Character Parallels: Sherlock Holmes & Gabriel
└ “Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”
“I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales”
Obviously their boggarts would be each other’s corpses.
If Sherlock hadn’t known what it was John was seeing, he would have rolled his eyes; would have cast the spell himself; would have scolded John for freezing up at the sight of his worst fear. They were third year students who had tangled with trolls , aggravated acromantulas, and made friends with the merfolk of the Black Lake. This wasn’t above them by any means, and John was a capable-enough wizard to know how to best a boggart.
However, Sherlock knew exactly what it was John was seeing. He was there, behind the line, watching the boy panic at the sight. And, he had seen the same when he had taken his turn with the beastly boggart: the corpse of his best friend.
(John’s throat bit out by some monster or other, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, wide and empty, his blood pooling around him, staining his tawny locks, paling his skin— No. He couldn’t think of it again. Couldn’t think of the way John called his name behind the other students, trying to reach out, trying to protect him from the trick; how his hands had shaken, how he had stammered out the counter spell, how he had pushed his way back to John’s side and stood in stoic silence, unreachable.)
He watched the young Gryffindor’s hand tremble as he held his wand to his chest in a death grip. John seemed to be choking on breath, trying to contain the tears glistening in his eyes. He looked physically ill, unsteady and ready to be knocked over by a mere breath. Sherlock knew the other students were muttering about themselves in judgment. He didn’t care to hear their words himself, but he knew John would (and more importantly, he hated to see John lose himself), so he stepped forward, ignoring the rule not to intervene, and gingerly reached to touch John’s shoulders.
A tiny yelp escaped the boy, who flinched greatly under the touch which burned him. John turned away from the boggart to look at the offender. Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, damp and overflowing, and in his friend’s gaze he saw confusion and fear. John looked back to the boggart, blinked hard and gazed his way again, then returned to the trick before him, whimpering and entirely unsure which was reality and which was fraud.
"Come on, John," Sherlock said quietly, supportingly, in the way John would encourage him. "’Riddikulus’. It isn’t real.” A sharp breath shook the Gryffindor’s entire frame, and Sherlock saw tracks of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks. His hands gripped John tighter, hoping the grip would bring him back to reality.
"I-I can’t," John choked at last, his horrified eyed not on his friend but on the boggart at his feet (at the picture of Sherlock’s still body soaked with blood, lifeless, no more brilliant charms or incantations slipping from his lips, no light in his eyes, no more Sherlock Holmes). John shook his head feverishly. “I can’t," he squeaked, and a desperate sob escaped him as he said again, “I can’t.”
With a glance to the professor and a nod of approval received, Sherlock tugged John aside - and he fought against him, uttering ‘No, no’, desperate to stay by his corpse’s side - without waiting for the professor to intervene with their own boggart, with their own jestful spell, with their own solution. He grabbed his and John’s bags and left the building, ignoring the hushed murmurs of their peers as they passed.
There is a secret room in Hogwarts that not many people know about. It burned the last time it was used, but Sherlock knew how to find it. He had read about it, had heard rumours, and now he and John were masters of summoning the Room of Requirement. And there they found themselves again and once more; and within the walls of the secret hideaway, John screamed at Sherlock, screamed at him what it was he saw as if Sherlock hadn’t seen as well; and within the walls John broke, falling to his knees, his hands on his eyes in anguish, sobbing out apologies that Sherlock was sure involved the illusion of his death; and within the walls Sherlock let John in, holding his frame and trying to soothe the distraught boy as best he could.
And he didn’t judge John at all, for he was the stronger of the two in Sherlock’s mind. He was the one who could let himself cry at the thought of his best friend dying. He was the one who cried for them both.
"It’s fine, John," Sherlock murmured, his cheek in John’s hair. “It’s all fine."
He pretended not to notice the fingers wrapped around his wrist, counting his pulse, each pump of blood bringing them both back to life.
“Summer Gold or Amber Pearl?” Jim stood in the den holding up two paint swatches that were, as far as Sebastian was concerned, the exact same shade of yellow.
