.year seven.
They keep John Watson in recovery at St. Mungo's through his birthday, so it's no surprise when his family comes to see him. It's a bit of a surprise to John, who hasn't seen his mother in a very long time and he has no idea who told them where he is. He sits directly up in bed when the Healers usher in his mother and sister, and at first he doesn't know if he should be angry or glad that they've come without warning. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged at the foot of John's bed, and the cards laid out on the sheet between them go flying when Anne Watson pulls them both into her arms.
She cries for a long time, smothers her son in kisses and keeps Sherlock locked in close to her. Harry told her everything, Mrs. Watson tells them once she's found her voice from the tears. Everything. There's a tense moment where Sherlock and John lock eyes, but Mrs. Watson shakes her head with a tearful smile between the both of them.
"You're happy, aren't you, Johnny?" his mother asks.
John certainly doesn't look it, when the tears prick up in his eyes. "Yeah, Mum."
She gives them both a kiss to the forehead as apology, and it's certainly enough for John, who laughs brightly through whatever he wipes from his eyes before anyone can see. And when John smiles, so does Sherlock.
The two stay with John all through his birthday, most of which is spent catching his mother up on what had brought him here to St. Mungo's in the first place. He's careful not to mention too many details (cutting himself off when Sherlock squeezes his fingers gently), and he knows it's for their sake as much as Sherlock's. Knowing too much could only be trouble for John's family, especially when he and Sherlock decide to throw their plan into action.
It hurts to know that, just when his mother has finally accepted him, that it won't matter anymore. Until we get Jim, John has to remind himself over and over (and Harry catches the sad, longing look in John's eyes long before anyone else does, and it's she that excuses both visitors from the room).
They still lie in bed together, but it's very quiet and subdued (because both of their minds are lost somewhere in the future, where lying in bed together simply can't happen), and they rarely talk. Run their fingers together, memorizing the motions and the maps of one another in their heads.
The Healer-in-Charge tells them that John can be released in two days, and it's finally time for the panic to set in. Neither of them show it as keenly as they feel it, but it's supremely evident to Sherlock (who has always been able to read every little note in John's eyes).
"You may not be completely safe," Sherlock warns. "Until he's sure that we're no longer together, you could still be in danger. And your family," he adds as an afterthought.
"Trace is gone, so I can defend myself if I have to," John replies, and he takes his time to leave his lips on Sherlock's knuckles.
Sherlock breathes into John's hair, and he's quiet for some time (etching a memory of the feel of his fingers through the fine hair at the base of John's neck). Then: "There could be some other way."
John shakes his head, extricates himself from his place burrowed against Sherlock's neck. "We can do this. He won't be expecting it, after what happened outside Hogsmeade. It'll make him come to you, and you can meet him on your own terms."
"We," Sherlock corrects, because after this is over, he is never ever leaving John out of anything again. "We can meet him on our own terms."
It's definitely the right thing to say, because John is looking up at him with a bright, sad, wonderful grin.
"I suppose this is goodbye for now," Sherlock says quietly, pressing his nose to the familiar spot by John's ear. John grips the back of Sherlock's neck, keeps him firmly close, and it feels as though the moment has snuck up on him. So he presses the side of his face to Sherlock's, just holding them together (and his fingers don't shake; he almost wishes they would). "John, I—" Sherlock cuts himself off horribly, and John can feel the unwonted shudder that goes through the boy pressed against him.
John calmingly smooths his hand down the back of Sherlock's head and neck, and he answers quietly. "I love you, too, Sherlock."
Sherlock buries his head into John's neck, grips back solidly and tries very hard not to break down. He does a very good job. He backs away, fixing his eyes on John's (and he hopes that John can read him even slightly, because he's saying everything with his eyes that he can't with his tongue). John nods, and he leans in the inch necessary to kiss Sherlock quietly, plainly, lovingly on the mouth. They leave it at that, because anything more and they'll both throw this plan out the window and ruin everything.
Now's the time to start this whole bloody mess, and John's stomach physically twists inside him and he falls into the role Sherlock has been teaching him. It takes effort to mold his face from the one he saves for Sherlock to the anger he has to convey. His heart fractures just a bit when Sherlock's face responds in kind, drooping and becoming the spurned man.
"That's it," John snarls loud enough for everyone in the hall (and maybe several rooms down) to hear. "Get the hell out of my room! Get out!" And he raises it a decibel for effect (and there's a gleam of pride for him in Sherlock's eyes, behind the effortless mask he's raised), and when Sherlock rises from the hospital bed, his fingers are shaking. He wordlessly grabs his things and steps out into the hall, leaving the door ajar in his wake.
John takes the opportunity to limp to the doorway, watching Sherlock's slumping shoulders walk away. "If I see you again, it'll be too soon, you pompous fucking git!" John adds in a voice he doesn't feel like he should own, and it almost scares him. There's a stab somewhere in his chest when he sees Sherlock physically wince, but he doesn't turn. He slows, hesitating, but he doesn't turn. John steels his jaw from shuddering like it wants to. All he can do is slam the door with all the force in his good arm and spin on heel back to bed.
He curls up against Sherlock's pillow, holds it tightly, and doesn't sleep.
When his mother arrives to pick him up for discharge from St. Mungo's, she gives a quick look around for the other boy who should be at his side. John brusquely tells her to forget it, he's not here (and he's had to resist asking anyone where Sherlock has gone, because he's not supposed to care; the night spent without the long body curled around him was the longest night he's ever had).
"Johnny," his mother says seriously, and John can't look her sad eyes full on. "Sweetheart, what happened?"
This is his first test. He has to lie to his mum. There's an awful Something in his throat that he swallows against, but he certainly doesn't feel strong. "Just forget about Sherlock. He's an idiot who doesn't know when to shut his mouth." He tries to remember all the times the Slytherin had said something cruel to him (but Sherlock was never really cruel, just tactless, and John really isn't making this any easier on himself), and he focuses on their fourth year, trembling in anger when Sherlock asked if Anderson was right in calling him a Mudblood. Something weak trembles in John again.
