SuperPotterLock- The Chamber of Secrets

The Whomping Willow

The last few weeks of the holidays were the least boring Sherlock had ever had. The first night John stayed over; they spent the afternoon pushing an extra bed into Sherlock's spacious bedroom only to construct a crude blanket fort in the corner between the two beds. Throughout the weeks it was there that they stashed various snacks and treats pilfered from the kitchen. Most nights, John slept like a log, while Sherlock found himself wide awake beside him, staring up at the deep blue ceiling of their little fort.

At last, after weeks of playing childish tricks on Mycroft whenever he was in, Sherlock decided that he was ready to go back to Hogwarts. He missed being allowed to do magic. The night before they were due to leave everything went smoothly. Everything was packed and ready to go. Mycroft sent them to bed a little earlier than usual, as Sherlock had a tendency to oversleep (when he slept).

Sherlock had managed to force himself to sleep when something disturbed from his barely unconscious state. He blinked awake and felt John writhing in his sleep beside him. Propping himself up on his elbow he looked down at John's fear-creased face, eyeballs flicking this way and that underneath their lids, and groaning softly. He put his other hand to John's shoulder to try and rouse him but, as soon as he touched his palm to the fabric pyjamas darkness pressed down over his eyes- he was blind! It twisted itself into all of his senses until he could no longer tell where he was, feeling and seeing nothing but John beneath his fingers and a dull, ominous hissing in his ears.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. His sight cleared and he fell backwards onto his own pile of blankets and cushions. John remained as he was, whimpering and tangled in the bedclothes. Sherlock quietly crawled out of the fort, threw a silk dressing gown around his shoulders and crept from the room.

Later, John awoke, breathing heavily, and sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As the drowsiness seeped from his body, he realised he was drenched in sweat and suddenly felt very sticky and dirty, so he climbed out of the fort (getting somewhat entangled as he went) and walked slowly to the bathroom, where he splashed water across his face. The water dripped into the pristine white sink and John heard music reverberating off the tiles. It was sweet but mournful so he followed the sound, seeing that it was almost dawn as he passed a window. He came to a large, almost bare room with the opposite wall almost completely made of glass. The meagre light from outside silhouetted Sherlock and the instrument he held in his hand.

'You play violin?' John said quietly. Sherlock ended his song with a flourish of the bow.

'It helps me think,' he murmured without looking away from the window. John lowered himself to the ground and hugged his knees, leaning against the wall. Sherlock started playing again and John felt his eyelids droop.

'What are you thinking about?'

Sherlock stared out of the window, not particularly concentrating on his music.

'Many things, I suppose,' he mumbled, but John didn't hear him, having fallen asleep where he sat. Which was just as well, Sherlock supposed. He had been reminded of the night he and Castiel had met the centaurs in the Forbidden Forest and it just so happened that he was thinking of the prophecy they'd told them about. But he couldn't tell John, he wasn't ready yet. But when would he be? Could what had happened earlier that night be that 'connection' they'd mentioned? Sherlock's gaze softened as he saw how small John looked in this room and took off his dressing gown so that he could drape it over John to keep him warm.

When the sun had risen, John woke again to find an empty room and the sun shining in his eyes. Stumbling down the stairs, he found Sherlock and Mycroft, fully dressed, in the kitchen.