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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"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."

Well, that settles it, really. Sherlock opens up the tome, flips through pages to dog-eared entries, to the things he'd thought to try as he'd sifted through the words.

“I thought of a few to try, no idea if any of them will work; have to get the gestures right, besides. Takes trial and error. So.”

He pulls two pilfered goblets from his bag, worn and dented, and moves to set them in the middle of the floor. A murmured aguamenti and the careful direction of his wand fills them neatly with water, and then...

Then it's to work.

“To turn in a circle is circumroto,” he says, voice quiet and distracted as he looks down at his book, dragging his finger down the page. “Circumrota in the imperative. And a cup in singular accusative is calicem; that bit's easy, shouldn't need changing.” Though maybe the nominative... no. They're commanding magic, not the cup.

“Anyhow, that should be good enough to start, I think. Just have to concentrate on what we want. And get the gesture right.” And not blow anything up, ideally.

"Right," John says, nods, and never would he have thought he would be attempting to create a new spell.

Or, well, it's more Sherlock who's doing the creating, but being there when it's in the workings - from the very beginning, even - isn't so bad either. Exciting, and... a bit of a reason to be nervous, because you never really know what can happen when experimenting with spells. But, hey, how would their society ever get anywhere if no one did that?

"So the spell is...?"

"Circumrota calicem... I think. That's what we want, anyway. Probably won't work the first time. Might not work at all." That happens, sometimes .

"At least bad spells are fairly obvious," he owns. "But I know how to regrow eyebrows now so you don't have to worry about that."

He licks his lips, staring intently at the cups on the floor. "Haven't really worked out how the gestures work yet, so... just have to start trying things."

He pushes himself to his feet and thinks a few moments, sucking on the inside of his cheek. Well. May as well have a go.

It doesn't surprise him much when his first attempt sends one of the cups flying to clang against the opposite wall, water spilling everywhere, but it does make him snort.

"That's reassuring," John says, with a borderline laughter in his tone, and watches as Sherlock prepares to try it out.

He'll just watch this first go, he thinks, but he'll pick it up if nothing explodes. But you never know, do you? So it's best if they're not doing it at the same time. You never know what might happen then.

Although, that could also be interesting...

Of course, he does laugh when the cup goes flying, drops his head and shakes it as he does. How could he keep it in, really? But, all right, he's not going to let Sherlock have all the fun, so after he's gathered himself together again, he takes a step forwards and tries another gesture.

Which sends the cup into the ceiling instead, and he quickly takes a few steps back to avoid getting water on him.

"Soaking a classroom, yeah. We definitely are."

"Good thing we got the books out of the way first," Sherlock adds with a careful innocence, eyebrows raised, and moves to reset the cups, filling them again.

It's entirely possible that waiting until they've gone through a few more trials before refilling them again would be preferable, but... well, this is more fun. He does slip out of his robe and lay it over his dictionary to protect it, though, and rolls up his shirtsleeves for the next attempt.

This time he adds a bit of a flick to his wrist at the end and the cup rockets violently upwards, water spraying everywhere as it meets the ceiling with a clang. Sherlock wipes a droplet from his cheek and raises an eyebrow at John.

It's entirely possible that they're going to end up just as wet as the classroom, if this keeps up. Sherlock's shirt front is already lightly spattered. That might become interesting to try to explain later.

How are they really going to know if it works if they don't have any water in it, anyway? He did get the impression that making fluid spin is the point. So.

But, yes, also fun.

The raised eyebrow gets a smile in return, amused, and the next John tries makes the cup spin wildly and topple over.

"Hm."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. It's a good start. Not exactly the motion they need, but closer than before.

"Neat," he says, and means it.

"There's even a bit left," he says as he moves to reset the cups, lifting John's to show him.

"Can't have that." He gives a flick of the wrist, throwing the dregs of water up into the air before he sets he cup back down and refills it.

"Classroom isn't remotely soaked yet. Bit damp, if that. Not abnormal for a castle." Puddles and all. Sherlock returns to John's side.

"There. Do it again." So he can watch, learn the motion.

It's definitely a start, and John is perhaps a little bit proud that Sherlock seems to think as much. Proud overall, really, because it's one thing to learn a wand motion and perfect it and an entirely else to only have words and an idea for what they want it to do, and do what you can from that.

