Chapter Nineteen

Rise Above

He had been hit so unanticipated with a storm of boiling prejudice swarming in his veins that he had no choice but to let his body act on its own. The urge to express his hatred in an overbearing way grew like wildfire without stopping, sparks spreading to catch more trees in the forest on fire, eventually burning the whole habitat to its roots.

Not only had the force of the impact cracked the glass, but Sherlock had also imprinted a dent in the layer underneath his reflection. He was not only furious with himself for being so stuck‒up over the past few days, but he was also fed up with having to suffer through passing those soul‒sucking creatures on a daily basis. Who cares about the threat of an Azkaban breakout? There's no need to bring those monsters to Hogwarts.

John had been smacked in the face with such trauma that he completely got side‒tracked about the shouting in his ears during the presence of a dementor. His hand flew up to his open mouth like a magnet as he stumbled over his own feet, bracing one hand on the floor as his bottom almost touched the ground. However, he did let himself sink onto the cold, tiled ground as his wrist twisted awkwardly underneath him. Sherlock was already kneeled in front of the broken mirror.

"S‒Sherlock…" John spoke his name in a whisper, stuttering as he began to rise off his feet, slowly releasing the pressure from his shoes. Despite the Gryffindor speaking his name, the Ravenclaw wasn't paying much attention to anything aside from the oozing, warm blood flowing between the gaps of his fingers.

Sherlock was doing his best not to act weak and let tears flow from his watering eyes, but the stinging in his hand tissues was burning, and he cradled his right arm in his lap. He put weight onto his palm to cease the bleeding, but it only increased the sharp prickle and sunk the glass deeper into his skin.

He bent over to curl into a ball, squeezing his eyes tightly and shifting his hand to rest between his legs. John's hamstrings felt like wobbly jelly as he attempted to stand on his own, bending his flat back forward in order to regain his balance. Breathing out small pants, Watson warily tiptoed over to the huddled twelve‒year‒old, nervously extending his elbow out in front of his chest.

"Sherlock…" This time John's voice was lower in volume but higher in pitch. He squeaked, resembling the weakness of a mouse as his feet barely bounced a pitter‒patter off the polished didn't stir or flinch when John's rough hold was firm on his shoulder next second, and he unwillingly opened his eyes to scrutinize his injury.

John could tell where the glass had drilled and burrowed the most into the back of his hand, because the scarlet liquid poured uncontrollably from the small bumps near the soles of his fingers.

I must have broken a few fingers. Maybe even broke my entire hand if the impact from the blow was strong enough…

John was right up against his friend now, trying to stare into Sherlock's averting eyes with one knee tucked up into his side. He pressed a hand to the opposite end of Holmes's chin, forcing the boy to turn his head towards him.

I have to stare into his expressive eyes. I have to look into his blue,galaxy‒swirling irises…

But he couldn't bring himself to do it. For another searing pain shot through his arm and made his heart skip a beat, and his mouth let out a whimpering noise as his face contorted in agony.

"Sherlock!" John's free arm had wrapped halfway around his collar bone line to embrace his damaged friend in a partial hug, doing his best to hold up the larger body. For a boy of his age, being the height he was, John had immensely strong arms from previous years of playing Muggle sports back home. Their state of loneliness reminded the blond of his injury after his opening Quidditch match.

"Shh! Shh…" he comforted, his second shush coming with less demand than the first. "Stop," he ordered, removing his hands from the boy's back and weaving them in to grab Sherlock's bruised hand, "you're just going to make it worse. Let me see."

Sherlock refused, shaking his head back and forth as dripping tears flew off his bold cheekbones. "Sherlock," John warned rather forcefully, "let me see."

Slowly, hesitantly, Sherlock grabbed his bashed up hand in his other and pulled it from its hiding place. John somehow was not disturbed by the sight as he determined how bad the cuts were. Shards of glass had wedged their way in between the gaps of his fingers, and a scar surely would form diagonally across his palm.

He's pale, John noticed. Side Effect. Too much blood lost in a short time."Jesus," he commented, tilting his head from side to side and spreading out Sherlock's fingers to prevent further harm. He set Holmes's shaking hand down on his thigh, then patted him on the shoulder while he stood up.