"Look, Mum, does it matter?" It translates in his voice, quavering in attempts to be strong. "I just want to go home."
His mother drives angrily all the way home, and John doesn't speak, just sinks into his seat and stares hard out the window. He wishes it would rain, then at least he'd have the excuse of painful lethargy. But the sun is bright and cheerful and he absolutely hates it.
For some time, he plays righteous anger and brooding silence (and it helps that he doesn't want to talk to anyone for the first utterly painful week of separation). Harry sends owls telling him that it will get better, and he ignores them. His mother tells him that she will go to the Holmes Estate herself if he wants her to, so that she can demand an explanation. He does very well not to tear up immediately (at the sudden fierce love from the woman who he had all but abandoned for an entirely too-long span of months) and tells her that really, he'll be all right.
Some nights, lying utterly alone and unable to sleep without the sound of familiar breath in his ear, John closes his eyes and imagines the quiet notes of a violin.
Then, it's not so hard (because he can still see Sherlock when he closes his eyes, and most of the time, that's enough to keep him from knocking his head into a wall or abandoning it all and Apparating right in the middle of Sherlock's room). He still limps from room to room (because the pain is mostly gone, but every time he thinks about that grin on Moran's face, Jim's high-pitched voice, the look of horror on Sherlock's face, there's a stab in his leg and it's hard to walk), but he's moving around and helping his mother, practicing for Quidditch, being mundane and horribly normal.
And she looks at him with sad eyes, because she loves him.
John stands alone on the platform, steam swirling and hissing as the train settles in. He's not really alone, because the buzzing of students is everywhere up and down the platform, but he doesn't see the one he wants the most. And even he does, he can't sweep in and kiss him senseless like he wants to.
(And there's something horrible in his stomach when he realizes that he's been thinking more about try-outs for the new Beater than he has about Sherlock or Jim.)
Soo Lin appears and gives him a bright smile, which he reflects largely with his own, giving her a tight hug when she points to the Head Girl badge on her chest. And before she can say anything more, they're swarmed by the rest of the team. All of them talking excitedly at once, because everyone's heard about what happened outside Hogsmeade (how could they not? John had been hospitalized since Easter and Mycroft had made sure that visitors were to a minimum, thanks to Moran's prowess with the Imperius Curse).
He tells them the story as well as he can, leaving out the details like the pain and horror he felt when Sherlock turned to see him when he wasn't himself. The adrenaline pumping like salt water in his veins as he ignored the undying pain through every nerve to protect Sherlock, protect him at any cost.
"Jimmy seemed like such a nice boy," Amanda notes (and she'd know Jim, she spent half her time in Slytherin with that Van Coon boy), but her face is hard and gathered against him, like a storm. "I can't believe anyone could do this to you, John."
They feel the hollow absence of Violet and Mike, and most assuredly Carl (who they're all sure they'll never forget), and for a moment they just press together on the platform and remember.
Then Alex Woodbridge (growing to be a fine Keeper and a brilliant Astronomer on top of all that), takes a look around for the other obvious missing member that everyone else has failed to mention, and he asks, "Where's Sherlock?" Then, even worse, is the noise in the back of Alex's throat when he spots the boy in question.
It's been two months since John's seen that long, lean figure that stands alone at the edge of the platform. And Sherlock looks awful. John knows that Sherlock rarely sleeps a full night, but at least he slept. But now there's a hollow sort of sleepless look in Sherlock's face, and if anything he looks even thinner. His straight shoulders are stooped, and the figure so normally clean-cut and sharp seems all sad curves and bends. And then Sherlock turns his head (because Soo Lin has called out in a cheerful voice), and John's throat seizes up.
Because Sherlock has always been able to hide whatever emotion he'd wanted to, but there's no mistaking the look of heartbreak all over that face.
But John steels himself like he knows he has to, and his hackles raise when his teeth lock together. "Don't talk to me about him," he warns, and the team's eyes are suddenly all fixed on him.
"John?" Soo Lin prompts.
And John loses it, and his voice carries down the platform loud enough to stop wide-eyed First Years in their tracks. "There goes Sherlock Holmes, God's gift to wizards. Well, you can have him!" The last comes out even more harshly, and it burns his constricting throat. He rounds on the Badgers by him, steaming. "If any one of you tells him the password, I'll—"
"We won't, if you don't want us to," Andy breaks in, "but what happened, John?"
Because they all love the both of them, and John can see four more hearts ready to break.
"He's the most self-centered prat the world's ever suffered, and I can't believe I saved his life," John snarls, and it's really not like him at all (but worst of all, there are angry tears in his eyes and he doesn't know why). "No one matters one jot to him, you know that? He plays a good game, and he can fool damn near anyone, but all he cares about is himself."
He whirls back around to stare Sherlock down, and the Slytherin is waiting for it (takes the look in John's eyes like a physical blow). John doesn't say anything more, and the team follows him onto the train and out from under the sad eyes of Sherlock Holmes.
John can't even look out the window from the prefect's car, even the movement makes him sick. So he pins his eyes on the ceiling and tries not to replay the words in his head. When he patrols the train corridor, when it's empty of everyone but himself, John pauses for just a moment outside the nearly empty compartment, where a dark-curled figure sits alone with a yellow tabby sleeping on the seat beside him.
When Sherlock looks up (that horrible, sick look on his face lightening for one brilliant second), John presses his hand to the glass. Sherlock doesn't smile, but it's all there in his eyes. Then, John steps away and moves on.
After he and Soo Lin have led the new First Years to their dorm, John leans heavily into the door frame and he heaves a dry sob that catches painfully (one that's been pent up far too long and it nearly knocks him off his feet). Soo Lin holds him up, holds his head steady to stare into lost eyes, and once she has him, he loses all sense of control. And he cries.
She takes him back to the common room, sits him by the fire and strokes his hair calmly as the team gathers around and they simply stay. They don't try to sugar John with false promises or meaningless mantras of it will be all right. But they're Badgers, and all of them will see a problem to its end, no matter how hard they have to work at it. Together.
