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Chapter Ten
Panic moves like a lapping wave over the occupants of the Great Hall. Tension starts with one or two individuals, quickly spreading through the crowds as the band stops playing and an eerie, almost silent hysteria settles over the masses. Fear is amply communicated through wide eyed stares and startled expressions: at first everyone is too stunned to speak. But not for long. Amongst teenagers, who have the added pleasures of souped up hormones and peer pressure, the rumour and speculation spread like wildfire over barren shrub plains. Girls clutch each other in protective hugs, boys try not to look too terrified.
No one really speaks, however. Certainly people are whispering in stilted, trepidatious whispers but no one wants to be the first to ask anything at an audible level. And no one asks the obvious questions.

"Who is that?"

"What is happening to them?"
***
Mycroft isn't surprised he was able to apparate. He has gone from the corridor with the young French woman to the dank, freezing dungeons of Hogwarts in less than a blink of an eye, which is something no one should be able to do.

He'd heard the rumours around the Ministry. That someone ( something, some group, some malicious power) had managed to reverse the wards surrounding Hogwarts which prevented certain spells including the ability to apparate on the grounds. The ancient wards, their origins lost in ciphered runes and legends so old that they were never written down because they would be there forever are gone, vanished into the ether like they were never there even though they always had been.

Only later will the true horror of this situation sink in. That Hogwarts, the oldest and supposedly most secure centre of learning in the wizarding world has been put at risk, that someone powerful enough (evil enough) exists to put this sacred place in danger... Mycroft isn't letting himself think about it yet.

John Watson is screaming. He is a distance down the corridor and Mycroft can just make out the telltale flicker of torchlight indicating the presence of human activity.  Mycroft tries to convince himself that the screaming is a good thing. Screaming means John is alive. Although the noises John is making indicate that the young man would rather be dead in this situation. Mycroft's heart slams against his chest, sympathy and a longing to stop the pain welling in his chest. He moves stealthily towards the sound of John's screams, not letting himself dwell on the fact that he can hear them getting weaker.

He conjures his patronus almost silently ,lips barely moving as he mutters the familiar incantation. The sight of a small, glowing kestrel is oddly soothing but he cannot be comforted for long. He gives his patronus the message and sends it to the Great Hall.
***
Irene Adler  prides herself on being fairly worldly: someone who has seen and done a hell of a lot more than the rest of her age group. She is notorious on campus at the Salem School of Witchcraft after casting her infamous blanket Bat Bogey Hex on all of her most hated schoolmistresses. She has already made her mark at Hogwarts in the scant hours she'd been there as the mysterious and alluring American witch.

However, despite all her blustery charm Irene is still only very young.  And when she hears that distant blood curdling, heart breaking cry of absolute agony she cannot deny that she starts to tremble. No amount of blasé attitude and half feigned maturity can negate the fact that she has quite possibly heard the cry of  someone being tortured to death.

She has also never, ever seen Sherlock like this. When his father was taken to Azkaban prison Sherlock had closed off from the world. Simply shut up shop and stopped communicating. Irene knew that she and the rest of her family would have given anything to see her cousin open up, show a touch of the emotion that was roiling inside of him on his carefully constructed outer shell. He was more or less silent for months. Sherlock's mother had considered taking him to healers ,maybe even a Muggle psychiatrist. He'd gotten better but had never quite returned to the happy, engaging, inquisitive kid he had been. He became reticent, imperious , guarded in a way that Irene knew wounded his family deeply.

They'd all wished for some sort of outwardly emotional response from Sherlock. They got nothing.

Irene had never really understood the phrase 'Be careful what you wish for' until she saw Sherlock Holmes throw himself bodily at a locked,  deeply enchanted  five feet thick solid oak door in an effort to get to John Watson.

She doesn't think she's seen anything more heartbreaking than his face when he realises that he hasn't been able to break the door down through sheer strength of will. And when she reaches out for him, he flinches away.

Irene can't help thinking it's going to be much, much worse this time.

***
It's the night before Christmas and Jim's getting irritated.

John Watson is still trussed to the wall, writhing in agony but Jim isn't enjoying watching him fight for his life very much anymore. Because the tenacious little bastard is actually fighting for it. The Cruciatus he used was strong, he should at least be unconscious by now, yet his eyes are still partially open, blinking and unfocused like a newborn's.

Stupid idiot doesn't even know when to give up and die. Typical Gryffindor.

"He's a bit bloody tough, isn't he?" Moran says, something resembling admiration in his tone and Jim's irritation ratchets up a notch.

He's just about to give a rather thorough display of how being 'a bit bloody tough' is absolutely useless when someone casts the Killing Curse  on you, when someone trips the protective wards surrounding their cosy corner of the dungeons. Oh, here come the cavalry. Almost a shame they're much too late. Jim flicks his eyes over to Moran who nods and immediately apparates, miles and miles away from Hogwarts in an instant.

Grinning, Jim steps forward, regarding the trembling form of a rather destroyed John Watson.  'Avada Kedavra' is tripping along his tongue when he raises his wand to send John Watson, the little annoyance whom Sherlock Holmes seems to worship like he's a tiny deity... when a thought strikes Jim.

To kill John Watson now will be to immortalise him, to martyr him. Sherlock will remember him forever as his brave and noble friend, dying at the hands of some dark power after saving the life of some girl. Sickeningly fairytale like.

Jim hates the thought of Sherlock wasting his exquisite brain on pining for this drab, diminutive dullard but the thought that Sherlock may spend time mourning his loss rather than playing Jim's games actually makes his skin crawl.

Speaking of John Watson, his head is listing to the side and his glassy eyes are flickering shut. Jim pokes his wand under the younger boy's chin.

"Hey now, Johnny boy, don't fall asleep on me! That's just rude... didn't your mother teach you any manners? I was just about to say au revoir, my dear. I'll be back when Sherlock despises you and all your mind-numbing tediousness as much as I do. And seeing as you're already a dribbling mess, it surely won't take long."

Jim Moriarty grins, leans in and kisses John Watson on the cheek. A Judas kiss, a kiss of death.

And surely this will be the death of John Watson. The Dementor will haunt his dreams, the long term effects of the Cruciatus will dog his days. The banally normal, repellently optimistic youth has already died, Jim's certain.

He turns on his heel and fires a spell at the wall, carving a twisted little love note for Sherlock into the ancient  brick, simple words that can hurt far worse than sticks and stones...

With one parting laugh Jim apparates, leaving nothing left but a supposedly broken teenaged boy.
***

Raising his head is an effort but John stays conscious just long enough to spit "Fuck you" into the freezing, empty air.

Only once he's sure that utterly twisted bastard has disappeared does he allow himself to fall into relatively blissful unconsciousness.

***
It's the night before Christmas and Harry Watson is bored.

Mum and Dad are being annoying, wanting to go to some Muggle 'Midnight Mass' thing at the village church and getting all giggly and excited on Butterbeer.  John's off at his little school dance. Harry isn't allowed to go clubbing, as it's Christmas Eve but John's allowed to whoop it up at his wizard school .Just another example of how un-bloody-fair her life is.

