John opened his eyes, and gasped. His mind short-circuited. His mouth stayed open as he raised his head, turning around and around, trying to drink in as much as the scene as possible.
A beautiful, long train seemed to glitter as it stood on its tracks. Everything seemed… brighter, in a way. A cat pawed at his leg, and John shook it off in a daze. An owl swooped overhead, and John shook his head, again.
"It worked." John couldn't help but grin foolishly. "It worked!"
Children of all ages swarmed around him, carrying trunks, but also cages and wands—John looked at his suitcase, suddenly feeling very embarrassed and unprepared.
He shouldn't be, he reminded himself— I'll get my supplies soon, after the Sorting.
The Sorting?
John irritably chased the question away from his mind. No time to think about that. "Go with the flow," he mumbled to himself, and started towards the train. He noticed a clock; 10:38. John nodded to himself happily.
He stumbled around, gaping at everything, for a while, before eventually resigning to dangerously sitting on the edge of the train platform. John pursed his lips, swinging his legs absentmindedly, lightly kicking the side of the train.
"But mom, I'm old enough!" a querulous voice rung out. He watched from the corner of his eye amusedly as a toddler whined, glaring at what was probably his brother, who stuck his tongue out at the other.
John smiled as the mother basically dragged the child away as he attempted to climb the train walls. He then leaned back on his arms, gazing at his feet, feeling wholly remarkable. An entire new world was living here— and now I'm part of it.
The train rang twice, loudly, jolting John from his slight daydream. He blinked, stumbled, mumbled an apology before realising nobody was there. John blushed and, standing up, walked away as quick as he could, feeling quite embarrassed all of a sudden.
He attempted maneuvering through the crowd for a moment before giving up and simply walking in the direction everyone else was walking.
John was then faced with another, much more difficult problem—where to sit.
He felt dread happily settle in his stomach, content to stay for as long as needed. John scowled and began looking for an empty compartment.
Harder said than done.
Most of them were all taken, either full or not welcoming in the slightest. John felt like an ant as he peered into crowded compartments, feeling quite panicky.
He ended up stubbornly walking in one direction only, following a winding hallway. He noticed the passengers started to dwindle here, but, perhaps out of curiosity, forged on.
Once, John peered into an utterly crammed compartment and saw a kid shake his head. John pointed to the direction he was walking, and the other shook his head again, before stopping, and then giving him a shrug and a thumbs-up. John shrugged back, gave a thumbs-up, and continued.
The train began moving with a jolt, and John stumbled and almost fell, before he straightened up and, finally, reached a compartment door. This seemed to be the end of the hallway. The curtains were drawn, but John, upon hearing the clinking of glass and other quiet noises, slowly approached.
He fidgeted on his feet, opening his mouth, then closing it again.
"Come in," an annoyed voice sounded from inside. "You forgot to drop off your luggage, by the way."
John started, then scowled, not knowing whether to direct it at the door or his suitcase.
"You know, this mind-reading thing is really getting pretty dull," he called out, and entered the compartment.
He drew in a surprised breath. John had a nagging feeling he was late; there was no way anyone, even a wizard, could make such a mess in so little time.
"Should I consider this as normal?" he joked, quietly.
Cluttered everywhere, was junk. Conspiracy boards were plastered on the wall. There were pictures of people banging on their glass frames and begging for mercy (John drew back, horrified, but drew his eyes away with determination). There was a rack of various liquids, powders, and different… animal parts? John vaguely wondered with a shudder. They seemed to be moving on their own. The only person inside the compartment was studying the movements and was writing on a sheet of parchment.
"Lestrade or Anthea?" The stranger spoke, without taking his eyes off the potions.
John looked at the other confusedly. "Excuse me?"
The wizard sighed, and repeated his question, with a bit more force this time. "I said, Lestrade or Anthea?"
"I…" John's mind was in a whirl. "Lestrade. How did you—"
"Don't see the family resemblance?"
The wizard stood up and looked back and John, who couldn't help but feel a jolt as he made eye contact. His eyes were quite strange; a little longer than normal, a bit… slanted, and he couldn't place a finger on the exact colour.
