Methods Beyond Magic

The Truth Hurts Us Both

All that mattered now was John; all that Sherlock needed now was John. Despair seemed to have overtaken the caretaker and he seemed to have given up, leaning up against the wall not far from the classroom, clutching a stitch in his side with tears running down his face like a torrent. Sherlock stopped near him, seeing the caretaker raise his head ever so slightly to look. Sherlock stared determinedly back, but John dropped his head once more, as if he didn't have the motivation to keep it up any longer.
"John, John, please..." Sherlock started, stepping closer. John flung himself away, stumbling over to another wall and steadying himself with a window ledge.
"Don't you touch me, don't come any closer." John demanded, breathing heavily.
"No, you have to listen we don't have much time, he'll be following..." Sherlock begged, desperate tears running down his cheeks as well. John looked at him with disgust, with so much anger that Sherlock was sure it was enough to paralyze someone, not unlike a basilisk.
"You're disgusting Sherlock, how can you possibly...you kissed me this morning, knowing full well that you were going to kiss him in the evening. How could you do this to me, how could you possibly betray me so horribly, what did I ever do to you...what did I ever do to deserve you?" John spat. Sherlock looked at John with such sadness, his heart being torn to shreds with every word.
"John, I need you to listen to me because..." he started, his voice cracking with emotion, tears leaking out of his eyes.
"What do you possibly have to say to me!" John yelled. "What can you possibly say, to make up for what I just saw?"
"What I've had to say for the longest time, what I need to say, what you've deserved to hear." Sherlock insisted.
"What, that you've been with Victor this whole time, toying with me, baiting me, pretending that you liked me when in reality..." John started.
"I don't love Victor, John, I love you!" Sherlock insisted, taking a step closer and seeing the caretaker shuffle back.
"No, Sherlock, NO!" John yelled, loud enough that Sherlock was sure someone ought to hear it. "I'm not going to hear this again, you're not going to change this into a moment where we confess our feelings, explain yourself right now." John demanded. Sherlock froze, taking a deep breath and checking that no one was lingering around in the halls, it was all coming out now.
"Victor and I, before you, long before I ever knew I had feelings for you, we had a night." Sherlock admitted. John steadied himself a little bit more, taking deep breaths as if trying to keep himself alive, as if he was so angry that if he didn't make himself breathe he would forget to all together.
"When?" John managed.
"It was a Friday night, I don't know when; I know that you had sent me a letter that night." Sherlock admitted. John took a deep breath once more, exhaling very slowly as if trying not to scream, or vomit.
"I thought you said you'd never be with a student, I thought you said that you weren't going to fall prey to him." John muttered. Sherlock felt more and more tears falling out of his eyes, but it felt so good to get it out, as if a million pounds were being lifted off of shoulders. However, the more words Sherlock said, the more that weight was hung over John, the more that he struggled under the load, the more Sherlock was worried he might collapse.
"I know, I know I said that, but something came over me, something I can't explain, I was desperate, that was all, and in my desperate state, he looked so beautiful, he was so inviting, I couldn't help but..." Sherlock cut off his sentence, looking at the ground. "I tried to cut it off that week, I was going to, I didn't want him around, he was bothering me, he was following me, he thought one night meant forever, and I wasn't ready for that. I didn't want a relationship with a student. But he told me that if I break it off, that if I so much as step one toe out of line, that he'd tell the entire castle, he'd tell Dumbledore, he said that if I told anyone about what was going on that he'd tell them that he was under the imperius curse that night." Sherlock admitted, his voice weak and his hands shaking once more.
"He blackmailed you?" John asked, the slightest hope appearing in his voice, as if hardly able to believe it.
"There was nothing...there was nothing I could do to resist him, when it got too much, I started to rebel, I saw you, and he didn't like that. Victor didn't like that at all. So he said that if I visited you, that you'd pay the price, that he'd hurt you..." Sherlock admitted, more tears falling out of his eyes, his head feeling dizzy, as if he were about to fall down.
"That's why you were so convinced someone had done it, pushed me, that's why you were so scared that morning, when you asked me about boggarts!" John pointed out, puzzle pieces coming together in his head.