No one uses Sherlock's chair.
He's back in character once he's slept through the night (because seeing Sherlock again after such a long time was so much harder than he'd thought it would be), and John is both a little frightened and extremely proud of the Hufflepuffs that bare their proverbial teeth protectively when they see Sherlock in the Great Hall the morning after.
The try-outs for Beater are surprisingly successful, and John's made his decision even before the candidates have left the air. Dangerously red-headed Third Year Jabez Wilson (who rarely ever raises his head from his work in the common room) can hit a Bludger like a freight-train's engine is powering his arm, and John wonders against hope if they'll have any chance at the Cup this year. He's halfway through a note to Sherlock detailing his excitement before he remembers that he's supposed to hate the boy, and his face falls as he crumples it up and throws it into the fire.
They make a protective shield around him, and he's almost never alone (even Jabez, who's new to the team, has a quick and fierce loyalty). And he's sure that, without them, he would have buckled to the pressure a long time ago. But he walks through the Great Hall with one of them beside him, his eyes on every window in case he catches the briefest glance of that spotted owl.
It's long, cold months that pass in silence, and every time he wonders how Sherlock is passing the time, there's a hollow pain in his gut that grows and grows. Because John has the team behind him, the House behind them, to hold him up if he falls behind or needs a shoulder to lean on. Sherlock is completely and irrevocably alone.
What kills him most is the waiting. Not knowing whether Sherlock's got any correspondence from Jim, or Moran, or even Mycroft. Not knowing whether Anderson is throwing insults or punches (and the thought of it makes John grit his teeth and growl), if the Slytherins are mocking him for losing a Hufflepuff. There's a horrible burning spot in his chest when he lies alone in his bed and thinks about it. So he tries not to.
It helps that the N.E.W.T.s are staring them down over the horizon, and when he's not reminding Amanda how to fly straight, he's trapped in a fortress of books and scrolls and studying dutifully and diligently with fellow Badgers quiet at his side. But he doesn't even know if this plan of his is working. There's no word from from Jim to him, of course, so how could he possibly know? And it's driving his crazy to think that all of this could be for nothing.
Then, one night in the freezing middle of December, doing rounds on the seventh floor, John finds a door he can't remember ever having been there. He takes a cautious step in, shines his wand into dark corners, and finally realizes where he is. He's read about the Room of Requirement, but he never thought that he'd need it enough to find it.
This plan is hopelessly stupid. It could definitely ruin everything they'd been working for, but he's still going to try it. Because he's a stupid boy and he's in love and he desperately wants to help. John finds him in the library, at his usual table far from the influence of the staring and the whispers, and for too long a time he just hides behind a bookcase and watches. Watches the way Sherlock's fingers hold the quill, the quick movements of his eyes, how pale he's gotten, the unfamiliar and seemingly permanent sad twist his lips have taken. John grabs a book from the nearby shelf, because if he doesn't do this now, he's going to remember how stupid it is.
On his way past Sherlock's table, John accidentally trips and spills his handful of books all over the floor. Sherlock looks up painfully when John shouts at him for casting a Tripping Jinx, deducts five points from Slytherin, and stomps away. Sherlock picks up the tiny scrap of parchment the Badger has left behind under a dropped library book. It only reads: 7th floor, 12:30.
The Hufflepuff is there fifteen minutes early, and his heart is hammering painfully in his throat. He's absolutely sure that Sherlock won't be there, because he knows it's stupid and it throws their plan into jeopardy, and he knows Sherlock is smart enough to ignore him. But he can hope. He passes by three times, thinking exactly the thoughts he'd had the night before (but a hundred times quicker because he's excited and frightened and trying to breathe like a normal human), and finally steps through the door. Sherlock is waiting.
The room's made itself into something almost exactly like Sherlock's room at the Holmes Estate, and Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed (and everything is just like that summer ages ago, even the expectant line of the Slytherin's shoulders). Everything but Sherlock's eyes says This is a bad idea. His eyes say I've missed you so much.
John knows that he should be asking about Jim, whether there's been any contact, if the Slytherins have been horrible to him. But there are no words that appear when called for, and he's suddenly striding across the room (he's running, and Sherlock stands just as quickly), meeting in the middle with a crash of limbs that neither of them cares about. Fast and sudden, they're pressed up against one another, pawing and grabbing at familiar holds neither of them have forgotten, John's fingers clamping behind Sherlock's head to yank him down and fit their open mouths together.
(And it had been John's plan from the start, but he's the one that needs this the most, needs Sherlock's mouth soothing against his, knowing insistent pressure to assure him. He needs it to keep his heart from chipping away.)
Then, where it had been quick, hot breaths panting together in sudden and tangible greed, it just as suddenly stops. And they're frozen, John's fingers stitched into Sherlock's curls, their lips brushing with every long breath. John's eyes are clamped shut like he's in the worst pain of his life. Worse than Clara's wand deep in his shoulder, than Moran's curse. And a sob sticks in his throat—he won't let it through, but Sherlock can feel it against his own chest. He grips John tighter, and there's a protective flare that lights up in him that he never even knew he had.
"John," and his voice is weaker than he means it. The Badger utters something almost like a whimper, and he tucks his head under Sherlock's chin, shivering. Sherlock's fingers dig into John's shoulders, can't hold him close enough. "John, I can't do this. Not if it does this to you."
"No," John pleads into Sherlock's neck, "no, we can do this." He presses his mouth to the taller boy's throat, and they both give a shudder. "This was a terrible idea. If we can just keep away from each other, we can do this."
"But we're already here," Sherlock reminds him, as if John could forget (forget the way Sherlock's fingertips are scrubbing through the hair at the base of his skull). "If we're going to ruin this, we may as well do it thoroughly."
And then John is looking at him in a way that fills his insides with fire and heat that burns all the way to his toes. "God, yes," John says very quietly.
