Although rare, it was not unheard of for a boy or girl to come into their magic before they reached puberty if their family displayed a particularly deep endowment for magical ability. Mycroft had already shown great mastery in that arena so it was not with great shock that Sherlock had manifested well before the age of his peers. Holmes more or less resented his gifts. Though the spells came easily to him and the reservoir in which he drew his power from never seemed to empty, as young as he was, more often than not his magic worked independent of his command.
For instance whenever he stepped outside, clouds would inexplicably form above him and darken and gather depending on his moods. Sometimes when he was in an exceptionally foul mood it would even rain. Once a girl had tried approaching him while he was deep in alchemic study and it had actually snowed. Thus he had been dubbed with the less than complementary nickname of 'Stormcrow' and most, if not all, of the other magelings avoided him and his capricious emotions.
That, more than anything, was probably what kept his clouds so dark.
Then one day one of the newer boys, perhaps not having heard the rumors or paying heed to them or wanting to see the truth of them himself, approached Holmes as he crouched by the muddy bank of the school's river holding an extremely sought after blue and purple salamander in his pale and dexterous hands.
"You must be very talented," the other boy commented in way of greeting. "What kind of crystal did you use?"
"I did not employ one," Holmes answered disinterestedly as he began searching for a way to harvest some of the creature's secretions.
"You didn't use a tracking spell? But then, how did you find it?"
"Logic, deduction, reasoning. Magic is not everything you know. We were given brains too," Holmes bit down on his scathing retort, angry at himself for snapping at the only person who had chosen to talk with him in weeks. His clouds gathered menacingly.
The other boy didn't seem to notice and merely cocked his head in consideration. "Really? Tell me."
And Holmes did. He told the other boy excitedly about the various speeds of the river's current and the approximate weight of one of the salamanders and thus his reasoning on where it would likely reside. He also traced the footsteps of Magus Buchanan whom he knew harvested the salamander secretion because of the mud stains he sometimes observed on his left trouser leg that indicated he had visited the exact spot they were standing on according to the composition of the dirt.
"But what would you need it for? It seems a rather tedious and pointless exercise," the boy said.
Holmes laughed at his directness, but answered nonetheless. "It identifies blood. Think of it, instead of performing Kochran's Hemoglobic Identification spell, you can simply put a drop of this on the spot you suspect is blood and confirm it straight away."
"And what would you use that for? Has someone been murdered?"
"Somewhere, yes and someday I shall be the one to solve it," Holmes announced.
The boy smiled affably at his display of ego and pointed at the salamander. "How are you to retrieve the secretions?"
Holmes' clouds shifted turbulently. "I don't rightly know. I think I might have to make an incision of some sort."
The boy frowned and held his hand out for the salamander. Holmes reluctantly gave it to him whereupon the boy bent down to retrieve a pillbug from beneath a rock and fed it to the creature. It secreted almost instantly.
"Not quite so brilliant a deduction as yours, of course but—"
"No, it's marvelous!"
They spent several minutes finding as many insects as they could to feed to the salamander until it promptly disappeared somehow out of their grasp though leaving plenty of secretion in its wake.
"May I sit with you during mealtime?" the boy asked shyly.
"If you don't fear getting wet," Holmes replied bitterly, repeating what many of the other students had whispered to each other when confronted with the problem of a decreasing number of seats anywhere but near him when they dined outside in the summer months.
"I don't understand."
Holmes pointed at the clouds billowing over his head.
The boy frowned again at the unfathomable expression on his new friend's face and then up at the coal black clouds. With a decisive move, the boy waved his hand in a swiping motion towards them. They dispersed instantaneously.
He held out that same hand when he said, "My name is John by the way, John Watson."
Holmes took the hand into his own. "Sherlock Holmes."
Later at dinner, all the magelings (and even some of the Magus) were all atwitter to see Holmes sit at his usual place on the far end, clouds an iron grey to match his eyes, when the new boy approached with a smile and a wave, whereupon Holmes' trademark storm clouds disbanded like they had never existed at all.
They didn't know what was more believable, Holmes finally finding someone that he could stand and stand him in return or that Watson's magic was somehow more powerful than Holmes'.
A/N: This random drabble/one-shot series madness is all the result of Pompey whose own drabble series made me serious jealous and thus made me start this up. On another note, I think Holmes would make a brilliant magician.