It was a clear and warm November day and the Quidditch pitch was packed to its bursting point with eager spectators. Gryffindor was playing against Slytherin and John, Gryffindor seeker, was confident the Gryffindors would triumph.

John had loved the game of Quidditch since his first day at Hogwarts. He lived for the adrenaline rush that tore through his veins as soon as he kicked off of the ground on his Cleansweep.

"And they're off!" Greg Lestrade shouted, acting as commentator for the match. Greg was a Hufflepuff in the same year as John. John liked Greg and had befriended him because of their mutual love of Quidditch.

"Gryffindor in position, Smith has the quaffle, she's speeding toward the goal, she passes to Jones; Jones approaches the keeper—He makes it! 10-0 to Gryffindor!"

John grinned and continued his lap around the pitch; the snitch was nowhere in sight. As he circled around the Ravenclaw side of the pitch he saw his friend Sherlock among the crowd of students. Sherlock looked bored. He wasn't watching the game, instead he seemed to be deducing the people around him. John knew that Sherlock couldn't care less about Quidditch and it meant a lot to John that Sherlock made the effort to come to all of John's matches—even if his friend wasn't a very attentive spectator.

Twenty minutes later and Gryffindor and Slytherin were battling brutally. Gryffindor still led 60-30 and the Slytherins were desperate to take the lead.

"Tyler of Slytherin has the Quaffle, he throws it to Douglas, Douglas passes to Allen. Can Allen beat the keeper? He can! 60-40 is the score, folks." Greg sounded a little worried.

High above the stands, John finally spotted the snitch. It was fluttering in the middle of the pitch and the Slytherin seeker, Moran, hadn't seen it yet. John shot forward on his Cleansweep and he heard gasps below him at his abrupt movement. Moran's eyes followed John's movement and John urged his broom to move faster.

"C'mon..." he muttered, "A little farther..."

Moran and John closed in on the snitch from both sides, John stretched out his arm when he was five feet away from the glittering, gold sphere. Moran glared at him scathingly and in a split second the battle was over—John clutched the cold snitch in his left hand and rose his arm into the air in celebration.

The crowd erupted in cheers mingled with boos from the disheartened Slytherins. John beamed in pride as the rest of the Gryffindor team clapped him on the back and screamed in jubilation.

"That's the game, everyone!" Greg shouted into the magical megaphone, "Watson's got the snitch and Gryffindor wins!"

John kept his fist in the air and started to circle the stadium, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

Then suddenly the celebration was cut short. It happened during John's victory lap. He was thirty feet above the ground and still cheering with the rest of the team when he was slammed from behind by something big. John's heart skipped a beat and before he knew what had happened he was tumbling through the air.

The fall seemed to last ages. John flailed his arms and felt the wind whip through his hair and cause his robes to fly about him wildly. The screams in the crowd had changed from celebratory to shocked and scared, but John could barely hear them. John closed his eyes and braced for impact.

He hit the ground hard; John felt his left arm twist into an unnatural position and there was a sickening crack in the vicinity of his chest. John gasped in shock and pain and curled in on himself on the ground, not caring about the danger of possible cracked ribs puncturing organs and only wanting a reprieve from the immense pain. Frantic voices surrounded John and he struggled to stay conscious; he must've gotten a concussion upon impact as well.

"Move! Move! Let me through!"

Sherlock's voice overpowered the worried mutterings of the Gryffindor team and John forced his eyes open, wanting to reassure his friend. "He's my friend! Move!" Sherlock pushed away the bystanders vehemently and knelt by John's side, already scanning John from head to toe to take in the extent of the damage.

"What hurts, John? Are you alri— what am I saying? Of course you're not alright, you just fell thirty feet from an airborne broomstick! Yes—two cracked ribs, your left arm is badly dislocated, you have a mild concussion." Sherlock groaned in frustration. "You're the one studying to be a healer! I've deleted all of those medical spells and you need immediate attention— "

"Sherlock." John gasped, "Stop." It was extremely painful to breathe, let alone talk, but Sherlock was about to have a panic attack, John needed to calm him down.

"Stop? What do you mean stop? I'm the only one trying to help you! Everyone else is standing about uselessly! What are you gawking at, Graham? You know the gurney spell, don't you? Do it!"

John heard Greg Lestrade sigh in exasperation from somewhere beyond his haze of pain. "Yes. I know it. Calm down, Sherlock, Madam Pomfrey will put him right in about two seconds. Not that I'm not worried about you, John," Greg added as if to appease John. "That fall was terrifying."

"Terrifying, yet, not one person did anything to stop it! It would have been the easiest thing in the world to perform a Cushioning Charm and save John a lot of pain. A stadium full of hundreds of wizards and not one acted fast enough!"

Sherlock continued babbling while Greg conjured a gurney and levitated John onto it. John caught phrases like, "Stupid, useless professors" and "was in my Mind Palace".

John's teammates informed him irately that Sebastian Moran, the Slytherins seeker, had been the one who had pushed John off of his broom. Sherlock fumed for a while due to the fact that all Moran had to do as penance was writing lines.

Greg had been quite right—Madam Pomfrey healed John's ribs and fixed his dislocated arm in no time at all.

"I want to keep you here tonight, just for observation." Madam Pomfrey shook her head in a put-upon way as she fluffed John's pillows unnecessarily. "No sense sending you back out into the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts too soon."

"Quite right. Being among the idiots in the corridors is something that should be postponed for as long as possible. No doubt their incessant questions about the match will add unneeded stress." Sherlock sniffed arrogantly.

Sherlock was at John's bedside, sitting in a comfy chair that he had conjured out of nowhere with his wand. Sherlock's feet were resting on John's bed; he seemed like he intended on staying the night in the hospital wing as well.

"Hm." John responded, prodding his still healing ribs. "Right. Because having to babysit you while I rest is completely stress free."

Sherlock hummed in affirmation, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"You know," Sherlock said to John abruptly, once Madam Pomfrey had left, "Perhaps I should research ways to put a permanent Shield charm on you during Quidditch games. That way—"

"No, Sherlock." John shook his head at his friend, but he was smiling slightly all the same.

Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked.