Surface Thoughts || Charles & Sherlock

wizardxavier:

youreawizardsherlock:

In a way Sherlock could relate. Growing up in a house with Mycroft, he’d thought for a long time that everyone else thought as quickly and remembered as much as his older brother. He’d looked up to him in a way back then, when his only other companion had been-

Memories of red fur in the sunlight and afternoons spent playing make believe were cut short. They were painful memories, mixed with ones he was ashamed of, and those weren’t the sort he wanted to be dwelling on with a telepath in the room.

"I used to think everyone thought like I did," Sherlock spoke. His tone shifted to something more flat as he continued. "Horrible disappointment when it turned out that wasn’t the case. However I can’t say I’ve had the displeasure of being subjected to the mass’ silent thoughts as well as their spoken ones. How terrible that must be.”

Charles laughed, “I suppose I am used to it now” he responded, “However it is not something I would wish on anybody else.” Charles smiled faded, “A strange fate isn’t it, to think different than others, to see the world in an entirely new way that no matter how hard people try they simply cannot understand what you experience everyday,” he looked down, “I admire your knowledge Sherlock,and your uncanny ability to put up with others lack there of. It must be quite the life to live when you are the brightest student to roam the halls.” 

Charles had been dwelling in his own thoughts, his own past. He felt he understood what Sherlock might have felt, when he was younger. He doubted he held onto those fears, the fears of being different, however Charles knew what it was like to be different, and he was dwelling on it.

But that was a matter of a different time, he quickly snapped out of his own mind and smiled, trying to lighten the mood once more, “enough on that.” he decided, “I really could use a cup of tea however, care to join me?” 

The more they talked, the more Sherlock liked Charles. He wasn’t at the same level as Sherlock himself was, but at least he acknowledged that. Openly so. People usually didn’t enjoy admitting when others were smarter than they were - Sherlock included. He knew Mycroft had a superior mind, but getting him to admit it took a special talent. They way that Charles spoke about his intellect, how he ‘admired' it, Sherlock could get used to that.

It also helped that Charles seemed to get it. He got what it was like to be different fundamentally, to be able to do something no one else could. Maybe he too had been called a freak, like Sherlock was. Those thoughts were pointless. Mentally he chastised himself for being so simpering and pushed the self-pity away. “I’d be delighted,” Sherlock replied. Nothing about him betrayed any delight in any way, but he didn’t seem repelled by the idea either. The taller boy unfolded himself from the chair and flicked his robes back into hanging properly. “Shall we request the House Elves bring some up here or go elsewhere?”

Surface Thoughts || Charles & Sherlock

wizardxavier:

youreawizardsherlock:

The music stopped as if his bow was scraping across the strings of his own violin, except in Sherlock’s mind there was no reverberation. It was simply the unending stream of his own thoughts - hopefully not too loud to project. While he may not outright trust Charles yet, he could tell the boy wasn’t lying. Or that he was very, very good at it. “Apologies,” Sherlock replied, “I didn’t know you could hear it. Does that happen a lot?” One of Sherlock’s hands came away from under his chin and gestured towards Charles, “People projecting at you?”

Charles smiled, although the music was nice, the silence was even better. “Often. I can normally hear what people are thinking at the current moment, sort of like people speaking quietly around me all the time. I mostly block it out, but when I was younger I thought everyone had the voices in their head. Turns out the voices in my head where actually just in everyone else’s head.” Charles adjusted himself on the seat, he didn’t tell people that very often. He didn’t like speaking of when he started developing his powers. He always simply told everyone he had them as long as he could remember, he was lying. 

In a way Sherlock could relate. Growing up in a house with Mycroft, he’d thought for a long time that everyone else thought as quickly and remembered as much as his older brother. He’d looked up to him in a way back then, when his only other companion had been-

Memories of red fur in the sunlight and afternoons spent playing make believe were cut short. They were painful memories, mixed with ones he was ashamed of, and those weren’t the sort he wanted to be dwelling on with a telepath in the room.

"I used to think everyone thought like I did," Sherlock spoke. His tone shifted to something more flat as he continued. "Horrible disappointment when it turned out that wasn’t the case. However I can’t say I’ve had the displeasure of being subjected to the mass’ silent thoughts as well as their spoken ones. How terrible that must be.”

