Chapter Twenty-Three

Levels

The brunette's rouse was like snapping awake in a free‒falling dream, only it was as if someone had pressed a rewind button and instead he was rising up to meet his end. Slowly he awoke, the blackness expanding out to swallow him like pavement rushing up to greet him, and the emptiness in his stomach bringing him up to unfold out of his lousy sleep.

If anyone was around, the Ravenclaw certainly didn't want attention deliberately placed to him at the first sign of movement. He used his dominant sense to touch his surrounding area, feeling soft, clean sheets wrapped around his body and a fluffy pillow beneath his skull. He exhaled delicately, shifting his head ever so slightly to the right while his bendable spine sunk into the bed's mattress. God, it would have been heaven if he could just lay there, letting his body radiate heat under the duvet and being undisturbed for the rest of his life. If only John was there to share it with him…

John. The life‒saving Gryffindor must have close by, considering if Sherlock had been saved, undoubtedly the lion was too. Or maybe he was still locked in a fantasy and he in fact wasn't alive; even then, his friend would still follow him, even if it meant giving into the shadows of death for his own soul.

The eagle inhaled through his nose to continue with his deductions, eyes remaining shut due to the lousiness in his lids. He smelled some scent of glorious lilac in his nostrils, drifting to fill his breath from his right. He had no desire to find out what it was from, but just to remain where he was and pretend, or possibly know that no one cared about him. The only thing that argued with him was his brain, tricking his body into forcing him to distinguish whether or not John was safe from harm.

Slits cracked his vision, blending a modified view for him to discover where he was. It was no sweat to comprehend that he was lying in the hospital wing. Everything is so bloody…white, he growled, seeing the high‒arched ceiling far above his bed. From across the ward, stars glittered outside the window on the far wall, and the moon was just peering over the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest.

Even the opaque and dim light the kerosene lamps let off was too much for Sherlock's pupils to witness, so he blinked to turn his head to his right as he rolled over onto his side. His ribs crunched under the weight of his chest as he shifted, and his attention became more fixed as he spotted a figure sprawled motionless on the cot directly to his right. At first he mistook it for a dummy, but then he realized it was too detailed to be one. He cursed at himself for a punishment as he called his best friend a plastic statue.

John Watson was flat against his springy mattress, one arm resting on his evenly rising chest and the other tucked under the comforter covering the lower half of his body. His fresh pajama shirt was pulled up to his heart, revealing thick bandages loosely wrapped around his lower abdomen area. The weight of his head made his chin lean against his left shoulder bone, allowing a pristine view of John's facial injuries to Holmes. The cut just under the corner of his eye wasn't as swollen and the complete edge died down in the fierce color of pink it used to be. The punch Moriarty had given Watson had some impact, as his entire right cheek was bruised black, purple, and green. Many white gauze pads were secured to the bottom of his neck, blocking out any germs and dirt from entering his punctured wound.

The lilac blossoms smell grew stronger as Sherlock observed John's battered face, wondering why someone would be so cruel as to hurt a human being, the same species Moriarty was himself. Just staring at his injured face made the detective feel blank, like an important page was missing from the novel of his school life.

A small bowl sat on the bedside table and a fluffy white hand towel was draped over its curved side. A bottle of soap was pressed up against the shell of the basin while a glass vase of red roses blossomed to add decoration to the room's mood. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as the scarlet color reminded him too much of the liquid leaking from John's hip freely, and instead his dazing gaze switched to a large chunk of chocolate sitting on the table, waiting for him to devour. Reaching up with a shaking hand, he broke a piece off the thick block and chewed thoroughly, licking the sweetness of the treat on his lumpy tongue.

Suddenly, a pair of voices echoed in the hallway outside the open doors of the hospital wing, and even though they were muffled Holmes couldn't help but eavesdrop in on their conversation. He remained lying with his back to the ward's entrance, quietly chewing on the last bit of his chocolaty goodness.

"Don't tell me now that you still want these terrible monsters to remain on the school grounds," came the first stern voice of a woman. It was obvious that the small huff at the end of her sentence identified that it was Professor McGonagall.

"Indeed not," said the male teacher of the opposing Hogwarts house. Professor Snape's lingering drawl sent shivers down Sherlock's back as he sounded remotely like a vampire agreeing with her, or maybe it was because the thought of dementors was still on the first year's mind. As the adults' conversation went on, Sherlock distinctly made out that the discussion was turning out to be about him and John's encounter with the guards of Azkaban. It was no surprise that the news had spread so rapidly. The younger Holmes brother wouldn't be shocked if the story became a headline in the next copy of The Daily Prophet on the front page.

