Chapter Eighteen

Psychosis

John smiled sweetly every time he saw Sherlock wandering the halls with his brand new soft blue scarf on, and the Ravenclaw had it wrapped around his neck as if it was permanently pinned there. Watson nearly toppled down the marble stairs in the entrance hall one morning on his was to breakfast as one of the knights in armor statues suddenly busted out into a bellowing edition of All I Want For Christmas Is You.

Sherlock blushed deeply in embarrassment of his only friend and changed his path of indication to join the Gryffindor at his side, tightening his present firmer around his neck. "You really need to watch what you do," he had to point out, just to make John feel more stupid than he already did.

"And I care because…?" he responded, fishing for the wiser eleven‒year‒old to come up with a knowledgeable and logical assumption.

"Nothing," Sherlock said dryly. "Just don't want to draw too much attention to yourself."

John chuckled as they sat down at the red and gold house table. A glorious fire was crackling in the fireplace behind his back on the far wall of the hall, and it sent a warm blast through the dining area. "Ha," John mused, "like I want or need any more attention."

Sherlock shrugged and leaned his elbows on the glossy table. He never really understood the meaning of manners, and John, Lestrade, and Molly had all adapted to accept that fact. The only time he tried to be polite was when he addressed Mycroft, but even then he ended up ticking off his brother as a result or mimicking the sixteen‒year‒old Slytherin prefect.

"So..." John started up, taking a bite out of his fried egg. He scrunched up his face in disgust as too much pepper settled on his tongue, stinging his gums and the inside of his mouth. He swallowed loudly and Sherlock looked up in disturbed way. "Sorry…" John mumbled, coughing and chugging down half his glass of milk to satisfy his taste buds. "So," he repeated again, this time avoiding slipping any food into his mouth as he coughed, "what are we going to do today?"

Sherlock tried to lean back against the chair but realized there wasn't a back to the bench he could lean against. Disappointed, he bent his spine forward instead and drew shapes on the wood with his finger. "Dunno," he admitted. "Something entertaining."

"Why?" The question was asked almost immediately. "Wait," Watson paused, knowing there was a catch to this while he held his pointer finger aloft, "what's entertaining in your terms?"

"I'd say experimenting with spells or mixing various potions, or maybe me beating you in a game of Wizard Chess. But I highly doubt you'd agree to any of those activities. I'm like, 97.46% positive you won't want to do any of those —"

"Who says I won't?" John interrupted, clicking his fork against his pearly teeth. John? Sherlock warned him with his eyebrow, and the younger kid responded with a gesture of slowly dropping his silverware to his plate, telling his friend not to underestimate him.

"And why do this today?" John continued, going back to cutting his sausage into edible bits. "Of all days, why is today special?"

"Don't you see, John?" Holmes hinted, but the blond shook his head stiffly. He sees,but does not observe. "It's the last full day off for the holidays tomorrow. It'll be the last time we'll be able to do whatever we want, just you and me." Well I certainly wouldn't have kept track of our free days. John nodded, amused as he tilted his head in agreement.

Watson set his napkin back on the surface of the furniture and leaned in to the Ravenclaw, his red plaid long‒sleeved shirt ruffling near the trims of his arm sockets. "I think it's you who's going to lose in Wizard Chess today."He grinned and got up from his seat.

"Oh, so it's a challenge now, is it?" Sherlock mocked back, jumping up from the bench and striding after his little lion out of the Great Hall. There was an, "Uh huh, you betcha!" from the blond in return. He knew he could beat the young detective at something, even if it was something as simple and foolish as Chess or Cluedo.

Around noon the next day, January 5th, piles of students from all houses suddenly poured into the entrance to the school, and the usual rumble of voices was heard rebounding off the stone walls once more. Sherlock stood alone pressed flat on one of the walls by the great front doors and watched the students come back to school, and in the meantime John had rushed upstairs to grab a jumper and his winter hat so they could go for a stroll on the grounds. Watson had even somehow coaxed Sherlock into joining him to go visit Hagrid.

He stood staring down at the hem of his favorite black coat as hundreds of pairs of feet swept by him. The bottom of his coat came to rest just above his ankles, and he always wore the collar turned up. Over the years he had managed to keep himself from giggling as the fabric tickled the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and he always liked picking out the random little red thread around one of the button holes in the upper right corner of the column of connectors.