Master of Disguise | Open

Sometimes, as a exercise of skill, Sherlock liked to disguise himself in a variety of different guises and see how long it took for him to be recognized. It was all in the name of honing his craft - disguises were incredibly handy for a detective after all. Plus it was fun. Magic made things easier, but also would ruin the challenge. Any decent security spells would dispel any sort of cosmetic enchantment anyway. Sherlock did his best to alter his appearance in more practical ways.

Today, a large pair of glasses took up part of his face. The round lenses sat on his cheekbones and covered their sharpness, while the magnification made his eyes look larger and almost bug-like in proportion. He cheated a bit with the hair - it was charmed blonde as dye would be annoying to do up for simple practice and he hadn’t been able to get his hands on a wig. The curls remained, but parted differently to the side. Last to be altered was his body language. The tall confident poise that Sherlock usually wore like light summer silk was gone, and instead the Ravenclaw hunched his shoulders forward ever so and seemed to shrink in on himself like he expected the world to lash out at him. The overall effect made him look small, almost pathetic, and like a good wind would blow him over.

Disguise in place, Sherlock donned a pilfered Hufflepuff tie (pilfered from some unsuspecting first year. They made it just so easy) and took to the halls. If he was lucky, perhaps he’d actually sneak into the Hufflepuff dorm and see how long he could remain their undiscovered.

Surface Thoughts || Charles & Sherlock

wizardxavier:

youreawizardsherlock:

Sherlock gave the other boy a flat look as he explained. Of course he knew who Charles Darwin was. He may not have known who Shakespeare was until four weeks ago (plays, poetry, boring, deleted) but he wasn’t completely oblivious. Still, Charles had his own explanation to continue, and Sherlock let him talk. There was a lot of ‘perhaps’es and ‘might’s, no definites yet. Still, it was an interesting theory. As far as Sherlock knew there was no wizard group or individual who’d done in-depth research on why wizards possessed the magic they did. No one seemed to want to look the gift horse in the mouth - except Xavier.

"It sounds like you need several samples," Sherlock spoke up as soon as Charles had stopped. "Muggles and wizards - you’d have to research their genetic make up and find what makes them different. If magic is truly a mutation as you think, then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find."

Charles smiled, “I hope to pursue my theory after school. For now I will not deny it is just a theory” he shrugged and ran a hand through his short brown hair. “Enough about that” he decided, “Why should I debate theories with the brightest scientific mind to enter this school especially when I have minimal evidence to prove my theories currently.” Charles looked around the now empty common room, then fixed his gaze back on Sherlock, “You really can stop the violin music, I am not attempting to read your mind, however because you are pushing those thoughts I can hear them as loud as if you where playing in front of me” he smiled, that wasn’t meant to be rude in any way, however the constant tune was pounding through the air as Sherlock pressed the thoughts in the forefront of his mind.

The music stopped as if his bow was scraping across the strings of his own violin, except in Sherlock’s mind there was no reverberation. It was simply the unending stream of his own thoughts - hopefully not too loud to project. While he may not outright trust Charles yet, he could tell the boy wasn’t lying. Or that he was very, very good at it. “Apologies,” Sherlock replied, “I didn’t know you could hear it. Does that happen a lot?” One of Sherlock’s hands came away from under his chin and gestured towards Charles, “People projecting at you?”

Drowned world // Sherlock and Eleven

marauderoftime:

youreawizardsherlock:

The directions were clear in his head, and Sherlock altered his course without pause. Having a broom would have been excellent at this moment, as they could have just flown to the princess. Sherlock wasn’t sure brooms had been invented at this point in time - not flying ones at any rate. Time travel was so strange.

His legs were burning from all the running back and forth over Atlantis’ uneven streets, but Sherlock was adept at ignoring them. The alley where the blue box was parked whizzed by the two boys as they sprinted down the street, and then Sherlock was turning sharply to the left. The smell of sea water was strong and pungent, and a dock was clear ahead of them.

