Chapter the Second: In which we nearly miss the train, eat sweets, and sulk

John Watson didn't like being alone and by himself. He liked to be around other people, laughing and talking and generally having a good time. It didn't really matter to him who it was; he was charismatic enough to have a good time with nearly anyone. He was confident too, especially that he'd gone and made the great Sherlock Holmes open up. He'd heard horror stories in school about the genius Ravenclaw. About his callous personality and his tendency to speak or act before he actually thought. According to rumors, last year, Sherlock had hung a Gryffindor upside down over Ravenclaw Tower for teasing him about his family. John found it interesting that Sherlock was so protective of his family, especially since he seemed so desperate to get away from them at the party. He was a strange, strange boy, to be honest. But John didn't mind too much. In fact, he liked his company, and liked the intelligent way he spoke. It was interesting that such a smart boy, however, could know so little about the stars.

John had seen Sherlock just yesterday, in fact. They had been at Diagon Alley together, laughing and getting ice-cream and buying things that they really didn't need. All summer long, the boys had spent almost every day they could with each other. Getting to know each other had been a lot easier than John had predicted. He assumed that being friends with Sherlock was going to be hard, impossible even. But There was something about the way that Sherlock treated him (which, in fact, was a lot better than he treated anyone else) that made John like him a lot more. And he was very proud to call Sherlock Holmes his best friend.

Nobody accompanied the small, sandy-haired boy to King's Cross but his sister. Nobody came to see him off at Platform 9 ¾. Nobody kissed him goodbye and nobody waved until the train was out of sight. That was fine with him.

He told himself he was alright with being alone. He was fine with being alone even as Harriet left with Clara, their fingers tightly laced together. Where was Sherlock? Did he get lost on the way? No, of course not. Maybe he's just running late.

He was fine with being alone as he struggled to get his luggage on board while limping with his cane, feeling the pain twinge in his leg. I hope that Sherlock's alright. I know he would have helped me. He said he would.

He was fine with being alone when he click-click-clicked down to his compartment, the only empty one available. The train should be leaving in about five minutes. I hope that he's alright. Maybe he got hurt on his way…

He tried to tell himself that he was fine with being alone when the last train warning whistled and the boy with the dark hair and impossible eyes still hadn't showed up. He's coming, I know he is. He promised. He promised me. I trust him.

The pain in his leg flared as he sat, his back ram-rod straight, his hands clasped in his lap, and his cane resting next to him. He took a deep breath and peered out the window as the final whistle blew and steam hissed from the top of the train. He's coming, he promised, he's my friend. And the train chugged forward, and as the parents waved to their children, his heart sank in his chest. He's not coming. He promised. He's my friend?

But then there were shouts and students running past his dormitory, and the parents were scattering, and the students were chattering and pointing.

"Oh, hell," John muttered, standing with a gasp of soreness in his leg and grabbing at his cane, limping out into the corridor as the first section of the train went through the tunnel, plunging into darkness. His section was near the back, and the students were crowding, the train slowly moving faster. He squeezed through the mass of students, peering out through the opening they all entered through, and his eyes widened. A tall boy, running alongside the train, was pushing through parents and children to try and get to the opening.

Shouts echoed around John.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"Ten Galleons he won't get on before this section goes through the tunnel!"

"Oh my god, someone stop the train!"

"Oh, it's only Holmes again. Let him splat!"

"Someone help him!"

"Sherlock, you are the dumbest arse I've ever met in my life, " John called to the boy, stepping forward and dropping his cane to the ground. He crouched, ignoring the pain, and hung out the door with his hand grasped around the railing. He reached out his left hand, his dominant hand, to the boy, who looked up from where he was running and stared at John, a 'what the hell are you doing' look on his pale face, flushed slightly from exertion.

"Take my hand!" John shouted as a girl screamed, "We're going through the tunnel!" He stretched his hand out further to Sherlock, eyes pleading. "Hurry, Sherlock!"

