.year five.
June 27th, John's birthday, Sherlock is on his front step with the front page of the Daily Prophet. A terrible familiar face sneers from his palm-wide portrait under the dancing headline: Moran Escapes In Route to Azkaban. John pales and yanks Sherlock inside.
"It says he was under guard from six Aurors," John murmurs incredulously around his breakfast. He's the only one awake, so far, and he's not looking forward to explaining his best friend in the middle of their kitchen (especially with his mother's longest-running boyfriend in ages sleeping upstairs). "He's got to 've had help. You don't just escape six Aurors, not one kid. He's barely seventeen, isn't he?" He crunches into another spoonful of cereal and keeps reading. "Trace is gone, how the hell are they gonna find him?"
He glances up to see Sherlock looking plaintively sideways at him, long in thought. He picks briefly at the food that John had thrown together for him. "I can leave if you think I'll be a problem."
"What?" John cuts in. "No, you're not—Of course not, Sherlock. What makes you think that?"
"You're not afraid of your mother's boyfriend," Sherlock begins like he always does, "but you've stood up to him in the recent past and you don't like the prospect of having to do so again. You're not embarrassed of me, but an unexpected guest, even on your birthday, is something you'll have to explain. And your mother liked me well enough on Christmas, but knowing her fickle nature, she'll likely have turned on me as soon as he has. So, you'll get in an argument over having me appear, and, feeling guilty, I'll invite you over to mine instead. So, let's save ourselves the inevitable drama and just come with me before anyone else wakes up."
John smiles, even though anyone else would have been throwing punches. "You brilliant git." Sherlock mirrors his grin embarrassedly, perhaps even without knowing. "Really?"
"Yes, really," Sherlock adds, irritated, and the smile drops from his face, "or else I wouldn't have asked. Get your things, I'll write a note."
"Oh God," John laughs, but he does.
John doesn't look at the note when he comes back down the stairs with his bag, but Sherlock has left it in the open on the dining room table.
Mrs. Watson, Harriet, and Unnamed Male Party:
I have appropriated John for the week of his birthday, and he will be well looked-after while he is gone. If you have any questions, I can be reached by owl, and, for emergencies, my family's fireplace is connected to the Floo Network.
Yours,
Sherlock Holmes
The Holmes Estate is rather enormous, especially for John, who gapes appropriately as they walk up the long tree-lined drive. This early, there are still a handful of men and women in the garden doing the trimming and lawn work, and all of them give a bright welcome to Sherlock. One comes trotting down the drive and takes John's bag from him, carting it back up to the house.
John has never been in a manor, and he's not sure if this is one, but it's fabulous no matter what it is. Wide-open and full of echoes, hardwood and marble-tile floors, a curving grand staircase, and he even glimpses an impressive chandelier as Sherlock shows him around the house.
"It's so huge," John says as Sherlock pulls him into yet another room, this one a dusky study full of books and equipment that wouldn't be out of place in Slughorn's office. "But it's completely empty. Where is everyone?"
Sherlock clears his throat. "Large extended family. They only show up on holidays, but they all like to have their room when they get here. You'll have my cousins' room, it's next to mine."
Sherlock sees quite easily that John's embarrassed about something, and it goes to show how well they know each other when John doesn't need Sherlock's prompting to elaborate.
"I couldn't give you your own room at my place," John says quietly, more and more humbled by the lavish surroundings by the second.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock says instantly. "You live in Guildford, not this useless old place, of course you couldn't give me my own room." He pauses when John meets his eye. "Besides. I like it. Your house."
There's a large painting of a cold-looking man with Sherlock's eyes in the study, the Ministry crest on a hanging fluttering behind him, and he stares domineeringly down at the two of them. Sherlock glares hatefully upward.
"Yours doesn't have a history."
John follows Sherlock's eyes, and when they meet the figure in the painting, the man turns his back. Even John can't miss the emotion brewing inside his friend's eyes. So he touches Sherlock's wrist with two fingers to get his attention back.
"Thanks, mate," he says with a smirk, and he closes his fingers on Sherlock's, who laces them tight.
The room John's staying in is rather small, compared to the rest of the cavernous house. It's been bedecked in Ravenclaw colors, at which Sherlock frowns and he orders the nearest hand to change them. With a flick of the footman's wand, everything goes yellow and black. John gives a laugh and hops down into the warm-honey bed eagerly.
"When do I meet everyone, then?" John asks, cross-legged on the bed and facing Sherlock in the door, who shrugs.
"It's just Mummy and me. Mycroft shows when he wants to, always without warning." The boy grins fiendishly. "He's gotten fat, you know."
"Just the two of you?" John ignored the brotherly jab. "In this big old place?"
"And the help," Sherlock adds dully, crossing to flop horizontally across the bed onto his back beside John. He links his fingers on his chest, looking to the ceiling rather than the boy seated next to him. "My father's dead, too."
John's throat stiffens painfully, but he nods. "You remember yours much?"
"He was a miser, cruel and brutal, and he asked everything of us. I wish that I couldn't remember him." He glances briefly at the drooping look on John's face. "What about you?"
"Not much," John replies, and his throat croaks. He waits a moment to start again. "A good dad, what I can remember. Loads of bedtime stories, one time he tried to make mum breakfast and nearly killed us all with the smoke. He was a Gryffindor, too, like Harry. She was so happy, when she got Sorted. Mum was proud." He smiles a bit. "Your lot were all Ravenclaw, right?"
Sherlock laughs. "You remember that? I thought—"
"Thought what?" John's smile grows on its own.
"I thought you hated me after that." Sherlock's not smiling. Not at all. "Most people do."
"Hey," John interrupts, sitting up off the bed and peering down at Sherlock sprawled all over it. "Shut up." He doesn't move until Sherlock gets it and stops his pouting. "It's my birthday. Where's my cake?"
They make a horrifying mess of the kitchen in attempts to create something similar to a cake. Sherlock calls it an experiment, adds too much flour, and they alienate all four of the cooks in the process, but the end result is at least edible. It's when they're covered in flour and Sherlock is trying to discuss the relative viscosities of the most poisonous potions that John meets Mummy.
Sherlock stands at attention when she enters, and John copies him without thinking. She lingers in the doorway from the garden, looking over the pair of them as a queen might benevolently watch her country. She looks regal enough, with all the gold and pearls on her. Sherlock got his hair form her, for sure, with her dark curls gathered in a careful bun at the back of her head, but her eyes are the softest brown that John has ever seen. And she smiles.
"Sherlock," she says, setting her bag at her feet without taking her eyes from them, "is this John Watson?"
"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock answers. John turns so that he can engage the both of them at once, and he's sure that there couldn't be two more different people in a family tree than Sherlock and his mother.
"I've heard so very much about you, Mister Watson," Mrs. Holmes says as she makes her way to them. "You've done quite a lot for my Sherlock. He doesn't make friends easily, and has a harder time keeping them. You must be a very determined young man, and you have no idea how much I appreciate it."
John tries his best not to giggle at the redness spreading up Sherlock's neck and to his ears. "Yes ma'am, Mrs. Holmes. Very glad to help."
Sherlock wants to elbow him, but the presence of Mummy is clearly a very influential one. So he fidgets on the spot. John hides a grin very badly and tries to make up for it.
"He's brilliant. Never had a better friend."
But Sherlock just goes even redder, and John loses it, breaking into tight laughter that doubles him over. When Mrs. Holmes laughs, it sounds to him like the tinkling of crystal.
"You're more than welcome to stay, Mister Waston. Especially with that Moran character about. And we'll have you a proper birthday once you two have cleaned up."
