Let Us All Make History

It's Not About Normality

Sherlock was finally allowed to leave after having gotten his book under his arm, and when he returned to the row where they had been sitting he found John on his feet, borrowing some of the books with his fingers on the indexes, looking quite scholarly as he browsed the titles. Sherlock smiled at him to announce his presence, and he was quite sure that John had the same instinct that Sherlock did; he could just tell when Sherlock was looking at him, and today was the final proof. He turned without any other sort of cue, and he returned the smile.
"Ready?" John presumed.
"Ready." Sherlock agreed, flapping the book that was now under his arm in something of a chicken like manner, almost as if he was attempting to fly away. John didn't seem to notice, and so together they started out of the library an hour and a half after they had first walked in, now with an hour or so to go until they were due at detention. John climbed up the stairs eagerly, and when they arrived at the seventh floor they finally decided to start prying open doors. To be quite honest Sherlock found this to be a ludicrous form of entertainment. Not only was it against school rules but it was also probably under some sort of trespassing law, and yet John didn't seem to have any problem with it. In fact he kept sounding disappointed when they opened a door to find nothing but dusty old desks. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, there didn't seem to be anything terribly interesting hiding about the walls like he had claimed. Hogwarts students seemed to be chronic liars if they were going on about scary creatures and hair removing vases. The first interesting thing they found was some sort of long, rolled up carpet. John seemed to think that it might be enchanted to fly or something, for flying carpets had been banned a while ago and yet they were still around some places. Sherlock debated that it must be some sort of dueling carpet, for it was long and red, usually the type of thing they put down so as to be as dramatic as possible. The debate was put to an end as soon as John went up to check. As soon as he began to unroll the thing it began to spew some sort of horrible breed of spiders, and Sherlock was out of there quicker than if he had been banished with some sort of spell. John was quick to follow, flinging the door shut and falling into the back wall of the hallway, brushing himself off agressivley so as to be sure that there were no weird specimens still crawling on his robes. As terrified as Sherlock had to admit to being it was also rather funny to see the boy flail and struggle, and that almost worth having such a terrifying experience in an unknown classroom of an unused corridor. Rather curious, don't you think? They moved along, exhausting themselves of the seventh floor and moving now to the eighth, which seemed to be the top of the main levels of the castle, save for some of the towers. This seemed to be a lot more abandoned, for there were more cobwebs and a thicker layer of dust clinging to the floors. It was enchanting in a curious way, Sherlock liked the idea of exploring yet he didn't very much appreciate the rebellious portion of it. There was quite a lot of breaking and entering, some of which was exhilarating and some was just rather...well dirty feeling. Sherlock didn't always follow the rules, but when it came to trying to break down the doors that a simple unlocking spell didn't open, well it was always a bit unlawful. This didn't seem to bother John, who with every broken door seemed to be more and more excited about their adventures. They had yet to find anything of real importance; however they had stumbled across a wardrobe (no boggarts, to John's disappointment) and a couple of old musty books. John asked Sherlock if he wanted those as well, to which of course the answer was yes, and now he was toting around three large books in his hands, two of which he was rather tempted to sanitize before he started them. It was the dark room that provided the most exhilaration, although not the type you would expect. There was a room in which the window displayed nothing but blackness, for whatever reason, and it would seem that John was only too excited to see what that could be holding. Now of course Sherlock was the reasonable one in all of this, he was the one that thought the darkness could be confining something horrible, like a beast or a magical artifact that exploded when exposed to the light. John insisted that if it was so dangerous they wouldn't keep it in the reach of children, and Sherlock was too late to point out that on the eighth floor of a castle with a locked door was very far out of the reach of most. John forced the door open as he always did, leading the way as both he and Sherlock illuminated their wands for a source of light. It was dark, of course, and it was difficult to see what the large square silhouettes were in the back of the classroom.
"Paintings?" John guessed, closing the door with a small snap and starting fearlessly to the corner of the room. Sherlock followed a bit more reluctantly, only daring take a step that John had already taken, for fear of getting himself killed by whatever lurked in the darkness beyond the tips of their wands.
"Paintings." Sherlock agreed in a whisper, seeing that the things were all asleep in their frames. This must be some sort of artistic napping room, putting the unruly subjects in the darkened room to force them to sleep forever. Just because someone was immortalized in paint doesn't mean they're always wanted, and it would seem as this was just the place for those horrible masterpieces.
"They're creepy. Look at this one, it almost looks like that Dark Wizard way back when...something with a G..." John presumed, holding his wand closer to the portrait to which Sherlock smacked his hand away, getting closer than he ever intended as he tried to ensure these evil portraits never woke up.
"Don't wake them up." Sherlock insisted, a shiver going down his spine as he looked upon the deep, hooded eyes of the portraits in front of him. One was of a lady with crazy black hair, asleep on the side of her face with a lopsided smile on her evil looking face. They all looked rather infamous, with faces that Sherlock was quite sure he's seen before, in books filled with evil wizards. Why Hogwarts would store such paintings in their walls was beyond him, and quite honestly he wasn't sure if paintings could cause harm. It would seem, however, that Dumbledore thought that for whatever reason keeping these relics was worth something.