"Don't move it," he told the eagle forcefully, who immediately tried to release some of the pressure. "Don't touch it either." Watson made sure he was clear by pointing down at his wrist area before turning around to pace the room.

He stopped approximately seventeen feet from where Sherlock was curled up, sighed, and closed his eyes. Okay… He set his mind on what it was he desperately needed. All I need is a first aid kit. Something that will help with Sherlock's injury.That's all I need.

And when he opened his eyes again, a small red and white box had appeared out of thin air in the direct center of the room. Shuffling over, he snatched it up and unhooked the latch, pulling back the lid to reveal the contents inside.

"Okay," he said, setting the box down at his feet when he returned to the boy at the base of the mirror. There was a pile of broken glass around Sherlock's figure, and John saw his own cracked reflection stare back at him before he set off to work on the boy's hand.

"You know what, I'm going to move you," Watson said, changing his mind. "Come on." He extended his hand to help support the brunette to his feet, and Sherlock's arm folded into the crease of his hips as he rose up from his sitting position.

The Gryffindor kept a light hold on the end of Sherlock's blazer sleeve as he led him over to stand up against the wall. With his index finger vertical, John rotated his knuckles on the spot, clearly signaling for Sherlock to turn around. Holmes pressed his back to the wall, and then sank to the floor as John pointed down.

Watson sat with his legs crossed next to Sherlock's outstretched legs after retrieving the first aid kit from where he'd left it. "Alright," he started, handling the eagle's arm with wariness and pulling it towards him, "I need you to stay as still as possible. You flinch in any unnatural way, something could go wrong. Try and keep as still as possible. The more you stay still, the quicker we can get through this." He sounded so calm and acted like he was a professional; like he'd done the tending job hundreds of times.

Sherlock nodded, bracing himself for the small bolts of pain to surge through his hand every time John plucked a piece of glass from his skin. The well‒experienced healer rummaged through the box, pulling out a pair of tweezers, a small towel, and an ace bandage for the final instruction.

As painlessly as he could, John used the tweezers to extract the glass dug into his fingers and palm, occasionally glancing up to check on his friend. Once he pulled too hard and Sherlock gritted his teeth as his skull bumped against the wall, his neck cracking to expose his Adam's apple. "Sorry!" John almost shouted, quickly grabbing the towel to dab at the wound, which had opened and began to bleed freely.

"You okay?" he asked, apologizing for his mistaken actions. Sherlock nodded, being strong through the entire process and barely crying at all. Tear tracks from earlier stained his face, but he showed no sign of letting more water slide down his cheeks as John continued on.

When Watson had finished, he handed the towel over to the Ravenclaw so he could wipe his sweaty skin. He had a small paper cup full of the tiny specks of glass taken from Sherlock's hand next to him, and he emptied the plastic first aid kit to use it as a container. He scraped up the broken mirror from the floor using a couple gauze pads, double checking to make sure he cleaned up every last shard.

"Stay right there," he said, coming back over to where the Ravenclaw sat. "And keep pressure on the wound. Even though I know you don't want to," he blurted, before Sherlock could protest. "I'm going to the nearest bathroom to grab some cold water, okay? I'll be right back." His voice lowered, and he left Sherlock's perfect, left hand falling slowly to the floor, out of his own smooth touch. His hand fell away from John's but remained in the air for a split second before landing delicately on his bent knee. John walked away from him and left him alone, closing the door gently behind him as he exited the Room of Requirement.

Sherlock stayed right where he was and marveled at the spectacular work John had done on his hand. Only a few scratches remained and indeed a scar was already taking shape over his bone. He secretly promised in his mind not to mess with the injury while his lion was gone, and so once in a while he peeled back the towel from the cuts just to stare at its healing progression.

John didn't return for quite some time. Sherlock was beginning to contemplate that he'd forgotten about him and went back to Gryffindor Tower, but nonetheless he remained where he was. He told himself he wasn't going to move repeatedly in his mind, knowing this time he wouldn't deceive his best friend.

