Chapter Six

The Apple

The Hogwarts Express puffed itself along the tracks, huffing out steam from its top pipe as it went. Once in a while the train would curve unexpectedly in an oblivious direction, and Sherlock and John had to secure a hand to the shelf next to the window to get a firm grip and not fall off their seats. Misty mountains passed by miles away, their tips hidden by the clouds. John checked his watch. 11:24 A.M. They were only twenty minutes into their journey.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, noting the way John looked out the window.

"Nothing. Just deciding."

"Deciding?"

"What house I might be in." John twiddled his fingers, bringing his right knee in closer to his chest. He rested his head on the bitter cold glass of the window and felt the hairs on the back of his neck freeze.

"I told you, don't worry about it." Sherlock rolled his eyes so John couldn't see. "I don't see why you're so worried about it. I mean, you're going to be sorted into Gryffindor anyway."

"Yes but what if I'm not though?" John stated, cutting him off. "What if I'm put in Hufflepuff? Or worse, Slytherin —"

"You won't, that's the point. And you can't think Slytherin is bad all the time. Everyone thinks that, but they're some wizards who have such great personalities in real life and are cunning because they want to simply reach a goal. Just to think, Merlin was a Slytherin. And besides, the best part about being a wizard is that you're going to Hogwarts, not what house you're in." A couple red sparks shot out of Sherlock's wand, hit his foot and vanished. Watson thought his friend had brought up a good point, but he was still concerned about the sorting.

"Don't argue with me," John said flatly, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Sherlock opened his mouth to shoot a retort back but was cut off by the sound of a door handle clicking open. He got distracted from his wand and followed his eyes beyond his legs to where the door leading out to the hall had opened. A young boy stood proudly in the frame and a girl hid behind his back, nervously peeking into the compartment.

"Hello," he said, in what was a very thick British accent. He looked at both Sherlock and John, curled up closest to the window, feet on the seats. "Blimey the carts are full," he stated, looking away and glancing beyond in the hall. There were still people pushing their way past searching for a place to sit. His eyebrows contracted in disappointment but his face changed when he proceeded to his next question. "Do you mind if we join you?"

"No!" Sherlock nearly shouted, abruptly sitting up in his seat but bending his knees so his feet remained on the bench. "No, not at all. Come in."

"Thanks!" The boy expressed the widest grin John had ever seen. His voice was a lot deeper than it should have been compared to the composition of his face, and his short black hair stuck out about an inch beyond his forehead. He walked with some sort of sassy stride, rocking back and forth with swagger in his hips, the way cool people try to act.

The girl who'd been secretly hiding behind the boy's back was revealed and she slowly lowered her hands from her face. Her blue eyes had a trace of grey in their depths, and she had long ginger hair that was pulled back in a high ponytail. She smiled nervously and waved her hand, and Sherlock honestly thought it was one of the sweetest smiles he'd ever seen besides John's. She took the seat next to the smallest boy as he moved his legs off the bench and brushed off the cushion, offering her a place to sit down.

The boy took the seat beside Sherlock a good foot from his legs and glanced skeptically at the brunette's owl in its cage. The pet stared making strange noises, as though hissing and disliking the boy already.

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock apologized, hopping up from his seat. "I'll move him. May as well get him to shut up too." Sherlock skimmed Elizer's cage over the carpeted floor to rest under the window. Then, he roughly took off his blazer and shoved it over the bars, blurring out the sounds the creature rasped. His favorite purple shirt made his cheekbones stand out more sharply than they ever did. John liked it when Sherlock wore that shirt.

"There. That's better." He rubbed his hands together and sat back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. Sherlock found John's spheres of ice and his friend made a motion with his eyebrows and head. Sherlock gave John the confused look, so John was forced to start the awkward conversation.

"So —" Lingering silence. John placed his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together and leaning forward. He cocked his head to the side. "What's your name?" He pointed to the guy across from him.

"Oh, my bad," the boy said, leaning in closer to extend his arm out to John. "I didn't introduce myself earlier. My name's Greg. Greg Lestrade." John shook his hand delightedly. "But I prefer to be called Lestrade," he added quickly. Lestrade's hand was bony and buff. John almost felt his fingers feel crushed under the pressure of the boy's grip.

