Firstly, hello. I'm writing this because currently I'm seriously obsessed with Potterlock and need me some angsty fluff. It's a work in progress, and I'll post the chapters weekly, if I can, but probably fortnightly... I'm lazy. I hope you enjoy it, and do do do leave a review with constructive criticism or absolute abuse or friendly praise. Anything.

So yeah, enjoy!

NOTE: This is gonna be long, with a build up to the Johnlock, so yeah. May change rating later on for naughtiness.

EDIT: Okay I've changed this to a prologue after a lot of thought. I've changed the structure of the entire story, and feel this would be better as more of an introduction t othe whole plot with my new structure, so I've added a bit to this chapter that I was going to use as a new chapter and yeah. Very confusing, apologies.

Prologue

Darkness. Everything muffled. The murmuring of hundreds of watching students just audible. He hears a voice in his head, too, and he wonders whether the people watching can hear it. He realises he could hear none of the others sorting, and concludes that this is a private, one-way conversation.

...John feels a little hiccup of nerves leap in his stomach at the memory, even though it was so long ago. It feels like centuries since he sat there, barely eleven years old in a world he did not understand. He still does not entirely understand the world, but in a far more general sense. He can grasp the concept of the magical realm that hides in the corner of a muggle child's eye. However, people, some people in particular, are far harder to define.

"More brawn than brains, I'd say," the voice drawls in his ear, "Courage, definitely. Loyalty, my there's loyalty. I don't see much ambition. In fact, you lack it rather severely, but of course you do with all that willingness to help people. But… yes, it will have to be… GRYFFINDORE! "

John feels his heart leap and everything is bright again as the scruffy hat is lifted from his head. Three of the tables clap appreciatively as he walks shakily over to the Gryffindors, though on one table most people look sour and nudge each other, as they do for every new member of the lion's house.

John looks down at his coffee and sighs. He remembers the skinny, haughty Slytherin seventh year that had just smirked as John's house was announced. He did not ordain to comment on it and nudge his friends like the other Slytherins; he had not for any of the houses except his own.

John turns back to the sorting hat once he has found a place and been congratulated by several fellow Gryffindors. A girl with dimples and pale brown hair is being sorted. Her eyes are concealed, like John's had been, by the hat's frayed rim and she trembles all over.

"….HUFFLEPUFF!" The hat yells, and the latter house clap and whoop as she stumbles away from the stool.

John claps with them until he feels a hand on his arm, stopping him. "Don't clap too much. Apparently they beat us in the Quidditch cup last year."

John looks round. A round, jolly sort of boy is grinning at him. He looks vaguely familiar, and for a second John finds himself in one of those awkward situations where you have to explain you've forgotten someone's name. Suddenly, however, recognition dawns at the back of John's mind and he blanches.

"Stanford, Mike Stanford!" He stutters.

Stanford grins, "Yeah, I know. I got fat."

John laughs "No, I didn't mean…. I mean... how come you're here!"

Mike Stanford went to the same primary school as John back in London. John has never known him very well, but spoken to him a few times. Nevertheless, seeing a familiar face, however distant, is a relief.

"Got the letter, didn't I? My mum hit the roof, thought it was some elaborate prank, but then my step-dad 'came out' to us and finally said he was a wizard. Mum got palpitations, and had to go to the Doctors."

"Well it's great to see someone I know here. Is she all right though? Your mum?"

"Oh, she's fine, got over it after we went to Darren's – that's my step-dad – Gringotts vault."

John remembers the incident of his Hogwarts letter's arrival very clearly, too. It had been a sultry afternoon, Harry was at her violin lesson and his dad was watching the football, occasionally yelling at the TV. John was bored, lying on his bed, reading. It was too hot to go outside, and there was nothing to do indoors except reread one of his favorite novels and chew now-flavorless gum.

When the owl flew through his open window, into his small room and landed with a flop on his bed, John leaped off the mattress and after a moment of shock, yelled. His father had turned up the television too loudly to hear him, and he stood there for several moments breathing heavily. The owl turned to look at him quizzically, and stuck its leg out, waiting expectantly for him to do something about the letter tied to its leg. Wait – a letter?

John edged as close as he dared and looked at the yellowing envelope. It bore the insignia of a strange crest in an emerald green ink that stood out brightly on the parchment.

He reached for it. He read it.