Someone accidentally bumped into him and rudely didn't apologize, but when Sherlock recognized Irene Adler glaring back at him he knew she'd tapped him on purpose. The fur around her head made her dark brown hair stand out exceedingly, and her lipstick resembled the red color of holly berries on mistletoe.

"Sherlock!" A familiar bold voice with a strong British accent boomed over some of the surrounding calls, and the receiver glanced up to see Greg Lestrade pushing his way through the mass to where he stood.

"Hello!" Sherlock replied cheerfully as Greg pulled off a knitted hat from his head. His cheeks were splotched from the frosty wind outside, but he still had that ridiculous grin plastered across his face.

Just a few minor deductions told the younger Holmes brother that Lestrade had a wonderful Christmas and spent it with his family. New knitted mittens to match his hat (must have been sewn by his mum),signs of chocolate dotting the edge of his lips (clearly he's been chomping on sweets on the ride here),new jacket from a family member (tag is clearly visible and crystal clear to read…)

"How was your holiday?" Lestrade asked, now removing his puffy mittens from his frozen fingers.

"It was surprisingly okay," he told the truth. "John and I spent a lot of time messing around together." The red‒head isn't here. His brain interrupted his talking. "Where's Molly?" he implied, and Lestrade looked mildly baffled as he swiveled around to find no one behind him.

"Huh…" he sighed. "She was behind me a few minutes ago. Must have gotten lost in the mob, cause she rode in the same compartment as I did."

"And my first roommate has shown himself!" A delightful John appeared from the dying crowd, adjusting the buttons on the front of his black jacket and holding his blended forest colored hat in his gloved‒covered palms. "Hey Lestrade!" he greeted, shaking his muscular arm and adding an additional pat on the back for good measure. "Care to join us?" the smaller Gryffindor offered, pointing to the grounds outside and giving him a 'please' expression. "We're going to visit Hagrid."

"I'd love to," he told them, and then Sherlock heard the excuse he was expecting, "but I just realized that I didn't do my Potions homework over break. Gotta go do that or Snape is going to bite my head off tomorrow. And hell, I don't fancy getting put down on our first day back from break. Catch you later!" he said, and without another sentence to add to his excuse he fast‒walked to the bottom of the marble staircase and then bolted up to Gryffindor Tower.

"Come on," Holmes inquired Watson, bending his head down after following Greg with his eyes until he was out of sight. "Hagrid's," he said, nudging John on the shoulder.

"Right."

The two first years began to exit the school as a few remaining bundled up kids filed into the entrance hall. Someone sneezed nearby and her friend tried to comfort the sick person, but the results only ended with her bursting out laughing for some reason.

"Oh, there goes Molly," Sherlock commented, watching the red headed Hufflepuff walk by with white earmuffs covering her ears and chatting away happily with Henry Knight. John only nodded, seeing as he was too short in height to peer over the heads of most of the students in the school. But being one of the shortest meant nothing to Sherlock. It was the brave and loyal characteristics that he admired the most about his dear Gryffindor friend, John H. Watson.

Funny enough, I haven't bothered to ask him what his middle name is yet…

They spent a long time chatting with Hagrid about their recent school grades and holiday events, since they hadn't visited him in a long while. For about three and a half hours, they answered all the questions that were fired at them with high speed, and Sherlock did his best to catch and unravel Hagrid's strange way of talking.

Around two o'clock, Rubeus politely offered them some hot tea, and the two first years gladly accepted the invitation. Sherlock replied, "Two sugars please," and John thought differently with, "Just a dab of milk, thank you."

John had to secure both his cupped hands under the bowl‒sized mug in order to keep it from spilling on his lap. He removed a Chocolate Frog from under his robes and chomped its head off before asking if Sherlock wanted one. Without hesitation, the curly‒haired boy denied the request with a shake of his head and John sank his head in a bummed out way.

Hagrid then asked how John's last Quidditch practices went before Christmas time, and the lion told the truth that it wasn't remotely entertaining or fun. For the temperature seemed to drop by the day, and the longer John stayed out in the light‒falling snow, the more his cheeks flushed to look like cherries and the frostbite on his fingers became worse. He kept his hands protected from then on with a pair of mittens from home that Harriet had lent to him for school purposes.

After a while, they all sat in silence, Hagrid debating what next to ask them and Sherlock sneakily giving John quick flickers with his green eyes. The little Gryffindor's feet barely hung off the edge of the monstrous cushion, and he twirled his sock‒wrapped toes in order to keep himself occupied.

