could_be_dangerous | our stuck together pieces, a load of near-misses

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our stuck together pieces, a load of near-misses – aw shucks, you got me

Doomed. They'd said it, the both of them, agreed it, and when Sherlock slinks off back to his own room in the Ravenclaw dormitories he's feeling it, for the first time feeling the weight of something like fate tying itself to his bones. He's always avoided it, struggled stubbornly against his own restrictions even if he knows them inevitable. Isolation had once been one of those things, loneliness, but today slackened the ties of that anchor around his ankles. It might just slip free. Might just.

There might be those who would consider a sole friendship, a sole association, insufficient to stave off loneliness. People who need to bury themselves in others, in affection and esteem, as much of it as possible. Sherlock doesn't agree, though, he finds as he slips wearily under the blankets, a cursorily-written and bitingly critical essay resting on his nightstand, the ink glistening in the moonlight coming in the dormitory window as it dries. Today wasn't lonely at all. He's on his own when sleep twines about him like a cat, but even then it's not so bad.

After all, there's always tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the reason he's come to bed so late, likely to the chagrin of his roommates. Studying. Up late studying, charms and enchantments, incantations, grammars; searching for options, potentials, ways to make promises realities.

They'll get there. They're young and they're magnificent and they'll be even better together. So Sherlock genuinely believes, and it starts in the morning.

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As John expected, when he finally returns to the common room, his two closest friends zoom in on him to ask him where he's been because he's never missed lunch or dinner before ever and it's really weird, and on and on. He really has nothing to hide, so he says the truth and then goes up to the dormitories while his friends are still staring at him as if he's insane, because he can still get some progress on the homework in.

His head feels sluggish because he spent the majority of the day in that sort of unusual state, but eventually he manages to get it to work with him and by the time he's done that, he feels like he's exhausted whatever was left of his energy. Which is all well and good because when he lies down to sleep it only takes minutes to fall asleep, which really isn't very usual at all.

And then there's tomorrow. Or morning, to be exact. He rolls over, lies in bed for a while with no great wish to get out of it, but still does so pretty quickly because today is bound to be... at least intriguing, probably fun and exciting. He wonders if being around Sherlock could ever possibly be boring.

They haven't decided a time, but he makes his way down to breakfast right away and if Sherlock isn't there, he'll just wait for him. There's no real rush, at all. Which is... nice. Just taking things as they come like this are nice.

Sherlock arrives earlier than is his wont. His usual style is to come late, after many students have already left the Great Hall and he can take his (usually meagre) breakfast in relative privacy. Today, though... today waiting is driving shards of glass under his skin. There are cables in him drawn tight, one more tug from snapping, from sending all that pent up energy somewhere a lot more dangerous.

So he goes. So he braves the packed hallways with his head held high, hands at his sides, his long, ink-stained fingers curled gently in towards the palms, as though to protect their sensitive tips from all the grating stimuli that assault all of his other senses.

Even if it were a conscious gesture it would've done no good, of course. There's too much – but he's used to too much, wouldn't know what to do any longer without at least a bit of it, day to day. Go madder, probably. It's a balance.

What is odd, though, odder than usual, are the looks he's getting from a small collection of students at the Hufflepuff table. That they must know, or know something, or suspect, is obvious and Sherlock could cringe, could give every conceivable sign of guilt, demonstrate all appropriate remorse – and in doing so give the game away. Could, but he only inclines his head further and takes a seat at the Ravenclaw table, deliberately close to where John sits.

For all his cool haughtiness, though, he is inwardly impatient. At least the way he picks at his food and fidgets isn't uncharacteristic, and nobody's likely to read anything into the faint leaning of his torso, almost imperceptibly, as though he's drawn to where John sits, only sitting here in a momentary break from a more natural orbit.

Sometimes it's rather remarkable how difficult it can be for people to be subtle. Not that John knows if they're really trying, but if they're not, he thinks they could be doing that. Not that it really matters, and he knows that Sherlock won't particularly care, so he doesn't either.

