Chapter Two

His First Words

Sherlock stared into those deep blue eyes for multiple, drawn‒out moments. It looked like a galaxy was swirling in those eyes; either that or they looked like he had eyes that were two glassy spheres of blue ice. This boy had eyes of his own. Surely no one else had such dazzling irises…

"Hello," the shorter boy said, rather nervously. He twitched his fingers stiffly as he waved his hand at the dark‒haired boy. Sherlock's eyes quickly looked away from John's as he noticed his silliness. His pupils darted to various points on the blond's shape, scanning his face, shorts, sandals, and t‒shirt. It was difficult making deductions with only half the boy's body showing, but Sherlock managed to pull a lot from the view regardless of the blocking tree. Nerves of steel, strong moral principles, alert to anything, yet still gets scared sometimes, doesn't like his sister much, shirt's really old…

"Hi," Sherlock said, rather awkwardly and catching his mistake of not introducing himself. John revealed the rest of himself out from behind the tree, inching ever so closer to the eleven‒year‒old who stood in the field. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but the younger boy cut him off, not noticing the brunette was going to say his name.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow and showing an obvious expression of curiosity on his face. "I've never seen you around before —"

"Well, that's because I don't usually leave my house. I'm not really fond of nature that much. I've actually been watching you for quite some time now." John felt appalled at having someone spying on him for weeks. He looked like he wanted to lock himself in his bedroom and never return. "Fascinating thing you did, that night you had that fight with your sister," the skinnier boy spoke, "making the stone hover over your hand and all."

"But you did it too," John said, dumbfounded, pointing to the flower that rested delicately in his left hand. He didn't even mention that the brunette had admitted he'd watched the argument. "You made it float towards me in mid air. I thought I was the only one in the world who could do that…"

"No no no," Sherlock almost chuckled. "There are lots of people in this world who can produce magic with their hands. Later when you turn eleven and you're old enough, you receive a letter from a school that teaches you how to control your magic. Only certain people are welcomed into the educational system."

"So you mean," John started, raising his hands before his chest and taking a few steps gingerly closer to Sherlock, "I'm one of these people who will go to this magic school?"

Sherlock tilted his head and raised his eyebrows to match the frown on his face. "Well, there's no guarantee you'd get accepted into the school. I think you will though, and so will I. My brother Mycroft goes there. He says he loves the education, but that's probably just because he wants to be the Minister of Magic one day."

"But, what does that mean exactly?" Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. He needed to get used to being around John if they would attend school together. He never had much patience with people, but John had some certain sweetness about him. There was an exception with John Watson.

"I mean," the shorter boy chimed in, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, "why can I produce magic? Am I…special or something? I don't understand. Sorry if I'm also annoying or trying to pull too much information from you. God, we just barely met." He apologized and quickly talked to himself, telling how foolish he was acting in the presence of a stranger.

"To be honest, it's not bothering me at all." Part of that was a lie, but the brunette surely didn't show it.

"Really?" John asked, scratching his blond locks, "well, that's good then I suppose. Maybe we'll get along easily."

"Unlikely." There was no response back. Not even a suspicion from the younger kid that Holmes didn't like him already.

"You didn't answer my question," John reminded him, tapping his foot on the ground. Impatient, was another thing Sherlock noticed. Not all the time though.

"Well, I wouldn't say it's titled 'special'," Sherlock inferred, crossing his legs over each other and taking his seat back on the grass. "It's more that fact that you have a skill that allows you to create magic. A simpler definition being, you're a wizard."

John looked like he'd just won a million dollars. He pointed his finger at Sherlock and opened his mouth several times preparing to speak. Unfortunately, no words came out. He simply shook his head and gradually made his way over to the other boy. Sherlock squinted up at John, the sun shining blazingly over his head.

"Mind if I join you?" John's hand motioned to the spot next to Sherlock's sitting figure. The taller kid nodded, letting the strong, slightly stocky young boy join him.

"So..." John glanced briskly at Sherlock's long, lean face before rotating back to face the vast skyline beyond. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock," the curly‒haired boy introduced. He lifted the pressure from his elbow to extend his right arm out to the braver boy. Puzzled to some extent, John shook Sherlock's hand nonetheless.

"Oh, my fault." Holmes pieced together a ridiculously easy deduction. "You are left‒handed, are you not?"

John's face morphed between two expressions; bewilderment and perplexity. Sherlock knew the boy was contemplating what he'd just remarked about him. The silence was growing between them, making the moment more awkward than it already was.

"How did you know?" John asked, not even remotely twisting his head to look shocked at Sherlock. The boy with sharp cheekbones mouthed the words silently as John spoke them aloud, mimicking the blond's tone. He knew it was rude, and he hated people frequently asking how he did it, but he answered repeatedly every time.

