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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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?"

Sherlock raises his hands up alongside his head, shoulders hunched, fingers curling like claws. He wiggles them slightly and widens his eyes. "Cursed."

At that his hands drop and his face returns to its normal relative impassivity, save for the air of amusement about it.

"Can't have you getting complacent. Dangerous. Not the good sort. You'll also be happy to know that your reflexes are in good working order." He pauses and stretches over John to poke his head in the door. Dust and cobwebs and a pile of miscellanea. As he expected. Used for storage. Probably not cursed. Sherlock lets himself fall back from tiptoe.

"Also quite funny. I'm not a saint." He doubts anyone would argue that point, but apparently it sometimes bears reiteration.

"You're not either, expect you'll make up for it. Shall we?"

That's one way of efficiently dispersing any annoyance whatsoever. John snorts, along with a short giggle, because Sherlock's never looked more ridiculous than in that moment.

"All right," he relents, and he supposes it is funny. No other reason for people to do it, really.

And now that Sherlock's had his amusement, he sucks in another breath for the sake of it, sends Sherlock a bit of a skew smile and walks into the classroom. Silent and deserted, as expected. Doubtful there's anything cursed. Might jump out and surprise them later, he supposes, but probably not.

Sherlock would argue that he probably has looked more ridiculous than in that moment, and probably, quite frankly, will again in future, but ideally John isn't going to see any of those. Unless, perhaps, he wants to. Unless it would make him happy. As long as the laughter is shared, as it is now.

It so often isn't. Almost never, and Sherlock has come to the opinion that it's even worse to be simply ridiculous than it is to be worthless. Worthless people get no regard. Ridiculous people get less than that. Still, he can bear a bit of it, if it isn't unkind. Perhaps.

In that light it's easy to smile away John's little giggle (itself an amusing sound, really).

“All right,” Sherlock agrees. And in they go.

The air is heavy, quiet, and there's a fine layer of dust on all of the surfaces. Easily enough removed, with the right spell. These piles of books, though...

Sherlock crosses to the centre of the room and picks one up from the top of the pile, tilting it to read the title. Old edition of a third-year transfiguration text. Boring. Not even any interesting doodles in the margins. Sherlock grunts softly and tosses it unceremoniously towards one corner of the room. His 'neatening' process really isn't, but it makes up for its inefficacy with its volume.

"Right, so if you've done this before, is there a ceremony to it?"

Because apparently the piles are interesting. So John supposes he can have a look at one or two himself, and he snatches one. Not that he's entirely sure what they might be looking for, so he's flipping through pages rather slowly.

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorts, amused. “Just... clearing space.”

But there might be something interesting here as well. Can't hurt to look. “Be surprised with what you might find in a... ten year old textbook, though. Never could work out why they keep these.”

Students leave them, he supposes, but he can't see why they can't be repurposed or simply burned, personally. Isn't as though there's much in them that's worth anything anyway.

He rifles through another all the same, pausing to peruse a rather lengthy note in the margins before grunting, snapping it shut, and tossing it aside too.

“Best to get all this against the walls,” he adds. “So we've room to work. Nothing to smash into.” Water is one thing. Shards of glass are quite another.

"Ah."

Seeing as he doesn't really know if he's looking for anything in particular, John throws his book to the side as well because they're not being used or anything anyway, might as well.

"There's a possibility of smashing into things?" Idly.

"There does seem to be, yes," Sherlock agrees, unbothered. "Probably nobody using any of that either, so."

So not important, probably. The next book he tosses over his shoulder bounces off the wall with a fluttering of pages like birds' wings before falling.

"Suppose I could... carry them, if you prefer watching me toil. Or levitate them, if I felt like reliving first year, which I don't." Neither of those options are quite as satisfying as the sharp snap of the binding against a desk or floor though.

"If you do, though, feel free. I've no doubt you're as accomplished at it as I am. As I said: first year."

"Hm." John makes a face. "Haven't used that one in a while."

Nor does he seem to be intending to do it. If Sherlock wants to throw books around, then why not join in? It is satisfying, in some weird way. Getting out the frustration of studying on them, perhaps. Poor things.

And there goes another sliding into a corner.

Sherlock gives a hum of agreement, just enough dubiousness in it to express his feelings on the matter of the spell itself, as though they weren't already clear, and lobs another book over his shoulder.

"Suppose there's always the risk of someone hearing," he owns. "A chance. Not too likely. Not today."

Weekends most people keep to the lower levels or the common rooms, studying or lounging about with mates or other similarly dull activities. Mostly dull. The latter has its place, at least when that mate is John.

This is still better. Will be all the more so once they're done clearing space. The next book gets hardly a glance before it's sent flying.

"Perhaps we're practicing repelling charms." They can certainly say so, if asked.

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