, hearing a soft pounding and prancing noise off in the distance as Sherlock clutched the front of his Gryffindor cape.

A low growling was heard just beyond a different group of trees, blocking the evidence of a hound from view. Sherlock's eyes grew in alarm, and John miraculously cut off his terrified gasps to prevent them from the risk of danger. He made faces behind the older boy's hand, looking like he might be suffocated and pass out.

Pat...pat...pat...Slowly, the sound of the monster's footprints faded till nothing was heard but Sherlock's heart beating under his rib cage. It was a good long while before his firm grip loosened from John's Gryffindor outfit and the shorter boy was able to act on his own again. John remained compressed against the tree trunk, his head falling to the right to try and curl his hearing around the cylinder shaped branches.

He gave Sherlock a look of pleasure and insanity as his bony fingers released from the small chips in the crumbling and chipped bark. "I got your back," Sherlock explained, letting his Sycamore wand trace the outline of John's lion badge.

There was only the need for a short and simple response. "I know."

Ensuing losing sight and sound of the dog, Sherlock suggested that they abandon their current spot and move on to try and dig deeper into the growing mystery. After some time with much convincing, John agreed to follow Sherlock into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

"Lumos," the brunette murmured, and the tip of his wand illuminated to ignite a small ball of light. The clouds above in the twilight sky were beginning to clump together and grow in packs, clogging the stars from view and leaving a patch of coruscation where the moon was blocked.

Sherlock was clever to stay within earshot of Hagrid's cabin for the time being, but the luring tether pulling him closer to whatever the mysterious monster might be grew and sprouted invisibly from his pelvis. The temptation to sprint and gain as much evidence as possible was too much, and surely John would block Sherlock's persistence as long as he could with his noble personality. Using tricky skills, his brilliant brain wandered them off farther onto the pathway meandering between the trees, which progressively curved to lead away from the forest's edge. John didn't notice, considering that he was preoccupied with the slightest crack of a stone or the crunch of the pine cones under their shoes.

They explored for a good length of time and therefore Watson checked the time on his watch as his legs grew tired. "Sherlock," he whispered with ease, "we've been walking for nearly half an hour."

"So what?" Holmes retorted. He's kidding, right? "I'm not leaving till something exciting happens," he continued, secretly reading John's mind.

"Seriously though, what if we get caught?" John worried, ripping a twig off a nearby tree like a pipe cleaner. "We could lose house points, be given a detention, possibly expelled —"

"Will you stop worrying?" Sherlock blurted, his glowing charm reflecting off the trees around their huddled bodies. "No one's going to be out this far into the forest at this hour."

"But we're not supposed to be in here, that's my point!" Watson bickered, feet sinking into a small patch of mud.

"John," Sherlock spoke, making his point heard, "if you didn't want to get into trouble, you wouldn't have followed me out here. You would have ran straight back up to Gryffindor Tower, leaving me to my own business."

"That's not true," John argued, puffing out his chest. "I could have made you stay with me back in the entrance hall."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Whether you want to believe it or not, John Watson can stop Sherlock Holmes." He had to resist the urge to snap his fingers at him. Whoa, going a bit too far there, little buddy.

"I'd like to see you try," the Ravenclaw judged, leaning casually up against an old oak tree.

"Oh I will. Just you wait. Someday I'll —"

"Stop…"

"No."

"No really John, be quite!" The indication in his tone was serious yet petrified, so John's mouth was sewn shut immediately.

There was no noise to hear nor smell to be smelt. It was the touch sense that had taken action, and abruptly a shivering cold covered the two boys. No explanation was needed as they caught each other's eye contact, waiting for the dreaded guards of Azkaban to join the fray. Sherlock and John came to stand back to back, wands held out in determination as the cold became more bitter and stronger. They knew what was coming, but it was just a matter of when the unpredictable would strike that was more important.

Eventually the temperature of the compacted air surrounding them dropped so much that John could see his foggy breath puff out from his lips, and he knew that their situation was more than bad. Even the twelve‒year‒old had a panic attack, and if Sherlock Holmes was rarely terrified, something was bizarre.

It was hard to make out when the hooded creatures would show themselves, considering their wands only gave off a limited amount of light. Their elongated delay stopped as Sherlock backed into John in disturbance as a slimy hand bent around a skinny tree trunk. Fighting to find his overpowering memory, Sherlock stood with his eyes tightly shut as he buried in his mind palace to retrieve the concentrated image from its depths.

