Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a bright morning in August when they first met. Nothing exciting, nothing too memorable it seemed, but there it was.

A tall, thin boy of nearly 17, with a mop of untidy black hair atop his head, was leaning against the wall that separated Diagon Alley from ‘The Leaky Cauldron’ and the Muggle world. He was dressed in black jeans, a white shirt, and a long, grey coat with a large collar that grazed the tips of his ears whenever he put it up (which was always). This made passing wizards and witches stare, as it was a considerably warm morning. He pulled a long, slender wand from his pocket, and began twiddling it between his fingers irritably. It was fairly plain to the uninterested eye, however to anyone who looked closely, they would see it was covered from tip to handle in hundreds of tiny calved skulls. The handle itself was shaped to resemble what looked like a Hungarian Horntail’s tail tip. However, to anyone who didn’t know the markings and details of such dragons, often annoyed the wand’s beholder by saying “Ooh! Isn’t that a nice spiky bit?”

The boy smirked slightly, as his eyes fixed on a wizard seven years older than himself, having a tantrum as he left 'Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions'.

“Mother I don’t care if it’s a bit pricey, I’ll buy it, I need a new one!” he drawled. “My other one melted… someone thought it would be jolly good fun to stir one of his potions with it.”

His eyes darted quickly to our wizard on the wall.

“Mikey, you won’t be needing an umbrella for another few weeks at least! It’s summer-”

“It’s Britain. And for the record, it’s Mycroft.”

“We know, we gave it you!”

“Then try to struggle all the way to the end… little brother!” Mycroft, followed by his parents reached the wall, and slapped a long spindly hand onto his brother’s shoulder, “Finished shopping have we?”

Before the boy could reply, his mother began fussing over his coat.

“Sherlock, love, don’t lean on the wall - the threads will begin to pull! Why are you wearing it anyway?” She pecked, pulling him forward and beginning to busily brush him down with a large peacock quill she’d produced from her jade cloak, slung over her arm. “I took mine off long ago, like every other sensible person...”

“Are we going now then?” He said, wriggling free from his mother’s hold.

“Sherlock, you haven’t bought anything!” His father piped up. His father was in jeans and a thin cream jumper. Even after all these years he still hadn’t converted to the wizard way of dressing. He owned one set of robes, in black, with one black cloak (from his wedding day). “Your uniform still fits you, fine, but you need a new set of books, ink…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffily slumped back against the wall, yet sprang straight back up again seeing his mother sharply draw in breath.

“Come on. Flourish and Blotts. Now.”

…

“Greg! Wait, I need to get a new tie, mine's buggered…”

“But we’ve already been to Second Hand Robes! I just want to get an ice cream from Fortescues, and go home. That’s all I want, John… all I want… why am I wasting my holiday shopping with you?!” Greg said, sticking out his lower lip and giving it a wobble.

God, he loved to wind him up.

“Shut up. I can’t go back to Hogwarts with a tie that looks like a troll's shat on it. Come on!” With a very tired sigh, Greg lazily followed his short friend through the 11 o’clock crowd.

His friend looked far too small to be about to start his seventh year. There was a running joke, which John was very much bored of, in which John was half Goblin. It wasn’t a great help to John that when the three went to Gringotts together before the start of their second year, the Goblin who took them to their vaults wasn’t a great deal smaller than little Watson, and John found it very difficult taking out his money when all he could hear was two giggling idiots behind him muttering “Gobbbliiin” at random intervals.

Other than his height, John’s other features held no evidence of Goblin blood at all. He was quite muscly, from being the Gryffindor beater in Quidditch and the team’s captain, and had that sandy coloured hair which got mistaken for both blonde and brown. He had a slightly round face and bluey-grey eyes. It was news to Greg, Mike and John himself when it came out that John was one of their year's ‘heartthrobs’.

“Excuse me, erm, do you have any Gryffindor ties please?” John said politely in between breaths: He and Greg had to fight their way through the commotion outside the shop: twin girls who were obviously first-years-to-be, with confused muggle parents.

The mother was sat on the cobbled street crying, whilst the father was trying with difficulty to put out the green and gold flame on his wife’s handbag.

“Of course dear, I daren’t ask what happened to the other one,” Said a smiling witch, in a high pitched squeak.

“Erm, I leant over my cauldron while I was brewing some ‘Dragon Dung Fertiliser’ to help my Herbology Teacher. My tie... well it now doesn’t look or smell too good so-”

“You need to purchase a tie pin, my boy” She squeaked, handing him a neatly wrapped, non-dung-smelling tie (although being second-hand it was slightly frayed at the edges)

“That’ll be 9 galleons dear” She added.

John scrambled for his wallet, counted out the correct amount of gold coins quickly and, quite reluctantly, handed them over.

“I mean it about that tie pin, I don’t want you to see you buying a new one next year!”

John was too hot and bothered and longing for a pumpkin-pop to explain he wouldn’t need to, as this would be his final year at Hogwarts. With a forceful grunt from Greg, the pair stepped back onto the street, which was getting busier and busier as the minutes passed.

…

“That doesn’t even count as ice-cream” Greg babbled through his mouthfuls of thick whipped vanilla and watermelon rind sundae, covered in every topping anyone could possibly think of. “Mine counts as a meal that’s just liquid!”

“Excuse you! I like them, I’ll just get a pumpkin pasty or something before we leave”

“Eurgh, pumpkin-pop, pumpkin pasty-”

“Oohhh… Is this because you don’t like pumpkin?”

“Shut up.”

“Makes you feel…”

“John.”

“Bit iffy?”

“Don’t!”

“Maybe made you throw up orange-”

“Fuck you, goblin.”

“-in and all over Molly Hooper’s cauldron?” John teased.

Greg lunged at him with his sundae spoon.

“I will hit you. And it will hurt.” Greg said gruffly, inches away from John’s face, then quickly snapped back into his seat when John pointed out his ice-cream was melting.

Happily, he began to shovel heaped spoonfuls of ice-cream into his mouth once more.

They sat there happily for another half an hour, chatting casually about the year ahead, how Mike hadn’t written to either of them all holiday so he’d probably forgotten how to use a quill, and predominantly how the two of them had wasted their entire summer.

“I’ve done shit. Fuck all. I’ve literally done nothing but sit in my garden and thrown the gnomes over the fence. That’s shit isn’t it? What’s the date?”

John looked up at the calendar on the pastel green wall behind Greg’s head.

“18th” John answered.

“Well shit. We go back in exactly two weeks. Two. Weeks.” He slumped back into his chair, arms folded, defeated. “I refuse to go back and do potions.”

John laughed. He loved Greg; he’d been his best mate since their first year at Hogwarts. They’d got on since the first feast, and Greg had always been there for John when needed. But, and John thought this in the kindest of ways, Greg was stupid. His heart was in the right place, but he was embarrassingly stupid. Don’t worry, however, John made it his mission in life, both at Hogwarts and when not, to make Greg and everyone else well aware of this fact.

…

“Just. Pick. One.” Growled Mrs Hrs Holmes through gritted teeth. “They are. The same. Colour”

For some reason, and I don’t think any of them accept Mycroft knew how, the Holmes family were back in Madam Malkins, staring at two painfully similar umbrellas.

“They’re not the same colour” Mycroft and his brother snapped in unison, to which their father reacted by flopping into the nearest purple, sorry lilac, squashy arm chair.

“The left one is thunder grey and the right one is slighter lighter - drizzle,” Sherlock added quickly, in attempt to diffuse the tension between Mycroft and his mother. “The trouble is that Mycroft has both a thunder and drizzle coloured set of robes, and he is trying to envision himself prancing into the Ministry, and is unsure what shade will impress them. Brother mine, we have been here for 17 minutes – If you work for the Ministry, they will not care what robes you’re wearing…”

“That’s… That’s very kind of you Sher-“

“They’ll be too busy looking at that nose instead” and with that, he smiled his sweetest smile and bolted for the street leaving Mycroft with a face like a cats bottom, and his parents trying their very best to conceal their amusement.

…

Sherlock didn’t really know what to do with himself, he’d now bought his books from “Flourish and Blotts”, he’d topped up his potions supplies in “Slug & Jiggers Apothecary”, he’d even popped into “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes” and rolled his eyes at a group of third years pining over the love potions, and Mycroft still hadn’t bought his ruddy umbrella. He did consider just going home via the floo network… but he knew Mrs Holmes would be less than impressed by this… So what to do?

Sherlock just made the ground-breaking decision to go back to the robe shop and punch Mycroft right in his hoity face when a cold, pompous voice came from behind him. Sherlock’s throat went dry.

“Oh look, Phillip, it’s our favourite freak. Out looking for someone to stalk are we, Sherly?”

It was Sebastian Wilkes, a wealthy Slytherin boy in the year above. He'd hated Sherlock ever since he'd openly deduced in third year that Seb was snogging Sally Donavon, a Ravenclaw girl of Sherlock and Anderson's year, in the male Quidditch changing rooms every Friday, and that their enthusiasm lead to them breaking off a shower cubicle door... This not only got the both of them a sizeable amount of detentions, but also put a tremendous strain on Sebastian and Philip Anderson’s friendship. (Sally being his girlfriend at the time). Sherlock didn’t mean to tell everyone, it just sort of happened… and God how he wished it hadn’t. Ever since, Sherlock had been branded by that group of students as a “sick pervert” a “teacher’s pet” a “twatfaced paedophile” and a “freak”, which now the majority of the school knew and used. He’d been unpopular from his very first day at Hogwarts School but, because of this one mistake, for the last two years he had been completely invisible to most students, an outcast… And to Seb and Anderson a walking target.

“Come on, Sherlock. We haven’t seen you all summer, we’ve missed having our privacy invaded by a lanky friendless twat, haven’t we Phil?” Anderson nodded, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Sherlock still failed to turn around. He just stood there, staring blankly at the cobbles outside Ollivander's. They wont’t do anything in a street this crowded, but he could feel his heart beating faster and faster the longer he felt Sebastian's breath down his neck.

“Owl got your tongue, Freak?” Anderson added, placing his hand on Sherlock’s collar. “Or did Mummy tell you to ignore us?”

“Your mother… your mother… Oh yes! Isnt she that ex-Slytherin philosopher who restarted the fight for Muggle-protection after Voldemort’s downfall, then went and married a mud-blood Hufflepuff?” Seb taunted “proud of her are you, Sherlock? Giving you a filthy blooded father and fucking your genes up so badly you’re now a hairy-hearted, unfeeling perv-”

“Stop it.”

“I’m sorry?” Seb laughed, grabbing his shoulders painfully “You want us to stop?”

The two tightened their grip and lifted him an inch or two off of the floor, knocking Sherlock’s shopping bags to the ground. Sherlock tried desperately, but failed to pull his wand from his pocket.

“It’ll be my last year at Hogwarts soon, Sherl. Better give my punishment while I can - Anderson will make a pig's ear of it without me next year!"

But how they would be punishing him that day, Sherlock never found out. Thinking quickly, he flicked his heal up behind him and kicked Seb hard in the crotch, and without a seconds pause turned his head around as far as his neck allowed and spat at Anderson's sour, sweaty face. He was nowhere near as strong as Sebastian and lifting a boy at least an inch taller than him was taking its toll so the sudden shock of pain and saliva meant Sherlock could wriggle free. With no time to waste, he darted through the lunchtime shoppers to escape his pesterers after making sure to retrieve all five of his bags from the floor. Then he just kept running.

He ran past 'Ollivander’s', past 'Magical Menagerie' past 'Gringotts', only slowing to avoid the crowd surrounding muggle couple with twin-girls screaming at the Goblins on the steps at the bank. His aim was to speed off to the Leaky Cauldron and wait there for the rest of the Holmes family, but something happened as he crossed the road by the ice-cream parlour delaying his plan...

Ooof. He clattered to the pavement with a painful thump. However, the fall wasn’t as… hard? as he’d expected? He opened his eyes slowly, the sound of laughter from an individual close by, and saw he was lying on top of a relatively short individual, with that sandy coloured hair that gets mistaken for both blonde and brown, who’s head was lying on the cool stone cobbles outside Fortescue’s.

“J-J-ha! John y’alright mate?”

A darker haired boy, who Sherlock mildly recognised, giggling ridiculously, reached out a hand to the boy on the floor. Sherlock jumped up sharpish, feeling his cheeks flushing pink and his ears growing hot. He was relieved to see, at least, this John person was laughing too.

“I-I- must… Erm… I am so sorry I, erm...”

“No, no it’s fine really. No harm done, I think,” John said clambering up, rubbing his left shoulder carefully, with a slightly nervous laugh. “Oh, here!”

He handed Sherlock the bag thought to contain his Slytherin woolly hat from Madam Malkin’s. Sherlock took it quickly, and handed John the other bag thought to contain John’s second-hand Gryffindor tie. They exchanged awkward thank-yous while Greg, still giggling away, picked up John’s remaining bags that had flown in his direction.

“I think your other bags are there,” John said, pointing to a scattered pile of bags behind Sherlock, “Do I… I think I recognise you, are- are you at-”

But before John good find out if Sherlock was at wherever he was about to say, an angry yell from two boys behind cut him off –

“There he is!”

Time to go. It was Seb and Anderson, and before Sherlock could apologise again for flattening this stranger, he grabbed his shopping and legged it once again in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, leaving John and Greg laughing, confused in the street.

…

“For God’s sake, how long does it take really?”

Sherlock, sat on the corner table of the Leaky Cauldron sipping a Butterbeer, his nose buried in a copy of “The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7” finally saw his Mother, Father and brother swan into the pub.

“I went for the drizzle, thanks for asking” said Mycroft, lowering himself reluctantly into the chair besides Sherlock. “Looks like you’ve been buying too”

“All the books I need and my books for next year as I’ll probably be put in a few seventh year classes, some new parchment, a set of 15 bezoars and, 12 new files of which 5 are smashed and a Slytherin woolly hat for winter.” He replied without lifting his eyes from the book.

“Smashed files?” His mother said sharply.

Sherlock hesitated.

“I- I had a fall.” He said quietly.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them - his mother pounced on him, worriedly checking his face and hands for cuts or scrapes. While doing this she spotted something.

“Sherlock, you r coat is ripped! I told you to be careful with it!”

Sherlock, just learning this, pulled his coat off in panic, and saw she was indeed right; The back of his collar had torn quite significantly, and was hanging on by only two threads!

“B-Bloody Sebastian!” He burst out, slamming his fist, and his coat, down on the table loudly.

“Language Sherlock” His father piped up.

“Sebastian? Sebastian Wilkes?!” Well, she might as well have exploded “He did this? I am sick of this, bloody sick of it. I’m sending a letter to the school the minute we get ba-”

“No!” Sherlock yelled.

The leaky cauldron grew silent for a few seconds, but soon enough the regular bustle was restored.

“Mother, p-please. Just leave it. Please.”

No one spoke for a few minutes, Mycroft was examining his umbrella, his father was up the bar ordering a few drinks, and his mother was sat there fuming, as if smoke was about to burst out of her ears any second, but trying to conceal it.

“C-come on then, love.” She said finally, picking up Sherlock’s shopping “Show me this hat, then!”

Sherlock smiled, opened the bag and unwrapped the paper, then carefully lifted out its contents. His mother looked at him, confused. He smiled, as what he was holding was not a green and silver woolly hat at all, but a burgundy and gold, slightly frayed tie.

Chapter Text

It was the 31st of August and the sun was only just visible over the houses and shops John could see from his window. He waited, watching the street closely, his heart in his throat. Where the bloody hell is she. He was drumming his fingers on the desk uneasily. She said. She'd be back. By 19:00. So where the fuck is she? She was always like this, always. John knew he shouldn't be surprised... but really?! The day before school starts again? He longed for them both to be back at Hogwarts, where she couldn't do all this shit... Alas, John knew she would still find ways... She always did.

Eventually, at 21:45, he saw a skinny, stumbling figure of a girl tiptoeing up the path. John rubbed his eyes tiredly, unbelievably relieved to see her, but exceedingly fuming. He opened the door of their bedroom, and crept carefully passed the half dozen closed doors filled with wizarding children tucked up in bed. However, he heard a loud bang from within one of them, followed by a great deal of shushing and giggling. Someone’s playing with filibuster fireworks...he thought, yet quickened his pace as he knew the noise would attract Mrs Turner. He was proven right, when at the bottom of the wooden stairs he was met with an irritable, but kind looking witch in long indigo robes and night cap.

"I tell them, "no loud games after 8 o'clock" do they listen? No. No they don't." John gave her a weak smile, but as she passed him, she gave his arm a forceful, yet comforting squeeze "that sister of yours... you give her some sleeping draught, and I won't bat an eyelid. It's in the fourth cupboard on the right in the kitchen - I just don't want her making a noise of the place, d'you hear? Not when most o'you lot are off to Hogwarts tomorrow!" then she stomped off up the stairs shouting "the next person who sets off a filibuster's or throws a fanged frisbee, I'll turn ‘em into a blast-ended skrewt! D'you hear?!" John did like Mrs Turner... she'd always given the Watsons some leeway (being the oldest there) and anyway, she was tough as dragon-hyde boots.

John sighed and opened the front door, dreading the sight he'd be met with...

"H-Hellooo! HOW ARE-" John quickly rammed a sock from his pocket into his twin's mouth, and dragged her into the kitchen.

"Harry, I swear to God. I SWEAR to God!" he said in a whisper filled with so much petulance it would have made the largest trolls tremble "You said you'd be home by seven. You SAID you wouldn't be drinking... You lied. TWICE! Do you have ANY idea how worried I've been?!" he was filling a small glass with sleeping draught with one hand, while Harry tried to pull free from his other, unsuccessfully. "Why do you do this? Why do you HAVE to do this, really?" he pulled the sock from her mouth, and sat her down on one of the old wooden chairs, "Drink this." She let out a whine, but John's stare was enough; the draught wasn't nearly as inviting as what his sister had been drinking all night previously, but she did oblige, and did so every time this happened. "Now. Come on. We're all up early." And he slung her thin arm over his right shoulder, and back they went up the creaky oak stairs to their bedroom. On their way, they passed Mrs Turner screeching at a dorm full of boys who'd managed to set three bed sheets on fire.

"I'm sorry... J-J-John..." Harry said, drowsily, the potion quickly beginning to take effect, as she lowered herself shakily onto her bed. "I... I-I reeeaally... am... John..." and with that her eyelids closed slowly, and she was out. Her brother gazed at her sadly, her t-shirt stained, her hair a mess, her makeup smudged around her eyes... After a few minutes, he pulled his and Harry's packed trunks out of the wardrobe ready for the morning, made sure he'd got all his uniform in his backpack, blew out the candles, and clambered up onto his top bunk. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled angry shrieks from Mrs Turner next door. And as they grew silent, and the minutes passing became hours, and the room grew so much darker, he began to wish he'd taken some of the sleeping draught too.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was always one of the first to hop on board the Hogwarts Express. Well, to say hop is a bit ambitious, his bags weren't the lightest, nor he the strongest... but the boarding was done quickly nonetheless. It didn't take a genius to deduce why: Sherlock didn't waste time blubbering or giving heartfelt goodbyes to his parents like all the other sickening people on the platform, who made it impossible to move an inch without colliding with an owl, a trunk or a sobbing child...Dull. His mother simply cupped his handsome face in her hands, kissed his forehead maternally and that was that. Even that took effort, Sherlock fidgeting irritably to get away even though the moment lasted but a few seconds. His father just waved from afar. Sherlock had no reason to bother with two goodbyes. I mean honestly, I'll see you next summer for God's sake! 

Once on the train, procedure was a lot more to his liking. Sherlock merely had to occupy himself, and himself alone, for 8 hours and 12 minutes. He was good at this. Being shut in a compartment for an extensive length of time with a trunk full of books he hadn't read yet and spells he hadn’t studied... utter bliss. By the time 11 o'clock struck, and the train began gently chugging away from King's Cross, he'd already finished 13 chapters of "Flesh-Eating Trees of the World" and was finding it surprisingly okay. 

...

"Jesus mate, could you cut it any finer?!" 

"I know, I thought tomorrow was the first of September, not today... what a bloody panic eh?" 

John and Mike, a 7th year Hufflepuff, were standing by the door of the Hogwarts express, both panting profusely, but chatting all the same. Mike arrived on the platform at 10:59 and John, with no help from Greg who had been instructed to find seats, had to pull his squat, much heavier friend up the steep metal steps just as the train began to edge away from the platform.

"Thanks, by the way," Mike added breathlessly, fumbling in his pockets to check he hadn't dropped anything in his panic, "Where's Greg?" 

"He's saving us a compartment, come on," said John, grabbing hold of Mikes shoulders kindly, steering him down the carriage, still laughing. 

"You have got to be kidding me."

On arriving at "their" compartment, they found Greg, fast asleep against the window and snoring like an idiot, surrounded by 6 first years. They were chattering excitedly, playing exploding snap on their laps, and practically screaming over the thought of the talking sorting hat.

"Greg!" Mike and John burst out together. 

"Wha..." he groaned, head lolling on his neck to look at them.

John, seeing the fear flick across the first year's faces due to their sudden arrival, "kindly" explained to Greg how he'd had one "fudging" job, the "numpty", and that was to save them a "silly" compartment... and he'd better hope there was another "blasted" empty one, or himself and Mike would squash into someone else's, and Greg would have to spend a "beautifully" long journey with the first years.  Alone. Mike smiled and nodded along in agreement throughout this heart-warming speech, and Greg was very much awake now. The three left the compartment quickly, looking upon the younger ones with smiles rather fixed, Greg half apologising,  half cursing under his breath as they went.

...

Sherlock sat in the back compartment on the right hand side every time he rode the train, and had sat alone ever since Mycroft finished his seventh year. He preferred this (Mycroft was unfathomably irritating). It rarely bothered him that other students would come to the back in search of a seat, spot him, and scuttle away again. He was so used to it now, it had become almost tradition, a lovely way to be reminded of his lack of companionship at the start of a new term. Though of course, he really didn't mind. Honest.

It was to his surprise then, you can imagine, when two vaguely familiar faces, and a third he didn't really acknowledge, appeared at the door to his compartment. It was the sandy-haired boy from Diagon Alley, whispering quickly to his dark haired friend, who was whispering quickly back. They were pushing and shoving each other silently towards the door.
Sherlock, looking over the top of his book, felt the corners of his lips twitch into a subtle smirk. Without warning, the roundest of the three, who'd been hiding behind his two friends, was thrown into the compartment. Sherlock recoiled slightly, pushing his back hard against the damp window. The boy smiled awkwardly, and down he sat, and the other two followed suit. Sherlock's eyes flicked across each of them one by one...

Messy hair, uncombed, hasn't brushed teeth, t-shirt doesn't match his trousers - got up late and was in a rush this morning.

Lipstick stain on left cheek, but been rubbed repeatedly judging by the rawness of the skin – probably a mother. Smells of petrol and cigarette smoke… Neither available to our lot so got here by Muggle taxi. Muggle-born? Half-blood? 

Shirt ironed but badly, did it himself, hair has been combed but is sticking up at the back - no one there to tell him, or no one who cares enough to tell him, clothing is clean but has been repaired, again badly, done himself. Hasn't got a lot of money to buy new clothing often. His stomach rumbled when he walked in yet didn't mention it. Probably hasn't eaten yet this morning. Has no real care giver. Greyish circles under eyes indicating lack of sleep built up over time… 

As soon as all four boys in the compartment had their bottoms on a seat, the conversation was rekindled. Well, between all except Sherlock who was reading and rereading the final page of "Confronting the Faceless" over and over again, and continued to do so for a good while, as his trunk with all his other books was under the sandy-haired-boy's seat.

The conversation's duration had reached 32 minutes, and Sherlock had now progressed to reading the back cover of his book, when finally he decided to chime into the chatter, if only slightly.

"Is if fair to say I'm already sick of this school year. I already feel homesick. Well, bedsick...” the dark haired boy said matter-of-factly, who Sherlock had learned was named Gavin... no Grant... or something? "How long until Christmas?"

Mike punched him in the arm jokily. John’s face broke into what looked like a forced smile and he began clenching his left fist repeatedly on his thigh. Sherlock noted this - Doesn't enjoy home life, hasn't said anything about his friend's moaning however so tries to disguise this fact. Fist clenching, some way of combatting stress? 

"115 days" Sherlock slipped in.

The three turned in surprise, he'd been so still and silent they'd completely ignored his presence. Again, to Sherlock this was normal. How he liked to see people panic whenever he decided to join in. 

"And 107 days, however, if you mean the start of the Christmas break". 

"Ch- Cheers mate." Greg said, warily. Honestly? Mate? 

After another few minutes dull conversation, in which Sherlock gave up on his book and started gazing numbly out of the window, Mike and John exchanged mischievous looks. John gave Mike the nod, and up he jumped! 

"Molly," he burst.

Greg's mouth fell open slightly, giving him a remarkable likeness to a goldfish. 

"Greg my friend. Molly. She have a good summer?"

"Erm... Molly? Yeah, I’m sure she-"

"Let's go and ask then! Yeah, passes the time... Come on! She'd love to see you - John grab an arm!"

Greg was pulled to his feet, terrified, face flushed a lovely scarlet colour. However, John didn't get up, he was too weak from laughing at the fear on his best friend's face, which was a shame for Greg, as if he was going to talk to Molly John was his preferred wing-man. 

"I'll cocking kill you," Is what Sherlock understood Greg had mouthed to John through the compartment door, as he was dragged out of sight, but he couldn't be certain.  

This left Sherlock alone in the compartment with John, nothing to be heard except John's gentle chuckling at his friend's expense. As his laughter petered out, there was a heavy silence, and neither knew whether to spark up conversation or not. This, however, was diffused quickly as John began rummaging in his trunk, which had been plonked beside him. Sherlock turned from the window and watched him carefully. 

"Wait! Wait- I have got it- hang- bugger where is it... See, we picked up the wrong bags, remember?" John said, socks and other various objects of his flying about the compartment.

With a sigh of relief, he pulled at a slightly crumpled parchment bag and thrust it in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock opened it and pulled out the Slytherin hat he'd bought two weeks ago that day, still in its wrappings. He tried, he really did, to say thank you, but for some reason he couldn't explain, his voice didn't want to work. Instead, he nodded in the direction of his own trunk below John's feet. John understood and slid it out towards him. Sherlock opened it, and there on the very top was John's tie. John snatched it, beaming, and began examining it carefully.

"Did you- did you wash it?" He said with a laugh, looking utterly chuffed with it. 

"M-mother did. And she sewed up the edges too." Sherlock replied, staring so hard at the window pane you'd have though it encrusted with previous jewels.

John looked up at him, with genuine surprise and thankfulness in his eyes. Sherlock looked up from the ridiculously interesting window pane and smiled. Doesn't have a lot of money, bought from Second Hand robes, no mother figure... or maybe an unfeeling mother who doesn't do those sort of things. 

"Cheers" John said, carefully folding the tie and putting it in his coat pocket. "I'm John by the way, John Watson." 

"You're the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team" Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, yeah I am," John said, smiling bashfully. "Sorry, and you are..?"

"Sherlock." he said, a subtle sadness in that he had no title or interesting information to put after it. “Well, you seem like a good flyer.”

“Thanks! The first match this year is against Slytherin I think, so I guess you won’t be cheering me on there,” John said with a smile, turning slightly pink.

“Well. Don’t be so sure. The majority of our team are idiots.”

“I can’t argue with that,” John laughed. 

They exchanged gentle smiles, and John leant back in his seat. Sherlock returned to looking at the sea of fields and small cottages flying past the window, with little interest now. He had forgotten how nice casual company was. It was a funny feeling. He paused, and turned back,

“So, Graham likes Molly Hooper?”

“Grah-? Oh! It’s, erm, it’s Greg, and yeah... He doesn’t like to admit to it but it’s so obvious. Liked her since she joined the school. She’s in your year, right?”

“Yes. She’s nice I suppose," Sherlock added.

She was one of the only people who Sherlock talked to, and Sherlock was fairly certain she would much rather date him than that Geoff! But there we are.

“I think I’ve seen you around with her a bit. Are- are you two…? Have you ever been-” John said, trying the best he could to keep the conversation going.

Sherlock looked at him, inquisitively.

“She’s not your girlfriend is she?”

“Girlfriend? No. No… Not really my area.” Sherlock said, uninterested.

“Oh. Oh right.” John paused a moment, looking at him hesitantly, “So you’ve got a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way!”

Sherlock stared at him, trying to conceal a smirk threatening to show.

“I know it’s fine.”

“So you’ve got a-”

“No.”

“Right. Okay” John was smiling really oddly at him, and even he didn’t know why, he felt like he'd lost control of his face… “So you’re unattached, like me. That’s good.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as John suddenly looked up at him in panic.

“Good as in, as in it is good you’re not dating Molly… Because, because that would suck. F-for GREG! I mean, for Greg… You know I’m, I’m just gonna stop-”

“Yeah…” Sherlock nodded awkwardly.

The two sat in silence for a good few minutes after that, unable to fathom any way to continue this topic.

…

“You hate your home life.” Sherlock said quietly after a long break in their speaking.

John looked up from his lap and his mouth fell open and he began opening and closing it, as if to say something, but no sound came out.

“You didn’t sleep well at all last night, and haven’t for a while judging by the bags under your eyes, you seem sensible enough so I can assume you weren’t out partying the night before school begins, that’s a terrible idea, so probably worrying about something. Worrying about what though? Maybe everything; your tie is from a second hand shop and your clothes are at least two years old judging by the fabric and the fit so you don’t have a lot of money to buy new ones frequently. Money trouble keeps many up at night. When your friends were in here they asked you about a “Harry”, you mentioned how she was in another compartment so she goes to Hogwarts. I’d say girlfriend but you’d probably sit with her, so sister it is. You dismissed the topic of your sister quickly, and yes you aren’t sitting together – bad relationship. Your stomach has rumbled fourteen times since you got to this compartment, but the food trolley’s gone past and you still haven’t got anything, but didn’t ask your friends for any either. Again money troubles - but you wish to keep it hidden from them. Your shirt is badly ironed, probably done it yourself - showing lack of parental figure or carer. As I was boarding the train I saw you and your sister arrive on the platform without accompaniment, and when Gareth mentioned he was homesick you looked very uncomfortable – you don’t enjoy your home life and probably won’t be going home for Christmas, however the lack of sensitivity by Gareth means he doesn’t know how you feel about it, so you are closed off about your private life.”

John had stopped looking at Sherlock long before he’d finished his little speech. He was now staring at the floor… he looked defeated.

“How…” he cleared his throat, blinking frequently. “What- what the fuck is your problem?”

Sherlock stared at him.

“I can assume your parents are neglectful?” Sherlock said quietly. He didn’t intend to say it I assure you, but he did. It just fell out of his mouth. And he regretted it. John lifted his head slowly, his jaw clenched.

“No. No they’re not. Well they weren’t, anyway.” John glared at him, fury burning beneath his eyes, waiting for the penny to drop.

This hit Sherlock like a tonne of bricks. His parents are dead...

Sherlock quickly began to think of something, anything to say to fix this, just as the compartment door slid back open.

“She talked to me, properly! I can’t belie- John? You alright?”

Greg and Mike had come bustling in, but quickly shut up when they felt the tension in that small space.

“I’m going to get into my robes.” He said through clenched teeth, breathing heavier than usual, picking up his satchel and then pushing past them out to get to the corridor.

Mike looked at Sherlock, who was staring blankly at the floor again. Greg and Mike read the situation as best they could, and mumbled “yeah me too”, grabbing at their bags also. Sherlock didn’t react. He just sat there, motionless. The three seventh years didn’t return for the remainder of the journey.

Chapter Text

John was quiet for the rest of their journey, and quieter still when he and the sea of cloaked students made their way to the thestrals and their carriages. Most people in John's year couldn’t see them, or were good at pretending they couldn't, but John could. It was a reminder he could do without when he arrived on the school premises on the evening of September the first. But, it was healed by the fact thestrals were unconventionally adorable (well, John thought so anyway). However, he hardly noticed them this year, his mind still buzzing from the incident on the train.

"You alright mate?" Greg asked gently, unsure of what to do. "You've been-"

"I’m fine Greg. Okay? I'm... I'm great." and that was that, the three sat in silence listening only to the clickity clack of the carriage on the path, and the chatter from carriages behind and in front.

By the time they reached the castle, and left their bags haphazardly to be taken to their dormitories, a chilling drizzle had begun to fall, causing them all to rush into the great hall quicker than their sleepy minds anticipated.

"Mike! Can I sit by you at the feast?" It was Molly Hooper, the Hufflepuff 6th year who Greg was utterly obsessed with. Mike watched as Greg's face fell, and a new found hatred for his best friend began to burn behind his drowsy eyes.

"Sure yeah, let's get a seat away from the front so we don't get stuck with the bloody first years... See you later.... Greg." Mike answered, a sly smirk seeping up his pink face, as Molly and he rushed off to the Hufflepuff table.

"I'm gonna punch his fat face" Greg said flatly, sulkily dropping himself down at the Gryffindor table.

"You realise it's just because they're both in Huffle-"

"In. His. Fat. Face" John couldn't tell if Greg was doing this on purpose, but his sheer stupidity cheered him slightly.

"John, you said you'd wait for me at the carriages, I was stuck with Sally Donovan - it was disgusting." Harry miffed, plonking herself right in between John and Stephen Bainbridge (a 5th year). "Anyway, how long do you think the sorting and McGonagall's speech is gonna be? I'm starving"

"Took the words right out of my mouth." Greg chipped in, leaning across John to look at her. She was very pretty, with choppy, bright orange hair that stopped just below her ears, making her look remarkably like a pixie. Greg had had a minor crush on her in their 4th year when Molly started dating a fellow Hufflepuff, Tom. This was marginally odd as Harry, no matter how you dressed it up, was just "John with breasts and ginger", as Mike pointed out, and this image ended Greg's interest in her very quickly.

Eventually McGonagall opened her thin pale lips with the new term’s welcome, which went on longer than I think most expected… Then came the sorting ceremony, thus the traditional song of the sorting hat. Most students at Hogwarts didn’t know any different, but since the Battle of Hogwarts the hat’s song’s had not rhymed as well, was not as inspiring, and possessed a lot less energy then they’d used to. You see, it had been badly damaged when the death eaters breached the castle’s defences those years ago, and it was tired now… And only the teachers noticed, and gave it the biggest applause of all. Anyway, after the hat’s display came the actual sorting, in which John and the others tried desperately to join in the celebrations after every squeaky small person jumped down from their stool to join the Gryffindor table. John hoped his and Greg’s pitiful excuse for clapping masked their fantasies of hot hearty dinners and oozing treacle tarts.

Of course, as soon as the last first year student (a floppy haired Slytherin boy called Archie) slid his bottom down onto the edge of the Slytherin table, what came gleefully from McGonagall’s smiling mouth was music to their ears…

“Let the feast begin!”

I don’t think John had ever leapt on a mountain of mashed potato faster in all his days. He shovelled it ruthlessly onto his gleaming gold plate until it was no longer visible. Greg on the other hand lunged for the chicken legs, simply pulling the large platter towards him and eating each in three bites or less. The more food was consumed, the easier the conversation began to flow, and John’s upset from the train was pushed far into the back of his mind and buried under a hefty pile of pumpkin pasties and thoughts of trifle.

“Have a nice summer?” Came a voice opposite John. It was a thin mousy haired witch, blushing slightly as she spoke.

“Sarah! Hi!” John blurted even though he’d only seconds earlier stuffed his 5^th pasty into his mouth. This didn’t give his lady friend an overly attractive sight to look upon… but thankfully she laughed all the same. “Yeah, yeah it was okay. What you get up to?” He said finally, after insuring all of the food was well out of his mouth.

They continued their awkward, yet joyful conversation for the remainder of the feast. John was worried at first Greg would embarrass him, but thankfully he was elbow deep in a steak and ale pie and failed to notice.

After a pleasant hour or so, in which the floating candles dotted about above them began to melt into bizarre gloopy shapes, the feast had come and gone, the gold satin ribbon had flown from McGonagall’s wand and the school song bellowed at different pitches and rhythms and finally… It was time for bed. No sooner had the phrase “Bed time” vibrated to their ears, John was being pulled by his burgundy hood up into Gryffindor Tower, happy to be home.

…

“Umbugular” He snapped impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet irritably by the damp stone walls of the common room. Every year Sherlock was always in a hurry to get back to his common room after the opening feast, sprinting to get to bed so Sebastian had no chance to heckle him before they went to their separate dormitories. Sherlock was thankful every day that Seb slept in the 7^th year one, a whole floor to distance them. And Anderson’s too cowardly to do anything without Seb there to hold me down… The wall had opened but only a few inches when Sherlock slid through it. He bolted passed the coolly lit fire and jade green armchairs of Slytherin Tower, and up the spiral staircases, not even pausing to survey the new first years whispering excitedly on the snakeskin rug.

Anderson wasn’t in the dormitory yet, which was an added bonus as Sherlock would have rather thrown himself off the astronomy tower than see Phillip’s ugly birdlike face before bedtime. It’d give me nightmares… So quickly, he leapt onto his four poster, bouncing lightly on the freshly pressed green sheets, and drew its curtains. With a sigh of relief he flopped back onto his pillow heavily, allowing his eyes to gently close.

He lay there for a good five minutes or so, just listening to the muffled babble of the common room below, and the subtle patter of rain on the nearby window. Suddenly, he heard a jumble of footsteps come bounding up the solid stairway. Three students, one size eight foot, ahead of the other two, followed by two people heavier than him (one a size nine or possibly a ten?) the other-

“No, freak’s already up here.” Came Anderson’s annoying sneer as the door creaked open. Sherlock didn’t move, he simply squeezed his eyes even tighter shut, willing them to go to bed.

“Obvious, he’s got no friends to socialise with… no use for him in the common room is there?” sneered one of the heavier boys Sherlock hadn’t cared enough to learn the name of. They threw around a few more petty comments and insults regarding their silent enemy behind the curtains, but eventually got bored and conversation turned to other things… Sherlock had tuned out long before that anyhow, mapping out his route to each lesson the following day, memorising his timetable for the next term, revising werewolves and how to notice them – the list goes on. It was hours before he tuned back into his surroundings, and by then the dormitory was filled with moonlight and shadows.

The three other boys were asleep, their individual snores distinctly recognisable in the otherwise silent room. Sherlock bolted upright suddenly, and began feeling his clothing in a panic. Bugger. He was still in his uniform. Mother would throttle me. He slid open his curtains and felt around under his bed for his trunk. His heart was pounding… He wasn’t afraid of the boys, he really wasn’t… but he just didn’t want them to catch him up in the middle of the night… Probably come up with some unoriginal rumour that I’m a pervert, spying on them while they sleep…

As soon as the buckles on his trunk had clicked open, and the boys snores had not ceased, he calmed himself. His pyjamas are always packed on top, simple logic on what you need first. Locating them quickly, he clambered carefully back behind his curtains, undressed awkwardly as to not fall off the bunk, and folded his uniform as best he could in the silvery gloom. Sighing quietly, running his hand threw his dishevelled curls, he sat crossed legged on his bed. When he put his hand down on the duvet, he felt something. Ewe wool, firm - unworn… His fingers ran over the detailed crest on its rim - It was the Slytherin hat that older boy, John? had returned to him. He hadn’t given the incident on the train a second thought… until then.

The boy had no reason to get angry. I simply told him what he already knew; obviously he knew he hadn’t slept well, he knew he had no parental figure, he knew he hadn’t eaten yet that day. Why do normal people always get so angry when faced with the truth? Ridiculous, honestly.

Sherlock tossed the hat to the end of his four poster carelessly and tucked himself into the crisp, clean linen. He shut his eyes, forcing sleep to take him.

There’s no point in John being like that. I have no reason to give this anymore thought – wasting brain work. I’ve done nothing wrong. John’s probably expecting an apology, honestly? I don’t need to apologise…

Sherlock lay there a good while, the hurt expression that swept across John’s face flickering behind his closed eyelids over and over again, with the sudden pain that appeared in his eyes...

Then why am I still awake?

Chapter Text

The ceiling of the Great Hall was not everyone’s favourite element of being back at Hogwarts the next morning, when the breakfast was bathed in a greyish tinge and droplets of drizzle would appear on the tables at random intervals. It definitely didn’t improve Greg’s mood either, at the new found news that his and John’s first lesson of the term was double potions with the Slytherins.

“Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger. Bugger” This continued as he repeatedly thudded his head against the Gryffindor table. John grunted in agreement, pouring them both a cup of over-stewed tea to ease the pain.

“I can’t do Magnussen first lesson. I can’t cope…” mumbled Greg, flicking out a lazy arm and pulling the mug towards him. “I’ll nut him if he even comes near my cauldron… with them drippy hands of his…”

John made an agreeing sort of sound: Potions was hell, but John was good at it – in spite of what Magnussen told him – He always received high marks in the exams, and got an O in his OWLs at the end of fifth year. He would have dropped it at NEWT level if he hadn’t needed it. He also was told by his head of House, Sholto, to take Alchemy, which is seen to be one of the most difficult subjects to do. Then there was Greg: He loathed potions, and Magnussen knew this. It should be stated that Greg was terrible at potions. However, Greg openly slagging off the subject meant that although barely scraping a pass at his OWLs, Magnussen pulled some strings and forced him to take it at higher level, as punishment for being disruptive.

“I might just not go… Save myself the trip to the hospital wing or having to buy a new cauldron… I’ll see you late-” Greg jumped up stroppily, knocking over his tea in the process.

“Don’t even think about it.” John snapped, as the pool of tea began wipe itself up “You want to be an auror right?” Greg groaned in reply. “Right, so you need five NEWTs, at least, to even be considered… You are only taking six bloody subjects anyway, and let’s not pretend you’re currently passing Charms or Herbology. You are absolutely bombing Potions, I get it but Magnussen might have done you a favour here mate. You need it.” John barked, pulling Greg back down into the seat beside him. “Now eat your toast.”

“You’re worse than my mothe-”

“Eat it.” Greg scowled at him, but didn’t heed from lathering up a thick slice of toast with umpteen layers of raspberry jam. “And Hurry up, we’ve got to be at Dungeons in ten minutes, unless you want an emotional beating by Maggie to settle you in.”

…

“Why’s your timetable different to mine? We take the same stuff?” Sherlock inhaled slowly, folding up the parchment calmly and slipping it into his robes.

“Good morning Janine” he said, exhaling. “Lovely to know you were looking over my shoulder, definitely keep that in mind when I’m opening up my mail.

“Come on I was only looking, now why’s it different?” She said smiling, swinging herself down to sit beside him “I’ve got double-”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts first, I know.” Sherlock began pouring himself a coffee from the steaming pot in the middle of the table.

“See, I’m not the only one who reads over people’s shoulder” She teased, leaning in rather closer than Sherlock felt necessary.

“No, I just know it’s the only lesson that correlates with my own timetable.”

“Then why are they different?” Sherlock sighed.

“Because of my OWL results, I am taking a few of my NEWT subjects at seventh year level now. Two of those being Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts. So, when you have double Potions I have the Dark Arts and vice versa.”

“Hmm, well done Sherl. So this means you get to study with the hunky older ones then…” Sherlock shot her a piercing look.

“Oh I’m only messing… Seb hasn’t mentioned anything to me about that so I don’t think he knows yet.” Sherlock’s stomach gave a sickening jolt - I’ll be in Sebastian’s classes. Janine clocked this “Oh no don’t panic, he’s lovely honestly! Anyway,” She blushed slightly and a smile split across her face round face “I’ve said I’d meet him by the main stairs before lesson starts so… I’ll see you later Sherlock.” Dating Sebastian Wilkes (what was meant by that ‘hunky older one’ remark) obviously too infatuated to notice he’s a completely obnoxious bullying arsehole. He watched as Janine’s bouncing brown curls bobbed out of the Hall and towards the staircase where Sebastian, the pompous bugger, was leant proudly and proceeded to stick his tongue abruptly down her throat. Filch won’t like that. Sherlock felt his eyes roll back into his head as far as they could, and pulled on his black leather satchel. After glancing back to see Seb was still distracted by his “girlfriend”, he sprinted off to the dungeons before most of the other students had even finished their second piece of toast.

…

John and Greg sat at the back of the potions class, their cauldrons were set up, John’s book open (Greg had forgotten his) and there they were, waiting for Professor Magnussen to arrive. In front of them was Sebastian Wilkes and his friend Andrew Hope. John was less than impressed…

“Why do Gryffindor always get shoved with the bloody Slytherins” John whispered, twiddling his quill between his fingers irritably. “I mean I get it there’s an ongoing rivalry but Jesus… this is why. We are constantly rammed together, us and Sebastian the snarky prat-” At this point, Sebastian had turned around and was watching John eagerly, an overly sweet smile on his ugly face. “Nevermind…”

“No go on Watson, I do love hearing your opinion of me. It effects my life so much, honestly” He sneered. Andrew turned around too with an ugly laugh. “How’s the sister?” Seb winked, nodding in Harry’s direction “She’d be quite attractive if she wasn’t a mudblood dyke-” John and Greg both lunged forward, probably to throttle him painfully, sadly as Magnussen swept through the door.

“Ah, Mr Watson, Mr Lestrade… Fighting already? Only, few, five minutes into the first lesson of term? Twenty points from Gryffin- Gregory put Mr Hope down!” Greg reluctantly let go of Andrew’s collar, and lowered himself back into his seat, fuming. John began drumming his fingers on the table heavily. Harry looked over at him nervously, but John didn’t meet her gaze.

“Now, I apologize deeply for those two children at the back interrupting our lesson before it even got started. But! We have someone important in our midst… Well, they think so anyway. He is just so “clever”, such a “genius”, so “ahead of his years” that batty old McGonagall thought it was appropriate to put the know-it-all in this class.” Some of the Slytherins began to giggle. “Stand up boy, stand up!” Magnussen said in his sickening fashion, leering at someone on the front row. “Come on now, I thought you were a genius? Don’t you know how to stand?” John and Greg exchanged confused looks, this is really unfair?

The boy obliged, standing up quickly, staring forward. “Now this “magnificent” boy… Sherlock Holmes.” John couldn’t believe it, he wanted to be able to sweep the train incident under the rug, and here he is in his class? From nowhere? “Mr Holmes has quite the reputation at Hogwarts: For being a know-it-all, who can’t keep his long nose out everyone’s business, for spying on people… and overall being a complete freak!”

 Sebastian was almost sobbing with amusement, falling over his desk in attempt to stifle it. John felt a wave of fury wash over him, and he didn’t know why?

“Anyway, let’s welcome him to Seventh Year potions. I doubt he’ll keep up. Sit!” Magnussen shouted the last word, and Sherlock lowered himself slowly to his desk. “Now, Potions!”

The first lesson was theory, in which the class copied down ‘Golpalott’s Third Law’ and the reasoning behind it, idly scribbling down names and dates and potion ingredients here there and everywhere - it was beginning to resemble one of Professor Bin’s lessons… Knew I’d dropped History of Magic for a reason. John was certain for at least 15 minutes of the lesson Greg was asleep, and John couldn’t help but wish he was too. However, as the bell chimed for 10 o’clock, and first lesson came to a close, Magnussen flicked his wand and everyone’s textbook opened to a ‘Wiggenweld Potion’.