"Move!" Sherlock shouted at the few men standing around the dock. They looked up, startled, and Sherlock rushed passed them and jumped directly into the first open row boat that looked sea worthy. Sherlock pulled out his wand from within the pockets of his light clothing and slashed the ropes dying it to the dock. "Eleven, get the rudder!"

As awkward as the Gyffindor seemed with his own body and limbs half of the time, it seemed to be a result of his constant over thinking - a habit that was he was furthest from at this particular moment. Eleven was directly behind Sherlock, not used to being behind someone, and promptly leaped off of the dock and into the row boat just as the ropes slashed. Boat starting to drift, and blood pounding in his ears, Eleven took to the rudder. He knew exactly where the Princess was headed, and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t question him anymore than he had been questioning the Ravenclaw.

"Go go….I know where she is…just row!" Breezes blew up through both of the boys’ hair as the ocean had the faintest look of churning - there was likely a storm out to sea, and Eleven’s eyes traveled to the direction of the head wind, settling on the darkest of the clouds. No time to worry about it now. 

The Princess would be out at the Craig of Rshul - a cliff facing the ocean that was named after an ancient prophecy. Well, perhaps not so ancient at this exact moment. The exact words of the prophecy had been lost to time (weren’t they always?), but they told of a rising of power along those cliffs.

Eleven wasn’t so sure about all of that, but as the boat moved, he tried to focus more on the fact that there had been an series of tunnels created that lead from the castle and straight out of the foot of the cliffs for times of emergency or threat to the Royal family. 

Actually rowing against the currents of the sea would take too much time. Sherlock was strong, but not strong enough to get them where they needed to go before the Princess did something stupid like poison herself or drown. With the weather looking like this, either was likely. His elder wood wand tapped the rowboat’s side, and the oars jumped into action. They moved inhumanly quick, pushing the boat along faster than either boy would have been able to.

"Those clouds are moving towards us," Sherlock told him as he squinted into the wind. It wasn’t strong enough to rip the stolen ribbon from Sherlock’s black curls, but his hair fought against it. The storm was black, and dark, and if they were caught out at sea when it hit them Sherlock wasn’t certain the two boys would survive in this boat.

"We need to do this quickly." It was probably redundant to say, and Sherlock wasn’t the type to state the obvious. But now that the chase was on, Sherlock felt a rising swell of excitement. Like a bloodhound after a scent, he leaned into the wind and watched intently over the front of the boat.

Surface Thoughts || Charles & Sherlock

wizardxavier:

youreawizardsherlock:

There were times when wizards had lived openly and equally with muggles. They’d been told all about it in History of Magic (when Sherlock had been paying attention) and how things changed. Muggles turning violent, fearful, seeking to destroy wizards wherever they found them. Sherlock didn’t have much faith in people in general, but he lacked the interest in those grand moral questions to have an opinion on whether it would happen again. People wee people, and they didn’t change much, but it was none of Sherlock’s concern. “I agree it could be possible,” Sherlock offered. Implausible, but not improbable, “but a fellow ‘man of science’ can’t make a claim for certain without proving it. How do you intend to do that?” He may have seemed aloof, but Sherlock was incredibly curious. Charles had caught his interest with his ideas, but also with the challenge he offered. The music in Sherlock’s mind hadn’t stopped, he didn’t trust the other to not still be listening in.

Charles smiled, he was sure now he had caught Sherlocks interest, making the conversation easier. He didn’t want to bore the other boy to death. Charles raised an eyebrow, “How do I intend to prove magic is a mutation?” he gave a small laugh, it was a rather good question,one that Charles himself was still working out. “Currently, I am working of the history of evolution, generation ideas that could explain for the phenomenon magic seems to be. I have studied mostly the works of Charles Darwin, an english naturalist. I base my claim of magic as a mutation in his theory of beneficial and harmful mutations. Obviously harmful mutations have been a challenge for many people for centuries, but beneficial mutations are hardly seen in the muggle world today, however they are not unheard of. These helpful mutations, so to speak, have proven throughout history to give a person an advantage over others, and I would say with the magical abilities we posses now we do have an advantage.Considering the knowledge that evolution and mutation push us as a race forward, otherwise we would still be single celled organisms, perhaps magic will be the path humanity follows. Although, I do not disagree with you, it is possible that only a select few will ever posses our abilities, perhaps magic as a race will eventually die out. I prefer to believe the first, humanity has always had a way of striving for greatness” Charles stopped for a moment and smiled, “However, I suppose only time will be the true test to any theory”