She is watching snow drifts form on the window sill and contemplating swiping her dad's Butterbeer when a man suddenly appears in the living room. He's in official looking robes and looks deadly serious.

Harry's insides clench and twist when she hears someone has hurt her brother. Her mother's eyes start leaking involuntary when the man says 'Cruciatis' and her father's face has been a terrifyingly blank mask  since the word 'Dementor' came up.

It's Harry who fetches their coats from the porch and makes her parents put them on.

It's Harry who stands between them and grabs their hands, joining them together before they take the Floo Network to St Mungo's.

It's Harry who holds her mother upright when the man leads them to John's bedside and John doesn't look like himself at all, but a pale imitation, like an image seen in glass, an unclear reflection. Her brother is bandaged up, unconscious, and is making the Healers look worried.

It's Harry who holds her father's hand when he speaks to the official looking man who came to their house. His name is Mycroft Holmes and he works at the Ministry, like Harry's dad, only much higher up.  Mycroft Holmes looks at them with reserved sympathy and a strange sort of regret. Harry's fingers tighten around her dad's shaking hand.

All these things are the least Harry can do, because when she lets herself sit by John's bedside she feels so helpless she just wants to scream .She couldn't keep him safe, she can't protect from the crazy, magical life he leads no matter how hard she tries. She's excluded from most of it due to her lack of magical talent; she used to resent John because he led this interesting life.   But she has to put all that aside, focus on John: she's damned well not going to let him down now.
***
A week passes before Mycroft is convinced that Sherlock must be allowed to see John. Hours of cajoling, yelling, pleading and whining do not convince Mycroft. It's not the look of desperation in his brother's eyes, nor is it the fact he won't eat anything, despite the house being full to the brim with festive foodstuffs.

Sherlock's single-mindedness is making him more abrasive than usual, rude to everyone, shutting Irene and her parents out. He even turns on Mummy, whose face falls when he turns away from her, slamming his bedroom door as he goes.

It doesn't feel much like Christmas: usually even Sherlock's moodiness is dispelled by the season. Now a dark cloud has descended on the house, everyone feeling vaguely guilty if they find that they are enjoying themselves whilst Sherlock is holed away in his room. It feels much too much like just after father was sent to Azkaban, Sherlock curled up on his bed, staring at the walls and everyone else tiptoeing around lest they incur his wrath, or still worse, his indifference.

In the end, it's Mycroft and Sherlock's mother who convinces him that he should take Sherlock to see John.

"It might set his mind at rest." She says as tries to reason with him one night in front of the fire in their private sitting room. The crackling flames do nothing to halt the shiver which drifts up Mycroft's spine. He presses cool fingertips to his eyelids, reaching for inner balance.

"Mother...I'm not punishing by keeping him away. I was there when we found John... Sherlock seeing him would...it would not make him feel better."

His mother frowns at him, concern marring her elegant features. "Was it really that bad?"

Mycroft nods, and reaches out for his china cup of tea. Wintry wind rattles at the window pane, some sap in one of the logs on the fire spits and hisses and the house is deathly quiet.

All is still. Obviously something is off.

"Sherlock, I know you're listening at the door, you may as well come in." their mother calls.

The door is pushed open and a sullen and tired looking Sherlock walks in, Elixir curled about his shoulders like a living fur stole. She, and his owl Myrddin, are the only two beings Sherlock has been pleasant to since the disaster that was Christmas Eve.

He's in his pyjamas and dressing gown, feet bare and hair wild, clearly showing that he's decided to spend another day in bed in a sea of self pity.

Mycroft feels a strong burst of sympathy for his younger brother: Irene had shared with him the detail that he and John had exchanged angry words just before John was attacked by the Dementor. She didn't know the exact nature of their argument, but Sherlock seemed to think that he needed to apologise and had been waiting to do just that when John was taken.

Sherlock sits down in the large leather chair close to the fireplace, Elixir slinking down his arm to curl up in his lap.

"How are you, my darling?" their mother asks.

"Fine."

"Sweetheart, I know-"

"Where did you find him?"Sherlock asks, his too bright eyes turning towards Mycroft.

"Sherlock-"

"If you won't let me see him, if you're going to keep me under bloody house arrest, don't think I don't know that you've alerted the Knight Bus not to come here, let alone blocked up our flue, you can at least tell me where you found him." Sherlock's voice is level, almost calm. But the hand that isn't stroking the feline in his lap is gripping the arm rest so hard his knuckles are turning snow white.

Mycroft exchanges a look with his mother, who nods ever so slightly.

"We found him in one of the dungeons." Mycroft wants to try and spare his brother the details. He knows it's a losing battle.

"There's something you aren't saying."

"He... he was chained to the wall. When we found him he was unconscious, but we believe he'd been tortured with the Cruciatus. He'd also sustained some injuries that lead us to think he'd been physically beaten."

Sherlock closes his eyes. He looks too pale, his hair too dark. Like a negative of a photograph, he doesn't look quite real anymore.

"There's something else."

"Sherlock."

"Tell me."

"I don't think-"

"Mycroft, perhaps you should tell him." their mother says quietly. "So he understands. He isn't a child."

Mycroft sighs. Their mother is right, Sherlock is not a child. Their mother is also wrong, Sherlock will not understand.

"We believe that the attack on John Watson was perpetrated by James Moriarty. The incident with Carl Powers was the least of his criminal activities. The Ministry has been aware of a malevolent  presence for a while, and we have finally been able to put a name to his various actions. We are fairly sure he was the one who managed to erase the protective wards surrounding Hogwarts."

Pausing, Mycroft notices that Sherlock looks even paler than before, and his shoulders are braced like he's expecting a blow.

"There's still something else isn't there?" Sherlock asks, his voice low and quiet.

"Moriarty left us a message... It was daubed on the walls of the dungeon. The message mentioned you."

Mycroft wants to spare his brother this. But he knows he can't: they are much too alike and if he was in Sherlock's position he'd want to know everything. No matter how disturbing.

When Sherlock was born Mycroft hadn't been particularly interested in him at first: he was merely a concept, a small squawky thing in a bassinette whom everyone called 'your little brother'. Sherlock had arrived in the dead of winter, a gift right at the end of Yule. A strange intruder into Mycroft's orderly life.

Mycroft had more or less stayed away from him, the little creature who distracted his parents. Sherlock was a creator of disorder, odd noises and odder smells. He was a nuisance to be borne, but not celebrated.

Until one afternoon Mycroft was with his mother in the nursery and she beckoned him over to Sherlock's crib and for the first time he really looked at his sibling. In all his seven long years, Mycroft  had never seen anything more interesting.

Sherlock was a collection of fascinating features: Dark unruly smudges of curls, pale skin over a delicate filigree of bones, fragile fingers clutching at a thick orange blanket whilst he slept, tiny ribcage rising and falling steadily, like a gentle tide.

