.year six.
John Watson is one room away from Sherlock Holmes. Stuck for an entire summer holiday one room away from the boy who had formerly been his best friend. Not that Sherlock had done anything to warrant not being his best friend anymore. Just because you simply don't have these kinds of thoughts about your best friend.
Yes, there's something undeniably attractive about Sherlock, though somehow strange. Like a shark (though John has never seen a shark, let alone close enough to call it handsome and oh God what is he even talking about?). And he hides his face in his pillow because it's cooler than his face and why is it so hot in here? Because you're not suppose to blush when you're thinking about your best friend one room over and he's probably not even awake yet.
It doesn't help that every time John sees him, Sherlock's smirking like he's got a secret.
They eat alone at the enormous dining table (Mummy must work early, because she's gone by the time John is up every morning, and he's no slouch like Sherlock). John brings his Charms book to the table in the pretense of looking occupied with anything that isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's a terrible liar.
"All right?" Sherlock asks, head tilting.
John is flustered and confused, and no, he's really not all right. "There's a killer out there, and he's already got Carl, and he's after me because of you, and I'm not what you'd call all right." He doesn't say everything, of course, but he doesn't have to because Sherlock can read a face like a book.
When Sherlock closes his hand overtop of John's, there's a sort of jolt that goes through him, blowing his blood vessels wide open and why is it so hot in here? That's never happened before. And it's a bit unnerving so John yanks his hand back in shock.
And it's all quite obvious all of a sudden, and both of them know it, and they've been working up to this since John sat down across from Sherlock at the end of their second year.
John moves first. Away. Very quickly.
So they don't talk about it. They spend nearly two whole weeks in relative silence, one trying to watch the other while the other isn't watching. Sherlock is much better at it. He catches John staring over his Charms book three times in a short span of minutes, and the shorter boy ducks down behind the pages (but Sherlock can still see the bright pink tips of his ears). But he doesn't say a thing.
(And one time John catches Sherlock and he has to force Something back down his throat when he sees the clever eyes he's used to seeing examining the evidence, pinning down their suspects, all on him.)
So they go nearly two weeks without a word. Not unfriendly, because they hardly leave each others' company. And one day, they're in Sherlock's room with quite a lot of space between them, and John is pretending to read again. This time, when Sherlock catches John, John stays firm. Doesn't look away. And it feels like a very long time that they simply examine one another from across the room. Sherlock sits up a bit straighter on the edge of his bed (he's not used to being the one under scrutiny, and he decides that, as long as it's John, he doesn't mind), and John's holding his book very tight.
It's the first time he's heard Sherlock speak all day. And he's unusually quiet when he says: "Yes, you can kiss me if you like," reading his bloody mind like he always does.
It only takes John a second to drop his book, mutter Oh, hell under his breath, and stride across the room at high speed. He grabs both sides of Sherlock's face in his hands (and it's a good thing he's sitting, or else this would be difficult) and he presses his lips hastily to Sherlock's. There's a tingle not unlike fear in the back of John's brain when he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing, but thankfully Sherlock moves in and reapplies the firm pressure of his own lips.
John had expected quick and messy, but there's nothing hurried about this. Just like Sherlock to be slow and methodic, taking his sweet time to map out reaction and sensation. They're a bit uncoordinated, and there's more teeth involved than John thinks there should be, but they work it out very quickly (and Sherlock apologizes with his tongue). And John finds he rather likes the feel of Sherlock's curls between his fingers and, when Sherlock moves and stands and he takes control, John really doesn't mind having to stand on his toes to reach him.
When John finally decides he'd like to breathe, he presses his forehead against Sherlock's neck and takes in long, quiet breaths—Sherlock holds him there, long fingers splayed across the back of John's skull and obtrusively mussing his hair, pressing another long kiss at John's temple and just staying there.
"Wow," John murmurs uselessly against Sherlock's neck.
The tall boy nods, and even he can't think of anything more appropriate than, "Wow."
They don't move for a long time.
Sherlock must have inherited his skills of deduction from his mother, because she's hardly in the door before she sweeps her eyes over the two of them (sitting perfectly innocuous at the table), claps her hands together and gives an appreciative cry. She gathers John up into her arms and plants kisses atop his head before she twirls off into the house, and John is left to stare bleary questions at Sherlock. The Slytherin can't stand it for long and cracks a smile with tight laughter.
That night, when John would usually excuse himself from Sherlock's presence to slip into his own bed and try not to think about the dark-haired boy on the other side of his wall, he lingers, leaning against Sherlock's door and staring openly at him.
"D'you think we should talk about this?" he asks, and Sherlock crosses his legs under himself on the bed.
"I wasn't aware there was anything that needed to be talked about."
John's face pinches in concern, and Sherlock sees everything, and without a word he makes room on the bed and motions John over with a nod of his head. John takes the hint and slides in beside him. They lie side-by-side on their backs for a short time (Sherlock wordlessly asks for John's hand, and he gives it, and they sit in a nest between the two of them) and finally John turns his head.
"So, you want to be my boyfriend, then?" he asks rather bluntly. Sherlock shakes with a pent-up laugh.
"Is that what we'll call it?"
"I don't know," John sighs. "Hang on." He flips himself up so his hands straddle Sherlock's chest, stares seriously down at him (with Sherlock's eyes halfway between surprised and... expectant). John leans in to kiss him once, and it's no more than a lingering, thoughtful brush of lips (and when John tries to back away, Sherlock leans up to follow him). The Bagder gives a light laugh and touches his nose to Sherlock's. "Yeah. Definitely boyfriend."
"Yes, all right," Sherlock says impatiently, and he seizes the back of John's head to mash them back together.
When John doesn't leave and falls asleep curled up against Sherlock's chest, the gangly boy finally grins and drifts off with him.
In the morning, after he blinks the cobwebs from his eyes and remembers where he is and he grins and burrows his face into Sherlock's chest (and the Slytherin bats sleepily at John's head and murmurs something about too early), he sees that someone has moved all of John's things into Sherlock's room overnight. That cinches that.
For a while, they forget all about Moran and letters and school altogether. Sitting in the garden, John's head leaning into Sherlock's shoulder, and little has changed except there's an awful lot of kissing (when they're sure no one is looking, because there's something nervous that comes into Sherlock's eyes when he thinks they'll be seen).
When they're in the middle of Flourish & Blotts, hidden behind a bookcase and John is standing very close, head tilted and staring questioningly up at him, and Sherlock is red and throwing glances over both shoulders, John asks: "Are you embarrassed of me?"
There's a frightened look in Sherlock's eyes suddenly. "No. John, of course not, you idiot." And he settles slightly when he sees that John isn't bolting, and he rests his forehead just lightly against John's, and there's a quiet connection. He lowers his voice. "I can't have everyone know. Not yet, when I don't know who to trust. Please understand."
John nods slowly, runs strong, comforting fingers through Sherlock's hair. He kisses the edge of Sherlock's lips, stays there just a second longer than usual, and breaks away. They're both extremely distracted as they try to find their books for next year.
They stop in to see Harry settling into her job behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. John doesn't say much (they haven't talked for more then twenty minutes since the summer Harry tried to curse their mother's ex-boyfriend, and the falling-out has hit John the hardest, but he won't show it), and even though Sherlock doesn't parade this out for everyone to see, he's the one who tells Harry.
She blinks, smirks. "Like sister, like brother."
John won't tell his mother. Not because he doesn't want everyone and his brother to know that he's snogging Sherlock Holmes, but because he doesn't want to break her heart. Because Harry and Clara alone drove her to tears a hundred Christmases ago, and he doesn't know if he and Sherlock will completely destroy her. And he can't hate her, and he doesn't know why, so he won't tell her.
