One Week Later
_____________

John's father spent the entire three hour drive to Baskerville's yelling at him.

First, he ranted and raved about how he always knew John would be arrested one day, that he was just "that kind of boy".

He then continued to tell John what a huge disappointment he had always been, how he wasn't good at anything, and how a loser like him would never become a doctor.

Finally, as they neared the boarding school (much to John's delight at this point), he gave John some last minute reminders.

"You better not get into any trouble while you're here," he growled. "If I receive one phone call saying you've been anything but a model student, don't bother coming home for Christmas."

Wasn't planning on it anyway, John thought. "Yes sir," he said.

"I expect you to be on the football team, and to make perfect marks in every class,"

"Yes sir."

There were more rules and expectations, but John stopped listening at that point. He simply stared out the window at the changing scenery, inserting a "yes sir" whenever his dad paused.

The town of Baskerville was much smaller and more suburban than London, with few tall buildings and lots of open space. In fact, the largest building seemed to be the boarding school itself, which John could now see clearly.

According to the brochure, the school was only four years old, and still looked quite modern. It didn't have the worn look of faded brick that John's old public school had. But to John, the brand-new, freshly painted look made the school seem all the more intimidating.

The building seemed to be an impossibly perfect 3-D rectangle, with clear-cut sides and sharp corners. The evenly spaced windows that covered the front were tinted, but the reflection of the sunlight off the glass made them appear as a million square eyes. With the huge front doors opened like an eager mouth, the school resembled a monster. It looked just like the prison John had anticipated it to be, complete with a gate around its perimeter. All it was missing was barbed wire.

John's father pulled the car up to the curb and parked it in front of a fire hydrant. Then he said something, but John didn't hear him. He had caught sight of his reflection in the windshield, reminding him that he would be starting at a new school with a black and yellow bruise covering half of his face, to match the one that extended across half his torso. At least the larger one was hidden underneath his shirt.

"Well?" Oh shit, his father had said something, hadn't he?

"W-well what?" John stammered, revealing that he hadn't been listening.

His father smacked him in the back of the head. "I said, are you going to get the hell out of my car or do I have to drag you out by your ears?!"

John quickly exited the car, racing to the back to grab his trunk before his dad could drive off with it.

The very second John had retrieved his stuff and closed up the back, his father peeled out, tires screeching, at twice the speed limit. John watched the car until it disappeared around a corner, hoping karma would take effect and his dad would get pulled over by a nearby cop.

He wasn't.

John sighed and lugged his trunk into the building, bracing himself for whatever further misfortune awaited him.

___________________________

The inside of the school was even more pristine and immaculate than the outside, which John hadn't previously thought possible. The shiny, marble floor was made up of a distinctive black and white pattern, which continued down every hallway extending from the entrance.

There was no graffiti. No signs of vandalism, or even the general wear and tear that can normally be expected from a school. There didn't even appear to be dust.

John followed the growing crowd of students to the main attraction in the entryway, which was a long table with three faculty members taking names behind it. He waited in line for the next available space.

"Last name?" The large woman behind the table asked when John reached the front.

"Watson."

She checked something off on a piece of paper, then handed him a key.

"The room number is 221 B," she said in her bored, nasally voice. "Your roommate should already be in there."

"Okay....Er, where can I find that room, exactly?"

The lady looked at him and raised her eyebrows over her thick glasses. "The first 2 means it's on the second floor. A's are on the right, B's on the left. Other than that, the numbers go in order. I'm sure you know how to count. At least, I hope so."

John blushed and mumbled a thank you. Great. He hadn't been at this school for five minutes and he'd already embarrassed himself. He could hardly wait to see what the rest of his day would be like.

___________________________

Sherlock was very pleased that he had arrived at the school before his roommate, as it allowed him first choice in his side of the room. He chose the side closest to the window so that he could smoke, which was the first thing he did there, even before he unpacked his things.

That morning's long car ride had been depressing and awkward for everyone. His father was still traumatized from the amount of money he had lost the previous week, and refused to speak to anyone. His mother had tried to make small talk, but both Mycroft and Sherlock were ignoring her out of anger. Just as they were ignoring each other.

The moment the boys were dropped off in front of the school, Mycroft had split off from his little brother without a single word. Sherlock was fairly certain that Mycroft would never speak to him again, if he could help it. That he would do everything in his power to avoid him for the entire school year, and then graduate and move somewhere far away. That he would never return, never call home, and go to his grave believing that Sherlock had ruined his life.

Not that Sherlock cared or anything.

As the boy sat by the window sill, taking drags from his cigarette, he wondered what his time at this new school would be like, and how long it would take others to decide that they hated him. It usually didn't take anyone more than a day. For whomever was unlucky enough to be his roommate, it would probably take about five minutes.