"It seems reasonable that the dementors should be escorted from the school immediately." A newer, crisp voice entered the discussion, belonging to the little dumpy witch Professor Sprout, who taught Herbology. Sherlock lifted his head a little in curiosity.

The next sentence was more peppy and spit‒spottier than it was supposed to be, coming from the squeaky voice of the midget head of Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick. "After all, what happened the previous night has been rumored through the school, and no doubt Mr. Holmes and Watson could've easily been killed. This would have been a deep shame, as both of them are exception and bright wizards."

There was no way Holmes could not smirk. Snape responded with an almost direct insult to the boys. "Yes, but you need to consider that both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson were out of bed after hours and went on school grounds that are off limit. Consequences need to be put into consideration."

"That git…" Sherlock muttered under his breath, chomping on his chocolate in frustration and accidentally biting the inside of his cheek.

"Why Severus, I think we should be more concerned about their health than the violation of school rules." The head of Hufflepuff house was trying to defend the students, as she deeply cared that the kids remained safe.

The deputy headmistress of Hogwarts stepped in to defend Pomona Sprout. "The state of Mr. Watson when he was taken into the hospital wing last night was frightful. If the skills of Madam Pomfrey weren't so professional, that poor boy would have died at such a young age from the poison injected into him!" Her temper was lifting yet a sort of shaking tone flickered between her words.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He would have died if the poison wasn't taken out of him. If. He had to check and make sure he was right before coming to any conclusions. Sure enough, when the eagle propped himself up onto his elbow, Sherlock spotted a glass cylinder full of the moss green liquid Jim had sent flowing through John's veins, securely taped so no one happened to swallow the contents or spill them and expose toxins into the air. Some stupid people would have the brains to do such a thing at a younger age. Immature and sophomoric idiots.

"No doubt Mr. Holmes's ability to conjure a Patronus at his developing age served as a role in saving the two…friend's lives." Snape put emphasis on the strong word, but Sherlock was more bewildered at the fact that Severus was actually sticking up for him. He was secretly complimenting him. He sounded impressed that such magic was conjured from a skinny Ravenclaw brunette of twelve years old.

"No question about it. Still Severus," the Gryffindor leader argued, pausing for a nice effect, "these creatures cannot stay at Hogwarts any longer. Surely the headmaster will not allow it, taking into consideration the harm they still could do to the rest of the students. Someone is controlling them, meaning they will only increase the risk of our school's safety declining."

Snape let out a sigh of annoyance. "Fine. I agree to some extent that the dementors of Azkaban should return to the prison, but you know the boys need to be punished, Minerva. Mr. Watson undividedly had a twig stuffed in his pocket no doubt used for protection, and Mr. Holmes had tiny bits of leaves crusted into his hair. The evidence clearly shows that they were running through the Forbidden Forest without permission after hours." Sherlock couldn't believe the words the teacher was bolstering, and his face molded into an angered sneer, worse than the serpent head of Slytherin house. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to prevent the outbreak of a rude comment to escape from his lips, knowing house points would be deducted from him if he insulted a teacher.

Professor McGonagall stomped around a few times, and Holmes could just hear the hem of her cloak swishing over the stone floor. "This is preposterous," she whispered with enmity. "I shall not deal with the boys' actions at the moment. I'll take this into Professor Dumbledore's hands. The headmaster will know what's best. I'm sure he'd like to have a word with the young first years as well."

Sherlock gulped, lying with his back to the hospital wing door and pausing his chewing. His eyes traveled from the floor up to John, wishing his friend could've heard the conversation that was lengthening in the hallway. There was some scuttling about from Madam Pomfrey's office and the door was open a crack so she could hear her patients and let a golden light dump into the infirmary.

All the heads of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin house began to walk back to the lower levels of the castle together, but the Transfiguration teacher stopped to show support for her students. "However," she considered, and her voice was steady as she'd stopped pacing, "both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson showed great bravery last night."

Last night? How did I not catch that before? I've been out for 24+ hours…

But Professor Flitwick wasn't finished with their powerful argument and stepped in to set Snape in an outnumbered position. "For a first year student to produce a full‒body Patronus is beyond advanced magic." He sounded so proud because he taught the subject of Charms as a living for his job. "I say both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson deserve house points for their heroic actions."

