John woke up the next morning to find a cold, Sherlock-shaped impression in his sheets. Feeling a bit disappointed for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, he swung his legs out of bed and padded sleepily to the bathroom. Someone jostled him as he was putting toothpaste on his brush, causing him to squirt it all over the sink and look up in annoyance.
Billy's grinning face greeted him, all freckles and weirdly straight teeth.
"Had a good time last night, Watson?"
John ran a tired hand over his face. "Nothing happened, Billy. Sherlock was just…a but shaken. He's fine now."
"You seriously mean to tell me I'm supposed to believe that there's nothing going on between you two?"
John felt a surge of irritation. "Yes, I am expecting you to believe that, because it's true. I'm relatively sure Sherlock is asexual, and even if he wasn't he wouldn't look at me twice. We're just friends," he said firmly, putting the brush in his mouth and scrubbing furiously.
Billy's grin grew wider. "Notice how you didn't say anything else about yourself, mate."
"Well, if anyone else in the world cares, I'm not actually gay!" he retorted around a mouthful of toothpaste before spitting it into the sink.
"Yeah, well, Holmes is a bit of an exception, isn't he?"
John sighed again, deeper this time, as he rinsed his brush. "Okay, yes, he is, but I'm still not…romantically attached to him."
"You even sound like him!"
"Can you actually know when to stop, for once in your life? Christ, I shouldn't have to deal with this."
And with that he turned around and marched out, not even bothering to clean up the toothpaste smeared all over the sinks.
/
John was a little bit concerned.
Okay, he was a lot concerned.
He hadn't seen Sherlock in three days, even for the one class (Potions) they had together, and he knew that his friend wouldn't have eaten or slept in that time. He contemplated grilling one of Sherlock's informants for the password to the Slytherin common room, but it turned out he didn't happen to get the opportunity.
John looked up from his breakfast to be greeted be a very grim-looking Sherlock, who sat down next to him.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Sherlock sent him a sharp glance and tossed an opened letter onto John's plate. "I've been thinking."
"For three bloody days?!" John exclaimed, gingerly nudging the parchment off his food.
"Read it."
He picked it up a bit suspiciously and let his eyes flick over the surprisingly short message.
Come and play, Sherly. December 18, midnight at the lake. Bring your pet!
~M xxx
John shivered, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine. "December 18. That's today, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"We're not going," he remarked with finality, neatly folding up the letter and storing it back in its envelope.
Sherlock sighed. "I anticipated this. Thinking, remember? And there's no way we can just not go."
"Of course we can! He can't control us. We can't, alright? We could die. Or worse," he added gravely.
"Again, I am perfectly aware of this rather blatantly obvious fact. But unless you want Rhianne to die, I recommend taking our chances," Sherlock said impatiently. "However, I would never ask you to come along as my second unless I thought we could win."
John froze, his food halfway to his mouth; he knew enough Holmespeak by now to know what Sherlock meant. "Really? You'd put your own life in danger before mine?"
Sherlock gave him another scorching look, though this time there was a hint of appraisal there as well. "Yes, of course. Thought that was obvious. Do try not to be an idiot, John."
John felt a smile slowly warm his face, the sensation swelling in his stomach as well as he finished his food. He became aware of a tickle of affection for his best friend in the back of his mind and smiled even wider.
"What? What is it?"
"Nothing. I suppose we'd better get ready for Moriarty then?"
"Precisely. How do you feel about ditching?"
"Well…"
"Oh god John, if you say anything other than 'yes, I'd love to ditch class with you, Sherlock…'"
"Shut it you prat, I was just going to say that if we're ditching then we'd better have a good place to hide."
Sherlock smirked and rose, offering John a hand. "I know just the place."
/
John would be telling a stone-cold lie if he said he wasn't scared. Because he was. As he and Sherlock stood side by side on the bank of the lake, the moonlight soaking the scenery around them in eerie silver light, he could feel his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. A hand suddenly grabbed his own, causing him to snap his head up and look at Sherlock questioningly.
His breath disappeared.
Sherlock was gazing at him with the most open, unguarded expression John had ever seen. There was fear there, yes, but also determination and affection and something else John couldn't quite put his finger on. Something that made Sherlock look alive. With a start, he realized that his friend lived for this. The thrill of proving he was clever, the adrenaline mixed with those little twinges of terror when he put his life in danger.
When Sherlock smiled, ever so slightly, John felt his muscles respond, curving his lips upwards to match the other boy's. John's hand was released (it was perfectly steady, he noticed) and the cold mask of indifference snapped back into place.