Well, they were in was what was going to become the den. Previously, it had been Sebastian’s office. But as more and more of Sebastian’s work was being done off-site and anything at home was usually done in the basement, Jim had decided that the room could be put to better use.
Sebastian was not pleased with this.
“I don’t even see why we need a den,” he protested, taking his books off a shelf and putting them in a box. He blew dust off an old youth hockey trophy.
“Don’t whine so much, Bas. You can still keep your books in here. They just won’t be on those sorry excuses for shelving from… what is that, Ikea?”
“It’s cheap and hideous.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. Jim viewed everything that was mass produced as “cheap and hideous.” Apparently, if it wasn’t custom built or antique, it had no place in their flat. And the den would be going the custom built route. Jim was actually working with an architect and an interior designer. Sebastian thought this was slightly overkill, but he had no desire to repeat the fight that had erupted when he mentioned that opinion off handedly. “Beyond that… yellow? Seriously? It’s going to look like a nursery in here.”
“I suppose you’d rather have the place done in forest green, with mahogany and leather everywhere.” Jim pulled a face as he wandered around the room, running his fingers over windowsills and glancing around with a slightly far-off look in his eyes.
“Yeah, I would, actually.” Sebastian said with a frown, but it turned to a smile as he pulled out a small bottle of shells that they’d gathered on their not-honeymoon in Jamaica.
“Too bad. You got to pick the colors for the bedroom, now I’m doing the den. And you still haven’t answered me: Summer Gold or Amber Pearl?”
“I don’t know, babe…” he said with a sigh, carefully setting the bottle in a box. He put on his worst German accent. “Isn’t that a question for your dear Hans?”
“His name is Gunther and you know that. Now answer me.”
Sebastian folded the flaps of the box shut and stood to grab another one. “Whatever his name is, I don’t trust the guy.”
“You never trust Germans.”
“With good reason.”
“It was one bad judgment call, it’s not fair to bias yourself against an entire culture.”
“Talk to me again when you’ve been stabbed through the foot by a bloody neo-Nazi with a bayonet.” Sebastian rubbed at his left foot, feeling the slight raised bump of scar tissue.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“And you’re being pedantic.”
Sebastian looked up at that. Jim’s voice had suddenly lost its playful edge and there was something there that he couldn’t quite place. “What?”
“Could you please try to take this seriously?” There was tension in Jim’s shoulders and he was looking at Sebastian with a hurt expression. “I’m asking your opinion because I’m doing this for you.”
Standing and brushing dust from his knees, Sebastian crossed the room to where Jim was standing. “What do you mean, doing this for me?” he asked cautiously. “You’re taking my office away from me so you can play house with your interior designer…”
Jim looked at the floor. “You said you don’t like watching movies in the sitting room because of the angle the couch has to be at.” He raised his eyes to look at Sebastian without lifting his head. “And there’s no place to mount surround sound speakers with the way the breakfast bar is situated.”
Sebastian blinked. He had mentioned that. About six months ago. He’d just assumed Jim had ignored him as usual. He’d certainly been acting that way up until this point. “So when you say den…”
“It’s more of a media room.”
“Why didn’t you just say that, babe?” Sebastian lifted Jim’s chin before sliding his arms around his husband’s waist.
“Because it was supposed to be a surprise, you clot,” Jim mumbled, reluctantly moving into Sebastian’s embrace. “And now you’ve ruined it.”
Sebastian took the paint swatches from Jim’s hand and studied them. “Summer gold,” he said finally, meeting Jim’s lips in a kiss.
Felt like writing, so I asked for one word prompts over on twitter. This one was “Yellow.”
James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider. A spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.
sometimes I picture Molly Hooper sitting Jim Moriarty down and telling him this relationship isn’t working out but she’d do it in such a lovely way all sweet and anxious because she doesn’t want to hurt him but the fact of it is he’s gay and there’s no future for them but she’s happy for him really she is and maybe they can still be friends and Jim is just like
Jim is fearful of his feelings towards Sebastian and lashes out; effectively murdering his sniper. While bleeding out, Sebastian decides to ask why he is dying. He wasn’t expecting to be flattered by the answer.