This is being cross-posted from Ao3. It was originally posted on 13 April 2021.

Thank you to the Admin of Draco's Den for running this event and allowing me to absolutely fall in love with this story. Oh how I wanted to just keep writing despite the 3k limit on this. I'll be expanding it in the future (once some other projects are finished), and can't wait to see where it goes. Happy reading! xxDustNight

Huge thank you to GaeilgeRua for allowing me the use of her Grammarly subscription to read this over. Any other mistakes are definitely my own.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. Sherlock belongs to PBS and BBC America. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.

Prompt: Lumos + Pansy Parkinson Sherlock Holmes

"Lumos."

"Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"I'm here to help you."

"Just hold on a little longer…"

"You're going to be fine."

"I promise."

Pacing, Pansy thought back on that fateful night when she and Sherlock had first met. She'd been called in for a Muggle crime scene to inspect what was believed to be ancient runes. It turned out to be little more than some mismatched graffiti, but Pansy understood the concern. She came in and analyzed the markings, made her assessment, and was ready to leave.

However, fate had other plans in mind that night. An explosion rocked the block of flats where the investigation was going on and caused utter chaos. Pansy was one of the lucky ones who hadn't fallen through the rubble. Granted, she'd used a protection charm, but so had some of the other witches and wizards.

While sirens blared and people ran about shouting in a panic, Pansy found herself trying to decide what to do. Never one to rush to help, she was used to letting other people save the day. This time, though, something had made her take pause. In the end, Pansy discreetly withdrew her wand and strode right in with what some would consider Gryffindor courage and began looking for survivors.

It didn't take long before she heard someone calling for help. Rushing toward the sound, Pansy dropped to her knees and began trying to shift some of the debris. She had her wand, but with so many Muggles around, it was hard to just use her magic without risking exposure. A moment later, she discovered a curly-haired man stuck underneath a fallen wall.

Stopping at her kitchen window, Pansy glared at the rain outside. It was ironic that she'd found Sherlock buried under that wall… In some ways, he was as closed off to her now as he'd been that day. A man unable to be set free… A man who knew not the love of another soul...

"How did you create that light?"

"I'm fine. You don't need to shout."

"I don't need help."

"It's nothing but a scratch…"

"I told you I was fine."

"Who are you?"

Wandering the streets of London, Sherlock tried to discern why he was having issues breathing. It was as if a heavy presence sat upon him, but there was nothing there but his scarf and coat. Pausing in the middle of a bridge, he turned to stare out at the river below as the wind ruffled his hair. Across the city, Pansy slept soundly, unaware that he roamed the city, unable to rest at all since she'd asked him to leave and never return.

John felt that he was overreacting, and perhaps he was, but that didn't mean he could simply go to Pansy. He was not one to just apologize out of the blue, and especially not when he felt like he'd done nothing wrong. The witch was asking far too much of him. They began their relationship on a whim, and it had fizzled out at some point. That's all there was to it.

Love.

Love was simply not something Sherlock could feel, let alone act upon toward another person. Again, John insisted that Sherlock was capable of love. In fact, he needed it more than anything else in this world. More so than solving crimes and bringing criminals to justice. Surely, he loved his parents, John, Mary, Rosie, and perhaps even Mycroft at times. If he could love them, then he could love Pansy.

Growing angry again, Sherlock turned away from the river and lost himself in the city once more. He was fine on his own… His aching chest was a figment of his imagination, and the memory of the witch who filled his every thought would soon wash away as the rain into the river…

"You're being crushed under a bloody wall, and you want to know my name?"

"It's… I'm Pansy."

"I'm, well, I'm not supposed to talk about this…"

"How did you know?"

"Yes, I'm a witch."

"What is your name?"

Laying awake for yet another night, Pansy stared at the ceiling and wondered what exactly Sherlock was doing at this moment. He was probably running the streets of London with John solving cases. There was no way the thought of her crossed his mind; he'd made that abundantly clear when he told her he was incapable of loving her.

Feeling her eyes burn from unshed tears, Pansy rolled onto her side and tried to forget the memory of that conversation. It was easier to remember when they met… Sherlock had been easy to save and to love. The knowledge he had of her kind made it easy for them to be together, and she fell fast. For someone who thought she'd find herself having to marry whoever her parents deemed a worthy pureblood match, it was refreshing to have Sherlock come into her life and wipe that all away.