Sherlock lunged and his long fingers wrapped around John's wrist as John's wrapped around his. John tugged, muscles straining but not complaining yet, and Sherlock moved just a bit faster and jumped, his other hand flashing out to grab for the other railing. There was a shrill scream as their section of the train plunged into darkness, and John tumbled, a weight he didn't recognise falling on top of him. Sherlock was struggling to stand, apologizing to John, his breathing heavy and his body heat making John pleasantly warm. It was pitch black, dark enough for John not able to see two feet in front of him, but as he reached out, he felt a hand brush his. He took it and the hand pulled him up, handing him his cane.

"Thank you," Sherlock said in a voice soft by labored breathing. John couldn't see him, but he could hear him. He was awfully close-sounding, he must not be more than an arm's length away from him.

John grinned in the darkness and pulled his wand out from his back pocket. "You're welcome," he replied, tapping his wand against his leg and muttering Lumos. He looked up and met Sherlock's gaze in the wand light. Impossible eyes looked back at him, and suddenly John felt very ordinary.

"How would you describe me, John? After that escapade? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" Sherlock asked John grinning at him as the train chugged through the tunnel and out into the bright lights of the morning again.

"Late," John responded as the crowd of people, disappointed that they wouldn't get more drama than this, dissipated. There were shouts and laughter as they returned to their compartments, sounds that John associated with a new year at Hogwarts, and a good time at that. He was sure this year was going to be interesting, interesting indeed. No less interesting than it was last year, seeing as now he was friends with this Sherlock Holmes.

"How was the party after I left?" John asked as they roamed the train, his cane held tightly in his hand, clicking on the ground. Sherlock was walking gracefully beside him, reminding him of a cat, his impossible eyes observing everything and anyone they passed. John knew he was mentally filing everything into his head, deleting what was necessary. He remembered their conversation from the night before as they walked, smiling to himself softly.

John frowned for a minute in concentration as he used the cane that Sherlock had Summoned from the estate to keep his balance as he sat down on the slightly damp grass, grunting a bit in pain as his leg twinged. He laid back, his arms folded behind his head in a comfortable-looking position, his eyes focused on the stars. "You're an interesting person, Holmes," he mused.

"Hm," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I've heard that quite a lot. But I suppose that's the nicest version I've heard in recent times." He lingered next to John, watching him lie back on the grass, then sat next to him, lying back, as he figured it'd be odd if he continued to stand. Their arms were brushing, just the slightest bit, as John shifted. (Did he notice he was coming closer?) "However, you are interesting as well, Watson."

John's eyes were still on the stars as Sherlock looked over to him, his eyes silver in the moonlight. When he noticed that John wasn't looking back, he attempted to engross himself in the stars again, but found himself astoundingly distracted by the boy who was laying next to him, taking soft, even breaths. His eyes flickered back to John once, twice, before he gave up. His eyes drifted up and down twice over John's remote figure, watching how his stomach rose and fell with each breath he took, how his profile looked. Interesting, indeed.

"I'm not really that interesting," John shrugged, his eyes falling from the stars back to Sherlock, surprised that the boy was already looking at him. "I mean, I live in a normal house with a less-than-normal family. I want to be a Healer when I get older. I have a limp. It hurts like hell right now. Not much to learn there."

The taller boy chuckled, looking back up at the pinpricks of light that were thousands of light years away, wondering what the joy in stargazing was. "Not much to learn? On the contrary, John Watson, you are the most interesting boy I've met so far."

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that there is no other person in my entire lifetime that I have waited for permission to deduce. I decided to give you privacy, to not deduce you. I figured that it would be socially incorrect to just go in your business like that. You're the only person I've had the premeditation to do that for. And I don't even know why I did it. It's out of character for me to be polite like that. And nobody has ever wanted to find out more about me." Sherlock surprised himself with his honesty, the tendency to tell the truth and be cordial and kind and the exact opposite of what he normally acted like for this boy. Was he trying to impress him? Was he trying to make a friend? It was fine, after all, even if John didn't want to be friends. He could easily avoid him at Hogwarts to avoid the embarrassment. He knew every nook and cranny in Hogwarts. Avoiding John would not be a problem at all.

