Methods Beyond Magic

Muggle Sports With My Favorite Gremlin

So Sherlock got up as well, following John's footsteps out through the rows of multicolored books, down the stone hall to his classroom. He was half expecting the classroom to be occupied, for Victor to be sitting at the desk and smiling that maniacal smile of his, but thankfully it was as empty as Sherlock had left it. He sighed, locking all three doors that separated him from the hallway and closing the window in his bedroom. Billy's cage was empty once more, and Sherlock just sat on his bed, his brain still churning and not yet ready to lie down. Then again, the moment he closed his eyes he might dream, he might have horrible nightmares about what Victor could do to him, only to wake up and find that it could all be true. Victor was a monster, and he had Sherlock once more at his will, doing his bidding and pretending that he loved him. But for what? If Victor truly loved him, how did it satisfy him to know that every second Sherlock spent with him felt like torture, how did these painful love confessions and soulless kisses feel like he was loved back? Victor knew Sherlock hated him, and Sherlock wondered why Victor played this card in the first place. It was a good back up plan of course, but their relationship was going fine up until Victor threatened him. Was it solely because Victor didn't want to write his essays, or was this the plan all along? Did Victor know that eventually he would have Sherlock as a puppet, dragging him along on strings? Did Victor love him at all? That was obvious, of course he did, even though Sherlock seemed to be blind to true character, it was no mystery that Victor was head over heels in love with him. Maybe Sherlock could use that to his advantage, possibly use Victor's blind love to get out of this trap once and for all. But how, other than going to Dumbledore himself, admitting everything he had done before it got worse. Heck, Victor might make Sherlock marry him before the end of term, how would that look, begging for Dumbledore's forgiveness when there were now two Holmes in the school. No, Sherlock had to do something, what that was, well that was still on the table. Everything he could possibly do involves getting Victor off of his tail, with that worm following him around he couldn't confide his secret with anyone. But he had no one to tell. John, of course, would be his first option, John seemed like the person to keep his mouth shut and help out as much as he could, but Sherlock hated the idea of John knowing just what was going on. That poor caretaker probably thought he was worth nothing, he probably thought no one cared about him, and the realization that while Sherlock may be talking and smiling and holding his hand, he was still kissing Victor behind his back, would be too much for the poor man's self-esteem. So no, obviously he couldn't tell John. Dumbledore was the one person Sherlock didn't want to find out, and if he went to the Headmaster for help then the gig would all be over, and of course McGonagall would only be worse. The only person, it would seem, that could help was Sherlock himself. This had to be a solo mission, a mission for his own freedom, to get rid of Victor Trevor once and for all.

When Sherlock woke up, he was almost surprised to feel something other than loathing in his chest. It took him a moment to realize why in fact he was happy, when he remembered that he was going to see John this morning, give him his football and hopefully make the man smile. That would be nice, to see John's smile once more...The Sun was shining through the gaps in his curtains, but there were no birds singing; only the distant screeches of owls from the owlery, waking up and preparing for another day of delivery. Sherlock rolled out of bed, pulling on his robes and making himself look decent. He would be skipping breakfast of course, as to avoid Victor's leash, and go straight to John's room. He Realized, however, that he had no idea where that might be. He said he was on the third floor, right? Or was it the second? He always seemed to be everywhere, and Sherlock was sure he couldn't live in the supply closets, even though he seemed to gravitate to them. Sherlock frowned, deciding that he might just wing it, but he'd have to be cautious. If Victor came up looking for him, he'd have to avoid him in the hall, and if he wasn't at the Great Hall or his classroom, Victor would get suspicious. A staff meeting, that would be a good excuse, the staff had a meeting in the staff room, about...um...the grading scale. That was convincing enough. So Sherlock grabbed the Spintwitches bag, making sure the football was inflated enough. For what little he knew about mugglesports, he was sure that there were two types of footballs, one was a ball, kicked by a foot, and the other one was a rather egg shape, thrown around. Honestly Sherlock had no idea why the American muggles would call it football, but he suppose it sounded a bit better than handegg. This was a round ball, so he was sure that it was the more practical version of the name. So Sherlock wrapped the ball back up in the bag, grabbing his wand and sneaking very stealthily across his classroom, as if Victor had somehow broken in and was waiting for him in one of the desks. But no, not a life form in sight, human (if Victor even deserved that title), bird, or monster. So Sherlock opened his door, poking his head fearfully out and deciding that he might as well go to the third floor, for good measure. But then again, if he was found wandering around on the third floor and Victor caught him, what could he say then? There couldn't be a staff meeting in a hallway without the staff room. That was only a floor down, so Sherlock might as well go ask McGonagall, which would give him a direct passage to John's room and a good excuse, should he need one. So Sherlock snuck down the stairs, feeling rather pathetic about having to sneak around the school that he worked in, but thankfully didn't see anyone as he descended, in fact the castle seemed deserted. Was everyone still asleep, in the Great Hall, or planning a surprise party? Sherlock walked down the hall to the staff room, which he was sure would be empty, but when he opened the door he saw McGonagall and Sprout sitting at the table, drinking coffee and eating biscuits. They both turned to look at him, and he felt sort of in the spotlight, but Sherlock just smiled weakly and walked inside.