Well, tries not to. He gets a little annoyed, if anything, because he doesn't really understand why it matters so much. But it's apparently the topic of the day in the Hufflepuff house.

Once he's finished eating, he stands up and finds it a little bothersome, for the first time in his life, that the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables are separated by the Slytherin house. He makes a mental note to place himself closer to the edge of the table next time, rather than the middle like he pretty much always does. As it is now the distance to Sherlock is pretty irritating, just because.

"Good morning," he says when he reaches Sherlock, even if it's a basic, boring greeting or whatever. It's not really, though, because he means it; it is a good morning.

“Good morning for the rumour mill, yes,” Sherlock replies drily, pushing himself to his feet, though there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth – one of the real ones, the crooked ones. He knows at least a few people are watching and for the space of a few moments considers being very naughty.

He could... well, it wouldn't take much, would it? A simple, proprietary gesture, the brushing of some imaginary something from John's shoulder, a brush of knuckles, just leaning forward a bit too far, smiling a bit too much; it would be easy. He could give them so much more to yammer on about, watch them chase it around like headless chickens. Keep them busy, keep them away.

Probably wouldn't do that last bit in the long run, though. Best things are left as they are for now.

Besides, there's a particular pair of eyes on them that he doesn't want to pick out anything telling: Molly Hooper, mousy girl, constant annoyance, just a few seats down on the other side of the table, close but not too close, like always. Sherlock might have come to consider her a friend, might have taken her around on these whirlwind adventures with him were it not for the fact that she adored him.

No, adoration isn't the problem. She treats him like he's a china doll half the time and like she is the other half, and the whole thing's too delicate and too uncomfortable. All the more so as he can see more than she likely means him to see, knows what the smiling and simpering and fidgeting means, and those sorts of advances are best rebuked rather than encouraged if not reciprocated. They create in Sherlock such a profound discomfort that the whole of her becomes just as annoying.

He is cruel. Even when he doesn't mean to be, which isn't half as often as it ought to be, he is cruel.

All the same, he'd rather not face her reproach. Somehow, it matters.

“Better morning for us.” He straightens his shirt. “I expect, anyhow. Shall we slip off together, keep them chattering? I can go first, make it less obvious. Otherwise... give it a week before someone says they caught us snogging in a broom closet or some such rubbish. That's how it is with me. All or nothing.”

So good morning on all sides, which is pretty good overall, all things considered. John's lips twitch and he's entertained, endlessly amused, at the idea of it, really. It's so utterly ridiculous that he couldn't even try to give a damn, and it just doesn't matter at all.

"They can go ahead and say it, then."

He smiles, and turns.

There's no question about it, and Sherlock is ridiculous too because he still seems to think that John will somehow come to care. It's not happening.

So be it. Sherlock takes John's side, then, and that's the end of it. The end of the question, anyway – there's plenty more to say on the subject, most of it in jest.

“Mmm, don't know,” he says thoughtfully, “got to think about your reputation, your career – nobody's going to want to hire a Healer who snogs psychopaths. Particularly bad business at St. Mungo's, I expect; good luck there.”

He clicks his tongue, a bit of sympathetic fussing. Where they'll go today he doesn't know exactly; probably one of the higher floors, but he hasn't planned. No particular room in mind. Normally he would know, have worked it all out precisely, but this way gives them more time to wander which, for whatever odd reason, he finds desirable.

Definitely peculiar, though. He never has favoured such things before.

“On the other hand I must be quite good at it now, given how often it's come up. Also quite good at plotting murder, that's a popular one, though one would think if I'm so fond of it and so practiced I'd have managed to actually off someone by now which, regrettably, doesn't seem to have happened yet.”

"Regrettably," John repeats with a snorted laughter and shakes his head. "I highly doubt my future employers will ask about my reputation back in school. I'm a prefect, my grades are good and the teachers like me, so I think I'm covered. Killing someone, though, that would make a mess."

