"Absolutely terrible," Sherlock agrees, glancing behind him at the haphazard pile of books against the wall.
"We should be ashamed." But it gives him an idea. He looks down at the next book in the pile and slips his wand from his pocket.
There was a book, he recalls, which he'd stumbled across in his first year, an historical account of crime in the wizarding world. In it was an account by a Muggle seafarer some centuries ago of a pirate ship which repelled every cannonball fired at it.
Had Sherlock not been immersed in magic at the time of his exposure to the tale he might have scoffed at it, written it off as the poor excuses of a merchant attempting to avoid liability for the loss of his stock. As things turned out, though, it had merely seized his imagination. He had seen himself there, in the place of that wizard corsair, not merely freakish but useful, even needed.
He'd gone home for Christmas and promptly announced his intention to become a pirate, and bugger all the rest.
Foolish, of course. Laughable, and he'd known it at the time, but it had made his heart beat faster to flaunt his imagined irreplaceability in front of his father's empty chair by the fire. Nobody else had seen it. Mycroft hadn't even wanted to play it out, like they might once have done.
Bugger all that. Ridiculousness is the theme of the day. Sherlock tosses the book gracefully up and repels it across the room, to a lonely corner, and grins. Doesn't look a bit like a cannonball, but it's the best he's got.
"There, see? Now we are. Your turn, Captain Watson; rogue book off the port bow!"
no subject
"We should be ashamed." But it gives him an idea. He looks down at the next book in the pile and slips his wand from his pocket.
There was a book, he recalls, which he'd stumbled across in his first year, an historical account of crime in the wizarding world. In it was an account by a Muggle seafarer some centuries ago of a pirate ship which repelled every cannonball fired at it.
Had Sherlock not been immersed in magic at the time of his exposure to the tale he might have scoffed at it, written it off as the poor excuses of a merchant attempting to avoid liability for the loss of his stock. As things turned out, though, it had merely seized his imagination. He had seen himself there, in the place of that wizard corsair, not merely freakish but useful, even needed.
He'd gone home for Christmas and promptly announced his intention to become a pirate, and bugger all the rest.
Foolish, of course. Laughable, and he'd known it at the time, but it had made his heart beat faster to flaunt his imagined irreplaceability in front of his father's empty chair by the fire. Nobody else had seen it. Mycroft hadn't even wanted to play it out, like they might once have done.
Bugger all that. Ridiculousness is the theme of the day. Sherlock tosses the book gracefully up and repels it across the room, to a lonely corner, and grins. Doesn't look a bit like a cannonball, but it's the best he's got.
"There, see? Now we are. Your turn, Captain Watson; rogue book off the port bow!"