They were absolutely piercing. John forced himself to stand his ground, looking back with steely eyes of his own. "Holmes," he said. Not a question.
Holmes nodded. "Have a seat," he said brightly, himself taking the seat previously sat on, continuing to write.
John paused. "You're letting me in?" he said, a bit jokingly. "Right now? We don't know a thing about each other."
"I know you're new to magic and that Lestrade's taken you to my brother Mycroft. I know you've just been told you're a wizard yesterday night and you're going to buy everything you need after the Sorting. I know you've been kicking at the train twenty minutes ago, and that you had trouble finding a compartment."
He stopped, took a breath, and looked at John with a false smile. He gestured to the compartment seat. "John Watson, why don't you sit down?"
John sat down.
It only later occurred to him he hadn't told Sherlock his name.
Upon questioning, Sherlock simply glanced at his coat-sleeve, and John tugged at it and found an embroidered "John Watson" on it; courtesy of his mother.
"As for the others," said Sherlock, sitting down beside John, who took his suitcase and awkwardly shoved it underneath, "I don't recognise you, you forgot to drop off your luggage out of excitement, and from what you said and by the fact that you're here, I can deduce that you're new to the wizarding world. If you're this much of a late-bloomer, you'd obviously go see Mycroft. He's too lazy to fetch you himself, so it would be either Lestrade or Anthea. You have some dark circles under your eyes and you don't have a wand with you (a new wizard would be too excited to store it in your trunk) so you didn't have enough time to go buy anything until after the Sorting, because you've just been told yesterday night. It's been awhile since the bell rung; you've been searching for some time now. And as for the kicking, the noise it made—disrupting my potion experiment, I might add; I put in the beeswing at the wrong time—the noise matches with the shoes you're wearing. I figured another half-dozen things about you but I think this ought to do the trick."
John Watson looked at Sherlock with awe. "Woah. Now, that was cool."
Sherlock looked back at John, with curiosity. "You really think so?" he murmured, previous harsh tone completely gone.
"It was, it was quite amazing."
"Not what people usually say," Sherlock admitted, little colour seeping into his pale cheeks.
"What do they usually say?" John said with a smile.
Sherlock looked back at John, returning the smile this time. "I would tell you, but then I'd kill you."
John paused, blinked, before he laughed delightfully. Sherlock offered a happy smile and John couldn't help but smile crookedly back.
"So," John says with a cough. "All the other compartments are full."
"I know."
"Yeah, obviously," said John, rolling his eyes. He rested his head on a hand, elbows on the paper-covered desk. There was a cage on one side of the compartment seats—an owl. It noticed John looking and hooted loudly, flapping its wings and sending a pile of owl food flying at him. John blocked his face with his hands and glared. The owl stuck her tongue out.
John decided not to question anything anymore.
"It only does that to the people she likes," noted Sherlock with a smile.
"What, make her food attack me and then stick out her tongue? Wonder what it does to the ones she doesn't," John mutters, shaking some pellets from his hair.
"Mostly attempt to peck their eyes out," Sherlock responded, absentmindedly. He drew out a wand (it was incredibly fancy—long, swishy and elegant. John felt jealous and made a note to get a wand like Sherlock's) and waved it in a fancy swishy-flick, muttering something John couldn't hear. The papers on the desk floated up and stacked itself into a pile, on the floor.
"Here's the food cart," Sherlock said, abruptly. "I'll get something for us; you haven't eaten since yesterday."
There was a quiet knock at the door. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called out, and the door opened, ushering in a cart full of food. John pretended he wasn't looking at all of them as desperately as he wanted to.
"Afternoon, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson breezily. She then saw John, and did a double take. "And who's this lovely gentleman?"
"John Watson," said both Sherlock and John, simultaneously. Sherlock gave John an amused look and John lightly elbowed him.
Mrs. Hudson looked at the two of them, like "ah-ha!". She sighed, placed a hand over her heart, and gave John a smile.
"I see," she said happily. "You seem like just the type," she says softly, giving Sherlock a motherly pat on the shoulder. "Sherlock, I'm so glad to see you're finally moving on from all that Adler business."
