The sunlight streamed through the windows in the Defense room. Sherlock had only leaned against the doorframe for a few moments before Teddy emerged from his office, looking unraveled and, frankly, tired.

"I thought one of you would surprise me at some point today," he called out, his mud-caked boots finding their way to the back of the classroom where Sherlock was. His hands buried themselves inside his jacket pockets. It appeared as if Teddy hadn't brushed his hair in days, chaotically spilling off his head in fiery waves. "I've gotten word you weren't feeling well?" Teddy added, an eyebrow shooting up in concern and confusion.

"Moriarty sent dementors," Sherlock said. His ankles crossed and locked. He pretended as if standing up didn't make his chest ache. He pretended as if the hollow reverberation of talking didn't make his legs quiver under the weight of holding himself up.

Although he was aware Teddy wasn't as clever as him when it came to deductions, he knew the look in his own eyes would give the entirety of the past night away. As the only other person that held the capability to read Sherlock like that, aside from John and Mycroft, Teddy would be able to tell. It didn't help that he wore his pajamas out of the Flat, either, which was an unusual sight—regardless of if he wore a coat or not. Sherlock was mindful of such.

The professor picked at his lips. "Have you made the right choice?" he asked, looking up from where his eyes had dropped after the mention of dementors.

"John told you what happened?"

He knew there was a fair chance John hadn't. But he'd rather John tell him than Teddy reading him so well.

"Mrs. Hudson said he sent for supplies. She didn't know what they were for."

"John never mentioned what happened with the dementors?" he tried again. He wanted to bite through his tongue. It would force him to stop talking.

He should have. Teddy's face drained. His pupils dilated. He'd realized something.

Sherlock couldn't find the urge to exhale.

"You saw his patronus," Teddy said. The tail of his words didn't turn upwards as a question. It had been a statement.

"You knew?" Sherlock shouted, free arm reaching up to clutch at his chest, now aching further with the sudden movement.

"Perhaps."

A rush of unannounced adrenaline surged through him until his fingertips dug into his shirt. He could feel his fingernails through the fabric. "You knew and let me suffer and just watched?"

"I had to let you make the right choice, Sherlock it wasn't my place—"

"Piss off."

He was down the corridor before Teddy could respond.

•••

Sherlock went down to Mrs. Hudson's hut, rather than the Flat. The running, or, brisk walking would have made the wound bleed twice as fast. If he visited her, John wouldn't have to fuss over him more than he'd already had to.

She opened the door before he could even knock.

"John sent for supplies in the middle of the night. Are you alright, dear?"

He stormed past her and seated himself down at her table. Sherlock's head fell into his hands. "I'm fine," he said.

"What happened last night?" She was already rushing around the small cabin preparing a cuppa to return the warmth to his nub hands.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Can I get you anything, dear?"

"Other than the chamomile?"

She tittered, but didn't stop filling the kettle.

"Did John take all your bandages?"

It was the same reason he admired Mrs. Hudson his first year as he did then: She didn't ask how the injury happened—only fussed over the injury itself. "What are they going to be used for?" was the only response he got.

"Deep gash between my ribs. Excessively bleeding at this exact moment. I'm rather surprised my shirt is still white."

The mug she was pulling out of the cabinet slipped and clattered to the ground. It fractured in two solid pieces.

He expected her to shout at him, but she didn't. Instead, she rushed over, making some sort of dissatisfied noise. She braced her fingers on the sides of his face. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, I just need clean bandages." He wasn't fine. He was losing more blood than healthy. Teddy had withheld vital information from him and John Watson was waiting in the Flat to fall asleep with him for the second night as 'not-friends'.

He wasn't fine.

Mrs. Hudson tittered to herself as she dashed over to a corner of the hut. Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and began peeling at the crimson soaked bandages that encompassed his torso.

He wasn't squeamish. He knew John wasn't, either. But based on the grimaces John had given him the night before while dressing his wounds, Sherlock looked away as soon as stripped the last piece of compression.