Then Sherlock had opened his eyes, gossamer lashes sweeping over his cheeks and Mycroft found himself staring into sharp verdigris pools and that was it.

'Your little brother' was no longer an asinine statement made by well meaning people he was supposed to call 'auntie' and 'uncle' despite not being related to him. Now it was a fact. This is your little brother Sherlock and you will protect him. Since that day Mycroft has attempted to do so. Sherlock may interpret some of his efforts as meddling, but Mycroft has never forgiven himself for not being able to prevent his brother from witnessing the terrible events which landed their father in Azkaban.

And now, sitting in their living room, Mycroft prepares himself to hurt Sherlock with that most brutal of weapons: the truth.

"Moriarty had written 'Next time I'll finish him. This is what happens when you bore me, Sherlock. Love Jim.'."

The fire crackles.  Their mother looks at her hands, knowing that reaching out to her younger soon now is just as useless as it has been every time  she's tried since he came home with splinters underneath his fingernails and a desire to be left alone almost as strong as his determination to see his friend.  She still wants to throw her arms about him.

Mycroft knows that he and his mother can and will protect him from Moriarty. But neither of them can protect Sherlock from himself: they can't crawl inside the darker recesses of his mind and vanquish demons. Sherlock looks  outwardly calm. Inside, Mycroft knows, he is tearing himself to pieces.

"I would like to see John."

Mycroft takes his mother's hand.

"Of course."

Elixir butts her head against Sherlock's hands. It's as if even she understands that Sherlock is going to say goodbye.

***
John looks like he's asleep.

Sherlock watches his chest rise and fall underneath crisp white sheets and hopes that is what it is like; that John is actually in an untroubled sleep, free from the remembered torments of his ordeal and the current traumas his body is coping with.

There are livid bruises on John's wrists where he had been trussed to the wall with metal cuffs and chains.  There are probably matching marks on his ankles where manacles held him in their grip. John struggled to get free, or moved in an effort to lessen the pain when the spells hit. His skin is pale but not in the way Sherlock's is, John has the washed out pallor of a very ill person where his skin isn't marked. A spider web of small cuts litter John's cheek. Fingernails. John's left shoulder is bandaged in clean white gauze.

This is why Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock see John: not because John's appearance is all that shocking. It's that Sherlock is able to deduce the reality of what Moriarty did to him, he can read it in the scabs on his face and the marks on his arms. He can tell that John's 'sleep' is not always painless: the hospital corners on his bed sheets have sprung apart, indicating John has struggled to get free, even in sleep. He could see in the very brief glances he got of John's parent's faces that John has not woken up, not once, since the Yule Ball.

St. Mungo's is quiet ,or at least this ward is. John is in a side room, neutrally decorated with a large window which looks out onto a busy London street. Sherlock, seated by John's bed watches a group of Muggle teenagers laughing as they walk the pavements, mingling with the crowds out shopping in the post Christmas sales. The whole scene has a quality of unreality about it because the wizard hospital is under a series of protective wards which mean the Muggles can't perceive the place and also to protect the patients in the building from unnecessary noise. The crowds pass by silently, as silent as Sherlock is, as he sits by John's bed.

Outside Mycroft is waiting. Sherlock knows that Mycroft wants to talk Sherlock out of what he is planning to do. Sherlock also knows that Mycroft  knows that there is no point in doing so. So Mycroft has not said anything but the state of his bottom lip tells Sherlock everything he needs to know about his brother's warring feelings.

But Sherlock can't think about Mycroft just now, he has something very important to do. Stealing himself, Sherlock reaches out and takes John's left hand in both of his own. John's hand is broad and practical, Sherlock's are thin and elegant. He commits to memory the feel of a warm, slightly callused palm, the smoothness of the skin on the back if his hand, the ridges of John's knuckles and finger joints, the bumpy writing calluses on his finger and thumb.

Sherlock clears his throat and even then when he speaks his voice sounds rusty due to the lack of use. He has rehearsed a speech which John will not awaken for. He leans in close, almost whispering in John's ear.

"I want to apologise. What I said to you was unwarranted and untrue. You have always been an excellent friend to me. My actions that evening were inexcusable. I hope you will understand that this is the only possible way that I can repay you for your friendship." Sherlock's voice is steady, yet his heart is finally in his mouth.

He fights against the threatening moisture in his eyes, speaks through the unpleasantly phlegmy catch in his throat.

"Moriarty has succeeded in hurting you. I don't understand his reasons beyond the simple fact that he knows hurting you will hurt me. John, I simply cannot allow that to happen again. He's playing... some sort of game. With me. Whether I want to play or not. And I shan't risk... you."

He pulls the letter out of his pocket and stealthily tucks it between the books which have been optimistically placed on John's bedside table, should he wake up and suddenly have the urge to read about archaic Quidditch rules or the complete history of Merlin. The letter explains the things which Sherlock has said. Sherlock hopes that when John wakes he will find and read it, take the time to understand it. He takes John's hand again, stares at the contrast between John's living skin and the crisp white sheets.

"I'm so sorry this happened, but you will make it through this, John. You're strong, you really are." There are plenty of things Sherlock wants to say. Half articulated thoughts and feelings he remembers along with John's laugh and John's sudden smile, the private glories of John's undivided attention.

He's lucky, Sherlock reasons, most people don't even recognise happiness when they have it and can only mourn the loss of it when it is gone. Sherlock had the good sense to memorise his friend in the time they spent together. He is lucky, he tells himself firmly, and to want more than his lot, to desire to sit and hold John's hand until he opens his eyes is simply folly.

Sherlock swallows down the bitterness, the resentfulness at being forced to give John (happiness, friendship, hope) up. John nearly died, the little voice in his head says. He nearly died because of you.

John's hand twitches slightly in Sherlock's own. The movement startles him slightly. It is probably just a reaction of the central nervous system, not an indication that John is waking up. Still, it reminds Sherlock that every second he hangs about for he is overstaying his welcome. He pulls his hands away from John and stands up.

He allows himself a final act of weakness as he leans down and presses a chaste, gentle kiss to John's forehead.

"Goodbye, John." he says before turning and walking from the room. He does not look back.

***
Things might have gone differently.

If Harry Watson hadn't just been told what had been written on the wall of the dungeon where her brother had been found she probably wouldn't have taken the actions she did when she saw Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes outside her brother's sickroom. Perhaps if she'd stayed with her parents and listened to the Auror from the Ministry instead of rushing out of the room in horror, a desperate need to see that John was safe, many events over the next few months would have taken a different path. But she hadn't.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she yells down the corridor.

Sherlock, whose face she recognises from a photo John keeps on his pin board at home, starts guiltily and turns large, wide eyes at Harry. He's frozen, very pale, like he's made of stone, like he can't feel. Harry has the urge to hit him and wonders if his body would be cold like stone, hard as marble.

"I-" Sherlock attempts, but Harry's fury is bubbling over. She has been calm and quiet for days, watching her parents pleading vigils, watching her brother fitting with terror in his sleep.

