Chapter Fourteen

The Woman

John casually leaned back in a beanbag chair Sherlock had conjured out of thin air. The Room of Requirement was silent, except for the soft pat pat of the Ravenclaw's feet on the floor as he paced tenderly. Three of the five eleven‒year‒olds had left, leaving the two best friends remaining alone after their short first lesson, which they'd spent organizing time frames to practice.

Watson had his nose buried in a book, studying how exactly a Patronus was supposed to work. From the never ending list of instructions, the shield seemed more than 50% physically impossible to produce.

"Nice job today." Sherlock stopped pacing, his hands pressed together against his lips. He's thinking. John knew, considering the amount of times the older boy made deductions about the universe. He had now nicknamed himself 'the consulting detective.'

The Holmes brother looked confused. "For what?"

"Let's just say, sticking up for yourself, shall we call it…" Sherlock could only see the corners of John's grin from behind his book. He chuckled and pulled out his stick of wood from the inside pocket of his robes and twirled it between his fingers. Bored, he thought.

John watched curiously and yawned as Sherlock drew something in mid air with his wand. What he sketched appeared on the opposite wall next to the bookcase, and the shorter boy mimicked the expression. A bright yellow smiley face magically was traced onto the white bricks, and it could have been mistaken for spray paint if it had not come from the end of the wizard's wand.

Sighing and doing a quarter turn to his left, Sherlock swished his robes without appreciation. Then, raising his wand without caring, he sent a jet of red sparks flying through the air. They hit the face smack where the nose would have been, sending smoke spreading over the bricks.

"What the hell are you doing?" John threw the book onto the floor and flailed his arms in an alarmed way. He felt the heat of the spell as it flew by his ear, making a whizzing noise.

"Bored," was Sherlock's response, turning his back to the lion and sinking into his left hip. He slapped his palms on his thighs, beating out a rough staccato.

"What do you say we have a go then?" John suggested, properly closing the book he'd dropped and fixing the bent pages. He hopped up from his lounging chair and pulled his wand out so Sherlock could see. Holmes gave Watson a quizzical look, and the Gryffindor stated the obvious for the oblivious consulting student.

"Patronus," John said, giving the hint with his tone of voice and body language.

"John, I have already informed you that a Patronus is very advanced magic and almost impossible to produce," Holmes repeated, but the younger boy didn't abandon his persistence so easily.

"You said fear is optional," John quoted his friend, voice echoing as he strode the length of the room and stopped in front of the fireplace. His back was to Sherlock and his hands grasped together. "Besides, wasn't that the point of you bringing us here? And —"

"Not the case with you, John," Sherlock cut him off, and all the receiver did was raise his head, still ignoring his friend. "You're a Gryffindor. You rarely experience fear."

"That's not so." His figure turned around now. Sherlock made deductions even from ten meters away. Quidditch practice tomorrow, needs to change his arm bandages, didn't sleep well last night, smells of shampoo,(clearly took a shower this morning…)

John's hand wove around the edge of his robes, pushing them aside to rest on his hip. He debated the best way possible to continue the conversation. And so he spoke in his loud, confident voice so Sherlock could hear every word across the chamber. "Fear can only be defeated by strength. And strength doesn't come from your brain, Sherlock." Holmes was puzzled at the thought of not being able to use his brain.

Could legitimately mean muscles. Or is John referring to emotional strength?

"I'll give you a hint," Watson said, and Holmes didn't think the statement was rhetorical, "you're looking right at a person who has one…"

Sentiment, must be.

Okay, at least one partof the clue was obvious. The only other person in the room besides himself was Watson. Holmes's eyes became narrow, staring blankly at his friend; the friend he'd met in April about half a year ago. The friend who had a Muggle sister, wore jumpers all the time, and had an irresistible smile of pearl‒white teeth.

