If asked, John Watson would say that he was quite an average fourteen-year-old wizard. He attended Hogwarts like any other, he'd shrug, and while living at a magical school surrounded by other magical teenagers was exciting he wouldn't say his life was particularly extraordinary.

That is, of course, until he had the (in some ways, very fortunate) misfortune of running into one Sherlock Holmes.

(Although, of course, Sherlock would always insist on the point that it had been the other way around. Semantics, it seemed, were essential.)

John knows about Holmes. Everyone does – older, younger, different Houses, even the First Years are wary of the snippy pale Slytherin.

John isn't.

Well, to be honest, he's never actually spoken to the boy before. Which might seem odd, considering he's halfway through his fourth year at Hogwarts, but it isn't like the Slytherins are a sociable bunch anyway. And despite the friendly nature of Hufflepuffs, John never saw the point.

The way he sees it, people either fear Holmes or revere him – and only from a distance. He's an enigma shrouded in a heavy black coat and rumours never cease around him. Of course, John knows what he can do, has heard the recounts – whether angry or terrified – of the way he can pick apart a person with the barest of glances. And then there are the more outlandish ones; claims that Holmes is secretly a Seer, that he's mastered Legilimency, even that he's half-human and half something else (something psychic, likely), because surely nobody can pick out such fine details without something there?

But John is, if nothing, pragmatic at best and he reserves his own judgement on the odd boy. It isn't for a lack of interest; more a reluctance to get caught up in the (admittedly, sometimes rather terrifying) rumour mill of the student body. He can admit to himself that some of the alleged reports seem to hold more fiction than fact – he doesn't care how intelligent Holmes is, he cannot possibly have mastered the skills of a Legilimens by the age of fourteen. (And he isn't even going to touch on the ones about his apparent half-breed status.)

John himself has never been subject to much more than a passing glance from the peculiar boy in a shared class. He's certainly never had those pale eyes (and he hasn't ever been close enough to notice the colour – nor does he think he wants to be) pierce through him and lay out his whole life and secrets, as he's heard is his – what, hobby? Specialty? Gift? He isn't sure, but whatever it is, it's most definitely unique.

It isn't that John goes out of his way to avoid him – their paths never seem to cross. John doesn't even recall seeing the boy much out of classes. So it's with a shock that, as John exits the owlery after sending a reply to his sister's letter and rounds the corner, he walks straight into none other but the Slytherin in question.

Or maybe gets barged into is more specific – Holmes seems to be in a hurry and the collision as his long legs and taller self hit John makes him stumble back, trip, and they fall in a tangle of limbs, robes and that long coat of his.

"Oh, God, sorry," John groans, pushing away and getting to his feet. "Didn't see you coming- sorry." His proffered helping hand is ignored as Holmes gathers himself up nimbly and looks him over – no more than a glance – as he straightens up his coat.

John doesn't know why but the intense light-coloured eyes (they look almost grey in the bright torchlight, but a little bit blue too; interesting) make him want to stand up straighter to his full not-so-very-impressive height, which is stupid so he just meets the stare head-on instead. This makes Holmes lift an eyebrow infinitesimally. John offers a cautious smile. "Erm, I'm John Watson."

The eyebrow falls and the pale boy rolls his eyes, sliding his hands into his pockets and saying scornfully, "I know who you are." His stare stays fixed though, and John shifts, puzzled and a little bit awkward.

"Um. Right. Then." He opens his mouth to say something, though not entirely sure what, but in a beat Holmes is already on the move again. John blinks after him, feeling the loss of the intensity of Holmes' scrutiny as he disappears around the corner in the same rush he'd been in before, leaving John standing there and wondering if he'd somehow imagined the brief – though intriguing – incident.

In any case, he sets to putting it out of his mind and continues on down to dinner, his thoughts already moving on to his Transfiguration essay and Quidditch practice.

And yet, John finds himself surveying the Slytherin table in between chatting with his mates and heaping his plate full of chicken. Two sweeps of his eyes up and down the green-decked students reveals no tall imposing fourth-year and he wonders vaguely why Holmes had been in such a rush.

As soon as he catches himself, John mentally shakes his head to clear it.

"All right, John?"

He looks up at his best mate, Mike Stamford, who's glancing behind him to see what John had been staring at. John brings his focus back to the drumstick in his hand (when had he picked that up?) and smiles, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, sorry, just thinking."

Next to him, Sarah looks at him curiously. "You're looking a little off. Did something happen? Is Harry okay?"

Embarrassed doesn't seem to cover it now. John feels his ears heat up and tries to find something to say that doesn't make it sound like his thoughts have been preoccupied by the strangest boy in their year (maybe the whole school) who – as far as they know – he hasn't ever spoken to before.

John has to take another moment to remind himself that, really, he hasn't. That interlude in the hallway had been nothing.

…Except perhaps a little bit unsettling. Or intriguing. Possibly both.