They've tried sloppy and fast before (and John still plays it in his head right up to the interruption more times than he'll admit to), but this is different. It's quiet and it's subdued. The movement of John's fingers through Sherlock's hair, not gripping or tugging but soothing; the long, languid kisses, more give than take, and the quiet breath they share; working buttons undone one by one, no rush whatsoever as John splays his fingers over warm, pale skin stretched over ribs and Sherlock counts his way slowly up John's back vertebra by vertebra.
When Sherlock's fingers press at John's belt buckle, the shorter one nods with an odd hitch in his breath, and he lines Sherlock's throat with kisses as the Slytherin unthreads the belt from his trousers. They step out of their shoes, move back as one until Sherlock's legs bump lightly against the edge of the bed. There's a brief dance of hands at their waistlines (John's square fingers tracking up Sherlock's hipbones to elicit a gracious shiver), and then they're kicking off trousers and socks and John makes the briefest mental note to remember the right tie this time around.
It's nearly surreal, Sherlock's curls haloed around his head on a bed that's not really his bed, in the middle of the night, at Hogwarts, in a room that no one can find but whoever needs it most. It's Sherlock's first time, and John doesn't have to tell him for Sherlock to know that it's John's too. (But neither really cares when hands meet flesh and backs arch and there's a myriad of new and interesting noises from both mouths.)
It must be some time long into the night, or nearly morning, with John smoothing Sherlock's sweat-soaked curls from his eyes, that John remembers why he really wanted to see Sherlock (awkward teenage fumbling notwithstanding). "Is it working?" he asks vaguely, because his brain is tugging between sleep and still-present memories of Sherlock's legs locked around him.
"You must be more specific," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes half-closed and his fingers still playing up John's spine like chords on a violin.
John really can't find it in himself to bring up the name while they're still naked and tangled together and trying to breathe normally. "Any news?" he settles on.
Sherlock must realize that this meeting has to be twofold, but he can't help the dissatisfied grunt he mutters into John's hair. "Nothing," he says finally.
Something in John's middle steels up, calcifies. "You think he doesn't even know? Hell, Sherlock, you think we could've been—"
Sherlock silences him with his own mouth, however briefly, before continuing. "Nothing in the traditional sense. No mysterious letters, no one sent to speak to me under the Imperius Curse." (Sherlock doesn't miss the shudder that passes through John, just as John doesn't miss the protective curl of fingers around him.) "But he knows. His spies are easy enough to spot, once you know what to look for."
When John self-consciously half-turns to look into the room, Sherlock brings the Hufflepuff back to him, wrapping both arms around him to secure them close together. "Owls," he murmurs in John's ear. "More than usual, collecting data. He knows. And you're doing brilliantly."
"Wish I could help," John pouts into Sherlock's chest. "They're not hurting you, are they?" He asks suddenly. "The Slytherins?"
"Don't worry about it, John."
"Sherlock."
"No. I've run out of ways to amuse them on the physical abuse front. And you know how well Anderson's taunts work on me."
"I could make it look like an accident," John mutters sleepily against him.
Sherlock smiles into John's hair, holds him close and lets the silence sink in for what feels like a long time before he says: "I miss you."
And John knows he can't stay. His throat seizes up, and the separation is going to have to be quick again, and he hates the feeling of being torn away from somewhere he's sure he never wants to leave.
"We can't do this again," John says, and it hurts, but he's glad he's said it. "If we're gonna see this plan through, we can't be sneaking up here every other night and—this has to be the last time. Until we get him."
Sherlock presses a fierce kiss to John's temple, and the words spill out in a weak voice that really shouldn't belong to Sherlock Holmes. "You know, don't you?"
"Yeah." Holding both sides of Sherlock's face gently, their foreheads and noses touching. "I love you, too, Sherlock."
They leave cautiously, at specifically-timed intervals, from separate exits. John ignores the owl perched innocuously on the banister of the main staircase. Soo Lin is still awake by the fire when John returns, and he does his best not to look as thought he's just come back from shagging the person he's supposed to revile.
"Long patrol?" she asks with no hint of recognition in her voice. She looks him over. "Did you go out to see Sherlock?"
To John's immense credit, he doesn't buckle. He's back into character so easily it almost scares him. "Yeah, I saw him all right. Out after curfew like he owns the whole castle. And he thinks he can patch things up, so I got in a row. Happy?"
Soo Lin frowns, and she's really not, but it works. She doesn't ask again. But even if he has to snarl and lie to the whole House, nothing can stop the brilliant smile blooming on his face as he shoves it into his pillow, closes his eyes, and plays the whole night over again until he falls asleep.
John's first Christmas holiday back at home in years is subdued. His mother is brighter because John seems happier, but there's no cheer in her. Harry stops by for some time, and she's changed so much that John hardly recognizes her. There's a sort of fatigue and despondence in her; she's given up.
The one thing that John does notice over the course of the holiday is the number of owls. He only notices because he's the only one looking for them (and when he casually attempts to broach the conversation with his mother, she says she hasn't noticed any but Toby hanging about). On the first day, he counts seven of them, swooping by at different times through the night and day, sometimes even perching nearby to get a good look in on the Watson home. Even just three days later, the number has dwindled to two, and two days before Christmas Eve, there are none at all.
It has to mean something's working. Jim has taken John off of surveillance, which must mean he's buying into their separation. He doesn't allow himself to get too excited about it, because every now and then, he'll see a dark shadow overhead (one sentry every other day, to be sure), but it has to be working.
He wants to tell Sherlock. John wants to find some way of letting him know that Jim's owls are so few and far between that he could be shagging Sherlock right up against his window and no one but the neighbors would be any wiser for it (and the thought turns him redder than he'd thought and it takes him some time to calm himself back from it). But who knows if the slack in security on John's part meant the piling upon on Sherlock's end? Maybe John could write in code, use a friend's owl. Maybe he could use a pseudonym and speak so vaguely that—
And an owl flutters up to John's window, tapping its beak eagerly on the glass to be let inside. It has a letter, and it's for him. His heart is hammering something awful in his throat, because it's the Holmes owl. It's from Sherlock.
