Incant and Deduct Part 6

The next morning John is in a fairly good mood when he first opens his eyes and is met with a room bathed with late autumn sun. Mondays means extra time in bed as he doesn't have to haul himself off for an early breakfast before Quidditch practice.  Then he remembers the events of the previous evening and his good mood dissipates somewhat.

Not that there was anything particularly distressing about his interview with Mycroft Holmes. Even though he'd been collected by a frankly eerie looking assistant (pointy face, stick thin to the point of being a broom handle, that straight blonde hair that marked her out immediately as former Slytherin fodder, immaculate white robes that John  would manage to get dirty by simply looking at them if he were the one forced to wear them) and taken on a frankly baffling tour through back corridors, side passages, courtyards and possibly even a fourth dimension or three until they reached the room Mycroft had appropriated for their 'little chat' as the older Holmes brother had ominously called it.

John has had 'little chats' before. The first 'little chat' had been when he was five and their family owl, Plop, had, well, plopped off the mortal coil and his mother had said something baffling about everything having its time and the changing of seasons, leading a young John to believe that Plop would be back in autumn and to be utterly confused as to why they had buried him in a shoebox under the apple tree. The most recent 'little chat' had been administered a few months ago by his dad, with rather more throat clearing, eye contact aversion and 'You-know-what-I-mean'-ing than was strictly necessary. About 20 minutes after his dad had left his room, John realised that he'd probably been given 'The Talk' but because his dad had substituted the word 'sex' for 'well, you know' he couldn't be entirely sure.

He rather suspected, when he eventually entered the dingy room (John had no idea if they were in an attic or a dungeon) that this was neither going to be a 'little chat' about the Great Beyond or  'um well, you know.'

"Good evening, John, please sit." Mycroft said. Mycroft was standing, and despite the fact John knew he had nothing to fear from Sherlock's older brother, something instinctual, or perhaps by virtue of being shorter made him say;

"I prefer to stand."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows fractionally but didn't make any further comment.

"I understand that you and my brother have become friends." Mycroft was looking at him with the kind of intensity a snake gives to a small furry thing in its thrall. Right before it dislocates it's head and swallows said furry thing.

"...yes"

"Mm. As I'm sure you're aware, Sherlock does not make friends easily, nor is he an easy friend to have."

"He's not like anyone else." John said, diplomatically, wondering exactly why Mycroft was simply stating facts at him.

"Quite."

Another penetrating look from Holmes Elder. He and Sherlock didn't look much alike but there were some telltale signs of their fraternity: the height for one thing, the long limbs, piercing blue eyes and the innate air of self assurance. However, Mycroft lacked his brother's high cheekbones and the curve of his eyes that made him look almost catlike. Mycroft's skin also held more colour than Sherlock's, whose paper like epidermis was almost see through.  Then of course there was the decidedly reddish tinge to Mycroft's hair that he'd already teased Sherlock about, which was only occasionally detectable in his friend's hair when he was sitting with the sun behind him.

John suddenly realised that they'd been gazing at each other for at least thirty seconds longer than was socially normal. John wasn't about to be the one to break the staring match though. He wasn't sure why, it wasn't as if he had anything to prove to Mycroft. Just as John was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable though, Mycroft was the one to look away, glancing down at his feet, something like a smile playing about his lips.

"John, you must understand ,I only want what's best for my brother."

John wasn't really sure if that warranted a response, so he just nodded, feeling about two important sentences behind the conversation: standard position in regards to a Holmes then.

"Which is why I'm willing to offer you money in return for your compliance."

John was alarmed. What the hell did that mean? That sounded a bit... odd.

"Sherlock you see, can be so... reticent to share with me. So in return for a not immodest fee I only require you to do some very minor surveillance work."

John felt his eyes widen. Because, seriously?

"Don't think about it as betraying my brother's trust, John. You'd be doing him a favour, really."

If John had been older and more experienced in the frustrating, backhanded world of adults, he probably wouldn't have reacted the way he did. But as it was he was very angry listening to this man saying one thing and meaning another.

'Doing Sherlock a favour' meant 'Doing Mycroft a favour'. 'Minor surveillance work' meant 'Spying'. And as for not betraying Sherlock's trust... his friend would be immeasurably hurt if he ever even thought John was capable of spying on him.

So John Watson, aged fourteen years, eleven months and sixteen days looked the eldest Holmes brother, accomplished wizard and string puller at the Ministry of Magic right in the eye and said to him:

"You can piss right off."

