Normally I feel these disclaimers are redundant and totally unnecessary, after all, if I owned these characters I'd be putting these scenes into their respective books or shows, but since several scenes in this chapter come directly from the show I'll remind everyone that I own nothing except my own muse : )

Shoutout to Couldntcomeupwithagoodname for asking to see his interactions with other teachers!

Sherlock managed to alienate most of the staff and infuriate most of his students on his first formal day of teaching. He was honest to a damning degree with his peers, which of course had nearly all of them piping at him. And he was abrupt, abrasive, and demanding with his students. He managed to insult almost everyone in the castle in less than twenty four hours. A few of the staff merely brushed off his offenses (like Mrs Hudson, who'd known him years before when he'd helped in a case involving her now deceased husband, so she only shook her head indulgently at his antics) but most developed strong and abiding grudges.

Despite his shortcomings – as others saw them- as a person, he was excellent as a teacher. What he lacked in patience, he made up for in brilliance and ingenuity. The skills he had couldn't be taught like a trick, but he opened the student's eyes to a whole different world of knowledge. So many of them were focused on slinging curses and hexes that they wouldn't have even noticed had their opponent been blind. Sherlock taught them to root out those weaknesses. Exploit them if necessary. He taught them how to spot the subtle differences between various creatures of nefarious sort. They were grudging, but they learned. They excelled.

The one thing Sherlock never put up with was cheating. It wasn't that he was against it as a rule. He'd cheated before to get his way. If he'd had a student clever enough to cheat properly, he probably wouldn't penalize them one bit. They would have earned it. The problem was that they were so transparent! Did their little minds never extend past auto correcting quills and temporary memorization charms? Where was the ingenuity? The creativity? On those dull attempts, he cracked down hard. He took points with the ease of flicking away a fly. Gave detentions at the drop of a hat.

He was so good at rooting out cheaters that a few of the other teachers, even ones who detested him, utilized his skills. Word quickly spread through the school that no one could cheat with Professor Holmes watching. Some of the worst culprits even developed a kind of respect for his ability to spot them. For a rather rambunctious pair of Slytherins it became a sort of game, to see what they might be able to sneak past him. They had yet to actually succeed, but they were always good natured about loosing.

Professor Flitwick had asked Sherlock to help him discover who kept stealing his tests before he gave them. It had happened three times, which was finally enough to drive the short professor to seek Sherlock's aid. Initially, Flitwick had taken great offense to Sherlock's dismissal of his subject and insult to his stature. But once he'd seen that it was simply how Sherlock treated everyone, he'd allowed the comments to roll off his shoulders.

It had been quite easy for Sherlock to find the culprit. Less than five minutes of him examining the scene of the crime, in fact. Which was why he was headed down to the Quidditch field in search of a certain Gryffendor boy. Normally he would have waited until the end of class, but Flitwick had nearly been apocalyptic with impatience.

As he stepped out into the sunshine, Sherlock's eyes were drawn up to the sky. He found flying to be a rather inconvenient and frivolous means of travel. There were so many more convenient ways. Even still, he could appreciate the skill and ability it took to navigate a broom properly. He could tell from the way Dr Watson maneuvered his Nimbus that the man had talent. Then again, he wouldn't have been captain of a battalion if he hadn't been good. He was focused on helping a small group of boys get the hang of leaning to steer and didn't see the students that had circled around Lila.

Sherlock knew that Brogan and Lila had nearly every course together -though he'd yet to discern just how they'd arranged that- but Brogan was nowhere to be seen. He found it unfortunate that of all of the classes for them not to have together, it had to be one that was the most physical, the most aggressive, the one with the most chance for unsupervised interaction between students. Lila was on a small, older model school issue Cleansweep. Most of the kids around her were on brooms they owned, all of much newer model. Though he was too far away to hear, and though Lila gave no outward sign of being affected, it was obvious that the children were taunting the girl. She did not react to them in any way. One boy grew bold and started to fly in aggressive circles around her.

Sherlock was impressed at her ability not to let their antics bother her. He'd learned that lesson himself at an early age, but knew it was particularly difficult for children to grasp. They tended to have such an instinctive need to fit in with and even impress their peers. Lila seemed above such petty needs though. Just as Sherlock reached the edge of the field, the boy circling Lila kicked the tail of her broom. The already dilapidated broom spun wildly, sputtered, then plummeted to the ground.

