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John is rather surprised that he has managed to keep such a massive secret from Sherlock.
Everyone who has ever annoyed or intrigued Sherlock has been subject to his shrewd observation powers with little filter (or no filter, in the cases of Anderson and Mycroft). John has gotten unwarranted comments on everything from his choice of toothpaste to his method of hailing a cab, and Sherlock has been able to deduce how long he spent talking to a redhead on the Tube as well as their conversational topics. On one regrettably memorable occasion, Sherlock even described his wanking schedule in front of half the Yard.
But somehow, Sherlock has managed to miss something fundamental to John’s very existence, and John’s not sure if he feels insulted or relieved.
He really should go with relieved. After all, John seriously doubts that those who enforce the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy have ever had to deal with someone quite like Sherlock. And the thought of some clueless, underqualified Ministry employee messing with Sherlock’s singular brain for an Obliviation is beyond repellent.
Of course, John could always just tell Sherlock, provided he is willing to marry him, as per the statute’s compromise for wizards and witches with Muggle spouses. But that would require that he and Sherlock were...well, not quite what they actually are. Which is flatmates and steadfast friends, but nothing beyond that.
John wants it to be more, has from the very beginning. Regrettably, Sherlock has made it clear that he considers the Work to be his spouse and not John. No, John is just a tag-along, a ‘conductor’ or some other flowery rot.
So, John vows to continue to keep his magic and magical associations concealed. If Sherlock never knows any better, then that’s probably for the best.
---
The closest John ever comes to being found out is when Harry's over-sized Great Grey owl flies into the glass of his bedroom window and subsequently makes a terrible racket until it is allowed inside.
Sherlock takes less than thirty seconds to fly up the stairs and burst into his room, and another thirty to stop staring at the owl in delighted shock.
John is initially worried that Sherlock will notice the parchment he has hastily retrieved from the owl’s talons, but Sherlock is too busy monologuing on the variables that lead to increased avian-window strikes and then pondering aloud if they can keep the owl as a test subject. John vetoes that idea immediately, quickly ushering both owl and Sherlock out of the room via different exits. Sherlock’s sulk for the rest of the day is silent but full of glares.
Harry gets an earful for that - she knows better than to send an owl to Baker Street in broad daylight. She tries to turn it around and blame him for living with a Muggle, but her words are futile. Clara was a Muggle, and John remembered long, agonized conversations with Harry comparing the merits of marriage and secrets.
Magic is not a central component of his life. He rarely uses magic in the flat, preferring to do household tasks the Muggle way, as when he grew up. And he only ever uses his wand under the most extreme circumstances, like when Sherlock's life is in danger, and even then, he is smart enough to find ways to explain away miraculous coincidences.
However, there is one area that John does wish he could use magic all of the time, and that is medicine.
He treats dragon pox and heals splinching damage with his wand at work, but has to stitch up Sherlock with Muggle means at home. John is not particularly pleased to utilize such archaic methods when magic could have sorted out Sherlock’s regular case-inflicted battle damage in seconds. This is especially obvious to him after Sherlock loses all of the skin on his right hip and elbow after being plastered to and then scraped along a brick wall. It would have taken mere moments of quick wandwork to heal if he could have used his magic. But instead, John has to change bandages and deal with a whiny Sherlock for weeks. And when John breaks a rib wrestling a particularly irate suspect, he has to fake wincing and discomfort for days, despite having healed it immediately upon returning to the isolation of his room.
It’s not particularly practical (or probably healthy), but John knows he would fake being injured for the rest of his life if it meant keeping Sherlock in it for just as long.
---
Sarah corners him at his desk at St. Mungo's shortly after he has celebrated surviving his first year as Sherlock's flatmate.
“How are things going with you and Sherlock?” she inquires casually, but quite obviously curious.
John quirks a smile. “Fine. He is currently obsessing over creating an index of deuterium isotopes in various water sources across London. Says it’s going to be vital to solving future cases." He shakes his head. "More like it's going to drive the other researchers at Bart's spare with the massive mess he's created in the labs. Though, I suppose I should be grateful that the flat has been spared this time around.”
Sarah laughs quietly. “Sounds like Sherlock, all right.” She crosses her arms and sighs. “You still haven’t said anything, have you?”
John frowns. “What about?”
“About everything, John. About who you really are, about what you are capable of doing, about how you really feel about h–”
“Hey,” interrupted John. “You know better. We can’t just go around blabbing, you know that.”
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Come on. You and he are practically partners. I’m sure if you talked to the right people and explained your situation, you could have some sort of special case waiver.”
