The rest of the week blew by in gusts of biting wind, and before John was ready for it, Saturday morning had arrived-bringing with it torrential downpours.
Glaring up at the enchanted ceiling as though it was the cause of the terrible weather, John took a seat beside his teammates at the Gryffindor table, and scraped some eggs and bacon onto his plate. He sat there and stared at the food for a while, as though he could somehow absorb its energy without eating it-he felt as though his throat was far too small for food at the moment.
"John, you should eat," chastised Jared Reynolds, the team captain. "You need your energy!"
Forcing down some bacon and a few gulps of pumpkin juice, John couldn't help but notice that Jared himself hadn't touched a thing.
Sighing, he spared a glance at the Hufflepuff table, where Aubrey was shoveling away an alarming amount of food, even considering his breadth. He looked around for Sherlock, but the curly-haired boy didn't seem to be anywhere nearby-he certainly wasn't at the Ravenclaw table.
I wonder if he's forgotten, John thought miserably. Or if he even cares. It's not like this is the Final or anything. But still. Every Quidditch game is important-even if he doesn't think so.
"Good luck, John!" Molly said happily, passing his table and giving him a smile.
"Thanks," John muttered, not sure if she even heard him. We'll need it.
Sherlock awoke that morning with his head still full of dreams of silver and gold light, and the sense that there was something he was forgetting-someplace he had to be.
Sitting up and stretching, he pulled back the curtains of his four-poster and gazed out at the grounds. Through the rain, he could see large groups of students hurrying towards the Quidditch pitch, scarves wrapped around their faces….the Quidditch pitch!
Scrambling out from under the covers, Sherlock hastily grabbed some clothes from his trunk, and within two minutes was practically flying down the stairs. Ignoring the bemused looks of people who did not wish the brave the storm, he managed to reach the entrance hall with impressive speed for one who didn't run much.
He had to move more slowly across the muddy grounds to avoid slipping and sliding, but he managed to make it up into the stands only five minutes into the game. Sitting down beside Molly and glancing at the scoreboard, he was not surprised in the slightest to see thatHufflepuff was leading thirty to zero.
Watching the players shoot around in blurs of red and yellow, Sherlock hoped that John would be able to catch the snitch quickly-it was the only chance Gryffindor had.
However, Sherlock had to admit that he was impressed-Sarah, the girl John had kind of dated for a time, managed to get a few goals past Aubrey, making the score a much more respectable forty to thirty. In fact, Sherlock couldn't help but cheer along with the crowd as she managed the third one, which involved a feint and a fancy spin of the Quaffle.
Molly glanced at Sherlock, amused. "I thought you didn't care for Quidditch?"
"I don't," he said, shrugging and wrapping his scarf a bit tighter. "But John does, and if they lose, he'll be in a foul mood for ages."
"Yeah, well, that's how boys are. Most boys, that is," she amended, giving him a quick sidelong glance.
"And some girls," Sherlock observed, taking note of the surprising number of female players on each team.
"And some girls," Molly agreed.
Turning his attention back to the game, Sherlock watched with amusement as Donovan chucked the Quaffle at the left goal post and Aubrey only had to move half an inch to block it with his enormous girth.
Seventy feet above the ground, John was squinting through the rain in an attempt to see anything that was going on. He could only see bits and pieces of the game that progressed below him; he had no idea what the score was, or even if the Hufflepuff seeker had seen the Snitch.
Circling the pitch in desperation, he wondered if the game would ever end-John could not fathom anyone being able to see the tiny golden ball in this weather. He practically had to squint to see his broom handle.
It was getting to the point that John was hoping the other seeker would catch the Snitch just so the game would end soon-perhaps he could see better in this rain. As he thought this, John felt something whisk past his right ear. Whipping his head to the side, he saw something gold glimmering only a few feet behind him.
Quickly accelerating, he took off in hot pursuit of the Snitch, which was leading him down towards the game. The crowd roared in excitement, all eyes fixed on him. Dodging between the players flying in every direction, John was having quite a difficult time not losing the small ball.
As he nearly collided with Aubrey by the Hufflepuff goal posts, John almost lost sight of it. In a panic, he whipped his broom around and frantically searched the pitch-to see the Hufflepuff seeker in hot pursuit.
Accelerating even more than he thought possible, John shot off after the boy, and soon managed to be neck-in-neck with him. The only problem was the boy was quite taller than John, and had a much farther reach. No matter how hard he tried, John couldn't go any faster, and in desperation he slid to the very end of his broom and lunged forward.
His hand closed over the Snitch in the same moment that the other boy collided with him; the impact was minimal, though, as John was already falling off the end of his broom. His weight at the very end had caused it to tip forward, and he plummeted through the air, still holding on to the struggling Snitch.