"Accio watch," he said, pointing his wand at the bookshelf on the far wall. He'd read multiple books on advanced spells, and this one he considered would be important and useful in the near future. The watch zoomed through the air in his direction, as if an invisible string was pulling it from out of the end of his wand. It landed with control on his lap, and the time told him that John had been gone for almost half an hour.

And then a new sound dawned on him, coming from over near the cozy beanbag chairs in the far corner. He leaned forward in his seat to try and get a better look. Located in between the cushions, Watson's PocketSneakoscope he'd received for his eleventh birthday was spinning miraculously fast on its own, rotating atop its point while lit up by flashy lights. The red, orange, and teal colors had all whirled together in the circular maximum capacity of the top and whipped through the air.

The noise of it gliding over the floor was obnoxiously annoying, so Holmes tried to concentrate on the ticking of the watch hands beating against his leg as a distraction. He snapped out of his mind palace incidentally when he heard the click of the door handle for the third time that day.

He kept his eyes closed for a few moments, just absorbing the sound before wanting to expose them to the world again. One thing bothered him. There's the sound of two sets of footsteps. Sherlock yanked his eyes open in confusion to figure out who'd returned with John.

It was Mycroft.

"What'd you bring him for?" Sherlock complained without hesitation, and Mycroft sank into his hip and glared at his younger brother. "He's not supposed to know we've been in here, John."

"Why do you think?" the Gryffindor replied, denying the fact that he'd really gotten Mycroft to spit the truth out of Sherlock.

"Dear Sherlock," Mycroft teased, umbrella tapping on the floor, "you can be such a burden sometimes."

"Right back at you."

"Alright!" John cringed, his hands molding into fists, "I didn't bring you two here to bicker at each other!" He stopped and heard the faint buzzing the Sneakoscope was giving off, then pointed at it and looked for help from Sherlock.

"It just started to go off on its own," he told him.

"How exactly did you say this thing worked?" John asked, picking it up off the floor and feeling it hum and vibrate in his hand.

"It's supposed to light up and spin when someone untrustworthy is around." Watson looked mildly confused and shook it, but the gesture had no effect.

Sherlock scanned the room with his eyes even though he knew they were the only three people standing in the wide open space. "It's you!" he suddenly spat, pointing to Mycroft from three feet high off the floor. His back grew to stretch out, giving his prefect brother a gasp look on his face.

"What are you talking about?" John sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides.

"That thing started going off when Mycroft entered the room! You're the criminal person! You've been causing trouble all along!"

"That's a highly strong accusation to blame me of," Mycroft sneered, crossing one foot over the other. Both siblings gave each other displeasing looks. All three of them were silent until a thought suddenly crossed John's mind.

"Can't be," he butted in, "Mycroft was around when you gave it to me. It would have gone off back at your home."

The fact left the various aged students in silence. "Then…who is it?" Sherlock wondered.

But as he tried to make deductions, the Sneakoscope shuddered in John's hand and died, becoming still and falling silent. "Maybe it's malfunctioned," he muttered, throwing it onto the close‒by cushions like a paper plane.

"Right, okay Sherlock," John brushed off, turning to face the Ravenclaw, "let's finish patching up your arm." Sherlock felt uncomfortable with his sixteen‒ year‒old brother in the same room as him and secretly glared as Mycroft from across the room.

"Show me," John said, beckoning with his fingers. The bleeding had died down, leaving a red stain on the towel, but John nevertheless wrapped the wound neatly in a bandage with some extra gauze pads.

"There!" he exclaimed, satisfied with his healing skills. "Okay, now I have to deal with you two…"

"Deal with what?" the brunette said, refusing to get up off the floor.

Mycroft strolled in to tower over his family member, John standing to his left. They looked extremely funny next to each other, as Mycroft was a full foot taller but Watson definitely claimed he was tougher. The shrimp stood on the balls of his feet, arm crossed as they closed in on the boy in the blue and bronze house.

"Sherlock," John cleared his throat, "no excuses. I want the truth from you. Why have you been acting up?"

There wasn't a peep from the older first year. John had to ask a second time. He wasn't going to back out until he got a proper explanation.