"She's lovely," John says, toweling his hair dry ten minutes later. Sherlock sits cross-legged on the ground in front of the full-length mirror in his own room (not decorated in Slytherin colors, nor any colors at all, save for the badger pin and the yellow flags accumulated from two years of Hufflepuff matches; John hopes Sherlock isn't trying to hide his House loyalty from him, because he'd be doing a bloody awful job), trying to get his curls to lie flat.
"She's... affectionate," Sherlock amends. "She scarcely leaves me alone in the summer, with Mycroft gone. She clings to me because I'm the last vestige of my father that she has, and despite his obvious deficiencies, she loved him." He frowns at the prospect, pressing his fringe to his forehead in vain.
"Better than ignoring you, I suppose," John says hopefully. Nothing is worse than Sherlock in a mood.
"I suppose," Sherlock answers vaguely. Then, hopping like a feline directly to his feet, he's across the floor and steering John by the shoulders. "Enough cosmic angst for today, we've presents for you."
John doesn't have time to stutter the questions he wants, like how he and his mother could possibly have known before he'd been kidnapped to get gifts for him, because he quickly figures that they had planned this all along. John's mouth isn't sure whether it should frown or grin, settles easily on the latter.
"You utter bastard," he murmurs around his teeth. "You shouldn't have, you know that?"
"Nonsense," Sherlock mutters back, and that's that.
When it comes to John's birthday dinner at the Holmes Estate, Mycroft's inexplicable sudden appearance along with his nameless (to John, anyhow) assistant makes four and himself. They bring out the cake that he and Sherlock had thrown together, missing a piece or two from their taste-tests, and Mycroft's assistant decorates it artfully with a frosting ribbon from her wand.
Mrs. Holmes sings when the lights go out, and only the multicolored candles on his cake illuminate the wide walls of the dining hall. They listen, enchanted, to her voice echo and dance, and when she finishes, John applauds loudest of all (Sherlock leans in to whisper that her hobby had been opera long before she'd met Tiberius Holmes and she went quietly into the Ministry).
From Sherlock's mother, John receives a book of complex and no-doubt useful charms ("Sherlock tells me you're quite the hand at charms, I hope these will help."), and a moleskine from Mycroft that will only display the notes within when the correct password is spoken ("Sherlock will have it figured out within a week, at most, but to everyone else it will appear blank."). Mycroft assures him that the gift is from both him and his assistant—she only laughs when John says a better present would be her name.
Sherlock grins when John turns to him. "Mine's upstairs. Care to fetch it with me?"
John gives a brief glance at their audience, shrugs and follows Sherlock to his room with little protestation. "Couldn't be arsed to drag it downstairs?"
"Your eyes only, John," Sherlock replies cryptically, digging through his bureau. "Aha! Here we are." He produces a letter. And it's been opened. John takes it apprehensively.
"Sherlock, it's got your name on it," he laughs. When he looks up, Sherlock has his fingers perched at his lips, and he nods at the letter. Rolling his eyes, John reaches in and produces a single sheet of parchment.
Well done, you! Are you bored yet, my sweet? How about you figure this one? Someone has broken into the Headmistress's office. Countdown time, you have until November. And if you can't, I can't assure someone won't get hurt. I get bored too, Sherlock.
John looks up, alarmed. "Moran?"
Sherlock shakes his head slowly, savoring it.
"I got it three days ago. While Moran was under twenty-four hour surveillance by six Aurors. No owls could get through that." He looks as though he's won some sort of award, beaming. "This proves it, John."
"Sorry, proves what?" John asks, wary of keeping hold of the note as if it will burst into flame.
He fixes John with the idiot look to save himself the time of having to say it. "That Moran wasn't working alone. That, in all probability, he was a decoy." He taps his fingers together eagerly. "Clever. So clever even I missed it. Slightly."
"How is this my birthday present?" He doesn't actually expect Sherlock to get him anything. He just likes seeing the unthrowable Sherlock Holmes thrown.
"Well I— I could get— Well, I thought that you—"
"Keep your pants on," John laughs. "Right, you want me to help with the case. Of course I will. Idiot."
John doesn't see the way Sherlock watches the back of his head as they walk in amiable silence down the stairs. Mycroft, however, does.
He can't sleep into the day, unlike Sherlock (who, in the five short days John has been at the Holmes Estate, has slept in til noon and occasionally longer), and so it's nine in the morning and John is lying in bed, hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling, when Mycroft enters the room.
John sits up quickly, startled. Mycroft doesn't so much as blink at the sudden movement. He's carrying a letter. He didn't even knock.
"This just arrived for you by owl," Mycroft says, holding it out to John. The boy apprehensively takes it. It's from Hogwarts. "My congratulations to you, Mister Watson. You were the obvious choice for the position."
He turns the envelope over, because there's something heavy in the bottom of it. A brilliant, shining badge emblazoned with a P falls into his hand, and John gapes openly.
"If I'm correct in assuming," Mycroft continues, "Miss Yao will be your companion. One word of advice, if I may?"
John nods absently, turning the badge over and over in his fingers.
"Don't be lenient on my brother just because he favors you. Respect the position and others will respect you."
John finally looks up and frowns. "You think I'll go easy on Sherlock because he what?"
Mycroft waves it off. "I hear you've also been nominated Quidditch captain. You've quite the year ahead of you, I must say. No doubt Sherlock will persist in his inanities to keep himself busy. Don't let him distract you."
The Hufflepuff frowns even more deeply. He's not quite sure just what Mycroft is trying to get at. "I'll do what I think needs to be done, thanks, Mycroft."
And, strangely, Mycroft smiles as through something John said pleases him, and he nods. "My assistant and I are heading back to London, presently. I'm afraid we'll miss my brother. He does love his queer hours. Good to see you again, John. Best of luck." And then he turns and he's gone.
To his credit, John waits seven whole minutes before he charges into Sherlock's room and leaps onto the sleeping boy's bed to wake him. Sherlock jolts awake with a candid yelp and gathers all the sheets up to his neck, blaring: "What? What, John?"
John laughs loud and clear until Sherlock calms down, then spreads his arms wide. "See anything different?"
Sherlock, still rumpled by sleep and slightly frazzled by the interruption, glares blearily at him. "You've not brushed your teeth or hair, even though you've been awake for at least forty minutes, and you've had plenty of time, so you must have been waiting for me to—"
"Christ's sake, Sherlock," John laughs, and he points to the badge on his chest as a hint. "I made prefect! And Quidditch captain! And," he continues on despite the wilting look on Sherlock's face, "I'm gonna have to find time to keep you from getting bored. God knows Hogwarts can't survive you with nothing to do."
Sherlock stares at him for a for moments longer than usual. Then, unexpectedly, he asks: "How do you put up with me, John? So few people actually do."
It takes him by surprise, and he's never really thought about it (it was so easy to be his friend, he can't understand why it would be so hard for anyone else, save the constant belittling and the superior ego and okay he can sort of see it now). "Don't know," he answers. "You're never boring." He gives a wild shrug. "Hell, I like you, Sherlock."
The Slytherin smiles slightly. "I like you, too." He straightens his back, finally waking up. "Congratulations. You'll make a fine prefect."
"You didn't get one?" John asks, looking about for a letter with his friend's name on it.
"No, I don't suppose I make a good role model." But he smirks around it. "Breakfast?"
"Starving," John says enthusiastically, and they're off to the kitchen in their pyjamas.
When John gets back home two days later, he's just in time to see his mother's boyfriend packing his things into his tiny car. His mother is crying on the front step, wordless, hopeless blubbering that's interrupted when Harry charges past her headed for the man and his car, wand raised.
John barely has time to dash across the lawn and stop her—he doesn't know what spell she'd use, but she doesn't have the Trace anymore and it could've been anything, going on the red look of hate in her eyes. She looks as though she wants to turn the man into ash, then set the ashes on fire and throw rocks at the fire, that's the sort of wild thoughts he sees in her face. But John stops her and their mother's ex-boyfriend careens noisily away.
