A/N: The first part of this chapter is written in Sherlock's mind palace. I wasn't sure how to best portray this. Sherlock's actions in his mind are italicized in bold. His thoughts are just italicized. I hope it's easy enough to understand! –Mell

Sherlock sat alone in the Room of Requirement. It had become a perfectly plain, ordinary room with white walls and a wooden floor. The boy had drawn the blue curtains over the windows.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his eyes closed tightly.

Banish every thought from your mind. Empty it. Empty. White walls. White. Blank. Empty. Void. Nothing.

He was standing in a long, glimmering hallway, similar to the hall of mirrors in the palace of Versailles.

New room. I need a new room.

One of the mirrors on the right glimmered oddly. Focusing on it, Sherlock noticed that it was no longer reflecting anything. It was like a window now, looking into an empty space.

Perfect. New. Empty. Ready to be filled.

The boy walked slowly up to the mirror and reached out a hand. His hand swept over the surface, the dips of his fingers disappearing. A smile crossed his face. Now with more confidence, he stepped through the glass into a room not unlike what the Room of Requirement currently looked like for him.

Now store. Empty everything. Control your mind. Control.

Images flashed in front of him as he stored them in the room. Studying and laughing and arguing and dancing with John. Everything with Jack from years ago to yesterday. Irene by the lake. Moriarty's magnetic gaze. Nevamann's odd questions. Mycroft being Mycroft. His parents giving the two of them crossed looks as they argued over Christmas dinner. Playing with Redbeard on the living room floor. Everything that had ever caused Sherlock to exhibit emotion was stored away into that room, each becoming represented by different things. A rock. A skull. A cooked turkey on a plate. Things that could be tied to each other, a map so that he could find his way back.

I will come back. I will. After the Third Task. I won't leave all this behind forever. Just for now. Because I need to keep a hold of myself. Emotion will destroy me. I need to be a clean slate, a machine that functions only for itself. I need to become clockwork.

The sound of ticking began resonating through the room as Sherlock stepped back into the hall of mirrors. He looked over his shoulder at the doorway, and watched as a thick chain crisscrossed it, a large padlock in the center.

I will come back.

A week later, Molly Hooper stood outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, which she knew led into Gryffindor common room. She ignored the nasty looks from the Gryffindors coming and going, and rolled her eyes as they took extra care to whisper the password so she wouldn't here. Like she wanted to sneak in there. The Hufflepuff common room was near the kitchen, and you couldn't get better than that.

Finally, when Molly was considering waiting until dinner, the portrait hole swung open and John stepped out.

"John!"

The boy jumped, his hand flying to the pocket of his robes where his wand was stashed. "Christ, Molly, don't do that!"

"Sorry. I've just been waiting to talk to you."

"What about?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

Molly looked up and down the corridor. Students were always coming and going, and she didn't exactly feel like being overheard. "Let's go for a walk on the grounds, shall we?"

"You're lucky I don't have class this afternoon," John informed her as they strolled along the shore of the lake. He tried not to think of the night that he danced with Sherlock in the bitter winter air.

Molly simply waved a hand dismissively. "I know your schedule by now from hanging out with Sherlock. Which, incidentally, is what I want to talk to you about."

"My schedule?"

"Sherlock."

John had a difficult time resisting the urge to throw his hands in the air. "Why does everyone want to talk to me about Sherlock?"

"Who else wanted to talk to you about him?" Molly asked curiously.

"Never you mind."

Molly gave him an icy look, but didn't press the subject. "I'm sure you've noticed he's been acting differently. Every since the Third Task was introduced he's been more distant than I've ever seen him. He barely talks to you let alone me. I'm lucky if he acknowledges I exist. You can't deny something's going on, John."

His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I know, Molly. I think he's just scared."

"Scared?"

"Yeah. Of what's coming. It's more than just the task-he's worried about Moriarty."

An image of the boy's dark eyes flashed across Molly's vision and she felt a shudder travel down her spine. "I don't blame him. He could talk to us though. That's what friends are for."

"Yeah, well, I he doesn't have much experience with friends. He won't talk to us about it. First of all, he's too proud to admit he's afraid. And secondly, he just doesn't know how to talk to us. He never learned how to depend on anyone else."

Molly's gaze penetrated him in a way that made John feel a bit uncomfortable. "You haven't even known him a year and it seems like you understand him completely."

"Don't ask me how it happened. I couldn't tell you. I doubt he could either."

John watched as the glassy surface of the lake was disrupted by the giant squid lazily wiggling a few tentacles in the air, enjoying the late spring sun.

I wonder what it would be like to be carefree, John found himself thinking, and frowned. He used to be.

Sherlock and John sat their first O.W.L. exam together, on the first Monday of June. John had reasonable confidence in this one-the written portion of Defense Against the Dark Arts. The practical portion would take place that evening.

He followed Sarah into the Great Hall to find that all the house tables had vanished. In their place, rows of desks stretched up and down the length of the hall, each a precise distance apart. John looked around and saw that Sherlock was already sitting down on the far left, near one of the windows. He tried to catch his eye, but the boy seemed fascinated by the clouds that were rolling past overhead. Excellent Quidditch conditions….if we didn't have these bloody exams it would be a wonderful day for practice.

