Potterlock – The Prisoner of Azkaban

Author's Note: Bonjourno! Okay, so when I was writing this it all seemed fine, until A Whole New World came on my iTunes shuffle, and then the whole sharing-a-broomstick thing came across as very Aladdin and Jasmine on the magic carpet. And then I couldn't stop laughing :P (also brought back horrific memories of singing it in my village pantomime of Cinderella three years ago, when I played Prince Charming. Horribly embarrassing, though honey, you should see me in a crown! XD). Et voila! Enjoy.

Chapter One

As John slowly pushed open the door that led to Sherlock's bedroom, he was met by gentle candlelight – shadows dancing on the navy walls. The double bed set against the centre of the far wall was clothed in a deep blue silk and white fluffy pillows. It looked so inviting. . .

"Sherlock?" John's voice sound small in the wide room. He stepped forward and heard the door click shut behind him. He didn't have time to turn round before a pair of thin, strong arms wrapped around him from behind and lips brushed against the side of his neck.

"John," the smooth voice of his best friend whispered in his ear, sending a shiver right down his spine. He lifted one hand and laced his fingers in Sherlock's silky curls. He felt Sherlock's hand slip under the hem of his T-shirt, his fingers warm against John's stomach as he stroked the soft flesh there. John turned in Sherlock's arms and lifted his chin to press his lips against that perfect cupid's bow he'd dreamed of kissing since he first realised his feelings for his friend. Sherlock's hand moved to cradle the back of John's head and deepened the kiss. For someone who'd had no previous experience with physical affection, he was so good at it that John's knees felt weak. He clutched at the back of Sherlock's shirt and the two of them stumbled backwards until John's legs hit the bed, and they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs. John's fingers fumbled at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, almost ripping them in his eagerness to expose the pale skin of his chest. He ran his hands over the smoothness underneath, and Sherlock moaned against his mouth as he slipped his own hands down the back of John's jeans.

"Sherlock, I. . ." John whispered in his friend's ear as Sherlock ran his warm tongue along his jaw-line to nibble his earlobe. He squirmed a little as Sherlock chuckled, his breath tickling the sensitive skin around his ear.

"Time to wake up, John," he said.

"What? No—" John protested, but Sherlock was already shaking his shoulder, his voice growing louder as the candlelit room faded around them. . .

"Time to get up," Sherlock said – the real Sherlock – standing by John bed and mercilessly shaking his shoulder.

"Go away," John said miserably, burying his face in his pillow.

It had been two weeks since he'd come to stay at Sherlock's house, and his dreams were getting annoyingly frequent. They were wonderful while he was asleep, and pleasant as he roused, but when he was actually awake and conversing with the real Sherlock Holmes, they were nothing short of torture.

"Breakfast," Sherlock said. He was still in in pyjamas (John had learned that, when at home, Sherlock never dressed unless he was planning on actually leaving the house) and silk navy dressing-gown.

John swung his legs out of bed and followed Sherlock from the spare bedroom in which he'd been sleeping since he'd arrived. It was a fairly comfortable room – plain white walls and a cream carpet with pale blue furniture and a queen-size iron-post bed – and made a nice change from his springy single mattress back home. The Holmes residence was in a village called Tanglewood Hamlet – a small collection of wizarding families built away from the neighbouring Muggle towns. It was a three-story, four bedroom detached house with an extensive back garden and a small orchard of pear trees beyond the back gate.

The kitchen was a large room with a wide fireplace and a long table stretching down its centre. Walby, the Holmes family's ancient house-elf, was stirring a large pot on the stove. John had received quite a surprise when he'd arrived at the house and been greeted by the strange little creature. He was less than three feet in height – though Sherlock claimed that was fairly tall for his kind – with bat-like ears and a very large hooked nose and sagging skin, making him look like a plucked vulture. In a tea-towel. For his unsavoury appearance, however, he was a good-natured thing, and absolutely doted on Mrs. Watson, who he seemed to see as nothing short of royalty.

"Would Master John like some porridge?" he asked in his raspy voice – he sounded like John's father did after he'd had his tonsils removed. "Or there is eggs and bacon?"

"Eggs and bacon, please," John said, sitting at the table, and the elf shuffled off to the pantry.

"So what's the plan for today?" John asked Sherlock, who was helping himself to some porridge.

"Well," he said, sitting down on opposite John. "We – that is to say you and I – are going flying."

John nearly choked on the glass of orange juice he was drinking. "B-but you h-hate flying."