As soon as he said it John was mortified. One doesn't tell one's elders to piss off even if one's elders are behaving like utter wankers. It was on the tip of John's tongue to apologise, when he saw a small, quiet smile spread across Mycroft's thin lips.

"And why should I do that, John?"

John's temper flared again.

"Because it's not right! I'm his friend, I'm not about to go telling you all his secrets. Not that he has any."

Mycroft was still looking at him, but John was no longer distressed by his assessing gaze. He didn't need this person who thinks it's alright to bribe his brother's friends approving of him. Then Mycroft had smiled widely, confusing John even more.

"I'm glad you think so, John. I don't hold with it either." Mycroft said. "Of course, it would be delightful to know what my dear brother is getting up to when he isn't badgering me for something."

John blinked. He felt like he was playing a very bizarre game; like chess or something, but Mycroft wasn't letting him see the board and he couldn't tell if he was winning or not.

"So...?" John asked, intelligently.

Mycroft sighed. When he started speaking again it was without the vaguely withering, imperious tone that John had begun to associate with Sherlock's brother. Instead he sounded wistful, perhaps even sad.

"My brother hasn't always been the way he is now. Certainly, he has always been fiercely intelligent and fascinated with the world. He has never been one for social conventions and has never suffered fools, but... when he was small he was so interested in everything. Frankly, he was a wonderful child. However, certain things happened a few years ago and it is my belief that these events have affected my brother rather badly. He has become introverted, unable to express himself emotionally. He fancies himself an automation rather than a human."

"Sherlock's not an automation." John says, with a conviction he didn't know he felt.

"He certainly isn't. However, there was a risk that he would make himself completely unreachable. Mummy and I were so worried when he started shutting us out."

"What happened to him?" Mycroft had only alluded to 'events'.

The elder Holmes hesitated for a moment. It was odd to see, actually, the self assured man pausing before speaking. He gave off the air of someone who always knew exactly what he was going to say, hours before he said it.

"I'm afraid it isn't my place to tell you, John. I would, if I thought it wouldn't... hurt my brother."

"Then what was that 'I'll give you money if you spy on Sherlock' thing about then? Surely that would hurt him as well."

"Be assured John that if you had acquiesced it most certainly would have been you who would have been the injured party."

John weighed this up. So apparently he passed the little test Mycroft had set him. Without knowing it was a test and by swearing at a near stranger. If only Potions quizzes were that easy. Of course that didn't explain what this whole meeting was about, if it wasn't about Mycroft attempting to get him to do his dirty work.

"Is this a 'hurt him and I'll kill you' conversation?" John asked.

"I don't think that is necessary ,John. Besides, I doubt the threat would work ,you don't seem particularly scared of me."

"You don't seem particularly scary."

Mycroft tipped his head back and made a noise that John imagined was probably meant to be a laugh. "Yes...you're very brave, John aren't you?"

John remembered reading somewhere that people in positions of power tended to use people's names to show that they were in control of the other person.

"Thank you very much, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and the look was so perfectly Sherlock it took John aback slightly.

"So this was merely a... checking I'm good enough to be friends with your brother meeting?" John asked.

The narrow look faded and Mycroft smiled one of his eerie smiles. "You may think that, John, but I couldn't possibly comment."

Twenty minutes later John had been deposited back in the Gryffindor common room, still none the wiser as to where he'd actually been. He was so exhausted he'd simply slunk off to bed ignoring the slightly startled looks of his fellow housemates. Rather than walking back to the room, Mycroft had simply used a transportation spell. John had literally suddenly appeared in his common room, dazed ,confused and possibly in mid-sentence. Sleep seemed like the only viable option.

But it's morning now and he's getting a bit nervous about seeing Sherlock and he isn't entirely sure why. John feels like he knows more about Sherlock than he's supposed to after Mycroft's little intimations about Sherlock having been a different person when he was younger. The knowledge that Sherlock had also experienced an event traumatic enough to 'shut himself off' from his family. Well from his mother and Mycroft... where was Sherlock's dad in all this? Did he have a dad? Surely he had a dad. John thinks that perhaps trying to muddle through last night's conversation without sufficient levels of tea is simply idiotic, so he pulls the covers off and sets about the morning ablutions.

Half an hour later John saunters over to Sherlock and plonks himself down next to his friend.

"Good morning." John says.

"For once that is not a completely inane comment, for it is, indeed a good morning, John." Sherlock replies. He's looking even more wired than usual, unruly dark hair on end and his eyes dilated like a cat's watching brightly coloured ribbon dancing in the wind.