Of all the months, the weeks, the days, minutes, and seconds he'd spent at Hogwarts, he'd never truly discovered what his greatest memory was. Until the day he first conjured his corporeal Patronus, and at that point he seemed offended that he hadn't thought of it earlier. One strong‒minded person, yet so bold in appearance.

John.

The veins in his hands bulged as he crushed the wand wood in his hold, raising his wand to shout, "Expecto patronum!" The phoenix had no trouble wiggling out from the tip of his wand, and it flew with agility to drive the dementors back a few feet. The sound of his friend's voice startled him and cut off his thoughts, resulting in his bird fading from view.

"Expecto patronum!" John said, but his shield folded out from his wand in the shape of a large oval. It was great in depth however, and the dementor pulsed against the silver mist but failed to reach John's quavering body. The tiny lion was able to maintain a hold on his spell, and he took steady steps forward to force the creatures away from his friend.

"John, RUN!" Sherlock yelled, breaking the connection between his thought and his phoenix once more. But John wasn't going to. Now Holmes was sounding like the sounds in his head, only real and not tortured. He waited for the convenient next line to come in his head, get yourself to safety, but it never came. He fired back with an answer after hearing an explosion ring in his ears. No, he groaned, not here. I'm not going to leave Sherlock now...

"I'M A LITTLE BUSY AT THE MOMENT!" the Gryffindor managed to reply, just as his shield shrank to no longer protect him.

"Oh for god's sake." Jumping, John felt his hand being grasped in Sherlock's, and the larger boy carried him off into the darkness away from their enemies. John had to gallop in order to keep up, and his hand let go of the Ravenclaw's as they broke apart to dart elsewhere before they crashed their locked arms into a bush.

Both the eleven and twelve‒year‒old could sense the dementors following them as quickly as they could glide, and John's breath grew sharper as his legs allowed him to bolt like a cheetah. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he shouted once more, and his wolf was finally able to escape and burst free from its hiding place as he pointed his wand behind his back. He watched the dog run and vanish over his shoulder, doing its job to protect its owner.

Looking away, John accidentally slammed into Sherlock, who had stopped because more dementors had them surrounded. Both boys fell to the ground, toppling on top of one another.

"AH!" John yelled as he was propelled down to the earth. His cry was cut off sharply as he felt something insert into his lower stomach area, and he knew he was wounded when he felt a warm liquid dripping out of his body to stain his shirt.

Sherlock returned to his feet quickly after their collision, but John remained crumpled on the ground as a cramp pained his aching side. Holmes hadn't noticed Watson didn't get up, so he returned to his spell casting business.

Sherlock's deep voice rang out in the cutting atmosphere, letting his bird fly free through the air to shoot sparkles onto the waving forest leaves growing from the branches. Several of the soul‒sucking creatures automatically fled, leaving the scene of the crime in obedience caused by his spell, but others continued to advance without harm done to them. Sherlock even thought some of them were getting stronger and enhancing their capabilities the more the duel went on. He had to spin in tight circles to observe every individual skeletal body, draped in ragged, grey cloaks and hiding their deranged faces.

"John, help me!" he complained, spotting the Gryffindor still crouched on the ground and moaning in pain. "JOHN!" he urged again, but stopped when his buddy didn't respond.

"Sherlock," he squeaked, and the intended student observed as John held a hand to his lower stomach area. Watson didn't know how he wasn't screaming out in agony, seeing as the pain felt like he'd cracked a bone.

"No…" Sherlock pleaded before John could expose the wound. One of the blond's hands held a sharp, pointy stick, and the other was pressed to a bleeding dent in his skin. John was turning extremely pale, and he sat on his own in a ball of fear. At least half an inch of the brown branch was drenched in the red mixture.

"NO!" Sherlock was so outraged he did his best to purposefully kill and destroy the dreaded dementors. No one hurt his John like that, even though he knew it was just an unfortunate accident. Dozens of the cloaked creatures were enclosing the gap around the boys, and it wasn't enough for the brunette to turn several times to watch his back.

Sherlock flung around, feeling an unfamiliar hand, or more like a claw, tugging at the neck of his robes. There was no way he would have been able to defend himself; the dementor was less than a yard from his face, exposing inch‒long fingers snatching for his wrist. The Ravenclaw bent over cowardly, his wand held out to the right and almost poking his own ribs.