"What about you?" John asked, turning to the ginger‒haired girl and massaging his hand so Lestrade couldn't see.

"Molly Hooper." She no doubt had a British accent as well, and she spoke as though someone would hurt her if she shouted too loudly. Her cheeks went pink as John gave her his heart‒warming smile, and she stared down at her lap in shame.

Lestrade pushed his hands off his knees and retrieved his trunk from the rack above his head. He set it directly in the middle of the floor and opened the lid, revealing the contents inside. He had packed his trunk worse than Sherlock had. The brunette snooped over Lestrade's shoulder to make deductions about the boy.

"You've been to Scotland Yard quite recently," he remarked. Lestrade twisted on his knee, giving Sherlock a look of disorientation.

"Sherlock…" John warned, his tone rising ever so slightly.

"What?" he replied matter‒of‒factly. "I'm just enouncing the self‒explanatory."

"You're just showing off —"

Lestrade butted in. "How did you know?"

"I noticed," Sherlock corrected, indicating at the heap of a mess in his trunk. "The jacket in the bottom right corner has a badge on it. There's also a sticker on the bottom side of the suitcase, visible over your head. I could conclude a lot of things about you if you'd like."

Lestrade goggled at John, seeking for help. The shortest boy shrugged and rolled his eyes. "You get used to it after a while."

"Like…what?" Lestrade was hesitant to ask, but wonder filled his brain and he was keen to know. Sherlock began to observe Lestrade from head to toe, examining and making conclusions about the wizard he'd met not five minutes ago.

"You live in central London," Sherlock began, his mouth moving almost faster than he blinked. "You're an only child who has both a mum and a dad but you like your father more. He was a wizard, but he's been hiding it from you for many years. He takes you to Scotland Yard occasionally just to take his mind off the subject of magic since he's an inspector there. Your mum's not too thrilled about your capabilities to produce magic yet she still loves you all the same. You're very brave and very strong, judging by the fact that you almost crushed John's fingers a moment ago." Lestrade gaped at John who slowly turned away, fixing his view out the window and pretending not to notice or be listening.

"You're also very serious about things yet you're known to be a joker most of the time. Hence the fake rat in your trunk. You're very sociable but tend to not keep quiet in public, thus getting yourself into trouble a lot. There you go." Sherlock finished with a nod of his head and went back to fidgeting with his wand, as if he'd never been interrupted. There was another long silence in which nobody spoke or moved, except Lestrade who stared terrified at John's tiny hands.

He didn't stay terrified for long though. In fact, his face seemed to change ages in a split second. He went from looking fourteen to looking ten, like when a mime passes their hand over their face and changes expressions.

"How the hell did you find all that out?" He slammed the trunk lid closed without meaning to, causing everyone to jump at the sudden sound.

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true." That was what Sherlock managed to say after he'd calmed down.

"Okay, that was…insane." Lestrade clicked the hooks locked on his trunk, and the red initials G.L. shined splendidly on the polished wood. Sherlock shifted his feet weirdly on the carpet, looking down at Lestrade on the floor outlandishly. "Whatever you just did, that was pretty remarkable…"

Sherlock contracted his eyebrows, looking slightly baffled at Lestrade. Not many people comment on my remarks, he thought. His arms were crossed and his left knee was pulled up to his chest. His right leg stretched out normally in front of him on the floor.

"Then again, it was just a bit rude…" Lestrade added, lifting his trunk back in its proper place on the rack. "You noticed all that from my trunk?"

"Problem?" Sherlock questioned, cocking his left eyebrow and giving Lestrade a look.

"Maybe just a little," Lestrade admitted. "Just…wow. What a way to show off I suppose —"

"I'm not showing off, I'm simply taking note of true facts."

"Alright!" John nearly yelled, raising both his hands and nodding his head. He'd been quiet for the start of the ride but lost it at the sight of the two new boys bickering. "Keep calm!"

"And carry on…" Molly had interjected unexpectedly but with a brilliant addition to John's yell and all of them giggled at her funny joke.

"Well, is your hand okay, John?" Greg had continued first after their hilarious noises died down, making sure the youngest in the room didn't have an injury.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry about it," John assured. "You only really cracked my knuckle, and I do that once in a while, so it's fine."