"I hate Quidditch," Sherlock said, with a sneer at the word. "Flying itself's not so bad."

"I don't like heights," John said tensely. 'Don't like', was quite a bit of an understatement. The thought of placing sufficient distance between himself and the ground with nothing but a stick for support made the sweat break out on his forehead.

"You don't have to go high," Sherlock said, seemingly indifferent to John's terror.

Walby pushed a plate of toast, bacon and two fried eggs in front of John, who found he'd rather lost his appetite. He'd never told Sherlock about his fear of heights – he wouldn't like Sherlock to think of him as weak any more than was necessary – but he had a feeling that, even if he did, Sherlock would find a way to make him mount a broom. He half-heartedly ate his breakfast and let his mind wander back to the dream he'd been enjoying – more than he probably should have been. He could still feel the ghost of Sherlock's lips on the side of his neck, and his skin tingled as he recalled how his fingers had felt against the flesh of his torso. He looked up at the real Sherlock, whose attention was fixed on his breakfast bowl. His lips looked slightly chapped and his fingernails had specs of dirt beneath them. He was rougher around the edges than the Sherlock in his dream had been, yet he looked just as perfect.

Once Walby had cleared away their plates, Sherlock clapped his hands together and stood up.

"Right," he said briskly. "Get dressed and I'll meet you in the orchard in about thirty minutes, okay?"

No! John thought in panic, but didn't get a chance to answer before Sherlock left the room, his dressing-gown flapping behind him.

"Oh, God. . ." John dropped his head forward into the table and groaned. He was going to look like a total prat in front of Sherlock – the last person he wanted to think of him as a fool.

"Master John does not like flying?"

John turned his head to the side and saw Walby looking at him as he dried a plate on a cloth.

"No," he said. "I don't like heights. I hate them. They scare the hell out of me."

Walby's ears twitched and he looked thoughtful.

"Walby thinks he knows a way to help, sir," he said.

John sat up a little. "Really?" he asked, hopefully. "How?"

"Master Mycroft and Master Sherlock have many brooms, sir," Walby said. "They are all fast and go to great heights, but there is one they do not ride – they say it is too slow, sir – but Walby keeps it because it was Master Siger's."

Siger Holmes was Sherlock's father. From what John had seen of the family photos in the house, he greatly resembled Mycroft – they had the same chestnut-brown hair and beak-like nose, while Sherlock took after his mother much more. They both had inky-black curls (though of course Violet Holmes's was now streaked with grey) and full, angular mouths. While John could not see Sherlock's pale blue eyes or defined cheekbones in either of his parents, he imagined they must have come from another family member – a grandparent perhaps.

"The broom is a very old model, sir," Walby continued. "A Jetstream 200. It was Master Siger's grandfather's and so it flies at a leisurely pace."

"Right," John said. "Where is it?"

"Walby keeps it in here, sir," he tottered to a thin cupboard beside and the stove and pulled a slightly dusty broomstick out of it. The handle was thicker than most of the brooms John had seen, and there was even a small padded saddle fastened just above the tail. Even John, who knew next to nothing about brooms, could tell it was a very outdated model. But if it was slow and would not take him high, it didn't matter.

"Thank you," John said, taking the broom from Walby and smiling at the elf. "Thanks a lot."

"Walby is happy to help," Walby said with a deep bow.

Broom clutched in his arms, John left the kitchen and made his way back up the stairs to his room. Halfway along the landing, a door opened and Mycroft stepped out, John almost barrelling right into him.

"Oh!" he said in a surprised squeak. "S-sorry."

Mycroft looked down at him with an expression cold enough to freeze the Sahara desert, before John stepped meekly aside to let him pass by. How could someone look so intimidating in a dressing-gown and house slippers? From the very first day John had stepped in the house, Mycroft had not spoken a word to him and barely condescended to look at him. Sherlock said it was because he had a rather archaic-style attitude towards Muggle-borns, which was unfortunate as there was nothing John could do to rectify it.

John hurried back to his room to wash and dress and rake a comb through his hair. It had grown somewhat since last year and become quite thick, and was currently sticking up at the back like a bird's nest. He wetted it down and set to brushing his teeth. His hair was not the only thing that had grown since the holidays started – he was delighted to find that his hormones were finally starting to kick in, and he'd grown a good inch or so. He was changing in other ways too – though his change in voice-pitch was choosing to be less constant than his height. Sherlock found the occasional squeaks in John's voice highly amusing, as his own had managed to change quite smoothly.

