Impossible - A Potterlock Fanfiction

Chapter fourteen

Sherlock:

I looked back at John before leaving. I hadn't wanted him to be sad... I was trying to help him. Why did people have to have such dull and simple emotions.

A cruel thought crept to the top of my mind. You care for him

That's different. I care for him, but only in such a way as I don't want him to die.

That's still caring.

Of for god's sake. I don't want to be the reason he dies.

Of course.

And that internal battle was over. It got me wondering though. What if I do care about him? Mycroft had always told me that caring about someone created a weakness in any superior mind. I'd always assumed it was because, in order to reach the top, you mustn't have a 'dead weight' to pull, but perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps Mycroft knew that more attention is focused towards superior minds than average, and getting too close to anyone could be dangerous...

No. Mycroft didn't care about things like that. It wouldn't be anything to do with other people. He didn't care about them.

"Excuse me, Holmes, but it appears you're in the wrong classroom" I heard Professor Flitwick's voice.

"Ah yes. It seems so, doesn't it" I replied "do you have any idea where I'm supposed to be?"

"I believe you're currently meant to be in potions with Professor Slughorn"

I nodded and walked out, trying to get to the dungeons before getting caught out of class.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. I was wondering where you'd gotten to" professor Slughorn exclaimed when I walked in, I took it he wasn't angry. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John sitting next to Lestrade, deep in conversation. He still looked upset.

"Ah yeah, sorry. I accidentally went to the wrong classroom" I mumbled sheepishly.

"It happens, my boy. Not to worry" he smiled. It all seemed too unlike a teacher. If let like there was a catch.

As it happens, I was right.

"How would you like to come to my first Slug-club party of the year?" He whispered.

"What's the Slug club?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Surely you can work that out yourself. It can't be too difficult"

"The Slug club is a group of students whom you believe have the highest chances of being important in the future. Basically you pick and choose students who you're especially nice to, so that you can get into concerts free, or be mentioned in speeches" I spat. I didn't quite understand my annoyance.

"I wouldn't have quite worded it like that, but..." He trailed off, seeming to think that explained what he was going to say "anyway, the parties are just small gatherings of the students in the club. It's just a dinner and some conversation. It's not some massively extravagant thing"

"Yeah sure, I'll go" I agreed. Parties were never really my thing (considering the first party I could remember resulted in my father being murdered), but I did thing that something good could come from going to this. "Who else will be there?"

"From your year, so far, Lily Evans, Severus Snape, Chesley Fuller..."

"Sounds... Uh, great..." I encouraged hopelessly "um, sorry for asking, but what exactly are we making?"

Everyone had cauldrons out and were adding ingredients carefully. I couldn't quite tell what potion it was.

"Cure for boils" he informed. Great. The easiest potion in the book.

I had mine done well before anyone else (people had to keep restarting), and so had a bit of time to myself. I resumed my thoughts from before class.

Bloody hell, Sherlock, yes, wanting to not get him killed is something that happens with most people, but you need to accept that you care. And not just a stupid way that a little boy cares for his new toy, he's your friend.

"Well that's hardly going to help much now, is it?" I said aloud. A few heads turned to me. "I thought you all knew I was crazy. Well, at least that's what you say. Surely talking to myself is just another aspect of crazy" I muttered. They turned back to their potion. But the point stands. It was no good deciding whether or not I cared, because, as things stand, I can't talk to him without risking something happening again.

"Sherlock Holmes, right? This is for you" someone tapped me on the shoulder, in their hands they held a note, written on the same paper as the one from the previous night. In the same handwriting, on the front, Sherlock Holmes was written. I ripped it open, and read through it quickly, my stomach tightening slightly.

Dear Mr Holmes,

You followed my last instructions nicely. I suspect you will do the same with these ones.

At some point throughout the next few days, you may find yourself in situations in which you wish to speak to John. I mean already you've had some close calls. Feel free to do so, but if you mention any of these letters (there are plenty more to come. Don't worry), then guess who's going to be in trouble. And here's the other thing. I noticed you never quite got to figure out how that man died. Figure that out, by the end of the week, and tell me. I know, I mean, it's obvious, but I need to know you do.

Have fun. You like mysteries, right? Well here's your very own.

Talk again soon,

-James

This James guy was an asshole.