Chapter Three

The Shadow Of A Genius

"How long have you been chilling out up there?" Sherlock questioned, spying the book lying open in John's lap. There were quite a considerable number of pages that had already been read and were lying on the left side of the book's spine. John's hand pushed the exceptionally thick book closed and he patted his hands on the cover. Then, he scanned his fingers over the smooth, bumpy letters carved on the book's dusty surface.

"About an hour and a half." Watson shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the idea. "Catch." Sherlock was unprepared for the flying object but managed to collect the book clumsily in his arms. John's got news. He looked over the ancient book, recalling the time when he'd first read the words on the pages. The binding was very fragile and some of the pages had been torn from previous reading experiences.

"Wait," Sherlock paused, remembering their conversation from the previous day, his tone of voice in utter confusion. "You said you didn't like history…" He pointed a finger up at the branch John was crouching on.

"Okay, maybe I lied a little, because that book right there, that has some fascinating information in it. And I've only read the first category of the first section." John took hold of the branch he was sitting on securely and swung his legs through the remarkably tiny opening between the bark and his chest with extreme skill. His arms extended to their full lengths as his legs dangled loosely below, his muscles contracting in his stomach.

"Never thought I'd get into it that much," John admitted. "At least until my mum revealed an old school trunk of hers from her school days. You were right." His mood enlightened and he nodded at Sherlock down below on the ground.

"I was right. Right about what?"

"Me possibly having wizard parents. Turns out my mum was a witch. I find it odd that she never mentioned her school days to me after all these years." He let his grip go on the bark and fell some five feet down, gravity dragging him. Sherlock was alert and shifted his position to stand directly under John, hesitating whether or not he was going to fall. But Watson caught a grip on a lower branch with his leg and by wrapping his elbow securely into place. "Dad hasn't even been remotely interested," he continued, shifting his position on the twig. "He wasn't too thrilled when he found out she was a witch, but he accepted the truth as the years went by. Now he kind of embraces it."

"Ah, so you're a half‒blood." Sherlock played with the curls in his hair.

"A what?"

"A half‒blood. It means you only have one magical parent. My parents are both wizards, so that makes me a Pureblood. And if both your parents aren't magical, you're a Muggleborn. Not fond of speaking that name…" Holmes flinched as John's arm lost balance and skimmed against a branch.

"Will you stop doing that?" Sherlock insisted, gingerly tensing up with every move John attempted. "You're making me nervous…"

"If you insist." John swung once more from the branch, fell several yards down and landed roughly on the grass, his knees buckling under the weight of his chest. "Ouch," he remarked, eyes flying to a cut in his non‒dominant wrist. A small dribble of blood dripped morosely down his arm, leaving a trail behind in its path.

"Oh, you okay, John?" Sherlock asked him cautiously, approaching his figure with his arm held out before him.

"Yeah, it's nothing," the shorter boy assured him. "Trust me; I've gotten a lot worse." He pressed his left hand to the wound and proceeded to search for something he could use to stop the bleeding. "Thanks to my mum being a nurse, Harriet and I have been taught how to treat these things that don't cause much damage properly."

Sherlock undid the button clasping his blazer closed and it slid leisurely off his shoulders. He removed Hogwarts: A History from the unstable ground surface, curled his blazer into a ball, and set John's fragile book in the protection of his jacket.

When he spun back around, John had ventured quite a distance away, still clutching his arm and staring roughly at the ground. Sherlock's feet automatically responded and were attracted to the little kid like a magnet, as he became aware that he was inching closer to the blond‒haired boy. John was mumbling to himself, and Sherlock overheard him say, "Where is it?" He came to be in a direct line with Watson, and when he reached the edge of the maze of tall grass, John kneeled, his blond head barely visible above the mass of green.

Sherlock watched thoroughly as the smaller boy made barely noticeable movements in the meadow. The brunette met up with him where a patch of the sharp plants had been flattened, revealing an assortment of objects related to nature. John's injured skin came into Holmes's peripheral vision, and he saw that the fascinating boy had a leaf softly pressed to the cut in his arm. John saw Sherlock looming over him and stood up, their faces about a foot apart.

"You have to use whatever you can find," he stated, feeling ridiculous all the same while Sherlock stared down at him.

