.year four.
Anne Watson is a Muggle. John doesn't tell anyone. It's not that he's embarrassed, it's the fact that there are still Muggleborns and half-bloods being killed by the last few Death Eaters who refuse to give up the fight. Just last week, in the middle of July, a Muggle and his kid back for the holiday from Salem Witches' Institute were killed, and the Dark Mark burned in the sky. John loves his mother, and he loves his sister, and so he stays quiet.
The odd owl coming in and out of their unassuming house on the outskirts of Guildford never bothered the neighbors, and both he and Harry still have the Trace on them, so there's no chance of exploding sparks at three in the morning blowing out all the windows on the street.
So, when an enormous horned owl swoops in through John's window long after dark with a note in its beak, no one thinks anything of it. Except John.
It's Sherlock's owl, or at least the Holmes's owl. John runs his fingers down the strong feathers in its wing as he reads through the note in his friend's sloppy, slapdash handwriting.
John,
Mysterious letter arrived early this morning on the front step. Checked for traps, am fine. Note reads as follows: "Solve it this time, lover boy. This boy has a secret, I wonder what it is?" Enclosed is the photograph that was supplement with the letter. I've no idea who he is. Hope you are well, looking forward to seeing you soon.
SH
John's mouth opens and closes in disbelief: that the mysterious hand behind Jennifer Wilson's poisoning is contacting Sherlock, that John knows the young man in the photo, but mostly that Sherlock can just brush it all off. He gives himself a moment to shake it off and quickly grabs up a quill to scribble off a reply (the owl seems to know, it waits with its huge luminous eyes following him as he paces his room).
Sherlock:
Andrew West, Gryffindor Quidditch captain. This is dangerous, you should tell someone about these notes. Meet at Diagon Alley to talk it over?
John
He taps his quill several times in thought over the last part. Because he is concerned over this whole thing, and he really wants to talk Sherlock out of it in person. Without giving it any more thought, he offers the letter to the owl, who takes off unceremoniously.
When John cracks his eyes open at first light, the owl is back, perched calmly on his windowsill and peering dully at him. John creaks when he gets up to take the letter, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand.
Thought you'd never ask. Will be there Saturday, meet me at Leaky Cauldron, noon sharp. Do not bring Harriet. I'm sorry I missed your birthday, have been very busy.
SH
John buries his face in his hands and doesn't give the owl anything to take back to Sherlock. After flops back down into his bed, John hears the owl spread its wings and finally take off into the early morning.
On Saturday, he throws on a coat and tells his mother he's off to London to see a friend (she won't stop him, she never has). Harry catches him at the door, her face pulled into a frown.
"It's that Sherlock bloke, isn't it?" she asks, and it's not her usual hatred in her voice. He'd told her the story of Mary Morstan and the mysterious words from an unknown mouth, and since the end of his third year, Harry's grown quieter and more grave. Her hand lingers on John's shoulder and she grips feebly.
John nods. "Yeah, it is."
And even though he stands tall and is ready to fight back, she doesn't lash out with the harsh words he expects. She looks worried, and it's been years since she's been worried about him (expressed worry; she worries about him all the time and she'll never tell him).
"Careful, Johnny," she says, and her voice doesn't break because she wills it not to. "Bad things happen around that boy."
"I'll be fine," he tells her. And he smiles. "Don't call me Johnny, all right?"
Her fingers skirt away. "Right, little brother. Get... get more of those Whiz-Bangs from Weasley's while you're in."
"Love you too, Harry," he says, and he's out the door.
The train in to Charing Cross hardly takes twenty minutes, and he's at the Leaky Cauldron in another five.
There are two witches eating lunch and one wizard at the bar, but it's otherwise gloriously empty. John lingers inside the doorway for a handful of moments, feeling an odd anticipation as he bounces on the balls of his feet and searches for Sherlock. He doesn't have long to wait. It's two minutes after noon and Sherlock Holmes comes trotting down the stairs.
He hasn't had a haircut and his curls are nearly hanging in his eyes, and it looks as though he's having another one of those fits when he refuses to sleep. And he's somehow still growing taller, and John wonders if he'll ever stop. Pausing on the second step from the bottom, Sherlock scans the floor until his eyes find John. There's a movement at the edge of Sherlock's lips that's similar to a smile, and only someone who knows him like John does would recognize it as one.
"What're you doing upstairs?" John asks.
"I've decided that having Mycroft at home was better than having Mummy all to myself. She's suffocating me." He hops down the last two steps to join John. "The rent is reasonable."
"Hell, Sherlock," John sighs. "If you're desperate, you could've asked me, y'know."
Sherlock turns his head only slightly. "Asked you what?"
"To stay over?"
The surprise that arches Sherlock's brows into his hairline shows he hadn't even made the connection. "Oh. I... Thank you, John, but I have more than enough funds to stay on my own for a while."
"Fine. All right." John perches on the edge of the nearest table. "What about this letter, then?"
Sherlock smiles; John's said the right thing. "I'm going quill testing. I've already narrowed down the ink that was used to three specific brands, and it's unfortunate they're all so common. And the parchment—"
"Sherlock," John interrupts, his hand held up between them in surrender. "Is this what you've been doing all summer?"
The Slytherin boy cocks his head. "Yes. Obviously."
"That's not normally what people do on holiday."
A frown ticks onto his face, and is gone just as quickly. "What do normal people do? For their normal holidays?"
John shrugs. "Practice Quidditch, study up, meet up with your mates. There's this girl Sarah—"
Sherlock is already moving. "Well, you're my friend and here we are. If you'd rather not test quills with me, you can waste your time in that pedantic Weasley shop. Your sister likes it well enough."
"Hey, Sherlock," John calls after him, hopping off the table, "come on, now. No need to get all worked up about it, I'm coming."
Owls swoop and screech in greeting when they appear in Diagon Alley proper, and there's a pop and a bang from nearby, followed by a shower of silver sparks. John grins a he rubs the metallic confetti from his hair, but Sherlock has moved on without noticing, making a beeline for the stationery shop.
John hops to a halt in front of the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, gazing longingly at the Firebolt in the window (Good enough for the Boy Who Lived, good enough for you! the sign says in curling letters), and lets loose a soul-destroying sigh.
Sherlock is beside him, crouching down to John's height to stare into the window with a look of boredom and apprehension on his face.
"Wish I had one of my own," John said wistfully. "Not a Firebolt, mind. I don't know anyone who's got that sort of money for a bloody broom. Mike's Nimbus is nice, but it's old and a bit jerky if you don't turn just the way it likes, and I can't believe I've been borrowing it so long."
Sherlock doesn't say a thing, observing the window dressing for a mere fraction of a moment longer before he lays an arm around John's shoulder to steer him away to the little stationery shop next door.
"Mister Holmes," says the white-haired woman behind the desk when the bell rings. "Back already? I saw you not yesterday." She smiles, retrieving cats-eye spectacles and peering at the two of them. "And you've brought a friend. Looking for any more ink, then?"
"Quills," Sherlock says, bounding into the shop. "And John will have parchment."
"Right," John says with a sigh, though he steels himself up strongly and follows.
