Hogsmeade was boring. Seriously, who even came up with the idea of this date, anyway? It was pointless and stupid and nothing was happening.
Sherlock groaned and dropped his head onto his folded arms, feeling very put-upon. Watching John go on dates was like watching paint dry. Progress was slow and excruciating and…
Yeah, this idea was literally the worst thing anyone had ever had the pretentiousness to suggest. Sherlock sighed and lifted his head wearily, considering just going back up to the castle. John could handle himself, and he knew that Rhianne was far from incompetent. And he seemed like he was having a nice enough time. He laughed at something Rhianne had said, throwing back his head. Sherlock felt a pang of some unidentified emotion; usually it was his (largely unintentional) jokes that John laughed at.
Oh.
Oh.
Sherlock sat bolt upright, knocking his head on the wall behind him. Some heads turned; a Hogwarts student (a boy no less), alone in Madame Puddifoot's…well, it was bound to raise some eyebrows in the first place. Sherlock cursed quietly, rubbing his head and wincing. As soon as the other occupants of the shop turned back to their conversations, Sherlock went back to watching John. He was holding Rhianne's hand now. Sherlock felt vaguely ill and then shook himself; he was Sherlock bloody Holmes, and he did not do emotions.
Except apparently he did, because he was…
Was…
Ugh. Jealous.
He shuddered at the thought, choosing to turn away from his view of the Three Broomsticks only to be greeted by an all too familiar face.
"Moriarty," he said stiffly, his hands clenching around his (dreadfully pink) teacup.
"Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise! Never expected to bump into you here."
Sherlock curled his lip and resisted the urge to stand up, lest he break something in his haste.
Namely Moriarty's face.
"I must admit, this is nothing short of a shock for me either."
"Well, I at least have a date." The grinning Slytherin gestured behind him at a Hufflepuff girl. John was friends with her…Sarah? No, she'd dated John. Mary? Also dated him… Ah. Molly. He was here with Molly.
"My date has yet to arrive, if you must know," Sherlock replied haughtily, lifting his chin.
Moriarty grinned even wider (how was that even possible?) and leaned down, his mouth by Sherlock's ear.
"But your date is across the street, aren't they? And it doesn't look as though they'll be joining you." And with that he straightened up, adjusting his robes as though nothing had just happened. "See you later, darling. Do try to be less predictable."
Sherlock glared his hardest at the retreating back before him, gritting his teeth. He hoped that bottom feeder got caught on fire, really, he did.
He decided to forego his imminent use of the word 'incendio' by sweeping dramatically out of the shop. He found his feet drawn towards the Three Broomsticks (towards John) and angrily switched his course so he was storming past it and into Honeydukes. Sherlock forced himself to consider the candy, avoiding all thoughts of Moriarty and John. He was unsuccessful, but at least he had an excuse to think about John. Was it Sugar Quills he liked or Acid Pops?
Maybe it was the chocolate.
Damn it.
Sherlock sighed and leaned against the wall, running his hand through his hair. How does one go about this 'feelings' business anyway? He seemed to recall something about flowers. And perhaps sweets as well. Sherlock nodded with finality, scooping up every item he could remember John enjoying.
"I'll take these."
"Seven galleons and two Sickles, dear."
He provided the money and collected his purchases, tucking the bag under his arm as he wandered around Hogsmeade. He made sure to routinely check on John, but it seemed that chatting and drinking Butterbeer was a satisfactory date.
Ordinary people were so boring.
Except John wasn't ordinary, he realized. John was kind and loyal and brave and tough and unmovable and even brilliant sometimes.
Not to mention endlessly fascinating.
Even if Sherlock had chosen a different companion, one that was just as ordinary as John, it occurred to him that he would probably get bored. And yet, here he was, seven years later, and he still didn't know how his Gryffindor colleague worked. He wanted to know what made him tick, what caused him to laugh and what made him sad and what could make him happy.
Sherlock sighed; maybe the others were right, when they teased him about being… well, perhaps it was a bit much to say in love, but definitely emotionally attached. That sounded good, emotionally attached.
He stopped at a shop and picked up a single red rose.
/
Sherlock sat on John's bed, his legs crossed and his fingers steepled against his closed lips. John still hadn't returned, but Sherlock had made sure he got to the castle safely before squirreling himself away in the younger boy's room. Obviously he was still at dinner, but that left Sherlock with too much time to think. For once in his life, that was a bad thing. Because now that he was focusing on his thoughts, he realized that he was having second ones.