"Hello Sherlock, what brings you here?" McGonagall asked. Sherlock shrugged, lingering near the closed door and feeling kind of pathetic.
"Do you guys happen to know where Mr. Watson's room is?" he asked.
"Why do you need to visit Mr. Watson? Not making a mess up there I hope?" McGonagall asked.
"No, Minerva, you know, they're..." Sprout looked over at Sherlock apprehensively, "They're a couple." McGonagall's face went a little bit white, but not nearly as white as Sherlock's, who's mouth dropped open in shock.
"No, no, um, I don't know where you got that from, probably the students, but no, we're not a...couple..." Sherlock muttered, leaning very awkwardly against the door and scanning the room just to give his eyes something to do except look at their excited faces.
"Oh it's nothing to be ashamed of dear, we quite understand." McGonagall assured, her pointed hat rocking back and forth on her head as she nodded.
"No, that's not..." Sherlock started.
"I see him watching you over the table, you two are just adorable." Sproutinsisted.
"Oh dear god, can you just tell me where his room is?" Sherlock groaned, his face glowing with embarrassment.
"Oh sure dear, third floor, to the right, next to the statue of Boris the Bewildered." McGonagall assured.
"Thank you, that was...painless." Sherlock muttered, turning to leave.
"And Sherlock?" Sprout asked. Sherlock turned, raising his eyebrows in anticipation.
"Do tell him hello from us." She insisted.
"I will." Sherlock agreed, thankful that she didn't tell him something completely absurd, and left the staff room in a bit of a hurry. He scrambled along the third floor corridor, looking for the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a popular forgetful Wizard that Sherlock thought resembled Mycroft a little bit. Finally, when he got to the rather ugly statue, he found the only door it could be, and knocked on the door. There was no answer, and Sherlock thought that he had been stupid enough to find a spare classroom or a supply closet. So He knocked again, looking around the hall to make sure he wasn't being followed by a certain Slytherin. This time, after he knocked, there was a loud groan from inside the room, and Sherlock smiled to himself, knowing that had found John's place of residence.
"I'm coming, I'm coming, God." John groaned. Sherlock heard some stumbling footsteps and laughed a little bit as something crashed and John cursed a little bit, finally opening the door.
"Sherlock!" he said, his face going quite red. Sherlock was equally surprised to see that obviously John had just crawled out of bed, wearing nothing but plaid pajama pants with his hair in a rat's nest.
"I uh...I said I was coming over." Sherlock pointed out, keeping his eyes fixed at John's, determined not to let them wander to his bare chest.
"Yes, well, I didn't think it would be this early." John admitted, patting down his hair rather embarrassedly. "Let me get dressed." He decided.
"Ya, that might be a good idea." Sherlock agreed. But the both of them just kind of stood there awkwardly, Sherlock looking around the hallway and rocking back and forth on his heels, John just watching him as if not sure what to do.
"You want to come in?" John asked after a moment.
"Kind of hoping you'd ask." Sherlock agreed. John stepped out of the way with a guilty little smile, letting Sherlock walk into the room, which was a complete wreck. The mystery of what had fallen was solved when he saw a spread of broken glass near the small table; John had dropped a cup or something. So, being the good citizen he was, Sherlock waved his wand at the mess and the pieces recollected, building once more a perfectly functional cup sitting on its side on the floor. Sherlock picked it up and handed it to John, who still had his hand on the door and was looking very embarrassed. John took the cup rather awkwardly, looking at it and then at Sherlock.
"Thanks." He muttered, closing the door with a snap and walking through another door to where his bedroom must be, emerging not a moment later while wrestling to get a tee shirt over his head.
"I should've given you a bit more notice, I'm sorry if I kind of, intruded." Sherlock muttered.
"No, you're fine, you're fine." John assured, his head emerging from the fabricand smiling guiltily. "I should've cleaned up a bit though, I never get company." he hastily kicked some shoes under the table and stacked a couple of papers that were spread over a desk.
