TheSpareData @thesparedata - Tumblr Blog

"Does it depress you to know just how alone you really are?"

"I keep busy.", Batman answered with a shrug, trying not to show how affected he was by the question, "My jobs, my continuing education, and my hobbies can be very fulfilling and occasionally give me chances to meet people." Those were ways to cope. The loneliness never went away but it could be abated so it wouldn't have a chance to drag him down. Sometimes, though, he did wish there was someone he could be close enough to that he could share all of him. Alfred was always there for him but it wasn't quite the same as what he longed for.

He snorted and shook his head at that. "That's not the same, and you know it." He was lonely, too. Despite having his henchmen all around him, he always felt alone. There was a reason he lashed out so much all the time. He did well at hiding it though.

"No, it isn't,", Batman admitted, agreeing with Joker, "but it helps." Perhaps it was part of why the two of them had ended up just talking here a while instead of the other things they could be doing at this time. The brightly dressed criminal could be insightful. He had his men at his beck and call but Batman couldn't think of any who Joker has been that close too either, drawing a complete blank. "What would you do for that?", he asked, genuinely wondering.

The Joker scoffed slightly, though he supposed deep down he had to admit that the man was right. He did keep himself busy as well, didn't he? He created chaos wherever he went and fought Batman all the time in order to keep his mind occupied. He was already insane but he would be even more so without that. He's brought from his thoughts as the man asks a question. "For what? Companionship?"

"Mhm, or loneliness." However Joker interpreted the question was fine with Batman. Most everyone felt lonely at some time in their lives, some more than others. Joker might've too.

"Does it depress you to know just how alone you really are?"

"I keep busy.", Batman answered with a shrug, trying not to show how affected he was by the question, "My jobs, my continuing education, and my hobbies can be very fulfilling and occasionally give me chances to meet people." Those were ways to cope. The loneliness never went away but it could be abated so it wouldn't have a chance to drag him down. Sometimes, though, he did wish there was someone he could be close enough to that he could share all of him. Alfred was always there for him but it wasn't quite the same as what he longed for.

He snorted and shook his head at that. "That's not the same, and you know it." He was lonely, too. Despite having his henchmen all around him, he always felt alone. There was a reason he lashed out so much all the time. He did well at hiding it though.

"No, it isn't,", Batman admitted, agreeing with Joker, "but it helps." Perhaps it was part of why the two of them had ended up just talking here a while instead of the other things they could be doing at this time. The brightly dressed criminal could be insightful. He had his men at his beck and call but Batman couldn't think of any who Joker has been that close too either, drawing a complete blank. "What would you do for that?", he asked, genuinely wondering.

"Does it depress you to know just how alone you really are?"

"I keep busy.", Batman answered with a shrug, trying not to show how affected he was by the question, "My jobs, my continuing education, and my hobbies can be very fulfilling and occasionally give me chances to meet people." Those were ways to cope. The loneliness never went away but it could be abated so it wouldn't have a chance to drag him down. Sometimes, though, he did wish there was someone he could be close enough to that he could share all of him. Alfred was always there for him but it wasn't quite the same as what he longed for.

Sherlock's analysis of his personality had been correct then. Unicorn hair for a loyal, brave, and kind wizard. He was concerned for his par

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John would have refused any offer of financial help from Sherlock. It wouldn't have felt right to him to take it. He'd had an offer or two before but he'd refused help with any purchase that was too big or important. In fact, he was almost put in Hufflepuff, because of his sense of fairness and the value he placed in working for what he had, so he was glad that Sherlock hadn't made the offer.

"Right, I heard something about a school in Africa. Similar name to Uganda too. It's a shame there are so few schools in the world for magic.", he'd remarked. One for each region, it seemed, and some of them had to contend with students having multiple languages and cultures. There must be some kind of translation magic in those so everyone could understand one another, he imagined.

Hearing Sherlock speak of villains and wands being like fingerprints reminded him of the book John had given back to him. It was understandable for him to have such things on his mind. "Mm, that's true, I've seen people with similar wands but no two that are exact twins of each other." He loved having made Sherlock smile and laugh at what he'd said and glad that he remembered his facts right. "Yeah, I heard that too. Come to think of it, that might be the core of my sister's wand as well. I don't really remember." He tried to think of what Harry's was. She had told him. Dragon Heartstring sounded right but the wood...?

Sherlock hummed, "Uagado, or something of the sort, I can't remember the correct pronunciation. At least the schools are big enough for all the children, imagine if some kids didn't get in because there wasn't enough space." They'd likely become obscurial'a if they were from muggle families, which would definitely not be good. "But yeah, it'd be better if we had more schools. I'd love to visit the other schools just to see how things differ there. The American school has different houses to us, and some schools don't even have houses, I don't think." He was a man of curiousity first and foremost.

"Like the spots on a leopard or the stripes on a zebra." He figured John would understand the references more if he used non-magical animals. Sherlock studied his expression as he mentioned his sister and the fact that he didn't remember what wand she had. "Not a good relationship?" As he asked that the chiming of the bell tower could be heard signifying the start of the next set of lessons.

"No, Harry and I never got on.", John said, a little hurriedly. Harriet. Named after their father. She was going to be Harold Watson Junior, until she was born and they changed it, he'd been told. They still both shared a nickname. She was a year above John and had a mischievous reputation, a taste for butterbeer, and an eye for the ladies. "Damn! I really have to go to my next class, we'll have to pick this up next time we meet. It's been great talking to you!" He took a look around to find which direction to go and, spotting his route, began walking as fast as he could so he wouldn't be reprimanded for running. He'd done enough dashing about when he was younger to know it would make him even later.

John's next class was Charms with Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson. She was warm and had a good sense of humor but she was no pushover. He liked his classes with her and did well in them. He took his place when he got there, apologizing. "Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Hudson." "That's alright, dear, you're not that late. You'll catch up." She knew he was hardly ever late, so she wasn't going to take points like some teachers would. She continued with her lecture as John got out his book and prepared to follow along. They were going to start learning a new spell, today, she had said last time. He looked forward to it.

It was obvious how complicated of a relationship John had with his sister, and he could relate to that. His brother and him cared about each other in their own ways, but they were often butting heads. He often called Sherlock sentimental, which was completely wrong! Just because he wanted to use his skills for good rather than becoming some stupid ministry leader!

He watched the boy leave and hurry off down the corridor for a second, and before he knew it, he was running after him. He was in a different year to him, but that didn't deter Sherlock. He finally had a potential friend! Besides, his next class was magical history, and despite loving the subject, the professor was uterly horrible. He wasn't in the mood to be bored right now. Sherlock hurried after the disappearing figure off in front of him. He slowed anytime he saw one of the professors or prefects nearby.

Sherlock burst into the room while she was in the middle of speaking and glanced around the room, spotting John. Thankfully, he'd made it to the right classroom. Mrs Hudson paused and gave him a puzzled look, "Sherlock dear, what are you doing here?" She had a soft spot for the boy, despite him being labelled as a troublemaker and being in a different house than the one she was head of. She knew he was just curious, which got him into a lot of trouble at times. He moved closer to her to speak in a hushed tone and explain why he was there. She tutted and shook her head, "Oh very well, just don't make a habit of it, you hear?" He gave her a pleased smile and then went to sit beside John as several students glanced at the two of them and began whispering amongst themselves. "Hello again," he gave John a winning smile as Mrs Hudson asked where she had been before she was interrupted.

The name Sherlock caught John's attention and he looked up from the textbook he had been following along in. He was just as puzzled as his professor was. Unfortunately, he couldn't hear anything that was said between her and Sherlock in confidence but he knew there must be a good reason that she would allow him to stay. "Hello again.", John reciprocated softly. He moved his textbook between them so that Sherlock could read it with him if he wanted. It used to be his sister's from when she was in his year. Though she was a little rough with her things, it was still in good condition.

They were working on a fun spell, the Color Change Charm. The incantation was 'Colovaria', the hand movement was sort of a flowy line, and one had to think of the color they want to turn something into while casting it. It could change the color of anything. Mrs. Hudson had been having them repeat the incantation several times to make sure they had it but the fifth-years didn't have any trouble with it. "Colovaria. That was easy to say, so, let's practice the wand movement for a while without saying the incantation or trying to cast it nonverbally. You'll be getting something to practice it on, soon."

Mrs. Hudson demonstrated the movement for the class and John took up his wand and tried to follow along. He did it slowly, at first, to make sure he wasn't curving too sharply or too soon, concentrating on memorizing the muscle movements required to do it. It could come in handy, one day. As John was practicing, he glanced over to his deskmate to see if he was learning the spell too.

Sherlock already knew the spell from independent study. He studied the book with a passing glance but learnt a few things from it. Probably second-hand, judging by his clothes, and now this, he summised two things. Harry, John's sister, was likely in the same house as him and older. He'd only known John a short while, but he knew that he'd never treat something like this, especially not with the attitude he had towards his parents given the fact he was worried about them having to buy him a new uniform.

He took his wand out but left it on his desk and grabbed his book from out of his cloak, and read it for a couple of moments, drowning out the sounds happening around him. After a while, he sat the book face down and scrunched up his nose. He enjoyed books like it because it allowed him to practice his deductive skills. He placed his fingers on his temples and closed his eyes, going into his mind palace and looking through all of the evidence he'd found so far. Who could the killer be? His mind kept straying and going back to thinking about John, which only served to confuse him.

John saw Sherlock was busy with his own book, the one he had been reading before. That was fine. If he knew the spell already, he'll know it, and, if he didn't, he could learn it later on. He continued practicing his wand movements a while more. Taking a glance around the classroom, he could see Murray was doing pretty well, Stamford too. Mrs. Hudson went around correcting which students she saw were having a little trouble and making sure everyone was getting it. "That's right, nice and flowy, gentle curves."

The Gryffindor heard Sherlock put his book down and he looked over to check on him. Sherlock had put his fingers on the sides of his head and looked like he was either thinking really hard or having a headache. His eyes were shut tight. John paused his practicing and watched him a little before softly asking him, "Sherlock, are you alright? If you have a headache, I know a spell that can help. I'm rather good at it." He was practicing his healing spells.