John was bisexual, but he himself had explicitly stated that he liked Rhianne and was considering the possibility of another date. He had never dated anyone of the same gender before. He clearly regarded Sherlock as a friend; certainly a good friend, a close friend, but just a friend nonetheless. He was the Quidditch Captain and Head Boy. Their (purely theoretical) relationship would almost certainly affect his performance and popularity amongst his housemates.
Which brought him back to himself. He knew that John wouldn't want a relationship beyond what they had at the moment, but did he? He honestly didn't know. Emotions were difficult; one could conceivably put "love" down to a collection of associations and chemicals that happened within the brain, but for all intents and purposes emotions defied logic, defied definition.
It frustrated him to no end.
Finally he scrubbed his hands over his face, tousling his hair, and pulled out a notebook. At the very least he could record his reactions and impressions; perhaps he could find a pattern. Sherlock fished a quill and some ink out of John's bag and began scribbling.
Attractive, kind, brave, not boring.
Some time and two pages later, an owl interrupted his frantic scrawl. Sherlock sat up sharply, narrowly avoiding flinging ink all over the floor and bed. The owl landed on the end of John's four-poster, sticking out its leg for Sherlock to receive the letter. The raven-haired Slytherin stared at it intently for a few seconds before moving to take the letter. The owl took off as soon as it had been relieved of its duty.
Sherlock opened the letter.
My dear-
By now you must have realized who it is you're up against. Please do be careful. I'd hate to have to injure any lions…or should I say dogs? Best get back on track; you really can't afford any distractions.
Love from M x
He gazed at the letter, vaguely registering the feeling of his heart in his mouth through the cold fear that had begun creeping up his chest. M? Dog? Lion? Distractio-oh. How could he have been so stupid? It was obvious, much too obvious, practically right there under his nose and he had missed it. How had he missed it?
Of course it was Moriarty. It was Moriarty and he was being played with, tossed around like a mouse that was too blind to see the cat that had it in its claws.
Sherlock capped the ink, wiped off the quill, and threw them both haphazardly back into John's bag. The notebook snapped closed and a lithe body vaulted itself off the bed, hitting the ground running. He ran through the Gryffindor common room, ignoring the incredulous looks he got, and was taking the stairs two at a time as he flew down to the Great Hall. He had to get to John, had to warn him, had to get him to stay away from Sherlock. He felt his throat close up at the thought; without John he would collapse. Everything he was would come crashing down around his feet like so many fragile Muggle card houses. He would stop functioning.
Oh.
Sherlock skidded to a halt in the corridor, his eyes wide.
Of course. Why else would Moriarty send him that letter? To play with him, just as he had been playing with him this whole time. It was almost like a test; if Sherlock blindly followed his instructions, he'd cut himself off from John. Moriarty knew he'd become a shell of his former self, knew that leaving John would destroy him. Sherlock almost laughed; that spider was clever, but he wasn't clever enough to trick Sherlock Holmes into doing what he wanted. He stood stock still for a second and then turned around, heading towards the dungeons instead. He didn't have to play this game.
At least not the way Moriarty wanted him to.
/
It was almost bedtime before John realized he hadn't seen Sherlock since he had left Madame Puddifoot's to do god knows what. He turned to face his red and gold draped bed, sighing, and noticed the imprint on the duvet. That was odd; John made it a habit to make his bed every morning before the house-elves came, hospital corners and all. He contemplated it for a moment before seeing a bag propped up on the corner. Curious, he picked it up and looked inside.
Candy? Who would possibly have put candy beside his bed after sitting on it?
Sherlock.
Of course it had to be Sherlock. He was the only one who could get into Gryffindor common room that wasn't a Gryffindor, not to mention the fact he had sat on John's bed. The only person he knew well enough to do that was Sherlock, but that still didn't explain the candy. Or the rose that accompanied it. Was the candy meant for someone else? Was Sherlock wooing someone for one of his sidetrack cases? Why did he leave the bag here, though? He must have forgotten about it, which wasn't like Sherlock if he was using it for a case. For social reasons, then? But Sherlock didn't do social reasons. Ever. John shook his head, utterly confused. So, either Sherlock had left him a bag of candy and a rose (perhaps one of Sherlock's misconceptions about friendship?) or he had them for a case and took off in a great hurry because of something distracting. He sighed, running his hands through his hair. Sherlock could be a mystery all by himself, and hell if John knew how to unravel it.