He did not tell his father, but stayed in his room the rest of the day. Only when a kindly looking woman turned up at his door, introduced herself as Pomona Sprout, and proceeded to tell John and his father all about Hogwarts, and magic, and Diagon Alley did he begin to see that maybe it wasn't a joke after all.

He absolutely knew the whole thing was verily, truly real when Professor Sprout had taken him and his father to the famous wizarding street, and its many fantastical shops, and shown them Platform 9 ¾. His father had been shouting, and verbally abusive, and im every way the father John knew, while refusing to believe any of it, until Sprout bought him a fire-whiskey. John suspected his father had accepted it out of the recognition that even he could not dream up such a drink. However, after his father had calmed down, Sprout had winked at him over her own drink and John wondered if there was something a bit more potent slipped into the whiskey that would... convince him.

John and Mike chat some more, reminiscing of the days back in London, of real life. Because this, all the magic and complete weirdness of the whole situation, does feel like a dream. The sorting continues, the hat bellowing every two minutes. John soon turns back to the sorting ceremony, regretting missing just one moment of Hogwarts life, of magic, of a talking hat, even if he is still shell shocked.

He turns just in time to see a tall boy walking purposefully up to the stool. He has raven curls, and pale skin, and even from here, John can see how sharp his grey eyes are. It unsettles him slightly, even embarrasses him (he wobbled up to the hat and almost tripped), to see how confident this boy is. As he sits down, the Headmistress calls out;

"HOLMES, SHERLOCK!"

The pale boy is placed in Ravenclaw.

The sapphire and bronze house cheers and he moves over to their table, nearly as tall as some of the fourth years already. When he reaches them they pat him on the back and smile warmly, but he barely pulls up the corners of his mouth and it seems to take him a great effort. With a nod to their congratulations, he glances at the Slytherin table, and looks back at his plate again almost immediately.

John realises he's been scrutinizing the boy – or Sherlock Holmes, he supposes - for over a minute and snaps his head back to the sorting, just as a tall, dark girl is put in Slytherin. She almost jogs there, a smug smile on her lips.

John remembers again how in An Unabridged History of Hogwarts by Hermione Granger it explains her opinion Slytherin's reputation. The author says that because of its founder's beliefs people who believe and practice similar things are drawn to it, so of course many people like this are placed there – due to the Hat's tendency to consider your wishes. John glances over at the emerald and silver table and frowns. He was warned by Professor Sprout to keep an open mind about the people at Hogwarts, no matter in which house they abide, as one should not judge a house by its reputation.

"So," Mike says, snapping John out of his reverie, "Pretty cool here, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I mean, I haven't seen the bedrooms yet, so I can't give it five-star rating just now."

Mike snickers and the two boys chat until dinner is served. To John's wonder, (though he did read about it in Grangers book) the food appears before them on golden platters, and he and Mike tuck in as soon as they locate the gravy.

"STOP SHOVING!" The prefect bellows at them as the new first year Gryffindors cluster round the entrance of the great hall. He glowers at them, but he seems kind enough and is calm once they arrange themselves into a line. He leads them through the winding corridors, palatial staircases, past the rugged tapestries and moving paintings. John can hardly breathe.

When they reach a painting of a fat lady lounging round in her boudoir the prefect says 'Wolfic' and the painting swings open to reveal an opening in the wall.

"So, you got that everyone? Wolfric's the password, it changes every couple of weeks. Don't write it down and leave it lying around, we don't want a repeat of the old Longbottom incident. Got it? Great. Oh, remember, I'm Greg Lestrade and I'm a prefect so don't let me see you sneaking round after lights out."

John stares at the moving paintings in the hall some more before joining Mike and going through the portrait hole. The Gryffindor common room is circular and lavish and hung with red and gold drapes on the walls. A fire is crackling in the enormous grate.

That night, John sleeps better than he ever has before, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow he starts again, eagles and lions careening through his dreams.

Original notes: So, yeah! The first chapter! It's really short, it's kind of a prologue, but the rest will probably be longer. I had loads of fun writing it and I hoped you enjoyed it, drop your opinion if you like and wait with bated breath for the next installment. Have a good night's sleep if you're up reading fanfic to the wee hours like I do.

Oh, and which house do you think Sherlock will be in?

EDIT: See the top notes, this is now a prologue. Again, sorry!