They've two writing samples between them (the note from Christmas past and the newest having arrived on Sherlock's doorstep not yesterday), Sherlock already having run his own tests to determine whether the ink and parchment matched between them (it did). John took the newer sample and stepped into the teetering, creaking shelves full of rolls and rolls of parchment.
Sherlock only checks on John once in their entire afternoon in the shop, and he finds the Hufflepuff entirely focused on his task and diligently working. Catching movement in the corner of his eye, John looks up and smiles, beckoning the Slytherin to his side to ask again about fiber density and strength.
Time is gone too quickly, and by the time John has extricated himself from a pile of loose-leaf parchment, it's gone full-dark outside. John nearly leaps out of his shoes, pulling his hair and gibbering about how he's ever going to explain this to his mother.
"I've sent an owl," Sherlock says passively. "What did you find?"
His jaw loose, John somehow finds some way to speak again around the audacity. The parchment that seems the most-likely candidate was manufactured in Slough, a small but diligent wizarding workforce, and isn't particularly cheap or expensive. Middling, John reports with a sigh.
Sherlock gives him the most awkward pat on the shoulder John can remember receiving, grinning happily. "Brilliant." And he's off again, wishing the witch behind the counter a good night. John takes off after him, shouting: "You sent an owl saying what?"
It's Sherlock's first sleep-over. He lets John take the bed, and he sprawls out on the uncomfortable divan. John snores.
And when John rubs the sleep from his eyes in the morning, Sherlock is gone, leaving only a long package and a note behind.
Thank you for your help, you've been truly invaluable. Meet here again in a week and we can narrow down where these notes came from. For your troubles.
SH
It's a Nimbus 2001, brand new. John nearly cries.
There are more owls that summer than there have ever been, swooping in and around the unassuming house on the outskirts of Guildford. Some of the neighbors finally notice, but nothing more unusual than sniping whispers come of it. The old couple across the street give John and Harry a wink the next time they're out, and the old woman isn't afraid to water her flowerbed from the tip of her wand when the kids go by.
The next time that John sees Sherlock, a week after the Nimbus, he practically breaks every rib in the Slytherin's body when he grabs his friend in a swooping, crushing embrace. All of Sherlock's air goes from his body, and it's a good long time before he can reclaim it and start talking about the mysterious notes again.
John is a far more enthusiastic participant in the search for clues this time, and it's not the gift that set him so firmly into it. It's the brief and nearly unheard bolstering Brilliant, John that Sherlock utters when John's done something right.
There are only two shops in Britain that sell the combination of parchment, ink and quill used on the notes. One is in Cork. The other is in Leeds. "We find the boy from Leeds, we find our mystery writer," Sherlock says eagerly.
"Could be anyone," John says. "Could be from Cork, you don't know."
"We'll just have to take the train to Leeds and find out, won't we?" He's grinning like a cat, and John doesn't know what to say.
"Sherlock... No, I can't. I can't go to Leeds." He shakes his head, completely missing the frown growing on Sherlock's face. "You're completely mad. Send me an owl."
The owls come and go. No more mysterious letters. Only an unnamed writer from Leeds (it's huge and though Sherlock confirmed the location of the shop, he was no closer to who had purchased the supplies) and the unknown mystery of Andrew West.
He doesn't see Sherlock again until the Slytherin walks into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He doesn't lead into casual conversation, simply leaps right in with: "Andrew West is Head Boy this year."
John's face tugs into a familiar smile. "Hi to you, too. What's so important about him being Head Boy?"
Sherlock takes the seat across from John, pressing his fingertips together. "The note on my front step. It said that he has a secret. All the more to lose now that he's Head Boy."
"So you think someone's going to air out this bloke's dirty underwear?" John asks. "And what, get him expelled? That's a step down from poisoning, isn't it?" Merlin's beard, when did that turn into a joke?
Sherlock nods absently. "Yes, but the note never indicated the severity of the secr–" The Slytherin looks up halfway through his word, because a new face is looming in through the door. Sherlock sneers and says quietly: "Can I help you?"
"Sarah," John cuts in, nearly leaping from his seat. "Hi. Er."
"Hi, John," she replies, having ignored Sherlock completely. "May I?"
"No," Sherlock says at the same time that John intones:
"Yeah, of course, have a seat!" And he's grinning from ear to ear when she sits beside him. "Oh, right, Sherlock, this is Sarah Sawyer."
Sherlock inclines his head only slightly, crosses his arms and stares out the window before they've even begun to move.
John laughs and continues. "Sarah, this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Heard all about you," Sarah says pleasantly.
"Have you?" Sherlock snaps.
"Don't listen to him," John treads over the last of Sherlock's sentence, smiling hopefully into its place. "How was your holiday?"
Sherlock doesn't speak for the rest of the trip. He does, however, see John turn his entire body in his seat to face the girl, smiling like an idiot the whole way to Hogwarts. Sherlock doesn't say a word, pulls his knees up to his chest, and hardly acknowledges when John tries to pull him into conversation (which, after three attempts, he ceases). John buys her a chocolate frog from the trolley.
When the feast is over, Sherlock can see the two of them at the edge of the Hall. John stands ramrod straight, and his hands aren't shaking, and she nods very enthusiastically to whatever he's said. John peers around the corner of the door to make sure that she's gone, and then loses all control and leaps into the air. Sherlock tucks further into his pudding.
"Sherlock!" John calls, following after the boy who is trudging down the steps to the dungeon. "Sherlock!"
He turns, doesn't smile. "Yes, John?"
"Sarah's coming with me to practice," he says, brimming with sunshine in his eyes. "Says she's never been to practice before, I told her it's mostly boring but—it's sort of like a date."
He expects Sherlock to take the information as well as he had. Or at least be happy for him. Instead, the Slytherin's frown deepens. "When is it?"
"Hm?" His head is so full of sunbeams it's difficult to concentrate fully.
"Practice." Sherlock intones every syllable with distaste.
"Oh, uh." John struggles with the dates in his head. "Coming Thursday. I think."
Sherlock's face does an interesting dance, and finally settles on vaguely hopeful. "I'd like to talk to Andrew West. Can you be free Wednesday after classes?"
For the briefest moment, John wants to tell Sherlock to just forget it. Forget the mystery note and the boy from Leeds (or Cork), forget about sorting through piles of parchment and washing the ink splotches from his skin for days. But then he remembers Mary Morstan and the Unforgivable that was cast right inside the castle. Carrying Jennifer Wilson between them, screaming and crying for her life. John swallows the light from his eyes, and he nods.
"Of course."
Sherlock smiles again, and John doesn't realize until he's halfway to the common room that he's glad to see it.
Lestrade moves the first practice to Wednesday because West needs to trade out days on the pitch (one of his beaters is sick and it's not worth dragging the whole team out without him), and John is left with no choice.
It's not the first time he's used the broom he found in the Leaky Cauldron where Sherlock had left it for him (how could he resist? He'd taken it to the park overlooking the village and zoomed about in clandestine loops, hiding his shouts of joy), but it feels heavier this time. He has to make a stop before heading out to the pitch. Two stops. But the first is the dungeon.
In full Quidditch gear, broom in hand, John frets in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, hopping uselessly on the balls of his feet as he attempts to remember the password Sherlock had told him.