"Why did you smash the mirror?"

John adjusted the strap on his school bag as he strolled into the Great Hall for lunch on Friday. Lestrade and Molly had abandoned him after Herbology class chatting freely together, so he made his way up to the castle on his own.

He was tapped on the upper arm unexpectedly however and whirled around to see Henry Knight. "Hey," John said, not planning to bump into him, "what's up?"

"Hey John," Henry greeted, trying to match the pace of his strides, "I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Sure. Shoot."

"Molly told me about your meetings Sherlock arranges every Saturday. She said you guys learn how to produce Patronuses. I was…wondering if I could join?" His voice was shaky and he tended to shuffle his feet every few steps.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be a problem. I'm not surprised she told you, and you're a trustworthy person. You'd be welcomed to join us," John assured him, slapping him on the back. "I'll talk to Sherlock about it. There's no way he would deny your request."

"Great, thanks!" Knight hoped Watson would have a good day and dashed off. John couldn't help but smile; their group was growing stronger. Just one more member to be a friend of Sherlock's.

"Hey John!" Someone else was calling his name, and even though the student was older, the blond also knew his voice. God, I'm popular today, the athlete boasted thoughtfully. He turned around to see the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain Anthony Greyskir sprinting over to him.

"Hi," John replied when the sixteen‒year‒old reached his side.

"Everything alright?"

"I guess you could say so. What're you so excited about?" John questioned, seeing the childish grin spreading on the boy's face.

"Great news," Tony began, sliding his hand up and down the front of his robes, "we're in for the running to play in the Quidditch final this year! Just hope Hufflepuff makes it a close game against Ravenclaw. Sorry, I've gotta dash. Catch you later!"

"Oh, okay!" John chuckled, finding the news thrown at him to be exciting anyways. Hmm…he considered. The good side, a Quidditch final! Imagine, holding a trophy in the air! The bad side however…

Practices three times a week again. Ugh…

Sherlock had delightfully agreed to let Henry Knight join their practice group, so now six first year students stood inside the depths of the Room of Requirement. Four boys, two girls. Three Gryffindors, now two Hufflepuffs, and one Ravenclaw. Henry felt stupid as he gaped at the open space which had materialized from thin air. The rest of the friends walked in as if they'd known this their entire lives, and they split up in synchronization towards their practice corners of the room.

"Alright Henry," Sherlock addressed him, coming over to pat the Hufflepuff near the neck. Henry's large, floppy ears went bright pink, and the heat radiated to his cheeks and forehead. "Since we've been going at this for quite some time now, I want you to stand in the middle so I can get a good look at you. I'll need to explain some very important concepts as well." Knight nodded and went to make the fifth and center point of their stance shape.

"Right," Sherlock exclaimed, stepping away to the far end of the room to get everyone's attention, "just remember to keep your focus. Your Patronus, corporeal or not, will only protect you for as long as you concentrate on your memory. You may begin whenever you're ready!"

Instantly, four bodies turned to face inside the square, revealing wands from beneath their robes and planting firm positions with their feet. Henry remained where Holmes had ordered him to stand, his stick of wood dangling by his side and fingers tapping on the thigh of his leg.

Lestrade went straight to work, considering he'd missed the previous lesson thanks to Snape's dreadful detention. He'd been demanded to scrape out all the dirty cauldrons from the last class on Thursday afternoon, making sure not a drop of potion remained in the contents of the bowls. Greg was down in the dungeons for four and a half dreadful hours before heading straight up to Gryffindor Tower to do his Potions homework he had for that first weekend back. It doubled his fury with the head of Slytherin house. First detention, then a two page essay.

Since Christmas was his favorite time of the year, Lestrade tried to pick out a happy memory he recalled over the holidays like a child does when choosing a present. He'd had a jolly season of giving, but he didn't believe anything could match up to the night he danced with Molly at the winter dance.

John had about as little trouble as he could have at his first attempt at the charm that Saturday. Settling on the first time he'd produced his protector as his stimulant, he raised his stick of wood and shouted,
"Expecto patronum!"