But Merlin knows Sherlock is probably smart enough to manage to get away with it and not have to worry about anything. On the chance that someone would figure it out, though, it would lead to a lot of things that he's really not sure Sherlock would consider worth it at all. Probably not. So, nothing to worry about, really, right?

“Mmm, regrettably, yes. Can't see why I'd want to, waste of time, but if I'm going to I should at least hope I'd not be crap at it – but seven years, nothing to show for it? No, you've nothing to worry about, I'm a hopeless murderer,” Sherlock responds drily.

No, whatever anyone else may think of him, he's no killer. Death interests him, killing doesn't; the two are perfectly distinct, contrary to the implications of his classmates. So, no problem, and he smiles that utter lack of need for concern down on John as they reach the stairs and begin to climb.

“Never snogged someone in a broom closet either, for the record.” Or anywhere else, for that matter, but that much is probably obvious. Sherlock can't say it concerns him. “You are distressingly safe, probably. Make it up to you some other way.”

There it is; waste of time. John takes some pleasure in knowing he at least knows Sherlock well enough to figure that bit out. Close enough, anyway. Nothing like the fact that killing is wrong or that it's just not something you do, nothing like what most people would say. No.

It's a waste of time. And John just feels fond about it, which definitely isn't normal. Ah, well.

"See that you do."

Being "distressingly" safe almost sounds very... not tempting. Whatever exactly it means. Doesn't matter; he still doesn't think he wants it.

Safe is distressing because safe is boring, and it's obvious that if John were interested in safe he wouldn't be here. Since he is here... well, can't be getting dull, is the point. Not if things are to carry on as they are.

“Mmm. Well, that's what today's about, isn't it?” Only slightly dangerous, but slightly is still better than not at all.

“Starting already, see? Told you I would.” Not that he'd ostensibly mind the alternative, the thing he's supposed to be making up for, which is odd in and of itself but not wholly surprising. Rare enough, not unheard-of, not worth time or attention. Certainly not worth admitting.

“Knew it'd come up, obviously. Had to anticipate it, can't have you leaving me for... I don't know, who's exciting?” Nobody but John himself, if one were to ask Sherlock. Nobody he's met anyway.

“Irresponsible. They'd explode.” The gossips, he means, of course. “Nothing would get done. Safer this way.”

John won't bother answering who's "exciting", because his friends aren't... well, he's not sure he can say they're terribly exciting, certainly not compared to Sherlock, but they're not exactly boring and he enjoys spending time with them. With Sherlock it's simply different, that's really all there is to that, and that's really what matters. So. Never mind that.

"Oh, yeah, much."

“Knew you'd agree. 'Course, you're obligated. Prefect.” Has Sherlock ever been so willing to jest with anyone else before in his life? He doesn't think so. Certainly can't recall, if so. Never even Mycroft, not even when they were close. Mycroft was always too old for his years, shut-in and stuffy, stuck up, restrained. Even the infamous tendency to drama that they both share manifests in Mycroft wholly differently than in Sherlock.

Even as a boy. Even as a boy he sublimated himself for image, propriety, advantage, and safety, and though Sherlock blames their father for this, the father he himself largely escaped and who could, therefore, not twist him into some similarly cold and miserable thing, though he understands it, he can't help but resent Mycroft all the same. They're brothers. Mycroft understands him better than anyone else ever has and likely ever will, no matter how wrong he is in however many ways, and yet he still prefers to smother Sherlock, to stifle him, to hurt him in exchange for a modicum of security.

It's altogether too obvious which one of them Mycroft is really trying to protect.

And it seems vulnerability rendered him humourless. It could never have been like this. Never, and cruel though it might ultimately be Sherlock already considers John more a brother than the one to whom he's tied by law and relation. Not by blood. John's already seen as much of Sherlock's as Mycroft ever had, and he's handled it more kindly.

