Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1109283.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms, Harry_Potter_-_J._K.
      Rowling
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Underage_Sex, Crossover, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Romance,
      Homophobia, Bullying
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-30 Updated: 2015-04-26 Chapters: 2/? Words: 13765
****** The Charms of John Watson ******
by Kahvi, Roadstergal
Summary
     It's been eleven years since John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were at
     Hogwarts together. Eleven years since the far too young John ill-
     advisedly let the even younger Sherlock take him to bed. Eleven
     years, and John still feels a burning flush of guilt at the thought
     of it. They both wanted it, sure, but John should have known better!
     Now, John runs his little charms business and tries not to think too
     much about the past... until it shows up on his doorstep, tall, dark
     and arrogant, on a mission from the Ministry of Magic.
Notes
     A stand-alone sequel to Deductive_Magic
***** Chapter 1 *****
The boy said nothing as they walked hurriedly across the grounds, his long,
skinny legs having no trouble keeping up with a grown man's stride. It was not
a sullen silence, Snape noted, which was to the boy's credit. Oh, there was
anger, of course, but righteous anger, and Snape really couldn't blame him for
that. Despite himself, he had taken a liking to young Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps,
he told himself, feeling in an unusually benevolent mood, he had been too
harsh.
"You understand," he said, sternly, "why I had to do that?"
Holmes sighed, face turned away so that it appeared that a mass of dark, unruly
hair was doing the talking. "I'm not a child."
Snape barked a laugh. "You are twelve years old. What would you say that makes
you?"
"Young."
"Exactly. Young, and still innocent."
"No one is innocent."
Snape turned, sharply, but that pale, thin profile was still facing away. The
boy was not joking, and Snape found he could had nothing to reply. They walked
in silence for a while, and when Snape turned again, Holmes's gray-green eyes
were studying him, calmly. He shuddered; you had to, under the scrutiny of that
gaze. "You know very well what I mean. You are far too young for that sort of
thing," he said, finally, not quite knowing to what he was referring. "However,
if you must indulge yourself, there's more than one Slytherin boy your age who
would..."
"I'm not you," Holmes interrupted. He had stopped, and was glaring at Snape
through an unkept fringe.
Snape froze, giving the boy the full force of his most intimidating look. "What
are you talking about?" Holmes did not so much as flinch.
"I'm not you, and John is not that girl, whatever her name was. It was a girl,
wasn't it?"
Instinctively, Snape clutched his wand, then mentally scolded himself; this was
a boy; a clueless child. There was no way he could...
"She was a Gryffindor, she must have been. I'm fairly sure she was your age,
though. I haven't found out her name yet, but I bet I can." He watched Snape,
calmly, then wiped his nose - he had been sniffling a little all the way; it
was a cold evening - and started walking again. "Your concern is appreciated,
but I can take care of myself."
Stunned by rage and astonishment, Snape watched Holmes go. Merlin help him, he
would ruin that boy.
===============================================================================
It was a lovely day, John was pleased to note; the sun shone brightly, and the
air was warm enough for shirt-sleeves; it was warm enough to sit at an outside
table at this little cafe and enjoy a sandwitch and some tea.
This being a weekday, businessfolk hurried thither and yon. There was always
something pleasing about watching the mass of humanity plugged into a schedule
that didn't apply to you. Even if John could make more money elsewhere, the
price would be the freedom he enjoyed running his own little Charms business.
It did well enough; he lived well enough to enjoy posh sandwitches at little
cafes like this every now and then.
He took a sip of tea, watching a lovely businesswoman in a severe suit check
her watch, then speed up her walk, looking rushed.
"John," a voice said. It was... very familiar. Deeper than it should be? some
part of him wondered, and he turned to see a figure that was, again, very
familiar. Taller than before, impossibly - a reedy solar eclipse with unkempt
hair. The softening baby fat, which had been minimal even when John had last
seen this man, was gone from his face, leaving it nothing but sharp angles; his
silk shirt hung from a similarly whip-thin frame. His eyes, in this light, were
shockingly blue. They would be almost green in other lights...
John wondered why he felt dizzy, then remembered to breathe.
"Are you just going to sit there gaping stupidly at me all day?" Sherlock
snapped.
Oh, yes - he doesn't like me, John remembered. As if they hadn't parted badly
enough - surely Sherlock would have looked back, with adult eyes, on what they
did together, and very reasonably hate John more.
"I'm sorry, I d... I didn't expect to see you here." John stumbled over his
words, stupidly. He pushed the chair next to him towards Sherlock.
Sherlock grabbed the chair with one long-fingered, elegant hand, spun it
around, and sat in it backwards, leaning his arms on its wrought-iron back.
"Mycroft told me I'd find a man here who could help with Charms."
"Well - I'm here, and I might be able to help with Charms," John replied,
cautiously, taking another sip of tea to wet his dry mouth.
"I need to find out everything I can about this." Sherlock pulled a small metal
object out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them. It was a
silver brooch, shaped like a small dragon with a sparkling red stone for an
eye. John picked it up, and felt magic coursing through it.
"Yes - I could take a look, if you come back with me to my shop," John replied.
He didn't even like to take his wand with him to Muggle London.
"Take it with you, and I will come by when you're done." Sherlock looked around
at the passers-by. "I will be there this evening at 5:30." With that, he stood,
striding off without another word.
John rubbed the dragon between his fingers, feeling a little shellshocked. That
had been... abrupt. Still, it stood to reason; Sherlock must still bear a
certain amount of resentment for what happened, and John couldn't blame him.
John had not handled the situation at school at all well, and he should...
apologize, later, when Sherlock came by. Yes, that was the right thing to do.
It didn't help that just this brief interaction (all ten words or so) with
Sherlock had left John aching and erect. Hell, after all of these years, was he
still in love with that boy? No, not a boy anymore, of course - god, no, not
even close. John would do well to keep that in mind.
Some little part of him hoped that Sherlock would accept the apology, that all
would be good between them, that they could - but the larger, rational part of
him told that little part of him to stop being ridiculous. He would go home,
masturbate, and analyze this brooch.
===============================================================================
John sat at his bench in the workroom behind his store. The charm was easy
enough to elucidate; it was a fairly straightforward seduction charm. Illegal,
but of course that didn't mean they couldn't be acquired, for the right price.
Someone had made a half-arsed attempted at deactivating it with a flimsy ward
atop.
John sat back, looking at it askance. He had been taken quite aback by seeing
Sherlock, just walking up like that, after so long, and by his own intense
reaction to seeing the man, and hadn't asked any questions - such as, why did
Sherlock have this?
John settled back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Oh, god, it had been about a
decade, and it was like no time had passed. Sherlock - older, now, but even
more alluring, for that, and still the same mysterious, frustrating, appealing
person he had always been. Carrying a seduction charm. John laughed gently -
like the man needed a seduction charm. He was a walking, talking seduction
charm. This line of thought lead invariably from charms to potions, then to a
late night in the library, the quick dash outside, and rutting on the ground,
fully clothed, his mouth on Sherlock's...
This was not a useful line of thought. John bit his lip, trying to make himself
snap out of it, and picked up his wand. Any corner wizard could tell it was a
seduction charm - he could at least dig deeper, feel out the magic, find out
where it came from.
John dispelled the deactivation ward with a word, then touched the wand to the
brooch, mumbling quiet words of magic, and let himself go. He merged with the
flood of magic that suffused the brooch, sliding through its layers, tasting
its honey-sweet allure - but there was something small, quiet, impossibly old,
concealed in all that treacle. John grasped at that kernel, holding on to it,
feeling it...
His eyes widened.
===============================================================================
It was not, by any measure of the word, an impressive shop, Sherlock noted as
he entered. No, he corrected himself, looking around, not unimpressive.
Utilitarian was the word, rather, which fit John to a tee, didn't it? Just good
enough. Never striving to rise above mediocrity; never doing more than he
needed in order to get by. Never testing his limits or exploring his potential.
He shook himself, casting off the mental reverie. He was not here to reminice.
John was helping a customer, a rather plain-looking old woman suffering from an
entirely needless infestation of magic weevils. The fact that a witch her age
did not have enough sense to avoid that sort of thing was frankly embarrassing,
but John, of course, was all smiles and sunshine. Sherlock found himself
studying that familiar-yet-unfamiliar face; the added lines (more than
expected; excess of drink, poor diet, stress, or genetics; a combination, most
likely), the scruffy, short cropped hair (much darker now, but still that
indefinable shade between blonde and auburn), dark blue eyes sparkling with
intelligence that had never been given much to work with. Why Mycroft had sent
him to this man, of all the charm experts in Britain, Sherlock could not begin
to speculate, and did not care to. Obviously his brother had a hidden agenda;
possibly he only wanted to demonstrate to Sherlock that he knew. Sherlock
wouldn't put it past him.
Mycroft was a bastard. Just looking at John hurt.