"He said that the only way he could hurt me was by hurting you, and he's right, and I know that now, I know that now he's coming after both of us, that he's going to be back. I ran away from him, he told me to stay, and I'm going to pay." Sherlock admitted. "There's nothing I can do to fight him, he makes me kiss him, he makes me talk to him, to say that I love him, he loves me so much and he won't ever let me go, I'm afraid that he'll end my life just to be sure that he was the last one to...He's the devil John." Sherlock whispered. "He's the Devil, and he's coming after the both of us."
"Not if I can help it." John decided, pulling himself to his feet determinedly.
"I'm so sorry, John, I'm so sorry." Sherlock muttered.
"You could've told me..." John took a deep breath, clenching his fists. "You could've told me from the start. I would've helped you."
"I thought I could help myself, I thought I could do this alone." Sherlock admitted.
"You can't, and now you won't. If you need a warrior, I will fight your war. If you need an angel, I will fight your demon. If you need a savoir, I'll d*mn well destroy everyone that dares to touch you." John promised. Sherlock collapsed into apologetic tears, but thankfully John was there to catch him, letting Sherlock wrap his arms around his neck and hold him closer than ever before.
"Thank you John...thank you so much." Sherlock managed, through his sobs, clutching the back of John's shirt without the intention of ever letting go. The approach of footsteps, walking along the corridor, slow, relaxed, the calm before the most terrible storm...Sherlock slowly released himself from John, holding his shoulders to steady his trembling legs, but the determination in John's eyes was enough to give him strength, the way John's jaw was set was enough to tell Sherlock that this was the time. Sherlock grabbed his wand out of his cloak, holding the wood very gently in his fingers, ready to stun, curse, jinx, anything that can get Victor farther from his life, farther from his John...The footsteps were rounding the corner, this was it. John stepped out in front, Sherlock had no idea what he was prepared to do, a squib against the devil himself, Sherlock couldn't see how this would turn out, with John's determination and stubbornness, and Victor's lust for power and fear. But Sherlock was fighting for much more than himself, he wasn't fighting for his freedom, his safety, his beliefs, he was fighting for his John, and that love would keep him from bowing down to this monster anymore. The footsteps rounded the corner and John started to run...
"Oh my goodness!" cried McGonagall, ducking out of the way as John barreled past her.
"McGonagall!" Sherlock cried in shock, lowering his wand. John stopped very abruptly, as to not crash into a suit of armor, and turned in regret.
"What are you two doing? It's late, and you're...well...ambushing pedestrians!" she exclaimed, as if at a loss for words.
"We were expecting someone different." Sherlock admitted, shrugging weakly.
"And who might that be?" she asked. Sherlock looked at John rather fearfully, and he shook his head. Thankfully McGonagall didn't see this, because she would be even more confused.
"I told John that if he ran through a ghost, he would get superhuman powers. We thought you were Nearly Headless Nick." Sherlock shrugged. McGonagall sighed, crossing her arms in annoyance.
"Ghosts don't have footsteps." she pointed out.
"Don't they?" John asked, looking rather confused.
"Well, we're not the smartest bunch." Sherlock shrugged, trying to look as innocent as possible.
"You're a professor." McGonagall pointed out, not looking amused.
"Ya, well, so are you!" Sherlock defended.
"That's not a very good argument. Now get back to your rooms, both of you, before you break someone's head open." she insisted.
"Done that before, not fun." John muttered, and a flash of a smile appeared on McGonagall's face.
"We'll be going then." Sherlock decided, walking off towards John's room instead of his own, for fear that Victor would be waiting. John followed obediently, smiling innocently at McGonagall.
"Professor, I believe your room is that way?" McGonagall pointed out, nodded in the opposite direction. Sherlock turned, walking backwards with a frown.
"No, I'm pretty sure it's this way. Have a nice night." Sherlock said, and with that he turned and scurried down the corridor, John right behind him. When they got to John's room, Sherlock slammed the door, John locked it, and the two of them pushed the dining room table against it, so that not even Victor could get in without a struggle.
