Whatever John Watson said before rushing off to class, Sherlock didn't expect to speak to him ever again. Watson knew what he was dealing with now. Even called him a sociopath, which wasn't the first time Sherlock had heard the term. He decided to adopt it as his own. Why not? It was accurate enough, according to various Muggle school counselors, and even if it weren't, no one would ever look beneath the surface to find out. Even Dumbledore had agreed that he belonged in Slytherin.
People need sound bites. Ordinary people, that is. "Sociopath" would work just fine.
So Sherlock put the Gryffindor boy out of his mind, a state of affairs that remained quite stable until Flying Class brought them together again. Or at least provided the setting. In reality it was Draco Malfoy who brought them together, although Mike Stamford would claim much of the credit for his clumsiness on a broom.
The details of such unlikely friendships get mucked around, but always have a thin golden thread of events running through them-a thread which if altered even slightly would lead to quite a different history.
This one went something like this:
A fall from a broomstick.
A broken arm.
A glittering little sphere in the grass, and the jeering blond who picked it up.
Two boys who disliked bullies more than they disliked one another.
And it culminated in a mad chase through the sky, a Remembrall grasped in a pale hand, and a cheer rising from below…
"Nice catch," said Sherlock conversationally to John, as they sat waiting outside McGonagall's office.
"I had a better angle," said John. "You were diving from above. You'll get that thing back to Mike, then?"
"Of course," said Sherlock, instantly discarding the half-dozen experiments he had planned to do on it. For some absurd reason he didn't want to dispel that look of trust on John's face.
"Reckon we'll be expelled?" asked John nervously.
"Not really," said Sherlock. "We'd be sitting outside the headmaster's office. Besides, Hooch was exaggerating."
"How can you tell?"
"Scar on her left wrist."
"What?"
But then a call came from behind the door.
"Potter, Watson!"
The boys entered, neither surprised to see Snape as well as McGonagall. Dumbledore's presence was much more of a shock, and Sherlock's stomach plummeted; had he been wrong about expulsion? He couldn't be, or Snape's expression wouldn't be so absolutely neutral...
Two brawny older boys were also seated in the corners of the room; Sherlock vaguely recognized one as a Slytherin prefect. The other had a small lion embroidered on his scarlet-lined robes. Why other students should be present was a mystery even to him. But the biggest surprise was that McGonagall was smiling.
"Professors," said John nervously. Sherlock was silent.
"Sit down," invited McGonagall, gesturing to two rather rigid chairs in front of her desk. They sat.
"No doubt you boys are aware that I witnessed this afternoon's events," she began.
As indicated by the forced march through the castle, Sherlock wanted to say. John, next to him, was thinking the same thing.
"Incredible flying from you both. Unheard of for first years," she continued, beaming. "Mr. Watson, I asked you here to offer you a place on the House Quidditch Team - pending Wood's agreement, of course." With a nod to the Gryffindor boy in the corner.
The boy rose. "Oliver Wood, Gryffindor Team Captain," he introduced, shaking John's hand. "I've heard great things, Watson."
John managed a strangled "Thank you."
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "No doubt you two are aware of the provisional ban on first-years joining their House teams," he said. "However, that ban was primarily enacted to ensure the safety of students with little practice flying, and Professor McGonagall has persuaded me to make an exception, as that concern is clearly not applicable here. For the sake of inter-House fairness, I have agreed to her request under the condition that Mr. Potter is also allowed to fly, as his skills are apparently comparable."
McGonagall nodded crisply. "That dive-Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."
"The decision, therefore, is in Professor Snape's hands. What say you, Severus?"
All eyes turned to Snape, who seemed to be weighing the two boys, calculating. Albus hid a smile, imagining the battle in the man's head. A Potter in his House, whom he hated, about whom Dumbledore had already heard a plethora of complaints-and yet, a Potter who could win him the Quidditch cup and the glory that James had routinely stolen from Slytherin House. Potter's father was sure to be rolling in his grave, if-
"Permissible," Snape finally said, through his teeth. "Pending the boy's performance."
"Excellent," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "I suggest you boys acquaint yourselves with your respective Quidditch captains; no doubt they will wish you to begin attending practices as soon as possible."
"Fantastic!" burbled John, as soon as the feeling returned to his limbs. "Many thanks, Professor...Professors…"
Sherlock, however, sat stock still, mind whirring. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this. Aside from relief at not being expelled, he wasn't sure how to feel. He had never been an organized sports sort of person…never been recognized for any sort of athletic prowess, for that matter, unless one counted running from bullies after making one too many observations about their parents' extramarital activities...
But John was ecstatic, and John's Quidditch opportunity seemed to hinge on whether he, Sherlock, chose to play. Again, Sherlock wrestled with his thoughts. Why did he care what this Gryffindor boy thought? Why was he drawn to him?
