Chapter Eleven

Honesty is (not) the best policy

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he woke up in an abandoned classroom, instead of his dorm room. The boy wrinkled his nose, and pushed himself up onto his elbows as he glanced around. He wrote it off as his dorm mates trying to pull something on him, though he thought it was rather Gryffindor-ish of them.

He frowned when he glanced out the window, and the sun was quite high up in the sky. With a sigh he got to his feet, of course they would have magically knocked him out, he was a light enough sleeper that trying to move him would have awoken him. At least he had robes pulled over the top of his sleeping clothes.

His teachers weren't going to be very impressed, but then, he didn't really care.

Judging by the emptiness of the hallways, it was right in the middle of class, though without a watch he didn't know which class he was meant to be heading towards. He could have worked it out if he had bothered, but he would rather miss the class completely than have to explain why he was late. In front of a collection of his classmates.

Second floor, he established when he stepped out of the room, and then turned back towards it with a frown. The room of his correspondence with Brooke. "A coincidence surely," he mused. His house mates wouldn't know about that. And he doubted it was Brooke playing a trick on him.

"Mr Holmes," a voice said, and the boy spun to find Professor Turner standing there, watching him suspiciously.

"Professor," he answered.

"Why aren't you in class?"

"I had a spare," he said, hoping that the Professor wouldn't think anything of that, as a sixth year he did have a nice collection of them.

"Whilst the rest of your year is in potions?" she asked, her suspicious look worsening. "I recall you being a member of that class."

Sherlock just stared at him.

"If you'd follow me, Mr Holmes."

"Where?" he asked, not moving to follow her.

"The headmistresses office."

"For skipping class?" That seemed quite excessive, even for a teacher that didn't like him. He doubted MgGonagall would be impressed by being disturbed for such a trivial matter. But then, Professor Turner had held a grudge against him since the first week in first year.

She didn't reply, and walked off and with a sigh the boy followed her.

"Mr Holmes," McGonagall said gravely when Sherlock entered the room behind the Professor. He frowned slightly at her tone, it didn't suit the circumstance, especially as she didn't know what he was in here for.

"He was claiming he had a spare Minerva," Professor Turner said.

McGonagall nodded. "Thank you," she said, and the other Professor left the room. McGongall gestured Sherlock into a seat.

"There's been another attack, hasn't there?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"But that doesn't explain why I'm here," as she was still adamant in attempting to keep him out of events. Which really didn't work for her.

"Because the student attacked has claimed that you were the one who attacked him."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. "What? That's ridiculous," he said scornfully. She stared at him, and he stared back at her. "You don't think I did, surely."

"Why else would he claim it was you?"

"Doesn't like me? Was confuded to think it was me? There's quite a lot of options for that Professor, it isn't hard to magically muddle thoughts of evidence Professor."

"Then where were you this morning?"

"In a room on the second floor," he answered.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Woke up there. Some of my dorm mates idea of good trick I'd presume."

"According to one of your dorm mates, you left in the night and didn't return."

"Because they wouldn't want to admit what they've done, would they?" Common knowledge, he thought irritably, of course they won't going to admit what they'd done. Even if the face of him getting into bad trouble. They hated him enough for that.

"I doubt they'd-"

"You forget who you're talking about Professor," Sherlock interrupted. "These are not your lions who have a sense of right and wrong, and a desire to do the right thing. A Slytherin will save their hind, unless it is protecting someone they care about. My dorm mates certainly have no care for me, and thus, they'll protect themselves."

She frowned thoughtfully, staring over at him. "Another thing," she said after a few moments, and from her draw pulled out a wand and passed it to him. He took it, and glanced up at her sharply.

"Why do you have my wand?" he asked, turning it around in his hand.

"It was found at the scene of the attack."

"It was not me," he said, pocketing the wand.

She eyed him for a few moments. "You are free to head to class now," she said, and Sherlock eyed her suspiciously at the sudden dismissal but rose to his feet, and left the room to head back and change into his clothing.

He was only part way down the hall when he heard his name again, coming from a portrait on the wall. "Yes?" he asked, stopping and turning to face Professor Snape.

"Where were you this morning?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I believe I answered that Professor."

