This is my 50th posting! WAHOO!

One of the biggest debates in Potterlock; House placements for John and Sherlock. Here is my own little version of the Sorting Ceremony for Sherlock Holmes.

This is my first Sherlock fic, so I apologize for any OOC-ness.

Enjoy!

The Sorting of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock gazed up with a mask of polite disinterest as the woman who had introduced herself as "Professor McGonagall" stepped up onto the staff table platform. She stood stiffly next to a three-legged stool, unrolling a scroll that had been stuck inside her cloak. However, it was not Professor McGonagall that Sherlock, and the rest of his fellow first years, were staring at. Rather, all eyes were trained on the pointed hat that rested atop the stool.

It was most likely one of the oldest pieces of clothing Sherlock had ever seen. It was an ugly faded brown color, and was frayed around the edges. Scarf-like ribbons of silk hung of the back rim, presumably to frame the face. Clearly a very old fashion statement. The evidence of patch-jobs were clear as day to Sherlock on nearly every square centimeter of the hat, and Sherlock wondered if any of the hat was actually original.

The female professor raised her hand, and the entire hall fell silent. 'Clearly,' Sherlock thought, 'this is a professor not to be messed with.'

However, despite catching the attention of everyone in the room, the professor did not say anything, and instead turned her own eyes to the hat. Pure silence reigned in the hall, the crackling of the torches even seeming to quiet, and the suspense that Sherlock felt (but was careful to hide) grew to an almost unbearable level.

With a startling jerk, the hat rose from its slumped position, and eyes seemed to form from the creases and folds. A nanosecond later, Sherlock realized that that was exactly what they were. The brim split open in two, and to Sherlock's shock, a voice boomed from the hat. A singing voice.

Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find,

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I am the Hogwarts Sorting Hat,

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head,

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you,

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry,

Set Gryffindors apart.

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuff are true,

And unafraid of toil.

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind.

Or perhaps in Slytherin,

You'll find your true friends,

These cunning folk use any means,

To achieve their ends.

So put me down! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none),

For I am a Thinking Cap!

Sherlock joined in the polite round of applause that echoed around the hall. 'It wasn't a horrendous song.' He mused as he clapped. 'For a hat, anyway.'

Professor McGonagall raised her hand for silence, and the large gathering fell quiet once more.

"When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted." She explained. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obvious, even if the Hat hadn't just sung an entire song about it.

"Abbot, Hannah." McGonagall announced.

A girl with blond pigtails stumbled out of the crowd and onto the stool. McGonagall dropped the Hat over Hannah's head, and it immediately fell down past her eyes, far too large for the poor girl. A moment passed, then -

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The Hat declared in a voice that rang clear through the room. The look on Hannah's face as she threw off the Hat and ran to the cheering table of kids in yellow-accented robes could only be described as pure relief.

"Anderson, Philip'' and "Bones, Susan" became Hufflepuff's as well, but the next student, a "Boot, Terry" became a Ravenclaw, and joined a table full of blue-accented robes and books. "Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw eagerly, and "Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor.

"Bulstrode, Millicent", a large, unpleasant looking girl, was the first 11-year-old to join Slytherin, and as Sherlock followed her descent to the Slytherin table, he caught the eye of a tall boy sitting at the end of the table, a silver and green badge marking him as a 7th year prefect and Head Boy. None other than Mycroft Holmes, his older brother.

Mycroft held his faze, an icy appraising look in his eye, before nodding coldly, as if sharing a secret message. Sherlock tore his eyes away, refusing to nod back. Mycroft had changed over the last few years, becoming more and more obsessed with his career and spending less time with Sherlock, and Sherlock certainly didn't like it. Nor was he happy about the message Mycroft was so obviously trying to convey.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin" was the next name Sherlock heard, and Sherlock noticed with a slight hint of nervousness it was almost his turn.

Justin almost immediately went to Hufflepuff, and after a good minute of thought, "Finnigan, Seamus" was sent to the Gryffindor table. "Granger, Hermione", a bushy-haired girl who nearly ran to the stool (Muggleborn, Sherlock deducted), also became a Lion. Then -

"Holmes, Sherlock!" McGonagall called.