"I usually make inane comments?"John asks, taking a sip of restorative and warming tea.

"No, not you personally, don't be an idiot. I meant the general pointlessness of saying 'good morning' at half past seven when you have no idea if it is going to be a good morning or not. Or saying to a friend 'good morning' meaning 'I hope you have a good morning' which is entirely redundant because of course you hope they have a good morning, that's what friends do, it doesn't need saying."

Sherlock is practically bouncing off the bench he's so excited. John doesn't really get what's so exciting about this morning: true, it is sunny and pleasantly windy outside. Perhaps Sherlock's excited about the prospect of conkers?

"Hm." John says and goes to take another sip of tea, but as his hand is halfway to the mug, Sherlock's elegant fingers coil around his wrist and clamp on, vice like.

"John. I have discovered something crucial." Sherlock's voice is low, his breath tickling John's ear in what must be an irritating manner. That's why his ear feels all hot as his friend breathes all over it.

"Is it more crucial than me finishing my tea?"

"Infinitely." Sherlock's voice tickles again and John feels the hairs on his nape stand on end.

"Are you going to tell me what it is? Or do I have to guess?"

"I can't tell you here. Come on."

Sherlock's grip intensifies on John's wrist as the taller boy stands up. John doesn't really have much choice but to go with Sherlock ;he's surprisingly strong. They get a few odd looks as they exit the Great Hall, Sherlock's long coat billowing around him as he makes his dramatic exit. John tells himself it's the coat that they're looking at, not the fact that Sherlock is still holding onto his wrist in a proprietary manner.

As they leave the hall, Sherlock speeding ahead and John attempting to keep up with a stride that rather outstrips his own, John spots Sarah coming the other way with gaggle of her friends. He only has time to smile apologetically as Sherlock practically frogmarches him passed her and down the whispering corridor.

"John?" she calls.

John half turns, still being tugged along by his best mate. "I'll catch up with you later, Sar!" he shouts. She has a rather disbelieving look on her face, but then he and Sherlock turn a corner and he can no longer see his pissed off girlfriend.

It's fairly obvious they're heading to their usual spot by the cloisters. Of course they are heading there rather faster than they normally would. John's a very healthy individual but if they keep going like this he'll be out of breath after the second flight of stairs.

"Sherlock, um, you can let go of me now." John says as his friend continues barrelling down the hallway.

Sherlock doesn't seem to be listening, so John attempts to wrench his wrist from his friend's grip. It's only then that Sherlock seems to realise that he is actually still holding John's arm.

"Sorry." he says almost absently, dropping John's wrist immediately. John rubs at it gratefully: he was beginning to lose circulation.

They set off again, Sherlock still walking extremely quickly, but John suspects it might be for different reasons, Sherlock seems distinctly pink around the ears and he refuses to meet John's eye. John isn't really sure why, Sherlock's always doing strange things and he never normally gets embarrassed about it.

A few quiet minutes later they are at their meeting point, and Sherlock draws Carl's diary out of his pocket with a flourish.

"Last night," Sherlock says, "I realised I was being an absolute idiot."

"How do you mean? I thought you said that the diary didn't show you anything useful?"

"It didn't ,not on first glance. And it didn't occur to me that maybe Powers had written more than he let on."

"What's that mean?"

Sherlock grins his slightly feral grin, and extracts a small red eraser from his other pocket.

"My brother gave this to me a few birthday's ago. It's called a Revealer. Watch."

Sherlock opens the book to an apparently empty page, towards the back. He then presses the Revealer to the paper, drawing it back and forth rapidly. But rather than erasing anything that was on the page, John watches as words start forming.

"Bloody hell."

"Quite. It seems that Powers was keeping two diaries, his 'official' and his 'unofficial' one. The unofficial one is... difficult reading."

John glances over the page. Aside from the grammatical errors, John can see a slew of swearwords and the occasional slightly violent looking doodle.

"So... what did you find out?"

"Carl Powers was unbelievably cruel to his best friend a boy called James Boscombe. And he was supposed to be meeting this boy by the lake the night he was killed."

"Hang on, he was mean to his best friend?"

Sherlock nods. " The two boys had been friends since childhood. Powers had always possessed a bullying streak and with the news of his parent's divorce it seems as though being nasty to his friend was the only emotional outlet he had."