“You have one hour to concoct this potion. Go.” Conversation erupted about the students, and I’m sorry to say a lot was poking fun at the curly haired boy at the front of the class. However, comforting to John and Greg at least, was that a lot of it was also “How the hell do we brew this?”

Twenty minutes of their hour had passed, and John was trying his best to follow the instructions. The future, however, looked dim from the start - 1. Add salamander blood until it turns red. John’s went blue. Greg’s went Lilac. John nervously skimmed over the remaining method;

2. Stir until the potion turns orange.

3. Add more salamander blood, this time until it turns yellow.

4. Stir until the potion turns green.

5. Add more salamander blood, until the potion turns turquoise.

6. Heat until it turns indigo.

7. Add more salamander blood until the potion turns pink.

8. Heat until the potion turns red.

9. Add five lionfish spines.

10. Heat until the potion turns yellow.

11. Add five more lionfish spines.

12. Add flobberworm mucus, until the potion turns purple.

13. Stir until it turns red.

14. Add more flobberworm mucus, this time until it turns orange.

15. Stir until it turns yellow.

16. Shake and add salamander blood until it turns orange again.

17. Add honeywater until it turns turquoise.

18. Heat until it turns pink.

19. Add salamander blood until it turns green.

John looked at Greg in dismay; the two burst into fits of giggles. Greg sat down in defeat “This is impossible, this potion relies on you having a steady hand and quick reflexes, of which I have neither!”

“And that you aren’t colour blind!” John said, causing them both to roar even louder over their wrong coloured, multi-coloured mixtures.

“This is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous” Greg wheezed “I’m on step one and mine already looks like a really sad rainbow!”

“Lestrade. Move”

“What?” Greg coughed, straightening his face quickly as best he could, John burying himself in his cauldron as Magnussen leered in at them.

“You’re being disruptive. The front. Now.”

“But- What about the Sixth Year?” Greg said, nervously, glancing at John, who was lifting his head in dismay.

“He’s swapping with you; then you and Watson are both being punished, even better. Move.”

Greg reluctantly carried his cauldron and bag to the front of the dungeon, the potion, only now beginning to turn the deep red colour he wanted, sloshed over the rim as he sulked, and onto the stone floor.

“Holmes. Here, if you can carry your big head this far.” Sherlock obliged reluctantly, his cheeks flushing slightly pink when he realised who he was sitting by. “Continue.”

The awkwardness was stifling. John kept his eyes on his cauldron, and Sherlock did the same. However, purely at a glance John could see that his neighbour’s potion was exactly what the instructions expected... but he was still so angry with him… After five minutes battling with his temper and his potion of upsetting deep green, John decided to speak...

“What step are you on?” John said quietly, watching as Sherlock stirred his bright yellow potion.

“Ten” he replied coolly, but with obvious surprise the other was talking to him.

“Right.” John looked sadly down at his own potion, on step three, which hadn’t even gone red yet. “How did you do that? Sherlock smirked, but tried to hide it.

“You add the salamander blood three drops at a time and wait. This is the amount that causes the potion to change colour. You keep adding in three drop intervals until you reach the colour desired. Obvious really” John nodded, and followed these instructions. It took a lot of salamander blood, but eventually the potion turned the deep red colour. John smiled briefly, but his feelings from the train got the better of him, and removed it.

“It would be obvious… and helpful… if they put that in the method” John said irritably.

“Oh it is just a well-known fact about salamander blood; unless told otherwise you add it in intervals of three drops.” John looked up at him, literally, (he was a good few inches taller than him, which was embarrassing as Sherlock was the younger one) whilst stirring his potion aimlessly, not knowing if he should be impressed or pissed off. “… And it says on the previous page - Your potion, John.” Sherlock finished, smiling slightly as John’s eyes flicked quickly back to his potion stopped his stirring abruptly and began to curse repeatedly under his breath. The potion passed its orange stage and had begun to turn green again… Bollocks  

“See. You’re distracting me.” John said bitterly after a three minute long struggle with his potion, forcing it to turn orange again. Sherlock didn’t say anything, and just removed his potion from the heat, which was a rather alarming shade of pink, and began dropping salamander blood into it (of course, in intervals of three)

John watched, menacingly, as his neighbour’s potion turned the correct shade of yellow… “How the hell-”

“No no, wouldn’t want to distract you” Sherlock interjected, coolly, pulling a glass phial from his robes and filling it with the glistening honey coloured liquid “I’ll just hand this in, shall I?” and with that, Sherlock swept off to the front of the dungeon, smiled sweetly at Magnussen, who looked fit to burst that no other student had finished before the “know-it-all”. John gaped at him as he strode back up the dungeon towards him, stuffed his textbook and various other bits and bobs into his bag and without another word banged through the dungeon door, his cloak flowing behind him as he went.

Chapter Text

Sherlock didn’t know where to go after leaving the dungeons. But it’d felt so good; shoving his perfectly completed potion into Magz’ cold face and storming out of the classroom... but where now? It was nearing break time, which meant the remainder of his potions class would be leaving soon... meaning Sebastian Wilkes would be leaving soon... so Sherlock’s first logical move was to transport himself as far away from the dungeons as possible within the next ten minutes. After gliding through the empty corridors, having to slow to a walk every time he passed an open classroom door, he arrived in the entrance hall. He was met with Filch, the caretaker, mopping the floors, whimpering with each muddy footprint he lay his eyes upon. This meant one thing to Sherlock. Rain. Sherlock’s glance darted to the window and yes, it was indeed pouring it down. Rain meant there were less places for Sherlock to hide himself, only having within the castle walls as his sanctuary. (It was out of the question to risk getting his freshly ironed robes, his new shoes and his freshly-washed curls soaked) So where? His original plan was to linger around the womping willow until the end of break, then he was scot free; Anderson, Seb and Andrew all had Herbology for lessons three and four. With that, the bell tower rang out for 11 o’clock, end of the lesson, so once again, Sherlock bolted up the marble staircase, skipping the third step from the top (as it was Thursday) and continuing down the long corridor leading to the library. Once it was in sight, he slowed his pace, and the doors around him opened. Students spilled across the floors stalling him to a stop.

“Er, Mr Holmes” Oh for God’s sake. Sherlock became very aware of a fairly tall witch standing behind him. “My office. Please.” McGonagall.

…

“But I’d finished the work.”

“That is no excuse Mr Holmes. You were not given permission to leave his classroom, thus you are no allowed to do so on your own accord”

“But-”

“Enough Mr Holmes, you will remain in here for the rest of break while I get on with these letters, and not a word out of you. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, and just as he was beginning a lengthy plot in how to remove Magnussen from the castle without trace, a smirk split across his face. He’d found his hiding place. A boring one, let’s not dress it up too much… but still… McGonagall looked up at him, and Sherlock quickly wiped his smile away.

Twenty-minutes had passed, and Sherlock surprisingly had only been in his mind-palace for thirteen of these, when a sharp knock rattled the old oak door so suddenly, both he and his headmistress jumped out of their skins, McGonagall’s quill soaring into the air. Sherlock would have caught it, yet feared if he did so she’d ask him to join a Quidditch team, so naturally watched it fall instead, predicting the distance the ink would spray – Correctly, of course. McGonagall rose from her desk huffily, her navy robes flowing behind her as she approached the office door. On opening it with a heavy clunk, the sight she was met with took both her and Sherlock by great surprise.

Professor Sholto was standing before her holding four dripping wet boys by the collar, a Mr Lestrade and a Mr Watson in one hand, and a Mr Hope and a Mr Wilkes in the other, all with pure fury plastered across their faces, along with a hefty smearing of mud.

“Fighting, Professor. Behind the greenhouses. I saw them from my classroom, house points are to be taken from Slytherin and,” Sholto shot a disgruntled look towards Greg and John “… and my own house.”

The Professor released the boys dismissively, and left without another word. Sherlock couldn’t believe it, turning back to face the desk. Why?

…

When John’s eyes fell upon the boy in the chair, his already majorly pissed demeanour began to boil. How? The one person I want to avoid and…

“Mr Watson if you could be so kind and look at me, not Mr Holmes while I am punishing you!”

John felt his face turning scarlet. Greg began to snigger. John kicked him. He stopped. Seb and Andrew exchanged malevolent looks at the mention of ‘Mr Holmes’, and John felt an extra surge of hatred rush through him.

“Thank you. Now-”

After giving the four of them an earful, taking twenty points from both Slytherin and Gryffindor and giving them all a detention the following evening, she dismissed them with simply a glare that could shatter glass. None of them hung around, and as John and Greg trudged soggily down the stone staircase from the headmistress’ office, now covered in muddy pools and bits of sodden grass, Sherlock followed.

John began to push Greg down the final steps to try and escape him, yet Greg didn’t understand the urgency. This didn’t matter however; Sherlock said nothing. Even so, the tension as the bizarre mix of five students crossed Gargoyles Corridor was stifling.

“C’mon,” John said quietly, tugging at Greg’s robes as he quickened his pace,

“But it’s a free-”

“I know but-” John nodded in the direction of the two sopping Slytherins.

“We’ll win that fight,” came a cold voice behind them, yet the two did not turn back.

“Come on, let’s go to the library,” John muttered through gritted teeth, and off they went, leaving Sherlock alone in the corridor with Sebastian.

Chapter Text

Sherlock froze as Sebastian turned on his heals, followed moments later by Andrew.

They both smirked at him sickeningly, and Sherlock’s stomach gave a sudden jerk. He stared at them, breath quickening, yet he tried his best to remain composed.

“You two should get going” he said clearly, ignoring the panic that was bubbling up inside of him.

“Professor Sprout would be all too happy to subtract even more house points from you both if you’re late. You don’t want that.”

They exchanged glances and Sherlock swallowed slowly. I could try and run…

He took a wary step forward, yet they matched his move, the both of them filling the narrow corridor completely. Sherlock, anxiety climbing, thought quickly as the two backed him into the jagged brick,

“You- you wouldn’t- you really wouldn’t try here would you? Metres away from the headmistress’ office?” he gabbled, trying to control the definite tremble in his voice “Or is- is going into the Forbidden Forest at midnight how you too get your kicks?”

Seb suddenly stopped, pulling Andrew back too.

“Alright.” Seb said quietly, eyes flicking back and forth in the direction of McGonagall’s room. “Another time then. Freak”

Yet Seb forced Sherlock hard into the wall for good measure with a hollow thud, then ran out of the corridor and down the staircase, Andrew following behind.

Sherlock exhaled heavily, rubbing the back of his head, hand trembling slightly. Ouch. He gave himself a little shake and leant back against the cool stone idly. Sebastian. He remained there for a minute or so, calming himself in the quite of Gargoyles corridor until gentle footsteps approaching brought him back to his senses. It was McGonagall again, but she didn’t look angry this time, concern was painted across her face as she approached him, arm outstretched,

“Are you alright Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock replied with a muddled expression, yet moulded this into a more polite nod of agreement. She, surprisingly, nodded back, and did an about turn back to her office. Sherlock stared after her yet decided this change of mood was not worth his mind, and headed off to the Owlery, the back of his head still throbbing a fraction.

…

“When’s your next lesson?” John asked, trying to keep the conversation on anything but Sebastian-bollocking-Wilkes and his smarmy sidekick.

“Got no more today, but I think Sprout wants me to see her at lunch…”

“You’ve not had Herbology yet, how are you already in trouble?”

“Dunno. Maybe I rolled on her cabbages when I tackled Andrew to into the mud?” Greg smirked, admiring the thick brown and green stains that littered his robes “God they’re arseholes.”

“Please, please, please can we refrain from mentioning those, yes indeed, arseholes?”

“Why?” Greg spat.

“Or I’ll snap a book in two- Jeanette!”

John did not intend to call her name from across the library, yet it happened. He was not proud, but it did indeed happen. The tall, very pretty, Ravenclaw girl four shelves away turned. She was clearly less than impressed on realising who’d called her. She skulked over, looking quite mortified, but her expression was not a match on John’s.

“What?”

John had nothing.

“Well?”

“Erm. How was your…”

“Summer? Fine. Even better, having received no mail from you.” She smiled bitterly. “I was chatting with Sarah earlier. Apparently you wrote to her quite a bit.”

John’s eyes were screaming, and Jeanette knew this, and made a point of glaring right into them.

“Don’t worry, John. You won’t have to worry about writing- or speaking for that matter- to me again.”

And that was that as she sauntered away.

“Jesus…” John breathed, lowering his head onto his Alchemy book.

“You’ve gotta stop that, mate. I only write to Molly, so she doesn’t feel second best!”

“You never write to Molly,” John muttered, voice muffled through his book.

“Well… no… but if I did I’d only write to her!”

The two sat in silence for a while, Greg staring off into the distance (probably dreaming about Miss Hooper…) and John staring at the table.

This year’s already complete and utter crap.

…

Blood,

Why does everyone insist I spend two more years here? Its a waste of time. Pointless. Monotonous. I mean, you can imagine how bored I am if I’m writing to you after one day. How repulsive.

I know my verdict was obviously correct, but any news on the neighbours vanishing teapot? Are they aware it was me who pointed out the coloured spots changed every time they recovered it again? They had better be, unlike you who just assumed The Carmichaels were misplacing it. It’s still a mystery why people think you’re the smart one.

Don’t start a war at the Ministry before I’m back in July, it’s terribly bad for the post.

SH

(P.S, How are Father and Mummy?)

Sherlock was sat on the damp steps of the Owlery: the rain had ceased now, yet mud and puddles were scattered everywhere.

Filch will hurl himself from the astronomy tower.

He folded his neatly trimmed square of parchment into a diamond and handed it to the small Black owl seated beside him.

“There you go Billie,” he said quietly, stroking the owl’s crown as it adjusted its beak around the yellow paper, “Try not to peck his eyes out when you deliver it, I know it’ll be tricky.”

Billie hopped onto Sherlock’s forearm excitedly and, as Sherlock stood up steadily, launched himself into the air. Sherlock watched him go, soaring contently, until the tiny black dot had disappeared completely into the drifting cloud that framed the murky green hills so beautifully. He had no more business in residing in the Owlery, and there was still a dampness in the breeze that whipped the back of his neck where he stood, but he didn’t know where to go otherwise. However, as the wind gave a howling detour right up the left sleeve of his cloak, he knew it was only best to just to go and barricade himself in his dormitory, but only after checking there was enough food and water for Billie when he returned.

…

“What time is it?” John grunted lazily, having not lifted his head off his books for a good hour or more “Please don’t tell me time for alchemy…”

“It’s one forty-five… better start making your- Oh bollocks.”

“What?”

Greg slumped into his rickety chair with such weight, John was surprised it didn’t split beneath him.

“I didn’t go to Sprout… I forgot…”

“Well, just another night in the forest then mate.”

John stood up as if he’d been asleep for days, slinging his bag on with as much muster as a mountain troll taking a leisurely stroll. “I’ll see you back in the common room,” he yawned “Save me an armchair.”

And there he left his best friend half asleep in the quietest part of the library.

John was dreading alchemy; it was one of the most difficult subjects the school offered, and he required it for his future. Nice choice. Yet the classes were small, meaning the lessons were quite relaxed and full of discussion, so John wasn’t letting himself get too nervous about it. Besides, he’d enjoyed it last year, and Mike was there too.

As he wound his way around the corridors, smiling politely to the ghost of Sir Nicholas as they passed on the stairs, he allowed his mind to wander back to the holidays. They’d gone so fast, and of course everyone thought that, but it was normally the opposite. They went too slowly for him, he hated it at Madame Turner’s, so usually it was such a drag, but not this year, and he didn’t know if that was worse. It was as if there’d been no break, no rest in the workload, it was constant steam of homework from all his lessons more or less. He was normally full of excitement the first day back, but now he was just so sick of-

“Watson, inside please my lad, we’re about to start.”

It was Professor Borage. John had managed to travel all the way to alchemy without realising. Should’ve walked slower…

“Right, everyone open their books to page 48, Spagyric, and I’ll explain our key outcomes for this autumn term. We’ll be starting with-”

John slipped around the door awkwardly; he was a tad late and he spotted Mike sat at the front, Sarah beside him, and a blonde haired Slytherin girl he’d only ever properly seen on the Quidditch pitch, but no room for him. Why are neither of my only two friends in this place capable of bloody saving a bloody seat?!

There were only two seats left unoccupied, and they were either side of… You’re kidding me. You. Are. Literally kidding me.

“Is there a problem, Mr Watson?” Borage said, voice brittle, giving him the aura of someone about to crumble to dust before their very eyes, “There’s a seat beside Mr Holmes I believe!”

Sherlock turned slowly, spotted John, and turned swiftly back again without a waiver.

“No, no it’s fine,” John smiled weakly.

He crept oh so slowly over the dust covered floorboards, each step forcing an aroma of old chalk and dampened oak up into the air with an ear-wrenching creak.

“Mr Watson, sit down,” Borage snapped.

Sherlock flushed slightly as John scraped out his chair and sat cautiously beside him. Mike spun to face him, eyebrows wiggling. John scowled hotly.

Borage began to reel off the ‘basic’ facts about transmutation and the elements, which John could vaguely remember from the previous year… sort of. His quill was moving sharply, tiny sprays of ink dotting themselves on his parchment and hands as he scratched away at the paper. He needed this subject, he really did, and he already felt he was behind.

This bold endeavour to concentrate at two o’clock on their first day back, whilst well aware his best friend was most likely asleep somewhere, the late summer sun blazing through the window for the first time that day, was obstructed by the curly-haired sixth year to his left. Sherlock was drumming slowly upon his weighty stack of parchment, his slender fingers tapping and tapping rhythmically to a tune unknown to John. It wasn’t overly noisy, creating only a dull thud every sixth beat or so, but each tap of his fingertips nagged at him. He could see it in the corner of his vision, see the lack of notes being made and the fact his quill was not even in the ink pot. It was with a specific pound of his thumb that John turned to him,

“Really?” John shot, with a whisper so full of annoyance even he felt it marginally too severe for the context.

Sherlock turned to him, hands still moving across the parchment perkily, and smiled, unphased.

“I believe so,” He replied, returning his gaze to the front.

This did not bode well for John’s mood.

“Not taking notes?”

“No.” Sherlock said vaguely, not bothering to face him this time, well aware his neighbour was obviously facing him.

John paused, starring at him intently, trying to not react.

“Why?” he added after short composure, quill still quivering in his hand ready for use.

“Because I know it”
“You know it?”

“Yep.” Sherlock’s pupils were now aimed at the ceiling. “Those four beams are made of alder wood, yet the rest of them are made from aspen.”

“Um, I don’t care”

“Hmm, you should. Alder is notoriously known for being brittle. I’d give the roof two months.”

John took in a sharp breath, and he held it. It was surprisingly useful when trying not to yell in a practically silent classroom.

“The answer is Panacea.”           

“What?”

“Watson, seeing as you're much more inclined to chat with Mr Holmes than listen to me, what was the name for the remedy to cure all disease and all life indefinitely?”

Honestly?

“Um… It’s um…”

After ‘um’ing his way through a few seconds under Borage’s watery glare, Sherlock cleared his throat, nodding ‘subtly’ at him in the otherwise motionless class. What?

“It’s… Oh, oh! Um, it’s Panacea, Professor. Panacea,” He blurted finally.

Sherlock grinned. Dammit.

“Okay. Then just try to look like you’re paying attention.” His voice grated. 

John deflated onto his desk in relief.

“So eager to do well,” Sherlock stated quietly, leaning back to return to the harrowing task of analysing the ceiling structure.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing”

John swallowed hard, yet got back to his notes forthwith.

The rest of the lesson continued in silence, only the sweet tinkling of quill tips in ink pots, and the monotonous etching of the nib on the parchment, and of course the rasping croak that slipped from Borage’s lips. Sherlock didn’t tap again, but he of course didn’t write anything either.

“Homework, recap the works of Nicholas Flammel via a timeline; one sheet of parchment should suffice! In for next week!” Borage called, clearing his throat.

The dozen or so students leapt from their seats as the bell chimed through the walls, shaking a dribble of sawdust from the ceiling.

As John threw his parchment idly into the pits of his bag, he saw Sherlock’s cloak flick around the door, just as it had done in potions that morning, and he paused. No. Let it go…

“Sherlock!” he called, heading to the corridor quickly, pushing past Mike and the pretty blonde he’d been sitting by, “Sher-”

“You called?” Sherlock was leaning carelessly against the wall directly opposite the classroom entrance. John was taken a back, but surged forward confidently, clenching his fists as he walked,

“What did you mean?”

“What did I mean when?”

“Back in there, that I’m ‘eager to do well?’”

“Well you are aren’t you?”

“Well. Well of course bu-”

“Exactly. So what’s the issue?”

Sherlock pulled his wand from his pocket, and began spinning it between his fingers, without taking an eye off of John however.

“Why do you just- just.” John shook his head irritably, “Why do you just say things? I mean, I’d never spoken to you, really, before yesterday and you’ve already blurted random facts about me about ten times-”

“Twice”

“Twice? Twice, yeah… Well it’s not okay, alright?”

“I see.”

John found Sherlock’s lack of enthusiasm bothersome, yet thought it best to only rant about one thing for the time being.

“Look. How about, from here onwards, we just stay out of each other’s personal, er, private… matters.”

“By ‘we’ you mean me.”

“Yes.”

The sudden laconism that followed startled both of them somewhat, as if John’s words carried some weight, which neither of them thought to be true.

“Let’s just… be potions partners if we have to, see each other in alchemy and-"

“And defence against the dark arts”

“And defence against the dark- seriously?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly in response.

“Wow. That too. Okay. Well, otherwise let’s just stay out of each other’s way, alright?”

The area surrounding them was empty now, even Mike had left without waiting for him.

“See ya.”

And he left, his footsteps echoing sharply throughout the hollow corridor.

Chapter Text

The following fortnight slugged along as the opening weeks of term often did, and subtle clues began emerging, signalling autumn was just around the corner. On the most recent mornings, earlier rising students were met with a chilling mist that settled throughout the grounds, causing many to begin bundling up on their way to breakfast. Alas, the milder weather had been returning by lunchtime, so many students were confused as what to wear, making frequent stops back at dormitories throughout the course of the day to dump their cloaks and jumpers.

The decline in morning temperature made the hellish experience that was indeed potions even more uncomfortable. Yet, of course, not as uncomfortable as the lesson’s seating arrangements after the ‘discussion’ John had had with his sixth year classmate only on the first day of lessons. Sherlock stuck to his word, he didn’t comment on anything John did, said or breathed since their talk outside Borage’s classroom. This did mean John didn’t have to worry about having his private matters spewed from a stranger’s mouth, but it also meant in some lessons he spoke to no one at all… but it was better this way. The ‘staying out of each other’s private matters’ arrangement was a mild success, and that was the truth, until September 17^th.

The first Quidditch practise had arrived, and John practically flew there in excitement, sprinting as fast as his short legs could carry him to the pitch, broom in hand, as the clock struck four that afternoon. As soon as he’d stepped foot onto the sandy earthing, he threw his bags down and that was that, he was off. Kicking off hard, he bolted upwards into the cool evening air, doing so for the first time in months. He breathed deeply, inhaling the feeling of pure freedom into his lungs.

He was a magnificent flyer, he really was, twisting and turning with ease in and out of the freshly painted goal posts, weaving effortlessly between the stands, feeling his cloak flapping joyfully behind him as he did so.

“Oi Watson! Come on!” Bainbridge yelled from below, barely audible over the rushing of summer air across his ears. John did an about turn around the Hufflepuff stand, and dived down coolly to meet his keeper and the rest of their team.

As the sun began to sink lazily, casting thick shadows of the tall hoops and seats across the lawn, and the bell tower echoed along the early-evening breeze, the Gryffindor team, now sweaty but contented, trudged back up to the castle in time for a well-deserved meal. Being captain, it was John’s job to return the rather hefty case of Quidditch gear after changing roughly back into his robes. This meant, although John rarely minded, that he was always slightly later to the feast after training than the others. He needn’t worry, however, Greg never went near John’s “rabbit food” as he so called it, also known as his meatless meal.

The colours above began to bleed deep blues and purples into the still vibrant oranges and pinks of the late September sky, as John ambled his way from the changing rooms up the hill toward the castle, feeling the lightest he had in a long while. 

…

Sherlock ran, stumbling clumsily over his robes in terror. They’d found him, he’d lost their sickening version of hide and seek, and here was his prize. Philip, Andrew and Sebastian’s cruel laughter resonated in the silence, nagging at him like the brisk evening breeze, as his legs slipped and stammered up the grassy bank, the glowing lights of the castle too far away to be any comfort to him now. His heart was pounding harshly in his throat, his energy waning. They’ve got my wand. If he could just get to the feast, he’d be safe. Feet slamming harder and harder upon the freshly-cut lawn, he made a break for the stone path snaking its way up to safety.

“Flipendo!”

It didn’t work brilliantly, it wasn’t Seb’s wand after all, but it still produced a sudden forceful blow to the neck, which caused Sherlock to swerve where he sprinted, trip carelessly over his robes and to land contortedly upon the cool grass. With caution, he rolled onto his back, lifting his hood (which had fallen over his eyes in the debacle), his chasers’ contentment imminent in the air. His eyes peeled open, panic beginning to flood him, just in time to see Sebastian’s foot falling fast towards his face.

“Found you, Freak.”

…

The post-practise air wasn’t as quiet as John was used too; most students were usually at the feast at this time, par his fellow teammates who could be seen just entering the castle in the distance, and there was usually nothing to be heard but the screeching of owls, and every so often Hagrid’s booming chuckle because some new pet he’d obtained had nearly bitten his hand off… but John could swear that he heard students close by?

Having been at Hogwarts almost seven years now, he knew that it would be merely some troublesome third years or something, or first years in a muddle. He’d have thought this then too, if it wasn’t for a sudden wail, echoing across the near-empty grounds.

John paused. Could just be a creature or something… He continued up the path warily, ears pricked and ready for more news. 

“Give him one for me, Seb!”

Seb? Sebastian? It was followed by laughter, cruel laughter, laughter that interrupting new and continuing cries and yelps of pain, fucking Sebastian, and it was all too near for John to ignore. Allowing his bag to slide from his shoulder to the earth, John started back down the hill, but not by the path, to where the yells originated, hand clasped around his wand so tight it's pattern left traces on his palm.

It took no time at all to find them, the three of them, with their sleeves rolled up to the elbow and wands discarded on the lawn. Just catching sight of them, behind a section of shrubbery metres from the path, lit a fuse of anger that burnt right through him. They were huddled over this poor person, like crows on a corpse, each picking and kicking at them in turn, sneering all the while. John couldn’t take it. Right.

“Oi arseholes- Stupefy!”

Playing into John’s hand, the three of them turned at once, only to be met with a stunning-charm to the face: they stared at him blankly for a second, then slouched to the grass gormlessly, revealing the poor victim they’d been plaguing for who knows how long.

A cloak-less, dishevelled figure lifted himself slowly, his curls of dark hair askew, and looked at John for a few seconds. For a moment, John didn’t recognise him due to the concoction of blood, bruising and mud on his face…

“Sher- Sherlock- Is that Sherlock?!”

Sherlock waved a limp hand carelessly about him in reply, before folding back down to the lawn with a thump. 

Chapter Text

Although not in the most comfortable of positions, at least Sherlock could see the subtle elegance that was the September sunset… upside down… whilst fighting desperately not to inhale blood too often.

“Sherlock? Is that you?” 

Sherlock strained to sit up, failing spectacularly but this was no matter: The older boy had jogged into view, looming above him, patting his shoulders repeatedly. He seemed slightly panicked, by what Sherlock could make out with his swaying vision.

“Sherlock? I’m going to sit you up okay?”

Sherlock didn’t really hear, feeling like John was speaking to him from under water, but he did his best to nod and allow John to pull him upright.

Dazed, he watched blankly as John pushed the others, stunned and still giggling, down the hill with his foot. Sherlock began to laugh, or shake he couldn’t tell… but whatever it was hurt so he stopped it abruptly.

“And just piss off alright! Bloody ridiculous!”

Sherlock continued to watch as John sped back to get his bags from further up the path, after mentioning something about getting his kit. It didn’t take long, he seemed to be eager to help.

“Right, is it only your nose?” John said breathily, crouching beside him whilst fumbling through his rucksack.

Sherlock shook his head, lifting his wrist painfully with his other hand.

“Okay…” 

He pulled what appeared to be his Quidditch robe trousers from his bag, twisted and folded them repeatedly, before presenting them proudly before Sherlock’s bloody face.

“Sling!”

Once this was done, he rummaged once again through his bag, one hand on Sherlock who was swaying gently, and brought out a ball of grey socks.

“They’re clean, don’t worry” He added, before instructing Sherlock to pinch his nose, and hold the sock to catch the great deal of blood that was oozing from it, “Good.”

After this ordeal, they both sat in silence for a minute or two, Sherlock unable to look at the boy opposite him, but very thankful for his kindness.

“We should get you to the hospital wing” John said after a bit, standing slowly with a small grunt.

Sherlock nodded again, and allowed John to slip his arm under his and to lift him (with barely any effort) to his feet.

“Are you able to stand without me?”

Again, another nod. Sherlock walked forwards onto the level stone path, swerving a little but righting himself quickly, left hand and sock still clutched to his nose.

“They took my cloak.” He said hoarsely, muffled through his hand. “And my wand…” he felt himself flush, ears growing hot.

John sighed, hurling his bags onto his shoulders, “Well we’ll just have to look for them then” he replied matter-of-factly, with a slight smile. “Can’t have gone far”

In this case, John couldn’t have been more right; Sherlock’s wand was only a few metres down the hill from them, must’ve been thrown after they’d caught him, and was back in Sherlock’s pocket within minutes. As for the cloak, it was found screwed up in a nearby shrub, grubby but intact. John helped Sherlock back into it, him wincing with each small movement, his slinged arm not in a sleeve.

Carefully, the two walked back to the castle without much conversation, just John ranting excessively about Sebastian and his cronies. Sherlock liked that. The evening meal was well underway when they reached the entrance hall and John’s stomach was growling excessively, where Sherlock asked if John would leave him be.

“No, no. I’ll take you up – don’t want you collapsing on one of the staircases after all this.”

Sherlock did insist John, but was secretly glad he didn’t.

…

“Mr Holmes… Back again?”

Madam Pomfrey ambled up to Sherlock as he entered her quarters without any air of panic or concern, like she was used to the thing. John loitered behind, not really knowing where to stand.

“Good evening Poppy; a broken nose and potentially broken wrist.”

Poppy?! 

“Erm… a definitely broken wrist.” John added nervously, “Sorry…”

Madam Pomfrey sighed warily and led Sherlock to the nearest, neatly folded, empty bed. John trotted after them, glancing interestedly at the few other students tucked up in crisp linens.

“So, any point in asking how you’ve done it this time?” She said idly, pouring out a pale purple coloured potion into a phial, which began spluttering and fizzing the nearer Sherlock got to it.

John perched himself on a nearby table, watching intently.

“Well he was attac-”

“Potion exploded. Erupted gloriously out of my cauldron. Blew me right off the bed. You should see the state of the dormitory…”

John’s gaze shot upon him. Sherlock gave his head a small shake.

“Unlike you to ruin a potion Sherlock… Open wide.”

Sherlock obliged, and a spoonful of the icy cold purple goop slipped into his mouth, its fizzing audible as he swallowed.

“Sorry, is that a painkiller?” John asked quietly, watching in awe.

“It does its best.”

Madam Pomfrey continued busying about, mopping up his face and other smaller grazes on his arms and knees, barking ‘Episkey!’ at his nose and ‘Brackium Emendo!’ at his wrist, Sherlock wincing in pain with both, John observing excitedly, and of course one more dose of the purple slime to stop Sherlock moaning.

“Right, you can be on your-” She stepped back, glaring at his shirt. “Well you can’t go to dinner like that, you’ve got blood all over you. Now – take that off”

“B-but-”

“Come on, no one’s looking!”

Sherlock looked gingerly up at John, who suddenly caught on to what was happening, and waited until he’d span around, before quickly unbuttoning his shirt. Madam Pomfrey supplied him with a fresh one from her cabinet, which was a tad too big.

“See, that’s better! Watson, I’ll wash your sock and Quidditch trousers in with the shirt.” She said cheerily, helping Sherlock up and slipping his cloak on around him. “And I must say, you did tie a fantastic bandage.”

John beamed.

“Now, I suggest you both go to the feast, get some food in you. I dare say you’ll be a bit woozy for a time. Any troubles, come straight back here now.”

Sherlock thanked her quietly before speeding out of the Hospital Wing. John went to follow, but Madam Pomfrey grabbed his arm.

“Do make sure he eats something, I know he’ll try not to.” John nodded, turning to go “Anyway, well done for bringing him here, I didn’t know you two were together? I bet you’ll calm him down a bit, the dear.”

John’s cheeks began to turn an astonishing shade of pink, “Oh erm, oh no we’re not erm-”

“Well I shan’t keep you, goodnight Mr Watson!”  

John left quickly (a few of the people in the surrounding beds were giggling) and stepped out into the corridor. He expected he’d have to go and find Sherlock, as he’d probably legged it back to his common room or something, but he was pleasantly surprised.

“Hello.”

John looked down and there was Sherlock, sat comfortably on the floor twiddling his wand through his fingers.

“Hi – have you-”

“No I have not fallen over, I’m fine!” Sherlock eased himself up and looked at John, almost fearfully, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, erm… No problem. Honestly.”

They smiled at each other for a few seconds, as if neither knew what to say or do next.

“Dinner! You need food, come on let-” John piped suddenly, starting to skip down the staircase

“Oh, I’m not going.” Sherlock replied coolly.

“Wh- Why? Dinner?!” The Hogwarts dinners were never something to miss after all!

“Digestion; slows the brain down.”

“Well… well not eating slows everything else down so… Come on-”

Sherlock didn’t move, he looked at the floor suddenly. John walked slowly back up the few steps he’d just stepped down, sensing the sudden diminish of mood.

“It’s because they might be there isn’t it. Seb, Philip and… the other one…”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Look, sit on my table, the Gryffindor table. There isn’t an actual rule as to who can sit where you know…”

Sherlock remained silent.

“Erm, about what I said before, after alchemy… I sort of, maybe… might have overreacted…”

Sherlock looked up at him, mouth open slightly.

“So you gonna come and eat something?”

There was a moment’s silence, but Sherlock began trotting down the staircase briskly ahead.

“Only if you promise that if there’s one bit of trifle left, it’s mine,” he called back.

John smirked, and followed.

Chapter Text

Once through the towering doors, Sherlock didn’t really know what to do with himself; his eyes fell on the four long tables stretched out in front of him, all about-full with cheery looking friendship groups, composed of varying house and age, amongst near empty plates and platters. They all looked rather contented, he thought, and it was distracting.

It appeared that he and John weren’t as late as they’d once thought, as the puddings were still yet to materialize, to John’s obvious relief.

“Hey-” he felt a hesitant tug at the sleeve of his robes “Er- Greg usually sits at the end of the Gryffindor table, probs just head down there? -” and with a small nod of encouragement, John strode off ahead. Sherlock, growing increasingly aware of the eyes of his “fellow Slytherins” falling upon him one by one, accompanied with giggles no one attempted to disguise, followed quickly.

A sudden thump of pain swelled in the narrow bridge of Sherlock’s nose as he took his first step forward, acting as a helpful but uncomfortable reminder of what was to be now prominent bruising across most of his face… Of course, their laughter…

He made the logical decision to continue his journey to the far end of the hall with face angled down. This did result in him seeing only the bottoms of black trouser legs and the grubby soles of people’s shoes, the spilt and disregarded bits of food and the surprising amount of dropped cutlery, the cracked and time-worn slabs below his own pointed, immaculate shoes… brilliant how much one can deduce from such a limited area of view.

Upon reaching Greg’s usual spot, which Sherlock realised by the repeatedly glued and re-glued soles and scuffed leather of John’s shoes crept into his eye line, Sherlock’s intuitive skills were not required to notice a definite… lack of Greg? John frowned, too having noticed the distinctly Gregless table, and gave a small shrug before dropping down onto the low wooden bench with a creak. Sherlock was very knowledgeable in the etiquette of dinner table positions, so scurried quickly around the table’s end to sit himself opposite.

“I have no idea where he is?” John said suddenly, after his eyes had been flitting around the hall for a minute or two, “since when would he miss eating?”

“Molly” Sherlock said without any pause

“Sorry what?”

“Molly Hooper? Earlier in the week she mentioned she was doing some further reading in the library tonight. Her usual seating preference is midway down the Hufflepuff table as she isn’t one for wishing to stand out. Yet, if this is George’s usual seat, he would have a clear view of her – not suggesting that that is his primary intention at all. She’d have probably come in and eaten quickly, not waiting for pudding, to run up to the library before bed. He, seeing as you were late – sorry – probably saw the perfect opportunity to accompany her and tagged along; judging by the spilt gravy and crumbs surrounding this part of the table and the small scuff marks of where he pushed his plate away quickly, he definitely ate in a hurry.”

“Oh. Wow. Right…” John nodded, his eyes slightly wide at the speed at which Sherlock had reeled off this information. “Although… It’s Greg, by the way.”

“Sorry?”

“His name’s Greg? Not… George” John corrected, rolling his tongue onto his lips with a grin.

“Ah” Sherlock muttered, but made no effort whatsoever to make note of this. Hm. Irrelevant. Thanks all same…

John’s stomach gave a tremendous growl in reply, so quickly, before they vanished and were replaced by a magnificent array of deserts, John filled two steaming bowls of vegetable broth from the nearest, nearly empty, pot; one for himself and one for Sherlock.

“There” John said happily, sliding the bowl over towards the boy opposite. He looked positively giddy at the idea of tucking in. When Sherlock didn’t immediately scoop some into his mouth, like John would’ve done, Sherlock noticed a gentle seriousness sweep across his face, “You need. To eat.”

“No, you need to eat – I need to think” He said plainly.

“I don’t know what that means.” John replied flatly, pushing the bowl even closer.

John’s exasperated expression, and the fact that Sherlock hadn’t eaten in about four days? at this point, lead Sherlock to give in quite quickly,

“Fine.” And then, rather grudgingly added “Thank you.” He ate the broth without any fuss from then on, although primarily as he felt John’s eyes boring into him every time he put down his spoon.

Eating the broth itself was found to be somewhat difficult; Sherlock was right handed, and although no-longer broken, his wrist was still very painful when put to use. This meant, to Sherlock’s increasing annoyance, he had to use his left. By the end, he’d spilt more of the watery meal onto the table top than he’d actually ingested, and was beginning to feel really quite cross about it.

Whilst his final spoonful was halfway to his lips, concentrating immensely to keep his hand steady, he noticed the boy opposite giggling, it was that kind of barely audible giggle; just the slightest sound of snuffling accompanied by a few squeaks every once in a while.

“What” Sherlock sighed, now flustered, lowering his spoon again, and thus sloshing another large dribble of broth onto the surface and, to add insult to injury, pristine white shirt from Madam Pomfrey. This obviously amused John further, as he gave such a loud squeak this time even he seemed to be alarmed by it.

“I- I’m sorry! You’re right handed? – I’m – so…”

Sherlock tried to be annoyed, but he couldn’t? He just couldn’t? He was used to being laughed at and teased, used to being the butt of everyone’s jokes… but this was different, this was friendly and familiar and, although he loathed to admit it, fairly humorous? 

“No, no it’s fine… it’s just the last drop of dignity I have pouring away!” Sherlock whined, dropping his spoon down into the bowl.

“I’m so sorry-” John wheezed, “Ah… it’s really not your night, is it?” He began to dab his eyes gently with a nearby napkin, still bobbing up and down somewhat as his laughter petered away.

“Well it’s only up from here,” Sherlock added assuredly

“Yeah?” John asked, raising an eyebrow cheekily

“Yes well… Trifle’s a tad sturdier-” He smirked, pushing his bowl away from him irritably, and John began to chuckle quietly again, which made Sherlock’s smile grow slightly.

Coincidentally, with their mention of dessert, the rows of wiped-clean platters and empty cooking pots that lined the table so plentifully suddenly melted away into towers of ice cream; scoops of every flavour, plates of piping hot apple pie alongside towering jugs of thick golden custard, and of course glistening dishes of colourfully layered trifle.

Just as the two of them began to sink their spoons into the layers of whipped cream, custard and fruit, a breathlessly excited voice piped up behind John, who was startled so violently he received a generous coating of cream upon his nose.

“We studied together! We studied together! I don’t know why you weren’t here but-” the boy gave John’s right arm a forceful squeeze “thank you!”

Ah here we go…

“Yes hello you – you lunatic… Let go will you?”

“Oh don’t be grumpy and ruin it? We. Studied. Together?!” He slumped down beside John, beaming, “I saw her get up to go and thought- What’s on your nose?”

Sherlock fought to conceal his own laughter this time, as John quickly scrubbed his face with the end of his sleeve.

“Oh sorry-” the boy spat, after a few moments of starring blissfully off into the distance, clearly down to his impromptu study session, “I’m Greg, by the way”

“Oh, I know” Sherlock said, sounding much more arrogant than intended,

“You thought his name was George?” John scoffed, which Sherlock merely ignored, and barely reacted to,

“Oh! You’re – Oh from potions and the train and stuff, yeah!” Greg said, nodding proudly, which Sherlock assumed was at his ability to remember an actual potions lesson, let alone its students, “John’s been moaning abou- Ow? Oh sorry…”

Evidently John fired a hard kick to Greg’s shin at this point. Greg contemplated this information for a second or two, when finally adding “But I thought you two didn’t get on?” This resulted in what was such an enormous kick from John, that the weary chatter hovering through the hall ceased a little, before rising up again, at Greg’s yelp.

After a brief, heavy silence between the three of them, in which Greg looked a bizarre mixture of guilty and intrigued, John forced a chuckle;

“Aha, erm… Greg, Sherlock got into a little… mess… with Seb’s lot and-”

In all Sherlock’s years, he had never seen someone so overly relaxed erupt as quickly as Greg did at the mention of Sebastian.

“BASTARD.”

Sherlock, apprehensively, lifted his head slightly to display his now overtly bruised, cut-covered face, swollen eye socket and overall bedraggled appearance, and gave a sort of weak smile.

A large amount of cursing followed, through gritted teeth and clenched jaw, as Greg reeled of an unsurprisingly extensive list of all the things Sebastian had done to deserve being transfigured into a Blast-Ended Skrewt for all eternity, which was quite alarming at first, but overall a very popular topic of conversation for all three of them.

“Well…” Greg said some insults later, leaning back with a lengthy sort of yawn, “I don’t know about you two, but I’m off to Bedfordshire” He swivelled his legs out from under the table, kicking both John and Sherlock in the process, and stood up with a grunt lower than his years, “You coming John? And an earlier night might actually do you some good?” This was to Sherlock, who merely smirked at the notion of an early night. Not overly likely.

“Actually, Greg, I might just walk Sherlock back to his common room – don’t want you-”

“Bumping into Seb again?” Sherlock remarked coolly

“No, no, just – well…” John nodded “Yeah”

Sherlock saw Greg give a little smirk, “Right, right. See you in a bit then.” He gave Sherlock a kind nod, before trudging off lazily out the hall.

Sherlock looked about; most people had begun to head off to their dormitories, leaving only spotless tables, sleepy chatter, and a few suspicious looking pairs copying each other’s notes.

“So – do you want to?”

“Yeah – yeah…”

And with contented sighs, Sherlock a little unsteady due to the earlier turmoil beginning to hit his body, the two stood up to go. As they approached the doors out of the Great Hall, closest to the Slytherin table, John tugged at Sherlock’s robes to go quicker.

“Sorry” John said once in the entrance hall, “But if I’d seen Seb sitting there I’d have had to go and punch him… And I really can’t be bothered right now”

Sherlock smiled “Quiet right”

Chapter Text

John reached the foot of the first grand staircase leading out of the entrance hall, ready to climb all the way to Gryffindor tower before he realised. Sherlock stood timidly by the Great Hall doors, looking about him nervously, obviously becoming more and more conscious of the marks upon his face.

“You’re going to the dungeons” John said flatly, leaning slightly defeated upon the banister.

“That is where my bed is, yes.” Sherlock joked, but his eyes were uneasy, flitting back and forth from the Great Hall to John “I may just… wander a bit… you know. So I don’t run into them… once Seb’s gone to bed, you know, then I’ll…” But he trailed off, gesturing weakly in the foreboding direction of the dungeons.

John felt his heart sink; the thought of Sherlock having to hide away from his own common room…

“Right…” was all he could fathom to say.

Sherlock swallowed, “Thanks for… well everything this evening.” He was staring rather fixatedly at the floor tiles.

“Don’t mention it. Anytime.” John said softly.

Sherlock smiled, rather sadly, and turned, stepping out into the cool September night. John sighed, he had the urge to follow him. He probably just wants time to himself.

However, this thought in mind, and beginning to reluctantly scale the staircase, he was called back.

“Or, you could… tag along, perhaps?” It was Sherlock again, his head leaning around one of the large double doors, smiling nervously.

John was floored, but he couldn’t escape the grin creeping up his face, “You want me to come with you?”

“Well… you could just… go to bed at, what? Half eight?” He teased, pulling a pair of immaculate leather gloves from his cloak pocket.

John paused, glancing up the many stairs where he knew Greg was probably sitting pestering Molly’s friends, and anyone who’d listen, about how to get to know her. He’ll manage without me.

“I’ve got nothing better to do” John said slowly, stepping down to meet him.

“Oh I’m certain of that” and with that, he turned on his heal and swept out into the grounds, John, bewildered, tagging along behind him.

…

The sun had well and truly sunk now, behind the surrounding mountains and valleys, and the first few dottings of stars beginning to appear above them. Sherlock was racing ahead, his footsteps echoing along the stone slabbed floor, moving into dull thuds as he reached the vast fields beyond the courtyard.

“Sherlock!” John called, laughing, struggling to keep up “Where are you going?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, turning to face his slower companion. John caught his breath, doubling over slightly,

“Hate to be a spoil sport, but maybe take it easy? You had a broken nose and wrist about an hour ago?” John said in between wheezes.

Sherlock made an agreeable sound, lifting his hand to his face again. He gave his nose a gentle prod. He squeaked.

“How’s it look?” He asked anxiously, sticking his head out into John’s line of vision.

John did indeed look. He looked at the marbled bruising around his nostrils, the many grazes and cuts on his nose’s bridge, the slight swelling across… well the whole of it… not to mention the blackening of his left eye…

“Well” he started “Well it looks… You look… Erm… Well it’s a bit… Er…” John paused “It looks like it hurts”

“Well that’s good to know – thank you” Sherlock interjected, starting to chuckle.

John joined in, “Wow I’m sorry…”

“No, don’t be – it was a very sound deduction.” Sherlock sank down onto the grass with a grunt “If you hadn’t arrived it would hurt a lot worse, so.”

“Right” John agreed, sinking down beside him “So what are we doing?”

“Oh just passing the time – we’re a tad early yet.”

John waited for a further explanation, yet failing to receive one, simply waited beside him, not wishing to press further.

They sat there on the cool grass for a few moments and listened. John could hear the sound of laughter and chatter from students far off in other parts of the grounds, he could hear the distant thud of wood chopping from the direction of Hagrid’s hut, only visible in the growing dark by the glowing windows, and the embers of a dying fire outside it. He could hear the rustling of leaves, the chirping of crickets, and the screeching of owls just waking up for the night. He turned to Sherlock; at first anyone would have thought he was daydreaming, staring blankly off into the night, but John could see his eyes were squinting, concentrating, but on what John couldn’t tell. John merely thought it correct not to disturb him.