Sherlock quickly put a cool, blank façade as he stepped forward and up to the stool. He settled delicately on the old wooden platform and for a split second stared out at the entire school, before his vision was blocked by the inside of the Hat.

"Oh, you are a tricky one, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock heard the voice of the Hat whisper in his head. "Far more so than your brother."

"Thank you." Sherlock mentally preened. It was always a delight to be better at something than Mycroft, especially after years of being "the stupid one".

"That was not a compliment." The Hat grumbled. "Now, where to put you? You are quite cunning, and of course, a pure-blood, but you lack the ambition to prove yourself that most Slytherins do. You're just in it for the thrill."

"I am not going to Slytherin." Sherlock told the Hat firmly. There was no way he was going to be in the same house as Mycroft and his elite snobbish "friends". Plus, he would rather avoid the curse of being known as evil.

"You are extremely intelligent." The Hat continued to muse, carrying on as he hadn't heard him. "Clever, bookish, one of the most inquisitive and complex minds I've ever seen. Ravenclaw would suit you well."

Ravenclaw. Sherlock's expected house, and his personal choice.

"Okay then." He tried to say. But the Hat wasn't finished yet.

"But there's loyalty here, oh yes, plenty. Only for those who earn it, of course. And despite what you and everyone else may think, you can be kind when you want to, when people earn your kindness. Like that kind old lady in the cottage. Mrs. Hudson, correct? Hufflepuff isn't completely out of the question for you either."

Sherlock flinched. Hufflepuff? What was the Hat thinking? He wouldn't last 5 minutes in the House of the Happy-Go-Lucky.

"Now, you're also quite adventurous, aren't you little pirate?"

Sherlock felt a vague warmth in his cheeks. A blush, he embarrassedly deduced.

"You are brave and daring, and long for that thrill of the chase. You can also be quite stubborn, when you want to stand your ground. Which is just about always, I can see. Gryffindor would be a good place for you as well."

Gryffindor?! Now he knew the Hat was crazy. No Holmes in living memory or recorded history (at least, in the Holmes library) had ever been Sorted into Gryffindor. And while he may have enjoyed a good game of pirates when he was younger, he was 11 now, and not nearly as daring as the Hat was making him out to be.

Though the look on Mycroft's face would be absolutely priceless . . .

Sherlock contemplated the Hat's words until he had sucked every detail he could out of them. It was then that he realized the Hat had not spoken in what felt like hours, and had not announced a house for him.

"Sorting Hat? Are you there?" He mentally asked.

"Where else would I be?" The Hat responded, a bitter undertone clear in its voice.

"On the head of another student?" Sherlock retorted sarcastically. "What's taking so long? What is my House?"

Another long pause. Sherlock barely bit back a sigh. This was growing tedious. Surely the Hat could see that Ravenclaw was really the only house for him?

"You underestimate yourself, little pirate."

"Stop calling me that!" Sherlock snapped.

"Mmmm, I don't think I will. I rather like it. Anyway, you encompass the main qualities of each house. Cunning, wit, loyalty, and bravery. I could put you in any house, and you could fit in there. Well, as well as a Divergent like you fits in."

"Divergent?"

"Something from a Muggle book the Granger girl had been reading, forget it." The Hat dismissed.

"Look, I just want to go to Ravenclaw, where they won't be as big of idiots as the rest of this school. And since you agree I could go there, just announce it so I can get off this bloody stool."

The Hat hummed slightly. "You do realize that no one in Ravenclaw is guaranteed to be smart? Just wanting to be smart is enough to get you in."

"What?" Sherlock mentally growled. So he couldn't even count on the House of Learning to provide more intelligent company? That was pathetic.

"But I have Sorted some intelligent people - some that might even be worthy of your attention - into the other houses."

"Are you trying to get me to change my mind? Because if you have a house you're dying to sort me into, just tell me already." Sherlock rolled his covered eyes. This was taking forever. At this point, he just wanted it over with.

