"The right wing on the second floor is out of bounds," Headmaster McGonagall's voice floated through Hogwarts, a tense and agitated tone in the message. "All students return to your dormitories immediately! No dawdling, no excuses. All staff please report to the right wing of the second floor corridor now. Thank you."
Sherlock looked up from the paperwork he was just finishing and glanced at the clock. It was 6 o'clock and spaghetti night back at the flat. Looks like he was going to be missing it now. He rolled his eyes in annoyance and pulled out a small scrap of parchment and scrawled 'John. Possible small emergency at school. Eat without me, but leave some for when I get there. -SH'
He gave the small rolled up note to his tawny barn owl, Martin, and sent the messenger out the window and in the direction of the flat. He put his teaching robe back on over his shirt and tie, grabbed his wand, and locked the door behind him. He turned around and slammed right into Professor Moriarty. "God, Jim! What are you doing?" Sherlock collected himself and creased his features into a hard frown.
"I'm going to meet the other professors upstairs. I was down here, and just figured I'd walk up with you." He smiled. "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot."
Sherlock looked him up and down, and still decided he did not like the man. "And we're still on it. Excuse me." He brushed past him and began to stomp up the stairs.
"What's your problem?" Jim chased him. "All the other professors say that you're smart, but you're rude to staff members."
"Is that what they say about me? Sounds about right." Sherlock didn't turn around.
"Why do you deflect everyone?"
"Why do you care?"
"It's John, isn't it?"
Sherlock stopped and spun around. "What are you talking about?"
"Professor Hooper said that you were like this in school, too. You only ever talked to John. You only ever eased up on people when he was around. Why?" Jim smirked for some reason.
Sherlock just narrowed his eyes and said, "Sod off, Jim. My personal life is none of your concern. I don't even know you."
"Because you refuse to get to know anyone but your flatmate."
Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, ignoring Jim's questions and 'small talk'. He reached the second floor, and when the two professors rounded the corner to the right wing, Jim's annoying inquiries were frozen in his throat.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, swallowing his shock. The two fighting teachers took almost identical steps forward to join the circle around the body of the sixth year student on the floor lying on her back. Sherlock's old classmate and now Head Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Greg Lestrade, had shown up and was standing next to the Headmaster. No one spoke for a long time, everyone just stared at the poor girl strewn on the floor, eyes open and staring vacantly, blood dripping slowly from her mouth. "How could we let this happen?" McGonagall finally said.
"It's no one's fault, Headmaster." Molly Hooper spoke up, her eyes focused on the ceiling to avoid looking at the young girl she had seen alive and laughing not two hours ago.
"What's important now is that we find out who's behind it, and do something about it." Professor Flitwick's voice was so quiet with shock, he was almost unheard.
"Professor Holmes." McGonagall said. Sherlock looked up now. "You've had some experience with poisons. This looks like just that."
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "It is most likely poison or a deadly potion." He went forward and bent over the body, taking in as much information as he could glean from the quick and impromptu examination. "However, this could have easily been an accident. Maybe she tried to make a potion for something, and messed up with dire consequences. Or it could have been purposefully given to her with malicious intent." He stood up straight again.
"Can you test her blood for poison and potions?" Lestrade asked now. "You've always been the best with that."
"Wait, don't you have investigators professionally trained for that stuff?" Jim asked now.
Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. "All he has is Anderson, and I promise you, you don't want to leave this to him." Sherlock murmured 'accio vial' and a small glass vial was summoned to his hand. "You might want to look away." He said in warning. Most of the teachers turned their heads and watched the bricks as Sherlock lifted the girl's head and tipped it toward the vial. Blood poured out from the corner of her mouth and into the glass container. He filled it with the evidence, corked it, and pocketed it. "I'll do my best."
A small 'pop' sounded in the hallway of 221B. Sherlock went up into the kitchen and found a note on the wood table. 'Sherlock. Spaghetti's in the fridge. Went to buy milk. -JW'
Sherlock went to the fridge and took the plate out, replacing it with the vial of blood. Not even bothering to heat the noodles, he just sat down and started eating. He wasn't hungry, but he needed the distraction.
John came home within five minutes and bounced into the kitchen in his usual, good natured way. "Evening." Sherlock looked up, his mouth full of spaghetti. "Everything OK at the school?" He opened the fridge as Sherlock swallowed hard, freeing his tongue from its tomato-noodle prison. "What's this?" John poked the vial.
"A girl was possibly murdered at the school. That's a sample of her blood. I'm supposed to analyze it for poisons and deadly potions. Maybe dark arts."
John's jaw dropped. "Oh my god! Who was it?"
"Sally Donavon. A sixth year girl. Pretty popular amongst the other students, but a bit dim in school. She was failing my class."
"OK, most people fail your class, Sherlock."
Sherlock shrugged. "Anyway, she was a bit mean to some students. so I could see there being a motive for murder."
"That's terrible." He put the kettle on and said, "You doing OK with it?"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock scooped another forkful of noodles into his mouth.
"Well, you did just see a dead girl and take blood from her."
"Please, John. It's nothing more than science. You see dead people everyday."
"Yeah, but that's my job. Not yours."
"Funny," Sherlock mused.
"What's that?"
"I would think that a lot of dead people would mean you were bad at your job."
"Why do I hang out with you?"
Sherlock smiled a goofy grin, small traces of tomato sauce on the corners of his mouth. "Because I'm your best friend."
"Yeah, you are. But you're also a great big arse with spaghetti sauce on your face." John threw a tea towel into his friend's face and the two laughed together, just like every other night.