"How dare you go anywhere near him! Don't think we don't know it's your fault!" In her heart of hearts Harry knew her brother wouldn't want her to be screeching her anger out in this quiet corridor. But now she's started she cannot stop.

"He hasn't woken up, you know. The healers don't even know if he will wake up or if he does if he'll even be John anymore." She's stalking down the corridor now, like a furious animal, advancing on Sherlock like she's going to physically attack him.

Years of resentment power her stride, acting as fuel for her ire. Because yes, of course she is jealous of John and the world he inhabits. Of his fantastic school and exciting talents and his goddamned skill at flying a bloody broom, but she also finds it frightening, the power that those skilled in magic can wield. And the terrible things that have been done to her brother by someone with those abilities.

"We're leaving, Miss Watson. Our sincerest apologies for any distress caused." Mycroft Holmes says smoothly, gripping his brother's wrist and attempting to pull him away but Sherlock is stood fast, his eyes raking over Harry's face. Mycroft looks at Harry as well and she can see that the older man has the same look of repressed sympathy on his face as he had the other night and Harry hates him for it. Sherlock still isn't leaving.

"I'm sorry." He says and his voice sounds so horribly broken that Harry feels a fleeting pang of sympathy. But then she thinks of her parents heartbreak, her brothers unconsciousness, how this is all linked to this boy and the sick game someone is playing with him.

"Do you think that makes it better? It should be you lying in there, not John!" Harry has a talent and it's not one she's particularly proud of, but it's a skill none the less. It's the ability to pick the exact phrase that will wound someone more deeply with its biting insinuation far more surely than if she'd attacked them with a weapon.

For a second Sherlock's marble white face crumples in pain and Harry sees the truth: Sherlock wishes that it had been him to be injured. He would swap places with her brother in an instant if it were possible.

If anything this makes Harry angrier. She wants to ask him why, if he cares for John so much, why would he let this happen? But that's the question she's been asking herself for days and she knows there isn't an answer, there just isn't one.

Instead, she storms passed the Holmes brothers and into the quiet of John's room, slamming the door in her wake.

The force of the door slam makes the walls rattle and a small collection of books stacked on John's bedside table domino over, scattering to the floor.  Along with an envelope with John's name on it written in handwriting Harry doesn't recognise.

When John wakes up later that day, Harry has already burnt the envelope and its contents and scattered the ashes to the London wind.

***
Life slowly gets back to normal, as life has a tendency to do, even after the worst of times.

On the first day, when John opens his eyes and finds he's in pain, he doesn't remember what has happened to him, but his mother is crying and his dad looks so relieved and Harry grins at him, grabs his hand and kisses it.

It takes John three weeks to recover in St.Mungo's, the odd weighted pain in his shoulder where the spells hit lessens. He is told there is nothing which can be done about his nightmares, save for the healing qualities of time.

He is generally bored out of his mind being too tired to read as the words just squiggle off the page when he tried to focus. After the first week his friends are allowed to visit: Mike and Sally and all of the Quidditch team take the Floo from Hogwarts at least once a week. It warms John's soul to know that he's still considered one of the team, even though the prospect of him playing again this year is extremely slim.

Sarah comes on her own and holds his hand, talks softly and treats him like an invalid. John's not entirely sure how he feels about that. Greg brings a three pound bag of Every Flavour Beans and salacious gossip and John attempts to crack a few jokes with him. Even Molly Hooper visits once with a spell book on herbal pain relief which proves to be rather useful.

Sherlock doesn't visit. John doesn't understand why he hasn't come, when everyone else has. He wants some reassurance as he's been having the most horrible dreams about Sherlock rejecting him and their friendship.

It takes another week for John to remember.  He realises that his dreams aren't dreams but memories. John tells himself he's not upset at all at Sherlock's abandonment but the twitch of pain in his chest tells him he's lying to himself.
***

The return to Hogwarts is closely monitored by John's family and the Healers from St. Mungo's. Everything is going pretty well until John's second night back and one of his friends and dorm-mates, Anil Rambhatla, attempts to wake John from a nightmare.

Anil gets a bloodied nose for his efforts as a terrified John had struck out in fear against a gentle hand on his shoulder. Despite the fact that Anil has forgiven John even before he's taken to the Infirmary, it is decided that allowing John to sleep in the same dorm as other students could be potentially dangerous.

John's friends argue against this, Anil pointing out it was his own damn fault for trying to wake him, Mike saying that spells can be cast to keep the noise from John's four poster down. The head of Gryffindor is unmoveable, however, and John is shipped off into a small room further up the tower.

He pretends he's just as upset as everyone else is, but secretly John is relieved. He's never been more horrified by his actions as he was when he saw blood gushing down his friends face.  At least in his own room he can scream out his fear and not hurt anyone.

***

The small supply room which Sherlock had once shared with John on wet, cold afternoons has been appropriated as Sherlock's office. He can't keep sensitive information in the dorm. He's gathering all the information he can Moriarty, any obscure crimes, an echoes of scandal.  The man is as elusive: finding evidence of him is like trying to catch the fog in his hands.

Leaning back in his chair he cracks his spine and picks up his mug. He sips his tea and wonders why it always tastes wrong, even though he uses exactly the same spell as John used to refresh his cup. Perhaps it's the smoking, he's heard it affects the taste buds. It's hardly healthy but it focuses his mind, makes him forget about anything else (food, loneliness) everything apart from Jim Moriarty and his web. He thinks of nothing else and that is how it should be. He lights another cigarette and takes a deep drag, feels the rush of nicotine straight to his veins.
Really, he's doing fine.

Elixir looks down imperiously from the window. He can kid himself, but he can't kid her.

***
Things might have remained that way: John injured and believing his best friend to be indifferent to him, whilst Sherlock smoked himself into a stupor and became obsessed with chasing a malignant wraith. Both of them longing to reach out to each other, but not being able to: one through fear of rejection, the other through fear of retribution.

John and Sherlock's fourth year at Hogwarts ends quietly and separately: Sherlock passes his exams with flying colours then he sets about deleting unimportant facts he'd learned. John does rather better than anyone had expected, given his poor health.

John resists the urge to scream at his teachers when they give him extra praise and sympathetic smiles.

Sherlock finds returning to his friendless state rather more difficult than anticipated when he's not focussed on his research into Moriarty. He finds himself turning to tell John something only to discover he isn't there.  He tells himself that it will change yet he it doubts it will. The loss of John never lessens, even when the school year comes to an end and he travels to France. He is only reminded of the previous summer when he wrote to John of his exploits.

The return to school is no better. It seems the very first person he sees is John Watson... and John looks through him with a coldness completely at odds with his nature. The knowledge that John's warm, open demeanour is completely closed off from him now sends a slice of pain through his chest.

He can't even be comforted by the work he's doing, because Moriarty seems as immaterial as smoke, as visible as a bad smell, as real as a nightmare. He leaves no trail, he has no face. Sherlock begins to despair that he will do any good at all.

However, things start to change when a sixth year Gryffindor student jumps out of John's bedroom window on the first day of the new school year. That changes everything.

