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Chapter Six
Adjusting Breaks
Classes at Hogwarts were bizarre, to say the least. Especially when it came to Sherlock. After that first day, the misplaced genius proved to be exceptional at Potions. Transfiguration and Charms: he turned out to be average (at least, when he followed the lessons). Herbology was rather hit-and-miss, and, of course, Astronomy was less than stellar.
He had long came to terms with the fact that he wasn't drugged. This world was, apparently, real. Which made it all the more necessary to find his way out of there. He spent almost all his free time looking for ways to get him and John home.
“You're going to exhaust yourself, you know...” John whispered to him one day in the library.
“Please,” Sherlock said. “I can still go a few days without sleep...” Sherlock replied, not looking up from his book on Portkeys. John rolled his eyes, thinking of a way to get Sherlock to go to bed.
Molly dropped a few books beside the already high pile, the noise startling the sleep-deprived Sherlock. “That's all the books I could find on magical travel...”
“Thanks.” Sherlock said, re-focusing primarily on his research.
“You're welcome. Hey, Sherlock. Would you... I don't know... want to go to the Quidditch game with me?” She asked.
“No, not particularly. Bye.” Sherlock said, shooing her off.
“Oh, alright then...” Molly said, walking away glumly. John shook his head at Sherlock's behavior and let out an annoyed sigh.
“Not good?” Sherlock said, nose still in the book.
“No, not good.” John said, ready to rip the book out of Sherlock's hands. Just then, Sherlock slammed shut the tome he was reading with a discontent sigh.
He grabbed another before John could stop him and flipped through it. “Apperating!” Sherlock exclaimed, waving the pages in John's face. “We can apperate out of...”
“Hogwarts can't just be apperated or disapperated out of. Besides, we'd have to be seventeen to do that...” John said, pulling the book out of Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock groaned in disgust, swept the books off the desk, and buried his head in his hands. “I HATE IT HERE!” He shouted, and slammed his head on the desk.
After a chorus of shushes responded to young Sherlock's actions, John nudged him. “Sherlock, you need a break.” He whispered. Sherlock mumbled something muffled by the table.
“What?”
“Alright!” Sherlock half-whispered, half-hissed, turning his head to John. He stumbled out his chair, having sat there for hours, and made his way to Ravenclaw Tower.
***
Sherlock laid sprawled out on his bed in his dormitory. Taking a break was boring and counter-productive. Gladstone sat on the opposite bed, staring at his owner inquisitively. “What?” Sherlock spat at the cat. “I'm bored! I want to go home, but I can't find out how to do it! And John insists I “take a break”, and “get some sleep”!”
Gladstone mewed to Sherlock.
“Well, I don't have to listen to him...”
Gladstone meowed again.
“Shut up. It's not like that...”
Gladstone hissed.
“You know what? I don't need to be arguing with a stupid cat! I need to get back to my research!”
“Arguing with a cat? I suppose all geniuses have their quirks.” A voice ("From Greater Manchester, no doubt." Sherlock noted.) said. “Or, it could just be the sleep deprivation...”
Sherlock looked over and saw a fellow First Year Ravenclaw. He had shaved brunet hair and blue eyes. He bore a striking resemblance to Sebastian Moran. "Twin brothers, perhaps?" Sherlock thought. “Hi. My name is Christopher David Smith.” he said, sticking out his hand. "Not brothers. Close cousins, maybe..." Sherlock thought, raising an eyebrow as he further inspected the boy.
“Can I just call you Christopher?” Sherlock said as he shook his fellow Ravenclaw's hand, noticing his bizarre, “doubled” pulse.
“No, just “Christopher David Smith.” ” he said.
"He's an odd one." Sherlock mentally noted. Christopher tilted his head, inquisitively and industriously scanning Sherlock over. "Curious, too." Sherlock added.
“I know you!” Christopher suddenly exclaimed, with a note of delight. “You scoundrel!” He said with a laugh. “I've heard of you before! Sherlock Holmes: the meddler!” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The busybody!” Sherlock opened his mouth to interject something. “The Scotland Yard ace-in-the-hole!”
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the last one. “well, your complements are certainly entertaining.”
Christopher laughed. “Oh, this is fantastic!” He plopped down beside Sherlock as he sat up on the bed. “But you're not supposed to be here. 'S not your world.”
Sherlock looked at Christopher dubiously. “How would you know?”
Christopher pondered this. “Been a lot of places.” (He's hiding something. Sherlock thought.) “What're you doing here? Why haven’t you gone back?” Christopher asked.
“I'm trying to.” Sherlock answered, starting to grow annoyed with his visitor. “Well,” Christopher said, “you know what'll help?”
“What?” Sherlock asked.
Christopher grabbed Sherlock and dragged him to the Commons Room. “Experimenting! Finding your own way out! Do what you need to do!”
Sherlock scoffed. “That's what I've been trying! But how would I get the necessary materials to...?”
Christopher laughed. “Deep down, this world isn't too different than yours, so do what comes naturally!” he dragged a Fourth Year over to the young detective. “There you go, Grant! The one I told you about!”
Grant looked over at Sherlock. “Hello, I'm Grant Munro. Can you help? My girlfriend's keeping secrets from me!” Sherlock looked from the distressed Grant to the smiling Christopher, and understood. Sherlock smirked and turned to Grant.
“Tell me all about it.”
“Fantastic! I'll leave you to it. And here...” Christopher handed Sherlock a book. “A little help in the research department. And, for John's sake, just get some sleep tonight!” he said, and ran off.
***
After solving the case of “The Yellow Cloak”, as John would no doubt have called it, Sherlock realized sleep might actually do him a bit of good. He flopped onto his bed, Gladstone creeping up beside him. The cat brushed up against him and curled up beside him. Sherlock looked down at Gladstone, petting him as he fell asleep. “'Experiment', he says?” Sherlock thought. Then he drifted to sleep.
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