Stumbling back in fright, Sherlock's foot tripped over a large tree root and he was thrown onto the forest floor in a daze. The dementor towered over his hopeless and weak figure, and Holmes blacked out as his skull smashed against the bark of the nearest tree trunk. Dirt and crusty wood scratched and painted his perfect face as it rubbed over the bumpy surface, and his mouth fell and remained open just a tad as he was no longer conscious.

"SHERLOCK!" John had managed to push and hold back a few dementors, spotting his friend out cold on the ground and the creature about to suck out his soul, despite the open cut bleeding above his hip. He was amazed at how much of his own strength he could muster after such a tragic incident. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he shouted, really showing how furious he was, regarding the petite height of his size.

His wolf sprung out of his wand as it spotted its prey, and the dementor had no time to react as the dog bounded to charge the Azkaban guard back. The hooded figure loomed back into the shadows of the trees, but as Watson turned around to watch his back, about ten more dementors came around the corner.

"Oh, shi —" he began, but his swear word was cut off as a great howl filled his ears. The word had almost slipped from his language with leisure, and he covered his mouth in punishment. No, not two bloody animal monsters at once, he grumbled. "Lumos," he said, so his wand lit up the pathway more brightly in front of his face.

Nothing was there. Whatever dog Sherlock thought he saw wasn't in sight, and John was beginning to believe that this was a trick and none of the mess was real. The hound was just another distraction from the hooded guards of Azkaban advancing on him, and he wheeled around one more time to yell, "Expecto patronum!"

The dementors shrank back and shriveled behind the trees, carrying their ice cold air and rattling breathing as they went. John made sure to stay on his feet, to force himself to fight until the last creature was well out of view before fixing his attention on the Ravenclaw, goose bumps trailing on his forearms.

"Sherlock!" He didn't know why, but his exhales came as heavy gasps with much effort. Watson crouched next to the unconscious boy with his wand still lit, letting off a luminous glow to act as the moon, only positions backwards as his stick rested on the grass. Dead leaves and pine needles broke under his All Stars as his robes floated to stop on Sherlock's chest, teeth barely noticeable behind his cracked lips.

John checked and examined the damage done to his friend but found nothing to be extreme or serious in any situation. Pressing a shaking palm to his forehead, John felt Sherlock's cold skin taking over the temperature in his fingers. The shivering chill clamped around the warm, suffocating and squeezing the life out of what gave Watson whatever hope for his friend.

Panting, John lifted the eagle from the squishy ground and stood behind his flexible spine, doing his best to hoist his four inch taller friend to at least his knees. He fell over in weakness as his disadvantage punished him and shot a searing pain through his stomach, and the stick that had pierced him was tucked in the waistband of his pants.

This was too much. The only way all this was going to end was if John somehow managed to drag Sherlock out of harm's way, back up to Hogwarts while miraculously avoiding eyesight. He knew that hope would never come true as he struggled to shift him even three feet from his current position, sitting the Ravenclaw up to lay against the same tree that he'd brushed against. But perhaps I could reach Hagrid's? he thought, knowing the hut was closer and the half‒giant would surely care for them, maybe even do them a favor and keep their night secret.

What was worst about John's condition was that he and Sherlock had traveled at least a quarter of a mile beyond the forest's borders, which made his journey even farther than he'd anticipated. Panicking, he skittered over the ground in search of Sherlock's lost wand, as he'd dropped it when the dementor had nearly killed him. He almost stepped on it as it rolled over the grass when his sneaker grazed over it, and he was lucky not to put pressure on his foot and split it in two parts. He fumbled and gathered it up with shaking nerves to slip it in the brunette's pocket, hidden in safety under his robes. Surely when the curious detective aroused he'd feel the wood cramped into his sternum.

Lost unlike the consulting child would be, John scratched his blond hair and paced back and forth, the only source of light being his dim spell to expose the crumbled leaves at his feet. He bit his teeth down on his lower lip almost in frustration, now wishing their places had been switched, that he was the boy lying limply on the ground because Sherlock definitely would have known what to do in his situation.

The only way he would make it back to the castle before the night grew too fierce was if he started the long and bearing walk back as soon as possible, lugging a boy larger than his own size just for the heck of it, and of course because he totally did not want to.

There was one problem: he had no sense of direction to where Hogwarts was or how long it would take for him to get back, so if he started in the wrong way, he surely would be in trouble. Taking a wild guess, he tugged Sherlock back into his arms and began to pull him over the shadowed blades of grass.

