Chapter Nine

Liar, Liar

"Carl!" John exclaimed when Carl opened the door to the train compartment, John and Mike were sharing. Carl beamed back at them, pulling his trunk in and shutting the door behind him. "Better?"

He nodded, sitting down across from him. "Much, I feel pretty good actually, completely healed," he shuddered slightly. "I have never felt pain like that."

"Do you remember any of it?" John asked, his mind on Richard Brooke, wondering if Carl could help place him. Before he remembered that it was not his problem any more, it was Sherlock's.

Carl shook his head. "My memories go from heading down to class one day, to in St Mungos, but I've been told what happened."

"I'm sorry," John said, at the look that Carl was giving him.

"It isn't your fault John," the other boy said. "Or Sherlock's. Where is he anyway? Though he'd be here by now, he passed me on the platform. He looked exhausted."

"He's Sherlock," John said dismissively. "That boy doesn't sleep."

"He usually doesn't show it though," Mike pointed out.

He shrugged, he really did not want to talk about it. It hurt. Mike and Carl sensing this, dropped the topic and started to talk about their summers, leaving John to stew over Sherlock.

"You and the freak haven't reconciled then?"

John glanced up from his meal and over at Sally Donnavon who was leaning across the table at him, her plate of food by her elbow. He didn't respond, but instead his eyes drifted to the Slytherin table, and after some searching found Sherlock, an empty plate in front of him.

"Oh, leave him alone Sally," Sarah berated her friend, giving John a sympathetic smile when his gaze turned back to the Gryffindors. He gave her a rather forced one in return.

"Just interesting is all," Sally said, her eyes flickering to the Slytherin table. "Inseparable for the better part of six years then…" she trailed off, staring at John intently.

"It's none of your business Sally," Carl said frowning at his house mate.

Sally glanced at Carl for a moment, and then back at John before shrugging. "Fine," she said, leaning back and pulling her plate towards her. "Curious is all."

John just wanted the meal to end, and he knew that he was going to get comments like that for a long time, because he and Sherlock had been inseparable for six years.

All through dinner, Sherlock had noticed the glances towards him. The students of Hogwarts having presumed that the duo would have made up over the break, wondering what the cause of their fight was. But unlike John, his housemates did not talk to him about it, Sherlock could tell they were slightly disgruntled by the fact that he was sitting with them again.

"Fought with your little lion have you?"

Sherlock turned, on his way back to the common room, to find Moriarty, and a few steps behind him Moran. "Obviously," Sherlock replied facing forward again. Why ask a question you know the answer to. "What do you want Moriarty?"

"Oh, you can't tell?" he asked mockingly, Sherlock gave a huff of annoyance, he hated such comments. He couldn't read minds, and looking at people didn't always give him the answers. At Sherlock's irritated stare, he smiled a smile lacking happiness. "Just voicing everyone's thoughts Holmes, wondering what has caused it all."

"Not your business, is it Moriaty?"

The boy's smiled widened. "Because you always care about whose business it is and whose it is not. As you always poke about in other people's business."

"Because I see, I don't go around asking people questions. I observe."

"Yes, yes, you're a genius," he said mockingly. "Well if you're going to be that way…" he trailed off, and walked past him, Moran at his heels.

"Mr Holmes, a word?"

Sherlock glanced up at Professor Hudson as the class left the room, and nodded at her. The first week had passed as quickly as it always did, and transfiguration was the second last class of the day, a double potions lesson.

Bag packed, he headed up to the front of the room, and stood there as they waited for the room to empty. "Professor?" he questioned once the door had shut behind the last student.

"Are you alright Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked. "Of course," he said after a pause. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Professor Hudson watched him, from the other side of her desk. "One can not fail to notice the…rift between you and Mr Watson," Sherlock stiffened at his name. "And whilst he has other people to comfort him, you…"

"Don't," Sherlock said bluntly, she gave a hesitant nod. "I'm fine Professor," he lied and he almost sounded as if he meant it, if it wasn't for the look in his eye as he stared at her. "I don't need anyone."

"Sherlock."

"I'm fine," he repeated sharply. "If that is all Professor?" he asked pointedly. She nodded, and he stalked out of the room, by passing the great hall for lunch and heading straight to the potions classroom. Pulling out his book, he lounged against the wall, reading.

