Chapter Text
John Watson came back to himself face down on the floor of the headmaster’s study. His hands were remarkably steady, but it was small consolation in the face of everything else.
He knew--absolutely knew--what he had to do now.
He had to die.
He was the final piece of the puzzle, the final Horcrux, and the thing was that he couldn’t even bring himself to be angry about it. It was cold certainty that slid down his spine at the knowledge of what he was--why he’d been kept alive and protected; it was all for this moment. Destroy all of the Horcruxes and then destroy the last one--John--and Voldemort is mortal. Voldemort can die.
The brilliance of it, the sheer elegance of such a simple solution, hit him in that moment and nearly stole his breath. Dumbledore’s plan had been brilliant, elegant, and eminently logical. It was enough to make his thoughts strayed to his Slytherin friend because it was the sort of cold-hearted logic that he thought would appeal to Sherlock, the kind of plan that he--or, perhaps, his elder brother--would have come up with had they been in Dumbledore’s position.
Because it would not fail, of course it wouldn’t fail. John would not falter now, when it was within his power to save everyone he loved, everyone he cared for.
”Do you think, like Dumbledore, that caring will save them?” Sherlock asked angrily.
“Yes,” John answered firmly, shoulders squared to his friend and his posture stiff, hands rubbing idly at his legs in a desperate bid to keep his composure.
“Then you’re a fool. Of course, I already knew that,” Sherlock sneered. “It’s always been your fatal flaw and it’s going to get you killed.”
“What is?” John asked, gritting his teeth. Even though he knew—absolutely knew that so much of their anger was being fueled by the Horcrux Sherlock was wearing around his neck—that knowledge did nothing to assuage it.
“You care too much,” Sherlock accused him, advancing on him menacingly. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows that, is counting on it, and you’ll end up getting us all killed!”
“You don’t know that,” John fired back, exhaustion and despair warring with his sense that love--as Dumbledore had always told him--made all the difference. He’d been trying for years, without success, to explain as such to Sherlock. It was usually an argument they avoided; their positions on this particular battlefield were well-entrenched, but with the Ministry fallen, with long, hard days of fruitless searching weighing them down—weighing him down, making him feel like an absolute failure--he’d reached the end of his rope. Caring for everyone, thinking of the lives he could save, was all that kept him going, some days.
“I do,” Sherlock said coldly, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down imperiously. “You try so hard to be the hero, John, but it won’t bring your parents back and it won’t repair your relationship with your sister.”
John’s teeth clenched and he balled his hands into fists, but Sherlock wasn’t done yet.
“You have to face up to the reality that there are no such things as heroes. I’m certainly not one, and neither are you.”
As he launched himself at his best friend, as they rolled on the floor and fought desperately, some small corner of his mind wiggled uncomfortably with doubt because Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was hardly ever wrong.
John blinked and stared around this room that he’d visited countless times in his days at Hogwarts.
That fight--months ago--had sown the seeds for the truth he was facing now. Dumbledore had not been a hero. He’d been a brilliant, power wizard who’d flown too near the sun, who had suffered great personal loss as a result of his own faults. John’s own father was no hero. While he’d stood in defiance of Voldemort, done everything he could to protect his family, he’d mercilessly teased and tormented a man who, initially, hadn’t deserved it.
His sister was no hero, letting her grief eat her alive, turning her into a bitter woman.
And he had come to the realisation that he was no hero, either. He had many flaws, too many to list, and his inability to deceive, his lack of faith in others—his hero complex—was one. Sherlock had not been wrong about that. But what John had to do now was no gallant sacrifice, no honourable stand. He was keeping the most evil man alive, just by being alive himself. It was a duty—his duty, a thankless task—to see that he died so Voldemort could as well. As much as he wanted to flinch, to walk away, he knew that he would not.
There was no sense in delay; their grace period was almost up and there was nothing that he could say to the people he cared about. They’d try to stop him, they wouldn’t--or, perhaps, couldn’t--understand. Best not to tell them, really.
John took a deep breath and put on his Invisibility Cloak, quietly slipping out of the headmaster’s office and quickly making his way out of the castle and towards the forest.