He got about twenty feet down the road, pain and all before he was interrupted by a sound crying out in the night. Drifting and building up from over his left shoulder, a long, drawn‒out growl of a massive dog rumbled and pushed through the trees blocking its path of origin. Watson froze, feeling Holmes slouch in his stiff arms as his eyes grew in alarm and his breaths became terrified once more. Off in the distance, the hound began to bark madly, and through the gap between two dark brown trunks, John could just make out a pair of glowing, red eyes staring him down.

John dropped to the ground, knowing his choice was stupid as the dog had already seen him and probably would prance to eat him any second now. So it is alive, he confirmed. He turned his furrowed head back in the sight of the hound, only to find it still glaring at him. He really wished those hard pupils would stop searching him, bearing sharp fangs and a hard jaw line.

A small glint of moonlight fought its way to peer through the treetops, leaving the two friends lying in a circle of silvery radiance. "Sherlock..." John whispered, shaking his friend lightly in order to try and make him stir. The limp body did not move however, and the blond's faith died slightly in his heart.

Randomly, a crazy idea popped into his mind and he began to search for nothing anyone would care about when lying in the woods. He selected a rather thick stone near the base of a bush, then warmed up his arm to release the token off into the darkness, throwing it away from where he sat crouched. The stone slammed into a twig‒like tree far off near where the hound remained standing, and the dog's ears perked up as the cutting noise split through the silence.

Crossing his fingers and hoping his plan would work, the Gryffindor flattened himself on top of the eagle, waiting for the reaction from the monstrous animal. John could sense the drool suddenly becoming stagnant in the corners of the hound's mouth. For a few never‒ending moments later, the four‒legged animal sprinted off to join the dementors on the other side of the Forbidden Forest.

The sigh that escaped from his lips was probably the most relieved sound he'd ever made. He snapped back to life, turning back to the Ravenclaw to wake him up. "Sherlock," he tried again, rocking the detective a little more harshly this time. His voice shook, as he knew he was in fear and couldn't handle this without his friend. "Sherlock, please," he begged, leaning in a little closer. The small scrape on the edge of Sherlock's right cheekbone was beginning to swell and turn a painful shade of pink, the skin becoming irritated as it tried to repair the wound. John briskly slapped his friend on the neck, only wanting it to act as some signal in the boy's rouse.

And then, as if the twelve‒year‒old had woken just by John speaking his name, Holmes groaned and slowly rolled onto the right side of his ribs. John's heartbeat increased in speed as the eagle curled up into a ball, coming back to the world with a haze in his vision and feeling dizzy.

John let the waking boy stir and regain his composure before embracing him in a thanking hug. The brunette sat up in confusion, his curls messed up and falling over his eyebrows. "Jesus," the younger student mumbled, "don't do that ever again," he told the Ravenclaw.

"It wasn't my fault," Holmes argued, now able to properly function and speak like his normal, stubborn self. "I didn't have time. That dementor was on the verge of killing me!"

"You're lucky you had me around, otherwise —" The blond paused to gulp in a regretting motion, "you would have been dead."

"No, John," Sherlock corrected, shaking the curls on top of his head. The Gryffindor narrowed his eyes in a defeated and upset manner, but Holmes wasn't finished with his sentence. "I'm just lucky, glad, and thankful that I have you, period."

The sigh fell from John's lips before he intended for it to, but he went along with his mistake anyway. "Stop it you," he ordered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's upper back. He pulled him in close but accepted Holmes's compliment otherwise.

"Come on," the older companion told him, breaking away from John's lovely squeeze, "enough is enough. I shouldn't have forced you to come out here. Let's get back to the school before we find ourselves in any more traps."

Holmes didn't get up from the ground even though he said he was, and he placed a tan hand onto John's shoulder. Dirt covered the left side of Sherlock's face, and John didn't like that it took away from his lean facial features.

"Your cut?" Sherlock asked, concern in his tone.

"It's nothing," John lied, trying to assure him and make his best friend not worry so much. He was beginning to feel hot and his vision was blurring. But the consulting boy wasn't convinced and his hand slid down the edge of Watson's robes, pulling back the black fabric from the sticky red liquid. As he observed, Sherlock concluded that the stick had grazed the blond's side diagonally, but it had twisted in to cause more damage. At least John knew what he was doing and pulled the branch out right away.

"John," Sherlock whispered, words failing him.