"Ya, ya I think you're right." John agreed, looking once more at the paintings before starting towards the door of the room, nearly shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock as the two boys cowered towards the door. Sherlock grabbed the handle just as John did, and it would seem as though it was a matter of luck and stupidity that instead of grabbing the handle they grabbed each other's hands. It was quite obvious to Sherlock that John's fingers twitched inside of his, and yet neither of them thought to let go. No, neither of them though that maybe instead of clenching to the other's hand they actually needed to get out of this creepy dark room. Sherlock's mind was completely wiped of all logic, once more falling in the state of stupidity that could be classified very simply be the title of 'John', a state in which nothing else mattered but the boy before him. This state of mind brought him to forget the evil paintings, it brought him to try to take advantage of the darkness, it brought him to submit to the powerful force that was dragging him to the wall, a force he was too stunned to realize was John's own strength. Maybe John had a similar feeling, this one instead labeled 'Sherlock', for the door remained shut, in fact the two boys made sure it stayed shut, for instead of running out the door Sherlock found himself pressed up against it, breathing heavily and clenching to the hand that was still writhing in his own.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock breathed, feeling as John's arms rearranged Sherlock on the door, now trapping his other hand so that all of the books in his arms fell to the ground, the light from his wand getting snuffed as the wand tottered from his fingers and joined the collection of scattered things on the floor. It was a fair question to ask, simply because this was uncharacteristic, it wasn't exactly love yet, it was more like...manhandling. John pushed Sherlock's hands onto the door, exposing his chest so that he could fall forward, pressing the both of them together so that their hearts could feel each other beating...
"John what are you doing?" Sherlock demanded, for he was legitimately confused. He wasn't exactly opposed to this, whatever it was; it just seemed to be so out of character that Sherlock had to wonder what had strained John's sense of self control. It must be the darkness; people seem to go mad in the darkness. For the slightest moment Sherlock thought John was going to kiss him, for it would seem to be the only logical thing to do. This was what John's whole display was leading up to, was it not? Intimacy, making up for the lost time between them now that they were guaranteed solitude in this darkened, evil room? And yet John blinked, blinking as if he didn't know what he was doing either. It was as if John had just realized that he had Sherlock in his grasp, their lips hovering ever closer to each other just because they were both straining to look into the other's eyes from this angle.
"I don't know. I'm...I'm sorry." John muttered, his hands slacking from Sherlock's as he suddenly realized that this wasn't the best way to convince Sherlock that he had no interest. Sherlock tried to grab his hands back, for as soon as John had taken control he had prepared his body and soul for the love he had been expecting for so long. Was he really going to let it slip from his grasp once more? And yet John snuck away before Sherlock could grab at him once more, he fell back into the darkened room, tripping over Sherlock's books as he shook his head and tried to regain himself, the light from his wand going this way and that as he waved his hands and ran his fingers through his hair irritably.
"You do feel something...you must." Sherlock whispered in the smallest of voices, for whatever action John had made, whether it had been subconscious or intentional, well it was romantic! It had to be!
"Stop that, Sherlock I don't want to talk about this." John muttered, shaking his head miserably and keeping his eyes fixed on the darkened ground before him, and not on the boy who was standing before him. Sherlock picked up his wand carefully, illuminating it so as to make out John's silhouette in the darkness, standing stooped over in shame.
"Are you ashamed? Scared?" Sherlock whispered.
"It's not normal! God Sherlock, this isn't...people don't love like this, they're not supposed to!" John exclaimed, shaking his head miserably and letting his hands fall back to his sides. Sherlock stood next to the door in something of a state of shock, feeling almost like the world's most silent bomb had dropped between them, somehow. Was John honestly trying to make Sherlock believe that he felt nothing, that this didn't matter to him? Did he think that Sherlock would be stupid enough to think that whatever that was, that sudden action, that sudden reaction...to think it was something other than burning passion that refused to be snuffed?
"Not normal?" Sherlock clarified. John groaned once more, shaking his head and starting to the door, trying to push his way past Sherlock to which the boy refused, standing his ground so as to capture his prey, trying to initiate the very conversation that John had been trying to avoid this entire time.
"Love isn't based on gender, John it's based on souls, and how they intertwine, how they're drawn to each other. You can't just chose who you fall in love with, I of all people ought to know, you don't have to be scared of what has already been set in motion." Sherlock insisted.
"Move, Sherlock. Move out of my way." John demanded.
"Talk to me John; tell me what's wrong, what I'm doing wrong." Sherlock pleaded, falling against the door once more so as to make it even more difficult for John to pull open. Maybe, just maybe, he would fall under the same spell that he had been trapped in when their hands had first touched. John didn't fall, in fact it was Sherlock who fell, or was rather pushed. With a great heave John pushed Sherlock to the ground, and the sad thing was that he didn't follow. Instead he pulled open the door and stormed out of the room, Sherlock could hear his footsteps rushing down the hallway as the door was left open, shedding light on all the paintings who were now awake, their eyes staring at Sherlock in the semidarkness, all chuckling as if they had witnessed something very interesting indeed.