He’d just stepped out of the castle--doing his best to ignore the bodies that were being brought in--when he nearly ran into his best friend.
Sherlock’s head perked up and he glanced around, eyes unsettlingly keen and nose flaring. “John,” he whispered, staring some two feet off to John’s left. “I know you’re there under your cloak.”
How, he wanted to ask, but stopped himself. This was Sherlock, so of course he knew. He’d probably observed an odd ripple in the air, or saw a small patch of grass get crushed under his feet.
John halted and stared at his friend indecisively. Stay or go, stop and talk for a moment or stay still and wait for Sherlock to move on.
Sherlock took the decision from him when he flung out his long left arm and groped at the air, nearly smacking John in the face in the process.
Sneaking off wasn’t go to work, John knew--should have known, really--so he carefully stuck his hand out and lightly gripped his friend’s wrist.
Sherlock, to his credit, only startled slightly, and didn’t protest as John led him around the corner of the castle, into an alcove that was hidden from the front.
“John,” Sherlock hissed, shaking his hand free. “You’d better not have been going to the forest.”
He didn’t answer right away, taking a moment to lower the hood of his cloak so that Sherlock would know where he was.
Those eyes--those piercing, sharp, ever-changing eyes--roved over his face, taking in every piece of evidence, every secret that John wished desperately to hide, and turned, if anything, even paler than usual. “You were,” he murmured. “And you weren’t going to tell anyone.”
John sighed and looked around, aware of the clock ticking, aware of how little time he had to find Voldemort and end this, once and for all.
“Yes,” he said, because there was no sense in lying. “I have to face him. I can’t let this continue, because people will die and...and...” he trailed off, unsure how to say, I know how to stop it. I’m the only one who can.
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyes calculating, his massive brain analysing the evidence he’d collected. “You’re determined. There’s no talking you out of it, is there? Not even if I point out that strategically, tactically, logically you’re making precisely the wrong move.”
John almost smiled, but he wasn’t sure he had it in him, and he wasn’t at all certain it would turn out to be a smile. The weight of the world sat on his shoulders, a burden that became heavier and more difficult to bear the longer he waited.
“No,” he said.
Head tilted thoughtfully, Sherlock seemed to consider this, and then gave a small, sharp nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”
John’s heart leapt painfully into his throat, a knot forming in his stomach. Feelings intruded for a moment, and he was aware of how much he hurt--physically from the hard fight, mentally. Emotionally.
That Sherlock would stand by him, would walk to almost certain death with him, was not news, but it never failed to cause his heart to pound hard, his throat to close up. And any other time--indeed, every other time--he would have smiled in gratitude, would have welcomed it.
But not this time.
“No,” he said again, more firmly.
“Why?” Sherlock demanded, leaning forward and down so that they were staring at each other.
John swallowed hard, willing his face to not give him away. “Because I have to do this alone.”
“Something’s happened,” Sherlock muttered, eyes surveying John’s face intently. “There was something in those memories you got from Snape--”
“Yes,” John said, looking back at his friend. “And I know what I have to do. And you can’t come.”
“Don’t try to be a hero, John,” Sherlock snarled at him, hands gripping his shoulders painfully. Though Sherlock had managed, thankfully, to avoid his injury.
“I’m not,” he answered. “I have a job to do, a duty. I have to do this.” And if it saves everyone, if it saves you, then it’ll be worth it.
Sherlock stared at him, opening his mouth to protest, but John didn’t have the time. Their deadline would be up soon and if he waited around, if he let Sherlock argue with him, then his sense of purpose might waver. Worse, he might just be convinced to allow Sherlock to come with. And that was simply unacceptable.
So while Sherlock was gearing up to launch into some rant, some no-doubt extremely well-thought-out and logical argument about how he should have Sherlock with him, he withdrew his wand, pointed it at his best friend, and thought Stupefy!
Sherlock had just a moment to look surprised--or possibly offended--before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into John’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” John whispered, gently tucking his friend further into the alcove. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but I have to do this, and you can’t come. I can’t have you in danger and I can’t have you see...” He couldn’t finish the thought, just like he couldn’t resist leaning down and placing a tender kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.
