Dear guest: Thank you for all your kind reviews. I wish I could respond to all of them individually, but I don't want to take up too much space.

But as to your lastest one, Dumbledore and the other professors (well the ones not evacuating the kids) were firing off patronuses, but patronuses don't actually kill dementors, just repels them. And with the positioning of the professors around the arena... well I imagined it as fish in a bowl or herding cattle. Yes, no one wanted Harry or Sherlock to be kissed, but the danger needed to be contained before being removed.

No one understood.

No one knew why he survived while all the other victims in history had died. They weren't even sure if it could be considered surviving. The students whispered and stared, the professors all gave pitying glances and avoided eye contact, Dumbledore lectured for hours and twinkled his eyes at him over the rim of those ridiculous glasses. But none of them knew how to cope with something like him. Whether he should be feared, pitied or fixed. They couldn't ever know. No one should have to.

Even Sherlock didn't understand it. Why he continued breathing. If he would ever feel alive again. Whether this was to be the rest of his existence, or if this was only a middle stage leading to something better or (god forbid) worse. There was only one thing he felt sure of and that was that his... condition would be impossible to explain to his family. Although it could probably be passed off as the Holmes's tendency towards sociopathy. But Mycroft would never buy that.

Sherlock didn't understand and that's why he did what he did. Emotion, sentiment, pain, joy. It became more and more of a mystery with every passing day. So he whispered nasty half-lies into the ear of Severus's secret sweetheart ("don't you know what he calls you when you're back is turned?") just to watch it tear them both apart. He let Sirius pull intense but ultimately meaningless pleasures from his body when the nights were long and boring, even let him kiss him (but never on the mouth. Too dangerous. Too... wrong). He dug up the rotting, cloaked thing which stole his life and took it apart, searching for something he didn't recognize in it's all too familiar corpse.

Filch found him at daybreak, covered in maggots and soil and clutching a human skull.

"It's dead," Said Dumbledore reassuringly when Sherlock was presented, still carrying the skull. "You're not."

Sherlock could've laughed. He also could've stabbed the twinkle out of his stupid eyes. But he did neither. "But how long has it been dead?" Sherlock changed his mind and laughed anyways. Loudly and hysterically. "Or more importantly. How long will I still be considered alive?"

It was hours before Sherlock turned up. Hours of wet, cold agony. I spent most of it in the hospital wing, disinfecting as many scrapes and bruises as I could manage before Madam Pomfrey shoved me out 'before I slice someone open'. Then I sat outside the door on the cold hard stone because... well, he had an unconscious kid on his hands last I saw him. So it made sense that he'd come here. Or that's what I told myself. For hours. The probability of his survival grew slimmer with every passing minute. Small dreads invaded my mind. How would I tell Mrs. Hudson? How would I explain any of this? I already know what it's like to live without him. I don't think I could manage it again.

I hoped. I dreaded. I prayed for the first time since Sherlock came back from the dead.

And someone must have been listening, because he's here. He's alive and whole and god, he looks just about dead on his feet. But it's definitely better than dead in the mud. I can't tell whether he's shaking from the cold, or the effort of standing. The Potter kid is slung over his shoulder, still unconscious. Or I hope he's just unconscious.

Almost instantaneously, Madam Pomfrey is there to relieve him of Harry. And I rush forward to keep him upright.

"John. 'S cold." He mutters, half-collapsing onto me. His voice is dull and tired and although he's shaking like a leaf, he's gripping my shoulder like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

"I know, Sherlock. So am I. Once we get to the room, you can get into some dry clothes." I murmur reassuring sounds at him.

"Take him inside. I'm sure after a night under my care, they'll both be right as rain." Madam Pomfrey said, starting back towards the entrance of the hospital wing.

"He'll be more comfortable in his room." Sherlock has always hated staying at hospitals. The walls were too white, the air too sterile and they never allowed dust to gather. According to him, everything above the morgue was entirely overrated and unnecessary. If his illnesses or injuries were anything less than life-threatening, he'd insist on being treated by me at home.

"Dr. Watson. I understand that you're well-versed in muggle medicine, but this is not a muggle ailment. He needs magical healing." Madam Pomfrey argues reasonably, but I'm still apprehensive about leaving Sherlock. He's already told me how to treat the aftereffects of a dementor encounter and it doesn't seem like I'd need to be a wizard to feed a man chocolate.

"Wanna go home, John. Please." Sherlock whimpers weakly, clinging tighter to my side.

"...Alright. But I'll be checking in on him." The witchly nurse conceded reluctantly, turning back through the entrance of the hospital wing.