Molly suggested that the four of them properly introduce themselves and made each boy explain a little about their families. "So," she said shakily, nudging John on the arm, "are you and Sherlock friends?"

"Yeah, I've known him for about four months now. Didn't know he lived next to my neighborhood until he showed up in the field in between the houses. He's the one who introduced me to Hogwarts and magic and stuff." John fumbled nervously with his hands, the butterflies fluttering crazily in his stomach. He caught his best friend's eyes and gave him a small smile.

All he knew next was that his head lounged on the cold window, and his thoughts slowly drifted him off into sleep. Of course it was rude, and he wanted to know more about the new kids, but he wasn't grasping any interest. John's eyes began to droop and soon he couldn't hold them up anymore, so he let them shut and drag him off into a peaceful nap.

When John awoke, he found Lestrade and Molly situated on the floor, playing with what seemed to be a Muggle deck of cards. Sherlock was trying to get Elizer to shut up by stroking his feathers. John stretched out his legs, causing them to travel too far and bump the owl cage on the floor. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand and being polite.

"You took a long nap," Sherlock mused, slouching back in his chair. Lestrade glanced over his shoulder when the brunette stated the obvious. Molly slapped a pile of cards while Lestrade was distracted, causing him to turn back around and make a gesture with his hands and giving her the Are you kidding me? look.

"What? It's only been an hour," John inferred, checking the time on his watch. "Ouch," he remarked, twisting his head to stare at the wall where his skull had rested. "Neck hurts."

"Alright, forget this," Lestrade spoke, throwing his cards onto the carpet and forcing himself off the floor. "I heard someone say there was a food cart coming soon. I'm going to get some. Anyone else care for some while I go?"

"Yeah, get me something," John announced, chucking a few Galleons at him. Lestrade was clumsy and failed at snatching them out of the air, the effect being the coins falling to the floor.

"Right," he said, bending over to pick them up and brushing off the top of his t‒shirt. "Sherlock? Molly? You want anything?"

"It doesn't matter," Molly whispered, looking down and blushing. Sherlock didn't move. The right side of his long face was pressed against the window, his cheekbone digging painfully into the glass. Lestrade looked at John for help when no answer came from the tallest boy.

"He doesn't eat," John explained, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, he does but rarely. Get him something just in case. Here," he said, chucking Lestrade another Galleon, which this time he caught in the center of his palm.

"Right," Greg repeated. "Well, I'll be back." His muscular hand clenched the door handle, slid it open to the right, and clicked it shut behind him. Lestrade peeped in both directions before heading towards the back of the train.

Something large and fluffy landed gracefully in John's lap. The blond stirred, getting a shock as the animal sat itself on top of his legs.

"Oh! Sorry!" Molly exclaimed, bringing a hand up to her mouth. She shifted her position on the floor so she sat on her heels. "Come here, Tasha! I'm so sorry she's bothering you…" Molly looked like she'd done something terribly wrong.

"No, it's no big deal," John assured her, shaking off her problem. In fact, John enjoyed having the cat sit in his lap. He stroked behind her ears, making Tasha purr loudly and close her green eyes in appreciation. John had never had a cat at home because his mother was allergic to them, but they had a Bulldog named Gladstone and he adored the pet.

Tasha was a ginger cat with short hair, and her coat had different shades of orange stripes all around from her back to her belly. Her tail was at least a foot long and her fuzzy paws were as white as snow. John scratched under her chin and the kitty opened her large eyes to stare into his. Her flocculent fur felt comfy on his fingers, and Molly gave a small smile to John when she saw the friendly relationship forming.

Just then the door swung open again, but it wasn't Lestrade who'd returned with the sweets. Instead, a very pompous boy stood in the picture, wearing a navy blue suit exquisitely ironed with no wrinkles visible. A girl stood behind his shoulder, looking much older than she actually was. Her short, tight black dress stuck to her body, her high heels were bright red, and she wore far too much makeup for her age. All of the three kids nestled in the compartment honestly thought she was dressed inappropriately and the boy didn't look trustworthy.

Sherlock lifted his head and ignored the view out the window, staring at the boy in the door with suspicion in his eyes. Molly immediately reached out her arms for Tasha, collecting the cat in her arms and taking her seat back next to John. Watson let the girl take her cat back, and Hooper curled in the corner and held her pet close to her chest.