===============================================================================
Sherlock waited until the woman was about to leave. She was smiling and
thanking John profusely when she noticed Sherlock, and gave him a curious
glance. He returned her gaze, coldly. "They wouldn't get in at all if you kept
your scrolls above ground level, like any idiot living in a magical city would
know."
The same charming fellow he had always been, John thought, tossing Sherlock an
annoyed look. The lady was perfectly nice, and didn't deserve to be treated
like that. "I spoke with her about storage, but the priority right now is to
get the weevils out."
Sherlock turned his back, browsing the shelves idly, muttering quietly to
himself. Why did John waste his time with these commoners? The man might have
been an unreliable cad in his teens, but even then it was evident he had
talent; talent that was now wasting away between dusty jars and scrolls. The
world was so overly full of idiots, and Sherlock hated to see those who weren't
throwing their skills and lives - for what was life without mental challenge -
away.
John made a particular efford to be polite to the woman, but he saw her give
Sherlock a dirty look on the way out. Oh, well, one fewer repeat customer.
The moment the door slammed shut, Sherlock turned. "The charm. What have you
found?"
John smiled at Sherlock. He had always been rude and abrupt, of course, and it
somehow made it feel almost - like old times. "Where did you get it?"
This was John's turf, and Sherlock did not feel comfortable getting closer.
John had far too much power over him; it was frustrating and embarrassing. Even
after all these years, Sherlock could only meet his eyes in short glances, lest
he give himself away entirely. Whatever it was he'd felt for John back then was
still there in full force. Curse it. "That's confidential. Now, I need your
analysis." And then he could leave, and hopefully not come back, ever. But you
will, now that you know where he is. Sherlock told his inner voice to shut up,
ignoring its bitter laughter.
"Come back and let's take a look." John walked to the door at the back of the
shop that lead to his workroom, opening it and stepping through in invitation.
The charm was back here - and it was also a more appropriate place for the
apology he wanted to make. More private. He just had to find a way to spit out
the words.
Sherlock swallowed, hesitating. That was a very bad idea indeed, but worse
still would be to ignore John's invitation; reveal his own weakness. He nodded,
following John to the back room, halting in the doorway. The charm lay on a
small examining table, and John approached it, as though it needed pointing
out. The need to see it up close overruled any apprehension about entering what
was so fundamentally John's room, and Sherlock strode over, leaning in towards
it over John's shoulder.
John noted how close Sherlock was. Well, the man wanted to get close enough to
see the charm; it wasn't his fault that he smelled vaguely spicy, like a well-
tended apothecary, and that his breath was warm on John's shoulder. "It's a
seduction charm."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you. The newt I saw out in the courtyard
could have done better than that."
"Could he have told you what it started life as?" John replied.
"I didn't consider asking him. Can you?"
John smiled. Sherlock's ever-present punchiness. "It's been altered. It started
as an integral part of a loyalty oath. A very particular one."
Sherlock exhaled in surprise. "That's new," he muttered. Interesting.
John felt an absurd thrill at being able to surprise Sherlock. "It's a relic of
Godric Gryffindor."
"What?" Sherlock turned sharply. His face hovered over John's, noses nearly
touching. Too close, part of him screamed; another whispering not close
enough...
Sherlock's face, right next to his, those eyes... John licked his lips, every
rational thought gone. "What?" he repeated, stupidly.
"Godric Gryffindor." Sherlock made no effort to disguise the disgust in his
voice. That childish Hogwarts rot! Sorting people into pre-set categories and
shaping them accordingly. Forging ties of loyalty to made-up ideals. Slytherins
were told that the connections they made to their housemates in school would
help them in the adult world, and while that might be true, it had less to do
with the power of the house of Slytherin, and more the power of basic human
nature. Sherlock, by virtue of his early departure from school, belonged to no
house, and took pride in it. Unfortunately, the rest of the wizarding world
tended to take a different view, and Gryffindors were the worst of the lot.
Sherlock's skin felt warm where John's eyes were on him, almost to the point of
burning. What was he looking at?
John tore his eyes away from Sherlock, taking a deep breath. "Yes. It didn't
start life as a seduction charm - far from it."
"Why change it? Why not simply make another one?"
"They're not easy to make. It would be a lot simpler to adapt an existing
charm. Few existing charms are suitable, though; thus one was... different."
John picked it up and stroked it, absently. The silver charm was smooth and
cold in his hands. Activating it would be simplicity itself. Stroke it here,
align your energies there, with the ruby focus - and Sherlock would go upstairs
with him, to his flat, into his bedroom; would let John take his clothing off
and love that lean body... Of course, it would be every kind of bad idea -
unethical, evil, and in the long run, disastrous. But a deliciously tempting
fantasy.
As though anything charms-related could be 'difficult'. Tricks and trinkets,
all of it; Sherlock had never had any use for it. Until, he reluctantly had to
admit, now. "Both victims were Gryffindors," he muttered.
"Victims?" John asked, sharply. This was a new dimension.
Sherlock met John's eyes. They were dark and open and a little fawning, just
like he remembered them; the only part of John that had not visibly aged.
"Murder. It's my business." He gave a quick, mirthless grin. "solving them,
that is."
"You work for the Ministry?"
"They consult me."
"They don't consult people..." John replied, dubiously. They were ridiculously
insular. He had tried to get a job there, but it... no, they were quite
insular.
"No, they don't. They consult me." John, Sherlock noted, was looking at the
charm again with those ageless eyes. There was a certain gleam in them; he
clearly knew how to activate it. And the way his fingers had moved across its
surface, earlier... the little runt was considering using it! Sherlock's chest
tightened. "It's been deactivated, by the way. Though I suppose someone like
you could undo that."
"I could," John said, quietly, deciding not to mention that he already had. He
replaced it on the stand, with care. "It's the charm that was used by Godric
Gryffindor and Robert Ravenclaw."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Robert?" He had never paid much attention in
history class - unimportant, sentimental drivel, all of it.
"That's right - you left after first year, so you probably never heard the
stories." John felt oddly sad; so many stories, such a rich history, and every
Hogwart's student inherited it - except for Sherlock, having left so soon.
"Robert was Rowena's cousin. He helped Godric drive the wyvrens out of the Isle
of Man. They pledged a loyalty oath - using this." John swallowed, but this was
an integral part of the story. "The rumor is that they were... more than
friends."
Sherlock snorted in disgust. "Sentimental drivel. Mummy never bothered with any
of that."
John nodded, the tinge of sadness still there. He couldn't believe that a boy,
even Sherlock, wouldn't have enjoyed all of those stories. "Yes, well, there
you are." He waved at it. Thinking about school was making him melancholy and
nostalgic; he tried to shake the mental cobwebs off and return to the present.
"Doesn't makes sense," Sherlock muttered. The facts swam around in his mind,
refusing to coalesce into a meaningful whole. Was it the heat in this stuffy
little room? Heat had never bothered him before.
"What doesn't?" Well, John pondered, still being in love with Sherlock made no
sense. That probably was giving strength to those cobwebs. Apology, he reminded
himself. His resolve was failing, however, in the face of Sherlock's
relentlessly businesslike manner.
Sherlock took the brooch, running his fingers over it thoughtfully. "This is
obviously valuable; people tend to care about these sorts of things. So like I
said, why re-use this one, in particular?" How was it John had moved his
fingers? Across, and like so... There would be something else though; a
trigger, of some sort, or a focalizer... He looked up at John, imagining him
naked and writhing beneath him; impaled on Sherlock's fingers, riding them...
"How should I know? I just do charms." John smiled gently.
Such a gentle, innocent smile. Why was it so appealing? Sherlock chewed his
bottom lip, watching that lined yet child-like face. Talented, yes, though he
chose to waste his time with trinkets. He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe you could
help."
"How?"
"You're," the word slipped out with slight distaste, "Gryffindor. You seem to
know something about these things."
Gryffindor - like that meant anything other than a particular school uniform
and a predetermined set of rivalries. John shook his head. "The whole House
thing is a little silly, isn't it? Creating divisions when we're so young..."
Sherlock very carefully hid his astonishment. Dammit; the man had insight, too.
Intelligence, talent, a strong, mature body imperfectly hidden by the trousers
he wore underneath his simple robes... "It is what it is."
"Well, if I can help out with any Gryffindor fairy tales, I will."
"Good." Sherlock flashed him a quick smile, determined to get out of there as
quickly as he could. He could ponder this implausibly resilient attraction
later, then forget about it as best he could until their paths crossed again.
Oh, curse and damn Mycroft to hell! "I'll need your wand signature on this."
Sherlock whipped out a parchment; an already written certification that the
brooch was a seduction charm. "Change the wording as you like."
John frowned at it; the statement was far too basic and general. "Yes, I'll
have to put in the origin." He sat at his bench, pulling out a quill, and
started to fill in the details.