They're hardly in the door of his room when Sherlock has John up against the wall and there are several interesting things he does with his mouth and John can't believe that it's got him weak in the knees. So he holds on tight (and so does Sherlock).
"You had it figured out since the end of term last year," Sherlock says to John, (flat on the bed, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder as the arm around him plays fingers thoughtlessly in blond hair that needs a trim). "That you were attracted to me," he elucidates. John shrugs fruitlessly (partially because he knows that Sherlock is right and partially because he's tired and just wants to fall asleep with him).
"What about you?" John asks, stifling a yawn.
"Oh, three or four years ago," he says as if it's nothing.
And it tugs at something between John's lungs with the weight of suddenly knowing. "Oh, Sherlock," he mutters and he grabs the boy's face and kisses him soundly.
But it doesn't last forever, because it can't. Because Carl was murdered and someone had put John in the hospital wing (the first time Sherlock gets John's jumper over his head he stares at the scar in John's shoulder and he gets very quiet and John just falls asleep holding him).
"He wasn't near the water," Sherlock mutters into John's hair, and the shorter boy stirs (because he's supposed to be awake and listening to Sherlock posit and hypothesize, but he's drifted off again).
"Hm?" John asks as though he's been listening. Sherlock knows better.
"Carl. He was drowned but he wasn't near the water. There were no signs of any sort of powerful spell used on him, and damn I wish I could've inspected—" But he cuts himself off because of the stormy look gathering in John's tired eyes. "Sorry. But I want to help. And I need data to help."
"I know," John says lowly, nodding into Sherlock's neck.
"Was he a good swimmer?" Sherlock asks.
"I don't know. Decent, I suppose. He was a brilliant Seeker, and he was built a bit like he swam a lot. I never saw him, myself, but I guess he could've been."
He sighs, and it stirs in John's hair. "We need to get back to Hogwarts."
"We act as if nothing has changed," Sherlock says into John's ear, holding on tightly before they pass through onto the platform. John doesn't want to let go (because who the hell cares if he's holding Sherlock's hand or if he wants to kiss Sherlock in the hall between O.W.L.-level Charms and lunch?), and he grips hard at Sherlock's arms.
"Yeah, nothing's changed, all right," John nearly laughs, and he perches up on his toes to leave a lingering kiss at Sherlock's brow. "You're still an arse."
The Slytherin smiles, fixes John's hair where he's mussed it. "See you on the train."
Their fingers slip away, and John already hates this. Two months with Sherlock Holmes as his boyfriend and he can't stand the thought of not touching him. Something's most definitely wrong with him.
The Hufflepuff team is gathered in a clump on the platform, and John greets them at a run (and they all gather together in a knot and hold on tightly, because no one is forgetting the scrawny boy who isn't with them, and they don't say anything for a long moment).
"Where's Sherlock?" Violet asks, peering around the platform. "I've got so used to seeing the two of you that I'm not sure you're two people anymore."
John does his very best not to blush. "Don't know. He said he'd see me off." And he's not afraid of what the Badgers will say when they find out (because they will find out, they're not stupid), but he's promised Sherlock not to let it out of the bag.
When Sherlock does appear, John smiles all the same as he usually does, and when they meet in a (friendly) embrace, it takes a great deal of effort not to stay there. He tells the Hufflepuffs all about Sherlock's enormous house, and Sherlock picks up his cat and cradles her in his arms as he listens almost disinterestedly to John talk. Sherlock is a magnificent actor, fantastically hides all the necessary details and give-aways in his face. He decides that John will need some serious coaching if he's going to deceive anyone.
(But Sherlock surprises even himself when he realizes that he doesn't care if Violet and Soo Lin and Mike and all those smiling Badgers know that he's hardly let go of John for two months. They're the closest to a normal family he's ever had, and he does a very good job of not showing his shock when he discovers it.)
John leaves them for the prefect's car, scratches Felicia between the ears, and he fixes Sherlock with a look that lasts less than two seconds, but it stays with Sherlock for the entire train ride. Soo Lin tries to talk to him three times before he registers her voice, after which he pays very careful attention to all of them. None of them miss it, and the girls exchange questioning glances.
While John sits safe and snug in the prefect's car, talking animatedly with Sarah, Sherlock feels interrogated. Soo Lin, Violet and Amanda have boxed him into the corner of the compartment, and he fixes the only boy left in the compartment (Andy, the poor thing, looking just as trapped and he's on the far opposite end) and pleads wordlessly for assistance.
John's patrolling the corridor, and when he peers into their compartment, Sherlock locks frantic eyes with him as Soo Lin prods him for answers, and John grins wondrously through the glass at him—lingers to watch, and just as Sherlock's eyes go soft and Soo Lin realizes that he's not paying attention to them and she turns to the door, John's moved on down the way.
The Slytherin has him cornered somewhere in the third floor corridor, caught him on his midnight patrol, and won't let him move. And John lets him, because it feels like this day has gone on for months and he can't believe how easy it is to miss someone else's breath in his ear. "This is going to be dreadful," Sherlock says just before he presses his lips to the space under John's ear, and the Badger hums something halfway between acknowledgment and appreciation.
John runs his fingers up and down the back of Sherlock's neck, lacing into curls and knotting them together. "It's a real easy fix, y'know," John tells him, looking at his jaw line and most definitely not the calculating gray eyes.
"There's someone here that wants to hurt you because you're my friend," Sherlock mutters, rubbing his nose fondly into the hair above John's ear. "What will he do if he finds out we're snogging?" He feels John laughing quietly against him, and he wants to join in, but he can't. "No, John, not yet."
"Yeah," John sighs. "Hogwarts isn't ready for us." And he grins, and Sherlock really can't be blamed for lowering his head to kiss him again. John agrees, gripping both sides of Sherlock's head and opening his mouth when Sherlock's asks for access.
John walks Sherlock back to the Slytherin dungeon, and they don't touch or even speak. When John leaves him to continue his rounds, Sherlock presses his hot face against the cool stone wall and tries to appear gathered and not thoroughly kissed when he casually enters the common room. It helps that no one looks up at him (a ghost in his own House).
And much stays the same, just as they'd planned. Sherlock still eats breakfast at the Hufflepuff table (squashed between Mike and John and avoiding Soo Lin's knowing eyes), he still occupies his chair in the Hufflepuff common room, and he still sends John owls at all hours (but these notes are hardly ever about some banal mystery that needs solving anymore, and John always finds him in whatever dark corner he's asked to). Sherlock still helps John with his potions, and John still supervises Sherlock with the difficult Charms Flitwick springs on them.
But they don't receive any notes from their mysterious friend, Moran's companion. Not until early November.
It's directly after their first match with Ravenclaw that someone catches them. Andy's not the best Seeker at Hogwarts, but John and Violet have the most iron-tight defense the Hufflepuff team has seen in decades, and they manage to hold off Ravenclaw's Seeker long enough for Andy to get the idea and catch the Snitch. John sees them all out of the locker room, patting backs and grinning, and frankly isn't surprised to see Sherlock waiting once they've all cleared out. John is covered in sweat and sore and he probably smells, but it's quite clear that neither of them really care at this point.
Sherlock decides, leaning down and tasting John's open mouth, that he really rather likes John is his Quidditch uniform.
There's a small noise somewhere behind them, and John's vaguely aware that his hair is sticking straight out where Sherlock's mussed it, and Sherlock has taken half a step backward, but it would be clear to absolutely anyone what the two of them have been doing.
Wide-eyed, confused, tiny Jimmy Moriarty is standing in the doorway and glancing disbelievingly between the two of them. The face that John normally sees full of teeth and smiling is contorting into something he's never seen before. Something that almost looks terrifying on Jimmy's friendly face.