John,
I know we've had our arguments, but I like to think we can put that behind us for the holidays. Mummy would like to see you, Mycroft as well. Perhaps we can talk things over. If convenient, please come for Christmas Eve. If inconvenient, come anyway.
SH
John knows Sherlock's letters well enough to know that this wasn't what he'd meant at all. He had something important to tell John, and it would be the perfect opportunity to further their ruse (especially in front of the entire Holmes clan, who hated John enough as is; the news of their split would be all the rage if they managed a spectacular row in the middle of all that). He grins conspiratorially, and, flipping the note over, he writes the reply on the back.
Fine.
JW
He tells his mother he'll be away for Christmas Eve, and he should be back for breakfast Christmas morning (if not sooner, he has no plans of spending the night at the Holmes Estate, it would be far too tempting). He plays the hopeful suitor, however, and has packed an overnight bag for the illusion. For a brief moment, her eyes light with hope, and he hates to snuff it so soon, so he lets her believe that this will be the rekindling of something.
Once he's to a safe point outside of town, John Apparates to the long, familiar drive of the Holmes Estate. It's almost like walking into a picture he hadn't thought to look at in ages, and a cold feeling delves into the pit of his stomach. He wonders if this isn't a mistake.
He doesn't look up at the owl perched in one of the trees lining the drive, just as it pretends not to notice him.
John knocks at the large front door, and he's never come on his own before. It feels even stranger not to have Sherlock at his elbow here, of all places. Staring wide-eyed and alone up at the footman who opens the door for him and gestures him into the wide, warm space. It's the color of champagne this year, decorated sparsely and neatly. John doesn't let the footman take his bag, because he knows he'll need all the time given to him to speak to Sherlock.
There are few bodies standing in the open so early in the evening, but those who are turn their heads and stare. He knows by now how to read a Holmes' eye. They hadn't expected him to be back, not the little ragamuffin half-blood in his baggy jumpers. He nearly wants to puff up and tell them just how he feels about Sherlock and how, someday, he's going to take that boy away from all of this.
But that's not his part to play. He visibly sags under their gaze, letting their haughty eyes penetrate his shields and wear him down. He doesn't look any of them in the eye, a kicked dog making his way through their legs. And then he runs into Sherlock.
Both of them are startled by the sudden appearance of the other, that's no ruse. It's the walls that both of them throw up instantly (walls that come a bit too easily for comfort) that lie. John stands taller, frowns oddly, and Sherlock mashes his brows together in sad confusion. There's an entire conversation going on under their movements, and none of their spectators are versed enough in their language to understand. (Are you all right? They've not been awful to you? Do you know how much I miss you? Shall we get out of their way? Your place or mine?)
Sherlock holds out his hand warily, a temporary truce. John nods stiffly, and he shakes Sherlock's hand a bit harshly. Sherlock turns quickly and heads up the stairs, and John follows with some considerable distance between them. Again, with it being crowded as it is at the Holmes Estate, the two will have to presumably share a room (something John knows he can't do, because one night with Sherlock is enough to ruin this whole thing), and John tries to play it off as being offended.
(The only person they don't fool is Mummy, who is the cleverest of all of them, but she somehow knows to play along.)
For the first few seconds in the door, John just stands staring at the bed—because it hadn't been this bed but something very similar on which he'd finally got his hands on Sherlock. And when he turns back to the door, it's familiar bright eyes smiling back at him.
John drops his bag in the middle of the floor and is over in two strides. And they stand there, inches apart and not touching despite the magnetic sort of pull the both of them feel. Just sharing the same space, breathing the same air, and John shudders happily.
"Your room's not watched?"
"Temporary lull, and the curtains are closed," Sherlock answers, and he ducks even closer (lips not brushing, but they may as well be).
John makes an oddly needy sound, and he desperately wants to complete their circuit, but he manages to say: "We should be talking, not snogging. Besides, if we take too long, it'll be suspicious."
Sherlock gives a dissatisfied grunt, but he knows that John is right. So he backs away against the door—still close, but safe.
"My owls are gone," John begins for them. "Well, there's still one that flies over now and then, but it never stops. I think Jim's cut me out of the picture."
Sherlock's eyes brighten even further (and it's strange in the sallow, sad face he's grown into since their separation in the summer). "His father's dead," Sherlock says briefly.
"What?"
"Jim's father, Professor Moriarty. Well, former professor."
"Hogwarts?"
"No, a Muggle university teacher. Mathematics. The perfect disguise for a wizarding crime syndicate mafioso, wouldn't you say?"
John's eyes flash with you dramatic bastard. "So, he's dead? How d'you know, and what's that got to do with the owls?"
"The Prophet," Sherlock remarks unremarkably. "Since our encounter in Hogsmeade, they've had a field day with the name of Moriarty, and now that one of them is dead, it's made the front page. I'm surprised you didn't notice."
"A bit busy, actually," John butts in, nearly closing them together again, his eyes on Sherlock's neck. "Go on."
"Jim must have taken the news very badly," Sherlock continues, his voice lowering and damn if it doesn't make John want him more. "Your watch is gone, and mine has been halved since the news came. This is good, with you out of the picture. It means he'll be focused on me, and the wreck you've made me—"
"Hey," John chides, and he finally breaks with protocol and brushes his hand at Sherlock's hip, and they nearly buck into one another.
Sherlock shuts his eyes against the swimming in his head. "This will be the final nail, so to speak. An attempted reconciliation gone sour, with you storming out and me irrevocably heartbroken."
"I won't like it," John says (and he wants to shove his cold hands under Sherlock's shirt and warm them against his back and put his mouth everywhere).
"You're not supposed to," Sherlock says, and that's the end of it. "Jim will come out of hiding soon enough, when he thinks I'm weak enough to gloat over. That's your time to shine, John."
"Could be dangerous," John murmurs, wanting this moment to last longer than it can.
"Yet here you are." Sherlock smiles brilliantly.