"I didn't know," Sherlock reflected flatly, "I noticed." He grinned up at John from where he slouched, his elbows digging into the dirty earth. John replied with only one question.

"How?"

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and raised an eyebrow at John as a warning. "You really want to know?" The boy with blond locks nodded eagerly, bouncing up and down where he sat.

"The way you looked at me when I extended my right hand, you gingerly shook it. There's also tiny traces of eraser marks from a pencil on your left hand. Signs of graphite sketched on your fingernails and there's quite a noticeable red mark in between your thumb and pointer finger indicating where you hold your pencil. So, there you go." He turned his head away as if someone had said something remarkably stupid. Sherlock showed not the slightest hint of interest on his face. There was a long pause in which John stared straight ahead, and Sherlock gleefully made a rock weave in and out through his fingers.

"That…was amazing," John remarked, scratching his left arm and glancing in all directions, highly impressed. Sherlock felt stunned; no one had ever commented on his deductions that way. John looked away, clearly fascinated as he bit down on his fingernails with his sharp teeth.

"Do you think so?" he asked back, wonder in his tone of voice.

"Of course it was!" Sherlock thought John was being notably exaggerating. "That was extraordinary! It was quite…extraordinary."

Quarreling, Sherlock looked surprised at the shorter boy. "That's not what people normally say —"

"What do people normally say?" John asked, stumped.

Without hesitation, Sherlock's echo was, "Piss off." John felt taken aback by the acknowledgement but had to laugh afterwards despite the totally uncalled for answer. He sensed Sherlock's elbow graze his left arm as the taller boy nudged him airily.

"That's some pretty harsh language people use to humiliate you," John said, sticking up for the new kid from the neighborhood over from his. Sherlock was going to say something back, but he stopped and decided to switch his question to a more important jumble of words.

"You never told me your name. I suppose it's something boring and common," he stated, peering moderately into the corner of one of John's deep blue eyes once more.

John's head turned to stare directly into Sherlock long, salient one. He reluctantly extended his non‒dominant arm, even though he knew it was always proper to shake hands with your right. Sherlock was correct with his hypothesis again, because he definitely knew his own name wasn't boring, but the younger boy's was. "I'm John," he said, a weak smile spreading over his face. "John Watson." They shook hands again, and Sherlock could feel the very strong muscles in Watson's fingers.

"Sherlock Holmes is my full name," the brunette reformed himself. "I never told you before."

"Nice to meet you." John's smile was adorable. His hair fell in almost perfect wisps on his head, the blond almost shining gold in the sunlight. The locks were parted just off center as they swooped over the top of his head, and the edge of his hairline stuck up just a tad in the front. The blue of his eyes stood out incredibly, thanks no doubt to his equally blue t‒shirt. Sherlock was becoming keenly interested in this boy, and he wanted to know more information about him.

"So, John," he began, considering where to start, "tell me about yourself." A butterfly fluttered and burrowed deep down in Watson's stomach.

John thought it was strange and wrong to speak to a neighbor he hardly knew, but he figured the brunette couldn't be all that bad. "Uh, well…As you already know I have an older sister named Harry —"

"Harry?" Oops, John gulped, I suppose he thinks it's a male name.

"Harriet," he corrected. "She immensely disapproves of me using magic. She doesn't believe it's possible."

"She's a Muggle."

"A what?"

"A Muggle," Sherlock repeated. "Unlike you, she doesn't have the skill needed to perform magic like you can. A Muggle is a person who can't perform magic. Sorry, carry on."

"Right," John mumbled. "My mum is a nurse who works at the local hospital. My dad went off to train in the Army so I don't get to see him very often. He's been fighting in a war for a long time now. Boy, his post traumatic stress disorder gets worse every time I see him…It worries me."

"I‒I'm so sorry, John." The depression hit Sherlock for some unknown reason, even when it wasn't his father who was thousands of miles away. John had simply plucked the emotion buried under his organs in his chest without hindrance. He placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder and was taken aback when he felt John's fingers wrap around his hand.

John released the flower Sherlock had sent to him from his hand and let it float before him. He studied the tiny details on the petals and stem, absorbing the various colors. The blue swirled and faded gorgeously with the purple on the edges of the leaflets. The green almost matched the shade of Sherlock's eyes perfectly.

"Why me?" John asked, after an abnormally long silence.

"Sorry?" Sherlock misunderstood the question.

"Why can I produce magic? Is there a reason, or was I just chosen?"

"Like I said before, it's basically just a skill you have. Hundreds of people have it, but you feel you're the only one because those hundreds of people who can perform magic are scattered all around the world. You have the ability and strength to create magic;you just don't have the skill to control it yet. That's why you get invited to Hogwarts." Sherlock recalled the infinite number of times Mycroft mentioned the school.

"Hogwarts?" John snorted, finding the title funny.