Sherlock raised his wand to stop her fall, but she was stopped before he could say the spell. Dr Watson had turned just in time to witness the kick, the fall out, and had time to react in several different ways all at once. He cast the spell to stop Lila's fall, then with lightning speed cast a body bind on the boy, and in another flick of his wand had every broom in the sky beginning a slow assent to the ground. A few students who hadn't been paying attention to what happened were confused and tried to get their brooms to rise again, but they were all firmly in Dr Watson's control. It was actually rather impressive.

When they were all on the ground, Dr Watson stormed over to the student still in his body bind. "Jeremiah Moore!" His voice was tight with outrage, his face dark. Children scattered in his wake. Unable to move, Jeremiah's eyes were the only indication that he feared the usually reserved Professor's wrath. "How dare you?!" He turned from the boy with a disgusted look and went to where Lila had settled back to earth in a feather soft landing. "Are you alright?"

She nodded shakily but said nothing. Despite the flying instructor's outrage, Sherlock couldn't help but think that the boy was lucky he was dealing with the professor rather than Lila's short tempered companion. Whatever punishment the doctor had in mind would seem mild compared to what Brogan would have inflicted upon him. Watson checked her over himself and then turned back to Jeremiah. He stalked to the boy, lifted the bind, and glared while he stumbled and then righted himself.

"Are you homicidal, Jeremiah?" Watson demanded. The boy shook his head slowly. "Are you certain? Because it seemed to me that you just attempted to murder a fellow student."

"Dr Watson-"

"Shut up! I don't want to hear what you thought you were doing. I don't care what your excuse was. The fact is that if I hadn't seen what happened, hadn't stopped it, Miss Hershwith might very well have fallen to her death. Would you have wanted to be the one to tell her parents?"

"She hasn't got any," Jeremiah muttered sulkily. A look of rage so stark it made the students gasp settled on the doctor's face. His control seemed to be holding only by a gossamer thread. When he spoke again, the words were an icy whisper that was more chilling than any yelling could have been.

"You are never getting on a broom again in your academic career, Mr Moore. And if I have my way, you'll be lucky if they expel you and save you from the punishments I have in mind for you. Get out of my sight." He turned away from the now pale and shaking Jeremiah and was about to address the rest of the class when Sherlock spoke up.

"I'll take him off your hands, if you don't mind," he said casually. Dr Watson turned to him shortly.

"Professor Holmes," he greeted curtly. Sherlock hadn't had much chance to be around the flying instructor and so had yet to have offended/alienated/outraged the man. His sharp tone was merely leftover anger from his interaction with the wayward Mr Moore, and Sherlock didn't take it personally at all.

"I was just coming to take Jeremiah to see the headmaster anyways," Sherlock explained. "It seems he's been cheating on his transfiguration tests." He turned to Jeremiah. "Isn't that right?" The boy cringed even more.

Watson glared at the boy once more. "I'll come with you then. I think the headmaster needs to hear about this most recent transgression personally." He shrunk his broom until it shaped itself into his walking stick.

Sherlock shrugged. "As you wish." He turned, gesturing Jeremiah ahead of him. Watson started to turn, then went back to Lila who was still standing silently.

"Miss Hershwith, you're the one he's wronged the most grievously. You have a right to speak to the headmaster about it on your own behalf if you want. Would you like to come with us?"

Lila went perfectly still, then shook her head ever so slightly. The doctor paused, concern on his face.

"Are you certain?" This time, she nodded, and he sighed. "Okay. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine, sir," she said in that whisper soft voice. Watson cleared his throat and turned to the whole class.

"You are all dismissed." The students started to turn away, but be froze several of them in their tracks with his next words. "And those of you that witnessed Mr Moore's atrocious actions and encouraged them, I'd advise you to tread very carefully. You will not like the consequences should you cross that line." The soft anger in his voice, more promise than threat, had several of the onlookers shivering. A few shot glares at Lila but most ducked their heads and went off. Lila waited until most of them had gone before turning and heading (as Sherlock had known she would) toward Brogan's class.

Sherlock, Watson and Jeremiah all went toward the castle and into the headmaster's office. The boy had begun to sweat profusely the closer they got. He took turns glaring between the professors. Watson only spared him cold glances, but Sherlock couldn't help smirking. When they arrived at the door, Watson rapped on it loudly. They waited a beat, then heard Taffit give them permission to enter. Professor Moriarty stood off to one side, his wand at the headmaster's pensieve. Watson nodded at him in greeting, then marched up to Taffit's desk. Always the soldier, Sherlock thought.