Blond hair smoothed down regularly, black robes coming to rest just below the ankle.Shoelaces tied loosely, not a freckle sprouting on his face.Tie tucked neatly into his sweater,golden lion protruding from the border of his scarlet badge sewn on his chest. Gryffindor house color bands trimming the edge of the grey sweater with the cuffs of his white buttoned shirt just barely visible under his sleeves. Top of his cloak unhooked with the v‒neck sweater showing.

"That was selfish," John told himself, stepping closer to Sherlock so he could barely hear him. When he reached his friend's side, all he did was exchange a small smile. "I'll leave you to your deductions then," Watson said, patting Holmes on the upper arm.

John began to walk away but stopped with his hand inches from the door handle. Curious, he wheeled back around to ask the Ravenclaw a bothering question. "Did you ever figure out what your boggart is? After, not having a go in class?"

Mildly dazed, Sherlock turned around. "I have...a vague idea of what it might be, yes." His hands were clenched behind his back, the way he stood when he was about to prove a point.

"Oh." The blond eleven‒year‒old stared down at his shoes, watching his toes wiggle under the leather. "And what might that be…?" he asked nervously.

Holmes directly tried to change the subject. "We're discussing the wrong spell. Why don't you have a go?"

"What?" John asked, removing his hand from the door and contracting his eyebrows. Oh my god John, you just wanted to practice five minutes ago…

But John didn't ask the question in confusion; he asked it in seriousness.

"Why is it always me…" the athlete mumbled to himself, lowering his head. Sherlock didn't hear him so he turned his head to expose his ear to his friend.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," John replied quickly. "Alright then, Mr. Genius," he taunted, placing his hands on his hips, "what's the spell?"

Sherlock didn't pull his teaching skills until after John took off his robes and sweater, leaving him standing in his pants, tie, white shirt, and sneakers. The shorter boy rolled up his sleeves, revealing his practicing appearance outside of class. His wand was held in his left hand and Sherlock watched him stroll casually over to where the Ravenclaw stood.

"Well," the older brunette stumbled, looking for the right place to begin, throwing his tie off to join John's, "the spell is Expecto patronum." I sound like an adult…Sherlock insulted himself. Lame.

"But —" he said, cutting John off and raising his tone, "there's more to it than just saying the spell out loud."

"Okay…" John gave the clue that he was lost. "How do you mean?"

"Well John, you see a Patronus can only be produced properly with one thing." He drifted across the floor to stand opposite Watson, holding his wand diagonally in his hands like he was about to duel his friend. "A happy memory."

Okay…be more specific…"This isn't making a lot of sense…" The questions were firing rapidly from John's mouth, but Sherlock kept his composure and took things one step at a time.

"John…" He paused for an effect. "What's the opposite of fear?"

"Um, I don't know…bravery?"

"Happiness." It clicked in John's brain and he nodded his head in an 'oh!' kind of way.

So, what does this have to do with dementors?

Holmes acted as if he'd read the blond's mind. "The only way you can fight fear is by thinking the opposite. To conjure a Patronus, you must think of a happy memory. And not just any happy memory, but an extremely powerful one."

"You make this sound a lot easier than that book," John commented. Sherlock smirked. Watson thrashed his finger a few times through the air, not understanding something again. "The book said a Patronus is a guardian. What does that mean?"

This is going to be a long chat…"There are two types of Patronuses, John. Depending on how strong your memory or thought is, it varies which one you'll produce. An incorporeal Patronus only takes on the shape of a silvery wisp or shield, as you might say. It will still protect you, but you're limited to how much protection it will defend you with."

"But, if a wizard has the ability to conjure a corporeal Patronus, his or her spell will take on the shape of an animal." John looked up from the floor at the mention of another live being protecting a human from harm. "In order to do this," Sherlock said, pointing his finger at the listener, "as everyone would like to, you must have mind‒blowing skill and the happiest memory you've ever experienced in your life."

"So you're saying that if I come up with a strong enough memory from my mind, I might just conjure an animal out of the end of my wand? And it will protect me from harm?"