He takes a seat next to his mother. "What happened?"
And then she hits him. Just a weak sort of slap, but that's not why it hurts.
"If your idiot friend hadn't left that fucking note, Andy wouldn't wouldn't have seen it and asked questions, and I wouldn't have to tell him that you're a fucking wizard!" she shouts in her tear-raw voice. "Do you know how that sounds to normal people? They think I'm a goddamn nutter!" She glares hard at John and shoves him away roughly. "You two ruin everything!"
It breaks his heart and his stomach churns horribly, but he keeps his resolve (somehow). "Come on, Harry," he says, and to his credit, his voice doesn't waver. "We're going."
Harry looks lost and scared. "What? Going where?"
"I don't care," John says strongly. "Diagon Alley, let's just go."
His bag is already packed, and Harry only grabs a couple things before they leave Anne Watson sobbing and angry on her front step.
Three days later, brooding by the window of the double room above the Leaky Cauldron he's sharing with his emotional big sister on dwindling funds, John gets an owl from Sarah.
I haven't seen you in ages. Let's have a day out, you and I. We can talk! See you soon, John.
Sarah S.
He perks up instantly and replies back emphatically YES.
But even walking hand-in-hand through the glittering avenue of Diagon Alley does nothing for them. They smile and they chat, but as they pass by Florean Fortescue's, her finger slip nonchalantly from his, and even though they don't say anything about it, he knows this is over. Whatever this was. And he smiles, but it sits right on top of the stinging mark his mother left on him, and it hurts.
Sarah says she'll see him at school, and she's gone. And John feels useless (especially with Harry downstairs every night, crying into her glass and cursing at him when he tries to help her up the stairs). He feels a bit as though he's coming apart in little pieces, and it's only at night when he remembers that Moran is out there, and someone is sending those horrible notes and threatening his best friend (who made him cake), and then he cries. It's not a pretty thing, curled up in his sheets, stuttering tears and shoving his red face into his pillow so that Harry won't hear him.
The owl comes in the middle of the night and he recognizes it instantly as Sherlock's, so he throws open the window and grapples the letter open as quickly as possible.
Mycroft says that you are at the Leaky Cauldron, which is perfect for me. Investigation begins tomorrow at ten sharp.
SH
John nearly cries again.
Sherlock shows up at the Leaky Cauldron twenty minutes early, lingering awkwardly downstairs and unsure of whether he should start knocking on doors to see which one contains John, and whether he's decided to sleep through their meeting.
His thoughts are interrupted when John appears overhead, practically leaning over the railing and searching the bottom floor for him. They lock, and for a moment Sherlock thinks that John is going to propel himself right over the railing. But he just rushes down the stairs, taking the last three at a leap and he practically bowls Sherlock over. He mashes them together for a very long time, shoving his face into Sherlock's scarf and absolutely refusing to budge.
After a moment of blind confusion, Sherlock hangs his hands on John's arms in reply. He makes no attempt to remove John, but he is very unsure what to do with the Hufflepuff in his arms. So he simply asks: "All right?"
John nods, speaking straight into Sherlock's scarf when he answers. "Bad couple of days."
"Obviously," Sherlock says lightly, finally relaxing into the embrace (curling his arms around John's shoulders, pressing the side of his face to John's temple encouragingly). "Someone has been working with Moran, that much is obvious." (And John's not sure why he rather likes that Sherlock doesn't interrupt the case for a hug, or vice versa.) "The handwriting on the latest note matches the handwriting on the notes I received last year, which means it was the associate and not Moran who wrote them. Which means that the old deductions stand: the writer is from Leeds."
"Or Cork," John laughs lightly. And he finally pulls back (Sherlock's hands still resting on his shoulders), looking up at his friend with a puzzled expression. "Funny thing, I was depressed about five minutes ago. How's an investigation do that?"
"It always cheers me up," Sherlock says with a light grin. "There are a fair number of Northern students, less than the number from Ireland—"
"Sherlock," John interrupts. "Isn't there some other case you're supposed to be looking in on? The one from the note?"
"Something stolen from the Headmistress's office," Sherlock recites, rolling his eyes slightly. "Yes, I remember. But unless you think it's appropriate to send an owl to McGonagall in the middle of summer holiday to ask what she's missing, there's no point in investigating that route until we get back to school."
John nods, takes a steadying breath, and smiles. "All right. Where do we start?"
Sherlock starts by pulling out a roll of parchment with three dozen names on it. "I owe Mycroft a favor," he says with a grimace. "I'll need you to write the letters, but use an alias; he knows how close we are." He tosses a ribbon-tied pile of paper at John and climbs up to sit atop the nearest table. John manages to catch it, gives him a strange look, and joins him (in a seat, like a normal person).
"Writing what to who?" John asks. Sherlock produces a quill and an inkpot from his inner pockets and sets them down beside John.
"List of students," Sherlock says, staring off into the distance and pressing his fingertips together. "I don't suppose it matters what you write, as long as you can get them to write back." He peers down from his perch to John's blank expression. "Handwriting, John."
"Oh," he says, and after a pause, he continues. "List of Northern and Irish students, I suppose?"
"Exactly," Sherlock replies. Some of the patrons have noticed the tall boy sitting on the top of the table rather than beside it, but no one seems to be interested in stopping him. "If we can innocuously get these students to reply to your inquiry, we can analyze their handwriting as compared to the notes I already have."
"Brilliant," John murmurs, smirking brightly as he chooses the first slip of paper and dips his quill in the ink. Sherlock glances down at him, smiles slowly, and returns to staring at nothing.
At the platform, waiting for Sherlock and trying to ignore the pinging in his chest that reminds him that this is the last time Harry will be here with him, John is nearly assaulted by the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Carl tries to tackle him (still so scrawny, he barely makes an impact on the sturdier boy) and they all start talking at once. How John is perfect for captain, how he and Soo Lin both ended up as prefects, how they'll be needing a Chaser and Keeper this year and they all seem to know the perfect candidates that no one can agree on.
Violet seems to know that John and Sarah are quits, and it's clear that John doesn't want to talk about it. And so the subject of new affections is broached instead. Just as Carl starts to mention the boy that Molly Hooper was seen kissing outside of Greenhouse Two, a familiar Slytherin appears, and no one misses the identical beaming look on both John and Sherlock's faces.
They meet in a warm embrace, and Violet fixes Carl with a light wink.
All of them try to fit into one compartment, giggling and shoving as they try to make room for an entire team plus one pink-eared Slytherin. However, John and Soo Lin are pulled away when the train jolts to a start, away to be trained to be the best prefects they can be. Sherlock stands when John moves to leave (half of the Hufflepuff team tumbling to the empty space he vacates), and he doesn't say anything, but John claps his hand comfortingly on Sherlock's shoulder, turning to his teammates to say: "Take care of him while I'm out."
John goes horrifyingly red in the face when he sees that Sarah Sawyer is Head Girl this year. They lock eyes, and neither of them say anything, and they go about business as usual. He's given his duties for the night: patrol the train, take the First Year Hufflepuffs to the common room (the password is Murtlap, and he's sure Sherlock will have it in a few good tries), and to walk the halls to check for curfew-breakers from midnight to one (and John smiles, remember every time he's crawled out of bed to find Sherlock in some dark corner).
They are detained in the prefect car for the rest of the ride, and while everyone else discusses their summer holidays, John wants to do anything but. It's not something he wants to remember. Not most of it, anyhow. Not anything including his sister, his mother, or his ex-girlfriend (was she even?). John stares out the window and thinks about a list of names and all the anonymous letters he sent out this summer.