I’m sorry, he thought as he took one final glance, and turned his back, drawing his Invisibility Cloak back over his head.
John carefully picked his way towards the forest, resolutely keeping his face forward and doing his utmost not to think of the person he was leaving behind.
He was nearing the tree line when he spotted Harry Potter walking amongst the bodies, obviously looking for anyone who needed help.
John came to a halt, thinking. The only other person who knew what had to be done was Sherlock, and he’d...
He mentally shied away from finishing that thought, instead clearing his mind and attempting to be rational. Practical.
Someone else had to know what to do, at least in a minimal sense. He might not get the opportunity to finish his task--probably wouldn’t, actually--and, though Dumbledore had told him to keep it secret from everyone save Sherlock, well. It made sense that two people knew now and two people would know after.... After.
John carefully removed his cloak and approached Harry, clearing his throat. “Harry.”
Harry looked up at him, his green eyes widening slightly. “John. What are you doing here?”
John thought about answering, but it wasn’t really important now, was it? What was important was relaying the information about Nagini.
“You know Voldemort’s snake? He’s got this huge snake that he keeps with him. He calls it Nagini.”
Harry nodded, eyes wide and fixed on John.
“It has to be killed,” he said firmly. “Sherlock knows, but he’s...” John trailed off and bit his lip, then plowed on. “Anyway, he knows about it but he might not get the chance. But if you see the snake, and you’ve got the chance...”
“Kill it,” Harry said, looking grim and nodding.
“Right.”
Harry nodded once more, and John took a deep breath. He hesitated, and then turned back to the other boy, who was still watching him. “Can you get someone to look after Sherlock?” he asked. “He’s unconscious, on the side of the castle and I don’t want him to...”
“Yeah,” Harry said, looking as though the task was distasteful. John had always been friendly with Harry, but he and Sherlock had never warmed to each other. In point of fact, they loathed each other, Sherlock taking every opportunity to denigrate and belittle Harry’s intelligence and Harry doing his utmost, as a prefect, to make the Slytherin’s life miserable. John suspected it was because of his father and Harry and Draco’s well-known rivalry. John couldn’t blame him; Draco was a bully, a cheat, and a liar, but the fact was that Sherlock was nothing like that. In fact, he hated Draco more than Harry, though only John was really privy to that. Still, it meant more than he could say that--despite all that--Harry would still do this for him.
As he moved on, snuck into the forest when Harry had turned away and put his Cloak back on, he marvelled at how it could have been Harry instead of him. Had Voldemort chosen differently, had he believed that the prophecy referred to Harry instead of himself, then Harry Potter would have been the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter would have been marked, would have been the Horcrux and he--John--would have had a family who loved him. His sister might still have been bitter--she’d already been born a Squib, after all--but his parents would have been there to help her. They would have been there for him, and he would have grown up as an ordinary wizard, not famous or tragic or with part of Voldemort leeching off of him. He never would have had to concern himself with prophecies, would never have been so familiar with death, would never have been magically injured during the fight at the Ministry--a bum shoulder and an on-again, off-again limp.
His life would have been so different, so much more ordinary.
But would he and Sherlock have become friends in that life? Would he have been tops in his class at DADA?
Would he have played some other position in Quidditch, like Chaser, instead of being a Beater?
He certainly wouldn’t have had the constant danger, wouldn’t have had such an interesting life.
He might have been useless in this moment, might not have had the ability to end the war once and for all.
And that was something.
It was the thought that carried him forward--that he could protect everyone, that he could protect Sherlock--to Voldemort, it was what kept him resolved to see it through to the bitter, horrible end.
He really didn’t listen to Voldemort’s taunts, his grand speech. He didn’t listen to his triumph.
All he could think about--the only thing in his head as he watched Voldemort raise his wand--was Sherlock.
His best friend, the boy he’d met at eleven, the one he’d grown up with, the one that frustrated and fascinated him, the one who was brilliant at everything except Quidditch and Care of Magical Creatures, the one person who made life worth living--really living.
The boy he loved.
And that was the thought--the image--he held on to in a rush of green light.