Sherlock wached him carefully, observing, paying particular attention to the
movement of those quick, sturdy hands. John was left handed, of course, a fact
not forgotten, but hidden away in storage, now retrieved. From the switftness
of his writing, it was clear John knew exactly what he was doing; not that this
was something Sherlock needed confirmed. There was something else, however,
that he'd rather test. When John held the parchement up for approval, Sherlock
reached out to move his fingers across it, intentionally brushing them against
John's, languidly, making sure it appeared entirely accidental.
John bit his lip. Sherlock's fingers, so long and elegant, so warm and firm -
they could arouse a man just by touching.
Ah, so Sherlock was right; still interest there, but not something John willing
to act on - duly noted. "That all seems to be in order." The smile he gave John
was as fake as the promise John had once given him. Fitting, all in all.
John pulled out his wand and signed the parchment, his mouth dry, his heart
pounding. Sherlock watched him, taking the parchment when it was done, then
straightening his robes.
"Thank you for your time." Social niceties. So dull; such a waste of time. So
doubly pointless-seeming when it came to this man.
"Any time." John discovered that he meant it. He didn't want to see Sherlock
just disappear from his life again. And... he couldn't spit out the apology. He
should Owl it, perhaps... but no, that was too impersonal.
"I'll send you an owl should I have any further need for your," Sherlock
hesitated, "services." He did not need John; he did not need anyone. Yet he
would return. The thought was revolting.
John licked his lips, the word 'services' bringing out all kinds of mental
images. "All right."
Sherlock looked at him askew. "There's something you've been avoiding telling
me all evening."
John looked away, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Why do you say that?"
"Your eyes dwell on me when you think I'm not looking, and you frequently start
to say one thing, then change your mind and say another." Sherlock met those
eyes again, allowing himself to dwell there. It was soothing, in a way. A
familiar sight from a simpler time. "It's easy to see if you pay attention to
the moment of your lips."
John nodded. Well, this was his opening. Spit it out. "I wanted to apologize
for taking advantage of you in school. It wasn't right."
Was that pity in John's eyes? By gods, it was! Pity, from the man (boy, yes,
but a man now) who had... no matter. He could not let it matter. "No harm
done."
That twist at the side of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes, his voice
sharper. No, there was harm done, and John couldn't undo it, could he. He
looked down, cleaning up his tools to give his hands something to do. "I loved
you," he murmured, then felt a desperate need to hedge. "I think." He sighed.
"Just didn't handle it well." Understatements of the fucking century, one on
top of the other.
"You loved me, you 'think'?" Sherlock boiled with barely concealed rage. This
was above and beyond insulting and spiteful; dragging the past up just to throw
it in Sherlock's face? And there John stood, daring to look so innocent and
blasted caring even as he struck his blow. Oh yes; Sherlock had avoided him for
a reason.
John frowned. Sherlock was angry about something, that much was clear. Just
because John loved him? Well, that wasn't under his control, was it? Although,
what he did in response to it was. "You'll notice I'm single. I never could get
you out of my head." Words were entirely inadequate. Meaningless, in the face
of what he wanted to communicate - the loneliness, the things he had done, the
things he hadn't done, all in one simmering stew of regret.
"Must have been an epidemic."
"A what?" John asked, lost.
"If you were really that interested, I can only assume all of your owls must
have died, to prevent you from getting in touch over the last eleven years."
"I was sure you wouldn't want to talk to me." John looked down at a jewler's
file he had picked up, turning it in his hand. "You didn't look pleased when
you left."
"Nice deduction. Well done."
"What can I say." Slipping away, it was all slipping away - somehow. The
apology had only made it worse.
"I was twelve." For Merlin's sake; what could Sherlock possibly have known
about communication and relationships, damn them, at that age? He barely
tolerated either now, at twice that age. He had tried, though. He had opened
himself up to John in every way humanly possible, and John had simply turned
away and forgotten about him, until now, when Sherlock was here, and available,
and suddenly interesting again. Damn the man. Damn how he was still so cursedly
appealing, despite it all. Sherlock would fall again, and get cast aside again,
and he would keep coming back, because he couldn't not. Damn.
John choked, nodding. There was no apology that would suffice for that, was
there. Twelve. He had tried to fuck Sherlock when the boy was twelve.
Sherlock's face twitched. What could Mycroft possibly have been thinking,
sending him here; it was not like him to intentionally sabotage a case.
Sherlock had to leave; he couldn't think with all this useless background
noise. Clamping his mouth shut, he turned, and left without another word.
===============================================================================
John sat with his head on the bench until long after the room was dark, his
work lamp a puddle of light in the nighttime darkness.
All he could hear was Sherlock's voice, dusky, yet sweet - yes childlike - "You
need to remember me." Of course John remembered him, he could remember little
else right now, the earnest face, the warm, quiet room, the two of them
naked...
But Sherlock's voice was older, now, dark and accusing -"I was twelve."
John had held a young life in his hands, and had scarred it, irreversibly.
===============================================================================
Sherlock barely waited until he'd exited the shop before apparating out,
appearing in his study and sinking down into his favorite chair, the papers
piled upon it flying.
Eleven years.
He thought he'd managed to purge ever memory of the man from his mind, but
every January those first few years - knowing John's ridiculous obsession with
birth dates - he would find himself keeping lookout for an owl that never came,
sometimes sleeping with his window open just in case.
He never wrote to John, of course. That would be admitting to being as pathetic
as John clearly thought he was, and besides, Mummy would have noticed and Asked
Questions, and would have made life difficult for the both of them, and however
much he deserved... something, John did not deserve that.
The owls never came, of course, and little by little, Sherlock learned to
ignore the voice inside him that was not his own; memories of a voice in his
ear, whispering into the crook of his neck...
No matter. Seeing him, finally, was good; cathartic. No matter how strong and
vital and intoxicatingly alive John looked, no matter what those eyes did to
parts of Sherlock he was sure had atrophied, Sherlock knew now, without a
doubt, what it had all been about - idle curiosity and "I thought it was love."
Sinking down into the ancient leather, Sherlock pressed his mouth against his
hand, strangling a sob. "Thought." In Sherlock's mind, there had been no doubt;
the truth burning like a fire sigil. As it burned still.
Curse it.
===============================================================================
It was shortly after noon when Sherlock apparated back into that blasted shop.
He dug his hand into his pocket, as if to reassure himself of the fact that he
did have a pretext for being here. It was flimsy, at best, and he knew it. He
was a silvermoth drawn to John's magical flame. It was best to embrace it
sooner rather than later, perhaps. The shop, however, seemed to be deserted.
Sherlock looked around, a little jittery with potential kinetic energy. "John?"
John frowned, cocking his head. His shop was closed for lunch, the Closed sign
was out - but he had definitely heard something. He walked to the top of the
stairs that lead from his flat to the shop. "Someone there?"
Swirling, Sherlock looked up the stairs. John's flat, no doubt; the voice was
coming from there. "What are you doing there?"
"Eating..." John replied, uncertain, "it's lunchtime."
Sherlock frowned. Oh. "Right." Other people ate when they worked; he knew this.
Should have realized. Stupid. There was even, he noted, the smell of unfamiliar
food wafting down. "What's that smell?"
"My lunch. Come up, I don't want it to burn." John walked back to the stove,
stirring the stir-fry absently. Sherlock - was back, in his inimitable,
prelude-less manner. What did it mean? The clear light of day felt distinctly
different from the unhappiness of the night before, but odd little emotions
still tugged at his stomach.
What else could Sherlock do but follow? Was this love, this all consuming need
to be near someone else; this stifling sense of attachment? If so, Sherlock
didn't like it.
"Hey," John replied, cautiously, looking at Sherlock. The man was as unreadable
as always, looking around the flat with what most people probably took for
arrogance.
An oddly shaped pot was boiling on the stove - no, not boiling; slowly frying.
Sherlock leaned closer in fascination; he could not identify the spices, or
some of the brightly colored vegetables thown together with thin, oily noodles.
John had said something to him; a greeting, if that's what you could call it.
He should probably reply. "What? Oh. Yes. Hi."
John noted Sherlock's interest - well, perhaps the concept of 'lunch' wasn't
completely alien to him. "Want some?" John picked up his wand and dismissed the
magic flame.
"Yes." The answer came automatically, libido and hunger speaking for Sherlock
in tandem. "Please," he added, as an afterthought. New, and interesting, and
John; could anything be more appealing?
John nodded and pulled out two plates. He had been cooking for one, so the
portions he scraped onto them were rather small. That was all right - Sherlock
didn't eat much, if memory - and the man's slender frame - served, and those
strange little feelings in John's stomach were leaving him rather less hungry
than usual. He handed one plate and a fork over to Sherlock, who looked at it
in rapt fascination, prodding it with his fork. "It's all right. Bachelor
fare." John pulled out another for and leaned against the countertop, lifting a
bite to his mouth and chewing on it gingerly.