At the feast, when McGonagall stands to give her speech, she doesn't say anything about a theft from her office. What she does say is that a young man named Sebastian Moran escaped from Auror protection this summer before he could be placed in Azkaban for the Unforgivables that he cast on Mary Morstan, Sarah Sawyer and Carl Powers. She assures the students that she's been given no probable reason that Moran would return to Hogwarts, but there has been an increase in border security nonetheless. Aurors will be posted in Hogsmeade, and they will be commanding a total of four Dementors who will only be used against Moran in a situation of last resort. They will be of no threat to the students (and John knows all about the problem Hogwarts'd had with Dementors in the recent past; everyone who's anyone knows everything about Harry Potter), but curfew has never been more important, and students are not to travel alone anywhere outside the castle.
On his way to the dormitory, John wonders if he ever looked as small as the little First Years following him do. He walks backward as he talks, instructing them on the password, where they'll be sleeping, what time to wake up if they want breakfast, and which of the fruit to tickle on the enormous painting that will lead them into the kitchen if they're feeling peckish after hours. At this angle, he can't see Sherlock until he runs full-bodied into him, knocking the air out of the both of them. The First Years giggle quietly.
"Sherlock," John says in surprised. "How... How'd you get here before me?"
The Slytherin shrugs noncommittally. "Have you any letters yet?"
"Kind of in the middle of something, Sherlock," John laughs. "Come on." He places a hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades and guides him along the hallway with the parade of new Hufflepuffs.
At the still-life, he gives Sherlock a pointed stare, and, flushing embarrassedly, Sherlock announces "Murtlap," and the painting swings open. A couple of the First Years seem shocked, but John knows better by now. He sees them to their dorm and finally rejoins Sherlock in the common room.
"Here," John says, throwing three letters into Sherlock's lap as he sits by the fire waiting for John. The Slytherin eagerly unfolds the first one, and immediately dismisses it by tossing it into the fire. John's eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a seat on the floor beside Sherlock's chair.
"Is this all?" Sherlock asks, analyzing the second letter more thoroughly than the first, then throwing it into the fire as well.
"Well, yeah, so far," John answers. "Not everyone's gonna write back just because you want 'em to, y'know."
Sherlock pouts. Runs his eyes over the third letter and does away with it. "Useless." John's face falls slightly, and with a sigh Sherlock corrects himself. "Not you, idiot. People."
"And I'm not? People, that is?"
The Slytherin offers a lopsided smirk. "No. Not even slightly."
"I'll take that as a compliment. So, when are we going to see McGonagall?"
"That depends on when you schedule your Quidditch try-outs," Sherlock answers. He grins even wider at John's shock. "I'm not an immovable force, John. I can work around your minutiae. When are you patrolling the halls?"
John takes it all in stride, but he's sure that he can't hide it from Sherlock. "Midnight. If I find you out and about, I can take away House points."
"Oh, don't worry. I'll find you." He grins just briefly, stands and places his hand atop John's head as he passes behind him, disappearing through the portrait hole with a hop in his step.
John watches until he's gone, and when he turns back there's a First Year girl seated in Sherlock's chair and staring at him.
"That boy's a Slytherin," she says, swinging her legs.
"Yeah he is," John replies, crossing his arms like a stern parent. "Is that a problem?" She opens her mouth, but John keeps going. "Because you're a Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuffs don't care where a person comes from or what they look like."
"I didn't even want to be in Hufflepuff," she says moodily.
"Neither did I," John assures her, smiling proudly. "But just wait. Hey, what's your name, then?"
"Lucy," she replies.
"Nice to meet you, Lucy. I'm John. And that was Sherlock, my best friend."
John feels incredibly nervous. It's Thursday the first week of classes, it's snowed early, he's freezing and in full Quidditch gear. And he's the goddamn Quidditch captain and it's just now hitting him. But somehow it doesn't show, it doesn't translate to his eyes or hands or grin, and he practically bounces in place when the Hufflepuffs arrive for try-outs. Six Hufflepuffs and one Slytherin.
John dutifully hands over the four letters he received that week, and Sherlock takes a seat on the bench as John shoves off into the air with the potential Chasers. It feels like ten thousand years since he was a nervous Second Year gripping a borrowed broom and knocking the Quidditch captain off his broom on his second swing. This time, he's nearly knocked off his broom by an unwieldy flier who apologizes in tears afterwards when she's back on the ground (and despite the one foul-up, John thinks this Amanda girl will be an ideal candidate).
He jots some notes down in the notebook Mycroft gave him for his birthday, and he can see Sherlock eyeing it from the bench, pretending (badly) when John peers at him that he hasn't been looking. The Slytherin rises abruptly to his feet and is at John's side in an instant (and he's always ignored personal space, but more so recently than ever).
"I didn't bring my samples down to the pitch with me," Sherlock murmurs, holding up one of the letters John had given him. "I thought I had memorized the handwriting well enough, but this one is close. I need the previous letters for closer examination. Might we stop by the dungeon before we head up to see the Headmistress?"
Something in John balks (staring down Anderson and his thugs in the hallway, it still sticks with him when it shouldn't), but he nods. "Yeah, of course."
Sherlock leads John through the Slytherin common room without giving a second look to any of the faces that peer up from their work. There's Anderson and his thugs, glaring hot death at John (it seems that their memory of the event was just as raw as it is for him) and John picks up his pace to linger closer to Sherlock. He brushes through the crowds of green-and-silver boys and girls, and they part for him (no one wants to touch him, like he's contagious, and a line of sniggers following in their wake).
Beside Sherlock's bed, when he reaches under the mattress for the writing samples, he whispers to John: "Ignore the brigade of idiots, John. They don't matter."
He wants to hug Sherlock right then and there, but it certainly won't help the fact that everyone's staring. So he nods. Sherlock folds the letters together and sticks them into his pocket, and then they're off.
This time, John glares right back at them. They're the ones who can't keep eye contact. He feels much better after that.
He looks both ways down the hallway in front of the Headmistress's office to be sure no one else will hear the password ("Panthera pardus"), and they ride the stairs upward.
McGonagall gives a withering sigh when she opens the door to reveal the pair of them. "I should have known it would be the two of you. I take it you know, then?"
"Someone's been in your office," Sherlock says plainly. "May we come in?"
"It's not your place to investigate my personal belongings, Mister Holmes," McGonagall says, slightly scandalized. "I can assure you that I have someone looking into the matter."
"Please, Professor," John says, and without asking he's in Sherlock's pocket and he pulls out the handful of letters. Sherlock stutters out some sort of protest, but John speaks over it, holding out the note outlining the theft. "Someone wants us to do this, and it looks like it's serious. We don't know who it is, yet, we're working on that—"
"John!" Sherlock hisses in hopes of stopping the boy from revealing everything, but the Hufflepuff doesn't listen.
"—but I don't want anyone getting hurt over this."
McGonagall fixes both of them with a penetrating stare and, after a moment of contemplation, moves aside so that the both of them can join her. "May I see the letter, Mister Watson?"
He hands it over, holding Sherlock back with his other arm when the Slytherin attempts to subtly snatch it back in the transition. Sherlock pouts instead, thumping into an armchair by the fire as John and McGonagall examine the note.
She looks gravely over her spectacles at John once she's read it through three times. "Mister Watson, it looks as though you've had previous correspondence with whoever it was who wrote this letter. I feel as though you haven't trusted me with everything."
He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is glaring hot daggers at him. He continues nonetheless. "Only a few notes. Whoever it is, he's more interested in playing this game with Sherlock than anything else. We don't know for sure if he's the one who broke in—"
"He isn't," Sherlock snipes from the chair.
John blinks more than is necessary, then turns back to McGonagall. "Well, okay, so he knows that someone broke in and stole something, and if we don't find out someone could get hurt. Sherlock thinks that whoever's writing these notes was working with Moran—" Sherlock makes a displeased noise and hides his face in his hands, "—so I think we should take this threat seriously."