"No, you are genuinely a tricky customer. But let us narrow it down. Hufflepuff probably isn't for you. Theoretically, you have the potential. Practically? Nope. Slytherin would be ideal considering your blood status and your clever nature, but as you absolutely despise the idea and have no tolerance for the political games that go on in that house, perhaps we should try to keep Hogwarts mostly in one piece and leave that House be."

"Thank you." Sherlock thought in relief. Finally the Hat was starting to see sense.

"So that just leaves us with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. You seem quite keen on Ravenclaw, having the desire to learn all you can about magic and be around people who won't think of you as a freak for choosing books over people."

Sherlock flinched at the word. Freak. He had come here hoping to get away from that word.

"Precisely. But what you need is not books, nor people who will ignore you for their studies. You need friends, little pirate."

Sherlock curled up his lip in a sneer. "Friends? What do friends have to do with anything?"

"You're lonely, little pirate. Don't even bother denying it. Ever since Mycroft's fourth year, he hasn't been the same, and you had barely seen him before then. Mycroft was all you had, and you haven't truly had him in years. You need someone, Sherlock Holmes."

"What are you, my guidance counselor?" Sherlock snapped at the Hat. "Your job is to Sort me into the House I belong in, so Sort!"

"My job, Mr. Holmes, is to Sort students into the House they fit into most and will succeed. You may fit the bill for Ravenclaw, but it is the House of the Lions where you would truly flourish. After all, every great pirate needs a loyal crew."

"I - This was your plan all along! You wanted me in Gryffindor from the beginning!" Sherlock accussed.

"No, actually, it wasn't. It genuinely took me a while to decide, but now it is clear. Your House shall be GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat shouted the last word to the Hall, and Sherlock lifted the Hat up filled with both tension and relief.

The scene in the Hall had changed since he had put the Hat on. The remaining first years were sitting on the floor, indicating he had been under the Hat for quite some time. It was even darker outside the windows, stars shining brightly in the enchanted ceiling above, and torches burning even brighter than before. Silence had filled the Hall, even after the Hat's announcement.

Sherlock snuck a look at Mycroft, and felt a pleased smirk spread across his lips at the absolutely flabbergasted expression on Mycroft's face. Realizing his brother's gaze was upon him, Mycroft quickly schooled his expression into one of severe disapproval, with the promise - no, threat - of writing their parents clear in his eyes. Sherlock silently snorted. Yeah, right. Like he was scared of that. He didn't need Mycroft's approval, or his parents.

Applause began to fill the room, and Sherlock jumped with a start at the sudden onslaught of noise. The Gryffindor table had began to cheer. Cheer for him. Feeling an odd little spark of warmth in his gut, Sherlock slipped of the stool, sat the Hat down in his place, and stepped down to the scarlet-clad students. As he sat himself down on the bench next to the Muggleborn girl with the bushy hair, his robes took on red accents, and the school crest changed to the battle-ready lion. He was officially a Gryffindor Lion.

"You were up there for 37 minutes." The Muggleborn said in place of a greeting.

"Nice to meet you too." Sherlock said coolly, not even pretending to pay attention as "Hooper, Molly" stood from the floor and took her place on the stool.

"Oh! Sorry!" The girl blushed red. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you." She added sheepishly. She held out her hand.

Sherlock's lips quirked in amusement, and deciding to humor her, he took her hand and firmly shook it. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"If I may ask, what took you so long to Sorted?" Granger asked.

"You can ask."

"But you won't answer?" Instead of sounding annoyed, though, she actually sounded . . . Amused? At him?

"Nope. Obviously." Sherlock cast his eyes up to watch a "Lestrade, Greg" get sorted into Hufflepuff, and sit beside a tall boy that played Quidditch. Family friend, already promising a place on the team to the first year. The boy did have the right build for a Beater, so mostly likely that, or maybe Keeper.

"Gryffindor." Sherlock stated as an awkward boy known as "Longbottom, Neville" stumbled up to the Hat.

"What do you mean, Gry-" Granger began,

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat announced.

Granger turned wide eyes on him. "How did you know that?"

