The next morning, John ate breakfast surrounded by dozens of black-and-white, miniature Jim Moriartys. The Daily Prophet, which hadn't printed a word on the case while it was ongoing, now felt it merited the front page.

"Citizens are warned that Moriarty is cunning and, despite his youth, extremely dangerous," Mike read aloud. "Any sightings should be reported to the Ministry immediately. DO NOT approach him yourself."

John snorted. "As if Moriarty's stupid enough to go strutting down Diagon Alley with half the Ministry after him."

Though the article described Moriarty's crimes in graphic detail, it said very little about the details of the investigation. There was no mention at all of John, Sherlock, or Irene Adler. John was torn between indignation and relief. Obviously, they deserved some credit, but he didn't want reporters hounding him with questions. He was already getting enough of that from his classmates.

Everyone wanted to hear his side of the story. He was bombarded with questions in the Great Hall, in the common room, even in the loo. It was exhausting. He was grateful to his teachers for ensuring that he was at least left alone during classes.

"I'm beginning to think being a hero is overrated," he confessed to Professor Longbottom.

Longbottom chuckled. "Harry could have told you that."

But if he thought for one moment that it wasn't all worth it, those doubts vanished when he entered the Hufflepuff common room one morning and found Molly sitting by the fire, looking ridiculously healthy for someone who'd spent the last week in a coma.

"I'm so sorry about Jim," she said, flinging her arms around his waist. "I can't believe it was him all along. I feel so stupid."

John hugged her back. "He fooled everyone. Don't beat yourself up over that."

Molly looked up at him, her brown eyes even wider than usual.

"They say it was you and Sherlock who sorted it all out."

"Well, it was mostly Sherlock. And we had some help from the Aurors, and Irene Adler, if you can believe it. But yeah, I did a bit."

"I knew you must be clever to be friends with Sherlock."

John laughed. "I don't know about that. I think Sherlock just likes having someone to bounce ideas off of. Anyone could take my place."

"That's not true!" Molly shook her head vigorously. "Sherlock never bounces ideas off of anyone else. Not even when I—when they offer." She look nearly as sad as she had when talking about Moriarty.

The next time John saw Sherlock, he didn't waste any time on pleasantries.

"You need to be nicer to Molly."

Sherlock looked up from his book, startled. "What?"

"You heard me. She's a lovely girl, and she deserves better. Besides, you need more friends than just me."

"Why?" It was an honest question.

"Because friends protect people, and you need more protection than most, and I can't be with you every second of every day."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, very well. I suppose it wouldn't disrupt my work too much to occasionally…chat with Molly." He said the word chat as though it were something distasteful.

John smiled. Maybe he would be a good influence on Sherlock, after all.

O0O0O

A few days later, John asked: "Where do you think he is now?"

Sherlock didn't need to ask who he was talking about.

"Lying low in some Muggle village, I expect," he said. "He can't use magic, after all."

For the first time, John felt a shred of hope. He'd forgotten about the spells the Ministry of Magic used to deter underage wizards from using magic outside of school.

"If he can't use magic, then he couldn't have gotten far," he said.

"Unless he hid in the back of a train or a lorry."

And just like that, the shred was gone. "Oh. Right."

"He'll be in a city by now," Sherlock continued matter-of-factly. "London or Manchester, or maybe even Paris. In an urban setting, he'll be like the proverbial needle in a haystack."

John studied his friend's countenance. "You're awfully calm about this."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fretting won't make Moriarty any easier to find. Besides, it's not our fault the Aurors let him slip through their fingers. We did our part. We solved the case."

Despite his words, he looked morose. John wondered briefly if he was putting on a brave face, but then he realized the truth: Sherlock wasn't depressed that Moriarty escaped. He was depressed that the case was over.

Moriarty was a lunatic, but he'd been right about one thing. Without the mystery of the serial poisoner to keep him occupied, Sherlock would be bored out of his miraculous mind. John thought back to the day they'd met, to the stoic, solitary boy getting beaten up by a gang of Slytherins. Was that all the future had in store for Sherlock Holmes?

"Oy! Holmes!"

Greg Lestrade burst into the Great Hall, red-faced and out of breath.

"You'd better get down to the Quidditch pitch," he gasped. "We've been robbed."

Sherlock surveyed him coolly. "Stolen broomsticks? I hardly think—"

"Not brooms," said Lestrade. "The entire bloody pitch is gone."

Sherlock closed his book. "What do you mean? How can a pitch be gone?"

"It's just gone. Hoops, stands, everything! There's nothing left but a giant patch of grass!"

John gaped. "Who at Hogwarts has that kind of power? And why would they—"

He turned to address Sherlock, but found himself staring at an empty chair. Sherlock was already out the door.

"Come on, John!" he called. "The game is afoot!"

And John ran after him, grinning from ear to ear.

O0O0O

That's all, folks. Thank you so much for sticking with me all this time. It's been one heck of a journey.

I'm already hard at work on my next multi-chapter story. It's a Merlin AU fic, but don't worry—I'm nowhere near done with Sherlock.

By the way, I've also started a vlog. You should check it out. The link is on my profile page. ;-)