Sherlock sat by himself at one of the many scattered tables in the library, sniffing quietly in distaste at anyone who came close to sitting near him.

It was no secret that the second year held himself higher than the rest of the school, putting himself on a pedestal above all others. Some thought it was, perhaps, because he was a Slytherin that made him so. Believing, perhaps, that he must have held onto some archaic notion of pureblooded supremacy or some other such nonsense.

It had, of course, nothing to do with that in the least bit. Sherlock really could care less if someone happened to be a muggle born witch or wizard, or if they came from the longest line of pureblooded witches and wizards out there.

Oh, no. Sherlock held himself on high simply because everyone else was an idiot.

They all pandered to the latest fads, polluting their brains with unnecessary clutter of gossip and fashion, horrible tv programs and who in the celebrity would was going out with who. It was nauseating.

So, of course, when an enthusiastic, fourth year Griffindor, with messy blonde hair plopped himself down across from him at the table, scattering his books around him in an obvious move to mean he was going to be staying for a while, Sherlock let out a low snarl of disapproval.

The Griffindor glanced up at him at the noise, blinking startled blue eyes at him, his head tilting slightly to the side in curiosity, much like a dog would. "Was someone else going to sit here?" he asked with the motion.

Sherlock simply scowled, before having to shake his head at the inquiry, letting out a small puff of frustrated air. "No," he replied waspishly.

The red and gold bedazzled student simply smiled at him warmly. "Then no harm, no foul, ay?" he said, chuckling a little, before opening several of his books and partially unrolling a scroll which already had a good ten inches of writting on it.

Sherlock surveyed the books laid out in front of the boy, making a few mental notes of his physical appearance, a tiny sneer marking his lips once he came to a conclusion.

"You're Watson, from the Griffindor Quidditch team, aren't you," the Slytherin boy stated more than asked, "You do realize that the assignment you're currently working on for your muggle studies class only required you to write eight inches worth of parchment on the inner workings of the muggle medical system?" He hoped the disdain in his tone would drive the other boy away, to at least move to a different table, if not back to his dorm to finish his stupid paper.

"Oh, I know that," Watson said, continuing on with writing his paper, "I'm perfectly aware of my own assignment, thank you. And it's John, by the way. Only the team captain and the teachers call me Watson."

Sherlock sniffed again, scowling at the top of the blonde mop of hair in front of him. "If you're trying to get a rise out of me because of my reputation, it's not going to work. I'll simply leave," he snapped instead, disliking the thick boy across from him more and more as the seconds ticked by. "I am aware of your houses' general dislike of me, and no one sits with me. Ever. So, if this is some sort of lead up to a prank you and your so called friends are trying to pull, you can forget it. I will not be had." He shoved his chair back and stood as he began to close up his books and shove them back into his bag.

"Hey, now, wait!" John said, jerking his head up at the first slam of a text book, his quill making an ugly black streak across his parchment as he jerked. He dropped the feather and reached out to put a hand over one of Sherlock's as the boy went to grab his history of magic text. "I wasn't trying to upset you," he said quietly, only letting go of Sherlock's hand once he was sure the boy wasn't going to simply swipe all of his things off the table and bolt.

John sighed quietly, Sherlock eyeing him in distrust, lifting the text book in his hand to press against his chest. "Out with it, then," Sherlock snapped.

"Look," John started, before faltering and rubbing a hand over his face and trying again. "I…This is going to sound horrible, I know," he muttered, rocking back in his chair, "But I saw you sitting here by yourself, like you do every day. Like you do in the great hall, and when you're out in the courtyard. You walk everywhere by yourself, and I'm sure you sit by yourself in class, too."

"Are you a stalker?" Sherlock interrupted, wrinkling his nose at the other boy, who snorted loudly, stifling a laugh.

"Oh my god, no," the blonde said, his smile crooked, "It's just something I couldn't help noticing…Anyway. I felt sort of bad for you." He held up a hand to cease any objection from escaping Sherlock's mouth, "Not in the 'I pity you' sort of way, but the 'I want to be his friend', sort of way. You…Well, you looked like you could use a friend."

Sherlock snorted loudly, "And what gave you that idea?"

John's smile became a little less crooked and a little more sad. "Sometimes, when you don't think anyone is looking, and you're studying by yourself, you get this really far off look on your face. Like you're the only soul in the universe. And it looks really lonely."

This gave pause to Sherlock, a somewhat startled expression passing across his features as he slowly sunk back down into his seat.

The two of them sat silent for a good long minute, before Sherlock finally spoke again.

"I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot," he said, quietly at first, gaining a little more volume with confidence, the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lip, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It's nice to meet you, John."

The blonde grinned and reached across the table to shake the hand offered to him.