John was with Mary when he first spotted Sherlock at the Yule ball. Sherlock hadn't discussed going himself since that day in the library. John presumed that he'd just be uncomfortably tucked in a corner of the Astronomy tower for the night since Greg already asked Molly. But now, Sherlock Holmes stood at the top of the stairs just outside the Great Hall with an unfamiliar girl hooked around his elbow.

Right. The Beaxbaton.

She was stunning, although, not quite as stunning as Mary, but John had to admit it to himself that Sherlock had excellent taste in women. The Beauxbaton's dark hair was coiled into a twist at the base of her neck and she wore a black dress, short in length—unlike every other girl attending the ball. It had long sleeves, the dress, and sheer black fabric that rose just up to her collarbones to frame her poise. Only her lips were red.

John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were locked onto Mary until he hooked onto John's watch.

Sherlock was clad in simple, yet elegant, black dress robes. Though, John noticed quickly, he lacked any sort of tie, for his pristine, white shirt had the topmost button undone.

John almost had to stifle a good chuckle at this. It was rare to see Sherlock's Slytherin tie anywhere but draped across Sherlock's shoulders. And now, when it was even more proper to wear a tie he chose to forget about it entirely.

Sherlock and his date took the stairs slowly. John could almost feel the majority of the eyes in the room latch onto such a couple. Somehow, Sherlock and the Beauxbaton made a fitting pair. Reserved, yet not compromising.

John felt the icy feeling flood his veins again. He turned to Mary.

"Sherlock's got a date," John stated.

Mary's eyebrows raised and she let a short huff escape her lips. "Almost thought he wouldn't show 't'all."

Mary was dressed in a light blue dress that evening, the same color of John's bowtie. And like Irene's it was long sleeved. But Mary's was loose and flowing, rather than fitted. The fabric rippled down from the small of her waist to the ground. John couldn't help but to feel warmth rising up to his ears every time he looked at her.

"And he's with the Adler. Scandal of the French, or so I've heard," Mary continued, her small hand slithering up to hook onto John's arm. She rested her chin on his shoulder. "He really looks odd with someone like that."

Sherlock and Irene arrived to them then. "John," he nodded curtly, "Mary."

"Good evening, Sherlock," Mary said, curtseying herself. It was a small curtsey—just a quick swish of fabric.

Irene spoke next.

"What wonder it is to meet the two of you," she said. John quickly noticed that her voice was rather British sounding, instead of French like the rest of the Beauxbatons. "Mr. Holmes here has told me a great deal about you both." Irene smiled. And when she did her eyes crinkled faintly at the sides.

"Shall we go into the Great Hall?" Sherlock motioned with his free hand, eyes—as usual—still locked on John's.

John nodded himself and Mary agreed cheerfully, and they entered with a handful of other elegantly dressed students.

•••

Recently, Sherlock Holmes was making poor decisions. And going to the ball and seeing John there with Mary was second to the top of this list. The first would to be to let his heart rule his head.

He could almost hear Mycroft now.

Don't get attached, Sherlock.

He'd gotten attached. Which led him to counting the number of the crystals dangling off the chandelier while Irene sipped her masqueraded firewhiskey to his left.

The Great Hall glimmered with various silver sparkly objects. Which, in Sherlock's head, was entirely pointless. The Winter Solstice ball itself was pointless. But his eyes continued to trail the garlands of icy mistletoe and ivy laced just underneath the starry black ceiling.

The House tables had snuck off somewhere during the day, for now smaller tables lit by lanterns were scattered about, each seating about a dozen people who were chatting energetically with one another.

Across the Hall, where the Gryffindor table generally stretched out, sat John. Unlike Sherlock and Irene, John sat with a full table, thus consisting of his rather imprudent date, the trio of bumbling Gryffindor boys, Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan, Potter's cousin Rose, and surprisingly…Phillip Anderson. Molly Hooper clad herself that evening in an emerald gown with a deep sweetheart neckline that contrasted against the rich amber color of her hair. Her dress robes were nothing in comparison to her usual, frumpy uniform or faded jeans. Lovely, he thought.

"John continues to glance over here," commented Irene.

"Why would you care?" Sherlock spat in return.

Potter apparently made a humorous comment then because everyone nearest to him laughed suddenly. Even Stamford's Hufflepuff date with abusive parents (long sleeves for two weeks immediately following every school break) seemed to quietly laugh to her self. Sherlock huffed.