"What's all this?" The taller human was curious and his eyes darted to the small pile of random nature under the grass.

"Harry and I collected these things." John motioned with his eyes and dipped his head in the vicinity of the objects. Pine cones were stacked in an unstable tower, twigs and sticks intertwined with each other, and there was even an unoccupied birds' nest hidden under a mound of leaves. "When we were younger, we used to play with our imaginations and picture different things we could create using them. We built a really neat castle once. Harriet stormed off and got in a rage with me when I accidentally knocked it over though…" Sherlock tried to hide the snicker that was building up inside him. John stood, rubbing his arm tenderly and occasionally glancing at the time on his watch.

"You promised." The words blurted from his mouth unexpectedly, making Sherlock jump, alarmed. He raised an eyebrow, showing the younger kid his confusion. "You said you would tell me about Hogwarts." Sherlock understood and the 'aha' moment clicked in his brain.

"I did, didn't I? There's no need to though." He tried to tease the ten‒year‒old out of it, but Watson didn't give in so easily.

"It's a book," John mused, "just words. Stories reveal more than books. Spoken words tell more than reading in certain cases."

It was a true fact for the most part. John had his ways of hacking into Sherlock's brain, forcing him to side with his irresistible puppy eyes; yet Sherlock had only known him for a day. It made the younger wizard look relatively similar to a hedgehog.

"Very well," Holmes gave in. John was thrilled. "But let's go sit in the shade. The heat's killing me." The blond followed in Sherlock's shadow, keeping a firm hand pressurizing his wrist. The shade was nippy against Sherlock's skin as he took a seat among the blades sprouting throughout the lawn, John taking the spot opposite him on the mulch surrounding the tree's base.

"Now, where to begin…" Sherlock contemplated, racking his brain of his knowledge. The endless total number of facts there were made it logically impossible to select a starting point.

"I discovered a picture in my book while I was skimming through the pages," John advised Sherlock, providing him with a subject to clarify. "A man named Godric Gryffindor. Does that name ring a bell to you?"

"Significantly." Sherlock rounded on John as though he was a new movie star actor and didn't know anyone. "He was one of the original founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There were four of them, and they named the houses of the school after themselves. Hence Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin became the different categories of the castle."

"What do the houses represent? Are they important to the study of education or something?" John assembled Hogwarts: A History afresh against his thighs, leaned against the oak tree's trunk, and stretched out his damaged arm on the book's cover. He shuffled his feet adolescently and opened his ears so he could hear his neighbor's tale sharply.

"Well…" There was uncertainty in the older boy's voice, "not exactly. You see, all the students who are accepted into the school are sorted into distinct houses accordingly based on their personality and physical or mental traits. All the houses compete for house points during the school term, and the house with the most points at the end of the school year wins the House Cup."

"What are the different house traits?" The questions kept racking up but Sherlock contained his composure, knowing he couldn't flip out in front a boy he'd met the previous day.

"Gryffindors are bold and brave. A lot of famous wizards were supposedly sorted into Gryffindor, which doesn't surprise me. Each house also has an animal that represents the students in them. Gryffindors are lions. Hufflepuffs are loyal and hard‒working. Hufflepuffs are just sort of there, being the less appreciated badgers;they're the students who pretty much don't fit in to any other house. Ravenclaws are full of intelligence and knowledge, keen in learning. The eagle is the mascot of their house. And Slytherins are the ambitious and cunning type. They mostly want to achieve power or wealth in life, and a serpent serves as their animal." John's face looked mildly amused, and he prudently pulled back the tattered old leaf connected to his skin to check on the cut.

"Sounds like an odd bunch," John joked, giggling to himself and replacing the leaf back to his wound. "You sound like a Ravenclaw," he pointed out to Sherlock. "You know a lot about the universe."

"I'd agree. I consider myself a genius," he said, puffing out his chest and straightening his back. "I certainly have an immense level of knowledge." Okay, now he's just thinks he's the smartest person in the world, John thought while rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I consider myself a Slytherin," the brunette mused, getting caught in a spider web between two of the more popular school houses.

"Oh, come off it," Watson rejected. "I can't imagine you'd want any power in life. I supposed it's just getting to you because of that weird thing you do."