Sherlock had gone to praise John for his conclusion on the name when Lestrade had chimed in and brought him into explaining everything. John

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John's trouble with his leg was forgotten again as he listened to the man on the phone. The tremor in his hand was gone and he stood a little straighter. The message the posh man sent was clear as crystal: John was powerless, he could do anything to him and no one would ever know because there would be no evidence, so he must do as he was told. John's training kicked in automatically, he would keep calm and do what he had to. Part of him wondered if this was the killer he was speaking to. Maybe he could leave a clue too. John stepped out of the phone booth and headed towards the car and the suited person. He could see a young, professionally-dressed woman inside fixated on her phone. He entered and sat down and got himself settled in next to her on her left. The door was closed for him. And they began driving off.

"Hello.", he greeted the woman, wanting to pass the time with conversation. She looked up from her phone and beamed at him. "Hi." "What's your name, then?" She seemed to take a moment to think before saying "Anthea." Suspicious, he asked her if that was her real name. It wasn't but he would use that to think of her as in substitution. He took a little look out of the window. "I'm John." Something about humanizing himself to his kidnappers being a good idea had come back to him. "Yes, I know." "Is there any point in asking where I'm going." "None at all," she said glancing up at him from her phone again and giving him a smile, "John." "Okay."

He was quiet for the rest of the ride until he arrived at a warehouse, empty except for a well-dressed man with an umbrella and a chair. As instructed, he got out of the car and, still calm, walked over to him. The man gestured to the chair with his umbrella and offered him a seat. He recognized the voice as the man on the phone. "You know, I've got a phone." If he could access all those payphones, surely the man could've found his number, right? "I mean, very clever and all that but you could just phone me. On my phone." He silently refused the chair by simply choosing not to sit. He was offered the chair again but he refused more explicitly this time. "I don't wanna sit down." Who was this guy?

Mycroft gives him a smile as he refuses to sit. It would seem his dear brother was correct in his analysis of the man. His limp was, in fact, psychosomatic. He speaks with the man for a moment, both of them going backwards and forwards. John trying to figure out who exactly he is, him trying to convince the man to give him information on his brother, for a price, of course. When it seemed like John wouldn't give in, he gave a smile and pulled a notebook from his jacket. "Trust issues, it says here. Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock of all people?" The book was John's notes that his therapist had made. He was an influential man and could get his hands on anything if he set his mind to it. Sherlock messaged John a few times while he was in the building, telling him to hurry, It's an emergency. "You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily."

As John turns to leave, he calls out after him, "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see from your left hand, that isn’t going to happen." He only smirks as John turns to question him. "Show me," and he approaches as John holds his hand up for him to look at. He takes the wrist and revolves his hand slightly. "Remarkable. Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. But when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. But you’ve seen it already, haven’t you?" He ignores John's question and consults the notebook again. "You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic-stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service. Sack her, she’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now, but your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson - you miss it." He snaps the notebook shut and gives him a calm smile. "Welcome back." He turns and heads towards the door, swinging his umbrella beside him. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

John wasn't telling this man anything on Sherlock! If this hacker got anything, it wasn't going to be through him. He was surprised to recall during his and the suit-clad figure's conversation that he only just met Sherlock yesterday. It felt as though he'd known him for longer, though they'd spent merely hours in each other's presence. He shrugged off Spy Guy's jabs and attempts to get under his skin with determination. Spy was really not as subtle as he thought and John understood he was just trying to throw him off balance. And he said Sherlock was dramatic! "Well, thank God you're above all that."

Spy offered to pay John for information on him but John refused outright. He didn't trust this guy. "'Trust issues', it says here.", Spy pointed out on a notebook he held in his hand. "What's that?", John asked, dreading the answer and having a feeling he knew what it was. Spy got his hands on Ella's notes on him! Those were confidential! It was one thing to figure him out, it was quite another to invade his privacy! Is that how he treated Sherlock?

"Are we done?" John just wanted to leave and answer those texts from Sherlock, if he would be let go. "You tell me." Fine. He began to walk away but was pulled back into the conversation by the mention of his left hand. It was a very Sherlock-like observation. He stood in place. If Spy wanted to look at his left hand, he'd have to come to him. The analysis he was given and how he was given it made John more uncomfortable than before.

He was glad when the meeting is over and Anthea said he was to be taken home. Alright, John told himself, he'd go there first, get his gun, then get safely back to Baker Street and meet with Sherlock. Getting back to 221B took longer than he wanted but it had taken as long as it took. It was good to finally be away from whoever those people were.

Sherlock's analysis of his personality had been correct then. Unicorn hair for a loyal, brave, and kind wizard. He was concerned for his par

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John would have refused any offer of financial help from Sherlock. It wouldn't have felt right to him to take it. He'd had an offer or two before but he'd refused help with any purchase that was too big or important. In fact, he was almost put in Hufflepuff, because of his sense of fairness and the value he placed in working for what he had, so he was glad that Sherlock hadn't made the offer.

"Right, I heard something about a school in Africa. Similar name to Uganda too. It's a shame there are so few schools in the world for magic.", he'd remarked. One for each region, it seemed, and some of them had to contend with students having multiple languages and cultures. There must be some kind of translation magic in those so everyone could understand one another, he imagined.

Hearing Sherlock speak of villains and wands being like fingerprints reminded him of the book John had given back to him. It was understandable for him to have such things on his mind. "Mm, that's true, I've seen people with similar wands but no two that are exact twins of each other." He loved having made Sherlock smile and laugh at what he'd said and glad that he remembered his facts right. "Yeah, I heard that too. Come to think of it, that might be the core of my sister's wand as well. I don't really remember." He tried to think of what Harry's was. She had told him. Dragon Heartstring sounded right but the wood...?

Sherlock hummed, "Uagado, or something of the sort, I can't remember the correct pronunciation. At least the schools are big enough for all the children, imagine if some kids didn't get in because there wasn't enough space." They'd likely become obscurial'a if they were from muggle families, which would definitely not be good. "But yeah, it'd be better if we had more schools. I'd love to visit the other schools just to see how things differ there. The American school has different houses to us, and some schools don't even have houses, I don't think." He was a man of curiousity first and foremost.

"Like the spots on a leopard or the stripes on a zebra." He figured John would understand the references more if he used non-magical animals. Sherlock studied his expression as he mentioned his sister and the fact that he didn't remember what wand she had. "Not a good relationship?" As he asked that the chiming of the bell tower could be heard signifying the start of the next set of lessons.

"No, Harry and I never got on.", John said, a little hurriedly. Harriet. Named after their father. She was going to be Harold Watson Junior, until she was born and they changed it, he'd been told. They still both shared a nickname. She was a year above John and had a mischievous reputation, a taste for butterbeer, and an eye for the ladies. "Damn! I really have to go to my next class, we'll have to pick this up next time we meet. It's been great talking to you!" He took a look around to find which direction to go and, spotting his route, began walking as fast as he could so he wouldn't be reprimanded for running. He'd done enough dashing about when he was younger to know it would make him even later.

John's next class was Charms with Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson. She was warm and had a good sense of humor but she was no pushover. He liked his classes with her and did well in them. He took his place when he got there, apologizing. "Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Hudson." "That's alright, dear, you're not that late. You'll catch up." She knew he was hardly ever late, so she wasn't going to take points like some teachers would. She continued with her lecture as John got out his book and prepared to follow along. They were going to start learning a new spell, today, she had said last time. He looked forward to it.

It was obvious how complicated of a relationship John had with his sister, and he could relate to that. His brother and him cared about each other in their own ways, but they were often butting heads. He often called Sherlock sentimental, which was completely wrong! Just because he wanted to use his skills for good rather than becoming some stupid ministry leader!

He watched the boy leave and hurry off down the corridor for a second, and before he knew it, he was running after him. He was in a different year to him, but that didn't deter Sherlock. He finally had a potential friend! Besides, his next class was magical history, and despite loving the subject, the professor was uterly horrible. He wasn't in the mood to be bored right now. Sherlock hurried after the disappearing figure off in front of him. He slowed anytime he saw one of the professors or prefects nearby.

Sherlock burst into the room while she was in the middle of speaking and glanced around the room, spotting John. Thankfully, he'd made it to the right classroom. Mrs Hudson paused and gave him a puzzled look, "Sherlock dear, what are you doing here?" She had a soft spot for the boy, despite him being labelled as a troublemaker and being in a different house than the one she was head of. She knew he was just curious, which got him into a lot of trouble at times. He moved closer to her to speak in a hushed tone and explain why he was there. She tutted and shook her head, "Oh very well, just don't make a habit of it, you hear?" He gave her a pleased smile and then went to sit beside John as several students glanced at the two of them and began whispering amongst themselves. "Hello again," he gave John a winning smile as Mrs Hudson asked where she had been before she was interrupted.

The name Sherlock caught John's attention and he looked up from the textbook he had been following along in. He was just as puzzled as his professor was. Unfortunately, he couldn't hear anything that was said between her and Sherlock in confidence but he knew there must be a good reason that she would allow him to stay. "Hello again.", John reciprocated softly. He moved his textbook between them so that Sherlock could read it with him if he wanted. It used to be his sister's from when she was in his year. Though she was a little rough with her things, it was still in good condition.

They were working on a fun spell, the Color Change Charm. The incantation was 'Colovaria', the hand movement was sort of a flowy line, and one had to think of the color they want to turn something into while casting it. It could change the color of anything. Mrs. Hudson had been having them repeat the incantation several times to make sure they had it but the fifth-years didn't have any trouble with it. "Colovaria. That was easy to say, so, let's practice the wand movement for a while without saying the incantation or trying to cast it nonverbally. You'll be getting something to practice it on, soon."

Mrs. Hudson demonstrated the movement for the class and John took up his wand and tried to follow along. He did it slowly, at first, to make sure he wasn't curving too sharply or too soon, concentrating on memorizing the muscle movements required to do it. It could come in handy, one day. As John was practicing, he glanced over to his deskmate to see if he was learning the spell too.