"Jimmy," John says immediately, trying to smooth his hair down and smooth things over because Sherlock's eyes are just as wide. "It's, ah... not what it..."
"It's okay," the young Slytherin says quite suddenly, and the brief flash of something horrible on his face is replaced with the familiar grin. "I'll just have a word later. Don't let me stop you. Oh, and John—" His head moves slightly from side to side, a move vaguely reptilian. "It's Jim."
He twirls away, leaving them alone again, and John turns his eyes immediately to Sherlock. The tall boy watches warily after Jim and only turns to John at his name. "Who was that?" Sherlock asks vaguely (of course he's seen the wide-eyed Slytherin moving quietly, friendlessly through the common room, but he's never registered that fact as useful or interesting).
"Doesn't matter," John assures him. "Look, I'll have a chat with him. He won't tell anyone."
Sherlock nods, almost as if he hasn't been listening.
John does catch up with Jim, and they do have a quiet chat, and Jim never breaks his understanding smile. Of course he won't let on that he knows. He excuses himself and joins Molly Hooper arm-in-arm down the hallway, leaving John on his own and very confused.
They manage to keep it up for nearly a week after that. There are times Sherlock seems distracted, and he'll turn his head to stare at nothing in particular, his eyes miles away. John wonders briefly if it's because Sherlock is getting bored (no cases since the end of last year, no notes or codes or anything to peak his interest), and Sherlock answers without having to hear the question.
"I'm not bored of you. Shut up." And he undoes John's tie, tosses it away, and John shuts up (but he doesn't give Sherlock the upper hand, ripping off Sherlock's tie and applying his tongue there instead).
They linger a bit too long in the cupboard, and when John realizes that he's nearly late for Charms he curses under his breath and tries several times to button his shirt. He grabs his tie, tying it messily and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips before dashing off.
Flitwick is smiling oddly when John moves into his seat, and Soo Lin beside him is already giggling. John doesn't think much of it at first (after all, he was nearly late, and John is never nearly late to Charms), but when the others around him begin to talk in whispers and someone else gives a light laugh, John becomes suddenly very concerned.
"What?" he asks Soo Lin seriously, and she only grins and shakes her head.
Flitwick clears his throat. "I wasn't aware you'd changed House, Mister Watson."
John doesn't quite understand at first, blinking at the Charms teacher and finally Soo Lin breaks into uncontrollable giggles, pointing straight at his chest. He sees it when he looks down. He's grabbed Sherlock's tie. Green and silver and tied sloppily to boot. And it couldn't have been more obvious to everyone in the classroom as to where the tie had come from and why John must have switched them.
So he goes inhumanly red, stutters something and undoes Sherlock's tie with surprisingly calm fingers. He tosses the tie into his bag, hides his burning face in both of his hands on his desk and doesn't say a word the entire lesson. The class moves on, occasionally throwing a grin in John's direction, but no one brings it up again.
At lunch, with the Great Hall at nearly full capacity, John and Sherlock meet in the aisle near the Hufflepuff table. Sherlock has John's tie loosely draped over his collar, smirking cautiously and approaching with his hands in his pockets. John stands abruptly, and suddenly all the Hufflepuffs are quiet and looking up. And their silence causes a handful to look up from the Ravenclaw table, and with a wave, several heads are looking up all across the Great Hall to see what has caused so many people to quiet down.
John's face has gone red again, eyes darting to the faces turned up to look at them. He rummages briefly in his bag until he finds Sherlock's tie, which he holds out between them. Sherlock glances only minutely at the upturned faces, and without saying a word he slides John's tie from around his neck and, with a flick of his wrist, loops it around John's to pull him close.
John's skin nearly burns him when he leaves a kiss at John's temple in front of everyone.
Still close, John sweeps his eyes over Sherlock's face, and he's sure he never blushes, but today has been a hell of a show for it. He's radiating heat. Sherlock still hasn't let go of the ends of his tie.
"Make up your goddamn mind, won't you?" John asks in a quiet voice. And then a smile shyly works its way across his face, and he doesn't know why Sherlock's decided to display them in front of the Great Hall, but he's so glad that he does.
Sherlock still hasn't said a thing, but he mirrors John's smile, takes the green and silver tie and turns back the way he came.
After lunch, they're both headed down the second floor corridor, not needing to speak to talk, when Anderson appears in front of them and punches Sherlock hard in the face without warning. Sherlock hits the floor with a yelp, and Anderson holds Sherlock down with his heel.
"Fucking poof," Anderson spits. "You're not a proper Slytherin, you're a disgrace! Look at you and your pet Badger, you make me sick."
And John's a prefect, so he can take all the points away from Slytherin that he wants to for Anderson's diatribe, but that's not the first thing that comes into John's mind. Looking at Sherlock sprawled on the floor, his lip split and bleeding and he's cradling his arm where he hit the flagstone, and for a moment he looks at John and he looks vulnerable and John has never seen that look on his face.
So John gets angry. Angrier than he's ever been. Like a fist punching right into his chest, grabbing his insides and twisting them into a harsh, white-hot knot that pulses against Something in his throat that won't move. And he fixes that vicious glare on Anderson, wants to burn him right up into ash, and Anderson knows it. Stares right into it, and his eyes go wide, and his hand isn't on his wand fast enough to defend himself.
"Depulso!" John shouts, backhanding the spell right at Anderson, and with a bright flash the Slytherin goes flying back through the corridor amid the screams and shuffling of other students as they flee from his trajectory.
But John isn't done. He follows Anderson's tumbling body and he raises his wand again. "DEPULSO!" and it's terrifyingly louder this time (rings back in John's ears as it bounces off the walls) and he slashes his wand through the air at Anderson, and he's projected forcefully away again, sailing screaming through the air and he lands hard against a far wall.
And John is shaking from somewhere deep in his chest, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's painful, and he's stalking after Anderson (someone he doesn't even know begs him to stop, and he can hear Violet's voice among them), and he raises his wand again when he finally reaches Anderson (weak and shaking and groaning on the floor).
But someone grabs his wrist and stops him, and for a moment he's too anger-blind to understand that he has to stop, but the fingers are strong and insistent. John glares over his shoulder, and he suddenly stops. Professor Slughorn is there, holding him back, aghast. It all drains from John in a wash.
But he doesn't regret it. Not in the slightest.
"Detention," Slughorn says instantly. "And twenty points from Hufflepuff."
When Slughorn lets him go, John backs away from the destruction he's wrought on Anderson and he takes it all in. Then he turns to catch Sherlock's eye (how had he ended up so far away?) and the boy is half-off the floor, looking right at him with pride and admiration and—
John whips his head back to Slughorn. "I'd take two if you'd give it to me. Because I'll do what's right and I'll stick by him, and I don't give a damn how many detentions I get for it."
He loses another ten points for insubordination, but he's already headed back down the hall toward Sherlock. He takes the Slytherin's hand, pulls him to his feet and doesn't let go, carting the both of them away from the scene.
When they're alone (save for the curious faces in the paintings), Sherlock doesn't sweep him off his feet and kiss him senseless. He just runs his hands over John's face, through his hair, can't stop looking at him. And they just cling silently to one another until they have to part for class.
Hours later, sitting alone in the library while he waits for John's detention to come to an end, there's a light rustling over Sherlock's head and by the time he looks up, a note has fluttered to the table in front of him. He gives a surreptitious look around before he unfolds the single piece of parchment. The handwriting is finger-numbingly familiar.
I know, and I will burn the heart out of you.
Sherlock moves unnaturally fast. He doesn't know how he gets to the Hufflepuff common room as quickly as he does, but he bursts in and nearly bowls himself over as he stops just as fast. His eyes dart from face to face that has stopped what they're doing to see what Sherlock is doing here, and he finally finds the face he's looking for.