Snape had been silenced by the other teachers, but by a woman and the most experienced and supreme deputy headmistress in Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall must have given him her dangerous eyebrow, because Severus stumbled to find opposing words. "I‒I believe you have a point, Filius. And you as well Pomona and Minerva." The head of Slytherin house did his best to deny siding with the ladies, but the head of Gryffindor had brought up an important point and lured him to her side with valor.

"So there you go," Professor McGonagall said, satisfied and accomplished that she'd won the debate. "That's fifty points for both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson."

Serves him right, Sherlock snickered, stuffing his white sheets into his mouth so he didn't disturb the rest of the room. The Transfiguration, Herbology, and Charms teachers left the Potions master alone outside the ward, and he mumbled a few words of disgrace before following them down to the lower floors.

The brunette felt it was safe for him to move without anyone noticing, so slowly and protectively he pushed his body into a sitting position. His spine arched and pained from being straight for too long, and he felt light‒headed as he gripped onto the bedside table for support. The dizziness faded quickly and he was able to bring the hospital wing into focus, shaking his head back and forth to double check his stability. His hand wasn't steady and nearly failed to support his weight, fighting to clasp onto the rim of the table. His upper arm strength helped as a factor and prevented him from falling over.

But why did we get the same amount of house points? Sherlock turned to face the lion, who slept with a bandaged torso and lower neck with a frown on his chubby face. He deserves more points than I do. He almost died saving my life.

Sherlock sluggishly rose from the bed, inhaling and getting a fresh scent of the scarlet roses. Taking baby steps, he made his way over to the blond Gryffindor, cringing at a searing pain shooting through his left cheekbone. He lifted his hand roughly to connect with his face, feeling a small lump just under his eyeball. The stone floor was freezing under his feet and he wished he had a pair of socks for warmth.

To his luck, a hand mirror was sitting on the dresser, and he picked it up to stare at his reflection. The skin on his face was so tight it made him almost resemble a skeleton, and under his eyes was sunken, purple bruise had forming around the cut under his left green iris. When he tried to pry his eyelid completely open, the entire sphere stung and it made a tear spring in his vision. His best shot was to keep it partially closed, like victims that get beat up on television shows. He couldn't believe what he looked like, almost a zombie who had been scarred for life after a battle.

He set the mirror down with a sigh, standing with glued eyes for a few long moments. When he re opened them his gaze had magically and unintentionally landed on John. With a shaking hand, Sherlock reached out to just touch his friend's forehead, just to feel his lion's warm blood pumping through his body.

His palm pressed to his upper skull and Holmes felt a hot temperature to Watson's skin, almost boiling. Droplets of sweat dotted the edge of the blond's hairline, so Sherlock quickly gathered up the towel folded in the bowl to pat his friend's face. He sat on the edge of the mattress, making sure he didn't fortuitously put pressure on Watson's wounds. Even if John was the one who was normally mastered in healing, it was Sherlock's turn to protect his buddy's health.

There was a chair next to the eagle's bed rail so he brought it up as closely to John's mattress as it would allow him to. He sat bent over, feeling around under the lion's covers to find the blond's tiny hand. When it was in his care, he pulled it out to rest on top of the duvet, making new wrinkles in the fabric as the wrist sank like lead.

John's skin was as smooth as a baby while the brunette softly brushed his fingers over the twists and curves, waiting for a sign from the younger boy that he was awake. But none came. Sherlock stroked the top of John's hand, taking in the touch and feeling of loneliness. Holmes closed his eyes tightly again and squeezed his forehead inward to prevent the headache from becoming fiercer. He supposed it could have been a migraine, but the intensity just wasn't the same. When the Ravenclaw was stable again and the succinct wave of heat passed on, he sat up and released the maintaining harsh grip from poor John's loose hand.

He now took both of his hands and pressed John's in between them like a sandwich, trying to generate enough heat to keep the blond toasty. Even when he was sweating up top, his fingers were freezing and looked like they might crack and fall off at any given moment. Holmes blinked, watching their hands interact with each other as he exhaled soothingly.

"John?" he asked, voice like a terrified bunny while he spoke tenderly. It almost seemed like he was putting on a play, and John was being a really good actor when it came to playing unconscious. Watson continued to breathe nimbly, eyes not flickering nor ears listening as he was off in a different world.