Sherlock noticed the arrival of Slughorn before he noticed the Slytherin boy leaning against the wall. "Mr Holmes," he said in surprise, shifting his bag from one hand to the other.

"Professor," Sherlock greeted, closing his book with a gentle thump.

"You did not go to lunch?" Slughorn questioned, unlocking the door and entering, Sherlock right behind him.

"Wasn't hungry," he said, setting himself down in his usual place.

"Ah."

Potions he always looked forward to, a class he always enjoyed, and usually succeeded in distracting him from his thoughts. Slughorn gave him the potion, and Sherlock got to a start before the rest of the class turned up. Successfully tuning out Slughorn as he explained to his peers the potion.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, the time he had to let the potion simmer for, coincided with John heading towards the storeroom for a certain ingredient, and Sherlock's eyes trailed the Gryffindor across the room. John looked better than he had at the end of the term before, but he still looked tired, unhappy, even the smile he gave Mike as he returned to his place looked rather forced.

He turned back to his potion, but he had been distracted, and kept glancing towards John. Dropping rosemary into the potion, he started as he realized that it was a good few shades off the colour he was meant to have, his deep blue potion was meant to be a pale blue.

Running a hand through his hair in exasperation, he firmly forced his attention away from a certain Gryffindor, and worked on nullifying the wrong changes he had made.

"Does he never eat?" John wondered aloud, one dinner time, staring over at the Slytherin table. Sherlock had continued his not eating breakfast, neither had John yet seen him in the great hall at lunch time. It was becoming rare to see him at dinner, even. And as John stared over at him, the boy didn't seem to be eating anything, the plate in front of him empty.

Carl and Mike exchanged looks. "I thought you didn't care," Carl said, grabbing a lemon tart.

"I don't," John said quickly, ripping his eyes from the Holmes and turning to his friends. "Just commenting is all," he said defensively, to disbelieving looks. "He's hardly eaten since school started back."

Neither Carl nor Mike pointed out that for John to notice this, would mean that he did care, because he would have to be constantly watching Sherlock to see whether or not he was eating.

John was frowning.

"John," Mike said. "It's okay to care."

"I don't!"

He got a sceptical look in return. "You were friends for years, it's fine to be worried if he isn't eating."

"I'm not," but feeble protests aside, he did. Sherlock almost looked as if he was about to suddenly keel over, looked as if he hadn't had a good nights sleep in a long time. "I'm worried about him," he admitted after a few moments of quiet. "And I hate myself for it, because why should I care. It's not my fault, I haven't done anything to him," he had to force himself to keep his voice level, to not start shouting.

He blinked furiously. "Why do I care?" he asked, voice now quiet and cracked. "He hurt me, I shouldn't care about him."

"People hurting you doesn't suddenly make you hate them," Mike said, glancing over at Sherlock whose met his eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then glanced away, flickering over the great hall. "Because it's hard to hate a person you have liked for that long."

John wiped at his eyes. "But I shouldn't. It's not fair."

"But it's the way it works," he put a hand on John's shoulder. "And it's okay to feel what you are feeling."

John hid his face in his hand, not wanting to have a break down in the middle of the great hall. "I don't want to feel it, I just- just- want things to go back to how they were," he glanced sideways at Mike. "I can't- I just- this hurts, but even with all he's done, I'd give anything for it to go back to how it was."

"I know," he said quietly. "Come on, let's go back to the common room."

He nodded mutely, and they headed out. "I can't even bring myself to hate him for the pain he's caused, because, after everything… he's still, Sherlock. And I just want it to be okay."

Mike glanced around when they reached the staircase, to find Sherlock in the doorway they had just passed through, who had likely been trailing behind them as they left, hearing the last few sentences. His eyes were fixed on John, but glanced towards Mike when they noticed him staring, his expression unreadable.

I hope you're happy, Mike wanted to say as those blue eyes followed them up the stair case, and not for the first time, Mike wondered what Sherlock was thinking.

I'm sorry, was that thing. And he agreed with John. He just wanted it all to be okay, but it couldn't be, not yet. Because Sherlock had to keep him safe, and that would take as long as it took to discover who Richard Brooke was.