"It's nothing," he says out loud, hoping his smile is reassuring. "Harry's fine – well, y'know, as fine as Harry ever is." His mind latches onto the first thing he can think of, so he adds, "Just thinking about the homework we got for Transfiguration. I've got Quidditch practice later tonight – should probably head back to the Common Room and finish it off before that." He puts the chicken down, untouched.

It is true. It's just not the truth. John feels quite guilty – he's not used to hiding things from his friends. Still, he can't really imagine what he can say if he was to tell them the real reason behind his preoccupation – "Sorry, guys, it's just that I bumped into Sherlock Holmes, or rather he ran into me and then proceeded to stare into my soul for the next five seconds while I tried to form a coherent sentence. It was strange and now I'm alarmingly intrigued. Call for help."

…Yeah, okay, maybe not.

Mike nods. "Good idea. You're always like the walking dead after practice. Almost expect you to start moaning for brains half the time." He grins as Sarah looks mildly confused at the reference to zombies – though for a pure-blood, she has become rather adapted to Muggle-related things thanks to them.

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he stands. "I blame Lestrade. Not sure what the bloke thinks he'll achieve by running us into the ground every couple of nights, honestly."

"Just a thought, but I'd guess that would be the Quidditch Cup," Sarah says mildly.

He laughs at that. "Now why didn't I think of that?" John quirks a grin at the both of them before stepping over the bench to head back to the Common Room. "Right, I'm off. See you in a bit."

They wave him off and John strides out of the Great Hall purposefully, the chatter of hundreds of students fading as he wanders away from them. A frown has replaced the earlier smile, and he can't help but fixate on the thought – he hadn't seen Holmes enter the Hall at all.

Again, he wonders what the boy had been in a rush for. An important letter is likely, but what exactly?

And again, he reminds himself (very forcefully this time) that it is most certainly none of his business what the Slytherin gets up to, and also that this curiosity ignited by their encounter cannot lead to anything good.

John huffs out a deep breath, looks up from his musings and his steps stutter. Case in point: he is not, in fact, heading towards the Hufflepuff Common Room as he was fully intending to do. Instead, he recognises the route as the one to the owlery.

Irritated, yet curious against his will (and better judgement), John stares ahead and ponders peering into the owlery to see if Holmes is still there. (Now that he's here, it only makes sense. Maybe he'll get an answer or two. Or Holmes will catch him and he'll seem like a stalker. He could make up an excuse – emergency letter home, maybe? – but no doubt the Slytherin will see right through it.)

As it turns out, his self-debate is quite pointless. After another silent moment, John gives in to his curious nature and quietly treads up the steps to the owlery. When he finds it empty of another student, he doesn't know whether the feeling that rushes through him is relief or disappointment.

He decides, very firmly, that it doesn't matter either way. Just because Holmes seems to have a certain (interest-peaking more than daunting) aura about him, and John's inquisitive nature demands satisfaction – well, those two points alone are enough to convince him that this line of thought is best left alone.

The walk back to his Common Room (this time, he does end up there) is heavy with thought and swirling questions in his head. (Holmes had looked right at him – stared, really – and claimed to have known who he is, yet he hadn't said anything; where was the rattle of declarations on every aspect of John's life? The piercing gaze that caught every detail for him to lay bare to the world? John would be a liar if he claims not to have been anticipating it the moment he'd realised who exactly it was who had knocked him over. But then – Holmes had been in a rush, so maybe that was it.)

As soon as John is in the familiar comfort of his dorm room, empty besides him as the other boys are still enjoying dinner, he falls into his bed and digs out his half-complete Transfiguration essay and a quill. It takes a while to get his thoughts to focus (turning inanimate objects to less-inanimate objects is something he can't quite get the hang of) but eventually, he is immersed in his homework. The door opens just as he is finishing off (not his best essay ever, but acceptable enough) and Mike enters.

"Hey," John says distractedly.

"Lestrade's headed out to the pitch already," he says in way of greeting.

John looks up, notices the light dimming from outside, and curses. He hadn't meant to lose track of time. He slips the essay back into his bag and dons his Quidditch gear in a minute, snatching his broom from its post by his bed and shoving his shoes on quickly – where most of the team had sneakers from wizard stores, specially made for Quidditch and the sporadic weather they play in, John simply wears his favourite Muggle sneakers that he plays football in during the summer back at home. A few well-practiced charms make them durable enough to last and also repel rainwater and mud from ruining them. It's a practical solution to the financial problems of his family.

He dashes out of the Common Room, dodging students along the way before bursting out the wide front doors of the school. Not paying attention to where he's going and caught up in the momentum, John only has time to see the tall back of a black-covered figure walking ahead of him before he runs into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground in a tumble of limbs and twin gasps of sudden pain from the impact.

John curses and tries to untangle himself from the figure beneath him, a feat not helped any by the other boy's wriggling as he grunts and tried to roll onto his back so his face isn't shoved into the ground.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," John mutters awkwardly. He finally manages to extract himself from the mess and falls back heavily to his haunches, catching his breath before he looks up – a useless effort as it just disappears all over again.

