A Wand for Sherlock

Garrick Olivander was not an impatient man, nor was he prone to fits of pique, or outbursts of violence, but if there ever was a time he wished to be the sort of man who was, it would be now. And the cause of this irrational desire? A Holmes of course. Not the first to make him feel so put upon, but definitely the first to make him wish he could just thrust any old wand into someone's hand and push them out the door.

The issue wasn't that the boy, Sherlock, was taking a long time to find a wand which recognized him. If it were just that Garrick would be more than happy to continue patiently tending to the child's need for a wand. He'd spent hours before diligently pulling down box after box for customers. No. This boy had been flat out refusing every wand for the past hour. He wouldn't even hold them.

After the first, "No, not that one," the elder son of the family Mycroft, Chestnut and Dragon heartsting fifteen inches rigid, had explained to him that that wasn't how it worked. A wand had to choose the bearer, not the other way around. Garrick had reinforced this with his own explanation of how wands chose their witch or wizard and was awarded with a look of mild disdain from the child before him.

The boy was knowledgeable enough about wands. He based all of his objections on the wood, or core, or rigidity.

"Hawthorn with Unicorn hair, twelve inches, supple."

"Unicorn hair? Too plebian, it will never be a powerful enough wand with Unicorn hair, and Hawthorn is more adept for healing. I don't fancy myself a healer."

"Sycamore with phoenix feather eleven and a half inches, rather springy."

"Sycamore? Well I do hate to be bored, but phoenix feather? Too slow! Boring! What an improper pairing!"

Garrick Olivander was at his wits end. He placed the sycamore with phoenix feather, eleven and a half inch, rather springy wand back in its place and thought.

Sherlock was ready to throw a fit. He'd been standing in the middle of Olivander's all afternoon and had nothing to show for it. Greatest wand maker of our time? Rubbish. The man was obviously incompetent if he could not even choose a wand for Sherlock based off of proper observational techniques.

Mycroft was sitting now, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his folded hands pressed against his forehead. Sherlock concluded that his older brother was nearly as fed up as he was himself, but not for the same reasons. Not that Sherlock cared one way or the other what Mycroft thought.

Mr. Olivander was making his way from the back again, another box in his hands. This one was different, however. Sherlock noted the slightly tense, dubious look on the man's face and the tightness with which he held the box. Sherlock's interest was piqued. The old man set the box down on the counter and opened it. Inside, was a thing of pure beauty. The thought surprised Sherlock, he wasn't used to thinking of things that way, but he couldn't help himself.

"Cherry," Olivander eyed Sherlock, "with dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches, quite supple."

"Cherry," Sherlock scoffed, but couldn't find anymore more to say against it. He reached out for the first time that day, and picked up the wand. He was filled with warmth, like a whispered promise that tingled through his fingers and up his arm straight to his brain. A flick of his wrist had the wand spewing blue and gold sparks across the counter.

Behind him Mycroft stood, before him Mr. Olivander beamed, but for once in his life Sherlock only had eyes for one thing.

~end?

Note to the Reader: I really don't know where this came from or if it will go on, but I thought it was cute and a bit clever so I am posting it. Neither Mycroft's nor Sherlock's wands were chosen arbitrarily. I did some in depth research into Rowlings' wandlore before deciding what their wands should be and everything from the wood to the flexibility have a meaning.