John was hit with a wave of emotion, blown away by the significance that all of five seconds can have. Sherlock had given a piece of himself to John when he let his emotions through, giving him an enormous amount of trust, and John honestly didn't know how he could possibly give anything nearly so significant back. He hoped he had helped Sherlock over the years; he had been there when the insufferable idiot needed support, friendship, a wand to guard his back. But somehow it felt inadequate.
"Hello, boys!"
John's spine chilled and he felt Sherlock tense beside him, a wild animal coiling to strike.
Jim Moriarty stepped out of the shadows of the trees around the lake, hands in his pockets and looking utterly relaxed. A lean, mean-looking boy followed him, a wand hanging loosely from his fingers.
"This is Sebastian Moran, my second. I hope you don't mind that I brought him; you did get your own, after all," he said with a syrupy smile, tilting his head towards John.
Sherlock was practically vibrating with tension. "We came, Moriarty. What is it that you wanted?"
"Oh, but surely you've figured it out by now."
"Humor me. I'd like to confirm."
Jim walked up to Sherlock, tilting his head upwards to look him in the eye. "I did warn you, you know. I told you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
As if waiting for the cue, Moriarty's second leapt into action.
"Expelliarmus!"
John's wand went flying and he suddenly went rigid, having also been hit with what appeared to be a Full Body-Bind. He saw Sherlock flick a glance towards him and then sigh.
"How boringly predictable of you, Jim. I expected better."
"Don't leap to conclusions just yet, darling. I have a whole night planned." Moriarty began prowling around Sherlock, his movements as cold and liquid as the moonlight that illuminated them. "But you needed a bit of incentive, didn't you? And Johnny here is the only thing that fit the bill."
John made a muffled sound of protest. Jim meandered over to him, running a finger along the shorter boy's cheek. If John could shudder, he would have.
"This one is cute, I have to admit. All good looks and loyalty. Too bad he's so ordinary."
Sherlock stayed silent, his eyes practically slicing through the air as he kept his eyes trained on his nemesis.
"And a Gryffindor too. How quaint. Never liked lions; bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"
John glared at Moriarty so hard he thought his eyes might fall out of his head.
Sherlock remained silent.
Moriarty laughed, soft and hysterical. The laugh of a maniac, thought Sherlock as his insides went cold.
"Why, Sherlock?"
"You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that, dear," he countered mockingly.
"What possessed you to fall for this?" Jim gestured vaguely at John.
"I haven't fallen for him," Sherlock practically spat.
"But you will," was the soft reply, Moriarty's steps falling silently as he approached Sherlock .
John's eyes widened and he tried to convey everything to Sherlock with his irises. Don't do it Sherlock don't do what he says I'm not worth it we'll probably both die don't do it you need to live, you're the genius please don't do this.
Sherlock's look was all he needed to see. Your idiocy is practically oozing from your pores, John. Of course I'll keep us both safe. Play along.
Jim watched the exchange, an expression of delight contorting his features. "Oh, you two are adorable! Don't tell me you haven't shagged yet. No? What a shame, you'll never get the chance."
Sherlock thinned his lips into his fake smile, reserved for the general annoying public and turned abruptly back to face him. "I would love to see you try and kill me, Jim. I dare you. Have a go." He spread his arms patronizingly, as though to give Moriarty a better shot.
Another insane giggle broke the silence following. "Oh, Sherlock. You can't defeat me. You can't even touch me."
"I did touch you."
"No, you got in my way."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Yes it was."
"Yeah, okay, it was. But you won't have much time to enjoy it."
"No doubt."
"You can't be allowed to continue, Sherlock. I thought we had something, and then…" Moriarty gestured vaguely, looking up at the sky and sighing. "Then you turned out to be as ordinary as the rest of them."
His words drop off into total silence, broken only by the gentle breeze winding through the branches of the trees around them.
"I believe the same can be said about you, Jim," Sherlock answered in quiet disdain. "Sentiment is such a petty thing to get hung up on, don't you think?"
"Ah, see? So predictable."
Sherlock smirked but said nothing else, the sculpted planes of his face washed out and his eyes shining brightly as they stood, playing mind games beyond words, beyond comprehension, as John watched helplessly.
Moriarty sighed and took out his wand. "I think it's time we brought our little meeting to a close, don't you?"
"And why would that be? We were just getting to the fun bit."
"I'm tired, Sherlock. So tired. It's awfully late, or didn't you know?"