The posture. Militant. Intriguing.
The character. The way he'd defended Hermione, and then Mike. Straightforward, compassionate, and genuine about it. Not that Sherlock cared for such qualities, but...well. They described very few people, in his experience. It wasn't boring.
The gleam in John's eye when he'd leapt onto that broomstick. The swerve that missed Malfoy by mere inches. Here was a student who, for all his apparent mildness, didn't like to follow rules any more than Sherlock did…and who, conveniently, hated his archenemy...
And putting John aside, what opportunities did Quidditch afford him?
That of not being despised by all of Slytherin House. Assuming he played well, that is.
That of examining another facet of the Wizarding World.
That of conducting aerodynamic experiments, with possible access to a more quality broom than the ones first-years used during Flying Class…
And finally, that feeling of sheer adrenaline, pure joy, that had shot through him as his feet pushed off the ground. That had been something to experience again, no matter how many brawny louts he had to associate with in order to do it.
In the end sheer giddiness, combined with the excitement on John's face, won Sherlock's consent. He echoed John's thanks and went out.
A long, thin package arrived two days later, at breakfast. Sherlock examined it, giddy; there was no questioning what it was. As he unwrapped the thing, a black-and-red-clad figure plopped down at his side, nearly upsetting his orange juice.
"You got one too?" John grinned.
"Evidently," said Sherlock, examining both brooms; they were identical in every way. "Nimbus Two Thousand?"
"Best on the market," said John, hopping up and down with excitement. He feigned oblivion to the many glares he was receiving from Sherlock's Housemates. "Want to try them out today, after Herbology?"
"I'm with the Ravenclaws. Different period."
John tugged at his lip. "Right, I forgot."
"But we both have the hour before supper free," added Sherlock, not quite knowing what made him say it. John broke into another grin.
"Great! Quidditch pitch. See you then."
Sherlock sat in a daze for half a minute, leaving the remainder of his toast uneaten. Was that how it felt to make a friend? How had John made it so easy?
Two more owls arrived before breakfast ended. A banner day indeed, despite Sherlock's dislike for the birds, one of whom upended the butter dish upon landing. Each carried a simple note. One was in Hagrid's clumsy hand, an invitation to come for a cup of tea and observe a gaggle of bowtruckle twiglings he was raising. The handwriting of the other was unfamiliar. Neat, but youthful.
You're still going to explain that 'father' thing to me.
Two tables away, John winked at him.
Sherlock wasn't sure what to expect when he arrived at the Pitch. He had been there briefly, the previous night, listening to the rules of Quidditch grunted at him from his mountain of a team captain. It sounded easy enough, particularly for him: spot the Snitch, follow it, catch it.
Why is this sport such a big deal, again?
They'd done a touch of flying, too, for the captain to gauge his abilities. Despite the constraints imposed by the quality of the broom Sherlock was using, Flint had been thoroughly impressed with his acrobatics.
"We'll drill you on speed once you get a proper broom," he'd grunted, and Sherlock had nodded, resisting the urge to point out how incredibly elementary the relevant principles of aerodynamics were.
And now the broom thing had been taken care of for him.
Sherlock seated himself experimentally on the Nimbus Two Thousand. It was vastly more comfortable than the splintery school brooms-Cushioning Charm, he decided. And when he pushed off the ground it responded with silky movements to his lightest touch.
Sherlock grinned, flipped over, and made a dive. The ground rushed up to meet him.
Four...three...two...one second before impact Sherlock pulled up, rolling parallel to the ground, letting his toes brush the grass. The merest kick and he shot into the air again...
How best to control that angle?
By the time John ran up Sherlock was near the ground again, testing different liftoffs for speed and angle.
"Sorry," John panted. "Transfiguration ran late."
Sherlock looked at him in some surprise. "You came."
"'Course I did," said John. "I saw that dive from the steps, by the way. McGonagall wasn't wrong."
The unexpected compliment came almost as a blow. "I-thank you."
"Now," said John, with an unholy grin. "Let's see what this thing can do."
He was off like a shot, and Sherlock followed in less than a second. John's whoops carried through the air like music; his laughter coupled with Sherlock's own adrenaline made the pure enjoyment infectious. They swooped, soared, flipped like midair dancers, and the unspoken challenge between them made it even better: how close could one swerve before clipping away? How quickly might one flicker between the goal posts without scraping a limb, how high might one climb before gasping for oxygen, how closely skim the grass or the walls of the stands?
Finally, panting and bruised, the boys paused in midair over the center of the pitch.
"Amazing sunset," remarked John.
Sherlock looked. Time, which had stood still for two hours, was fast catching up. The air colored softly around them, coalescing to a pinkish-orange smudge on the horizon, the few clouds above their heads were tinted purple; he heard the squeak of a bat nearby. Autumn warmth was fading quickly from the air, and John was beginning to shiver slightly. They had flown through supper, well into evening, and twilight would soon be upon them.