McGonagall nods slowly. "Thank you for deciding to let your Headmistress in on this, Mister Watson."
"What did they steal?" Sherlock cuts in. McGonagall presses her lips together. "Come now, we've told you everything, do put a little faith in us, Headmistress," he continues almost chidingly.
She sighs, defeated, and removes her spectacles to rub her eyes wearily. "A Time-Turner."
"Interesting," Sherlock mutters into his steepled fingers. He sweeps his eyes over the room (so cluttered with the knicknacks of Headmasters and Headmistresses of old, books upon books upon books), and focuses again on her. "Where was it kept?"
She shows him the small box in the magically-locked trunk under the floor under the lunascope, and he inspects it minutely before he nods once.
"Thank you, Headmistress. We'll be in touch." And then he whirls away and disappears through the door. John makes a gaping apology and thanks her profusely before he takes the notes back and trots after Sherlock.
"You didn't have to give away our every move, John," Sherlock cracks lightly once they've reached the bottom of the stairs from McGonagall's office.
"I just thought we'd get more for our trouble if we were honest with her," John replies, slightly terse. Why is Sherlock so upset?
"Because now we don't have a hand to play if we need more from her," Sherlock spits, reading John's mind.
"Someone could get hurt!" John shouts, throwing his arms up hopelessly. "Don't you even care?"
"Will caring about them help them?" Sherlock growls.
"No," John answers tersely.
"Then I'll continue not caring about them and keep working on what matters: solving the case so that it doesn't happen." He briefly takes in John's heated, open expression, and it dawns on him. "I've disappointed you."
"Yep," John snaps. "Brilliant deduction."
"I told you not all heroes come from Gryffindor when I was eleven years old," Sherlock says carefully. "I've come to learn that they don't exist, and I'd hoped that you'd finally come to the same conclusions. So don't make me into one, John, because I'm really not." He turns, tucking the letters back into his pocket. "Now, since we know what we're looking for—"
When he turns his head to speak to John, all he sees is his friend's quickly-retreating back stomping in the opposite direction.
The first practice with the new recruits (Amanda cries again when she found she'd made Chaser, and the Third Year Andy Galbraith was the only one to try out for Keeper, so it's his), John has a hard enough time getting the new kids to focus, and they really get little more done than making sure Amanda doesn't knock anyone else off their brooms.
John is very aware that it's a week and two days since he's spoken to Sherlock, but he is purposefully ignoring it (just the way he purposefully ignores the gray eyes watching him across the Great Hall every morning). Sitting atop his broom and watching the Chasers try to coordinate their movements, John is definitely not thinking about the missing Time-Turner, the letters still coming in (which he bundles up and sends off to Sherlock without a word), or the looming threat of Moran's associate still at Hogwarts somewhere.
He gets an owl, and he nearly doesn't read it. But when he sees Sherlock's scratchy handwriting, he decides that he never was all that angry in the first place. So he opens the note.
When you are ready, I've found two young men who were seen in Knockturn Alley in June when the Time-Turner went missing. I would like you to come with me to see them. One of them is a Ravenclaw, and I will not suffer that door knocker one more time, so we must catch him at lunch. If you forgive me, I will meet you outside the kitchen at noon sharp.
SH
John shakes his head, doesn't realize that he's smiling, and heads off to meet Sherlock early.
He drops down into the seat beside Sherlock at the end of the Slytherin table—they always afford him a wide berth. And now John isn't afraid of them, ignoring the scandalized looks they fix on him (because the only look that matters is the surprised, brightening smile in gray eyes).
"Okay, so," John begins without introduction, "Knockturn Alley?"
Sherlock practically glows. "Well, obviously, if you've got your hands on an expensive, rather rare magical item, you're either going to keep it for yourself or you plan on selling it. In the week or so you've been ignoring me—" (and John doesn't have to be a genius to see that Sherlock's been counting the days just like he has.) "—I've been keeping careful track of the inventory of our fellow students." Before John can ask how, Sherlock reveals the spyglass he'd got at Christmas two years ago. "It can sense a powerful enchantment when it's been placed on an object; mostly it's been picking up nothing, save for Molly Hooper's Remembrall. So, no expensive or powerful enchanted items like a Time-Turner on any of the students."
"Who's to say it wasn't a teacher?" John asks, leaning in.
Rather than correcting him, Sherlock grins slowly. "I considered it. I looked into the teachers most likely to need a Time-Turner, or the money."
"Sherlock, have you been doing any schoolwork?" John asks, and he's laughing, and Anderson sneers somewhere up the table. "At this rate, you'll be getting all Trolls. You do remember we've got the O.W.L.s this year, right?"
"Plenty of time for that later," Sherlock waves him off. "We're on a countdown for this one, remember. So, the obvious conclusion is that whoever broke into the Headmistress's office intended to sell the Time-Turner right off."
"Sherlock," John interrupts again, and he lowers his voice this time. "The Time-Turner was the only thing stolen. There's plenty of stuff in that office you could make a pretty galleon off of, but they went right for the Time-Turner. Like they knew where it was."
"Or someone told them." Sherlock's eyes go wide, and suddenly he's standing. "Our mysterious friend has his hand in this. Come on, John, we need to interrogate a Ravenclaw." And he dashes across the Great Hall, his loyal Badger following.
The boy they intercept is a year under them, a rather large Ravenclaw with close-cropped hair and he has a puzzled expression when he's cornered by a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff.
"Brian Lukis," Sherlock begins. "Why were you in Knockturn Alley this June?"
And Lukis pales just as John opens his mouth to amend. "Sherlock, that's not—Hi, I'm John, and this is Sherlock—"
"You're a prefect," Lukis notices quickly, eyes darting to the pin on John's robes. "Am I in trouble?"
"Depends on why you were in Knockturn Alley," Sherlock persists.
"I... I have Arithmancy," Lukis protests, trying to edge away. John nearly jumps from his skin.
"Hell!" he intones harshly. "Sherlock, I've got Herbology and I haven't even got my gloves," and he starts to move away, and Lukis takes the opening to bolt up the staircase. Sherlock is left at the foot of the stairs, frowning at the both of them.
He reaches into his bag, pulls out John's notebook and flips open to the first apparently empty page. "Sarah Sawyer." Nothing happens. Sherlock frowns more deeply and shoves the notebook back, taking off up the stairs after Lukis.
It's late and the castle is dark and quiet save for the footsteps of a prefect and the whispers of his companion.
"Look," John mutters, "I'm sorry about running off, but I can't afford to do badly on these O.W.L.s." When Sherlock doesn't say anything, he continues. "Did you get anything off Lukis?"
"Yes," Sherlock says almost blandly. "He's a regular smuggler."
"What?" And he's loud enough to wake the witch in the nearest painting, and she squawks and grouses at him. "Sorry," he winces and turns back to Sherlock. "So, he stole the Time-Turner?"
"No," the Slytherin replies, and he smiles when Felicia appears around his ankles. "But he has been sneaking Boomslang skin from Slughorn's stores and selling it in, yes, Knockturn Alley."
"Well, then, if he didn't do it, who did?"
"Lukis is only one of a ring of runners for a greasy pawn shop in Knockturn Alley. We need to talk to Eddie Van Coon."
"Who's he?"
"A Slytherin, Third Year. Father's a banker, works with goblins, so I've no idea why he'd need the money." He seems mostly frustrated that someone doesn't fit into one of his neat little niches of human understanding. "But he was in Knockturn Alley the same time as Lukis. He clearly doesn't have it on him, so he's either already sold it or has it stored somewhere safe."
"How could you possibly know where these kids were this summer?" John interjects incredulously.
Sherlock grimaces. "Mycroft. I've had to promise that I won't leave Mummy alone on holidays anymore." He glances at John. "You're invited, by the way. To Christmas."