"Correct," Sherlock said.

Seems legit…

"You realize you're going have to explain all this again to everyone else, right?"

"Of course. I'm keeping that in mind."

"Alright." John was done, and so Sherlock had the ability to speak and carry on with his lecture.

"Technically you can use a Patronus to protect you from any enemy, not just monsters, because it is a shield that fights off evil for you. It's not as easy as you think though." Figures…John thought. It's never that simple.

"Right. What was the spell again?"

"Expecto patronum." The words were spoken clearly from the teacher's mouth. John nodded.

"Funny enough, it translates to 'I await a guardian'." Show off, John thought, obviously knowing Sherlock would recall such a thing. "So, before you say the spell John, think of the happiest memory you can."

Oh, this could take ages…He started to rack his memory, turning the gears so he only focused on happy thoughts and eliminated the bad ones. He closed his eyes so it helped him more, and after a few minutes settled on a reasonable idea.

"Okay, I'm ready," he announced, gripping his wand tightly in his hand. "Wait!" he yelled, "I'm not going to practice on a dementor, am I?"

"Come on, John. I'm not that mean…" The lion didn't totally believe him. "Besides; do you think I would bring one of those creatures into this room? Unnoticed?" John shook his head, the stress releasing in his chest.

"Then —"

"Think Defense Against the Dark Arts class, John." The Gryffindor could tell the eagle was getting ticked off at him not using his brain.

Nothing was coming to mind. "Um…" he mumbled, tapping his wand on the side of his leg, stuck.

And then it hit him, and his happy memory was erased and taken over by the horrified picture; images of Sherlock lying limp on a wooden floor, broken eyes and ghostly white skin came back to haunt him. "A boggart," he muttered, looking up at the Ravenclaw with hurt in his eyes.

"Precisely."

"And where exactly are you going to find one?" His question was answered by a walnut cabinet appearing out of nowhere with a snap of Sherlock's fingers, and a familiar banging noise came from the inside to fill the room.

"All you have to do is ask for something and you get it," Holmes said, a grin spreading over his lips.

"Shut that thing up, will you?" John tried to ask politely, forcing himself to ignore the flashes of his dead best friend in his mind.

The boy with green eyes snapped his fingers again, which sent a loud echo throughout the room and the cabinet vanished. "Ready?"

John nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Well now I can't do it cause your brought that thing into our presence..." Holmes sighed heavily and stepped a few paces backwards to give his friend some space. Concentrating on his memory, the boy wearing his red and gold tie raised his wand. "Expecto patronum!" he yelled, waiting for a graceful animal to leap from the end of his wand, but he didn't expect to get it the very first time.

Nothing happened. John exhaled, glancing at his wand like it was a sad song about cancer. "Expecto patronum!" he tried again, but nothing erupted from his stick of carved wood.

"Concentrate harder, John," Sherlock urged him, turning his hands into fists to beckon the boy. "You can do it."

The swoosh of owl wings on the wind, with a letter clamped to its leg. My letter. My Hogwarts letter.

"Expecto patronum!" The tip of his wand gave off a weak throw of white sparks but then returned to its original state as quickly as the spell had escaped. John gave up hope and made a motion with his hand, clearly thinking it was hopeless.

"Come on, John," the older boy urged him again, but the shorter learner stopped Sherlock by waving him off with his wrist.

"I‒I can't Sherlock…" John almost whispered, not believing in himself. Despite being his first time attempting to produce a Patronus, John thought he wouldn't make any progress over the next few weeks.

With that he threw his sweater back over his head, messing up his blond locks and failing to pull his shirt down all the way. Several fat wrinkles lined the bottom, but they were covered up hastily when his robes were thrown over his shoulder.

"See you later," the lion mumbled, glanced vaguely at his teacher before heading off towards the door.