"Humdinger... Horsefly... Harbinger... Harridan... Dammit, what was it?" John mutters under his breath.
"What's he doing here?" says a voice suddenly from behind him, and John turns to see Anderson, the Slytherin who had tried to fight Sherlock on the train years ago. Anderson; it's a name he's heard countless times in foul rapport, and there was hardly a kind word spoken of him. He's flanked by two more Slytherins, both as big as he is and rather foul-looking themselves. "A Hufflepuff in the dungeon? Sounds like someone trying to tell a joke."
One of the others gives a rumbling laugh. John flattens his lips into a white line and takes a step back from the wall.
"He's a Mudblood, y'know," says one of the other boys smugly. "Saw them drive up to King's Cross."
John knows that all his blood is in his face, because his vision's gone red. "Don't you dare," he warns. And the Slytherins laugh, most of all dog-faced Anderson.
"We don't look kindly on sneaking Mudbloods trying to get into our common room," Anderson spits. And they're advancing, all three of them, like a wall. "Here's something you can take back to your little friends in the kitchens."
He'd have to drop his broom to grab his wand, and he wants to. He really wants to hex the smirks off of all three of those faces. But someone beats him to it.
Before John can blink, someone casts three Jelly-Legs Jinxes and the Slytherins are on the ground. A pair of trainers come running up the hall toward him, wand still extended in case the would-be attackers might try anything funny, and he finally meets John's eye.
"Are you all right?" Jimmy Moriarty asks, his huge eyes traveling from John to the prostrate, complaining figures on the dungeon floor.
"Yeah," John croaks, still taken by surprise. "Fine. Thanks, I—"
"They shouldn't have said that," Jimmy cuts in, his face blank and serious, staring down at Anderson and his lackeys. "They really shouldn't have. It was uncalled for. Really very rude," he stresses. He turns back to John, looking him once over again, just in case. "Are you here for Sherlock?"
"I was—" The shock of the attack and the retaliation still hasn't slipped away. "I can't help him today. Practice was moved. I've really got to go, Jimmy, could you tell him for me?"
"Absolutely," Jimmy says, a grin breaking slowly over his face. "Good luck, John."
"You're really something else, mate," John says with an appreciative smile before leaving the hallway at a run.
He barely has time to pick up Sarah outside the Great Hall, gripping her hand in his and not even breaking his stride, before running out the huge main entrance and toward the pitch with her giggling in his wake.
The Nimbus is a dream, turns at a whim like it's reading his mind and knows exactly where he wants it to go. And even though he's rusty because of all the time spent in stationery shops with Sherlock, he still cracks the bludger with enough force to knock all the air from Lestrade's lungs and nearly send him plunging to the ground. Sarah cheers from the bleachers, and it's almost enough to distract him.
When they meet back up on the ground, John breathing full-lunged and covered in cooling sweat, she throws her arms in the air and congratulates him. When it starts to rain lightly and they're heading back to the castle, she nonchalantly slips her hand into his, and he's sure he couldn't be happier.
Sherlock is standing on the front steps, and the drizzle has dampened his fringe into his eyes. He shifts when he sees them, and brushes the hair directly up away from his forehead. His eyes shift from John to Sarah to their hands and finally back to John. Something drops out of his eyes, like there's no light in them anymore.
John's brows pinch in concern, but he smiles. "All right, Sherlock? How was Andrew West?"
Sherlock presses his weight on one foot, then the other, worrying his bottom lip in thought. Then, in a small voice, he answers: "I didn't go."
"What?" John asks, drawing himself up. "Why not?"
"I don't know," he answers truthfully, his frown heavy. "Someone said you were in a fight."
Sarah looks just as surprised at this, and she turns to John for an explanation. "No, it was—Jimmy cast a hex, and they didn't—" He can feel the heat crawling up his neck again, and in a stifled, hurried voice he spits it out: "They called me a Mudblood, Sherlock."
"Oh, John," Sarah consoles lightly, and it's real concern in her eyes.
"Well, are you?" Sherlock asks, breaking the moment.
John forgets all about Sarah, all about Jimmy and Anderson and everything else but the burning white hole that's suddenly in his vision, the hole in the middle of Sherlock's face. It bubbles up from inside him and he really can't help the weakness in his voice when he means it to be strong.
"Yeah, Sherlock." It feels like acid. "My mum's a Muggle so I'm only half a wizard. And I know that's not good enough for some of the Slytherins, but I thought it wouldn't matter to—" And he cuts himself off bitterly, brushing by in an unstoppable charge, leaving both Slytherin and Gryffindor behind to stare open-mouthed at his back.
And Sarah sees it, but she'll never tell anyone that she has. Sherlock Holmes's frantic paw at his damp hair as he watches John Watson speed through the doors, the lightning-like way his eyes shift in their sockets when he forces them to think, and the catlike bolt when he dashes after the steaming Hufflepuff. She sees it, doesn't say a word, and she follows.
The portrait hole has already closed by the time Sherlock makes it there, and he curses lightly, kicking at a flagstone.
"Homunculus," Sherlock snaps at the still life, which doesn't move. "Dittany! Bubotuber!" And the portrait swings open on the last, just in time for Sarah to follow after, surprised and wide-eyed (most especially that she's following at all).
The common room is packed, as usual, but this time the faces aren't so kind as Sherlock is used to seeing them. It's because John is standing in the middle of them, his shoulders shaking (rage, barely-contained tears again; how is Sherlock so good at pulling them from him?), and they don't know what's happened but they can guess that it has to do with the pale-faced Slytherin that's just come in behind him.
(Sarah lingers behind because she can feel the history rolling off the two of them, and she knows that interrupting now is precisely what she'd oughtn't do.)
Carl is at John's shoulder, and he gives it a short shake when he sees Sherlock. John doesn't turn immediately, gives himself time to adjust his shoulders and pull everything back close to his chest. He hardly has the time to turn before Sherlock's barreled into him, gripping the shorter boy in a crushing embrace. John can't retaliate, his face is buried in Sherlock's scarf, but his arms do manage to flail in surprise at his side.
Just as quickly, Sherlock steps back and erases all contact save for the hands on John's shoulders. Serious gray eyes peer into him, and his voice is low and steady. "I could care less who your parents are. Do you really think that matters?"
It's the best "sorry" John will ever get, and he knows it. His eyes go elsewhere (of course Sherlock would be able to see the weakness no matter where he looks), and John nods.
"Sensitive subject," John says, and he hates his voice for croaking. "Thanks, though. For not caring."
"Good. You're welcome."
And it's right again. The Hufflepuffs welcome Sherlock back once they're sure that he's no threat to John (Badgers stick together; he knows they were ready to fight back with teeth and claws if he'd said the wrong thing), and Soo Lin even gives him a careful hug.
"You want to talk to Andrew West?" Sarah asks, eliciting a yip of shock from John, who hadn't seen her approaching. Sherlock looks faintly surprised at the question, and John nods enthusiastically.
"Yeah, definitely. Do you know him?"