Sherlock had gone to praise John for his conclusion on the name when Lestrade had chimed in and brought him into explaining everything. John

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John's trouble with his leg was forgotten again as he listened to the man on the phone. The tremor in his hand was gone and he stood a little straighter. The message the posh man sent was clear as crystal: John was powerless, he could do anything to him and no one would ever know because there would be no evidence, so he must do as he was told. John's training kicked in automatically, he would keep calm and do what he had to. Part of him wondered if this was the killer he was speaking to. Maybe he could leave a clue too. John stepped out of the phone booth and headed towards the car and the suited person. He could see a young, professionally-dressed woman inside fixated on her phone. He entered and sat down and got himself settled in next to her on her left. The door was closed for him. And they began driving off.

"Hello.", he greeted the woman, wanting to pass the time with conversation. She looked up from her phone and beamed at him. "Hi." "What's your name, then?" She seemed to take a moment to think before saying "Anthea." Suspicious, he asked her if that was her real name. It wasn't but he would use that to think of her as in substitution. He took a little look out of the window. "I'm John." Something about humanizing himself to his kidnappers being a good idea had come back to him. "Yes, I know." "Is there any point in asking where I'm going." "None at all," she said glancing up at him from her phone again and giving him a smile, "John." "Okay."

He was quiet for the rest of the ride until he arrived at a warehouse, empty except for a well-dressed man with an umbrella and a chair. As instructed, he got out of the car and, still calm, walked over to him. The man gestured to the chair with his umbrella and offered him a seat. He recognized the voice as the man on the phone. "You know, I've got a phone." If he could access all those payphones, surely the man could've found his number, right? "I mean, very clever and all that but you could just phone me. On my phone." He silently refused the chair by simply choosing not to sit. He was offered the chair again but he refused more explicitly this time. "I don't wanna sit down." Who was this guy?

Sherlock's analysis of his personality had been correct then. Unicorn hair for a loyal, brave, and kind wizard. He was concerned for his par

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John would have refused any offer of financial help from Sherlock. It wouldn't have felt right to him to take it. He'd had an offer or two before but he'd refused help with any purchase that was too big or important. In fact, he was almost put in Hufflepuff, because of his sense of fairness and the value he placed in working for what he had, so he was glad that Sherlock hadn't made the offer.

"Right, I heard something about a school in Africa. Similar name to Uganda too. It's a shame there are so few schools in the world for magic.", he'd remarked. One for each region, it seemed, and some of them had to contend with students having multiple languages and cultures. There must be some kind of translation magic in those so everyone could understand one another, he imagined.

Hearing Sherlock speak of villains and wands being like fingerprints reminded him of the book John had given back to him. It was understandable for him to have such things on his mind. "Mm, that's true, I've seen people with similar wands but no two that are exact twins of each other." He loved having made Sherlock smile and laugh at what he'd said and glad that he remembered his facts right. "Yeah, I heard that too. Come to think of it, that might be the core of my sister's wand as well. I don't really remember." He tried to think of what Harry's was. She had told him. Dragon Heartstring sounded right but the wood...?

Sherlock hummed, "Uagado, or something of the sort, I can't remember the correct pronunciation. At least the schools are big enough for all the children, imagine if some kids didn't get in because there wasn't enough space." They'd likely become obscurial'a if they were from muggle families, which would definitely not be good. "But yeah, it'd be better if we had more schools. I'd love to visit the other schools just to see how things differ there. The American school has different houses to us, and some schools don't even have houses, I don't think." He was a man of curiousity first and foremost.

"Like the spots on a leopard or the stripes on a zebra." He figured John would understand the references more if he used non-magical animals. Sherlock studied his expression as he mentioned his sister and the fact that he didn't remember what wand she had. "Not a good relationship?" As he asked that the chiming of the bell tower could be heard signifying the start of the next set of lessons.

"No, Harry and I never got on.", John said, a little hurriedly. Harriet. Named after their father. She was going to be Harold Watson Junior, until she was born and they changed it, he'd been told. They still both shared a nickname. She was a year above John and had a mischievous reputation, a taste for butterbeer, and an eye for the ladies. "Damn! I really have to go to my next class, we'll have to pick this up next time we meet. It's been great talking to you!" He took a look around to find which direction to go and, spotting his route, began walking as fast as he could so he wouldn't be reprimanded for running. He'd done enough dashing about when he was younger to know it would make him even later.

John's next class was Charms with Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson. She was warm and had a good sense of humor but she was no pushover. He liked his classes with her and did well in them. He took his place when he got there, apologizing. "Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Hudson." "That's alright, dear, you're not that late. You'll catch up." She knew he was hardly ever late, so she wasn't going to take points like some teachers would. She continued with her lecture as John got out his book and prepared to follow along. They were going to start learning a new spell, today, she had said last time. He looked forward to it.

Sherlock gave a hum. "It was a guess, but a good one at that. Marriage problems, him having left her, and there's the phone. No sober man's

(Continued @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

Sally's greeting did nothing to endear her to John, souring his first impression of her and shocking him a bit with her rudeness. He stayed silent beside Sherlock, as Sherlock spoke with her, unsure of what to say and letting him take the lead. He listened to their banter— watching as Sherlock went under the tape and implied something about Sgt. Donovan that was highly probable— and was honored with being introduced as a colleague of Sherlock. Still, he couldn't help but feel out of place. "Would it be better if I just waited and..." A quick denial came from Sherlock as he held up the tape for him.

John went under the tape as Donovan reported Sherlock's arrival. "Freak's here, bringing him in." She led them up towards one of the houses and a man wearing protective clothing and a scowl met them. Sherlock greeted him as Anderson and John recalled the grey-haired officer saying there was an Anderson doing forensics. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Sherlock took the opportunity to deduce something about him as well. It became clear what when the deodorant was mentioned and was further gone into greater detail when Anderson pretended that nothing happened between him and Donovan. John couldn't help but look at her knees as he and Sherlock passed by to go inside to see if he could see what Sherlock had.

As they walk with Sally, leading them, Sherlock studies the house and makes some mental notes on it. dark, abandoned. Not too rundown, but cold and empty. Perfect place for a murder... Sherlock then turns, looking up and down the street, before turning back as Anderson comes through the front door glowering at Sherlock. "Anderson. Here we are again," he sighs and mutteres to himself as the man approaches. "It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. We clear on that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and nods before asking, "And is your wife away for long?" Anderson's expression only darkens, "... Don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!" Sherlock snorts, "your deoderant told me that."

His expression turns confused at that , "My deoderant?" Sherlock said like it was obvious, "It’s for men." Anderson scoffed, "Of course it’s for men, I’m wearing it!" He smirks at that, "So’s Donovan." A quick panicked look passed between Sally and Anderson. Sherlock continues with a humoured tone, "Oh! And I think it just vapourised! May I go in?" Anderson was red-faced and blustering as he glared at Sherlock, "You listen to me, okay. Whatever you’re trying to imply-"

Sherlock cut him off, "Oh I’m not implying anything - I’m sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over." He glances at her with a smirk, "And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." His expression was smug as he started walking past the two. They really did need to learn to leave him the hell alone. Anderson glowers at him as they pass.

They head into the house and down the corridor, stopping when they run into DI Lestrade. He’s now in full crime scene gear. "I can give you two minutes," he says as he begins to lead them to the second floor where they could get their own gear. "I may need longer." They stop on the second floor, and Sherlock tosses a crime scene coverall to John while grabbing gloves for himself. "You’ll need to put this on." Lestrade is looking at John - bemused, and a little pissed off. "Who is this?"

"He’s with me."

"But who is he?"

"I told you - he’s with me."

He sighs and gestures for them to continue up the stairs, "alright fine but try not to get me into any trouble okay?" Sherlock grins at him and follows him up the stairs, "no promises."

John took off his jacket and began putting on the coverall when it was given to him, respecting the rules around crime scenes. Besides, the officer from before was wearing one. "Aren't you going to put one on?", he asked Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't seem too interested in that. He shook his head and made sure his coverall was secure and put on a pair of gloves and coverings for his shoes before they all headed up another staircase to the third floor where they would see the victim's body.

Pink. The woman was dressed all in a bold shade of pink and she laid prone on the ground, her hands by her head. Her skin was pale in death but would've been pretty pale in life as well. "Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards.", said the officer, "We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her." John gave a wince of sympathy. Poor woman. And poor kids, whoever they were. The police set up portable lights in the room, the better to photograph the scene and examine all within.

Suddenly, Sherlock called for silence. "I didn't say anything!", protested the officer. John exchanged a look with the officer and Sherlock went to begin his examination. As John waited to be called to do something, he took a look around the room. The room was empty of any actual furniture except for an old rocking horse in the corner which made him wonder if this was once storage or a child's bedroom. Letters spelling 'R a c he' were scratched on the floor near one of the woman's hands. A short nickname for someone called 'Rachel', maybe, or something else he didn't know.

Sherlock silenced John with a look when he asked if he was going to wear a coverall. He didn't like them, the noise the feeling and texture of them, he never wore them, and no one questioned it as they moved upstairs. As they stepped into the room, Sherlock looked around and then shouted at Lestrade, "Shut up!" He turned to glare at the man as he said he hadn't said anything, "you were thinking, it's annoying," he grumbled before turning back to the scene and missing the look that passed between the two men.

Several things floated in his mind as he stepped towards the body on the floor. Pink, ring (married?), Rache, left-handed. He stepped closer and studied the word on the floor. Rache, he remembered a dictionary entry he'd read on the meaning of the word. Rache, German for revenge. His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, unhappy with that. He ran through names in his head until he stopped on Rachel, who was rachel? He kneels beside the body and runs his hand over her coat, raising his gloves up to look, wet. He pulls her umbrella from her pocket and does the same, dry. He checks under her collar, wet.