"It's not weird," Holmes pointed out. "I take in and observe things, unlike some people who see but don't make observations." John looked ashamed and traced circles in the dirt with his toe.

"I'm just saying that it's a bit unusual," the blond mumbled, speaking from behind curled‒in knees. "Sorry if I upset you."

"It's fine. Most people say that anyways."

"I'm sorry." John really looked guilty and hid in the shadow of the tree trunk as he repeated his innocence. The non‒typical apology sent both of them into silence, but Watson soon perked up again as his morning memories came back to his brain.

"Oh, yeah! Come to think of it…" John hastily dug his left hand into his shorts' pocket. Sherlock heard a clinking noise of certain elements on the periodic table scraping together. When his hand emerged, John held three glinting coins in his paw. "Mum told me these were what wizards used for currency. She didn't explain though." The ten‒year‒old seemed to be so attached to the brunette already that he referred to his mother like Holmes was his brother.

"May I?" Sherlock leaned in closer to John, holding out his hand with a soft expression written in his eyes. John tilted his hands and the money slid rhythmically from his hand to his fellow wizard's. Sherlock sat back in his original position, one knee up to his chest, chilling his elbow against it before continuing.

He took the largest coin in two skinny fingers and raised it to his eye level, holding it out for John to see. "This one," he began, "is a gold Galleon. This one is worth the most value in the wizard currency. This is a silver Sickle." He replaced the Galleon with the next coin a smaller size down. "Seventeen of these Sickles makes one Galleon. Yeah," he inferred John, seeing the look on his face.

"And this smallest one is a bronze Knut. You could almost fit three of these in the circumference of a Galleon. There are twenty‒nine Knuts to a Sickle, which if I did my math right makes 493 Knuts equal to one gold Galleon."

"Really?" John asked, wonder and amazement in his face. Sherlock reached back towards Watson and gave the coins back to their owner. After all, technically he would be stealing the younger boy's money if he kept them.

"Yep. Those are what you're going to use to buy all your school supplies, in Diagon Alley of course. You'd love it there. One long crooked street, hundreds of magically shops lined with books, potion ingredients, Quidditch supplies —" He swiped his hands through the air in a flowing notion, trying to set the scene so John could picture it. When Sherlock first experienced the wizarding world, it turned out to be nothing like he ever expected. "You'd be good at Quidditch with the skills you've just showed me," he added, his eyes snapping open from the dreamy land he was stuck in.

"I would?" John had never played any sports on a team when he was younger. He enjoyed throwing a football with his dad when he was home before he went off to the Army, or sometimes throwing a baseball up into the air by himself and seeing if he could catch it again, but he never made any school sports teams. Once during baseball tryouts he was accused of cheating, as he'd secretly used magic to make sure the bat hit the ball when he'd swung for a home run. There was no way he would have been able to smack it, considering a kid couldn't hit a curve ball like the one the coach threw.

"You've certainly got the athletic ability." Sherlock gave John a warm smile of comfort. The more muscular boy blushed and lifted his shoulders to his cheeks.

"You know, I'd never thought I'd meet someone just like me," John whispered, looking shyly at Sherlock from behind his bent knees.

"But, we're so different from each other," the older wizard pointed out.

"Not so. At least, not to me. Because you're my friend." Sherlock felt a sensation rising from deep within his chest. He locked his eyes on the blond‒haired boy, making sure to take in every detail of his face. Those handsome blue eyes looked so sure and positive, Sherlock didn't know whether he could believe John or not.

"Your…friend?" Sherlock stuttered, in utter shock.

"What's the matter? Is there something wrong with that?" John's eyes went sad and spread wider than they were.

"No!" Sherlock squeaked, regaining his composure. "It's just…I've never had a friend before."

"Well, it looks like you've got one now." John's rosy cheeks puffed out and he buried his face in his sleeve, trying to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock's mouth was agape, and he speedily moved his hand over his face to cover his open lips.

"Well," he sighed, breaking the awkward moment between the two friends, "you continue reading that book, John. It's the key to knowing what your future is full of. You still won't know as much as I will since Mycroft blabs about everything." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the attention of his brother.

