Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sherlock opened his eyes to:

Medical wing. Private and expensive, by the smell and sights, absolutely not a standard hospital ward. The type of place that reeked of Mycroft.

Distant throbbing, in his right arm, with a scratching at his neck that promised it was in a sling. A strange and healing sort of pain, one that ached like abused muscles rather than screeched for attention, as for any significant injury. An injury that he did not remember sustaining.

Bloody idyllic birds outside the window, in a nauseating stereotype of tranquility that was so presently absurd it felt as if he'd just been lifted out of Paris and dropped right into a children's story book.

And-

John Watson.

John Watson. Who, as a consequence of the most carefully laid plans of Sherlock's life, months spent crafting it in absolute secrecy and ironed out to every last detail, was meant to be in London, publicly grieving, and thoroughly convinced that he was dead.

Who was now currently sitting right across the room from Sherlock, his feet kicked up and a notebook in his lap, and looked about as pleased with himself as Sherlock had ever seen him.

What.

Sherlock's prodigious brain skittered straight off the tracks to a screeching crash of a halt.

"...Um," he said.

His throat felt like he'd swallowed a cactus, and his voice came out rough and more guttural than a smoker's cough. If Sherlock had still had any scrap of pride left to salvage, he could've kicked himself.

And then John looked at him, and it was as if every bit of logic, sensibility, and rational thought abandoned Sherlock then and there, and flipped the entire world upside down.

"Good morning," John said.

Sherlock's world flipped a second time.

Good morning?

"Wasn't expecting you up for another few hours, yet," he went on. Conversational and casual as a cup of tea. "Thanks for helping me keep my word- I told Madam Pomfrey you'd be defying expectations every step of the way."

Sherlock blinked again. His eyes felt dry and gummy, sticky with the telltale sense of having been shut for days, and when he tried to clear his throat a second time, he surely must've swallowed fire.

"...What?"

Then, John was up, and Sherlock, still, was lost.

"No, hang on. Hang on- drink something first. That's it." A cup of water was pushed insistently into Sherlock's hand, John instructing him in that stern voice that tended to put him on autopilot; he barely even registered that his other arm was in a sling, or the dull ache in his shoulder that was unexplained and baffling. "And this one, too. Just some orange juice, Sherlock, it'll help perk you right up."

This cup, too, he accepted on little more than autopilot, still staring down at himself in baffled bewilderment. Unfamiliar pajamas. Since when? His right arm, aching oddly, which was particularly strange, because the last thing he remembered, his head had been the part of him that was hurting. A bed. Since when?! Sore and boneless and-

"Ack!"

"Whoops! Sorry, did I say orange juice? Meant Skele-Gro. Here we go."

"John," Sherlock hacked, because now, his throat had had a bloody chainsaw shoved down it. Liquid chainsaw, that was smoking in its little cup, and burned like ethanol and hit his stomach and made him gag. Orange juice?! "You liar, you-"

"Here we go," John said again, "You get any of that down?" One warm, strong hand rubbed his back, encouraging another violent hack of a cough, and another cup was shoved into his hand. "This one's actually water, this time, I promise. Come on, don't cough up a lung."

Stern voice or not, this time, Sherlock smelled the new cup in his hands very, very carefully before he dared risk another sip. The fire in his throat eased somewhat, from chainsaw back to cactus.

The sheer weight of confusion, heavy and wary in every inch of him, stayed front and center.

"John." He tasted the contours in his mouth, that earth-shattering syllable that he had left in London to save. The name that he wasn't supposed to have seen again. Not now, not tomorrow, not for months; not for years.

John. Here. With him.

"John," he rasped again, "what is going on?"

It was a simple question, demanding a simple answer. It was an impossible question, demanding an equally impossible answer: how? How had John found him? How had John learned the truth? How had John gotten him here? Where was here? Where was Mycroft? Where was Moran? Was John okay? Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson?

There were a thousand things for John to say, in that moment.

But instead of words, the hand on his back faltered, and and his weathered eyes just- softened. Sherlock stared at John, and John stared at him, and for a moment there was nothing, and then-

Then, Sherlock wasn't sure that he had ever seen John happier.

John was quiet for a moment, saying nothing as he drew down to sit. John, who looked- utterly ridiculous. More well-rested and at ease than he had ever seen him, wearing a jumper and, meanwhile, a black cloak that made him look like he'd just walked off a Lord of the Rings set. (Movie marathon for a case. Obviously.) What.

"What is going on," John said, after a pause. His voice came out suddenly rough, like there was something stuck in his throat and he couldn't quite clear it away, and his eyes were shining. "Is that you are a reckless, insane, self-acrificing git, and I can't decide whether I want to punch or hug you. You bastard. I-" He squeezed his shoulder, but then just left his hand there, holding Sherlock in place in a grip like iron, and the look on his face was a knife through the stomach. "You are... a selfless moron, Sherlock Holmes. And... and you have no idea how lucky you are."

Sherlock wondered if he might've had a stroke.

A quick rundown, of the utterly inscrutable and baffling situation at hand, and- statistically, it was actually a rather likely option. Something had gone wrong during his fall, then, and he'd hit his head, and all of this was just an increasingly bizarre construction of his very bruised brain. It would certainly provide an explanation that was otherwise sorely lacking, because- there was no explanation for this, not a single line of logic that could take him through all the way to the end, and yet-

John swallowed audibly, his face doing a little spasm. He stared back at Sherlock, this time with a small grin, and the hand on his shoulder stayed, but the breath he took in next was anything but calm. "That's what you are," he said, "and... I am..."

"John, what on earth-"

"I'm a wizard, Sherlock."

Everything ground to a bone-scraping halt.

...

"You're a what?"

The explanation, from there, came in bits and pieces.