For of course he ran into none other than Holmes himself. Again.

"Are you following me?" he demands immediately, the words slipping out before he can even think them over (and, really? He's accusing Holmes of being some sort of stalker, now?). John feels the heat rush up to his face, knows his ears are lit up pink, but refuses to back away from the now wide-eyed stare that holds him in place.

"Following you? Are you that dull?" Holmes shoots back with a scoff. He gets to his feet as swiftly as he'd done in the hallway before (John tries not to feel like a wrecked mess in his grass-stained Quidditch gear when he hurries to get his own feet under him – the height difference is bad enough without the added gap) and calmly brushes dirt off his coat.

John frowns and crosses his arms. Empty, he realises at the same moment – his broom is lying on the ground a few feet away where it flew out of his hand from the collision. "Well- this is the second time I've run into you today," he amends somewhat defensively.

Holmes' inscrutable look is starting to make him uncomfortable. He doesn't tear his gaze away like he wants to, though, because some part of his mind is shouting that losing eye contact will show weakness and any weakness in front of a guy like Sherlock Holmes is bound to be pounced on and used against him. (But then, that voice sounds suspiciously like his sister when she's being a paranoid drunk so he's not sure how much stock he should put in it).

"The first time," Holmes says.

John blinks, his stiff posture relaxing a bit from surprise. "What?"

"I do believe I ran into you earlier," he points out.

Huh. So he does remember that. John hadn't been sure; Holmes had looked very preoccupied and he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd forgotten the incident entirely. John presses his lips together in consideration, shifts a little on the spot. "Right. Well." He peers curiously at the Slytherin, who looks relaxed and indifferent in comparison to him. "I see you're not going to apologise for that." It's a statement, an acknowledgement that he doesn't expect Holmes to. Holmes, on the other hand, seems to have anticipated a different response because John's almost sure he sees a flash of surprise in his eyes (now pale blue, almost reflecting the lightest part of the sky as the sun sets behind him).

John shrugs and drops his arms. "And I didn't see where I was going just now anyway, so. Sorry about that." He crosses the few steps to his broom and picks it up, glancing ahead at the Quidditch pitch just visible from their position. He looks back at Holmes who watches him silently, almost considering. John waves a hand in the direction of the pitch. "I gotta... go," he finishes a little lamely, mounting his broom.

Holmes nods almost imperceptibly and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

John inclines his head in a sort of farewell before kicking off and, resisting the urge to glance back once more at the (now more than ever) intriguing Slytherin, flies off to join his teammates.

Lestrade has a lecture about punctuality he starts to give a distracted John but, as always, he runs out of steam halfway through and just sighs tiredly with a wave of the hand that John has learnt to mean "Go on then". He grins apologetically but flies up to join the others.

As he swings his Beater's bat with accustomed force at the Bludgers, John spares a quick glance back to the patch of field in front of the school.

It's empty.

Before he has time to even ponder over Holmes' whereabouts, a solid thud sounds and a scream pierces his thoughts. He turns in midair, automatically raising his bat in some form of defence – a defence which comes in handy as a Bludger hurtles towards him with terrifying force and he hits it away just in time to see where it had come from.

Their Keeper, a speedy second-year called Carl Powers, is hurtling towards the ground, his broom – now shattered – gripped uselessly in his hands.

A/N: *bounds in* Hello! I hope that interested you at least a little. Been wanting to do a Sherlock-at-Hogwarts fic for a while so I figured – meh, why not? And, yeah, I started the story with a bang because I suck at building up to things considering all the tangents I go off on which means I never end up getting to whatever it was I was aiming for. xP

Hopefully all questions will be cleared up in due course, and also I apologise for any... discrepancies with Sherlock's character right now. I'm still getting a feel of him at the moment so hopefully with a bit more writing and including him in on some more action than being knocked to the ground multiple times (uh, I promise you that second time was not completely random and he does actually have a reason for being there other than for John to barge into him again...) I'll be able to write him better. And then I'll come back and fix up his parts here.

Also, I should say this from now – I'm not a regular updater. I don't work well with schedules and my updates are sporadic at best. Sometimes I'll post up a couple of chapters in a week, at other times I'll go a month without writing. So, sorry in advance. Feel free to urge me to write with compliments, threats of bodily harm, threats of finding-me-and-making-me-write, pleading, and/or bribery (psst. I love Nutella. *innocent*).

Lol, nah but, in all seriousness. I do have plans for this story, so suffice to say that even if I don't update in a while, it doesn't mean I've given up on it. I do have a couple of awesome friends who I'm sure wouldn't let me do that, anyway. :P *pokes you all* you know who you are. ;)

Would love to know what you think so far. Please drop me a comment; it would seriously make my day. :)

Cheers,
izzy. ^.^