"Just trying to remind you. Mary looks lovely, by the way. She understands colors well."

His sight darted back over to Mary and John. John's arm curled behind the back of Mary's chair. When Mary rested her head on John's shoulder, he crooked his neck so he could kiss her hairline.

"It's her house color," Sherlock said.

Mary smiled. Her hand reached up to hook onto John's.

"You aren't required to wear your house colors to the ball, William."

There was a faint glimmer in John's eyes that Sherlock hadn't noticed before. He couldn't decide whether the sparkle was because of the thrill of the evening or simply the shiny décor.

"You do know what will happen, hmm?" Irene purred before she sipped at her firewhiskey. She placed down her glass and fidgeted with her thin, ruby bracelet. "Mary will die."

"Everyone will," Sherlock said. "It's the circle of life."

John's lips pressed against Mary's temple. Sherlock found it difficult to swallow.

Irene heaved dramatically and left her bracelet alone. "Care to dance?" she offered, thin eyebrows jumping up with the idea.

Sherlock's head bowed to where Irene sat, one leg crossed sharply over the other. She'd put on too much perfumed. Her eye makeup was smudged on the left side underneath her bottom row of lashes.

Sherlock stood and held out his hand. Once she stood, he offered his arm. "Now we get to work."

•••

As the evening progressed, John grew more animated. Although the band wasn't the best, the food compensated. Especially when ordering off the silver-lined menus was as simple as saying the dish you pleased and it springing to life on your plate the moment the words left your lips. He did feel as though the idea of dancing was rather awkward at first—both ballroom and regular festivities—but after an hour trotted by, the thoughts had faded away and he relied on the feel of everything. It was all very nice.

Aside from the lack of Sherlock, that was.

He'd seen him with Irene from time to time. Either cutting through the couples on the ballroom floor before the rock band came out or chatting at their reserved table. The odd part was that Sherlock listened attentively when he spoke with Irene—laughed some, even, and made big gestures with his hands.

Which was usual for that fact that Sherlock never took pleasantly to most people, specifically the seductress of the French.

John's hand clenched to a fist around the stem of his glass. After long exhale, he turned his attention to Mary, who was currently in the process of tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

•••

Midway through the evening, just as the crowd was beginning to wear out, John took a moment to himself and stepped outside into the Entrance Courtyard for a quick breath of fresh air.

He slumped down against one of the torch-lit walls and sat with his back pressed against the cool tile. The air had a bite to it—crisp and nearing another snowfall. If not for the torch somewhere above him, John would have been past freezing, but the torch gave him subtle heat and he wasn't planning on staying out for long.

That is, until Sherlock popped his head out.

"Too overwhelming?" came the Slytherin's deep, richly aged voice. His hands concealed themselves in his pockets and his expression remained relaxed.

"A bit, yeah. Lot going on in there. Fair amount of drama I've seen already," replied John. One of his hands, now strewn chilly, ran over the length of his face.

Sherlock's exhales created a thin spread of fog in front of his face when he spoke. "And all completely trivial, unbeknownst to most."

John motioned next to him and a raised eyebrow. Once Sherlock was seated next to him and the small waves of heat were pooling off him and into John, he said, "Irene Adler, huh? Pretty impressive, I'd say. Heard she's quite scandalous."

"She has connections to Moriarty. It's the only reason I'm here."

"Oh," John chuckled lightly, his eyes skimming over the courtyard, "so you didn't come just to see a Hobgoblins tribute band?"

Sherlock's slight smile radiated off him without needing to be seen. "Unfortunately, no."

John sucked in a few more breaths of stale air before asking, "What led to Adler anyways?"

"She caught me off guard in the Owlery in the beginning of the term. Asked to go with me then. I declined…obviously…but she caught me again at a later time and mentioned Jim. She knew I couldn't turn down such an offer," said Sherlock. "Which was, on her part, incredibly cunning."

"So you don't fancy her in the slightest?"

"I don't fancy women in the slightest, John."

John turned to him. "Wait," he said, "you're gay?"

"It would appear so."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked.

"You never asked."

"Oh."

The stars were bright that night. Up above to his left, closer to Sherlock, were three aligned stars. Orion. It was one of the few he could actually pick out without any help, though he assumed most people could, since it was a very recognizable constellation. Sherlock seemed to be looking at it too.