They start an argument not long after, and they make sure that it's obscenely loud. They make it down to the party, but both are frowning and John throws obscene gestures across the room when Sherlock looks over to him. John pretends to be drinking too much, and he's fairly sure they're not fooling Mycroft either, but it hardly matters if Mycroft knows.
Finally, it erupts in the middle of the party, when John shouts "Oh, I've had enough of you!" and he shoves Sherlock hard to the marble floor. Activity halts. Sherlock lies in a wounded huddle for several long moments as murmuring starts up around them. "You can have all this and shove it right up your arse," John spits. "Like you could even care."
And even when Sherlock shoves himself off the ground and bolts up the stairs, John is shouting abuse after him, line after scathing line, and the rest of the Holmes clan is too scandalized to say or do anything. And John is very lucky that he hadn't packed anything fragile or valuable in his overnight bag, because Sherlock reemerges from his room to chuck it over the railing from the second floor. It hits the marble with a smack and John growls a string of curses.
When he throws his bag over his shoulder and raises his head to give one more more parting obscenity to the Slytherin's face, John can't bring himself to do it. Because Sherlock's angry face is clouded with tears and threatening to buckle into a sob. But he's strong and that's a proud face that stares down at him (despite the lines tracking down his cheeks and chin).
John's heart feels like it's pumping fine glass instead of blood, and his face almost betrays him. But he sets his jaw (his teeth feel like they might crack under the pressure), spins on heel and stomps out the front door. When he arrives back at his own little house in Guildford, his mother doesn't expect him, and she looks up with worried, glassy eyes.
"I don't want to talk about it," John snarls in a voice that should feel stronger. He slams his door when he gets there.
The image keeps him up at night, face buried helplessly in his pillow, the look of irrevocable heartbreak on Sherlock's face. He never wants to see Sherlock Holmes cry again, because he's not sure he'll be able to live through it again.
The time after Christmas is the hardest, and it's not because John is sad and pining and holding himself up in every doorway he passes to sigh deeply. It's because he isn't. He's getting a lot of good studying in. The team is playing better than he can remember since before Carl has been gone (but no one forgets, no one will ever forget), and Amanda has finally got the hang of flying in formation and they feel unstoppable (they absolutely destroy Gryffindor in mid-February and John hopes against all hope for the Quidditch Cup his last year). John's sleeping better, better than he has in years. Because he's not answering owls in the middle of the night, or exploring Sherlock's neck with his tongue long into the morning.
He eats his breakfasts with the team, laughs when Jabez makes a joke (who knew the introverted ginger boy was so personable?), doesn't ever turn to look across at the Slytherin table. He walks the halls with Soo Lin and they talk about what they'll be doing after school (she wants to work with antiquities, even if she has to do it with Muggles; John tells her that St. Mungo's has already contacted him about an apprenticeship next summer).
On the occasion that he and Sherlock pass in the hall, John usually ignores him. Once or twice, Sherlock raises his eyes as if he's about to speak and John shoots him down before he has the chance.
One morning, their shoulders not even brushing, John hears Sherlock mutter under his breath: "Mudblood."
John rounds on him, eyes wide in shock and his throat is clogged up with everything begging to burst out. "What did you say?" John shouts, and it's like a shot.
Sherlock turns slowly, and his eyes are dark and hollowed out. "You heard me," he says, but it's strained.
Suddenly, John has him by the collar, slamming Sherlock up against the wall, and his wand is pressed right into the underside Sherlock's chin. And Sherlock actually looks scared, because John is gritting his teeth and pinning him for real. That's not an act, not even slightly. Sherlock's frightened breath catches and he locks his eyes with John's.
And it hits John low in the stomach. There's a horrified moment of Oh God that flashes across his face, and he hopes that Sherlock knows. John backs off abnormally fast. He's breathing hard and it hurts because his throat is so tight, and he hates this.
"Not worth my time," John snaps weakly. His knees are shaking as he stalks away, and before Soo Lin can catch up with him, he tells her that he'll see her in Charms, he needs to have a break.
John dry-heaves in the first stall he can get to in the boys restroom. His stomach is twisting and he feels hot from head to toe, and absolutely disgusted with himself. He'd wanted to hurt Sherlock so badly, shoot him with something that would sting and show him who he should call a dirty Mudblood. But it was Sherlock, for God's sake, and he didn't mean it. John's throat contracts again, and his stomach drops and he desperately wants to vomit.
It's going too far, but he knows Sherlock wouldn't want him to give up. Not even after that.
He comes to Charms three minutes late, and no one says a thing for the ashen look on John's face.
It's nearly April again, a Saturday, and John has gone with several of the Hufflepuffs to Hogsmeade for a break. It's bright and fairly warm, and the grass should be coming out green soon enough, and John just needs to get his mind off of the plan and back on his studies—hell, the examiners will be here in another month and a half, and he doesn't feel half prepared. A day out should do it, and he asks if he can stroll a bit on his own. He won't be far, he assures Soo Lin, just wants to stretch his legs at a different pace.
"Be careful," she tells him worriedly.
John smirks. "From what?" And he's off on his own, hands in his pockets and already lost in thought.
The path toward the Shrieking Shack is clear of students and remarkably quiet, considering how close it actually is to the little town swarming with kids eager to be out of the castle. John kicks at a rock, looking off at the ramshackle house with little interest. There's a Ravenclaw following him.
When he turns to confront the watcher, he's more than a bit surprised to see Sherlock's gray eyes staring out from between a Ravenclaw's scarf and a overlarge cap that really doesn't suit him at all. The boy, from what John can see, is burned and cut, and the right side of his face is already swelling up.
John doesn't have time to ask what happened and what he's doing here before Sherlock smirks. "Moran tried to kill me," Sherlock says with a daft grin. "Don't you see? That's good news!"
"Doubt it," John says urgently, and he forgets all the rules and steps right into Sherlock's space to throw the scarf and hat quickly away to examine Sherlock up close. "What the hell happened? And skip the details, thanks."
