Chapter Text
“Goodbye, sweetheart!” John's mother bustles him into a hug, her cardigan tickling his neck. Her inhales her musky perfume and murmurs back into her breast,
“Bye, mum!” She pulls him back at arms length, and smiles sweetly at him. His dad, the ex-army doctor, claps him on the shoulder, eyes twinkling with pride.
“Make us proud, mate.” John returns their smiles, and as the train whistle soars through the bustling platform, he gives them one last peck on the cheek, before grabbing his trunks. He hauls them on to the train. John presses himself up against the wall as older girls and boys sprint past him, laughing and whooping as they reunite with their school friends. Glancing out of the window, John spots a family of four standing together.
One of them stands tall, yet looks bored, his eyes trailing around the platform, and resting on John. John's eyes flick down, avoiding contact, but they slide back up to the family once he's sure he is no longer being stared at. The man who stared at him looks around seventeen in age, his coppery hair finely trimmed and his hooked nose scrunching up as his mother rubs his arm. His mother is poshly dressed, a belted black coat brushing her knees and wrapping around her thin frame, black tights and black high heels, a black hat with a netted piece of lace dangling in front of her eyes. Her black gloves reach up to her elbows, and her shocking red lips contrast with the rest of her outfit. Her lips purse as her son picks up his trunk, pecks her on the cheek, shakes hands with his father, and snaps at his younger brother. He then walks away with his head held high towards the steam train. Climbing on gracefully, he then steps onto the floor of the train, a few meters from where John stands.
John lets out a small yelp as his owl nips at his dangling hand, blood starting to spill out of the tear in his skin. The boy nods at John, and then walks off down the corridor. Sucking his finger, he turns back round to look out of the window.
The younger brother is brought into a hug by his mother. His raven curls rest just under her chin, and although her hands are wrapped tightly around him, his shoulders tighten and his arms remain at his side. She releases him with a sigh, and his father extends his suited arm, hand held out professionally. The boy stares at it for exactly 5.8 seconds, before reaching down for his own trunks, and turning away from his parents. His father's hand lowers and drapes around his wife's shoulders, and he draws her close to him. Her arm wraps around his waist and they watch as their son slips his hands under the handles of his trunks. They smile, but it never reaches their eyes.
The boy lifts his head up, and John feels his breath hitch in his throat. The curls on his head bounce with the movement, and the sunlight captures inside them. His eyes, slightly further apart than most, are piercing, a colour unable to describe. Defined cheekbones strike out, along with a deeply defined upper lip. The first thought of his appearance John thinks is “weird” however as he takes in all his features and the air he carries with him, he transforms into a piece of art, oddly beautiful. His frame is quite lanky, but he still manages to pick up the trunks, surprising John with his ease for such thin arms. He too enters the train, and walks down the corridor, following his brother.
The train whistles again, and John leans out of the window, waving frantically at his parents until the station is just a speck in the distance. John turns down and picks up his trunks and his bird's cage, and peers around the corridor. He makes his way down the opposite way the boy went, and checks in various carriages, looking for an empty one.
Near the end, when nearly all hope is lost, a familiar face pokes out of one of the carriages. “John! John Watson!” Taken aback, John stares at the face with wonderment. “It's me, Mike Stamford? We went to Bart's primary together.” Mike was always a friendly person, quite jolly, but not the smartest. His doughy face breaks into a huge grin as he stares at John in amazement.
“Mike yes, I know, I had no clue you were a wizard?”
“Likewise,” He replies with an easy smile. “You wanna join me and a few friends? You look a little lost,”
“Sure, sure.” He hauls his belongings along, red faced and sweating. He enters the carriage and looks around.
A young girl sits by the window, hands in her lap and gazing out at the green blur. Two other boys sit, laughing and playing a game with a peculiar set of cards. “This is Molly Hooper, Antoine Roberts and David Dimmock. Everyone, this is John Watson.” John holds up a hand and half waves, Molly turns her head and smiles serenely at him, and then returns her gaze to the rolling countryside. The two boys grunt their greeting, engrossed in their game. “Here, let me help you with that.” He lifts his trunks up to the metal shelf above the window, John picks up his owl, places the cage on the seat next to the door, and then sits next to his bird. Mike sits across from him. “I'm quite surprised to see you here, I mean, it's just my parents know nearly all the wizards in London, I'm sure they must have mentioned your family, but I just can't remember!”
“Oh, um, that's because my family aren't wizards. It's just me actually.”
The confusion leaves his face and is replaced by a warm smile. “Oh I see! So you're muggle-born!”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“Right, that's a relief, would have been awkward if your family was a wizard family and I forgot. Never good to make a wizard family seem like less than yours! These lot also live in London, met them through parents, they all went to Hogwarts themselves when they were younger you see.” He pauses, before leaning in, and saying in a hushed voice, “My mum was actually at Hogwarts with Lily Potter, you know, well, Lily Evans back in those days, she was in her seventh year when Lily joined second year. In the same house they were,”
“Lily Potter?” At John's words, everyone in the carriage look at him, with mixed expressions of disbelief and shock. “Lily Potter, the mother of Harry Potter?” Mike asks, and John shakes his head, bewildered.
“Should I know of him?”
“Of course you should! Why, there isn't a single person in the wizarding world that doesn't know of him! Harry Potter is-” He breaks off as the carriage door slides open, and the boy John was watching on the platform stands in the doorway, looking down at Mike.
“Deary me Mike, gushing about Harry Potter, are we?” He extends his hand to Mike and he reaches up and shakes it.
“Oh, hi! I was just telling John here about him.” The boy's eyes swivel down to John and scrutinizes him. John feels himself fidget under the intense stare. They release their hands from each others grasps.