He doesn't say anything, throws his arms around John and holds him crushingly tight. I know, the words echo in his head over and over and when he closes his eyes all he can see is John in the hospital bed and the look on his face when he'd fallen from his broom. "Oh, John, I can't lose you."
John tries to smile. "It was just detention, Sherlock."
The look Sherlock gives him when he pulls away (his eyes burning with all sorts of things John isn't used to seeing in there, like despair and rage and John doesn't dare think love because he's sure he'll faint dead away) sets a fire in him.
"Oh," John says, and he can barely manage a syllable around the Something in his throat.
And the kiss is sudden and intense, and neither is sure who's started it this time, but both of them are mashing their tongues against the others', teeth clashing, and it's messy but also sort of wonderful. Hands fist awkwardly in clothing, and John has to propel himself upward to align their mouths correctly, but oh. There's a moment of shared breath, and then a pillow connects with the side of John's face.
Violet laughs with her entire body, laughing with tearful joy as she throws another and it hits Sherlock in the middle. And half of Hufflepuff house is there and they've seen everything. It's Sherlock's turn to go red, but soon John is laughing too, burying his burning face deep in Sherlock's neck and muttering muted giggles against him.
Then, Sherlock realizes it's not a derisive, hurtful laugh that's pounding in his ears from all directions. It's the sort of laugh that friends laugh together, playful and loving, and he's sure he's never heard it on his behalf aside from the mouth of John Watson. Suddenly, he's laughing too, and it almost hurts the way it contracts unfamiliarly in his chest. But he lets it, hiding his smile in John's hair.
"Can we call him your boyfriend now?" Mike asks from across the room.
"Yeah, you goddamn snoop," John says, lifting his head (he feels giddy, and it must be the adrenaline that's making him smile so wide). His dark blue eyes tick up to look right into Sherlock's, and he's asking.
"Don't be dull, John," Sherlock says reflexively. Then he grins, and John knows he's done for because he loves that grin and the way it sticks in his heart. "Of course."
There are precautions set up in every dormitory to prevent the boys from sneaking into the girls' bunks. There are no such precautions to prevent Sherlock Holmes from curling up behind John Watson and breathing words in his ear as they run their fingers together over and over.
"He's back," Sherlock says in the darkness, and one of the other sleeping boys nearby gives a snort and rolls over.
John turns in bed to face Sherlock, and even though he can't see anything, it helps. "Moran's lackey?"
"I'm not convinced he's just an associate anymore." He frowns, and John can feel it.
"You think Moran was a... a sidekick?"
"A loyal follower," Sherlock corrects him. "I have a horrible feeling that this mysterious friend is far more dangerous than we've been considering."
"You don't get feelings," John chides.
"Sometimes I do," Sherlock breathes, and that's all they have to say about that.
Sherlock practically lives in the Hufflepuff dormitory. He wakes up with John in the morning (though some nights he doesn't sleep and sits in his chair by the fire), he walks with them to breakfast, he spends warm evenings in the cozy common room listening to John discuss maneuvers with Soo Lin. And some evenings he'll pull John into his chair with him, wrap his long arms around the shorter boy and just hold him there in silence.
And the Hufflepuffs are ridiculously proud of the two of them. Violet shows them off, Amanda brags about them. They become the new standard among all the Badgers (and Soo Lin points them out to her boyfriend Andy, Sherlock and John draped wordlessly in the chair by the fire, and asks why they can't be more like that). For the most part, John doesn't notice; Sherlock can't help but notice, but with the Hufflepuffs, he really doesn't mind. They only continue things the way they've always done.
John has no idea why Sherlock is in Divination. He's heard the Slytherin speak out on its absurdity at length and at varying volumes since he elected to take it in their Third Year, but he almost seems to enjoy it. As if the vagueness of prediction and palm-reading is some sort of supernatural challenge to his natural abilities of deduction. If nothing else, it supplies him with something to belittle.
So when Sherlock appears in the common room waving his arms and going on and on about something Trelawney has predicted, John's taken a bit off guard.
"You think it's rubbish," John says, his eyes following Sherlock's erratic movements. "You say she's a fraud about three times a day."
Sherlock leans down to leave a kiss at John's brow, which is his signal to shut up and listen. "This was more exciting," Sherlock continues. He pulls out a slip of parchment. "She interrupted a lesson to shout about the spirits converging on me and speaking to her, or something of the like, as she usually does. I nearly missed the beginning, but I believe I got it word for—" And John tugs lightly at the the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, which means speed it up. "Anyway. 'The spotted owl meets the yellow snake after years of struggle. The knight of just and loyal heart will break his shield to save him, and then the game begins'."
"Well, that's rubbish," John reiterates. "Here, Slughorn's given me an extra essay on shrinking potions—"
"No, John," Sherlock interrupts rather loudly (but the Hufflepuffs are used to the outbursts and they let the two go on as they always do), "it's a clue, don't you see? The game begins, this game we've been playing with our mysterious friend."
"I really don't think it's a game," John cuts in, and Sherlock shushes him with a hand over his mouth.
"The yellow snake, that's me. The Slytherin raised by Badgers." (John manages the flicker of a smirk in reply.) "And the knight of just and loyal heart, that's you, John. And the spotted owl. That's Moran's man."
"It's an owl," John says around Sherlock's hand.
"It's the first insight we've had into what we're up against. What's an owl, John?"
He looks at his boyfriend as though he's sprouted wings, and he knocks Sherlock's hand away. "It's an owl, Sherlock. They fly about and eat mice. Are you ill?"
"They're communication. They're the links that connect the entire wizarding world. They can see and hear everything because they're everywhere. That's how he knows."
And John gets it now. "You don't think it's figurative, like the snake and the knight?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock says with unbound enthusiasm. "An Animagus."
"Now, wait a second," John interjects. "This is Divination we're talking about, not deduction. These clues aren't real. You can't call a prediction by a washed-up ball-reader a... a clue."
"A true detective sees truth wherever the source," Sherlock tells him, his spirits completely undampened. "She was the one who found Carl, she has indubitable ties to this—" And he stops, because he's undeniably enthusiastic about the revelation, but John's gaze has dropped away.
After a moment (because Sherlock will always give him a moment), John finds Sherlock's eyes again. "Do you really think this'll help us find who murdered Carl?" He sounds strong.
"I think so, yes," Sherlock replies.
"Well, okay." John takes a breath, because it's a lot to take in. "So, what do we do, start interrogations in the Owlery?"
And they both grin at the absurdity and John laughs the loudest out of the two of them. That night, Sherlock sends off a letter (with his own owl, one he trusts) to his brother to look into the Animagus registry. John does go to the Owlery, stands in the middle of the drafty tower and takes a long look at all of the birds surrounding him. And he does feel inexplicably watched, examined, read.
He gives out a shaky cloud of breath and utters: "I dare you." A challenge. A threat.
Something flutters above him, but it's only an owl settling into its perch, nestling in for sleep. John shivers, and it must be the cold. So he wraps Sherlock's green and silver scarf more tightly around him and leaves with a quickened pace.
Mycroft gets back to Sherlock in record time for a Ministry man. No registered avian Animagi in the British Isles, and a brief inquiry into John's health. John's eyes ask if Sherlock has told Mycroft about the two of them, and Sherlock's eyes say Idiot. There's a brief line about a suspected sighting of Sebastian Moran in northern England, but it's written with such little thought that Sherlock dismisses it immediately.
It's the last line of Mycroft's letter that strikes dread into their hearts.
I have arranged a fitting for the both of you, after last year's Christmas debacle, and I'd like you to look nice for Mummy when we announce your partnership.
"Oh God," John mutters.
Sherlock nods, ashen, and confirms: "Oh God."