Sherlock took a careful bite, exploring the taste. It was... different.
Comparable to other flavors in the same way red could be explained in terms of
green; all new and fascinating. He analyzed the various components as he
chewed, taking note of texture, salt, sweet and bitter tastes; the general
consensus, he determined, was that it was 'rather good'.
John took the minotaur by the horns. "You didn't come by just for lunch."
Finishing his mouthful, Sherlock licked his lips to get the full effect of the
flavor. "I wanted to apologize for last night, that was uncalled for."
John licked his own lips, his appetite forgotten. "No... it's all right." His
smile felt fake and wan, even to him. "You deserve some resentment after what I
did."
After a quick smile, Sherlock resumed eating; he had been working for nearly a
week, and was ravenous. As always, when he allowed himself to remember hunger,
it fell upon him with surprising strength, and could not be denied.
John set his fork and plate aside; he had no appetite now. "Thanks. It's
always... good to see you." That much, at least, was true. Lingering guilt and
Sherlock's resentment aside - the man was simply beautiful, and ever more
devastatingly intelligent and interesting than he had been.
Sherlock licked his lips again, finishing his food. "I'd like to call on you
again, if I may?"
"Let me know when you're coming, and I'll make enough for both of us." John's
tongue flicked out again to lick his lips. It was a bad habit of his, but he
had never felt much reason to quit. Now, it was entrenched.
"I meant for work."
"Oh, yes... of course." John hurridly turned to clean the dishes from lunch,
feeling ten kinds of arse. Of course, for business. And that was all right. For
the best, really.
Sherlock looked around himself for show - he had already observed what he was
about to describe, of course. "Bigger on the inside. Chameleonic wallpaper.
You've done well for yourself."
John shrugged. "I do all right. I bought it pretty run-down for cheap and fixed
it up."
"Yes, I noticed the job you'd done on the floors. Hardwood's Ever Steady
Solidifier?"
"You're good."
"It's what I do." It was always nice to be appreciated, and John's particular
brand of admiration had such a frank, direct quality to it. Despite everything,
Sherlock found he had missed it.
"Home improvement?" John asked with a gentle smile, taking the plate from in
front of Sherlock.
"Observation." Sherlock looked up, smiling.
John nodded, wahing that last dish. "You're an... observational consultant to
the Ministry of Magic."
"Investigator. Observation is my method. Observation and deduction."
"Do you enjoy it?" John asked, curiously, as he put the last plate in the dish
rack. That would be some consolation, wouldn't it, if Sherlock at least had
satisfaction from his work? John certainly did, and he was acutely aware that
it could be much, much worse.
Sherlock paused. It's not the sort of question he had ever considered. "It's
what I do. It's all I've ever done."
"Ever?" John prodded, gently. "Come on, you didn't want to be a professional
quidditch player or an evil wizard or president of the Ministry when you were a
kid?"
Sherlock blinked in incomprehension. "No."
"Fair enough." John leaned back on the counter.
Sensing that the conversation was about to stall, Sherlock got up, and fumbled
in the pocket of his robe for the presumptive reason he had come here. "I was
wondering if you could look these over for me." He pulled out two nearly
identical lockets, and walked over to John to hand them over.
John held out his hand to take them. "Sure..."
"They're definitely connected; I know as much, but I can't prove it. I'd
appreciate any help you can give." He would find out eventually, of course,
with or without John's help, but this meant getting to go here, getting to see
the man... Sherlock couldn't help it; he stroked his fingers against John's
again, with the same deniability.
"Whatever I can do..." John replied, weakly. It made no sense, such a profund
reaction just to a light touch of fingers.
The man's reactions were simply delectable. I caused that, Sherlock thought,
seeing John's obvious thrill. "Good." And those eyes. How delicious, moreso
than the food, by far, to lose yourself in them.
John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock walk away. The man could sweep in
and turn him into a puddle of mentally challenged, horny goo over a lunch
break.
A door lead from the little kitchen into a hallway; beyond, presumably, was the
bedroom. Sherlock walked towards it, considering possibilities. If he could get
an idea of the layout of the place... well.
John fiddled with the lockets, one in each hand, and followed Sherlock into the
hallway.
"No protection charms," Sherlock noted, by ways of explanation. "Anyone might
apparate in here."
John laughed. "Who would want to?" He had nothing worth stealing in his rooms;
everything valuable was in the shop. Any opportunistic thief could avail
himself of a toothbrush and a week's worth of dirty laundry.
Sherlock gave him a quick smile. "I suppose you're right."
"It took long enough to get the protections right on the shop. I figured I'd
call it a day."
While John was not looking, Sherlock leaned into the hallway, catching a
glimpse of an open door, and beyond, a bed... he nodded. "I should get going."
"I'll take a look at these and..." John swallowed, his mouth was still dry,
"owl you with what I find."
Sherlock turned to face John fully, allowing himself to take comfort in the
presence of the man. It was a comfort, oddly enough. John stood before him,
fiddling with the lockets absently. His body language, as always, was
ridiculously easy to read. He was physically excited, and a little ashamed of
that. He glanced towards Sherlock now and then, his manner protective and...
caring. The realization struck Sherlock, and he bit back a gasp. Pride shone in
John's eyes. Pride, and a lingering awe. Oh, gods. "I look forward to it. I did
enjoy seeing you again."
"Thanks for coming over." John was impressed with himself for getting that out,
as Sherlock adjusted his robes and disapparated.
John closed his eyes and leaned against wall, re-centering himself. Sherlock
was over. It was time to get back to himself, re-open the store. He dropped the
lockets off at his workshop on the way down. He would look at them after
closing time.
===============================================================================
John sat back with a sigh, rubbing his fist against the knot in his back. He
had been poring over the first locket for at least two hours, judging by how
dark it was outside.
The first locket was crudely made, excessively hammered, lopsided, with an ugly
ulcer on the backside. The second was a beauty, painstakingly crafted with
intricatey knotted filigree decorating the outside.
Yet Sherlock was right - they had the faintest connection, and John sat down
with the uglier of the pieces. Magic should be harder to conceal, in a cruder
vessel. Yet the magic in this locket was subtle, indeed, and it flittered
around like a snitch as John tried to grasp it.
John rubbed his eyes. This would require more work - possibly a different
approach. The best thing would be to sleep on it, for now. Perhaps inspiration
would strike after a night away.
John doused the light, closed the door, and set the wardings on his shop and on
the little workroom. He walked to his bedroom, gratefully shedding his clothing
and tossing it in the hamper in the corner. With the weather being as warm as
it had been, lately, he had been sleeping nude, which felt oddly decadent. Even
more so, after working away at a hard problem that had tired him - to the point
where he drifted off to sleep almost immediately, once he had crawled into bed.
===============================================================================
Emerging once more in his study, Sherlock immediately began to pace the much-
suffering floor. John's obvious discomfort and guilt - there was something
there he wasn't picking up on, Sherlock was certain - and the raw, physical
need John more or less extruded, well.
It had been a while. 11 years, to be exact.
Like hunger, it seemed, sexual desire could not be ignored once stirred, and
Sherlock found the heady thrill of arousal in his adult body almost unbearable.
This was more than he remembered; so much more.
No matter what John's agenda was; no matter what he had done; there was only
one person who could slake this thirst. Sherlock knew; had known even as he
stood in the flat, seeking its layout, noting the placement of furniture. He'd
seen the bedroom, faintly, through an open door, the bed, a nightstand, a
carpet... it was enough.
When night came, Sherlock undressed, and disappeared.
***** Chapter 2 *****
John stirred in his sleep, feeling something different in the room - displaced
air, a presence? It did not wake him, but his consciousness floated at the
brink, tasting the air. The soft whisper of feet on the wooden floor pulled
John halfway to consciousness. He woke slightly, blinking his eyes blearily.
"Hello John." Sherlock stood by the bed, looking down. Anticipating. Not
thinking. Not a time for thinking, this.
John was shocked fully awake, sitting up in bed. "Sherlock?" This must be a
dream, he told himself. A wet one.
"Yes." Sherlock let the robe slide off his shoulders, fall to the floor.
Oh... god. Sherlock. Naked. John's rationality flew somewhere far, far away.
Sherlock's body was incredible - as slender as it had been as a child, but more
angular, now, a figure made of ropey muscle. It was dusted with dark hair at
the chest, tracing a path down the flat stomach to the nest of hair surrounding
a partially engorged, absolutely gorgeous cock.
Sherlock watched the movement of John's eyes, hands and lips, taking careful
note. No surprises there. As expected. He climbed into the bed, legs straddling
John's, hovering above him. The air was thick with potential, the taste of it
tart and metallic. He felt his muscles twitch.
John's body reacted, his erection springing to life. But this... this made no
sense. None. None at all. Sherlock - naked, here, in his bed. It couldn't be a
wet dream, he'd never even let himself dream this. "What are you doing here?"
he gasped.