"Why didn't the other kid, James whatsit, tell someone?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps because it seemed like they'd always been thick as thieves and still were, people might not have believed him. Powers was a large boy for his age, I'm fairly sure he could have physically intimidated Boscombe to keep his mouth shut." Sherlock sniffs, like there is a bad smell in the air.

"So... do you think Boscombe killed Powers?"

"Possibly. It's just...I get the feeling that this is...bigger." Sherlock scratches his head and then gestures his hand in an erratic circle.

"Bigger?"

"Yes. Where does a thirteen year old get clostridium botulinum from?"

"I'm pretty sure you could get hold of some, Sherlock."

"A normal thirteen year old, I meant."

"Sherlock, we go to a school which no one outside of the wizarding world knows about, a school we have to run through a station wall to get to where we learn how to do magic... and you're calling the majority of the student body 'normal'?"

Sherlock's lips quirk up slightly. "Alright not normal... I meant...dull."

"Dull people are perfectly capable of doing terrible things, Sherlock."John says. "Trust me on that."

An hour later they are sitting in the headmaster's office. John has never been in here before, Sherlock can tell by the way he keeps craning his head around to look at everything. It is stuffed from floor to ceiling with wizarding cornucopia; books, papers, potion bottles, jars containing questionable looking... things, various animals and birds on perches or in cages and an almost infinite supply of dirty teacups. The headmaster, despite being one of the most celebrated wizards of his time can never, ever remember where he put his teacup down, so he usually ends up making a new one. And then leaving that one somewhere else.

Sherlock has been in this office exactly seventeen and a half times (the 'half' involved a very complicated spell, a boomerang and some brimstone, and Sherlock doesn't want to talk about how long it took for his hair to grow back, thank you very much.) Most of the times he's been inhere he's been in trouble for one thing or another. If he's not been breaking some utterly pointless school rule he's accidently blown something up and he has to go and 'talk' to the headmaster about it.

The headmaster, though, is a good sort, who gives usually gives Sherlock a vague telling off ,makes him a cup of tea and then talks to him about more interesting things, like their shared fascination with the Muggle world.  Sherlock has always been grateful to the headmaster. He knows that he must be aware of what Sherlock witnessed the night his father committed offences awful enough to have him sent to Azkaban, but the old man has never attempted to bring it up with him. Sherlock has always hated this frankly rather ridiculous, Mycroftian notion that one has to 'talk everything out' and that it'll make him 'feel better'. He doesn't see how being forced to talk about harrowing events makes the harrowing events less harrowing. The headmaster is obviously of a similar ilk, preferring books and tea to chatting and emotional scenes.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson." the headmaster materialises from round a corner, his long grey/green robes shimmering. He's holding a cup of tea in one hand and yesterday's Daily Prophet, which he has clearly only just gotten around to reading.

"Good morning, sir." John says, ever polite. Sherlock suddenly realises that this is the first time he's ever been in the headmaster's office with someone he can legitimately call a friend. He's been in here with people who he would call classmates, and usually they'd be accusing him of doing something devious.

"What can I do for you boys today?"

"We think we've found out who killed Carl Powers." Sherlock says.

The headmaster's eyebrows shoot upwards, so they are barely visible under the long tangle of his white hair.

"I wasn't aware that it was common knowledge the boy had been murdered. But I suspect your brother had something to do with telling you?"

"Sherlock suspected from the day we found the body, sir." John says, and Sherlock detects a hint of pride in his voice.

"Ah yes, I remember... dreadful business. What is it you think you've found?"

Sherlock explains about the diary and about James Boscombe. The headmaster's face falls slightly at the accusation of a student. When Sherlock finishes his tale, the headmaster nods once.

"Sherlock, this is very serious."

"I know, sir."

"Can I trust you two boys to keep your mouths shut about all of this?"

"Of course, sir."John says and Sherlock nods.

"I'll get a Prefect to bring James Boscombe here. Stay put, make yourselves comfortable." the headmaster strode out of the room, leaving John and Sherlock on their own. They look at each other, all the excitement and tension of the last few hours put on hold, allowing them to catch their breath.

"Do you think by making ourselves comfortable he meant make a cup of tea?"John asks, hopefully, eyeing the urn in the corner.

Sherlock is sitting with John on one of the plush little settees the headmaster has installed in his office when the headmaster returns, with a man Sherlock has never seen before, but Sherlock suspects he is the Auror who has been brought in to investigate Carl Powers' death. And last is Gregory Lestrade, apparently the Prefect dispatched to find the second year Hufflepuff student, James Boscombe, who is walking with him.