Next, he runs his eyes over all of her jewellery, earings, necklace, etc. All clean. Her ring, wedding ring, dirty. He pulls his portable magnifying glass from his pocket and takes the ring off of her finger to study it. Unhappily married. He studies it closer and settles on 10+ years, given how old the ring seems. He checks the inside, which is cleaner than the outside, frequently removed. Serial cheater. He returns the ring and straightens up. "Found anything?" Sherlock hums and stands, "not much," though he knew more about her character now. Anderson appeared in the doorway with a smug look and his arms crossed, "she's German. Rache is German for Revenge. She could be trying to tell us something." Sherlock is tapping away on his phone and doesn’t even glance at him. "Yes, thank you for your input." Without looking up, he reaches over and closes the door neatly in Anderson’s face. "She’s German," Lestrade comments while looking over at her. Sherlock scoffs, "Of course, she’s not German. She’s from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Found anything?" "Not much.", said Sherlock, stopping and standing up to look at something on his phone. Not much? After all that thorough examination? John found that a little hard to believe.Maybe what he saw wasn't relevant? Still, those letters had to mean something. As if on cue, Anderson entered. "She's German. Rache is German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something..." John barely knew anything in German but the more commonly heard phrases from films: words for 'yes', 'no, 'hello' and 'goodbye'. "Yes, thank you for your input.", Sherlock said, which didn't really constitute an agreement with Anderson's theory. Him closing the door in Anderson's face didn't either.

"So she's German?", asked the officer, looking for more of a clear answer, but Sherlock clearly disagreed. John had a feeling she wasn't. "She's from out of town, though, intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to...Cardiff." He pocketed his phone. "Sorry, but how do you know that?", asked John. "What about the message, though?", interjected the officer but Sherlock's eyes were on John himself, and he asked him what he thought. "Of the message?" No, it was the body.

"Wait, no,", protested the policeman, "we have a whole team outside. I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Sherlock reminded him why he was here which he agreed with. Still, John felt better about examining the body when he was given permission by the man in charge. John went over to the body and leaned on his cane to kneel beside the corpse. This was why he was here, he didn't need to ask. A relatively quick look and a second to smell her face determined the cause of death. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. A seizure, possibly drugs, it does look like it could be the fourth of those suicide cases. I think Rache could be a nickname, since it might not be revenge in German.", he told him, pronouncing 'Rache' like 'raych'. "Sherlock—two minutes, I said.", the officer interrupted, "I need anything you've got."

The others wouldn't work with Sherlock, and he made it clear that he wanted, no needed John with him. Sherlock crouches down opposite John as he goes to inspect the body and gestures for him to do so. Sherlock gave him an approving look when he gave his analysis and agreed with him. "What name do you think?" He already knew, of course, but he wanted to test the man in a way, curious to see what way he thought.

Sherlock stands when asked for what he's got. "Victim is in her late forties. Professional person going by her clothes - I’d guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She’s travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that’s obvious from the size of her suitcase-" He's cut off as Lestrade questions, "Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes. She’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married-" Again cut off ny Lestrade, "For God’s sake. If you’re just making this up..." Sherlock doesn't let him stop him and takes it in his stride, "the wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding rings - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the rings are shinier than the outside - that means they’re regularly removed; the only polishing they get is when she works them off her finger. It’s not for work - look at her nails, she doesn’t work with her hands - so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly, not one lover - she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them. Simple!"

'When you see hoof prints, think horses not zebras', John coached himself. "Rachel?", he asked, showing a slight lack of confidence in his answer. He had been a bit cautious about putting forth the nickname hypothesis from the start but Sherlock's encouragement and his role as assistant brought it out from his mind to his lips. Then the policeman returned after giving them all the time he felt he could.

Sherlock stood back up and John struggled to his feet as the Consulting Detective began his summation. "That's brilliant.", he couldn't help praise in his admiration but he realized he'd interrupted and apologized when Sherlock turned to look at him. "Cardiff?", questioned the officer, wanting Sherlock to continue. "It's obvious, isn't it?", asked Sherlock in return. "It's not obvious to me.", John said. It didn't seem obvious to the officer either, if he'd asked about it. Cardiff, too, Sherlock explained, showing them the weather report on his phone as part of the evidence. Once again impressed, John exclaimed, "That's fantastic!" "Do you know you do that out loud?", Sherlock asked him. He'd interrupted again. "Sorry. I'll shut up." "No, it's...fine."

Again, the officer brought the topic back. "Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Sherlock asked about it again but the officer hadn't sounded like he'd known the suitcase even existed. Of course she'd have one if she was on a day trip, right? For a change of clothes and whatever else she needed. "Find out who Rachel is." So he agreed it was Rachel! "She was writing 'Rachel'?" "No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be." He was asked about the suitcase again, though, instead of going on about why Jennifer Wilson wrote Rachel, but there was none.

Sherlock tried his best to reason out where the suitcase would be, saying the suicides had actually been murders, that the victims had taken the pills themselves but it was still serial killings. John asked him if the suitcase had been left at her hotel but her grooming routine made it unlikely in his eyes. Coming to the conclusion that the case was still in the car of the murderer, he raced out, looking for a pink overnight bag with the tag Jennifer Wilson on it.

John was left with the police and he began to make his way out, removing the safety gear along the way. He was nearly tripped heading down the stairs but got to the ground floor and headed out. He met Sargent Donovan again, outside. "He's gone.", she told him. "Who? Sherlock?", he asked "Yeah, he does that.", she answered. John took a glance around. "Is he coming back?" "Didn't look like it." "Right." He was in Brixton, wasn't he? He wasn't too familiar with the area. "Er, do you know where I can get a cab? It's just, well, my leg..." He glanced at his cane. Donovan gave him a sympathetic look. She wasn't completely heartless. "Try the main road.", she said, lifting up the tape for him. He went underneath it. "Thanks." "But you're not his friend."

John turned back to look at her. His feelings towards her took a more negative turn as she continued, "He doesn't have friends, so who are you?" "I'm his assistant. I just took the job.", he explained. "Bit of advice, get another job and stay away from that guy." "Why?" "You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there. He's a psychopath, psychopaths get bored." The grey-haired officer called her and she left but not before warning him away again. As John hobbled away from the scene, he heard a payphone ring with no one nearby. Figuring it was a wrong number, he ignored it. After more phones rang near him when he passed, and no taxis would stop for him, he finally answered one.

Sherlock gave a hum. "It was a guess, but a good one at that. Marriage problems, him having left her, and there's the phone. No sober man's

(Continued @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

Sally's greeting did nothing to endear her to John, souring his first impression of her and shocking him a bit with her rudeness. He stayed silent beside Sherlock, as Sherlock spoke with her, unsure of what to say and letting him take the lead. He listened to their banter— watching as Sherlock went under the tape and implied something about Sgt. Donovan that was highly probable— and was honored with being introduced as a colleague of Sherlock. Still, he couldn't help but feel out of place. "Would it be better if I just waited and..." A quick denial came from Sherlock as he held up the tape for him.

John went under the tape as Donovan reported Sherlock's arrival. "Freak's here, bringing him in." She led them up towards one of the houses and a man wearing protective clothing and a scowl met them. Sherlock greeted him as Anderson and John recalled the grey-haired officer saying there was an Anderson doing forensics. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Sherlock took the opportunity to deduce something about him as well. It became clear what when the deodorant was mentioned and was further gone into greater detail when Anderson pretended that nothing happened between him and Donovan. John couldn't help but look at her knees as he and Sherlock passed by to go inside to see if he could see what Sherlock had.

As they walk with Sally, leading them, Sherlock studies the house and makes some mental notes on it. dark, abandoned. Not too rundown, but cold and empty. Perfect place for a murder... Sherlock then turns, looking up and down the street, before turning back as Anderson comes through the front door glowering at Sherlock. "Anderson. Here we are again," he sighs and mutteres to himself as the man approaches. "It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. We clear on that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and nods before asking, "And is your wife away for long?" Anderson's expression only darkens, "... Don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!" Sherlock snorts, "your deoderant told me that."

His expression turns confused at that , "My deoderant?" Sherlock said like it was obvious, "It’s for men." Anderson scoffed, "Of course it’s for men, I’m wearing it!" He smirks at that, "So’s Donovan." A quick panicked look passed between Sally and Anderson. Sherlock continues with a humoured tone, "Oh! And I think it just vapourised! May I go in?" Anderson was red-faced and blustering as he glared at Sherlock, "You listen to me, okay. Whatever you’re trying to imply-"

Sherlock cut him off, "Oh I’m not implying anything - I’m sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over." He glances at her with a smirk, "And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." His expression was smug as he started walking past the two. They really did need to learn to leave him the hell alone. Anderson glowers at him as they pass.

They head into the house and down the corridor, stopping when they run into DI Lestrade. He’s now in full crime scene gear. "I can give you two minutes," he says as he begins to lead them to the second floor where they could get their own gear. "I may need longer." They stop on the second floor, and Sherlock tosses a crime scene coverall to John while grabbing gloves for himself. "You’ll need to put this on." Lestrade is looking at John - bemused, and a little pissed off. "Who is this?"

"He’s with me."

"But who is he?"

"I told you - he’s with me."

He sighs and gestures for them to continue up the stairs, "alright fine but try not to get me into any trouble okay?" Sherlock grins at him and follows him up the stairs, "no promises."

John took off his jacket and began putting on the coverall when it was given to him, respecting the rules around crime scenes. Besides, the officer from before was wearing one. "Aren't you going to put one on?", he asked Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't seem too interested in that. He shook his head and made sure his coverall was secure and put on a pair of gloves and coverings for his shoes before they all headed up another staircase to the third floor where they would see the victim's body.

Pink. The woman was dressed all in a bold shade of pink and she laid prone on the ground, her hands by her head. Her skin was pale in death but would've been pretty pale in life as well. "Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards.", said the officer, "We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her." John gave a wince of sympathy. Poor woman. And poor kids, whoever they were. The police set up portable lights in the room, the better to photograph the scene and examine all within.

Suddenly, Sherlock called for silence. "I didn't say anything!", protested the officer. John exchanged a look with the officer and Sherlock went to begin his examination. As John waited to be called to do something, he took a look around the room. The room was empty of any actual furniture except for an old rocking horse in the corner which made him wonder if this was once storage or a child's bedroom. Letters spelling 'R a c he' were scratched on the floor near one of the woman's hands. A short nickname for someone called 'Rachel', maybe, or something else he didn't know.

Sherlock silenced John with a look when he asked if he was going to wear a coverall. He didn't like them, the noise the feeling and texture of them, he never wore them, and no one questioned it as they moved upstairs. As they stepped into the room, Sherlock looked around and then shouted at Lestrade, "Shut up!" He turned to glare at the man as he said he hadn't said anything, "you were thinking, it's annoying," he grumbled before turning back to the scene and missing the look that passed between the two men.