"I will!" John pronounced he wouldn't fail his friend. "I'll read it. I'll spend most of my summer reading it. Then I'll be prepared for my first day of school." He rocked back and forth on his tailbone, gripping his ankles securely into his body, his chest rounded into a tight ball.

"You make it sound so easy," Holmes chuckled, highly amused.

John went to stand up from the grass. "Wait!" Sherlock jabbered. John paused, his hands planted motionlessly into the earth, the weight of his hips bearing down on his arms and legs. Sherlock didn't speak but instead dipped his neck, implying for the blond to glance in not a doubtful direction.

John contracted his eyebrows, scrunching up his nose in befuddlement. He did a little motion with his head, and Sherlock surveyed the spot once more. John concluded that his friend was nodding his skull at his injured arm, asking without words how its condition was.

John pulled back the sticky leaf, which had a broad circular patch of blood stained on it. The stem in the center of the flaky leaf absorbed most of his blood, making the object look like a glorious painting. But when Watson removed the leaf from his arm, there wasn't a cut there at all. His skin had mended itself, and the dried blood was smudged around where the cut had been minutes ago.

John understood and looked back up at the older boy. He had a smirk on his face, twirling a stick in and out between his fingers. "How did you do that?" the shorter kid remarked, chucking the leaf aside and examining his skin. His fingers ran over the smooth new cells, and the eleven‒year‒old shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose it's just a magic trick." John gave up trying to ask how Sherlock did it and exhaled, feeling a bit stupid while he smiled at his foolishness. He stretched his legs to their full extent, reaching his arms above his head and feeling his muscles elongate. Sherlock reluctantly stood to join him, acting lazy and taking his time rising to his feet.

"Think fast." Sherlock didn't have time to react before his black blazer ran into his chest, and gravity began to force his jacket back down to earth.

John was quickest to operate. He concentrated his mind specifically on the blazer, and just before the tip of the left sleeve brushed the ground the jacket froze, Sherlock's body bent double over it, hoping to prevent it from falling. John made the blazer move ghostly‒like through the air, swiftly coming to a halt ahead of Sherlock. Holmes shifted and meandered to the opposite side of his clothing, plunging his arms into the depths of his jacket's sleeves.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled, knowing John's actions were simple yet touching. The smaller kid saluted with two fingers, the way his dad had taught him years ago; the way they saluted in the Army. The shorter boy felt his phone vibrate fiercely in his shorts' pocket, so he pulled it out and sighed at the message blinking on the home screen.

"Harriet's demanded me to come home." John flicked his wrist, disapproving of his sister. He sent a quick reply.

Be home in a few. –JW

"I'll see you later then," John said turning to go, his book clutched in his hand and still in shock over his arm.

"Can I have your phone number?" Sherlock suddenly blurted out. John swung back around approvingly and reached back into his pocket. Watson went to his phone options, seeing as he always forgot his own cell phone number.

"That's your sister's old phone," Sherlock pointed out, stating the obvious fact before recording his friend's number in his contact list.

John Watson. His friend. Sherlock's friend.

John Watson rolled over sluggishly in his bed. His phone had made a ding noise, and he wondered who could be texting him at such a dreadful hour in the morning. He rubbed his eyes harshly and yawned voluminously. He blinked back watery eyes when he spotted his phone lying screen up on his bedside table.

It was a text from Sherlock.

I'm outside in the field. Can you come at once? It's urgent. ‒SH

John was slightly baffled. The alarm clock on his bedside table flashed obnoxious red numbers at him, bearing the time 3:47 A.M. Being summertime, there was still a hint of chilliness in the early morning's breeze. John grasped his favorite black coat from the hook in his bedroom closet and gritted his teeth, hoping his door wouldn't creak when he pulled it open. Why he was actually going out to Sherlock was bizarre, considering it wasn't an expedient time for the matter.

He tiptoed inaudibly down the staircase, careful to skip the squeaky step, his toes pressing against the ice cold floor. Mum left the air conditioning on again, he thought to himself, hearing the faint rumble from the vents overhead. It had been several weeks since they last met in the meadow. They'd gone for walks in the park since then instead, stopping for ice cream along the way now and then and finding out more things about each other. Sherlock was fascinating. He performed science experiments in his free time and liked to research as much history as he could. He didn't sound like a typical human being, but John had found his odd sense of life to be captivating.

