ofalexandra: (Sherlock/John)
[personal profile] ofalexandra
A BBC Sherlock fanfic, Sherlock/John. Harry Potter Crossover. AU. All Ages. (1534 words.)

Prompt fill for BBC Sherlock kink meme here. Title from T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men.
Still angsty and full of ALL THE REICHENBACH FEELINGS URGH

This Broken Jaw of Our Lost Kingdoms
Post-Reichenbach, John visits the Holmes estate to have a conversation with Sherlock's portrait.


The housekeeper lets him into the sprawling mansion without a word, and John surmises that Mycroft alerted the household staff regarding his visit prior to his arrival. The Holmes estate is vast, acres and acres of pristine English countryside that extend beyond the field of vision in all four directions. It is beautiful, cold, and entirely impersonal in the way all wealthy estates are.

The housekeeper - a matronly woman who is decidedly not Mrs Hudson - shows him to the portrait gallery before excusing herself. The room is long and flanked by a wall of floor-to-ceiling length windows, showcasing the estate in all of its glory. Hundreds of portraits of the aristocratic Holmes clan line the walls, an unbroken line of blue-blooded legacy and heritage that the Watsons can only ever hope to have.

John ignores the array of illustrious ancestors on his journey down the gallery, intent on finding only one portrait. The livery of the parade of Holmeses indicates that the portraits are hung chronologically; the latest descendants of the clan will be found at the end of the long room. His steady heartbeat tangibly accelerates as he nears the hallway’s end.

He can see him in the distance as he draws closer; can identify the sharp lines of his body, the paleness of his skin from memory. His heart aches.

A young Sherlock Holmes - eighteen years of age, the gold plaque reads - dozes on the russet-coloured sofa in his portrait, a scaled-down sentient replica of the boy with insatiable curiosity that grew to become the man whose brilliance shone and cut like a dozen diamonds. His Hogwarts robes are messily draped on him; his legs are too long, and the hem of his robes trail the floor from his undignified sprawl on the sofa.

If John closes his eyes - which he doesn’t, not now, not when he has a breathing, moving (even if it’s not really real) Sherlock in front of him - he can almost see the gangly youth from his younger days. He can see Sherlock, Ravenclaw scarf fluttering about in the autumn breeze as they study for their finals on the lawns of the Great Lake; he can see Sherlock, wand sticking out of his slacks at an awkward angle as he bends over a cauldron to fine-tune some new-fangled experimental potion; he can see Sherlock, post-Sorting, marching past him and sniffing an eagle’s better than a lion, you know. He can see all these things, playing out in his mind’s eye like an artisan’s film.

His hand reaches out subconsciously to touch the napping youth in the portrait before he remembers where he is and pulls it back. He clenches his fist against his thigh.

“The servants would have a conniption if they knew you even attempted to touch me,” the boy - Sherlock, says as he opens an indolent eye. John almost forgets to breathe as he lets the deep baritone of his voice wash over him, painting over the grief and hurt and pain like a temporary plaster.

Sherlock stands, stretching in a vaguely feline manner before cocking his head and staring at John with all-too-familiar piercing grey eyes. “Auror or Intelligence?” he whips out.

John savours the moment. “Auror,” he replies. “How did you know?”

“Ah, I thought so. Your stance is decisively combative, but your wand-hold is vaguely defensive, so it’s either Intelligence work or non-direct-engaging Auror work. Medic, then. You’re thirty-five, thirty-six years old, a veteran of the second Great Wizarding War. Injuries sustained on your shoulder, and you once walked with a limp - a broken Curse, but still with some lingering effects. You were a Gryffindor, with a ten-and-a-quarter inch rowan wand, dragon heartstring core. You have an older sibling - a Gryffindor like you, but you two aren’t close, due to his Quidditch betting problem.”

“Amazing,” he breathes out, and the startled and smug smile that flits across Sherlock’s face twists the knife in his heart.

“Well, did I get it all right?”

He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. He has not truly smiled in a very long time. He thinks he has forgotten how to. “Mostly.”

Sherlock cocks his head, and arches a haughty eyebrow. “Mostly?”

“Sister,” John elaborates. “I have a sister. So it’s her Quidditch betting problem.”