He left Sherlock standing alone as the door clicked behind him, and the Ravenclaw furious with himself about his teaching skills and his lack of assistance, yet miserable that his friend had a shortage of courage in himself.

"Mr. Holmes…" The first year Slytherin was elbowing him in the ribs, distracting him from attending to the boring plant on the table. His Wednesday morning Herbology class with the Slytherins was lacking energy as usual, and he couldn't wait for his second lesson about Patronuses later that same week.

He knew it would be tedious trying to teach his fellow classmates about one of the hardest charms in the entire wizarding world, but at least John relatively knew how to conjure one already. And even if their lesson was a few days away on Saturday, he couldn't wait to improve his leadership skills.

John was miserable about his failed attempt at his first Patronus, but Sherlock found him early the next morning and told him most wizards didn't cast a full one till at least their tenth or more try. Some of the most well known wizards weren't even able to cast them, and an eleven‒year‒old Hogwarts student conjuring one up was just unheard of.

Ouch! Irene Adler had punched him again and Sherlock gave her the hairy eyeball.

"What Irene?" he snapped, plucking a few of the leaves from his plant and placing them in a plastic container. She flattened the front of her cloak so Sherlock could see the emerald and silver badge on her chest, and the boy from the blue and bronze house huffed it off, not interested.

She adjusted her stance before continuing. Her short, grey shirt was rolled up, exposing far too much skin than she should have. "I'd only hope to think you're as good as people say." Irene held her hands in a distracting way, with her fingers curled gracefully without touching her palms. Her nails had been painted with a fresh coat of dark purple polish.

Sherlock tilted his head without moving the rest of his upper body, almost like one of those actions figure dolls. His eyes contracted to make deductions, but all he could see was the sky blue eye shadow behind her lashes under her eyebrows and the rose colored lipstick she wore. Nothing.

NOTHING.

Why isn't this working? I can't come up with a single thing. This is not, normal...

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" He raised his eyebrows at the pondering question, his expression mimicking such an amused look. "No matter how hard you try it's always a self portrait." She said her sentence as if she was showing him off.

There was only one thing he could make out from her figure. Long fingernails. Bright violet. A girl.

Everybody has a weak spot.

He started making his way back to the castle on his own after the bell rang to end the first period class. His bag strap hung diagonally down his torso, digging into his chest as he strolled along, holding the bottom of bag where the elastic connected to the body of the bookcase.

His feet crunched on the early November grass, and small frost crystals littered the ground. Each individual blade was fading to brown. Almost dead.

"Mr. Holmes." Ugh. Sherlock rolled his eyes in their sockets and turned around to glare at the Slytherin who resembled a young woman. She was swaggering with her wide hips towards the taller Ravenclaw, holding two books in her arms.

"Why?"

The demanded question made no sense to her. "What?" she asked, stopping and standing on her two inch high heels in the grass.

"Mr. Holmes," he replied in a gentleman‒like way. "It's a bit much, don't you think?" He was going smart aleck on her.

"Oh, I don't think so." Agile like a cat, she came far too close to him.

Whoa, she's invading my personal space. No one ever came within five feet of him. She was right up to his face, her nose in the same line as his shoulder. Shrimp, he snorted, amused by the fact that Adler was shorter than his best friend, even with her shoes on.

"Sooner or later, you're going to need someone on your side." She slid something into the opening of his bag. He gave her a look, straightening his spine so he seemed taller and more confident.

"You think you're the girl for that job, do you?"

"Sherlock, we're more alike than you think." Okay, she's coming way too close now. Irene had to rise up on the balls of her feet to whisper into his ear. "Till the next time, Mr. Holmes."

My eyes just went wide, he noted.

Irene left him standing alone, and her lingering breath was felt on his cheek before she ventured off to her next class. Her lips passed inches by his left ear, and one of the curls on his head slid to tickle his forehead.