"Headmaster, we have a serious problem."

"I can see," Taffit drawled amiably. "What seems to be the issue, Mr Moore?"

"Nothing," Jeremiah muttered, head still down. Taffit's brows rose sharply.

"I think your professors disagree. I'm giving you a chance to speak for yourself before they tell me what happened. Only a fool wouldn't utilize this time."

"I was just fooling with the freak!" He stopped short when Watson's glare cut to him with burning intensity. "Lila, I mean. I wasn't trying to hurt her or anything. I only kicked the broom a little. Not my fault the thing dropped like a stone!"

"Only a little?" Watson was outraged, but Taffit held out his hand restrainingly.

"You'll get your chance to speak, John, have no doubt of that. But let us allow Mr Moore to finish first." Taffit turned from the obviously angry Watson back to Jeremiah. "And what about the issue Professor Holmes has come to share with me?"

"I, uh, well I was only fooling around again! Its not like it hurt anybody. Plus, Flitwick's tests are always too hard, everyone knows it!"

"Professor Flitwick, Jeremiah."

Jeremiah swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah. Professor Flitwick. So I nicked his test copy. Just to ease things up a bit."

"Sherlock?" Taffit turned to him. "Have you anything to add to that?"

"He was rather boring about it," Sherlock shrugged. "Broke into Filius' office, used a simple lifting spell on his course notes and took the test. Managed it three times before Filius called me in."

Taffit nodded, then turned to Dr Watson. "And now, John, your input?"

"Jeremiah and a group of students had circled Miss Hershwith while I was teaching the rest of the class. Despite her having done nothing to them, they were taunting her. When that failed to get a rise from her, Jeremiah purposely kicked the tail of her broom while they were more than fifty feet into the air. Her Cleansweep spun out and then fell from the sky. If I hadn't turned around just in time to see it happen, she could have plummeted to her death."

"I see," Taffit said softly.

"And then," Watson continued, "when I confronted him about it, he flaunted the fact that she's an orphan to the class, as if that excused his behavior. He showed no remorse for nearly ending the life of a fellow student, as well as displaying intense insubordination to a professor."

"I see," Taffit repeated. He turned his attention back to Jeremiah. "It seems, Mr Moore, that you broke into a professor's private quarters, stole, cheated, all multiple times, partook in bullying a student, endangered a life and then showed no remorse for it, as well as being impertinent to a teacher. Does that about cover it?" Jeremiah said nothing. Taffit sighed. "We cannot have that sort of behavior at this school. A student at Hogwarts should never have to fear for their well being from a fellow student. And no pupil at Hogwarts should be so desperate for attention to take such drastic measures to get it. I'm sorry, Jeremiah."

The boy started yelling, shrieking about how unfair it all was, how much everyone had it out for him. Moriarty, who had been standing quietly off to the side, stepped forward and put a hand on Jeremiah. He silenced immediately, though his mouth continued to move. By the time he realized he'd been silenced, Moriarty was already speaking.

"Forgive me for interrupting, Headmaster, but might I suggest an alternative to expulsion?"

"I'm listening."

"Mr Moore is one of my star pupils." Jeremiah jerked his head around and stared at Moriarty. "It would be a dreadful waste to have him leave the school. Let me bring him under my direct supervision. Assign fitting punishment to him for his wrongdoings, and then he can spend his free periods, spare time, and any other time he might get up to no good, in my care."

Taffit considered. He truly hated expelling students. It never went well for them. Most became bitter, some became criminals, and no one ever benefited from it. But was it worth it to have a student in the school with so little regard for his peer's lives? He didn't think he could take that chance. But if Jim was willing to take on full time supervision of the boy, would there still be any risk? And he could warn the other professors to keep a closer eye on Jeremiah as well. Maybe the boy could be reformed...

"Very well, Jim. On your head be it. Mr Moore will serve detentions with Professor Flitwick, Dr Watson, and Professor Holmes-"

"Holmes? But I didn't do nothing to him!"