After a few minutes, a long clear call from an owl seemed to bring Sherlock back to the real world; He leapt up, yet regretted it immediately, cradling his ribs and wincing a little. Alas, he seemed bursting with enthusiasm all the same. A smile spread across his face “That’ll be Billie, come on.” And he was off again, this time in the direction of the Owlery and, as before, John followed without a moment’s doubt.

“You expecting mail?” John asked breathlessly as he clambered up the uneven, straw covered steps of the Owlery, following the tail of Sherlock’s cloak.

“Always” Sherlock said carelessly, eagerly heading to one of the sculpted archways where a tall, thin owl was sat, its silky feathers glistening in the warm candle-light. It was perfectly trimmed, each feather, not one out of place. It seemed almost too pretty to be seen amongst most of the other owls nesting there, all ruffled and dust ridden.

“John, meet Billie” Sherlock said cheerily, pulling one glove off and stroking him gleefully with the end of his index finger “Don’t worry - he doesn’t bite; he likes to pretend he does, but really he just likes a lot of praise and a bit of company”

John crept over; he’d never had an owl of his own, although both he and Harry had always wanted one. Obviously they’d become second nature to him living at Hogwarts for years, but it did mean he saw them more as a practicality than a pet, thus treaded with caution.

“Really, he’s an old softy” Sherlock said eventually, slightly irritably, as it had been over five seconds and John still hadn’t said hello to Billie.

“You alright, Billie?” John said quickly, reaching out a nervous finger to give his crest a gentle patpat.

John then watched intently as Sherlock pulled a long thin letter opener from his robes, giving it a swift wipe on his sleeve before using it,

“Right, what’ve you got today old friend” Sherlock muttered under his breath, cutting open the sizeable bundle of parchment tied to his foot “You deserve a rest up after this lot, well done my boy.”

John tried to conceal the smile forming at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock, noticing, cleared his throat.

“Erm. Well, off you go then Billie. Right, what’re we dealing with?”

John watched patiently as Sherlock’s eyes flitted across letter after letter.

“Hm, knew I was right about the teapot.” He mumbled to himself, beaming.
But before John could question ‘right about what teapot?’ Sherlock was on to the next letter. This one was lengthy, with four or five photographs pinned to the bottom. Sherlock’s eyes widened, a grin stretching up one side of his face. Intently, John surveyed as Sherlock pulled a delicate piece of black ribbon from yet another pocket of his robes and, using his letter opener, pierced it through the top of what was now his fourth letter.
“Billie you’ve brought me a good one here – I could tell by the intensely scrawled handwriting and messy ink blots that this was a-”
“Who are these from?” John interrupted,

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up; he looked taken aback. Had he forgotten I was here?

“Not to pry or anything… these from your family?”

“Family? What? No?”

“Then who are they from? You certainly seem popular” John said, nodding to the stack of parchment in his lap.

Sherlock smirked.

“What?” John asked, bemused.

“They’re… they’re cases, John” Sherlock sighed, gathering the letters together into some form of order.

“What?”

“Cases. You know. ‘My handbag’s trying to eat my cat’, ‘My husband’s gone missing’, or you know ‘My uncle’s been murdered! Solve it! Please!’ you get the idea.” Sherlock spoke with confidence, but John could tell there was a hint of anxiousness in his voice, a slight reddening in his cheeks. “It’s just a- just a little… hobby. Okay?”

“So people send you letters asking you to solve their problems?”

“To put it simply, yes”

“Like a detective?”

“Exactly like a detective”

Sherlock stood up, with a slight wobble, rather stroppily, before setting about the task of feeding Billie, sprinkling pellets into a dish with an unnecessary amount of aggression.

“That’s really cool, Sherlock” John said after a moment, kindly, softly.

Sherlock stopped, the sound of pellets into tumbling into a dish ceased also. He turned cautiously, blinking profusely.

“You think so?” he said slowly, looking at his feet.

“Yeah I really do,” John smiled.

“That’s… that’s not what people usually say.”

“What do people usually say?”

Sherlock paused, a slight frown quivering upon his lips,

“Stop intruding in normal people’s lives,” he said softly. “Or, you know, piss off”

“Nice” John nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” John said, shifting the sawdust and straw about with his foot “I think it’s really cool.”

Sherlock gave a little nod, and stammered a barely audible “Thank you” before continuing to sort out Billie for the week. John perched himself on one of the lesser dropping-stained arches, where he began to think… He knew where Greg was at dinner. He knows the ceiling in Alchemy is going to fall in any day now. He knew about- John suddenly remembered the incident on the train, and a pang of resentment began to bubble again, but he pushed it down. How does he do it?

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“About the-”

“The train? I know,” Sherlock said glumly, turning round to face him, “I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, and very quiet. John knew he meant it. “Sometimes, my brain goes faster than I can keep track of and… ironically… I forget to. Well. Think.” Lifting his head to face John directly, “I’m really, really sorry.”

John was taken aback, “Apology accepted.” The expression that crossed Sherlock’s face hurt John; he looked so shocked, so flawed at John forgiving him… “Its fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine, I swear.” John said more forcefully. “But actually, I was wondering how you did it? How you knew that? How you know everything apparently” John said with a slight laugh.

“I don’t know, I notice” and after a few seconds, frowning slightly “You want to know how I did the… train… thing?” Sherlock said hesitantly, peering nervously at John, as if he was something delicate that could be broken easily, “Well I told you, I thought? Your clothes - ironed and mended yourself, the bags under your eyes, the obvious fact you hadn’t eaten that day, the repetitive closing of your left hand the moment anyone mentioned anything to do with being at home-”

“Yes but, how do you do it? How do you… notice those things?” John interrupted,.

Sherlock’s gaze drooped a little.

“It’s just logic,” he said quietly “But at a very fast pace,” and after pausing for a few seconds, “And this time logic served me wrong, the right details with the wrong outcome. In some cases there’s always something I’m missing, something I can’t quite pin down, and in your case it was a big thing. Sometimes I fail to account for the emotional context of the other person. I apologise.”

“Stop apologising. I mean, yeah maybe insulting my parents the first time we actually talked wasn’t the best move.”

“No.”

“But that doesn’t detract from the fact that what you can do, Sherlock, is pretty incredible.”

“Well, obviously,” Sherlock said coolly, smiling.

John snorted, “So what’s this case that’s got you threading ribbons through it?”

Sherlock’s face lit up, he scooped up his letters and shoved them into his robes, leaving the letter clutched excitedly in his hand. He looked about him, as if afraid someone would listen in.

“You- you’re interested?” he asked quietly, a slight flicker of hopefulness in his glassy eyes.

“Yeah” John said, grinning, “Go on”

Sherlock pulled John rather forcefully underneath one of the archways so they were both crouching, as if on the run from something. He’s a bit dramatic, but I’ll go with it...

“It’s a murder, John. In Hogsmeade. A good old-fashioned poisoning.” Sherlock was practically whispering, his eyes wild, “A man went to bed, all doors and windows locked, and never woke up the next morning.”

John’s mouth fell open, “I-I thought you’d just do… petty thefts, Sherlock this is big-”

“These photos – here - show the man to have a bruised neck and throat, as well as slight bruises around the nose, suggesting straight away that this was not suicide-”

“Hang on, what? Sherlock, this is an actual murder?”

“The man was home alone according to his wife-”

“Sherlock”

“-who said she was staying with her sister, and came home yesterday morning to find him in bed, lifeless-”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” Sherlock snapped back, but looked apologetic immediately. “I-I’m thinking – you said you were interested?”

“I-I am,” John chuckled exasperatedly, “But a person is dead, Sherlock? I thought you were joking before, you actually solve murders?”

“Yeah?” Sherlock said.

“But, what about the Department of Law Enforcement? Why hasn’t the wife gone to them? Why you?”

“When the DLE are out of their depth, which is always, people come to me instead. I’m better.”

John couldn’t stop himself from chuckling once again, “Amazing.”

“You don’t believe me?”

John stared at him. He did believe him. He had no idea why, but he did.

“No, I do.”

Sherlock smiled, taken aback by this.

“Why are you giggling then?” Sherlock said, starting to smile himself.

“Because…you, it’s just… amazing. Bizarre. But- a real murder? Really?”

“Fun isn’t it,” Sherlock beamed.

John raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Nothing,” John said, shaking his head. He really is mad.

Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes searching, as if trying to work out whether John was still interested. John, thankfully, answered for him.

“Come on then, tell me – So who wrote this, his wife?”

Sherlock, suddenly very, very pleased, took a deep breath and broke down everything he could to John as fast as possible. He was staring at John so intensely, so enthused with every word he spoke, with every tiny detail of the case he explained. And John listened; he was listening, really listening. He was drawn in. Completely and utterly. Just like that.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Sherlock awoke bright and early the following morning, a few streams of light leaking in from the thin gaps in his curtains, and the distinct snores of each of his dorm-mates could still be heard. His left eye felt very numb, and slightly puffy, yet surprisingly the rest of him felt fine… well, fine or thereabouts. He yawned, then poked his feet tentatively out of the curtains of his four-poster so as to ensure not to place them in dragon dung- a prank Anderson had been prone to do ever so kindly on weekend mornings. Finding the floor clear, he quickly crept to his chest of drawers, which were perfectly stocked and organised with precision. Pulling a pair of black jeans, a white shirt, and an ash coloured jumper delicately from them, he snuck off to the bathrooms to change. To the untrained eye, it often appeared that Sherlock was in his uniform anyway when he wore his own clothes, but he knew he wasn’t, so that’s all that mattered. Weekends are no excuse for scruffiness, after all.

Weekends had never been his thing at Hogwarts, they allowed more time for boredom, and supplied Seb and the others more time to torment him… still, John had asked him to breakfast, and it would’ve just been impolite to decline, so might as well make the most of the Saturday.

After dressing, he snuck back into the dormitory and onto his bed, redrawing the curtains around him, and waited. John didn’t say a time. Not knowing when “normal people” deemed acceptable to rise for the first meal of the day, he decided to sit and wait for the other members of his dormitory to toddle off, and he would follow, and hopefully that would meet John’s breakfasting standards.

He eventually heard the grunts and yawns of the others, the pulling on of jeans and jumpers, the benign morning chatter that merely consisted of complaints of how tired they were, and soon-enough the sound of multiple people trudging down the stone staircase. This was his cue to put on his socks, yellow today - now you wouldn’t wear those on a weekday – and slipped on his freshly polished shoes, which looked to anyone else identical to his uniform pair. Of course to Sherlock they were barely comparable. Pulling a small hand mirror from his drawer he looked into it, ruffled his curls three times, gave a gentle sigh at his beautifully bruised eye socket, and slid it into his back pocket. He then grabbed his wand from the nightstand, also sliding it into his back-pocket, before hopping from the bed and heading off to breakfast.

As soon as he stepped out of the dungeons, the smell of heavily buttered toast, pumpkin-syrup pancakes, freshly grilled bacon and, most appealing to Sherlock, freshly brewed coffee, wafted along the corridors invitingly. Surprisingly, the second he approached the entrance to the hall, he felt two hands slap onto his shoulders. His immediate response was to prepare for a beating, but –

“Morning, mate!”

It was G… Gareth? 

His face was creased with tired, but beaming, “You joining us for breakfast, then?” Sherlock peered behind him, and there were Mike and John, both yawning and somewhat dishevelled, “Come on then- look at your bloody eye, eh? I’ll kill Sebastian.” 

And with that, Sherlock found himself being steered through the Great Hall to a seat.

A few titters erupted from a nearby cluster of students as the four of them were seated, however before Sherlock could express his new found desire to run off and become a dragon tamer, or to bury himself in the darkest depths of the forbidden forest, Gareth began flipping them off profusely. John then fixed them with such a cold stare that Sherlock decided perhaps he could wait until at least his second morning coffee before finding a way to disappear. Before long, Gareth had piled four pieces of buttered toast, each lathered in a different variety of jam, onto his plate and began shovelling them into his face. Mike had grabbed himself a croissant and a large bowl of ‘Pixie Puffs’, and John had decided on the smallest piece of toast in the stack, which he tore at the crusts of for a good few minutes before taking even the tiniest morsel. 

He was sat opposite. Instantly Sherlock noticed the tired look in his eyes, similar to how they appeared in some of their earlier classes together; strained and squinting, with a definite blankness to his gaze, as if he were concentrating on something far away. Yet, as the conversation began to flow, his face brightened almost automatically, and once again Sherlock reluctantly bit his tongue. No need to pry…

On this particular morning, Gareth acted as the main source of conversation, of which Sherlock didn’t mind in the slightest,

“I mean, look at this? ‘Elderly witch loses her four of cats after their best bath yet – Lillian Borges has the story’ what sort of headline’s that? Where’s the actual stuff?” Gareth said suddenly, discarding the newspaper he’d been staring down in disgust “An auror’s not been mentioned for months – well, except for that article about how ex-auror Magnus Pickerin had been on bloody holiday to Belgium and lost his soddin’ glasses.” He picked up the nearest coffee pot irritably and began pouring himself a large cup, as the others devolved into laughter, “I’m serious, it’s getting ridiculous!”

And Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly; he’d been writhed with boredom all summer with the only newspaper clippings pinned to his wall being “lost doormat known to spontaneously combust; if found, keep it” and “my teapot is shrinking, I’ve not had a brew for three weeks”. His parents had gotten sick of finding him setting their weekly newspaper on fire, or leaving it to dissolve in his most-recent potion. It’s definitely more interesting to hear about a good murder. His mind suddenly darted to the letter he’d received the night before, and how furiously impatient he was to solve it.

“Coffee, Sherlock?”

Sherlock broke from his daze to see Gareth brandishing the coffee pot under his nose.

“Er, please” he said smartish, “Black, two sugars”

“Hm, someone wants to be wired,” Gareth chuckled “What you got planned for your Saturday?”

Sherlock smiled, that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? When really he wished to point out he was solving an actual murder, thanks, instead of obsessing over how some old lady lost all of her cats which, anyway, was obviously a combination of poor eyesight and placing the vanishing potion too close to their shampoo.

“John? Coffee?”

“Just tea for me please, Greg.”

Sherlock watched as he made it, no sugar, approximately two drops of milk, tea itself a medium to strong tan colour, subconsciously noting this once John had taken the mug between both his jumper-clasping hands and sipped it cheerily without fuss.

“How’s your wrist feeling?” John asked kindly, peering over the table.

“Oh- fine, thanks-”

“And your nose?” he persisted.

“Ah yes, fine too – Sorry about your socks, though, by the way-”

“Ah don’t worry, rather ruin a pair of socks then you suffer severe blood loss from the face,” John said, smirking “Not as bad as I thought, though,” He added, examining him closer “I imagined you coming down this morning with half you face purple.”

Sherlock, quietly, tried to add that it probably would have been if John hadn’t arrived when he did, when Mike, who’d been concentrating sternly on his thrid bowl of ‘Pixie Puffs’, finally clocked the injuries to Sherlock’s face,

“Bloody hell – what-”

“Seb,” All three of them said together.

“Knob," was all Mike managed, before shaking his head, and tucking back in to his cereal.

Talk of Sebastian moved quickly into potions; how John had been stuck with Seb all last year and still hadn’t escaped him, how he hadn’t done a potion correctly since the start of term, how Gareth was praying to get dropped from the subject entirely by purposefully being “more shit than I already am”

“And of course it’s not easy when your potions partner finishes in about three minutes and leaves you to it!” John added, nodding to Sherlock “But I have to admit it is funny watching Mags squirm every time – he’s dying for you to do badly”

And that’s not going to happen.

“Tutor me,” Mike burst out suddenly, grabbing Sherlock’s arm, “In my class none of us know anything. At all. Magnussen just sits at the front and laughs – he kept me behind three hours the other day because my potion solidified and crawled off – I swear I was following the recipe –”  

“I can honestly say you were definitely not” Sherlock said coolly, and the three of them laughed. Sherlock tried to conceal how good that felt, “At this rate it sounds like I’ll be tutoring all of you?”

“Please - seriously, I’m more likely to pass the divination exam this year,” John said glumly, “and I haven’t even opened a single book on it in my li- Oi?”

To everyone’s surprise, a short, slim girl with fiery ginger hair, who Sherlock vaguely recognised as John’s sister, popped up behind him, grabbing his sad, untouched piece of toast.

“Morning little brother,” she said brightly, taking a large bite, “Er? No jam?”

“Morning Harry,” John said bitterly, not turning to look at her “And, for the record, I’m a minute younger than you-”

“A lot can happen in a minute John. Hey- who’s this handsome thing?” Harry said, dropping onto the bench next to him. John, who’d just happened to have taken a large swig of tea, choked. It appears she means me. “Come on, Johnny, introduce me!”

“This is Sherlock, Harry,” John said with a long sigh.

“Ooh, fancy,” Harry said, winking at him, “Why’ve I never seen you before?”

“He’s in the year below” John added, looking at Sherlock with a facial expression of ‘Shit I’m really sorry’, yet, on the contrary, Sherlock found her rather fascinating, if a tad terrifying.

“Ah I see! Lucky! Still got a whole other year in this place, then!”

This was a fact Sherlock did not find lucky in the slightest.

“Doesn’t Clara want to meet you for breakfast, Harry?” John said, staring blankly at his toastless plate.

“Ah what a subtle way to get rid of me,” Harry said teasingly “She does actually! Isn’t it brilliant when you can get a girlfriend and your brother can’t?” She planted a forceful kiss onto his cheek, before jumping up “See ya guys- see ya Sherlock!”

Sherlock gave her a rather confused wave, as Gareth and Mike chorused goodbyes after her. John, instead of joining in, scrubbed at his cheek bitterly before lowering his head to the table. Before long, both Gareth and Mike, and somewhat Sherlock, were all stifling down the laughter.

“Oh shut up!” John grunted, as Gareth let out a howl “Doesn’t speak to me for three weeks then pops up and steals my toast.”

Sherlock, still giggling, found his gaze falling on the far end of the hall, where Clara and Harry were sat very close, hands linked tightly, and beaming at each other. Sherlock couldn’t help but beam too.

“Nevermind John,” Gareth snorted, “Maybe it’ll be four weeks till she comes over next?”

John finished the last of his tea in reply, before slamming the mug onto the table,

“Come on, I fancy some fresh air, wanna go for a wander?”

“But I haven’t-”

“Greg, mate, you’ve had a bucket of toast - you’ll be fine.”

He shrugged in agreement, and the three of them stood up with various grunts and stretches,

“You coming, Sherlock? You’re welcome to?” John asked, with an almost expectant smile.

Sherlock’s mind wandered back to the pocket of his robes on his bedpost where that letter harbouring his new case resided, begging for a reply.

“It’s a lovely morning?” John added, eyes glinting,

Well, a walk might clear the head I suppose…

“Er, sure yes,” He said, a tad nervously, “Just give me one moment…” and the three of them stared, puzzled, as Sherlock made a second cup of coffee. “What? The house-elves won’t miss washing up one mug, surely.” and once he’d cast a simple anti-spilling charm, he too stood up, clutching the warm china tightly between his hands.

“I’m gonna use that,” John said, raising his eyebrows “Or, you know, use a flask?” he added, giving Sherlock a little nudge,

“Well this is more fun?”

John shook his head, grinning,

“What?”

“How many mugs have you collected over the years, then?” John asked, tilting his head teasingly,

“Come on John, you’re the bloody one who wanted to get fresh air, or whatever?” Gareth called from the hall’s entrance. 

“Coming, Gareth,” Sherlock said wearily, smirking.

John paused for a moment.

“…Who the fuck is Gareth?”

Sherlock nodded earnestly in the direction of the doorway. John, without hesitation, exploded into a fit of giggles, which Sherlock didn’t know whether to question or be concerned about.

“It’s-” John was wiping his eyes on his jumper, wheezing “Ah… It’s not… It’s Greg, Sherlock. His name is Greg.” He said finally, after much difficulty.

“Ah…” Sherlock said, feeling the tops of his ears turning pink, “I’ll remember that.”

John smiled at him doubtfully, face brightened with laughter, and they both filed out of the hall, Sherlock changing the subject to how beautiful the weather was in attempt to conceal his embarrassment. He hadn’t realised he’d already forgotten Gordon’s name.

Chapter Text

The grass was damp from the torrential downpour the night before, leaving deep puddles of mud in the many troughs and contours of the grounds. These were such puddles that Greg enjoyed trapesing through, splashing great amounts of mud all over the bottom of his jeans and, to his dismay, John’s in many cases, before the four of them had even been outside for five minutes.

After slipping and sliding for a bit longer down the paths- Sherlock was right to put that spell on his coffee- the four of them settled down on a set of stones protruding from the grassy slope, which had just about dried thanks to the morning sunshine. John was pleased Sherlock was joining them; it surprised even him how quickly the events of the previous evening had warmed him to him. He felt a sudden eagerness to learn more about this detective lark, however something told him to perhaps leave it until only the two of them were present.

The Ravenclaw Quidditch team were also out and about, heading in high spirits in the direction of the pitch, broomsticks in hand, and chattering brightly to one another. John eyed them closely.

“Apparently they’ve got new brooms this term,” he murmured, squinting at the set of blue-robed figures in the distance

“What kind?” Greg said, wheeling round to look too,

“Dunno – can’t tell from here-”

“They’re bluffing” Sherlock interrupted, starring at the mug of coffee clasped tightly between his hands.

“How’d you know?” Greg was now craning his neck as the Ravenclaw team walked out of view.

“Look at them – letting them drag along the floor behind them like that, no way they’re new. It’s to intimidate you.”

“Huh-” John said, nodding “that’s smart of them.”

“Is it? If you’re going to lie, you’ve got to commit, surely. Slytherin did it last year, carried their brooms around in protective cases, remember? Yeah they were just their normal brooms, but a bit polished up. And they won, so,” He retorted, before taking a large sip of coffee,

“Well.. I feel stupid…” John replied, flatly.

“Oh don’t worry, practically everyone is” Sherlock said, taking another sip.

Before John could protest, both Greg and Mike expressed agreement in Sherlock’s statement.

“See!” Sherlock said, taking a third sip.

John couldn’t find the energy to defend his intelligence that morning, which was just as well in his opinion, as deep down he was sure if they were to get into a battle of wits, Sherlock would win hands down, and frankly John was too bitter about their loss to Slytherin last summer, which now seemed even more humiliating.

They continued their little stroll about the grounds, Mike moaning about the amount of Herbology homework he’d received, Greg talking wistfully about the probability of him ending up working for a house-elf the way his grades were going, all chatter to which Sherlock was saying very little. Glancing at him to check he was alright, John noticed that, although listening, he was looking at, well, everything else. There was a concentration in his eyes that flared up whenever a group or student or teacher passed them, his eyes flitting back and forth ever so subtly, squinting, as if he were reading something very fast, studying. From what he’d learned about Sherlock in the very short amount of time they’d known one another, it wasn’t that this surprised John, but intrigued him to how one person seemed to see so much.

“You’re staring” Sherlock said quietly, swinging the now empty mug around his finger by the handle, whilst Greg and Mike continued their conversation ahead.

“No I’m not,” John replied in a hurry. Sherlock raised his eyebrows “I wasn’t.”

Think. If he’s noticing everything, he probably notices that, John.

John sighed, clearing his throat, not changing the subject whatsoever, “Greg, I think your pleasant morning is about to be made even better, or horribly awkward, as to be decided in the next five seconds”

It was Molly, bounding towards them from the path they’d just come down, waving excitedly. John liked Molly, it was just Greg in her presence that annoyed him, was all.

“Morning everyone!” she said brightly. 

“Morning!” Greg said, louder than everyone else, of course.

I hate him.

“What’ve you been up to?” Mike asked.

“Oh just had a lazy morning in the-”

But where, John never found out, as her eyes seemed to fall on Sherlock beside him,

“Hi-hi, Sherlock” she said gently “What- what happened to your face?” 

She lurched forward into the group, and was all of a sudden in between Sherlock and John, holding the sleeve of Sherlock’s robes.

Sherlock seemed very aware of what was happening.

“Oh, I er-” Sherlock stammered.

“Was it that bloody Sebastian again? I swear one day I will hit him-”

“I already did.” John but in quickly.

Bit too quickly, really. That was odd. Molly and Mike stared at him. Greg was too busy staring at the mess unfolding, mouth agape. 

“But Sherlock I just hope you’re okay, it looks so painful!” she continued, reaching her hand to his face.

“Oh I’m fine, really, thank you Molly-”

“Molly, what’re your plans for the rest of the day?” Greg said, overly loud.

“Oh er- I was actually er,” she murmured, drawing her eyes away from the bruises on Sherlock’s nose “I was going to go to the Hufflepuff Quidditch trials…” she said, suddenly shy, “I just missed the cut for chaser last year, but-”

“That’s amazing!” Greg said, too eagerly, “If you want, I’ll come help you practice for it!”

At this point, Mike, John and Sherlock would all have rather been locked in the dungeons with a mountain troll than stood there and watched.

“Er, sure!” Molly said, “But… how?”

Yeah Greg, how?

“Erm… throw stuff? You catch it?” Greg practically squeaked it fear.

Merlin’s beard this is horrible.

They all awaited her answer, baited breath.

“Well, why not!” she laughed, Molly is much, much too nice, “The trial’s in an hour so-”

“So we better get going!” Greg’s face was that of someone who had scarcely avoided death, yet been given a really nice cake afterwards “Shall we?”

Molly turned to Sherlock.

“Hope you get better soon, Sherlock!”

And she and Greg started to walk towards the Quidditch pitch, seemingly in pursuit of the Ravenclaw team.

“Good luck!” John called pleasantly, a bit dazed, “You going to try-outs as well, Mike?” he asked astounded, as Mike started to follow them,

“Pft, no,” He said, a look of disgust upon his face “But I can’t miss out on Greg… ‘Throwing stuff’ now can I!”

And with a grin, Mike turned and began trudging off as well.

John and Sherlock were left giggling, both slightly awe struck by that whole endeavour, half way down the hill.

“Wow-” Sherlock sighed.

“Yep.”

“That was…”

“A lot?”

“Yeah.”

They both burst out in a second round of giggles, and Sherlock started heading further down the hill. John automatically followed.

“Where’re we going?” John said, still through giggled breath.

“Lake?”

John shrugged, “Sure, yeah.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, his laughter ceasing, “Because I want to tell you more about that case,”

John beamed. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off it since the night before, but had been afraid to ask in case Sherlock didn’t want him to know any more, which would be completely fine… but John was most relieved now, though of course tried his best to hide it.

After a few minutes’ brisk walk down steadily steeper terrain, the two of them entered one of the clearings opening onto the black lake, glistening a dark teal in the September sunlight.

It was empty apart from a few students perched at the edge of the water, wrapped in towels and dithering, and what seemed to be one swimming student not too far out, breaking the water’s flat, glass-like surface. This irritated John, and he felt horribly rude, but Sherlock had sparked such an interest in him concerning the cases the night before, that all he wanted was the others to bugger off so they could talk about it. It seemed Sherlock agreed with this, shooting him an annoyed glare, so in the meantime they sat down on the shingles, their feet sliding amongst them, and watched as the small figure in the water swam up and down the neck of the lake.

“That’s Carl Powers” Sherlock murmured “he comes every morning. Often only stays half an hour or so, they shouldn’t be long.”

John knew Carl, he was a third year Gryffindor who always seemed to be losing them house points for swimming after hours or in places he didn’t have permission, but John couldn’t really argue; he lost Gryffindor points himself more than he was proud of, mostly for occasionally threatening to punch someone in the face, although Greg was worse. Greg actually punched them.

As they sat and waited, Sherlock pulled his wand from his jeans, and pointed it at the discarded mug in his hand.

“Diminuendo” he said, and it gradually shrunk until he pulled his hand away, leaving it no bigger than a galleon. He then pocketed it.

Following this, he started opening a small satin pouch that was fastened delicately to his belt. It had been hidden by his jumper until then. He pulled from it, to John’s surprise, a long thin pipe, with the letters S.H carved into it. John watched as Sherlock began daintily filling its bowl with tobacco, which he stored in a little brass tin, before holding the pipe in his mouth, and giving the end a gentle tap with his wand. This produced a small flame, which vanished after a few seconds, sending up a slight burst of blue smoke into the air, all before carefully pushing the now scorched tobacco down with a small matching brass stamper.

“Er, Sherlock” John said hesitantly, giving a nod to the group at the chatting at the edge of the water,

“It’s fine” he said, muffled, puffing on the end of it “They’re Carl’s friends. They know me.”

But after a few moments, the bluish smoke swirling in front of his face, Sherlock stopped abruptly, rather embarrassed all of a sudden.

“You don’t- you don’t mind do you?”

John was taken a back. He did mind, really. He wanted to grab it and throw it into the lake, with the little tin and all, but how could he? He barely knew Sherlock, after all, a fact that all too quickly he’d forgotten. And anyway, the smoke seemed to be funnelled by an invisible barrier, so it only rose around Sherlock himself… A very small version of a shield charm. If it didn’t harm him, John knew he had no real reason to object, as much as he’d like to.

“No, no it’s fine-” He said, swallowing.

“Seriously, I can put it out, I don’t-”

“Its fine, Sherlock”, he added, trying to sound a bit more reassuring.

Sherlock gave him a little nod,

“Thank you” 

Sherlock continued puffing away on the end of it quite happily after that. John, probably acting a bit 'too fine' with it suddenly burst out,

“It’s a really nice pipe!” louder than imagined.

Sherlock started a bit, choking slightly, but seemed genuinely pleased.

“I’m glad you think so; whittled it myself over the summer. Not that mother knew, though. I think she thought it was going to be a boat or something. Seemed quite proud of me.”

John chuckled, but was quickly prompted into asking another question.

“So you started… this… over the summer then?” he asked, trying and probably failing to sound aloof.

“Ha, no. It’s been, quite a while now I suppose…” He trailed off, “But I’ve got quite a collection of these” he said proudly, giving it a little tap.

“Ah right” John tried his best not to sound the least bit worried “ever been caught?”

“At home? Yeah, mother’s practically a sniffer dog. But here? No. Everyone here’s too busy thinking about other things than what I’m doing.”

He said this with pride, however John couldn’t help feeling there was something profoundly sad in what he’d said.

“Here’s one of the best places to do it, though, you can always hear if someone’s coming, see-”

“Morning, Sherlock!”

It was Carl, walking out of the water, wrapping a large towel around himself and collecting a bundle of clothes, before running over to them, shivering a little. Sherlock gave John a sideways look.

“Hello, Carl,” he said, not attempting to sound overly cheerful.

John thought this a bit rude at first, however as soon as Carl’s friends had walked ahead of him, he erupted such a spew of questions onto Sherlock that John very much understood.

“No, Carl, no cases yet,” He said tiresomely, “But I’ll let you know. How was the swim?” 

“Good, yeah! Training up for the under fifteen’s wizarding gala in Cardiff in the Christmas holidays!”

John grimaced.

“Don’t worry! They put some special shield over the lake which warms it up a bit!” he said, teeth chattering, pulling on a jumper roughly over his head “Which I’m glad for, if this is how swimming feels in September!”

“I can imagine” John added, kindly.

“Well, better go – get dry and stuff, you know,” He started to head off out of the clearing, “Oh and Sherlock, just let me know, yeah?”

Sherlock gave an encouraging sort of nod and a little wave, and he was gone.

John immediately raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, starting to chuckle.

“Look – I only let him help on little ones, you know around the castle… Missing pets and belongings and things- What?” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Nothing, just – he’s a big fan of you.”

“Shut up,” he said, hitting him on the arm.

As John’s laughter died away, it was only then they realised they were alone in the clearing, left with the water, now peaceful and still, and the faint sound of the trees, whose leaves’ were browning and twirling to the ground. The only people were distant voices spread wide across the grounds.

“Might as well move closer – to the water, I mean,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “No point appreciating it from faraway.”

So they moved to near where Carl’s friends had been sitting, not exactly however, as they’d left large damp patches from their soggy costumes.

Settling down on the bank that was being lapped by the lake’s surface, John was finally able to talk about all Sherlock had introduced to him the night before, however Sherlock beat him to it;

“Now, I don’t have the letter with me, but that’s unimportant,” he burst out all of a rush, “I studied the handwriting last night and I must say there are very few areas that suggest the shaking or anything like that as you’d probably expect from someone reporting a murder,” Sherlock reeled off almost instantly, before John had had chance to breathe “But that isn’t to say the scribe was guilty in any way-”

“But wasn’t it within her own house? Doors locked and all that?” John butted in.

It warmed him to see how pleased Sherlock looked at this.

“True yes, but why practically turn yourself in?” He said, almost teasingly.

“Well… maybe she doesn’t think you’re very good.” John teased back.

“Don’t be absurd,” He said smugly, taking another drag on the end of his pipe “Anyway the letter itself is straight to the point, no mentions of “I’m devastated” or “I can’t go on” – shows a level of assertiveness. Guilty people often tend to overcompensate the pain it’s causing them, this lady simply wants the case to be solved.”

John was listening intently. He couldn’t believe that, once said out loud, it all sounded almost trivial, but Sherlock seemed to be the only one noticing all of it.

“-the loops in her ‘L’s and her ‘E’s; rigid and narrow; She was gripping her quill tightly. She’s tense, she’s rushing-”

“Brilliant, Sherlock,” John said, once again taken aback by the surge of information Sherlock was able to give at a moment’s notice.

“And the tears John, remember? On the paper last night? In a case like this in which it seems to be a locked-room scenario, obviously the wife does have to come in to question just a little. Can’t be sentimental. So last night I performed a small test to check if she could’ve splashed a little water on it to throw us off her path; but it contained all the properties of human tears; mucin, lipids, glucose, everything. Sounds excessive, but one might as well check while your dorm mates are snoring away.”

“You tested her tears?” John’s mouth had fallen open slightly.

“Just a bit of fun. Haven’t had any real reason to use alchemy in a while.” He said cheerily.

“All that just to prove that the person reporting the murder wasn’t the murderer?”

“Yes… well…” Sherlock frowned slightly, “I’m thorough. And I was bored.”

John smiled.

“Brilliant! So, what about the pictures?” he asked, wincing a little at the thought of them.

Sherlock obviously noticed this.

“I, erm, I realised that last night I didn’t really ask before showing you them, I’m sort of… used to it by now,” He said softly, “I apologise.”

“No, no, I mean, yeah - when I woke up yesterday morning I wasn’t expecting to see actual photos of… you know, but it’s fine,” He paused a moment “Don’t really want to be seeing them again to soon, but hey.”

Sherlock smiled, “Right, I’ll keep that in mind”

“So the photos?” John persisted.

“Yes!” he said, a lot more brightly, “So at first glance I only noticed the bruising around the eyes surrounding the throat and nose, however on closer inspection there was also redness in the eyes, and a definite blueness on his lips, suggesting-”

“Asphyxiation” John piped up.

Sherlock blinked.

“Er, yes exactly. Good, John. Now in the darkness of the Owlery, the colouring of the bruises on his face and body I thought to have been caused by a hands on approach, but in lamp light the marks appear to be redder in colour, red-raw, almost burn like, as if done by fabric or cloth or-"

“So, that would be?”

“The Incarcerous conjuration, John,” Sherlock’s eyes were very serious all of a sudden “You know, ropes are conjured and wrap around a person, used to hold or strangle them.”

“In the photos” John piped up, “I didn’t get a good look or anything, but the marks were all over him, right?” John asked, intrigued, “So that makes sense, right?”

“Exactly,” He exhaled deeply, slowing down now, “But. The ropes remain on a victim after the spell is administered; it’s why it’s so effective as a way of capture or…” Sherlock swallowed, “-torture.”

“But they’re not there.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“But there is no other spell I know that has that same effect, the patterns of long strips of marks, the coloration of them-” he suddenly appeared quite uncomfortable “which means something a lot darker…”

“Like what?”

“The murderer entered the house, how? We don’t know. The man was found in his bed, which suggests he was asleep when the attack occurred. The Incarcerous hex was performed, and the murderer…”

“… Waited there as it killed him.” John said quietly.

“And then removed the ropes themselves… and left.” Sherlock practically whispered.

 “So it was planned?”

“Yes. Definitely” 

John’s mouth went rather dry. He felt Sherlock’s eyes fall heavy upon him.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, slowly.

“Yeah,” John cleared his throat “just-”

“I can stop-”

“No-” John practically jumped in protest.

“Alright then,” Sherlock said, in a trusting sort of way, before continuing, “So we have a pre-empted murder, asphyxiation by strangling. Taking all we have currently without seeing the scene itself into account, it has to be the Incarcerous hex, taking place in a house completely locked up magically, no sign of forced entry, while his wife was supposedly at her sisters who, from her letter, has no reason to be viewed as guilty. She’s irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?” John protested, “Her husband’s been killed, Sherlock.”

“Yes. And so could more people’s family, if the person who did this isn’t found quickly” He replied, coolly “She is irrelevant; removed as a suspect”. 

John swallowed, rather embarrassed. Oh.

“Could someone, I don’t know, have apparated?” he said quickly.

“No. Checked. All living residences in Hogsmeade are under an anti-apparition charm, like this place,” he murmured, with a sudden lack of enthusiasm, biting his lip irritably.

John waited patiently, watching him as he thought. Sherlock started scuffing the shingles about with his feet.

“That’s all I’ve got” he grumbled quietly, lifting his pipe to his mouth again.

“Well,” John said, gently, “That’s great Sherlock, all that from one letter-”

“But that’s all I have, John. A letter. And a few pesky photographs that I spent the all last night studying over, and now can’t do anymore with,” he barked, spitting the words, “not while I’m cooped up in this place.” He then went very quiet. John noticed his hands were shaking slightly, and his breaths quickening, “I know nothing about the murderer apart from the fact they seem to be able to walk through walls, and can conjure up a good Incarcerous charm. What else?”

John said nothing. He merely sat there, quietly, as Sherlock’s breathing slowed itself. He was gently messing with the pipe still in his hand. After a moment, he started banging the bowl of it against his cupped palm to remove the ash, however he didn’t then drop it onto the shingles or into the water as John had presumed, but pulled another little tin from the satin pouch to store it. He must’ve seen John looking.

“Well, no point littering” he said softly.

“So you sneak down here to smoke, but refuse to litter?” John joked, trying to cheer him up, “pick and choose your rebellions then?” 

“Yes, well. The smoking only affects me, really…” he said flatly, putting the full little tin back in the bag, “Besides, Carl doesn’t want to be swimming through my ash, now does he.” 

“Fair point, yeah,” he said agreeably. He paused for a moment, “Sherlock, why are you telling me all this?"

“What, that I don’t litter and care about Carl’s nautical wellbeing?” Sherlock asked, puzzled.

“No, you-” John laughed “this case. You said Carl helps with littler ones - you don’t tell him about actual, big things,” He swallowed, “Why’ve you told me?” 

Sherlock looked at him, concentrating, as if this was something he too was only questioning now. John felt like he was being examined. Sherlock then smiled warmly.

“What?” 

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Sherlock shrugged, still smiling widely.

John just laughed again. That’s good enough answer for me. 

They remained there a little while longer after that, watching the water, looking out for any flicker of grindylows or merpeople, or anything remotely exciting, but alas saw nothing – the waters were far too shallow, but they enjoyed searching all the same. Sherlock’s spirits seemed to be lifted somewhat, which relieved John, he stretched out across the lake bank’s edge, peering closely at the water just centimetres in front of him, and sometimes made comments about the life living in the reeds and weeds he could see. John liked that. However, for the most part they sat in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, a companionable silence, one that possessed no pressure to be filled. John liked that too.

However, as the clock tower rang out for twelve-o’clock, Sherlock said simply, “I don’t know what I’m going to do really – about the case, I mean.”

“I dunno-” John said, with a sigh, “I mean, it’s not even in the papers yet, so I guess everyone’s stumped.”

Sherlock stopped, then suddenly jumped to his feet.

“What did you say?”

“What?"

“You said it’s not in the papers,” Sherlock persisted.

“Yeah? Because it isn’t,” John handed Sherlock a copy of the Hogsmeade Howler he’d got stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans “That’s the most recent one, but I’ve had the last few and it says nothing about it in there either-”

Sherlock snatched it, frantically flicking through the pages, ignoring the sounds of the photographed witches and wizards yelping as he roughly searched for the story.

“You’re right,” He said quietly.

“Why would I have lied?”

“Oh you might’ve missed it, but you didn’t. It isn’t in there,” he said, faster paced, growing in enthusiasm, “look!”

He thrust it into John’s face.

“I know, I’ve seen, what’s the matter?” John said, chuckling a little nervously. 

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock burst, staring at him “This murder’s unreported. There is a murderer out there that people have no clue about-”

It clicked. 

“A murderer potentially close to our school-” John added gravely, but on the contrary, Sherlock was beaming, his eyes sparkling excitedly.

He began running back up the bank of the clearing, his feet pounding loudly against the shingles.

“Er- Where are you going?” John called after him.

“The Owlery!” Sherlock wheeled round “I need to ask them why on earth they wouldn’t report this!” 

“Aren’t you going to tell McGonagall?” John asked, breathlessly, catching up to him.

“Oh, that can wait-”

“Sherlock-”

“Oh come on, John! This is actually intriguing for once” he said, grabbing John’s arm excitedly.

John thought for a moment. Sherlock was staring at him expectantly.

“You will tell her after though, won’t you?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said casually.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes,” He sighed deeply.

“Alright,” although John wasn’t so sure, “go send that letter!”

Sherlock’s face broke into a thrilled smile, and before John knew it, the two of them were running back up the hill in direction of the Owlery.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had written a letter to the victim as soon as they’d reached the Owlery, inquiring as to why she hadn’t reported the murder, or why it wasn’t in any of the papers. The two of them then sat there, waiting, for almost an hour.

“Sherlock…”

“She’ll reply John.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?” He snapped. John raised his eyebrows, “Sorry.”

“You have to tell McGonagall.”

“You said, yes.”

“Like, now, Sherlock? There’s a murderer relatively close by here and at this point, we’re the only two who know about it.”

“Yes, and you said I could wait until we got a reply from her-”

“No. I said we could wait until you’d sent the letter, now you’ve sent it-”

“I know!” Sherlock sighed before his face fell, “McGonagall will take the case from me.”

“I know…” John said, understandingly.

The too sat in silence for a few moments, Sherlock staring out of the archway longingly.

“One more hour?” John said, sitting down beside him.

Sherlock grinned. 

“Fine. Deal.”

John sighed, trying to get comfy on the owl-dropping strewn surfaces… Apparently we’ll be here a while.

“I’ve spent time with you for the last two days, both in which we’ve sat in the Owlery surrounded by feathers and poo. Is this a coincidence or do I need to invest in some wellies?” John said, teasingly.

Sherlock smiled, “So you’re planning on spending more time with me?” he replied, a tad nervously John noticed.

“Sherlock! Owl!”

The two bolted upright. Sherlock, seeing the owl, grimaced and sat back down.

“False alarm. It’s Mycroft’s.”

“Who?”

“Brother.”

“Is that a ministry seal?” John asked, looking at the letter Sherlock had taken from the tawny owl’s talons.

“Yep,” Sherlock said, unimpressed, “He does love to show off. Probably stole it from someone else’s desk.”

Sherlock pocketed it carelessly.

“Not gonna-?”

“We have a very difficult relationship,” Sherlock said flatly.

They waited there another hour, John asking Sherlock if what he’d fathomed so far could be the reason for the lack of reporting,

“She’s done it, although I find that unlikely… It’s a sensitive subject, apparently, so isn’t keen on having in the papers or too widely known… Or she’s an idiot and doesn’t understand that murderers are dangerous…” Sherlock reeled off, head resting tiredly on his hands, looking out of the window again.

They also discussed, to Sherlock’s dismay, his brother.

“He’s twenty-four, has a nose three times too large for his face, thinks he’s going to be Minister of Magic one day, has far too much interest in my life, and probably knows exactly who you are already…” Sherlock spat bitterly, “Oh and he’s a rubbish big brother.”

As the hour drew to a close, John started to get very hungry. It was nearing half past one and the memory of his sad, stolen piece of toast was waning fast, and still no reply arrived…

John stared at him, and Sherlock noticed.

“You won,” He said quietly.

“What?” John asked.

“The hours up. I play fair,” He said, rising, “I’ll go get her letter. Meet you outside McGonagall’s room?”

John nodded.

…

John waited outside her office patiently. He turned when he heard footsteps climbing the stone staircase behind him, only to be met with… yes, Sherlock, but... something was off.

“Come on then,” Sherlock said wearily.

John stared at him.

“What?” he asked, handing the letter over to him.

“Your jumper- it’s torn at the back-”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, hands reaching behind him to check, “Ah, must have snagged it on a door hinge… or a coat hook, let’s get this over with-” he snapped, approaching McGonagall’s door.

“It was Seb, again?”

Sherlock froze. “Look, it’s fine, he just grabbed the back of it- I’m faster than him-”

“Sherlock-” John’s eyes scanned the bruises already left by Seb on Sherlock’s face.

“Shut up. Let’s go, you’re the one who wants to do this.”

And before John could intervene, Sherlock was rapping the doorknocker of the office.

…

“I have told you time and time again Mr Holmes, Hogwarts is not yours to turn into a detective’s office. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Professor,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“What if your friend Mr Watson hadn’t checked the papers, hm? You would have been harbouring a murder from the school, a murder that took place in very close proximity to here. What if the murderer had gotten into the grounds?”

“But John did check the paper so I-” Sherlock spat.

“In all fairness, Professor, Sherlock didn’t ask for this lady to write to him, he’s just trying to help-” John chimed in, desperately. Sherlock offered him a thankful smile.

“Mr Watson please be quiet.” McGonagall stated, scrawling across a piece of parchment on her desk before sealing it with the Hogwarts crest, and placing it on her windowsill. “Hogsmeade’s DLE will be notified”

“Good.” Sherlock was scowling at her.

“I’m just thankful, Mr Holmes, you decided to tell me,” Sherlock beamed at her falsely, McGonagall continued “knowing of course I will no longer let you carry on with this… investigation”

“I know,” Sherlock said coolly, “And how will you monitor that, professor?”

John stifled a laugh. Sherlock smirked at him.

“Give me the letter, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock looked over to John, who reluctantly pulled it from his robes and handed it over.

“Be wary of the photographs, professor…” John said, wincing.

McGonagall looked at them and, shooting Sherlock a dark look, she dismissed them.

“Go. Now.” 

They scrambled to leave, before-

“Actually, Mr Watson- may I have a word?”

Sherlock stared at him. John shrugged.

“I’ll wait outside then, shall I?” Sherlock left, bitterly.

…

The door swung shut behind him, leaving John alone with the headmistress. She gave him a worrying sort of look.

“Mr Watson, I am well aware Mr Holmes is a lovely boy,” John felt his cheeks redden “But do be careful not to get mixed up in those things. The letters he receives, the sneaking about- you’re a good student, and I don’t want him ruining-”

“Don’t want him what? Sorry?” John interrupted sternly, raising his eyebrows.

“Well not ruining- you know what I mean, Watson.”

“No sorry, I don’t.”