Sherlock killed time until his roommate showed up by deducing the students filing through the front doors below him. It was amazing, the details he could pick up on, even from two stories high.

He focused on one rather large teen in particular, who was currently striding into the building. Sherlock could tell by his luggage that he was extremely poor, though the way he carried himself demonstrated that he was cruel and tried much too hard to be intimidating. He wasn't sent here for harming someone else, though. Anyone that kid harmed would surely be severely injured or dead, causing the boy to be sent to an actual prison (for he looked to be at least seventeen) rather than a behavioral correction school. No, he was most likely sent here for thievery. Yes, the kid was definitely a thief. He had poor luggage, but he had a lot of it, suggesting that he was carrying more items than he could possibly afford.

Sherlock deduced all of this in three seconds, which frustrated him, as he was working on decreasing his perception time down to two seconds. Three was just pitiful.

"God, the signs were everywhere, Sherlock! Your poor deduction skills disappoint me."

Sherlock shook the memory out of his head, and took the last drag from his cigarette before throwing the remaining fragment out the window and shutting it. He then proceeded to unpack his belongings.

The chore took him all of five minutes since, although his family was rich, he really didn't own many things. Sherlock was a firm believer in only valuing the useful things in life, which left no room for sentimental bullshit like posters and picture frames. Possibly the only exception was his violin, but even that was useful. Playing it helped him concentrate. 

He would've also brought his science equipment, but his mother had forbidden him. "You'll have no more need to preform these horrid experiments of yours at Baskerville's," his mother had insisted, before packing his entire chemistry set into a box. This left him with very few items to his name.

Once his luggage was unpacked, Sherlock flopped onto his bed with his violin and started absentmindedly plucking strings. This was what he was doing when the door opened, and in walked a short, blond boy with a bruised face, who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world.

___________________________

On the way to his dorm, John wondered what kind of roommate he would have. He found himself imagining all the worst possibilities, because with his luck, he was bound to have the worst possible roommate.

Wouldn't it be just perfect if the bloke turned out to be a complete psychopath who would end up murdering him in his sleep? John laughed at the thought, but grew increasingly nervous as he approached his room.

219....220....221.

Here he was. Nothing left to do now but open the door and see what he had to deal with. So he did.

And there was his roommate.

The boy lay against the headboard of the bed closest to the window, plucking strings on a violin, looking as if the entire universe bored him. He had dark curls that fell gracefully over high cheekbones, which were partially hidden by the collar of his long, dark grey coat.

He glanced up at John when he entered, his expression of boredom seemingly permanent, his facial muscles unchanging. Except, John noticed, for his eyes. They seemed to dart around constantly in the tiniest incriments, his pupils dilating and contracting as if absorbing pieces of the environment. And when they looked at John, he almost felt as if he was being absorbed.

"Er, hi," John said, ignoring his feelings of discomfort that increased the longer the boy looked at him. "I'm John Watson, and uhh....I guess I'm your roommate."

John cringed at his own awkward introduction. It was just really hard to think straight when someone's eyes were practically boring into you.

Silence. "And you are?" John asked, wanting desperately for this kid to talk, to stand up, to do anything but keep looking at him like that. It was unsettling. He was starting to feel violated.

Finally the boy set down his instrument and stood, straightening his coat as he did so. John noticed that the boy was over a head taller than him, and impossibly thin. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, and somehow his smooth baritone did not surprise John one bit. It just seemed to fit so well with the rest of him.

John just nodded. He didn't know what to say next, so he turned to open his trunk, wincing as he did so. He had been wincing all week long, in response to the tiniest movements, but it never hurt any less.

"John, you're an idiot."

John froze in the middle of unpacking his clothes and turned around. Sherlock was giving him a look that radiated a mixture of pity and condescension. "Excuse me?" John asked. What the hell was this kid's problem?

"You have severely bruised ribs. Yet, you continue to lift heavy objects and generally treat yourself like you aren't injured. Are you sure you want to be a doctor, John? Because the fact that you seem to lack the most basic knowledge makes me wonder how you could ever manage such a profession."

John blinked. "I-I just-I....what?!"

Sherlock turned to face him then, with a look that said Are you seriously this stupid?

When John managed to find the words, he asked, "How did you know about my ribs?" John actually thought he had been hiding it quite well so far, knowing that if he so much as winced in front of his father, he would suffer even more for it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, it's obvious. Your face is bruised, and the fact that you're holding your left arm about an inch outward from how it would naturally hang by your side leads me to believe that the entire left side of your torso is bruised as well. Both bruises are about a week old and were caused by your father after you tried to run away."

"How....how did you-?"

"From what I can deduce about your personality, it's unlikely that you were sent here for anything illegal, or even immoral. Given your obviously difficult home life, a runaway attempt is the most plausible remaining option."

