When John went down to breakfast with Greg, he didn’t see Sherlock sitting with the Ravenclaws, which was no surprise really. Mycroft wasn’t there either, which John secretly counted as a plus, but Greg was scanning the room hopefully, as if Mycroft was hiding among the Hufflepuffs.
“No sign of him.” They both said at the same time, but talking about different Holmes brothers.
“Well Sherlock is no surprise, but I’d expect Mycroft to be here somewhere.” Greg shrugged. John shrugged and continued eating his eggs. Greg was just finishing when two people entered the Great Hall, an accomplished looking Mycroft and Sherlock, who was looking as if he wanted to stun his older brother.
“There they are!” John said, looking at the door. Greg followed his eyes and his face broke into a smile at the sight of his boyfriend. Sherlock took one look around and found John, giving him a ‘help me’ sort of glare. John couldn’t help feeling as if he should, even though he knew Sherlock wasn’t in danger, in fact, this was probably good for him. Greg finished quickly and got up, John following, but he was headed for the Ravenclaw table. The two brothers were sitting on the end, Mycroft putting food on Sherlock’s plate, and Sherlock scowling at it as if it were poison.
“Hey guys.” Greg said with a smile.
“I’m being held against my will.” Sherlock said as soon as Greg ended his sentence. Greg laughed, but John didn’t find it very funny.
“Sherlock eat!” Mycroft demanded. Sherlock picked up his fork moodily and started to eat, not seeming to be chewing before he smiled, which made John wonder if he was going to choke or not.
“He’s been very grumpy; I have no idea why, hiding in the dorms all day yesterday.” Mycroft said with annoyance. Sherlock didn’t tell Mycroft what happened? John understood the whole sibling rivalry thing, but that’s just not right.
“Well, after you’re done eating, do you want to play some two on two quidditch?” Greg offered.
“No.” Sherlock said immediately.
“That would be great.” Mycroft agreed.
“I don’t even have a broom!” Sherlock defended.
“School broom.” Mycroft said simply. Sherlock groaned, and John understood his annoyance, he seemed mortified of flying, and this time he won’t have John to guide him. Greg smiled at Mycroft as if it was settled, and the smile lasted a long time, looking into each other’s eyes like they were lost. This upset John’s stomach a little bit, but Sherlock waved his hand in between the two, making them blink and blush.
“I’ll be done with this slop by the time those two look away.” Sherlock said with no amusement in his voice.
“Meet you at the quidditch field after this then?” Greg asked.
“See you there.” Mycroft agreed. John and Greg went up to the dorms to retrieve their brooms. John was a bit nervous, he wasn’t quite sure how Sherlock would play, and he was almost positive he’d be stuck with him on his team. Not that that was a bad thing, he was trying to look positively on Sherlock’s presence in his life.
“We’ll cream you.” Greg assured with a smile.
“I’m sure you will. No snitch right?” he asked.
“No, then it would be one on one, just a quaffle and keepers, no bludgers either.” Greg added.
“The last thing I want to see is that poor kid get knocked off his broom with a bludger.” John laughed.
“That would be horrible.” Greg agreed.
“Oh ya, a lot worse than you could believe.” John agreed, thinking about whatever destructive force Sherlock had buried in him. They walked down to the fields, dew still gripping to the grass and soaking through their shoes, the air thick and foggy.
“I guess it’s a good thing we’re not playing with the snitch then.” John decided, squinting to see the field lingering above them.
“You got that right, I can barely see three feet in front of me, with this fog I’ll end up running into the goal posts.” Greg decided.
“Should be interesting then. When are tryouts even?” John asked, he had forgotten to check the notice board.
“I think they’re this upcoming Friday, but I could be wrong.” Greg guessed.
“Then I guess it’s good we’ll be practicing then.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting on the team this year.” Greg assured. John couldn’t help thinking he was right, they had easily made it since second year, since first years weren’t allowed to play. They got into the field, relived to find it empty, and did a couple of warm up laps just to get their muscles ready and their eyes ready to see in this. There wasn’t much competition, it would just be a friendly game, but John would hate to pass up an opportunity to beat Greg at quidditch, not that that happens a lot. They were stretching when Mycroft and Sherlock entered the field, Sherlock carrying an obvious school broom, the tail twigs were all sticking up in random directions and the wood was discolored. Mycroft had his own broom, which was a lot nicer, a Nimbus 1900 maybe, the last model before the 2000, which John had.
“Do you play?” John asked him, eyeing his broom.
“Not competitively, but it’s always nice to have a ride around the grounds, calms the mind.” Mycroft said. John couldn’t agree more. 
“So, teams?” Greg asked. Even as he said it, he moved closer to Mycroft and John noticed Sherlock shifting in his direction.
“I think that’s a bit self-explanatory.” John decided.
“Meaning?” Mycroft asked.
“You and Greg, me and Sherlock.” John said with a sigh, trying to make it look as if he didn’t already know it was a done deal. Mycroft and Greg hurried to the end of the field to talk strategy, so Sherlock and John went to the other end just to make it look like they had something in mind.
“Do you even know how to fly?” John asked doubtfully.
“No, believe me when I tell you Mycroft dragged me down here.” Sherlock said with no humor in his voice. John sighed, now what, crash course?