"I am sorry about this, by the way," John said, and despite the smile he didn't seem to be able to swallow down, his voice was sincere. He was genuinely sorry. His expert hands carefully moved around Sherlock's wrapped shoulder, holding him in place, supporting him upright, and then just touching just to touch. "This bit of you? Got left behind in France."

Sherlock surreptitiously slipped his hand down to pinch his own thigh.

His shoulder. Which hurt, but- minimally. Less than being shot, less than being dislocated- it felt like hardly more than a bad bruise. It looked much the same, scarred all the way around, but the skin dry and pink in a way that was weeks rather than mere days old.

He looked back at John, and added another tick in the evidence column, for prolonged delusion: catastrophic brain injury.

"Oh, hang on, I'm sorry- there's no need to worry. You're okay, Sherlock. It's just a little splinching, is all. And you actually handled it really well, you know?" He pulled back, allowing Sherlock to re-fix his shirt, but one button later he was back. Almost as if he couldn't quite stand to let him go. "Most people get sick their first time, and that's when just going two feet in a school lesson."

"I don't remember any of this at all, nor do I have any idea what you are talking about."

"Yeah, probably because your brain got turned into a scrambled egg. Again- sorry about that. Apparating from Paris to Scotland is probably not the best idea I've ever had; McGonagall just about turned me into a teapot when she found out, I think." John stood again, his hands both gripping Sherlock's, helping him to his feet. He was dizzy and sore and lost, but John's conspiratorial smile made it almost all feel like London again.

It would've almost been nice, if it hadn't made absolutely no bloody sense.

"John," he said again. He caught himself with one hand, anchoring himself on the doctor's shoulder as he swayed and rocked, and it was unforgivably stupid, but the words came out anyway. "Is this supposed to be a joke?"

He knew the answer, of course. It wasn't.

But John's answering smile was a glint of something so dangerous enough that even Sherlock knew that laughing would be a very stupid mistake.

"A joke," he repeated, low. "Hm. No. See, a joke, for example. That would be running into you in a bar in the middle of Paris, looking like someone took a tire iron to your face, when I had just got done watching your funeral. And watched you step off a building. That's a joke, Sherlock- not a funny one, but a joke, nonetheless. This?" He gestured, down at Sherlock, down at himself, about the room, at the universe in general. "This is for real."

"...You... appear upset."

His smile this time, again, was a flash of teeth and sharp edges. "Oh, maybe just a tad."

Sherlock swallowed, abruptly feeling rather vulnerable and self-conscious himself. John, while dressed at least slightly ridiculously, was still dressed, while Sherlock was left in bed with pajamas that were not even his; unfair. John, looking wounded and hurt and stabbed. "I think that it prudent to explain that I-"

"No, actually, Mycroft's already taken care of it. I know why you jumped, and I know how you're alive." John's hand on his shoulder clawed tighter, squeezing painfully tight, and oh, that smile was mad. "I also know why you think you had to do this alone, which is why I'm not going to kill you, but am going to make sure you understand that if you ever do this to me again, I will hex your hair pink and your face blue and force feed you Pepper Imps until smoke comes out your ears, do you understand me?"

Sherlock stared vacantly.

He had never felt this stupid in his life, or ever stared this vacantly at anything before, but here he was. And here John was, grinning dangerously back at him, and he didn't understand what he was supposed to do.

So he said, "John-"

"I missed you so much, you great, big idiot," he choked, and his face fell, and he buried his face into his shoulder and in that moment, Sherlock knew nothing else except that he had missed John Watson.

A woman slipped in, some time later.

Tall and thin, with long green robes and a pointy black hat. She took one look at them both and smiled, a very slight, stern smile, and turned straight to John. "I'll keep Poppy occupied for you, Watson. Just until the match ends- whatever you need."

"Yes, Professor."

"And you, young man," she said without pause, now looking down her nose at him. She looked to be about to rap his knuckles with a ruler. "You have worried your friend very, very much with all of this nonsense. You'd be wise to not be pulling any stunts like this in the future, is that clear?"

Sherlock pinched his own leg again, and was demonstrably disappointed when it was just as useless as the first time.

"Excuse me, but who exactly are you?" He shook off John's restraining hand and put on his very best affronted look, because he was not about to be intimidated by a nun in a pointy hat. "And where are we? Will somebody get me a cup of tea and answer my questions? I-"

"Sherlock?"

"-a stunt? This was not a stunt, I-"

"When Professor McGonagall tells you to do something, the proper response is yes ma'am, with no questions asked."

"John!"

"Yes ma'am, with no questions asked."

Sherlock sulked stared. John kept on smirking as if this was the best day of his life. Professor McGaongall waited.

She really did look the type to whack his knuckles with a ruler. Or handcuff him to the nearest cabinet drawer until she'd finished searching his room for drugs, because that look in her eyes was so similar he honestly wouldn't have been shocked to find out this was Mrs. Hudson's sister.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, through gritted teeth. "No questions."

"That's better."

Sherlock was made to finish one cup of water, polish off one cup of tea, and keep down half a biscuit, before John agreed to allow him up and out of bed.

For once in his life, he'd been too utterly confused to bother protesting.

"I actually am dreadfully sorry you had to find out like this," John segued, watching him still like a hawk. He didn't actually seem that sorry. "But Moran was about to shoot us both and it turns out I don't have a fucking clue what anything in Paris looks like, so it was either Scotland, or scaring Mrs. Hudson into a heart attack in the flat. Also, this is still entirely your fault. Accio."

John, before Sherlock's very eyes, waved his wand. Waved. His wand.

A small, neat pile of clothes- his own, Sherlock realised, they were distinctive even from here- lifted up from the bed opposite, and shot straight into John's hands.

Just like that.