A look of shame crossed McGonagall’s face.

“Off you go,” She said helplessly.

“Not gonna ask about the bruises on his face?” John said, bitterly.

“Madam Pomfrey notified me about them- potions accident I here?” She replied earnestly, peering over her spectacles.

John was dismayed at how gullible they all were, but knew not to mention what Sherlock clearly wanted to hide.

“Right.”

“You may go now, John.”

And John did.

When he opened the door of her office, he was surprised to find Sherlock literally right outside the door. He was beaming.

“You were listening?”

“How could I? I’m such a lovely boy! I couldn’t possibly-”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Sorry about the case…”

“Oh don’t worry, it’ll be in the papers now. I can revel in complaining about everything the DLE get wrong," Sherlock scoffed, “And anyway, I’ve got the reply from the client to wait for. I’ll be fine.”

John could still see the disappointment in Sherlock’s eyes…

“Molly should be done at try-outs by now,” John said brightly, “Want to go see how she’s done?”

Sherlock merely nodded and, after pulling his torn jumper off over his head, followed John down the many stairs, and out into the grounds.

…

“Oi! There you two bloody are!”

Greg came bounding towards them just as the two of them reached the courtyard, accompanied by Mike, and a very excited looking Molly clutching what looked like Quidditch robes in under her arm.

“From what you’re holding there, Mol, I’m guessing… you didn’t get it?” John said, cheekily, Molly gave him a little shove with the golden robes, “I’m kidding! Well done!”

“She did amazing!” Greg beamed.

“Hopefully you’ve given us an actual chance this year!” Mike chimed up.

“Thanks guys,” Molly was flushed a gentle pink by this point.

John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs.

“What?”

It was clear Sherlock had not been listening; John shot him a look.

“Oh! Ah yes, good job, well done!” Sherlock said quickly.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” she blushed even deeper.

Wow.

“Shall we get some lunch? To celebrate?” John said brightly, to which they all, apart from Sherlock, exploded into cacophony of agreeable sounds.

“What’ve you two been doing then?” Greg said, kindly.

“Oh just, well, erm…” John realised quickly his lack of answer sounded a lot more suspicious than what they’d actually been doing. Greg winked at him.

“Sat by the lake,” Sherlock said, truthfully “Nice day for it.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent doing blissfully mundane things, lots of eating of sandwiches, lots of cups of tea, and lots of lying about on the grass, soaking up the few summer-like days they had before October came.

Sherlock even seemed to be enjoying himself, John thought. He’d not eaten anything at lunch, but he’d drank a lot of tea, and chimed into the conversation when necessary, which was nice.

By the time dinner time was drawing in, and the group of them headed off to the great hall, Sherlock bid them goodnight and turned to go. John grabbed his arm.

“You okay?”

“Just going to check if this letter’s arrived,” Sherlock said, slightly deflated, “Might as well check, you know.”

John smiled sadly, “Want me to come with you?”

Sherlock smiled, “You go to dinner.”

“You sure you don’t want any?” John asked, a tad worriedly.

Sherlock shook his head, “No, there’s still just the smallest chance I may have a case. Better not risk it.”

John nodded.

“See you tomorrow…?” Sherlock said, slowly,

John beamed. “Let me know if you get a reply?”

“'Course," Sherlock said.

And the two parted for the day.

…

The reply didn’t come. Sherlock sat there in the Owlery, his damaged jumper thrown back on, idly reading over the letter from Mycroft.

 Little Brother,

I hope you’re not getting into any trouble. It’s only September for God’s sake. Please just keep your head down. How are you finding the seventh year content? Obviously I finished it in my fifth year and you’re in your sixth… but don’t be embarrassed, after all I was always the smart one. Oh, and did you ever find the boy who had your hat? Or is he popular, thus you’re avoiding him? Or have you by any chance made a friend, after all this time?

Mummy’s worried. Write to her, Sherlock.

Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s overly perfect handwriting, and scrunched it up into a ball, before returning to staring out of the archway.

He lit his pipe and smoked it. Just reply. He sat there for a long while, allowing the smoke to occupy him, but as the clock tower rang out for 10 o’clock, Sherlock decided to call it a night.

Thankfully, by the time he crept into his dormitory, everyone was either asleep, or too tired to cause him any more irritation just then.

…

John had a very normal evening. Dinner was nice, the conversation was enjoyable… but a very off feeling swept over him afterwards, as it sometimes did. This was a feeling the others around him understood, somewhat, and as always they left him too it. Greg didn’t try to make conversation as they climbed the stairs to the common room, he didn’t make John come up to the dormitory when he got tired, he didn’t press John to sleep when all others went to bed. He hated how normal it was, now.

He finally gave in, and climbed in between his sheets about half past two. Greg stirred and said a gruff,

“You alright mate?” into his pillow.

John hummed in response, and before long Greg was back to snoring again. John stared at the ceiling of his four-poster, listening to the snores, terrified to fall asleep.

And it started. The flashing of white and green lights, distorted through glass. The echoing sound of feet running up the wooden stairs. Harry’s hand clasped tightly in his, the feel of his wand clasped tight in his free hand… The screams from downstairs, the smashing of glass, and then the thick, cold, cruel laughter that rang throughout his head, ricocheted around his brain, making its home somewhere deep in his chest… and the pain, the sharp burning vice-like pain lancing its way across his shoulder… and then he was yelling, and yelling, and-

He bolted upright, sweat dripping down his face, tear-tracks damp across his cheeks. The four members of his dormitory were still snoring away, even Greg. John swallowed hard, trying hard to regain control of his breathing. He felt a sob well up in his throat- but he pushed it down. He let his head fall heavy against his pillow, and covered his face with his hands. He lay there silently, watching as the light slowly leaked into the room. He didn’t sleep again that night.

…

That Sunday morning, Sherlock awoke from a relatively boring sleep to find the bruises on his face had lessened slightly, which was a pleasant surprise. Sliding from his bed- thankfully  his dorm-mates had already risen- Sherlock opened his window, half expecting Billie to have left the client’s reply there in the night. Alas, there was nothing, apart from a dewy cobwebs swaying in the morning breeze.

An irritable thought crept its way into Sherlock’s mind, but he swept it under the rug of his mind palace, and made his way, once dressed in a jumper of a sturdier material, to the Owlery to see if the client’s letter had been left there. Not that I’m bothered, of course.

…

John didn’t speak much to Greg that morning. He listened, and made agreeable sounds whenever Greg’s speech needed some kind of reply, but otherwise he sat at the breakfast table staring into his mug. Greg nodded to the doorway of the great hall suddenly, and John looked up, seeing an irritable looking Sherlock. John lifted a hand weakly to call him over, and tried not to be too endeared by how relieved Sherlock looked at this.

“Hello,” Sherlock said huffily, dropping down beside Greg.

“What’s up?” Greg asked, kindly, pouring Sherlock a cup of tea.

“Oh nothing, just-” but Greg never learned what nothing was.

John felt Sherlock’s eyes fall heavily upon him. He felt his gaze tracing over the lines under John’s eyes, felt him clock John’s fussing with the loose threads on his jumper cuffs, saw the untouched tea in front of him, forming a slight skin.

“Nevermind,” Sherlock said flatly, giving John a weak smile.

John appreciated it.

The rest of the day moved along relatively slowly, as Sundays often did. Sherlock kept whizzing off, checking the Owlery hourly, half hourly, waiting there. John didn't mind that; he'd reappear after a while, having tracked down John and Greg at their various positions around the grounds. It was only as the day began to draw to a close once again, that Sherlock appeared to John, alone now, sat in the courtyard reading his potions textbook. Well, not reading exactly... more accurately allowing his eyes to trace over the same paragraph again and again. 

"Evening."

John looked up to find Sherlock within a weirdly large proxemics between them. He looked nervous.

"Hiya," John said, surprisingly brightly, but there was a husk to his voice of someone who'd barely said two words prior to this all day.

John nodded to the stone seat beside him, and Sherlock obliged. Sherlock smelled very heavily of tobacco.

"No reply, I take it?" John asked kindly, placing his textbook on the seat beside him.

Sherlock frowned, "What makes you so sure?" 

"If there had been, you've have bounded towards me and shown me by now," John said, chuckling.

"Well," Sherlock said, sighing, "You're quite right. Nothing." 

He sniffed loudly

"What do you think that means?" John asked, gingerly.

Sherlock laughed, shaking his head "I have an inkling."

John nodded, and asked no more.

"Thank you for this weekend..." Sherlock said quietly, shifting his gaze to Johns.

John raised his eyebrows, "What for?"

"Well, you fought Sebastian-"

"Which you've already thanked me for?"

"And-"

John frowned.

"You, well you… I don't know..." 

"Neither do I?" John retorted, smiling.

Sherlock gave his head a little shake.

"Never mind." 

After a few moments pause, Sherlock continued,

"You're tired" 

It wasn't a question. 

John merely nodded. He felt very exposed again.

However the silence that followed was more comforting than John thought silence could be. Sherlock stared ahead of them, and John was suddenly struck with the thought, that after barely three days... Sherlock understood. Well, just enough. 

Sherlock rose to go, and John said, more brightly “see you in Alchemy first thing?”

He stared at John.

“I just assumed you wouldn’t be at breakfast, so-” John continued, seeing the slight panic in Sherlock’s eyes.

“No, no that’s fine. Good,” Sherlock was blinking furiously “Yes.”

“Right then, see you there.”

Sherlock started to move away, before leaning back one more time,

“Try and eat something at dinner,” He said matter-of-factly “See you tomorrow.”

And John felt the smallest feeling of warmth wash over him.

…

Sherlock’s first surprise was that John saved him a seat in Alchemy. Sherlock entered the classroom, late, hair a mess, face crumpled from the indentation of his bed sheets he’d been tucked up in mere minutes before. He felt the eyes of students fall upon him, however the professor didn’t look up. That’s when he heard John’s whisper, saw John beaming, and saw him tapping his watch teasingly. It was a pleasant surprise. The second surprise however, was less pleasant. Half an hour into the lesson, which meant half an hour into Sherlock staring at the ceiling, whilst correcting the professor under his breath, McGonagall entered their classroom.

Here for me. Know it.

“May I borrow Mr Holmes and Mr Watson, please?”

John looked up in confusion. Sherlock shrugged at him. Sherlock was always being pulled

out of lessons for one thing or another; talking back to the professors, refusing to do work he  found “pointless”, conducting experiments in the confines of his four-poster- he was used to it by now, but he was under the impression John was pretty much a golden student.

A small pang of guilt washed over him.

Awkwardly, the two of them slipped out of the classroom, trying to ignore the sneers of some of their fellow students, and were met with a stony faced headmistress.

“Follow me," She said coldly.

The three of them walked in silence up every staircase, down every corridor, until they reached her office. Sherlock became very aware that in the ridiculously short amount of time he’d known John, they’d been in this office multiple times already.

As they entered the office, a tall, stocky, grumpy looking wizard with a glistening silver badge pinned to his navy blue robes, glared at them. DLE.

The two of them sat down nervously.

“This is Detective Inspector Lurgok. Based in Hogsmeade. He’d like a word with you too.”

Sherlock lurched forward in his seat,

“This is about the murder- you’ve found them? Where are they? Was it the incarcerous curse? It was wasn’t it I was-”

“Mr Holmes,” McGonagall barked. Sherlock scowled at her.

“You are correct Mr Holmes. This is about the murder.”

“Please-” Sherlock said eagerly.

“The thing is, there hasn’t been one."

Sherlock froze. John’s mouth fell open.

“We have searched every residence, asked every household. No one knows these people, has seen these people, no one has been reported missing, the woman who has written to you does not exis-”

“But the photographs!” John said weakly.

The Detective Inspector chuckled. 

"Ever heard of a prank, boy?” he circled round from behind the desk, “What I want to know is, did you do this?”

Sherlock chuckled back “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“How do I know you weren’t trying to waste police time? Stage something? Bored, and wanted to have a little fun?"

Well. He’s not wrong in the latter…

“Professor,” John pleaded, looking to her.

“With all due respect, detective, I feel these boys are the ones who’ve been messed with,” John gave her a weak smile.

“Well…” He scowled at them, “Maybe leave solving murders to us next time.”

“Not that you’d solve it,” Sherlock said coolly.

“Mr Holmes!” McGonagall spat

“What? How can he when he seems completely unalarmed that I have been sent two photographs of a corpse in the post?” Sherlock spat, standing, “Fine. I’ve been pranked. It’s not the first time, but you cannot tell me those photos are not a feature of interest.”

“I’m not putting my force up to work on some elaborate prank Mr Holmes.”

“But-“John protested.

“Good day, boys,” He nodded to McGonagall and headed for the door, “And leave the bloody DLE to do its job.”

He left.

Sherlock sat down, angrily.

“Will…” John began, nervously, “Will we get detention for this…”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Well,” McGonagall sat herself down behind her desk, eyes fiery “No. You won’t. But if I find out this was something you two made up for fun…”

“You’ll send us into the dark forest for an hour, leave us wander about a bit, deduct a few house points, and not question the fact we managed to obtain pictures of a corpse?”

“Mr Holmes-”

“Seriously, are you not concerned about those photographs?” Sherlock asked cockily, “Yes, of course someone could have got a bit of makeup, lay down, held their breath so no quivering nostrils show up in the photograph as it moves, but I ask you-” Sherlock was breathing heavily now “How can you be so sure those photo’s mean nothing-”

“You may leave, Mr Holmes," McGonagall said coolly.

“Professor, I think you should-” John interrupted, nervously.

“You too.”

“Do you have the photographs?” Sherlock said, leaning forward, “Can I have them? If they’re fakes surely I’m allowed to-”

“Leave it alone, Mr Holmes,” She said wearily, “Surely you’re not too arrogant to believe no someone could fool you?”

Sherlock flinched. He got up abruptly, banging through the door to her office, seething.

John’s footsteps followed, more cautiously. Once out in the corridor he asked, rather nervously, “What do we do?”

Sherlock ignored him, and skulked down the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Sherlock answered, bitterly.

“What about Alchemy?”

“Really, John?” Sherlock barked, not looking at him, "Fine. Go enjoy your lesson.”

“Sherlock-”

But Sherlock stropped on ahead of him.

“See you later?” John called from behind.

Sherlock didn’t reply, merely carried on, down the stairs, and eventually down to the dungeons, to his common room, embarrassment swirling in his stomach, clutching at his chest. He’d been fooled.

…

John didn’t see Sherlock for the entirety of the following week. He wasn’t in lessons, wasn’t at breakfast, or dinner, he didn’t even see him across the corridor or about the grounds… He’d be worried, if he wasn’t being such a dick. It wasn’t John’s fault they case had been fake, but there was a slight twinge of sadness in him, he’d enjoyed their few days case solving, after all.

However, the week’s silence came to an end the following Friday, when suddenly, at dinner, as John entered the hall after quidditch practice, there  Sherlock was, sat with Greg. John couldn’t deny the slight relief that washed over him, however it was quickly replaced with feeling utterly pissed off.

“Hello,” Sherlock said coolly, as John sat down beside Greg.

John stared at him, raising his eyebrows, and tilting his head meaningfully at him.

“What?” He said.

“You’re back?” John said quietly.

“Where did I go?” Sherlock continued. Greg stared at his near-empty plate of food.

John scoffed, “Sorry, have I missed you in my lessons then?”

“It seems you have,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re an idiot,” John said, shaking his head. Sherlock smirked at him.

“Water?” he said, gesturing to John’s goblet.

John laughed “What?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, nodding back to the goblet.

“Sure. Why not?” John said with a sigh.

It seemed Sherlock pouring him a glass of water was his way of apologising for ignoring him over the past week.

They ate dinner, even Sherlock this time, although John had the sneaky suspicion this might’ve been the first meal he’d eaten since they last spoke, as Sherlock was shovelling mashed potato into his mouth at a slightly manic speed. By the end of the evening, John, Greg and Sherlock were talking normally again, Mike even came over for a short while, pointed to Sherlock from behind his back, shrugged at John, and joined the chatter pleasantly.

The hall started to clear, plates cleared themselves miraculously from the tables, and they all began yawning, eyelids growing heavy, conversation becoming sluggish and sleepy.

Sherlock yawned largely, starting to rise. 

“I’m off,” he said, with a stretch, nodding to them.

As he started to slink away, Greg nodded to John. John sighed. Guess I’ve gotta bloody ask him what the hell he’s been up to.

In the entrance hall, John grabbed at his sleeve. Sherlock winced slightly at the touch.

“Oi,” Sherlock spat lazily, wheeling round, “Oh.”

“We’re okay?” John asked firmly, before Sherlock could speak further.

“What?”

“Well you’ve ignored me for the past week. What am I supposed to think?”

“I don’t follow,” Sherlock sighed.

“Sherlock-”

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock said nonchalantly

“Busy?” he asked bitterly, “You’ve not been in any lessons, how have you been busy?”

“Lessons aren’t important, John?”

“Have you been sulking?” John smirked, “About the case?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

“You have haven’t you?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock spat.

John raised his eyebrows at him.

“Yes, we’re okay, as you people say," Sherlock said after a moment.

“Where’ve you been, then?”

“In my dorm?” Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“For a week?”

“I just needed time to… to process, okay?” his voice was very quiet, “The case, John…” 

He looked at the floor, biting his lip. John suddenly felt very guilty.

“Your bruising and stuff-” John said, changing the subject “It looks a lot better.”

Sherlock smiled, with a gentle nod.

“Am I not going to see you for another week, then? Maybe two? A month?” John said, playfully, trying to lift the mood.

"Still saving that seat in Alchemy?” Sherlock replied with a sigh, but a bit more brightly.

“I think the professor gave up, removed the seat altogether,” John smirked.

Sherlock sniggered, “Probably did. Glad to see the back of me for a bit.”

John hummed in agreement.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock said suddenly, exhaling tiredly.

John nodded at him, “See you in the morning?”

“Eh, we’ll see,” Sherlock teased, turning and heading towards the dungeons sleepily.

John stared after him. He really is an idiot.

…

Sherlock found it difficult to shake the bitterness of the fake case from his mind, and the embarrassment of the fact the first case John saw of his was a complete disaster. But John didn’t seem to mind, which helped.

In the weekend that followed, and the week ahead, Sherlock became aware that John was suddenly becoming a part of his daily routine. He saw him at breakfast, even the days when he didn’t eat a bite, and found John had saved him a seat in all lessons they shared, either by his side or Geoff’s. Even in his breaks, his lunchtimes, his free periods, John would miraculously be there. He liked it. When he would slip off to the owlery, or the library all of a rush, John didn’t bat an eyelid. He would simply say “See you later” or, preferably, “Do you want me to come with you?”.

It was nice having someone to think aloud to, but as to why John put up with listening was beyond him.

Eventually, October came, a full week into this funny little arrangement he and John had found themselves in, and when Sherlock awoke on that misty October first, a Friday, and wandered lazily off to herbology, in which unsurprisingly they started an in depth study on the growth rate of enchanted pumpkins. They really do live and breathe Halloween in this place. Tedious. Sherlock found himself, not quite excited, but somewhat eager for Alchemy that afternoon. John will be saving me a seat.

Chapter Text

October passed rather pleasantly, although Sherlock still found himself obsessing over those photographs in the back of his mind, and evidently John was still bothered by it too.

“I bet they’ve thrown those bloody pictures away,” John said one day, wrapped up in his scarf, seated by the lake where only weeks before they’d been trying to solve the now irritatingly “fake” case.

“Probably binned the letter too,” Sherlock said bitterly, puffing on the end of his pipe, "Idiots.”

John made an agreeable sort of sound.

Eventually however, the autumnal air possessed them both, and John seemed to put the case out of his mind. Sherlock did too. Well… Pretended to. In the early weeks of October, he began sampling leaves and the rate at which different species changed colour, the rate at which they dried, their crispness…

“Why are you doing that?” John asked one day, as Sherlock was picking up leaves with gloved hands and tweezers, wrapping them in a cloth and pocketing them. 

That was something Sherlock noticed about John. Always asking questions.

“Experiment.” He said shortly

“What experiment?” John seemed always to be interested. That won’t last.

“An ‘I’m very bored’ experiment, John.”  

As October sped on, he also noticed a slight decline in being absolutely throttled by Sebastian. Yes, he got his face plunged into the common room toilet once or twice, had a few overly unintelligent insults thrown at him every morning, maybe got pushed or shoved as they passed in the corridor… but he hadn’t broken a bone since. Sherlock wondered if this was down to the unexpected addition of John.

Before any of them knew it, it was a week till Halloween, and the castle brimmed with excitement. An excitement Sherlock did not get swept up in.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, five days to go, and a thin mist had begun to settle on the highest peaks of the castle’s surrounding mountains. Groups of students wrapped in thick scarves, cloaks fastened tightly round them, were wandering the grounds with an air of excitement for that coming Sunday. Halloween itself. And of course, there was Sherlock, sat elbow deep in his fifth pumpkin outside Hagrid’s hut, and very less than impressed.

 “Well this is a sight,” came a familiar voice, giggling, from behind him. John. “Who’s got you doing this, then?

“Magnussen,” Sherlock spat bitterly. John came and perched himself on one of the larger, still to be carved pumpkins.

“How’d that happen?” John laughed.

“He found out I had a double-free this afternoon. So of course told Hagrid I’d love to help him,” Sherlock frowned slightly, “he collared me earlier… he was so thankful… couldn’t say no really.”

“Can’t he just do it by magic?”

“Apparently not. He grows them by magic though. That’s why they’re so-” Sherlock gestured to the pumpkin in front of him which was easily the size of a year or two old dragon “but apparently when carving they need ‘the personal touch’ .”

“Well, can I help?”

“Really?” Sherlock said dismally.

“Yeah, looks fun!”

Sherlock scowled. “Not after an hour and a half of it it’s not.”

John took off his red and gold scarf and placed it casually on top of Sherlock’s Slytherin one, rolled up the sleeves of his robes and started scraping out one of the nearby pumpkins innards. Thankfully Hagrid had kindly sliced the tops off most of them before heading into his hut.

“So, how was…Herbology? Right?” John asked, kindly, while selecting which giant brass spoon he was going to use.

“Dull,” Sherlock mumbled, “Guess- what it was- about?” he grunted in between scrapes

“What?” John said, selecting a slightly oval spoon with ridged edges.

“Pumpkins,” Sherlock suddenly yelled, firing a large spoonful of slimy, mushy pumpkin strings at John, landing right in his lap.

“Oh now you’ve done it,” John stood up, after grabbing a large handful of sludge and, before Sherlock could move, slapped his hand sloppily on the small of Sherlock’s back.

Before long, a complete and utter brawl had commenced, and both were clambering breathlessly over pumpkins, hiding behind pumpkins, and of course were covered in pumpkin itself.

“Oi-” Hagrid had suddenly appeared on the steps of his hut and thrown them a grubby looking towel, “That’s not what I’m paying you for, is it now?” he said cheerfully, raising his bushy eyebrows, but clearly smiling through his beard.

“I wasn’t aware I was being paid at all,” Sherlock said, catching his breath.

“Well, not really… but-” Hagrid popped back into the hut, returning moments later with a large tray of very misshapen, but utterly delicious looking buns.

Sherlock saw John’s face light up instantly,

“They’re little pumpkin loaves, really,” Hagrid said proudly, putting the tray down next to the both of them, “Right, better be off- gotta go and harvest the smaller ones.”

John choked on his loaf, “You’re not carving any?”

“Me? Not yet,” He said, chuckling, “I’m having a whole night of it tonight and tomorrow with the first years – only the smaller ones, o’course. Glad to see you’re giving this one a hand, mind,” he nodded to Sherlock, “Now only do as many as you can manage.”

And, after stuffing four of the loaves into his pockets and a gentle wave, he trudged off in the direction of the greenhouses, whistling happily.

“Only doing the smaller ones,” John mumbled with his mouth full, “hey, pass us the towel please?”

Sherlock, after rubbing the strands of pumpkin out of his hair, face and robes, obliged.

“How many are we doing?” Sherlock said, picking up his spoon again.

“I dunno, I’ll finish this one? Then maybe do that one together?” John happily finished off his loaf, dusting the crumbs from his hands “then go get warm?”

“What, so I do four and a half… you do… one and half?” Sherlock smirked.

John pondered for a moment, picking up his scraper.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock threw a loaf at him.

The two of them sat there contently for the next hour or so, with thankfully no more pumpkin throwing, until all that was left was to carve a face into their joint pumpkin.

“You carve it.”

“What?”

“You carve it-” Sherlock breathed, falling back against the wall of Hagrid’s hut, “I’ve done more scraping.”

“Er- This was your activity, I just came to lend a hand,” John protested.

“Yes, and you’ve done splendidly,” Sherlock said, warmly “Now carve.”

“Fine… guess this is the fun bit, right?” He said, rising, picking up a rather rusty blunt knife Hagrid had left them, “You sure you want to give it up?”

Sherlock pulled his scarf on and his damp gloves off, lounging back across the crisp grass.

“I think I’ll manage without it,” he said, smiling.

John started to cut what appeared to be very wonky triangles into the orange flesh. Sherlock felt himself openly wince.

“What?” John sighed, turning round.

“Just… perhaps try and be a bit… neater?”

“It’s a pumpkin,” John said flatly.

“Yes.”

John sighed, “Fine, what would you do?”

Sherlock leant forward, studying the few incisions John had already made, 

“Well, just… perhaps-”

Sherlock took hold of John’s carving hand, without really noticing, and began steering it across the pumpkin’s surface.

“Why would that be any better?” John snorted, pulling Sherlock’s hand off of his with his other.

“Told you.” Sherlock said, settling back down, “It’s neater.”

“You’re an idiot,” John said, rolling his eyes,

Sherlock giggled.

John began calving again.

“John, maybe just-”

“Right,” John grabbed at a pile of pumpkin seeds to the side of him but, just before he threw a handful at Sherlock, which would have inevitably lead to a second pumpkin fight probably messier than the last, Hagrid arrived to save Sherlock from his fate.

“Hello,” came his booming voice across his garden, as he wheeled an enormous wheelbarrow full of surprisingly small pumpkins “Thanks for all your help, boys. I can be finishing the rest, unless you wanna finish that one you’re doing, John-“ 

“I’m fine,” John said quickly, trying to bury a laugh as he gently let the pumpkin seeds fall from his hand.

“Fair enough- off you pop, then,” he said warmly, “thanks again!”

And with exchanges of goodbyes, John and Sherlock started briskly back up to the castle, their feet crunching amongst the vast expanse of fallen leaves as they went.

…

The two entered the Great Hall, empty apart from a few small groups dotted about the tables. Once they’d settled and a teapot had materialised in front of them, John suddenly remembered something.

“Ooh!” he said suddenly, startling Sherlock a little who sloshed a drop off tea onto the table, which dried itself instantly, “It’s Hogsmeade this weekend! First one!” 

“Ah yes,” Sherlock said, glumly, “Let’s go and investigate that murder that turned out to be a fraud.” 

John stared at him. 

“Still bitter, then…?”

Sherlock took a swig of his tea, “Can you tell?”

“Come on, you’re still going to come, right?” John asked, almost pleadingly, “Greg and I are going, and Mike and… everyone really.”

“Exactly, the castle to myself.”

“You and some first years?”

Sherlock grimaced.

“Fine,” He said, softening. John beamed. “But as soon as third years start pretending to be drunk after a couple of Butterbeers I’m done.”

And the two continued to sip their tea contently, happy to be inside in the warm.

In the days that followed, there was a definite buzz about the castle that Halloween was well and truly here. Pumpkins, some expertly carved by Sherlock and John themselves, started floating about the castle, the ghosts started jumping out at unsuspecting students who were late for class, and the corridors were constantly perfumed by the smell of pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup and pumpkin loaves from the kitchen’s below. By Friday lunchtime, when John and Sherlock had both finished their lessons for the week, John was practically leaping about in excitement for the weekend.

“Where’d you want to go in Hogsmeade, then?” John asked excitedly, walking briskly a few steps behind Sherlock as the two of them left Alchemy.

“Anywhere.”

“Anywhere specific?”

 “Nope.”

“You’re going be a pleasure, aren’t you?”

“Oh as always.”

John could feel him smirking.

“Well if you’re not bothered, we’ll spend the whole day in Zonko’s-”

Sherlock stopped dead, “Not Zonko’s.”

John grinned, “Thought you said anywhere?”

Sherlock squinted, which told John he was thinking it over.

After a short inhale Sherlock said “One trip to Zonko’s lasting less than fifteen minutes. Then to Scrivenshaft’s quill shop to restore some dignity and buy things of actual use. If anything catches my fancy, perhaps to Galdrag’s wizard wear, and before we can relax to Dervish and Banges; I need some new phials.”

John stared at him.

“Anywhere?” he said cheekily.

“Shut up,” Was Sherlock’s reply.

They walked on, “Wait, we’re going to The Three Broomsticks right…?” John said, nervously.

“Obviously, John.” 

…

The Saturday morning came, and Sherlock got dressed, obviously having planned his outfit the night before, and came down to breakfast swiftly, only being called a freak a few times before leaving the common room.

“Ready to spend the weekend alone?” Anderson sneered as Sherlock went to leave the common room.

“Aren’t you?” Sherlock spat coolly, putting on his scarf, barely glancing at him, “Can Sebastian Wilkes really be classed as company?”

Anderson spluttered. Sherlock threw him a little wave, before exiting the common room.

Yes, Anderson would tell Seb, and yes Sherlock would probably pay for it later, but he cared very little as he was meeting John in the courtyard, and was in fact not spending the weekend alone.

It was a bitterly cold Saturday morning, and Sherlock was wearing his wool John had so expertly swapped his tie for, along with black leather gloves, and his scarf obviously. He was also very excited to be wearing his long grey cloak without being too hot in it.

Reaching the courtyard, he saw a large crowd of students, third year and upwards mingling excitedly, and in the midst of which stood John. Sherlock spotted his rather ugly cream jumper before he saw John himself.

“You excited?” John said excitedly, through dithering slightly at the morning cold.

“Am I ever excited?”

“I have yet to see it, I grant you.”

But Sherlock was quite, well… not completely miserable that morning, but John needn’t know that. 
“Where’s George?”

“Greg. Finishing off breakfast I think. You sure you don’t need anything?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response.

George arrived just in time for McGonagall’s “Respect the residences!” “No alcohol par butter beer!” “Please don’t get lost!” speech, and once all that was over, they were ready to go, the three of them walking leisurely in the crisp morning air.

“Nice hat,” John said brightly, with a smirk.

Sherlock beamed, a slight flush growing on his face.

…

Hogsmeade had outdone itself, to the point where Sherlock was even somewhat not completely unimpressed by it. Pumpkins of all varieties imaginable, carved in hundreds of different ways, littered the entrance to Hogsmeade village, and lanterns of orange, purple and green were strung from each lamppost, bobbing up and down. Smoke billowed from each chimney, perfuming the air with the smell of cinnamon and cider and of course, pumpkin pie. 

As planned, Sherlock allowed them to go to Zonkos, and tried not to fuss as Graham’s inner turmoil having to choose between buying two dungbombs or a five sugar quills making them spend twenty-five minutes there instead of fifteen. He only winced when Graham decided to take the plunge and buy it all. I’m pretty proud of myself. They then did the “boring” things like buying writing equipment, which Sherlock didn’t understand why John wasn’t more excited about. Then, as promised, Sherlock was able to buy a new navy silk scarf from Galdrag’s, this time Graham getting completely bored and whining in the doorway of the shop, then finally, once phials and all other essentials were bought, it was to Honeydukes.

…

John was surprised at the lack of protest Sherlock put up against for their trip to the sweet shop, and even more surprised by the boy’s apparently enormous sweet tooth.

“Had enough yet?” John asked teasingly as Sherlock shovelled a third heaped scoop of fizzing whizzbees into a paper bag, already holding three pumpkin lollipops and a liquorice wand between his teeth.

That’s why he’s so wired all the time then; eats nothing but but all the sugar in the entire world. Of course.

John, too, bought a pumpkin lollipop, and Greg bought a chocolate frog, and the three of them then found a seat on the low wall outside, covered in decorative cobwebs, I hope those are fake, and the odd pumpkin or too.

“My god, you’re here!” came a girl’s voice. Suddenly, two hands were clasping Sherlock’s shoulders, and John wasn’t sure if he should get ready to fight someone or not, “Thought I’d never see the day, Sherlock!”

It was Irene Adler, a tall, slim, very beautiful witch that John was very intimidated by. She perched beside them, her hands wrapping around Sherlock’s shoulders with her long black nails.

“Finally into the Halloween spirit then?” She said, leaning closely to Sherlock’s shoulder, “Oh, hi John, Greg,” She continued offhandedly.

“You two know each other?” John asked slowly, watching as Irene drummed her fingers along Sherlock’s arm.

“Sherlock and I? God yeah,” she winked at John.

John felt a knot form in his stomach.

“Right.”

Sherlock said nothing, merely continued enjoying his lollipop.

“Anyway, better be off. Meeting Kate in The Three Broomsticks,” she stood, allowing her fingers to trace over Sherlock’s hand as she did, “You should join us,” she finalised, tucking a finger under Sherlock’s chin. John glared at her.

“We’re good,” Sherlock said dully, barely noticing the contact.

“Well then, have fun with him, John!” Irene winked again, at John this time, before slinking off up the cobblestone path.

John looked at Sherlock.

“What was that?”

“Hm?” Sherlock said, brightly, shoving a handful of wizzbees into his face.

John nodded after her.

“Oh, it’s what she does. She’s just kidding,” He said, earnestly, through a mouthful.

Doesn’t look like ‘just kidding’ to me. But John dropped it.

The three of them sat there a moment more, revelling in the autumnal haven that was Hogsmeade village, watching as people apple-bobbed outside of shops, performed music about phantoms and witches of old, and entertainers who produced flourishes of bats out of the ends of their wands, until it was interrupted by Steven Bainbridge running over to join them.

“Guys!” he barked excitedly to John and Greg “some people have arranged a Halloween party in our common room tomorrow night. People are off buying supplies right now, come help?”

Greg leapt up immediately, but John looked to Sherlock,

“You go, we’ll meet you in The Three Broomsticks in an hour, yeah?” John said brightly.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Greg smiled, “What shall we get you?”

“Firewhisky?” John said, smirking.

“Got it!” Steven beamed, “See you later!” and the two of them ran off excitedly.

“Steven’s already eighteen,” John said, turning to Sherlock eagerly, and after a moment’s pause, “you should come!”

Sherlock pulled a face.

“Do I look like a party sort of person?” he said brashly.

“No, do! It’ll be fun! No one’ll mind,” John persisted, more eagerly, “And don’t tell me you wanna be in your own common room on Halloween night? With Sebastian lurking around?”

“You make a fair argument, there,,” he replied coolly, “But will I have to wear a ridiculous costume?”

“Oh most definitely,” John replied immediately, smirking, “Last year there was just a big box, and whatever you pulled out of it was what you had to wear.”

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head, but chuckling.

“So you’ll come?” John asked again. Sherlock nodded, reluctantly, “Cool!”

“But seriously, firewhisky? Are you a middle aged man?” Sherlock asked.

“Shut up!” John chuckled, elbowing him.

…

Sherlock became very aware that it was just the two of them. It’s different when we’re around the grounds, but he probably doesn’t want to spend his Hogsmeade weekend just with me.

“Do you wanna go find Graham and… the other one?” he said, after their laughter had subsided, “I don’t mind.”

John looked at him, puzzled, “I was thinking we could go for a wander? Then to The Broomsticks?” He said, confused, “Unless you want to go-”

“No, no that’s fine, yes!” Sherlock blustered, “A walk is good.”

They got up with a grunt and started up the cobbled path, their feet crunching on the mass of leaves beneath them, eventually leading them past the very small office of the DLE of the village. Sherlock glared at it as they walked past.

“Maybe this is the time for my first Halloween prank-”

“Don’t you dare Sherlock,” John laughed, pulling him back by his arm.

They walked on a few steps, before Sherlock turned back and stamped in the pumpkin decorating the office’ front steps repeatedly, until the face on its carving was utterly destroyed.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, half laughing.

The door to the office started opening.

“Oi!”

Shit.

“Run!” and Sherlock turned on his heal, pumpkin chunks still attached to his shoes, grabbed John’s arm and pulled him, them both running down the path, dodging the many shoppers and students as they went.

Breathlessly, they finally stopped running as they reached the clearing that lead to the Shrieking Shack. They collapsed onto the crisp grass, fits of giggles erupting in them.

“You are truly an idiot, do you know that?” John breathed, still laughing.

“Look where we ended up!” Sherlock smiled, nodding to the run down house ahead of them, “How fitting for Halloween!”

John smiled, “If you suggest we go in there I’ll kill you.”

“The house will do it for you,” he said quietly, making John burst into a fit of giggles again.

The clearing was strewn with piles and piles of leaves in deep reds, burnt oranges, and tawny browns. A nice place to sit considering the haunted house overlooking them. Sherlock took out his pipe, and John took out a flask from his satchel.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, it’s tea,” John said, producing two cups from the bag also, “Want some?”

Sherlock nodded “Thought you were on the firewhisky already, there.” 

They each sat happily amongst the leaves, holding steaming cups between gloved hands.

“What’s that?” Sherlock said, rising slowly, after a while.

“What?”

Sherlock walked over the fence, gingerly, hand outstretched and eyes fixed upon the shack.

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Shut up, I am not falling for that-”

“No really, John!” he barked, still staring.

John sighed, and rose to his feet too. Sherlock beckoned him over, fingers to his lips. John obliged.

They stood there, motionless, silent.

“Sherlock what are you-”

“Shh, John,” He whispered.

They stood there still, listening, but eventually,

“Ahh!” he yelled, popping in front of John’s face, grabbing him suddenly. 

John screamed. Sherlock burst into laughter.

“Oh you- you absolute, I knew it! I knew- You cock!” John yelled, pushing him off him “I knew it-”

“Still- still made you jump, though,” Sherlock was wiping tears from his eyes, “Oh your face!"

“Bloody hell,” John barked, “Genuine murders took place there Sherlock, of course you made me-” but John was laughing to now, “Right. Come on. You're  buying me a butterbeer for that.”

“Worth it,” Sherlock breathed, “Come on then.”

Picking up their bags and John still swearing under his breath, they set off for the best thing Hogsmeade had to offer; butterbeer.

…

“Tomorrow’s going to be amazing, we’ve got so much stuff!”

Geoffrey, Steven, John and Sherlock were all sat around a small rickety table at the back of The Three Broomsticks, rummaging excitedly through the goody bag of Halloween decorations, costumes, and of course lots of beverages they’d accumulated.

What have I gotten myself into, going to this party?

However, Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh along with the rest of them as Geoff pulled out fake beards that grew the more you drank, party hats that sang to you, fake bobbing apples that shrank every time you failed to bite them, and pumpkins that swore at you once carved.

John was sat opposite him, sipping happily on the butterbeer Sherlock had provided, which had given him a creamy foam moustache he hadn’t seemed to notice. Sherlock started to giggle at him, and John’s cheeks reddened.

Before long, Geoff cracked out the Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans, and the four of them sat taking it in turns, however Sherlock completely abstained. It isn’t fair that a lot of them look the same. You should be able to work it out. Ridiculous. Geoff got centipede, peppermint and grass, Steven got earwax, lemon and pumpkin pie and John, watermelon, grass and black pepper. They all laughed cheerily, especially as John started coughing on his black pepper so much he required another swig of butterbeer, leaving him with yet another foamy moustache.

As they all sat there playfully, and Mike popped over to talk, as well as Molly, and even Harry- who gave a cheery wave across the pub to Sherlock- the mood was light-hearted and easy and relaxed, lit pumpkins floating above their heads and the fire crackling soothingly. It all caused Sherlock to think. If Halloween’s always like this, perhaps it’s not as tedious as I thought…

Chapter Text

The low mist that settled across the grounds that Sunday morning, with the wind howling through the treetops, the air cold and damp, was perfect for that day. Halloween had arrived at Hogwarts.

As he made his way to breakfast he noticed the corridors had been laced with garlands of spiders’ webs and in many cases, spiders, which he chose to ignore, and the ghosts were singing chorally from far distances of the castle. John felt very much in the spirit of things. Yet, although the breakfast of warmly spiced porridge and lashings of hot tea was delicious, and the floating pumpkins bobbed playfully above their heads, John was much more excited for the event planned later that evening in the Gryffindor common room.

“What do we do if McGonagall arrives?” John whispered excitingly.

Greg paused, “We hide?”

John contemplated this for a moment, “Yeah okay” and both continued tucking into their breakfast.

“You know where Sherlock is?” Greg asked, through a mouthful of porridge.

“Dunno,” John said, looking up from his teacup, “But he’s meant to be coming later which should be- oh, hang on- post!”

The two of them peered up in amusement as they watched the owl’s dodge and dive between the array of pumpkins in the air, trying desperately to not drop their packages into them instead of onto the long grand tables.

John rarely got post, there was no one really to write to him who he didn’t see every day anyway, unless of course it was from-

“Madame Turner,” John said idly, looking at a letter that fell only centimeters from his bowl.

Recently, she only wrote to question John and Harry’s living arrangements after the end of the school year, saying “You’re welcome at my home as long as you like, but I’d really like to know your plans for the future as soon as possible” in every letter she’d written. This was no exception.

John sighed, shoving the letter into his pocket. He craned his neck to look to Harry, sat down the other end of the table. She clocked him, and waved an identical looking letter in his direction, shrugging.

“I don’t know what I want to after all this, mate,” Greg said comfortingly “I mean, an auror would be great… but I have no idea how to get there” he chuckled.

John nodded rather glumly, “Thanks, Greg.”

“Here he is,” Greg nodded towards a very disgruntled looking Sherlock, who, to John’s random dismay, was accompanied by Miss Adler, hanging happily on his arm.

…

“Bless, its little Sherlock’s first party,” she teased, elbowing him hard as they walked into the hall “look who’s growing up.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t be so miserable, that handsome John Watson asked you, didn’t he?” she raised her eyebrows, smirking.

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock spat.

Irene looked to the Gryffindor table, then back to Sherlock. John was waving gently at him.

“See you later, Sherlock,” was all she said, and she left, running to sit by Sebastian and Janine at the Slytherin table. Sherlock glared at her.

Avoiding the meaningful stare Irene was giving him from across the room, he quickly walked over to sit himself by John.

“Hello,” he said quietly, very aware that his cheeks were feeling very hot.

“You okay?”

“Yep,” Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea.

“She really seems to like you,” John said, teasingly, but Sherlock could hear the slight pang of annoyance in his tone.

“Does she?” Sherlock sipped his tea. “What are your plans for the day, then? Dancing with the ghosts? Summoning a demon? Running head-on into the dark forest until the darkness takes control of you? That’s what people do on Halloween, isn't it?”

John scoffed, “We need to carve some pumpkins-”

Sherlock groaned.

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d be up for that again,” John laughed, “It’s for the common room, for later.”

“Well then you will find me in the library,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Thought as much… you are still coming tonight though, aren’t you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Great. Just come back to the common room with us after the feast tonight, yeah?” Gary said kindly.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He was feeling a bit nervous about all this.

…

As John went off to carve, Sherlock made his way to the Owlery to pick up his post, having missed it at breakfast, and then to the library to file through it all, and hopefully find anything of moderate interest.

Sherlock was sat at a table tucked away in the furthermost corner of the library, his favourite, beside a small ornate window that overlooked the now slightly darkening grounds, and it was only about four o’clock. Winter is truly on its way.

The library was mostly empty, of course it is, it’s Halloween. However he could hear a group of students seemingly conducting a séance somewhere, giggling and stifling screams as they spoke aloud what seemed to Sherlock a very boring read. The librarian won’t like this.

Letter after letter Sherlock read through, some cases (only missing objects, which Sherlock scrawled bitter, obvious, answers back to), some letters from his brother that he immediately ignored, a few from Mummy, to which Sherlock replied out of habit, but nothing of real importance.

He sighed, allowing his hands to cover his face wearily. Just give me a proper case.

When he looked up, however, he felt peculiar. He looked about him, the tall bookcases laden with dust and cobwebs, aching under the weight of it all, and had the oddest feeling that he was being watched by someone. He glanced about him. The floorboards creaked from somewhere near. Size ten shoe, almost certainly male, light in weight…

Sherlock listened again. Only the sound of the distant group of students could be heard, still scaring themselves silly.

He shook himself. Don’t let the stupid spirit of Halloween get the better of you. He idly went back to his letters, though felt an uneasiness settle about him.

After a short while, footsteps returned, but different, this time. Familiar. Size 9 feet, enthusiastic step… I know that gait…

Sherlock sighed.

“Hi, Sherlock!” it was Carl, hair damp from a swim, “Happy Halloween!”

“Yes, yes, you too,” Sherlock replied wearily.

“Anything interesting happening?”

Sherlock looked dismayed down at his pile of boring, unimportant, rubbish on the table.

“A bit,” he lied.

“Anything I can help with?” Carl asked brightly, setting himself down opposite.

Sherlock glared as flecks of water from his hair flew onto the papers.

“Not really, Carl,” he said flatly.

Carl nodded, a bit glumly, “Okay.”

More footsteps. Sherlock breathed, John’s.

“Knew you’d be here,” John said brightly, popping his head round the bookcase, “Oh, hello Carl.”

Carl smiled.

“We were just going to head to the feast? Greg is about, he just refused to step into the library on Halloween… or a weekend, so-”

Sherlock sighed, nodding, and stuffed his letters into his satchel.

“Any luck with-”

Sherlock shot him a dark look.

“Guess not… okay,” John smirked, “Come on then.”

“Seriously Sherlock, if you ever need a hand-” Carl said, cheerily, as Sherlock rose to go.

“Thanks Carl,” Sherlock droned.

“Bless…” John said teasingly, as they headed out of the library.

“Shut up, John.”

John laughed.

…

The feast was magnificent. Steaming cauldrons of pumpkin soup stood tall across the four tables, baskets of every sweet and treat you could imagine littered the tables. Halloween themed crackers were scattered here and there, offering either a trick or a treat once pulled- to John's amusement, when he pulled one with Greg he won a glistening toffee apple, but Greg in turn got a dung bomb to the face. The ghosts flew in and around the tables, giving first years a scare, and the school choir sang proudly to open all the festivities. Suits of armour walked regimentally around the place, bats circled and swooped from the hall's highest corners over the tables, and John was fairly certain he caught professor McGonagall bobbing an apple on the high table.

After all had been eaten and drunk, hands sticky with sugar and stomachs warm and full, and there seemed to be no more scares left to be administered from ghost or student alike, McGonagall stood and bid them all goodnight.

“The happiness of the season upon all of you,” she said proudly, looking happily about the pumpkins around her, “Happy Halloween from Hogwarts,” and as she spoke, a final flourish of bats flew from behind her, and the hall erupted in applause “Now- before you go…” she spoke above the crowd as students began to clamber excitedly from their seats, “Have fun, but keep your festivities appropriate.”

John was certain she glared directly at Greg as she spoke. They giggled. And with that, John grabbed the arms of Greg and, to his surprise, Sherlock, and the three of them rushed from the hall, eagerly awaiting what was to come.

…

“You remember the password right?” John whispered to Sherlock, as they reached the top of the staircase leading to Gryffindor tower.

Sherlock stared at him. “Of course, John.”

“Okay,” John beamed.