"Does anyone else know?" John asked after a few minutes.

Sherlock's response mainly escaped his lips in a cloud of exhale, rather than his thick voice. "Molly."

"So that's why she went with Greg?"

"They're better suited off, anyway."

"You think?"

"Four weeks, I'd give it. Possibly three, but I haven't thought too much into it."

"Five galleons it's two," bet John.

"Three and a half. The game is on."

•••

There was a noticeable shift in atmosphere as Sherlock and John reentered the shimmering Great Hall. No longer was the air cool and gusty against the back of their necks, now it sat stale and hot. But the dance-goers didn't seem to notice this, for they had a few spiked drinks and were enjoying the half-arsed band on the make-shift stage.

Seeing as Irene was no where to be found, Sherlock followed at John's heels as he made a bee-line towards Lestrade, Potter, and Stamford. They greeted both of them loudly.

"Taking the party outside, were you?" slurred Greg just before he took another sip of his spiked pumpkin juice. Mike laughed heartily at this. Albus only quietly snickered.

"Where's Mary?" asked John. He and Sherlock both were far too sober to be at an occasion such as this.

"Off to the loo with Molly. Fixin' makeup I 'spose." Greg wobbled as he tried to make his way to the dance floor, but Albus pulled him back and sat him in a chair.

"Are you positive?" asked John.

Sherlock supposed John felt as alone in sobriety as he felt himself.

"No," answered Stamford for him.

Sherlock's line of vision crossed with a Slytherin table seated a few brooms-length away John's. He caught the unfortunate and rather seductive watch of Jim Moriarty's. He looked away.

John began to walk towards the mass hoard of students edging towards the stage. "Coming?" he asked Sherlock.

"Where?"

"To find Mary."

"I'll just wait here," Sherlock replied, "see if she comes back with Molly if the drunkens were correct."

John's reply was to be swallowed into the crowd.

Shortly after John disappeared, Molly walked to the table. "Sherlock!" she said. "I didn't think you were going to come! You look dashing! Are you enjoying yourself?"

He put on a counterfeit smile. "Surprise,' he said plainly. His eyes danced around the Hall. Moriarty was no where to be seen, but Irene took his place next to Sebastian. Rather close to him, Sherlock would say.

He focused again on Molly. "Where's Mary? John's out to find her."

"She was in the lavatory with me, but she said she needed to reapply some powder. So I came back without her."

Just as Molly finished, John returned to the table. "I can't find her," he explained.

"That's because she's in the loo," said Molly.

John licked his lips. "Seems Bluebell was right." He faced the sapphire-head. "How many pints do you suppose you've downed tonight there, Greg?"

"Oh, three hundred and four," he joked. "One more and I beat my record."

"Yours is only three hundred and five? Mine's four hundred and twelve," chuckled Stamford.

"Five hundred and thirty two," said Potter. His cousin laughed at this.

When Mary hadn't returned ten minutes later, John grew nervous.

"I'm going to find her."

"What's the significance?"

"She's my girlfriend, Sherlock…for Merlin's sake!"

"…So?"

"So are you coming or not?"

Sherlock huffed. "Fine."

•••

"Hello?" John called out to the bathroom. Only a steady trickle of water responded.

"Hello?" he said again, louder this time, "Mary, are you in there?" Nothing but the water came as a reply.

Sherlock watched as John looked from the open doorway to him and then back at the doorway. "Might as well turn off the tap, hmm?" he said.

Sherlock nodded and followed as John entered the loo.

Once inside, Sherlock could feel the humidity from the hot water cling to his face. Only a few lights remained on—those being the ones by the toilets and the sinks. The moonlight trickled in through the stain glass windows too, highlighting the porcelain appliances and casting thick shadows in the corners of the round room.

Sherlock took a step forward. John had suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" he asked.

Nothing seemed to be out of place. They were only a mere wands-length away from the tap. Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and walked around John to turn off the bath tap. But John continued to remain still.

Sherlock's eyes rolled.

The bubbles spilled out of the bath, now that he looked at it. If he hadn't had shut off the water it was soon to overflow. His eyes skimmed across the water. The last of the ripples spanned about the surface of the water, the steam was just finishing off escaping to the air, and Mary Morstan's lifeless body sat bathing in the large pool.