Chapter Thirteen

Innocent Till Proven Guilty

Sherlock's face went ashen. "What?" he barked, in a tone far louder than he had been previously talking in. Everyone (including the portraits) in the office turned to stare at the boy. "How? What happened to him?"

"We don't know," she said hesitantly, addressing her words to Sherlock as opposed to the headmistress. And despite how worried and upset she looked at the attack, there was something in her expression when she looked at Sherlock… something that suggested she was glad that he had reacted how he had

His eyebrows pulled together worriedly. "You must have some idea," he said keeping his voice controlled as best he could, but it was wavering. Staring at her. Tell me he's fine, he thought desperately. This can't have all been in vain.

"Not yet Sherlock," she said softly. "The matron is working on it, but currently we are unsure. He's been knocked unconscious but we are unaware of what has caused it. He could simply just be unconscious, or there could be something else that we can't tell until he wakes," she glanced at McGonagall. "Something needs to be done Minerva. There are always accidents at Hogwarts, the parents know that but this..."

"The ministry are bringing in aurors to investigate," the headmistresses said, and her eyes flickered to Sherlock in a gesture that Professor Hudson understood.

"No," she said, answering her silent phrase as opposed to what she had said. "You think so? I don't agree with you."

Sherlock glanced between them, understanding that this was about whether or not he was behind it. But he kept silent, curious to see what either would say.

"Mr Holmes," McGonagall started. "Could you wait out-"

"Minerva, if you are discussing his involvement, he should be here," a previous headmistress commented.

"Suppose so," she said, almost reluctantly. And Sherlock could tell she would rather if he was not there.

"Gives the accused to chance to defend himself against the accusations," Snape said, and the boy glanced at him but the portrait was staring at the headmistress.

"It would appear I'm outnumbered," she murmured, looking distinctly unpleased.

"He would not attack Watson, Minerva," Professor Hudson said, and Sherlock had mixed feelings about how sure she was. Good because it might get him out of this mess, bad because of what he had been trying to achieve with separating himself from John.

"They have not been on the best of terms of late."

"Fighting with your best friend does not mean he's attacking him," she pointed out.

"I know, but it can't be ruled out."

"I did not attack him," Sherlock said, butting into their conversation. He had to deter them from that thought, from finding him as guilty. Hopefully it wouldn't come to giving up his façade.

"We can't be sure of that Holmes. With all things considered the blame is tipping towards you."

"Minerva, aurors are on their way," a portrait interjected, and she nodded acknowledging that she had heard.

"Should we postpone this conversation until they arrive?" she asked the others. "So we don't end up having to repeat ourselves."

There was a murmur of accent, and the group fell into a wary silence for the minutes that it took for the aurors to arrive at the headmistresses office. Potter, who Sherlock had met a few times over the years, throughout the course of his mysteries and Lestrade who had been a fifth year when Sherlock had started at Hogwarts.

The teachers and aurors greeted each other, and Sherlock stood to the side, watching them carefully. New watch, new shoes, writing recently, just gotten over a cold.

"Holmes," Harry greeted, walking over and holding out his hand.

"Potter," Sherlock returned, and took it.

Lestrade nodded at him once he had greeted the teachers in the room. "Lestrade," Harry said. "Why don't you talk to Minerva here? I'll talk to Holmes outside." Lestrade nodded, Professor Hudson pursed her lips. "Don't worry," Harry said with a smile at her. "He's safe in my hands."

"But are you safe in his?" a former headmaster murmured, and a few eyes flickered in that direction but the comment was largely ignored.

Harry gestured Sherlock out of the room, and the boy followed, knowing most of what would be said in his absence. The suspicions of him being behind it. Harry stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and Sherlock watched him expectantly.

"Nothing to say?" Harry asked him.

"No?" he said, tilting his head to the side. "Are you expecting me to?"

"You usually do, something to tell me about my life," he smiled, and countless things about his life ran through Sherlock's head, both that he could see and facts that he already knew, but he kept quiet. "Very well, then onto the matter at hand-"

"It wasn't me, Potter," he cut in, and then bit down on his lip glancing away down the hall.

"The evidence points towards you-"

"How do you know the evidence?"

"How do you think Holmes?" Harry asked patiently. "Minerva has told us, voicing her concerns but-"

"She thinks I did it."

"No, she fears that you did, are. Worries. She just simply wants it investigated in case there is a chance that you have. Someone is hurting her students. She needs it to stop."

"It isn't me."

Harry watched him silently for a few moments, and then gestured for Sherlock to follow him. He did so, and the two walked in silence for a short while. "The problem with telling a story, Holmes, is that at one point you realize you have dug a hole that is slightly too big and you can't get out without calling for someone to help."

"I'm not telling a story," he protested.

"You are," Harry glanced at him, his green eyes watching him intently. "You've gone from not caring if people think you are behind it, to caring what a lot that people think you are."

"They are both the truth."

"But what changed?" Sherlock didn't answer. "Something did. The fact that it wasn't just the students that thought it, but the teachers started to as well? The fact that your friend got injured-"

"He is not my friend," Sherlock snarled, forcing the venom into his tone. But Harry simply stared at him patiently, with a slightly amused expression on his face, that was clearly humoring him.

"Found your story," he said.

"It's not-"

Harry held up a hand and talked on top of him. "Whatever you say Holmes. But watch it, because you are walking on thin ice, and everyone around you is setting that ice on fire. You are a smart boy, and you don't need my help or my warnings, you probably don't want them either. But you are digging a hole, and the bottom of that hole might be expulsion or being arrested. So if you need to rethink your game plan, it is not too late to do so."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Understood," he said.

Harry smiled faintly. "Now, what are your suspicions of who is behind it?"

"Same person that has been behind them all, Richard Brooke."

"And yet this Brooke has never been discovered."

The Slytherin shrugged his shoulders. "He's clever, very clever," and if there was a hint of excitement and admiration in his tone, Harry pretended he couldn't hear it. "He slips, but never enough for him to be revealed, only his plan and whoever is his puppet."

"So how do we catch him?"

"How indeed, that's what I've been trying to figure out all these years, Potter."

It seemed that McGonagall had been convinced out of him being behind the attacks, or at least as much that he wasn't being immediately vacated off of the premises.

It was also the second time in a matter of days that he had been given the same warning. Be careful with the game you are playing, don't dig yourself in too deep. First from Professor Snape, and then from Harry Potter. Sherlock was mildly worried that Harry had caught on, Snape was one thing, he was around the school, watched Sherlock. But Harry…

He gave a troubled frown, and walked along the hallway. Things kept piling up, and he was starting to feel that he was getting further and further in without any chance to pull himself out. After all this time, he still had no idea who the attacker was. And that frustrated him, more than almost everything else. There must be something obvious he was missing, something that just wouldn't click in his mind.

It was late, just barely curfew and as Sherlock reached the stair case he was the only one on it. As far as he could see. He stood there in the quiet, and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

When he opened them, he set off in the direction of the Slytherin quarters, but stopped, turned on his foot and headed up the stairs, towards the infirmary. He had to see John. Had to check on him, make sure that he was okay.

The door was shut, and the lights were out. But Sherlock being Sherlock, pulled out his wand and with a murmured spell unlocked the door, silently stepping inside. A few of the beds were full, students who had been attacked by Brook.

Sherlock perched on a chair next to John's bed, and frowned down at his friend. Could he still call him friend, after all that had happened. John no longer saw them as friends, and Sherlock no longer acted as though they were. But in the safety on his mind, in his mind, he stilled called John friend.