"Well well well," the mysterious boy said in a drawling voice, glancing over his shoulder at the girl with black hair. Polished shoes, slicked back hair, serious stare, comes from a rich family…Sherlock found the easy clues, checking out every angle of the boy. Sherlock's gaze passed over to the girl who was staring at him with hard eyes, her hair pulled back entirely on the crown of her head. Sherlock blinked and looked away, staring at John's red All Stars. His friend's feet were stacked uncomfortably in the presence of the intruders.

"I suppose we should be moving on," he implied the woman. "We don't want to be hanging around with ordinary people like these." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gave John a look, noticing he'd clenched his fist and was hiding it from the boy. Watson easily got ticked off when something bothered him, and his temper could ignite particularly when people talked dirty about his friends.

The freshly‒groomed boy was throwing an apple up and down in the air, catching it every time gravity pulled it back down to his hand. Light reflected off its blood red surface. The boy reached into his dress pants' pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. Molly flinched as her eyes flashed, pulling Tasha in and hiding her cat completely from view.

"This is a problem," the boy sneered, carving something into the fruit so no one could see. "I bet none of you will be able to survive school. You won't last a week with your behaviors."

"Shut it." John showed his fury standing up abruptly, his fist hidden behind his back. Sherlock extended out his hand to brace John, his fingers hooking onto the belt loop in his friend's jeans.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," the apple boy warned, continuing to carve into the fruit and ignoring John. "You see," he began to show off now, "my mother and father both work at the Ministry of Magic, and if anything happens to me, since I'm a first year like…you," he sneered, looking at all the kids like they were filth, "they'll be informed directly."

"So what?" John spat back. "My father's been in the Army, and he's taught me a few skills on how to beat up snots like you!" Sherlock was on his feet now, connecting John's left shoulder with his, shielding him from going too far.

"Jim Moriarty," the boy finally introduced. He took one step into the compartment and the three suspects got a whiff of the smell of Jasmine flowers. Wait, is that him or her? Sherlock thought, but he was unmistaken as he spotted a clue to indicate that it was indeed the male. That's…disturbing.

"Hi." Confusion passed over Sherlock's face when Moriarty said the welcome message because it was spoken in a very high‒pitched, sing‒song tone. John didn't stir. His face was still in a state of hatred. Sherlock remained with his back to Jim and watched his reflection in the glass window, making sure not to take his eyes off the new criminal. The girl behind Moriarty giggled but still refused to introduce herself. She remained silent for the remainder of the conversation.

"If you don't stop prying, Sherlock…" The brunette twisted, appalled at the use of his name in such a tone. He hadn't even told Moriarty who he was. The boy stopped carving into the apple and the peeled bit fell unnoticed to the floor. "I will burn you. I will burn…the heart out of you." It was as simple as that. This Moriarty was being serious and Sherlock tightened his grip on John's upper arm, feeling him shift on his feet.

John's Pocket Sneakoscope suddenly flashed and began to spin, twirling around on the bench and slamming into the compartment wall. The latches inside its complicated shell had scanned the room, finding that one or several intruders were not to be messed with. Watson was still breathing heavily and Holmes's hand was on the front of his chest. The young detective must have judged the blond's attitude to be sparking, and thus his fist contracted to latch around the shorter boy's shoulder bone. The younger eleven‒year‒old flicked his eyes on his tool, giving the birthday present a solving look. I already know this bully is an ass, he thought, watching Tasha crawl out of hiding and play with the top. She smacked it in entertainment with her paw, beating it up ferociously until it went crashing to the floor. She looked disappointed and pranced back over to Molly, figuring it wouldn't be wise if she followed it onto the carpet. Sherlock had also directed his attention on the Sneakoscope, but he went back to dealing with the newcomer and continued the conversation boiling with enmity.

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." John's eyes widen a tad as a hint of sadness flickered through them. Although, Sherlock didn't see his friend sulk because he'd turned around to face the tormentor. John knew Sherlock had a heart. Right there, in his chest. John could reach out and feel it beating if he had the nerve to. Maybe he didn't express love with it the way normal human beings did, but there was definitely a pumping organ hidden behind his rib cage.