As his stomach rumbled, Sherlock remembered Hagrid's invitation.
"Fancy a visit to Hagrid?" he asked John, not really stopping to think about it.
John shrugged. "I don't know. Am I welcome?"
"I don't know why not," Sherlock said, tilting his broom toward the outline of the cottage. "He asks me every week or so; sometimes I go. He knew my parents."
John bobbed behind him, not quite knowing what to say. "Do you talk about them?"
"A bit," said Sherlock. In fact, the topic rarely arose. It was an utterly alien one for him, to whom privacy and isolation came so naturally and had always been the norm. Odd to think that he'd once been an infant with doting parents like any other; impossible to imagine the sort of praise that Mycroft so easily garnered from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, or even ritual scoldings for wandering the corridors at night. Quite simply, no one cared what Sherlock did.
Sherlock had actually visited Hagrid only twice since the semester began, more out of distraction than avoidance. Hagrid's small and dim hut generally held something fascinating in the way of magizoology and he always had something to say about Wizarding society in general. Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed these unacademic observations, and he kept meaning to bring Belinda for a closer discussion of Kneazles. Whatever those might be.
"I suppose I'll tag along," said John, thinking no friends, huh? He chose not to voice this, however, not wanting to push his strange new acquaintance too far.
Sherlock glanced sideways at him. "Heard rumors?"
"All sorts," John admitted.
"Are they about combustible magical beasts?"
"Mostly."
"Then they're probably true," said Sherlock. He leaned, and John followed suit, both touching down lightly in the patch outside Hagrid's cabin. Sherlock kicked at a clump of dirt between two swelling orange pumpkins. "Mind the dog. Not combustible, but more drool than brains."
Hagrid answered on the second knock.
"Knew it'd be yer," he said, grinning down at Sherlock. "Light knock, no pause an' all tha'. Pickin' things up, I am."
"You sent an invitation," Sherlock pointed out.
"Al' th' same." He ushered Sherlock and John inside, and John looked around; the place was cozy, if not quite clean. A rough-hewn dining table occupied the space between kitchen and sitting room, and the sink was full of unwashed kettles and half-gallon tankards. A an enormous dog drooped on a hand-stitched quilt in the corner, slavering peaceably, and the entire back room was taken up by an enormous bed. Of greatest interest was the nest sitting in the center of the dining table, poorly handmade out of twigs, scraps of the Daily Prophet, silken unicorn hairs, and what looked like bits of Hagrid's own beard. Stepping closer, John saw movement inside; at first he thought it was a cluster of green stick insects, but upon closer examination they turned out to be…
"Bowtruckles?"
"Tha's righ'!" Hagrid beamed down at him. "I'm raisin' em fer Ollivander. Who's this, Sherloc'?"
Sherlock made perfunctory introductions. "Hagrid, John Watson. He's in my year."
"Bout time ye brough' a frien' round. I was startin' ter think yeh'd scared them all off wid yer deducshins."
Neither John nor Hagrid noticed Sherlock go rigid, as they were busy shaking hands.
"Pleasure to meet you properly, Mr. Hagrid."
"Pleasure's all mine. Providin' yeh don' 'mister' me no more."
"Point taken," said John, and grinned.
"Tea?"
"Yes, please," said John and Sherlock in unison, settling at the table. Hagrid chuckled.
"Here's another deducshin. Ye missed supper, didn' ye?"
"Brilliant again," muttered Sherlock, leaning in to look at the bowtruckles. John, however, was curious.
"What's a deducshin?"
"Tha' thing he does," said Hagrid, with a nod at Sherlock. "Knowin' yer life history an' all, just by lookin' at yeh."
Something sparked in John's mind. He turned to Sherlock, as Hagrid busied himself in the kitchen. "Hagrid's right. How did you know about my father? I've been meaning to ask."
"The same way I know your fourth-year sister sneaks a drink when she's in Hogsmeade, that she's currently questioning her sexuality, and that your apothecary mum suffers from arthritis," said Sherlock. "And the extent to which Gryffindors snore at night."
John folded his arms. "Harry isn't gay."
"Listen to yourself. She wears a pixie cut and calls herself Harry."
"That's stereotyping!"
"Deductions often are. I never said they were always right. It's a probability thing."
"Okay, but you're spot on with everything else," John admitted. "I thought it was a fluke when you mentioned my dad, but now it's just creepy."
"But I've answered your earlier question."
"About what?"
"Friends, or my lack of them."
"Look, I shouldn't have asked."
"But you understand now."
"Actually," snapped John, "I understand absolutely nothing. How the hell did you know all that?"
"Observation," said Sherlock.
"Sure. That makes the snoring one even creepier."
"Indirect observation."