Before they leave for the holiday, John convinces Sherlock to come with him to see Trelawney. She's still seated in her classroom, the last of the Third Years filing out in a mixture of wide-eyed glee and cynicism, when they climb the ladder to see her. She glances up over the crystal ball she's running a light cloth over, and when she adjusts her glasses to see them better, she gives a small noise in the back of her throat.
"Oh, Mister Holmes. I expected you." Her eyes linger on John, and she adds in a voice fogged in mystery: "You, boy. Is your father well?"
John fixes Sherlock with a dull glance and he tries very hard not to tell her right off. "Professor Trelawney, last week you said something to Sherlock about snakes and owls, and..." He breaks off, because even though he knows Divination is useless, especially from the woman standing in front of him, he gets the uncanny feeling that she knows why he's really here. "And you're the one who found Carl, and I never said thank you."
When she chokes up, John really can't help himself, and the room fractures with his unspent tears. He tries very hard to keep them down, but she pulls him into her embrace, covering him in her shawls as she comfortingly pats his head.
She tells them all that she knows (pouring tea for them both; Sherlock doesn't touch his, because he knows she'll want to read his tea leaves, but John doesn't know better). She remembers all too much about the sad little body she'd found propped up against Greenhouse Three, all alone in a corner and surrounded by the untended blue grass. He'd certainly looked like a boy who had drowned, and she distinctly remembered checking him for signs of a fight (she chokes up again, remembering how she had felt about someone holding this poor boy's head under the water), but there'd been no struggle.
Trelawney snatches up John's teacup when he's finished, turns it clockwise and back several times as she finds a good angle at which to observe. She gives a small tut and says "You must talk to your sister," before she sees them off with a wave of her handkerchief (which she wipes her eyes with when she thinks they've gone).
"You make her out to be such an oaf," John notes as they walk hand-in-hand back to the common room. "She's really very... nice."
"Nice," Sherlock drawls as if in pain. "Nice is dull."
John smirks. "I'm a nice guy."
"Anderson wouldn't say as much," Sherlock reminds him, and John has to admit that, yes, he really can be decidedly not nice.
"How is Anderson?" John asks with just the right hint of revulsion.
Sherlock smirks. "Terrified. I've told him just the sorts of Charms you have in that book."
John squeezes Sherlock's hand and they both can't stop smiling until they've reached the common room.
They're hardly off the train before Mycroft is there with his assistant ushering them away under escort to a discreet Floo Network exit. The next thing John knows, they're in some sort of high-end shop and someone he doesn't know is stripping him to his pants. The room is mighty cold but it's also mighty warm thanks to the view he's getting of Sherlock Holmes, who they haven't even bothered to cordon off with screens or curtains or anything that'd block John's direct line of sight to four mirrors-full of Sherlock's arse.
Granted, it's Sherlock's arse in his underpants, but they don't leave much of anything to the imagination. Six months of swapping spit with Sherlock and he'd never even thought about what's been under those trousers. He's always known Sherlock is skinny as all-get-out, but it's different when John's eyes follow the long lines of Sherlock's legs up and—
And now he can't stop looking. John has to blindly allow the tailors to take their measurements around him because he's fairly sure he's lost feeling in his limbs, or at least the ability to control them. Because now he wants to get his hands on those legs and hips and oh God if he doesn't stop thinking about it, things are going to get very embarrassing very quickly.
And when Sherlock glances up from the short wizard taking the measurement of his left instep and sees John looking at him, there's a nearly imperceptible flick of Sherlock's eyes up and down John in reciprocation. Two sets of eyes finally getting a good look, appraising, taking their sweet time. Why is it so hot in here?
What feels like hours later, both of them carrying the suits Mycroft has paid for, Sherlock and John lock eyes and John can feel every little movement of that gaze over him. And John involuntarily runs his tongue across his lips, and it really doesn't help because now Sherlock is focused and intense and Mycroft is looking at them with an eyebrow arched and judging.
Oh, this is going to be a long holiday.
The Holmes Estate looks especially resplendent this holiday, decorated in muted grays and blues and filled with the quiet milling of what feels, to John, like more people than there used to be. All of them seem tall and cold, distant and perhaps even nonhuman. And John is wearing a tailored suit to match them, to match Sherlock, and he tries loosening his tie to vent the nerves as he stares down at them from the second floor banister.
Sherlock's hand on his face directs John's eyes away from the scene below to serious gray eyes. He repeats the mantra (They don't matter, none of them matter) while smoothing hands over John's hair and face. John nods at last, holds Sherlock's hand to his face long enough to leave a kiss against his palm, then fixes their fingers firmly together. They go together, like they always will.
Mummy gives a bright cry of joy when she sees that the two have joined them at last, gathering both boys into the same embrace and pressing elated kisses to the tops of both heads. John manages a brief smirk (most especially at the color spreading to Sherlock's ears), before she turns the both of them to face the crowd of suddenly-attentive onlookers.
"You all remember John Watson from last year's get-together," Mrs. Holmes announces, and even though she hasn't raised her voice, everyone can hear; she has the same magnetic effect as her son. "I'm supremely pleased to tell you all that he's courting my son, Sherlock."
John glances over to Sherlock and mouths Courting? with something akin to amusement in his eyes. Sherlock gives the minutest shake of his head, embarrassment crawling even further up his face to his eyebrows.
There's a brief flurry of talk from the crowd (some calls of congratulations, some derision that John can hear all the way from the back where they think they're being quiet), but the general facade is acceptance. John doesn't care if it's only a facade, because they don't matter. He squeezes Sherlock's hand more tightly, taking all of them on in a glance.
(The nearest man, tall and slightly corpulent with the air of bureaucracy simply oozing from him, actually gives a small smirk of acquiescence at John's show of strength. That matters.)
There's a general pervading air of evaluation, thick enough to taste, and John's tasted it before. But last year, he had the shield of his old Christmas jumper; last year, Sherlock had been his best friend. This year, he's full-on in the middle of this swamp of scrutiny and everyone knows that he's been in Potions cupboards kissing the hell out of Sherlock. Mycroft is, surprisingly, one of the only bastions from the subtle judgment, nearly smiling when the two approach him (and Sherlock's right, the Ministry must be good for Mycroft because he's put on a whole stone since John saw him last).
Against their best efforts, they're separated eventually. Sherlock taken by his great uncle to a table of serious-looking men with champagne, and John stolen by a gaggle of black-haired girls who John recognized as second-cousins. He hates the feeling of being cut off more than he does the one of being cornered when the girls finally get him alone.
"Sherlock's important," one of them says. She has a blue ribbon in her hair.
"You're not," says an identical girl with a red ribbon.
Triplets, perfect, John sighs in his head.
"You're a bad influence," says the third, in a green ribbon. "And we don't appreciate you seducing him away from his important work."
"He's going to be Ministry," Red Ribbon says haughtily. "Just like his father."
"Everyone's Ministry," cuts in Blue Ribbon. "A little flirtation on the side isn't going to stop him, you know."
John purses his lips, doesn't say anything, and desperately wants to escape.
"Holmes and Ministry go together like jam and clotted cream," states Green Ribbon importantly. "I've never heard of the Watsons," she says, curling her lip.
"They're not important," Red Ribbon says flippantly. "So, we want you to walk away. Daddy's in the Department of Underage Wizardry, I'm sure he could find a way to convince you, if you decide not to cooperate."
"I'm sorry," John says with a laugh, suddenly straightening, "but are you threatening me?" He feels taller, and suddenly extremely vindictive because who the hell has the right to tell him who he can and can't be with? So he straightens his tie and holds his chin up strongly. "Excuse me for saying so, ladies, but fuck off." And he brushes brusquely by them, leaving three identical scandalized faces in his wake. Yes, really occasionally very not nice.