"John..." He tried again, but the Gryffindor still didn't move. Sherlock now felt the bumped surface of the smaller boy's nails, noting that there were white streaks in their composition when they were exposed to light to mix with the strands of gold in his hair. "John, just so I know you're here, can you squeeze my hand? I‒I want that feeling I always get when you do that. You know, that gut instinct that I have the enterprise to do anything in the universe. All I need is a squeeze."

He knew he wasn't going to get one, but he kept pleading anyway. "Come on, John."

Silence.

The brunette removed one of his hands from the pile and moved it over to Watson's face, pressing his palm to the boy's uninjured cheek. "John..." If someone could've taken a picture of Holmes sitting there alone, he looked like he could have been cropped into another photo of him petting a cat, minus the heartbroken frown on his face. Yes, he knew it was awkward stroking his friend to wake him up, but he wanted to do anything to have him for snugness once again.

"John, don't leave me." He might have shouted out at that moment, but no one came running for help so it didn't matter. He couldn't help it anymore. The aggravating terror was flooding over his body and partnering with his defects, and thus tears began to swell in his eyes. He'd never grown so attached to a boy of his age, so curious to learn the hundreds of facts there still was to know about John H. Watson. And he knew what the 'H' stood for now.

Hamish.

"You never told me your name. I suppose it's something boring and common," Sherlock had commented, but that was back at home, referring to the blond's first name. His middle name definitely wasn't used often. It was unusual and original.

It was different.

A young teenage patient was propped up in a bed in the far corner, watching the Ravenclaw from behind her pulled up knees. Her long, black hair was tied in loose ponytails as she rocked back and forth on her backside, Hufflepuff robes draped over the foot of her bed.

And then something mysterious yet trustful happened. The girl's hand lifted to wave at him, and Sherlock tilted his head in wonder. He had no idea who she was or what she was attempting to do, but he had to show a small smile to return the gesture back to her. After receiving his response, the third year pointed to John lying unconscious in his bed, seeing the younger Holmes brother's hurt for his friend and shiny tears on his cheekbones.

Strange, even though Sherlock knew where the hand motion originated, his fellow patient pressed her three middle fingers together while the others curled in front of her palm. Her arm outstretched till her elbow locked, and Sherlock knew she was honoring John by recalling one of his favorite Muggle books, The Hunger Games.

He wasn't the only one who was praying for the lion to return.

Because the raised hand was a sign of hope.

Sleep came to tease Sherlock at around four in the morning, and he gladly accepted the thought of sinking back into the white sheets of his patient mattress. John had not moved or even stirred while Sherlock finished his towel dabbing, and the Hufflepuff third year in the far corner had drifted off to rest a few hours previously. Seeming to have had all the tears flow from his eyes in the world, Holmes felt like he would be able to bawl again unless some circumstance presented was serious.

The sun was shining on the floor next to his bed when he woke up the following morning, but that didn't catch his attention at his first breath of life back into existence. Someone was stroking the right side of his face, delicately running familiar fingers over his skin cells. It wasn't John; he would have known better. The touch of the Gryffindor was so well‒known he could probably recite a long essay with adjectives about the sensation that took over his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly rolled his head over to his visitor, suddenly feeling the unknown hand brushing the curls off his head.

At first he thought it was Greg Lestrade, considering the hand was buff and very strong, but the knuckles weren't thick enough for that to be the case. This time they were peculiarly bony. Sherlock took his time to open his glassy green spheres, making sure his vision adjusted and didn't damage his eyesight from the blinding May sunshine. The rays came in through the tiled windows to land in splotches on the white floor, brightening the hospital wing without any extra lamps needed.

When Sherlock finally got the strength and nerve to open his eyes, he reconsidered his injuries and made sure to only fully unseal one eyelid. He was startled to see the least expected person sitting in a chair with his Slytherin Head Boy badge pinned to the front of his robes.

Mycroft.

"My?" Sherlock asked in a frenzied tone, using his brother's nickname for no apparent reason.

"Yes. It's me, Sherlock." God, he soundsso calm. Mycroft's never calm. The older Holmes brother continued to stroke the Ravenclaw's face. Sherlock certainly thought the sixteen‒year‒old was going to chew him out, but it was the exact opposite. He was taking the role of a father instead.

"W‒What happened?" He wasn't exactly sure why he asked the question. He knew perfectly well what his condition was.

"Shh…" The Slytherin did his best to sooth the curly‒haired brunette. "It's okay. Everything will be fine."

"John…?" the Ravenclaw wondered, acting as if his brain was making him speak frantically on purpose.

"He's right here," Mycroft whispered, as if he would damage his brother's hearing if he talked any louder. "He's behind me."