A bundle of wool and neatly pressed cotton and cashmere, floated up in the air all together in one, and zipped straight to John.

"...magnetic strips," Sherlock said weakly. "There are- magnetic strips. In my clothes. And-" His voice withered, and he swallowed, gesturing at John's hands. He could not bring himself to say wand.

"Hm? Is that how magnetism works, Sherlock?"

"It... it could be."

Or hidden strings. Hidden strings, yes; the way stage magicians manipulated objects to appear to move as if by their own accord. Or- brain injury was still in the running. His own. Yes. Or magnets. That was it.

Absolutely it.

John smirked, looking sinfully pleased with himself, and handed his clothes over without further comment.

Clothes that- were mostly his.

"John, what the hell is this?"

"Huh? Oh. A welcoming present from Professor McGonagall, is what that is."

"I'm not wearing this."

"Yes, you are."

"I demand that you retrieve my coat instead." After all the work he'd done to be permitted to stand again, Sherlock now sat back straight down with a huff, folding his arms as best he could and holding his head high, sending what was apparently his very own Lord of the Rings cloak to billow to the floor. "Shouldn't be a problem for you. Being so- magical, and all."

John smiled to himself again, leaning back in his chair to almost look as if he was kicking back at the beach. Smug bastard. "Well, actually, it wouldn't be a problem, yeah. But it's a bit of a trek to Hogsmeade, and... no offense, Sherlock? But I'm not leaving you alone here just yet. Mostly because I don't want to come back and find that you got yourself lost and ended up falling into a hole somewhere and befriended a bloody basilisk."

Sherlock blinked again.

He still felt faint, and it had nothing at all to do with blood loss.

"...well," he coughed gruffly, after another few seconds of silence. He had to swallow, trying to force his voice to be rough instead of weak. "I'm still not wearing it."

"All right, then," John said, grinning. He waved his wand again; this time, directing the curtains back on the window with a direct shink. "Suit yourself."

Outside was a snowstorm.

Window frosted, clouds gathered, and snow swirling down in a thick torrent of white.

Sherlock looked at the snow. He looked at his shirt, long-sleeved but thin, with his gloves missing. He looked at the castle stones underneath his feet; castle, he was in a castle, why was he in a castle?- a structure that behaved like a cooler in summer and an icebox in winter.

He looked at John, still unreasonably, unbelievably pleased with himself.

Sherlock yanked on the cloak with a second huff, and sat back down in the strongest sulk that he could.

And if John would manage to stop smiling like that, it'd really just be swell.

"Another present, by the way." John flicked his wand again, at the pile of forgotten clothes; a wad of blue cloth swirled up to whump Sherlock in the face. "This time from Professor Flitwick. We both agreed: you're one hundred percent Ravenclaw, and he says he'd have been thrilled to have you."

Sherlock glared.

Blue and silver scarf. Which, he presumed, would be given the same winning argument the cloak had. Thicker and longer than his own, and- if not for the fact that it apparently labeled him as a Ravenclaw- he probably wouldn't have even minded it.

His head still spun, and if it hadn't been for his already wounded pride, Sherlock probably would've just laid straight back down and tried to go back to bed.

"John?" he said instead, stretching the wool between his hands.

"Yeah?"

"I think that I hate all of this."

And John beamed at him like it was a locked room triple homicide on Christmas.

Sherlock bargained his way into a tour of the castle.

And by the look on his face, it wasn't so much of a bargain, because John had clearly been on the edge of his seat for this ever since he'd woken up.

"Mycroft knows about this, then?"

"Of course he does. You're right, he really is the British Government- I get the impression he deduced it all right from the start." John paused, giving Sherlock a curious look. "Does that mean you believe I'm telling the truth, then?"

"Oh, heavens no. I just want to see how far this fantasy extends."

Sherlock turned John's so-called wand around in his hands again, running a thumb down the length of it. Just under eleven inches long, and bendy, more flexible than a living branch would've been, yet far more durability than a dead twig should've had. Though John did wince a bit out of the corner of his eye, when he tested how far it would bend. The grip was pale, inlaid with a small carving... the letter o. A carpenter's symbol, perhaps?

It was warm.

A dead twig, dangling loosely in John's hand for at least the past ten minutes, was warm. Like a cup of tea, all the way down to the tip and back again.

No.

There were no magnets that he could feel. No hidden light sources that he could see. Nothing at all to signal this stick as anything more than just that.

Ah, but they made them small as buttons, these days, didn't they? Mycroft had once spied on him with a hidden camera in Anthea's glasses; Sherlock himself had hidden recording devices in the caps of pens and buttons. Just because he couldn't see anything didn't mean it wasn't there, and he knew it was there. Oh, it absolutely was, it had to be, and he'd find it and put a stop to all of this nonsense straight away-

"Maple," John said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wand wood is maple, and the core is dragon heartstring." John grinned again, his eyes bright with an almost mischievous light. "If you wanted to know."

Sherlock, yet again, stopped dead in his tracks.

Seriously, John look as if he was about to just off and spontaneously combust, with how much he was enjoying this.

"Dragon heartstring," he repeated.

"Yes. That's right."

Another moment passed in dumbstruck silence. Sherlock's heart beat in time with the throbbing in his shoulder.

Was he really losing his mind? Really? After decades of ordinary people always assuming he was just one wrong turn away from going really cracking mad- and this was to be how it ended?

Really?

(Of course, this all would be Mycroft's fault).

