Amortentia

Part 38

He had cradled Sherlock’s body, refusing to give it up, still clinging on to the ridiculous hope that he would wake up, Dumbledore had had to stun him to get him away. The funeral was huge; the entire school had attended, mourning the loss of their professor. Moriarty had disappeared from the school, unheard of until a couple of years, but he had a different name, one that people would learn to fear for a long time. John had dressed in his dress robes, the first outfit they had ever been together as a whole, as a couple, which only brought him more pain. He silently walked up to Sherlock’s coffin, his friends around him, comforting him with words he couldn’t hear. The students parted, watching him with sorrow as he approached. Sherlock lay in the white coffin, his eyes shut, dressed in his purple shirt and black jacket, as he always had preferred over robes. His dark curls had been washed of all blood, and by some miracle he looked like he was only sleeping, but John knew better, every time he closed his eyes he could see Sherlock’s falling body, read the last words on his lips, and feel the blood on his body. Every moment he could hear the thump of when he hit the ground, he was cursed, maddened with grief. Greg, Mike, and Sara were all trying to comfort him, but it was no use. Sherlock’s hands were folded over his body, at his side lay his violin, and polished beautifully, no doubt by the polisher John had given him for Christmas. It seemed so long ago that he had actually had a spark of happiness in him; the entire world seemed black and white, moving slowly, no sound was as beautiful as the sound of Sherlock’s voice, as his violin, no taste was a pleasing as his lips, and no touch could ever feel like his hand intertwined with John’s. John’s hands fumbled for a letter in his robes, a letter he had written for Sherlock, as he had done so long ago, a letter saying everything Sherlock could never hear. They were supposed to grow old together, instead Sherlock would be permanently be 18 years old, and John would be cursed to a miserable life without happiness or love. Tears streamed down his face as he tucked it into the pocket of Sherlock’s jacket, and memories flooded John like an ocean aiming to kill. The beautiful violin music, the trip to Hogsmeade, swaying around the dance floor with Sherlock’s radiant smile beaming down on him, the moment John realized his heart belonged to the man in his arms. There were memories even John didn’t remember, standing by the lake, researching the Chamber, Sherlock’s joy filled screams as John flew them through the Hogwarts grounds.
“Goodbye.” He managed before his throat closed, his eyes began spilling forth more tears, and he was led away from the coffin by his friends, who couldn’t understand the pain he had to go through.

                A month or two later John was walking dreadfully up the rock side of Azkaban. Jim Moriarty had been caught, and he was now sentenced to rot in a cell for the rest of his life. John thought he had deserved a lot more than that, he deserved worse than death, a dementor’s kiss. Greg was at his side, the only one of his friends who were brave enough to go to the cursed rock on the sea. The prison itself rose from the water like a steeple, but it was opposite of any church John had ever heard of. The entire place radiated sadness, Greg picked it up, but John didn’t feel any different, it was just another day, dragging on and on with no heart, no soul, and no Sherlock. John didn’t know what he would feel when he saw Jim, the person that had begun this spiraling depression, but he just hoped that Jim was suffering twice as much as he was. They approached the gates, which were flanked by dementors, which were basically just floating cloaks, but underneath John knew they were much more ghastly. They radiated sadness, brought your worst memories, and when John walked past them he saw, once again, Sherlock’s terrified face mouthing words John would never hear. A fresh pang of sadness ripped at his heart, making him stoop over, breathing heavily, trying to keep himself from breaking down. He didn’t need that, not now, not again. Greg grabbed his shoulder, supporting John, trying to calm him down.
“I’m fine, really.” John assured, pushing Greg’s comforting hand away.
“John, why did you even want to come here?” Greg asked, looking around the dark hall they were now in. Dumbledore would meet them in the main office, wherever it was. John had no idea how to answer his question, he was being ripped apart from the inside out, but he was just walking right towards more pain.
“I need to make sure.” John muttered. Greg nodded, but he obviously didn’t know what that meant. John didn’t know either, but half the stuff that comes out of his mouth doesn’t make sense anymore. Greg led the two through the dark, shiny halls, where there were obsidian statues staring from the dark corners. Azkaban seemed to be miserable even for the workers; if John wasn’t already at his all-time low he would’ve felt awful just walking the halls. Greg looked nervous, looking behind them, as if dementors would just pop out of nowhere an arrest them. The main office was hard to miss, a large sign hanging outside of the door. John opened the door, briefly seeing his reflection on the glass. He looked awful, his eyes were red and sunken in, his hair was sticking up everyone, and he was pale, almost a ghost. Dumbledore stood near the reception desk, talking politely to a secretary. When they walked in, he turned to face the two, and seeing John his happy era seemed to fade away, as if he was sad to see John sad.
“John, I hope you’re well.” He said, which was a very stupid thing to say. It was very obvious that John wasn’t okay, there was nothing okay about his entire world, nothing until he was back at Sherlock’s side.
“Let’s just get this over with.” He said quietly. Greg sighed, he obviously didn’t agree with John’s rudeness, but he had no more moral principal, he didn’t care about the present, his future, he had no idea what he would do for the rest of his life. Dumbledore nodded gravely, a guard coming from behind the desk to escort them, one of the few wizards. They walked along the halls and into a great iron door, which, John observed, was just one of the three layers of doors, one being a sliding 3 foot steel door that could probably stand up to the apocalypse. The change from public office space to the prisons was very obvious, the slick walls were replaced with stone, as if they were in a cave, the temperature dropped from all of the dementors lurking around, and the air was ridden with screams of the imprisoned. The guard led them through multiple cell blocks, the prisoners either screaming at them to let them out or watching them silently from the corner, the light lost form their eyes. They were led to the end of the wing, stopping outside of the last cell on the right. John’s fists clenched, seeing Jim Moriarty, wearing black and white stripes, sitting on the bed in the cell. But he was smiling, he was actually smiling up at John, as if this were some sort of fun game he was playing.
“Hello Johnny boy.” He said in his old voice. He looked no different, but John never remembered light in his eyes anyway. He didn’t say anything, he just stared, memories of the last time he saw that face, the flash of light, Sherlock, falling… John took a deep breath, these flash backs were normal; he was used to them by now.
“Why.” He muttered, almost too quiet for John to hear himself. Jim’s smile widened, which only made John angrier. How dare he smile, after what he did, was he aware that he tore John’s life apart, ripping every last morsel of happiness he had ever had?
“Why!” John screamed, grabbing the bars of the cage and shaking them, pressing his face between the bars. He was practically hyperventilating, rage flowing through him, this was the man that had caused all of this. But Jim merely stood up, his smile disappearing for a more serious look.
“Oh John, I had to, he gave me bad marks on my homework.” He said. John screamed, kicking at the bars, trying to grab Jim’s neck and pull it from his body, but Greg pulled him away, bringing him back to his senses.
“I hope you rot in here for all eternity!” John said, his voice low but shaking, he was about to fall apart soon. The guards had taken his wand at the front desk to avoid any attacks, but if they didn’t Jim would already be dead, and John would be the one wearing the stripes.
“You could end this,” Jim said, running his hand back and forth on the bars tauntingly, “You can see him again, see Sherlock, you can be with him again. You know the spell…” Jim said, dropping his voice to almost a whisper. John stared at him, processing what he had said.
“I think that’s enough, John, let’s go.” Greg decided.
“I agree.” Dumbledore said. John didn’t let his gaze leave Jim’s, not going to back down again. He didn’t say anything as Greg pulled his arm, leading him down the hall of cells and back to freedom.