The sandy haired boy looked surprised. "Are you really as terrible as everyone says?"

A smirk from Sherlock. "Even worse."

"What do you mean that nobody has ever wanted to find out more about you? I want to find out more about you. Am I nobody?" John was curious now, interested, his thirst for knowledge about this mysterious Sherlock Holmes piqued.

Sherlock looked taken aback. "Of course you're not nobody. You're the only one who has ever followed me to find out what I'm doing, who I am. Nobody does that. For a lot of reasons, I'm assured. I'm rude, intelligent, I lack social graces. I interrupt people while they're talking to tell them that they're wrong and to insult them. I'm a high functioning sociopath; I have no concept of emotions. They cloud the mind, ensnare your senses, and I prefer to work alone anyway. Alone is perfect for me."

John smiled at him. "And that's exactly why I want to be friends with you, Sherlock Holmes. You're the exact opposite of anyone I have ever known. You have no friends because you won't accept them. You're the strange, mysterious boy that roams the corridors at night, the one that everyone wants to get to know but they never do because he pushes them away. You're the Ice King, Sherlock, right down to the color of your eyes. The boy who makes everyone else seem unintelligent in comparison, who makes everyone else feel small. You've got to do that for a reason."

"I think you'll find," Sherlock responded curtly, "that the 'Ice King' is not the nickname that the students in school have come up with for me. That is my brother's nickname, created by the Slytherins that go by the names of Irene Adler and James Moriarty. Both a year younger than I am, but all the same. Have you not noticed the names that students come up with that they think are behind everyone's back. They're usually incredibly apt and interesting."

"What's your nickname then? If your brother is the Ice King, what are you?"

Well, that was certainly unexpected. Was John really this curious to find out who he was? Strange indeed, that a boy (a cripple from Hufflepuff, at that) was so outwardly keen about a boy who was the complete opposite of him, in personality and looks. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "The Virgin," he said, as if it didn't bother him. But John was good at body language, and could see his muscles in his shoulders and stomach tense up, as if it bothered him quite a lot more than he was letting on. "They say I'm intelligent, a genius. But if my brother is the Ice King, a man with no emotions because he refuses to let himself feel them, no mercy, no life in his eyes at all, then I am the Virgin. I am the boy who is so smart, but emotions and feelings go over his head, who is so terribly innocent and confused about love and life and all that caring lark that he seems even colder in comparison. Naive. But no. It's the Virgin," he spat out angrily.

"Do you care about what they say?"

"Does caring help my situation? No. Caring is not an advantage, John. And I don't intend it to be one."

John smiled. "Then let's not care together. You're brilliant."

Sherlock gave John a small half-smile, turning up the corners of his mouth. "Shall we go back inside and face the party, the gossip-mongers, and the idiots?" he asked, standing up and holding out a hand for John to take.

The smaller boy reached up and took the pale hand outstretched to him, picking up his cane, and they walked back to the estate. They walked close, sharing secret smiles and secrets, with their arms brushing every so often. Back in the dining hall, there were double the whispers, because suddenly Sherlock was accompanied by someone who didn't look sullen and unlucky at his situation. There was Sherlock Holmes, the pure blooded oddity, laughing and whispering and bantering with John Watson, the Mudblood from down the road. Interesting, indeed.

"Dull, of course," Sherlock responded as they got into the compartment. "You weren't there to shout at my cousin again for teasing me. I appreciated that, you know."

"Of course," John grinned. "You don't stand up for yourself very often, do you?"

"Why should I? I've got you now. We stand up for each other, isn't that the point of having friends?"

"I suppose it is."