"...earth to Sherlock Holmes? ...hellooooo? Sher-"

"Oh- please, John! You expect me to believe-? What- that you just, just- slay a dragon, and then put a piece of its heart in a stick?" He laughed aloud, almost hysterical, the blood pounding in his ears and Jesus Christ, he was going to cry. "Come on! What is the point of this, John; why are insisting upon playing this utterly transparent and absurd prank?!" He threw his arms out just for the sake of it, that ridiculous cloak billowing behind him and scarf unfurling with it almost to the floor."And then what do you do?! You kill a dragon, shove its heart into a tree branch, and then you just- what, then? Just give it a wave! And then-"

"Er, I wouldn't, if I were-"

"-say Abracadabr-oof!"

The wand recoiled with the force of a gunshot, a flash of hot light slammed into his face with errant gold sparks and smoke, and smacked Sherlock straight over onto his backside.

Sherlock blinked dumbly. Again.

That was-

It had-

Okay, then?!

And, John was laughing.

Again.

"I warned you!" John cried. He settled down beside him, one hand on his shoulder for support that he didn't even need but still wouldn't let go. Sherlock shoved the death stick back at him, now only too thrilled to let it go. "It's not a dragon stick, it's got magic inside of it, Sherlock! If you wave it around without knowing what you'll doing, you'll do a bit more than put someone's eye out!"

Sherlock's arm throbbed again, now in time with his arse instead. And his pride. And his dignity. And whatever cortex of his brain that was responsible for all rational thought.

And John was still laughing!

"But-" he spluttered, staring at his hands. His palms were faintly red and sore, as if he'd picked up a heated beaker without protection. They hurt, like a burn, and the smell- hot and acrid, like an old heater being kicked on again after a long summer. He flexed his hands, staring in utter bewilderment, his heart pounding. How? "But it-"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John finally quit fussing at his shoulder, ensuring there was no new bleeding. He still wouldn't let him go, and his smile swallowed up his entire face.

No.

No.

Just- no!

"...Explosive... I... gunpowder. There's- gunpowder. In the tip. And- a remote-activated catalyst. There's- it must be!" Sherlock nodded once, taking in a shaky breath; yes, yes, of course! Surely! That was it! It was the only explanation! "It's- Mycroft's around here, somewhere, isn't he?! He's in on this, too, helping you to- to pull it off, I-"

"Sherlock?"

"This is all nonsense, you can't expect me to believe-"

"Levicorpus."

So.

John was a wizard.

Apparently.

Wizards existed.

Apparently.

As it so happened, these admittances just might've been given through coercion, because John wouldn't let him down until Sherlock gave up trying to logic out any other rational explanation for how John had been hoist him upside down by his ankles, and then stand there still laughing about it, with nothing more than a wave of his bloody wand.

And... then some.

"Are you going to let me down now, John?!"

"I don't think I will, actually! A few more minutes like that'll probably do you some good- mmm, do you want some of this, Sherlock? It's delicious-"

"JOHN!"

John still was not completely over the whole you faked your own death in front of me thing, apparently.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Sherlock's head spun, even after John had set him back down on his feet, his hair in his eyes and dangling fuzz all over his face.

The most absolutely disgusting, hateful, unforgivable part about all of this?

It made sense.

Sherlock had deduced, just only several weeks after moving in, that John had attended boarding school as a child. The mannerisms present in their co-habitation were simply unmistakeable. However, John's family had certainly not had the money for public schooling, and while John was of above average intelligence and competence, he was not exceptional enough for the scholarships it would have required.

Sherlock had deduced, when one too many cases had ended just about too luckily to be believed, that John was- good. John was that good. Locks always picked in the blink of an eye, always just fast enough to catch whatever criminal just about to slip away, always tracking Sherlock down in a heartbeat when even Mycroft's CCTVs should've failed. Just a smidgen too competent to even be fair... to even be explainable, by his time in the army. That there was something in John's existence that he was not seeing.

Sherlock had deduced, somewhere about the time when he'd been searching for John's middle name, that there were certain holes in his past. Paperwork that wasn't there when it should've been. Paperwork that certified things such as state schooling, that Sherlock knew very well were not true. Things that simply did not make sense... and yet, there they were.

He hadn't asked Mycroft. For heaven's sake, no. He'd been sure Mycroft had noticed many of the same things that he had, and had the resources to research what he could not- he had trusted that the lack of a confrontation about them meant that Mycroft had deemed them non-serious. Interfering, nosy prat.

Damn it, he'd known.

He'd known!

Probably since the very first day that John had moved in, since the very instant he'd ran into a wizard at St. Bar's lab and impulsively thrust out the invitation to move in- Mycroft had known the entire time!

Sherlock glared at the castle stones beneath his feet. Mycroft had known, yes. And apparently, not thought it prudent to mention that they had an ally on their side that could use magic, while planning out how best to fake his own suicide?

Interfering, nosy, useless prat.

Oh, Sherlock had deduced on his own years ago that John had a secret. That hadn't been particularly noteworthy: everyone did. What had been curious was just how prevalent this one had been, in John's very existence. A particular dearth, of stories from his school days. A noticeable hole, in answers about his childhood. The way so many little facets of existence with John just seemed odd, in unexplainable ways-

Well, of course they'd been unexplainable.

Magic hadn't been considered a possible solution.

But it's any possible solution.

It's not in the rules!

Well then the RULES are WRONG!

Sherlock glanced sideways at John again, a smug sense of satisfaction warming his chest even underneath all the bewilderment of it. John, walking by his side, that same little smile still playing about his mouth, and somewhere underneath that mischievous glee in his eyes was relief. John, despite keeping this secret from him for two years straight- was genuinely glad that he was here.

And not just because it now apparently meant John had free reign to use this magic to dangle him upside down.

The rules certainly had been wrong, hadn't they?

"This way," John said, tilting his head, and led Sherlock on, towards what- certainly appeared to be a blank stretch of wall. "We're getting some food in you, doctor's orders. Have you eaten at all, since leaving London? You seriously look dreadful, Sherlock." He tapped his wand against a seemingly random stone, a sharp, loud rap piercing in the silence.