“It’s not like that,” protests John, half-heartedly.
“It’s not?” Sarah tips her head and scrutinizes him. “You do remember how our first date went, right? It would have taken a Hinkypunk to pull him away from you.”
John huffs out a disbelieving noise. “He’s just really keen to solve cases and get answers, that’s all.”
“Well, whenever you do wake up to the fact that you and he have it worse than anyone I’ve ever seen, I think you ought to tell him. Sherlock’s probably one of the few Muggles who will want to have feet in both worlds.”
Finding nothing to argue with in her statement, John simply nods.
“Though,” Sarah warns as she turns to leave. “You may want to give the Aurors fair warning that they will be soon facing some fairly stiff competition. I’ve no doubt that Sherlock will take to magic like an overeager puppy.”
John leans back in his chair and watches Sarah disappear down the hallway into a patient room. The situation with Sherlock has grown increasingly complicated lately, made so in different ways by each of them.
Sherlock is – in a word – capricious. There’s no telling how he would react to any advances, mostly because John has no previous metric of him involved with anyone. Greg had been vague at best on that front, and Stamford had apologized and said that he had not really interacted with Sherlock much beyond St. Bart’s. Asking Mycroft is out of the question.
John knows that his own hesitance stems from an unwillingness to change. He’s always been stubborn and resistant to new things, knows it is one of his biggest weaknesses. And a change in the status quo of his life, after finally getting things sorted (with a place to live, a job that allows him to utilize magic again, and a bit of a thrill with the cases), could spell disaster. Not to mention he has zero idea of how Sherlock would react to his advances.
With a sad sort of sigh, John exchanges his Healer’s robes for his Muggle jacket and clocks out for the day. He sends a text to Stamford as soon as he is free of the magical interference of St. Mungo's. Perhaps a few rounds of drinks will help him to temporarily escape thinking about his situation.
---
Unsurprisingly, the world does seem a lot less complicated after a bit of alcohol. Well, the melding of the worlds, as it were. John thinks himself a bit clever for deciding to go with that final shot of…something oaky and caramel-y. It has left him feeling quite relaxed, just as he hoped.
Stamford, as always, had provided superb companionship. They’d both caused plenty of mischief in their youth, but some maturity and the intervening years had made them marginally smarter. At least, smart enough not to overdo it tonight. Just enough to feel pleasantly buzzed and slightly less inhibited than usual.
John climbs the stairs, making effort to keep his feet from dragging too much. He pulls his jacket off as he climbs, removing it completely from his body by the time he reaches the landing.
“Drunk on a Friday night, John? How predictable. Did Sarah insult your fragile virility again?” comes the commentary from the sofa the moment he opens the flat door.
Alcohol slowing his thought processes, John stands in the doorway for a moment and blinks. “What?”
Sherlock is lying down, facing the exterior windows, so he has to crane his neck at an unnatural angle to look back at John. “You have had four – no five – drinks with Stamford at that pub on Wardour in an attempt to forget whatever mistakes Sarah's made you believe you've made with your life. You usually find going out on a Friday evening a hassle because of the influx of tourists and out-of-town patrons, but there was something particularly vexing she said that made you willing to ignore your usual reservations in order to partake this evening.”
John swallows, his mouth suddenly feeling more than a little fuzzy. He forgoes answering Sherlock’s question in favour of a glass of water from the kitchen.
But Sherlock is either bored or just feeling particularly persistent, because he pops up from the sofa and follows John into the kitchen, all while still speaking. “But not excessively. Whatever she pointed out was something you were already mulling over, something that has been bothering you for some time and…”
Sherlock's voice fades away in to background noise as John stares fixedly at his plush lips, which are now within striking distance. Sherlock has even leaned accommodatingly forward.
If John were to kiss him right now, he could always just claim it was the alcohol. It seems like a brilliant idea, that, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s, maybe with the littlest hint of tongue, promising more if Sherlock wants it. Neither of them is very good at sorting things out with words – men of action rarely tend to be, John supposes. It would be so easy, kissing Sherlock.
So John does. It’s a warm, inviting experience that's definitely over too quickly, despite the returning press of lips from the opposite end. John giggles slightly at the sudden thought that he has verifiable evidence that Sherlock is, in fact, very human.
He completely stops laughing when he pulls back to check on Sherlock’s reaction.
“Sherlock?” Several questions float on the surface of his brain, but John simply finishes with what is quite possibly the most obvious observation of his life. “Your hair is blue!”
The dreamy look in Sherlock’s eyes is rapidly replaced with sheer panic. His hair abruptly goes from bright blue to an alarming shade of red.