The silence was broken by faint footsteps passing by the front door outside, but no knuckles knocked on the wooden barrier. Instead, there was a random clicking noise, and then the sound of someone, or something, bounding away towards the south.And the only thing that's south from here is the Forbidden Forest.

It was quite a long while before the feet were heard a second time, but this time they went around the back of the hut and through the trees on the edge of the maze. Holmes jumped up from the armchair, somehow managing not to spill his drink all the while and rushed over to the window. No one's there…

"Sh'rlock?" Hagrid asked, extending his back from bending over to search through a kitchen cupboard. "What are yeh on about?"

The disappointed boy's fingertips slid down the icy glass, tracing a path cutting through the perspiration on the window as they slipped. "Nothing," he lied, and he returned his hands to the pockets of his dress pants.

Sherlock spun around to scan the single‒roomed home, and he found Hagrid's boarhound Fang curled up in the corner by the quilted bed, fast asleep. Every time he let out air from his nose a nuzzled snore would escape from between his teeth deep in his closed jaw. A small dribble of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, but the dog didn't stir, even when Hagrid had clanked the cups and plates around earlier.

Sherlock gave John 'the look' and the blond Gryffindor understood that they should've been making their way back to the castle. It was a sort of signal they had planned for various reasons, along with code words they'd recorded somewhere on a notepad for safekeeping.

And the liquid in Sherlock's mug had only been a quarter consumed, whereas John had almost drained his cup. Sherlock believed he could get away with John not noticing, but when the shorter kid grabbed his black jacket from the back of the chair, he did indeed spot the clue.

At four o'clock in the afternoon on that Sunday, they thanked Hagrid for his kind hospitality and bid him good day. Rubeus reminded them to come back and visit whenever they pleased, and John promised they would sooner or later.

The two friends shivered as they made their short distance back to the castle, snow rising to come and rest above their ankles, even when they stepped in their footsteps from on their way down to the cabin. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock adjust his blue scarf around his neck, and the younger student shortened his neck to hide it behind his coat collar.

When they were not twenty feet from Hagrid's front door, a loud and drawn‒out howl rang into the January boys stopped on the spot in alarm. It was obvious the noise had come from the depths of the forest, but it was sharp as it was yowled out, so clearly whatever it was wasn't far from the trees' entrance.

"What the hell was that?" John exclaimed, a tad bit frightened as his palms sunk deeper into his pockets.

Sherlock glanced up and down the forest edge, preparing to pick out any sign of life. "I don't know," he concluded, leaving his mouth open. Small clouds protruded from his agape lips each time he let out a breath, causing the air to puff out in white clusters and make him look remarkably like a fiery dragon.

"We should hurry up and get back qui —" But he abruptly halted and his pupils went wide as he caught barely visible movements between the dark brown trunks of the surrounding trees.

But whatever it was vanished as quickly as it came, because when John searched he found nothing among the dead leaves and bushes. "Sherlock…?" he asked, grabbing a clump of fabric of his sleeve and shaking his friend out of his daze. As Holmes blinked, his head jerked to the side, staring down at John. The Gryffindor asked the question with quizzical eyebrows, but the eagle ignored him and headed off towards Hogwarts.

John flexed his hands in a way to show he didn't understand, but the uncomfortable feeling the howl had exposed disturbed him, so he set off at a sprint, shuffling his feet in the fluffy piled flakes to catch up with Sherlock's long legs. But Holmes had stopped, head bent over as he observed the snow.

Because there wasn't just two sets of footprints imprinted in the snow.

There were four. One was a set of feet belonging to a student, a boy more specifically as Sherlock had worked out. The feet are too small to belong to a professor, but there's an undeniable pattern to the bottom of the shoes, mapped and typed out precisely. He takes strides of about three feet apart and he's about four foot eleven in height. Walks more so on the balls of his feet rather than the heels, because the print isn't as easy to make out around the back of the shoe. But the fourth set of footprints...

John gasped when he realized they weren't human footprints at all. They were paw prints; the footprints of a gigantic hound.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," John explained, trying to get the Ravenclaw to understand the usefulness the next day. Sherlock was refusing to swallow any sort of food or refreshment, and John considered the possibility that his friend was attempting to starve himself.

"I don't care," he refused stubbornly, shoving the pieces of food that was passed to him away in hate.

Lestrade was just as concerned as John was, and he leaned forward to add to the conversation. "Sherlock, it's the first day back to classes. Do you really want to go to Herbology without digesting something? Food gives you energy and helps you get through the day."