"I deduced. Ravenclaw." He labeled the next first year, a "MacDougal, Morag".

Sure enough, Morag was "RAVENCLAW!"

"Slytherin." Sherlock frowned at the platinum blond "Malfoy, Draco" that swaggered to the Hat. Not even a second later, the Hat sent Malfoy to Slytherin.

"Seriously, how are you doing that?" Granger pleaded, sounding quite peeved.

"I simply use these things called eyes and a brain." He brushed her off. "Slytherin." He pronounced a tall boy with crazy-filled eyes, known as "Moriarty, James."

"I have those things, but I don't see anything that would indicate their future house." Granger huffed as Moriarty skipped - literally skipped - to the Slytherin table.

"That is because you see, but do not observe. Now, please quit talking, you are growing quite annoying. Hufflepuff." He pronounced "Moon, Luke".

Next came "Nott, Theodore", "Parkinson, Pansy", "Patil, Padma" and "Patil, Pavarti", and "Perks, Sally-Anne". Each time, Sherlock named a House, and each time, the student went to Sherlock's predicted House.

Then came "Potter, Harry."

"Gryffindor." Sherlock whispered as the small boy nervously came forth. There was no way the famed Boy-Who-Lived could be anything else. It was obvious he was not welcome wherever he had been the last decade. Neglected at best and abused at worst. Yet he was here, and well-adjusted. A brave soul then. Plus, the fearful looks he shot at Slytherin table ruled them out. Not social enough to be Hufflepuff, with far too much potential. He did not seem the bookworm type or very intelligent, so Ravenclaw wasn't very likely.

And sure enough, Gryffindor gained Potter. And he sat right across from Sherlock.

"Hello." He shyly said as he sat down at the quieter end of the table.

"Hello again." Granger nodded.

"Hello." Sherlock drawled, fiddling with his wand under the table. He was quite attached to his wand. Sycamore with a phoenix feather core, and 12 4/5 inches long, it was like an extension of himself, and allowed him to perform greater feats of magic than ever before.

"Gryffindor, again. Boring." Sherlock said, turning his head to look at "Thomas, Dean."

"What?" Potter asked, puzzled.

"You'll see." Granger sighed.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The Hat shouted, to the applause of the Lions.

"How -"

"Don't ask. He won't tell you in any way that's clearer than mud." Granger interrupted in a prickly voice.

Potter looked curiously at Sherlock, but all Sherlock said was "Ravenclaw" as a girl called "Turpin, Lisa" was invited to be sorted. Of course, he was right.

"Watson, John." An unassuming boy stepped forward. Though he hide it quite well, he was a bit nervous. Muggleborn, but not the first in his family to come to Hogwarts, judging by the way he glanced the Hufflepuff table and smiled. Poor, judging by the shape of his trainers, but his uniform were new. Older sister then. If it was a brother, he would have received hand-me-downs. Either the father or mother (not both, considering lack of money) were military, given his straight posture. Played sports, but recently sprained his ankle going by the slight limp.

"Hmm, another Gryffindor. Though I suppose Hufflepuff could be an option, considering sibling's irrational ideas to stick together." Sherlock scoffed.

Potter and Granger looked at him with weird looks.

"Sibling?" Granger asked, but before Sherlock could point out how obvious it was -

"GRYFFINDOR!" This time, Sherlock clapped along as well, and to his eternal shock, Watson sat down beside of him.

"Hey!" He greeted with a huge grin. "John Watson!" He held his hand out for Sherlock to shake, and Sherlock, feeling a bit dazed at the abundance of cheer rolling off of Watson, complied.

"Right again." Granger rolled her eyes. "I wish you would tell me how -"

"Another Gryffindor, of course." Sherlock pointed up at "Weasley, Ronald". The Hat barely even touched the boy's ginger hair before declaring him a Gryffindor.

Potter applauded enthusiastically, and Weasley plopped right next to the green-eyed boy, a relieved smile on his face.

Watson looked up in awe at Sherlock. "How did you - "

"Slytherin." Sherlock judged the last first-year, "Zabini, Blaise", and watched as his deduction proved correct.