Sherlock looks Boscombe over a few times. The boy is what he has been expecting: short for his age, skinny, with large glasses magnifying his pale green eyes. His skin is sallow and his hair an indeterminate mousey colour. Sherlock can also tell the boy knows exactly why he's here. He is trembling ever so slightly, like he's standing in a bucket of ice, or on the edge of a cliff.

They both stand up when the others walking in. John is still drinking his second cup of tea but Sherlock is fairly sure the headmaster won't mind. The headmaster nods, and gestures for them to be seated, as everyone else also finds somewhere to sit, Boscombe nervously sitting down on another settee, next to Greg. The man picks a large wooden chair ,one of the only ones in the room not covered in papers or stray cats. The headmaster, for reasons known only unto himself, scorns a wide variety of these laden chairs and chooses to perch on his equally paper strew desk. Once they are all ensconced, comfortably or otherwise, the headmaster starts to speak.

"Now, boys." It is apparent that the headmaster is addressing both Greg and James as well as Sherlock and John,  "This is Mr Dimmock, from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's here to find out what happened to Carl."

Dimmock is openly scowling at Sherlock and John. "I hear you boys have been tampering with evidence."

"I wouldn't call it tampering," Sherlock says, knowing he sounds insolent and really not caring, "'finding', I'll think you'll find, is the correct term."

Dimmock opens his mouth to retort, but the headmaster cuts him off.

"We are not here to discuss Mr Holmes and Mr Watson's actions, although they will be discussed later." he says, giving both Sherlock and John a stern look, "we are here to discover what James has to say."

James Boscombe's eyes widen massively, brim, and then spill with tears. His noisy sobbing is slightly alarming. Greg Lestrade pats the boy on the shoulder and shoots Sherlock and John a look that wouldn't look out of place on a cow that has just discovered what an abattoir is for.

"I-I-I di- di-dn't- m-mean to!" he wails into the sleeve of his uniform. The headmaster fishes around in his pockets and proffers a monogrammed handkerchief he discovers in between all the sweet wrappers. The boy takesit and continues crying.

"You didn't mean to what, James? Lace your friends' flippers with botulinum? Throw his necklace into the lake? Steal back his flippers before anyone could find his body? Daub that message about Luglarr on the wall, what?"Sherlock is leaning forward and hissing at Boscombe before he even knows what he's doing, he's so infuriated by the little tadpole's attitude.

"I-I-di-"

"Don't say you didn't mean to, or you wouldn't have done it." Sherlock says, his fury barely controlled.

"Stop intimidating him." Dimmock says in the exact tone that Mycroft used to use when it was time for Sherlock to pack his toys away and go to violin practice.

Sherlock wants to tell the imperious wanker to sod off for pulling rank. He can feel his fists balling up, and it's only a gentle restraining hand on his shoulder which stops him from actually leaping forward and socking the smug bastard.

"Sherlock. Come on. Calm down."John soothes.

Surprisingly, Sherlock does feel slightly calmer, remembering that John is in the room, backing him up. He breathes steadily through his nose, and for a few moments the only noise in the room is James Boscombe's ragged sobs as the boy fights to stop hyperventilating.

"I didn't take the flippers."Boscombe says quietly, his voice quavering with tears, "I did everything else, but I didn't take the flippers away from him, I didn't even know he was dead until..." he trails off again and starts crying once again.

"You must have known the poison would kill him." the headmaster says, his voice gentle, but filled with sorrow and disappointment.

"No!" Boscombe yelled, "He didn't tell me it was poison, he only said it'd scare Carl, hurt him a bit, to get him back for how horrible he was to me all the time! I didn't mean for him to die!" Boscombe's voice is hoarse as he shouts hysterically through the tears.

Sherlock feels a thrill crawl up his spine. Of course James Boscombe, snivelling little wimp and dullard couldn't have pulled this off himself.

"Who told you that? Who gave you the poison?" Sherlock is leaning forward again, dimly aware that John is too.

"This boy." Boscombe has managed to control himself again, "He's older and he's in Slytherin, like you."

The headmaster, Sherlock ,John and Greg exchange glances. Dimmock is pretty much ignored.

"What is the boy's name, James?" the headmaster asks.

Oddly, the boy smiles despite his tearstained cheeks.

"His name is James too. That's how we got to be friends. He asked me my name, when he found me crying one day, after Carl had punched me in the arm and it really hurt. He gave me a Chocolate Frog and then he told me he was also called James. James Moriarty."