He finds Sherlock, and the Slytherin can read that face just as easily as a book, and it says GET ME OUT OF HERE. So he takes John's hand, makes an off-handed excuse to his great uncle and his entourage, and leads John quickly back up the stairs (they only wish good night to Mummy, who waves them brightly off).
"I wanted to curse the smirks right off their goddamn faces," John says almost as soon as they get into Sherlock's room. "Said I ought to back off or they'd sic their dad on me, and Sherlock, let me tell you how much self-restraint I've got, because—"
Sherlock has both of John's wrists enclosed in his fists very suddenly, and he pins them very easily above John's head, right up against the door with an audible thump. And it's suddenly very close, and he's had Sherlock this close before but there's something different this time. Because Sherlock won't let go of John's wrists, keeping him there, staring right into the shorter boy's eyes with enough heat to melt him right away. John tries several times for a breath, but even that seems postponed under Sherlock's evaluating eyes.
And he finally opens his mouth to speak (quiet and close and warm breath on his lips just out of reach). "I can't stop staring at you in that suit, John. It's very distracting, and I think that you should take it off."
John's head feels incredibly light and woozy because all the blood's decided to leave his brain, and he nods very carefully. Sherlock doesn't waste any time, pinning John even further with his mouth. Open and sloppy, each trying to fit as much of his own tongue into the others' mouth as possible. A hurried, hungry sort of exchange that leaves John's heart pounding hard in all of his extremities.
And when Sherlock finally lets go of his wrists, John is instantly ripping off Sherlock's tie and fumbling with his buttons. Sherlock simply won't stand for losing the upper hand, and his hands find John's hips and yank them forward into his own. John's mouth stutters like a record skipping, and he doesn't bother to gather himself before he surges back against Sherlock's thigh as demanded. This time they both halt (for just a fraction of a second), and neither opens his eyes.
Sherlock grabs John's arse (and he'd laugh at the way it sounds if he weren't too busy enjoying it) and brings John even higher up on his thigh (very close to something dizzying, and John wets his lips instinctually at just the thought of it), pressing them even closer together. Sherlock's aware of just how hard he's breathing when John clamps his leg around Sherlock's, his mouth on Sherlock's throat, and his hips react by pressing John back against the door for greater friction.
For a few glorious minutes, that's enough.
"Off," John demands heavily, and for the briefest moment there's a flash of rejection in gray eyes. But John shakes his head, yanking Sherlock's shirt open in the same movement he shoves him toward the bed. "Off," he reiterates, tugging his own button-down out of his trousers and off. It's Sherlock's turn to nod hazily.
He backs Sherlock onto the mattress, straddling narrow hips and working to find the clasp on Sherlock's trousers. There's a brief, horrible moment of frustration when John's hands are right there but he can't get the goddamn zip down with his useless fingers and Sherlock murmurs curses as he breaks down and does it himself (and then helps John with his own trouser problems because he really can't be bothered to wait any longer), kicking his trousers off leg by leg.
And for a moment, they just stay there, pressed against one another with the barest of layers between them and John just wants to savor it. Closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Sherlock's, tries to control his breathing (breathing is boring). He makes a very interesting noise when Sherlock shifts his hips upward (so interesting that Sherlock does it again), and just as he takes Sherlock's mouth again (hands sliding up and down Sherlock's ribs and stomach and anywhere John can map him out), there's a bright rap at their door.
John's eyes snap open. Sherlock turns his head to the door (keeping John firmly planted with hands on his hips), and no one says anything. The knock comes again, and this time there's a voice with it.
"Sherlock, darling," Mummy's voice comes dull through the wooden door (and suddenly John is pink all over blushing and he rolls off of Sherlock like he's on fire). "There's an owl for you, and it's really very insistent. It won't give its letter to anyone else, and it's bothering Agatha. Could you please pop down to the kitchen?"
Sherlock bounds off the bed in an instant, whipping his curly head around until he finds the crumpled trousers at the foot of the bed and hops eagerly back into them. And that's how he bolts out of the room, and the red heat is back in John's neck and ears and oh God everyone's going to see him like that and just know.
So John decides to follow him, to hell with everyone else (throwing on his pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown in the very least), horribly red when he excuses himself past Mummy Holmes still in the hallway.
There's a back way down to the kitchens, but they still manage to run into the triplets on their way (leaving scandalized whispers in their wake, but John really could care less about the beribboned harpies), and despite Sherlock's longer legs, John catches up with him rather easily.
The owl in the kitchen window is small and unassuming, freckled spots near its eyes and beak, and staring directly at them when they enter the room. It's sitting on a letter addressed only to Sherlock, and the kitchen staff are keeping their distance (one of the cooks cradling her hand as if she's been bitten by the sharp little beak).
Sherlock straightens. "Hello," he says stiffly to the owl. And it hits John hard in the stomach. Spotted owl.
John reaches clumsily for a wand that isn't there, and why didn't he bring his wand? There's a gleam in the owl's deep eyes that John swears he recognizes, but for the life of him, he can't remember.
"Sherlock," John growls, his eyes on the tiny creature in the window.
"I know," Sherlock answers calmly.
As soon as Sherlock takes the first step forward, the owl flutters away through the open window into the black night. John bolts forward and stares out after it (can't shake the feeling that he knows those eyes, the amused little glint shining back at him) and Sherlock takes the letter from the windowsill where the bird had perched.
He shows it to John instantly. A single line of directions. "Locker number. King's Cross, looks like," John murmurs. "What d'you think in means?"
"He wants us to play," Sherlock replies heavily.
They return to Sherlock's room, and Sherlock does strip his trousers back off before he climbs into bed, but they both wordlessly agree that there can be no continuation of previous activities. Not with the eminent threat of the game starting all over again hanging over their heads. John grips Sherlock across the chest from behind, burrowing his face into his boyfriend's back.
"He's the one who murdered Carl, isn't he?" he speaks softly into Sherlock's skin.
"Yes. Undoubtedly." Sherlock strokes his thumb over John's knuckles. "We should leave tomorrow for King's Cross, then?"
"Undoubtedly," John reiterates. Because no one else is going to die if John Watson has anything to say about it.
They manage to escape the Holmes Estate without harassment, and a handful of Floo Powder later, they're standing in the Leaky Cauldron. John sees the back of Harry's head, and he doesn't say a word. Just takes Sherlock's hand and heads out the front door. John instructs Sherlock on how to take the Underground, and despite a few heads turning at the strange newcomer who can't seem to get the hang of his Oyster card, they make it an uneventful journey.
The locker in question is number 221, and the paper notice on the door tells them that it's out of order and shouldn't be used. Sherlock knows better. He opens the small door and the two of them peer cautiously inside at the same time. It's a pair of shoes. At first, neither of them reach inside. What if they've been cursed? What if this is some sort of not-so-elaborate trap? It's John that eventually reaches in and retrieves the trainers.
At first glance, there's nothing particularly special about them. Just a pair of trainers, slightly large, well-kept. And then John's throat seizes up, because there's a name written inside the trainers.
"Sherlock," John says, and his voice is weak. "They're Carl's."
The Slytherin takes the shoes from John's hand, kisses the shorter boy at the brow and watches him concernedly the rest of the trip home.
When they make the trip back to Hogwarts, Carl's trainers are carefully tucked away in Sherlock's trunk. He has a terrible idea that this will all be coming to a head very soon.
While John coordinates a losing Quidditch team and works into the night on extended Potions essays (coupled with the Apparition lessons and the increasing difficulty of the Charms being piled on him), Sherlock studies the shoes. He spends long nights in the dungeon, pouring over those trainers, testing and prodding. On his rounds, John will always appear to check in on him, make sure he at least promises to pretend to come to bed.