They reached the portrait hole, and the turbulent sounds of festivities could be heard from within. The fat lady stared at them, suspiciously.

“Password…” she asked, eyes piercing.

“Cucurbita,” Sherlock said confidently. Greg and John nodded at her enthusiastically.

She sighed. 

“Fine,” And as the door opened, she murmured “I’m losing my ability to care, if I’m honest.”

The three of them entered and were immediatley met with cheers and yells from their classmates. Steven, who’d apparently already started on some firewhisky, wrapped his arms around the three of them happily. Sherlock tried to contain his surprise.

He felt quite nervous. He knew barely anyone, and it was a regular occurrence that people who had met him wanted to ignore him entirely or punch him in the face. Which didn’t really bother Sherlock… but he didn’t want to cause a stir, ruin it for John or anything…

The room was a mess. Poorly carved pumpkins lay haphazardly about the carpeted floor, bowls of sweets were overflowing onto their surfaces, and there were about four bottles of firwehisky sat open and at different degrees of emptiness already.

“Where are the younger ones?” John asked nervously,

“A few of us gave them some butterbeer and sweets and sent them off to bed,” Steven said, nonchalantly, “We’ve got this.”

John beamed, “Steven, you remember Sherlock.”

Steven nodded, patting Sherlock on the back hard, and went over to a bedraggled record player that sat precariously on one of the tables, “Make yourself at home! You like The Weird Sisters?”

Sherlock did not like The Weird Sisters. But that seemed unimportant as, as soon as their shrill tones started to fill the common room, everyone got very excited and started doing… something… that Sherlock could not believe they called dancing.

“Right! Everyone!” Steven yelled, opening a large chest that sat behind one of the squashy red sofas, “Costume lucky dip! Come on!”

Sherlock groaned, but John pulled him, along with Greg to crane over the crate.

It was quite a mess, Sherlock felt, as thirty or more people grabbed at the same box as if their life depended on it. However he eventually managed to get hold of something without it being snatched from his hands.

He pulled it up. It was what looked like a jester’s hat, in colours of green, purple orange and gold. Brilliant.

He turned to John, who was now sporting a comically large and long fake moustache. Sherlock sniggered.

“Come on,” John said, voice muffled through his new addition, “Put it on!”

Sherlock obliged and found that, once on his head, the different points of his hat began to move independently with the sound of the music, the bells harmonizing with the sound.

“Nice,” John laughed, nodding.

Sherlock shook his head in dismay, which added to the comic effect as the bells chimed excitedly.

“What d’you think?” Graham was wearing what appeared to be a blood-stained ruff around his neck, which was spinning gently. “Am I Nearly-Headless-Nick yet?”

“Don’t say that. He’ll bloody turn up,” John said, tugging at his moustache. “Come on, who’s up for a drink?”

…

The three of them moved through the crowd to a small table next to an uninhabited armchair, and John pulled a small flask from his robes, and poured some into one of the self-cleaning party cups Greg had bought the day before. He then poured one for Greg, and then looked to Sherlock.

“You want one?”

Sherlock frowned, “Yes?”

“You sure?” John added.

“John.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, chuckling, “Just thought I’d check.”

And the three of them, suddenly, took an unexpectedly large shot of firewhisky together.

…

“So, how much has he had?” John asked, slurring only slightly, nodding to a student ahead of them.

Sherlock studied him. 

“Three shots of firewhisky, four shots of Dragon Barrel Brandy, and a medium size glass of Berry Ocky Rot would do that to a boy of his size…” Sherlock stared longer, “However it could also be the combination of four glasses of Berry Ocky Rot, one shot of firewhisky and two shots of Dragon Barrel Brandy.” he said, concentrating.

“How can you tell?” John asked, laughing.

“Pfft, I dunno,” Sherlock said shrugging, sipping at a small cup of Ocky Rot.

They hadn’t had a lot, and John was certain he’d had more than Sherlock, but Sherlock seemed to be having a good time.

Greg had gone off to find Mike, who’d forgotten the Gryffindor password, and, in addition to his Hufflepuff scarf, it had caused quite a stir with the Fat Lady. That left John and Sherlock sat on the armchair, John in the chair and Sherlock on the arm.

“We have lessons tomorrow,” John said glumly, taking another drink of firewhisky, burning his throat. “Shit.”

Sherlock laughed, “And our first is at nine…” Sherlock said, giggling more, “That’ll be fun.”

John shrugged, finishing his drink, “Ah well.”

Towards the end of the evening, nearing 10 o’clock, as John was sinking deeper into his armchair, Sarah decided to pop over.

“Hi John!” she said brightly, sitting on the other arm of the chair.

John was taken aback, “Sarah, how are you?” he said, again, more slurred than it had appeared in his head.

“Fine, yeah. I feel like I’ve barely seen you, recently,” She said, rather awkwardly, “Barely spoken to you…”

“Yeah… yeah it does, yeah… Sorry-”

I guess I have really only seen Sherlock, outside of Greg and that lot…

“No, no it’s fine… Who’s this?” she said, nodding to Sherlock who had reverted to staring into his cup.

Sherlock looked up, nervously, “I’m his classma-”

“My friend, Sherlock,” he said brightly, nodding to him, “He’s a Slytherin… shh!” 

John then began to chuckle rather furiously as his moustache began to slide down his face.

Perhaps he had more to drink than he’d thought.

“A Slytherin? Well, let’s see how friendly you are next Saturday. First quidditch match, John. You ready?” Sarah persisted, in spite of John’s apparent fit of giggles.

“Oh yeah! Yeah it’ll be great!” John said excitedly.

“Right, well. I won’t keep you, see you later, John,” Sarah got up to leave, before nodding to Sherlock “See ya.” 

She wandered off into the crowd of people in the centre of the common room.

That was not awkward in the slightest.

…

My friend, Sherlock.

Sherlock was sure he’d heard that wrong.

After Sarah left, Sherlock felt the need to thank John… but he was sure this wasn’t the correct way to handle this social interaction. But still… Maybe it’s something to do with the amount of firewhisky John had consumed.

“You’ll be cheering us on, right?” John said, looking up to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled a questioning expression.

“Hm?” he said, taking a final sip from his Ocky Rot. He could feel a fuzziness between his eyes.

“The match? You said the majority of your quidditch team are idiots?”

Ah yes, all that time ago on the team.

“That is true, yes,” Sherlock said, “Though I may receive a pummeling cheering you on from the Slytherin stands…” Sherlock continued, giggling, “Seb’s little gang would have a field day.”

“You could sit with Greg?”

“Who?” Sherlock said, slipping slightly of the arm of the chair, and had to hitch himself back up.

“… Sherlock, you know Greg.”

“Oh, Gary?”

John burst into laughter, until his moustache fell off completely, “Yep. Yep, Sherlock. Gary.” 

He started pouring Sherlock some more firewhisky.

“It doesn’t suit you…” Sherlock said, taking the cup, “The moustache.”

John shook his head, “No, it doesn’t does it…” he looked to Sherlock, who’s hat was sliding off sadly, “But I think you’d make a good jester,” John righted it on his head.

“Ah yes,” Sherlock laughed, but feeling very nervous at John’s… closeness… “I have been told if I cannot be a detective, jestering is the path to go down.”

“Cheers,” John said in response, lifting his cup to Sherlock’s.

But before Sherlock could return the favour, a ruckus seemed to have started down by the fire place. They both craned to look.

…

John bolted upright, which proved not to be the best idea, as the last time he’d stood was before having drank quite a substantial amount of firewhisky. Having steadied himself, he saw Harry, lying in the centre of the common room, sobbing hysterically.

Shit.

Quickly, John pushed through the commotion and lifted her to her feet.

“I thought she was at Ravenclaw? With Clara?” John asked sternly, to one of her friends. She looked about her, awkwardly. John sighed, “Take her to bed?” 

They nodded and obliged, with help from a few other girls.

John stood up, awkwardly. Some students were laughing. John shot them a dark look. So did Sherlock, who had appeared right behind him. The party had gone deathly quiet.

“Come on everyone!” Greg yelled, looking to John, “Apple bobbing?”

An agreeable consensus was given by the group, and the conversation restarted as Greg pulled out a large basin with an anti-spilling charm cast upon it.

John was breathing heavily. He hated when Harry cried like that…

“John…” Sherlock circled round to look at him.

“I’m fine. Let’s sit?”

Sherlock nodded, and they returned to the armchair, but John’s playful smile had been wiped from his face.

...

“Heads of houses are probably going to do a sweep soon,” John said tiredly, looking up to the grandfather clock, “as they obviously know we’d be having a party tonight…”

Sherlock hummed. If Magnussen knew he wasn't in his own common room, he'd never let it go…

“I may have to head off soon then,” Sherlock said, slurring slightly, “I’ll just finish this.” 

He gestured to the drink in his hand. He’d noticed, however, ever since Harry had a… moment, John hadn't drunk anything. Sherlock obviously had, and it was beginning to show.

“You’re a bit drunk, Sherlock, I think?” John teased, “Are you going to be able to get back? Without being spotted? In the dark? Like this?” he said, nudging him.

“Pfft, John… I know many a secret passage in this place that even the teachers don’t know exist…” he said proudly.

“Right. Sure you don’t want me to help?”

That’d be nice, actually.

“Nope, I’m fine.”

John laughed at him. 

Sherlock felt for the hat on his head. I suppose I do look very ridiculous.

“Here,” John took it off for him. “Sorted.”

Sherlock beamed at him.

Many had started to head up to bed, now, and the common room was nearly empty; Steven was dozing on the sofa, an over-sized witches hat on his head, an arm wrapped around a pumpkin he’d carved appallingly, and Gary was eating an apple from the basin happily, leaning against the wall. Mike had left long ago, and only about five others were still up and dancing.

Sherlock finished his firewhisky with a large gulp. Bad idea. Bad.

“I should…”

He went to stand, and found his legs did not wish to cooperate. John lunged to grab him.

“Careful!” John laughed, “You sure you’re alright to go?”

Sherlock nodded, and gave himself a little shake, “Definitely.”

John walked him to the portrait hole, which Sherlock assumed was half due to politeness, half due to ensuring he didn’t hurt himself.

“Happy Halloween, Sherlock,” John said, handing him a spider lolly as a souvenir.

Sherlock took it, graciously, “You too,” And before he turned to go, “I’ve had a ff-fabulous time.”

“Really?” John said, smirking, “All we did was sit, us two, and… drink, really?”

Sherlock smiled.

“Exactly,” he mumbled, “G’night…”

He felt John’s gaze upon him soften, “Night, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock, only slightly stumblingly, made his way out into the corridor, and after giving John a gentle wave, crept off into the darkness.

…

John turned, and started to hide the firewhisky and other drink bottles so when McGonagall arrived they wouldn’t all be expelled on the spot.

“Good night?” Greg asked brightly, obviously rather full of firewhisky himself.

“Mhm,” John replied, smiling, “It was nice.”

Greg smiled at him. 

“Sherlock’s nice,” he said, giving John a meaningful look.

John felt his cheeks redden. Why? What does that even mean?

“Yeah, guess he is,” John said, quietly.

Greg slouched down onto the floor, yawning, “Good.”

Then, the portrait hole started to open, and McGonagall poked her head through. She was wearing a long tartan dressing gown with matching slippers.

John immediately straightened up, and Greg got up off of the floor. Steven didn’t move an inch, however. The few people who remained, froze abruptly. Someone tried to knock off the record player but missed.

“Had a good evening?” She asked coolly.

They all nodded.

She started to walk through, peering about. “Seems you have had a good one, yes.”

John was staring at her, using all his might to stop himself swaying.

“Hmm…” She smiled, “Goodnight, everyone.” 

And she turned on her heal, taking one last look at the scene, before getting to the archway. 

“Oh!” she said, turning suddenly, “Enjoy your early morning classes tomorrow too” she said, beaming wickedly, before pulling the portrait-hole shut.

Well, shit.

…

After more of a struggle than he’d expected, having to outrun Filch down by the entrance hall, and nearly knocking over a suit of armour by the entrance to the dungeons, Sherlock was back at his common room. Thankfully, regardless of all the commotion, he remembered the password, and which wall to whisper it too. Perks of having a mind palace.

He snuck inside, and was relieved to see it was empty, apart from a few students who weren’t particularly nice to Sherlock, but didn’t outwardly want to destroy him, sitting on the sofa lazily, giggling hysterically and hiccupping every four seconds. Giggle water.

But as he was about to climb the stairs up to the sixth year dormitory, someone spoke to him.

“Had some fun?”

It wasn’t Sebastian, nor a voice he otherwise recognised. It was a sing-song voice, rather high pitched. He wheeled around lazily.

A short, slim, pale boy was sat on the windowsill at the head of the common room, cloak still tied, with what appeared to be a suitcase at his feet. Sherlock stared. A Slytherin scarf and tie were folded upon his lap. He was smiling at him.

“Erm…” Sherlock said, a bit uneasily, swaying where he stood.

“Don’t look so worried. I won’t tell,” he said softly, “I’m Jim.”

Sherlock nodded. There was something slightly off within the boys stare. 

“I’m- I’m Sherlock,” Sherlock managed.

“Don’t you shake hands, Sherlock?” the boy said quietly.

Sherlock swallowed, and approached him, his hand outstretched. The boy laced his fingers into his, and shook it firmly. Sherlock couldn’t muster up his usual strength of handshake, however.

“Pleased to meet you,” The boy said, his mouth tugging into a smile, “I’m new.”

“Transferred…?” Sherlock slurred, pulling his hand away.

The boy nodded. “Home-schooled. My parents… they didn’t think it was working anymore.”

Sherlock nodded, “Well I better-”

“I saw you earlier,” he said, brightly, “In the library.”

Sherlock froze. Creaky floorboards.

“I was going to say hello, but I got too shy,” he said, almost bashfully.

“What year are you in?” Sherlock asked, rather sloppily.

“Sixth.”

“Right.”

“Same as you,” The boy said, smiling widely.

“Yes, well… I better be off to bed…” and Sherlock began to turn away. I really need to sleep.

“Would you mind taking my case up?” the boy said, “I’m staying down here for a while… but as you’re going up…?”

Sherlock sighed, wheeling back round, “Of course, yes…” 

And he moved over, taking the boy’s very heavy case in one hand, and his set of Slytherin robes in the other.

“Thanks, darling,” was what the boy said. 

Sherlock may have been a bit fuzzy, but he knew he didn’t like that.

Sherlock grimaced as he started staggering back up the stairs.

“Happy Halloween, Sherlock,” The boy sang after him, “Do sleep well.”

…

John and Greg trudged dozily up to the dorm, limbs and heads heavy.

On reaching the dormitory, Greg fell face first onto his four poster, and John quickly followed suit. No one else had come up to the dorm yet, and judging be Steven’s apparent snooze on the sofa, it seemed only two others would come up anyway.

“Is Harry okay?” Greg said, nervously, getting into his pyjamas “She seemed pretty upset?”

John sighed, pulling on his pyjama top, “Dunno…” he moved into the centre of his bed, and sat cross-legged, taking off his socks. “I’ll… I’ll talk to her in the morning…” he felt very guilty.

Greg nodded, “Alright, mate.”

John slithered into his sheets fuzzily, pulling them tight up to his chin. As soon as his head hit the pillow, his vision started to spin slightly.

“Hm. Tomorrow it going to be fun…” John said, pained.

“Right?” Greg pressed his palms into his eyes, groaning. “Goodnight, mate.”

“Night,” And John leant across, taking a few attempts to blow out his lamp, “Party well-planned, Greg.”

Greg hummed thankfully in response, and very soon, both of them were swept off into a very foggy sleep.

…

Very uncoordinatedly, Sherlock fell into the dormitory, dropping Jim’s case at least twice, before lying it upon the freshly made up bed three away from his. Thankfully, Anderson only seemed to stir slightly, and everyone else continued snoring away.

Sherlock, with the help of the bed posts, found his way into bed with little issue. Pulling on his pyjamas, he felt himself start to nod, head swimming, vision a bit more blurred then he’d like to admit. He fell back against his pillow and breathed heavily.

Such a good evening, was all his brain could really focus on. I am John’s friend.

He had plenty of questions about the very strange boy he’d met momentarily downstairs, but for now, this was enough. He was John’s friend, and now he could fall asleep.

Chapter Text

With November came drizzle, and a minor but very persistent headache in John’s case- neither of which were well received as he trudged through a significantly colder castle at ten minutes to nine in the morning. Breakfast, naturally, had been skipped due to John and Greg’s not-so-surprising lie in, and that by no means improved John’s mood.

Greg bid him a grumpy farewell as he grumbled his way down the corridor to Charms, and John picked up the pace so as not to be late to Alchemy.

Sherlock was already there, to John’s surprise, and was looking positively cheerful. Thought he’d just bunk off all together. John slid in beside him, mouthing apologies at the Professor before rummaging about for scraps of parchment and a quill.

“Good morning,” Sherlock whispered, smirking.

“Shut up.”

As the timeline of how alchemists created “panacea” a remedy thought to prolong life indefinitely, something John did not give two shits about at that current moment, was scrawled upon the blackboard by an overly excited piece of chalk, John fought desperately to remain engaged. This was not assisted by the boy beside him, who did not attempt to hide the fact that he too did not give two shits about the work whatsoever.

 “Wrong.” Sherlock murmured, starring at the ceiling.

“What?”

“That happened three years before he just said.”

“You sure-”

“And was in Belgium, not France.”

“Sherlock I’m trying to lis-”

“Trying and failing. You’ve done nothing in the last ten minutes but draw what appears to be yourself on a broomstick-”

“Shh!” John spat, but couldn’t hide the snigger that escaped with it.

“Quiet please, boys” the professor said in between potentially wrong dates.

John went back, reluctantly, to staring at the blackboard. Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling, leaning deeply back into his chair.

“Not going to write anything today Mr Holmes?” the Professor said accusingly.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied in earnest, smiling at her.

The professor, who had never been one for confrontation even when a group of students put a curse on her chair to see what would happen, (crying was the answer), didn’t quite know how to respond to this.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said gently to her.

And she didn’t, but continued reeling of dates and, judging by Sherlock’s groans, mispronouncing alchemist’s names.

“We’ll never have to say them, only write them-”

“Not the point, John.”

“How are you not in trouble?”

“Most teachers know to leave me be by now.”

“Smart move”

By the time the lesson had come to a close, John knew very little more about anything if he were completely honest, except of course an update on the classroom’s ceiling,

“How long till the ceiling collapses now, then?”

“Just over a month,” Sherlock said confidently as they stepped out into the corridor.

“You sure?”

“Always am.”

As they walked cheerily, John’s headache lifting slightly, down the busy corridors, a friend of Harry’s brushed passed them. John grabbed her.

“How is she?” John blurted, the memory of her hiccup the night before coming into view.

The girl shrugged in response, before continuing on, “She’s still in bed. S’all I know,” she said over her shoulder. 

John glared at her.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked carefully.

John nodded, but knew his face said otherwise.

“Ah,” Sherlock said suddenly, brow furrowing. At John’s quizzical expression, he continued, “I have Muggle Studies… in precisely three minutes…”

“Better go then hadn’t you,” John said, smirking.

“Or I couldn’t-”

“Better go,” John said, giving him a gentle shove into the sea of students all heading away from them in a fast flowing current.

Sherlock scowled at him.

“See you later,” John scoffed.

“You won’t. I’ll be bored into an early death.”

John waved in response, before watching amusingly as that mop of dark curls, that towered above the heads’ of the swarm of first years, travelled on its way. Sighing defeated, however, as Sherlock turned down the corner at the end of the corridor, John felt a nagging sense of guilt growing in his stomach. Time to check on Harry.

…

Muggle Studies was atrocious. Well, it was to Sherlock, anyway. He’d sat next to Janine, who spent most of the lesson fawning over Sebastian, which made for wonderfully awkward conversation. To his surprise, however, the new boy, Jim if he weren’t mistaken, whose bed had been untouched the night before judging by the luggage and robes unmoved from it that morning, was sat at the front of the class. He wasn’t writing, similar to Sherlock, but he was listening, unlike Sherlock, and eagerly so, hands clasped tightly together on the desk, mouth twitching at the corners as the professor lectured to them why muggles were so interesting.

There was something off-putting about his enthusiasm.

When the lesson came to a close, which felt approximately a lifetime after it began, Sherlock noticed that this boy remained sitting, staring at the blackboard, before approaching the professor’s desk. Surely no one can have any questions about such a topic as “Why muggles’ showers are so intriguing, and why we should all get in one” but yet he remained. Sherlock, reluctantly, entered the corridor. Probably wants to know what he missed so far this term. Not much. He then headed off to the great hall, to wait for John, putting the boy out of his mind.

…

John felt much drained after seeing Harry whose, after forty-minute persistence, only response was shouting abuse and throwing Bertie Bott's at him until he’d left her alone. Which was fine. Neither of them ever liked talking about how they were feeling, however both cared very deeply if the other one was upset. It was a losing battle.

Entering the great hall, where the tables were weighed down with biscuits, mugs and teapots for elevenses, John was relieved to see Greg sitting there, staring mournfully at his tea.

“It fell in.”

“What did?”

“My biscuit,” Greg said, brandishing his mug at John, “Where’s the spell to undo that then, eh?”

Good old Greg.

“How’s Harry?” he asked after a moment’s pause, still glaring at his mug.

John merely stared at him.

“Gotcha. Sorry…” Greg finally pushed his tea away in defeat.

“You can still drink it,” John said, laughing.

“Tainted.”

John poured himself a cup, and instinctively found himself pouring Sherlock one too, who luckily was just coming into the hall. John beamed.

“How was your lesson?”

“Really, John,” Was all he replied, sitting beside him and taking the mug between his fingers.

Sherlock refrained from asking about John’s sister.

After a few minutes harmless chatter, however, John noticed Sherlock’s focus shifted to the Slytherin table.

“Okay?” John asked, following his gaze. 

He was staring at Anderson, chatting away to a boy John didn’t recognise.

“Sherlock?” John persisted, waving a hand in front of his face when he got no response.

“Sorry, just… don’t stare but -”

“You’re staring?”

“We can’t both stare. There’s a new boy. My house. My year in fact.”

“So?” John said, tearing his eyes away to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip, “I’m not quite sure yet.”

…

As the week dragged on, Sherlock found he somehow saw very little of Jim around the grounds or the common room, or even the dorm. He knew himself to be somewhat of a recluse but this seemed a bit excessive, really. Any meetings they did have seemed standard enough, and yet… Sherlock didn’t know. Perhaps it was the fact he’d become quite friendly with Anderson, thus by default Sebastian. However Sherlock was quite sure, judging by the size of this Jim person, he’d be able to defend himself if he ever felt the need to ruin his life like the rest of them.

When Friday rolled around, November the fifth, it was time for their annual bonfire praising the wizards who’d helped foil the gunpowder plot. Sherlock and John watched intently from the clock tower as Hagrid constructed the thing, sprinkling twigs and kindling, heaving logs and what looked like old bits of furniture from his hut, big enough to build the entire monstrosity all on its own. It was really quite a sight to see, it was just a pity John was too preoccupied to notice.

“It’s tomorrow.”

“You’ve said, John,” Sherlock said coolly, now watching Hagrid shove pieces of old sofa cushion into the gaps in the fire’s structure.

“My last match against Sebastian.”

“Mm.”

“Ever.”

“Yep.”

“Sherlock!”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t care for the sport.”

John sighed.

“But you hate Sebastian.”

True. Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning to face him.

“John. I cannot say I am certain you will win, as judging by the probability of who’s won or lost out of the pair of you over recent years, it pretty much balances out. Although I hate Sebastian, you and him seem to be of a similar standard and to be honest with you I’ve not watched a quidditch game properly for a very long time so I’m not even certain of how you play and-”

“Not helping Sherlock.”

Sherlock shut his mouth abruptly, thinking.

“Good luck?”

“Yeah, thanks,” John sighed, “How’s the bonfire coming then?”

Sherlock nodded in its direction, and John joined him at the window. Hagrid was standing back, proudly, rubbing his hands free of dust and dirt and sofa stuffing from manhandling it all into the optimum burning structure.

“Looks good, John said, brightly, “What time’s it start?”

“About six o’clock I think,after the feast.”

They watched as Hagrid, giving the bonfire one last triumphant smile, headed into the castle in seek of warm. The clock tower wasn’t exactly warm either.

“I’ve gotta go, sorry-” John said flatly, pulling his cloak close round him, “-last minute quidditch practice.See you at the feast, though?”

Sherlock hummed in response. It’s awfully cold to be up in the air, he thought. Nevertheless, John, with his breath swirling in a mist before him, headed down the steps and out into the courtyard. Sherlock watched as he sped across the cobbles and past the bonfire, before increasing to a run once he reached the grass of the grounds. Sherlock sighed, before heading to the library, taking one last glance at the bonfire, now left unattended in the middle of the courtyard. 

…

John’s hands were damp and white with cold as he peeled his flying gloves from them, shoving them into his robes and promptly swapping them for a thick woolen pair, as he sprinted from the changing rooms to the castle. Practice had gone well. He’d defended every shot put up by their chaser's brilliants, their seeker and beaters had done fantastically, and they were all riled up for the dreaded Slytherin vs Gryffindor match that following morning. So was John, although at present moment all he could truly focus on was getting to the Great Hall and getting a hot meal inside him.

As he passed the courtyard, he spotted the first flurries of sparks and smoke rising from the bonfire, spitting and spluttering. At least that’s going to be warm.

Sherlock was waiting for him, which had become quite the custom, something Sherlock was happy to do it seemed as he barely ate a thing anyway, and the two of them walked into the hall together. Greg, of course, had gone in already. 

In keeping with the festivities of the evening, all the food of the feast seemed to have been smoked, in one way or another. All of it. This was fine for Greg with his bacon and Sherlock, who was picking at a corner of his salmon, but John wasn’t completely sold on his smoked mushrooms and veg. Alas, the dessert made all the difference, thankfully not smoked, or not to the point where John could taste it; a spiced ginger cake with custard, which John saw Sherlock even take a slither of. 

“What. It’s festive,” he said, spooning a warm morsel into his mouth. 

As always, when the plates dematerialised and the last drops of pumpkin juice had been drunk, the masses of students fled immediately, this time into the courtyard. 

…

Sherlock wasn’t all that bothered about the bonfire if he was honest, which he usually was, however John seemed quite up for it and, well, how was he to refuse. Wouldn’t last too long anyhow. 

As they walked out into the cold November air, breaths puffing in front of them, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm, whispering in his ear.

“How many Filibuster fireworks will be let off, do you think?”

“A bloody lot. McGonagall's gonna go mental,” John replied, laughing. 

It was true. Excluding those Sherlock could physically see poking out of people’s pockets, careless, he could spot at least another twelve judging by the imprints in people’s cloaks, or how they anxiously gripped their hands inside them. This could be quite eventful. 

Hagrid, rather ceremoniously, got the fire well and truly going once the students had cramped themselves into and around the courtyard, keeping within a ten foot radius of the bonfire of course. Flames of a deep amber swirled up into the air, the sparks dancing high above them. The students let out the appropriate “oohs” and “aahs” as the flames turned to crimson, then emerald, then a magnificent royal blue. 

John and George were “ooing” with the rest of them, laughing cheerily as Filch bobbed about the crowd snatching anything that looked remotely like a firework erupting from someone’s pocket. Sherlock looked to John, nose and cheeks rosey, face bathed in an ever changing light from the flames, beaming widely into his scarf, ash falling delicately into his hair. Sherlock had started to notice how John’s face scrunched up in a peculiar manner when he laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. He felt, for the oddest reason, something that could be easily be mistaken for… fondness? Surely not. Must be a trick of the light.

They all stood there contentedly, basking in the warmth of the fire, for a good ten minutes or so, until Sherlock noticed something.

The familiar smell of damp and wood-smoke had been perfuming the air, accompanied by the smell of burning paint from Hagrid's old door frame. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and presume it’s not toxic. But there was something else… something different, something not quite mixing with the rest… that Sherlock was desperately trying to put his finger on. Sherlock shut his eyes, concentrating.

Before he could even open the doors to his mind-palace, his eyes were forced open again by large gasps from the crowd.

The flames of the bonfire doubled, no, tripled in height in a sudden burst, flicking violently about itself, licking at the crowd, getting dangerously close to some students, including Sherlock and John themselves who’d thought themselves lucky at having pushed to the front. 

Sherlock stretched his arms in front of John’s chest, pushing him backwards. Shielding their faces, the sound of “ignus attenua” being yelled from various teachers came at them from all angles. 

After a few minutes complete commotion, in which Sherlock was quite sure many students assumed this to be part of the spectacular, and fired some filibusters off for good measure, the bonfire managed to calm itself down, and to Hagrid’s disappointment, was actually smaller than it had been originally. 

As the crowd broke into applause at the teacher's efforts, Sherlock’s eyes pierced through every student he could see, and that’s when he saw it; at the back of all the laughing and cheering, the back of hooded figure, was skulking away into the smoky evening. 

Sherlock, without a moment's pause, shoved his way out of the courtyard to follow, John grabbing for his cloak, but missing. Having ducked and dived his way through, being elbowed at least twice, Sherlock was in the grounds, the glow from the bonfire dissipating. The figure was nowhere to be seen. 

“Lumos,”, he flicked his wand, brandishing it in front of him. 

Nothing. 

Two hands clasped onto his shoulders.

Sherlock wheeled round. John.

“Where are you off to?” 

Graham caught up with them, “That was cool, wasn't it?” he burst excitedly.

Sherlock looked at John, “Later.”

“Come on, it’s cold over here-” Graham said, backing towards the courtyard again.

Sherlock and John nodded, and followed.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it…?” John asked nervously, grabbing the elbow of Sherlock’s robe.

“No, I think not, no,” He then looked at him worriedly, “You alright?”

“Yep. Gotta admit it was exciting though,” John replied, breaking into a wobbly smile, “You?”

Sherlock nodded. He’d in fact never been better. This was no accident. Which meant there was a culprit. Which meant there was a case to solve. 

They re-entered the happy, if not moderately shaken, crowd, festivities restored. Hagrid had initiated a horribly out of tune rendition of “Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy-warty-Hogwarts…”. McGonagall, through pursed lips, placed a forcefield around them all immediately, before she began maternally fussing over a group of frightened first years. 

John and Graham started to sing along heartily, but Sherlock… Sherlock eye’s were filtering through as many faces as he could, trying to find who he knew to be coming, who was no longer there. Sherlock was, unexpectedly, on a case

Chapter Text

The following morning brought a lot of excitement within the castle, some understandably left over from the unexpected mishap of the night before, but most certainly it was due to the fact that that morning brought the first quidditch game of the season with it. 

John was sat at the Gryffindor table, Greg beside him, with what must of been the entirety of the Gryffindor quidditch team surrounding him. They very much respected John as a captain, looked to him for guidance, for tactics, for ways to “make Sebastian Wilkes cry”, but all John really wanted to do that morning was have a dozen cups of tea and a piece of toast.

When Sherlock finally arrived on the scene, later than usual, John could see the pure panic in his eyes at this array of determined-looking-people in scarlet and gold robes. John merely gave him an awkward sort of nod and gestured for him to sit down opposite. 

“Don’t worry- We’ve got this, guys you just need to trust yourselves now-” John said, rather more rehearsed than he hoped they realised, in response to “what happens if our brooms decide today’s a bad day and strop off like they did three years ago?”

Sherlock was smirking at him opposite.

“Look,” John sighed, “Go and have some breakfast, stop worrying! We’ll be fine.”

The group all clapped and made agreeable sounds before spreading themselves up and down the Gryffindor table. John, though, could not stop worrying, and was pretty certain they would not be fine, but he definitely was not going to tell his team that an hour before they took flight.

“So, Captain Watson-” Sherlock scoffed.

“Shut up,” John said, swigging off his fourth cup of tea, “You had a good lie in this morning.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

John puzzled at him. 

“Popped off to the pitiful remains of last night’s bonfire- obviously Hagrid wouldn’t have cleared it yet,” Sherlock said, nonchalantly.

John was suddenly curious, leaning forward across the table, “And?”

“Aconite.”

“Hm?”

“Aconite? Poisonous plant? Purple flowers? Also known as Monkshood? Wolfsbane? It’s-”

“I know what Aconite is, Sherlock-”

“Oh thank god I was worried-”

“What about aconite?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowed.

“Nope.”

“It’s flammable, John. Highly so,” Sherlock breathed, eyes sparkling “And it had been scattered over the entire bonfire. I smelt it, John, last night. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

John thought for a moment, looking to Greg. Greg was concentrating hard on a copy of the daily prophet, a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth.

“So what… you think Hagrid accidentally pulled up a deadly poisonous purple flowered shrub and added it to the bonfire for good measure?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, “No. Not even Hagrid’s that slow, bless him… No.”

“So-”

“We watched him build it, remember? When he left there was nothing but wood and some shoddy old sofa cushions on there.” 

“So it was a prank?”

“That nearly burnt the crowd and emitted potentially poisonous fumes? Hm… no,” Sherlock leaned across further, his voice lowering, “I saw someone last night, sneaking away and-”

Sadly, before John could hear further, Stephen Bainbridge slammed his hands onto John’s shoulders. 

“Come on, Captain. Time to go, I think.”

John suddenly became very very nervous again. 

“Good luck mate!” Greg said, looking up suddenly, “If you let Sebastian win I will kill you.” 

Sherlock gave John a half encouraging sort of nod, and before John could say anything or even finish his fifth cuppa, he was being dragged out of the hall by the very excitable Gryffindor team. 

…

Sherlock, under Graham’s persistent whining, had managed to convince him to join him in the Gryffindor stand. Even though he assured him no one would mind there, which Sherlock understood as he’d be cheering for John, but he wasn’t so sure how hard Sebastian would pummel him if he found out. 

The crowds were chanting their incessant phrases, waving their burgundy flags violently and clapping at random intervals in the lead up to the match. Graham had painted his face gold, pretty terribly, on their way to the pitch, and was screaming at the top of his lungs for most of the twenty minute build up until first whistle. I will truly never understand sporting festivities. 

Sherlock was practically thrown into the air when the Gryffindor team walked out onto the pitch, seven little red figures striding proudly out into the cold November sun. John was leading, holding his broom in front of him, head held high. Sherlock suddenly felt very nervous for him.

The Slytherin team followed suit, and Sherlock felt a burning hatred for Sebastian as he stepped out onto the field. 

“Fall off your broom you piece of shit!” Graham yelled, with complete earnest malice. Sherlock felt inclined to agree. 

In beautiful unison, all fourteen players on the pitch mounted their brooms, and flew gracefully into the sky and began circling the crowds. John flew just metres from where they were and the applause was magnificent. He was a really good flyer, to be completely honest…

The whistle was blown, and the players took their positions in the sky, John and Sebastian hovering face to face, the quaffle between them. 

“Ruin him, John!” Graham yelled again. 

The crowds fell silent, waiting, and Sherlock found himself holding his breath.

After a few surprisingly tense moments, the second whistle sounded, and John batted the quaffle into the air behind him. The game had begun. 

It wasn't as boring as Sherlock had first thought. Nothing to scream and shout about, or punch people in the face over as he was sure Graham had done before, but not a necessarily bad way to spend a Saturday morning. And then, there was John.

John was nothing short of magnificent. Not a single attempt at scoring by the Slytherin’s was successful, and that was not due to lack of trying; they had really very good aim, all except one being completely on target. John was just too fast. Wherever he was in the air, John would get there in time to bat the quaffle away ceremoniously. It was breathtaking to watch, so elegant yet powerful at the same time… And he looked so brilliantly happy when he was doing it.

“Yes John!” Graham screamed, his voice nearly hoarse, as John whacked the quaffle high into the air, so Stephen, a chaser, could retrieve it and score. 

Gryffindor were now leading with eighty points to zero, and Sebastian was practically livid. You could see it in how he was flying, fast and jerky, less fluid and more ruthless. 

The snitch was nowhere to be seen as of yet. Whenever Sherlock had watched a match before, that had been his largest feature of interest, keeping his eyes peeled for the tiniest flash of gold in the corner of his eye, but this time he’d been too busy watching John to notice. 

About twenty minutes in, Slytherin started to get nasty; one of the their beaters angled a bludger right at Stephen’s head, which he thankfully ducked out of the way of at the last minute, and Sebastian had started ramming into the Gryffindor chasers, presumably to knock them off their brooms. It was at this moment that the Gryffindor seeker, a fourth year girl who’d been hovering above the rest of the action for the rest of the match, suddenly soared higher into the air.

The Gryffindor crowd erupted, screaming at the top of their lungs and waving their flags above their heads. In all the commotion, however, John looked away for a mere moment, and Sebastian saw his opportunity. Seb flew at him and, quaffle in hand, threw it hard at John’s chest and knocked him into the metal goal post, scoring a goal in the process. John, disoriented, started to slip from his broom, and Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Hang on, John!” yelled the crowd, and Sherlock watched, mouth very dry, wand at the ready to support him if he slipped any further.

Come on John. 

After a few troublesome moments, in which John was clung to the goal post for dear life and, annoyingly, Slytherin scored four more times, John was back up.

Sherlock breathed in relief, and Graham grabbed him by the shoulder, 

“Shit, man,” was all he said, “Oh look!” 

The Gryffindor seeker was now diving to the ground, the Slytherin’s close, but not close enough. Sherlock found himself cheering with the rest of them, as the two of them raced for the glistening golden dot in the distance. John, Sherlock could see, was cheering too, whilst defending the chaser’s attempts to get a few more shots in, and defending spectacularly. 

“She’s got it!” Yelled the commentator over the tannoy, and the Gryffindor seeker pulled up into the air, holding the snitch high above her head. 

The match ended in a rush with the score two hundred and thirty points to forty, and John looked positively giddy with it. He flew over to the seeker, along with the rest of the team, and gave her an enormous hug. 

The Gryffindors started to rush from the stands to congratulate them, and so did Professor McGonagall who practically picked John up in excitement.

“Let’s go! Come on!” Graham grabbed Sherlock by the cloak and the two of them ran down the stands and finally on to the pitch. 

“Mate!” Graham enveloped John in a huge squeeze, and then Stephen. 

Sherlock stood there, a bit awkwardly, suddenly very aware of the colour of his scarf. McGonagall spotted him.

“I won’t tell, Mr Holmes,” she said, winking. 

“Sherlock!”

It was John, a bit sweaty, his nose pink from the cold, hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. Sherlock, bizarrely, felt suddenly very exposed. 

“You actually came!” John half yelled, beaming at him.

Sherlock nodded, smiling. 

“Said you were a good flyer.”

John scoffed, “Erm, when?”

“That day on the train.”

John’s face split into an embarrassed sort of smile, “Did you? Where was that encouragement yesterday afternoon?”

“Well, didn’t want you to get complacent,” Sherlock said, smirking.

At this, the entire Gryffindor team, and many of the supporters, threw John into the air in triumph. John begged to be put down as they began bobbing him about, but he looked almost illuminated with joy, eyes sparkling and head thrown back with laughter. Sherlock smiled up at him. Well done, John.

…

John, having changed back into his jeans and after a hearty sing-along of the school song in the  changing rooms, left them positively floating. Greg had met Mike and was now waiting outside for him, still chanting “roar-roar-Gryffindor” with a voice now nearly gone.

Mike clapped him on the back, and Greg threatened to pick him up again. 

“Where’s Sherlock?” John said, throwing Greg off him.

“Said he was going to the library- needed to think about something apparently.”

The bonfire. 

“Say when he’d be done?”

Greg shook his head.

And the three of them began to walk up the path.

They didn’t get very far, however, before they ran into Sherlock, himself. Though it wasn’t the nicest reunion John had ever had. 

Sherlock was crouching round the back of the Gryffindor quidditch stand, leaning against the wooden scaffold, curls falling over his face.

“Sherlock?” John called, rushing forward.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“Look at me,” John said, squatting down beside him, “Hey-”

Sherlock batted the hand John had just extended away from him.

“Sherlock,” John tilted Sherlock’s chin upwards. Bloody nose, “Seriously-”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock snapped. Greg and Mike caught up to him, “Oh for God’s sake!” 

The four of them sat there for a few minutes, until Sherlock’s nose decided to stop running. It had only been two punches from Sebastian, no stamping on his face, or anywhere else for that matter, but that didn’t make it much better. 

“It’s not broken this time, at least,” John said, looking at him worriedly, “He didn’t hit you anywhere else?” 

“Nope. Leave it, I’m fine.”

They sat there for a few moments while Sherlock tried to catch his breath, on John’s orders, and failed repeatedly due to muttering “this is ridiculous” everytime he exhaled.

“Right,” he said, jumping up suddenly, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I’m off!” and starting heading onward to the castle once again.

“You sure?”

“Yep. Very busy and important,” he said cooly, not turning to look at them, “Goodbye.” 

John stared after him as he sped off up the path. 

…

After dinner that evening, to which Sherlock hadn’t attended not to John’s surprise, John had stayed for half an hour or so after Greg had gone up to bed, along with many of the other students, to chat to a few of the Gryffindor team. All of them were blissfully content and not quite ready for the day of such a win to come to a close, going over and re-going over all the excitement of the day. John wasn’t overly happy in recollecting how he’d been very nearly been knocked off his broom by Sebastian, but he supposed it had made the match interesting

Alas, the day had to end at some point and John was in much need of sleep, so, leaving his teammates to initiate yet another rendition of “Roar, Roar, Gryffindor”, he headed out of the hall and up the many stairs to the common room, legs heavy as stone, but heart very happy indeed.

It was when he reached the top of the second staircase of the fourth floor that he was interrupted. A boy of with dark brown hair slicked cleanly across his head, whom John did not particularly recognise, was balanced on the banister, twiddling his wand between his fingers, remarkably similar to how Sherlock did sometimes.

“Hello,” he said brightly as John reached him.

John did the polite thing, obviously, “Hi, you okay?” before carrying on past him.

“It was a nasty nose bleed,” the boy said after him. 

John turned round, “I’m sorry?”

“Your friend,” He raised his eyebrows at him, “You were his healer, weren’t you?” 

John puzzled, “Sherlock? Yeah- When did you-?” 

“You worry about him, don’t you,” the boy persisted.

“Erm, no I just-”

“Or is it more than that?” he slid of the banister to approach him. 

“I-I’m off to bed so-”

“He’s magnificent, isn’t he,” the boy said, voice suddenly very, very cold. 

John cleared his throat. 

“Goodnight” John said flatly, turning to go.

“I will have,” was all the boy replied.

John, giving him one last polite smile, which probably in reality appeared just as concerned as he felt, continued at a pace up the remaining staircase. What was that?

Chapter Text

Sherlock enjoyed being out in the grounds out at night - it often meant slipping out of his four poster under fear of death and having to find the correlation between certain snores of his roommates and how deep their sleep was, but once he was out of the dungeons and, more importantly, out of the castle, he felt more at ease than any other time at Hogwarts. That evening, having nursed his sore nose in some dark corner of the library before heading off to bed, he felt the need to investigate the courtyard. 

Cloak wrapped snugly round him and wand grasped tightly in hand, he stepped out into the bitter cold November night, to where a pile of charcoal and a sprinkling of ash now lingered from the bonfire the night before. This didn’t matter, however. He’d sussed out the remains of that that morning and it was that useless now. 

Instead, he went to the surrounding shrubbery and walls of the courtyard itself. Whispering “Lumos” under his breath, he started carefully peeling through the bushes, holding his wand between his teeth. 

To anyone mischievously out and about the grounds at midnight that Saturday, Sherlock would have looked relatively… bizzare. However, to him, his actions made complete sense.

The angle at which the flames whipped the crowd the previous night had not been random or spasmodic, but calculated, sequenced and repetitive, licking precisely three recurring points in their surroundings (and getting dangerously close to the students on their way around). These three points were where Sherlock, irritably, was searching. 

After fifteen minutes sifting through a rather prickly hedge, made increasingly difficult by the lack of light and coldness of his fingers, Sherlock found something. A small cotton pouch, tied with what appeared to be a dark green string, was pierced on the end of a thin thorn. Sherlock, leather clad fingers moving very carefully, plucked it from its place and felt it. Full of a powder. Very potent. Familiar. 

Once again, without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock knew it to be aconite. He pocketed it. 

Suddenly very excited indeed, he moved to the further two points of flame contact, and yet again found two pouches identical in size, tied with the same jade string. Once Sherlock had all three, he pulled off his gloves and daintily prodded them with his fingers. Damp? 

He brushed his fingers about the bushes. Dry. Hasn’t rained in days. Hagrid had not gardened in at least a month… yet these were damp… 

His heart was beating fast, his brain moving even faster. He daren’t hope that this was an actual one, an actual case… But how could it not be?

Wary to not push his search any further whilst staying so close to the castle after hours, Sherlock whispered “Nox” before pocketing his wand and all three pouches. Fighting to remain light on his feet in his excitement, slunk back into the entrance hall, praying the large oak doors wouldn’t creak under his movement, and rushed back to his common room. Just in time to pretend to sleep for seven hours before heading to breakfast to tell John! 

In his enthusiasm and swiftness to settle into his mind palace to think over his findings, he failed to notice that there was one less person snoring in his dormitory when he returned. 

…

“So someone’s been making little pouches with bows on…?” John said, puzzling, “And that means…?”

They were sat by the lake, somewhere which had become a regular spot for them to go together, both wrapped in thick scarves and pretending they weren’t dithering quietly in the cold. They were completely alone apart from Carl, as usual, who was swimming out in the centre of the water. 

“They’re not bows. And they mean quite a lot, in fact,” Sherlock snapped, pulling one from his pockets, “Aconite heated lightly, then ground into a fine powder becomes highly flammable. Practically gunpowder - whoever did this seems to have a theatrical touch, doing so on November the fifth…”

“So why didn’t they explode?” John asked, peering at them worryingly, as if they were about to explode any moment, “You said the fire got close to them, shouldn't we all be horribly burned by now?” 

Sherlock smirked at him, which John was increasingly understanding meant he had missed something Sherlock found completely obvious. 

“They’re damp, John,” Sherlock gave the pouch a little squeeze, causing a few muddy drops of water to fall between them, “Severely - couldn’t ignite. Look-” Sherlock unfastened the cotton carefully, revealing a small mound of damp greyish/green powder. 

Without consulting John, he pulled out his wand and said “Incendio” as if it was of no worry whatsoever, and John was ready to pull them both into the safety of the lake when, but as Sherlock had said, the flame fizzled out at the contact with the aconite.  

John relaxed a little. 

“So rain saved us?” 

“Hasn’t rained in days, John,” Sherlock’s eyes brightened fiercely, “They’ve been dampened on purpose.” 

“Why would someone do that?”

“Attention- the flames were too calculated, it was obvious - the fellow could have simply poured the contents of these pouches on to the fire and the job would’ve been done- but no. This person didn’t necessarily want to hurt us. They just wanted to show us they could.”

John paused for a moment, “That’s comforting.”

“Is it?” Sherlock scoffed. 

“Who’s us, though?” John asked finally. Sherlock frowned, “No I mean- you’re the only person to notice this, Sherlock, to know how the flames moved, to have found these things… So if they want attention it seems that they want it from-”

“Me,” Sherlock cut in, nodding, “I know.” 

“Why would that be…?”