"I had to go to McGonagall; actually, I had no idea where you lived when you weren't dragging that bucket around the halls." Sherlock admitted.
"Well, you found me. I assume you shook off Victor?" John guessed.
"Ya, wasn't too difficult considering I skipped breakfast." Sherlock shrugged.
"Determined then." John decided.
"Ya, you could say that." Sherlock agreed, looking around the room. It was considerably bigger than his own living space, but then again John wasn't provided with an office and a classroom like he was. This area seemed to be the living room, with some dusty looking couches and a small table for whatever meals John didn't eat in the great hall. There was an attached door, which Sherlock could only assume was his bedroom, but the door was only ajar so he couldn't see inside.
"So, I brought you the present, saw it down at Hogsmeade." Sherlock shrugged, handing John the Spintwitches bag.
"You're too kind to me Sherlock." John decided, opening the bag. His lips spread into a big smile when he pulled out the football, looking at it as if it were some sort of treasure.
"You're kidding me, this is fantastic! I had to leave my football at home, it wouldn't fit in my bag, and besides I didn't think anyone would really know how to play." John said with a smile.
"Well, maybe you could teach me some time, I mean, it might be better than flying lessons." Sherlock shrugged. John nodded, tearing the ball out of its cardboard cage and juggling it between his feet.
"Football was my thing; I was the captain you know?" John said proudly, catching the ball in midair and throwing it to Sherlock, who caught it in surprise.
"Not nearly as heavy as a quaffle." He decided, throwing it back to John, who smiled proudly.
"A lot more fun as well, at least in my opinion." John agreed.
"How do you play?" Sherlock asked. John smiled with excitement, going into along explanation about the game. Sherlock was only half listening, nodding whenever John took a breath, but he was mostly just appreciating the happiness on John's face as he went on about the offenders, defenders, goalies, and multiple penalties a player could get. He looked thrilled not just to talk to someone, but to talk to someone about something he loved, his brown eyes glistening with excitement, his golden hair sticking up in rather odd places from just rolling out of bed. When finally he was done, Sherlock nodded, leaning on the wall and laughing a little bit.
"What's so funny?" John asked, looking rather nervous.
"You, you're adorable." Sherlock decided. John blushed a little bit, but a smile crept onto his face.
"You think I'm adorable?" he asked, as if he hadn't properly heard Sherlock the first time.
"Course you are, getting so excited over a sport." Sherlock decided.
"Well, at least I don't get excited over stupid things, like cauldron thickness and the proper wand motions to produce a spell." John defended.
"Are you calling my interests stupid?" Sherlock asked.
"You called my interests stupid." John pointed out.
"No I didn't, I called you adorable." Sherlock defended.
"Only because you think it's nonsense to get excited over a sport." John pointed out.
"I must admit, athletics don't hypnotize me the way they do to other people."Sherlock admitted.
"Says the guy who wore a Slytherin scarf to the quidditch match." John pointed out.
"I was supporting Victor." Sherlock protested.
"Everyone's favorite little gremlin." John agreed.
"You're my favorite gremlin; he's just getting annoying now." Sherlock admitted. John smiled rather modestly.
"I told you he was going to be nothing but a burden down the road." John pointed out. Sherlock sighed, but nodded, debating whether or not to just tell John now, before things got too harsh. But no, with the happy smile on John's face, Sherlock didn't want to ruin that.
"So, you want to sit down? I would offer a refreshment of some sort, but I haven't got any." John admitted. Sherlock just laughed, admiring John's awkward innocence.
"That's fine." He assured, walking over to the old couch and sitting down. John went to sit beside him, still holding the football and looking rather awkward.
"Ya, I'm a rubbish host, what are we even supposed to do?" he asked after a moment of silence.
"Well, we could...I have no idea I'm sorry." Sherlock admitted. John twirled the football thoughtfully, and an idea popped into Sherlock's head. He got out his wand and levitated the ball to float out of John's hands, flying up and bumping the poor caretaker on the head.
"What was that for?" John asked with a laugh, trying to swat the ball out of his way.
"Show off your kicking skills." Sherlock decided, levitating the ball an inch from the ground. John got to his feet with a smile, stepping back and kicking the ball as hard as he could. In fact, the ball spun through the room so fast Sherlock wasn't able to keep eyes on it, therefore breaking his spell and having the football hit a cabinet with a bang.
"Oh dear..." Sherlock muttered.
"I thought you had it under control?" John laughed; rushing over to make sure nothing was broken.
"I thought I did too. It's your mad football skills putting me off." he decided.
"Sure they are." John agreed with an unconvinced little laugh, examining the cabinet and nodding when he saw that everything was fine.