Description
Chapter Ten
Panic moves like a lapping wave over the occupants of the Great Hall. Tension starts with one or two individuals, quickly spreading through the crowds as the band stops playing and an eerie, almost silent hysteria settles over the masses. Fear is amply communicated through wide eyed stares and startled expressions: at first everyone is too stunned to speak. But not for long. Amongst teenagers, who have the added pleasures of souped up hormones and peer pressure, the rumour and speculation spread like wildfire over barren shrub plains. Girls clutch each other in protective hugs, boys try not to look too terrified.
No one really speaks, however. Certainly people are whispering in stilted, trepidatious whispers but no one wants to be the first to ask anything at an audible level. And no one asks the obvious questions.

"Who is that?"

"What is happening to them?"
***
Mycroft isn't surprised he was able to apparate. He has gone from the corridor with the young French woman to the dank, freezing dungeons of Hogwarts in less than a blink of an eye, which is something no one should be able to do.

He'd heard the rumours around the Ministry. That someone ( something, some group, some malicious power) had managed to reverse the wards surrounding Hogwarts which prevented certain spells including the ability to apparate on the grounds. The ancient wards, their origins lost in ciphered runes and legends so old that they were never written down because they would be there forever are gone, vanished into the ether like they were never there even though they always had been.

Only later will the true horror of this situation sink in. That Hogwarts, the oldest and supposedly most secure centre of learning in the wizarding world has been put at risk, that someone powerful enough (evil enough) exists to put this sacred place in danger... Mycroft isn't letting himself think about it yet.

John Watson is screaming. He is a distance down the corridor and Mycroft can just make out the telltale flicker of torchlight indicating the presence of human activity.  Mycroft tries to convince himself that the screaming is a good thing. Screaming means John is alive. Although the noises John is making indicate that the young man would rather be dead in this situation. Mycroft's heart slams against his chest, sympathy and a longing to stop the pain welling in his chest. He moves stealthily towards the sound of John's screams, not letting himself dwell on the fact that he can hear them getting weaker.

He conjures his patronus almost silently ,lips barely moving as he mutters the familiar incantation. The sight of a small, glowing kestrel is oddly soothing but he cannot be comforted for long. He gives his patronus the message and sends it to the Great Hall.
***
Irene Adler  prides herself on being fairly worldly: someone who has seen and done a hell of a lot more than the rest of her age group. She is notorious on campus at the Salem School of Witchcraft after casting her infamous blanket Bat Bogey Hex on all of her most hated schoolmistresses. She has already made her mark at Hogwarts in the scant hours she'd been there as the mysterious and alluring American witch.

However, despite all her blustery charm Irene is still only very young.  And when she hears that distant blood curdling, heart breaking cry of absolute agony she cannot deny that she starts to tremble. No amount of blasé attitude and half feigned maturity can negate the fact that she has quite possibly heard the cry of  someone being tortured to death.

She has also never, ever seen Sherlock like this. When his father was taken to Azkaban prison Sherlock had closed off from the world. Simply shut up shop and stopped communicating. Irene knew that she and the rest of her family would have given anything to see her cousin open up, show a touch of the emotion that was roiling inside of him on his carefully constructed outer shell. He was more or less silent for months. Sherlock's mother had considered taking him to healers ,maybe even a Muggle psychiatrist. He'd gotten better but had never quite returned to the happy, engaging, inquisitive kid he had been. He became reticent, imperious , guarded in a way that Irene knew wounded his family deeply.

They'd all wished for some sort of outwardly emotional response from Sherlock. They got nothing.

Irene had never really understood the phrase 'Be careful what you wish for' until she saw Sherlock Holmes throw himself bodily at a locked,  deeply enchanted  five feet thick solid oak door in an effort to get to John Watson.

She doesn't think she's seen anything more heartbreaking than his face when he realises that he hasn't been able to break the door down through sheer strength of will. And when she reaches out for him, he flinches away.

Irene can't help thinking it's going to be much, much worse this time.

***
It's the night before Christmas and Jim's getting irritated.

John Watson is still trussed to the wall, writhing in agony but Jim isn't enjoying watching him fight for his life very much anymore. Because the tenacious little bastard is actually fighting for it. The Cruciatus he used was strong, he should at least be unconscious by now, yet his eyes are still partially open, blinking and unfocused like a newborn's.

Stupid idiot doesn't even know when to give up and die. Typical Gryffindor.

"He's a bit bloody tough, isn't he?" Moran says, something resembling admiration in his tone and Jim's irritation ratchets up a notch.

He's just about to give a rather thorough display of how being 'a bit bloody tough' is absolutely useless when someone casts the Killing Curse  on you, when someone trips the protective wards surrounding their cosy corner of the dungeons. Oh, here come the cavalry. Almost a shame they're much too late. Jim flicks his eyes over to Moran who nods and immediately apparates, miles and miles away from Hogwarts in an instant.

Grinning, Jim steps forward, regarding the trembling form of a rather destroyed John Watson.  'Avada Kedavra' is tripping along his tongue when he raises his wand to send John Watson, the little annoyance whom Sherlock Holmes seems to worship like he's a tiny deity... when a thought strikes Jim.

To kill John Watson now will be to immortalise him, to martyr him. Sherlock will remember him forever as his brave and noble friend, dying at the hands of some dark power after saving the life of some girl. Sickeningly fairytale like.

Jim hates the thought of Sherlock wasting his exquisite brain on pining for this drab, diminutive dullard but the thought that Sherlock may spend time mourning his loss rather than playing Jim's games actually makes his skin crawl.

Speaking of John Watson, his head is listing to the side and his glassy eyes are flickering shut. Jim pokes his wand under the younger boy's chin.

"Hey now, Johnny boy, don't fall asleep on me! That's just rude... didn't your mother teach you any manners? I was just about to say au revoir, my dear. I'll be back when Sherlock despises you and all your mind-numbing tediousness as much as I do. And seeing as you're already a dribbling mess, it surely won't take long."

Jim Moriarty grins, leans in and kisses John Watson on the cheek. A Judas kiss, a kiss of death.

And surely this will be the death of John Watson. The Dementor will haunt his dreams, the long term effects of the Cruciatus will dog his days. The banally normal, repellently optimistic youth has already died, Jim's certain.

He turns on his heel and fires a spell at the wall, carving a twisted little love note for Sherlock into the ancient  brick, simple words that can hurt far worse than sticks and stones...

With one parting laugh Jim apparates, leaving nothing left but a supposedly broken teenaged boy.
***

Raising his head is an effort but John stays conscious just long enough to spit "Fuck you" into the freezing, empty air.

Only once he's sure that utterly twisted bastard has disappeared does he allow himself to fall into relatively blissful unconsciousness.

***
It's the night before Christmas and Harry Watson is bored.

Mum and Dad are being annoying, wanting to go to some Muggle 'Midnight Mass' thing at the village church and getting all giggly and excited on Butterbeer.  John's off at his little school dance. Harry isn't allowed to go clubbing, as it's Christmas Eve but John's allowed to whoop it up at his wizard school .Just another example of how un-bloody-fair her life is.