"Oh don't worry; you've got him trapped in your web now. They only run when they realize they can't escape." One of the paintings cooed, sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine as he rushed to collect his fallen books from the floor. He didn't respond, surely he thought that talking back to these paintings would encourage them, and so he scrambled out of the door and pulled it shut, falling against the wall of the deserted hallway and finding himself alone once more. 

Molly POV: Molly had said with confidence that Sherlock would be arriving any minute about twenty minutes ago. Any minute has now passed, in fact it would seem as every minute has passed, and yet still no Sherlock. She couldn't imagine what he was doing all this time, for it was nearly four and his detention that had supposedly begun at one o'clock still seemed to be going on. Unless of course, he had some after detention fun with John, which would be the only real excuse Molly would except for his lateness. It was his fault that she was sitting on his bed, eating the sweets that were supposed to be saved for the three of them to share.
"I really feel bad...he would have loved Jelly Slugs." Molly admitted with a sigh, eating the last one before hiding the wrapper in her pocket before Sherlock could see the evidence that was left behind.
"He'll never even know they existed, there's no reason to feel bad." Victor assured with a shrug.
"Good point." Molly sighed, continuing on with the mess of sweets and unearthing some odd looking lemon things.
"You've got to wonder what he's up to. Detention should've only taken an hour, and it's been three. I'm sure something happened with John, that's the only logical explanation." Victor said confidently.
"Oh I hope it's nothing bad." Molly muttered nervously. Victor just laughed a little bit sarcastically, as if he was admiring Molly's innocence.
"Of course it's nothing bad. There's only one thing that allots three hours of one's day after being forced together with all the built up tension for an hour..." Victor presumed.
"And that is?" Molly wondered curiously, popping one of the lemon sweets into her mouth and wincing at the sourness.
"Knitting, Molly." Victor snapped. Molly sighed heavily, shaking her head and regretting having ever purchased something as intense as these Sherbet Lemons.
"You don't have to get snippy with me. I know Sherlock would never do such a thing after just one day, he's too pure for that." Molly said confidently. Victor just laughed again, acting as if he knew more about Sherlock than Molly could ever hope to learn.
"He's not as innocent as you make him out to be." Victor decided after having munched through what seemed to be one of those horrible Cockroach Clusters. Molly thought he had bought them as a joke, however it would seem as though he had actually purchased them with the intent on eating them. Apparently he liked them too.
"What do you mean by that?" Molly wondered.
"I mean...it's Sherlock! He's like, head over heels in love with John and he has no sort of self-control at all. I'd be willing to make a bet that whatever he's doing right now...well it would make you shiver." Victor presumed with a grin.
"That's a horrible thing to say." Molly decided pointedly, shuffling a little bit before biting down hard on the lemon sweet that was still in her mouth.
"But alas it is realistic. He's what, seventeen? He's big enough to make his own choices." Victor said confidently. Molly nodded grimly, for in the back of her mind she knew that Victor was right. When it came to self-control, well Sherlock had about zero. She knew that a simple kiss wouldn't do him any good, especially now after months of agonizing refusals.
"And what were you off doing with your Durmstrang boy? You disappeared when we went to the Three Broomsticks." Molly questioned, squinting her eyes suspiciously at Victor, who just giggled a bit apprehensively.
"Nothing you would approve of I'm sure." Victor teased. Molly gaped, nearly dropping the container of Sherbet Lemons she was still munching painfully on.
"Victor! You're not serious?" she wondered, hoping beyond anything that he was just messing around with her so as to get her angry. However a small blush had appeared on Victor's cheeks, a blush and a small smile, his guilty face...
"I'm seventeen as well." Victor assured.
"You're not even an adult! Oh Victor that's disgusting, I cannot believe you boys are already getting yourself into relationships that are centered upon...well...dirty stuff!" Molly exclaimed, to which Victor just shrugged once more.
"Well I didn't want to tell you, I knew this was how you'd react." Victor admitted. Molly scowled at him, piecing together all the curious little personality changes Victor had been going through, that and his disappearance at the Yule Ball...oh dear. Really what have they both gotten themselves into?
"Well you guessed correctly. I'm upset with you Victor, and if that really is what Sherlock's gotten himself into, then I'm upset with him too. Boys are so drastically different from girls when it comes to how quickly...oh never mind. Never mind all of that. I'm just a special breed of innocent." Molly said confidently, shaking her head in disappointment as she stared down at her sweets with a frown. Well finally their conversation was interrupted when Sherlock stumbled through the door, and if he was actually doing what Victor presumed he had been doing...well then it was probably a lot different than Molly had imagined. He was looking ragged and upset, his fingers red and raw and his arms hanging limply by his side. He looked exhausted, and the front of his robes was covered with what looked icky green slime.
"I stand corrected." Victor muttered before even saying hello.