Several things floated in his mind as he stepped towards the body on the floor. Pink, ring (married?), Rache, left-handed. He stepped closer and studied the word on the floor. Rache, he remembered a dictionary entry he'd read on the meaning of the word. Rache, German for revenge. His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, unhappy with that. He ran through names in his head until he stopped on Rachel, who was rachel? He kneels beside the body and runs his hand over her coat, raising his gloves up to look, wet. He pulls her umbrella from her pocket and does the same, dry. He checks under her collar, wet.

Next, he runs his eyes over all of her jewellery, earings, necklace, etc. All clean. Her ring, wedding ring, dirty. He pulls his portable magnifying glass from his pocket and takes the ring off of her finger to study it. Unhappily married. He studies it closer and settles on 10+ years, given how old the ring seems. He checks the inside, which is cleaner than the outside, frequently removed. Serial cheater. He returns the ring and straightens up. "Found anything?" Sherlock hums and stands, "not much," though he knew more about her character now. Anderson appeared in the doorway with a smug look and his arms crossed, "she's German. Rache is German for Revenge. She could be trying to tell us something." Sherlock is tapping away on his phone and doesn’t even glance at him. "Yes, thank you for your input." Without looking up, he reaches over and closes the door neatly in Anderson’s face. "She’s German," Lestrade comments while looking over at her. Sherlock scoffs, "Of course, she’s not German. She’s from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Found anything?" "Not much.", said Sherlock, stopping and standing up to look at something on his phone. Not much? After all that thorough examination? John found that a little hard to believe.Maybe what he saw wasn't relevant? Still, those letters had to mean something. As if on cue, Anderson entered. "She's German. Rache is German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something..." John barely knew anything in German but the more commonly heard phrases from films: words for 'yes', 'no, 'hello' and 'goodbye'. "Yes, thank you for your input.", Sherlock said, which didn't really constitute an agreement with Anderson's theory. Him closing the door in Anderson's face didn't either.

"So she's German?", asked the officer, looking for more of a clear answer, but Sherlock clearly disagreed. John had a feeling she wasn't. "She's from out of town, though, intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to...Cardiff." He pocketed his phone. "Sorry, but how do you know that?", asked John. "What about the message, though?", interjected the officer but Sherlock's eyes were on John himself, and he asked him what he thought. "Of the message?" No, it was the body.

"Wait, no,", protested the policeman, "we have a whole team outside. I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Sherlock reminded him why he was here which he agreed with. Still, John felt better about examining the body when he was given permission by the man in charge. John went over to the body and leaned on his cane to kneel beside the corpse. This was why he was here, he didn't need to ask. A relatively quick look and a second to smell her face determined the cause of death. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. A seizure, possibly drugs, it does look like it could be the fourth of those suicide cases. I think Rache could be a nickname, since it might not be revenge in German.", he told him, pronouncing 'Rache' like 'raych'. "Sherlock—two minutes, I said.", the officer interrupted, "I need anything you've got."

Sherlock's analysis of his personality had been correct then. Unicorn hair for a loyal, brave, and kind wizard. He was concerned for his par

(continued with @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

John would have refused any offer of financial help from Sherlock. It wouldn't have felt right to him to take it. He'd had an offer or two before but he'd refused help with any purchase that was too big or important. In fact, he was almost put in Hufflepuff, because of his sense of fairness and the value he placed in working for what he had, so he was glad that Sherlock hadn't made the offer.

"Right, I heard something about a school in Africa. Similar name to Uganda too. It's a shame there are so few schools in the world for magic.", he'd remarked. One for each region, it seemed, and some of them had to contend with students having multiple languages and cultures. There must be some kind of translation magic in those so everyone could understand one another, he imagined.

Hearing Sherlock speak of villains and wands being like fingerprints reminded him of the book John had given back to him. It was understandable for him to have such things on his mind. "Mm, that's true, I've seen people with similar wands but no two that are exact twins of each other." He loved having made Sherlock smile and laugh at what he'd said and glad that he remembered his facts right. "Yeah, I heard that too. Come to think of it, that might be the core of my sister's wand as well. I don't really remember." He tried to think of what Harry's was. She had told him. Dragon Heartstring sounded right but the wood...?

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known as Sherlock, was in Ravenclaw and his fourth year at Hogwarts. So chosen for his high intelect and passion for learning. Unknown to his fellow peers, he was actually studying more subjects than they were, with a timeturner gifted to him by one Mrs Hudson the Gryfindor head of house. Only his brother Mycroft knew, who was in the same house as he and in his Seventh year, along with being Prefect he was also a lot more popular than he was amongst their housemates. Sherlock kept to himself and wasn't good with people.

Despite this, he really didn't care that he had no friends. They would only distract him from his studies... But if he were truly honest with himself, he did wish that he could have at least one friend, even if it was just so his brother would get off of his back! He was a part of the Slug club, of course, coming from a well-known magic family and his own arts getting him in. Still, the members there didn't like him all that much. Maybe the fact that he liked to show off. With his ability to do magic without a wand, which he'd learnt not long into his first year, or the fact he loved to show off his deductive skills.

Here, he was minding his own business during free period, sitting on one of the many benches throughout Hogwarts, reading one of his favourite detective books. Despite the fact that he'd grown up in. Wizarding family, his parents had ensured that the Holmes children had an education on muggle's from a young age. While he was engrossed in his book, he didn't notice the group of students standing near him with their wands at the ready. They used magic to steal his book and float it into the air.

He stood and glared at them, "Give it back!" The Slytherin boys chuckled. "Or what? You'll cry?" Another added with a grin, "we should burn it!" Another nodded in agreement, "yeah! He thinks he's so much better than us!"

"Hey, you lot, give it back to him and leave him alone!" John had come along the same way on his own schedule and heard the start of the commotion. It was clear what the Slytherins were doing to that poor Ravenclaw kid. Seeing them with their wands out, he took his own English Oak one in hand and leapt to the Ravenclaw's defense. It wasn't right for them to use their power to pick on others and more than one against one wasn't fair.

It was John Watson's fifth year in Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor, the same house as his sister, unfortunately. They were both magic kids born to muggles, the gene skipping a generation or two. The two of them never got along but they had their own friends and activities and interests. John was a likeable fellow, caring, studious, and not afraid to take a risk but was more serious both about his studies and life in general than her. Harry was much more reckless, in his opinion, more careless.

He had gotten into the house Quidditch team in his third year as a Keeper where his protective instincts served him well, and he'd made some friends among his schoolmates in his year, like Murray and Stamford. Yet he didn't want to make Quiddich his career. He'd become far more interested in the healing arts, as the years went on. The Slytherins no doubt recognized him from his time in the field. Or, at least, one of them did. "Piss off, Watson!" John gave his wand a wave, concentrating on the book he wanted to return to its owner that floated in the air. "Accio book!"

Sherlock hadn't expected anyone to come to his rescue, other than his brother, who was busy doing prefect stuff at the moment. He definitely hadn't expected a gryfindor to help him. His deducting would have to wait until the other were dealt with, however. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!" The boy went to attack John with a spell, but Sherlock jumped to his defence. Holding his hand out, he used protego to protect John, "What the hell!?"

Sherlock glared at them. "I told you to leave me alone." He looked so much older than he was, his expression dark as he stared them down. "If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of." The leader glared at Sherlock and raised his wand against him, letting the book go to John. The other two stood behind him with hesitant expressions. Sherlock sighed and waved his hand at the leader, sending his wand flying and then knocking him to the ground. His friends eyed Sherlock and fled while he ran after them, yelling at them to get back.

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled before turning to the other kid. "Thank you." He gave him a look up and down and deduced a few things from him, including that he probably came from a military background and was a muggleborn. He'd seen the boy around the school but never really paid much attention to him.

The book came to John and he grabbed it with his free hand. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!", one of the Slytherins shouted furiously. Now that the book was safe from potentially being burned, he was going to give the group a lecture but that one raised his wand. The dark-haired Ravenclaw came between them, magically shielding him. "What the hell?!" John gaped in amazement at the powerful student. He'd knew that both wandless and nonverbal spellcasting was advanced magic. For a student around his own age, even a Ravenclaw,... "I told you to leave me alone. If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of.", the Ravenclaw warned them, staring the Slytherins down.

The leader refused to heed his would be target's warning and he turned his attention to him, away from John, while his mates stood unsure. He was about to do something when Sherlock waved his hand and disarmed the Slytherin and pushing him to the ground. Expelliarmus, John identified, then, perhaps, the Knockback Jinx. Successfully intimidated, the leader's friends ran off. Their leader followed after them, unfinished with the Ravenclaw and John and wanting their support. It looked like that would be it from them for now.

John chuckled along with the Ravenclaw. Those three did make comical figures like that, he admitted to himself. "You're welcome! And thank you, too!" He passed the book back to the one who studied him, a detective book, he saw, by the cover. It looked interesting. "That was...amazing, what you did without a wand!" He held out a hand for him to shake if he wanted, giving him a smile. "I'm John Watson." He stood straight and tall like a soldier, a habit he'd picked up from his father who was in the army. He was certain that he had seen the other boy before, he had to have, but they'd never actually met face to face and he couldn't think of his name.

Sherlock turned around when the boys finally decided to flee and gave John a once over. He was able to determine a couple of things just by looking at him. His haircut and the way he holds himself signify military background, one of his parents possibly having served. His older, slightly worn looking robes solidify this theory on a possible millitary background if one parent is on a military pension (muggleborn? Struggling to make coin in a wizarding world?). He could also smell broom oil off the boy, which could mean he was a quidditch player, or he just came from flying class.