The date on the kitchen calendar near the stove read July 2nd. John had been counting down the days to his eleventh birthday, crossing off squares excitedly on his calendar pinned to the bulletin board in his room. He was also still waiting for his letter from Hogwarts to arrive. Sherlock had warned John that it would not come by normal postage; there was no note of the older neighbor receiving his letter yet either.

He passed through the living room, seeing the moonlight reflect off an object lying on the coffee table. John had to get right up close before realizing that it was a DVD of Doctor Who, Series 3. He smiled, thinking about the tenth Doctor and how brilliant he was. A connection sparked in his mind as he remembered his friend. Poor Sherlock, probably sitting alone in the field, shivering against the cold, bitter wind.

He closed the front door as unnoticeably as possible, and he felt odd walking down the road in his pajama bottoms and his comfy black coat. The grass crunched under his sneakers as he glided towards the meadow. It was almost completely pitch‒black outside, and very few clouds littered the sky. It's beautiful, John thought, staring up at the sparkling stars.

John nearly tripped over a tree branch randomly lying in the curtained grass. He cursed under his breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, carrying on his way. He could see the outline of the great oak tree far away, and he took off at a sprint, his mind never leaving the thought of Sherlock. The wind blew up through the bottom of his pajama pants, making him shiver.

The patch of dirt under the tree met his feet sooner than he expected, causing Watson to nearly run over his best friend. Holmes sat at the base of the trunk, his phone in his hand, tracing the word of his text he'd sent to John on the screen.

"What's wrong?" the blond asked. "You summoned me."

All Sherlock grumbled was, "Mycroft's being a git."

Turns out, from what John had managed to get out of Sherlock, was that Mycroft had gotten so pissed at him in an argument that he shoved his sibling hard onto a wood floor. Apparently Mycroft had apologized directly afterwards, but Sherlock had never been so hurt in all his life. John told Sherlock he was simply shook up. He pulled the skills from his mum; took Sherlock's pulse to make sure it was normal, and pressed a hand to his forehead, checking that his temperature wasn't high.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock shrugged him off, taking his friend's wrist and lowering it delicately. There was no need for such medical condition in his shook‒up state. It was just morally moronic. "I'm sorry," he apologized, and John looked practically confused. "I shouldn't have made you come out here at this time of the night."

"It's no big deal," John said, though Sherlock knew he was lying.

"I've been out here for four hours now," he stated, keeping his focus on the lights in his home's windows off to his right.

"What?" John yelled, mortally horrified. That time could've been used to sleep, not sulk. "Sherlock, you know there are wild animals out here, and staying alone in the dark is not the greatest thing in the universe to —"

"I know, I know." A cloud shifted above their bundled figures and illuminated them in a spotlight of the moon's glow.

"Come here," Sherlock offered, patting to the open spot next to him. John delayed time, hopping up and down on the balls of his feetbut eventually joined the brunette. He sat down, his right arm pressing against Sherlock's left.

"Try to go back to sleep, John," he heard Sherlock whisper in his ear.

"Are you insane? It's bloody cold out here thanks to the brisk wind!"

"Just try. Please, for me?" John exhaled and couldn't help but do it for his friend. His head rested limply on Sherlock's collar as he felt his bony shoulder blade dig into his cheek tissue. He would've thought physical contact would disturb the older boy, but the familiarity of having a companion around all the time made him not care.

Sherlock was attracted to John's light breathing not long after he insisted the blond should sleep. Little John must have been super tired as he basically greeted rest like an old taller boy watched his chest rise and fall steadily, and saw the glint of the moonlight reflect off his undisturbed face as the smaller boy slept peacefully.

Holmes made no racket of noise while he maneuvered his position so he could remove his own coat. He gently wrapped it around the young child's boy to give him an extra layer of warmth, and getting adventurous he curled his arm around the boy's hips and lured John in closer.

He smiled and whispered into his buddy's ear, his sentence slowing near the end, partially hoping the anxious wizard didn't hear. "My dear Watson…You're such a companion, you are."