"I hope he's okay." Greg sighed. "Maybe you should go cheer him up."
"I don't want to go poking the bear; he'd bite my head off." John pointed out.
"Still I think it would be a nice gesture of kindness." Greg suggested.
"You go then, because I'm not in the mood to get sassed and attacked for caring about him." John admitted.
"I wonder if Mycroft knows, I'll ask him." Greg decided.
"Do you really think Sherlock will keep Mycroft in the loop with his emotional problems?"
"Doesn't hurt to try."
"It will if you confront Sherlock." John pointed out, sitting at the table and actually eating a small amount of food, just enough so he didn't starve through the night. His main meal was just pumpkin juice, the favorite beverage of choice for wizards, which actually was a good replacement for solid foods.
"I'll go talk to Mycroft, see you in the common room I guess." Greg decided, jogging up to catch Mycroft, who was sitting with Anthea and chatting with boredom. John sat at the table alone, poking at a piece of strawberry tart and checking hopelessly for any sign of Sherlock. He was so sad, words couldn't describe it, he knew Sherlock mostly blamed him, even though it definitely wasn't his fault but Dumbledore's. John headed up to the common room, halfheartedly writing down wrong answers on his homework before once again staring into the flames. When eight thirty came around he headed up to the dorms, avoiding everyone as they tried to get him to join their games of exploding snap and Bertie Bott's Beans. They were just painful reminders of the fun times with Sherlock, somehow his luck prevailing him to get the good flavors, but apparently luck was gone for both of them now. He changed into his pajamas and started to slip into bed when he noticed something white fluttering on the window sill outside. He walked over curiously, opening the window with a silent creek and the piece of paper into the room, closing the window and blocking the cold air from seeping in more. It was a letter, and of course it was from Sherlock, seemingly from a little while ago, at least before the big break up. The paper was weathered and there was a frozen Jolly Rancher stuck to the note, its wrapper splitting in half.
I wanted to say hi, I'm lonely and bored. I don't want to go to detention, I'm sure Moriarty and Moran will be unbearable. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then. –SH. John held the letter in his hands, staring at the neat, cursive handwriting until he could memorize it by heart. This was before the explosion, when all was innocent and they had bright hopes for the future. It seemed like ages ago. John peeled the candy from the paper, no intentions of eating it, but it was more of a sentimental thing. IT looked to him like he and Sherlock wouldn't be talking for a while, and if they never did John would have this note and this piece of candy to remember him by. Not much was it? He slipped into bed, lying awake behind the closed curtains and staring at the ceiling and the moonlight casted shadows. So this would be his life, the one person he couldn't bear losing was the one he lost forever.

The week slugged by slower than Sherlock trying to play quidditch, the decorations hung in the Great Hall and the magnificent tress put up in all four corners. Spirits were high and school work decreased, everyone was packing for their trips back home to their family, talking excitedly of predicted presents and family traditions. There was still no sign of Sherlock, although he was at the two classes they shared but he was very excluded, not even looking up to prove the teacher wrong or throw insults around. Finally the last class was dismissed Friday afternoon and everyone cheered, Christmas Holidays were upon them. John and Greg cheered along, but John was a lot less enthusiastic. He was going to be stuck in a castle for a whole week with Greg and Mycroft, who would be flirting and excluded, and Sherlock, who had his own category of excluded and awkward. This was going to be such a joy. John had the now slightly crumpled note in his pocket, he kept it there for reasons unknown to himself, but whenever he missed Sherlock (which was pretty much whatever down time he got), he took it out, unwrinkled it, and read the cheerful note. But it only made John, if possible, feel even worse. It felt like so long ago Sherlock's bright smile radiated around him, his world felt empty and dark without it. They walked to dinner in high spirits, the Hogwarts Express's smoke visible out the window to take all of the kids back home for the holiday.
"This is brilliant, I feel so free." Greg said with a smile, twirling in a circle but bumping into an angry looking seventh year Slytherin, to which he apologized numerous times.
"Yes, free." John said with a force smile. Smiles hadn't come easily this past week, he hoped he was able to pull of the 'I'm totally fine' gig better than Sherlock, who he could only imagine was sulking and looking like he had crawled out of his open grave. The Pre-Christmas Feast was set up, more food and more options than the usual spread of food. John and Greg gorged themselves with as much steak and kidney pie as they could handle, a type of food that was limited to only feasts, and each had two banana Sundays, improving John's mood ever so slightly. When they left the Great Hall they were one of the few who actually climbed the steps instead of dragging their luggage down the snow clear path to the train.