John’s mouth drops open and he blinks hard a few times. Surely he hadn’t had that much to drink?
“John,” Sherlock chokes out, and John can see the twitches of muscle that are the precursor to Sherlock’s flight. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the forearm and swings him bodily around so that he is trapped against the counter with no avenue of escape.
“No you don’t,” John admonishes as Sherlock tries to push away from him. Once he has properly braced himself against Sherlock, John frees up a hand and reaches up to grab hold of curl that is now deep purple. “What’s going on? How'd you turn your hair into a mood ring?”
“Mood ring?” Sherlock spits out. “That’s the reference your miniscule mind selected?”
Insults usually mean Sherlock is feeling defensive. John shifts his gaze away from Sherlock’s technicolour hair and toward his eyes…which are now a bright yellow.
With a slightly un-masculine yelp, John rears back. “What the hell?”
Sensing an opening, Sherlock pushes John away and rockets toward his bedroom.
And then John’s brain finally catches up and offers a plausible, but astonishing explanation. “You’re a Metamorphmagus!?”
Sherlock freezes and John knows he is right. Which also means…
“You’re a wizard?”
The slack goes out of Sherlock’s shoulders and he slowly turns back to face John. His hair fades back to black as he spins, but his eyes remain eerily off-colour. “As are you, apparently.”
John huffs out a disbelieving breath. “What are the chances of that? Two wizards living together, not knowing?”
Sherlock opens his mouth, as if to tell him the exact probability, then seems to think better of it. He reluctantly returns to stand in the kitchen doorway, but comes no closer. His eyes begin to fade back to their original colour, but John can see the slightest rippling of Sherlock’s skin. Although he wasn't extensively trained in Metamorphmagi physiology (there are specialists for that), John knows their abilities are affected heavily by emotional state. Suddenly, Sherlock’s tendency toward the unemotional makes perfect sense, as does his uncanny ability to hide in plain sight with or without a disguise.
The air between them feels turbulent. John has definitely not forgotten that he just kissed Sherlock less than a minute ago. He seriously doubts Sherlock has either. But whatever is to be discussed next is not just about some silly kiss, it’s about their entire relationship. John suddenly wishes he could face this with a completely sober brain. How did he miss the fact that Sherlock is both a wizard and a Metamorphmagus?
Sherlock seems to process the situation faster, because he is the first to speak. “You don’t actually work at a clinic.”
“I do, actually. Just not the one you thought.”
“St. Mungo’s?”
John nods.
“And you have practiced magic regularly in this flat but hidden it from me because you believed I was a Muggle.”
“Yes, but not often. My parents were both Muggles, so I didn’t really have a lot of practical application growing up. What about you? I’d have figured you would be showing off as much as possible.”
Sherlock shrugs. “I've had no other teachers but my mother. She showed me all she could, but she died before I had the chance to be properly introduced to the magical world. And she made it clear in her last wishes that no one, magical or otherwise, should prevent me from attending uni.” A sneer of disgust crosses his face. “She ensured that father would never know of our magic.”
“Does Mycroft know?”
“Yes, and I suspect he might actually regularly converse with people from that – from your – world. At least, the governmental variety.”
John leans back against the counter. “And yet, Mycroft knowing something you don’t is not inducing seizures?”
“No. Besides, I have the capability to do magic and he does not. He threw one of the few fits of his adolescence when he realized that I had access to an entire realm of knowledge and skill that could never be his.” Sherlock quirks his head, some of his usual perceptiveness returned. “Harry is of course a witch.”
“Yeah. But how is it that you can deduce that now, when you missed it in me the entire time I was living with you?” John’s head begins to throb – his hangover coming on a bit early?
“I have never spent time around Magical people beyond my mother, so I have had no practice with identifying the ticks that would indicate if someone is magical or not.” Sherlock huffs, as if in annoyance at this shortcoming in his knowledge base. “Why were you unable to recognize my magic?”
“Well, for one, you have never alluded to anything magical or shown any signs that you are capable of using it. That is, until your hair turned blue.” John pauses to consider that. “Being a Metamorphmagus is heritable, so was your mother one?”
“She wasn’t, but her father was. She was horrified when I started showing the initial signs and immediately began to teach me how to control my emotions.” Sherlock’s voice turns bitter as he goes on. “I was never allowed to discuss it – I had to pretend to be an ordinary Muggle, lest it anger Father. I was reduced to becoming, for all intents and purposes, a Squib.”
“So, you never attended any magical schooling? That’s…a shame, truly.” Knowing how brilliant Sherlock is without utilizing his magic, John cannot fathom how powerful he would be if he had been properly trained.