As if it was let out of a cage in an animal shelter, John's wolf sprung out from the end of his wand. It bounded around the ankles of Molly Hooper, who had stopped to stare at the groomed fur. Henry Knight also got distracted from Sherlock's rant and watched John direct his wolf around the room. The Quidditch player simply looked like an enthusiastic toddler playing fetch with their pet outdoors.

"And that's what a corporeal Patronus looks like." Sherlock dodged and flexed his conversation around to fit the current situation which was taking place. Henry pointed a finger at the blue and silver mist darting around the room on its bounding paws. "So, that's what my Patronus will look like as well?"

"Well, not exactly..." Henry's level of hope dropped down almost halfway. "Yes, it will be some silver and blue animal, but not a wolf. Your Patronus resembles your personality. Take John's for example; he's a very brave and loyal person, and so is a wolf. Therefore, his Patronus reflects who he is as a student."

"Oh, okay. I understand now."

"Good. Now, this is the basics of casting a Patronus charm," and Sherlock went on to rant about how it was almost physically impossible for wizards to cast it on their first attempt.

"Expecto patronum!" It was Molly's turn to let her swan leap gracefully from her wand. It flew through the air, weaving between the other practicing kids. John saw the remarkable creature and flicked his wand again. His wolf sprouted its head, torso, and hind legs as it came out to join Hooper's bird.

The swan began to circle the ceiling, opening its transparent beak and letting out silent calls. John's wolf jumped up and down on its back legs, trying the best it could to reach the fellow Patronus. The only result it had was landing softly on its four paws next to its owner.

The dog would have let out a pathetic moan if the spell was able to give off audible sounds, and it sat on its bottom, head turning in circles to follow the flying bird.

Lestrade sure got a shock when he managed to collect a happy memory and shout out for the whole room to hear. "Expecto patronum!"

Similar to John's wolf, Greg's Patronus grew a long nose with visible whiskers poking from its snout. Fierce and inch long teeth grew from the gums of its open jaw, and small, fuzzy semicircles rose from the head to give it ears.

No one could tell what his Patronus was until its full body squeezed out of his wand, revealing the last bit as a long tail. Molly was the first to step to it and concluded to the rest of her friends that it was a mountain lion.

With the two four‒legged Patronuses side by side, there were considerable differences in the two creatures. Watson's wolf was by far larger in the stomach area, whereas the mountain lion was almost as skinny as a twig, its ribs showing under the thin layer of fur. The wolf perked up its pointy ears when it saw a new animal had joined the fray, and John laughed at the spell's interaction. Molly lost her concentration when she saw Henry's depressed attempt to produce the charm, so her swan faded and vanished as she turned her head away.

"Mary!" Sherlock's voice ultimately boomed through the room, and both John and Lestrade turned to stare.

A silvery doe had gracefully grown from the end of her wand, bearing the same large, blue eyes Mary Morstan had herself. The spell was only brief, and it died off as she felt the entire room watching her, all pairs of eyes fixedly focused. She felt too much pressure, but she now knew she was able to conjure up one of the most complicated spells in the history of magic as her animal faded into a blurry clump of nothing but air.

"Are you ready?"

John let out a long, drawn‒out breath, bouncing back and forth on the padded parts of his feet. Once again, the banging boggart in the wardrobe stood in front of him, ready to attack and make him pass out.

"Sure," he said, but gulped and felt the opposite. Unsure.

"You sure you can handle this?"

"Just pull the latch!" John blurted. "I want to get this over with…"

Sherlock nervously moved his eyes over the floor, hoping John would be okay in his situation. "Okay, ready? One…Two…Three —" A single swift movement of his arm made the doorknob rotate 90 degrees, letting it swing open on its hinges.

The cloaked creature exposed itself quicker than it ever had before, and John focused on nothing but Sherlock and his silver wolf Patronus. "Expecto patronum!"

The shield began to grow in size and sprout from the end of his wand, creating a barrier the size of an archery target to ensure his safety. His spell faded away in a flash when he felt the dementor pulsing against the silver mist, and suddenly it was four feet in front of him.