That was before she'd told him she loved him, and he told her that love was just a dangerous disadvantage. Now all she felt was pain and regret. After opening herself to him entirely, he'd turned her love down and walked out the door, never to return.

"If I am going to die, I deserve to know the name of the last face I saw."

"I had an aunt named Viola. Is that a wand?"

"You must have magic."

"I've come into contact with a witch or two over the years."

"What are you waiting for, Pansy? Use your magic to lift the wall."

"I'm being crushed under a bloody wall, and you want to know my name?"

Heartache.

What he was feeling was heartache, and there was nothing to be done about the matter. Sherlock punched the wall of 221B, causing yet more damage that Mrs Hudson would fret about at some point. His knuckles broken and bruised, the consulting detective deduced that as reluctant as he was to admit it, he'd been a fool.

Somewhere along the line, his heat had changed without him knowing it. Stumbling from the flat in confusion and anger at himself, Sherlock knew not where he was headed, only that he needed to find something to lift the heavy weight of remorse that was pulling him down into a spiral of despair.

"Touché."

"I've… I've heard of you. You solve crimes."

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"You're not going to die on my watch."

"Wait! No! Hold on!"

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

At some point, Pansy fell into a fitful sleep full of dreams of broken promises and crumbling buildings. No one was coming to her rescue, though. Images of Sherlock's broken and bruised body flashed behind her closed eyelids as she was forced to relive nearly losing the man that she would eventually learn to love.

Sherlock was not the only one who had to learn to love another person. Pansy had been just as broken a person as he was when they met, but he didn't know that. Her pieces were scattered far and wide, but as Sherlock recovered with her by his side, those pieces were made whole once more.

A buzzing noise woke Pansy from her horrible dreams, and as she wiped angrily at the tears on her pale cheeks, her heart leapt all the same. There was only one person who could be at her door this late, or rather, early. Grabbing her wand, Pansy ran through her flat, whispering Lumos and lighting her way to the door and possibly a future she thought had slipped through her fingertips weeks ago.

"Sherlock Holmes. That's my name."

"I'm a consulting detective, or I used to be."

"Semantics. By the way, I think my internal bleeding is becoming an issue."

"I am sorry, but I think loss of consciousness is about to occur."

"It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance…"

A small cloud appeared in front of Sherlock's face as he huffed in the early morning light. He stood staring at the door to Pansy's flat, unsure exactly what led him to this point. Wasn't it just hours before he'd decided to cut ties with her entirely? Or was it days? Weeks? What had changed? What reason did he have for attempting to reconcile with the witch?

Sherlock had a feeling he knew what it was with a sinking feeling in his empty stomach, but he refused to admit it aloud. Ordinary people… Boring people had no problem saying the words aloud, but they were not Sherlock Holmes. They did not have a Mind Palace full of details and facts that were often used to solve cases that would take others decades to clear.

Three words. Three words, and he knew Pansy would take him back… She would forget the horrible things he'd said, and all would be well once more.

Three words and all the walls he'd so carefully constructed since he was a small child would come crumbling down just as the walls had done the day they met. It was poetic, really, that their relationship revolved around the rise and fall of walls, both figuratively and literally. Like now, a single wall separated Sherlock from the witch he adored more than he cared to admit but had to acknowledge lest he be alone forever.

Finding courage he never knew he had, Sherlock stomped up the four steps and hit the buzzer to Pansy's flat. Heart pounding so loud that he no longer heard the thoughts in his head, all Sherlock could focus on was the door in front of him. With his every being focused on the door, he nearly collapsed with relief when the doorknob began to turn.

"I am not perfect," he told Pansy before he could lose his nerve at seeing the beautiful witch standing before him. "I am dark and twisted, but I will always find enough light within me to cherish you to pieces… With all of my pieces."

"That is all I ever wanted," Pansy replied quietly, wetting her lips. "I love you too."

When Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, Pansy grabbed hold of his scarf and tugged him into her apartment. The door shut and locked behind them. Lips sought out lips as garments were shed and skin was revealed. Now that the lines had been erased, they could easily be with one another.

Meeting Sherlock's heated gaze, Pansy knew that everything would be okay. Sherlock was back with her, and he loved her as she loved him. In his own way, at least, but that was enough. There was no going back now, and so Pansy turned out the lights.

"Nox."