Sherlock gave the other boy a flat look as he explained. Of course he knew who Charles Darwin was. He may not have known who Shakespeare was until four weeks ago (plays, poetry, boring, deleted) but he wasn’t completely oblivious. Still, Charles had his own explanation to continue, and Sherlock let him talk. There was a lot of ‘perhaps’es and ‘might’s, no definites yet. Still, it was an interesting theory. As far as Sherlock knew there was no wizard group or individual who’d done in-depth research on why wizards possessed the magic they did. No one seemed to want to look the gift horse in the mouth - except Xavier.

"It sounds like you need several samples," Sherlock spoke up as soon as Charles had stopped. "Muggles and wizards - you’d have to research their genetic make up and find what makes them different. If magic is truly a mutation as you think, then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to find."

At Noon There Came A Tremor || Bruce and Sherlock

timebombteam:

"Yeah, I did," Bruce affirmed. "I haven’t had it with me for the majority of today. I wiped it clean with a cloth like every morning, went to the Great Hall…I don’t think I really used it at all today until just now." That would never narrow it down, Bruce realized, but when he looked to the younger Ravenclaw, he saw a certain scintillation in his eyes, like sparklers in the night, children running barefoot with them, their chests light with glee.

The glee was a certain thing as his house mate combed the entire room. For what, Bruce wasn’t sure, as he was also unsure of the strange request. “Stow?” he repeated. “Stow what? I barely brought anything along with me. I’ll put my stuff in my bag,” the Ravenclaw did so as he compromised,”and then we’ll head on up to the common room.”

He returned his precious ingredients to his knapsack and frowned over his ruined cauldron. It wasn’t great (another hand-me-down from his mother) but he supposed he might be able to salvage it. Bruce didn’t have any money to buy a new one, anyway, so he’d have to be able to. He shut the bag, deciding to carry his cauldron. “Ready,” he announced. “By the way,” Bruce said to the younger boy, “what’s your name? You never told me.”

Sherlock was barely listening to the first question. There wasn’t anything of note in the room, but Sherlock hadn’t expected there to be. Whomever had put the chemical in Bruce’s cauldron probably had simply gotten lucky with their timing. The only ones who would know of his cleaning routine would be his roommates, all of whom would have shown aggressive behavior by now. The person had at least known when Bruce was at breakfast, which made the odds of it being a housemate increase. That was likely the best place to start.

Straightening up with a swirl of his robes, Sherlock watched Bruce pack away his ingredients as suggested and then moved for the door. He was taking the cauldron with him instead of putting it away somewhere, which Sherlock didn’t comment on. He didn’t really care if the other boy wanted to bring it with him or not. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said with his usual dramatic flair. He opened the door and looked back at the older boy with a bit of a cheeky grin, “After you.”

Surface Thoughts || Charles & Sherlock

wizardxavier:

youreawizardsherlock:

The fingers on his forehead was a tell, Sherlock could see this. He’d been doing it before when he was trying to block out thoughts, but now there were no thoughts for Charles to block out but Sherlock’s own. He had a feeling that wasn’t what the other was doing. Sherlock’s only real defense was to ‘turn up the volume’ in a sense. Drown out his thoughts with others that masked what was going on deeper in his mind. The black-haired boy had always been good at multitasking.

The mental violinist tightened his bowstrings and began to play a familiar tune - Bartók’s Concerto Number 1. Sherlock could play the song in his sleep, and it would work as a buffer between any interloper’s and his thoughts. “You’re insinuating that magic is in the genes. Which would mean either the source of magic is genetic - which is frankly insulting to science - or that whatever allows wizards to use the magic preexisting in the world is the mutation you’re speaking of. It is possible that the appearance of that mutation will continue to become more common in muggle populations, but wizards have been present since before the dawn of civilization in some form or another and our numbers are still relatively small. Wouldn’t it be more likely to think that it will be the muggles who will one day out breed us?”