It's not as hard as I'd expected to lead him back to our rooms. I suppose it's because he isn't exhausted physically so much as... soulfully. If that's the correct term. His hair is stringy and dripping into his eyes and his robes are so soaked, they look heavier than he does. He's like a six-foot lost child. He's not exactly eager to get anywhere, but he goes where he's led without resistance.

"There were so many, John. So many." Sherlock murmured, his voice barely louder than his shuddering breath. "I was afraid they'd get me. They were everywhere. I couldn't let them steal it again. I can't... not again. I can't do it again."

I squeeze his shoulder as I guide him down the winding corridors. He's not usually one for unnecessary physical contact, but now it doesn't seem to matter. "Sherlock. You're fine. You're safe. You escaped and saved that boy. He's alive because of you. The dementors are far away now. They can't get you here. Now, I'm going to take you to our rooms. You're going to dry off. I'm going to call Nimsy and order every chocolate morsel imaginable. And we'll eat it all by the fire while watching one of those action flicks you like criticising so much. Sound good?"

Sherlock nodded gingerly, but his eyes still looked scared and lost. The rest of the walk was silent, aside from the whispers and mutters of gossipy portraits.

Upon opening the door, I immediately remember something that I can't believe slipped my mind. "What did you do with Sirius?" I doubt Sherlock would have left the escaped fugitive entirely unattended.

"Tied him up." A sudden high-pitched whine from the bedroom supports his claim. He must've been in there for hours.

"Well. Get out of those clothes. You'll catch a cold." I tell him on my way to the bedroom. If I don't untie him now, he'll probably be stuck there until his corpse starts stinking.

At the sound of the door opening, Sirius's whining turns into frantic barking and thrashing. His panic is entirely justified, considering he's been lying hogtied on the floor while the entire school was thrown into a panic. When Sherlock said 'tied up' I thought he meant with a leash like people usually do with dogs, not bound up like a pig on it's way to slaughter. Although... now that i think about it, he did escape from azkaban...

Surprisingly, it doesn't take long to undo the knots. It's really just a matter of finding the right segment of rope to pull. Once I do, Sirius flops back into human form, gasping and rubbing at his sore forearms.

"What's going on out there? Is Harry alright?" He demands, his voice rough and dry.

"Dementor attack." He stares at me like I've just announced World War III. Before I could tell him that it's over and everyone's fine, Sirius is up and heading towards the door. I manage to intercept him before he reaches it. "Sirius, before you do an-"

"I swear to god, if that bastard let anything happen to Harry while I was tied up, I will-" Christ, do all wizards think only with the pointy end of their wands?

"No. You won't." Mostly because I'd put a bullet in his eye before he can say abracadabra.

"Because you're going to stop me?" He scoffs, looking down on me the same way every other god damn wizard has since I got here.

"Because 'that bastard' saved Harry's life. And he didn't exactly come out of it unscathed." He stares at me like I've just announced that World War III has been won by an army of cats. "So, what I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to go in there, you're going to thank him, and you're going to be very polite and respectful while you do it."

"Righ- of course. I didn't realize..."

"No. None of you ever do." I laugh dryly, rolling my eyes at the predictability of humanity. Apparently it takes nothing less than three years in the same living spaces with a man to realize that 'hey, maybe that stuff about being a high-functioning sociopath is just a bad joke after all'. "Now get out. I need to change."

"I'm going to call up Nimsy. Any requests?" I ask as I re-enter the office. Sherlock's spread across the couch under about four thick blankets. Something tells me those are the only things covering him but, considering I've stitched up and bandaged just about every patch of skin he owns, it's not really that shocking of a revelation. Sirius is curled up in an armchair, fiddling with my phone and looking guilty.

"Bitter chocolate. Sweet honey. And about a pound of cocaine." He mumbles lazily.

"Haha, very funny." I huff as I search around the piles of clutter for the small brass handbell Nimsy gave us to call her. I'm not entirely sure how it works, but she's never failed to appear mere minutes after a ring.

"Pack of cigarettes?"

"Hmm. No."

"Just one?"

"I'm not sure cigarettes are even a thing here."

"Well. I had to try." I smirk at the familiarity of his antics. The dementors must have taken a toll on me too. The corners of my mouth feel strangely heavy. I finally locate the bell and give it a ring.

"Try to get the only muggle in Hogwarts to magically conjure up a pound of cocaine? Getting slow, Sherlock." I lean back in the desk chair, which is also the only available seat in the room.