It was closing on forty minutes when he reached the gate to the orchard at the end of the garden. He could see Sherlock standing a little way beyond, leaning against a tree. There were four broomsticks hovering four feet from the ground in front of him. They all looked very streamlined and quick – clearly top of the line. John stepped through the gate and walked up to him, tightening his grip on the handle of the Jetstream 200.

"There you are," Sherlock said testily. "I was beginning to wonder. What're you holding?"

"Walby gave it to me," John said.

Sherlock looked at the broom and snorted. "Father's old Jetstream? Not much for speed, and it's only got a height of about three metres."

"That's fine," John said quickly. "Walby offered it to me and I. . . well. . . I didn't want to hurt his feelings."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said, gesturing to the brooms levitating obediently beside him. "Choose one of these. Got a Cleansweep Ten here – best broom after the Nimbus. Or a Comet Two Sixty? Not as good for speed as it looks but it's got good agility."

It was slightly strange hearing Sherlock spouting off all this broomstick jargon like it was a shopping list, and for a moment John was compelled to laugh.

"No, really," he said, eyeing the brooms like they were bucking broncos. "I'll stick with this one. It's. . . got a nice saddle."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the handle of the Cleansweep Ten. "Suit yourself," he said, picking up a small bundle from the ground and removing the cloth. He strapped the saddle round the shaft of the broom and tightened the buckle. It was a lot smaller than the one on the Jetstream, and John considered it lucky Sherlock was so skinny or else it might have been uncomfortable.

"Some men prefer to go without," he said. "But personally I'm not a masochist."

John laughed and Sherlock swung his leg over the broom. He copied him, rather awkwardly, and sat himself in the squashy saddle. He noted that the broom now seemed to be supporting itself underneath him, and was vibrating slightly.

"Right," Sherlock said, pulling on a pair of brown leather gloves and throwing some to John. "You did the lessons with Madam Hooch in first year?"

In truth, when John had learned they were to be submitted to flying lessons, he'd thrown himself on Professor McGonagall's mercy and explained his fear. Thankfully, she'd been lenient and allowed him to spend the time studying instead.

"Uhh," John glanced nervously at the handle quivering beneath his fingers. "Yes. Yes, of course. But. . . remind me?"

"Sure," Sherlock grinned. Thankfully, he still hadn't quite noticed that John was working himself into a state of mental collapse. "Just push off from the ground with your feet, pull the handle up to go higher – which won't be much with that old thing – lean down to descend, and just steer left or right depending on where you want to go."

"Right," John said with a fake grin. "Good. Great. Excellent."

"Alright then," Sherlock said, pushing off from the ground with his feet and raising some ten feet in the air. John took a moment to admire how natural he looked on a broom. It was probably just as well Sherlock wasn't a Quidditch fan – if he made the Ravenclaw team the girls who still had crushes on him might explode.

"Come on," he called, and before John could say anything more, he shot off like a rocket through the trees.

"Ohhh. . ." John whined to himself and gripped the broom handle like a vice. Screwing his eyes tightly shut, and bounced up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, willing himself to push himself from the ground. After a three or so minutes, he took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as he dared. The sensation of having no ground beneath his feet was not really a pleasant one, and he opened one eye just a fraction to look at the grass below. He was only a few inches aloft – he could probably still touch the ground with his foot if he stretched – and this made him a tiny bit more confident. He sat up a little straighter and flexed his hands around the wood between them. The broom bobbed a little in the air as he pushed down on the saddle, and he leaned instinctively leaned forward to steady himself.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a wise move.

The broom, while not particularly fast – as Walby had promised, was nonetheless faster than John wished to go while sitting astride an oversized stick with a cushion attached to it. He clutched onto the handle as it bobbed merrily between the trees, John only just managing to steer it. Why anyone would want to do this for a living – and on something ten times faster – was completely beyond him.

Then, as he avoided another tree, he overbalanced and fell with a dull thud on the grass. The broom, which didn't seem to have noticed its passenger had taken temporary leave, flew into the trunk of a tree and dropped to the ground as well, where it rolled rather pathetically for a moment before lying still.

"John?"

John rolled onto his back and looked up to see Sherlock gazing down at him.

"What on Earth are you doing?"

"Cloud-gazing," said John.

"Where's the Jetstream?"

"Oh, somewhere there. . ." John said, gesturing vaguely to his left. "We, uh. . . didn't get on."

"Well, what can you expect?" Sherlock sighed. He dropped down off his Cleansweep and propped the Jetstream against the tree it had fallen by. "Probably not even safe to ride."

"Great," John said.