"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty snickered and the girl behind him made some sort of evil gesture with her shoulders. "Here's our problem," Moriarty stated, throwing the apple at Sherlock, which he caught easily in his left hand without taking his gaze off the boy.

"Come on," Jim roused, twisting his head like a snake towards the front of the train. "Let's move on. I can't stand to be around these pathetic first years anymore."

"You're no more a first year yourself!" John screamed. Several people who were out in the hall stopped to watch the commotion. The blond boy launched himself at Jim, but Sherlock used his strength to hold him back, wrapping one arm around Watson's stomach and one around his dominant punching arm, still fighting to clutch the apple.

"Ciao." Moriarty made no movement when John had flung himself at him, and the troublemaker turned his back on the three fellow eleven‒year‒olds, slamming the door behind him. The woman followed close behind him as they disappeared out of sight.

Sherlock didn't let go of John until several long moments after the boy and girl had disappeared to the left outside the door. He let his skinny hands released from John's body gradually, making sure the shorter boy wouldn't take off suddenly after Moriarty. John relaxed his tense muscles, slowly loosening his fingers from their tight grip.

He brushed off his shoulders and adjusted his stance, removing his body from Sherlock's firm hold. Watson sank onto the bench, crossing his arms and shaking his head in rage at the groomed boy. Molly sat in the corner, silently stroking Tasha with a frightened look on her face.

"That uh…thing that you did…that was um…good." Sherlock scratched the curls on his head, messing them up and shaking from head to toe.

"Served him right," John murmured, bending over his knee to tie his shoelaces. Holmes's thighs shook uncontrollably as he sat down on the floor, resting his back against the bench. He smacked his owl's cage telling Elizer to shut up, and the bird went silent when a few owl pellets collapsed onto the cage floor.

Another noise greeted their ears as the compartment door flew open again. Lestrade came in, his arms containing dozens of sweets, the coins clinking in his pockets. He gave a bewildered look in the direction where Moriarty had left and somehow managed to point his finger under the small mound of cakes.

"Who was that?" he asked, taking a bite out of a cauldron cake.

"Just some kid who wanted to cause trouble," Sherlock inquired before John could open his mouth and say something much worse and harsher. Lestrade nodded in comprehension, not completely getting why someone would burst into the train room. He chucked a few sweets to everyone and settled the rest beside his seat on the bench.

"What did he want?" Lestrade continued, heaving a big sigh and crossing his legs to sit on his hip.

"He just wanted to give me this apple." Sherlock frowned and felt the stickiness of the food's inside graze his forearm. He turned it over in his hands, pondering what Moriarty could have carved into the fruit.

They were letters, three yellow letters against the red, standing out with a message.

I.O.U.

Sherlock brushed the apple away, opened Elizer's cage and stuck the large snack in for the owl to chew on. When he pulled it out later to throw it in the garbage, his pet had nibbled around the letters and only plucked a few dents in the red surface. I never liked riddles, he thought. Lestrade dug into his pocket and pulled out a few silver Sickles and bronze Knuts.

"Here you go, John," he said, shuffling the coins in his palm. He groaned a little as he stretched out to hand them back to their owner.

"Thanks," John mumbled, anger still buried in his throat.

Lestrade noticed John's harshness immediately. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock tried to confirm, stepping into the conversation rapidly.

John wasn't the first to reply. Molly, still hidden in her shadow in the corner, spoke up before all the first year boys. She stammered as she spoke. "He…he called us…pathetic."

Lestrade stopped in mid chew, holding his cauldron cake in his right hand and resting his left arm on his bent knee. All was silent for a few seconds. Not a sound echoed in the room except for Elizer chomping loudly on his food and the soft breaths of John's owl, still asleep under her wing. Tasha had started up her purring again, crawling over the cushioned bench to settle in John's lap.

Lestrade, the bulkiest of the three boys, sat stunned on the carpet. He gulped loudly and swallowed his mouthful of sweets before making a clicking noise with his tongue and opening his lips again.

"You're…you're not serious, are you?" He paused to clean his teeth, blowing on his hand and smelling his breath. Lestrade looked around for a sign of a reply, running his fingers through his sharp black hair.

Finally, out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade saw Sherlock nod calmly.

He took another bite out of his cauldron cake before commenting on the first year he hadn't even met yet. "That little…bastard."