"That's incredible." Watson breathed.

Sherlock turned puzzled eyes on the smaller boy. "You think so?"

"Yeah." Watson smiled at him. Mercifully, this was when the Headmaster stood and allowed the feast to begin. Sherlock didn't have a clue on how to respond to a positive comment about his skill.

Watson, Potter, Granger, and Weasley all began to fill their plates with a variety of foods. Sherlock simply reached for his goblet of milk and sipped daintily at it.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Watson asked, concern obvious in his voice.

"Not hungry." Sherlock said flatly, hoping the boy would take the hint and leave him to his thoughts and his milk.

Alas, Watson did not. "It's not healthy to skip meals, and you look like you could use the extra nourishment."

Sherlock scowled. He didn't like people pointing out his eating habits. He didn't need food right now, and it was no one's business but his own. He decided to change the subject.

"Mother or father?" He asked.

"Excuse me?" Watson raised a confused eyebrow. Potter, Granger, and Weasley not so subtlety looked over to listen to the conversation.

"Which one is military? Your mother or your father?"

"My - my father."

"Mother unemployed then. Older sister in Hufflepuff, and the Hat considered putting you there. You live in England, just outside London. You are an athlete, and want to play Keeper of a Quidditch team because you play goalie in football, but you don't own a broom, so you're hoping to start next year, when you may have saved up enough money to buy a decent one because you've heard that school brooms are rubbish. You want to join the military like your father, but you also want to become both a Muggle doctor and a Healer. Oh, and you have a bulldog at home that you already miss dearly." Sherlock rattled off in an almost bored manner, using his finger to trace the rim of his goblet.

For 20 seconds, none of Sherlock's new acquaintances said a word. Then -

"How in the bloody -"

"Language." Sherlock chided.

"How in the Heck did you know all that about me?" Watson corrected himself.

"Easy. I looked at you, listened to your words, and deduced." Sherlock smirked.

Another long pause - Granger, Potter, and Weasley still seemed to be in shock - then Watson spoke again.

"That's amazing."

"You really think that?"

"Of course! I've never heard anything like that! You're incredible!" Watson gushed, another face-splitting grin cracking across his lips.

"That's not what people usually say." Sherlock muttered.

"What do they usually say?" Watson asked.

"'Shut up, freak'." Sherlock deadpanned.

"You're not a freak." Watson's grin disappeared, a frown that looked completely out of place somehow finding its way onto his expression.

"Thank you for your statement, but -"

"No, you're not. You're different, but in a good way. You're . . . . " Watson hesitated, searching for the right word. "Unique." He finally settled on.

Sherlock flushed. No one had ever referred to him that way. Around Mycroft, he was the stupid one, and around everyone else, he was a freak. He never liked being called a freak. It was a horrible, disgusting word, reserved usually for monsters.

"Th-thank you." Did he just stutter? "I am most certainly unique. I can not imagine being ordinary. Ordinary people are so dull; they bore me half to death. If I was ever ordinary . . . " He shivered.

A reluctant smile worked its way back to Watson, and Sherlock found that he preferred it that way.

"Does that mean I bore you?" The smile took on a wryly tinge.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with the usual "Of course you do." But he found he couldn't get the words out. Watson wasn't boring him. He should, being so easy to deduce, but wasn't, so far anyway. And he didn't see Sherlock the way anyone else did, which in itself was quite interesting.

"Actually, Watson, you seem to be an exception so far."

"John." Watson corrected.

Sherlock rolled the name around in his mind. John. A rather common name, but one that seemed to suit the boy sitting next to him. John. Sherlock tried it out in his mind, and decided he could live with calling the boy that.

"John." He agreed.

"And you are?" Sherlock blinked in surprise.

"I didn't catch your name earlier, I was kinda distracted." John admitted sheepishly.

Sherlock smiled. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

You know, in my original draft, I had the Sorting Hat spontaneously combusting. But I decided I liked this better.

Review, favorite, check out my profile! Thank you for reading!

-Blue