Sherlock smirks, winces with a hiss when John eases aside his curls to examine the long red line leading from his ear to his scalp. "Moran cursed my inkwell to explode. My inkwell, what sort of idiot curses an—" He cuts the rant short at John's serious glare. "Well, obviously it had to be Moran working on his own to cut me out of the picture. Jim wouldn't try to kill me off from afar, oh no, he'd need to see me face to face and gloat."
"So you think it's a good idea to show up in Hogsmeade and fetch me?" John asks, but he can't help the stir of excitement in old coals in his heart.
"Well, what use is a trap if you're not there to spring it?" Sherlock asks. "Jim will come and find me soon enough, and you'd best be ready."
"I'll kill him if I have to," John says, and the growl in his voice is enough to convince Sherlock that he will. And John steels himself by fixing Sherlock with a fierce kiss.
They're interrupted by the slow sound of clapping.
"Well done, boys," says the chillingly familiar voice from somewhere nearby.
John rounds quickly on the voice, wand raised, but there's the quick sound of a spell and it goes sailing from his hand before he's even found a target.
"And I've still got my wand on him, Sherlock," the voice continues, "so you'd better throw yours down, too. There's a good boy."
They see the grin from between the trees before they see the boy. He looks almost as weathered and beaten as Sherlock does, and there's a manic sort of tilt to the smile that wasn't there in the calm, collected face burned into their memories. And it's somehow even worse, looking into those eyes in broad daylight.
"I have to say, you had me convinced for a while," Jim says conversationally, bending to pick up their wands and hold them loosely in his off-hand. "Come on, you two, get moving." He holds the wand with a straight and unmoving hand, trained and steady.
"Yes, all right, you've got me," Sherlock says calmly. "Why don't we go and leave John out of our petty feud?"
Jim giggles. It's a horrible line of high-pitched squeals, and he cocks his head as if at a pet begging for attention. "I might have, yesterday. You'd been so clever about the whole thing, but you slipped at the finish line. So sad for you, all the heartache for nothing. Oh, no, Johnny's obviously far too embroiled in the matter, he must stick around."
He makes a motion with his wand, and, at first neither of them move. Jim's head sways dangerously from side to side, and his grin flickers into a scowl. "I'd get going, gents, I know a fair share of curses myself. Move." And the last isn't shouted, it's hissed, horrible and alien from lips that sneer.
Sherlock moves first, and John follows him dutifully. They don't touch, don't dare. Jim follows behind, his wand aimed square at the middle of John's back. They move up the path and through the fence to the Shrieking Shack. Jim gives another pensive laugh and murmurs, "Lovely place for a murder."
Once he's marched them up the stairs and into the room nearest the landing, he orders them to stop and face him. John and Sherlock wear nearly identical masks of stoicism, which Jim matches with his toothy smile.
"Not too close," he warns them. "Step away there, Johnny. He's such a good dog, isn't he, Sherlock."
Sherlock bites his tongue, because that wand is still pointed threateningly at John.
"Good," Jim says softly, almost fondly. "Learned your lesson last time, didn't you? Oh, Sherlock," he whines, and now he looks almost like the little First Year that John met on the train all those years back, big angelic eyes gazing innocently out at the world. "Why couldn't we have worked it out? We could've been something great. I'm so much cleverer than your Badger, I really can't see what it is you find in him."
Sherlock's eyes flick to John's, as if to say I was right about the gloating.
John's shoot back Not the time, idiot.
"Well, I suppose our time is out, because I've really had enough of trying to impress you. So, I'd like to kill you." He shrugs as easily as if he were taking the rubbish to the curb, not casting the killing curse.
Sherlock's gray eyes flash up to look Jim straight through. "If I do, if I let you win and let you have me, you must let John go."
"Sherlock—" John gives a strangled, hurt noise.
"Promise," Sherlock bites, and the shack is suddenly very quiet.
The Jim grins, tilting his head at the interesting turn of events. "So you'll come to me willingly, and we Apparate out together, and your Badger can walk away unharmed. Interesting, if not a bit predictable. All right, if that's what you want."
And he holds his hand out to Sherlock, as casual as a handshake. Sherlock takes his first step forward, and John makes a desperate, jerky movement toward him, but Jim simply points his wand in John's direction.
Sherlock hisses, "John, stay where you are. Don't be an idiot." Calms himself, takes a breath, and, turning his head only slightly to look back at the boy over his shoulder, fixes John with eyes that he hasn't seen in months. "You know, don't you?" He asks at the last.
John's throat pulls tight, and he feels his knees go numb from the shock of it all. Jim and Sherlock splinter into a hundred reflections of themselves in his eyes, and goddammit, why is he crying? "Yeah," he manages around the Something in his throat. "Yeah, Sherlock."
Sherlock turns back to Jim, whose grin has gone almost half-moon in its width and brilliance. His big eyes drinking in the lovely anguish he's causing, and his hand still hovering between them, waiting to be taken.
Then: "It's too bad your father can't be around for this."
Something in Jim's eye twitches. "What?"
And there's a flare of hope deep in John's stomach.
"Your father," Sherlock enunciates slowly, as if to a child. "It's a shame he got himself killed before he could see your victory. Killed by an idiot mistake, too, it's a shame."
"It wasn't a mistake," Jim snaps suddenly, and the air feels stale (as if a fire has sucked all the life from it). "It was you. You and your tongue wagging our name to your Ministry and your brother—oh don't think I don't know about him, I've got his number too, sweetheart. If you hadn't sicced your dogs on our heels—"
"I didn't say he died by accident," Sherlock cuts in, and he can see the rage growing in Jim's face just as well as he can see John's careful movements out of the corner of his eye. "I said he made an idiot mistake. Like getting himself caught and utterly failing to defend himself and his family. And it seems as though he's failed so spectacularly that the whole Moriarty name is as good as dross—"
The movements are almost too quick to follow. Enraged Jim moving the wand right up under Sherlock's chin, Sherlock's strong and defiant stare, and the movement of Jim's mouth as he forms the spell. And most especially, before Jim can even finish the first syllable of the killing curse, John Watson appearing from nowhere to tackle Jim to the floor.