"We should all meet up and play chess or something, it's officially holiday!" Greg said excitedly. John nodded; doubted Sherlock would be caught dead with a smile on his face at the moment.
"I don't know, can't we just take it easy? I'm kind of tired." John decided. He was kind of tired but the main reason was that he didn't want to confront Sherlock after so long. It would be the definition of awkward to try to pretend nothing was between them anymore. What he didn't know was if they were even allowed to socialize together, Dumbledore didn't specify if they were still allowed to be friends. But the route they were taking it looked like they wouldn't be seeing very much of each other for a while.
"There's Mycroft, Hey!" Greg called, turning on the stairs to wave at Mycroft, who was a couple of stories down. John groaned, but waited with Greg while the Ravenclaw hiked up to where they were.
"Fancy a game of chess?" Greg asked with a smile.
"Of course. I'm in the Christmas spirit; I don't know about you two." Mycroft agreed, returning Greg's annoying smile.
"Where has Sherlock been all this time?" Greg asked as they continued walking to the Gryffindor common room.
"Haven't the faintest, he's only out during classes and then he's behind closed curtains in his bed. Every time I try to come in to ask what's wrong he jinxes me." Mycroft sighed. John felt a sharp twang of guilt in his stomach, knowing too well that it was all his fault Sherlock was in hiding.
"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Greg asked, turning to John, who was walking as third wheel.
"No, he's been ignoring me too." John pointed out, which was true.
"Maybe you should try to talk to him, he'll take your presence a lot better than mine I assure you." Mycroft guessed.
"I don't think he'll want me poking around in his personal problems either." John defended, not in the mood to go try to talk to Sherlock while getting random household items hurled at his skull. They went into the common room and Greg ran up to get the chess board, leaving Mycroft and John to stand around and wait. The common room was completely deserted, something they'd probably have to get used to over the week because it seemed like they were the only ones staying over holiday.
"Are you sure you don't know anything of my brother's odd behavior?" Mycroft asked, leaning slightly against the stone fireplace and looking at John with a soft glare.
"No, I really don't, maybe it's just aftermath of the break down?" John guessed. He hated lying to anyone, but there was no way in heck that John was actually going to go to Mycroft for relationship problems.
"I don't think that's the problem, it never used to be at least. He seems to be more emotionally damaged than physically. Now there are only three people he talks to, and I know it wasn't me or Greg, so that only leaves you. Are you absolutely sure you haven't done anything to upset him?"
"Found it! Took a while, buried under a load of dirty laundry and rubbish." Greg announced triumphantly. Thankfully that made John not have to answer Mycroft's question, but he still felt the older brother's eyes on him.
"Brilliant." Mycroft decided with a smile. John avoided his gaze for the rest of the night, longing in the armchair and watching the game of chess. Mycroft, as usual, was beating Greg's butt, but he looked a bit distracted and was making small mistakes every so often. That only gave Greg some false hope, thinking that maybe he had a chance to beat him. It only flashed back memories of when he had played with Sherlock, somehow John would kill to be sitting with him and waiting a couple hundred years for him to finally make his decision. Just to see his beautiful smile was almost too much to ask for at the moment. When the game was finally over John excused himself to go to bed, lying awake once again and reading the fading note from the past. He could only imagine what Sherlock was doing right now, probably the same thing he was doing, lying awake in his bed and staring at the ceiling. If only they could see each other again, at the moment. He wasn't even thinking about himself when he longed for that, he was thinking of Sherlock, who shouldn't be suffering as much as he probably was. But now it was Christmas, and who knows what could happen, maybe a Christmas Miracle? Some cure for Sherlock's curse, maybe the 'unfortunate' death of Umbridge, who knows? There was hope, a spark of hope that wasn't going to fade too easily away.