Noiselessly and smooth as silk, the wall rolled apart to yield them passage to yet another corridor.

Because of course it did.

Sherlock cleared his throat in an effort to retain at least some of his pride. He tugged on his shirt, straightening the buttons, and let his Hogwarts cloak trail behind him as if it were just his trusted Belstaff.

"Explain something for me, then, John." He waited, still watching the stride of his friend's confident and self-assured pace, down the corridor. "If you are this... if you are- oh, don't make me say it-"

"A wizard, Sherlock, it's not going to grow fangs and bite you!"

"A wizard," he moaned; oh, it was horrible, "I don't think you grasp how much I loathe this, John... why didn't you do something when I fell? I mean to say- surely you could have. I refuse to believe that this so-called magic does not have limits, does not have to obey the laws of physics, but from what I have seen so far there absolutely must be some measures you could take to slow an object in free-fall. Alternatively, medicine- of course there would be limits, but John-" Oh, the more he thought about it, the more exciting it was! Could a properly trained wizard perhaps have saved his life, even if he'd fallen for real? His earlier theory of catastrophic brain injury came to mind; could magic heal even that? And how on earth would Moriarty's snipers have reacted to that? Moriarty had planned for every contingency, but this, surely not! What exactly were his snipers supposed to have done, if he had killed before their eyes but then John had just taken out a wand and magically rewound the clock?

Oh, he hadn't even considered- was time travel possible? Actual time travel? Endless possibility, limitless implications, endless questions!

Sherlock was so absolutely enraptured by the idea, his mind alive with a thousand connections, better than cigarettes, better than a ten out of ten murder, better than the purest cocaine- he almost didn't notice, when John stopped walking.

John had stopped. Several steps back, his steady pace thrown to into a sudden standstill. He stared at Sherlock, stricken and eyes wide, wounded, and- ah.

Sherlock knew that look. He'd said something wrong again, hadn't he?

"Sherlock," John said, before he could rewind the conversation himself to find out what. "Do you honestly think I didn't try?"

"I- of course not. That is what I'm asking, isn't it?" Sherlock frowned, clearing his throat. "John?"

John shook himself, after several moments, shuddering from head to toe. The despair on his face fell away with a seemingly great effort, and he shook his head again. "The reason I didn't catch you is because I couldn't. I didn't have my wand with me; I had to stop carrying it because of you, you- utter cock."

"What did I do?!"

"Always- looking! Deducing! Thinking! I knew one day you would get too suspicious and go looking on your own, and how was I going to explain this dragon stick that you found up my sleeve, hm?" His voice almost cracked and John, red-faced, suddenly shot forward again, grabbing Sherlock by the arm. He kept doing that, today, kept grabbing just to touch and then not letting go. "You're too bloody curious for your own good and I had to leave it behind, and by the time I realised you were planning on jumping it was too late for me to leave to get it, because you were about to jump. Yes, I could've caught you, yes, I probably could've kept you alive if you really had fallen and I'd made it to you in time, and no, we are not testing it. If I see you trying to test me I swear to god, I will catch you just to kill you myself, I-"

John cut himself off with a sharp breath, suddenly choked to silence. He swallowed audibly, staring at Sherlock with unreadable, soulful eyes, then just shook his head.

"No rooftops," he said, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's chest. "No more rooftops."

One finger in Sherlock's chest, and the other hand, still clasped around Sherlock's own. The index and middle fingers pressed to the inside of his wrist, and measuring his pulse.

"All right," he agreed.

There would be no more rooftops.

"I hid it with my drugs," John said, around the next corner.

It was Sherlock's turn to stumble. "Excuse me?"

"My wand," John said, grinning. His grin was lighter now, the rough edges in his voice gone, but the fingers still pressed against his wrist. "I didn't want to hide my gun that well, not in case you ever really needed it. But I also did keep some serious drugs in the flat, in my kit, and those I did not want you anywhere near. For any reason. So I hid them together."

Sherlock bristled, annoyance and wonder flooding him in equal measure. Marvelous. "So you deemed dangerous narcotics on the same level of necessary secrecy as a stick." He mulled the words over for a moment, tasting their absurdity. "And where did you hide them, then? I know every nook and cranny of that flat, and I never found any sign of this."

"Of course you didn't. I charmed them. Any time you got too close, you would remember something very urgent that you had to take care of right away. Somewhere far away from the flat and my room." John smirked, hand still in his. "By the time you'd attended to whatever non-existent problem you'd been convinced you had to take care of, you'd have forgotten why you were ever poking around in my room in the first place."

For the dozenth time that day, Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"Are you serious?"

(By the look on his face, this was absolutely intended as John's most gleeful, disgustingly successful revenge.)

"I am," John said back.

Sherlock, yet again, stood stock still place, and forcibly reevaluated every moment of the entire last two years of his life.

"Then... is that why-"

"Yes."

"Every single time-"

"Yes sir."

"I- I tested it! I never could finish fully searching your room- I knew it! Sherlock Holmes doesn't forget things; I knew something was wrong- I experimented, I isolated a problem area with a three foot radius-"

"Yes, you did."

"I set alarms on my phone! I put notes on your door! I wrote reminders on my skin, I- you put a spell on me?!"

"On my room, actually, but yes."

"-do you know how many times I wandered into Lestrade's office convinced I had paperwork that urgently needed filling out?! Three times in one week! He thought I was on drugs!"

"Oh, cheer up, mate- he probably thought that anyway."

John took Sherlock to a room he called the Great Hall, ridiculous, unbelievable, and mostly deserted, and once again proceeded to show off.