A lot of satisfaction, and John smiles widely at it because, well, why not? "It's still only morning," he says idly, and repeats it.

The cup still doesn't manage to stay up, but it takes a little longer to fall this time.

Sherlock snorts. Still early, maybe, but...

“Mm, still morning, figured you'd want to study at some point though,” he teases, bumping his arm against John's shoulder.

“Said I'd help. Only fair. Suppose that means we're on a schedule.” He straightens his back, taking aim with his wand. The idea of a classroom-soaking schedule is completely ridiculous, of course, but that's not really the point. The point is more that John seems more eager to be here than he is to study, in which Sherlock takes a great deal of satisfaction. It proves him right, after all, doesn't it?

It's also... well, just nice in general. Nice in ways not worth addressing; Sherlock feels brilliant enough as it is. Much more and he'll probably do something awful.

So no more of that. He frowns faintly and pictures it in his head, this motion of John's arm. Imagine the muscles overlaying his own... and then changes it slightly, moves just a bit differently, tries.

And damned if the bloody thing doesn't lift itself from the floor and turn circles for the space of a second or two before losing its centre and flying off to a far corner. Damned if it isn't starting to work.

“Usually takes longer than that,” he says thoughtfully. It seems they work well together.

John is more eager to be here, much prefers the idea of just spending all day soaking a classroom with Sherlock Holmes than sitting down and studying. He's never particularly enjoyed the studying, although never actually hated it either, but he's done it because he didn't really have much else to do. Didn't allow himself to have much else to do? Even when his friends always had so many other things they did...

Apparently it just isn't interesting enough to him. Most of the time it's just walking and talking, anyway, playing wizard chess maybe, sitting around the fire in the common room. Which he does enjoy from time to time, but sometimes he actually prefers studying. It at least brings something completely new.

This? This isn't studying, but it's still something completely new. So of course he'd rather be doing this.

"Guess I've got a knack for motions to match spells, then," he says, basically bluntly taking credit for it but, well, the motion is his doing.

He figures he can be proud of that. But he did see Sherlock tweaked it a bit too, so he tries to remember exactly how as he fills his cup with water again.

This time, however, when he tries the spell, the cup goes off to join Sherlock's in the corner. Ah, well.

Sherlock can't help but smile at John's appropriation of the credit. It's true; he's not bothered. Modesty is pointless when it's dishonest, but... well. Generally other people don't feel that way. He suspects he might be a terrible influence, but really can't bring himself to care. Bluntness pleases him much more than evasion. Much more interesting to know what John really thinks than what he thinks he's supposed to think, which is probably mostly the same thing as everybody else.

“Looks as though you have,” he agrees drily once John's cup has gone sailing off after his own, leaving a trail of water behind it. Sherlock watches it spread out over the flooring with one eyebrow raised, watches it seep into cracks and indentations, dribble along paths of least resistance. Well, he meant it, John does have a knack for it, at least given current, admittedly limited evidence. Timing's more amusing this way though, with the implication of skepticism.

“Learn a bit of Latin and you won't even need me anymore,” he adds. A quick summoning charm has the cups sailing back to him and he plucks them neatly out of the air before moving to reset them.

“You'll be brilliant.”

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

John would never even have gotten an idea like this if it wasn't for Sherlock, and he doubts it would be quite this fun if he wasn't doing it with Sherlock. So, even if he might be fine on his own if he learned some Latin, he has no interest to be, not really.

Which is... new, actually. Because generally he always insists on managing things on his own, but with Sherlock it's suddenly... not important anymore. And he rather likes it.

“Buggered if I know,” comes Sherlock's easy response, though his thoughts are far less mild. Far less. The implications are...

Good. Better than good. And he can't smile, not right now, can't let it go all crooked and delighted and more-than-fond, because he is, oh yes, more than. Can't help it. Can't for a moment, hates himself a bit for it, but how was he meant to know? How was he meant to anticipate this, cut loose before getting too deep?

He suspects too deep was the train car, was the start, like all of this is inevitable. Which is... nonsense, utter nonsense, but maybe...

No. No, and that's quite alright. Thinking that they got here in spite of everything is so much better.

“It's... well, it's still pretty fun to soak a classroom on one's own, I have to admit, but this is... better.” Incomparable.

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