Sherlock Short Stories

A change 2/3

The change itself didn't come until much later in the term. During that time, the build up to the change, nothing much happened: John conversed with Sherlock - who immediately established himself as a loner - a whole two times, both in potions class in which John unfortunately sat next to the arrogant sod. The first conversation went a little like this:
"Hi! I'm John-"
"Watson. Yes, I know. You're in Gryffindor, an excellent beater in quidditch and appalling st potions. Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, I see. Well how-"
"No."
"Sorry?"
"I would not like to converse."
And the second time:
"Pass the frog legs."
"Oh sure, here," receiving no thank you in reply. So overall John did not have a very high opinion of Sherlock Holmes (nor did, according to Sally - a Slytherin 4th year - anyone else). However, John had soon realised that the new boy had one redeeming feature: he was immensely intelligent. Which was, incidentally, how John came to converse with Sherlock Holmes for a third time.

John glumly packed away his potions kit, red faced and ashamed as he failed yet another practical assignment.
"John?" Requested Professor Stamford.
"Yes, professor?"
"Could you and young Sherlock here stay behind for me?"
"Of course sir," John said cheerily although his stomach sunk. He already knew what this chat would be about; the bottom and top of the class are pulled aside after class. What else could it be?

"Now, John, I have noticed that you are unfortunately falling behind in potions. I have no doubt that the problem here is not effort - your other teachers assure me you are very studious - but your understanding, no?" John swallowed his pride (with his red cheeks having only darkened) and nodded his head.
"And so I though I might suggest a tutor. Now Sherlock here is an exceptional-"
"I'm free Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays," Sherlock interrupted, "although sometimes my bother requests," he pausedC snarking slightly in disapproval, "meetings so Sundays may not be-"
"Tuesdays are good," John now took his turn st interrupting. Sherlock, gobsmacked st having his rudeness turned against him, simply nodded stiffly.
"Well then," the Professor cheered, "that settles it!"

And so, with John and Sherlock's third conversation under their belts, the two began to progress through their fourth, fifth, sixth... until John lost count of the conversations and the pair began to build a sort of routine. They were in no way friends: John would arrive at their designated common room (usually Ravenclaw because Sherlock was a lazy bugger) , and Sherlock was always already waiting (to the point where John wondered if Sherlock had a room to go to - it surely wasn't possible to always be on time?). They would give a nod and from thereon Sherlock would logically (if a little too speedily) explain potions to a less and less confused John. An hour would pass by then John would leave, a polite kid given (with a disinterested blink returned) and would go back to his room in the Gryffindor tower a little more knowledgeable in the arts of potion making. Every Tuesday evening the same.

Except as every Tuesday passed, John's premonition grew. A change was coming and his head - or his heart? - knew.

Then it came... the beginning if the change; the first few ripples of the tsunami, crawling almost unnoticed into land, with the great wave fast in pursuit to invade the land.

John arrived at the Ravenclaw common room, earlier than usual (Quidditch had been cancelled because three students had gotten heatstroke thanks to the unusual warm weather). He entered the sitting area reserved (well not reserved; more like a silent pact that these were John and Sherlock's seats) for the pair, preparing to give his usual mutual nod, only to find a shocking sight.

Sherlock stood, hands clenched and eyes wild, chest puffed out and feet planted, bearing his teeth at an older Ravenclaw. Sherlock showing such human emotion was a shock in itself for John.
"No Mycroft don't say that!"
"It's true, Sherlock. I'm sorry but we lost sight of her at Greenwich and-"
"And you know exactly where she'll go next!" Sherlock prodded his finger accusingly, tears now taunting his anger, "and you know nothing will stop her!" Both boys fell silent, panting.

John didn't know what to do. Should he leave, unnoticed? Should he approach? Should he enter and act indifferent? In the end, the decision was made for him.
"John?" Sherlock's trembling voice broke him from his reveree. John, hesitant and ashamed, abandoned the warmth the shadows and joined to the two boys.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"It is quite alright John," Sherlock's voice has regained its cold tone. Tears still rolled from his eyes freely.
"Are you okay?" Careful John, he chided himself, this is tricky ground.
"No." Sherlock responded honestly as always.
"Brother-" Mycroft (who John now recognised as one of the prefects) attempted.
"No, Mycroft. You've done your job and delivered your message." The older boy left silently and John wondered briefly that he didn't care very much to leave so easily.

John expected Sherlock to - any moment now - cry out and break - any moment now - and to sob and reach out - any moment now - for comfort. Instead, Sherlock glided, as graceful as always, to his reserved (but not reserved) seat. He diligently unpacked his folder, pencil cases cauldrons textbook and waited. When John didn't move, frozen with uncertainty, Sherlock gazed questioning toward him.

John sat. All of a sudden John realised, with real tears and swollen eyes and still trembling lips, Sherlock Holmes was most definitely human.
"Shall we begin?" Sherlock asked.
"Let's," John replied.

It was only when John had left the Ravenclaw common room, marching through the corridors, that he comprehended that he never asked what the argument had been about. John never asked what it was that could break Sherlock's cold shell just as if he were an egg in the hand of a baker.

John's premonition, now shrouded by startling clarity, was suddenly a very bad one.