Taffit looked sharply at Jeremiah. "You are lucky, young man, to still find yourself a student of this school. I do not want to hear a single word of complaint about your punishment, whoever it comes from." He smoothed his robes. "As I was saying, Professor Flitwick, Dr Watson, and Professor Holmes. Then, any free time he has between his punishments and classes will be spent under Professor Moriarty's direct supervision." He sat once more, effectively dismissing them. When Jeremiah turned to leave, Taffit's soft voice made him pause. "Consider carefully, Mr Moore...one more step out of line and I will be forced to send you from the school. You've been given a second chance. Do not waste it."

Then he went back to his papers.

Sherlock had no interest in spending his free time baby sitting a juvenile delinquent. He quickly made up some atrocious copy work that Jeremiah would be doing during three weeks of detentions. Flitwick would surely have an even harsher punishment in mind, but Watson's was the worst. Mr Moore would spend every Friday evening and Saturday afternoon for the rest of the school year in detention, cleaning the quidditch field by hand. Once he'd made himself clear, Watson sent Jeremiah off with Moriarty.

He sighed, watching the boy go. Insolence he could deal with. He'd had many a soldier under his command who resented authority. He knew how to handle it, even understood it. But to be so careless with the lives of others... And to bully, to the extent that it could result in death, a person obviously far weaker than themselves... It was something John simply couldn't stand for. He'd already seen too much meaningless death. The fact that yet another might have occurred right under his nose sent a shiver down his spine. He was still angry, too angry. It seemed he was always too angry these days. It wasn't that he couldn't get over the war. He'd done what needed done, regretted nothing. But ever since he'd become a soldier, life as a civilian made him jittery. Maybe he simply wasn't meant to live in the regular world. Was he fooling himself to think he was safe to be around children?

With a shake of his head, he turned to the professor who had come for Jeremiah. Technically, Lila had this man to thank for John having noticed her peril in time to save her. If he hadn't seen the other professor striding onto the quidditch field, he might not have turned when he did. Feeling as if he needed to say something, he settled for holding his hand out.

"John. John Watson," he introduced.

"I know." Sherlock took his hand briefly, barely suppressing his grimace at the contact. Why did people insist on being so damn touchey feeley? "Doctor, not a title you hear much in the wizarding world. You were trained in muggle society as well then? At Saint Bart's in London, yes?"

John blinked in surprise. "Uh, yes. How did you know?"

Sherlock stopped himself from sighing. Did no one open their eyes and really observe the world around them? "The same way I could tell that your sister's a drunk and your limp is psychosomatic. I observe."

"Wh-what?!" John's eyes narrowed. "What the bloody hell-"

"Oh don't bother to be offended. Its not your fault you've got family with problems any more than it's my fault that I noticed them. And if it bothers you that much I can cure your limp."

"Wait. Wait just one bleeding moment. What the devil do you know about my sister?"

This time, Sherlock couldn't suppress his sigh. "I can tell she's a drunk by your owl."

"My owl."

"Yes. It was a gift. Not the kind of bird a man would buy for himself, especially one just back from a war and off to work at a school. A gift then. From a female, that much is obvious by the plumage. Not a lover, or else your tastes would have been taken into more consideration. Family then. Family you don't see often, hence the gift of an owl, but family you don't care to see often based on your current life situation. Sister you disapprove of."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smiled. "The bird, of course. Your sister is one of the few people you write to. The owl follows your hand as you attach your letter, moves its leg closer to you tie it on. Normally a bird hasn't got to do that. But a bird who's used to dealing with a drunk, someone with shaking hands and blurry vision, that bird will show those signs every time."

There was a long silence between them. Sherlock waited patiently for the expected expletive. For the good doctor to call him a wide assortment of names and then storm off. He was disappointed.

"Brilliant," John breathed.

"Pardon?" Sherlock was so surprised that he turned quickly to John and then back again. John was grinning, looking at Sherlock as if he was some sort of genius (which of course he was, but so rarely did people seem pleased when they found that out!).

"That's bloody brilliant."

"Huh. That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock said casually.

John chuckled. "Yeah, well I can't blame them. Its quite a lot to take in for people who don't always want to see the absolute truth about themselves and their loved ones. You were wrong about one thing though. My limp's not fake."

"I didn't say fake. I said psychosomatic."

"Same difference."

"Not at all."

"Neither has any physical cause. Close enough."

"Yes, but one has a very real psychological cause. It affects your body the same way a physical one would. And is cured just as easily by the right person."