When he does appear in the middle of the night, crawling silently into John's bed and very rarely waking him with the movement, he rarely sleeps. No one finds it odd that Sherlock hardly ever visits the Slytherin dorms anymore (rather find it disconcerting when they don't see Sherlock for long periods of time in the Hufflepuff common room).
One night in mid-April, when John is making his way down to Sherlock's usual haunt on his midnight rounds, he hears an unfamiliar set of footsteps leading toward the Slytherin house. When John quietly extends the brightness from his wand, a familiar shape blooms in the light.
"Jim?" John asks incredulously. "What're you doing up? It's midnight, you know, I could dock you points." He probably won't, it's probably not hurting anyone, but it does help to occasionally reiterate his prefect standing.
Jim doesn't speak for a long moment. He looks tired, but his eyes are wide and alert (where has he seen that look? that all-examining, almost amused sort of gleam?). He moves his head slightly side to side, his eyes never leaving John.
"It was an emergency," he says calmly. "I'm sorry."
John shakes his head after a long moment. "Don't worry about it. Just get back to bed, all right?"
"What are you out and about for, John?" Jim asks almost too kindly. "Is Sherlock hanging around here, too?"
John lies. "No, he's back at Hufflepuff. It's just my rounds. Back to bed, all right?"
"All right," Jim replies, and he moves effortlessly away. That look in his eyes, it's boring into the back of John's head because he can't place it and there's something wrong and setting off all kinds of alarms but John just can't—
"John," a voice near his ear calls in a whisper, and the prefect turns sharply to illuminate Sherlock with the end of his wand. "I've figured it out. Come with me." And he encloses John's wrist with his fingers to pull him along into the dungeon.
Standing over the decimated trainers (John's heart sags a bit, seeing them splayed open like some dissected experiment), Sherlock waves a hand at the evidence. "Poisoned."
"His shoes?" John asks incredulously.
Sherlock nods. "You remember Jennifer Wilson?"
"Of course," John replies, and unbidden images from four years ago bloom behind his eyelids. "What, the same kind of poison?"
"Not exactly. But the same method is behind it. Muggle poison, not the sort of thing that would be noticed by the staff here. This time, it was enough to paralyze him in the water, whatever he was doing there. Whether he was out for a constitutional or forced into the lake, he couldn't support his own body in the water any longer, and he drowned struggling. It would look natural to anyone who hadn't any idea he'd been poisoned." He fixes John with a pointed stare. "Trelawney said he hadn't a scratch on him, now we know why."
Even though the memory twists in his heart, he can't help but grin. "How can you possibly be so brilliant?"
Sherlock Holmes doesn't usually blush, but he makes an exception on the odd occasion.
"So, we've solved it, then, right?" John asks tentatively. "I mean, he sent you the locker number, so he must've wanted you to find out about Carl. But he usually makes some sort of... threat along with it. You didn't get anything like that, did you?"
I will burn the heart out of you.
Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "No. Just what you saw at Christmas. I can't imagine how we'll let him know we've done away with his little puzzle, but I have a feeling that he'll know, regardless." With one arm, he sweeps the detritus that used to be Carl's trainers into a bag, tying it tightly. "Bed, shall we?"
"Let's," John replies, and he slips his arm into Sherlock's elbow.
Three days later, as they pack for Easter holiday, John receives a letter from his mother. Sherlock looks up half-interestedly and he matches the frown on John's face. "Problem?"
"Yeah, Mum says she's sick. And she really wants me and Harry home this week." He glances up at Sherlock, whose face is milling with unheard thoughts. "It's just a week."
"It's some convoluted attempt to bridge an unbridgeable gap that she's set between the three of you," Sherlock says offhandedly. "She will try to change you, you know," he adds.
John frowns even deeper. "Yeah, but. Look, she's my mum." He sighs deeply, but it's family, and one simply can't ignore the urgent call home. "I have to. If she's really sick, she'll need us. Even if we can't stand each other." He's up on his toes to leave a kiss at the edge of Sherlock's mouth. "Just a week, all right?"
He doesn't like it, but he nods. "Yes, all right. But I'd like you to know that I'm cross about it."
"Arse," John mutters with a smile before he takes Sherlock's lips for a real kiss.
Sherlock decides that it's not worth the trip without John, and so he leaves his things at the foot of John's bed and he decides to stay. Just one week. (But for someone who hasn't been separated from someone for longer than 48 hours for the past ten months, a week feels like torture.) But it's fortuitous that John is gone and safe and he'll have something to occupy him while he's away, because Sherlock is about to do something monumentally stupid (and he knows it, and that's why he can't have John here).
He stands alone in the Owlery, peering up into the perches to see if he can find the familiar spotted owl (he knows he won't). "Hogsmeade," he says purposefully. "Midnight." And with that, he strides from the tower and his fingers are shaking and he doesn't know why.
Sherlock sneaks out of the castle with an hour left before the meeting in the village (and even if their mysterious friend hadn't been in the Owlery when he'd spoken the challenge, he'll have heard; that's what owls are for). He takes his time making his way to the outskirts of the village, keeping his eyes and ears alert for anything or anyone following him. He makes no attempt to hide himself, and he's not hindered. As if the way has been made clear for him ahead of time. He has time to ready himself, calm his nerves. This is it.
The windows are mostly darkened, save for the noise and light coming from the Hog's Head in the distance. He hasn't entered the town just yet, lingering on the edge and staring down the path in solid determination. Looking for a man, an owl, any sign that someone was lying in wait for him.
Then, there's a noise behind him. Sherlock turns, and twelve feet away up the path is John Watson, his hands casually in his pockets and staring at him as if nothing in the world were being turned upside-down.
"Evening," John says lightly.
Sherlock's eyes flick to the woods surrounding the path, and they land again on John, who hasn't moved even slightly.
"This is a turn-up, isn't it?" John says with a shrug. He's smiling, calmly and unnervingly. Sherlock's heart is beating at the walls of his throat.
"John?" he asks incredulously, and he still doesn't understand.
"Bet you think you're so clever, that you've figured it all out," John says, and his eyes are all wrong. "But you really haven't."
"Not even slightly," comes a new voice suddenly from the wood behind John. It's a terrifyingly familiar face, twisted into a sadistic grin as he holds his wand straight at John's back. Sebastian Moran.
There's something terrible clawing its way up Sherlock's throat and he batters it back down to keep his facade calm. "Moran," he says in a voice surprisingly level, "the man behind the wand, master of the Imperius Curse."
"Thanks, Holmes," Moran says with a harsh false coyness.
"But where's your master?" Sherlock wonders aloud, never taking his eyes off of John, who still hasn't moved of his own accord. "The one holding your leash? Making you cast these spells for him—" Because he's too young to cast them himself.
There's a flutter of wings in the darkness, and suddenly there's a figure standing behind Moran. And Sherlock's eyes strain desperately to see, but it's dark, and John is still standing there with someone else's smirk on his face.
The crescent, toothy smirk on the boy who emerges from Moran's shadow, takes one step around him and stands finally in the light of the moon. A familiar freckled face, whose head tilts like a curious animal's when the reaction spills from Sherlock's eyes.
"Hi, Sherlock," Jim Moriarty says with a quiet, lilting voice. "You remember me, don't you?"
The innocuous Slytherin boy wandering solitary through his five years at Hogwarts, dismissible as a shadow and nearly forgotten. Jim's head tilts even further.
"Jim? Jim from Slytherin?" His animated face tours a gambit of expressions before settling on curious. "Did I really leave such a fleeting impression? Then, I suppose, that is rather the point."