Luckily, though, in their pursuit of the Snitch both boys had been flying only about ten feet above the grass. While John's ribs were in vast amounts of pain, the fall was not nearly as bad as it could have been-he was still conscious, for one thing.
Through the pain that was resonating through his body, John was distantly aware of the screaming coming from the stands; whether it was out of fear and horror, or sheer triumph, he wasn't quite sure.
Before long John was surrounded by his team members, all covered in impressive amounts of mud. He reckoned that he looked much worse than any of them. "You okay, John?" asked Jared, brow furrowed in concern. "That was quite a catch."
"Yeah, well, I was just desperate for it to be over," he mumbled, wincing as he sat up. "Besides, we couldn't really afford to lose this game."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them-the entire team shifted uncomfortably, casting each other furtive glances.
"What? We did-win didn't we?"
"That's the thing, John. We, er-didn't," said Sally awkwardly.
"Hufflepuff was decimating us," Sarah continued. "That bloke Aubrey blocked most of our goals…"
Groaning, John lay back in the mud. "What was the final score?"
"Not bad, considering," Jared said bracingly. "Pretty close, thanks to you getting the Snitch. Two hundred and twenty to three hundred and ten."
"So as long as Hufflepuff loses to Ravenclaw, we're still in the running…"
But the rest of these encouraging words were lost to John. Exhausted, and shivering from the rain, his surroundings faded to black, and he sank into a sleep that he hoped would be a bit warmer.
John woke up to an aching in his side and someone chastising him in an exasperated voice.
"You're an idiot. Risking your neck for a game?"
He didn't have to open his eyes to know who it was. He simply gave a muffled "mmph" and rolled onto his side, his back to the boy. He nestled deeper into the warm, dry, blankets, relishing the warmth he was encased in.
"Come on. You can't sleep all day. You have homework to finish, since you brilliantly decided not to do it Friday night."
"Shut up, Sherlock…"
The boy sitting beside him snorted. "Come on, you're perfectly fine. Madam Pomfrey mended your ribs, so you're free to go."
"I still have all of Sunday to get my work done," John protested, rubbing his eyes.
"It is Sunday."
"Pardon?"
"You were out of it all day and night."
"Oh. Well," said John, suddenly feeling a bit more awake. "If I sleep till tomorrow, do you think I'll get an extension on homework?"
"Unlikely."
John sighed. "It was worth a try."
It took John all the rest of the day to work through his vast amounts of homework. The library closed at nine, which was the time by which he was expected to be back in his common room, but he still had a Transfiguration essay for Professor McGonagall to finish writing.
He quickly checked each direction in the corridor to make sure there were no Prefects around, before walking briskly towards the staircases. When he made it up two flights of moving stairs to the fifth floor, he decided it would be safest to take a secret passage.
Looking over his shoulder one more time, he darted behind a dirty golden tapestry that was probably quite pretty a few centuries ago.
"Lumos," he murmured, illuminating the dark, narrow passageway-and nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Hello, John Watson," came the cool, crisp voice.
John cursed under his breath. "What is it with you Holmes and being all mysterious? Why the bloody hell are you lurking back here in the middle of the night?"
"I wouldn't talk like that John," Mycroft said silkily, running a finger over the Head Boy badge pinned on the front of his robes. "I wouldn't want to take points from Gryffindor…actually, I would. But that's beside the point."
"And the point is…"
"First of all, it's my duty to patrol the corridors in the evening, to catch naughty students such as yourself out of bed. And they do love to be sneaky, thinking only they know the shortcuts in this castle…but that's not the point, either. It's not actually why I'm here right now."
"Well, don't leave me hanging. Spit it out. Why are you here?"
"To talk to you, obviously."
"And you couldn't have done this during the day? Out in the open?"
Mycroft sniffed. "Students move about too much. It's all too unpredictable. Could require legwork."
"I've been in the hospital wing. Surely you knew that?"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course I knew that. The smell in there is unbearable, though. I figured I'd wait for you to come to me."
"How clever of you. Now, if you don't mind, I have a Transfiguration essay to finish, and as Head Boy I'm sure you wouldn't like to keep me from doing my homework…"
John made to dart around the other boy, but the passage was extremely narrow and it was only too easy for Mycroft to reach out an arm and stop him. "Not so fast. We still need to talk."
"About what?"
"About Sherlock."
Sorry it took so long guys. My writer's block decided to continue and I've been busy with college and work. Plus I'm awful at writing Quidditch scenes, so sorry that bit was short. I hope you liked it though, and please review! Thanks, as always, for the support. -Mell