"I want to see him…" Sherlock's words blended into a slur while he tried to sit up. He felt groggier now than he had the night before. A hand automatically pushed him back down, forcing his chest and head back down on his pillow. He had circles under his eyes from staying up late the night before and caring to John.

"He's fine, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do." Sherlock thought shockingly that the blond had passed away at an early hour of the morning without any news carried onto him, but his brother hadn't finished his sentence and the younger kid was thankful yet, because his deeply upset idea was untrue. "He has to recover on his own." The twelve‒year‒old Ravenclaw was able to peer around the corner of the nightstand, spotting John's lower stomach and legs lying on the bed next to his. They were in the exact same position as he'd left them, motionless and lifeless. He wanted to push up onto his hand, not his elbow. He wanted to be able to look at his friend's face and take in all the unique features that made John who he was.

"But…I want to help him, My. I have to. Ineed him." The overpowering essential had been out for over a day now, and the Ravenclaw unfortunately kept blaming himself for the damage done to his lion. The misery was too much and Sherlock let stinging tears run down his bruised skin.

Mycroft bent his head down, rubbing his brother's upper back knots as he had buried his face in the cushions. How Mycroft, the sixteen‒year‒old Slytherin snotty sibling was able to comfort him, Sherlock didn't know. For once, he was glad his relative was hanging out by his side supporting him.

"Let me ask you something, Sherlock." Mycroft patted his sibling's shoulder to make him look into his cloudy eyes. Sherlock looked up, swollen eyes turning vibrant around his green irises. Mycroft paused before digging for the answer he wanted. His question unfolded as more of a true fact than a sentence requiring an answer. "You…you love him don't you…"

Sherlock was stumped and halted in his tracks. Love him? How so?He didn't think for more than ten seconds before sniffing. "Of course I do," he squeaked, and he gave a little hiccup as he finished.

"Then why don't you tell him?" Mycroft's stare remained unmoved, and the two brothers locked attention to each other for a long while.

Regardless of his choking voice, Sherlock was able to let out the exact answer he always would reply, no matter who he was talking to. All he had to do was shake his head for proof. "I‒I can't. I don't have to."

"But why?" Such a strong question, yet only one word. Sherlock handled the situation with ease, watching John's weightless chest rising and falling smoothly under his duvet. Dreamy and straightforward was his reply.

"Because I already did."

Three days after Sherlock had been delivered to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey gave him permission walk around the room a bit, and before long he'd regained his full stamina. John remained frozen, like a mummy wrapped in his large bandages all over. Once Sherlock thought he saw his friend move his right hand that rested on his heart, but it turned out just to be an illusion fooling him. Twice he was caught almost leaving the ward's borders, but there was a bonus to staying in the hospital as he especially loved the chocolate he was given every night before he went off to sleep.

Mycroft's conversation had put some deep thought to Sherlock's scientific mind, fishing with his feelings to discover how he really felt for John. His brother had returned a few days later just to check on him after breakfast, and he even brought a few pieces of Sherlock's favorite bacon and biscuits for him.

Surprisingly, Molly Hooper also came to say hello to him. She brought him a get well card and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans which Sherlock munched on while they had a leisurely chat. She told him Lestrade would've joined in on the visit, but he was too stressed about final exams and hurriedly planned to study. She passed on the other Gryffindor's message that they were both morons for randomly running out into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night, and Sherlock couldn't help but snort in agreement.

Before leaving Sherlock to study for her Astronomy final about a week away, Molly took Sherlock's hand and held it tight, giving him a small sense of hope for the blond just beyond the opposite side of his bed.

The idea that he was going to get John to wake kept bothering him, and the day before he was allowed to leave the ward he tried to receive that tug again. He sat by John's side, dressed in freshly laundered robes while he held the lion's paw once more. Whereas he had his grip on the Gryffindor's muscular fingers, the shorter boy wasn't yanking back. The larger boy's hand was on top of the blond's, lying paralyzed with no capability to shift whatsoever.

"John, it's been a few days now. Surely you—" He stopped himself, gulping so he didn't gag and cry again. "Surely you want to come back to me."

Sniffles were the sound that came out of his nose, and he wiped it on a tissue to get rid of the gross boogies. "Please. John, I need you. Just one more miracle. I know you can come back. Just for me. Come back!"