"You think so?" Most were intimidated by his use of magic in that way. He looked to the boys eyes and studied him with a slightly puzzled expression. Had he seen worse things than what Sherlock had just done? Or at the very least heard of worse things? He took the book back and thanked the boy again before looking to the outstretched hand and shaking it with one of his own. Calluses, on his hand, indicated a lot of time on a broom, so quidditch player then. "Sherlock." He noted the fur along the cuffs of his trousers, small animal? Probably a dog judging by the type of fur. There was some on the sleeves of his robes, too, probably from petting the animal. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Yeah, it was extraordinary! More than most our ages can do!", confirmed John. He shook the other boy's, Sherlock's, hand when given it. "It's nice to meet you Sherlock." "Afghanistan or Iraq?" It was an odd question, out of nowhere like that. He couldn't think of what his new acquaintance meant. "Er, I might have some Scottish ancestry, although I can't be too sure, but nothing Middle Eastern that I know of. My family has lived in Britain for years and my middle name is Hamish.", he answered, trying to be helpful. From the look on Sherlock's face, it might not have been what he was looking for but it was sort of his fault for not providing any context for his question.

When Sherlock asked him again, he was better able to answer. "My dad served in Afghanistan but how did you know he was in the army?" He had heard of pureblood magic folk knowing of families with a lot of magic folk in them but he was 'muggleborn', which had been a new term for him, when he first started going there. It wasn't likely for any wizards who didn't know him personally to have any idea or even to care. Moreover, Sherlock hadn't known which country his dad had been deployed in.

"That's not normally people's reaction." He studied John in a new light. He was different. That much was clear to him. The answer had, in fact, not been what Sherlock had been asking. Though he supposed it was his own fault for not clarifying why he asked the question. "No, I meant, where was your father deployed?" It was a guess that it was his father. A mother was less likely to go to war, especially if she had a child. Sherlock gave him a smile. He'd been correct then, and now he had a chance to show off.

"Your hairstyle, the way you hold yourself and your clothes." He said matter of factly expecting John to catch on. When he was met with a confused look, he elaborated. "Your short hairstyle, while it could just be a personal choice coupled with the other observations, tells me of the military background. Your short hair is synonymous with such a background as it's harder for enemies to grab. You hold yourself up straight, tall, confident, the way a soldier would, though it's slightly off given the fact that you're only a child and obviously didn't serve yourself. So your relative or parent taught you some of what they learned."

He gestures to the boys' clothes. "Your clothes are worn and seem like hand me downs, or you've just been wearing them for as long as you possibly can given the fact that the sleeves and trousers are slightly too short for you. Now, if your grandad or another relation had of went to war, you could have still been able to afford better clothes, so one of your parents is likely the one who served, you confirmed it was your father. Lucky guess on my part, really. I could have been wrong, but mothers don't usually serve." He gestured to John's wand, "your wand also helps solidify the theory. It's unicorn hair, which is the most loyal of the cores and least likely to turn to the dark arts, so you have a strong moral compass that was potentially handed down to you. It's also only slightly weilding, which adds to you having a strong moral compass that is unlikely to be changed." He went over everything in his mind and once he was satisfied asked, "how did I do?"

John blinked in confusion. Sherlock had gotten that just by looking at him? As the other student gave him his analysis, he, too, began to see where Harold Watson's influence on him became apparent and how much more of it there was than what he thought. The little things added up. He involuntarily frowned and pulled the sleeves of his clothes down a little, for all the good it would do, when they were mentioned. He would probably need new ones, next year, with all the wear they got, anyway. Undoing the stitching in the hems wouldn't be enough.

"My wand?" John held it aloft to glance at it. Unicorn hair was correct but how Sherlock could tell what core was in his wand was beyond him. He was highly complimented by the description of himself as well. "You're completely right! Wow!" He smiled at Sherlock. "I can't even tell what woods others wands are under their finishes, let alone what cores they have in them! Mine's English Oak, by the way. Do you study wandmaking as well as people?", he asked, genuinely curious. Those like Olivander had to come from somewhere. Of course, it could just be a hobby for him.

Sherlock noticed him pulling at the sleeves of his cloak and also frowned slightly. Why did he care that he'd upset this one? He annoyed and upset people all the time and never cared? "Sorry... I tend to just blurt things out sometimes... No one else would really notice your cloak, I'm just observant." He quickly tried to make amends and soothe his heart that weeped for the boy and his saddened expression.

Sherlock hummed and gave a slight nod. "I study anything that I have interest in at any given time. You can tell a lot about a persons character by what kind of wand they weild." He had a lot of time to study given the lack of friends in his life, and he really did want to become some sort of detective when he was old enough, so he started learning all he could now. He pulled his own from his pocket. A wand was required for all classes at Hogwarts, though he'd protested and insisted that he didn't need one. Even a girl from Uganda who had studied for years without a wand had to use one and struggled when she first moved here he had observed.

"Mines is vine wood, with a dragon core." It was on the longest end of the scale at 14, though there were some who had a wand over that length. It was incredibly rare. "Mine is rigid. I prefer doing magic without it, but I'm not allowed to in classes. Still, it's a powerful wand, and I've bonded with it well." It was sleek black with vine designs on the handle and blue touches here and there.

"It's fine, I really will need new ones, sometime.", John assured Sherlock, shaking his head. "Kids grow. Clothing wears." He wasn't hurt by that part of the analysis so much as concerned about the price of new robes. "According to what I've read I should be my full height soon, if not now, so, my next set should last me well enough for a long time."

Sherlock's answer made sense, especially for a Ravenclaw. "Mm, wandlore." John had heard of that. He'd thought it kind of fun but only had a casual interest in the topic, just enough to have an idea of what his meant and why and to be able to explain it to others who asked as well as to have a little bit of basic knowledge. He looked at Sherlock's as he pulled it out, all shiny and elegant. Very fitting for Sherlock. "It's like a work of art!" He still liked his own, for himself, though. Simple. Sturdy. Felt good in his hand.

"You know, even as someone who's always used a wand, I think the requirement is rubbish. If you'd rather use your hands you should get to and those who want wands should get to have them." It made sense to him but he was a fifth year and a muggleborn. There might be more of a reason for wands than he knew of at this point. "Would've saved me some money, if I could've learned wandless. But I like my wand anyway." He put his wand away. "The length of yours doesn't really surprise me. They say the bigger the wand the bigger the personality, right?", asked John. It sounded about right, in his mind, and he knew it wasn't always in proportion to a person's height. Sherlock certainly had a lot of personality. "And dragon heartstring. Those are powerful, aren't they? A friend of mine has one of those for his core. How are you able to tell what core someone else's wand has? Is there some detail...?"

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known as Sherlock, was in Ravenclaw and his fourth year at Hogwarts. So chosen for his high intelect and passion for learning. Unknown to his fellow peers, he was actually studying more subjects than they were, with a timeturner gifted to him by one Mrs Hudson the Gryfindor head of house. Only his brother Mycroft knew, who was in the same house as he and in his Seventh year, along with being Prefect he was also a lot more popular than he was amongst their housemates. Sherlock kept to himself and wasn't good with people.

Despite this, he really didn't care that he had no friends. They would only distract him from his studies... But if he were truly honest with himself, he did wish that he could have at least one friend, even if it was just so his brother would get off of his back! He was a part of the Slug club, of course, coming from a well-known magic family and his own arts getting him in. Still, the members there didn't like him all that much. Maybe the fact that he liked to show off. With his ability to do magic without a wand, which he'd learnt not long into his first year, or the fact he loved to show off his deductive skills.

Here, he was minding his own business during free period, sitting on one of the many benches throughout Hogwarts, reading one of his favourite detective books. Despite the fact that he'd grown up in. Wizarding family, his parents had ensured that the Holmes children had an education on muggle's from a young age. While he was engrossed in his book, he didn't notice the group of students standing near him with their wands at the ready. They used magic to steal his book and float it into the air.

He stood and glared at them, "Give it back!" The Slytherin boys chuckled. "Or what? You'll cry?" Another added with a grin, "we should burn it!" Another nodded in agreement, "yeah! He thinks he's so much better than us!"

"Hey, you lot, give it back to him and leave him alone!" John had come along the same way on his own schedule and heard the start of the commotion. It was clear what the Slytherins were doing to that poor Ravenclaw kid. Seeing them with their wands out, he took his own English Oak one in hand and leapt to the Ravenclaw's defense. It wasn't right for them to use their power to pick on others and more than one against one wasn't fair.

It was John Watson's fifth year in Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor, the same house as his sister, unfortunately. They were both magic kids born to muggles, the gene skipping a generation or two. The two of them never got along but they had their own friends and activities and interests. John was a likeable fellow, caring, studious, and not afraid to take a risk but was more serious both about his studies and life in general than her. Harry was much more reckless, in his opinion, more careless.

He had gotten into the house Quidditch team in his third year as a Keeper where his protective instincts served him well, and he'd made some friends among his schoolmates in his year, like Murray and Stamford. Yet he didn't want to make Quiddich his career. He'd become far more interested in the healing arts, as the years went on. The Slytherins no doubt recognized him from his time in the field. Or, at least, one of them did. "Piss off, Watson!" John gave his wand a wave, concentrating on the book he wanted to return to its owner that floated in the air. "Accio book!"

Sherlock hadn't expected anyone to come to his rescue, other than his brother, who was busy doing prefect stuff at the moment. He definitely hadn't expected a gryfindor to help him. His deducting would have to wait until the other were dealt with, however. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!" The boy went to attack John with a spell, but Sherlock jumped to his defence. Holding his hand out, he used protego to protect John, "What the hell!?"

Sherlock glared at them. "I told you to leave me alone." He looked so much older than he was, his expression dark as he stared them down. "If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of." The leader glared at Sherlock and raised his wand against him, letting the book go to John. The other two stood behind him with hesitant expressions. Sherlock sighed and waved his hand at the leader, sending his wand flying and then knocking him to the ground. His friends eyed Sherlock and fled while he ran after them, yelling at them to get back.

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled before turning to the other kid. "Thank you." He gave him a look up and down and deduced a few things from him, including that he probably came from a military background and was a muggleborn. He'd seen the boy around the school but never really paid much attention to him.

The book came to John and he grabbed it with his free hand. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!", one of the Slytherins shouted furiously. Now that the book was safe from potentially being burned, he was going to give the group a lecture but that one raised his wand. The dark-haired Ravenclaw came between them, magically shielding him. "What the hell?!" John gaped in amazement at the powerful student. He'd knew that both wandless and nonverbal spellcasting was advanced magic. For a student around his own age, even a Ravenclaw,... "I told you to leave me alone. If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of.", the Ravenclaw warned them, staring the Slytherins down.