They let the pleased silence sink in. John holds his lit wand around corners and into empty classrooms while Sherlock walks alongside him (shortening his stride so that he won't overtake the shorter boy).
"That book your mum got me," John says after long quiet minutes. "It has a whole section on the Patronus Charm."
Sherlock eyes him, reads him. "There are Dementors near the castle this year to intercept Moran if he appears, and you think that it would be in out best interest to learn how to fend them off?"
"Well. Yeah." He doesn't know why he feels embarrassed when Sherlock fixes him with that stare. "It's a pretty useful spell, I don't see why we can't at least try it out."
Sherlock's quiet for some time. "It's nearly November. It can wait 'til holiday."
"Yeah, okay," John says, and the weight in his chest comes back. "What d'you want me to do?"
The tall boy smiles. "How do you feel about a bit of espionage?"
John catches on quickly. "Sherlock, the Slytherins hate me enough as is, who knows what they'll do if they catch me rooting through some bloke's dirty clothes."
"Don't worry, I've a distraction in mind."
"Bloody hell," John sighs. But he agrees.
Sherlock's idea of a distraction is a flock of angry doxies. They buzz the Slytherin common room, defying any spells thrown at them, and in the confusion John slips into the Slytherin dorms.
He nearly leaps out of his shoes when he runs into a small Slytherin, hardly catching his breath when he realizes who it is.
"Jimmy," he breathes. "Thought you were—Never mind. You know Van Coon?"
"Oh yes," Jimmy says helpfully, a smile cracking on his face. "Has he done something naughty?"
John shifts his eyes to the commotion in the common room, then back to Jimmy. "Maybe. That's what I'm trying to find out."
"Great," Jimmy beams. "Can I help?"
"Sure, if you can show me where Van Coon sleeps."
They dig into Van Coon's trunk, under his mattress, through the drawers by his bedside and they find absolutely nothing that ever had been or would be a Time-Turner. Jimmy gives a fruitless shrug and dashes away to allow John his escape. Ducking past the still-swooping doxies, John leaves the dungeon and doesn't see Sherlock until that night in the Hufflepuff common room.
"Detention," Sherlock says, dropping into his usual chair by the fire (the Badgers seemed to have cordoned it off just for him, and on the occasion a First Year will unthinkingly sit there, they're shooed off by an elder before Sherlock can find it usurped). "Wednesday night, cleaning the Potions classroom floor and all of the cauldrons. I have a distinct feeling that Professor Slughorn doesn't much care for me." He sighs dramatically, turning until his head is hanging from the seat of the chair and his long legs dangle in the air over the top. "What did you find in Van Coon's things?"
"Nothing," John says disappointedly. "He hasn't got it anywhere in the dorm, Jimmy and me looked everywhere."
Sherlock presses his fingertips together, placing them thoughtfully at his lips. "I wonder what our mysterious friend will accept for our having solved the case. I mean, it's obvious that Van Coon is the culprit, but will the solving of the puzzle hinge on our returning the Time-Turner to the Headmistress?"
"You'd better find out soon," John warns. "We've only got a couple days left, Sherlock."
He nods absently, and he remains stationary through the rest of the night, watching John study diligently and not saying another word.
The morning of October 29, John receives a letter from a small owl he doesn't recognize. He jumps up from the table with a look of horror in his eyes, catching the attention of the students sitting near him. He outright ignores the staring and sprints full-speed across the Hall to the Slytherin table. Bright, curious gray eyes snap up when he arrives, and the dread in John's quickly passes to them.
"What is it?" Sherlock asks gravely. John hands over the letter without comment.
Very clever, with the letters from your loyal little dog, Sherlock. I like your style, but I don't like how you're ignoring my little puzzles. I feel like you don't really appreciate what I'm doing for you. Aren't you missing one of your little Badger friends?
Sherlock reads it again three times as John's eyes frantically scan the Hufflepuff table.
His throat is tight when he croaks: "Oh my God, where's Carl?"
Sherlock stands, but John is already back across the Hall amongst the Hufflepuffs, ducking from one head to another (Where's Carl? Have you seen Carl? Carl Powers, Fifth Year, scrawny kid—He's our Seeker for God's sake, you don't know Carl Powers? Has anyone seen Carl?) and now the entire table is beginning to murmur and wonder and worry. No one's seen Carl since curfew last night. John hardly registers when Sherlock joins them, and it's the Slytherin that guides John up to the head table to report Carl missing.
Classes are cancelled. Every available teacher and prefect (and Sherlock Holmes) is out looking for Carl Powers, from the dungeon to the Astronomy Tower. Hagrid the groundskeeper and his enormous hound search the Forbidden Forest, someone wrangles the merfolk into searching the lake, and McGonagall herself sets out to Hogsmeade to see if he's skived off.
Trelawney finds him. He's fifteen years old and still scrawny enough to be carried up from the greenhouses by the willowy Divination teacher. Her tears reflect in her thick glasses, and when she hands him over to Professor Slughorn, she breaks down into pitiful tears. John isn't there to see it, he and Sherlock are still searching the kitchens. When McGonagall's voice comes over the announcement system for every student to gather in the Great Hall, John loses all strength in his knees and falls loosely against the nearest wall. It takes Sherlock two tries to convince him to move.
Because Carl Powers is dead.
They've thrown Slughorn's robes over him, and he looks even tinier, dwarfed by the Great Hall. The Hufflepuffs crowd together, encircling one another, and Sherlock is there (not a thing shows on his face, but there's nothing that can pry his fingers from John's at that moment). McGonagall orders the Heads of House and prefects to escort everyone to their dormitories, and the rest of the day is cancelled. John does as he's told with forced stoicism (and when he and Sherlock separate, there's almost a sort of static left on him where Sherlock's fingers had been curled).
It's only hours later that Sherlock sneaks out of the dungeon and up several flights of stairs to the prefect's bathroom (it's child's play to guess the password) to find John.
He's curled up and weeping in a discreet corner, but everything in here is caverned and echoes and multiplies the sound of John's hoarse sobs like there are ten of him. Sherlock goes to his knees to reach him on the floor, and when John sees him, he cuts off all noise immediately and tries to wipe all the emotion away. It doesn't work. It's the closest he's ever been inspected by Sherlock, the tight, wordless scan of his eyes all over John's face and taking it all in. John sniffles piteously, ready for whatever scathing remark Sherlock is planning for his emotional wreck of a state.
But Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just closes his eyes and presses his forehead to John's. That's all. John breaks in an instant, breaking down again into harsh sobs. He digs his fingers into Sherlock's robes for purchase, keeping him close and keeping them connected. Sherlock doesn't say a thing, only stays.
After what feels like ages, John opens his eyes to find Sherlock watching him. "All right?" Sherlock asks. And Sherlock never asks a question he doesn't want to know the answer to.
John somehow keeps another sob trapped in his chest. "No. Really no, Sherlock." He replies weakly. But he gives a feeble grip at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Thanks."
McGonagall calls off all Quidditch until after Christmas holiday (and it's just as well, because on top of everything else, John has to find a new Seeker somehow, and there's a long, stabbing pain in his heart every time he even thinks about it), and he can't even bring himself to schedule practice—and no one blames him, especially not the team, who have all been seen punctuating the silence with quiet crying.
Someone says that he was drowned. Water in his lungs, all the classic signs. But he was found in one of the greenhouses, so far from water that it couldn't have been an accident. Only Sherlock and John know that it was a warning, and that their mysterious friend really isn't friendly in the least.
They don't get another letter, and no one comes to them under the Imperius Curse, and they don't even think about the anonymous letters sent out over the summer (John outright burns them when they come in, now). They just sit alone together in the Hufflepuff common room (a place usually so lively and warm suddenly turned cold like stone), studying and reading, and very occasionally fitting their fingers together in blind, wordless comfort without even lifting their eyes from their work.