"Funnily enough, I was informed to be here awfully late by a presumptuous letter I received several days ago."
"Really? How odd," John watched a slender arm raise a pale wand, holding it loosely as though he wasn't about to kill a human with it. "I think I remember seeing someone sending that letter."
Sherlock smirked slightly, just a twitch in the corner of his mouth. In one quick motion, Moriarty pointed his wand at Sherlock's chest.
"Avada Ked-"
John's world slowed down. Everything became sheer panic, a heart-stopping rush of cold white emotion that gripped his chest and refused to let go. Everything he and Sherlock had done together, every word they had exchanged, bickering or otherwise, every case they had solved, every boring class, every complaint, every second of companionable silence and meaningful glances and mad chases and the rare moments when Sherlock truly let John observe instead of merely seeing. Another rush of emotion joined the panic, one of affection and happiness and strength that John never knew he had. All at once, without thinking, letting his mind act on instinct, he felt the energy line up in his chest, building and building until it seemed to explode. At that precise moment, bright light spread through the night as a great silver wolf erupted from thin air and knocked Moriarty over.
Time caught up to itself; the Body-Bind abruptly fell away, John whipped around and punched Moran straight in the jaw and then aimed a well-placed kick to his stomach. Incapacitated, the taller boy fell to the ground. Again without thought, John found his wand in his hand and his legs rushing over to the tall figure of his best friend. Dread seeped into his bones as he neared him; he had been too late, surely a nearly-completed curse like that would have killed him. He had been too late.
All at once he was kneeling next to Sherlock, taking his wrist, feeling the pulse—and then a flood of relief as the steady beat of life animated the skin under his fingers. A sob sounded from somewhere. He realized it was himself, as he gasped for the breath he didn't know he had been holding. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"John, Moriarty!"
He was on his feet again, the surroundings a blur. When he focused again he saw the wolf (who had done that?) still attacking Moriarty, who was trying to wrestle his wand out from where it was pinned underneath him.
The Slytherin froze as smooth cedar wood met his throat, John standing above him with an expression not unlike an avenging angel.
There was a sudden crack behind him, but John had eyes only for the young man who nearly took Sherlock away from him. Something about him must have looked murderous (because he was, he'd rip that evil bastard's spleen out through his throat if they'd let him), since he was quickly restrained and bustled away behind a knoll of trees that blocked his view of Moriarty.
Someone was talking to him, low and calm, but he felt curiously light-headed all of a sudden. John didn't realize his knees were giving out until a pair of strong, familiar arms caught him. He breathed in, the sigh of someone who's been through a lot in a very short space of time, and smiled at the scent of Sherlock enveloping him.
"John, no, stop, look at me. Don't lose consciousness," John heard a deep voice saying as he faded into gray and then sank into black.
/
John didn't know where he was, but he felt warm and light and happy, despite a very dry mouth and bad case of morning breath. There was a hand gripping his, warm, solid, and reassuring. He lay there for a moment, his eyes closed, smiling softly at the comfortable cocoon that cradled him gently.
Finally he lolled his head to the side, taking in the breathtaking sight of a sleeping Sherlock. It was such a rare specimen that John couldn't help but stare. (Not to mention how fucking beautiful it was.) Then slowly, slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon, those pale eyelids fluttered open, revealing pale irises and sudden, sharp awareness. Sherlock's eyes met his, and John suddenly knew that he would rather be dead than lose the boy (man, really) sitting in front of him.
"Sherlock?" His voice was soft, a croak caused by going too long without use.
"Yes, John," Sherlock answered, his voice its normal smooth baritone, a small smirk ghosting across his lips.
"Can I brush my teeth?"
There was a moment of silence, a synchronized heartbeat, before they both burst out laughing. They giggled like children, giddy relief and the joy of being alive filling their faces.
"When you two are quite done," said a cold, oily voice from behind Sherlock. It reminded John bizarrely of rippling grass.
"Mycroft, will you kindly go stick your ugly nose somewhere else? Your presence here is neither required nor appreciated," Sherlock snapped, laughter dying from his face.
"Unfortunately it is required, as I have been sent to debrief Mr. Watson about the incident that happened yesterday evening."
"I can do that."