“Oh yes, the one watching my family from the train.” John feels a blush creep up to his cheeks. “The name's Sherlock Holmes.” He extends his hand, and John shakes it, surprised by his formality. Sherlock's grip is firm, and does one quick shake before releasing his hand. “What was I... Oh yes!” He turns, smiling at Mike, “Can I use your owl? I need to send a letter and Mycroft is busy in the prefects carriage, he got head boy and is thoroughly irritating about it, so I can't use his.” He adds to John, “I got a cat.” He then faces Mike again and smiles expectantly.
“Sorry, Sherlock, I got a, um, toad.” He reaches into his pocket and holds the murky brown toad up for all the carriage to see, its pudgy legs hanging over his stumpy hand, its throat swelling rapidly and then deflating with a ripping croak. Sherlock lets out a sigh, shoulders sagging. He falls quiet for a few seconds, just the sound of the shouts and crackles from the card game and the chugs and puffs of the engine can be heard. He sways with the rocking carriage.
“You could, uh, borrow mine? If... If you want to.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows at Mike, turns to John and lifts one side of his mouth up in a grateful smirk.
“Thank you.” He pulls out a letter enveloped in Bohemian stationary, the writing on the front scrawled, yet still elegant. John unlocks the cage to his bird, and the tawny owl swoops out of its cage. She lands on John's knee and yellow orbs flecked with brown watch him readily, her legged pointed towards him.
“No, no, Clara, it's not my letter you're delivering.” She lifts her head haughtily, and twists round to peer at Sherlock. “My sister, Harry, bought her for me on my eleventh birthday in Diagon Alley, the day I received my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. Just broke up with her girlfriend you see, practically begged me to name her Clara.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters, “Sentiment,” Under his breath. For nine seconds, Sherlock and Clara stare at each other, sizing the other one up, before she lets out a low hoot, and swoops up to Sherlock's hooked arm. He then ties the letter to her leg, and she takes off out through the opened window. “How was surfing?” Sherlock asks.
“Sorry?” Sherlock's eyes swivel down and meet John's.
“I asked, how was surfing?”
“Well um, how did you...?” Sherlock smirks at Mike before returning to face John.
“Oh quite obvious, well, obvious to someone that observes.”
“Did, did you tell him about me?” John asks to Mike, but Mike merely shakes his head.
“I didn't know you were coming here mate, why would I tell Sherlock what you did when you were on holiday?”
“Then how did you-” John begins, yet is interrupted by Sherlock as he narrows his eyes at him.
“Nothing big, John. Your father, obviously by the way he stands and is dressed, has just returned from the military, however his tan is no longer on just his wrists, it also goes half way up his shoulders, so he's worn one thing on holiday since returning, possibly a short sleeved wet suit. And then there's you. Your tan line is just at the wrists, suggesting a longer wet suit, and there are still faint red marks on your wrists where the material must have dug into your skin, so you would have gotten back, oh I'd say, under a week ago? Judging by the way your family dressed and the state of your trunks, no offense, shows not very much money in the family, the surfing trip must have been celebrating something, possibly your birthday, more likely your acceptance into a wizarding school coming from a muggle family, and most probably because of the low amount of money you stayed in England, so the tan is more a wind tan than a sun tan, which usually only happens during water sports. How do I know you're a muggle born? First of all your sister doesn't look much older than you, so if you were a wizarding family she would be on this train too. She's not a squib, your whole family looked quite nervous and excited standing on that platform as if it was the first time for them all, plus your topic of conversation when I entered the room, Harry Potter, you were being told about him for the first time. Obviously muggle born. So, back to the surfing. Your muscles aren't majorly defined, however more so than most eleven year olds, yet you seemed to strain when picking up your trunks, as if the movement caused you pain, so you've been using your arms, back and leg muscles recently, and a lot in a short amount of time. At first I thought skiing, but eliminated the idea as you have no tan line around your eyes; you weren't wearing goggles which would be an idiotic idea in the summer as the sun reflects off of the snow and burns exposed skin and can blind eyes. As well as that, most people don't go skiing in the summer. Leading back to water sports, most common and cheapest one in the UK is surfing. And so for the third time, I repeat, how was surfing?” He takes a steadying breath at the end of his fast paced deductions, and grows nervous, worried that John will react to him like his family and the the kids at his primary. The only people that ever accepted him were Mike and Molly, the only two here he had properly met. His parents preferred to stick to only pure bloods, so although he had heard of Roberts and Dimmock, he had never met them.
“That was... amazing.” A genuine smile of relief and happiness flickers across Sherlock's face, before he composes himself and raises an eyebrow.
“Thank you, John, however I'd appreciate it if I didn't have to repeat myself a fourth time.”
“Yeah, it was great... Really great.” He stares at Sherlock with awe, and Sherlock grows embarrassed by the sudden attention.
“Thanks for letting me use your owl.” He says to John, inclining his head. He then faces Mike and hurriedly apologises, “Sorry, got to dash, I never like rushing so I'm going to go change into my robes. Afternoon.”
Mike holds up a hand and nods his head, the two boys murmur a farewell each, and Molly squeaks out “Bye, Sherlock!”. Her words going unnoticed, and she cowers back into her seat. Sherlock nods at Mike, and sweeps out the carriage door, sliding it behind him with a snap. John glances around the carriage. The two boys continue playing their gaming, growing more and more agitated every passing minute. Molly sits, face bright red and her eyes down as she watches her fumbling fingers. They finally rest on Mike, who grins at John's mixed expression.
“Yep. He's always like that,” Chuckling, he turns to cheer on the winning boy in the intense game, leaving John to stroke the cool metal bars of the birdcage absentmindedly and stare at the carriage door- the place previously inhabited by the boy he unknowingly knows will bring him hundreds of adventures, mischief, frustration and joy in the seven years to come at the magical place of Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry.