Chapter Eight

Without You Here

Exams came and went.

John went worse than he had been expecting too, but then at the same time that wasn't entirely surprising. He had had trouble studying, the sudden lack of Sherlock hit him hard, and the fact that Carl was still out of action did not help matters. Though he was conscious, and said to go home early in the holidays, and should be back at school for the new year, their last year.

Ravenclaw won the House cup, and Slytherin came in second. Gryffindor was not at all pleased that they had come last, even Slytherin was slightly disgruntled with second.

John was so relieved when the last day came, but as he and Mike settled in a compartment and Mike pulled out a deck of cards, he noticed how much emptier it was, without Sherlock and Carl. Right as he was thinking this, Sherlock passed the compartment, and the two of them caught each other's eyes.

John stared sadly at him, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in return before continuing onwards. John sighed loudly, Mike glanced over at him sympathetically.

"He'll come around."

"Will he?" John asked dubiously, he'd fought with Sherlock a few times over the years they had known each other, but not a fight like that. And Sherlock was always painfully honest when they did, which was why John did not doubt him at this time. Because he didn't see why Sherlock would lie about it.

"Do you want to invite John over for a few days dear?"

Sherlock glanced over at his mother over the table, and gave a bored shrug. "No," he said, and went back to picking at his food. He ignored the sidelong look that Mycroft gave him, and the way that his mother's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?" he asked, not looking up at her.

"Why not?"

He wanted to ask, why not what? Just to be irritating, but that would get him a displeased look from his mother. Because faking not understanding annoyed her, it annoyed Sherlock too actually. He couldn't see why people would act stupider than they already were. "Because he's boring," he said instead.

Which wasn't really true, John was anything but boring. That was the reason why he had spent all these past years with him, because out of all of these boring people there was John, who for all his faults, and for all the reasons why he shouldn't have, he had caught Sherlock's interest and attention.

"Maybe Sherlock could stay here for a week or so sometime this summer?"

John had not talked to his mother about what had happened between him and Sherlock a few weeks before the end of term. He didn't want to think about, to discuss it with his mother. Not that it stopped him thinking about it, as it was constantly on his mind.

"Maybe," he said instead of what he was thinking Sherlock's reply would be to being invited over during the summer. He gave his mother a weak smile and disappeared into his room, shutting the door with more force than was necessary.

John had to admit, every time that he got an owl, he was hoping it would be from Sherlock. It never was.

Much to his mother's displeasure, Sherlock spent a lot of the summer working on his experimental potions. She would have no problem if he was working on potions in general, but Sherlock's reactions were not a reassuring sight, and she was quite partial to their potions room. She was not partial to finding him in it at odd hours of the night.

But it was a distraction, and he needed this distraction, to stop himself sending John owls in the middle of the night like he used to, his temperamental sleeping had gotten worse. Gotten to the point where he'd been so exhausted he'd fallen asleep sitting in the potions lab, while letting the potion sit before adding the next ingredient. (The potion had been completely ruined by the time Mycroft had shook him awake.)

"Sherlock, eat your dinner."

"Not hungry," he said, not looking away from his chemistry book.

His mother pulled the book out of his hand, and he gave her an irritated look. "Eat, I haven't seen you eat in the last few days."

"Well it's not as if you trail me all day," he said surly, though when he thought about it. He hadn't eaten the last few days.

"Sherlock," she said, her tone turning sympathetic. Which was when Sherlock knew that he had won, because those emotions he could manipulate. Though his mother should know this by now. The both of them and Mycroft had been dancing their dance since they learnt to walk. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine mother," Sherlock said, ignoring the disbelieving look this earned him from both her and his brother. "Don't need to eat as much now I've stopped growing." He gave her a smile that would have fooled anyone else, but not his mother.

"What happened with you and John?" she asked bluntly. And out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mycroft still for a moment, before going back to his meal.

"Nothing," Sherlock lied. "He just got boring."

"If he was going to get boring, he would have done so long before now," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "Well he did," he said swiping his book back, and left the table. Food barely touched. Mycroft followed the action with a thoughtful frown.

"Did you and Sherlock have a fight?" John's mother asked, when he suggested Mike as a friend to take with them when they went to the beach.

"No," he said automatically. "But Sherlock had no fondness for beaches," which wasn't actually a lie. Sherlock would complain about the sand, and the sun, and John would sit there and say he should have invited Mike instead, and Sherlock would shoot him an amused smile and… he shook his head, and banished the thought out of his head. "I just want time to relax mum, not run about with my friends. I see them all year, it's nice just… being at home."

"Okay dear."

The doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," John said, heading out to the front door and pulling it open. He blinked, finding Mycroft standing there, looking every bit as if he belonged in the muggle world. "Hello?" he said with a frown. Wondering why on earth Mycroft was here.

"Hello John," he said, doing an eye flick that John associated with Sherlock, taking in as much information in a glance as was inhumanly possible. "We'll skip the pleasantries shall we? What did you do to my brother?"

John blinked, and then scowled. "Nothing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow dubiously.

"You should be asking him what he did to me. I didn't do anything to him," he scowled, and tried to ignore the painful twist in his stomach that accompanied thinking of Sherlock. The feeling of betrayal, and the urge to curl up and cry. "Your brother has lost the damn plot."

Mycroft frowned thoughtfully, and John didn't care one whit what was going through his mind. "Well what did he do to you then?"

"Why don't you ask him?" John asked irritably, not wanting to be in the presence of a Holmes for any longer than he absolutely had to.

"We did. He claims you've just turned boring," he tilted his head to the side and watched John.

"That's that then," John replied. "Why'd you have to come here to ask me when you already have an answer?"

"Because I don't think it's a very good one. You don't become suddenly boring after six years."

"Apparently I was boring the whole way through. Only hung out with me because it…made people view him better or something."

That doesn't sound like Sherlock, Mycroft mused to himself. Though he said nothing to John because he was sure that Sherlock had a reason for doing what he was doing. And he wasn't about to spoil whatever Sherlock was planning. But Sherlock would never hang out with people because it put him in a good light, Sherlock had better things to do then to hang out with people that he did not want to hang out with.

He nodded at John, and made a mental note to ask his brother what was going on. Not that Sherlock would answer, his brother was insufferable that way. "Have a nice holiday Watson," he said, and turned down the path, apparating away half way down it.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a long sigh, and glanced over at his brother. "No," he said, before Mycroft had a chance to say anything else.

The two stared at each other for a few long moments, both knowing exactly how this conversation was going to plan out.

In the end Mycroft tilted his head in defeat, but with a look that said he had finished trying to get to the bottom of this he left the room.

Sherlock wanted his brother to leave him alone.

He wanted to be left alone.

No he didn't.

What he really wanted, was John.

He scowled, and attempted to push that thought firmly out of his mind.

November was exams and NaNoWriMo, and since I hit holidays I've just had no motivation to do anything. So I'm really sorry for that. This is slightly rushed because tomorrow I am going away for the best part of a month, so will unlikely have any chance to update. Happy Holidays! And I will try to update more often once I return.