"Yeah, I know. Absurd name for an educational school." He shifted his relaxed position. "It could be the fact that you might have parents who are wizards as well," he added. "It's sort of a mental connection between your brain and your hands that allows you to physically produce magic. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I guess it does. I've never considered that…" John had never asked his parents if there was a reason why he had such a remarkable skill, yet his mother told him not to produce magic in front of anyone, and his father said magic wasn't possible, just like Harriet. Could my mother be a witch? "That could be some experience, going off to a school just for wizards. Do you know anything about the school? You must. If I remember correctly, you said your brother went there."

"Read Hogwarts: A History. Tells you everything about the school." Several shopping stores in the wizarding world of Diagon Alley held copies of the textbook.

"But you know more information," John informed, pleading with his irresistible eyes. "Besides, I'm not really fond of history. I just want to know what will happen when, or if, we attend the school."

"John Watson," Sherlock smiled, shaking his head in amusement, "I'd love to tell you, but I really must be heading back home. Mycroft will probably beat the hell out of me when I walk in the front door."

"Who cares," John told him. "Harriet's told on me so many times I've lost count. She can be immature and ridiculous sometimes." Holmes laughed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hands propelled himself up until he stood, adjusting his shirt and wiping the dirt from his pants. When John joined him to say goodbye, he was nearly four inches shorter than Sherlock.

The brunette turned to go without even properly exiting, but a question was lingering in his mind. He spun back around ten feet away, pointing a finger near John's chest. "How old are you, John?"

"Ten. Almost eleven. One month to go! Why?"

"Valuable information. When's your birthday?"

"July 7th." John shrugged his shoulders, messing up the hair on the back of his neck. The sun was radiating heat onto his body, causing sweat to drip down his back.

"Good. Mine's January 6th, just if you'd like to know." He smiled again and pivoted on his heel once more, preparing to leave.

"Wait!" John yelled after him, and he opened the palm of his hand lingeringly. "I think you should have this back." As he reached his arm out before him, the bluish‒purple flower flew gracefully through the air, not a hint of wind carrying it. John concentrated, his fingertips parallel to the ground and perpendicular to his body.

Sherlock took a lunging step forward, holding out both his hands in a cupped stance to retrieve the flower. John lost his concentration and the blossom melted leisurely into Sherlock's hand. The older boy was forced to pull a smile from his mouth, fixing his eyes on the blond. "Thanks," he said, a perspiring feeling spreading from his heart.

"You're welcome. And thanks for the chat. I'm glad I came out here today, otherwise I wouldn't have found such a surprise waiting for me." He winked. "Want to meet again tomorrow?"

"I think I can manage to sneak out of the house again," Sherlock said, snickering at the vision of Mycroft's face in his mind. John giggled.

"Right. What time then?"

"Half‒past noon?"

"Works for me," John concluded, setting an alarm on his wrist watch, which had been passed down to him by his father. There wasn't a manual, so Watson had gotten used to the military time flashing on the watch's surface in bright red numbers. "And be prepared to tell me about that magic school," John reminded him, starting to walk away and showing indication with his finger.

"I will!" Sherlock shouted after him, raising his hand into the air and waving. He didn't walk for at least ten minutes. He was acting very much like a normal human being, and John seemed to be the perfect example of one.

Holmes figured he would be a good example to watch in school, and then maybe he could be semi‒ordinary too. But it was joyful being unique and having your own talents, especially ones people least expect.

He examined the blossom in his hand; how the colors worked together exceptionally well, how the stem was two inches long, how the center was a vibrant shade of yellow. He lifted his head back up just in time to see John's tiny dot of a figure vanish beyond the isolated houses.

His strides began to carry him back en route of his home. He touched the softness of the petals to his fingernails. He smiled once more before placing it into his shirt pocket.

For this flower was important. The flower he'd sent to the brave, short boy as a gift. The one that matched his eyes. The one he'd selected specifically for the day he met John Watson.

John didn't need to write a note to remind himself that he was going to meet Sherlock again the next day. This particular Thursday, he'd had an awareness about him that was bursting wherever he'd stroll in bare feet around his house.

He'd had a long chat with his mother before she left for work in the morning as she sipped her coffee merrily. She had in fact known that John could produce magic since he was a young age. She told him about the times when he made his stuffed animals move in his crib, when he made his food move on his plate at dinner time, and how he accidentally made his pencil float in mid air once while doing his homework. He'd taken his hand away, but he focused so much on the pencil that when he removed his grip, it had stayed, positioned tilted in the air.

John's mum was thrilled to hear that he'd met someone who had the same special ability he did. She went back into her bedroom and emerged some twenty minutes later, lugging a small chest in her arms. And inside were items her son least expected to see. Wizard tools and books in all shapes were sitting on the bottom of the trunk, and she turned on the kitchen light so he could get a better view. Mrs. Watson showed John her wand, demonstrating a small act of a hand movement with it, but she avoided casting any spells. The wood in John's hands felt cool and bumpy in his grasp. It was embroidered with many different patterns; it looked like some vines and tiny leaves were carved into the magical item.