"What do you think," Sherlock murmured, dropping his mouth down to John's. No,
don't think. No problem there. Very soon he would not be able to. He felt as
though he were shaking, though he knew he was not.
This - Sherlock was here, naked, pressed against him; whatever this was, it was
a terrible, terrible mistake. He should push Sherlock away, stop this. But his
body ached with 11 years of pent-up frustration, and he instead kissed Sherlock
urgently.
Lost; irrevocably, achingly lost, Sherlock kissed him back. He pressed against
John - or rather, the cover between them, coarse against his stiff, complaining
cock. Well, it was used to rough handling.
John kicked at the cover. If this was going to happen, it had to happen now. He
needed their bodies together, close.
Sherlock tore away, pulling the blanket from John's hands and pressed close
when there was, blessedly, nothing between them. He exhaled, shutting down the
feel of home and yes and right that overwhelmed him. He drowned himself in
John; he had to.
Oh, god - the feel of Sherlock's body, hot and erect, his pulse, his breath -
John spread his legs to pull Sherlock between them, sucking in shuddering
breaths, moaning through their frantic kisses as he felt that rigid cock
against him.
The join of John's neck was warm and inviting (don't think safe), and the
perfect place to lick and suck and press his face against while his cock
pressed elsewhere, flush against John's. This wouldn't last. It shouldn't.
John threw his head back to allow Sherlock access, more room to nuzzle and nip
and do whatever he wanted, because it was all - just brilliant. "Oh, god,
Sherlock..." he gasped, his head swimming.
No talking. Sherlock put his mouth to other use, sucking more than hard enough
to bruise, one hand running through John's hair. He remembered the feel of it.
How could he possibly?
John panted, his cock almost painfully hard. Something about the aggressiveness
seemed right. Sherlock, taking him, taking what was rightfully his.
No, too close... No... no. Not close enough. Sherlock pulled away to find
John's lips, sucking at them, pushing at them with his tongue.
John kissed back, opening his mouth wide and tilting his head to let Sherlock's
tongue plunge deeper, pressing their crotches together.
Mad. Madness. Intoxicating. Sherlock was close already - he reached between
them to find John's cock, wrapping his hand around it like it was a thing a
human being could touch.
Air, there wasn't enough of it... John pulled away from the kiss again,
whimpering with heaving breaths, his hips twitching into the firm grip of
Sherlock's big hand. Yes, Merlin, yes.
Not just touch it; he could feel it; stroke. Sherlock focused on John's face,
as much as he could with is other senses screaming at him like this. He needed
a distraction. "Naked," he rasped. "Were you waiting for me?" Of course not,
the idea was absurd. Just a distraction.
Like John would even fantasize something so brash as Sherlock Apparting naked
into his bedroom. "I didn't... dare to think..." John panted. Something he had
thought about, though, flashed through his mind. A Muggle sex shop, looking
around furtively before walking in, feeling dirty. A video, playing on a little
television in the corner, and John pretended to poke through the shelf full of
lubricant bottles as he watched. The video showed a slender boy fucking another
man, the other man out of frame, the cameraman focusing lovingly on the boy's
flat stomach and veined cock, moving in and out of the faceless man's rear.
John had seen that video, seen Sherlock in that boy, and couldn't get home to
masturbate quickly enough - riding his fingers, pretending they were Sherlock.
"We never finished."
"No. We didn't." Sherlock's hands moved, fingers tracing over skin, recording
every milimetre. His hips jutted foward, wanting more friction that he would
allow.
"I got myself off... so many times," John swallowed, "thinking of you."
Sherlock licked a stripe down John's face. "Pervert," he hissed into his ear.
Touching yourself!
Pervert. He was, wasn't he, thinking about Sherlock doing that to him, getting
off on that... John felt his breath catch in his throat.
"Is that what you want then?" Sherlock gasped, shuddering with effort. "Me,
inside you?"
"Yes," John practically squeaked, his brain screaming oh god I'm a pervert.
Sherlock swallowed. He was so close, only holding back by sheer effort of will.
More stalling; he needed control. "Then beg."
"Please. Oh, Merlin, please take me." John couldn't think of anything he had
ever wanted in this life even half as much as Sherlock inside of him.
Bad idea. Sherlock closed his eyes; no way could he go through with that now.
He would spend long before he could figure out how to do it properly. He
couldn't say that. Frustration fused with long-forgotten anger. "You..." He
panted, fingers still moving. "Don't. Deserve. It."
John huffed out a breath; somehow, this denial only made him hornier - god, he
must be a pervert. "Let me taste you."
Sherlock halted slightly, cock aching, still squeezing John's erection. "What?"
Did he want... was that the term for it? He'd seen, of course, but he hadn't
heard... that particular turn of phrase.
"In my mouth." John looked down at Sherlock's cock; he had never had a cock in
his mouth, but Sherlock's was so firm and eager, precome leaking delectably
from the tip...
Sherlock's own mouth fell open. He stared, moving before he could think,
raising himself up almost to the level of John's lips.
John took it in his mouth - warm, soft skin over firm erection, tasting of skin
and sex and Sherlock; it filled him perfectly. He had been needing this, he
realized - and it's all right now, he reassured himself; they're both old
enough, now. Only, his wicked brain told him, he would have done this before,
gladly...
This... this... Oh gods, this...! Sherlock gasped loudly, feeling faint. He
didn't remember it being anything like this. It stood to reason; he was older
now, his body working differently, but good gods!
John grabbed Sherlock's buttocks, pulling the man's cock deeply into his mouth,
trying to drive out all rational thought. Sherlock lasted about two seconds
before gasping and heaving for breath; the come was bitter and hot and thick,
and it stuck in John's throat; he choked on it, coughing as it spilled out of
the corners of his mouth.
Sherlock pulled away, slipping out between John's lips like melting snow, like
water down a mountain side; something natural, like his world hadn't just
opened up from the inside out. He leaned back as far as his legs would let him,
feeling faint. Lack of blood to the brain? That made little sense. Little of
this made sense.
John spluttered; he could breathe a little better without Sherlock's penis in
his mouth, but he felt oddly... empty. Sherlock was sitting back and panting,
not really doing anything. Looking at a loss, if John didn't know better
(Sherlock was never at a loss). John's erection clamored for attention, and
that, at least, John was practiced at dealing with. He wiped the come from his
mouth and used it to stroke himself, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock's chest.
It was over, wasn't it? Sherlock struggled to find his breath, watching John
curiously, twitching a little at the first touch. Ah. Right; he wasn't done.
Had that been rude? How was he to know these things?
John lavished attention on Sherlock's chest as he stroked himself, lasting less
than a minute. The orgasm clamped his brain in a vise of pleasure, stronger
than usual; he leaned his head on Sherlock's chest and pulling in ragged
breaths as he rode it out.
This didn't happen in porn. Sherlock looked on in bemusement. When John seemed
to still, he reached out and found his trembling back, patting it, hesitantly.
John leaned back, looking up at Sherlock. A hand on his back - the gesture was
almost tender. Was it, perhaps? Even just the false post-orgasmic affection
would be welcome. He moved in to kiss Sherlock, tentatively.
Sherlock kissed him back. This didn't happen in porn either; he felt certain
that he shouldn't be shaking like this. He definitely shouldn't be feeling like
this; that was wrong, that was... he pushed the thought away, angrily. Focused
on the feel.
This kiss - yes, there was some affection there, and John would take what he
could get. He moved his lips on Sherlock's, softly, carefully.
Careful, careful; so soft. Like he cared, like he mattered, like Sherlock
mattered; like this was imporant. Sherlock tore away, needing the space as well
as the air.
John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. He had never been a good judge of
people, especially this particularly inscrutable person, and try as he might,
he could not gauge what Sherlock was feeling. He could only see some muddle of
sadness and confusion - which he could well understand. He put his hand to
Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock let him keep it there for a second, then pulled
away, disentangling himself. John licked his lips. It couldn't end here... it
just couldn't. "Sherlock..."
"What," he asked flatly, climbing out of bed unsteadily.
John swallowed. This would be very, very unwelcome, he knew, but one fact could
not be more abundantly clear to him, now, than if an anvil with You Love
Sherlock on it had been dropped on him. "Love you," he said, weakly.
Sherlock had reached down for his robe, hand just having caught the end of it.
He halted. His lips twitched, uncertainly. He didn't know what to do with this,
but didn't John look stupid, with his mouth slightly open, hair every which
way, come drying here and there on his face, just looking at Sherlock. Looking
with honesty and sincerity. What was he to do with that? Sherlock leaned down
awkwardly, giving a chaste, brief kiss.
John closed his eyes as their lips touched, then opened them again, looking at
Sherlock. He didn't want Sherlock to leave. The room would be too, too empty.
"Will you stay?" he asked, awkwardly.