His head sank and dove to collide with the edge of the bed, providing a puffy surface for his skull when it crashed. His Ravenclaw tie slipped and fell off his collar, falling abandoned to the floor. Once it hit the stone, the fabric contracted and folded into a ball, the thicker end landing on top of the thinner one.

His right arm was now cradled in his lap, dangling down without energy as his left fought to get a curl from John's fingers. His head was looking down, facing the floor and out of the lion's view with his eyes shut.

At first it was a little flinch and Sherlock thought it was a mistake, but when John's fingers had the agility to weave in between his own he knew better. There was a weak tickle just below his nails as the blond's thumb brushed the brunette's skin, and then his pointer finger managed to slip through the gap under one of the taller boy's knuckles. Slowly Watson's hand bent to find Holmes's palm, and he reached for the eagle's arm like he needed it in order to live. Sherlock maneuvered his own palm so John could take all the commands, slipping his own hand under the patient's so the lion could find and hold it tightly. The Gryffindor's hand groped to hold the eagle's, fingers entwining so they were gripped together in the end.

"John!" Sherlock was so startled yet thrilled he jump up with tears of joy in his irises. He stood next to the mattress, John's latched hand glued to his as he looked down on the blond in euphoria. "Madam Pomfrey!" He shouted for the school's nurse to come see the evidence that the boy was rousing, still holding his hand in delight as his voice cracked from the original sadness that was building up inside him. John looked like a patient that was clinging onto being alive, slowing coming out of a coma and awakening in a way as to attract needed attention.

"John! I'm right here! I'm not going anywhere!" The shorter boy's face still hadn't moved one inch, only his wrist. It was like he was run by a remote control and that was the only part of his body that was switched on.

There was the shuffling of feet as Poppy Pomfrey came to see what the commotion was. She never reached the bed until the Ravenclaw was done with his little speech of glorification. Sherlock's other hand was now on John's left shoulder, his chest curved over to get a good look at his sleeping face. He smiled with hope.

"John, I'm here." The blond was suddenly able to turn his head, slowly like his neck might snap if he jerked it too quickly. His skull fell over and pressed up against the side of his pillow, mushing his cheek in so it looked puffier than it already was. Behind his closed ocean eyes, Holmes knew that Watson was inevitably watching him and staring into his long face. He was in the early stage of waking and not quite ready yet to open them up.

But that was okay. It didn't matter if they were open or not. What mattered was that was he was alive; he'd survived and Sherlock was able to have his best friend by his side just like old times. He wasn't going to drift away and leave his family behind in sorrow, and he wasn't going to be cut off from living a limited amount of years in the real world. What was more and best, he wasn't going to leave Sherlock Holmes alone.

A single tear fell from the taller student's right eye. He smiled and sniffed, bringing John's hanging‒on hand to connect with his lips. He muttered a few thank you notes, kissing the Gryffindor's skin because he was so uplifted by his arrival back into existence. The eleven‒year‒old's fingers wove around to tug on the sleeve of the Ravenclaw's shirt, moving around as if to remember what it was like to perform such an action.

"I just knew," Holmes said honestly, and John gave off a small groan at the sound of the brunette's voice, a groping reaction to hearing it all the time. "I just knew you'd fight through it. You remarkable boy..."

Sherlock was free from the hospital wing the following day with a little bit of convincing for Madam Pomfrey, and he was allowed to spend time with his few friends at lunch that Thursday. His condition remained mild and he still couldn't fully expose his left eye, so he was forced to walk around with it squinted all the time. He left with a long gaze at the blond lying under the covers, sadly dipping his head as he headed downstairs to the Great Hall. Just the little tug at his sleeve was enough to make his heart fill with happiness. The sight of the Gryffindor still lying on the bed was bleak though, as Sherlock had hoped he would fully wake before he was allowed to leave the ward.

He was nearly knocked over and burdened with a concussion as Lestrade threw himself onto the Ravenclaw, squishing him in a bear‒resembling hug. "Sherlock! Thank god you're alive."

"Of course I'm alive you lunatic," Holmes remarked, holding his lower arms out to the side of Greg's stomach.

"Jesus," the Gryffindor commented, scanning him up and down twice, "you've lost weight."

"Wait till you see John," Sherlock replied, sulking a little from the depressing thought of his friend. "He's so pale and thin. He hasn't woken once since we've been transferred to the hospital wing. It's been…four days now, I think," he considered, counting it out inside his mind instead of openly on his fingers. "The only thing I've managed to get out of him is a squeeze on my wrist."

"Don't worry, Sherlock," the black‒haired boy comforted him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "He'll recover. John always comes back to us."