"You think that will hold him?" John asked uncertainly.
"You know Victor. It won't hold him for long." Sherlock muttered, wiping the dried tears from his face. John sighed, tapping his fingers against the table for a moment in thought.
"How could you have let it get this bad?" John asked, as if this were the perfect time for a heart to heart conversation.
"I never wanted to drag you into it." Sherlock admitted.
"I know, I know, but I'm here and I'm glad you did. Although, I'd rather a better way of communication, I was prepared to leave you Sherlock, forever." John pointed out.
"I know, I would've too, if I were you. I'd still be running." Sherlock admitted with a sad laugh.
"How far do you think he's willing to go?" John asked.
"He's not scared to get blood on his hands, he's not scared of anything, he just wants me." Sherlock muttered.
"That's messed up." John muttered.
"What are we going to do tomorrow, what are we going to do if he comes for us?" Sherlock asked.
"We'll stay together; I'm not leaving your side." John promised.
"That'll get you killed in the process." Sherlock pointed out.
"If I die, I die, at least that's enough to send that creep to Azkaban for good." John decided. Sherlock nodded, walking over to the couch and sitting down fearfully, as if Victor was hiding underneath it.
"I can't believe that I was able to get tricked this easily." Sherlock muttered.
"He never tricked you." John insisted, walking over and sitting down next to Sherlock. He took his hand, but Sherlock, on instinct, pulled his hand away, seeing John's hand but feeling Victor's fingers.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." John muttered, keeping his hands by his side.
"He tricked me that night, when I messed up for good. That one simple night, that made his life worth living and mine a complete disaster." Sherlock admitted.
"You had no idea that he liked you?" John asked. Sherlock sighed, looking at the table because he just couldn't look John in the eyes anymore.
"After the quidditch game, we took a walk down by the lake, before I knew the ice that posed as his heart. He confessed his love for me, this poetic speech that he must've practiced in the mirror, he said it with such passion, that he wanted me to see him as he saw me, to feel the way he felt about me, to love him...as he loved me. Those words stuck in my mind this whole time because they honestly scare me so much, they scared me the moment they came out of his mouth and they still haunt me." Sherlock admitted.
"If you were scared of him, why did you ever let it escalate?" John asked. Sherlock took a deep breath, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them in fear, staring at the far wall.
"I have no idea. It was a cloud John, a cloud of lust, of pleasure, of carelessness, suddenly the only thing I could see was him, the only thing I wanted was him, I needed to be with him as fiercely as he needed to be with me and for a moment I begged him for forgiveness. I begged him, to have me, even though I had turned him away once before." Sherlock admitted, his eyes brimming with tears once more. "I think he liked me begging, I think he likes seeing me desperate, because ever since then, the fear in my eyes, the tremble in my voice, the shaking of my hands, it only seems to satisfy him."
"Why didn't you just tell me?" John asked. "I could've helped you back then, before it got this out of control."
"I was afraid you'd never trust me again, you'd never like me, you'd leave me with that monster and I'd be alone once more. I told you over and over that you were the only one that mattered, that you were the top priority, and I knew that if you found out what I had done that you'd be betrayed." Sherlock admitted. John sighed, but nodded.
"I did." He agreed. "But not anymore, you learned your lesson, obviously."
"You'd...I mean..." Sherlock started. "You'd never do this to me?" he asked desperately.
"No Sherlock, I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, ever. And if I ever do, emotionally, psychologically, physically, then I am not the man that I want to be, that I want you to know me as. I would never dream of hurting you because your very existence is the most beautiful gift that God has ever sent me." John muttered. The tears that had been building up in Sherlock's eyes finally fell, staring into the determined eyes of his guardian angel, the one man that could end his haunting and finally put his fears to rest. His hero, his savior, his John. Sherlock collapsed in John's arms, the dams behind his eyes breaking once more and flowing over his love, letting John cradle him against his chest, the broken man, being slowly pieced together. Sherlock weakly clung to John's neck, like a child, paralyzed with despair, burying his face into John's shoulder and praying for an end, praying that Victor somehow fall down the stairs himself, and that Sherlock could dance in his blood.