And then there was the sound of an explosion. A cry of agony blared in his ears, and John not only sank to the ground on one knee but also let out a small yell himself. He covered his ears from another crashing blast, but it did no good as the noise was only in his head. It wasn't enough to block out the roar into a humming whisper. He remained strong and fought to stand back up on his feet, preparing to fight against the creature.

The screaming was beginning to come back in his ears. He tried to block it out, but it just grew louder and fiercer with each glide the dementor took. No, not John…LeaveJohn alone! He's all I've got!

John was trembling from head to toe as the real Sherlock remained where he was, not the fake one, watching and observing the shorter boy failing to act. He wasn't going to jump and help yet, not until the Gryffindor was practically on the verge of real danger.

Stop! I'll do anything! Anything! Just leave John alone!

"Expecto patronum!" The blond'sPatronus was only a tiny speck of light this time.

John, run! Get yourself to safety! "No…" Sherlock, standing by the side of the scene, stood frozen, watching John react as if the noise in his ears wasn't false. It was as if the room had faded from John's view and he was standing in a completely different atmosphere. The spark was set off, and the detective knew he had to be an impact sooner than later.

JOHN!

"Sherlock…" At the mention of his low‒moaned name, Holmes climbed out of his daze and casted his own incorporeal Patronus, sending the boggart back into the wooden closet."Expecto patronum!"

"STOP!" John was screaming now from his kneeling position. The yell was blurted so energetically that it made the brunette flinch from the breaking agony of it.

Holmes's shield wasn't as big or wide as John's but it nevertheless protected him from harm. He slammed the door of the wardrobe shut and gasped massively, allowing the room to refill with a warm breeze. Making sure the lock was secure, he rushed over to the crouching Gryffindor, calling his name in a determined way to attract his attention.

"John! John..." He beckoned him to come back to the world, slapping the younger boy's chubby cheeks. "John, can you hear me?"

But the warmness hadn't returned to the lion's veins and the cries were still ringing faintly in his ears. His body was so weak he was unable to hold his wand, so it slipped from his fingers and rolled a few inches away. It was miraculous that he was able to prevent his pupils from rolling into the back of his head.

"Sherlock…" It was his last whisper before his head brought his full weight crashing to the ground, and John shriveled in his Gryffindor uniform as he was knocked out, blond hair flattening against the crown of his skull.

"John….John…"

Silence. A soul‒sucking dementor during one of their practices had never scared him this bad. Never.

"John!" Sherlock was shaking the blond, who was still out cold from the fright of the hooded creature. He'd passed out about twenty minutes ago, and the side effects were quite significant this time. He should have been awake a long while ago, but he must have been sent into a deep feeling of emptiness.

Watson came back to life and groaned, rolling his head to the side and causing all the weight to sink into the floor. His blue eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the fuzziness of the world around. A hand was felt on his lower back, helping him to sit up.

"Here." Something was shoved into his fumbling hands, bouncing off his arm and landing in his lap. It was almost embarrassing; he couldn't even find the strength to pick up an object that weighed less than a pound. Whoever it was that sat next to him stood up and began to pace the floor, taking long strides and mumbling under his breath.

The shorter boy finally found himself back in the Room of Requirement, lying about ten feet from the banging back and forth on his sit bones,he picked up whatever had fallen onto his stomach, discovering it was a milk chocolate candy bar. Instinct took hold and he unwrapped the golden paper protecting the sweet from dirt and dust. His teeth sunk into the brown squares, and he switched his gaze to rest on Sherlock.

"How many times is that now?"

"That you've collapsed in front of a dementor? I'd say about nine now." The fairly new detective wasn't paying attention to his friend and continued to walk, deep in his own sighed, running a rough hand through his blond locks. Face contracting, he stuck up for himself and asked a killer question.

"Why haven't you shown anyone your Patronus?"

The echoing footsteps stopped, hitting Holmes like a bolt of lightning. Now is not the moment to ask that, John. You just passed out for heaven's sake. He tilted his head as if in bewilderment, and then added, shamefully, "Because I've never produced a corporeal Patronus before."

