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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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.

"Definitely practicing repelling charms."

John's honestly not sure how much of a different it makes if the books are piled against the wall or spread out on the floor throughout the whole room. But whatever the case, this is oddly fun and he doesn't mind one bit.

In increments, Sherlock's attention begins to wander. His gaze turns, flicks here and there from the book in his hand to John and back again. There isn't much he misses, even amongst the subtlest of observable facts, and subtle John's relish of the proceedings is not.

Not exactly, anyway. Sherlock has already known him long enough to know that his genuine disapproval wouldn't manifest like this. These are token protestations, where protestations exist, and the rest...

Sherlock smiles to himself, because the rest is enjoyment. All evidence points to John rather liking this silliness, which is pleasing, and not merely because Sherlock does too. Not merely because they can share this.

The truth of the matter, the horrible truth, is that Sherlock is very much going to enjoy teasing more of this sort of behaviour out of the upright John Watson. Not because he wants to corrupt, or not exactly. He does want to help, though. He does want to see all of what John is capable of, so that he can accept all of it and carry on, as friends do. Or as friends should do, anyway; Sherlock sees it only rarely.

He means to be better. The best. He wants all of John's most honest moments for himself.

"Mm," he agrees. "And by the look of it we need the practice. No aim at all."

"Complete rubbish."

And utterly ridiculous, really, and John giggles again because of it, because he can't believe he's doing it. Instead of studying like he usually does, and probably should, he's cooped up in an abandoned classroom with Sherlock Holmes to throw books around.

Okay, no, to make an experiment, but the first sounds more amusing and is far more giggle-inducing and he rather enjoys giggling too. Good for the soul and whatnot, right? So might as well keep at it.

"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!"

For a moment, John loses his focus - or whatever small focus there is on this stupid little thing they're doing - because he can't for the life of him figure out where that came from. Captain Watson and boat terms all of a sudden. He's surprised, and there's more laughter because of it, but he shrugs and goes with it. Grabs a book, throws it up and sends it to the far left corner.

"If I'm captain, what are you, then? Or are we both captains?"

He doubts that ever happens on one ship, but who cares? Their ship, their rules, or something like that.

And suddenly this room is a ship, apparently. Why not?

Sherlock thinks that over quite carefully, regardless of how utterly and completely ridiculous the entire thing is.

"No idea. Doesn't matter." Well, it does, a bit, but leadership sounds dull, after a fashion. Sherlock is delighted when people listen to him and thinks that they should at all times, but institutionalizing that implies responsibility, which is neither one of his strong points nor one of his particular interests.

"Navigator," he says. "Cannoneer, First Mate – or Captain too, don't care." As long as it's something important. Better if he also gets to shoot things. Knock cannonballs out of the air, save them both with his cleverness... or whatever.

John too. John and his steady wand arm. Sherlock knew it would be. Not that books pose much of a threat, of course. Still, they'll save each other, that's what they'll do. This is... metaphorical. Allegorical? Hardly matters, some narrative technique Sherlock doesn't give a toss about; point is, they're building something here. Sort of. At least in within the confines of Sherlock's head.

"Whatever you like; you're the captain."

That is the plan so far. John intends to do what he can for Sherlock, and if that means saving him, protecting him, healing his stupid cuts for the sake of experiments... He'll do all of that, no problem, no questions asked until it's all over.

He's known Sherlock for just over a week but he's already certain of that.

"First mate or captain, then. Close enough, either way."

Either way, they'll be right at each other's side, and that feels right, that's what really matters.

“Mm,” Sherlock agrees. “Practically the same thing.”

Not remotely. Not remotely the same thing, most of the time, but they're only a ship of two. Balance is inevitable. Better.

Also not really relevant to the immediate situation. Sherlock grasps another book and lobs it up, blasting it into the other corner with a wave of his wand. It bounces off the wall with a loud smack and snaps shut on itself as it hits the floor. Satisfying, really. Shame they're almost done.

“Isn't as though we've anyone else to bother about anyhow.” Which is fine. Anyone else would only get in the way, and they're not John, besides. Sherlock is aware that his favouring of John might be indicative of an unreasonable bias, but then, he is the outlier in enough years of experience to consider him functionally unique. Even if there might be others, somewhere... John is here, and he was first, which makes him best.