Sherlock pulled his pipe from the pocket of his robes, “Haven’t the foggiest.” he lit the end of it, “Thankfully, unlike this gunpowder my tobacco is flammable.” 

John snorted. “Shut up- Sh- Carl’s coming-” 

…

Carl came shivering towards them, towel wrapped tightly around him, skin pricked with goosebumps, pale from the chilly water. They engaged in their usual small talk, Carl asking if he had any cases, Sherlock lying, that sort of thing, whilst Carl pulled on his jumper and jogging bottoms over his trunks. 

“Well, better be off - it’s freezing out here!” Carl said brightly, “See you later.”

But as he turned to go, he said “Oh actually, Sherlock- I have a case for you-”

Sherlock looked up, trying with every fiber of his being not to roll his eyes, “Do you?”

Carl suddenly flushed slightly, “Well, you know- nothing big, just- I can’t find-”

“Do spit it out Carl, you’ll freeze to death.” 

“Someone’s taken my gloves!” Carl whined, “I had them in my pocket at the bonfire and they’re gone.”

Sherlock did roll his eyes this time. 

“How gripping,” he said coolly,“Sure you didn’t drop them?”

“Positive! I was being so careful-”

“Go to lost property?” John piped up, kindly.

“I have, they aren’t there.”

Sherlock sighed irritably. 

“I’ll have a look, Carl.”

Carl smiled at him thankfully, before scooping up his belongings and heading in the direction of the much warmer castle. 

“Will you have a look for them?” John prodded.

Sherlock snorted, “Sure. But not really the top of my list,” he said, pulling an aconite pouch from his pocket.

“A week ago this would have been gold-”

“John.”

“Would have made the papers-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock elbowed him, “It’s been a slow term.”  

…

As the weeks continued, and December became agonisingly close, professors in most classes found it fitting to set “end of first term tests” before the castle got gripped in full Christmas spirit, apparently as to “not detract from festivities once December came”. John understood the premise of this; he definitely didn’t want Christmas to be tainted by exams, but John wasn’t a fan of Christmas anyway, and honestly wished everyone had decided to have the tests a few weeks later. 

The impending fear of progress tests and revising poorly written alchemy notes in the gloomy candlelight of the library was not improved by the fact that Sherlock did not care in anyway whatsoever. 

Sherlock had been practically living in the library since the bonfire incident, which John thought would be a perfect setting in which he could revise, if Sherlock wasn’t going to. He was wrong. 

“Those notes aren’t right,” Sherlock would often say over whatever he was studying. 

This particular time, he was checking the cotton pouches for fingerprints (using soot he had made himself, much to the dismay of John one quiet afternoon in the grounds, and spellotape).

John had found in a very short amount of time that Sherlock was chippier when he was stuck on something - Clearly no fingerprints found, then.

“They’re not wrong, Sherlock.”

“Are,” Sherlock said, “You copied them down wrong. Forgot to say.”

John sighed, “Really?” 

Sherlock hummed in response, not looking up.

“So what colour is an anti-paralysis potion when finished, then?”

“Hm. That’d be telling- I won’t be able to help you in the exam, you know.”

John could see Sherlock smirking under his mop of hair.

“Blue,” John said, warily.

“Nope.”

“Yellow?” 

“Wrong.”

“Burnt Umber.”

“Now your just being ridiculous,” Sherlock looked up at him, mouth turning up at the edges. 

John shrugged. 

“Fine- It’s purple. It’s finished colour is purple- almost lilac in colour, actually.”

John nodded quickly, muttering how he “should have know that…”, adding it to his notes. 

“My favourite colour…” Sherlock murmured, brushing soot gently off of the table.

John looked up, eyes wide. 

“What was that?” he asked teasingly.

“Hm?” 

“Your favourite colour is-”

“Thought you wanted to revise? If you won’t help me you may as well help yourself, mightn’t you?” Sherlock said, without looking up.

A wide grin was desperate to spread across John’s face, which he fought to retain control of. He pulled his parchment towards him.

“You’ve got soot on your nose,” John murmured, dipping the nib of his quill in the ink.

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed.

He wasn’t a better exam partner, either. As John sat there eagerly scribbling away names and dates or fought to remember how to spell an incantation or what potion ingredient was the most important to a certain antidote, Sherlock was humming. Humming. Just quiet enough so only John and perhaps Greg could hear him. That, or he would write nothing for the first half an hour, before finishing in less than five minutes. 

Finally, however, the last practice exams drew to a close (and John only thought he'd completely failed half of them, so things weren't so bad frankly) and with them, November did too. On it's waning days, a buzz began to brew around the castle. The kitchens got busier, Hagrid was spotted selecting pine trees to decorate every corner of the castle, and families were sending parcels of sweets and chocolates to get students through the cold weeks of advent. 

Sherlock didn't seem to play into the pre-December hype, and John did neither. John hated December. 

Chapter Text

Before they knew it, they were coming to the end of their first term of the year at Hogwarts. December had arrived at the castle, and with it had brought the smallest sprinkling of snow on the rooftops, and a giddy mood which Sherlock despised. These twenty five days are just the same as any other twenty five days.

However, all this sudden burst of light and wonderment that bled through the castle so hatefully, Sherlock had to admit he wasn’t entirely glad that John seemed to be absent of such silliness. John had come down to breakfast on the first few December mornings with that increasingly familiar, worrying look upon his face Sherlock had noticed that day on the train months before. Eyes sunken, frown fixed, gaze distant… Sherlock had an inkling why. Harry had the same demeanour.

He just wanted it to go away. Why couldn’t John loath December’s merriment for a lesser reason…

Sherlock did enjoy one fundamental aspect of Christmas, however. He was able to go home. He liked his home very much, although its ruralness could often be intrinsically tedious, it meant a safe haven for weeks at a time, in which he could work in peace. Seeing Mycroft, however, that always proved near fatal, but it was a risk he had to make.
By the third of December, Sherlock had received the annual letter from his mother asking if he’d be returning home. For the last five years, the answer had been ”yes” and this year was no exception. It was obvious that, deep down, his mother wished him to say “no” because he’d found some rabble of kind or interesting friends to spend the holiday season with in the grounds, but alas he would be coming home this year once again.

As he was scrawling out the reply, however, snow dancing in and out of the owlery’s tall windows, it suddenly struck him.

He may very much have been mistaken, but this year he did have a rabble of kind and… well… not uninteresting… acquaintances. And John had called him his friend, hadn’t he? And John was very interesting. Very interesting.

However, Graham was off home to somewhere near London for Christmas, Mike and his family were off on holiday somewhere, and Molly hadn’t shut up about her trip to somewhere or other (Sherlock couldn’t remember) which her parents had been planning since the Christmas before…

His stomach flipped uncomfortably. And John was staying here.

Sherlock, grabbing a quill, re-wrote his reply to his mother:

 Mummy,

Will be home for Christmas as usual. Pity Mycroft will as well. Looking forward to seeing you all. We will be leaving on Friday 17th, train gets in at approximately five minutes and forty six seconds past six o’clock in the evening.

Chapter Text

It felt very strange to be sat in the Thestral’s carriage so soon, Sherlock, Greg and Mike sat round him, huddling for warmth as the snow flurried around them on that mid-December afternoon. John hadn’t spent a Christmas away from Hogwarts in five years. The time of year entirely had become rather melancholic for him, to be quite truthful, however as he sat amongst his friends, chatting excitedly about what the next few weeks would have in store, John found himself ready to try and enjoy Christmas again.

As their carriage started to approach Hogsmeade station, his hands starting to burn with cold, John felt the large cold smack of a snowball to the back of his head. Turning, ready to give someone a good old fashioned hand signal, he saw Harry in the carriage behind. She was huddling close to Clara, who too was throwing snowballs at him.  John’s heart sank a little, but he offered a rather forced smile. If Harry was happy spending Christmas with her apparently on-again-off-again girlfriend, John supposed he’d have to be happy with it. It was then that Clara fired an absolutely perfect shot to John’s face, which made the whole matter a lot more difficult.

“Gerroff you lot - and have a bloody good Christmas, the lot o’ you!” came Hagrid’s booming, but jolly as always, voice as the cart’s skidded to a halt in the snow into the Christmas card setting that was Hogsmeade.

Everyone wished Hagrid a very merry Christmas back as they passed him, some giving him little parcels and envelopes which made his eyes crinkle and disappear into his mass of hair. In Hagrid’s increasing years, his beard had grown pale, and John couldn’t help but be reminded of those old muggle drawings of Father Christmas his parents had shown him in story books when he and Harry were younger. The thought made his mouth grow dry.

But a tug on his arm from Sherlock brought him back to the excitement of the platform, “Come on, let’s get on, it’s bitter out here-”

And the four of them clambered carefully up the slippery, slush-covered steps, gripping each other for support, and were enveloped instantly by the welcoming warmth of the Hogwarts Express.

Each window was laced with a garland of cinnamon sticks, pine cones and dried oranges. Each compartment door harboured a small but magnificent wreath, and there was a Honeydukes gold coin on every seat. Good old Hogwarts.

Sherlock immediately tossed his coin to John, who passed it to Greg.

“I love Christmas,” Greg beamed.

The journey was nothing short of beautiful as they passed through the Scottish highlands, hidden under blankets of white, glistening snow. The sun had begun to set by half-past three, meaning for a large portion of the journey the carriage was bathed in an orange glow, which made the frost clinging to the edges of the windows sparkle.

The company was brilliant, as always, with Greg, Mike and John engaging in a very angry game of exploding snap, which Sherlock, as politely as he could, quickly declined. They only brought the game to an end, however, after about half an hour, when, for one, Mike had whacked the door of the carriage so hard that the wreath shuddered, and more importantly, Sherlock, who John had assumed to be deep in thought staring out of the window, they found to be in fact fast asleep.

John knew Sherlock had not been having too great a time over the past few weeks, and he didn’t need Sherlock’s perceptive skills to know he hadn’t been sleeping well at all, so this was a great relief.

After a couple of hours, a trolley came around, providing hot mince pies and tea, “free of charge as it’s Christmas”, to which they all took one happily, and John took one for Sherlock, who awoke about half an hour later.

“Thank you…” Sherlock mumbled, stretching, as John nudged the pie into his hand, “Wasn’t there any tea?” he said, straightening, genuinely hurt, it seemed.

“I was worried I’d spill it-”

“Anti-spilling charm, John. Told you before,” he sighed, but took a contented bite out of his mince pie, before giving John a grateful smile.

The closer they got to London, the blankets of snow that covered their world grew more and more threadbare, but that didn’t matter. Being at Hogwarts for Christmas for a while had made John accustomed to having snow, but according to Sherlock it snowed almost without fail over Christmas where he and his family lived, so London didn’t matter.

As they pulled into King’s Cross however, the evening sky dark but the air alight with lights of every imaginable colour, John’s stomach dropped to somewhere below his knees. What would Christmas be like staying with the Holmes’... and more importantly… would they like him?

They all dozily got up from their warm seats, stretching and yawning, and checking the floor for any mislaid belongings throughout the long journey, before making their way out into the corridor, and eventually, down the steps onto platform nine and three quarters.

It wasn’t quite as cold as Hogwarts, but bloody hell it was close. Their breath rose around them as they all stepped, dithering, from the train and onto the platform, muted in colour from the cold. John pulled his coat tight around him before heading off to find their belongings.

“Our stuff was one of the first groups on,” Sherlock half yelled over the bustle of the station, “so we may have to wait a minute or two,” before giving John an encouraging sort of smile.

In time, Greg and Mike and a few others all came over, slapping John on the back and bidding the two of them farewell, renditions of “Merry Christmas” hot on their lips every time, until finally Harry arrived on the scene, trunk in hand and Clara at her side.

“Merry Christmas…” she murmured, obviously worriedly, and obviously trying to disguise the tightness in her throat.

John returned it, before pulling her into a very abrupt hug, “Look after yourself” he whispered as he did so, finding a lump had suddenly formed in his throat.

Harry pulled free, smiled at her brother and then Sherlock, before her and Clara went off into the heaving crowd that was the platform.

Sherlock gave his arm a little squeeze.

Then, after minutes of willing their things would be given to them so they could go and wait in the warm, their trunks were thrust onto the platform rather haphazardly. Just as John heard Sherlock mumble grudgingly, “I’ll have you know there are breakables in there-”, a very excited gasp came from behind him.

John wheeled around, to see a very beautiful witch in about her late forties, her dark brown hair, greying in places, escaping from underneath a navy velvet hat and falling in waves to her shoulders. She was beaming widely at him, eyes bright and identical to Sherlock’s, that strange pale blue/green colour.

“Hello,” she said warmly, “You’re John, aren’t you?”

John nodded, “Yes, I erm, I-”

“Hello, Mummy.”

Sherlock appeared next to them, clutching his trunk in one hand and a rather disgruntled, caged Billie in the other. Mrs Holmes practically wept at the sight of him, pulling him into a rather one sided hug.

“It’s so good to see you, my boy,” she said softly, cupping his face with her gloved hand. 

Sherlock, surprisingly, lent into the touch, expression softening in spite of the cold. Sherlock then nodded to John.

“Mummy, this is John-”

“Oh I know this is John,” she said, laughing, and John suddenly found his face being cupped instead,  “How could I not with all you’ve written about him, sweetheart!”

John shot Sherlock a interested look. Sherlock ignored him.

“Shall we go? Can’t have us standing out in the cold, can we,” Sherlock said quickly. Mrs Holmes released John quickly.

“Yes, yes of course. Gosh, you both are freezing. Your father is on the other side of the platform looking at the muggles' Christmas lights- they know how to put on a show!"

“Mummy-” Sherlock persisted, still warmly. John was pretty sure it was in response to his quite loud shiver.

“Yes yes, sorry dear. Come on!” and with that, she took  Billie’s cage from Sherlock, offering to help John with his trunk, which he kindly refused, and they started to make their way to the gateway back into the muggle world.

…

Sherlock was very very nervous now his parents were with them, talking excitedly as they walked briskly through Kings Cross station to the nearest Floo Network fireplace. John seemed nervous too, and seemed to be struggling with carrying his bags- left shoulder is irritable- but Sherlock was starting to know better than to intervene.

The cue for the fireplaces was long, yet thankfully they were at least inside now. The long pause in movement provoked his parents to talk directly to John.

“It really is so lovely to meet you dear,” his mother said warmly, placing Bille’s cage onto the floor beside her, “We’re so excited to have you with stay with us!”

Sherlock’s father nodded in agreement, smile wide on his face, “Absolutely!”

John swallowed, “You’re sure it’s no trouble? I don’t want to invade on your-”

“No trouble at all!” his mother interrupted, “The more the merrier at Christmas!”

John seemed to relax a little, smiling gently.

“Thank god- we’re moving,” Sherlock breathed, as the family in front of them drifted away from them in the cue, “We’re dangerously close to the ministry- Mycroft could arrive any moment. I do not want to see him any more than necessary this Christmas season,” he added bitterly, on a low voice intended for John only,

“Sherlock!” Mrs Holmes barked.

Oh of course she heard.

…

Eventually they reached a large fireplace, big enough for two-at-a-time travel complete with trunks, bags and a small caged owl. Mr and Mrs Holmes went first, so they could put the kettle on apparently, taking as many bags as would fit.

After speaking the address of “Holmes Cottage” aloud, and throwing down a handful of floo powder into the hearth, the two of them disappeared in a cloud of smoke and a crackling of emerald green flames. This left John and Sherlock alone with only Billie screeching beside them.

“You alright?” Sherlock asked, not looking at John, “I know they’re a bit excitable and chatty and-“

“Sherlock!” John chuckled kindly, “Stop worrying- really- I’m fine!”

Sherlock looked down at him, softening. With that, a shower of green sparks flourished from the fireplace.

“Our turn, it seems,” John nodded to it.

The two of them picked up Billie, who apparently hated the floo network more than week old mice, and suddenly they were off to Holmes cottage, together, for Christmas.

…

After a rather disorientating journey, which made John question why wizards hadn't found a better way of travelling undetected, the pair of them fell awkwardly into what must have been the Holmes’ living room.

Immediately, the smell of delicious cooking struck him, the feeling of soft, thick carpet was under his palm, and the sound, barely audible under Billie’s screeching, of pans bubbling and a kettle whistling welcomed him in, all so inherent of home.

Wiping the soot from his eyes, his gaze fell, for the first time, on Sherlock’s home. A large red sofa with a tartan throw thrown over the back of it lay ahead of him, with green squashy pillows scattered across it. Two matching red armchairs framed either side of it, in one of which Sherlock was sitting, dusting soot from his coat. In the left hand corner of the room, behind the sofa, was a large, still bare, Christmas tree, with which Mrs Holmes was fussing, and a string of glass baubles, each filled with a small glowing light,  hung from the skirting board which surrounded the entire sitting room.

“Cup of tea, John?” Sherlock’s father asked kindly, walking through a small archway into an adjoining room off to the left, which John could only assume to be the kitchen.

“Er, yes please- But I don’t mind making them, Mr Holmes-” he replied brightly, clambering to his feet, having realised he’d been sat in front of the fireplace gawking at them for slightly too long.  

“No,no, you stay there- and it’s Timothy- call me Tim, if you like!”

John nodded appreciatively.

“No sugar for John,” Sherlock called to his father in the kitchen “Approximately two drops of mil- Oh I’ll come and do it-” He pushed himself lazily from his armchair and stooped into the kitchen.

He’s remembered how I take my tea?

This was amusing, considering Sherlock hadn’t actually made him a cup entirely on his own at any point.

John, a tad awkwardly, moved to the sofa, which allowed him to take in the fireplace properly, having just been thrown from it. It was a grand affair, wide set, almost matching the length of the sofa, in greyish and sand-coloured stone. A thick mantlepiece of dark wood ran above, which was ladened with a garland of foliage and berries and dried fruits, with a few of the same glass baubles hanging from it, all ready for the festive season.

Mrs Holmes, sorry- Mae, abandoned her tree for the moment, and with a flick of her wand, the fireplace was lit, which bathed John and the rest of the furniture in a flourish of warmth and comforting light.

“Make yourself at home,” she spoke kindly, sitting herself down in an armchair, “Looks like we won’t be going out again for the rest of the evening, at least!” she gestured out of their dainty windows onto what must have been the front garden.

John’s mouth fell open. The window panes were completely a blur of falling snow, thick flakes starting to pile at their frosted corners.

“Sure it’s no match to Hogwarts, I suppose,” she added, chuckling.

I wouldn’t be so sure.

As he continued staring out the window, a thought struck him.

“Erm, where actually are we?” he asked, slightly embarrassed.

Mrs Holmes smiled, “Yes, I suppose the floo network doesn’t give too many clues away- we’re on Dartmoor. Just on the outside of a muggle village called ‘Haytor Vale’. You know of it?”

John shook his head.

“We find it very pretty here, but it is quite remote- I think our Sherlock gets very bored, bless him.”

With that, Sherlock slid into the room carrying two teacups, closely followed by his father who was carrying the same. He popped himself beside John, passed him his saucer, which he had to admit was the perfect cup of tea, and gave him a small smile.

...

Why must they drink tea so slowly?

It was coming up to half an hour since tea had been served, and John and his parents were still talking. They’d asked John what subjects he was taking, what career he wanted to pursue, how much he enjoyed being quidditch captain, all things Sherlock already knew and he was pretty sure his parents did also.

“So you were the boy who accidentally took Sherlock’s Slytherin hat?” his mother asked finally.

“Er, yes! And he took my tie. We happened to sit in the same train carriage on the way to school this year and we returned them,” John said, rather fondly.

“And you were instant friends from that point onward?” his father chimed in.

Sherlock shot John a worried look, which he found John returned.

“Erm.”

Say yes. It’s easier.

“Yeah - well, it helped that we happen to be in a good few classes together this year, but… yes,” John said warily. Sherlock was was nodding at him minutely, “Yep, so.”

Sherlock’s parents beamed at them.

Well done, John.

Sherlock, not wanting to sit there anxiously any longer, peered into John’s teacup. It was empty.

“Right!” he barked, jumping up, “We should probably be taking our stuff up to my room- get John settled and all that.” 

He gave John a piercing look.  J ohn set his cup down and rose to his feet. 

“Well alright, boys - I’ll call you when dinner’s ready- don’t worry John, Sherlock told us you were vegetarian-” his father said kindly, as Sherlock was practically pushing John out of the door and into the hallway.

“Thank you,” John called behind him, as Sherlock shut the lounge door.

John then burst into laughter, “Seriously-” he breathed “Calm down, okay? They’re lovely.”

Sherlock frowned, “I know? But they’re also quizzing you about your life story and-” Sherlock lowered his voice, “I’m not overly keen on them finding out the real moment we started spending more time together was when you stupefied Sebastian after he’d been stamping on my face, now-” he picked up his and John’s trunk, “Shall we?”

He started up the steep wooden twisting staircase to the top floor, and after a few steps he heard the sound of John’s footsteps creaking behind him.

…

After clambering up the narrow staircase, the two of them reached the landing, and Sherlock led John along the corridor, bags and shoes dragging and scuffing on the hard wooden floor, to his bedroom at the end of it.

Sherlock nudged open the door with his shoulder, and with a prepared sigh, stepped into the room. John followed.

The room was square, relatively standard in size, with a large bay window at the back of it looking out over the back garden and, from what John could make out in the evening sky and quick falling snow, an array of fields onward. There was a single bed to the right of the door and a narrow desk to the the left of it. The rest of the furniture John couldn’t make out, as they were littered, floor to ceiling, in papers and books.

There was, however, a mattress on the floor, covered in a thick blanket and multiple cushions and pillows, as was the bed.

“I’ll be sleeping on the floor- That’s what hosts do, don’t they?”

John chuckled, nervously, “You sure? I don’t mind-“

“No- I insist-“ Sherlock said, placing John's trunk onto the bed, and his own on the floor, “There.”

John noticed, however, that Sherlock’s eyes were flitting from surface to surface, paper to paper, irritably.

“Damn it,“ he mumbled, shuffling what looked like newspaper cuttings around, “I hate it when she tidies- Why must she tidy?”

John was unable to stifle a small chuckle, containing the word “tidy?” which Sherlock replied with a nervous look.

Suddenly, he began stacking his apparently purposely messy belongings up onto his desk, mumbling “Well perhaps it could do with straightening- just a bit- I-“

“Sherlock!” John laughed, fondly, “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

He is worrying. Why?

John moved from the doorway to sit on the bed. Sherlock smiled at him, almost thankfully.

“So, what do you think?” Sherlock asked, not looking at him, still busying about with his many belongings.

“I like it,” John said brightly, looking about him.

Newspapers, photographs, potions equipment…

“Yeah…” John pondered, continuing, looking from the string of parchment hanging from one corner of the ceiling, to a pair of socks strung up on the windowsill above a small pewter cauldron, “Yeah- it’s brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” Sherlock mused, still fussing at his desk. John could almost hear him smirking, “I wouldn’t say that I don’t think…”

As he spoke, he pulled, from beneath a collapsed pile of what looked like ink samples scraped on parchment, a violin. John’s mouth fell open.

Sherlock blew a small layer of dust off the surface of the wood, and it floated gently up into the air around him.

“I think it’s painfully ordinary,” he continued, running his long fingers along the strings “but, alas, it’s home.”

He turned to John, who was sat on the bed, hands in his lap, not really knowing his place in Sherlock’s home.

“You play?”John asked after a moment’s pause, nodding to the instrument.

Sherlock looked upon it, warmly, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“A bit,” he replied, moving to place it down on the bed beside John.

He then went about inspecting what had now been revealed as a bookcase next to the desk,  half tidying, have familiarizing himself with his things.

John was more than happy to watch him.

“Have you read all of them?”

Sherlock hummed, stacking books of different colours and textures upon his arm.

“The books?” John continued.

“Hm, most of them, some of them are Mycroft’s- sometimes he finds books and feels the need to lecture me about their contents, those I steal”

Sherlock picked up a small box from one of the shelves, examining it.

“He never notices, he often reads for show-” however once he clicked the box open, he seemed to freeze.

John, more out of instinct than rudeness, craned his neck slightly to see, catching a glimpse of something cylindrical, maybe, glass, or metallic-

Sherlock slammed the lid shut abruptly. His entire frame seemed to stiffen.

“You okay?”   John murmured softly, hitching forward slightly on the mattress.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and replied suddenly very brightly, “Yep! I just do wish she wouldn’t clean.”

He placed a pile of the books that had been hovering at his side onto his desk, and took the box and shoved it underneath his bed.

John thought not to pry.

Sherlock, resurfacing from under the bed John was sat on, then flopped down beside him.

“Dinner’ll be ready soon- anything you need to unpack before then?”

“Don’t think so, unless I’m meant to use my own cutlery?” John teased, giving him a little nudge.

Sherlock snorted, looking almost embarrassedly into his lap, “Really, John.”

When Sherlock’s father called up the stairs that it was time to go down to dinner, dinner with the Holmes’, John was already feeling significantly calmer, a very delicious, homey scent wafting up the stairs to meet them as they went.

…

It was an informal affair, to John’s relief. Sherlock’s father had made a very delicious and very hearty vegetable and mushroom pie, complete with rich buttery mash and gravy on the side in a large china jug.

Sherlock sat beside him, and Sherlock’s parents opposite, and conversation flowed surprisingly smoothly.

John asked about Mycroft, to which Sherlock gave an audible groan and began turning his mash over with his fork irritably, and they told John about his job at the ministry, about his seven year age gap with Sherlock, and whether that meant he was at school with John at any point, and finally his plans to return home for Christmas on the 23rd.

At this news, Sherlock nearly slipped away from the table entirely, but was convinced to stay by John’s hand on his arm and, more probably, his mother’s piercing stare.

“Mikey’s lovely, John- it’s a shame they find it so hard to get along,” Mrs Holmes continued to John, pouring some more gravy onto Sherlock’s plate, “Eat up, Sherlock, love.”

Sherlock, sniggering over the fact his mother had just referred to his brother as “Mikey” to John, shovelled a small forkful of pastry into his mouth.

John, on the contrary, had eaten all of his own, and gone in for a second slice very soon after. Sherlock’s missing out. It truly was delicious.

“Now, John,” Sherlock’s father began, finishing a swig of water, “What’s ours is yours while you’re here, we mean that, help yourself to anything- anything at all!”

John, finishing off his plate, thanked them earnestly before taking a drink.

“So, what’re your plans with John, Sherlock?” His mother asked carelessly.

John choked on his drink. Erm.

“Tomorrow, if the snow’s ceased off a bit, I was thinking that we’d go on a walk, or something?” He looked to John for approval.

Oh.

“Oh! Yeah, sounds good yeah,” he recovered, wiping his mouth, “Should be fun!”

Sherlock’s parents hummed in agreement, beaming at the two of them.

“Should be lovely - more mash, John?”

…

As the meal drew to a close, Sherlock noticed John starting to grow sleepy. His eyelids were beginning to droop, his head sought support upon his palm, which sought support from his elbow, which sought support from the table, and his conversation had become mere hums in acknowledgement. Sherlock, aware that John wouldn’t want to appear rude by retiring early, stifled a yawn.

“Well, it’s been a long day- travelling, and all that,“ Sherlock lazily rose from his chair, “John and I may retire to bed, I think?”

John gave himself a little shake to rouse himself, “Er yeah, I must admit I’m shattered…” he began to rise too.

Sherlock's mother smiled at them, “Oh alright dear, you go get yourselves nice and comfy, and I’ll bring you… tea? Hot chocolate? Milk-?”

“Tea!” The two of them said together.

Embarrassing.

“...Please,” John finished.

“Right you are- off you pop, now!”

And Sherlock, with a dozy John in tow, wandered contently off up the stairs.

Sherlock grabbed some fresh pyjamas from his bedroom before heading off to the bathroom to change. John’s the guest, after all. However it was only when Sherlock re-entered the bedroom, jogging bottoms on and dressing gown wrapped loosely around him, that he realised the… newness? of the situation.

John was sat regimentally on the edge on the bed, wearing a perfectly ordinary loose white t-shirt, with burgundy and orange checked bottoms. Evidently, Sherlock’s mother had already made her rounds as John was clutching a large steaming mug between his hands, again a brilliantly normal happening.

And yet…

John looked so… different? Soft, sleepy, oddly scintillating, as he sat there, allowing his eyes to fall upon a handful of Sherlock’s many possessions. Sherlock watched as his eyes fell on the socks at the windowsill.  John chuckled, before taking a sip of his tea.

Sherlock swallowed, before clearing his throat.

John looked up at him, a small smile that crinkled at the corners of his eyes spread across his face.

…

“Have enough blankets?” Sherlock asked him, as he shuffled down into his own upon the floor.

“Do you? I’m the one on an actual bed Sherlock, are you sure you’re okay sleeping-“

“Do you have enough blankets or not?” Sherlock persisted.

John laughed, “Yeah! I’m very comfortable!”

Sherlock pushed his head down into the pillow, “Good.”

Once the two of them, in seemingly companionable silence, swigged off their last few mouthfuls of tea, Sherlock let out a long sigh, which seemed to trigger the few balls of lights and the odd candles to dissipate with a small pop.

“Was that you doing that?” John asked from the darkness.

“Yep,” Sherlock replied, “Didn’t take much practice.”

John smiled at the ceiling, “Brilliant.”

Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

“And… the socks, what are they for?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Just an experiment, I’m cataloguing the amount of damp soil fabric can take before stretching out of shape completely.”

“Why…?”

“Could be useful.”

John breathed, “It could yeah,” He settled himself deeper into Sherlock’s pillow, “You never know.”

They lay there silently for a moment, the only sound John could hear being the gently ebb and flow of Sherlock’s breathing, and the occasional crinkle or crease of sheet sliding over sheet. John suddenly found himself feeling more relaxed than he had in months.

“Hmm… goodnight, Sherlock,” he mumbled into his duvet.

“Goodnight, John,” rumbled a reply, in a low, almost non-existent voice. 

John didn’t need Sherlock’s brain to deduce that the boy was, too, nearly asleep.

“G'night.”  

Sleep began to pool in John’s eyelids and, soon enough, the darkness and warmth of Sherlock’s ridiculous bedroom washed over him, pulled him in, and left him there till morning.

Chapter Text

John stirred as he rolled onto his front, rubbing his cheek dozily against the pillow beneath him. The welcoming morning light from the bedroom mellowed through the darkness behind John’s eyelids, and he inhaled deeply, which greeted him with the distant scent of a log fire, and the comforting smell of something cooking downstairs. After a few attempts, his eyes peeled open and after rubbing away the sunspots, John’s gaze fell upon the mattress on the floor, only inches from him.

Sherlock was very much still asleep, snoring lightly, duvet tucked up around his chin and curls in complete disarray. His eyelashes danced gently upon his pale skin, but he didn’t wake, merely sighed deeply, his lips smacking once or twice, before going still again.

John, careful not to wake him, leaned ever so slightly off of the bed to look at the small clock on the desk.

Ten O’clock. So much for  Sherlock “I rarely sleep” Holmes.

Sherlock gave another sigh before rolling over, burying his face into the mattress. John couldn’t help but laugh a little. There was a peacefulness about him here that John hadn’t quite seen before, buried beneath his relatively wired persona that John had seen almost every day for the last few months. It was quite lovely.

I won’t wake him.

John lay there for half an hour longer, nodding in and out of sleep and surveying the room gradually more and more in the increasing daylight, before Sherlock awoke properly.

The duvet on the floor was thrown forward roughly, and Sherlock hurled himself up, giving his curls a little shake. He looked up to John, with an almost panicked expression, before blinking rather frantically.

Yes Sherlock, you invited me to stay with you.

“Hello,” he croaked, seemingly becoming adjusted to John’s presence, voice still filled with sleep, “Been awake long?”

John shook his head, grinning warmly.

“Good,” Sherlock continued, through a tremendous yawn. 

He then nodded towards a parchment calendar pinned to the wall. On cue, a page tore away and burned itself into a small floating ball of ash, before disintegrating completely, revealing the date; Saturday the 18th.

Sherlock hummed.

“Only a week to go”

After Sherlock tried to go back to sleep twice, and John finally having to kick him rather hard in the hip, they finally padded downstairs to the kitchen. By now, it was eleven o’clock and John felt quiet embarrassed to be rising so late his first morning at the Holmes’, but, as they strode into the kitchen, there was a small note on the table saying “Out in the village - breakfast warming in the oven - have a nice morning!” so John had nothing to worry about.

Sherlock asked John to make the tea while he busied himself plating up the mountain of scrambled eggs and toast his parents had prepared. John obliged, opening and closing cupboards and draws finding the necessary things, choosing two large white mugs with leaves painted on the handle, and sorted out the teapot, which started sputtering at him angrily.

“It’ll get used to you,” Sherlock said, buttering some toast, “Always tetchy around newcomers- Just try not to burn yourself?”

Sherlock placed their breakfast plates onto two trays before them, and John placed down the mugs. Sherlock then grabbed what John correctly assumed to be the biscuit tin and, gripping it under his arm, he two of them moved carefully into the sitting room. It astonished John how oddly familiar it was.

“We can sit on the rug? If you’re cold?”

It was a very chilly morning, and John shivered slightly as his eyes fell on the sea of white peering at them through the windows, so that’s what they did, placing their mugs on the stone hearth of the fireplace.

It was strange seeing Sherlock like this, his hair slightly flatter, dangling over his face, a baggy grey t-shirt hanging rather low on his chest, displaying his collar bones, his long bare feet placed nearest the fire begging for warmth, eyes still creased with sleep but shining perfectly happily. As they sipped their tea and nibbled at their toast, John found himself unable to wipe his smile from his face.

“So,” John started,“What’s the plan, then?”

Sherlock set down his tea, “Well- I was thinking I could show you around? Would you want to do that?” he asked, a tad nervously,

John agreed, he was already fascinated by everything he’d seen at Sherlock's in the less than 24 hours he’d been at the residence, and he was very eager to learn more, “Better bundle up, though-” he grinned, “There’s about five inches of snow on your windowsill alone!”

“Six,” Sherlock smirked into his tea, “Ten inches of snowfall overall.”

“Oh sorry I haven’t brought my measuring tape with me,” John laughed, throwing a crust at him.

“Ah well, you were wrong so-” Sherlock frowned cheekily.

John snuffled a small laugh, lifting his mug to his lips.

“Git,” John said into his tea, peering at him over the china. Sherlock peered back at him over his.

It all felt so familiar, so comfortable.

“Come on,” John cleared his throat, saying after a moment, “The day’s nearly gone because of you, sleepy-head, eat your bloody toast!”

…

After ensuring he was wearing an extra vest under his shirt, and that he’d selected the thickest and most insulating of his navy scarves, and refusing to borrow one of John’s preposterously heavy woollen jumpers he’d brought with him, they set out into the cold, John nagging him all the way down the steps of the house about how preposterous it was that Sherlock didn’t own such a jumper himself. Honestly, John.

Stepping out into his little sloping front garden separated by a snow covered cobbled path that stretched out onto the track road ahead, Sherlock was warmed to hear, in spite of the snow covering his shoes, John’s small gasp.

It was quite an impressive sight, nothing but glistening white blankets rolled out all around them, making every harsh corner softened and curved, making every tree appear to be dressed in long silken sleeves, with nothing but small flecks of dark green and the occasional glowing warmth of a nearby window adding colour. Like a painting yet to be finished.

“Bloody hell,” John whispered, tucking his gloved hands deep into his pockets, “So it’s a proper, proper village, then?” 

His eyes surveyed the fields stretching out around them, each of their boundaries blurred by the snow.

Sherlock snorted, “Yes John. Now come on, we’ll lose feeling in our toes before we leave the garden at this rate- come on!”

Instinctively, Sherlock took hold of John by the arm, and they set of down the lane.

...

“Every one of these cottages up until the crossroads about a mile that way is inhabited by wizards, from there it starts to spill into the village itself; some braver wizards have ventured into some cottages there, but we’re better suited a bit further out-”

John was listening intently, clutching Sherlock’s hand between his arm and ribcage as they trudged roughly through the deep, yet to be stepped on snow. Probably just because he doesn’t want us to fall…

“So, have you always lived here?” John asked, steadying himself on a fence as they crossed the road.

“All my life- my parents moved here when Mycroft was born. They used to live in London, however, about two streets away from Diagon Alley,” Sherlock grimaced, “I’d be much better suited there than in this sleepy old place.”

“You think?”

“Nothing happens here, John. Everything happens in London.”

“Or at Hogwarts…”

“True.”

Sherlock, not really accustomed to this hosting lark, decided to point out anywhere of any relevance to him they passed on the way. Hopefully that’s not too boring… Sherlock grimaced at the thought. When people started spewing their own aimless personal details to him he definitely didn’t find it exciting…

“That’s where the lady with the disappearing teapot lives, and just across the way is where the old man’s bookcase came to life and starting reciting the works of Nicholas Flamel, and over there is where I solved the case about the exploding sofa cushions - every single time someone sat down they ignited into a sea of sparks and feathers-”

“Oh yeah?” John prompted, smiling up at him.

“The client’s wife had in fact shredded their son’s pack of exploding snap cards, and not wanting him to find out, hid the remains in the cushions to cover her tracks. What she didn’t realise was the cards were so offended, they kept playing the game in death out of spite.”

“You’re joking?”

“Nope.”

“How’d you solve it?”

“She lent me the sofa cushions to investigate - I tore them to pieces as soon as I got them home.”

“Lucky guess, or…?”

“I never guess, they were just very ugly sofa cushions, but once they were torn open the culprit was obvious.”

“Did you pay for new cushions?” John giggled, elbowing him.

“Nope- who’d want more? They were vile!”

John burst into laughter, and from what Sherlock could tell it wasn’t an obligatory laugh or a polite laugh, but a genuine one that reached the corners of his eyes and prickled the smallest droplets of tears at the corners. His nose and cheeks were painted pink from the cold and his hair was tucked nearly under a cream beanie, and his breath rose in clouds from his lips with every chuckle. Maybe Sherlock telling John about his life out in Dartmoor wasn’t aimless to him, but interesting, entertaining, perhaps! John beamed at him.

“So where are you taking me? We don’t have to solve someone’s cushion issues now, do we?” he licked his lips cheekily as he spoke, and Sherlock couldn’t help but flush slightly in response. Why that. Why did that happen? Don’t do that.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Sherlock said finally, giving himself a little shake, “Everyone round here becomes some form of recluse in the winter, and most of them are inexplicably dull-“ however Sherlock was interrupted by a sudden and abrupt snowball to the face.

For a good few seconds, he could see nothing but snowflakes and hear nothing but his friend’s completely unacceptable laughter.

“What was that for?” Sherlock spluttered, blinking the last few crystals from his eyes.

“Sorry!” John said, a smile creeping up at the corners of his mouth, “Thought you’d deduce it was coming!” 

And with that, he threw a second, which Sherlock luckily dodged, half because of the fact he had in fact seen that one coming, half due to the fact he’d slipped splendidly on the ground below him at the exact precise moment.

“John- that isn’t how- it works,” Sherlock spat, scrambling up off the the cold ground, leather gloves slipping off of the fence he was so desperately clinging.

John pondered for a moment. He’s looking for a hefty pile of snow to use.

“Just a bit of fun, then?”

“Go on, then!”

And with that, Sherlock launched his own handful of snow from behind his back, and before they knew it, they were caught up in one of the most competitive snowball fights the old dears in the village would have ever seen. Sherlock was using Accio to bring as much snow as possible to him at once, John was trying to levitate snow off of treetops and shed roofs to fall on Sherlock's head, however once these two, in their opinion, ingenious ideas failed due to the combination of snow-matted gloves and numb fingers, the pair seemed happy enough in lobbying and pelting as much snow and ice as possible at one another with their bare hands.

After chasing one another up the barren village path, past the cottage in which Sherlock had found a bewitched set of butter-knives, down past the small wooden muggle bus-shelter that had been converted into an owlery, and over a rather precarious hedge that almost buckled under their weight, the pair eventually fell into a shivering snow-covered heap on the floor, reminiscent of a rather large snowball that had collided with a stump and crumbled into pieces.

“Why - do people - do this?” Sherlock murmured, catching his breath as it swirled in large puffs above him.

“It’s fun,” John panted back, trying and failing to dust the frozen clumps attached to his gloves and jumper, “That was fun!”

“I’m warm and shivering at the same time- if I wanted this I’d buy some fever fudge,” but he knew his smile was betraying him, he could feel it quirking at the side and teasing his cheek upwards, at the utterly atrocious sight of John Watson, red faced and dithering, covered in snow from boot to bobble hat, in the middle of a field he and Mycroft used to confuse gnomes in. Unthinkable.

“Was there much more you wanted to show me?” John heaved, bringing himself up to standing, wobbling on the uneven ground, “Because I’m not sure I’d get through it without moaning about the lack of feeling in my toes”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, “So glad you’re enjoying the tour.”

“I am!” John kicked some snow at him, which was followed by a wince, “But Merlin’s beard to I need a hot chocolate.”

Sherlock beamed at him.

After walking back to the cottage, a different way than they had come, continuing onward from the field and following a small footpath, which may as well have never existed due to the thick covering of snow laying across it, through a small section of woodland, which brought them to the back of Sherlock’s cottage.

The back door moved on it’s catch at the touch of Sherlock’s wand, and after rigorously banging their boots together on the back step, they stepped hurriedly into the kitchen, which was like sinking into a hot bath.

…

After an hour spent competing for warmth in front of the fireplace and filling themselves up with about a gallon of Sherlock’s mum's hot chocolate, which John had to say rivaled Hogwarts’ own, Mr and Mrs Holmes returned home, red nosed but cheery as ever, and it was time to set about decorating the Christmas tree Mrs Holmes had prepared the night before. Something John hadn’t done for five years.

As Mrs Holmes heaved down the box of ornaments, with garlands and baubles trying to fight their way free in excitement, John felt a lump begin to form in his throat, felt a memory claw at the inside of it, threatening to surface.

“Want to help, boys?” came Mr Holmes’ voice as he too stepped inside the living room with garlands wrapped around each limb.

John did want to help, and he was bloody going to. He took the box from Mrs Holmes’ arms, who smiled fondly at him, and placed it down onto the sofa cushion next to Sherlock, and began carefully sifting through the ornaments.

Sherlock, evidently, wasn’t so keen. As John inspected and chuckled at every owl ornament that cooed if you stroked it, at every bell that chimed sweetly or every star that seemed to glow at the corners, and every bauble that hovered ever so slightly around its own orbit from the branch you hung it upon, Sherlock merely drew himself back on the sofa, observing him.

John came across a large glass bauble containing a photograph of a younger Mr and Mrs Holmes, accompanied by a chubby young boy in a dark green jumper, hair slicked back tidily. Mycroft? And just beside him, a boy of no more than four or five was giggling furiously at what appeared to be his own jumper, which held the image of a dragon decorating a Christmas tree. As the boy laughed, a thick mop of dark brown curls fell over his eyes, which his mother lent down and neatened, before they all smiled up at John.

John’s heart squeezed tight.

“Well that’s enough staring at it that can go on the tree now-” Sherlock snapped, leaping up from the sofa and snatching the bauble from John. His cheeks were pink.

“Nice jumper,” John grinned at him.

“Shut up,” Sherlock placed the bauble on a branch towards the wall, “Who doesn’t love dragons…”

“Oh I love that photograph!” Mrs Holmes swept round them to gaze upon it, “Oh Sherlock, look at you-”

“I will not look at me, Mummy,” Sherlock snapped.

“Well, if you won’t do that, you can help John put the toadstool garland on while your father and I start on dinner- I think it’s grown some more since last year, I don’t recognise some of their coloured caps!”

Sherlock obliged, however it wasn’t without a wildly over-dramatic sigh, but that was Sherlock for you. He took one end, and John took the other, and together they began weaving it in and out of the branches, trying not to knock off any ornaments in the process.

“They are supposed to be arranged in even layers, John,” Sherlock moaned, leaning over John’s shoulder, taking advantage of their height difference, and adjusting the work he had just done, “see- evenly separated and-”

“Don’t you want it to be homely, like a bit homemade, a bit strategically messy-”

“This is not strategically messy, this is a disaster,” Sherlock lent across him further, steadying himself on John, who was still holding a foot of garland and unable to move.

“Well if we just move that line down a branch-” John shifted his weight, trying to allow Sherlock access to the section he meant, “Then it’ll look fine, that gap is filled and- careful!”

Sherlock slipped forward at the poor combination of thick socks and wooden floor, pushing John into the tree and following suit quite spectacularly.

John had a branch to the face and an owl to the eye, who was cooing worriedly, and a Sherlock… well… pressed into the back of him.

“Did anything fall off?” Sherlock murmured, holding onto John’s shoulders.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking-”

“John if our handiwork is ruined I will-”

“No! Nothing fell off, get off!” John laughed, easing him cautiously from between a sea of pine needles and sharp edged glass figures, “Serves you right for sticking your ore in left right and centre.”

Sherlock straightened himself, brushing off some pine needles from his shirt, and John untangled the last of the garland from around his neck.

John chuckled, “Here, you’ve got a bit-” and without a thought, pulled the end of a branch that had snapped off out of the edge of Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock blinked repeatedly, freezing.

John, now holding the discarded pine needles between his fingertips, didn’t know where to go from here.

“Cup of tea, boys?” Mrs Holmes, wearing a festive apron and a suspicious sort of smile on her face, popped her head round the door.

...

It had been a good day. Of course it had! It had been such a good day. So why this? Why now? Why when he was sleeping in someone else’s bed, in someone else’s house with family who weren’t his own? His hands balled into tight, too tight, fists curled stiffly into the sheets, he was panicking, really panicking, inside and out and he knew it he knew he was-

and then he was screaming. He could hear it. Hear it so far yet so close inside his head. He couldn’t stop it, he never could once he began.

It’s just the same pain, the same pain every time, replaying and replaying and replaying and-

But then there’s a hand, a firm but cautious hand upon his shoulder, and a voice, a voice that had grown so quickly familiar and so worryingly comforting…

“John,” was all it said, “John?”

The duvet was in his mouth, clamped tightly between his teeth, something he’d found himself doing time to time as if his body was telling him to stop the screaming, to stop this, stop it! Calm down, get a fucking grip it’s been five years for god’s sake just move on just deal with it just-

“John?” It was barely a whisper, and it was thick with concern, but persistent, yet patient, worrisome yet firm. John couldn't look to it’s owner, not now.

He felt the sob roll out of his throat, felt the tears roll from his eyes, felt the shaking of his breath in his chest, the panic in his voice.

John opened his eyes very slowly.

A lamp had been turned on, Sherlock’s wand was clasped within his hand, John’s arm clutched within his other.

Sherlock’s face was calm, almost blank, in the dim light, but his body betrayed him. His breath was fast, his eyes were wide and desperate, and John could feel the slight tremble from his hand running up his skin. But that was enough, that was enough to tell him- he was here, he was safe, none of that was real, not anymore.

John buried his face into the duvet and cried.

…

Sherlock pulled his hand away and waited quietly on the mattress, knees pulled up under his chin.

John is upset. John is in need of something. Help him. Solve it! Solve it.

John didn’t move or speak for a long while, merely rocking forward and backward hunched into the covers, shoulders trembling.

Solve it. Make it better.

Sherlock’s mouth was very dry, and he felt slightly sick with worry as he watched John, suddenly so small and frightened in his bed. Hateful. Hateful image. Delete.