He extracted the piece of parchment she'd slipped into his possession, thinking he hadn't noticed. Smack dab in the middle of the scroll was some sort of puzzle he supposed he had to solve. Four blank boxes, perfectly drawn in the shapes of squares, were mushed in between two lines of words.

All the parchment said was:

I Am

[] [] [] []

Locked

"Right," Sherlock said, clapping and rubbing his hands together. "Now, I want you to choose a really powerful memory. The happiest you can remember." He strolled around the room, walking in the middle of the four students who stood in each corner of the Room of Requirement.

Lestrade looked utterly confused, and Molly clearly didn't understand completely because she shriveled her face up in thought. John and Sherlock were the only two in the room who understood, but the shortest Gryffindor could still only manage a small flick of silver from the end of his wand. Mary kept shooting him sweet smiles from across the room, and Sherlock secretly noticed that John blushed deep pink in his cheeks from the attention.

"The only way to produce a full and complete Patronus is to have a memory that can overpower your enemy. Allow it to fill you up, to boil inside your chest." Some sort of butterfly seemed to flutter inside Molly's stomach. Maybe that was her driving force.

"Mary, have a go," Sherlock encouraged, passing by and stopping to watch her. To get some of the pressure off Morstan, Greg tried to cast his own shield. "Expecto patronum." His wrist twitched, but only a couple sparks shot from his wand.

I'm not thinking hard enough, he told himself. He spoke out loud while Sherlock tried to comfort Mary with her failed spell. "How are we supposed to defend ourselves in danger when we can't come up with one bloody happy thought?"

This is not my kind of subject, Sherlock considered. Sentiment again.

But John spoke for him, being the more loyal friend who understood more about emotions than Holmes did. "It's really difficult, but just clear you mind. Make it like that's the only thing you've ever experienced or came across. Trust me; you won't get it on the first try." A nervous smile was passed on to the only Ravenclaw in the room, and Sherlock knew where the reference was from. He returned the gesture, and his best friend turned back to his progressing work, hunching his back over to concentrate better.

Lestrade nodded his head, grateful that John gave him the advice. He brushed off his black hair from his hairline, feeling a cold rush sweep over him. From across the room, Greg heard Watson's strong voice cast the spell.

"Expecto patronum!"

Some sort of silver mist swirled out from the tip of John's wand, and it orbited around the center like a minute galaxy. Small, glittery blue sparkles were dotted in the whitish vapor, and it had a radius of at least a foot wide.

"John!" Sherlock was incredibly surprised and moved away from Mary as the lion produced a fantastic start for his third attempt.

"Ha! Did you see that!" John almost jumped for joy like a child on Christmas day. "I did it!"

"Nice job today." Déjà vu from a week ago, but the other way around. Positions switched.

"What?" John said, looking up from polishing his wand while sitting on the hard floor, his legs bent and turned out by chance and habit.

"Your Patronus." The smile spread across Sherlock's face and the grin was too much to ignore.

John's small beam molded into a frown, and he sighed. "It wasn't much." He sounded hurt.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock seemed offended as he stared at John in disbelief. "You were the best one in here today!"

"You know why, right?" The question was uncalled for, and Sherlock didn't know how to respond.

Weird silence. "N‒No," he admitted.

John pushed himself off the floor, tucking his wand into his jeans' pocket. That black and white striped long‒sleeved shirt looks phenomenal on John…

"It's because I have a great teacher." His hands went into his pockets and he bashfully headed to the door. When the tips of his fingers touched the cool steel, Sherlock stopped him.

"John, wait! Don't leave…" He stood tall and proud, his shoulders down and back with his arms floating out by his sides. His Ravenclaw tie was draped over his shoulders, and the buttons on his white shirt looked like they could snap off at any second.

"Please…" He pleaded for the blond to come back. "I‒I want to do this every week." There, I said it. I got my confession out.

"Do what?"

"I‒I just want to practice with you, alone, after everyone else leaves. You and me." He pointed to his friend and then back to himself, showing what he meant even though it was obvious.