"Yes," Snape said simply. "You did."

He tilted his head to the side. "You don't believe me either."

"I neither believe nor disbelieve you Holmes. As you said, we will always save ourselves first, unless there is a greater cause. And as you said, you do not care for them, you'll protect yourself."

Sherlock had had a feeling that those words would come back to bite him, but they were true after all. "I would protect myself," he agreed. "But I am no fool Professor, If I had attacked a student, I would make sure I was not seen doing anything out of the ordinary, I would not miss my class, and I would certainly not leave my wand at the scene."

"Ah but Mr Holmes, if one so brilliant was going to commit such an act, trying to blame yourself would be the easiest way for people to dismiss it as you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the professor. "Someone else is playing games, this is what they want, and I have no intention of letting them get it."

"Any ideas as to who?"

"The same person that's been causing all the trouble we've had here."

"Brooke."

"Brooke," Sherlock affirmed. "No doubt."

Classes had ended, and Sherlock was on his way up to the library, when John called his name. His first name. The Slytherin boy stiffened. No, he thought, because he recognised that tone. John no. Leave this before I have to hurt you to keep you away.

He turned. "Yes, Watson?" he asked boredly. And John twitched slightly, but the determined expression stayed on his face. "Get on with it, I do have better things to do."

"No you don't," John replied. "You have homework and blowing up the potions room to do."

Sherlock shrugged. "Still better than talking to you," he turned to leave.

"Sherlock."

He shut his eyes and stopped, facing away from him. "What?"

"Can we talk?"

"I believe that's what we're already doing."

John made an irritating noise, and the corner of Sherlock's lip twitched. "No I mean- properly."

He turned back. "About?"

He stared at him, floundering for a moment. "You know what."

"No, I don't believe I do. And besides," he added as John walked up to him until they were only standing a foot apart. "I have no desire to talk to you, being in the presence of a mudblood is already-"

His words were cut off, because John grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him roughly into the stone wall. "Don't call me that," he hissed. And Sherlock raised an eyebrow, good, he thought. This'll keep him away.

"Why not?" he drawled. "It's true." What he hadn't been expecting, though really should have, was for John to let go off his shoulders and punch him in the face. "Always were an uncivil breed," he said, bringing up a hand to rub at his face. However, that seemed to be the breaking point for him, and with his hopes of reconciliation gone, his anger and hurt came back.

Something you never want to be on the wrong side of a Gryffindor, especially moments after calling him a derogatory term. Sherlock had underestimated John's anger, and how much calling him such a thing hit him right in the wrong spot.

It took Carl and Mike, who were heading up to the common room, to collectively pull John away to stop him attacking Sherlock. A Sherlock who was curled on the ground wincing, with a bleeding nose.

"John, John, calm," Mike was saying. "He's not worth it." John made a growling angry noise, but as the seconds went past, Sherlock heard him be pulled away down the hall.

He had expected Carl to have gone with him, but moments later the scarred boy bobbed down beside Sherlock. "Come on," he said, in a tone that was neither hostile nor friendly. "We should get you to the hospital wing."

"I'm fine," he said, holding a hand to his nose, and shifting so he could sit up. Carl and Sherlock stared at each other for a few long moments.

"Come on," Carl repeated, and he helped Sherlock up to his feet much to the disgruntlement of the other boy. "What did you say?"

"Who says I said anything?" his voice muffled by the hand in front of his face.

"Because you and I both know that John would not have attacked you for no reason. Not unless you'd provoked him somehow."

Sherlock glanced sideways at Carl and shrugged.

"Sherlock, what did you say?"

He stiffened. "I don't recall us being on first name basis anymore Powers."

"Perhaps not, but answer."

"Why?"

"You owe me."

Sherlock pulled away from him, and raised an eyebrow. "For what exactly?"

"That I ended up in Mungo's for a month?" Carl suggested.

He narrowed his eyes. "I was not behind that Powers," he said.

"No," he said, surprising Sherlock. "You weren't. But you didn't stop the person who was, in time either."

"It wasn't my responsibility to."

"I know, and you tried. And I don't blame you. But Holmes, this time, you find that person, before John gets hurt."

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