“Okay, get on your broom, hold on, and kick off, like so.” John said, getting on his broom and soaring into the sky. He came back down though, gently, landing close enough to see Sherlock.
“You try!” John called. Sherlock, looking very nervous, got onto the broom, looked at John nervously, and kicked off. Immediately he started to veer left, which made him panic. He leaned too far to the left, almost flipping the broom in a wild tail spin. Sherlock was screaming now, John rushing into help his desperate friend.
“Lean left, but not too much, straighten out!” John called, trying to teach him. Sherlock did as he was told, and the broom leveled out, hovering above the ground calmly. The same couldn’t be said for Sherlock though; he was as white as a sheet, gripping the broom so tight that his knuckles turned white.
“Don’t panic, that’s the worst thing you can do!” John called.
“Too late!” Sherlock called, his voice very high pitched with nerves.
“ARE YOU GUYS READY!” Greg’s voice bounced off of the stadium even though John couldn’t see them through the fog.
“GIVE US A SECOND!” John replied. “Gently, very gently, lean left but forward at the same time, not too fast.” John said, trying to sound encouraging. Sherlock did as he was told, and, very slowly, he started to move forward and to the left.
“Then just go a little faster, turn right now.” John said. “Doing great.” He added, thinking of what his own captains told him when he was learning.  Sherlock turned rather wide, but eventually he was headed right now, moving forward a little bit faster now.
“Can you do it now then?” John asked.
“I’ll try my best, don’t expect much.” Sherlock decided. Well he shouldn’t worry about disappointing, John hadn’t been expecting anything really, it was a miracle Sherlock didn’t fall off the broom.
“OKAY LET’S GO!” John called back.
“OKAY!” Greg agreed. Immediately Greg emerged out of the fog, speeding like a bullet with the quaffle in his hand.
“COVER MYCROFT!” John called, going after Greg. HE tried to hit the quaffle out of his hands, but before he could the quaffle was thrown to Mycroft, who was waiting at the goal, who caught it easily and tossed it through. Greg cheered and Mycroft smiled while John dived down to retrieve the quaffle. When he got back up he saw Sherlock moving very slowly towards the action.
“What did I miss?” Sherlock asked with a tone of bitterness.
“Just lean forward farther, you’ll go faster.” John urged.
“If I go faster I’ll die.” Sherlock pointed out.
“Well, if you ever get there, try to cover Mycroft.” John decided, throwing the quaffle to Greg again. Sherlock looked more upset after that. John didn’t mean to hurt his feelings, it’s not his fault he couldn’t fly, but John was just cross with the unfair teams.
“Sherlock you’re doing fine.” He added, which still didn’t make him look like he felt better. Now Mycroft had the quaffle, who wasn’t quick enough for John. He managed to nip it out from below his arm and speed to the other end of the field. Ten points went to him as the quaffle sailed through the middle goal. He gave an excited whoop and did a couple of victory flips on his broom, to the amazement of Sherlock who was going on about how horrible difficult the bloody brooms were to control and stay on. John pulled up beside him, and couldn’t help seeing the resemblance of an old person driving too slowly on a curvy road.
“You’re doing a lot better than I had.” He commented.
“Oh don’t lie, you’re a natural at this.” Sherlock hissed.
“Just lean forward a little bit more.” John recommended. Sherlock leaned forward so little that he could barely tell the difference.
“No, more.” John insisted. Sherlock tried again, now going maybe five miles per hour. John, getting impatient, pushed on his shoulder, sending Sherlock shooting through the sky much faster than he had anticipated. Sherlock let loose a blood curling scream, hurtling straight for the Slytherin spectator stands. John reacted as quickly as he could, speeding on his broom as fast as it could possibly go, streaming towards Sherlock’s out of control broom. John would not sit by and watch Sherlock get hurt, especially not on his account. He was about to crash, a couple more feet and he’d be a pancake, John jumped, his broom, losing its owner, fluttering softly down to the ground. The same couldn’t be said for John though, he had made the jump, knocking Sherlock sideways off of the broom, which crashed into the stands and splintered, but the two fell to the ground. Sherlock was screaming like a terrified child, but John grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped the pair in midair, so that John was to hit the ground first.
“Don’t you…” Sherlock started, but the sentence ended and John hit the ground. The height wasn’t even that bad, it was definitely survivable, but there was the extra weight of Sherlock coming crashing down on his that had John on moaning in pain as his leg went completely numb with pain. His arms were still wrapped around Sherlock as a lifeline, but the Ravenclaw quickly untangled the two and rolled off, unharmed.
“What were you thinking?” Sherlock exclaimed as Greg and Mycroft joined the scene.
“What happened?” Greg asked immediately.
“You didn’t see?” Sherlock asked.
“If you haven’t noticed, there’s fog out here.” Greg pointed out. John had no doubt that his leg was broken; he couldn’t feel it, nothing but excruciating pain shooting through his body like white hot flames. Through the dark spots in his vision he could see Sherlock’s worried face hovering very close, saying something that was buzzed out. His lips formed words unheard, loud, desperate, John’s consciousness was slipping, Sherlock’s face was growing more and more pixelated. There was a loud buzzing in his ear, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t see, the world went black and Sherlock’s face was gone.