Mrs. Hudson's face turned frozen. She placed down the bandages and went for something entirely different—a jar of red sand, or, the looks of red sand. "It will seal the gash," she assured him, uncapping the cork. "If you lie down, dear, I can put this on it."

Sherlock clenched his teeth onto the inside of his mouth while cautiously transferring himself to the cot.

Mrs. Hudson sprinkled two spoonfuls of the predisposed sand over the gash. Searing pain spread throughout his torso in an instant. A fizzing sensation met this, and his limbs began to tremble.

"What ingredients were in that?" he asked.

She closed the jar. "It's Muggle, believe it or not, love. How are you feeling?"

He grimaced. "Fine." A shallow breath followed. "Thank you."

After they'd wrapped fresh bandages, Sherlock found himself nursing a cuppa in a reparo-ed mug, still on the cot.

"John's patronus changed," Sherlock said, his voice slicing through the newfound silence in the groundskeeper's hut.

"Did it?" she asked.

"To mine."

She giggled. "Took him long enough. He was always a sound character, that one, never wanting to change."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She cleared the table with a flick of her wand. "I'm only stating the truth. I wouldn't lie to you, dear."

"He told you, too?"

"I've watched your lot since you first got here. I knew, Sherlock. How could I not on the way you two look at each other like that." She waved her hand in the air, motioning to the apparent 'way' he looked at John.

He was seething.

"You and Teddy meet up for tea weekly just to make my life miserable, don't you?" he spat.

"Your mother would have known had she seen the way you are with him."

If he could get off the cot, he'd walk out right then, but she'd specifically instructed him to give the gash time to seal. Sherlock gritted his teeth and focused himself on the only window he could see through to distract himself. He ran his fingers over his shirt in his hands. The sky was grey, wind curling around leaves and ripping them off their branches.

"Well, my mother sent for me to terminate my friendship with him."

"She did no such thing. That was the Imperius talking through her. You know that, Sherlock. She would never tell you to, on accordance of your lonesome childhood."

He couldn't move his eyes away form the window. "He's my only friend."

"That's not true, but nevertheless. She would have known. I'm certain Myc already knows."

"Obviously," he said, face scrunching up in mockery.

He could hear her pause in her tracks. "You'll be all right, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson held onto vowels for longer than she should.

"I know."

A knock sounded on the door.

"I'll be right there!" she called out.

"Yoo-hoo!" The door creaked opened. "Oh, John. It's good to see you in the daylight. Come in, won't you."

"For Merlin's sake," Sherlock griped.

Gentle padding of footsteps fell into the hut. They paused. "Sherlock?"

"What? Did you think it was someone else? Geoff Lestrade with a sodding mask on?" He tried to take a suave sip of his tea, but because he was lying down, some of it spilled on his chest. He groaned in irritation and wiped it away.

"You left without telling me where you were. I've been looking all over the castle for you."

Annoyance riddled into his eyebrows. They shot up as his eyes widened in cynicism. "Congratulations. You found me," he said dryly.

"That's not a way to speak to John," Mrs. Hudson said, tapping one of her shoes on the ground.

Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and placed his cup on the ground.

Mrs. Hudson lowered her voice to talk to John. "He's secretly pleased to see you under it all. Can I get you some tea?"

"Sure, that'd be great."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Don't make her break another cup."

John shoes shuffled on the floor as he turned to Sherlock. "What?"

"We redressed his bandages, dear," Mrs. Hudson chirped in. "No need to worry."

There was a scrape of wood on wood. John dragged one of the dining chairs over to the cot near Sherlock's feet so he could sit near him.

"Running away from your problems, are we now?" John teased, a smile brimming his lips.

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said, mouth almost entirely lacking movement as he spoke.

John leaned back in the chair. "How are you feeling?" he asked—eyebrows raised, mouth puckered, gaze fixed.