The leader refused to heed his would be target's warning and he turned his attention to him, away from John, while his mates stood unsure. He was about to do something when Sherlock waved his hand and disarmed the Slytherin and pushing him to the ground. Expelliarmus, John identified, then, perhaps, the Knockback Jinx. Successfully intimidated, the leader's friends ran off. Their leader followed after them, unfinished with the Ravenclaw and John and wanting their support. It looked like that would be it from them for now.

John chuckled along with the Ravenclaw. Those three did make comical figures like that, he admitted to himself. "You're welcome! And thank you, too!" He passed the book back to the one who studied him, a detective book, he saw, by the cover. It looked interesting. "That was...amazing, what you did without a wand!" He held out a hand for him to shake if he wanted, giving him a smile. "I'm John Watson." He stood straight and tall like a soldier, a habit he'd picked up from his father who was in the army. He was certain that he had seen the other boy before, he had to have, but they'd never actually met face to face and he couldn't think of his name.

Sherlock turned around when the boys finally decided to flee and gave John a once over. He was able to determine a couple of things just by looking at him. His haircut and the way he holds himself signify military background, one of his parents possibly having served. His older, slightly worn looking robes solidify this theory on a possible millitary background if one parent is on a military pension (muggleborn? Struggling to make coin in a wizarding world?). He could also smell broom oil off the boy, which could mean he was a quidditch player, or he just came from flying class.

"You think so?" Most were intimidated by his use of magic in that way. He looked to the boys eyes and studied him with a slightly puzzled expression. Had he seen worse things than what Sherlock had just done? Or at the very least heard of worse things? He took the book back and thanked the boy again before looking to the outstretched hand and shaking it with one of his own. Calluses, on his hand, indicated a lot of time on a broom, so quidditch player then. "Sherlock." He noted the fur along the cuffs of his trousers, small animal? Probably a dog judging by the type of fur. There was some on the sleeves of his robes, too, probably from petting the animal. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Yeah, it was extraordinary! More than most our ages can do!", confirmed John. He shook the other boy's, Sherlock's, hand when given it. "It's nice to meet you Sherlock." "Afghanistan or Iraq?" It was an odd question, out of nowhere like that. He couldn't think of what his new acquaintance meant. "Er, I might have some Scottish ancestry, although I can't be too sure, but nothing Middle Eastern that I know of. My family has lived in Britain for years and my middle name is Hamish.", he answered, trying to be helpful. From the look on Sherlock's face, it might not have been what he was looking for but it was sort of his fault for not providing any context for his question.

When Sherlock asked him again, he was better able to answer. "My dad served in Afghanistan but how did you know he was in the army?" He had heard of pureblood magic folk knowing of families with a lot of magic folk in them but he was 'muggleborn', which had been a new term for him, when he first started going there. It wasn't likely for any wizards who didn't know him personally to have any idea or even to care. Moreover, Sherlock hadn't known which country his dad had been deployed in.

"That's not normally people's reaction." He studied John in a new light. He was different. That much was clear to him. The answer had, in fact, not been what Sherlock had been asking. Though he supposed it was his own fault for not clarifying why he asked the question. "No, I meant, where was your father deployed?" It was a guess that it was his father. A mother was less likely to go to war, especially if she had a child. Sherlock gave him a smile. He'd been correct then, and now he had a chance to show off.

"Your hairstyle, the way you hold yourself and your clothes." He said matter of factly expecting John to catch on. When he was met with a confused look, he elaborated. "Your short hairstyle, while it could just be a personal choice coupled with the other observations, tells me of the military background. Your short hair is synonymous with such a background as it's harder for enemies to grab. You hold yourself up straight, tall, confident, the way a soldier would, though it's slightly off given the fact that you're only a child and obviously didn't serve yourself. So your relative or parent taught you some of what they learned."

He gestures to the boys' clothes. "Your clothes are worn and seem like hand me downs, or you've just been wearing them for as long as you possibly can given the fact that the sleeves and trousers are slightly too short for you. Now, if your grandad or another relation had of went to war, you could have still been able to afford better clothes, so one of your parents is likely the one who served, you confirmed it was your father. Lucky guess on my part, really. I could have been wrong, but mothers don't usually serve." He gestured to John's wand, "your wand also helps solidify the theory. It's unicorn hair, which is the most loyal of the cores and least likely to turn to the dark arts, so you have a strong moral compass that was potentially handed down to you. It's also only slightly weilding, which adds to you having a strong moral compass that is unlikely to be changed." He went over everything in his mind and once he was satisfied asked, "how did I do?"

John blinked in confusion. Sherlock had gotten that just by looking at him? As the other student gave him his analysis, he, too, began to see where Harold Watson's influence on him became apparent and how much more of it there was than what he thought. The little things added up. He involuntarily frowned and pulled the sleeves of his clothes down a little, for all the good it would do, when they were mentioned. He would probably need new ones, next year, with all the wear they got, anyway. Undoing the stitching in the hems wouldn't be enough.

"My wand?" John held it aloft to glance at it. Unicorn hair was correct but how Sherlock could tell what core was in his wand was beyond him. He was highly complimented by the description of himself as well. "You're completely right! Wow!" He smiled at Sherlock. "I can't even tell what woods others wands are under their finishes, let alone what cores they have in them! Mine's English Oak, by the way. Do you study wandmaking as well as people?", he asked, genuinely curious. Those like Olivander had to come from somewhere. Of course, it could just be a hobby for him.

Sherlock gave a hum. "It was a guess, but a good one at that. Marriage problems, him having left her, and there's the phone. No sober man's

(Continued @det-william-sherlock-holmes)

Sally's greeting did nothing to endear her to John, souring his first impression of her and shocking him a bit with her rudeness. He stayed silent beside Sherlock, as Sherlock spoke with her, unsure of what to say and letting him take the lead. He listened to their banter— watching as Sherlock went under the tape and implied something about Sgt. Donovan that was highly probable— and was honored with being introduced as a colleague of Sherlock. Still, he couldn't help but feel out of place. "Would it be better if I just waited and..." A quick denial came from Sherlock as he held up the tape for him.

John went under the tape as Donovan reported Sherlock's arrival. "Freak's here, bringing him in." She led them up towards one of the houses and a man wearing protective clothing and a scowl met them. Sherlock greeted him as Anderson and John recalled the grey-haired officer saying there was an Anderson doing forensics. "It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Sherlock took the opportunity to deduce something about him as well. It became clear what when the deodorant was mentioned and was further gone into greater detail when Anderson pretended that nothing happened between him and Donovan. John couldn't help but look at her knees as he and Sherlock passed by to go inside to see if he could see what Sherlock had.

As they walk with Sally, leading them, Sherlock studies the house and makes some mental notes on it. dark, abandoned. Not too rundown, but cold and empty. Perfect place for a murder... Sherlock then turns, looking up and down the street, before turning back as Anderson comes through the front door glowering at Sherlock. "Anderson. Here we are again," he sighs and mutteres to himself as the man approaches. "It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. We clear on that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and nods before asking, "And is your wife away for long?" Anderson's expression only darkens, "... Don’t pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!" Sherlock snorts, "your deoderant told me that."

His expression turns confused at that , "My deoderant?" Sherlock said like it was obvious, "It’s for men." Anderson scoffed, "Of course it’s for men, I’m wearing it!" He smirks at that, "So’s Donovan." A quick panicked look passed between Sally and Anderson. Sherlock continues with a humoured tone, "Oh! And I think it just vapourised! May I go in?" Anderson was red-faced and blustering as he glared at Sherlock, "You listen to me, okay. Whatever you’re trying to imply-"

Sherlock cut him off, "Oh I’m not implying anything - I’m sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat and happened to stay over." He glances at her with a smirk, "And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." His expression was smug as he started walking past the two. They really did need to learn to leave him the hell alone. Anderson glowers at him as they pass.

They head into the house and down the corridor, stopping when they run into DI Lestrade. He’s now in full crime scene gear. "I can give you two minutes," he says as he begins to lead them to the second floor where they could get their own gear. "I may need longer." They stop on the second floor, and Sherlock tosses a crime scene coverall to John while grabbing gloves for himself. "You’ll need to put this on." Lestrade is looking at John - bemused, and a little pissed off. "Who is this?"

"He’s with me."

"But who is he?"

"I told you - he’s with me."

He sighs and gestures for them to continue up the stairs, "alright fine but try not to get me into any trouble okay?" Sherlock grins at him and follows him up the stairs, "no promises."

John took off his jacket and began putting on the coverall when it was given to him, respecting the rules around crime scenes. Besides, the officer from before was wearing one. "Aren't you going to put one on?", he asked Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't seem too interested in that. He shook his head and made sure his coverall was secure and put on a pair of gloves and coverings for his shoes before they all headed up another staircase to the third floor where they would see the victim's body.

Pink. The woman was dressed all in a bold shade of pink and she laid prone on the ground, her hands by her head. Her skin was pale in death but would've been pretty pale in life as well. "Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards.", said the officer, "We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her." John gave a wince of sympathy. Poor woman. And poor kids, whoever they were. The police set up portable lights in the room, the better to photograph the scene and examine all within.

Suddenly, Sherlock called for silence. "I didn't say anything!", protested the officer. John exchanged a look with the officer and Sherlock went to begin his examination. As John waited to be called to do something, he took a look around the room. The room was empty of any actual furniture except for an old rocking horse in the corner which made him wonder if this was once storage or a child's bedroom. Letters spelling 'R a c he' were scratched on the floor near one of the woman's hands. A short nickname for someone called 'Rachel', maybe, or something else he didn't know.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known as Sherlock, was in Ravenclaw and his fourth year at Hogwarts. So chosen for his high intelect and passion for learning. Unknown to his fellow peers, he was actually studying more subjects than they were, with a timeturner gifted to him by one Mrs Hudson the Gryfindor head of house. Only his brother Mycroft knew, who was in the same house as he and in his Seventh year, along with being Prefect he was also a lot more popular than he was amongst their housemates. Sherlock kept to himself and wasn't good with people.