"I don't eat when I'm working," Sherlock butted in. "Digesting slows me down."

"What do you mean 'when you're working'?" Greg flung a small bit of toast across the table as he flicked his wrist, refusing to believe Holmes's lame excuse. "At least eat a cinnamon roll or something…"

"Look, you can't make me eat!" he suddenly screamed out, and a few of his fellow housemates turned to stare from the table behind where they sat.

He'd had enough. He was sick of people telling him he needed to get carbohydrates or fats inside him. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He collected his things and snatched up his schedule, then swinging his legs over the bench, got up and rushed from the dining hall.

"Sherlock!" John called after him, but the younger Holmes brother didn't halt to respond to his name. Mouth open, Watson turned his head back to Lestrade and the buffer Gryffindor swallowed his mouthful of food before confessing.

"It wasn't my fault!" he supported his theory, his arms flying to the side of his head in innocence and defense.

"No," John mumbled, returning to his state of depression. "You had nothing to do with it. I'm the one who's being too harsh on him."

"How though? You're not doing anything."

And John was sure of his response. "I don't know." It was true. He was heartbroken and cared deeply for his friend, and two things stuck out to him as the brunette bolted from the hall.One, his shirt is slightly too big around the stomach area. Two, his belt was hooked around the fourth hole, not secured in the third. There's only one explanation for this madness…

Sherlock's lost weight.

The only question is, how?

Lestrade moved his tongue around in his dry mouth, unable to find words and express his concern about Sherlock's recent disapproval of meals. He changed the subject, and good thing too because it firmly grabbed John's attention. "Did you hear that strange noise last night? You know, the one that sounded like a mad dog roaming the grounds?"

"You know about that? Heck, it nearly scared the daylights out of us. We were outside at the time heading back from Hagrid's."

"Really?" Lestrade piped up, and John shook his hands forcefully to get the exuberant lion to calm down.

"Shut up!" he whispered thickly. "Jesus, we don't need the entirety of Europe to hear us."

"Sorry. Did you see anything though?" he asked, his curiosity coming back rather quickly.

"What? No! Of course not…" John did very well to hide the uneasiness from his tone. He checked the time on his watch and nodded his head at the direction of the entrance hall. "Come on. We'd better head up to the History of Magic classroom. It takes years to get up there."

"Nah, only about fifteen minutes," Lestrade corrected him.

"I was kidding." John rolled his eyes, secretly giggling that Lestrade didn't comprehend his exaggeration.

"Bloody hell! I hate Snape!"

Sherlock barely fidgeted as a grumpy Lestrade stormed into his section of the library. At least, he liked to claim that it was his space. Rumors had spread (undoubtedly by Sally Donovan) that Sherlock was indeed a freak, and hence no one dared to go near him while he studied on his own. He sat on the wooden paneled floor with his knees up to his chest, resembling a child that just had their favorite toy taken away because their older sibling tattle‒tailed on them.

"Why?" Sherlock wondered, a hint of anger escaping in his voice.

Lestrade collapsed next to the Ravenclaw before telling his upsetting story of the day. "He gave me a detention! He took one look at my essay I did last night and claimed I 'hadn't put enough effort into it'," he said, mocking Severus Snape's monotone.

"So what?" Sherlock grumbled, squeezing his wand so tightly the blood failed to flow to his hands and they drained to white.

"So, that means I'll miss our Patronus lesson this week!"

"Hmm…" Holmes hummed, un‒amused. He didn't even care that Greg's tone was so loud that people in the next aisle over could listen in on their conversation.

"Sherlock," Lestrade turned to face him, a look of almost insurgence crossing his face, "what has gotten into you lately? You're pissed at everyone. What's your problem?"

The scream exploded from his mouth in frustration and made Lestrade jump back, alarmed. "There's nothing wrong with me, do you understand!" The voices in the next row of bookshelves now died down and stopped whispering, but Sherlock couldn't care less.

Lestrade didn't increase his anger at Sherlock, but instead his face morphed into an expression of distress. "Fine," he pronounced nonchalantly. He stood up and Sherlock's eyes followed his thick head of hair as he fully stretched out his knees. "I'm just trying to help," he added, making sure Sherlock comprehended.

"Yeah, well you can't," Sherlock spoke, avoiding Lestrade's hard glare.