She is watching snow drifts form on the window sill and contemplating swiping her dad's Butterbeer when a man suddenly appears in the living room. He's in official looking robes and looks deadly serious.

Harry's insides clench and twist when she hears someone has hurt her brother. Her mother's eyes start leaking involuntary when the man says 'Cruciatis' and her father's face has been a terrifyingly blank mask  since the word 'Dementor' came up.

It's Harry who fetches their coats from the porch and makes her parents put them on.

It's Harry who stands between them and grabs their hands, joining them together before they take the Floo Network to St Mungo's.

It's Harry who holds her mother upright when the man leads them to John's bedside and John doesn't look like himself at all, but a pale imitation, like an image seen in glass, an unclear reflection. Her brother is bandaged up, unconscious, and is making the Healers look worried.

It's Harry who holds her father's hand when he speaks to the official looking man who came to their house. His name is Mycroft Holmes and he works at the Ministry, like Harry's dad, only much higher up.  Mycroft Holmes looks at them with reserved sympathy and a strange sort of regret. Harry's fingers tighten around her dad's shaking hand.

All these things are the least Harry can do, because when she lets herself sit by John's bedside she feels so helpless she just wants to scream .She couldn't keep him safe, she can't protect from the crazy, magical life he leads no matter how hard she tries. She's excluded from most of it due to her lack of magical talent; she used to resent John because he led this interesting life.   But she has to put all that aside, focus on John: she's damned well not going to let him down now.
***
A week passes before Mycroft is convinced that Sherlock must be allowed to see John. Hours of cajoling, yelling, pleading and whining do not convince Mycroft. It's not the look of desperation in his brother's eyes, nor is it the fact he won't eat anything, despite the house being full to the brim with festive foodstuffs.

Sherlock's single-mindedness is making him more abrasive than usual, rude to everyone, shutting Irene and her parents out. He even turns on Mummy, whose face falls when he turns away from her, slamming his bedroom door as he goes.

It doesn't feel much like Christmas: usually even Sherlock's moodiness is dispelled by the season. Now a dark cloud has descended on the house, everyone feeling vaguely guilty if they find that they are enjoying themselves whilst Sherlock is holed away in his room. It feels much too much like just after father was sent to Azkaban, Sherlock curled up on his bed, staring at the walls and everyone else tiptoeing around lest they incur his wrath, or still worse, his indifference.

In the end, it's Mycroft and Sherlock's mother who convinces him that he should take Sherlock to see John.

"It might set his mind at rest." She says as tries to reason with him one night in front of the fire in their private sitting room. The crackling flames do nothing to halt the shiver which drifts up Mycroft's spine. He presses cool fingertips to his eyelids, reaching for inner balance.

"Mother...I'm not punishing by keeping him away. I was there when we found John... Sherlock seeing him would...it would not make him feel better."

His mother frowns at him, concern marring her elegant features. "Was it really that bad?"

Mycroft nods, and reaches out for his china cup of tea. Wintry wind rattles at the window pane, some sap in one of the logs on the fire spits and hisses and the house is deathly quiet.

All is still. Obviously something is off.

"Sherlock, I know you're listening at the door, you may as well come in." their mother calls.

The door is pushed open and a sullen and tired looking Sherlock walks in, Elixir curled about his shoulders like a living fur stole. She, and his owl Myrddin, are the only two beings Sherlock has been pleasant to since the disaster that was Christmas Eve.

He's in his pyjamas and dressing gown, feet bare and hair wild, clearly showing that he's decided to spend another day in bed in a sea of self pity.

Mycroft feels a strong burst of sympathy for his younger brother: Irene had shared with him the detail that he and John had exchanged angry words just before John was attacked by the Dementor. She didn't know the exact nature of their argument, but Sherlock seemed to think that he needed to apologise and had been waiting to do just that when John was taken.

Sherlock sits down in the large leather chair close to the fireplace, Elixir slinking down his arm to curl up in his lap.

"How are you, my darling?" their mother asks.

"Fine."

"Sweetheart, I know-"

"Where did you find him?"Sherlock asks, his too bright eyes turning towards Mycroft.

"Sherlock-"

"If you won't let me see him, if you're going to keep me under bloody house arrest, don't think I don't know that you've alerted the Knight Bus not to come here, let alone blocked up our flue, you can at least tell me where you found him." Sherlock's voice is level, almost calm. But the hand that isn't stroking the feline in his lap is gripping the arm rest so hard his knuckles are turning snow white.

Mycroft exchanges a look with his mother, who nods ever so slightly.

"We found him in one of the dungeons." Mycroft wants to try and spare his brother the details. He knows it's a losing battle.

"There's something you aren't saying."

"He... he was chained to the wall. When we found him he was unconscious, but we believe he'd been tortured with the Cruciatus. He'd also sustained some injuries that lead us to think he'd been physically beaten."

Sherlock closes his eyes. He looks too pale, his hair too dark. Like a negative of a photograph, he doesn't look quite real anymore.

"There's something else."

"Sherlock."

"Tell me."

"I don't think-"

"Mycroft, perhaps you should tell him." their mother says quietly. "So he understands. He isn't a child."

Mycroft sighs. Their mother is right, Sherlock is not a child. Their mother is also wrong, Sherlock will not understand.

"We believe that the attack on John Watson was perpetrated by James Moriarty. The incident with Carl Powers was the least of his criminal activities. The Ministry has been aware of a malevolent  presence for a while, and we have finally been able to put a name to his various actions. We are fairly sure he was the one who managed to erase the protective wards surrounding Hogwarts."

Pausing, Mycroft notices that Sherlock looks even paler than before, and his shoulders are braced like he's expecting a blow.

"There's still something else isn't there?" Sherlock asks, his voice low and quiet.

"Moriarty left us a message... It was daubed on the walls of the dungeon. The message mentioned you."

Mycroft wants to spare his brother this. But he knows he can't: they are much too alike and if he was in Sherlock's position he'd want to know everything. No matter how disturbing.

When Sherlock was born Mycroft hadn't been particularly interested in him at first: he was merely a concept, a small squawky thing in a bassinette whom everyone called 'your little brother'. Sherlock had arrived in the dead of winter, a gift right at the end of Yule. A strange intruder into Mycroft's orderly life.

Mycroft had more or less stayed away from him, the little creature who distracted his parents. Sherlock was a creator of disorder, odd noises and odder smells. He was a nuisance to be borne, but not celebrated.

Until one afternoon Mycroft was with his mother in the nursery and she beckoned him over to Sherlock's crib and for the first time he really looked at his sibling. In all his seven long years, Mycroft  had never seen anything more interesting.

Sherlock was a collection of fascinating features: Dark unruly smudges of curls, pale skin over a delicate filigree of bones, fragile fingers clutching at a thick orange blanket whilst he slept, tiny ribcage rising and falling steadily, like a gentle tide.