Sherlock doesn't even realize he has his wand out until he finds it shaking in his grip. Jim nearly laughs when he sees the wand pointed at his middle and he shakes his head. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the wand. And I must warn you, darling, that you've got, oh, I'd say half a dozen more pointed at your and your boyfriend from the woods." He grins in delight, shrugging his neck into his shoulders gleefully. "Death Eaters, they're so useful when they haven't got anything better to do."
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks plainly. His eyes flicker to John, and he can see the hints of mental struggle in the Hufflepuff's eyes.
"You've been so interesting, Sherlock," Jim says wistfully, gazing up at the sky with a long sigh, but then his head snaps back to Sherlock and those big eyes are on fire from the inside. "Until now. Until you shacked up with your pet. Now you're on your way to boring." He inches closer to Sherlock, who grips his wand steadily and doesn't dare back down. "You could be so much more interesting. Like me. Like my father. People come to my family when they need something done. That's the way it's always been, and now it's my turn to play."
John's head twitches just minutely, fighting back.
"So, here's what I want, my dear."
John's eyes burn on the back of Jim's head, but he can't move, can't stop him.
"You can give yourself up in your pet badger's place and we'll have some fun, or..." And Jim smiles, and the air itself seems to chill around him. "Well, there are two more Unforgivables, and I certainly hope you make up your mind before we get through all of them. Seb, sweetheart?"
Moran grins like a wolf, and he snaps his wand at John's back. "Crucio!"
When John screams, something inside Sherlock breaks like fine glass. The fingers of his wand hand tremble and he points it harshly between Jim's eyes.
"Ah-ah, Sherlock," Jim breaks in with a snakelike smirk. "You're surrounded, remember?"
John's on his knees, convulsing, screaming so keenly it rings in Sherlock's ears and empties his mind of everything else. And suddenly Sherlock doesn't care that he's surrounded, that uncounted numbers of wands are trained on him and probably set to kill him. Because it's his John, and everything else certainly doesn't matter.
"Expelliarmus!"
Moran's wand flies from his hand at the same time half a dozen stunning spells hit Sherlock in the chest.
The last thing he remembers is John standing over him, spells reflecting off of his myriad shield charms because he's impossible to hit, and a sudden, bright hot flash of light.
Sherlock wakes up in a hospital bed. He sits up slowly, trying to remember how he got into a hospital bed, and where precisely the hospital bed is. Because he's not at Hogwarts in the Hospital Wing. No, this place is completely different. He's been here before, when his great aunt passed: St. Mungo's. There's a pain in his chest, and he vaguely remembers being Stunned several times over. Perhaps that's the sick feeling that's sitting in his stomach.
But then he remembers John, the boy in yellow and black standing over him as he lost consciousness, spell after spell bouncing off of him, unbreakable knight protecting his charge. And then—
Three Healers have to press Sherlock back into bed when he leaps up shouting for John. One of them informs Sherlock that he's been out for quite some time, thanks to some rather nasty Stunning spells, and they're working on getting him back into working shape. Another tells him that he'd be dead if it hadn't been for the amazing Shield charms cast by the other boy. Those charms had protected the two of them until the Aurors had arrived (and it had been supremely lucky that there had been so many underage wizards present and casting so many spells, or else they might not have been found in time).
And, of course, they had been led by Mycroft Holmes, who has somehow appeared right beside Sherlock's bed and is staring right down at him. Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge his older brother, simply frowns and demands: "I need to see John. Where's John?" Then, the feeling in his gut churning again, he adds, "Is John all right?"
They finally allow Sherlock into a wheelchair, and they push him down the hall (not nearly fast enough) to see John.
"He's sleeping off the effects of a particularly brutal Cruciatus Curse," Mycroft says as he parks Sherlock's chair beside John's bed. The Slytherin runs his eyes all over John's rather pitiful-looking form under the hospital sheets, but the boy is breathing and that's all he needs. "Frankly, I'm surprised that he managed to fight off your attackers for so long. It must have been unbelievably painful for him; the Aurors say that they've not seen damage from the Cruciatus Curse like this since the first war."
Sherlock glances up when Mycroft offers him his handkerchief, and he has no idea why. And he finally realizes that there are unbidden, unfamiliar tears in his eyes, rolling down his face, and he didn't even know. Sherlock snatches the handkerchief up, stubbornly wipes his eyes, doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he's been crying.
"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds utterly dreadful because of what's built up behind it, so he gives himself a moment to clear his throat. "Moriarty is who you're looking for. He's the man behind Moran. He orchestrated this. All of it."
Mycroft nods lazily, as though he already knows (of course he already knows, he's Mycroft Holmes). "St. Mungo's is a secure location, the two of you should be safe here, for the time being. I've made sure to supplement the security with a few tricks of my own, and I'll be available to you whenever you should need me."
"I won't say thank you," Sherlock says, afraid to touch John he looks so frail.
Mycroft smirks. "To me, I shouldn't expect it. To him? If I were you, I should never stop."
And he's gone just as easily as he came, leaving the two of them in mutual, wounded silence. When John finally wakes up seven hours later, the Healers have to wrench Sherlock off of him. And, when the commotion finally settles, Sherlock refuses to let John see him cry, so he fits them together at the mouth instead.
The Healer-in-Charge informs the two of them that John will need to stay at St. Mungo's for the remainder of the school year, and possibly into the summer in order to receive the best treatment. John knows it's best, and Sherlock knows just as well, but he continually and adamantly refuses to return to Hogwarts.
"I'll be fine," John assures him, stroking his hands generously through Sherlock's curls. "They're sending my exams by owl, and they say all the Moriartys have gone off into hiding in Switzerland or something."
"Then they can send my exams by owl, too," Sherlock pouts. "John, you must understand that I'm not leaving you. It's perhaps the safest place in London and I—" And John stops him by kissing him very hard.
So John has a chat with Mycroft, and very soon John has his own room at St. Mungo's, and Sherlock has made his little camp on the sofa in the corner (which is mostly for show, because most every night Sherlock curls up behind John and breathes into his ear until the Badger falls asleep in his arms).
"He'll be back," John says one night into the dark (because he knows Sherlock isn't sleeping; Sherlock rarely sleeps). "Jim, I mean."
"I know," Sherlock answers.
"And we have to be ready," John continues, and he's glad he can't see Sherlock's face, because this is going to be difficult.
"Yes, John, and I assume you've already formed some sort of plan."
John nods into the pillow, chews at his lip. "He used me to get to you."
Sherlock's grip tightens protectively around him. "What's your point?"
"This is all a big game to him. And he likes seeing us squirm, play the game according to his rules. So... we change the rules on him."
He knows the way Sherlock's eyes feel on him when they smile, when John's said something right. "And?"
"We stop playing. Jim wants you to go after him. He wants your attention, and he'll use me to get it if he has to. And he'll keep running if you give it to him. So. Don't do what he wants." And John finally shifts in the bed to face Sherlock (it hurts to move sometimes, but it's worth the look on Sherlock's face). "He wants you to go find him, so ignore him. Go back to Hogwarts." He runs his fingers through Sherlock's fringe, because this is the hard part. "He knows about us, and he'll use me if he has to. So, we let everyone think we're through. That I broke your heart."
Sherlock's eyes are quite wide, and for a moment John thinks he's said something Very Not Good. Then, there's a gleam in Sherlock's eyes, the bright flicker of an idea bursting into flame in his mind.
"You're brilliant," he mutters, and he meets John halfway for an eager kiss.
AN: WOW, UH. So much fun. So so much. I don't have much to say, so I'm gonna let it speak for itself (except to apologize to Laurie R. King for blatantly borrowing the plot from Beekeeper's Apprentice for the end of this chapter/next chapter. I really hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am, and I am TERRIFIED TO END IT, but it must end someday. Thanks to everyone, all the lovely wonderful people for reading so far, leave us some love and remember to STAY AWESOME!