Suddenly, John’s breathing started to heighten again, his shoulders started to heave, and Sherlock could hear muffled, but unmistakably shaky, short, sharp breaths.

Panicking.

Sherlock shuffled forward.

“Breathe John.”

Stupid. Obvious.

But John pulled a trembling hand from the covers and gripped the bed frame, to which Sherlock instinctively mimicked, allowing his fingers to trace just the edges of John’s. They stayed like that for a minute or two.

Sherlock had no idea what time it was. He didn’t need look, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

John lifted his head gingerly, eyes downcast. His breathing still wasn’t ideal, but much better than it had been. Sherlock swallowed nervously,

“Cup of tea?” He croaked, not really knowing what else to say, but the smallest, faintest whisper of a smile, which didn’t quite reach his shining eyes, twitched at the corner of John’s mouth.

Sherlock crept downstairs into the darkened kitchen, begged the kettle to stay quiet, and pulled two mugs from the cupboard.

White with leaves on them. One’s John picked this morning - must like them.

But just as the kettle, which had started sputtering angrily due to being used at such an hour, finished boiling, Sherlock heard a gentle plodding of feet move past the archway to the living room.

He allowed the tea to steep longer than usual, and added a heaped sugar to John’s who otherwise never took it.

“There you are,” Sherlock spoke quietly, pressing the mug gently between John’s hands which until that point had been balled tightly into fists on his thighs.

John nodded, peering up at Sherlock with a rather glum smile, quickly averting his gaze to stare into the rising steam. He breathed deeply, settling gently back into the sofa.

Sherlock relaxed a bit, sitting himself down on the floor.

The two of them sipped their tea quietly.

Sherlock focussed himself upon the sound of the subtle creaking of his house, the faint whisper of the wind outside knocking snow from branches, and most importantly, John’s breathing that was slowly and surely levelling out. It was a comforting sound, and Sherlock wished he never had to hear him breathe any other way ever again.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock turned to face him just a little too urgently. Bad. He’ll feel guilty. Stop that.

John rubbed a hand across his eyes roughly, “Thank you.”

“I- I didn’t-” Sherlock protested. What had he done to help?

John allowed his head to rest in his hands, elbows anchored to his knees.

 “Thank you.” he said, more forcefully. 

His eyes were gentle, weary, but with a warmth beneath them, a warmth supposedly meant for Sherlock. Sherlock, who was sat fussing with the loose threads on the carpet and whose only response to a crisis was to put the kettle on.

All the same, even with the darkening bags beneath his eyes, John looked upon Sherlock for a long time without saying anything, as if he was something wholly important at that moment.

Sherlock knew from seeing the state of John some mornings at Hogwarts that he rarely slept again after nights like this one, but that didn’t matter, it didn’t matter that they spent the hour talking about nothing in particular, a conversation which Sherlock lead and steered so John didn’t have to feel obliged to act cheerful. It didn’t matter that by the time they returned up stairs, the dark sky had turned from navy to grey and the birds had started singing from outside. Sherlock quickly realised he would stay up forever if it meant making John feel better even slightly.

Sherlock awoke later that morning to John himself, fully dressed but hair askew, pressing a large mug of tea into his hand, lingering with the touch, allowing their fingers to brush ever so softly as he did so. Something in Sherlock, far in the back of his mind, felt that somehow that wasn’t quite an accident.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, neither spoke of the incident, nor did Sherlock’s parents to John’s severe relief, as he was pretty certain they’d have heard… but John could see Sherlock acting rather tentatively around him, especially in the mornings, or if John even so much as stirred in the night. Sherlock would respond almost instantly, and it made a pang of guilt run through John’s chest, when John would rise routinely to get a glass of water, or pop to loo, Sherlock would wake too. John couldn’t pretend, however, that the steady whisper of breath that clipped through the murky darkness from Sherlock’s lips didn’t act as a comfort, whether John required it or not. It was a funny feeling, a closeness John would never have expected… but there it was.

Surprisingly, days were swallowed up quickly, filled with the emptying of numerous teapots in front of the fire, with walking out into the fields before retreating back home to seek refuge from the cold, with conversations about nothing in particular, or about old newspaper clippings that Sherlock had pinned to his wall. Or his collection of ashes in tall glass phials upon his shelves. Or the skull that sat on top of a large pile of precariously stacked books. It was lovely, John thought. For all he’d known of Sherlock over the past few months, the boy who’d made him laugh at the back of classrooms, intrigued him with his lengthy rants about this case or that one, and made him run like a lunatic through the streets of Hogsmeade, it was completely different seeing him like this, seeing him comfortable and completely at ease.

Soon enough, it was December 23rd, or “Christmas eve eve” as John and Harry used to call it. Sherlock sneered at this (“Really, John. Surely, then, every day is some kind of ‘eve eve’"), and with December 23rd brought waking up at lunchtime, met with a frantic Mrs Holmes casting cleaning spells top to toe in their little cottage for the arrival of her eldest son.

Mrs Holmes had set John and Sherlock the task of knocking up a batch of mince pies to last them over the coming days, something which Sherlock had protested to, yet John was genuinely excited for.

John had never baked the wizarding way before, but he had made mince pies with his mother when he was younger, and he was very interested to see how the methods differed. Very, was his assumption.

It was only early afternoon, but a bluey grey darkness had already begun to descend over Sherlock’s little village, which only made the warm welcoming light of his kitchen even more inviting. Sherlock, rather disinterestedly, perched himself upon one of the kitchen stools and dictated to John where the necessary ingredients were. However, he was forced to join in with an extravagant sigh when John couldn’t reach the Holmes’ mammoth jar of pre-made mince meat that perched itself on the top shelf of the cabinet.

“We can just summon it down? Pass me my wand,” John chuckled, as Sherlock hopped onto his tiptoes, using John’s forearm as a support. He really has no concept of personal space.

“No- Here now-” Sherlock reached up his second arm, lacing his fingers around the jar, causing John to grab hold of his waist for support. John swallowed.

Yep. No concept. Not that John minded, really… But he shook that thought from his mind.

Sherlock’s bare hips were exposed with the combination of his loose fitting pyjama bottoms, (neither of them had bothered dressing that day) and his arms being raised above his head. John didn’t quite know where to put his hands, and he felt his face beginning to redden at the contact.

“You nearly got it?” John croaked, in a higher pitch than was expected.

Sherlock dropped his feet back down to the cold tiles in response, placing the jar down on the counter in triumph.

John, rather awkwardly, released his hips.

“Right- you know what you’re doing so I’ll just-” Sherlock motioned towards the stool again.

“Nono- I only know the muggle way! You’re helping, your house!”

“You’re the guest…” Sherlock murmured, sulkily, picking his wand up and twiddling it between his fingers.

“Yep, I am. And I want you to help,” John smirked at him.

“Fine,” and with that, Sherlock flicked his wand, knocking over the bag of flour onto the work top, erupting a large cloud into the air, “Let’s go then.”

After about an infuriating hour, having managed to make only a measly six mince pies, the boys decided to give up. The both of them were covered in way more flour than seemed humanly possible, and Sherlock still seemed fit in levitating what remained of their overly thin pastry above their heads. 

“Just- put it down!” John laughed, swatting at Sherlock’s hand, elegantly swishing his wand from side to side. This sent yet another cloud of flour into the air from his sleeve.

“Why? It’s an experiment! I want to see how thin I make the pastry before it breaks!”

“And that’s useful how?”

“If I ever bake,” Sherlock said coolly, flicking his wand quickly, causing the pastry to tremble a little in the air

“You won’t bake.”

“I might bake.”

John lunged at him again, “You’ll get it stuck to the ceiling!”

“Now wouldn't that be interesting data? What quantity of milk makes the pastry most adhesive?” Sherlock flicked it higher, “John - new experiment! Make more pastry, we’ll determine-”

“No we bloody wont!” John grabbed a handful of flour and ruffled it into Sherlock’s unkempt curls.

By the sound Sherlock made, you’d have thought John had actually hurt Sherlock in some way, elbowing John out the way and giving his head such a shake as to displace the flour that he completely forgot about the circle of pastry bobbing so gleefully above their heads.

When the pastry decided to descend upon John, sticking to his face, hair and eyelashes, he somewhat regretted not just letting Sherlock continue with his ridiculous experiment.

Sherlock had to steady himself on the worktop, he was laughing so hard, “Your face!”

“Shut up- help me would you?” came John’s muffled plea from behind his doughy veil.

“Come here-”

Sherlock proceeded to carefully peel the near translucent mixture from John’s face.

“How kind of you,” John said flatly as Sherlock worked.

“I think you’ll find this was your fault, you know,” he said quietly, grabbing a cloth from the side to help wipe the last of it from John’s cheeks.

“I- I… yeah okay…”

“Don’t blame me for wanting to do a little Christmas experiment.”

“Well you could have decided on a cleaner one,” John said, chuckling, gazing upon the flecks of flour balancing on Sherlock’s eyelashes, and the end of his nose, and just to the side of his bottom lip.

Sherlock nodded, staring back at him, his face softening, “And what experiments would they be?”

Erm.

“Glad tidings…” came a long, questioning drawl into kitchen.

Sherlock’s expression dropped immediately, dropping his hand from John’s face, and stepping ever so unsubtly about a metre away from him.

Oh dear.

A tall boy, dressed in a tweed suit and red tie and possessing an expression of complete sourness stepped into the small kitchen.

John suddenly felt very intimidated, and what made matters worse is he could tell Sherlock wasn’t overly comfortable either.

“Hello brother mine,” the man said flatly, not venturing into the kitchen any further than the archway, his eyes fell disapprovingly upon John, “This must be your little friend.”

…

Sherlock could feel his brothers intruding gaze searching the two of them, could feel the judgement and opinions he was forming within the first thirty seconds of seeing him. He hated it. All he wanted to do was to disappear before he could stick his overly large nose into something… but of course that was made impossible by the excited footsteps of his mother running down the stairs.

“Mikey!” she practically squealed, cupping his face with her hands, beaming, “Merry Christmas darling! Your room is all ready for you- Now this is John, he’s staying with us over- What in Merlin’s name have you two been doing?”

Evidently, she had noticed the light dusting of flour that covered the two boys, not to mention the drippings of pastry that lay in a small pile at John’s feet, and the pitiful plate of mince pies on the counter…

“Turns out I deleted how to bake, mummy," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, which he was quite proud of considering his mother could be a fiery woman when she wanted to be.

She shot him a dark look, however after surveying him for a few moments more, couldn’t help stifle the small chuckle that escaped her, “You’ve got it on your nose! And you, John!” she swatted both of them with a tea towel, “It looks like you two need a bath- quick, while Mikey unpacks-”

“Mycroft!” came the cheery voice of Sherlock’s father from the hallway.

Sherlock thought best to slip away whilst Mycroft squirmed away from his father’s affections, grabbing John by the sleeve and pulling him all the way out of the kitchen, up the stairs and onto the landing, an action to which John willingly obliged. It had become a common occurrence, it seemed. John following wherever he led.

“You okay?” John said, smirking slightly at the small rising flour that emanated from his jumper when Sherlock released it.

Sherlock bit his lip, nervously, but quickly corrected it. 

“He’s…” Sherlock puzzled. He’d never had to describe his relationship with his brother to anyone before, alas he’d barely pondered the topic himself in much detail, “He’s a lot.”

“Right, okay," John’s mouth twitched, “He does the thing.”

Sherlock blinked, “What thing?”

“The reading people thing? That you do.”

Sherlock frowned, “He- well- I do it better,” he said rather sulkily.

“So how much does he already know about me, do you reckon?” John teased.

Sherlock turned in the direction of his bedroom, “Too much.”

John was amused by this, however Sherlock wasn’t really joking. He had failed to mention John to Mycroft since they’d started associating with one another, however this did not mean he was a stranger to him, frankly the opposite was a lot more likely.

…

The two of them hid in Sherlock’s bedroom until dinner, Mycroft’s favourite Mrs Holmes had said, which surprised John as the man barely cracked even the slightest indication of merriment the entire meal… but John certainly enjoyed it.

He wasn’t wrong earlier, either, Mycroft was definitely surveying him the entire time, honing in on anything he said, especially when he spoke to Sherlock. He didn't like it. There’d been many occasions when John was acutely aware that Sherlock was doing a similar thing… reading him… but Sherlock’s gaze… felt different, felt interested, merely curious, and John had grown not to mind it… But Mycroft’s felt intrusive, judging almost.

Sherlock barely said a word, and ate even less than he did normally, which was quite impressive, pushing food around with his fork seemingly for the joy of doing it, barely two forkfuls making it up to his mouth.

John may be an idiot… but it didn’t take a genius to work out what Sherlock’s deflation in mood was down to. Even Mr and Mrs Holmes looked tense.

Mycroft is evidently a joy.

“Right- you too! Baths!” Mrs Holmes said forcefully as she took their plates.

“We’re not children,” Sherlock sulked, pushing himself up from the table irritably.

“I don’t care- your hair’s got enough flour in it, I could make you into a hearty batch of cauldron cakes. Now go!”

“You want to go first?” John said, stretching, as Mrs Holmes fired two towels at them with a swish of her wand.

“Ah yes he better. Your hair does take about a decade to groom, doesn’t it Sherlock?” Mycroft smirked.

John fort very hard not to laugh.

“Besides it’d be nice for John and I to have some time alone,” he continued, “allow us to get better acquainted, don’t you think so, John?”

Sherlock’s expression turned suddenly grave.

“Is that necessary?”

“I just want to chat.”

“You don’t chat.”

The two brothers stared at one another.

John swallowed.

“Sure. Why not?” he offered, smiling, which neither Mycroft or Sherlock returned.

“Enjoy your bath, brother mine. John! Shall we have a cup of tea?”

Sherlock gave him a rather apologetic smile, and gave Mycroft a near frightening glare, before heading off up the stairs, leaving John alone to be led into the living room by his brother.

…

Mycroft produced a small teapot, of no more than an inch high, from his jacket pocket. He set it down on the coffee table, and within a few moments it was pouring tea into two pristine teacups, bobbing excitedly in the air.

“Your brother would like one of them!” John joked, staring down in quiet awe at the bubbling little object.

“Yes. Sadly my brother sees it more befitting to carry around a tobacco case in his pocket.”

John coughed, before shooting Mr and Mrs Holmes a worried glance, who were incidentally having another crack at making mince pies only a few metres away.

“Sit down,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the armchair next to him.

John, rather reluctantly, obliged. Mycroft handed him a cup of tea, and John couldn’t escape the feeling that he was suddenly at an interview instead of a nice “chat” with his friend’s brother.

“So-” John started, adjusting the grip on his cup, “Sherlock says you work at the ministry?”

“What are your intentions with my brother?” Mycroft interjected, coldly.

John stared at him.

“I- I…” he cleared his throat, “I like him? He’s nice, he’s-”

“My little brother is not nice, not to most people.”

And you’re a bundle of kindness.

“He’s nice to me,” John said flatly.

“I know he is. How amusing.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You’re fond,” Mycroft smirked.

John leant back into his chair.

“Why are you- what are we doing, here?”

Mycroft lifted his tea to his lips,

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

John fidgeted.

“You’re worried I’m going to… what, hurt him? I’m his friend-”

“Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

John now understood Sherlock’s hatred for his brother.

“So,” Mycroft continued, “What does that make you?”

John swallowed, the tips of his ears starting to feel rather hot.

“Has my brother shown any signs of… being irritable, or skittish, fidgety while you’ve been associated with him? Locked himself away, disappeared for days on end?”

John thought for a moment. Sherlock was always irritable about something… John couldn’t help the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile. Fond he says. John swallowed.

“Once,” After his case turned out to be a fraud.

“The case with the photographs.”

“He told you?”

“He didn’t need to.”

“Look-” John started, putting his tea down carefully,

“I would like you to write to me.”

John stared at him.

“Write to me,” Mycroft continued, “Once a week, just… updating me on my brother’s little mishaps.”

“Why can’t you ask him?”

“I would prefer my concern going undetected. We have, what you’d call, a difficult relationship.”

“I wonder why.”

Mycroft’s sickly expression stiffened. “John-”

“No,” John said flatly, rising to go.

“I could offer some sort of… recompense-”

“Don’t bother.”

Mycroft stared at him, nodding. He frowned.

“How loyal of you.” 

The fire gave a small pop. John smiled wryly.

“Fond,” Mycroft uttered once again, rising to meet him, “Be careful, there.”

Mrs Holmes entered, holding an annoyingly perfect few dozen mince pies knocked up in less than five minutes.

“You alright boys?” She said, her contagious beam falting slightly as her eyes fell on the sour expression of her eldest son.

“Of course,” Mycroft smiled, not lifting his gaze from John, “Isn’t he lovely.”

“Mince pie?” She asked. 

It was an invitation, but clearly for some sort of peace offering more than anything else. Mycroft refused it, bidding his mother goodnight and skulking out the room and up the stairs.

Mrs Holmes smiled nervously at John, moving firmly to sit in the armchair Mycroft had just vacated, passing him the plate of warm pastries.

“Don’t mind him,” She said, taking one for herself and passing one to Sherlock’s father who came and sat beside her, “He does like to be a grump.”

Mr Holmes hummed in agreement, taking a bite out of his mince pie. John smiled understandingly and took a bite himself. He definitely earned one.

…

John couldn’t shake Mycroft’s smugness from his brain as he waited in Sherlock’s bedroom for him to finish freshening up, nor could he when he padded across the landing to the bathroom, to find the bath re-filled with a lovely purple steam rising from it that Sherlock had left for him, before evidently heading straight downstairs judging by the damp footprints that littered the carpet and the top few steps.

Fond. John thought as he clambered into the water. Why did he say it like that? Fond? What was he implying? Of course I like Sherlock. I like Sherlock very much? Who stays at someone’s house if they don’t like them? And if I am ‘fond’ of Sherlock, why would that possibly mean I would then spy on him for his bloody brother? They were friends. That was it. Bloody fond.

He washed the remaining flour from his hair.

The word wouldn’t leave him alone as he soaked in the water. The lavender scented water that Sherlock had run for him. It was only then that he noticed the mug on the bath’s rim, the white china with the leaves on, made to his liking. It was all very calming. Sherlock must’ve known Mycroft would piss me off.  Although, everything had been calming staying with Sherlock. Warmth fluttered to his chest. Fond.

John swigged his tea, he gave his head once last rinse under the water, before bundling out of the bath. He dried himself quickly, and pulled on his pyjamas complete and dressing gown, and headed down the landing to the bedroom.

When he opened the door, however, Sherlock wasn’t there. John frowned, should have followed those damp bloody footsteps, and after grabbing his slippers headed back the way he went downstairs, careful not to slip on the little droplets Sherlock had left behind him.

He found himself smiling at them halfway down the stairs, chuckling to himself, about how utterly ridiculous his friend was. He did do that a lot. Smile about Sherlock. Think about him.

Bloody Mycroft.

John shook himself. Stop it.

But as he walked into the living room, it was evident the Holmes parents were in bed, the house was near silent, apart from the crackling of the fire. The downstairs was in darkness apart from the warm dancing glow that flickered from the archway leading to the living room. As he got closer, he heard the odd sound of something musical emanating from the living room. John stepped in quietly.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in a fresh pair of pyjamas and a burgundy silken dressing gown, his hair still damp, dripping at the tips, draping in untamed curls across his forehead and the nape of his neck.

John stared at him. He looked so… He was…

He didn’t notice John, but merely sat there, robe hanging loosely on his shoulders, glistening in the firelight, cradling his violin in his lap. He plucked the strings carefully. John moved closer.

Sherlock glanced up in surprise, shaking his curls from his eyes. He beamed warmly, always so warmly, and gave the space on the rug beside him a gentle pat. As always, John couldn’t help but beam back.

Oh.

John swallowed. Oh no.

I am fond of Sherlock Holmes.  

Chapter Text

“You alright?”

“Yeah-”

John had taken a few steps into the living room, before freezing in his place, as if not knowing where to put himself. He patted the back of the sofa with his palms awkwardly where he stood, and if Sherlock wasn’t mistaken, which he never was, even in the firelight he could see the smallest of flushes playing upon his cheeks.

“Did he interrogate you?” Sherlock smirked,

“Well-er-” John sighed, defeatedly, “Might as well have done, yeah.”

Sherlock scoffed, attention turning back to the violin resting in his lap. 

“He’s a bastard. Let me guess, he asked you to write to him daily, giving him updates on what I’m up to?” He asked flatly, plucking one of the strings.

John huffed out a laugh, “Hmm, close… weekly.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “He must be mellowing, then.”

John smiled, but a worried expression still shadowed his face.

Sherlock paused a moment, hand hovering over another string.

“Did you agree?”

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” John said sternly, but he still failed to move any closer.

Sherlock continued to stare at the fire, in order to hide the look of relief blooming on his face.

“Might’ve stopped him bombarding me with so many owls- think it through next time,” he quipped, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He paused, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, you git,” John replied, laughing, but his eyes remained fixed on the sofa cushions.

“Still,” Sherlock murmured.

John shifted awkwardly behind him. The floorboards creaked. Upset… concerned?… why?

“So- erm,” John cleared his throat, “You been playing?”

“No,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “just giving it a tune.- She’s horribly out of service…”

“Why haven’t you been playing it? I’ve never seen you with it,” John frowned, “ and 'her'... ?”

Sherlock swallowed, “People don’t often like it. You might not’ve.” he trailed off, shyly.

“Are you any good?” John teased.

Sherlock turned to face him, “Of course I am.”

“Then why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock smiled, rather sadly, “The boys in my dormitory hated it.”

John’s mouth fell open a little, eyes softening.

Ah, John. Forever kind.

“I only ever used to play when they weren’t in there, anyway… Even I’m not that socially inept... but the second they arrived they’d snatch it from me, or throw things at me to make it stop,” He scowled to himself, “Once one of them stole it and took it to Sebastian like his little minions. Broke three strings and the bow threads. Bewitched it to insult me whenever I tried to play. And it was scratched.”

He spat the last few words, but paused to compose himself before continuing.

“So,” He said, exhaling, “I don’t play it for other people, really.”

“You can play it for me,” John said quietly.

Sherlock looked up.

“What?” he was aware his voice was small, almost vulnerable. Enough of that.

“Play it. Not now- I mean- everyone’s sleeping I think… and I’ll be in even more less favour with your brother if I encouraged you to play music while they’re in bed-” John said lightly, but his gaze shifted to quite hopeful, “but… yeah.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“Okay.”

John smiled warmly, but Sherlock couldn’t help but notice John’s avoidance in meeting his eye.

“I should, you know, hit the hay. It is Christmas Eve tomorrow, and who sleeps properly on Christmas eve?” John said tiredly, fists clenched at his sides. Bad. Why?

But Sherlock nodded, bidding him freedom to leave, which John evidently wanted to do.  

John offered a weak smile, and shuffled carefully into the darkness of the hall as Sherlock tucked the violin back into its case. He then pulled his wand from his dressing gown and tapped the mantelpiece, watching as the roaring fire sank slowly into darkness, leaving only the embers glowing in the hearth. As the last ember died away, Sherlock secretly, selfishly hoped it wasn’t he who was the reason for John’s dip in mood.

…

John awoke to find Sherlock absolutely nowhere to be found on the morning of December 24th, which was pretty impressive seeing as Sherlock Holmes seemed to be able to sleep in for England. A knot of guilt twinged in his stomach; He had practically ignored Sherlock the night before, so although the prospect of further avoiding the issue was an inviting one, John felt it was really quite rude to not wish to locate his current roommate. After about fifteen minutes wrestling with himself to stay awake, he dressed himself rather hurriedly, pulling on jeans and a thick rust coloured jumper from his trunk, and headed down to the kitchen. Mr and Mrs Holmes, and Mycroft sat about twenty feet away from them in the living room, reading the daily prophet. But still, no Sherlock.

“He’s in the shed,” Mycroft murmured, as if it was the most taxing thing in the world, without glancing up from his paper, “He’s told us to tell you you’re not to go in there.”

John was puzzled, and tried not to appear downright offended- it was Christmas Eve after all- but thankfully he was given little time.

“Some mail came for you, lad!” Mr Holmes said brightly, rising from the breakfast table and handing him three letters and four parcels, “Lucky they arrived in time”

John inspected them; a parcel from Greg, Mike, and his sister, and most likely a Christmas card from Molly, and potentially some people from the quidditch team? Or Madame Turner? He set them down under the Christmas tree at Mrs Holmes’ prompt. It all felt very homely, causing a wave of guilt swirl in his stomach.

When he looked underneath the tree itself he froze; there was a parcel with Greg’s handwriting addressed to Sherlock… and John hadn’t even gotten Sherlock anything yet. Not for want of trying - he’d spotted a few things around the village shops when Sherlock had shown him round, and in Hogsmeade for that matter, but Sherlock was impossible to get rid of, and did not seem to catch on to the subtlety of John wanting him to wait outside. That and there was the minor issue of whether Sherlock would do presents himself, which was completely fine, John wasn’t much for gifts, but he wouldn’t want him to feel guilty or embarrassed about it. Not really sure Sherlock can feel guilty, actually...

No. He had to get him something. As a thank you, if not for the fact he was, well, he was Sherlock.

“Right,” John said, rising, “I’m just gonna pop out, won’t be long," he stammered, checking his wallet was still in his jeans from the other day, “Fresh air.”

“You’re both hopeless. Go! Wrap up!” Mrs Holmes chuckled, swatting him with her teatowel, “Oh, John-”

John wheeled round, halfway out the door, wrapping a scarf around himself.

“It’s a muggle village, remember?”

“Right,” he stuffed his wand deep into his coat, “Thanks!”

“John.”

“Oh, right!”

He raced upstairs, opened his trunk, and fished out a small envelope which carried some muggle money- just for emergencies- and pocketed some.

When he reappeared in the kitchen, Mr and Mrs Holmes were chuckling at him.

“Right-”

“Go on, dear!” Mrs Holmes giggled, wiping her eyes, “Be safe!”

And all of a rush, John was venturing out into a village he knew only by one vague wander around with Sherlock about four days ago, alone. Brilliant.

…

Sherlock stared at his potion.

If you don’t work I will throw you up the wall. I don’t care if it melts the shed.

It looked about the right colour, purplish hue, hints of navy as at bubbled up the edges of his cauldron, small fleeting sparks emanating from it every time it rose in temperature. Sherlock was very good at potions, but he’d never been more terrified in his entire life whilst making one.

He knew it worked on wizarding film, and even muggle film… but he’d only read a few times out of many that it worked on a physical photograph itself, and when he’d thought up the idea in theory, it seemed the easiest thing in the world… but now, as he was holding the photograph between some tongs above the near boiling liquid… he was starting to cold feet.

He realised he couldn't invite John to his home for Christmas and not get him a present, even if it wasn't expected of him, but he was quite glad of the opportunity. He found himself quite wanting to give him one anyway, just for being so… well… John-ish, so a few days before they all came home, he’d spoken to Harry about his idea.

Harry had been all for it of course, she obviously had more faith in him as an alchemist than he had. She was very generous, Sherlock thought. Don’t get this wrong.

He took a deep breath, peering at the photograph. If you wait any longer the potion will boil over and it’ll be hopeless. Get your act together.

“Right,” He breathed, loosening the tongs’ grip, “Here we go.”

…

It took John an hour to find the right shop. It was an old vintage shop - closest thing to wizarding fashion. As he stepped through the door, a bell chiming somewhere in the back of the shop, he smirked at a rather garish pink and green patterned cardigan. He’d kill me.

It was very odd being in a muggle shop, something John hadn’t really thought about until that moment. There were no hangers rearranging themselves on the racks, no flowing robes upon said hangers, no candles bobbing up near the ceiling, or helper-owls perched upon the counter having a doze. Just a smiling lady behind a very boring looking desk. His heart clenched slightly. Home always felt oddly boring whenever I came home from school.

John started looking about, flicking through shirts, jackets… but he knew what he wanted to get. Sherlock always attempted to wrap up warm, but his jumpers were so thin. Fashionable, I suppose he thinks… But surely John could find one that wasn’t garish or itchy, something that would simply keep him warm without him wanting to burn it or cover it in flesh-eating-slug repellent.

Eventually, with some help from the very nice, very normal, lady, John came across the perfect one. Well, he thought so anyway. It was a dark green cable knit one, thick enough, but very very soft. Sherlock was a lot slighter than John, but John got him quite a baggy one anyway. Just in case he did find it itchy- wouldn’t want him to feel stifled - he does like to fidget.

As he was paying, which took longer than it should have as John was quite out of practice with muggle banknotes, the lady complimented him upon his scarf.

John thanked her, and looked down. Oh.

Sherlock’s indescribably soft scarf was wrapped tightly round this throat, sticking awkwardly out of his jacket from his rush to get out of the door. Brilliant. That’s a completely friend thing to do. Nothing is being insinuated by that at all, John Watson.

John scowled at himself.

“And who’re you buying this for, then?” she said, wrapping it in tissue, “Is it a gift?”

John smiled, “Yeah, yeah it's, erm, for a friend.”

“How lovely. Well, Merry Christmas!” she said brightly, handing him his bag. Plastic? Weird.

“You too, yeah, Merry Christmas,” he replied, and as he stepped out the shop into the snow-ridden little street, he couldn’t help but note the warmth growing inside him, nor the fact it was shadowed by an ever-so-foreboding dread…

...

It was very nearly dark when Sherlock stepped into the cottage again. John’s present was carefully sealed in a parchment envelope, a very thin red ribbon tied neatly around it, hidden and inside his cloak so as to avoid any scrutiny, mainly from his brother.

To his surprise, when he entered through the back door, John had evidently just entered through the front, snow clinging to the bottoms of his jeans and… My scarf.

The two of them stared at one another from across the living room. John shoved some kind of oddly materialed sack behind his back, and Sherlock clutched at his cloak, just in case.

Mycroft looked ready to kill the both of them.

“That’s my scarf,” Sherlock said flatly.

John flushed, “Accident.”

Sherlock squinted, “I see.”

“What riveting conversation. I’m so glad John’s staying with us,” Mycroft droned, waltzing into the kitchen. Judging by the yelp that followed either their mother or father had hit him with a newspaper. Mummy. She’s stronger.

John shifted, the object behind his back rustling. “So, I’m just going to-”

“Yep.”

John moved quickly out of the living room and up the stairs. Sherlock slipped over to the Christmas tree and tucked his little parcel somewhere unassuming behind, by his deductions, three wrapped pairs of socks, a bottle of firewhisky in a very unimaginative bag, two new sets of phials, and one very large book that everyone in the family bar father would have already read at least twice.

…

The rest of the day followed as all Christmas Eves had for the entirety of Sherlock’s lifetime; Mother had wrestled with the turkey which had outright refused to have an orange shoved somewhere indiscreet, Father had sat by the fireplace and read aloud from 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard', which neither Sherlock or Mycroft could even begin to act interested in, and the smell of the mulled wine and red-currant rum which were popping and simmering away on large cauldrons upon the stove perfumed the entirety of the cottage. It was while they were stirring these enormous concoctions full of cinnamon and orange slices that John said something that made it even more impossible to not warm to him entirely.

“Can I make you all dinner?” he asked Mrs Holmes quietly, “A nice Christmas Eve soup? As, well, just a small thank you for your having me…”

Mrs Holmes blinked at him, an endeared smile blooming on her face, “Darling you don’t have to do that I-”

“But I want to,” He said urgently, “I picked up a few things today while I was out, so you don’t need to worry about ingredients- it has to be vegetarian, though, but…”

He looked up at her hopefully.

“Well, if you’re sure!” She chuckled, pulling off her apron, garishly patterned with holly leaves and real bells that jangled every time she breathed, and popping it over John’s head instead, “Take it away!”

She relocated to the living room, past where Sherlock watched from the doorway as John familiarised himself with the stove, the whereabouts of utensils, and began peeling and chopping the various vegetables on the surface. To Sherlock’s amusement, he used a combination of both wand and knife-work to do so.

“You can help, you know?” John said, guiding some roughly chopped potatoes into a pot.

“After the mince-pie ordeal? I think not,” He laughed, lowering himself onto a stool.

“Hm, suit yourself,” John said, tapping his wand on the stove to ignite it, “It’s basically potion making… you’re an expert at that.”

“Yes, well. You evidently need practice, so I won’t rob you of it now.”

“Oi, if you’re not gonna help then bugger off.” John said, watching the pot come to boil.

“No. This is interesting.” 

“What is?”

“Watching you.” 

John stared into the pot more persistently at this, “W-why?”

“Didn’t know you could cook, is all.”

“What, you didn’t deduce that?” John teased.

“No, I suppose I didn’t.”

John smiled at him over his shoulder before falling quiet. He stirred the stock carefully.

“It’s my mum’s recipe,” he said after a long pause, “She taught me.”

Sherlock swallowed, the sound of bubbling cauldrons and pots, and Mr and Mrs Holmes apparent attempt to make Mycroft play charades in the next room filling the silence.

“Well... I’m sure it’ll be delicious then.” Sherlock said softly.

John hummed, and stared into the pot once more.

…

Dinner went wonderfully, John thought, and all of them seemed to enjoy what he’d made them. Mycroft made no snide comments, and happily mopped three bowls of it up with large knobs of homemade bread Mr Holmes had made the day before. Sherlock polished off six bowls of the stuff, but John wasn’t sure if that was purely to comfort him. Mrs Holmes had even asked for the recipe, which was the real seal of approval.

It was a lovely time all together, actually. Mr Holmes pulled out exploding snap as they polished off the last of the meal, something which even Mycroft got involved in. Mrs Holmes then passed around some mince pies she herself had made that morning, which were met by a smirk from Sherlock, and it strangely did feel like Christmas. More than it had done in some time, actually.

After dinner, when the two of them ran up to Sherlock’s room to get into their pyjamas, John had a thought.

“Do you know any Christmas carols?”

Sherlock looked up, “John. If you prompt any of them into singing I will have to remove you.”

“No!” John laughed, “On your violin?”

Sherlock smiled at him, gently.

“I may do.”

When they got downstairs, Sherlock with his violin in hand, Mrs Holmes practically wept, and poured everyone a glass of mulled wine as Sherlock positioned himself in front of the fire. He stood with great precision, back impeccably straight and eyes focused, which was a funny sight considering he was wearing baggy flannel pyjamas and Christmas socks. He cleared his throat, and everyone, even Mycroft, quietened.

He played an old carol, something folksy and gentle. As they watched, Mrs Holmes entwined her hand in her husband’s. John felt a lump form in his throat. Sherlock’s eyes fell on him, and a small smile tugged at his lips. John smiled back, though knew embarrassingly that his eyes were damp. The playing continued, Sherlock moving effortless between carols. It was beautiful. He was.

Sherlock played until the fire began to die, until the mugs of mulled wine were drunk, until John felt himself lulled into a gentle drowsiness.

Before he knew it, Mrs Holmes was hugging them all goodnight, and John was up the stairs into Sherlock’s bedroom and wrapped in a thick duvet. The clock read five minutes past ten, and even Sherlock was snuggled up on the floor beside him, the candles fading to darkness with a small pop. Perhaps you do get an early night on Christmas eve, afterall.

…

Of course it happened that night. Why wouldn’t it? It had every other Christmas Eve since it happened but he really, really thought, somehow, that tonight it would be fine. But of course not. It was the same as always. Flashes of light, splinters of glass, the sound of shrieks and slamming of a door... and the sickening guilt that bled through him every single time. Guilt. And then the searing pain in his left shoulder. As soon as he became aware of the scream escaping his throat, he lunged from under the covers, half dreaming but standing, hand fumbling for the doorknob in the darkness out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He couldn’t disturb Sherlock. Not tonight.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Somehow he found himself in the sitting room in complete darkness. His face, his hands, and his legs were shaking.

After what felt like an age, he became aware of a dim light splintering across the room, became aware of gentle footsteps treading carefully near him, of the clinking of china or glass.

He continued to breathe into his hands.

There was the setting down of something on the coffee table. The compression of the sofa cushion next to him.

“It’s only me.” came Sherlock’s gentle voice.

Then slowly, very slowly, John felt a hand tentatively rest upon his shoulder.

…

Sherlock waited patiently, mouth rather dry.

After a few minutes, John dragged his hands from his face and let out a long sigh. Sherlock edged closer, and passed him the glass of water from the table.

“Not how you imagined Christmas Eve,” John murmured sadly, taking it with a trembling hand. He looked at the floor, sniffling, “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock merely shook his head and moved his hand from John’s shoulder, instead wrapping his arm around his friend's back.

After a moment, John allowed his weight to fall slightly into Sherlock’s side.

“Thank you,” he said, barely a whisper.

He stared blankly ahead of him, eyes red-rimmed and weary, but Sherlock could feel his breathing evening out.

“You know, don’t you?” John said heavily.

Sherlock swallowed, his arm tightening around John, “I… There are somethings I can… gather.”

No matter. Let John tell you.

John breathed in shakily.

“We were home for Christmas,” he exhaled, “A nice, normal Christmas. You remember what it was like- How bad it was with… with you-know-who-”

Sherlock gripped tighter.

“-It was all kept so quiet,” John continued, “how were we to-” but he trailed off.

Sherlock stayed silent, merely rubbing his thumb back and forth across John’s right arm.

Let him talk.

“But they were muggles. So, what happened was… what happened to muggles then. What they did for sport,” John spat, “They didn’t understand who they were. They just knew that they were bad. And they had to keep us safe.”

John shut his eyes tight, lips pursing. Sherlock held him tighter still.

“We knew magic. They didn’t. We should’ve-”

John’s shoulders started to shake beneath Sherlock’s touch.

“No, John. You did nothing wrong,” Sherlock said softly.

“But-” John choked, tears escaping his eyes.

“You did nothing wrong.”

John breathed shakily, “I know that…It’s just so...”

“I know,” Sherlock gently rocked him back and forth.

“Thank you,” John replied softly, not before a few minutes of heavy silence had ticked quietly by.

They sat there like that for a while longer, the only sounds to be heard being their own breathing in the dim light.

“It’s after midnight,” John said into Sherlock’s shoulder, voice sounding more like his own.

Sherlock looked up to the mantle. It was in fact twenty-six-past-one in the morning.

“So it is,” he hummed.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John mumbled, weight growing heavier against him.

Sherlock had the suspicion he was falling asleep.

“Merry Christmas, John,” he whispered back.

Then, with his free arm, Sherlock carefully took John’s glass from him, before reaching for the throw on the back of the sofa and draping it over the both of them. And there they stayed, until Mrs Holmes came down hours later to light the Christmas tree.

...

The first glimpses of Christmas morning began to peel into John’s vision, the cold living room biting at his face, contrasting the warmth of the throw over him, the incomparable stillness that particular morning brought, like the world had awoken slightly better, more peaceful, than it was the night before. This silence was only interrupted by the distant chiming of muggle church bells, the delicate patter of snow hitting the windowsill, and the excitable thrum of footsteps above his head. And the even breathing of his friend, so much closer than usual. This was different. The unexpected hand tucked securely behind him, his own cheek nuzzled into a shoulder, the solid weight and warmth of another person connected to him shoulder to thigh to foot. It was cosy, comforting. Well. It was, until John reminded himself who the person was.

He opened his eyes blurrily, finally focusing on the messy mop of dark hair above him, glancing guiltily at Sherlock’s delicate, undisturbed face only just visible in the early-morning dark. Christmas morning.

They couldn’t stay like this.

John held  his breath, carefully, ever so carefully, grasping Sherlock’s thin wrist from his shoulder and unwinding himself from the grasp, every slight movement feeling enormous, every gentle brush of fabric sounding deafening.

Sherlock stirred, eyelashes flickering against his cheeks. John stayed still, hand clasping his wrist. He stared at him.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the distant light ghosting through the curtains catching them in the shadows. He stared back.

John held his breath.

“Merry Christmas you early risers!”

John dropped Sherlock’s wrist abruptly. It made a dull thud against the sofa cushions.

It was Mrs Holmes, “Must be your influence, John. Sherlock would have to be dragged out of bed usually, especially on Christmas.”

Sherlock was still looking at him. John could see it in the corner of his eye but he kept his gaze on Mrs Holmes, excitedly fussing about the place, opening curtains and tapping her wand at the fireplace and the Christmas tree, her presence bringing light to the room. “Oh, go and get Mikey will you Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned, “Must I?” yet his gaze remained fixed on John.

“It’s Christmas, love. Go on - and there’s a breakfast mince pie in it for you,” Mrs Holmes said sweetly, coming round the back of the sofa and ruffling Sherlock’s curls, sending them into further disarray.

Sherlock huffed, “It better be warm with brandy cream,” and pushed himself up from the sofa, and trudged out through the archway into the kitchen, smirking at John before he retreated into the hallway.

Mrs Holmes plonked herself down in Sherlock’s vacant spot. She didn’t mention the throw that still covered John’s legs, or the deep grooves that remained in the sofa back, which did not require the mind of any of the Holmes’ to deduce that they had slept there. Separately, slept there seperately. John was grateful of this. That was until she let her hand rest upon his arm, and gave him a smile. A certain sort of  smile one gives when they know something you don’t. A soft, yet smug smile.

“I-I’ll put the kettle on,” John squeaked.

…

Once the first two rounds of tea had been distributed, along with a few too many breakfast mince pies, it was time to attack the small mound of presents that had accumulated under the Christmas tree. Sherlock and John sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, which was roaring merrily. Mrs Holmes positioned herself at the base of the Christmas tree, appointing herself as 'chief distributor' and Mr Holmes sat beside her, lovingly nursing the teapot. Mycroft, who of course refused to sit on the floor, sat in the armchair, providing them all with his usual impression of 'grumpy old lady who’s bitten a wasp' which had now been upgraded to “grumpy old lady who’s bitten a wasp: Christmas edition!”

Mrs Holmes adored her book of “Muggle festive traditions to be avoided at all costs - from Valentine’s Day to Christmas” that Sherlock had selected, and Mr Holmes enjoyed his one-day-a-year Christmas tie, which Sherlock was always asked to get and always loathed to buy, this year’s rendition being a bright green fluffy disaster with pompoms that glowed depending on how much alcohol you’d consumed. Even Mycroft’s sour face lightened when he opened his jade leather-bound journal with 'MH' printed on it.

“This isn’t intolerable,” Mycroft had said, rubbing a thumb across the gilded letters.

“I’m glad.”

Little did he know that Sherlock bewitched the cover to change to “Mikey” whenever Mycroft used it.

And then it came to John. Mrs Holmes passed John the envelope eagerly, and Sherlock’s stomach dropped.

“Er-wait!” Sherlock said urgently, just as John started to pry open the parchment, “Maybe you- don’t open that… here.”

John looked at him, puzzling, “O...kay” he said, with an intrigued smile. 

Sherlock averted his eyes, and suddenly felt rather sick.

Mycroft stared at the two of them smugly, “Have you written him a poem, brother-mine?”

“Shut up Mycroft,” Mrs Holmes snapped, “John you can open that later, if you like. But he’s got to open something Sherlock! He’ll have to start mine and your father’s round.” 

She smiled kindly, heaving out a large pile of beautifully wrapped presents from underneath the tree, their shimmering crimson paper shining in the firelight of the early morning.

John looked rather embarrassed at Mrs Holmes handing him five presents for him alone. He opened a large selection of chocolate frogs, a thick notebook tied shut with a lovely burgundy ribbon and accompanied with a selection of inks and quills, a book titled “Crimes Related to the Dark Arts, a collection of case notes written by Aurors throughout history” which Sherlock was very jealous of, a selection of thick woollen socks in various colours and patterns, and finally, which judging by John’s expression was his favourite, an oversized cream cardigan with large wooden buttons which was very very soft, and thankfully much less ugly than John’s usual choice in knitwear.

John stumbled a thousand thank-yous after each had been opened, and accepted a squeeze when it was offered to him from both Mr and Mrs Holmes, who were beaming. Sherlock's chest tightened fondly. Probably John’s attempt at a peace-offering.

And then it was his turn. John handed him a squashy parcel impeccably wrapped in brown-paper. Rustic yet neat. How very John. Sherlock pealed the parcel open delicately, as if to show his respect for it, and for some reason he was more excited for whatever John may have gotten him more than any other present of the day. To be honest Sherlock had a sneaky suspicion that John could get him an empty Bertie Bott's carton and he’d think it was the most wonderful gift he’d ever received.

“It’s not much…” John said nervously, as Sherlock parted the paper.

Sherlock gently pulled out the dark green woollen object. It was heavy and soft.

“I know you don’t often wear jumpers like that, but I thought-”

“I love it,” Sherlock said firmly, and without any further pause, he pulled the jumper on over his pyjama shirt.

John beamed at him, “Looks good.”

Sherlock beamed back.

Mycroft scoffed. Sherlock did not care in the slightest.

…

After the presents were finished and the pile of wrapping paper and discarded bows of all shades of red and green and gold imaginable were tidied away, they all hurried off upstairs, arms full of their own treasures from that morning.

They dressed, John putting on his new cardigan over a burgundy t-shirt, and Sherlock, to John’s delight, continued to wear his new jumper. He looked lovely in it, he really did - John was impressed with himself - it brought out the green flecks in his eyes and made him- Stop it John.

By the time they came down, Mr Holmes had made them all flasks of hot chocolate, and it was time for them to venture out into the Christmas Day cold for a family wander. Family.

Mr and Mrs Holmes walked gloved-hand in gloved-hand, chatting away merrily to them all, pointing out the icicles hanging from tree branches and from the tips of chimneys, and the scatterings of snow piles that had been shovelled at their neighbours drives and doorsteps, and throwing the odd snowball, Mrs Holmes enchanting hers to centre in on the back of their heads. When they reached the top of their long lane, an arduous journey due to Mycroft's persistent whining and the thick snow which had fallen in the last week, they perched themselves on a fence at the top of a field. There they all drank their hot chocolate, huddling close for warmth and listening to the distant laughter and chatter of families and friends wishing each other Happy Christmases, the sound of joy carrying on the biting morning breeze.

“Sherlock, is that your owl?” John said, trying not to shiver, gesturing to the small black dot whch was hovering against the white sky.

“Well, Billie is part of the family, John,” Sherlock said, hopping down off of the fence and holding his arm out to welcome the owl, “It’s right that he is on the walk too.”

Billie had a few letters in festive coloured envelopes clasped in his beak, which Sherlock carefully plucked from him and handed to his mother, before giving Billie a well deserved stroke of his feathers.

“Ah, Grandma wishes you all a merry one!” Mrs Holmes said, brightly, “What a lovely card- I’m so glad it got here, her poor old owl travelling all this way in the snow!”

“Granny lives in Amsterdam,” Sherlock explained, allowing Billie to hop further up onto his arm, “I bet it’s beautiful at Christmas.”

“Yeah,” John said, staring at him as a nipping wind whipped round, causing his curls to quiver and Sherlock to shiver, pulling the cuffs of his jumper tight into his palms, “Yeah I bet it is.”

“We should probably head back then,” Mr Holmes said, jumping down to join Sherlock, “As by the sounds of it we've got a very weary owl back at our house!”

“So you go back home for Granny’s owl, but not back for me… trying to tell me something?” Mycroft moaned.

“You didn’t just fly over night in the freezing cold on Christmas eve.”

“But he did, mummy,” Sherlock butted in, “Haven’t you heard? Mycroft’s the muggle Father Christmas.”