Then Sherlock had opened his eyes, gossamer lashes sweeping over his cheeks and Mycroft found himself staring into sharp verdigris pools and that was it.

'Your little brother' was no longer an asinine statement made by well meaning people he was supposed to call 'auntie' and 'uncle' despite not being related to him. Now it was a fact. This is your little brother Sherlock and you will protect him. Since that day Mycroft has attempted to do so. Sherlock may interpret some of his efforts as meddling, but Mycroft has never forgiven himself for not being able to prevent his brother from witnessing the terrible events which landed their father in Azkaban.

And now, sitting in their living room, Mycroft prepares himself to hurt Sherlock with that most brutal of weapons: the truth.

"Moriarty had written 'Next time I'll finish him. This is what happens when you bore me, Sherlock. Love Jim.'."

The fire crackles.  Their mother looks at her hands, knowing that reaching out to her younger soon now is just as useless as it has been every time  she's tried since he came home with splinters underneath his fingernails and a desire to be left alone almost as strong as his determination to see his friend.  She still wants to throw her arms about him.

Mycroft knows that he and his mother can and will protect him from Moriarty. But neither of them can protect Sherlock from himself: they can't crawl inside the darker recesses of his mind and vanquish demons. Sherlock looks  outwardly calm. Inside, Mycroft knows, he is tearing himself to pieces.

"I would like to see John."

Mycroft takes his mother's hand.

"Of course."

Elixir butts her head against Sherlock's hands. It's as if even she understands that Sherlock is going to say goodbye.

***
John looks like he's asleep.

Sherlock watches his chest rise and fall underneath crisp white sheets and hopes that is what it is like; that John is actually in an untroubled sleep, free from the remembered torments of his ordeal and the current traumas his body is coping with.

There are livid bruises on John's wrists where he had been trussed to the wall with metal cuffs and chains.  There are probably matching marks on his ankles where manacles held him in their grip. John struggled to get free, or moved in an effort to lessen the pain when the spells hit. His skin is pale but not in the way Sherlock's is, John has the washed out pallor of a very ill person where his skin isn't marked. A spider web of small cuts litter John's cheek. Fingernails. John's left shoulder is bandaged in clean white gauze.

This is why Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock see John: not because John's appearance is all that shocking. It's that Sherlock is able to deduce the reality of what Moriarty did to him, he can read it in the scabs on his face and the marks on his arms. He can tell that John's 'sleep' is not always painless: the hospital corners on his bed sheets have sprung apart, indicating John has struggled to get free, even in sleep. He could see in the very brief glances he got of John's parent's faces that John has not woken up, not once, since the Yule Ball.

St. Mungo's is quiet ,or at least this ward is. John is in a side room, neutrally decorated with a large window which looks out onto a busy London street. Sherlock, seated by John's bed watches a group of Muggle teenagers laughing as they walk the pavements, mingling with the crowds out shopping in the post Christmas sales. The whole scene has a quality of unreality about it because the wizard hospital is under a series of protective wards which mean the Muggles can't perceive the place and also to protect the patients in the building from unnecessary noise. The crowds pass by silently, as silent as Sherlock is, as he sits by John's bed.

Outside Mycroft is waiting. Sherlock knows that Mycroft wants to talk Sherlock out of what he is planning to do. Sherlock also knows that Mycroft  knows that there is no point in doing so. So Mycroft has not said anything but the state of his bottom lip tells Sherlock everything he needs to know about his brother's warring feelings.

But Sherlock can't think about Mycroft just now, he has something very important to do. Stealing himself, Sherlock reaches out and takes John's left hand in both of his own. John's hand is broad and practical, Sherlock's are thin and elegant. He commits to memory the feel of a warm, slightly callused palm, the smoothness of the skin on the back if his hand, the ridges of John's knuckles and finger joints, the bumpy writing calluses on his finger and thumb.

Sherlock clears his throat and even then when he speaks his voice sounds rusty due to the lack of use. He has rehearsed a speech which John will not awaken for. He leans in close, almost whispering in John's ear.

"I want to apologise. What I said to you was unwarranted and untrue. You have always been an excellent friend to me. My actions that evening were inexcusable. I hope you will understand that this is the only possible way that I can repay you for your friendship." Sherlock's voice is steady, yet his heart is finally in his mouth.

He fights against the threatening moisture in his eyes, speaks through the unpleasantly phlegmy catch in his throat.

"Moriarty has succeeded in hurting you. I don't understand his reasons beyond the simple fact that he knows hurting you will hurt me. John, I simply cannot allow that to happen again. He's playing... some sort of game. With me. Whether I want to play or not. And I shan't risk... you."

He pulls the letter out of his pocket and stealthily tucks it between the books which have been optimistically placed on John's bedside table, should he wake up and suddenly have the urge to read about archaic Quidditch rules or the complete history of Merlin. The letter explains the things which Sherlock has said. Sherlock hopes that when John wakes he will find and read it, take the time to understand it. He takes John's hand again, stares at the contrast between John's living skin and the crisp white sheets.

"I'm so sorry this happened, but you will make it through this, John. You're strong, you really are." There are plenty of things Sherlock wants to say. Half articulated thoughts and feelings he remembers along with John's laugh and John's sudden smile, the private glories of John's undivided attention.

He's lucky, Sherlock reasons, most people don't even recognise happiness when they have it and can only mourn the loss of it when it is gone. Sherlock had the good sense to memorise his friend in the time they spent together. He is lucky, he tells himself firmly, and to want more than his lot, to desire to sit and hold John's hand until he opens his eyes is simply folly.

Sherlock swallows down the bitterness, the resentfulness at being forced to give John (happiness, friendship, hope) up. John nearly died, the little voice in his head says. He nearly died because of you.

John's hand twitches slightly in Sherlock's own. The movement startles him slightly. It is probably just a reaction of the central nervous system, not an indication that John is waking up. Still, it reminds Sherlock that every second he hangs about for he is overstaying his welcome. He pulls his hands away from John and stands up.

He allows himself a final act of weakness as he leans down and presses a chaste, gentle kiss to John's forehead.

"Goodbye, John." he says before turning and walking from the room. He does not look back.

***
Things might have gone differently.

If Harry Watson hadn't just been told what had been written on the wall of the dungeon where her brother had been found she probably wouldn't have taken the actions she did when she saw Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes outside her brother's sickroom. Perhaps if she'd stayed with her parents and listened to the Auror from the Ministry instead of rushing out of the room in horror, a desperate need to see that John was safe, many events over the next few months would have taken a different path. But she hadn't.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she yells down the corridor.

Sherlock, whose face she recognises from a photo John keeps on his pin board at home, starts guiltily and turns large, wide eyes at Harry. He's frozen, very pale, like he's made of stone, like he can't feel. Harry has the urge to hit him and wonders if his body would be cold like stone, hard as marble.

"I-" Sherlock attempts, but Harry's fury is bubbling over. She has been calm and quiet for days, watching her parents pleading vigils, watching her brother fitting with terror in his sleep.

"How dare you go anywhere near him! Don't think we don't know it's your fault!" In her heart of hearts Harry knew her brother wouldn't want her to be screeching her anger out in this quiet corridor. But now she's started she cannot stop.

"He hasn't woken up, you know. The healers don't even know if he will wake up or if he does if he'll even be John anymore." She's stalking down the corridor now, like a furious animal, advancing on Sherlock like she's going to physically attack him.

Years of resentment power her stride, acting as fuel for her ire. Because yes, of course she is jealous of John and the world he inhabits. Of his fantastic school and exciting talents and his goddamned skill at flying a bloody broom, but she also finds it frightening, the power that those skilled in magic can wield. And the terrible things that have been done to her brother by someone with those abilities.

"We're leaving, Miss Watson. Our sincerest apologies for any distress caused." Mycroft Holmes says smoothly, gripping his brother's wrist and attempting to pull him away but Sherlock is stood fast, his eyes raking over Harry's face. Mycroft looks at Harry as well and she can see that the older man has the same look of repressed sympathy on his face as he had the other night and Harry hates him for it. Sherlock still isn't leaving.

"I'm sorry." He says and his voice sounds so horribly broken that Harry feels a fleeting pang of sympathy. But then she thinks of her parents heartbreak, her brothers unconsciousness, how this is all linked to this boy and the sick game someone is playing with him.

"Do you think that makes it better? It should be you lying in there, not John!" Harry has a talent and it's not one she's particularly proud of, but it's a skill none the less. It's the ability to pick the exact phrase that will wound someone more deeply with its biting insinuation far more surely than if she'd attacked them with a weapon.

For a second Sherlock's marble white face crumples in pain and Harry sees the truth: Sherlock wishes that it had been him to be injured. He would swap places with her brother in an instant if it were possible.

If anything this makes Harry angrier. She wants to ask him why, if he cares for John so much, why would he let this happen? But that's the question she's been asking herself for days and she knows there isn't an answer, there just isn't one.

Instead, she storms passed the Holmes brothers and into the quiet of John's room, slamming the door in her wake.

The force of the door slam makes the walls rattle and a small collection of books stacked on John's bedside table domino over, scattering to the floor.  Along with an envelope with John's name on it written in handwriting Harry doesn't recognise.

When John wakes up later that day, Harry has already burnt the envelope and its contents and scattered the ashes to the London wind.

***
Life slowly gets back to normal, as life has a tendency to do, even after the worst of times.

On the first day, when John opens his eyes and finds he's in pain, he doesn't remember what has happened to him, but his mother is crying and his dad looks so relieved and Harry grins at him, grabs his hand and kisses it.

It takes John three weeks to recover in St.Mungo's, the odd weighted pain in his shoulder where the spells hit lessens. He is told there is nothing which can be done about his nightmares, save for the healing qualities of time.

He is generally bored out of his mind being too tired to read as the words just squiggle off the page when he tried to focus. After the first week his friends are allowed to visit: Mike and Sally and all of the Quidditch team take the Floo from Hogwarts at least once a week. It warms John's soul to know that he's still considered one of the team, even though the prospect of him playing again this year is extremely slim.

Sarah comes on her own and holds his hand, talks softly and treats him like an invalid. John's not entirely sure how he feels about that. Greg brings a three pound bag of Every Flavour Beans and salacious gossip and John attempts to crack a few jokes with him. Even Molly Hooper visits once with a spell book on herbal pain relief which proves to be rather useful.

Sherlock doesn't visit. John doesn't understand why he hasn't come, when everyone else has. He wants some reassurance as he's been having the most horrible dreams about Sherlock rejecting him and their friendship.

It takes another week for John to remember.  He realises that his dreams aren't dreams but memories. John tells himself he's not upset at all at Sherlock's abandonment but the twitch of pain in his chest tells him he's lying to himself.
***

The return to Hogwarts is closely monitored by John's family and the Healers from St. Mungo's. Everything is going pretty well until John's second night back and one of his friends and dorm-mates, Anil Rambhatla, attempts to wake John from a nightmare.

Anil gets a bloodied nose for his efforts as a terrified John had struck out in fear against a gentle hand on his shoulder. Despite the fact that Anil has forgiven John even before he's taken to the Infirmary, it is decided that allowing John to sleep in the same dorm as other students could be potentially dangerous.

John's friends argue against this, Anil pointing out it was his own damn fault for trying to wake him, Mike saying that spells can be cast to keep the noise from John's four poster down. The head of Gryffindor is unmoveable, however, and John is shipped off into a small room further up the tower.

He pretends he's just as upset as everyone else is, but secretly John is relieved. He's never been more horrified by his actions as he was when he saw blood gushing down his friends face.  At least in his own room he can scream out his fear and not hurt anyone.

***

The small supply room which Sherlock had once shared with John on wet, cold afternoons has been appropriated as Sherlock's office. He can't keep sensitive information in the dorm. He's gathering all the information he can Moriarty, any obscure crimes, an echoes of scandal.  The man is as elusive: finding evidence of him is like trying to catch the fog in his hands.

Leaning back in his chair he cracks his spine and picks up his mug. He sips his tea and wonders why it always tastes wrong, even though he uses exactly the same spell as John used to refresh his cup. Perhaps it's the smoking, he's heard it affects the taste buds. It's hardly healthy but it focuses his mind, makes him forget about anything else (food, loneliness) everything apart from Jim Moriarty and his web. He thinks of nothing else and that is how it should be. He lights another cigarette and takes a deep drag, feels the rush of nicotine straight to his veins.
Really, he's doing fine.

Elixir looks down imperiously from the window. He can kid himself, but he can't kid her.

***
Things might have remained that way: John injured and believing his best friend to be indifferent to him, whilst Sherlock smoked himself into a stupor and became obsessed with chasing a malignant wraith. Both of them longing to reach out to each other, but not being able to: one through fear of rejection, the other through fear of retribution.

John and Sherlock's fourth year at Hogwarts ends quietly and separately: Sherlock passes his exams with flying colours then he sets about deleting unimportant facts he'd learned. John does rather better than anyone had expected, given his poor health.

John resists the urge to scream at his teachers when they give him extra praise and sympathetic smiles.

Sherlock finds returning to his friendless state rather more difficult than anticipated when he's not focussed on his research into Moriarty. He finds himself turning to tell John something only to discover he isn't there.  He tells himself that it will change yet he it doubts it will. The loss of John never lessens, even when the school year comes to an end and he travels to France. He is only reminded of the previous summer when he wrote to John of his exploits.

The return to school is no better. It seems the very first person he sees is John Watson... and John looks through him with a coldness completely at odds with his nature. The knowledge that John's warm, open demeanour is completely closed off from him now sends a slice of pain through his chest.

He can't even be comforted by the work he's doing, because Moriarty seems as immaterial as smoke, as visible as a bad smell, as real as a nightmare. He leaves no trail, he has no face. Sherlock begins to despair that he will do any good at all.

However, things start to change when a sixth year Gryffindor student jumps out of John's bedroom window on the first day of the new school year. That changes everything.