His mother pulled out three strange coins from the chest and slid them down the bar counter as she prepared her breakfast. John noticed one was very large and gold, one was medium and silver, and one was quite small and bronze. His mother didn't specifically identify the foreign coins, but simply stated they were used as the "wizard currency."

The last item she gave him to keep before securely locking the trunk back up was a book. It was old with a layer of dust on the cover, and the spine cracked when he flicked through the pages. The blond encountered a picture of a man dressed in red wizard robes and long, brown hair. John was startled to find that the picture, however impossible, was moving. The caption under the image read: Godric Gryffindor, one of the four original founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Is that the school I'll go to, Mum?" John asked, showing her the name. "Hogwarts?" He perfectly knew that it was, since Sherlock had told him the previous day, but he couldn't fully trust the neighbor yet and went to his mother for help as a replacement.

"It sure is, darling." She planted a kiss on his forehead and hoisted the trunk off the counter top. "You just have to wait till you come by your acceptance letter."

John gathered up his book and went to slip on his sandals. It was only quarter to twelve, but he rushed out the front door, informing his mother where he was off to as he went. He skipped optimistically down the sidewalk, his new present held in a tight grip at his side.

The grass tickled the tops of his feet as he adventured into the field. He could make out the meadow from where he was first, but he headed in the direction of the lonely tree close by instead. Taking some effort with his strength, he hoisted himself into the great oak tree, settling on one of the larger branches. He checked the time on his watch. 11:57 A.M. He opened the new yet old‒aged book his mum had given him and began to take in the information, traveling in his brain waves so he understood every word, flattening out creases in the pages every so often and sneezing from the dust floating in the air around his nostrils.

"What, Mycroft?" Sherlock glared at his brother from across the dining room table. He was forcing himself to eat some cheese and crackers, all the while checking the time on his watch so he wouldn't miss his meeting with John.

"You're very uptight, Sherlock," Mycroft informed him, tapping his fingers on the wood.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, viciously. "Why don't you mind your own business, My." He picked out a sample of cheese from under his fingernail and flicked it onto his plate. He disliked the yellow substance but enjoyed the taste of the crumbly and buttery cracker in his mouth nevertheless.

"Seriously, I don't know what has worked its way into your brain, dear brother." Sherlock gave him the death stare at the name. "School will be hell with you around."

"I'm sure," Sherlock agreed so positively, rising from his seat. The chair scraped against the tiled floor and he took everything back into the kitchen. Mycroft rolled his eyes, watching his absurd brother go. Sherlock stacked the box of crackers back into the cupboard and threw the cheese pack carelessly into the fridge. The time on the kitchen stove read 12:03 P.M.

"I'm going out, Mycroft," Sherlock told him nonchalantly.

"Where?"

"Do I need to repeat myself, again? Just back off and leave me alone! I'm…meeting with someone." The heat rose in temperature in his cheeks as he blushed.

"Are you not telling me something, Sherlock? Did you finally find yourself a friend?" Mycroft sounded shocked that his brother was going to have a chat with someone.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, anger casually boiling in his chest again. "I'll be back later."

"Suit yourself." Mycroft didn't object. "Take your phone, just in case," he called after his sibling.

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he decided, giving in. His nice shiny shoes patted against the floor of the mansion as he surged through the house, darting around objects and pieces of furniture to reach his bedroom. He busted the door open with a loud bang and nearly knocked over a beaker containing a potion he was mixing. It was a vibrant shade of purple.

He snatched up his iPhone from his bedside table and bolted back out the door. He flew down the staircase, nearly falling on his face twice and poked Mycroft in the back of the head as he went by.

"Be back later," he teased his older brother as he slid out of the teenager's grip. The front door clicked shut behind him and he rounded on himself, heading for his backyard. When he turned the corner, the field came into view, the meadow just beyond with the green hills in the distance.

Sherlock did a speed walk through the grass, putting his iPhone into his blazer pocket. The heat was sweltering, and he regretted wearing his suit in the sweltering temperature. He felt sorry and pictured John already waiting in the field for him, eager to learn about Hogwarts.

He arrived at the spot where he'd sat the previous day but didn't find Watson's form there. He scanned the ground with his eyes and the surrounding area. Holmes spotted a pair of footprints mushed in the dirt at the base of the oak tree. He examined the shoe print, identifying that it surely was John's. He looked around one more time, wondering where the blond could be hidden.

"Fancy meeting you here," said the familiar bold voice. Sherlock's head jerked upwards to where the sound had traveled from.

John Watson sat on a ledge far above in the tangled branches, his knees pulled up to his chest with a grin on his childish face,and Hogwarts: A History resting in his lap.