Shrugging, he changed into his pajamas and slipped under the covers. He'd figure it out in the morning, after he'd slept.
/
Sherlock was waiting for him at the Gryffindor table, a book propped up on the basket of toast and some sort of putty in his hands. He looked to be concentrating intensely, his fingers manipulating the substance as he stared at the book. John sat down next to him, putting his school bag and the bag of candy on the floor behind the bench.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"Sh."
John rolled his eyes. No use trying to get anything out of him in this state. He patiently ate his breakfast, waiting until Sherlock had finished with whatever he'd been doing. The pale boy finally made a soft sound of satisfaction before placing a perfect model of a sparrow on the table.
"Can I ask what that's for?"
"I found a charm that will allow this to essentially spy for us."
"An animation charm? Those are ridiculously advanced, not to mention the precision needed for the model."
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, fixing John with his disdainful "I-can't-believe-I-have-to-deal-with-all-you-horri bly-inferior-mortals" look.
"Of course I know that, John. Please keep up. Why else would I need a book? You know that my visual recall is almost one hundred percent accurate. I need a book to make absolutely sure. And I think I can handle a bit of spellwork, don't you?"
John laughed slightly. "Sorry. Oh, and I brought you something. You left it in my room yesterday."
Sherlock froze for an instance before taking the bag. "How did you know it was me?"
"I eliminated the impossible. Whatever was left, no matter how improbable, had to be true. You're the only one that knows me well enough to get into my dorm and then sit on my bed for no apparent reason."
Sherlock's face lit up. "Oh, John! You're learning, well done!"
He grinned at the praise. "But seriously, what were you doing with candy and a rose in my bedroom?"
"Experiment," Sherlock replied dismissively, brandishing the bag. "Irrelevant now, though."
"What was it?"
"A social experiment. It's irrelevant though, I told you. Got a letter that rendered it useless. How was the date?"
"Fine. Good. She's no Holmes, but I can tell you, she's in Ravenclaw for a reason. I wasn't bored."
"You'll be seeing her again?"
"No, I don't think so. Unless you need me to for the case."
"I don't. I believe we have everything we need now, shouldn't be too long before we catch him. I have to send a letter."
"To who?"
"Whom. Jim Moriarty. I'm certain it's him, we just have to catch him in the act now."
"Using Rhianne as bait?"
"Of a sort. You're catching on." Sherlock flashed him a rare grin and John smiled back, feeling an odd warmth in his chest.
"No one's going to get hurt though, right?"
"There is a five percent chance that this will fail."
"Good enough for me. I'll check with her. What's the plan?"
/
The plan never happened. In fact, the plan didn't even get the chance to be expressed because Sherlock got a letter just as he opened his mouth to explain. As soon as he unfolded the parchment and let his eyes flick across the words, he visibly paled and snapped his mouth shut.
"Change of plans. There is no plan. You and Rhianne are to keep yourselves as safe as you possibly can- preferably within sight and earshot of a teacher or a large group of people at all times, even better if it's in your respective common rooms. Until further notice you are to remain that way, do you understand?"
John raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Yes. If you need backup, you know I'm your second."
"I know. I doubt I'll need it, but thank you for offering."
"Sherlock." John grabbed his arm, meeting his pale eyes with surprisingly intense dark blue ones. "Don't get hurt. Don't do anything stupid. I can't imagine living without you, okay?"
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed, and then audibly swallowed. When he finally replied his voice came out a hoarse whisper. "I promise."
John let go of him, looking relieved. "Good. Glad that's settled."
"Yes."
"Now I have to go to class. See you later, okay?"
"Mm."
John stood up and walked away, his bag slung over his shoulder as he easily slipped into the crowd. He watched him go, the model of a sparrow still sitting on the table next to his hand. Dream-like, Sherlock reached out and closed his hand around the little bird. He slowly unfolded himself from his sitting position, grabbed the book and his bag, and walked off towards the seventh floor.
He needed to think before facing Moriarty.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, a small voice that sounded unpleasantly like Mycroft's whispered at him from a rarely-used room in his mind palace. It's just like Mummy always said, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage.
This one's a bit shorter than the other two, but I hope it came out all right. Finished it before my birthday, yay! Only two chapters to go after this one. I love writing this and I love how much positive feedback I'm getting. Thank you guys so much! Please keep reviewing!
~kandyblood