Makes him... something Sherlock fully intends to keep.

"Here, let's see your aim," he says, picking up the next from the stack and getting ready to throw.

"My... Okay."

After a moment, he takes a few steps to get closer to Sherlock, and tries to remember where that last book bounced off. He didn't really look that closely, but it can't be that far off. Just for fun, anyway, and he doubts he'll get a book to land right on top of the one Sherlock repelled. But for fun, because he can, he'll try.

Sherlock doesn't expect it to go perfectly either; bit chaotic, this, but still: entertaining. Curious. Interesting. His eyes aren't on the book as he prepares to lob it up unto the air. They're on John. Of course they are. That's the point, isn't it?

Once again he finds himself wishing he could slow down time, take this moment by moment, as though moving frame by frame through a film. He wishes he could dissect every movement of muscle and tendon, every shift of bone, wishes he could see and understand every last pathway of neurons that fires up when John casts the spell, as he will just... just...

Now.

Even Sherlock isn't capable of seeing all that he wants to see, but he does his very best. His absolute best, and stores it all away for later. Might not be useful. On the other hand, might just. Either way, he's visibly pleased.

“Told you at the start, didn't I? Steady wand arm.”

The book doesn't land on top of the first one, but it does get really close. So John's pleased, and obvious Sherlock is too, not that he seems to have really been looking at the books. He feels a little self-conscious all of a sudden, and shifts on his feet.

"Yeah. Guess so."

Sherlock does still get a bit of a smile. Well, then.

Edited 2013-03-16 22:51 (UTC)

Sheepishness isn't really the reaction Sherlock was expecting. His own eyes drop accordingly, and his shoulders hunch awkwardly. Not good. Bit not good.

“Exactly,” he says, not relenting on that point, at least. “Well, I'll...”

He doesn't fumble as he gathers up the last remaining books to carry them over to an empty desk against the wall, but it's a near thing. The desks themselves, those that remain in the way, he banishes to the opposite side of the room with a wave of his wand. No more of this silliness. No more mistakes. No more being obvious.

He drags his own bag up from where he'd set it near the door and pulls out a thick tome, not one most students here are likely to possess: it is a dictionary of Latin. Sherlock has made note of every spell he's ever learned in the margins, tied spells to their underlying meanings, attempted to uncover the building blocks of magic.

What he's learned is that the words matter relatively little. Words are simply a means of coding intention. The language doesn't matter much either... to anyone save the individual speaking it, and Latin is the tradition, therefore Latin it will be for their own little experiment.

There's nothing wrong with it, though, and the sudden embarrassment surprises John too. It's not good exactly, maybe, but not not good either, just... weird. Out of place. Which is why he shakes his head, waves it all away, and steps over to peer at the tome.

"Latin. You're really going into this."

It's impressive, really, but if anyone would try to work out the very foundation and workings of magic itself, it would be Sherlock.

And it's exciting, of course. That idea. Figuring it all out, and being able to... Well, it's about creating spells, isn't it? Being able to do that would be quite something, and if anyone can, it would be Sherlock. And a bunch of other great wizards and witches, of course, but Sherlock ought to be among them.

Coming from anyone else, Sherlock supposes, that might be an insult. It's a common one. He does too much, is too involved. It makes him freakish, makes him strange, irritating, unlikeable. John doesn't mean it quite that way, though, it seems.

“Well, you have to get the words right, don't you? Something just for that, something you wouldn't say otherwise.” Something whose meaning is tied to the spell and to the spell alone. A dead language suits that purpose perfectly.

“Also a bit stupid to run about shouting things in English to do magic, isn't it? Sounds daft, I mean.” Also not ideal. Too much risk of semantic entanglement. Hard to focus on one thing when a word can conjure up so many others.

What it is that's wrong about doing this sort of work, John wouldn't understand if someone were to sneer at Sherlock for it. It seems stupid and more something out of a grudge or just because, rather than there actually being anything wrong with it. Because there isn't.

Which he's certain Sherlock knows too.

The idea of people running around shouting things in English to do magic, though... The image of it makes him laugh.

"Incredibly daft."

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