"Fine."

John's response was almost spitfire. "Liar."

"I've lost a good sum of blood. As good as I can feel after that."

Mrs. Hudson's voice bounced off the cabinets she was facing as she fixed John's cuppa. "We sealed the gash with a Muggle solution. 'Should fix up the bleeding within the hour."

A heavy breath escaped John. "Good. Believe it or not, I was actually looking for a remedy that had the same purpose this morning. But I couldn't find anything."

"That's why it's Muggle, dear. The Wizarding World hasn't figured that one out, yet, I'm afraid."

Another knock sounded at the door.

"Right," John nodded. "Good."

Sherlock groaned for what felt like the eightieth time that afternoon. His hand dashed up to put pressure on his chest.

He was having déjà vu.

"I'll be right there!" Mrs. Hudson called out. The kettle whined the second she left it's side.

Sherlock turned to the side. As soon as he did, mud-caked boots clomped into the small hut. It felt as is the grounds-keeper had turned on a fire. He could have sworn he was breathing second-hand air, based on how many people she fit into the room.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'm glad you could have me," Teddy Lupin said.

"What? Is Mycroft next?" Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. John's hand found his ankle immediately. 'Stop this' it said.

"I assume he's not going to speak to me, which is fine," said Teddy.

There was a clank of ceramic on counter top—another cuppa—for Teddy this time. "Who? Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Teddy sat down at the table and replied, "Yes."

A silence fell over the crowded hut. All that could be heard was the whistling of the wind outside and Mrs. Hudson's shoes against the floorboards.

That is, until Teddy decided to break that beautiful peace.

"It wasn't my place to say or inform you of such matters," he said.

John cut in, as usual. "What matters?"

"You're being redundant," he spat.

Teddy exhaled through his nose. He shifted his weight. Mrs. Hudson filled the kettle.

"John would have been put off had I told you," Teddy replied.

John, "What's going on?"

Sherlock, to Teddy, "You picked him over me. You favor him, then."

"The base—the bare bones—of our relationship is teacher and student. And even though I am your friend, I am first and foremost your teacher. And as your teacher I saw you would learn best by making the right choice yourself. You'd learned nothing if I'd told you what to do or what had happened."

Sherlock's eyes shot open. Had he been able to, he would have sat up on the cot and faced Teddy. But he couldn't, so he took a minute to position himself more upright than before, though still not to the extent at which would please him. "My life and personal conflicts are just another lesson plan to you, aren't they?" he bit, eyes narrowly locked on Teddy's.

Teddy shook his head in defense. "Sherlock," he said, "that's not what I meant."

"What the hell is going on?" shouted John, which caused Mrs. Hudson jumped and the newfound loudness. She regained herself and turned around so as to not see the bickering.

Sherlock had not broken his stern lock on Teddy, but when he did, he found John immediately. The same adrenaline that found his veins at the sight of the hound the night before found him again at that moment. "He knew your patronus changed and didn't tell me."

It was as if Teddy wasn't in the room. Or, that's how Sherlock pretended it to be.

"He…knew about…you?" John said.

Teddy finally spoke again. "It wasn't my place to interject."

"And it still isn't now," replied Sherlock. His face was bunched up in annoyance.

John and Sherlock never broke gazes. "You told him?" he said to Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock found a breath somewhere outside him and he sucked it deep, down into his lungs. "He could tell. He…deduced it. And if I had to guess Mycroft mentioned it in one of their weekly correspondences."

"Mycroft knows?"

"Mycroft knows all. Obviously."

John rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was taking them moment to let the new information sink in. "Then what's all the fuss about? We came to realization ourselves anyway. It would have happened one manner or another, right?"

Sherlock swallowed. He rolled his eyes. 'I suppose' the action said.

John smirked. 'You're a git. I wouldn't love you any other way' the action responded.

"How about you all stay for lunch? I can have it ready in ten minutes," said Mrs. H.

"That sounds great."