"And why's that?" he almost spat back, sinking into his left hip for the effect. There was no answer from the eagle who remained on the floor.

"Oh, can you only speak to John about it? Is that why?" His tone was rising with every spoken syllable.

"I'm sorry, Lestrade!" he fired again, but then his tone dropped significantly as his voice cracked. "Nobody can help me. Not even Mycroft."

Lestrade's frown grew larger from one end of his lips to the other. Not wanting to add anymore misery to his day, he turned on his heel and left Sherlock alone curled up in the corner, cut off undividedly from the rest of the world.

What the devil was going on?

Even though it was Tuesday, Sherlock summoned John to the Room of Requirement for a private chat. What was wrong and unusual was that when he stepped into the practice space, a new shape had joined the smiley face on the right wall.

Two distinct and incognito shapes were spray painted onto the reflected tiles, and no doubt Holmes could make out just from the curved lines that they were either Japanese or Chinese symbols. But why are they painted in here?No one's been in here for a week and a half now.

He approached the scene hurriedly, slowly lifting his graceful yet shaking hand to touch the smooth wall. The paint was still wet and it stained his perfect nails.

There was a click as the door suddenly swung open, and Holmes surreptitiously wiped the liquid‒like substance onto a nearby cloth as John slipped into the room.

"You wanted to see me?" he said nervously, as if he was about to belectured by a school counselor. Sherlock wasn't ready to speak, so he foolishly nodded his head.

John let the door close behind his back before he started to walk towards his friend. He all the sudden stopped, shrugging his shoulders and exposing his palms to his fellow first year. "What's up?" he indicated. "Don't say nothing is wrong," he dismissed before Holmes could infiltrate,"Lestrade told me."

"That's…that's not why I brought you here…" Sherlock tried to change the topic, but John knew he was lying right off the bat.

"Yes it is," he corrected hotly. He was dressed in a ragged pair of jeans and his black and white long‒sleeved shirt. Honestly, he wasn't sure why they had to meet at this hour. It was almost nine at night and most of the students were either finishing homework or wrapping up to say goodnight to friends. "Seriously, just tell me what's wrong —"

"John, I don't know!" Holmes was shouting again, and he started pacing with a harshness away from the blond, one hand pulling at the curls in his hair as he tried to rip them out.

"How can you not know? You've been downright depressed for days!"

"I don't understand! No one can help me, so stop trying to force me to do stupid things like eat breakfast!"

John felt offended and didn't get why all this was his fault. He didn't want to be yelled at anymore, so he just hollered a completely different comment at the enraged boy, becoming irritated himself. "Don't think I didn't notice!"

"Notice what?" Sherlock muttered, glancing over his shoulder with his back to John and pretending like he had no idea whatsoever what he was talking about.

"It's January 6th."

"I don't care."

"You bloody well should care birthday boy!" The second mention of the date made Sherlock freeze. He twisted around to face the eleven‒year‒old, who had a blank look on his face but was breathing heavily to get Sherlock's attention.

Silence choked the room and both of them for a lingering, extended moment. And then Sherlock swiftly glided over to where the Gryffindor stood. John's brilliant eyes stared over his shoulder, but then changed as the taller boy, twelve years in age now, stood facing him.

Their eyes met for a split second, vibrant blue versus dazzling green, but John pulled away as he started to blink back tears. Then, reaching into the left back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out an almost physically impossible thin gift wrapped in blue and bronze paper.

"Here," he sniffed, reaching out his arm to clasp Sherlock's hand and place the present in his outstretched palm. Before ripping off the paper gently, the birthday boy let his mouth hang open in cowardliness as he gave John the saddest look he could muster.

The ribbon came off surprisingly with ease, and he let it fall to the floor neglectfully. The present weighed nothing, like a speck of dust, and he was careful in opening the slender package.

From under the light‒weight paper, Sherlock pulled out, marginally stumped, a gold and purple Chocolate Frog card. John was still staring at the floor silently when Holmes peered down at him, so he continued to examine the gift.

When he turned over the card in his hand, his veins were sent into a state of shock. For this was no ordinary Chocolate Frog card. In fact, it wasn't one at all. John had just bewitched it to look like one.

Because the long, pale face staring up at him, smiling with pearl‒white teeth showing, dashing cheekbones supplying the outline of his head, was his own. Even the minute details on the gift made his eye color pop out, and it enhanced every curl growing from his skull. From the ribs up on his body was visible behind the golden picture border, and the moving image of him was dressed in a black blazer with his white shirt underneath, his Christmas scarf tied around his neck to add the final , he began to read the words inscribed and typed into the refined paper under his gleaming face, printed in stunning ink.