John snorted.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock continued, “It was just the weight and the big red nose that confused me-”

“Be quiet Sherlock!” Mycroft spat, “What a genius joke.”

As Sherlock and Mycroft hurried back up the lane bickering, John hung back slightly.

“So the bickering doesn’t stop at Christmas?” he asked jovially to Mr Holmes,

“Doesn’t stop ever,” he chuckled, “Come on, let’s go get warm!” and with that he patted John on the back, and they all headed back to the Holmes cottage.

…

Once back, and once they’d nursed Granny’s very disgruntled screech owl who'd been sat on their doorstep back to health, Sherlock and John opened their presents from their school fellows, and Sherlock  was surprised at the fact he… had any?

Mike had sent him a Christmas card with a Honeyduke’s candy cane inside it, Molly had given him a pair of socks in a very… garish design, and he opened a parcel containing a pack of six festive Butterbeers from someone Sherlock couldn’t place.

“John- who’s... Greg?

John stared at him, lifting his gaze from his own parcel of Butterbeers and a chocolate frog, “You’re joking?”

“No- look,” Sherlock handed him the label, “'Sherlock, Merry Christmas from Gre-'”

“No-” John shook his head, starting to chuckle, “I know- I know who it-... Sherlock, Greg. My friend Greg. Our friend Greg.”

Sherlock blinked, puzzled.

John sighed.

“You call him Graham? Or Geoff? Gareth-”

“Oh! Well that’s nice of him I suppose.”

John put his head in his hands, “I dread to think what you put in his Christmas card…”

Sherlock froze, “So do I…”

Their laughter filled the living room, accompanied with the sound of the fire cracking behind them, with Mr and Mrs Holmes stirring and chopping and chattering from the kitchen, and Mycroft’s turning of the pages of the Daily Prophet, and his mumbling of how “The Christmas issue is always completely useless”

…

After a few rounds of mulled rum and a few too many pre-dinner nibbles, Mrs Holmes told Sherlock, John, and Mycroft to set the table. Sherlock’s face practically lit up at this.

Sherlock waved his wand, and the tablecloth lifted itself, flipped in the air, and when it landed it was not their pristine white tablecloth anymore, but a scarlet table runner. He then tapped his wand again, and a scattering of gold star confetti fired from the end of it, falling gracefully across the table.

“How can I help…?” John said, mouth falling open.

“No,” Sherlock said simply.

“Are you-”

“I wouldn't bother, John,” Mycroft said irritably.

Within moments, pristine white plates crowded the table, and napkins were folding themselves in mid air, looking like green fir trees when they fell upon the plates. There were beautiful tea light holders, sprigs of holly, brightly coloured crackers, and glistening placeholders and glassware which all amalgamated into a Christmas table that rivalled that of Hogwarts’.

Sherlock  stood back, eyes flitting over the table not dissimilar to the way he looked at a case…

“Sherlock, what the-”

Sherlock sighed, “It gets very boring in the country. Don’t touch anything until the turkey is carved.”

And soon, the turkey was being carved. Mrs Holmes did a cracking job at it, while Mr Holmes dished out wine amongst them all. It all looked and smelt delicious, perfectly roasted potatoes, thick hearty gravy, and John was touched as Mrs Holmes brought out his own individual nut roast which she’d prepared for him, stating how she’d “searched through copy after copy of Witch’s Weekly to find the recipe!”.

Then they pulled their crackers, Sherlock won against his mother, his mother against Mycroft, Mycroft against his father, Sherlock and Mycroft weren’t allowed to pull one due to their rivalry,  which John could quite understand… and John won against Mycroft, giving him a very petty but very real sense of satisfaction. This eventually resulted in Sherlock wearing an elaborate pirates hat and John a very suave bowler hat, and a few festive mice to scurry across the table.

“Why was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher fired?” Mrs Holmes, who was in a mauve top hat, read from her joke paper.

“Pfft. How appropriate, in Hogwarts history…” Sherlock murmured

“How?” She pushed.

“Dunno,” They all said together.

“Because he was cursing in class- Now, I think that’s rather funny?” Mrs Holmes said, chuckling excessively.

“I think Mummy's had too many mulled wines,” Sherlock said, giving her a warm smile.

“Oh shush that was funny! I like that one!”

The jokes that followed didn’t improve, but they all laughed all the same, even Mycroft, who was now wearing a rainbow glowing bobble hat, managed a giggle. There was a lot of glasses clinking, talking over each other, nudging of one another, swapping of headwear and playing of miniature wizard’s chess when they should have been eating their brussel sprouts. There was a lot of fun at that table. It was the best Christmas dinner John had had in a long while.

…

After their plates were cleared after many helpings of “this is the last of…” potatoes, turkey and pigs in blankets, they adjourned to the living room once again. They all slouched into their respective chairs heavily, full of food drink and contentment, waiting for there to just be enough room to force down a piece of Christmas pudding, trying not to doze off in the warmth of the fire.

Sherlock had no idea how they ended up playing charades and was very unimpressed about it, as apparently his acting out of 'A Year with a Yeti' by Gilderoy Lockhart was too difficult for his imbecile audience to understand, so decided to say yes at the next answer they fired at him.

“A hungover zombie!”

“Yes. Father wins.”

“Was that really it?” John snorted, taking another sip of his mulled drink, rum this time.

“No, but i want to sit down, and I will now torture you with the fact you will never know the truth...”

When everyone grumbled Sherlock felt it best to nominate John to play the next round, and quickly realised charades is actually quite fun when John is the one acting it out. For all his trying John was unable to get any answer out of them that wasn’t along the lines of “upset chicken” or “dragon with toothache” or Mycroft’s contribution of “How i feel right now'. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever laughed so much in all his life.

…

Somehow, and John honestly had no clue how they managed it, he and the Holmes family managed to demolish the troll-sized Christmas pudding, complete with brandy cream, custard, ice cream, the works, within less than an hour of eating dinner. Someone was still passing him chocolates, Bertie Bott’s, fudge… No wonder both Mycroft and Mr Holmes were snoring in the armchairs. That and the gallons of mulled alcohol, of any kind, and sherry and wine and whisky they’d all been drinking since lunchtime.

John had barely been able to eat over the last few Christmases, had always felt nauseous, anxious, too unhappy to touch anything, and would end up retiring to his bed by five o’clock waiting for it to be over. Yet here he was, sat next to Sherlock, giggling as they tried to knock Mycroft’s bobble hat off of his sleeping head with whatever was small enough to throw. Five Galleons to the one who does it without waking him up. There was a family around him, humming happily, beaming at each other from across the room, cuddling up close and dozing together. This was a proper Christmas, a Christmas he hadn’t had for five years.

“Yes! Told you I’d win!” Sherlock burst suddenly, bringing John back, “I told you, it’s all about the angle-”

Sherlock looked at him. John could tell his eyes were now watery.

“Come on,” Sherlock rose to his feet, pulling John by the arm to join him.

“Where are we going?”

“You still need to open your Christmas present.”

John followed him past the Christmas tree and out into the hall nervously. Mrs Holmes, who was now too nearly falling asleep where she sat, gave him a knowing smile.

Sherlock shut the door gently behind him, leaving he and John alone by the front door, the glowing baubles that covered the picture-rails and banisters the only source of light for them.

“Open it.” Sherlock said quietly

John chuckled nervously, “Really? I can open my own gift?”

“Just- open it.”

John paused before pulling out the envelope that had been in his pocket since he’d gotten dressed.

“What is it?”

“Well, John, you’d know if you opened-”

“Okay…”

John started to peel it open, and Sherlock averted his gaze, focusing instead on the garishly patterned rug beneath their feet.

John opened it.

Oh.

John stared at the photograph, and his mother and father were staring back at him, beaming up at him. Not only beaming but laughing, they were moving, looking from John to each other, and then to a younger Harry, and then his own younger self. John’s father wrapped his arms round all of them giving them the biggest squeeze. John remembered that squeeze, the warmth of it, the comfort of it, how it made him feel safe, feel home.

John blinked, and a tear escaped him. He looked up at his friend, who’d been fidgeting where he stood.

Sherlock’s face was still, unsure. He didn’t need to be.

“Not good…?” Sherlock asked, nervously.

John shook his head, before pulling his friend into his chest, hugging him.

“Very good.” John mumbled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back, “Very, very good.”

John felt Sherlock exhale against him, “Good.”

John pulled back, awkwardly, smiling to himself.

“You still owe me five Galleons though,” Sherlock said, quietly smirking at him.

John laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Or we up the steaks, all or nothing… next one to knock Mycroft’s hat off using only mince pies gets ten?”

Sherlock smiled, “You’re playing a dangerous game, John.”

“I like dangerous.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’re on.”

...

The rest of the evening went as most Christmases do. Mr and Mrs Holmes woke up with a second wind and thought bringing out a cheese board was the next logical step, Mycroft’s face got redder and redder after each sip of mulled wine, and Sherlock was smug in collecting John’s ten galleons, the gamble did not pay off, even after both of them had begun to get a bit squiffy by eleven o’clock. Eventually it was time for them all to drag themselves up the stairs, legs and eyelids heavy, all giggling like children at their giddiness in having such a lovely day.

As Sherlock clambered into bed, he and John murmured sleepy goodnights to one another, with snatches of merry christmases hear and there, and Sherlock’s heart swelled unashamedly as his eyes fell upon John holding the photograph close to his chest before he turned out the light.

…

Tap.

Sherlock shifted.

Tap tap tap.

His eyes peeled open, staring into the darkness of his room.

Tap tap.

He groaned, sitting upright fuzzily. Billie?

Pulling himself clumsily to his feet, he slid back the curtain and to see, yes, indeed Billie sat outside his window in the cold and impatient to be let in. There was a small parcel attached to his foot.

“Oh for God’s sake…” Sherlock whispered, wrenching open the window and allowing the dainty black owl to hop inside. He nipped him.

“Oi-Ah-Sorry! I was asleep, I'll have you know.”

He unfastened the parcel, lifted Billie onto his perch, checked to see if there was food (there was) and was about to throw the parcel carelessly onto his desk when intrigue got the better of him. Sitting down on his windowsill, in the moonlight he swore the string binding the parcel looked familiar?

Dark green, good quality…

Bonfire?

Sherlock’s interest spiked. He unwrapped the string quickly but carefully in order to keep it as intact as possible, before lifting the lid of the box. The box was velvet. He fumbled around inside, before feeling something woollen. Damp? The box itself was mostly dry apart from the flecks of snow that had evidently clung to it on it’s journey. Why wet?

He lifted the gloves to the light of the window.

Young sort of pattern, garish colours, presumably a younger owner. Yet large in size? He held them up to his own hands. Bigger than mine. Child, with larger hands… oh!

He rolled back their cuff to find a label. Idiot. Obvious, should have looked first. Idiot. There was a name written in faded, yet still visible, ink.

Carl Powers.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean we’ve got a case?”

“I just explained to you.”

“So Carl’s gloves…”

“Carl’s gloves.”

“What about Carl’s gloves?”

“Carl’s-gloves-that-Carl-told-me-had-been-taken-at-the-bonfire gloves, don’t you remember?”

“Funnily enough, I didn’t think that was something necessary to keep at the front of my mind.” 

Sherlock frowned. “Neither did I.” He flopped down onto his bed, “And now someone is punishing me for it.”

It was mid-morning on Boxing Day, and John woke up to a fully washed and dressed, and very antsy, Sherlock Holmes, brandishing green string in his face with gloved hands.

“So,” John said, rubbing his eyes lazily and swivelling his still pyjama-clad legs out from under the duvet, “The person who stole Carl’s gloves was... behind the bonfire?”

“Clearly. Same string on the bags of aconite and on the parcel, the events occurred the same evening, and both items have been purposely made damp,” Sherlock reeled off quickly, gesturing up to the ceiling, “Obviously”

“Right,” John was still full of sleep and, to be quite honest was not overly sure what was happening, “This means?”

“It means something,” Sherlock barked, “Something I can’t investigate properly until I’m out of this bloody place.”

John’s mouth twitched, “You realise, when you were at school, you said you’d do anything to leave… and now you’re here you’re saying that you-”

“And people say I’m the smart arse...”

John smirked.

“And-” Sherlock sat up, running a hand erratically through his curls, “the aconite was planted, it’s dampened state meaning-”

“Meaning it was never intended to be used-”

“Yes, well remembered, which led us to the conclusion that it’d been planted for someone to find. Now that this parcel has been sent to me it has confirmed that-”

“You’re the person.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s mouth pulled into a small smile, “Neat.”

“Unless…” John yawned, “Unless it means it’s another-”

“Prank? Hm,” Sherlock scoffed, “The letters; from a sender who ends up rudely not happening to exist. This package; from a sender who remains anonymous-”

Sherlock stared at the floor, clearly thinking.

“-These ‘pranks’ are elaborate, detailed, and aimed at a target,” his eyes flashed up excitedly at John, “This new case may have opened up an old one.”

“Yeah- cool yeah, great,” John got up with a stretch, “But if you’re clearly the ‘target’, you won’t mind me going to get some breakfast, then.”

“What? I thought you’d want to-”

“It’s Boxing Day, Sherlock, and if I’m not mistaken someone downstairs is making toast,” John said sleepily, before heading out on to the landing.

He heard Sherlock huff sulkily behind him, however this was quickly undermined by Sherlock’s sudden call of “Could you bring me up a cup of tea?”

…

John did not bring him a cup of tea, which annoyingly forced Sherlock to stray downstairs where his family were- how can you really solve a case if tea is not being consumed?- which in turn presented him with a bizarre image; His mother was sat at the dining table with John, letters and Christmas cards between them, talking excitedly to one another.

“Oh darling we -” Mrs Holmes said excitedly, gesturing him closer,

“I-I need a cup of tea-” he mumbled, taking in the view of worrying domesticity.

“You’re mum’s had an... idea... Sherlock.” John said, a look of smugness on his face.

“That’s never good news,” Sherlock sighed, taking a mug from the counter. John propped his chin up on his hand teasingly, beaming at him.

“Oh Sherlock it’ll be lovely- You know your father and myself are spending New Year’s Eve in Amsterdam with mother and Uncle Rudy and, as you and Mycroft refuse to join as usual, why don’t you have your own little celebration here?”

Sherlock peered at her, allowing his teabag to hover in mid air,  “Why would I do that?”

Mrs Holmes gestured to the Christmas cards on the table, “Well when I was putting these up, there seem to be a lot of people who like you from school! And you’ve never really… you know… had-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And-And John’s here!” She continued, “There’s only so many occassions when your parents are away, Sherlock.”

“So, you’re encouraging me to have a get together-”

“Party- I think?” John interrupted, “I think your mum said-”

“-With people you don’t know?” Sherlock continued louder, “whilst you’re not only absent, but in another country.”

John nodded, gleefully.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Mrs Holmes said, smiling, “Problem?”

Sherlock looked to John, who seemed all for the idea.

“No problem, no.”

John peered at him, biting his lip excitedly. Damn you, John.

Mrs Holmes, evidently satisfied with their plans, slid the large plate of toast towards him.

“Can’t,” Sherlock said flatly, staring down at the spoon stirring freely in his teacup, “Busy.”

…

John had heard Sherlock’s bedroom door slam from upstairs, which according to Mrs Holmes was his if you disturb me you’ll certainly regret it signal, which left John sat in the kitchen with Mrs Holmes creating a guest list. As much as John was all for the idea of a party, he definitely would have much rather been up those stairs examining, or to be more truthful… watching Sherlock examine gloves and boxes and string fibres, and lots of other things that John would think insignificant and Sherlock would prove otherwise. He’d only meant for Sherlock to allow him his breakfast first.

“So so far we have Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, your sister Harry, and Stephen Bainbridge?”

“Yeah, Sherlock seems to like all of them,” John murmured, staring at the quill quivering eagerly on the notepad between them, “I suppose we should add Clara, she’s my sister’s-” he paused, before clearing his throat, “her erm, her- her girl...friend.”

“Oh then she must come!”

A small ball of warmth bloomed in John’s chest.

 “Anyone else?” She continued, pulling her spectacles up to her eyes from where they hung about her neck.

John huffed a laugh, “You know him better than me, who does he mention at all?”

Mrs Holmes gave him a gentle smile, clasping his arm “You’re the only person he’s really mentioned as of yet, love.”  

A smile tugged at the corner of John’s mouth, “Right, yeah.”

“I just know that that Sebastian Wilkes is definitely not coming-”

“Definitely not.”

“Then who else? Come on it’s New Year’s!”

John sighed, looking down at the page, “I’ve seen him sometimes talking to this girl, Janine-”

“Oh well jot her down then!”

“-but she’s Sebastian’s girlfriend.”

“Definitely not then,” She snapped, “Scratch that last.”

The quill did as it was told.

“Though that has given me an idea!" she continued, "Plus ones! Everyone has a plus one!”

John chuckled, “That can often get out of hand, Mrs Holmes-”

“That’s alright, we’re away,” she said dismissively, smiling at him.

“You really want him to have this party, don’t you?” John smirked.

She beamed at him, “Very much so.”

John giggled, “Brilliant, plus one’s it is.”

Once the list was finished, after numerous drafts and redrafts from Sherlock's mother, John managed to escape upstairs, opening Sherlock’s bedroom door to, at first, a showering of colourful insults and explanations of why no one should be in there, followed by an abrupt, rather embarrassed mumbling of apologies once Sherlock saw who it was.

John glanced to the desk, where there lay four petri dishes, two cauldrons burning on a protected flame, and an ancient looking microscope that John wouldn’t have been surprised if told it had belonged to Merlin himself.

“Any luck?” he asked eagerly as Sherlock waved him in, running over to the door to shut it.

“No luck, just brilliant perception.”

“Perception which has lead you to?”

“Nowhere whatsoever,” He leapt up onto the windowsill, drawing his knees up under his chin, “Write to Carl. Ask him whether he himself has any ideas on who would steal from him- All we can do until we’re back at that hateful school.”

“Your Christmas spirit doesn’t last long, does it.”

“John,” Sherlock snapped, almost pleadingly.

“We made a guest list.”

“A non-sequitur if I ever heard one,” Sherlock huffed dismissively.

“Here,” John wafted a small tearing of parchment at him, “Your mum tried slipping it under your door earlier, but erm… you… burned it… want to see?”

Sherlock moved swiftly over to him and snatched it. He pondered it for a moment, as John began scrawling the letter to ‘Mr C. Powers’ himself.

“So we’re basically telling him,” John asked, grabbing a discarded quill on Sherlock’s desk, “we’ve found the gloves, and we’re asking whether anyone’s acted, what? Suspiciously? Weird? Around him?”

“Yes. Perfect, John,” Sherlock said, placing the guest list on John’s knee, “Seems fine I suppose. No Irene?”

John looked up at him. “W-what?”

“Irene Adler? You know her, she-”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I know her. Just didn’t know you were that close.”

“No, not at all. But she will kill me if we are having this- well this party- and she learned of its existence and that she wasn’t to attend.”

“Right,” John swallowed, “Right yeah- I’ll just finish this, then go tell your mum, shall I?”

Sherlock shook his head, rapping his finger on the glass of his window. Within moments Billie appeared, beak open in anticipation. Sherlock scribbled the addition to his mother onto another scrap of parchment and handed it to the owl.

“Carl’s letter,” he said impatiently.

“Nearly.”

“Hurry up.”

“Hang on!”

John passed it huffily to Sherlock, who skimmed over it before tying a small piece of string around it that he plucked from his pocket. He then handed it to Billie, alongside the idle message to his mother.

“Wait, there’s no address - is he at his home or Hogwarts?”

“I drown him out a lot of the time- Billie will find him. Thank you, Billie,” and Billie flew off into the.wintry grey morning.

John smirked at him.

“You realise that whole… thing… probably took more effort than maybe, you know, just poking your head out the door and yelling-”

“Perhaps,but he was heading out anyway. Besides, there’s a certain theatre to owl post that cannot be beaten, I’m sure mother will appreciate it,” Sherlock said earnestly, re-positioning himself on the window-ledge, “I really do forget how utterly tedious this place is when I’m at that… other tedious place.”

John chuckled, “You’ve mentioned.”

Sherlock hummed, rather glumly.

“So-” John moved, plonking himself on the windowsill next to him, “You’ve really found nothing?”

Sherlock looked up at him. He smirked.

“You’re genuinely interested.”

John smiled back, “You bet.”

Sherlock hopped down and moved to his desk of organised chaos. 

“Well, I’ve examined both sets of string, from bonfire and this package, down to their very fibres, and they are indeed identical, so that makes that definite, at least, even though I already knew that.”

“Well yeah, they look the same.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, “Well done.”

John grabbed at some snow from the windowsill and flicked it at him.

“And- hey!- And, I’m currently in the process of examining the gloves themselves more closely-”

He nodded to a small petridish that contained a minuscule amount of slightly grubby water.

“That is…” John prompted.

“Nothing other than water the glove was soaked in. Dry, sealed box. Wet gloves. So, I’m just determining what substances it’s encountered.”

Sherlock slid onto the desk chair and began tinkering with it.

John peered over him, interestedly. He hummed, fondly.

“What?” Sherlock mumbled, without looking up from his dish of… plain old water.

“Nothing, just,” John smiled to himself, “This normally how you spend your Boxing Day?”

Again without looking away from his experiment, Sherlock elbowed John, rather hard, in the hip.

…

There they remained, the two of them, for the rest of that traditionally festive day, Sherlock distilling and boiling and studying whilst John looked on. He was a very good spectator. Very good. He would give praise when praise was deserved, or even when Sherlock felt it wasn’t, would read up on something if Sherlock asked, would sit silently when he was doing something in need of great concentration. It was here, on this Boxing Day, that Sherlock felt they were really, for want of a better word, a team, which John would probably have thought ridiculous seeing as his main occupation whilst they worked was watching and waiting. But there was something so inherently comforting and supportive and perpetual about his being there.

John even acted as a buffer between himself and his family; when Sherlock was cursing at his petri-dish as if it had personally insulted him and all held dear, and his mother chose that moment to bring up two large plates of bubble and squeak, John ensured that she left without quill or pillow or shoe being flung at her head.

But really why on earth would I want my leftovers from yesterday blended to a pulp then fried and served in the most unappetising pile of slop that could exist?

Thankfully his mother got the hint and, through John’s gentle pandering, ensured that their dinner was soup, and eaten in their room.

“You not hungry?” John said, holding the warm bowl of soup tightly in his hands. He sat cross-legged on the carpet, and was clearly growing sleepy, watching the steam float up with heavy-lidded eyes.

Sherlock pulled his eyes away from his microscope just long enough to soak up this sight, John soft and sleepy but still certain he was going to help any way he could.

“Er- no, no I don’t eat on cases, remember?” he adjusted the lens, “Slows me down.”

“Oh, right,” John said, suppressing a yawn, “More for me, then,” he grinned excitedly.

Sherlock was thankful for the microscope shadowing his face, as he was sure his face was softening by the second due to John's presence.

“Could murder a cuppa, though,” John said quietly, before taking a slurp of his soup.

Sherlock smiled to himself.

“I really hope you don’t, I rather enjoy cuppas and would grieve them immensely.”

John chuckled, “Nice joke.”

“Why thank you,” they stared at each other, “I’ll go,” Sherlock rose from his desk rather stiffly, stretching.

“Thought you were caught up in the case?” John teased.

“Always room for tea.”

Sherlock headed downstairs, only just realising how late it had gotten, how long they’d been working, how his parents had in fact headed off to bed.

What a Boxing Day.

He stepped into the kitchen and started preparing one extra-strong, extra-sweet tea, (for himself) and one decaffeinated tea, in two large mugs.

 “Don’t I get one?” came the familiar drone of his brother from the lounge.

Sherlock sighed irritably, “Of course- want it sweetened with the blood of your enemies, or?”

Mycroft emerged from the dimly lit living room.

“Sitting alone in the dark? Are you a full-blown villain now, or do you need your final initiation?”

“What are you playing at?”

“I’m mocking you for being dramatic.”

“Oh, Sherlock, don’t pretend to be stupider than you are.”

“What an earth are you talking about?”

“You were sent a parcel last night. You’ve been investigating it all day-”

“If this is news to you I have no idea where you’ve been for the last, oh, whole of my life-”

“Investigating it with John?”

Sherlock was taken aback.

“I-er- yes he-”

“He’s helping you, is he?”

“Yes, he’s giving his input he’s-”

“Since when did you need a partner?”

“I don’t, but he's... here, and it’s Christmas” Sherlock stammered, “He’s spending Christmas with us- with me- I can’t just-”

“Since when did you start caring about Christmas?”

Sherlock paused, mouth hanging open a tad, mind a blank all of a sudden.

“Since him?” Mycroft pressed, coldly.

Sherlock dropped his brother’s gaze.

“He likes the cases,” he said flatly.

“How sweet.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to leave John alone in this house to be analysed by his friend’s brother!” Sherlock yelled suddenly.

“'Friend'?”

“He is my friend,” Sherlock spat.

“He’s a distraction.”

The phrase cut through Sherlock like a spell backfiring. The kitchen door opened.

“Everything okay?”

It was John, hand clasped tight around the door handle, glaring at Mycroft, the softness of his expression completely gone from his face.

Mycroft gave him an ugly sneer before turning on his heel and skulking past John and up the stairs.

Sherlock closed his mouth tightly, before heading upstairs himself.

“Finish the tea,” he called behind him, “Don’t stand there idly, John. We have a case,” he snapped.

…

“You going to tell me what that was?”

John stood, arms crossed over his chest as Sherlock bent over his desk, working almost manically.

“Pass me that phial.”

John blinked. “That phial… next to you… on the desk?”

“Mm.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Just-” he snapped, before inhaling slowly, “help me.”

John huffed, but obliged, gently slipping the phial into Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock mumbled a sort of obligatory thank-you under his breath.

“So,” John said, lowering himself onto the bed.

Sherlock ignored him.

For a few moments, the only sounds that filled the room were the ticking of his clock, the clicking of his metal tongs, and the gently chime of the crystal lid of the phial hitting the table.

Then he jumped up.

“I need to identify the specific particles in that water- what vegetation its been near, or run through. Obviously by the looks of it it's just old rain water, but looks can be deceiving and as we know this has been planted here- There’s also something- something flaring up in the solution, something irregular- something- that needs investigation. And then we need to connect the gloves, the pouches from bonfire night, and actually find out what's going on, which is going to take a while if I can't focus,” He ran a hand through his hair, “Alright?”

John stared at him, rather blankly,

“I may go and make us a coffee instead.”

Chapter Text

The year was drawing to a close and the pages of Sherlock’s bedroom calendar tore themselves away for the last few times… but Sherlock was unaware of the passage of time entirely. He flitted between bedroom to shed, shed to bedroom, John wafting coffee cups and mugs of tea under his nose every hour or so, and forcing him to go bed when, by the 28th, Sherlock hadn’t so much as had a five minute doze. (Sherlock had stropped rather ceremoniously, before falling asleep within mere moments of being pulled from his desk in his jeans and new green jumper without even getting under the covers.) John liked the hours in the shed much less, which was where their base was when a new experiment was required to begin before the many on the surface of Sherlock’s dresser had finished. He could see his breath wafting up in front of him and had to jump from foot to foot to stop himself from freezing to death while Sherlock compared the fibres of leaves and of dirt clods with shivering hands. Thankfully, for the whole Holmes family’s safety, the experiment’s results weren’t groundbreaking, but were... something. Enough to keep Sherlock tearing his curls out, at least.

On the morning of New Year’s eve, the two of them sat at the kitchen table, a refreshingly different surrounding, the space warm enough and devoid of cauldrons, microscopes and phials. They read over their findings which John, with help with Mrs Holmes’ enchanted quill, had been jotting down, christening the notebook Mrs Holmes had given him for Christmas.

John recalled their findings of “Carl’s glove water” as he’d titled the sheet of parchment, listing the various species of pondweed they’d found traces of, two of which a variety specifically found in the north of Scotland, which placed it in and around Hogwarts, which although entirely obvious, as Sherlock pointed out, they also found the traces of said pondweed on the pouches from the bonfire.

“Meaning that connection of these objects to the lake is entirely intentional,” Sherlock reminded John, taking a sip of his tea.

John hummed agreeably, dunking a shortbread into his own and turned a page with his crumby fingers.

The page revealed the word ‘something’ in all capital letters, written in red, surrounded my question marks.

John practically felt Sherlock roll his eyes.

“Oh really, John - that really is intellectually informed”

“Well- there is something still flaring up in these experiments, Sherlock, and-"

“And obviously I’d forget that detail if you hadn’t circled it five times with your quill!” Sherlock interrupted sarcastically, finishing his tea off with a large swig, “And anyway, I have one more experiment to set up. We’ll solve it.”

Sherlock rose from the table, as if he’d suddenly reminded himself of this fact, and headed in the direction of the back door and, alas, the shed again.

John shivered at the thought.

“Erm… do I… I mean it’s great but-”

“Yes, you’re welcome to stay inside and set up for tonight’s party while I take care of this,” Sherlock sighed, grabbing a coat from the coat hook.

“You’re great,” John beamed

“I know,” He smirked, “Be sure that the bunting looks symmetrical, or some other comment that suggests I really care about this party.”

“You definitely will be checking it’s symmetrical though, won't you?” John said teasingly.

"Quiet, you,” Sherlock mumbled, but John could see the smile playing upon his lips.

…

Soon enough, Mr and Mrs Holmes were piling suitcases beside the fireplace before flying away to Amsterdam in a puff of green smoke and a faint smell of burnt toast, and it was just Sherlock, John and, loathfully, Mycroft left at the cottage.

Mycroft apparated himself to his bedroom almost immediately in some dramatic show of how eager he was to get away from them both, which left Sherlock and John in the lounge, a box of the remaining bunting lying excitedly between their feet.

“Where do we want this, then?” John asked, looking about the lounge, which was covered top to toe, rather excessively, in multi-coloured bunting.

“Don’t mind,” Sherlock shrugged, flopping down onto the sofa.

“Well you’ve adjusted every other one I’ve put up- and if you think you’re sitting there for the next hour you’ve got another bloody thing coming. We’ve got to set up.”

"Set up what? Mummy’s laid out a spread to feed a small village of overtly hungry goblins, and the decorations look perfect now that I’ve seen to them, so relax.”

John huffed, dropping down next to him.

“People are going to be drinking.”

“Yes, John.”

“Do we have enough?”

"Enough to drown that small village of overtly hungry goblins, John, yes,” Sherlock repeated dully.

“Okay,” John fidgeted. He’d never thrown a house party before. Well, not to be morbid but he’d never had a house, not a real house, to throw one in. “Shall we put the fire out?”

“It’s snowing outside?”

“What if people get too warm?”

"If people get too warm we put the fire out, John. Relax, it will all be fine.”

…

Sherlock was not relaxed. It was not all going to be fine. He had, on the contrary, calculated twenty-six separate scenarios in which the party could end in disaster by the factor of spillages alone and was already regretting ever leaving John and his mother in a situation alone together.

He had changed his jeans twice, the black pair, the dark grey pair, then had changed to a pair of slim dress trousers, but then returned to the first pair of jeans as to not appear too formal. He’d decided on a plum-coloured shirt tucked into said jeans with a belt, the top button open, but was panicking on the debacle of whether to wear socks or shoes. What is the etiquette for such a thing? His house had no such rule that shoes should be removed, but nonetheless some guests may, understandably for the need of comfort, wish to remove their shoes, but some may wish to keep them on for the exact purpose. Will shoe people panic when they see sock people? Will sock people feel awkward and informal? And what would he and John decide on?

Hair had been re-curled twice, which no one will ever learn of, and annoying, as Sherlock trotted shoeless back to the lounge, he saw John looking… well, you know… as usual. It was enough to make a boy curl his hair a third time.

“What’s this?” Sherlock gestured to the record player in the corner.

“A record I found on the bookcase.”

“Right.”

The two of them exchanged a nervous smile, before plopping themselves on the sofa again, waiting for someone to arrive.

...

Greg was the first to arrive and, as John was quite an infrequent user of the floo-network, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t jump a foot into the air when his best friend smashed into Sherlock’s living room with a rucksack and a puff of smoke. John had wondered why Sherlock had moved the coffee table a few inches backwards before setting up the nibbles; Greg would have cleared them out completely otherwise.

“Merry Christmas!” Greg burst out excitedly once the soot had cleared, wrapping John in a large hug. Yet, when it came to his greeting of Sherlock…  “Sherlock! What the fuck is this?” Greg had a, now rather sooty, Christmas card clasped tightly in his free hand.

Sherlock took it and peered at it. John, naturally, pushed up onto his toes to read it over his shoulder.

Evidently, Sherlock had struggled to such a ridiculous degree to remember Greg’s name, that the top half of the card was taken up by now unreadable scrawls of varying names beginning with the letter G, each scribbled out in frustration.

However, what made it worse was the name Sherlock finally decided was the most acceptable to use;

‘Dear Gus,

Merry Christmas!

SH.’

John practically collapsed onto the sofa.

“Sherlock, you really don’t think my name is Gus, do you?” Greg persisted, rather hurt.

John peered up at them from his limp laughing state.

“Well,” Sherlock mumbled, “No. Of course not…” he shot John a worried luck.

John, through his stifled giggles, managed to mouth the correct name to Sherlock.

“Greg!” Sherlock shouted, “Greg! Of course your name isn’t Gus, this was all just a joke. A christmas joke- people tell jokes at Christmas, don’t they John! They come in those silly little crackers and things… it was a joke!... Greg.”

John was now buried into the sofa cushions.

Greg, after a few moment of thought, nodded. “Thanks, Sherlock!” he slapped him on the back, “Maybe it’s time we had a beer!”  and as Greg started rummaging through his bag to reveal a hefty amount of butterbeers, Sherlock mouthed John a thousand thank yous.

…

Within the next half an hour, everyone invited had arrived through a combination of fireplace and, from the older students friends amongst them, apparition. Molly had smothered John and Sherlock into an enormous squeeze and handed them a bottle of champagne. Irene provided each of them with a kiss on the cheek, which Sherlock thought he saw John recoil at, and also a bottle of mulled wine which matched her nails and lipstick perfectly. Stephen Bainbridge arrived and gave them both a high five, before handing them another case of butterbeer and a bottle of firewhisky, as well as bringing a handful of people neither John nor Sherlock had met before.

It seemed that with each person coming into the lounge the alcohol content in the house grew and grew. That was until Harry arrived, who nearly bowled John over when she saw him, handing him instead a large bottle of spiced pumpkin juice.

“Don’t want to embarrass myself in Sherl’s house now do I!” She giggled, squeezing him harder, “Merry Christmas, Johnny!”

Clara took her hand and the two of them went to join the festivities.

And they were festive festivities. After barely an hour, people filled the downstairs of Sherlock’s house completely, music was loud, and songs were being changed every few minutes, people finding old records Sherlock didn’t even know his house had hold of. Trays of giggle-water were being passed around left, right and centre, and there was a small stack of empty bottles building by the back-door of the kitchen. Sherlock had an inkling the night was going to get rather messy...

Knowing perhaps a handful of the piles and piles of guests in the Holmes’ cottage, Sherlock stayed practically attached to John’s side. In fact, Sherlock didn’t want to… deduce anything… as was usually his forte, but they were practically attached. If John went to get a drink, he’d grab Sherlock’s arm to ask him what he wanted, if Sherlock moved somewhere, John would most likely follow, even once grabbing onto Sherlock’s jumper sleeve in order to stay close as they moved through the crowd of people. Not that this was a bad thing. Not at all. He’d be happy spending New Years with only John, really. They’d spent basically the whole of Christmas alone, and that was more than pleasurable… He liked spending New Year’s with him too.

However, even he couldn’t deny there was a certain energy to the party, the sound of some old wizarding band he’d barely heard of blasting from the record player, intermingled with snatches of conversations, laughter blaring, and the hilarious giggling hiccups that were emerging from all of his friends as they drank shot after shot of giggle water was information he was happy to retain. Always nice to have something to tease with. The boy who wasn’t Gus’ giggle was particularly astounding, and the response of Mike, John, and the others surrounding them lead him to changing to beer again. However, Molly Hooper, had seemed to find the giggling rather endearing, as she’d been blushing each time the boy who wasn’t Gus had done so. Sherlock was pretty sure if the boy, I really should bloody learn his name, knew of this, he’d be straight back to drinking giggle water without a fuss.

Sherlock did try and circulate, though; that is what a good host does. However, John had told him in private to be on his best behaviour, so Sherlock tried to keep the deducing of guests to a minimum. Although he did find it rather difficult to not tell a friend of Bainbridge that the new jumper he was wearing, evidently knitted by his grandmother, had in fact initially had gone to, and even been worn by, said Grandmother’s lover, and had been re-gifted at the last minute. I’m sure he adores his Gran… wouldn’t want to ruin it.

At about ten o’clock, while circulating, however, Sherlock came across a vaguely familiar looking blonde witch whom Mike had brought along. She was very pretty, hair cropped into a pixie cut and wearing a short blue dress. Sherlock smiled at her politely, yet she completely grabbed him as her greeting.

“Nice house!” She yelled over the noise of the festivities, “Didn’t realise you knew so many people, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I’m Mary. Mike brought me-  so... is John Watson about?”

Mary: touching face, moving hair behind ears - smirk playing on her lips at mention of John’s name. Ah. I see.

“Erm, he’s-” Sherlock flicked his eyes around the room of bodies. He spotted John, who was standing beside the Christmas tree, laughing.  “He’s, he’s somewhere.”

“Well, if you see him-”

“Do you know each other?” Sherlock said, rather levelly.

“Well enough. In a few classes together, played opposite him in quidditch a few times. He’s handsome isn’t he, ” She winked at him.

Erm?

“Erm, well he- yes- he’s-”

“So if you see him, you know where I am!”

Sherlock sidled away between two evidently inebriated dancing people, “Yes.”

And I will soon delete it.

“Actually Sherlock, grab me a drink?” Mary yelled after him.

Sherlock, rather irritably, agreed and headed through the archway to the kitchen.

...
Meanwhile, John was having a whale of a time, and by the time eleven o’clock was approaching, Greg was practically legless, which was always entertaining, and no amount of trying was stunting the effects of the giggle water, which was even more entertaining. Mike and he had dragged Greg’s hysterical, limp self to the stairs to give him somewhere quiet, at which time John realised he himself wasn’t the soberest of wizards. By the time they reached the bottom step, all three of them were giggling on them like naughty toddlers.

“This is ridiculous,” John snorted.

“Yup,” Mike agreed.

“Sherlock- may not- know my name-” Greg struggled, through a sudden attack of hiccups, “But he- sure knows- how to party!”

John laughed, patting Greg on the back, “Yeah he’s great, isn’t he.”

Mike and Greg hummed in response.

“Having fun down there, are we?”

John, in his relatively drunken state, really really had to try not to laugh at the image of Mycroft he was presented with, standing at the top of the stairs. Nightcap? Yes. Dressing gown? Of course? Silk slippers with what looked like rabbits on them? Absolutely.

“Yep,” John smiled, desperately wishing Sherlock was there to see this, “You having fun up there?”

Mycroft grimaced.

“You’re all very loud. I’m off to bed, there is no need for all this ceremony for the turning of a calendar page. Goodnight,” and he turned and retreated back along the landing.

“Who’s that then?” Greg asked, staring after him.

“Sherlock’s brother. He’s a wanker,” John said frankly.

“Oh,” Greg pondered this for a moment, “Who you kissing at midnight then John, go on?”

John burst out laughing, “I am not overly keen on your train of thought there, Greg… don’t tell me you’ve been so unlucky with Molly that you’re going to chase Mycroft!”

"Who?”

"Sherlock’s brother.”

“Oh!” Greg giggled, “No. No. Shurup. Molly is not completely lost, I just need to find her,” he lunged forward to stand, failing spectacularly.

“Sit down, you spoon,” John laughed, and after a moment or two’s pause murmured, “Where’s Sherl gone?”

Greg sniggered smugly, “And I’m quite interested in your train of thought there.”

Shut up, Greg.

“Who are you kissing at midnight, Mike?” John cut in, bitterly.

“A bottle of butterbeer, mate.”

Greg made some agreeable sounds into his own knees.

“What about your friend? The ravenclaw girl?” John yawned.

Mike snorted, “Nah…” he slapped John on the back, “Think Mary’s more into you, mate.”

“Eh?”

“Yep. Been talking about you all night. I left her, in the end. She’s probs looking for you.” Mike said, rather glumly, “Ooh, only forty minutes to go!” he nodded to the small ornate clock hanging above the Holmes’ door to the kitchen.

Greg grunted, slouching forward towards the floor.

John hummed in response, not really listening.

Where the hell is Sherlock?

…

Sherlock was, in fact, trapped in his own kitchen by a bunch of John’s quidditch friends. Somehow, somehow, he was in the middle of rather an elaborate game of ring of fire at his cottage kitchen table, which is exactly like muggle ring of fire, however the cards actually explode whenever a King surfaces. It was very amusing, Sherlock thought, watching John’s friends become increasingly blathered and still trying to read what their cards said. It was only when Sherlock picked up a Queen, who looked up at him from her card and burst into fits of laughter, that he realised maybe he looked just as ridiculous…

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, rather messily.

Hmm. Cannot feel face. Interesting.

“We’ve got forty minutes! Then a new year for us!”

Right.

“Thank you. Thank you ever so much. I now, may, now I may, I may excuse myself…” Sherlock said, too confidently, really, and stood up with a wobble, “Enjoy.”

Find John? Find John.

Sherlock planned out his path out of the kitchen, and hoped his legs would follow. They… sort of did. He pushed through some people, maybe that was Harry? Lovely. Oh, and there’s… Irene? Hello there. Ah! Doorway! Great, going in the right direction.

Sherlock clambered out of the kitchen and pushed passed a few bodies on the bottom of the stairs, and scaled his staircase.

For some reason, he found his bedroom.

Good. Safe. No people.

Wrong? People.

A friend of John’s and a stranger they’d brought with them were sat on his bed, very close together.

“Would you kindly get out, please,” He mumbled, offering them his softest of smiles.

Bed. Sit. Good.

…

John was certain that Sherlock just pushed passed him. Yes. That was definitely Sherlock.

Where the fuck?

John, after some difficulty pushing the snoozing Greg off of his lap, which wasn’t helped by the two people suddenly coming down the stairs on top of them, followed him.

John walked, well... stumbled… up the winding staircase, eventually finding his way to Sherlock’s room. After a few attempts at turning the handle, he found Sherlock sat cross-legged on his carpet, staring into the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers.

“You okay?” John giggled, shutting the door behind him rather clumsily.

Sherlock huffed, and it seemed to move his whole body, “My socks aren’t organised, John,” he whined, like an overtired toddler, “I keep trying, but they. Won’t. Organise.” `

John smiled. Drunk Sherlock was quite an endearing, Sherlock.

“Why are you up here, anyway?” John said, sitting down beside him, which his increasingly wobbly body thanked him for.

“Too many. Busy,” Sherlock slurred, “Firewhisky!”

John laughed. He could still hear the muffled sound of the music downstairs even there. “That’s okay, where’ve you been anyway?”

He prodded him on the shoulder, apparently punctuating the question.

“Kitchen. Blonde lady, Mike’s blonde lady, she wanted a drink. I got her one, and then suddenly I was sitting at the table, cards everywhere. Game,” He smiled, “I drank her drink.”

John smiled, raising his eyebrows “You played a drinking game?”

Sherlock nodded proudly, “Yep.”

“Oh dear…” John teased, elbowing him. It was only a gentle touch, but Sherlock was nearly bowled over by it.

“Hey, don’t pretend you aren’t all wibbly wobbly too!”

They smiled at each other.

“Help me up,” Sherlock murmured from his position on the floor.

John extended a hand, and Sherlock took it, very very slowly.  John attempted to pull him back to a sitting position, succeeding eventually, but it took a few attempts. Once he was up, well… their hands remained interlocked for at least a minute after, but neither of them really seemed to mind.

“How can I help you arrange these socks then?” John murmerd, trying not to focus on the fact that he wasn’t even pretending to look at the socks at all.

Even with two of them the task was impossible, wherever John would place a pair of socks, Sherlock would move it, or one of them would find the pattern on the sock funny, or say it looked like Mycroft, or something else unbelievably unhelpful, until they were both giggling into the sock drawer.

“Why the hell are we even doing this now, at - what half an hour before midnight? On New Years Eve?”

“I cannot go into the New Year with unorganised socks, John. I cannot.”

“You’re an idiot,” John smiled, shaking his head.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, staring into the drawer.

There was a long silence, filled only by the muffled sound of the music downstairs.

Sherlock shifted where he sat.

“So, good Christmas?” he asked quietly, not looking up.

John stared at him, and edged slightly closer, so they were touching shoulder to thigh where they sat.

“The best,” he said quietly, giving Sherlock a gentle nudge.

Sherlock looked up at him, his curls flopping forward into his face.

John stared back at him. Suddenly, he felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

…

Sherlock’s mouth went rather dry. John.

After a few long seconds, Sherlock edged, only ever so slightly, closer.

And all of a sudden, Sherlock was certain John’s eyes weren’t looking at his anymore, but somewhere else. Sherlock swallowed.

“Hi,” John whispered, not lifting his gaze.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“Hi.”

But the door banged open.

“Joooohn!”

Gus.

Not only was it the boy who wasn’t Gus, but it was the boy who wasn’t Gus with a lampshade on his head. Sherlock’s Mother’s lampshade.

John leapt up, leapt about three feet away. His face went scarlet.

“Greg. I thought you were asleep. You were asleep, weren’t you Greg?”

“Yeah, I was, but you know how it is- powernap, shot of firewhisky, you’re back up! Ready to go! And midnight’s approaching, lads, we’ve got five minutes! Come on-” Greg lifted the front of the lampshade. My Mother’s one. “Am I, erm… interrupting something?” he said, leaning against the door for support.

Sherlock looked at John. John didn’t look back.

“Nope. Just tidying Sherlock’s room. You’re right, Greg. It is midnight. Let’s go, shall we?”

John stumbled to the door, and out onto the landing, without turning round, fists clenched at his sides.

Sherlock was still sat on the floor.

The boy who was not Gus lingered in the doorway.

“You alright, mate?” he slurred, but the sincerity was evident in his voice.

Sherlock offered him a weak sort of smile. Gus nodded, heading after John.

…

Soon enough, the time for chanting, counting and holding champagne readily had arrived. Mike, Molly and Mary stood excitedly, arms linked together. The room full of guests were united, the music had been paused, someone had written a timer in the air in sparks with their wand, which was now fizzing at the edges readily as it ticked down to only two minutes remaining. The back door to Sherlock’s garden was open, and a handful of guests were ready to release their filibuster fireworks, and Mycroft was not-so-sound asleep in bed.

John stepped into the living room, closely followed by Greg.

He felt awful.

Sherlock’s upstairs.

Then they all started counting, all of them bouncing up and down excitedly. Drinks were being spilled, but no one cared. There was a minute to go. Fifty seconds. Forty. Thirty. Twenty.

John shook off Greg’s arm.

Sherlock.

Ten.

His heart was beating fast. His brain wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do but he was moving. He pushed past those around him, trying to get to the door.

But someone grabbed his arm.

Five.

He turned around, and was met with a pair of blue eyes… and a blonde pixie cut.

“Happy New Year,” She said, smirking.

One.