"He's in my house," she replies, unable to keep from smiling at the growing acknowledgment (appreciation? no, surely not) in Sherlock's eyes. "I can have a chat with him, if you'd like. See if he has any time to talk?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, and though he still gives curious, fleeting glances between the Hufflepuff and the Gryffindor, he doesn't curl his lip at her anymore. "Please."
Andrew West comes to them. He's not a tall or imposing figure, and the way he comes to them knock-kneed and nervous, he doesn't particularly give off the air of a Head Boy. Certainly not the same as Mycroft Holmes (the world couldn't stand another Mycroft Holmes). He finds them in the library, gives a skittish look around at all the faces and begs them to come to the Gryffindor common room with him.
(John is not an uncommon face in Gryffindor Tower, but Sherlock is new and strange and he's wearing a green-and-silver scarf; it's almost exactly the same as throwing a red cape in front of a bull. The common room empties out almost completely, and all Sherlock does is smirk.)
Sherlock settles into a large comfortable armchair by the fire, presses his fingertips together and crosses his legs at the ankle as they stretch out for miles in front of him. He doesn't say a word, and John gives him an apprehensive sweep with his eyes before he turns to the Head Boy.
"All right, go on then, Andrew," John prompts. "Can I call you Andrew?"
"My friends call me Westy," the Head Boy says with a worried smile.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, and so John cuts in firmly: "What's this all about, Westy?"
He wastes no time. "There's this girl."
"Oh, dull," Sherlock mutters under his breath, and only John can hear him (and he painfully hides the smirk that wants to bloom on his lips).
"Doesn't sound like a problem to me," John says, somehow masking his amusement. He doesn't wait for Westy's withered sigh to go on. "But all right, who is she?"
"Irene. Seventh Year, Ravenclaw. Smartest girl I ever met, and gorgeous."
"Irene who?" Sherlock asks in a bored voice. When John turns to look, his friend has his head tilted completely back to stare at the ceiling.
"Adler," the Head boy says, as if everyone should know her name. "She's going to ruin me. Get me expelled." He runs both hands through his short hair, and when he looks back up, he's halfway to frantic. "I can't afford to lose my standing at Hogwarts, I've been looking into this amazing job at the Ministry, and she's going to ruin everything."
"Blackmail," Sherlock says, still peering heavenward. "What does she have against you? Something potent, I'd guess."
"You don't guess," John adds, lopsided smirk returning.
Sherlock unthinkingly mirrors it. "Sometimes I do. When I'm bored." He sits fully up at last, facing Westy down in all seriousness. "Go on."
"We..." And his face darkens embarrassedly. His eyes sweep the room, and there are still a handful of Gryffindors studying and chatting quietly, including Sarah trying to discreetly listen in and Seb Moran scratching notes on a battered roll of parchment.
So Westy drags the heavy armchair closer into the circle where the three of them sit, leaning in and whispering darkly. "We were in the potion stores. Things got... interesting. Then, someone threw the door open and snapped a photo, Irene ran off; I thought she was embarrased. Hell, I was. And then when I got back to the common room, I found a lot of expensive ingredients in my bag I know I didn't put there."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupts, "but what does interesting imply?"
Westy hides his eyes, and John realizes it's up for him to explain (and John can barely contain the laugh that keeps knocking at his lungs). "Er, you see, Sherlock, when a bloke fancies someone and they're in a potions cupboard—"
"Oh God," Westy mutters into his hands. "She says she's got evidence that proves I was in there when the ingredients went missing. And if I don't get her a ridiculously large bit of money by spring, she's going to send it to the Headmistress."
John's been shaking his head since Westy started again. "Why don't you just tell 'em you didn't do it? I mean, she was in the cupboard, too, wasn't she?"
"Exactly, John," Sherlock says from beside him. "The compromising position—" Sherlock looks Westy up and down speculatively, then reclines back in the chair. "—positions in which the evidence is clearly presented might clear his name as a thief, but it's still obvious that he was doing something where he shouldn't have been. And with someone he shouldn't have been with."
"How do you even...?" Westy's face is a few shades paler now. He finally nods, ashen. "Dating my future boss's daughter. I'd be sacked before I even got the job. Y'know, they told me you can see through everyone in seconds. I guess I didn't believe it 'til now." He quails briefly under Sherlock's brimstone glare, and finally buckles. "Listen, Holmes, I know you were brilliant with that poisoning a few years back, and you've been looking into whatever happened to Mary. You've got to help me."
Sherlock taps his fingers briefly against his lips, and after a long minute he finally shrugs. "We'll see what we can do."
We. Something in John's chest swells, and it's all he can do to keep from smiling rays of sunshine in the middle of Westy's misfortune.
"Thanks," Westy replies weakly. "Both of you. I'm counting on you."
"What does this have to do with Jennie being poisoned?" John asks once the Head Boy has left them alone again. Sherlock has his fingers steepled and pressed thoughtfully to his lips. "Unless it's this Adler girl who's been doing all of that?"
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock breathes. "Why should the guilty party alert us to their activity? No, this is something else."
"What?" John asks with a huff.
"A distraction," Sherlock replies. "Something to put us off the trail of whoever cast the Imperius Curse on Mary Morstan."
"So," John trails off, his eyes narrowing as they raise to the ceiling in thought, "we're not helping this West bloke out, then?"
"We may as well," Sherlock says, rising from his seat to flick his scarf over his shoulder. "Perhaps getting closer to her will give us a look at whoever is trying to hide from us."
"Whatever you say," John sighs, rising to meet him.
When they pass by Moran on their way out of the Gryffindor common room, John swears that he sees the older boy scowling and looking directly at them. In an instant it's gone, and a friendly grin beams up at John from the floor. "Looking forward to seeing you on the pitch, Watson," Moran says, and he's back to his homework.
Sherlock tries for three straight days to get into the Ravenclaw common room. He stands in front of the knocker and tries to answer its questions ("Abstract riddles, John. I hate them."), waits in vain to sneak in behind another student (they always catch him, and one even reports him to Professor Flitwick, who deducts five points from Slytherin for the cheek), and once even tries to get Molly Hooper to let him in. He puts on the best charm he can muster (and, John has to admit, when Sherlock wants to pretend to be someone else, he's practically charismatic), but Molly pouts generously at him and roughly informs the Slytherin that she has a new boyfriend and she's not really interested in talking to Sherlock right now.
It somehow leaves Sherlock dumbfounded and bereft, and John's not sure if he's laughed this hard in ages.
John stops Sarah in the hall somewhere between Transfiguration and History of Magic, leaving Sherlock at a bend in the hallway to scowl down the passage at them. She leaning against the wall and smiling lightly, and he brimming with confidence but still pink in the ears. She nods, and her fingers alight on his shoulder once before she turns and hops down the stairs in the opposite direction. John rejoins Sherlock, ears still blaring pink but looking just as thoroughly satisfied with himself as he does after a Quidditch match, and half as winded.
Sherlock doesn't have to deduce much of anything to remember that this coming weekend is a Hogsmeade trip, and that John has become hopelessly interested in the girl two years above him, and Sherlock could really care less about her. He scowls, but he doesn't say anything.