There is a shift in the atmosphere of the flat, despite the heavy conversation topic, and Sherlock no longer seems to be using the door frame as a springing off point for an escape. John takes that as a cue to begin preparing tea for the both of them.
“Mummy lived in the aftermath of Grindelwald’s attempted rise to power – she lost both parents to that war. The moment she saw my magic manifest, she decided that I would never be a part of that world. I was taught to control and obscure, never to manifest it purposefully.”
“And when you left home…you never wanted to seek out what you’d missed out on?” John peers into a pair of mugs on the counter, hoping they are not coated in clear contaminants again.
Just as his hand reaches out to turn on the tap, John stupidly realizes that he can just use magic and avoid any potential water-chemical reactions. He pulls his wand from his sleeve and performs a non-verbal Scourgify. As an afterthought, he summons a Hangover Draught from his room and downs it in one swallow, sighing in bliss when he feels his headache recede.
Sherlock watches his wand movements with an odd expression on his face. Jealousy? Longing, maybe?
“Do you have one? A wand?”
Sherlock scowls. “No. It was deemed pointless for me to acquire one for myself. I used Mummy’s only when absolutely necessary.”
Licking his lips, John takes the briefest of moments to consider his next choice. But it’s really not much of a choice, is it?
He holds out his wand, handle first.
Sherlock’s eyes widen. “But I don’t–”
“No better way to learn than by doing. Surely you know that by now.”
Tapered fingers reach out and grasp John’s wand delicately. “Don't wands have affinities? Mummy told me I couldn't use her wand without her because it wouldn't work for me. There is no guarantee that–”
“Will you just shut up and listen to me for a change?” huffs John, impatiently, and to his surprise, Sherlock actually complies. “Now, I am going to show you how to heat up the water in the kettle. The charm is simple and there is no chance that you will make the temperature hot enough to be dangerous. All you have to do is concentrate on thoughts of warmth and heat while you cast.”
John pulls Sherlock forward by his arm so that he is positioned directly in front of the hob and John is slightly behind him. He covers Sherlock’s hand with his own, secretly relishing the sensation of his fingers and palm sliding against Sherlock's skin as he guides the wand’s movements. “All you need to do is make small, carefully clockwise circles the entire time you have that image of heat in your head. Once you have that movement and you are concentrating, you say 'Focillo'.”
“Focillo,” repeats Sherlock, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
“That’s right,” John affirms, reluctant to remove his hand from Sherlock’s. “Good pronunciation.”
Sherlock snorts. “I do know how to speak properly. No need to patronize.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes Magic does not always follow the rules of Latin or any of its other root languages. A lot of the old spells are just stapdashed together from a time when Magic did not involve using a wand to concentrate power.”
“How much of magical history do you know, John?”
The realization that he has unconsciously placed his hand on Sherlock’s hip distracts him momentarily, but John does not feel particularly inclined to remove it. “Uh, it’s been a while since my History of Magic O.W.L.”
Sherlock stops rotating the wand and looks over his shoulder at John. “O.W.L.?”
“Ordinary Wizarding Levels. Subject exams that fifth years take.”
“That is a ridiculous acronym."
"Get used to it, the wizarding world's full of them."
"I want to know everything you know about magic,” Sherlock demands.
John grins. “Let’s make some tea first, and then you can ask me anything you want.”
“And then you will take me to all the magical places in London.”
“Sure. Not all in one day, but we can–”
“I also want access to all of your magical resources, especially any books in your possession.”
“I have most of my textbooks from Hogwarts st–”
“And a wand. I want my own wand.”
“We can get that when we go to Diagon Alley.”
A considering look crosses Sherlock’s face. “I assume that the magical community has a different form of currency. Surely there's a way to exchange?”
John’s thumb rubs hesitant circles on Sherlock’s lower back, reminiscent of the wand's movement. “Don’t worry about that now. How about we make tea first?”
Sherlock’s nose twitches, but he leans into John’s touch. “And then you will kiss me again. You shouldn’t be needlessly preoccupying yourself with my reaction to your earlier actions – actions of which I completely approve – when you should instead be focused upon my magical education.”
“Oh, I promise we'll do that and anything else you want,” John agrees, trying not to sound too keen. Instead, he infuses a bit of the Three Continents (and that one time on a broomstick above the Indian Ocean) Watson charm into his next statement. “In fact, you can be sure that more than just your hair will turn blue next time.”
The responding flush across Sherlock’s cheeks is promising and perfect, as is the prospect of being partners in all things, magical or otherwise, to come.