“What do you think, sixth floor near the tower where there's always the funny smell, or the classroom on the fifth floor that everyone says is cursed?”

Funny smell, sure, that might be something but... Nah, not really. John smiles.

"Cursed. Sounds like a keeper."

Knowing Hogwarts, it very well might be but if no one has a look, how would you know? He finds himself curious, anyway, just as a bit of a side to the rest. A side adventure, or something like that.

“Cursed it is,” Sherlock responds decisively. “I mean, isn't, probably. Unfortunately.”

Not that unfortunately, but... could be exciting. “Can't say anyone's likely to bother us there, though, which is the point, obviously.”

Though it gives him an idea. He eyes John askance. “As a prefect,” he says archly, “probably important to investigate rumours like that. Don't you think?”

He frowns thoughtfully, letting the soles of his shoes scuff along the floor.

“Probably important to have a working knowledge of the entire school, really.” What he's implying would be obvious enough without the faintly mischievous smile, but there it is all the same, a little helpless.

He doesn't mean for today, either; they've something else on for today. But in future... when there aren't any experiments, when they're bored...

Could be exciting. Depending on where they go and when, could even be dangerous.

John wonders, idly, if Sherlock is just really hopeless at being subtle or if he barely even tries at all. Not that it really matters which and, either way, he rather enjoys all the reasons for spending time with him that Sherlock throws his way even if there's obviously no need anymore. Which is probably also why he mentions all these ideas too, because Sherlock apparently isn't much for doing what people usually do when they... socialise.

Everything considering, exploring the school isn't exactly a strange one at all. A lot of people enjoy doing that, and he imagines that doing it with Sherlock probably brings an added spice to the project. Worth a shot, definitely.

"Not a deal breaker, but, yeah, that helps."

Might make it possible to pick up the habit the teachers have of popping up without warning, and that would honestly be a real blast to have. Something to aim for, even.

"I could become one of those really obnoxious prefects if I had a mental map of every nook and corner of the castle."

It would be hilarious.

Subtlety really isn't something Sherlock is trying for at this point. It doesn't matter. Any hint of it is more jest than anything, or a simple refusal to explain what he doesn't have to explain.

"Mm, exactly. Brilliant way to top off your last year, I'd think." His smile is still mischievous, wicked.

Subtle he might not be at the moment, but a talented mimic he is, enough so that the sudden change in the timbre of his voice and his accent might be a bit startling. Of a sudden he's less King's and all London, normal posh intonation entirely vanished.

"Show you how to sneak into the kitchens if you promise not to turn me in, copper," he says, and lets the character drop, wholly himself again in speech, posture, and expression.

"In fact, I've heard that there are at least two very accessible methods for sneaking into Hogsmeade, though I've never bothered to find them." Sherlock frankly can't imagine why he'd want to. Even when school is boring, getting away from it via that method is a mess he frankly doesn't want to entangle himself in. A good, clean expulsion would be favourable, though now it's his last year there's hardly any point in that either.

John gives a snorting laughter, partly out of surprise at the sudden shift in... Well. Everything.

"Merlin's beard! Of course you can do that."

He has to get a little stuck on it because that's... It's hilarious. And a given, perhaps, but he didn't expect it, at all. No way he could have.

“Of course I can do that,” Sherlock agrees. He's doing that all the time, after all, isn't he?

“Be a rather crap detective if I didn't. Have to know how to get people to talk to you.” Never mind that he's not a detective yet, and probably never will be. Preparation is essential. Everyone else is doing it all the time, only they tend to follow the official rubric.

Most of them probably won't make it either. That doesn't entirely cheer Sherlock any, but it is somewhat relieving.

“Probably should've anticipated it.” He's close enough to bump his arm playfully against John's shoulder as they walk, and so he does, perhaps a little more roughly than is necessary but not hard enough to be painful.

"Oi," John protests the bump, halfhearted, and shakes his head. "I could never have anticipated that."