Sherlock's first instinct was to ask 'why', but there was something in John's
eyes he hadn't caught, still. Something... something. Sherlock climbed back
into bed, the robe curling somewhere at his feet, and settled on the other side
of John.
Something about being close to Sherlock drove away all of John's uncertainties
and doubts. He let himself lie down and pull Sherlock close, feeling the other
man's heartbeat and breathing, his warmth; another body close to his - no, not
just any body, a body he loved and missed and was a lucky man to have found -
even if this were one ephemeral encounter. Sherlock was here, for now.
Sherlock let him, astonished at how good that felt. He snaked an arm around
John, muttering an incantation under his breath, to make the bed expand just
enough to comfortably enough for the two of them. John did not notice the
magic; he was rapidly slipping into a sated, post-coital sleep, soothed by the
steady thrum of Sherock's heart.
Sherlock did not. Holding John, he stroked unsettlingly familiar hair,
pondering words and their meaning.
===============================================================================
John talked in his sleep.
That was a fascinating, highly useful fact which should be filed away for
further consideration, but right now, all Sherlock could do was hold him and
listen to the stream of semi-coherent words and phrases. He was shaking,
Sherlock noted, eyebrows twitching; limbs trying to move, unaware that they
were paralyzed by sleep.
"Didn't... no right... off me!"
Sherlock stroked John's hair absent-mindedly, mentally recording every word. A
pained expression crossed John's face, and he bit his lip. Sherlock resisted
the urge to interfere; that would only make things worse, he knew.
"Don't know anything..." He kicked at the duvet, pushing it off, Sherlock
quietly replacing it. "...not like that... shut up!"
John's teeth sunk deeper into the flesh of his lips, and, needing to do
something, Sherlock ran his fingers across John's mouth, soothingly. "It's all
right," he muttered, softly, the blantant lie not tasting as vile as he thought
it would in his mouth. "It's all right."
"...touch me..." John muttered, a little more subdued, but somehow more
desperate. Not knowing if it was a plea or a warning, Sherlock did nothing,
letting the man slowly settle in his arms. It was nearly five in the morning
before John quietened down completely, but that was all right. Sherlock hardly
slept, anyway.
===============================================================================
John woke slowly, the bright morning sunlight slanting into his window and
spilling across his face. He blinked, twice - then snapped upwards, abruptly,
looking around.
He was alone in the room. Maybe he had dreamed it. Oh please, he begged
internally, let me have dreamed it.
But dried come was itching on his stomach and face, and the bed had a
depression to his side - a tall, lean one.
John buried his head in his hands. Oh, no...
===============================================================================
John tried to settle into the normalcy of the daily business of his shop. But
customers were not on his side; they stayed stubbornly away, leaving John to
his thoughts. It was not unusual; more of his business was remote, by owl, than
physically at the store, but the lull was ill-timed. Well, if business did not
oblige, John had something else to distract him. He walked back to his workshop
and pulled out the lockets, determined to get a little work done on them. He
would hear if any customers walked in.
He set the cruder of the two back on the examining stand, and picked up his
wand. He would be able to focus on this, despite... Sherlock in his bed John
bit his lip, touching his wand to the locket he had touched Sherlock's body, so
lean, so lovely and tried to feel its magic feeling breath on his ear, that
dusky voice, murmuring "Pervert..."
Another voice, angrier, spitting 'Pervert!' in his face.
John sat back, shaking. Gods, he was useless.
Unless...
John jumped to his feet and dug about in his storage closet. He had made this,
some months back, for a client who had never scraped up the money to pay for
it, and... yes, there it was, a simple bowl - but suffused with a very
particular kind of magic, particular enough that John had shut his shop down
for two weeks to focus on nothing else. John carried it up to his room,
carefully, and sat on his bed. He put his wand to the tip of his forehead and
pulled out three memories - they stuck, clinging to his mind like rotten teeth
clinging to the gum, but he ripped them out, dumping them in the Pensive.
He felt calm and happy. Whatever was in the bowl was not good, that much he
knew, but he could remember none of it. He carefully stashed the bowl under his
bed and headed back to his workbook, his mind clear.
===============================================================================
John had not been analyzing the locket for a full fifteen minutes when a
customer came in, and he had to leave the lockets to attend to his shop. The
customer in question was absolutely stunning - a young witch of moderate
height, with bright green eyes set into perfect alabaster skin, her firey red
hair in simple plaits that framed her deep, soft cleavage. She cast a smile at
him like a spell, one that made his knees weak, and apologetically confessed
that she was actually looking for the potioner, and was lost. Would he be so
kind as to tell her how to get there?
John was not so ungentlemanly as to just point out where to go and let her
wander around the mazy streets of Hogsmeade. Business was slow, after all; he
could afford the time. He offered her his arm, for which she was effusively
grateful, and took her down the street to the old coot who sold Potions.
===============================================================================
The door closed behind John, the muggle-bought mechanical lock sliding into
place as Sherlock apparated in behind it, sneering. No need to reset the anti-
apparating charms for such a small errand; Sherlock could almost hear John's
voice protesting. Idiot. Sherlock had never been shied away from using what
Executive Auror Lestrade dismissed as 'underhanded' methods; in Sherlock's
experience, they were the ones that yielded results. And really, what harm was
done in this case? John had been conveniently removed from the premises by what
Sherlock had been credibly informed was a very attractive woman, giving him a
nice little break, and Sherlock the opportunity to look around John's shop
without John's distracting presence. His amputated year at Hogwarts had not
taught Sherlock much, but it had been quite informative on the subject of
trust.
Little had changed in the shop itself; one or two items that had been on
display were now gone, presumably sold. True, most of John's business consisted
of services, not item sales, but still, Sherlock mused, he could not be turning
as much of a profit as he potentially might. Doing something halfway and being
perfectly content about it; another aspect of John's personality that had not
changed from boy to man. Sherlock shook his head disdainfully, heading towards
the back room. There were the lockets, sure enough, set up on the little
examining-dias, a magnifying glass and various other muggle tools Sherlock
could not identify at first glance scattered around them. Typical muggleborn.
In all but a very few cases, they tended to view magic as a force separate from
everyday life; an added benefit; a special trick you used when other methods
failed or were inadequate. This, of course, was misunderstanding the principle;
magic was as natural as the metal, glass and wood of John's tools. As if to
underline his own train of thought, Sherlock made a subtle gesture with his
left hand, moving thumb and forefinger in counterpoint to one another, and
watching as a small, clear lens appeared in front of both lockets, showing a
variety of views at different levels of magnification. Sherlock gave them a
cursory glance, but could see little more than he had the last time. He
grimaced, reminded of the reason why he'd brought them here in the first place.
He righted himself, and was about to look through the drawers of John's desk
when he noticed that the upstairs door was ever so slightly ajar; a thin ray of
light seeping out from John's rooms above.
By Sherlock's calculation, John would be away for at least seventeen minutes
more. His lips twitched. He jumped over the desk, and mounted the stairs
quickly and silently.
===============================================================================
What had brought Sherlock to John's bedroom door in the first place, he could
not quite say, but the sight of the carefully crafted Pensive on the bedside
table stopped him in his tracks. Useful things, they were. Sherlock would not
have considered John a typical user, though. Therefore... He took a step
inside, approaching the apparatus slowly. Next to it stood three memories,
hastily, though not inexpertly bottled. Sherlock leaned in close to the white,
swirling forms. One recent, two more distant - childhood, possibly; no,
adolescense. He pulled back, frowning. One positive, nearly incandescent - the
recent one - the second, the oldest, possibly, mostly glittering silvery, but
tinged with grey; the last one dark, cloudy, nearly charcoal, and sluggish.
Sherlock reached out with a careful finger, tapping each container once, then
twice. The memories scattered, dispersing slightly before coalscing again. One
positive, recent, strong, vivid. No question what that would be, but Sherlock
found himself reaching for his wand anyway, uncorking the bottle and teasing
the gossamer strands onto the ebony shaft. They wound around it eagerly,
clinging like sweet honey, dropping easily into the Pensieve. Sherlock leaned
forward, exhaling quickly, and -
Heat, naked skin, John's mouth on him, wet, whimpering sucking sounds, his own
face contorted in surprise and pleasure, breath hitching, chest heaving...
Sherlock pulled back, gasping, the memory slipping back into the bottom of the
well, gossamer strands glittering. It could have been nothing else, but the
sheer visceral experience was no less potent for its inevitability. He sat down
on the bed, heavily, the coverlet - inexpertly tucked - billowing about him.
John had removed that memory. Then the oldest memory, the sweet tinged with
bitter... His heart thudded, still reeling from the experience, no doubt.