When John woke up the dorms were empty except for Greg, an odd yet nice change. He rolled out of bed with a grunt, pulling on his robes in a sort of half-asleep zombie way. He almost grabbed his bag before realizing there were no classes today, not only was it Saturday but it was holiday, double freedom apparently. Greg didn't look like he was going to move anytime soon, so John just walked down to the Great Hall in the deserted hallways, happy to see only a few people dotted around the long house tables. To his disappointment Sherlock was absent; he could only imagine how starving he must be by now, having missed virtually every meal since Tuesday night. John was almost tempted to go up there and bring food, but he'd imagine his sudden caring would be taken the wrong way. He quickly ate some breakfast; the only other Gryffindor was a seventh year girl at the other end of the table, so it was nice and quiet. When he went back to the common room Greg was still up in the dorms, sleeping like the baby he was, so John just sat by the fire and read some old quidditch books he had from second year Christmas, the most overused book in his history. Christmas break seemed to drag on, something he dearly hated. This should be the best time of his life, he had all three (or two?) of his friends staying over at the castle, but for the first three days he wished he had gone home. Greg and Mycroft were off where ever they went; John never wanted to details when they showed up in the common room giggling like excided girls, and Sherlock was of course, nowhere to be found. By now it was possible he had starved to death in his dorms and they'd have no idea. He's never been at one meal, and John actually stayed through the entire lunch to see if he was going to show up, from the time the food appeared to when the half eaten platters disappeared back to where ever the heck they go to when they were done. He would've gone flying if it wasn't a blizzard outside, literally. Not only was it snowing but he was sure that if he went outside his eyeballs would freeze, the windows were frosted so badly that they were chunks of ice and the staff that had stayed locked the main doors, a clear note for anyone not to go out. So what should have been best days of his life were spent sitting in the same place, reading the same book, and watching the same two people play chess whenever they had down time. Even though his spirits were down, on Christmas Eve morning a package arrived from his parents, a large box and a nearly fainting Jam banged into the frozen window. He decided not to open it until Christmas morning, just for the whole surprise of the matter, and tucked it under his bed for safe keeping. He wrapped his own presents, the book for Mycroft, the helmet for Greg, and the book for Sherlock, which he didn't even know if he'd be able to deliver. It seemed like ages ago he had picked that out, ducking away from Sherlock within the dingy bookstore in Hogsmeade, able to just go up to him and talk freely, a leisure he hadn't been able to enjoy in almost an entire week, which had been the longest in his life. When he went back down to the common room Mycroft and Greg were trying to build a tower of cards with a pack of Exploding Snap, which were randomly exploding and pretty much destroying their architectural genius.
"Hey John." Greg muttered as he stacked a card on the top carefully. John didn't answer; his heart was so heavy that he barely cracked a smile when the whole thing exploded in their faces, literally.
"You look a bit down in the dumps, everything okay?" Mycroft asked, a polite gesture.
"I'm worried about Sherlock, do we even know if he's alive?" John admitted.
"I knocked on the door and there was a loud bang, I'd say he's still okay." Mycroft shrugged, seemingly not too worried about his brother.
"He hasn't eaten in how long?" John asked.
"I haven't seen him at meals." Greg added, making John nod in agreement.
"I'm sure he's fine, I think his record for not eating is three weeks and two days, he was passed out for near half that time afterwards." Mycroft shrugged. John sighed, not really fancying the idea of Sherlock starving himself just because they broke up. Surely he understood it wasn't John's fault right? But there was guilt eating at his very soul, this was definitely all his fault, and Sherlock knew that. Why couldn't John have just ignored Dumbledore's advice, why couldn't he be smart and stay with Sherlock forever, something they both desperately wanted?
"That doesn't sound very safe." John decided.
"It's not, no." Mycroft agreed. Greg threw a fizzing card at the Ravenclaw's head, which exploded right in front of his face and made him topple out of his chair. John sighed, stepping over Mycroft to take one of the unoccupied chairs.
"You don't have to be too worried mate, I'm sure he's fine." Greg assured between gasping laughs. John didn't take his words to heart though; he was pretty much done with everyone and everything, especially pretending to care about both. That night was nice actually, the first nice night he's had in a while, they had managed to steal some bottles of butterbeer and sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, enjoying the heat of the flames and the warm beverage. Greg and Mycroft were snuggled together, Greg's head resting on Mycroft's shoulder and sleepily muttering his guesses of his gifts from his parents. As far as their public affection went, that was probably the only moment John didn't feel like throwing up, they looked so happy together the only thing that made him made was Umbridge being stubborn enough to break them up. His only wish that Sherlock's head was on his shoulder, safe and fed, holding each other close in the firelight. In all reality John was alone on the carpet and Sherlock was alone in his dark bunk, still alive but barely moving, the remains of his last fit of tears still plastered along his face, wondering what on Earth he had done to deserve such torment.