It's snowing the Saturday that John takes Sarah to Hogsmeade. Snowing and mostly quiet, with everyone who's come holed up inside one of the cozy-looking buildings. But Sarah loves the snow, smiling upward as the downy flakes touch her face and disappear. John's much more interested in Sarah than the snow, and more than once, she catches him staring. She grins, doesn't say a thing, and slips her arm into his.
And then Sherlock appears between them, says hello, and doesn't leave.
John opens his mouth and it hangs uselessly, and it looks as though Sarah is resigned to the mop of dark hair appearing in conjunction with John. "We're in luck, John," Sherlock says clandestinely.
"Why's that?" John sighs, resigning himself as well.
"Adler's here," he says tersely, and without a word, Sherlock unwinds the yellow-and-black scarf from around John's neck and slips it over his own. Then, with the briefest glance, Sherlock also swipes the gray knit cap from Sarah's head and throws it over his curls to obscure them. She gives a muted protest, but he's off and skipping down the snowy street, looking all the world like an awkward Hufflepuff and not a thing like Sherlock Holmes.
They follow, interested despite their annoyance.
Irene Adler is a very pretty young woman indeed. She doesn't look the sort to be a blackmailer, or even someone who would be doing all sorts of things in potions cupboards with boys. She looks smart and warm and kind, definitely not like a young criminal.
Sherlock is doing a very good job at not looking where he's going, and he certainly doesn't look as though he means to run full-bodied into Irene Adler, like two trains colliding in the street. All of her things, books and bags of gifts bought for Christmas, go scattering in the snow and Sherlock tumbles over, his long and gangly legs locking with hers. Together they hit the ground with a jarring crack, and Adler is up first, brushing the snow from her frock and fretting simultaneously over the boy.
When he brings his face from the ground, there's a large scuff mark on his cheek, and he's crying, lip wobbling in a truly horrible fashion. "I'm s-s-sorry," he stutters and shakes.
"No, no," Adler assures him, her hand patting the top of his head in a worried, motherly way. "Are you all right?"
Sherlock sniffles hideously. "Yeah, I th-think. Your things, oh no," he whines, and is immediately on his hands and knees in the snow to gather her fallen possessions. She's there, too, and they've soon recovered everything (albeit a bit soggier).
"Don't worry about it," she assures him with a hopeful little smile. On her way through the village, she passes by John and Sarah, gives a happy little nod, and she's gone.
John unravels his scarf from around Sherlock's neck and ignores the growing cat's smile on his friend's lips as he watches Irene Adler leave. He yanks Sarah's hat back and hands it over to the waiting girl's hands. "What the hell was that all about?" John asks, throwing his scarf back around his neck.
"I know what she's studying," Sherlock announces casually. "What her father does for a living, how many partners she's had in the last six months, and, most importantly where she's from."
"Sherlock," John exclaims in surprise. "There's no way you could've figured all that out in... in... ten seconds!"
"Nearly thirty, John, you give me too much credit." His eyes go to Sarah, and he utters a blank "Thank you" before he's off again. "She's not keeping the evidence against West in the castle, she has it somewhere more secure. Her home in Chelsea. We have until spring to find out where it is, and, if possible, flush it out and eliminate it."
And John should hate him. For ruining any alone time he'd planned with Sarah, for being as rude as possible, for assuming that John will always comply with what he asks. But he laughs. And even Sherlock seems slightly surprised, and soon Sarah has joined in.
"Brilliant," John breathes, and he must have imagined Sherlock's ears going bright pink (must have been the cold).
"Is it always like this?" Sarah asks, the three of them heading for the Three Broomsticks.
"Mostly," John says with a smirk. And his head turns when he hears the sound of a cat yowling and hissing. There's a sleek yellow tabby trying to sink its claws into a small owl, batting and leaping as it tries to escape, and John's eyebrows furrow as he recognizes the beast. "Sherlock, that's your cat!"
Sherlock turns his head, nonplussed. "She's an animal, John, let her be."
But John's already broken from the group, hissing Felicia, no! Bad kitty! as he runs at her. She shrinks from John and, ears flat against her head, she skitters into a woodpile. The owl, not much injured, takes off into the snowy sky before John can get a better look.
He forgets the incident and dashes after his friends to finally head inside.
"Don't you dare sign that," John warns when Sherlock holds a quill up to the parchment Professor Cairnes is passing around at the beginning of December. Sherlock gives him a questioning look. "You're staying with me over holiday, remember?"
Sherlock stutters something, and it's not often John gets to see him speechless, so he grins and savors it. "Shut up," Sherlock snaps, but it's all in good fun when a smirk alights on half his face. "You meant that? I thought it was a laugh."
"No, I really did! I told my mum and everything!" John's grinning in full, shoves at Sherlock's shoulder once. "Don't you bloody back out on me now, Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock recovers, brushes his shoulder unnecessarily, and nods. "No, of course."
And so John and Sherlock ride the train back to London in the same compartment as Harry and Clara (who has also been invited this year and hasn't said a word to Sherlock; she was the one who had called Professor Flitwick on him and they are therefore hardly on speaking terms). Harry is civil, which is the least John can ask. Sherlock is civil enough.
"Sherlock," John pulls him aside at King's Cross before they can catch another train to Guildford. "You know my mum's a Muggle," and Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes because John is looking at him dangerously and he pokes Sherlock hard in the chest. "I know you're not used to living with Muggles, so listen up. If you deduce one single thing about my mum, I'm throwing you out and you can go back to yours. I know you think it's just observation, but if you think it's gonna hurt her feelings, just for one second, you'd best stop your mouth. Got it?"
Sherlock looks almost hurt for a moment, but then he considers John's reasoning and his eyes level out. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Anne Watson is a short woman, shorter now than John and Harry, and she hasn't done well for herself. Too thin, blonde hair gone gray from stress, and up in a fraying bun, and she looks as though she's tired and wasting away. But she pulls both her children into a loving embrace and holds them there for a very long time, smiling between the kisses she lauds them with.
She gives Clara a careful hug when they're introduced, and a firm handshake for Sherlock.
"That's a lovely name," Mrs. Watson says, smiling vaguely as she hangs up Clara's coat. "What does it mean?"
Sherlock wobbles on saying something for a few moments, and as John's amused smirk grows, Sherlock mumbles: "Fair-haired. It's rubbish."
John laughs and heads up stairs, and Sherlock gladly follows. They throw down an air mattress (something that Sherlock finds rather amusing), get him settled in, and there's a strange sense of familiarity that neither of them have ever really had before. Sitting in bed, talking without really listening what they're talking about.
Dinner that night is a quick and forgettable affair in front of the telly (John assures Sherlock it's not always like this, but his mum's just broken off with another boyfriend and she doesn't want to think tonight). Sherlock guesses the end to the mystery program before it's half done, but he only tells John (he doesn't say that it's because he's afraid Harry is looking for a reason to hit him). John cleans up for his mother, and after a few reluctant moments left alone with the girls, Sherlock rushes in to help him.
John dozes off not long after dinner, and when he wakes blearily in the night, he finds that Sherlock has shut off his light and is sitting quietly on the air mattress in the dark, eyes out the window and fingertips pressed to his mouth in thought. After a moment, he says "Go to sleep, John." And he does.