Watson looked slightly mortified yet pleased at the same time. "It could be our alone time together." John stared down at the floor, considering the offer.

When he lifted his head, Sherlock was inches from his face, and there was no stopping the lurching that went through his body. "I promised," was all he said. "I promised to keep you safe."

"I know." He's squeezing my wrist again.

"Come on." Holmes smacked him on his back. "Just a few more tries?"

John gave in. He stood in the middle of the room, Sherlock a few meters off to his right, positioned to cast his spell. Letting out a deep exhale, he shouted, "Expecto patronum!"

The enormous shield erupted from the end of John's wand, growing to be larger than his height. He pointed his wooden stick at the ceiling to prevent his incorporeal Patronus from bumping into the floor. Sherlock couldn't find any words to express his shock, so thus he stood watching the shorter Gryffindor as the smile spread over his face in wonder.

When the producer's head turned to see Sherlock, his spell faded and died off, leaving him standing and panting for no reason.

"John…How did you do that?"

"I‒I don't know," he admitted, lowering his wand.

An idea suddenly struck the older boy, knowing it might be too much for his buddy to handle in such a rushed manner. The sooner he got the request out however, the better John's spell would be at a young age. "Do you think you could try it on a dementor?"

John clicked his tongue a few times, and then licked his lips before talking, making a sort of wiggle movement with his stomach. He repeated what he said before. "I don't know. I could try." The wardrobe appeared in front of his eyes before he could back out of the situation. "I…No, I can't," he tried to complain, but Sherlock was behind his back, pushing him closer to the banging furniture.

"Yes you can," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "I promise it's the same thing just with a little angst thrown in." Way to blemish my hopes, John thought. It's just going to ruin my chances of success.

The curls on the brunette's head tickled the back of John's neck, and he shivered at the thought of a dementor springing out of him. Sherlock retreated over to stand near the cabinet's side, and he gave a small nod at Watson. John made a 'you're kidding' motion with his hands, trying to beg for the boy to let him back out. He even added the effect of leaving his mouth open for an extra touch.

"Ready?" No! John wanted to scream, but his throat seemed to be glued shut. "Three…" He's counting down too quickly…I can't do this… "Two…One…"

Snap went the handle of the cabinet. A first, the door swung open to reveal nothing but darkness and shadow beyond, but then a disturbing sight came into focus. A slimy, green hand with long fingers and scabs all over curled around the door, and the defender stumbled back a little in fear.

The ragged and torn cloak swayed behind the gliding monster. No feet were visible, and its hood was as usual pulled over the hidden head. John extracted his gaze away from the hooded creature and he focused on the memory he'd just used to produce his incorporeal Patronus.

"Expecto patronum!" he yelled, thrusting his wand at his enemy, but his shield was only the size of a soccer ball. Come on…Come on, John! he told himself. Sherlock was making strange gestures with his hands, telling the lion he could defeat the creature.

Oh god…I feel, empty. And the room is becoming so...cold.

"Expecto patro…expecto…expecto…ex —" He could hear something in the back of his brain. He had no idea what was causing the sound, or if the eagle could hear it as well. Maybe he was hallucinating, but it was undeniable when it became so clear he could make out what the noise was. But, it wasn't a familiar sound. It was almost the sound of an explosion; the sound of bombs dropping on sandy deserts in a far off battlefield that was unknown to him.

But then it switched and there was a voice. Someone's voice that was so familiar to John...

Sherlock…

His legs collapsed under him as his head hit the floor. All the strength in his muscles was drained from him as the younger Holmes brother forced the boggart back into the wardrobe. He failed, so just by snapping his fingers, the creature vanished.

"John!"

Watson felt another smack on his cheek, but the wakeup call did nothing for him. He drifted off from the world as he went limp in Sherlock's arms and fainted. Booms and shouts filled his eardrums, and cold sweat drenched his unnaturally pale face as he fell into unavoidable sleep.