John took his seat a few places behind Sherlock, and offered Sarah an awkward smile as she sat down next to him. Although they were on good terms for the Quidditch team, he wasn't really sure where they stood with each other off of the pitch.

"All right, John?" said a nervous voice behind him. John turned his head to see Jack sitting down, looking rather like he was going to be sick.

John offered him a hesitant smile, but it felt strange on his face. "Hi Jack."

Only two hours. Then that'll be one exam down.

The two hours were bloody awful. John had exceptional dueling abilities, as he had shown during the competition in class, but when it came to seeing questions on paper it was as though all he had ever learned went flying out of his head. He glared at Sherlock whenever he had the chance, who was scribbling away quickly on his paper, barely hesitating from one question to the next.

His stupid bloody mind palace, John kept thinking to himself. He probably never forgets a single thing. John was familiar with the technique, but had never managed it. Only once had he ever attempted it, but it seemed that he lacked both the concentration and dedication that it required.

John left the hall feeling, if possible, even worse than he had before entering it.

He paused briefly in the entrance hall to adjust the clasp on his bag, and only looked up when he saw Sherlock whisk past him out of the corner of his eye.

And something snapped in him.

He didn't know what it was. All he knew was he was sick of Sherlock acting like this. Pushing him away all the time. Making him feel like he mattered one moment, and then treating him like thin air the next. He knew this…whatever it was would be difficult from the start. But he wasn't about to put up with it any longer.

With forced determination, he sprinted up to Sherlock and grabbed the boy's shoulder (which required a bit of reaching on his part). Sherlock looked down at him in surprise, but only for a moment-the second he turned his head, John's fist slammed into his cheek and knocked Sherlock to the floor.

Everyone around them stopped and stared, but no one looked as shocked as Sherlock, who sat in the middle of the entrance hall, clutching his face in surprise and looking at John as though he was seeing him for the first time.

"I'm bloody sick of this," he said softly, his voice cracking a bit. Forcing himself to stop shaking, he met Sherlock's eyes and said, "Whatever this is. So stop it. Or stick with it. Whatever you decide-just decide. I'm sick of playing games."

The next morning, John woke up feeling slightly better than he had the evening before-partially because he now had two exams done (the D.A.D.A. practical having gone much better than the written portion) and also because he had finally stood up to Sherlock. He was, however, still waiting to hear from the boy. After saying what he had to his friend, he had simply turned on his heel and stormed up to the Gryffindor common room, where he spent the rest of the evening practicing spells.

He had Charms and Transfiguration exams today, and despite the nerves making him feel a bit dizzy, he managed to have some eggs and toast, which helped him feel a bit better. He sat there with Sarah, making forced conversation-she seemed worried about him after the incident of the previous day, but John assured her that it was nothing to worry about. Which of course was not true. He himself wasn't sure if he should be worried about it or not, so he had decided to simply ignore the issue for the time being and focus on his O.W.L.s.

Ironically, just as this thought crossed his mind, a few hundred actual owls swooped into the great hall, clutching letters and parcels and making no small amount of noise. John received a shock when a handsome tawny owl landed in front of him and offered him a small envelope-his parents, being muggles, never wrote to him via owl post.

Sarah frowned at it, and seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Did you ever write to your parents, John? Find out if they're okay?"

John nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah…yeah, they're fine…"

He quickly untied the letter from the owl's foot, and watched as it swooped out of the hall, leaving a few feathers in his pumpkin juice.

Pulling out his wand, John slit it open easily and stared at the small, elegant handwriting.

Meet me at the indicated location tomorrow night after our Astronomy examination.

He found a second sheet of paper behind the first-a roughly drawn map leading from the Astronomy Tower to a similar tower on the east side of the castle that John had never been to.

"From my mum," John muttered softly, making sure to angle the letter so Sarah couldn't see it. "Just letting me know they're still okay. Anything new in the paper?"

Sarah shifted her attention away from John. "They caught one of the Death Eaters involved in the muggle killings…but oh, how terrible! A wizard family near Edinburgh was slaughtered by a werewolf. There were children too…"

John looked up curiously. "Killed? I thought werewolves generally turned."

"They don't have any control over it once they've transformed…if the victim manages to survive, then they'll contract lycanthropy. But often times they don't…"

John thought of what it would be like to be attacked by a large and angry wolf and decided it was quite understandable not to survive the experience.

"Molly," John hissed, heading off the girl as she headed down the stairs towards the kitchens.

She stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. "John! What's up?"

He held up the letter from Sherlock. "I think I'm about to get some answers."

"Good," she said, sounding relieved. "Are you okay? I heard about what happened in the entrance hall…everyone's talking about it."

John frowned. "I haven't heard anyone gossiping about it."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Well they're not going to with you right there. They're probably worried you'll haul off and hit them."

"It'd serve them right," he muttered. "Everyone should just learn to mind their own business."

"That'll be the day. John?"

"Yeah?"

"Try to talk sense into him, won't you?"

"Yeah…'course."

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turned away. Talk sense into Sherlock Holmes? That'll be the day.