This time, with glasses of water that refilled on their own, and plates of food that smelled better than Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and popped into existence whenever Sherlock just touched them. (He'd experimented three times, garnering three entire plates of food he didn't even want, before John told him to knock it off). Plates and glasses that looked as if they'd been made around eight hundred years ago- French construction, he surmised, the metalwork was distinctive- and a ceiling that made Sherlock look twice. Then again. And again.

Clouds in the ceiling. Sunlight shot through grey skies in a rom that was absolutely not open to the sun. Snow that fell and vanished before it ever hit the tables.

There was only one thing that Sherlock knew for sure, at this point.

And that was that he was never going to let himself be nagged into trying to cook again, now that he knew John was capable of this.

"Where do I get one of these of my own, then?" He gently prodded John's wand, just lying there in plain sight on the table, begging to be experimented on. Sherlock had learned his lesson about actually trying to use John's wand, but that certainly wasn't going to stop him from continuing to inspect it. "And learn how to use it?"

Dragon heartstring. Dragon heartstring. Would John be too terribly upset, if he tried getting at the core...?

"Erm. No. Sorry. You- don't."

"No?"

"Yes, Sherlock, you are going to have to hear no, for once in your life." John smirked good-naturedly, rolling his wand back into his grip. "I mean, you could try, but no self-respecting wandmaker would sell you any, and you wouldn't be able to use it even if you got one. You don't have any magic in you. Sherlock, stop that and eat, you're thin as a rake and look like you've been living out of the trash since London."

"I'm on a case, John, I don't eat on a case-"

"What case? You're not on a case! This is not a case, Sherlock, it's-"

"It absolutely is. It's-"

"Sherlock, so help me, either you start eating, or I will hex you straight into next week."

"All right, fine!" Sherlock snatched the proffered magic sandwich that had appeared magically on the magic plate in his magic hands, and he tore off a bite with his teeth, just because he could. It didn't taste like magic. It tasted like peanut butter. Magical teleporting peanut butter.

Sherlock chewed a second bite. Then...

"John- can you actually hex me into-"

"Shut up and eat your sandwich."

"But is time travel a-"

"If you don't shut up and eat your sandwich, I'll never tell you."

Ohhhh, unfair.

Oh, this was so unfair.

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut with all the effort he was humanly capable of scrounging up, and swallowed a bite that felt like glue.

He still didn't know if it was worth it or not, when John's answer smile was happier than possibly anything that he had ever seen before in his life.

"Good boy," John said. He patted his hand once, even as Sherlock nearly growled into choking, and then the explanation was off again.

"Anyway, magic is actually pretty rare, obviously- you're either born with it or you weren't. You weren't." He paused thoughtfully, already set about sectioning off more magically appearing food onto Sherlock's magical plate. Perhaps he had been possessed by Mrs. Hudson. "I did look into it, a bit after we met. I was curious. I really couldn't imagine you being a Muggle. You were just so... so..."

"Eccentric?" Sherlock suggested, one side of his mouth quirking up. "Inhuman? Like a machine?"

John flinched.

Just- a little twitch of hurt. Something that had happened more than once, today. Always small, little more than a moment of passing discomfort.

Sherlock always noticed.

"..Amazing. Is more along the lines of what I meant to say." John swallowed, his throat moving under his own scarf, a bright red and gold next to Sherlock's blue and silver. "Certainly not- that. No."

"...John-"

"Which is ridiculous, by the way. Muggles aren't any, I don't know, lesser than us, you just can't use magic. Wizard still have yet to figure out laptops. But I looked it up after I met you and Mycroft, and the Holmes line lost its magic about a thousand years ago. About the time of Merlin, actually." Something of Sherlock's suspicion must have shown on his face, because John's grin twitched back into place. "Yes, I said Merlin. All legends have a bit of truth in them, Sherlock, you know that." John paused, chewing thoughtfully. "Most of the time, it actually is something to do with wizards."

"Oh, shut up."

"Try me! Go on!"

Sherlock put on annoyed scowl, fighting to keep his features at least neutral, but inwardly his heart was just racing with glee. John was right, myths so often did begin in the slightest kernel of truth, and now to have this source of information, sitting right in front of him... This was the most glorious opportunity, the most transcendent chance- "Medusa."

It was the first thing that had come to mind, properly obscure and foreign and outlandish, Sherlock thought, but John just laughed and rolled his eyes as if he'd suggested Santa Claus. "Is that it? I fought a Gorgon for my N.E.W.T.s. Nearly wet myself."

"Vampires. Big, blood-sucking fangs that turn into overgrown bats and sleep in coffins and wear velvet."

"Oh, I can do you one better for that one, Sherlock. See up there?" John leaned closer, his voice dropping into a stage whisper as he tugged on Sherlock's hand, nodding up the table at the head of the room. "You see him?"

The man in question was a teacher, by the looks of him. Certainly too old to be a student. Paler than Sherlock, with black hair and robes longer than the ones John had foisted on him, his attention down on a stack of papers before him that he seemed to be marking. He had been perpetually quiet and grim this whole time, and, in a way, reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. That exact same sly, smug lilt of assumed superiority.

Sherlock nearly choked on his sandwich.

(Again.)

"You're not serious," he murmured back.

"Oh, I am. Or that's the rumor, anyway." John grinned again. "I don't know about the coffin, but the rest..."

Never mind Moriarty, Sherlock decided. Never mind Moriarty, and the worst, most sinfully interesting cases he had ever had the questionable pleasure to solve, cases that ended, for better or for worse, in one self-fired bullet on that rooftop.

He was never going to get bored here.

"Unicorns, then!" he cried, just as a last resort, throwing his hands up in the air. "Next you're going to tell me there's a herd of bloody unicorns around every corner, then, aren't you!"

"Oh, there's a pack in the Forbidden Forest, actually. Just outside." John paused, licking his lips, and that mischievous light in his eyes was absolutely undeniable. "Would you like to see?"