Sherlock Holmes: January 6th, 1981 – Present

Sherlock Holmes is most known to this day as a consulting child. He currently attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a mind‒blowing Ravenclaw,even if he may think the Sorting Hat placed him in the wrong house. And even if people call him 'freak', they're all missing the point because his best friend, John Watson, has stuck with him since the very beginning, and he doesn't believe a word those teasers say. Because there is proof, not only from his Gryffindor friend, but from his others as well, that Sherlock Holmes has a heart.

Words were lost and out of the world as he stared down at his little Gryffindor. So brave and so strong, exposing what he claimed was the truth right before his eyes. Because he couldn't say it out loud yet, he had planned his saying carefully and sketched it out for Holmes to read instead. Sherlock's mouth just hung open, and before he had time to act the blond had pushed up onto his toes to entangle his friend in a loving birthday hug.

The emotions were taking over Sherlock's body as he hugged John in tightly, and he couldn't help but let tears spring from his eyes as his best friend cried too.

"Don't think you mean nothing to this world," John told him, rubbing his arm up and down Holmes's back. He sniffed loudly and had a terrible voice crack in his next sentence. "Because you by yourself mean the world to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock had never felt so emotionally moved in all his life, and John nuzzled his nose into his collar bone. His wet tears stained his shoulder, but the twelve‒year‒old didn't care one bit; that's what laundry was for. He removed one of his glued hands from John's muscular back, snaking around his hips to lock onto the Gryffindor's hand. He squeezed it securely, never wanting to let go of the warmness it gave off or the softness of his palm.

John breathed heavily in quick, small gasps, almost coughing because of the overload of tears. He gulped, bringing himself to be able to speak. "I‒I love you, Sherlock…"And the birthday kid planted a meaningful but light kiss on the side of Watson's shaking head.

"I love you too, John. You're my best friend."

And this time, he truly meant what he said.

"Why can't I do it!"

John sat on the floor not‒so‒gracefully in the Room of Requirement, legs sprawled in front of him while he leaned back on his elbows. He had failed another attempt to conjure a Patronus while in the presence of a dementor, and this time it really got to him.

He bent his knees into his chest and rested his elbows on them, taking in deep, fresh breaths and twisting his head from side to side. He tapped his wand on the calf bone of his right leg and scratched his hair in annoyance.

"What did you expect, John?" A small yet thick candy bar was thrown at him. John picked it up off the shiny floor and sniffed it, then gave Sherlock a look of bewilderment.

"Chocolate?"

"What?" Holmes replied, shaking off the Gryffindor's remark. "It has been proven to help wizards in chases of shock."

"I'm not in shock!" John blurted back, but he relaxed his hard eyes and took a bite out of the chocolate bar anyways.

"Well, would you rather have chocolate or a shock blanket?" That comment silenced the Gryffindor.

"You have to be overpowering, John."

"What?"

"Power..."

"I'm lost..."

"Don't be," Holmes told him.

"Okay..." but he still shriveled his brow in hesitation.

"Look," Holmes continued, obviously aware that Watson didn't have the slightest clue as to what he was trying to refer to. "Two things are possible. Either you're not thinking of a strong enough memory, or the boggart is still just plain scaring you."

"I'd say choice two is more accurate," the blond agreed. "I've had plenty of happy things happen recently to consider using to conjure my Patronus."

"But it's never impacted or got to you like this before." Sherlock stopped pacing the floor, his Ravenclaw tie dangling over his shoulders and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. The grey sweater he wore was wrinkled at the bottom of his waist, but he didn't bother to fix it.

"Hang on," John wondered, turning his head to the taller boy, "how come all the sudden I'm more frightened of them than you were originally at the beginning? I mean, whenever I try to protect myself, I just become rigid and can't move for some strange reason. Why?"

"That," Holmes began, and John prepared himself for a devastating response, "is a very good question that I don't quite know the answer to."

John let the weight in his entire body take over and he fell back against the floor, his spine extending one vertebrae at a time. He carefully considered the hardness of his skull and settled his head softly onto the cold tiles.

And then the conclusion hit the detective's compacted brain filled with valuable information and Holmes understood, not completely though, for the answer involved emotions. "Sentiment," he stated, "must be."