Despite this, he really didn't care that he had no friends. They would only distract him from his studies... But if he were truly honest with himself, he did wish that he could have at least one friend, even if it was just so his brother would get off of his back! He was a part of the Slug club, of course, coming from a well-known magic family and his own arts getting him in. Still, the members there didn't like him all that much. Maybe the fact that he liked to show off. With his ability to do magic without a wand, which he'd learnt not long into his first year, or the fact he loved to show off his deductive skills.

Here, he was minding his own business during free period, sitting on one of the many benches throughout Hogwarts, reading one of his favourite detective books. Despite the fact that he'd grown up in. Wizarding family, his parents had ensured that the Holmes children had an education on muggle's from a young age. While he was engrossed in his book, he didn't notice the group of students standing near him with their wands at the ready. They used magic to steal his book and float it into the air.

He stood and glared at them, "Give it back!" The Slytherin boys chuckled. "Or what? You'll cry?" Another added with a grin, "we should burn it!" Another nodded in agreement, "yeah! He thinks he's so much better than us!"

"Hey, you lot, give it back to him and leave him alone!" John had come along the same way on his own schedule and heard the start of the commotion. It was clear what the Slytherins were doing to that poor Ravenclaw kid. Seeing them with their wands out, he took his own English Oak one in hand and leapt to the Ravenclaw's defense. It wasn't right for them to use their power to pick on others and more than one against one wasn't fair.

It was John Watson's fifth year in Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor, the same house as his sister, unfortunately. They were both magic kids born to muggles, the gene skipping a generation or two. The two of them never got along but they had their own friends and activities and interests. John was a likeable fellow, caring, studious, and not afraid to take a risk but was more serious both about his studies and life in general than her. Harry was much more reckless, in his opinion, more careless.

He had gotten into the house Quidditch team in his third year as a Keeper where his protective instincts served him well, and he'd made some friends among his schoolmates in his year, like Murray and Stamford. Yet he didn't want to make Quiddich his career. He'd become far more interested in the healing arts, as the years went on. The Slytherins no doubt recognized him from his time in the field. Or, at least, one of them did. "Piss off, Watson!" John gave his wand a wave, concentrating on the book he wanted to return to its owner that floated in the air. "Accio book!"

Sherlock hadn't expected anyone to come to his rescue, other than his brother, who was busy doing prefect stuff at the moment. He definitely hadn't expected a gryfindor to help him. His deducting would have to wait until the other were dealt with, however. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!" The boy went to attack John with a spell, but Sherlock jumped to his defence. Holding his hand out, he used protego to protect John, "What the hell!?"

Sherlock glared at them. "I told you to leave me alone." He looked so much older than he was, his expression dark as he stared them down. "If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of." The leader glared at Sherlock and raised his wand against him, letting the book go to John. The other two stood behind him with hesitant expressions. Sherlock sighed and waved his hand at the leader, sending his wand flying and then knocking him to the ground. His friends eyed Sherlock and fled while he ran after them, yelling at them to get back.

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled before turning to the other kid. "Thank you." He gave him a look up and down and deduced a few things from him, including that he probably came from a military background and was a muggleborn. He'd seen the boy around the school but never really paid much attention to him.

The book came to John and he grabbed it with his free hand. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!", one of the Slytherins shouted furiously. Now that the book was safe from potentially being burned, he was going to give the group a lecture but that one raised his wand. The dark-haired Ravenclaw came between them, magically shielding him. "What the hell?!" John gaped in amazement at the powerful student. He'd knew that both wandless and nonverbal spellcasting was advanced magic. For a student around his own age, even a Ravenclaw,... "I told you to leave me alone. If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of.", the Ravenclaw warned them, staring the Slytherins down.

The leader refused to heed his would be target's warning and he turned his attention to him, away from John, while his mates stood unsure. He was about to do something when Sherlock waved his hand and disarmed the Slytherin and pushing him to the ground. Expelliarmus, John identified, then, perhaps, the Knockback Jinx. Successfully intimidated, the leader's friends ran off. Their leader followed after them, unfinished with the Ravenclaw and John and wanting their support. It looked like that would be it from them for now.

John chuckled along with the Ravenclaw. Those three did make comical figures like that, he admitted to himself. "You're welcome! And thank you, too!" He passed the book back to the one who studied him, a detective book, he saw, by the cover. It looked interesting. "That was...amazing, what you did without a wand!" He held out a hand for him to shake if he wanted, giving him a smile. "I'm John Watson." He stood straight and tall like a soldier, a habit he'd picked up from his father who was in the army. He was certain that he had seen the other boy before, he had to have, but they'd never actually met face to face and he couldn't think of his name.

Sherlock turned around when the boys finally decided to flee and gave John a once over. He was able to determine a couple of things just by looking at him. His haircut and the way he holds himself signify military background, one of his parents possibly having served. His older, slightly worn looking robes solidify this theory on a possible millitary background if one parent is on a military pension (muggleborn? Struggling to make coin in a wizarding world?). He could also smell broom oil off the boy, which could mean he was a quidditch player, or he just came from flying class.

"You think so?" Most were intimidated by his use of magic in that way. He looked to the boys eyes and studied him with a slightly puzzled expression. Had he seen worse things than what Sherlock had just done? Or at the very least heard of worse things? He took the book back and thanked the boy again before looking to the outstretched hand and shaking it with one of his own. Calluses, on his hand, indicated a lot of time on a broom, so quidditch player then. "Sherlock." He noted the fur along the cuffs of his trousers, small animal? Probably a dog judging by the type of fur. There was some on the sleeves of his robes, too, probably from petting the animal. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Yeah, it was extraordinary! More than most our ages can do!", confirmed John. He shook the other boy's, Sherlock's, hand when given it. "It's nice to meet you Sherlock." "Afghanistan or Iraq?" It was an odd question, out of nowhere like that. He couldn't think of what his new acquaintance meant. "Er, I might have some Scottish ancestry, although I can't be too sure, but nothing Middle Eastern that I know of. My family has lived in Britain for years and my middle name is Hamish.", he answered, trying to be helpful. From the look on Sherlock's face, it might not have been what he was looking for but it was sort of his fault for not providing any context for his question.

When Sherlock asked him again, he was better able to answer. "My dad served in Afghanistan but how did you know he was in the army?" He had heard of pureblood magic folk knowing of families with a lot of magic folk in them but he was 'muggleborn', which had been a new term for him, when he first started going there. It wasn't likely for any wizards who didn't know him personally to have any idea or even to care. Moreover, Sherlock hadn't known which country his dad had been deployed in.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known as Sherlock, was in Ravenclaw and his fourth year at Hogwarts. So chosen for his high intelect and passion for learning. Unknown to his fellow peers, he was actually studying more subjects than they were, with a timeturner gifted to him by one Mrs Hudson the Gryfindor head of house. Only his brother Mycroft knew, who was in the same house as he and in his Seventh year, along with being Prefect he was also a lot more popular than he was amongst their housemates. Sherlock kept to himself and wasn't good with people.

Despite this, he really didn't care that he had no friends. They would only distract him from his studies... But if he were truly honest with himself, he did wish that he could have at least one friend, even if it was just so his brother would get off of his back! He was a part of the Slug club, of course, coming from a well-known magic family and his own arts getting him in. Still, the members there didn't like him all that much. Maybe the fact that he liked to show off. With his ability to do magic without a wand, which he'd learnt not long into his first year, or the fact he loved to show off his deductive skills.

Here, he was minding his own business during free period, sitting on one of the many benches throughout Hogwarts, reading one of his favourite detective books. Despite the fact that he'd grown up in. Wizarding family, his parents had ensured that the Holmes children had an education on muggle's from a young age. While he was engrossed in his book, he didn't notice the group of students standing near him with their wands at the ready. They used magic to steal his book and float it into the air.

He stood and glared at them, "Give it back!" The Slytherin boys chuckled. "Or what? You'll cry?" Another added with a grin, "we should burn it!" Another nodded in agreement, "yeah! He thinks he's so much better than us!"

"Hey, you lot, give it back to him and leave him alone!" John had come along the same way on his own schedule and heard the start of the commotion. It was clear what the Slytherins were doing to that poor Ravenclaw kid. Seeing them with their wands out, he took his own English Oak one in hand and leapt to the Ravenclaw's defense. It wasn't right for them to use their power to pick on others and more than one against one wasn't fair.

It was John Watson's fifth year in Hogwarts. He was in Gryffindor, the same house as his sister, unfortunately. They were both magic kids born to muggles, the gene skipping a generation or two. The two of them never got along but they had their own friends and activities and interests. John was a likeable fellow, caring, studious, and not afraid to take a risk but was more serious both about his studies and life in general than her. Harry was much more reckless, in his opinion, more careless.

He had gotten into the house Quidditch team in his third year as a Keeper where his protective instincts served him well, and he'd made some friends among his schoolmates in his year, like Murray and Stamford. Yet he didn't want to make Quiddich his career. He'd become far more interested in the healing arts, as the years went on. The Slytherins no doubt recognized him from his time in the field. Or, at least, one of them did. "Piss off, Watson!" John gave his wand a wave, concentrating on the book he wanted to return to its owner that floated in the air. "Accio book!"

Sherlock hadn't expected anyone to come to his rescue, other than his brother, who was busy doing prefect stuff at the moment. He definitely hadn't expected a gryfindor to help him. His deducting would have to wait until the other were dealt with, however. "Hey! Give it back! This doesn't concern you!" The boy went to attack John with a spell, but Sherlock jumped to his defence. Holding his hand out, he used protego to protect John, "What the hell!?"

Sherlock glared at them. "I told you to leave me alone." He looked so much older than he was, his expression dark as he stared them down. "If you're going to bully or attack someone, at least make sure you know what they're capable of." The leader glared at Sherlock and raised his wand against him, letting the book go to John. The other two stood behind him with hesitant expressions. Sherlock sighed and waved his hand at the leader, sending his wand flying and then knocking him to the ground. His friends eyed Sherlock and fled while he ran after them, yelling at them to get back.

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled before turning to the other kid. "Thank you." He gave him a look up and down and deduced a few things from him, including that he probably came from a military background and was a muggleborn. He'd seen the boy around the school but never really paid much attention to him.