"The right person being you?" They had started walking now, companionably moving towards the castle doors and out into the sunshine.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed.

"And just how would you propose to do that?" The doubt in John's voice as as clear as a billboard advertisement. Sherlock smirked, glanced over John's shoulder, and let his eyes go wide. His jaw dropped, body started to shake. He gasped, pointed, voice trembled.

"M-mi-minotaur!"

John turned like a shot, wand out quicker than lightning striking. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape, then immediately relaxed as he saw nothing. He rolled his eyes. "If you thought that would-" He was cut off as he turned back by Sherlock decking him in the jaw- hard.

"No, but this will." Before Sherlock could enjoy the solid punch he'd got off, John had launched himself at Sherlock. John was shorter but more muscular. Sherlock used his height for leverage as well as his uncanny knowledge of human anatomy to hold his own against John's combat training. They were fairly evenly matched, Sherlock's brain against John's reflexes and brawn. The fight tumbled out onto the quidditch field.

John heard blood pumping in his ears, his adrenaline flowing quick and sharp through his veins. He felt oddly elated. Here was a challenge. Here was something real. Something he could pit himself against and use all his ability. For the first time since leaving the war, he felt energized, necessary, and so vitally alive. His anger at being sucker punched had drained away leaving behind only the thrill of the fight, the joy of battle. He knew he should stop trying to tear the other man apart, but couldn't bring himself to do it quite yet.

Sherlock let the fight go on for another few minutes just to prove his point more fully. Also, he was oddly impressed by the doctor. Not only had the man not instantly hated him for his deductions, he'd actually seemed impressed. It was ridiculously refreshing. And the fact that he could handle himself in a fight was yet another plus. Most people were all bark and no bite. Dr John Watson had too much bite for his own good. Being penned up, without an outlet for all his ability, was physically handicapping the man. Sherlock wondered how he'd do as an Auror. Probably well. Not that he seemed likely to change professions (John was obviously a loyal man, steadfast to a fault when he made a decision). It occurred to Sherlock that it might behoove him to have a man of action such as the doctor around when he was doing his investigations.

He was so suddenly distracted by the thought that John got off a full punch to his jaw. He went back a step, steadied himself, and looked at the doctor in amused surprise.

"Right then, enough's enough." Sherlock caught the next blow before it fell and twisted John's arm behind his back. They were both panting from exertion. "I think blow for blow's fair play, don't you? Call us even then?" John fought to catch his breath, let the heat of battle drain from his body. He nodded.

"Yeah. Fair's fair." Sherlock released him and stood back to dust himself off. John straightened his coat and turned. "Care to tell me what that was all about?"

"Oh, just proving a point." Sherlock took a few more deep breaths to steady his breathing, then gestured across the quidditch field to the doors of the school. Laying in the grass beside them was John's broom walking stick. Smug smile firmly in place, Sherlock started strolling casually back toward the school.

John looked at the broom lying innocuously in the grass, to the man walking away from him, then down at his leg. It didn't ache for the first time in months. He took one ginger step and realized to his joy and horror, he didn't limp. Of course he was elated that he wasn't crippled any longer. But had it really all been in his head the whole time? What did that say about his mental state? He quickly caught up with Sherlock, thoughts beating at his mind. When they reached the doors, Sherlock grabbed the broom, shrunk it down even further so it would fit into John's pocket, and handed it back to him. He could read the other man's face like a book.

"Don't worry, you're not crazy."

"How can you tell that? By my tie? The way I lace my boots?"

"No no, those things tell me more about your childhood and your history with women. I can tell by the cure for your limp that you're not crazy."

"I'd think the opposite would be true."

"A man who gains a psychosomatic limp because he's traumatized by battle is the one that needs to have his head examined. Needs to be treated for the trauma. But a man who's limping because he can't help but need the action of war, the drive and purpose, that man only needs a new focus."

"You're saying I was limping because I missed the war?"

"I'm saying that for a man like you, being aimless is a debilitating impairment. You need a cause to fight for. You need action. Sedentary life does not suit you, doctor."

"And your solution is a knock down drag out fight?"

"A temporary one."

"So you think my limp will come back?"

Sherlock stopped, turned to face John fully, and grinned. "Oh no. I think we can find a way to keep it from returning."

Ok everyone, here is where I really need your imput. I've got the stage laid...what do you want to happen next?