Sister,” Sherlock echoes, pacing the portrait. “Of course. There’s always something I miss.” He stops in his tracks, turns to John. “What is it, then? I doubt you’ve come all the way here to listen to my deductions. What do you want?”

John swallows, words suddenly stuck in his throat. He had planned for this, thought of a million different things he wanted to say once he got here. None of the words surface now, and his mind is as blank as a sheet of parchment.

“I’ve just come to say hello,” he manages to get out.

Sherlock, now lounging on his sofa, abruptly swivels his head to face him. “ ‘To say hello?’ Do I know you?”

Merlin. This hurts more than he would have thought humanly possible to bear. “I’m your -” lover. boyfriend. partner. “- friend. I’m a friend of yours.”

Sherlock looks intrigued now. “A friend? Really? Did I say that?”

I don’t have friends. I only have one. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

He gets a non-committal grunt in reply. “Interesting. We met in school, I presume.”

John chuckles brokenly, recalling their first journey on the Hogwarts Express, with the poisoned Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans and the scrambled to solve the case before they even arrived in Hogwarts. “Yeah, in our first year. We met on the train, actually.”

“Oh?” comes the disinterested response. “I suppose I’m dead, now that you’re here to talk to me, rather than in person.”

The pain is still as crisp and cutting as it was the day he watched Sherlock crumple to the ground in a flash of green light. His fists are clenched so tightly that his nails bite into his palms.

“Three weeks ago, to this day,” he says.

“Shame,” Sherlock huffs, falling back onto his sofa in a heap that really shouldn’t be able to be elegant and ungainly at the same time. “But then again, I always assumed I’d die young.” He tilts his head back, closes his eyes as he rests his neck against the sofa arm. “Did I lead a good life?”

Tears clog his throat, and he clears it several times before he can speak. “I think -” the pain is overwhelming, and he has to stop before he tries again. “Yes. Yes, you did. You did all sorts of consulting work for the Auror department - the internal policing section, under Greg Lestrade. We chased down elusive Death Eaters, solved serial murderers, busted elf-trafficking rings, and you had all these mad experiments going on in our flat. I could never get a cuppa without have to cast a disinfectant and anti-bacterial charm on my cup first. You always forgot to eat, and you’d cast Rejuvenators on yourself all the time so you wouldn’t have to sleep.”

John sighs, expelling his breath in a shaky exhale before resuming. “It was mad. Mad. We’d go after these mass murderers single-handedly, and without any plans whatsoever, you berk. There was this time you got hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx and almost tumbled off a cliff, and another where a contraband bezoar smuggler got us with the Full Body-Bind and stuffed us in a meat freezer, and we nearly froze to death. It was crazy, I tell you. Utter craziness. But I loved it. I loved every single minute of it, and you did too. So yeah. Yeah, you had a fantastic life. I only wish we had longer together to enjoy it.”

The tears are unbidden, and it is a long minute before he can fully suppress the sobs and shudders that wreck his body. Unfair is just one word in the long list he has used too much these few weeks. Others include love, loved, forever, best friend, and crazy self-sacrificing bastard.

“You loved me, then.” Sherlock’s is pitched slightly higher now, almost as if it is caught on a breath, like it is something he is unwilling to believe too much.

Love,” he responds, almost too aggressively. “Love. I love you. That doesn’t change just because you’re dead.”

Sherlock clears his throat, and his movements are just shy of awkward. “That’s - that’s nice to know. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John sighs, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “But you don’t ever have to thank me for loving you, you martyr-git-bastard.”

“Throwing insults around doesn’t exactly convince anyone that you still love me, you know,” comes Sherlock’s voice.

“I can’t help it if you deserve -”

The voice. The voice is coming from behind him. John whirls around, heart pounding in his ears.

“Hello, John. For the record, I love you too. Do you want to punch me now, or should we shag first?”


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ofalexandra: (Default)
Alexandra

who?

Alexandra. (Allie, for short.)
Asian-British. University Student.

This is ofalexandra's fic journal.

Adores: BBC Sherlock, Psych, Downton Abbey, Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica, The Sentinel, and Haruki Murakami.

Abhors: Lettuce. And Disney's Snow White.