"I could use a cigarette." Sirius ponders to himself over his game of angry birds. I reach over the desk for the tablet and pull up netflix to search for a mindless action movie for Sherlock to criticise. I'm attempting to choose between transfomers 3 and 300 when I hear a knock at the door.

I get up to answer it, making sure to check that Sirius is safely out of sight before I actually open the door. As I expected, it's Nimsy standing behind the door. She smiled politely and dipped into a little curtsy. "You rang?"

"Yes, could you bring up some chocolate?"

"Of course sir. Any specific kind?"

"Oh, Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, hot chocolate, raw chocolate, german chocolate cake. Bring up some of every kind of chocolate you can think of. And honey. Just a jar of it." Nimsy nods vigorously and scampers off to get it. I shut the door and call Sirius out from hiding. He crawls out from under the sofa in dog form and hops on top of Sherlock's feet. He's been spending more time as a dog than as a human. Not that I'm complaining, he's actually more manageable in dog form. He takes up less space, asks less questions and doesn't get himself injured as often. Also, it's slightly less awkward when he decides to use you as a chair.

"What sounds better? Robots or spartans?" I ask the two wizards. Sherlock looks pretty much dead to the world and Sirius doesn't have proper vocal cords or much knowledge about movies, so it seems the decision is up to me.

Transformers it is.

"Merlin's beard, were those it's balls?" Sirius laughs around a mouthful of chocolate cake. "back, press the back thingy."

I hit the rewind button and play the segment again. Sure enough, when the robot steps over the camera, we get a pretty clear view of some suspiciously placed wrecking balls. "Yeah. That's… yeah."

"What would a robot need testicles for?" Sherlock ponders thoughtfully, plucking another chocolate covered strawberry out of the pile and dipping it in the jar of honey. "It's a mechanical being. I doubt it reproduces sexually."

"This movie is all about an alien species of huge, sentient robots," I huddle a bit closer to get a better view of the small screen. "I think it's balls are one of the more plausible aspects of this movie."

Sherlock's face twitches in a way which may have been a smile and reaches for another strawberry. Onscreen, the main character narrowly avoids yet another massive explosion. "Dead." My flatmate announces. We all reach for our mugs. Sherlock and I have made up a sort of drinking game for these sort of movies. Every time a main character survives something that should've killed them instantly, we take a drink. It used to be every time any character survives, but we had to change it after Sherlock started vomiting after the first 10 minutes of a Schwarzenegger film. Because Hogwarts is a school, we don't have access to alcohol, so we're drinking hot chocolate instead. I think we've gone through half a dairy farm already.

"How dead is he?" I ask, allowing Sherlock an opportunity to show off.

"If the force of hitting the pavement didn't pulverize his bones, he'd be ripped apart by shrapnel," Sherlock explains, sucking the honey off his knuckles. "If, by some miracle, he did survive, he'd be deaf, paralyzed, and suffering from burns covering 50-70% of his body."

Sirius whistles. "Knew those towers of glass were a bad idea."

I can feel Sherlock shooting Sirius an incredulous look over my head."...You do understand that this is all fictional, right?"

I elbow them both sharply, causing Sirius to choke on a chunk of brownie. "Shhh. I'm trying to watch."

"Pfft. As if you need ears to oogle megan fox's arse." Sherlock rolls his eyes,

Sirius reaches around me to smack Sherlock. "Shut up!"

"Feeling any better?" I ask as we go through our nightly rituals.

"Not worse. Not quite better... Sore, perhaps..." Sherlock answers in between flossing his teeth. "Yes. Sore. Like someone popped open my ribcage and ran my organs through an industrial juicer."

"Mm. Yeah, I think I got some of that when I was waiting for you in the hospital wing." I see him glance up at me through the mirror as I wash my face in the porcelain water basin. His eyes still look dull, despite the mountain of chocolate he's eaten.

He tosses the used floss. "I was sure you didn't get prolonged exposure to them. It seemed like they were already set on getting the boy."

"No, but well... the thought of you dead... again... let's just drop it, okay?"

"Consider it dropped." The one and only consulting detective belly flops into the giant four poster and huddles under the rumpled covers. "Draw the curtains before you get in."

I sigh as I unfasten the curtains from the bedposts, not bothering to ask why he didn't do it himself.

Finally, after a day that had no business being as long as it was, I crawl into bed.

"John." His voice is quiet and deep. Like the shadows cast by the curtains. "I want to go home."

"In the morning.." Under the thick dark, I feel Sherlock reach for my hand. I reach back.

Author's note: I've never actually watched transformers 3. But I have seen transformers 1 and I've been told it's a lot of the same stuff plus robotesticles.