Two days later, John nearly assaults his newest Chaser. Because she's wearing something gold around her neck and when she pulls it out to show Soo Lin, John knows it's the Time-Turner. He grabs her by the arm and demands to know where she got it, and Soo Lin fixes him with a horrified stare.
From her boyfriend Eddie, Amanda tells him, wide-eyed and shocked. She doesn't even know what it is, just that it's quite pretty and it's from him. He shouts abuse at her (Christ, this was what he and Sherlock had gone through hell for, the reason that Carl died) until he convinces her to hand it over.
He fights back back stubborn tears when he hands it over to McGonagall, and the amazing woman she is, she lets him stay with her the rest of the day, drinking tea and eating biscuits in quiet solitude.
"It's going to be horribly depressing," Sherlock says dully as they ride the train back to London. John's only half-listening, but he turns his head anyway.
"What is?"
"Christmas dinner," the Slytherin continues. "You won't like my family. Chances are they won't much care for you. No offense."
"Used to it," John answers with a long-suffering smile finally blooming. Sherlock savors it, mirrors it. "Your mum likes me well enough."
"Most of the family takes after Mycroft," Sherlock replies. "There's outright maliciousness in those genes."
"Never would've guessed," John says, and he's looking right at Sherlock this time. And for the first time in months, they laugh.
Sarah sees them at the platform when they leave the train, catches John in a tight friendly hug and tells him how sorry she is. For Carl, for them, for everything, and she wants them to be friends. To stay in touch. She gives both John and Sherlock a brief kiss on the cheek before she dashes off, and both of the boys watch her go in something akin to shock.
It's snowed at the Holmes estate. It looks even more grand coated in a sparkling layer of white, and John grins around a cloud of smoke from his mouth as he takes it in. Sherlock fits his scarf even more tightly, hunching into himself to stay warm. John resists the temptation to throw Sherlock into the snow to see what he does.
He's heard stories of how huge the extended Holmes family is, but nothing prepares John for the zoo of people who stand in the once-empty hall (all of them stately, all but the youngest, who cavort back and forth around the ankles of the adults). None of them have Sherlock's piercing eyes, but all of them seem to look down their noses at John very much like Mycroft. Complete with the false smile and off-handed arrogance. John politely smiles and bobs (he feels so separate from them it almost doesn't matter anymore, they in their fitted suits and dresses, he clinging to last year's pilling Christmas jumper and jeans with a hole ready to break through the left knee).
Sherlock steals him away up the stairs as quickly as he can. They lean together on the banister to peer down at the world that doesn't want them (and they never want). "I could spit on them from here," Sherlock mutters, leaning into John. The shorter boy gives a light laugh.
"If you can get it in their champagne, I'll give you a galleon."
He doesn't, but he appreciates that John is with him.
With all of Sherlock's relatives crowding into their myriad rooms, John has to share with Sherlock after all. They don't have any air mattresses, but there's a stuffy little divan in the corner. Sherlock offers to take it (Sherlock's bed is enormous; John wouldn't be surprised if it could fit an entire Quidditch team). He knows by now that it's better not to argue with Sherlock, because the boy could hold a grudge and he was used to getting his way. So he throws his bag onto the bed and sinks into it.
"You don't have to come down, if you don't like," Sherlock says, perched at the foot of the bed.
"I can talk to your mum, if nothing else," John says, propping himself up on his elbows. "Or you, if I have to."
"Idiot," Sherlock says with a growing smirk.
"Arse," John replies.
Everyone expects the boys to dress up for dinner. John hasn't bothered to change. Sherlock borrows one of his jumpers (too short in the arms, and it's perfect) so they match. They giggle into their foie gras and everyone avoids them for the rest of the night (just the way they want it). They spend the majority of the night after dinner dodging in and out of rooms in avoiding the littlest children, who find poor John incredibly interesting.
John bolts awake in the middle of the night, sweating and heaving for breath, and he knows he's been crying. It wells up somewhere in his throat, he chokes it back down once, but it's not going anywhere. All he can see when he closes his eyes is the overlarge cloak draped over Carl. His very first morning at Hogwarts and the big smile Carl Powers fixes him with. We Badgers 've got to stick together.
Sherlock is awake. Seated by the window, staring out across the snowy garden, and the silver light catches him at all angles. He breaks into a million fuzzy pieces when John blinks and his tears come back. Sherlock turns noiselessly to him, and once John has cleared his eyes, there's something perched between Sherlock's chin and shoulder. He doesn't say a word, just moves the bow lightly over the strings, and a careful, quiet song drifts through the room. So quiet it's remarkably easy for John to fall back asleep.
"Thanks, Sherlock," he murmurs into the pillow, and he's gone in moments.
Sherlock naturally denies it in the morning, insisting John is a very creative dreamer. He doesn't say a thing about the violin perched beside the window, just smirks privately.
The whole family is gone by the time Christmas morning rolls around (all of them off to do some important piece of work for the world) save for Sherlock and Mummy. The Christmas tree is remarkably tall and gorgeous, and John practically fits under it. He hands over the package wrapped in the Daily Prophet, and Sherlock does the same. Mrs. Holmes gives them a curious look, but they're far beyond explaining tradition at this point.
John unwraps Sherlock's first, and he gives a bright laugh. It's a miserable-looking jumper, looking a bit like an ugly orphaned puppy. Sherlock laughs even brighter when he unwraps his and it's the ugliest scarf he's ever seen. They wear them immediately. Mrs. Holmes doesn't quite understand, but she gets her own Christmas present when she quietly watches the two of them, heads ducked close together over John's Charms book. Because the look in Sherlock's eyes is something every mother wants for her children.
They don't talk about Moran, or his unnamed associate, or Carl Powers (though sometimes John still finds himself jolting awake and wiping his eyes and listening to the violin for long stretches of the night). He was sure Sherlock would have been thoroughly bored without the puzzles, the running, the adventure. But he seems almost content, pouring over books and spells.
When he's alone, Sherlock flips John's notebook open to the first page, stares it down and practically shouts "Violet Hunter!" Nothing happens. He's casually returned it to John's bag by the time the Badger returns.
Hogwarts seems a more somber place when they get back, but somehow John feels better after the long holiday at the Holmes Estate. He holds mid-season try-outs for a new Seeker (he ends up putting Second Year Alex Woodbridge at Keeper and moving Andy Galbraith to Seeker), and the first few practices go off with little hitch. It's not the team they had last year, and John's sure that Quidditch Cup is out of the question, but they might be able to beat Slytherin (who's had to replace all of their Chasers and he's seen them try to fly in formation).
Their first match is against Ravenclaw (they'd have played it in November, but John still feels his throat seize up every time he thinks about Carl). A week from now. Everyone has the jitters, and Amanda is still skittish around him. His team is green, and he's a knot of raw nerves as game day approaches, and Sherlock can't help but notice. So, he suggests a break.
They bundle themselves up and practice the Patronus Charm in the white courtyard. Your happiest memory, John stresses again and again when Sherlock gets frustrated after seven tries and gets not so much as a wisp. He threatens to snap his wand in half if he can't get it right on the next go. John rolls his eyes and crunches through the snow right up to him.
He stands behind Sherlock, reaching around to place his fingers atop Sherlock's, speaking into his friend's shoulder. "You've got the movement almost down, just—" And Sherlock lets John control his wand hand because... he doesn't know why, but it's enough to spur just the right sort of memory (he's twelve years old and John Watson sits down with him and tells him that he's brilliant, and he's never had a friend before but John Watson is his friend).
"Expecto patronum!" Sherlock announces, and in a flash, a bright silvery creature bursts from his wand and circles playfully around them. The badger disappears almost as soon as it came, and John erupts in a cheer (Sherlock joins him, and his ears are red from the cold, certainly).