Sherlock snatched the memory back up absent-mindedly, depositing it back in its
bottle. Foolish waste of time; this was the more important one, he scolded
himself, unscrewing the darkest bottle. This memory flowed more reluctantly,
only sticking to Sherlock's wand with some coaxing, which took up more of the
time that was rapidly running out. Biting back a curse, Sherlock eased the
memory into the sieve, leaning in as he let it drop heavily to the bottom of
the well, where -
Loeffler stood by the Owlery door, his tall, wide frame jittering with tension
that John, heading up the stairs towards him, probably would not have noticed.
In a few years, even before graduating, possibly, he would turn from stout and
strong to fat; Sherlock, invisible in this world, knew the body type well.
Loeffler was clearly waiting, which meant John had arranged this meeting. Why?
The boys came face to face; Sherlock, through John's eyes, saw the twitch in
Loeffler's eyebrows, the way his eyes shifted from John's face down to his
body, the movement of his lips, and instantly, it all fell into place. Familiar
anger with a new twist filled Sherlock as the memory-John cleared his throat,
hesitating. This was after Sherlock had left; Loeffler's hair and the state of
the Quidditch grounds, clearly visible from up here said that much; repairs had
been made from that particular match that - ah, Loeffler was speaking:
"Come on, then."
Sherlock would have retched, but the memory kept him in check, reigning in his
natural responses. Loeffler! That bumbling idiot; nothing more than a walking
bludger; this oaf was who John had seen fit to replace Sherlock with? Sherlock
shook with emotion, feeling the memory-John preparing to speak. "I wanted to
talk to you."
"Talk?" Loeffler's eyebrows met in the middle, pondering this apparently
confusing idea. "Oh, right. You said."
John nodded, Sherlock felt. "I didn't have anyone else..." Again, Sherlock
raged, wishing he could undo the past; if he were going to have to sit through
John rutting with this imbecile, he would have to pull out. He braced himself.
"So get to it." Loeffler crossed his arms, taking a defensive stance - curious,
that. his body language, Sherlock noted, oozed insecurity that was more than a
teenage boy eager for sex. Whatever they were about to do, they had not done
before. Possibly... yes, the shifting eyes, the way his hands moved; Loeffler
was interested, blatantly obviously, but they had not done this before.
John's lips tightened; they felt like Sherlock's own. "Look, I know you know
about me and Sherlock. Everyone's talking about it. You must think I'm an idiot
if you think I don't hear it." John's fists clenched, his left hand moving
instinctively towards his wand.
Loeffler snorted. He was trying very hard to look unaffected, but to Sherlock
he might as well have been salivating. "So?"
"So, I feel sick about it, all right?" John was shaking, leaning against the
cold stone wall. "I don't know what to do. I can't stop thinking about..." John
swallowed. It was something of an odd experience, for Sherlock, along for the
ride.
Loeffler licked his lips. "About what?"
"I told you," John snapped, his body all nervous energy, "Sherlock! What I did
to him!"
An odd sort of twitch came across Loeffler's face, and the taller boy took a
step forward. John, always a physical person when he got emotional, which was
fairly often, come to think, closed the gap between them and embraced him.
Smells were particularly strong in memories, and Sherlock really wished he did
not know, now, that Loeffler smelled of pine and sweat and sour tobacco, which
he would not have been allowed to smoke, at that age. "Hey," Loeffler's gruff
voice sounded, "why are you so stuck on that scrawny First Year? He was just
another Slytherin git, all full of himself."
John pushed Loeffler back, violently, making him stumble dangerously close to
the parapet. "Shut up! You hardly ever spoke to him!"
Loeffler face hardened. "Why should I? I don't have time to babysit twelve year
olds. That was your job, wasn't it?"
John froze. Sherlock felt John's arms cross his chest; a defensive gesture.
"Shut up," he muttered.
"Why? It's the truth, isn't it? Dumbledore forced you to be Holmes's nanny, and
you made the best of a bad situation. Don't see what's so wrong with that."
There was an undertone to Loeffler's voice that made Sherlock tense, in alarm.
John, however, was paying too much attention to the actual words to notice.
"I didn't make him do anything!"
"Yeah, right. A twelve year old boy seduced you and apparated into your bed, is
that it?" Loeffler was closing in, a near-predatory look on his face.
John was nearly sobbing. The sounds and vibrations of his spluttering breaths
pulled at Sherlock. He wanted to punch Loeffler, irrationally, but John's hand
would not obey him, of course. All of this had already happened. "Stop it! I
said I felt sick about it, didn't I!"
In response, Loeffler smirked, and reached out to cup John's groin. Sherlock
and John gasped in unison, John slapping the hand away. "Oh what;" Loeffler
snorted, "like you don't want it? You liked it from Holmes, from what I heard."
"Get away from me!" John yelled, shoving Loeffler with surprising strength.
Sherlock realized just before both boys did, their eyes meeting in terror.
Loeffler's solid frame slammed into the railing, and the old stone and metal
gave away, leaving Loeffler dangling, one leg off the balcony, the other
desperately scrambling for a foothold. His hands clinged to the remaining
railing, but the metal bars were moving precariously. John reached for his
wand, beginning to chant what Sherlock regonized as a levitation spell, but
before he could utter more than a few syllables, a dull glow embraced the bars,
slowly mending them and moving Loeffler, meanwhile, back to where he had stood.
Sherlock cursed himself for not realizing sooner; maintennance charms. With so
many children about, there would have to be protective measures. People tended
to get testy when their offspring died in needless accidents.
Loeffler leaned heavily against the railing, gasping, before he realized what
he was doing, and sprang to his feet, pulling out his wand and pointing it in
John's face. "You crazy perv! You stay the hell away from me!"
"I'm sorry," John stuttered, "I didn't..."
"No," Loeffler yelled, walking backwards down the stairs, "stay away from me,
or I'll tell Dumbledore what you did to Holmes; I'll tell him you tried to
touch me!"
The voice slowly faded, along with the tower and the wind and the tight pain in
John's chest, replaced by John's bedroom, and the present day. Sherlock looked
down. The memory had dropped to the very bottom of the sieve, spinning in slow
circles, trying to avoid his gaze.
Sherlock reached out for the other bottles, watching the captured memories
swirl. Then, working quickly and carefully, he opened them up, coaxing them
into the sieve, one by one. He sat there, even as he heard John's feet on the
stairs, looking at the pretty patterns they made.
===============================================================================
John returned to his shop, feeling rather good about life. Pretty girls tended
to do that to him, for no reason he could put his finger on.
The positive feeling slipped away a little as he entered his shop. The door to
his flat was hanging open. Had one of the neighhborhood kids... John trotted up
the stairs, and his heart sank into the general region of his knees at the
sight of Sherlock's back. Sherlock was sitting on his bed. "What..." Oh, no.
Oh, god, no, the Pensive was in Sherlock's lap. "...The fuck!"
Sherlock rose, half-turning, holding the Pensive carefully. The various pieces
of the puzzle that stood before him were falling rather nicely into place in
his mind, and he felt oddly relaxed about it all.
John snatched the Pensive away from Sherlock. It was an absurd gesture,
certainly, since Sherlock had clearly looked already, but these were John's
memories. Whatever they were. And if he had used the Pensive, they must be
something that he didn't want anyone to look at, least of all Sherlock. "What
are you doing??" John spluttered.
"I knew you wouldn't tell me."
"So you decided to break in and invade my privacy." John cradled the Pensive
protectively, livid.
"Yes." Here was another odd thing; how the hurt in John's voice and the pain
Sherlock saw in his eyes were painful to him, too. Like they were still
connected; one body, two minds. Like the memory.
"Arsehole," John muttered. He grabbed the memories with his wand, stuffing them
back into his head, waiting for them to settle into place.
"He was arrested, you know," Sherlock supplied, knowing John was re-
experiencing everything. Things had not gone well, for Loeffler. Sherlock had
seen him, years later, at the Ministry, being escorted to a trial. Something
about public indecency; Sherlock hadn't paid much attention; it hadn't seemed
important at the time. Perhaps he could look it up again.
The memories were... Sherlock in his bed, sex... them as boys in the Gryffindor
common room, naked... Loeffler, the conversation, the fight, the accusations...
hideous emotions churned in his viscera, and John turned and ran out of the
door, feeling sick.
Sherlock sighed, sitting down on the bed again and plucking at the coverlet. No
use; John was lost to his memories again. It would be a while until it all got
settled in properly. There was a reason why Sherlock never used this sort of
magic, useful though it might have been to be able to erase knowledge, just
like that. One could fit so many more useful things in there instead. Possibly
it would be best to remain here until John returned - better that than trying
to follow him wherever he was going; he would, after all, have to come back at
some point - a loud crash sounded from the floor below. Sherlock was on his
feet and down the stairs before the last of the racket died away.
===============================================================================
John ran out into the street, heaving that hideous Pensive at the building
opposite, watching it shiver into small fragments. He sat on the edge of the
pavement, wracked with tearless, noiseless sobs. He felt and heard nothing of
the real world. Memories, those hideous memories, were washing over him,
settling into place, amost as fresh in the re-remembering as they had been at
the time.