Sherlock’s own parents were muggles, and he’d found the whole concept of magic ridiculous when he’d heard it. However there’d still been that spark of wondrous child-like curiosity, the want to believe the impossible. When proven that magic was real, Sherlock had explored it to the limits of his curiosity and could now no longer imagine life without it. Even if he did miss muggle inventions. A whole planet of wizards though? That just seemed far-fetched.

Charles smiled and lowered his fingers, Sherlock was after all a genius, and not to bad at the violin. He ran a hand through his hair, “I am suggesting simply that we must consider the fact that only a select few have access to magic, and there is nothing physically or mentally superior or different than muggles that has been found of late. Perhaps we are enabled with a specific gene that allows us to use magic, just as I have a specific gene that allows me to read minds.” Charles paused and smiled again “Lovely tune by the way, although I cannot say I am gifted in that of classical violin music, I haven’t heard of Bartók’s Concerto.” he said, then continued, “It is not completely out of mind that one say we may all posses this gene, or other abilities similar to it. However I don’t see that happening in the near future, so at some point we will be require to live among the muggles as equals, allowing them the knowledge of our gifts.” 

"I assume a man of science such as yourself would disagree with my thoughts, however I do entertain the idea of mutation from evolution as a possibility for our abilities."  

There were times when wizards had lived openly and equally with muggles. They’d been told all about it in History of Magic (when Sherlock had been paying attention) and how things changed. Muggles turning violent, fearful, seeking to destroy wizards wherever they found them. Sherlock didn’t have much faith in people in general, but he lacked the interest in those grand moral questions to have an opinion on whether it would happen again. People wee people, and they didn’t change much, but it was none of Sherlock’s concern. “I agree it could be possible,” Sherlock offered. Implausible, but not improbable, “but a fellow ‘man of science’ can’t make a claim for certain without proving it. How do you intend to do that?” He may have seemed aloof, but Sherlock was incredibly curious. Charles had caught his interest with his ideas, but also with the challenge he offered. The music in Sherlock’s mind hadn’t stopped, he didn’t trust the other to not still be listening in.

This isn’t what it looks like | Sherlock and Irene

thescandalofslytherin:

youreawizardsherlock:

He wasn’t fast enough for her, and his fingertips only just brushed his wand before her hands were a vice around his wrist and his whole body was stiffening unnaturally. Sherlock went rigid, his legs snapping together and his arms freezing in place. With nothing to balance him the Ravenclaw fell to the ground, bouncing like a board and going still on her floor. His eyes could move still, and Sherlock turned them to stare at Irene on the bed. He couldn’t glare, but oh how he wanted to.

Irene gave a small smile as Sherlock hit the floor. Since he would be  unable to move now, she removed the wand from her shirt and placed it on her bed. “I have to say to say, I didn’t know you had it in you to get  forceful with me. I kind of liked it.” Irene shrugged as she walked closer to Sherlock. She stood over him with a leg on each on each side. Giving a small sigh, she sat on top of him. “I’ll be taking this.” She grinned, taking the  photo out of his chest pocket and sitting it next to her.

"Now, that that’s all over with with, what would you like to know, hmm?  Wait, what was that?" she asked, moving closer to  him as though she was trying to hear him clearly. "I can’t hear you. Here," She placed her  hand over his mouth and flicked her wand, giving him his ability to speak again."I know I don’t have to warn you, so be the good boy I know you can be." She smiled as she released her hand from his mouth.

Sherlock was furious, and not just with Irene. He was furious with himself for not defending himself against this. He shouldn’t have been so vulnerable, he shouldn’t have been caught like this. Now he was frozen, utterly so, and all he could truly do was wait for the spell to fade. His blue eyes tracked her hands as the photo was removed from his coat. He could still feel, even he couldn’t react.

Suddenly Sherlock felt his throat unfreeze, and his vocal cords flex as he breathed. Her hand was smothering Sherlock’s voice, but at least he could move his lips. “What’s stopping me from shouting for help?” he questioned. Others would have simply done it, but Sherlock was curious. She’d ‘punish’ him, but why should he care?

© theme