Sherlock stiffened. "We were never dating, Mrs. Hudson."
Mrs. Hudson frowned, and then turned back to John with a wink. "Well, like I said, it's great to see him moving on."
"Oh," said John. "I'm not—"
"The usual, Sherlock?"
"A bit of everything," replied Sherlock, handing over some gold (real gold?) coins.
"Have a nice day, boys!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully, on her way out the door, cart rattling.
As the cart left, John took a breath, wondering if the world was just going to smother him with questions and not give him any answers, ever.
"Adler?" he asked carefully.
"Tried to… bribe," Sherlock emphasised, "me, into getting her parents out from a…" he stopped again, "a hitch." A faint smile. "I might have given her some wrong information."
John opened his mouth, but lowered his head and exhaled instead. "I see."
He paused, pursed his lips, before speaking again. "Got a date?" he asked tentatively, choosing his words carefully.
Sherlock shook his head. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, but to answer your question, I'm not partial to any gender."
"Oh," said John. "Hmm. So am I." He coughed awkwardly. "Not the chemical defect and losing part, I mean, I meant—"
Sherlock nodded again, curtly, and John dwindled off. Trying to dissolve the sudden tension, he looked at the pile of sweets on the compartment table, picking one up. "Every-Flavour-Beans?"
"Literally," said Sherlock. "Oh, no, not that one," he added as John opened the box and picked out a beige-ish one at random—"Centipede."
"Really?" said John, wide-eyed, and when Sherlock nodded he grinned and popped it into his mouth.
He instantly regretted it, choking and spitting it into a nearby wad of paper; Sherlock made a noise of distress but it soon dissolved into giggles as John attempted to brush his tongue—John soon joined in.
It continued for a while, Sherlock somehow correctly identifying ("it's the hue, it's obvious") all the beans and John daringly eating some few before regretting it again—Sherlock found this incredibly amusing.
Finishing the box, John began making his way through the treacle tarts. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking back at John, and awkwardly held one out. Sherlock shook his head, and John nodded with a shrug before he continued eating, constantly looking over the strange treats with suspicion, and then at Sherlock, wondering, by the intensity of his gaze, if he had poisoned it—from what he knew about him so far it was quite likely.
Just as he tore open a chocolate frog, Sherlock suddenly grabbed at John's arm, tightly. He looked at John with an indicator for silence clear in his eyes. John looked back, wide-eyed and confused, as Sherlock grabbed his wand and started making his way towards the door.
Sherlock had the same walk as John's father—scarily quiet.
Yanking open the door so hard John swore he heard a crack, Sherlock uttered an angry cry as a pitter of footsteps slowly echoed away. "Come on, John!" he urged, and dashed out the door. John didn't know what to do but confusedly follow—it seemed as if it was the only thing he'd been doing today.
They ran through the hallway, Sherlock muttering a string of curses, occasionally screeching to a halt and turning around, turning a corner, backing up, and John just trying to keep up with the wizard's erratic directions.
Sherlock and John turned a corner, and Sherlock put on a final burst of speed. He ran straight into a train compartment, and slammed open the door, breathing heavily.
Three twelve-year-olds looked up at the two of them with absolute terror.
"Oh," said Sherlock unhelpfully.
John looked at Sherlock. "Not what you were looking for?" he suggested. His tone was clipped, but he was trying to keep the smile out from it.
Sherlock scanned the girls, then shook his head with a wry smile. "Whoops."
"A-are you prefects?" one of the girls managed to whisper out.
Sherlock looked at the girl and gave her what was probably his attempt at a reassuring smile—it made things worse. "Uh huh," he chirped. John pinched the bridge of his nose and added another word to his list-of-impossibly-confusing-words.
Sherlock squinted at the kids. "The girl to your left stole your cat—she's hiding it in the bathroom. She's jealous; she wanted one instead of a toad."
"Mandy!" the girl who lost her cat screeched.
"Sherlock," John said wearily, as accusing screams echoed throughout the chamber.
Sherlock gave John a small, genuine smile, and then, trying to save the scene, turned to both John and the three little girls.
"Welcome to Hogwarts."