John knew he should probably be creeped out, but he was honestly kind of impressed. "Wow. What else can you tell about me?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John wasn't reacting the way people usually did. "Well....it's obvious that you've been abused your entire life, since your own bruises don't seem to phase you. You're used to them. Your father is the primary abuser, but your mother sits by and let's it happen. She's an alcoholic. One of your parents is bound to be, since you obviously come from the poorer side of your town and you aren't well fed because most of your family's income is spent on alcohol. The normal assumption is that the father is the alcoholic, but no, those bruises are too well-aimed for a drunk man to have made. That leaves your mother. But that's not all is it? No, you also have a troubled sibling. Most likely an older sister-"

"Stop, stop!" John interrupted, and Sherlock believed that he had finally crossed the line. There was always a line with people, and Sherlock could never tell where it was, nor did he usually care. But instead of telling Sherlock to piss off, John said, "I can maybe guess how you assumed the rest, but how can you possibly know that I have an older sister?"

Sherlock was confused. How could he not know? It was so obvious. "I know you have a sibling because if you didn't, you would've tried running away a lot sooner. I know she's a girl because brothers tend to be more protective of their sisters, but if she were younger than you then you never would've tried to run away for fear that she would be hurt. Finally, I can assume that she's troubled (most likely on drugs) because it was your growing resentment towards her that finally convinced you to leave."

John stood there in disbelief for several seconds. "That's...."

Sherlock braced himself for the worst.

"....brilliant."

Wait....what?

"That's not what people usually say."

"Really?" said John, looking genuinely surprised. "What do people usually say?"

Before Sherlock could answer, an announcement came on over the loudspeaker. It was the headmaster, welcoming everyone to Baskerville's and informing them that there would be a mandatory assembly that afternoon, but that classes wouldn't start until 8 am tomorrow.

"Wow, first day is a day off," said John. "I'm liking this school already."

His voice was so heavy with sarcasm, however, that Sherlock almost laughed. He didn't though. He didn't want John to start considering him a friend, or even a decent person. Just because this boy didn't seem as repulsed by first meeting him as most people did, did not mean that his opinion wouldn't change eventually. Anyway, Sherlock wasn't here to make friends. He was here to serve a prison sentence for his parents (and hopefully get into just enough trouble to keep himself from dying of boredom).

Neither boy said anything for a while, so John resumed unpacking his things, and Sherlock continued tuning his violin.

A moment later, however, John turned back to Sherlock. "Okay, one last thing," he said. "How did you know I want to be a doctor when I grow up?"

Sherlock scoffed at the boy, who was obviously expecting another long and complicated answer. "John, when you opened your trunk I saw three different books on human anatomy. I'm sure even someone with the mental capacity of a hedgehog could've made the same assumption."

Both boys once again resumed their tasks, being left to wonder in silence whether or not they liked the other.

___________________________

Meanwhile, in room 215 B, Mycroft Holmes stared intently at the letter he was writing and tried desperately to ignore his roommate, who was chattering away as if he believed Mycroft to be listening.

"I'm so glad this is my last year. I've literally been going here since the year this school was built! I hate it," Lestrade complained. Mycroft knew his last name, but he couldn't quite recall his first. He was about 89% sure it was Gavin. Whatever his name, Mycroft wished he would shut up. He was working on something that required his full attention, and did not care for distractions.

"I mean, I thought I'd get out of coming back this year, but my dad's being a total dick," Gavin continued. "He says that sending me away has been the best thing for the entire family. And the worst part is that I never even did anything wrong! I don't deserve to be in here. My father claims that I'm 'disrespectful' which is a load of bullshit. He's just pissed that I don't want to be a stupid police chief, like him. I want to be something better! I-"

Mycroft couldn't take it anymore. He looked up from his work and at the muscular, brown haired boy across the room, who was pacing back and forth as he ranted. "You know Gavin, as much I've thoroughly enjoyed hearing about your daddy issues for the past ten minutes, I would like it very much if you'd shut the hell up now. In case you didn't notice, I'm busy."

Gavin stared at Mycroft, and looked for a second like he would snap back at him. But then, to Mycroft's surprise, he sighed and nodded.

"You're right," he said, rubbing his neck in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. You hardly know me, and I've been unloading all my crap on you. It's just that....sorry. I-I'll shut up now. But by the way, my name is-"

"Good," Mycroft said, going back to his letter. He was almost finished with it, but he couldn't remember how to write mutually assured destruction in Korean. Frustrated with himself, he moved to consult his dictionary, only to find Gavin standing right by his desk, attempting to read over his shoulder.

"Woah, how the hell did you learn how to write in Chinese?!" The boy asked, his voice full of awe.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't bother correcting him. The funny thing was that Mycroft knew twenty different languages, but Mandarin Chinese was not one of them. That one was Sherlock's.