Sherlock approached John softly. His back gave no obvious sign of his emotional
state, but then, Sherlock had never been terribly good with this things anyway.
Caution was probably prudent. Very, very carefully, Sherlock lay a hand on his
shoulder.
John twitched. Sherlock. Here. "Now I know why I never used the damn thing
before."
The question at the front of Sherlock's mind was why he'd used it, then, at
all, but he sensed it would not be welcome. Instead, he kneaded John's shoulder
gently, letting him come to terms with the chaos in his mind. He could not feel
responsible for it; John had been the one to extract the memories, not
Sherlock. Sherlock had merely... investigated.
Sherlock, still here. John could not stop shaking. Sherlock, after what John
had done, what Loeffler had accused him of. "Oh god."
"You were just a boy, too." Sherlock tried to keep his words soft, if not
gently. It was more than obvious what was on John's mind.
"I was in charge of you. I was supposed to protect you. From people like me."
"I needed to be protected from myself. And that's what you did. You stopped
me."
"Stopped you." The words had no context, no meaning. John removed his hand from
his face, and saw a grey street, a grey building, nothng but grey.
"Yes." Sherlock sat down behind him, sideways, leaning against John's body. It
was warm. Trembling ever so slightly. That wasn't right. "I had no idea what I
was doing. I thought you'd rejected me; I was hurt and furious. You were
stronger than me," he added with amusement.
"Stronger." John laughed, feeling no humor. "I folded like a cheap ironing
board when you pretended to drug me."
Sherlock grinned. Now there was a memory he wouldn't mind experiencing again.
"That was my little idea of a test. Which you passed, by the way."
"Nice to know," John replied, bitterly. "What were you testing, gullibility?"
"Interest." A lovely word. A delicious concept. Fitting, for John, both.
"Of course I was intereted, I was fifteen and horny, and you were..." John
swallowed, trying to encompass all of Sherlock in mere words, "just... way...
beyond anything I had ever come across, before."
"Really?"
"I thought you observed." Shock was making John punchy.
"I was eleven," Sherlock reminded him. Just a child. Utterly foolish.
John swallowed. "Twelve, when we..." Sherlock's fingers, pressing into him, the
intense pleasure and want.
"We didn't." John's neck was soft and comfortable; perfect for leaning against.
"Almost." John swallowed, hearing the noise of their breathing in that quiet,
echoing room, the closeness of Sherlock's naked body, the intent look in the
boy's eyes. "If Snape hadn't come by..."
"But he did. And you tried." Not bad for kissing, either. Smooth against
Sherlock's lips. "I don't see why you're so concerned with something that
didn't actually happen."
"Because I wanted it to happen, and I was making it happen, and it's intent
that matters - not some lucky chance that made it not happen!" John clenched
his fists, impotently.
Sherlock looked on, bewildered. He could not understand. He could try, though.
"You don't need it, but will it help if I forgive you?"
"Not really, no." John paused. Forgiveness? "What was all of that last night,
then?"
"Thought you didn't care," Sherlock muttered against the warm skin of John's
neck, lips exploring it. "That I was some sort... experiment, to you."
"Thought I was a pervert." The word rankled, chafing John's throat.
"Yes." No use denying the truth.
John nodded. So it was just as Loeffler had said. "So you wanted to get back at
me.'
"More than that, I couldn't stay away." Sherlock sighed leaning more heavily
against John. He did not like touch; other people crowded him, made him tense
and stressed. John made him feel safe and relaxed and home. "It's only ever
been you, John. Only ever you."
John frowned. This didn't make any sense. Taking advantage of an underage
Sherlock made him a pervert, that much Loeffler had made clear. Yet Sherlock
seemed... almost unconcerned about that. "So if us having sex when you were
underage doesn't bother you, why am I a pervert?"
"I wouldn't have used that word, had I known... how you felt." Why was this a
sticking point? Just a minor detail; nothing Sherlock couldn't deal with.
"What word would you have used?"
Sherlock shrugged. This sort of thing really was not his area. "You... touch
yourself," he said, uncomfortably. Even the thought was slightly disconcerting.
"Of course, everybody does." John blinked, baffled.
The laugh that spluttered from his mouth nearly startled Sherlock - not as much
as the statement itself had, however! "Everybody?!"
John turned his head to look at Sherlock, askance. "Erm, yes... what else are
you supposed to do when you're horny and single?"
Sherlock leaned back a little to avoid John's nose. "Wait until you're not?"
Wait - was this what Sherlock was disconcerted about? Was this perversion, for
him? John couldn't stop a grin from crawling over his face. "You... don't?
Never?"
"Of course not!"
"Oh." John looked across the street, not sure what to do with that information.
Sherlock certainly didn't seem to find it laughable. "It... bothers you, that I
do?"
Did it? Sherlock gave the matter some consideration. It was a bit like asking
if he was bothered by the color blue, or gravity; the wrongness was a fact. And
wasn't that, when you really thought about it, rather illogical? "I suppose
not. It's... odd."
John shrugged. "It's part of life." It was certainly a substantial part of his
own life, and the only way he could get to sleep, some nights, when memories of
Sherlock were particularly vivid.
Part of life. Part of John's life, clearly! Did he... was it... Sherlock
hesitated, curiosity and something rather more undefinable taking the upper
hand. "What's it like?"
John laughed, a little nervously. "You could find out yourself, very easily."
"Just like that?"
"Well, of course...!" It was hardly advanced wand-work.
Sherlock cleared his throat with a subdued hem, trying to sound mildly
interested and not wildly excited. He almost managed to.
John snickered. "Not out here, you'd get arrested." Sherlock laughed at that,
freely, relaxing against him. A barrier seemed to fall, with that laugh of
Sherlock's, and John couldn't hold back; he turned and grabbed Sherlock,
holding the man close, relishing the feel of him. Sherlock embraced him
eagerly, pressing close. "Oh, gods." Emotions were rising in John's throat,
strangling him. "I've loved you for so long. I loved you when you left. I
thought about you so much, all these years. When I saw you again, I couldn't
believe it."
"Only you, John," Sherlock muttered into his ear. No one else had even remotely
held his interest. This... this was like nothing else.
John drew in a shuddering breath, trying to take control of himself again.
"You know why I did it, don't you?"
"Did what?" John asked, holding Sherlock tightly enough to feel him speak as
much as hearing him.
Sherlock gave a quick smile. "Try to seduce you."
John barked out a laugh. "We're all impatient, at that age."
"I was terrified of losing you."
"Silly thing to worry about," John sighed.
"It was the only thing I could think of that might..." Sherlock sighed. "Well,
no matter."
John chuckled. "Might keep me?" He might be a young male who thought with his
penis too much, but he wasn't that shallow - to be chained by sex.
That wouldn't have worked, obviously. There were any number of ways in which
Sherlock could make John stay, but there was one thing magic could not do, at
least not safely. "Make you love me," he said, quietly. He remembered the fear,
so vividly. Actual fear, that he would not see John again.
"You can't make that happen, it just does or doesn't. And it did." John looked
around, feeling self-conscious. What would people think, seeing two men
embracing on the street like this... "Can we go inside?" Sherlock did not even
nod, just rose, and walked inside. John struggled to his feet and followed. He
had no desire to have any more custom that day; he turned his sign to Closed
and locked the door.
The little everyday chores in the life of a shopkeeper. Little mundane details.
Ever so boring, to Sherlock. But the way John's hands moved; how his eyes
flickered from this and that, his woefully underused mind clearly working...
John turned, seeing Sherlock looking at him. "What are you 'observing'?" he
asked, wryly.
That, at least, had a simple answer. "Love."
John's grin remained wry. "I can see why they bring you in when they're
stumped." He walked closer, slowly, carefully, as if Sherlock were a skittish
and undomesticated animal. Or, perhaps, if he himself were.
Sherlock watched, knowing that something was probably expected of him. He was
not... unexperienced, other than in the very strictest sense of the word. Well,
in a practical sense, if you will. Certainly. It was all new, and he did not
quite feel ready to act.
John walked close enough to put his hands on Sherlock's hips, gently touching
his lips to Sherlock's. It was so deliberate, now - not childish, not
intoxicated, but with full knowledge and intent. Sherlock's eyes closed, and
his lips, eventually, began to move, his hands falling to John's face. John
sighed. Kissing Sherlock like this - it felt as if her exploring new and
potentially dangerous - but appealing - territory.
Kissing - that was not new. That was welcome and familiar and nessecary.
Sherlock sighed, going about the task with deliberation.
John pulled back for a moment, looking at Sherlock's angular face, his green -
in this light - eyes. "Will you be with me?"
The words almost stumbled out of Sherlock's mouth. "Of course."
John pressed close, then, kissing Sherlock more ardently.
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