Even though he'd been through turmoil and had been distressed for almost a week, Sherlock was thrown into studying for finals just like any other his mind took in information quicker than anyone he knew, he didn't have to study for as long. Nevertheless, he spent hours poring over books in the library and old notes he'd stuffed in his trunk from the beginning of the school year. Professor Snape glared at him from behind his desk during Potions lessons, but Sherlock showed no sign of how he knew about their dementor discussion.

To pass the time, Sherlock also went to pay a visit to see Hagrid. He was greeted with a large mug of tea and a few stale cookies for a snack, and the half‒giant did his best to stay off the subject of John as the Ravenclaw was disordered over it. Fang kept him company as he sat in the bulky armchair, dripping slobber onto his lap and staining his uniform pants.

After sipping down his drink, the brunette made his way back up to the school alone, watching the far side of the Black Lake as he passed over the lawn. He saw the rocks on the far side of the shore where he'd fought off dozens of dementors that which none of the creatures remained on the Hogwarts grounds anymore. Albus Dumbledore had dismissed them after the tragic incident, even if Death Eaters were still roaming the country in hiding in a well‒planned manner.

Striding down a hallway on the fifth floor he almost bumped into Lestrade, who for some reason had a smirk on his face. He was no doubt trying to hide it from the taller boy, but he failed epically.

"Hey," Sherlock heaved, letting his shoulders sag.

"Why so glum?"

"Why do you think?"

Greg bit his lower lip and stared at Sherlock's shoelaces. The Ravenclaw had grown taller since the Easter holidays, because the rim of his robes was a few inches above his ankles. Holmes however did not care in the slightest. He'd just have to wait till next year to get a longer pair, or as he classified a new set. Besides, the Holmes family members were known to grow like weeds.

"Well, if it's any interest to your liking, someone wants to see you." Sherlock didn't ask with any words and couldn't possibly deduce who would want to see him. Could be the headmaster, he thought, but changed his mind when Professor McGonagall said Dumbledore would want to see both of them at once.

"But —" There was an urgent need for some explaining; Sherlock Holmes was lost in his fuzzy brain.

Lestrade's mouth opened a few centimeters, and he licked his lips with his tongue to wet them. The smile was coming into place before he could speak. "Why don't you take a trip downstairs…"

His thought process didn't take longer than fifteen seconds. It was undeniable who Lestrade was telling him to go see, and both boys smiled with teeth showing at the exact same moment. Greg wasn't surprised when Sherlock bolted off in the direction of the moving staircases, his robes flowing behind him as he ran.

He skipped two steps at a time as he sprinted down several flights of stairs, occasionally fixing his blue and bronze tie so it didn't fly off his body. With every lunge he was closer to his destination, to having the last piece of his puzzle fit in to complete the boiling sensation in his chest. He knew he shouldn't have been running this early from being released from treating to his injuries, but he powered on and continued to aim for his desire.

He reached his intended floor, glided past the marble staircase, and ran down a few corridors while the bewitched paintings on the walls followed him with their eyes as he zoomed by. He turned the last corner he needed to before approaching the large doors with bolts lining the outer edge. Pushing them open simultaneously, Sherlock Holmes halted in the doorway of the healing ward.

There in the right row of the beds, sitting up on his own, was John. His legs were outstretched in front of him under the covers, and his blue and white striped pajama shirt was fully covering his stomach. Fresh, white gauze pads were patched over the wound in his neck, and he looked as cheerful as ever.

"John!" The older boy took no time delaying his arrival at his friend's side, and John's smile widened at the excitement on Sherlock's face. His long legs carried him over to Watson's bed swiftly and his feet scuffed over the floor as he prepared to spring on the lion. His dress shoes pushed off the ground, and John found himself buried under Sherlock's body weight.

"John…" he repeated, acting like the Gryffindor hadn't heard him before. The shorter boy had to lift his chin almost to the ceiling in order to push it past Holmes's shoulder bone, but he gladly accepted the hug from the Ravenclaw. Sherlock was running his hand through his blond locks, and Watson missed the feeling of having someone watching over him while he was awake. Now, he was able to take in that wonderful feeling once more.

Sherlock shifted his weight back onto his heels, leaving his palms pressed onto the younger wizard's collar. "How are you feeling?" he asked, staring into the blond's serene pupils.

"Famished," John told him, rubbing his growling belly.