Mrs. Watson is tired and sad and sometimes she doesn't seem to be there at all, but Sherlock finds a present with his name on the tag under the tree on Christmas morning all the same. He's inspecting it in awe when John nudges him with his elbow, and Sherlock says a loud, apologetic "Thank you, Mrs. Watson!" into the still Christmas air. John giggles with his face buried into his new jumper, and even Harry manages a smirk.
Harry and John match in their hideous Christmas jumpers, and they both wear them like twin badges of pride. And when Sherlock opens his own package from Mrs. Watson, he gives an honest smile. It's a soft blue scarf; probably just something she saw hanging on a rack somewhere in town the day John sent an owl to ask if Sherlock could stay. But it makes him smile, and he thanks her again in a normal voice this time, wrapping it around his neck.
And he's ready, this year, when John hands him a package wrapped in the Prophet, because the one he hands to John in exchange is covered in the same moving newsprint. They both tear in at the same time.
Sherlock's gift to John is a pair of enchanted goggles for Quidditch, made to withstand wind and rain and, he was told, stinging insects. John snaps them onto his face immediately, grinning like an idiot to the amusement of the girls on the other side of the sitting room.
John's to Sherlock is a heavy book, an encyclopedia of rare and dangerous potions and their hard-to-find ingredients. He claims to have snuck into Knockturn Alley to fetch it for him, but his ridiculous story of peril is interrupted by his own laughter at the rapturous look on Sherlock's face as he flips through the pages.
John still has his goggles perched on his head when they finally pile into the dining room for Christmas dinner that evening. Harry is drinking too much, and she's openly stroking Clara's arm at the table. But save Harry's too-loud laughter, the dinner itself is civil and even enjoyable. Mrs. Watson asks simple questions of her guests ("Why aren't you with your own families? Are they well? You say your brother is at the Ministry?") and Sherlock is polite enough to answer kindly (because when he doesn't, John grinds his heel into Sherlock's toes).
But when everyone is cleaning up and clearing out, Mrs. Watson spies Harry and Clara under the mistletoe in the sitting room archway, and she goes ashen white and excuses herself to the kitchen. Sherlock, who had been headed for the stairs, turns when John lingers behind.
"John?" he prompts.
"Go on, Sherlock," John says, his eyes locked on the door to the kitchen. "Be right up." He leaves his friend's side, slips in through the door and doesn't close it.
Being Sherlock, he stays and he listens.
Anne Watson is crying. It's soft and it's strong, but she's crying. John kneels beside her chair, young face full of old concern and a pain that's been there too long. He lets her go for a long minute, and he doesn't touch her like he knows better. He stays, though. And once she's stuttered to a halt, she takes the proffered tissue he's holding out for her.
"Is it my fault that Harriet's the way she is?" Mrs. Watson cries softly. "She and that girl? It's the way I raised her, isn't it?"
John stammers to find the right words at first. And then he's strong. "Nothing's your fault because there's nothing wrong with Harry."
Mrs. Watson fixes her son with a horrified look, and it only makes John stronger.
"There's nothing wrong with Harry or Clara and they can snog whoever they like, and it's not up to you if it's wrong or not." He stands quickly, backing a step to have an angry look at her. "You've got your boyfriend of the month, how's that any worse than Harry and Clara? Or anyone for that matter, it's—"
He clamps his mouth shut when his mother starts to cry again. He can't stand it, can't stand that he's shouted at her even though he knows he's right. So he stomps out of the kitchen, throwing the door open and nearly running into Sherlock on his way out.
John stares him down, and the anger puckers in his eyes, knowing instantly that Sherlock's listened to the whole thing and found that they're vulnerable. He doesn't like being vulnerable, knowing that someone knows all his secrets, and even though nothing on Sherlock's face is reading him or judging him, he's angry with him nonetheless. So he keeps stomping, past Sherlock, past Harry and Clara, up the stairs, and he doesn't stop until he's in his pyjamas and in bed, curled up and angry under the covers.
Sherlock comes in not long after, not saying a word as he shuts out the light and sits quietly on the air mattress on John's floor. And, as usual, John is the first to break (because he hates being angry and holding a grudge, and he hates the drama of relationships and what they do to everyone, and Sherlock is only Sherlock).
"I'm not mad," John begins.
"Good," Sherlock murmurs. "Thank you for the book."
"You're welcome," John says into the darkness. Then, because his mind is still circling his mother's disastrous chain of relationships, Harry and Clara and the unbidden image of Sarah when he closes his eyes, he says: "You don't have a girlfriend, Sherlock," as if he's only just realized.
"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock replies, and he can practically hear John's teeth grating, so he fixes it. "No, it's not really my area, John."
He hears John sit up in his bed, and the room rings with all the thinking going on in John's head.
"Oh. Right." He shifts back down until his head is on the pillow again, chewing at his lip. He's an idiot, he should have known and now Sherlock will think he's a prat. But he's never seen anyone with Sherlock, and now that it's in the open he has to know. "Or a boyfriend."
"John." Sherlock's voice is partly annoyed, but mostly amused.
"What?"
"Shut up."
"Okay." John shifts, and he recognizes the self-righteous smirk in Sherlock's voice, but he still wants this to be right. "It's fine, you know."
"I know it's fine. Shut up and go to sleep."
"Okay," John sighs again, and he does.
It's two days after Christmas and they're on the train to London. To Chelsea. To Irene Adler. John's pulse is beating in his throat and he can't believe that Sherlock talked him into it, but most of all he can't believe how thrilling it is. Sherlock's eyes gleam like he knows.
"The game is on," he says brightly, and they rush off together into Charing Cross station.
"How are you gonna find where she keeps it? The evidence, I mean." John asks once they're on the District line and standing near the doors to duck their heads together quietly.
"I've been thinking about it since Hogsmeade," Sherlock says, keeping an eye on anyone else in the car who might be listening. "She already knows what I look like, so I'll be needing your help in creating a distraction."
"Oh, you bumped into her once," John breaks in incredulously. "She's not gonna remember—"
"She's clever," Sherlock reminds him quickly. "Don't underestimate your enemy." He thinks about it a moment longer, and the train shifts under them. "I need you to start a fire."
John's eyes go wide. "What?" And he's rather louder than he means, because two of the pensioners nearby peer upward at them. John brings his head in closer to Sherlock's and lowers his volume considerably. "Okay, start again. And include details this time."
"The distraction of a fire will direct her to the place where she is hiding her most valuable possession. She's asking for a lot of money from West, which means she stands to lose quite a lot if she loses that photo. At that point, I'll sneak into the flat and get it out from under her."
The idea of it is positively dizzying, but John finds himself nodding. He was never like this before he met Sherlock, before he knelt beside Jennifer Wilson with a young Slytherin boy and his hands didn't shake.
And it all happens so fast that John is surprised he remembers it at all. They're in Chelsea, the posh section, the high-end place that John really feels he doesn't belong. Rows of mansion-like flats staring back at him, laughing at his Christmas jumper, and it makes his head spin even more. Sherlock ducks into a hedge and John is at the nearest window, and oh God how do you even start a fire without magic?
