A Study in Hogwarts
A/N: Because everything British needs a Martin Freeman. Reviews are always welcome, unless you hate me.
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to JKR or BBC.
Chapter 1
John Watson knew that it was impolite to stare.
His parents had brought him up properly, of course. Even at eleven, he was every bit accustomed to the general rules of decent society. He had learned "please" and "thank you" and "would you like a cup of tea, sir?" before he had gone to primary school. He knew to open doors and shake hands and, above all, not to stare.
Yet however hard he tried, John couldn't help but stare as one by one the older children pushed their carts toward the solid (or so it looked) brick wall and vanished through it.
"First year, eh?" A voice, notably Scottish, made John jump, half from surprise and half from guilt. He turned to see a tall, brown-haired boy, who looked to be in his late teens.
John nodded weakly, then remembered his manners. "Yes, sir."
The boy laughed. "You really must be nervous. Name's Oliver. Oliver Wood."
"John Watson." There was an uncomfortable pause.
"Well, then, off you go, John," said Oliver, gesturing to the wall. John took a deep breath, gathering his courage, then pushed his luggage ahead of him, straight into the wall. Instantly he found himself on the other side, surrounded by students hurrying to board the Hogwarts Express. A mixture of excitement and anxiety bubbled up inside him like a fizzy pop as he made his way to train.
Almost all of the compartments were already taken, and John thought it seemed rude to interrupt the already formed groups and their nice chats. Or at least, that's what he told himself. In all honesty, he was more than a little nervous, especially around those who were already wearing wizard's robes. Finally he found a compartment that only had one student in it, a tall and lean boy with his face stuck in a book.
"Hello," John said, taking his seat. The train whistled loudly, and there was more of a ruckus in the corridor as everyone hustled to their seats. The boy looked up at him sharply. His face was narrow and angular, and his hair was curly and dark. He mustn't have been much older than John, but he carried himself in a way that was beyond his years. His light eyes narrowed as he scrutinized John. John stared back at him staunchly.
"Muggle-born," The boy said promptly. "Doctor's son. Good home. Aspiring writer."
John blinked. "You're what?"
"No. You," he replied, shortly, almost impatiently.
"How did you know all that?" John asked, amazed. He'd gotten everything perfect. Then it dawned on him. "Oh, magic, right."
The boy scoffed. "No, deduction. You've got earbuds hanging from your pocket, no wizarding family would see the sense in those, which they won't do you any good at Hogwarts, you should know, and the coins in your other pocket are pennies, not knuts, so that's how I know you're Muggle-born. Your dad's a Muggle doctor because the inside of your leather jumper says "Property of Dr. Watson," and you're too young to have a medical degree, and plus that jumper is older than you are. You didn't nick it off him cause you're too polite, so that must mean he gave it to you so you wouldn't be cold, meaning you have to have come from a good home. You've got pencil rubbings on your right pinkie and ring fingers, which means you've been writing a great deal recently, and since school is out you must have been doing it for fun. Also another clue to your non-wizarding family, using a pencil, that is." He said all of this quickly, without so much as stopping for a breath.
"That's amazing!" John exclaimed. "Absolutely brilliant!"
"I know," the boy replied calmly.
"I'm John Watson," he said, sticking out a hand across the compartment. The boy took it with one sturdy shake.
"Sherlock Holmes."