"What?!"

Sherlock extracted a promise to be taken for the tour outside, just as soon as it stopped snowing.

John, all the while, looked at him in the most peculiar of expressions. A cross between the biggest smile Sherlock had ever seen, and eyes that just almost wanted to cry.

Sherlock, for the first time since he'd fallen, understood what Molly had meant when she'd pleaded with him to not make John watch.

It was mostly just to get that look off John's face, that Sherlock finally found a segue away from unicorns, and straight into a distraction instead.

"Magic is genetic, then, you said?"

John, midway through eying Sherlock and his plate as if still not convinced he'd eaten enough, started. "Hm?"

"You said you looked up my family, to determine our... relative magical potential. The only reason you would do that is if magic has some relation to genetics." Sherlock broke off, mulling over the ever-expanding database of Information that John had handed him, just today alone. "A dominant trait, I suspect? This society seems very isolated, and dominant traits would breed isolation. Recessive traits have a nasty tendency to skip generations as well, which would be destructive for a society built entirely around said traits." He swallowed again, then grimaced, forcing his next admittance out aloud. "Though my understanding of genetics is, somewhat regrettably, elementary..."

The way John's eyes lit up was enough for Sherlock to see that his distraction had, in fact, succeeded. And- that was enough, then. If it got that devastated glimmer out of John's eyes, then Sherlock was satisfied.

Seriously, how was Sherlock meant to properly enjoy all of this, when John kept looking at him in a way that felt like freefall and the Bart's pavement and as if his skin had been turned inside out, all at once?

"My theory is epigenetics," John said, shrugging a little. He rolled his wand between his hands, back and forth, back and forth. "A switch that's either on or off, inherited, and very hard to flip from one way to the other. Maybe it's only in certain people to begin with." He took another bite and shoved a biscuit at Sherlock again, glaring at him until he conceded. "I actually wrote a research paper on it, in med school. Not for any real reason, just because I was curious, I wanted to understand myself- no Muggles could read it, and no wizards could understand it. Most of them aren't exactly into... science."

Sherlock sniffed. Science wasn't a big hit, here in the medieval castle? Oh, he never could have guessed. "What boring lives they must lead."

"Yeah. But we can still turn you into a ferret. So. There's that. ...No, Sherlock, I will not turn you into a ferret; don't even waste your time asking."

"What a boring life I lead! John! This is criminal! John!"

And then John was laughing, his eyes bright and gleaming, and he grabbed his sleeve from across the table and wouldn't let go, and he just looked happy. Very rarely was anybody genuinely happy to see Sherlock at all. But John looked genuinely delighted, John had always been the exception, in so many ways-

And that had never been more apparent now that Sherlock was sitting here, eating magic sandwiches on a magic plate with magic unicorns outside, because John was magic.

He really had been unique, right from the start.

"You really did go to medical school, then?" Sherlock prodded next. He didn't think he would ever run out of questions, ever again. "Wizards don't teach science, so you had to go to a different source?"

It was a simple enough question, Sherlock thought. Easy, and undoubtedly one that he was interested in hearing the answer for.

But this time, John's smile instantly fell.

"It's... complicated."

"Complicated."

"...I did go to medical school, yes. That much about me is true. But my reasons for going, are..."

"Complicated," Sherlock finished, raising an eyebrow.

John did not meet his eyes back.

"How's your arm?" he started, after a few moments of the conversation ground to a dead halt. He cleared his throat in a business-like manner, as if forcibly trying to wrench the topic on, and when he looked up it was to Sherlock's shoulder rather than his face. "We're stuck here until you're well enough to apparate with me again, and that's not until you're back in top form. Madam Pomfrey's a goddess, but sometimes there are complications- is it hurting any worse? If you feel like you need to lie down, then-"

"Interesting."

John stopped for only a moment. His face fell even further than before, like a lights switched dimmed from dusk to midnight. "Don't do that."

"That, John, is what I do." He narrowed his eyes, the gears already starting to turn. John. John Watson. Dr. John Watson. Dr. John Watson, wizard. His friend. Who had never been shy of mentioning medical school before, but certainly was reluctant now. Why? Something to do with these new revelations, clearly; something that related to how his magical identity must have changed things-

"Will you just-" John hissed, gripping his sleeve. "Stop that, would you?" His gaze darted about the Great Hall, still mostly empty, only to rest on the pale teacher from before. Sherlock had noticed him stand up only a minute ago, gathering his things, but it was only now that he realised the man was heading for them. And John was watching him.

This teacher was related, then.

"Not here," was all John said, not an explanation at all, but it was enough. It was close enough.

Sherlock may have spent several years less on the run than he had been planning, but his paranoia had still been neatly honed all the same, and his hackles raised into a defense that made his heart race and his skin crawl.

And that was how John was still silent, when the teacher, and possible vampire, approached.

"Mr. Watson," the man murmured. His gaze passed over Sherlock as if he were nothing more than part of the scenery, hands folding behind his back and face set in a dismissive frown. "I would've thought to find you at the Quidditch game, this afternoon."

John's smile back was tight and strained. Sherlock didn't like it. "I may've played Quidditch ten years ago, but I'm not so into it that I want to spend the day in the snow, thanks. Besides, my friend isn't really that into sports."

The man's mouth twitched, again. "Quite."

Oh, yes. Definitely reminded him of Mycroft.

Sherlock glared silently back, clenching his jaw, and only stopped himself from standing in the way because he didn't want to be turned into a ferret.

By someone who wasn't John.

...yet.

"Well, then," John said, clearing his throat when the quiet had gone on just long enough for ordinary people to term it awkward. He forced another tight smile. "Professor, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Professor Snape, Hogwarts Potions Master."