Then he remembers the Whiz-bangs in his pocket from Harry's Christmas present. Eyes widening, John snatches them up and in proper Weasley fashion, they self-light when they're tossed. John covers his head as the little crackers clatter against the window momentarily before—
The world erupts in fire and sparks, followed by concussive booms that pierce John's eardrums (and a good thing, because they spur laughter from John's lungs that's covered brilliantly by the spontaneous fireworks show). The window cracks inward from the force, and over the sudden shouts of surprise from inside, John cups his hands around his mouth and shouts "FIRE!" And he's unfortunately very right, because the Whiz-bangs have moved in through the window, showering flaming sparks as they ignite again and again in consecutive explosions that set smoke in the Adler sitting room.
John claps those cupped hands over his mouth in shock and nearly misses when Sherlock throws open a window on the other side of the flat and vaults in. Before anyone running into the room now doused in sparks and colorful smoke, John runs for it. He misses everything inside (and damn that part of him that wants to be running through that smoke and chaos with Sherlock to swipe the evidence out from under her nose), but he knows that if he's out in the open any longer, he's going to be caught. He stations himself at the end of the road, and when Sherlock's long-legged stride hits his ears at full run, he nearly bounces on his feet in glee.
On his way rocketing past John, Sherlock doesn't even slow his pace. He simply reaches out, grabs John by the wrist and pulls the Hufflepuff along after him.
"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he wheezes hysterically between his impossible laughter, leaning against the concave wall of the tube platform for support as he catches his breath.
"Me too," Sherlock says weakly around his full-mouthed smile.
It's when Sherlock joins him in breathless laughter that John really loses it, breaking into squealing giggles that really don't befit a boy of his stature. He's sure they look a pair of fools, standing there and laughing themselves silly in the middle of the platform, but neither of them seem to care at all.
John finally quiets himself and stops Sherlock with a hand on his wrist. "Did you find where she keeps it?"
"I've done one better," Sherlock says, smirking. He reaches into the pocket of his long dark coat to fetch something, and he holds a photo up between two of his fingers.
John, his breathing still ragged and his grin still locked in place, takes the photo and examines it. And he takes a moment, but the confused look replaces his smile completely. "Sherlock?"
The Slytherin's smile drops away as well. "What?" He takes the photo back with a jerk, and his mouth drops quietly ajar.
It's Irene Adler, all right. Alone, dressed only in her underthings, in the middle of what John assumes is her own room. And she's blowing a kiss straight at Sherlock, winking broadly. And it's signed in big, curling letters.
Maybe next time, Sherlock.
John is sure that, at at moment, Sherlock's wide-mouthed shock will explode into rage. He doesn't expect the loud bark of a laugh to escape from Sherlock's lungs. With a happy shake of his head, he rips the fake photo in half and tosses them to the tracks.
"I've never been outsmarted before," he says as if he's in some vague sort of awe.
And John allows himself to relax. "First time for everything, then?" He sighs, and they both lean against the curved wall of the platform. "We're going back, aren't we?" he asks with a weary smile.
"No," Sherlock answers plain enough. "She knows what I'm after—I don't know how, but she knew—so it's useless to try again. Back to yours," Sherlock adds with a fruitless shrug.
They don't talk about how they've failed. John asks if he's come up with any leads on whoever had written those notes, and Sherlock says that he's been listening very carefully to the accents of the students, and it's only a matter of time before he narrows down the Sheffield accents from the Leeds accents.
They spend the rest of the rainy holiday in the park outside of town, John swooping on his broom and testing out the new goggles and Sherlock perched under a tree, watching and thinking.
When they get back to school, Andrew West shakes both of their hands. He tells them he doesn't know how they did it, but Irene Adler is backing off of the blackmail, so long as he doesn't attempt to out her in return. And he doesn't, because he's nothing if not honorable. He attempts to pay Sherlock for his trouble, but he waves it off.
It's as if everything is back to normal. Until Sherlock plunges himself into the proper mystery, the one he says he should have been working on from the beginning.
John always answers when Sherlock sends him an owl. In the middle of the night, when some dark shadow swoops in somehow and drops a note onto his sleeping body, he always shines his wand to the scratchy letters and goes to Sherlock. The latest reads only:
Library. Could be dangerous. SH
And John hops wordlessly into his trousers and creeps down darkened hallways in his bare feet until he finds his friend tucked into a lightless corner near the Herbology books.
"What is it?" John asks in a sleepy whisper.
"Leeds," Sherlock hisses back. "I can't tell if it's just another distraction or if I should be focusing all of my brainpower on it."
"Merlin's sake," John sighs. "Go to bed, Sherlock."
"Couldn't possibly," Sherlock replies petulantly. When the Hufflepuff turns to go, Sherlock's voice pitches higher: "John—"
He turns back, takes steps into Sherlock's personal space and stares him down. "I always come, Sherlock. Because I want to help. You know I do. But I've got Quidditch, and Sarah, and I've got no bloody idea how you get your schoolwork in around all this but I've got to do that, too."
And Sherlock has the sort of face that looks like he's been kicked, and he hides it quickly as if he doesn't want John to see. But he has, and he sighs with his whole body before easing into the seat next to Sherlock.
"Okay, so. Leeds."
He misses the honest smile spreading over Sherlock's face, because someone else is in the library with them.
John looks up at the first sign of light and mutters a quick Nox and the two of them are blanketed in darkness. Sherlock's fingers clamp unthinkingly on John's wrist, making sure he's still there, blind reassurance. Everything is heightened (John's suddenly terse breathing in his ear, the sound of three separate heartbeats) but mostly the strange sensation when John's wrist turns under his grip and he laces their fingers together.
All of the sudden Sherlock feels inexplicably protected.
Both of them are taken by surprise when Sarah rounds the bookcase and points her lighted wand at them.
"Sarah?" John perks up, but Sherlock tightens his fingers in warning. And John doesn't turn to Sherlock but he knows just what he means. Oh God, her eyes.
"Hello, Sherlock," Sarah says, smiling just as kindly as she does when she's sitting with the both of them in the Three Broomsticks. "Sweetheart. You've done such a good job so far. You almost got Adler, didn't you? That's my clever boy."
"Who are you?" Sherlock asks bluntly before John can shout.
"Oh, you're so silly, Sherlock," Sarah giggles brightly. "I'd better watch out for myself with such a brilliant... No, you don't like that, do you? Leastways, not from anyone but—" She looks at John, who feels his blood go cold. "But you're close, and I don't appreciate it. If you get too close, someone might just get hurt."
"Leave her alone," John snaps suddenly.
And then Sarah laughs, a loud and terrifying thing. "Oh, John. Johnny-boy, you've never been more wrong."
A moment later, the horrible smile drops off of her face and her eyes are back and brimming full of tears. "John?" Her voice is horribly weak and John's standing to meet her before either of them can say anything else. He's got her, tucking her sobbing face into the crook of his neck and smoothing her hair repeatedly under his palm. When Sherlock stands, John meets his gaze with something that's a mixture of dread and rage.
"We've got to tell McGonagall," John says, holding Sarah close as she shakes like a tiny animal in his arms, whimpering John what happened? into his shoulder. "This can't happen again."