John didn't move a muscle for quite a long time. One could have mistaken him for falling asleep with his eyes open if possible, except for the occasional blinking of his eyelashes and folding of his fingers. But then slowly he lifted his head a few inches off the floor, staring up at the genius as if he'd proved an important point. "Yes..." The word slipped slowly from his mouth, and he knew it was time to tell his friend the real truth, all the facts included. "You're quite right..."

"Why?" the taller boy asked, hands pressed together against his face.

John pushed himself back up into his sitting position. For a moment he just sat there, eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the right, clearly showing that he wasn't skilled at exposing this sort of thing out to someone. Quite frankly, he wasn't 100% sure how to address the incident.

His mouth was open just a smidge, but no words or sounds escaped from his lungs. Finally, he got side‒tracked on the conversation but made sure to get to his point eventually. "Sherlock," was all that came out, and he paused once more. "What do you, feel when a dementor is attacking you?"

This puzzled the consulting child more than most of John's questions had. Thinking deeply and extracting thoughts from the back of his brain, he supposed, "Well, I sort of feel like I'm empty. I get shivers down my back and I can rarely focus, which is unheard of in my standards."

"Same," John informed him, ignoring the last boast Holmes had announced. "And I also feel my body go weak all over. There are some differences though. One is that I, for some unknown reason, go rigid when it advances on me and I can't function properly."

"One?" Holmes spotted the angle at which his friend was heading towards. "What do you mean there's more than one difference? What else is there that you're not telling me? John..." The name was called at the end of his rant with determination, and the athlete couldn't hide it any longer.

The Quidditch Seeker stood up just to pass some more time and debated how to talk to a boy who didn't understand sentimental relations yet. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I don't know what it is, or where it comes from, but I hear a sound inside my head."

Now this fact really stumped Sherlock. At first he just contracted his eyes at the shorter boy, but then he violently shook his head and asked, "What?"

"Whenever I go rigid, depending on the situation I hear a sort of noise in my head. The first one was...I'm not positively sure, but I think it was some sort of explosion."

Explosion? Holmes thought, flabbergasted. But he caught the blond's words and backtracked to dig deeper. "You said 'the first one,' so there's another..."

"Y‒Yes," his buddy stumbled, clearly wishing Sherlock didn't spot the catch. "Whenever I don't hear the loud boom, I hear a more common noise. It...it's a voice." He added a quick source of information before Sherlock could input his ideas. "Only the voice is yelling and it grows louder as I become weaker. And..." He stopped to try and swallow the lump in his throat, "it's your voice."

He looked so afraid, like he was destroying the Ravenclaw with every letter of the alphabet he used. When John looked back up from staring down at the floor, suddenly the brunette had mysteriously drifted his way over to the tall, vertical mirror in the corner, his hands in his pockets and his head bent over with low spirit.

He forced himself to glance up at his delicate reflection, all the while commenting on how his skinny body resembled a twig on a tree branch. I'm so thin...

Sherlock didn't know it, but John had secretly noticed too. The occupied first year, the one who performed dangerous experiments at home and made deductions by looking at people, stood staring back at himself, shaking and almost malnourished. No wonder John's so concerned about my health, Sherlock observed. I almost look like a skeleton...

I‒I hate those creatures. I can't stand this anymore with them sucking the life out of me. All this, me losing weight. Not because I'm not eating, but because they're the ones who're making me feel miserable.

"Sherlock?" John had spoken his name in a whisper, seeing his own shape outlined over the Ravenclaw's shoulder in the glass. "What do I do?"

"I can't explain the possible explosion, John." He sulked, staring down at the floor since he couldn't look at himself any longer. "I suspect your brain is playing tricks on you and it's flashing memories from your father's military service at you. That's the only thing I can come up with. I can't work out how that can happen though..."

"And the screams?" John questioned, shifting his weight so he tried to make Sherlock look at him in the mirror. "Sometimes it gets so bad I feel like you're actually crying out or being tortured because of me..."

But Holmes wasn't listening. He wasn't paying the slightest attention to any word that dumped from John's lips.

"Sherlock," John said, raising his voice a little louder and his tone became sterner, "what's happening to me?"

And without warning, Sherlock suddenly yelled out in rage. He let out a scream, but unlike the one in John's head it was with a force of anger. And with a swift movement of his arm, the Ravenclaw's clenched fist collided with the mirror's surface, skin against glass.

And his skin busted open the moment he punched his own face in the reflection.