"Potions?"

"Chemistry, basically," John provided, even as Snape's eyes narrowed. "Magical chemistry."

John might as well as given him a hit of the world's purest cocaine straight into the vein.

"Can I-"

"My class does not have any openings for Muggles," Snape interrupted icily, eyes still only for John. Sherlock might as well have not even existed. "No matter what relatives they might have in the Ministry, Mr. Watson. As you and your friend are both here, alive, and in one piece... somewhat." His mouth twitched again. "I trust that this confirms my last transaction?"

"Transaction?"

"The debt," Snape said, through gritted teeth. "It has been paid."

The silence between them was thick enough to hear a pin drop.

Debt. A debt that had been settled. A debt that had... something to do with him, apparently. A debt that had persisted in the years since John had evidently built a life outside of the wizarding world, between him and this- unpleasant, dangerous man.

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth, his mouth gone dry with anticipation and the gears spinning. Oh, it was surely wrong, and a bit not good, and impolite, and all of that- but he was excited.

"Hm. No. I decide when it's been paid." John swallowed his latest bite, chewing somewhat noisily, dramatic as he could be. "Certainly just about done with, though- just needs a bit of topping off, wouldn't you say?"

Snape's jaw was so tight he could've ground glass.

"Yes, I think so," John went on pointedly, when the professor did not. "Just a little- in fact, I'd say we could finish it off, right here and now, if you'd be generous enough to help out my friend, here- the best Muggle chemist that I've ever met, by the way- and let him give potions a try. So?" John crossed his legs in a whole, dramatic show of it, settling back against the table and grinning back, all danger and unspoken threat and nerves of steel. What do you say, Professor?"

Snape looked like he didn't want to say anything at all.

He actually looked like he'd just been force-fed a lemon.

But, with another clearing of his throat, face still in that bitter twist, the professor drew a step back, now looking as if he would like to be just about anywhere else but here. "I will not tolerate my classroom being invaded upon by a Muggle, no matter how you might try to force my hand. If you are really are so insistent upon humoring the whims of the mundane, then-"

Oh, Sherlock decided- this was going to be fun.

"Oh, it's no trouble, Professor- I don't mind at all. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your class time just to satisfy my own curiosity."

John definitely could see where this was going. Sherlock could tell, from the instantaneous bite of his lip to stop himself from smiling.

Ah, John definitely knew- but Snape definitely did not.

Snape stiffened slightly, his eyes actually landing on him for the first time. He looked a bit taken aback, but quickly reclaimed his composure, straightening his back and shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. "I am pleased to find at least one of you has some sens-"

"I shouldn't need to sit in on your class, anyway! Not when I have John right here, as a substitute teacher." Sherlock smiled innocently, a well-practiced, carefully honed smile; one that tended to make Mycroft put his face in his hands and moan. "I think I'd rather have him, anyway- if it's all the same to you. You're clearly busy enough as it is."

Ah, the realization dawning at last. Snape's eyes narrowed, his jaw twitching, and for a moment, he was perfectly still and silent. "Excuse me?" he drawled, head tilted.

"You've been marking papers for your younger classes all morning," Sherlock said, flicking a finger at the set there in plain slight, just under his arm."And by the looks of things, they're really not learning as much from your instruction as you had hoped."

Now, he'd been force fed two lemons at once.

Snape had not been the first instructor to be less than pleased at the idea of having Sherlock in their class, and he certainly would not be the last.

"...on the other hand," Snape muttered, after yet another ice-cold moment of silence. His glare looked positively murderous. "If Mr. Watson would like to supervise you himself, then I suppose I would have no objection to you using my classroom stores for the weekend."

"Great! So- this time tomorrow, then?"

Snape stood silently, his eyes sliding between Sherlock to John, still striking a mix between utterly annoyed and utterly disgusted at the same time.

Then, his head held high, he strode on past John's back and straight for the exit without another word.

Almost as charming as Mycroft, too.

"Well!" Sherlock said, when the professor had trailed just out of earshot, smug joy warming through his chest all the way up to the tips of his ears. "That was fun. What's next on the list, then?" He propped his head up on his good fist, starting to turn back to face John. "Do I get to see what Quidditch is? I must correct your earlier assertion, John; while I have no interest in athletics, I would be fascinated to observe a magical... John?"

This time, John was not getting excited with him.

John's lingering smile, in fact, had faded. Just about as soon as Snape had left the Great Hall, and Sherlock was again alone with him- and that little smug, victorious glimmer in his eyes faded, and with it went the grin that Sherlock had already started to miss, ever since leaving London.

Too often, lately, Sherlock himself had been the cause of that look on John's face.

Not for the first time, today alone, Sherlock had to wonder just how many times John had looked like that, since the fall.

"I'm sorry," he said.

John started violently, that distant, sad look in his eyes chased by an instant pallor of confusion. "You're what?" He blinked, looking after Snape. "Because of him? He's always like that, Sherlock, you didn't-"

"Not him. Of course not him, John; I don't care about him." Sherlock swallowed roughly, at a loss for how, exactly, to put it into words. His shoulder itched. "I did something wrong, again. Didn't I?"

But this, too, was apparently the wrong thing to say.

Because John now looked even sadder than before.

"What? No. Oh, no, you didn't, Sherlock, not at all, this- it's nothing to do with you-"

"It always is."

"It's not, listen to me. You didn't do anything wrong. You're just about the only one who didn't, my god. You were brilliant, Sherlock, it's my fault, it's-" He broke off to rub his mouth, tongue-tied and unhappy, and for a moment didn't look like he had any idea how to go on at all.

Then, he pushed to his feet, plates forgotten, and snatched his wand back up after all. "Come with me," he said, and led Sherlock out of the Great Hall without looking back.