Sherlock laughed, and John laughed along with him. They sat for a while, chatting and generally having a good time. The sweets woman wheeled her trolley past the compartment, and Sherlock jumped up and chased her halfway down the train to buy sweets for both him and John. John looked up from his book when Sherlock came back, not even asking where he went. His face brightened considerably, however, when Sherlock came back into the compartment, arms loaded with Chocolate Frogs, Fizzing Whizbees, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and a variety of other things that were sure to give them cavities by the end of the train ride.

"You got sweets," John said, surprised.

Sherlock frowned and pooled the armful on the space on the chair between them, looking up at John. "Well, yes. Why do you sound so surprised?" he asked, popping an Every Flavor Bean into his mouth, chewing and watching John with those damned impossible eyes.

"Well," John said, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog and taking out the card (Morgana, again) "I was under the impression that you never ate." He bit the head off the frog, watching Sherlock with dark blue eyes. How ordinary he felt, next to this extraordinary boy.

The Ravenclaw looked offended at this. "Of course I eat, John. I don't know why everyone is so concerned about how much I eat, I eat just enough to keep me alive. Isn't that what really counts?"

"Enough to keep you alive isn't nearly enough to keep yourself satisfied. Or healthy."

"Eating slows my thinking down."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes."

"No."

"You don't know how my mind works," Sherlock said defensively, popping another jelly bean into his mouth. "You're being absolutely ridiculous."

John rolled his eyes. "You're being absolutely ridiculous, Sherlock," he said, scooping a handful of candy into his hands and plopped himself directly next to Sherlock, candy returning to his lap. His arm brushed Sherlock's. Sherlock shivered. "You could get sick if you don't eat properly. What, do you have a sweet tooth?"

Sherlock was silent, glaring steadfastly out the window.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock jutted his chin out and continued to glare.

"Oh god, don't be like that."

Sherlock glared hard enough to make it seem like the window had personally offended him in one way or another.

"You're being moody."

Sherlock turned further, so he was facing the window completely.

John sighed to himself and brushed the candy out of his lap, curling into himself. If Sherlock wasn't going to talk, he might as well take a nap if he had nobody to talk to. He rested his head in his arms, his legs curled to his chest, and closed his eyes. He slowly drifted off, vaguely aware of what was going around in his surroundings.

Sherlock turned when John stopped talking, tilting his head at him. Was he falling asleep? Why was he sleeping? He was supposed to continue to argue with Sherlock. It was no fun if he had nobody to talk to. He frowned at the boy, waving his hand in front of his face. "John?" he asked softly. John didn't stir, just gave a small snore.

The dark-haired boy smirked to himself and watched John now, feeling free to do so now that the Hufflepuff was asleep. He noted that John had short, little blond eyelashes, and his eyes flitted back and forth under his lids, deep in REM sleep. His clothes looked rumpled, his face was smooth and free of the permanent mask of slight sadness that always kept the corners of his mouth down a bit and a small furrow in his brows appear. Sherlock smiled to himself as John's lips moved, mumbling a bit in his sleep. He rested his head against the window, situated so he could see John next to him but still rest his head comfortably.

After about ten minutes of switching between looking out the window and looking at John, Sherlock felt a weight on his side that was distinctly the size and smell of John Watson. He looked at the boy out of the corner of his eyes, his nose brushing against sandy-blonde strands of hair. John snored slightly, his cheek nuzzling into Sherlock's shoulder and a small smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock didn't exactly know what to do, so he let it happen. He closed his eyes, following John's lead, and was soon fast asleep. As the train weaved through England, on its way to Hogwarts, Sherlock and John unconsciously shifted bit by bit in their sleep until John was curled to Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's arms were around him.

Interesting year, indeed.

I just want to say since the story kind of got away from me at the end, that I changed the time from the party in the first chapter to the second chapter. It's been a month since Sherlock and John met at the party. It wouldn't make any sense for two boys who had met each other the night before to be comfortable enough with one another to start cudding (even if it IS in their sleep). Apologies for any confusion.

Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review all the same.

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock characters belong to Mofftiss, and the Potterverse belongs to Queen Rowling.