Dust flies into the dark, close air when they crash to the floorboards, hard enough to rattle jaws and daze little Jimmy Moriarty. John's never hit anyone with his fists in his life, but he slams one punch into Jim's jaw hard enough to feel something of Jim's crunch. But even a scrawny boy like Jim is tough in a brawl, and he squirms under John and wrangles for control of his wand hand.
(Sherlock is scrambling somewhere behind them, looking for his wand, John is hardly aware of the movement.)
John slams Jim's wrist back against the floor, trying to get the wand out of his hand, gritting his teeth and pinning Jim's neck under his forearm. And Jim is shouting curses, colorful spells flying from the end of his wand and vanishing with no target every time John slams his hand down to the floor.
(Sherlock has his wand just in time to throw a Full Body Bind at Moran, who had just burst into the room, and he hits the floor almost comically.)
And finally Jim has wrestled control back into his off-hand, and he shoots a punch right at John's nose, and it breaks horribly. And with the distraction, the Slytherin is back on his feet and his wand is shaking when he raises it to Sherlock and—
John leaps at him from the ground, digging his claws into Jim's shirt and wrenching him away in time for the flash of green to go careening off into a far corner, and John gives a hoarse yell as he throws all of his strength into it and—
With the sharp movement, John trips backward over Moran's prostrate body by the door. He and Jim go tumbling out the door, briefly struggle on the dusty floor as they roll, and suddenly vanish over the lip of the staircase.
It takes a moment for it to sink into Sherlock's gut. A terrible, long moment where he listens for sound of movement from the floor below, listens for John's triumphant laugh or even a groan of pain. When nothing comes, Sherlock's insides go cold and he suddenly belts out: "John?"
He's down the stairs faster than he thought he could move.
Jim and John are tangled and motionless at the bottom of the stairs, and someone's bleeding. Sherlock hovers over the two of them, and his hands are shaking when he kneels and throws Jim's discarded wand far across the floor.
When Sherlock presses worried fingertips to John's face, the Badger buckles and grins painfully, but he doesn't open his eyes. "Ow," he mutters uselessly. "Think I broke something. Not my back," he interjects before Sherlock can worriedly ask. Sherlock takes the prompt to pull John to him. "Ankle. You think we can do something about this rubbish?" He nods at Jim's motionless form.
"I think you've killed him," Sherlock says placidly, not an ounce of regret in his voice.
"Pity," John breathes, letting his head sag into Sherlock's lap. "I bet the Dementors would've got a kick out of him."
Against all reason, Sherlock laughs. Kisses John's forehead, laughs, and helps him to stand. They find the nearest teacher (Hagrid, at the Boar's Head), and let him know about the whole situation. In what feels like an instant, they're surrounded by Aurors and everyone is asking them questions. Sherlock answers all of them and kindly asks everyone to keep their voices down, because John's head has lolled onto Sherlock's shoulder, dead asleep.
They arrest Moran a second time, and this time he makes it all the way to Azkaban.
They finish out the rest of the year, and John feels as though he spends most of it convincing the Hufflepuffs that Sherlock really isn't as bad as he'd said and he really is in love with him. It doesn't take as long as John thinks, because they remember Sherlock, and they remember the year that the two of them spent by the fire and talking without needing to speak. (Yes, they're slightly upset that John lied to them about the situation, but the team forgives them easily). They welcome Sherlock back to the table for breakfasts, back to their section for Quidditch, and most importantly, back to his chair by the fire.
John and Sherlock study for their N.E.W.T.s together in the Hufflepuff common room. Sherlock with the burns and cuts healing on his face and John limping on his bad ankle (Sherlock thinks it's mostly psychosomatic, and John tells him to shut up).
When Andy catches the snitch in their final match against Slytherin, the entire Hufflepuff section erupts in noise, and John nearly cries when he grabs everyone close to him and kisses more cheeks and foreheads than he can remember belonging to his team (he must have gone around a second time). He grabs Sherlock when he runs onto the pitch with the rest of the House, and John sweeps him up in a searing kiss that burns away the rest of the world, and there's nothing more important than the two of them.
The Prophet runs a story about the youngest Moriarty falling to his death in Hogsmeade, and John and Sherlock go completely unmentioned. John suspects Mycroft's involvement, and he wonders just how much he owes that man at the Ministry, and just how a man his age can get away with so much. He doesn't ask, because he's mostly afraid of the answer. But the outcome is the same: no one knows what happened in the Shrieking Shack, no one swarms the two with questions, and they only tell who they want (the Hufflepuffs, who will never tell a soul).
Lying in bed, John asks, "What're we gonna do when we get old?"
Sherlock shrugs at first. "If our escapades with Jim and Moran are anything to go by, I'd say we shouldn't have to worry about it."
"You'd better try dying on me, Sherlock Holmes," John murmurs, kissing Sherlock hard at the forehead. "I won't let you."
Sherlock smirks, and he kisses each of John's fingers thoughtfully. "I thought I might keep bees."
John laughs, and he has to quiet himself down when the nearest boy complains in his sleep. "You? Keeping bees? You'll blow them up in under a week, I guarantee. Fantastically."
"You're on, John Watson," Sherlock says quietly, grinning in the dark.
AN: YOU'RE NOT OUT OF THE WOODS YET. I am definitely doing an epilogue a la Rowling, so we aren't finished with this world just yet. That being said, this one IS shorter than the ones before it, so I feel very JK-ish at the moment (no ego here, just in words I swear!). But it was SO HARD to write, because I love these boys and making them hurt hurts me a bit. But it's all fine in the end, and let me tell you just how much FUN this series has been, and everyone has been so darn wonderful to me, and I can hardly believe a little idea bloomed into this enormous thing. Much thanks to Laurie R. King for the separation idea (go read the Mary Russell series, plzthx), to my amazing beta Lady Dan, and to you kind folks reading. Leave some love and, above all else, STAY AWESOME!