"Oh, so you're not watching us sleep?" John tapped a knuckle on the table, inadvertently frightening the bowtruckles. "I can't hex you in front of staff, can I? Is this why you brought me to Hagrid's?"
He was half-joking, but Sherlock flushed, an act of which John had presumed him incapable. "I didn't...no. Forget it."
"Not likely, Potter. I want to know what you mean by observation, first."
Watson's tone had a familiar edge to it, and Sherlock's heart sank. Whatever the afternoon had been, he had ruined it. He didn't bother, therefore, to censor his tone.
"Fine. Here are my observations. The resemblance between you and your sister is obvious, as is the change in her demeanor whenever McGonagall is around. Surely you've noticed her straightening her shoulders and shepherding first-years around. Harry's aiming to be a prefect, and getting serious about it. Therefore, she's in fourth year."
John nodded. That much was true.
"The exception is Hogsmeade weekends," said Sherlock. "I imagine she smuggles back enough booze to last for a couple of days. I walked past her in the corridor once. Reeking. It's a miracle none of the staff have noticed."
John sighed. "I've been begging her to cut back."
"Moving on to your mother. You and I share a Potions class. The ingredients in your kit are professionally wrapped and prepared, but unbranded. Therefore, you have private access to an apothecary. I know it isn't your father, because he's a Muggle; your bearing says 'military' and sometimes Muggle axioms creep into your speech. Your magical grandparents are out of the picture, either dead or fell out with your mum over her marriage to a Muggle. Most likely conclusion, particularly given your own facility with magical ingredients, is that your mother is the apothecary. Possibly she took up the trade to provide medical resources to your father when he's in Afghanistan. She prefers to chop ingredients by hand, the old-fashioned way, but sometimes her wrists wobble when handling the knife, resulting in uneven slices. That's unusual in a professional, and she is a professional; you're too well-off to have come from a single-income military household. Therefore, she's developing arthritis. Although I would have expected her to have a treatment for that."
"Ground Erumpet horn," said John. "She uses it sparingly. It's almost impossible to process without exploding. And my grandparents died in the war, thanks very much, we're not racist scum like the Malfoys."
"My mistake," said Sherlock. "Most of my acquaintances are."
"That's fair, actually," admitted John, running through Sherlock's Housemates in his mind. "You got all that from my potions kit?"
"That just leaves the snoring. And that's easiest of all. Despite being the 'early to bed, early to rise' sort, you've got dark circles under your eyes every first period. That friend of yours-dark hair, a bit overweight-"
"Neville."
"Neville's breathing pattern indicates slight apnea. He probably doesn't even know it himself. I imagine a visit to Madame Pomfrey would do the trick."
John slapped a palm against the table as Hagrid bustled in with a tray of questionable tea cakes. "That," he said, "was bloody brilliant."
Sherlock, who had been expecting to hear 'creepy' again, was taken aback. He looked between John and Hagrid.
"You think so?"
"One hundred percent," said John. "If you hadn't explained it I'd have thought it was Legilimency."
Hagrid nodded vigorously. "'Swut I wunnered, too. 'Cept he didn' even know 'bout Hogwarts when we met."
"What's Legilimency?" demanded Sherlock.
"Mind-reading."
"Really?" Sherlock leaned forward. "Wizards can do that?"
"Mos' don' bother," said Hagrid. "Lot's o' legalities. Yeh don' need ter bother, tha's fer sure."
"You observe everything that closely, that constantly?" John wanted to know.
"More or less," said Sherlock, hiding his bewilderment; this was not the way this conversation usually went.
"Sounds exhausting." John picked up a rock cake and sniffed it suspiciously, before shrugging and taking a bite. "'anks, 'Agrid."
"Habit," said Sherlock. He scrutinized John over his cup of tea. "You're not angry?"
The question's timing was poor, and tension swelled inside him as John labored to unstick his teeth.
"Mmmm," said John, massaging his jaw. "I was. But now that I know how you do it, why would I be? The information's there for anyone to see, I suppose. So it's not exactly an invasion of privacy."
"Very few people feel that way," mused Sherlock. "Particularly not my Housemates."
John laughed out loud. "I'd have paid to see the first time you met Malfoy."
Sherlock felt his own face crack into a grin. "Do you want the details?"
"Please," said John, smirking. There was a thump, and the bowtruckles squeaked in indignation as Hagrid plunked his own quart-sized cup of tea onto the table and pulled up his chair to listen. "Go on…"
A/N: Okay, you asked for bros. I give you...bros.
I've been writing up a storm when I'm not working on chemistry. Jumping around as inspiration strikes.
The Harry thing is, I hope, not too politically incorrect. It's based on a true story. A family member told me she was gay and I was doing my best to be supportive. But I couldn't help but be amused that she got a trademark lesbian haircut before she came out. I didn't have the heart to tell her I already knew.