At least not seemingly out of the blue, and that was all in jest and not about getting anyone to talk. So he really could never have anticipated it. But he will, of course, be far less surprised about it whenever Sherlock does it again, now that he knows.

Still, he won't actually be able to predict it or anything like that.

Sherlock snorts.

"Should've known I could, anyway." He supposes it a bit unfair to expect John to anticipate that he would, particularly with as little prompting as that.

Still. "I'm pretending to be a real person all the time, aren't I, so it should be obvious."

Then again, he doesn't pretend very hard when he's with John, does he? Doesn't have to. Not at all the same as when he's around other people.

"Just a different sort of real person, that's all. Can't do it for long, either. Gets boring. Exhausting."

As if Sherlock isn't usually a real person. John gets what he means, of course, but he'd hardly call it a real person if it's just pretend. He much prefers what he gets to see, in that case, he's very certain. But, well.

Other people, and whatnot. That it's apparently unusual.

"Yeah, all right. Wouldn't have been that hard to work out." He can give Sherlock that much. But, moving on. "So. Alternative routes to Hogsmeade."

That earns a quirked eyebrow. "Mm. Apparently there's one on the third floor, though nobody seems to know exactly where. Another on the fourth... somewhere."

He shrugs. Something for another day. "Bit of a shame if we did find them. Then I suppose you'd have to tell somebody."

Sherlock doesn't intend to use them, maybe, or not often, but it'd still be a shame. One secret fewer for the castle to hide.

"Anyway. Not important. Isn't as though anyone is using them if they can't find them." He stops in front of their door, the 'cursed' classroom which he's quite convinced is nothing of the sort, and nods his head at the door.

"That's us, then." He hesitates, wicked thing that he is, a thoroughly amusing and decidedly unkind idea forming itself in his head, and then: "Be careful."

Something for another day, indeed. Not that John's sure he would tell somebody. He doubts a lot of people know where they are and use them, so they might as well get to be there. Hogwarts is full of those things, anyway; secret passages and whatnot. Plenty of teachers probably know at least some of them.

They probably don't do much harm.

He rolls his eyes, just slightly. "Don't worry, I will be," he says, doesn't mention that Sherlock's probably far less careful than he is but it's definitely there in his tone, and then he grabs the handle and pulls the door open.

Sherlock bides his time, as the cleverest predators do. He keeps up the façade of hesitancy until John has stepped forward, attention on the door. He waits after until the handle has been turned, until the door has been pushed open, just so, just there, just...

It's probably twice as awful that he's watching very closely, with the utmost fascination, the faint flutter of the pulse in John's neck when he shoots his hands forward to dig his fingertips sharply into John's ribs and gives a little bark of a shout. Probably twice as awful that he's watching so very closely for every last visible tightening of muscles, every last detail.

Why he feels a need to confirm that John has an autonomic nervous system, he doesn't know. Obviously he'll be as capable of startling as anyone else; he's human. But then as always knowing is an entirely different thing from experiencing, and Sherlock only regrets that he can't slow down time to watch it all moment by moment, impulse by impulse.

It's just a game. Just the sort of trick boys play on one another. That's a good enough cover, he supposes, for the underlying things, the far naughtier things.

It's just a game, not indulgence; that's all John needs to know. And Sherlock has no doubt he'll get him back, besides.

Had Sherlock been anyone other than Sherlock, John might have somewhat suspected something like that. It's really rather typical when thinking about it, especially if someone's a little tense about going into a possibly cursed classroom. But the fact that he doesn't think it's cursed probably just adds to the leap of his heart - a very brief moment of fright before he realises that Sherlock just. Apparently felt like it? Which is really unexpected.

He sucks in a breath, takes just a moment to gather himself together again, and finally sends Sherlock a look for his efforts. Hint of disapproval? Definitely. But mostly some dry kind of amusement, and a bit of disbelief.

"Sherlock. What?"

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