Hey! Me again! I know it's been a while, but I have a new story. This one is PotterWhoLock! Due to the bad summary, I suppose I should simply explain; Harry, Ron and Hermione are the same as in the books. However, Sherlock Holmes is added as an eleven year old starting at the same time as them, and then there is John Smith...

Anyhoo, basically Sherlock and John Smith (no, not Watson. Smith.) are being added into the book. This is the first, and I shall probably write them into all seven years. Enjoy, Read and Review!

Sherlock Holmes was an unusual eleven year old. He was taller than most his age, with pale skin, icy blue eyes and curly, jet black hair. His stance was one of odd confidence, and he was dressed oddly in black jeans and a white collared shirt, a blue scarf wrapped around his neck and a long black jacket finishing it off. The wooden trunk was dragged behind him as he walked through kings cross station with an older boy. The older boy was Sherlock's brother and only living relative, Mycroft Holmes. Eighteen years old and fully grown, he was wearing an oddly neat suit and talking. It was quite clear that Sherlock wasn't paying attention.

They reached the wall between platforms nine and ten, and Sherlock finally talked.

"You don't need to come through with me."

"Of course I do. It's my little brother's first year at Hogwarts. Plus, I want to know what it's like from an outsider's point of view."

The eleven year old rolled his eyes, leaning casually against the barrier. There was a second, and then he was gone. Any normal person would be startled by that, but Mycroft simply smiled and leaned against the wall, slipping through to platform 9 and 3/4. There was a bright red steam train waiting for them, and Sherlock had a look of wonder in his eyes. Well, not so much wonder as calculation.

"I'll see you later, Mycroft."

And without another word to his brother, Sherlock walked off, dragging his trunk behind him as he walked into the carriage. He found an empty one and sat down on his own. He liked being on his own. People, well, most people, were so dull. Even wizards.

John Smith, every now and then, wished he could remember. He was eleven years old, but had the memory of only one of those years. Sure, he had knowledge and intelligence that much surpassed anything people had seen, but he didn't know how he'd gotten it. He didn't know his parents, he didn't know his friends, he didn't even know his own name. John Smith was a title that had been bestowed to him by the people at the orphanage.

It had been a shock when the owl had flown in with his letter, a letter about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He hadn't know about a wizarding world. But he was glad of it, and happy when he'd gone to the wand shop and found his beautiful wand. He remembered having nervously entered the wand store, his heart fluttering as Olivander looked at him. He'd walked amongst the shelves for ages, giving him wand after wand, but not one of them were right. It wasn't until the seventy third wand that the odd looking man had shaken his head.

"Maybe... just maybe..."

John had wanted to ask what he was muttering about, but he held his tongue as Olivander disappeared. He waited for a few minutes, before the man came back out with on odd looking box.

"I found the wood for this wand a while ago. I couldn't quite tell what tree it was from, but it was most certainly powerful. I made it into a wand a while ago, but it hasn't chosen an owner yet. But maybe... just maybe..."

He handed it to John, who had apprehensively taken it and pulled it out. It was a sleek, long, silver wand. By the shine and colour of it, you'd think it was made purely of the precious metal, but John could feel it was just made of wood. He also felt a beautiful feeling as he held it - like it was naturally there. He flicked it, and trails of golden light followed in his path. He'd smiled at Olivander, who had sold him the wand and told him that he was sure he was destined for great things.

After the wand, John had simply waited for the first day of school to roll around. He hoped that this place would not only offer him a home, but some answers. Perhaps it would give him some insight to his past.

For he knew he had a past. He may have turned up with no memories, but at night he dreamed. He dreamed of a blue box that was infinitely bigger on the inside. He'd run in and she'd stroke his mind, and he'd greet her in return. That big, blue box followed him in his dreams, singing to him in his sleep.

Now was the first day of school, and he was scared. He had no clue where he had to go or what he had to do, so he was just hanging out near the barrier between platforms nine and ten. The hand that was clutching his trunk was sweaty, and he looked around. He watched as two boys, one barely older than him and the other at least eighteen, leaned casually against the barrier and were just... gone.

John followed them up to the barrier, and then leaned against the wall. He slipped through, and much to his shock arrive at platform nine and three quarters. The entire place was bustling, a train with the label 'the hogwart's express' sitting there. He looked around, before entering the train, walking through the carriages. Everyone seemed to have already been seated. He kept walking until he saw a carriage with only one person in it. The dark haired boy whom he'd seen go through the barrier.

"Hello," he said slightly awkwardly, smiling slightly. "Mind if I sit here?"

He didn't wait for an answer, simply putting his trunk in and sliding in after it. The boy looked at him with pale blue eyes, seemingly assessing his slightly ragged clothes, his sticking up brown hair and kind brown eyes. Getting the feeling the other boy wasn't going to talk, John began to strike up his own conversation.

"Is your brother not coming?"

This got the boy's eyes straight back on his. "How do you know my brother, and that he's not here?"

John shrugged half-heartedly. "Well, I saw you go through the barrier with him. He's nowhere old enough to be your parents, so brother. If you'd come with him, he would probably be near by. After all, he was the only one at the station with you - I doubt he'd just leave his little brother on his own."

The paler boy smiled - a slightly insane, brilliant smile. "Very good. How's the orphanage?"

"How'd you know?"

"Easy. You are obviously alone - you have no siblings anywhere near, but your clothes are hand-me-downs. They have obviously gone through various generations. The label on your top says 'Mike Plain', and the one on your trunk 'James Morrison'. Obviously not family. And there's a rip in your top - not a fashionable rip, nor one your parents would let you get away with. A mother would have taken it off and fixed it. Therefore, no parents, or neglective ones. Since you're wearing other's clothes, I'd say none. Therefore, orphan."

Now it was John's turn to smile. The boy held out his hand. "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

John took it. "John Smith."

Sherlock sank back in his chair, not seeming to want to make conversation. John didn't mind; he'd made a friend, and it was only a couple of minutes in.