It was true. He hadn't. And to admit it to John, John Watson, the bold‒hearted Gryffindor, was just plain and downright unacceptable. Of all the things he couldn't do, which that category was finely limited, he never found it harder to tell the lion than what he just did.

John halted in mid chew, staring up at Sherlock like he had two heads. In the end, the only thing he was able to come up with to remark back was, "What?"

"My Patronus hasn't taken the shape of an animal yet…"

"Then keep practicing!" John encouraged, springing up onto his feet but swaying when brown circles were littered in front of his eyes. The chocolate bar fell from his hand and landed with a soft thud on the ground. Sherlock rushed over cautiously, bracing a hand on his buddy's collar so he didn't stumble over."I'm fine," the little boy replied, trying to shoo him away.

"No," Holmes said blandly. "You're not recovered enough to carry out with your normal activities. Sit," he ordered flatly, sounding much like the younger student.

Stop using such advanced sentences, Sherlock, John grumbled in his mind. He sank down onto the tiled floor anyway as the Ravenclaw's palm pressed him downwards, teaming up with gravity.

Even though he was down on the ground, that didn't mean he couldn't interject his opinions. His cheerful self returned in less than a second flat, and his beautiful eyes lit up with encouragement. "You've got to get it soon! Come on, you can master any spell faster than anyone I know. Maybe one last burst will set it free." Sherlock slowly shook his head, backing out of the situation.

"But I've never seen your Patronus," Watson pleaded, giving Sherlock the puppy dog irises. "Of all those times we practiced together, you always made me do it."

His wand was out of the pocket of his dress pants unimaginably faster than John could blink, partially to make the eleven‒year‒old shut up and the other half to prove he couldn't master the spell. "Expecto patronum!"

Sherlock was right. It was nothing more than a shield surrounding him with its wide circumference. It was of course a powerful shield, taller than John himself in height, but nothing more. "See!" Holmes pointed after his spell had died away, "that's all it does."

"It's my turn to play the teacher," John said, straightening up a little taller. "You're not thinking hard enough."

"Copy cat."

"What?"

"That's what I always say to you."

"Just try it?"

"Why?"

"Because maybe you'll have a corporeal Patronus!" John suggested, shrugging his shoulders and flipping his palms up to face the ceiling. "Please? For me?"

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. What the hell am I supposed to think about?

And the invisible light bulb went off above his head as the appropriate memory crossed his mind. Of course…After all these months. It had been staring him right in the face;right to the edge of his sharp cheekbones. How could he not have realized?

And then he raised his wand, and the memory was so powerful it brought a wide and unthinkable smile to his lips. "Expecto patronum!"

A sharp point was the first to emerge from the wand's tip, forming the end of a bird's beak. Feathers grew out of the top of its head as it flew out of the end of Sherlock's wand, blue and white sparks flying near its great wingspan. Claws with thick nails dangled loosely below its belly, tucked in a proper flying position when in the air.

Small flecks of blue dots framed the edges of the smoothly‒feathered wings, resembling fire and ashes; for this creature was born in such a place, and it flew through the air around Sherlock, majorly being welcomed into the wizarding world.

Sherlock watched his newborn phoenix soar through the air, landing without a sound on one of the chandelier handles. It dove down toward the floor not long afterwards, spotting a friend on the ice‒cold floor. John had joined in with his wolf.

The bird stopped on the floor in front of the other Patronus, and the dog couldn't help but sniff it with passion. "They have healing powers you know," Holmes commented, nodding his head over to his bird.

"Really? Well, good to know. Might come in handy someday," John inputted.

"And where exactly are you going to find a live phoenix?"

"Haven't the faintest." Sherlock chuckled.

The producers of both charms stood four feet from each other, watching their creatures interact with each other. All four of them stood in the shape of a square, humans next to each other and animals across from them. At the exact precise moment, both heads turned to stare at their rightful owners, and Sherlock saw John smile out of his peripheral vision. Their pets were watching them with the man's best friend stare. John's wolf almost looked like it was smiling, and Sherlock's bird's feathers were handsomely groomed to match the brunette's good‒looking appearance.

The phoenix and the wolf. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.