Sherlock is looking at the both of them with an unreadable expression, guarded but vulnerable. He meets John's eyes again. "They didn't do anything about Mary Morstan because they couldn't. It's not that they won't believe you, John. I just don't think they'll do a thing about it."
John fixes Sherlock with a pitiful look, which the Slytherin can't match so he turns his eyes away to his shoes. When he looks back up, John and Sarah are gone, and the library is just as dark as it was before John had come.
He walks Sarah all the way to the Headmistress's office, and she only speaks to mutter the password to the statue ("Felis catus."). McGonagall is bleary-eyed and confused, but she waves her wand to set the tea on, ushering still-weeping Sarah into a chair by the fire (which John has lit). The Headmistress looks sadly at the both of them, and finally focuses on John.
"The trouble you two get into, it's a wonder your names aren't Potter and Weasley," she breathes with a shake of her head. "I assume Mister Holmes is coming soon?"
John doesn't know, and so he doesn't answer. "Professor," he begins strongly, kneeling by Sarah's chair. "It was the Imperius Curse again. I know it."
And it's just as Sherlock said. "It's very difficult to tell when a wizard or witch is under the Imperius Curse, Mister Watson. Several trained Aurors failed during the First War, and I don't see how a pair of Fourth Years—"
"Please," John cuts in, feeling hopeless. "They're not trying to hide it, they're taunting us. They weren't Sarah's words, they were from someone else. And he's in the bloody castle, and—" He doesn't finish his own sentence because the stern, motherly look McGonagall is giving him breaks his heart, just a bit. "Isn't there anything we can do to find out who's doing this?"
The Headmistress hangs her head before settling into the second chair. He wonders briefly how old she is, how much longer she'll do the job before something like this will end it.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mister Watson. I will have a talk with the other teachers in the morning. I won't ask what you and Mister Holmes were doing out this late at night. You go find your partner in crime and send him to bed; I'll make sure Miss Sawyer gets to the Hospital Wing."
When John gets to the bottom of the staircase, Sherlock is there. He doesn't say I told you so, or anything at all. John's so glad for that.
Hufflepuff win their final match of the year against Slytherin. Sherlock doesn't dare sit with his housemates, and it's all the better because when he's sitting with the Hufflepuffs, he's as good as a Badger to them. Once or twice, he even waves the yellow flag he's been given and utters a holler that gets swallowed up by the cheering crowd. He swarms the pitch with them when Carl catches the Snitch, and all of them are so caught up in the excitement that no one notices or cares when John sweeps Sherlock up in his arms for a victorious embrace.
"If Gryffindor loses to Ravenclaw, we're a shoe-in for Quidditch Cup!" John says over the roar of his teammates and housemates. Sherlock doesn't know why, but he's grinning too. "It's our year, Sherlock, I know it!"
"Yes!" Sherlock says, agreeing to anything in this stifling hoard mentality.
He nearly misses the way that Carl Powers's eyes cloud over when they turn to him. But he's Sherlock Holmes, and he rarely misses anything. Even with the crowd screaming in his ear, Sherlock can still hear Carl speak in an eerie voice around his toothy smile.
"Boom boom, Sherlock."
The Slytherin barely has time to react, and he uses it to grab John by the wrists and throw him to the ground. Just as Sherlock dives to meet him, shielding both their heads, the world convulses around them. Every molecule of air goes dry in their mouths at once, and with a concussive blast of fire and heat and pressure, the nearest goal post explodes in blossoming fire. Someone screams, and half the crowd hits the ground alongside them, the other half running and shouting amid the raining fiery debris.
Sherlock and John both fix their gaze across the pitch at the same time, and they immediately recognize the figure striding determinedly toward them. Raising his wand a second time. Grinning.
Moran.
He gets off another spell, the second goal post exploding in flaming wooden splinters into the ground around them. Before he can attack a third time, four stunning spells hit him in the chest, and he's down. Hooch and Flitwick are there, and in the confusion John can't see which of the other teachers have taken him down.
Sherlock's brain is rattled by the explosion, and he hates it, not knowing exactly what he was about to do. He knows he's staring down at John and he has to make sure that John is safe, but all the sound has been sucked from the air by the explosions and it's making thinking very difficult. John's bleeding from the temple where the debris has hit him, but he's gripping back at Sherlock's shoulders from the ground, shaking him, saying something that doesn't matter because he hurt John.
The Slytherin is on his feet (why is he wobbling?), wand arm outstretched, staggering toward where Moran is lying spread-eagled on the ground surrounded by teachers, and someone is trying to stop him (by the size of the fingers on his arm, it's Slughorn), but Sherlock still tries to escape the grip. No spells come to mind, and he hates it. Hates that he can't fight back. And then John has his arm, pressing something cold (his hand?) to Sherlock's neck, and the Slytherin is surprised to see his own blood come back on John's hand.
"Oh," Sherlock says. And he doesn't faint in dramatic fashion, but he does need to be helped to the Hospital Wing.
John calls him a git, but he stays with Sherlock until they patch him up.
Moran admits to everything, when he's questioned. Grinning the whole time, Sebastian Moran admits to the poisoning of Jennifer Wilson, the illegal use of the Imperius Curse on Mary Morstan, Sarah Sawyer and Carl Powers. They test his wand, and they find the Unforgivable there, and his fate is sealed. Azkaban.
When he realizes that it's all over, and so abruptly, John feels oddly bereft. He tries to tell himself that it's for the best, and that the chase has finally ended (he won't admit how much he'll miss it). Sherlock is not so optimistic; he thinks Moran is covering for someone, but he can't say who. He never tells anyone other than John, who tells him to enjoy the break. Even he needs to breathe every once in a while (to which Sherlock dully replies that "Breathing is boring.")
He invites Sherlock to the celebration once they've finally won the Quidditch Cup (Lestrade's last year, and he finally gets a win out of them; he kisses every single one of them on the tops of their heads and Violet says she's seen him crying but no one calls him out on it), but Sherlock shakes his head and returns to his work.
McGonagall rises at the end-of year feast, and she awards twenty points to both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes for their vigilance in the matter. Hufflepuff comes in second, thanks to their Quidditch prowess, but they still haven't snatched the House Cup out from under the Gryffindors. Lestrade has his Quidditch Cup honors, and that's all that he's ever wanted, and John couldn't be happier for him.
It really feels very distant, John thinks, looking across the tables from Sarah's sombre face to Sherlock's and flicking between the two of them. House points, in comparison to Moran and Adler and all the mad things he's done this year. He wonders what it's like to be any of the other students. He wonders what it's like to be bored.
Sitting quietly in the compartment on the train back home, listening to Sherlock and Sarah harmlessly banter, John smiles to himself and knows he wouldn't want to be anyone else.
AN: OKAY, I THINK IT'S OBVIOUS THAT THIS CHAPTER GOT AWAY FROM ME. I swear, I looked away for one second and it went over 10k words. I have no words for this, I am astonished myself. It's all that nasty plot getting in the way. I really have nothing to say about this, best let it speak for itself. I really really REALLY wanna thank everyone who's been so lovely to me and this fic so far, even if you don't comment I love everyone who reads and favs and alerts. Thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, but most importantly, STAY AWESOME!