"No, you can't," he answered matter-of-factly before turning to John. "As I'm sure you are aware, Mr. Moriarty was about to cast an Unforgivable Curse at your…friend, here. A very powerful Patronus charm stopped him, seemingly from nowhere, and you were released from the confines of the Full Body-Bind curse when your captor was distracted. You then checked to see that Mr. Holmes was safe, were prompted to take care of his assailant, and did so. Our team then arrived, restrained you, and took you out of sight of the young man, whereupon you shouted abuse at them and struggled rather violently. Then Sherlock here arrived and you quieted down, collapsing and passing out."
"Okay. I have two questions."
"Ask away," Mycroft answered with an insincere smile.
"First, how did you all get here? Nobody can Apparate onto Hogwarts grounds."
"Sherlock had warned us beforehand the time at which we would be needed, and we arranged to have the barrier taken down for a very short period in the necessary location." He shot a sharp look at Sherlock. "We would have much preferred this not to have been such a close shave, but then again Sherlock always loved his puzzles."
"Alright, second one. Who cast the Patronus?"
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances.
"You did."
"Me?"
"Yes, quite. It was a very powerful piece of magic, both without a wand and without a verbal cue."
"I cast a corporeal Patronus without a wand or an incantation," John said slowly, a disbelieving expression settling on his face. "Was that what that wolf was?"
Mycroft nodded and then picked his umbrella up off the floor, nodding shortly at the both of them and walking away.
Sherlock squeezed his fingers as soon as his brother was out of sight.
"That thing you did."
"I really did that?"
"Yes. It was…good." Sherlock looked down at him, and for the second time in twenty-four hours (or at least he assumed it was twenty-four) he saw everything Sherlock was thinking and feeling written in his face. Affection, pride, respect, approval, and a hint of fear.
Wait, fear?
John's brow furrowed and he frowned a bit, questioning, wanting to know why Sherlock was afraid.
"Because of what I'm about to do, which is possibly the stupidest thing I have ever done in my whole life."
John didn't miss a beat at Sherlock's mind-reading. "What's that?"
And then he was melting into Sherlock, warm lips pressed against his own, his hand coming up to grip tightly at Sherlock's curls as he desperately brought him closer.
Then all at once Sherlock pulled away, his mouth slightly shiny and his eyes bright as he panted softly into the air between them.
John pulled his face into a deadpan. "Sherlock, I'm not gay."
He practically saw his friend's (boyfriend's?) heart sink. He smirked, the poker face shattering, and yanked Sherlock's head down again, muttering against his lips.
"But you never even knew that I was bi."
A soft huff of a chuckle puffed against John's cheek as their lips met for a bruising kiss.
/
John was a legend when everyone got back to school from Christmas holiday; they had all read about it in the Daily Prophet or heard about it from friends. For once he had outshone Sherlock Holmes, and the castle was practically buzzing about it.
Rhianne had thanked him and Sherlock with friendly kisses to the cheek and a whispered, "Finally, you thick morons," when no one could hear. She also sent them a large package of what must have been every sweet in both the Wizarding and the Muggle world, which they had an excellent time sampling.
Random students, ones he'd never seen in his life, came up to him and congratulated him or asked him eagerly what had happened. Usually Sherlock was there to intimidate them into leaving him alone ("Sherlock, don't make them cry!" "Well, how else do you expect them to go away?"); however, there were a surprising number of times when he was caught unawares. Unused to the attention, he had stuttered and stumbled at first, but Sherlock helped him develop a short script to tell the story quickly.
At graduation, they gave him an award (that he really didn't deserve, honestly, but apparently they were set on it) and the whole school (even the Slytherins) erupted into applause. For him. He wouldn't lie and say it didn't feel good.
But the best thing (not the award, not the positive attention) was Sherlock.
Because anyone who told you that Sherlock was a sociopath was an idiot, including Sherlock himself. He was the best boyfriend (or girlfriend, or whatever) John had ever had, earnest and sweet and unbelievably himself. Once, when he told Sherlock this, the taller boy had smirked ruefully and kissed his cheek.
"I've been doing those inane little things for ages, but without the kissing. You were too dense to notice."
John had laughed at that, curling up tighter in the armchair that sat in the corner of his red-and-gold draped bedroom and sipping a cup of (horrible, wonderful) tea Sherlock had made him.
Neither of them had ever been happier.
Very proud of this one, I must say. A birthday present for the lovely whovenclaw-holmes, who I am proud to call one of my closest friends. Glad I could make you happy, my dear. Don't forget, feedback is much appreciated! And finally I will leave you with the thought of a sequel or an epilogue, which I promise I will finish soon from its sloppy start on a Starbucks napkin. Thank you all for reading, and I hope to see you again soon!
~kandyblood