Mycroft still remembered that day in early primary school, when he and his brother decided that the two of them were going to master every single language in the world together (not anticipating at the time how impossible that would be). Since the Asian languages were so difficult for them, the boys decided to split them up. Sherlock got Mandarin, Hindi and most of the western Asian languages, while Mycroft chose Japanese, Korean, and most of the eastern ones. He also chose Russian, but both boys ended up learning that one.

Mycroft pushed away the stupid memory and continued flipping through his book of advanced Korean syntax.

"Oh, it's Korean," Gavin remarked, noticing the book. "All those Asian languages look the same to me."

Mycroft continued to ignore his roommate.

"What are you writing that for anyway? What does it all say?"

For God's sake, could this kid not take a hint?

"I'm afraid that's classified information, Gavin," Mycroft replied, hoping it would shut him up. Of course, it didn't. The boy just laughed, causing Mycroft to raise an eyebrow. Did he think he was joking?

"Come on, Myc, what's it say?"

Myc? No one had called him that since he was twelve, and had threatened to rip out the tongue of anyone who used that nickname any longer. "My name is not Myc," he said with disgust.

"Well my name isn't Gavin," the boy replied, matter-of-factly. "It's Greg."

Oh.

"Well Greg, if you must know, I'm writing a letter to the current leader of North Korea regarding his request for nuclear weapons. The fate of the world kind of depends on it, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it."

Greg's eyes widened, but then he chuckled nervously. "You're still joking, right?"

"On the contrary, I have not told one joke for the duration of this useless conversation."

"Oh, please!" Greg strode back over to his side of the room and flopped onto his bed with a sports magazine. "Why on earth would a Korean dictator write to a random teenager in England asking for nukes?"

Because I may or may not infiltrate terrorist organizations when I'm bored. "I'm afraid that's classified information."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Do you realise how insane you sound right now? What, are you in the secret service or something?"

"I'm afraid that's-"

"Yeah yeah, I get it. Shit's classified." Greg chuckled once more, and resumed reading his magazine.

The fact that Greg seemed to think Mycroft was crazy shouldn't have irked him, but for some reason it did. He found himself actually caring what the boy thought of him, which annoyed him even more.

What was with all these emotions all of a sudden? Maybe he was still frustrated about his fight with Sherlock, making him predisposed to be irritated in situations that he normally wouldn't care about. Yes, that was probably it.

Mycroft would never admit this, but he hated fighting with his brother. Even now, when he felt that he had a legitimate reason to be angry, Mycroft hated this fight. Not enough that he would do something ludicrous like apologize, of course, but it still bothered him. And he did regret what he had said to Sherlock the other night.

Mycroft knew his brother very well. He was extremely clever, even more so than Mycroft in some areas, but he was also extremely sensitive. Sherlock cared about much more than he would ever allow even himself to believe. Consequently, he tended to let certain things make him upset, and always found ways to punish himself for it. Whether it was by not eating or not sleeping, or even harming himself "for experiments", an upset Sherlock was dangerous, and it was Mycroft's job to protect him from himself.

He groaned, putting his head in his hands. There were certain times when Mycroft wished that he could un-genius both Sherlock and himself. He knew that most of their major problems would disappear if they became just as stupid as the rest of the world, particularly whatever made it difficult for them to deal with emotions. That was why Mycroft had always taught Sherlock not to care; things were just easier that way.

"You should really follow your own advice." Sherlock had said to him that night.

But Mycroft couldn't. Because there was one person in this world that Mycroft cared about very much, and that was his little brother Sherlock.

"Hey," the voice of his roommate interrupted his thoughts, and Mycroft raised his head. "It's almost time for that mandatory assembly. You ready to go?"

"I'm not going," Mycroft replied, curtly.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You do know what mandatory means, right? You have to go."

Mycroft actually snorted. "So? What are they going to do if I don't, expel me? Ooh, I'm shaking in my trousers. If you're so concerned, you go. Just leave me be."

Greg looked like he wanted to protest further, but apparently decided against it, because he just shrugged and left.

Mycroft was glad when he was gone. That Greg Lestrade was truly one of the dumbest, most distracting people he has ever had the misfortune of meeting. He wondered if there was any way he could request a new room, by himself.

After Mycroft finished his letter, he walked over to the window and tapped on it twice, then three more times.

Two stories down, a man dressed in camouflage to blend in with the bushes revealed himself. Then, after triple checking to make sure the coast was clear, Mycroft dropped the letter out the window and the man caught it. He then gave the teen a brief salute before racing off to his next destination.

Mycroft shut the window and sighed, collapsing onto his bed. That's it, Mycroft, he told himself, That's the last underground business you're going to participate in while you're at this school. No more foreign affairs. No more trouble. That was the last time.

"No it wasn't," he said aloud. There was no point in lying to himself.

Then, realizing that he hadn't slept properly in over a week, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off to be free from his own mind.