It's biting cold and lightly snowing in early January when they finally get on their brooms against Ravenclaw. John sees Sherlock to the Hufflepuff section before the match, and Sherlock doesn't say good luck, but he thinks it. Very hard. And John can read it in his face by now.
He snaps the goggles over his eyes and shoves off at the whistle.
Within the first three minutes of the game, the snow has gone almost full blizzard, and it's only because of the goggles Sherlock had given him that John can see at all. The bludgers are tiny black dots on a white background, and Amanda nearly flies into him twice. He smacks a bludger at Ravenclaw's Seeker and she nearly flies off her broom with a yell.
He wonders if he'll be able to tell when someone catches the bloody Snitch.
John is sure he imagines the bright red bolt that zooms by him on the left. He's not so sure when he sees it again. He dares a single glance over his shoulder, and there's a Chaser right on his tail. Ravenclaw, Clara. She disappears when John banks a wide corner and loses her in the snow. Couldn't be, that looked like a stunning spell.
Then something explodes by his ear and suddenly every nerve in his body jumps to attention. Clara is attacking him. He looks again over his shoulder and he narrowly ducks under the red bolt before she sends another after him. He shouts over his shoulder at her, but the wind sweeps the word from his lips as soon as he utters them.
Someone is blowing the whistle, trying to stop the game, but Clara won't stop. So John dives, heading for the ground to where he might be able to fight back, stop her, get someone else to stop her. Because falling off his broom, stunned, all the way in the air is exactly what he doesn't want to happen. But she follows. Speeds up, goes into a kamikaze roll after him and collides with John midair. They fall a paltry twelve feet.
When they hit the ground together, an agonizing white-fire pain stabs in John's left shoulder and he can't help the lung-bursting cry that feels like it comes up from his toes. There's something in his shoulder, splintered, the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. Clara is limp and unresponsive when Madame Hooch drags her off of him, and someone tries to lift John but he gives another horrible shout and paws hopelessly at his shoulder—
Her wand. It's her wand, stabbed right into his shoulder. The painful tears in the corners of his eyes spill over when he clamps his eyes shut and rolls his head back in the realization, and the entire Hufflepuff team crowds around, shrieking and following all the way back to the castle when they cart him off on a stretcher.
Pomfrey yanks the wand out of his shoulder with little warning, and Violet is there to squeeze his hand when he gives another tight yell. But it's out (save the splinters that Pomfrey tweezes from the wound one by one), and now John has a stinging potion working on the ugly open wound, and it hurts long after the last of his teammates has trickled away into the darkness.
(Someone, he thinks it's Professor Cairnes, comes by to tell him that Clara is awake and it's quite obvious that she was put under the Imperius Curse. Her wand is broken irreparably, and no one knows who cast the curse.)
It has to be after curfew, because the Hospital Wing is deadly silent and John is on his side, trying to ignore the constant prickling under the bandage on his shoulder, when he hears a single pair of footsteps approaching. The long, thin body of his best friend climbs in without a word, and they line up marvelously well. Sherlock pats around until he finds John's hand and links them together against John's chest.
John laughs quietly into his pillow. "Sherlock, get off."
He doesn't answer, just buries his face in John's injured shoulder as if his breath alone can heal it.
"It was Moran," he says finally, his voice muffled because he refuses to move. "He did this."
"How? Sherlock, no one's seen him since summer."
"I don't know, he's snuck back into the castle somehow, it's not impossible. Probably put a Vanishing charm on a cloak and—"
"Sherlock."
Miraculously, he stops talking. His nose presses hard into John's shoulder and the long fingers that have been resting on John's hand go vice tight. He's shaking. Sherlock Holmes is lined up against his back and shaking like a leaf.
John doesn't know what to do. His throat tightens and he swallows against it, and he finally grips feebly back at the hand clutching his. "I'm all right."
"He could have—" He thankfully cuts himself off. "I'll talk to McGonagall. We can get an investigation going, I'm sure."
"Sherlock," he says again, and it doesn't take a detective to hear the torpor in his voice. Sherlock nods silently into John's shoulder, but he doesn't leave. John appreciates that more than the threat to send the hounds out across England for him. It's more comfortable than he thought it would be, sleeping with someone else, especially someone who's all elbows like Sherlock. John drifts off almost instantly. Sherlock doesn't sleep.
John wakes with a start in the morning when Pomfrey gives a tight yell and all but swats Sherlock out of his bed. The gangly boy stumbles away, gray eyes momentarily ready to fight back, but when they lock with the quiet amusement sitting on John's face, he smirks once and disappears from the Hospital Wing.
They keep him in his hospital bed for another two days while his shoulder recovers (Madame Pomfrey tells him that he'll have full mobility but the scar will never go away), and halfway through the first night Sherlock Holmes charges into the Hospital Wing and slams John's notebook down on the bedside table (it startles the poor girl in the bed next to John into hiccups that sprout purple bubbles from her ears). John jumps at the sudden noise, less surprised to see that Sherlock has his notebook than to see Sherlock in such an agitated state.
"What's the password, John?" Sherlock snaps. One half of John's mouth curls up in a smirk. "I've tried the name of every girl you know, all your favorite spells, everything." He pouts furiously. "I won't say it again. I don't know what it is. Tell me."
John takes his notebook into his hands very calmly, opens it to the first page and peers amusedly over the cover at the fuming Slytherin. "Sherlock Holmes."
The notes blossom on the page as if they're being written before their eyes. Pages and pages of them. Sherlock's eyes are wider than John has ever seen them, staring unreadably down at the mundane school notes in John's bold handwriting. When he looks back up, John is grinning.
"Oh," Sherlock says, dumbfounded.
He turns on heel and he practically runs from the Hospital Wing. John laughs so hard he nearly pulls something in his shoulder.
In May, the examiners come. John's shoulder is still rather stiff, and during his practical Transfiguration exam he accidentally gives his pepper pot eight nasty-looking legs. He blames it on mobility. Sherlock takes a look at John's notes (embarrassedly reciting his own name to get in) for the written Herbology exam come the morning.
Sherlock brings it up as he sits on John's four-poster bed, watching his friend pack some of his peripherals into his trunk to save time when they leave. He thinks about it several times (in fact, he's been thinking about it for quite some time now) before he opens his mouth to say it.
"John, it's too dangerous." And he curses in the back of his head because that wasn't what he wanted to say at all, and now John is looking at him oddly. "You, in the middle of all those Muggles all summer, and Moran and his associate on the loose." He scoots slightly closer to the edge of the bed. "So, I've made arrangements for you to stay with me over the summer."
John peers at him, mulling the conversation over. "Well, what about Harry? And—and my mum?"
Sherlock's brows knit together in confusion. "What about Harry?"
The Hufflepuff's jaw literally drops, and he can't believe what's coming from Sherlock's mouth, and he's turned on heel to march out of the dormitory when he's grabbed from behind and spun. Sherlock has him by both shoulders, keeping him in place. John frowns.
"They aren't interested in Harry or your mother, because they're interested in me." Sherlock straightens himself almost imperceptibly. "They attacked something that I care about, and with as little offense as possible, I don't really care about your family, John."
John opens his mouth to protest angrily, and then it hits him. Hits him hard and solid and takes all the air in his lungs. It physically hurts. Something that I care about. Oh.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly around something in his throat. "Yeah, all right."
AN: I'm back! This one took long enough! And it's even longer! I am following Rowling's fine example, so far (so says my awesome beta Lady Dan). And after this chapter, the John/Sherlock will be quite out in the open (no more tension for you!). Thanks so so so much for sticking with me through all this and seeing me through, it's everyone's lovely support that keeps me going! Hope you enjoy, leave us some love, and above all STAY AWESOME!