"I told you, it's nothing," John shook it off, but he let off another groan as pain shot through his ribs. He bent over and pressed his hand firmly over the small hole in his skin.

"No it's not. Come on, I'm getting you to the hospital wing as quickly as possible."

John agreed to his simple yet brilliant idea, and the taller boy helped his suffering buddy rise to a standing position. Sherlock tightened his blue scarf to its appropriate place, and John stayed close behind him as the detective knew where to take off towards.

"What'd you do with my wand?" He suddenly flung around to almost demand the question, but tuned his tone down in his next fact. "I dropped it back when I...passed out."

"You didn't pass out," John tried to convince him, and he could tell Holmes wasn't thrilled about discussing the occasion. "And it's in your pocket by the way. I managed to find it, and nearly stepped on it in the process." He grinned foolishly, and Sherlock patted the front of his clothes to find a great lump sprouting from his chest. Sure enough, when he tucked his hand into the soft silk, he extracted his trusty wand from behind the Ravenclaw patch sewn to the front of his uniform.

Holmes exposed his thanks by giving the lion a wink, and John returned the gesture by letting the tugging smile at his lips show. All the way back to the castle, John remained close in the shadow of Sherlock's tall body, sometimes looking up at the gaps in the treetops to catch a glimpse of space above.

"You want help?" the eagle questioned, seeing his friend struggle while walking a few paces behind. John didn't say a word but Holmes went to give him support anyways. He linked his arm around Watson's collar, helping him to keep his spine straight and limp in order to not increase any damage to his cut.

They walked a little ways hooked together, but John began to let out large exhales and was running out of breath. He looked like he might fall over any second, as if his skeleton would break under his weight. He shook off Sherlock and started to drag behind, clutching his side and fighting to have the stamina to remain awake.

"Come on, John," Sherlock encouraged, seeing as the blond had stopped to regain air. With the addition of a long walk with his pale color, John was having a terrible time trying to follow the brunette from his stumbling steps. "We're almost there."

"Just...just go," the lion suddenly let out.

"What?"

"Go without me. I'm too much of a burden. I'll just slow you down even more."

"No!" The idea was absolutely not an option. "Can't you hear yourself? I'm not leaving you here to suffer. There's no way I'd ever do that."

"Fine. Let's just make it back to Hogwarts soon."

"Alright. Stay close to me."

But they didn't get all the way back to the school. Sherlock shuffled his feet like a little kid across the dirt in consideration, finding the right words to piece together to tell John. Stumped, he settled for a flexible conversation which was an easier topic to talk freely over. He stepped into a clearing of trees now where a large area had been removed of oaks and pines to leave an open patch. A pointless rock was dumped into the middle of the exposed earth, but the trees bordering the stopping point seemed to be more gloomy and somber than all the others in the forest had.

"You know, your Patronus has gotten incredible, John," he grinned, back still in the view of his follower. Holmes found it odd when the lion didn't respond, so he decided to try again, thinking the shorter boy might be daydreaming or lost for words over a moronic idea.

"I mean, you can conjure it like it's nothing. I never thought someone, even as brave and loyal as you would be able to master such a difficult charm."

For the second time, there was silence over his back, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. There wasn't the thumping sound of double sets of footprints rebounding off the forest floor, and that's when the Ravenclaw realized something was terribly wrong. Spinning around in shock, Sherlock turned to find that indeed no one was following his footsteps. John had slipped out of sight about a seventh of a mile back judging by Holmes's important deductions, but not on his own. No, John wouldn't just run off without letting the eagle know first.

John had gotten his wish. Not exactly in the way he'd planned for it to, but nevertheless he was the one faced with the times of danger this round. For written on the trees behind the brunette's back, clearly meant for him to read, Sherlock Holmes spoke the message out to himself in the early hours of the composing night. And what was worse, it was written on the tree trunks in an alarming spray paint color of Michigan yellow.

"U...R...Oh god, no!" He couldn't help but let his bottom lip tremble as he didn't read the warning fully. There was no need for explaining; it was crystal clear who was behind this madness. The only thing the brunette wanted right now was to have his little lion back by his side, protected within reaching distance.

But John was now far from safe. With each tick and tock the clock let off, the tension between the enemies grew stronger, and the risk of John being tortured or worse killed increased rapidly. In fact, there was a great chance that the Gryffindor, John Watson, his only friend, had already been murdered.

U...R...Next...

"JOHN!"