"Here." Sherlock went to the other brooms, still waiting patiently where they'd started, and picked up the Comet Two Sixty. "Take this one. It used to be mine before Mother got me the Cleansweep."

Oh God, John thought as Sherlock held the flashy broom out to him. "No," he whimpered, then realised he'd said it aloud.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, looking puzzled.

"Sherlock," John sighed and gave in. Sherlock would probably think him a loser anyway if he tried to ride the Comet and broke both his legs. "I can't. I can't ride. I. . . I hate heights. Terrified of them. And I hate flying," he added grumpily.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. John felt his face go crimson, and made a prayer to whatever gods that might have been listening for the ground to swallow him up. But instead of launching into a sarcastic speech on how pathetic his friend was, Sherlock held out a hand and hauled him to his feet.

"Why didn't you say so, you idiot?" he rolled his eyes.

"Well. . . I kind of did. . ." John said, but Sherlock was already busying himself with another one of the cloth packages he'd brought from the house. He moved the saddle he'd fastened for himself up the handle and fixed a second behind it.

"What're you doing?" John asked nervously.

"We won't go too fast, and I'll stay fairly low to the ground," Sherlock said. "It's fun, John, really."

Anything that Sherlock Hard-To-Please Holmes deemed 'fun' was enough to make John reconsider, even only slightly. Besides, the thought of being so close to him was bait enough – the two saddles didn't exactly leave much legroom.

"You promise," John said, pointing a finger at Sherlock, "that you'll go slowly?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said.

"No, I mean it, Sherlock," John said seriously. The smile faded a little from Sherlock's face.

"Yes, John, I promise," he said.

"Okay," John said, and waited for Sherlock to mount the broomstick.

"You're in front," Sherlock prompted him after a minute.

"Oh," John flushed, and hastily mounted the broomstick. The vibration was a lot less on this one, and he suddenly felt self-conscious of how big his rear must look from behind. Oh shut up, stop being such a girl, he mentally scolded himself – all thought flying clean out of his mind when he felt Sherlock's spry weight behind him.

"Right," he said, reaching his arms out below John's to grip the handle just in front of John's saddle. Innuendo ahoy, John thought. Like if they made a Carry On Quidditch film. Sherlock edged a little closer, his chest pressed right up against John's back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

Oh – holy – Jesus, was all John could bring himself to think now.

"Now relax," Sherlock said. His voice right beside John's ear made him jump. "Relax," Sherlock repeated, and pushed gently off from the ground. John immediately panicked and gripped the handle for dear life. Luckily, the broom seemed to think Sherlock far worthier of obeying and didn't go speeding off.

"You're okay," Sherlock said. He was speaking as though to a frightened child or wounded animal. John never knew he could be so gentle. It certainly calmed him down a bit, and he even relaxed his grip.

"Now, slowly," Sherlock said, and lifted the handle of the broom a fraction of an inch. The broom set off at a steady, even pace, only a foot or so from the ground.

"See?" Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. "Not so bad, is it? Now, bit higher?"

John's stomach contracted and he shook his head violently, almost head-butting his pilot in the nose.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock sighed.

For the next ten minutes, they glided around the orchard at the same pace and height. John had to admit that when he wasn't crippled by fear, it was rather enjoyable. After a bit more coaxing, he even let Sherlock steer higher, until they were level with the tops of the trees.

"You won't fall," Sherlock promised, and he began a gentle swerve across the field. John's heart was pounding – more more than one reason. He was still a little apprehensive, but he also had butterflies from the way Sherlock's breath whispered against the side of his neck when he spoke. The way his lean body felt against John's, and how his curly hair kept brushing against his cheek, was almost enough to make him turn round and kiss him without thought to any consequences – to their friendship or their bones.

They flew for a good while, John growing less nervous – even going so far as to let Sherlock rise to the height of the chimney. There were no Muggle towns round for miles, so there wasn't any danger of being spotted. Sherlock was right – it was fun. In a scary, adrenaline-rushing kind of way.

"Well," Sherlock said as they touched back down to Earth. John's knees felt rather wobbly, but he managed a brave smile. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Mm. Thanks," John said. "Don't think it's gonna be my favourite hobby, though."

Sherlock chuckled and began to collect the brooms together, handing John the Jetstream and a Cleansweep Five to carry. As they made their way back to the house, John walked a couple paces behind Sherlock and took the opportunity to stare at him. He admired his strong yet elegant jaw-line, the straightness of his nose, and the length of his dark eyelashes. He contained a sigh and smiled.

Today was a good day.