Sherlock was a little worried and nodded his head. "I can imagine why." An idea struck him and he leaned over to the bedside table. "Here," he said, snapping off a piece of chocolate and offering it to his friend by sliding it into his open hand.

"Thanks," John said, smiling. He gulped down the treat like a greedy kid on Halloween, starving as he hadn't eaten in several days. He continued to chew and unexpectedly found Sherlock's graceful hand rubbing over the side of his head. He paused, watching his friend with wide eyes and mouth agape.

"Sherlock?" he whispered when the brunette didn't respond.

"I promised, and I accomplished my job. Sort of…" John got the clue.

"I know," he accepted. "Lestrade says you've been late in the evenings keeping a close watch on me since you woke up."

"It's true. So…" Sherlock coughed, changing the subject quickly, "Iheard that you were injected with poison."

"No you didn't."

"What did you say?" Holmes asked, flabbergasted that he was put down by a flat remark.

"You weren't told. You knew." John had proved Sherlock wrong right before him, and the older boy cocked his head to stare both blankly and shocked at the patient. John smirked, acting all smart aleck. Both boys began to giggle and stare down in embarrassment, trying to decide who was best to speak and go on with the conversation.

"But yes, you're correct," John stated, lifting his head back up. "What poison it was, I don't remember. Madam Pomfrey told me, but it had some bizarre name." Again, the first years blurted out into a fit of laughs. When their noise died down, John's uplifted facial expression switched to concern.

"Madam Pomfrey says a bit of the fluid is still in me." Sherlock's heart sank a little in his chest. "She couldn't remove it all. Fortunately, it's not enough to cause any damage. According to her top notch skills I'll be fine." The sigh came out as soon as the good news was announced.

"And thank god too," Sherlock huffed, relieved as he pulled John into another squeeze. "I'm not kidding," Holmes croaked from behind his neck, "I thought I lost you that night."

"Nonsense." The friends broke apart and Sherlock looked down on his companion, bewildered. "How could I leave you?" Watson exposed the fact, shrugging his shoulders casually. There was a long silence between them as they just sat observing one another. "I can't," John finished.

"I know."

John rested his hands in between his sprawled legs, glancing down at the foot of his bed as he played with his feet. He suddenly shuttered and curled into a frightened ball, and Sherlock contracted his eyebrows at John's violent movement.

"Spider," was the mumbled response Holmes got. Sherlock exhaled and asked where it was, and John nervously pointed to the squeaky‒clean floor as if the creature would attack him if he moved a muscle. Sherlock removed himself from the comfy bed and found the tiny black bug crawling on the ground. With ease, he used the sole of his shoe to squish the creature to its death.

"You're fine now," Sherlock chuckled, finding John's fear of spiders mildly cute. "When did you first develop your phobia?"

"I was three," John ejected, double checking to see that the creature was indeed gone. "A really big one crawled over my bed covers as I was about to go to sleep, and I screamed so loud I woke up Harriet in the room next door." Sherlock felt sorry for his buddy. It's never a pleasant thing to experience such a thing at a young age.

"Never gotten over it since," John admitted, flattening the ruffles in his pajama shirt.

"Anything else you care to share with me?" Sherlock asked, curious at what John's past was like.

"Uh…I learned how to play the clarinet when I was seven?" He answered the rhetorical question, thinking the lifetime event wasn't so significant after he cared to share it. John also couldn't help but blush a deep shade of red. Holmes raised his eyebrows in amusement, never thinking the lion would've learned to play an instrument before.

"So, anything been going on with you?" the blond asked.

"Nope. I've been so lonely without you. Then again, Madam Pomfrey refused to let me leave until only a couple days ago. She's so stubborn."

"Shh!" John almost yelled. "You don't want her to hear you!"

"Do I look like I care?" John giggled again, covering his lips with his right hand. Both of them were quiet for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke again.

"We've got finals coming up soon."He reminded the younger kid of the end of year exams, tracing circles into the bed sheets.

"Oh crap, I forgot about those…"

"It's okay," Sherlock assured him. "We still have a little less than a week to prepare."

"I bet I'll beat you in grades," John teased, punching the eagle on the upper arm.

"Ha," the smaller Holmes brother mused, giving his friend a look. "I highly doubt it. I'll blow all of you out of the water."

"Try me."

"Alright then. Challenge accepted."

Yep, Mycroft was right. There was something about John that created an exception to Sherlock. Of course I love him, just in a different way. It absolutely wasn't a boyfriend type of relationship, no…

It was a brotherhood.