John was awakened early the next morning not at 7, but at 4:30 am; and not by the sound of his alarm, but by the smooth, bold melody of a violin.

The first thing John noticed was that it was possibly the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. The way the bow seemed to gently kiss the strings, producing long, silky notes was perfection, and might've lulled John back to sleep....had it not been so terribly loud.

The second thing he noticed was that it was still dark out, and he was still extremely tired. Had it been later in the day, or earlier that night, or basically any time but the wee hours of the morning, John might've sat back and enjoyed the beautiful sound. But at four-fucking-thirty in the morning, he wished he had a rock to throw at his roommate.

He settled for a pillow, which hit Sherlock square in the violin-playing arm.

"Aah! What the hell John? Do you mind?"

John sat up and turned on his lamp, hardly able to believe his ears. "Do I mind?! What about you?! Do you know what time it is???!!"

Sherlock moved to check the clock by his bed. "It appears to be....4:32 in the morning. Why, do you have an appointment or something?"

John sputtered in anger and disbelief. "I- you- how can....do you even-ugh!" Unable to form a proper sentence, John just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued playing his violin. Until about ten seconds later.

BANG BANG BANG. The sound of an angry fist beating on their door made both boys jump, Sherlock nearly dropping his instrument. "OI! KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF, WOULD YOU? PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"

Sherlock just scoffed, and was about to continue playing when John marched over to his side of the room and yanked the violin out of his hands. "Enough," he said, firmly.

Sherlock groaned loudly. This John Watson kid was as bad as his parents. He assumed the next thing he would do was lecture him about the concept of "having consideration for others".

But instead, John set the instrument down and sat on Sherlock's bed. "What's the matter with you?" He asked, sounding more concerned than annoyed. "Can't sleep or something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. If I could sleep, I'd be sleeping."

"Okay," John replied, ignoring his roommate's condescending tone. "Why can't you sleep?"

"Bored."

"It's four-thirty in the morning. Why are you bored?"

"I......"

Sherlock paused. It was one of the first times in his life when he was at a loss for words. No one- literally no one- had ever asked him this many 'why' questions before (unless it was "why are you so horrible?!"). Nobody ever seemed to care why he could never sleep, or why he was constantly bored. It had always been "Sherlock, stop playing the violin at four a.m.!" or "Sherlock, stop sneaking down to the police station and annoying the nice officers!" or "Sherlock, stop stealing from our bank account and using the money to buy cocaine!"

Nobody ever asked why.

"Because...." He began, wondering how he could phrase his answer without sounding insane- and then wondering why he suddenly cared what someone else thought.

"Life is boring," he finally said. "People and classes and the whole goddamn world. It's all so mundane and repetitive, and my brain is-" he stopped suddenly. What the hell was he doing? He had just met this boy yesterday, and he was about to bare his goddamn soul to him? No way.

"You know what? Never mind." He almost growled, angry that he had allowed himself to believe that someone cared about him. Even for a second. "Just go back to bed."

"Hang on now," John said, grabbing the boy's shoulder before he turned away. Sherlock froze at his touch. "I want to know. Besides, I'm already awake. Just tell me."

"It's not important," Sherlock replied, curtly. "I just get bored. What, you never get bored?"

"Not at four-thirty in the morning, I don't-"

"Oh for god's sake, will you quit obsessing over the time!" Sherlock snapped. "It's not even four thirty anymore! It's, like, six minutes past!"

For some reason, this made John laugh, which confused Sherlock even more. Why the bloody hell was this kid so nice? He had no logical reason to be, seeing as how he had obviously been bullied and abused his entire life. According to basic psychology, this should have made John a bitter, cruel bully himself. But somehow, it hadn't.

"Alright," John said, throwing his hands in the air, but still smiling. "If you insist, I'll leave you alone."

But suddenly, Sherlock wished he wouldn't. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself wanting to talk to him more. To find out more about his mysterious personality.

But he said nothing as John turned off his lamp and crawled back into bed. He just glanced at his violin, considering picking it up once more, but then deciding against it. It worked with boredom and thinking, but not with feelings. What exactly was he feeling, anyway?

Lacking the willpower to deduce himself at the moment, Sherlock just crawled back into bed and continued not sleeping.

___________________________

When John woke up to his actual alarm a few hours later, he found Sherlock dressed and lying on his bed, with his fingers steepled over his chin. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He looked to be in deep concentration.

Did he sleep at all last night? John wondered, but decided not to ask.

After he was dressed but before he headed down to breakfast, he tried to get Sherlock's attention. "Erm...I'm heading down to eat. You coming?"

The boy didn't answer. He appeared to be muttering to himself, completely lost in thought. John sighed. "Sherlock," he said a bit louder. Still nothing.

"Sherlock!"

The boy jumped and looked around frantically, as if unsure of where he was. He then glanced at John in surprise. "I thought you went back to bed."

"It's morning, Sherlock."

He looked out the window. "Oh," he said simply.

"I'm, uh....going down to breakfast. You coming?" John repeated, since he had clearly not heard the first time.

Sherlock stared at him, seeming confused. As if he had never been invited to join anyone anywhere before. John suddenly wondered if he had.

Then he shrugged. "Alright."

He followed John out the door, but somehow ended up leading the way. John thought it was strange how Sherlock seemed to know exactly how to get to the dining hall without making a single wrong turn, even though his first day here had been yesterday. But then again, there were a lot of strange things about this boy, and his strong sense of direction certainly wasn't the strangest.

At the dining hall, John grabbed a tray of food and then joined Sherlock at an empty table. "You're not going to eat?" John asked, noticing that Sherlock hadn't gotten anything.

The boy just shrugged.

"Come on, you've got to eat something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day-"

"I find it boring and overrated," Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes. "The ridiculous notion of it being the most important is nothing more than breakfast cereal propaganda."

John was about to argue this point when another boy dropped himself down into the seat across from him. Actually, 'boy' seemed like the wrong word to use for this monster of a teenager. He was huge and had a shaved head, dark circles under his eyes, and a scowl on his face.

"Someone told me that you two came out of room 221B," the boy growled at them in a tone that could make a grown man piss in his trousers. John was about ready to do just that as those dark eyes bored into him. Amidst his own panic, he recognized the voice as the one that had screamed at Sherlock the previous night.

When neither of them answered (John because he wasn't able, and Sherlock because he simply did not care) the monster boy continued. "I was just wondering which of you was the insufferable prick who decided to grace the entire floor with a fucking orchestra performance at four in the morning. I'd like to beat the living daylights out of you." He cracked his knuckles as he waited for an answer.

"I-I um, I-" John stammered. The large teen, maybe three or four times his size, was staring down at him as several bullies had done before. Being short, poor, and assumed gay by everyone, John had been beat up quite a bit at his old school. Wishing to get a fresh start, he was not ready to make enemies on his first day someplace new. He wanted to go just one year without trouble.

"You going to answer me?" The terrifying teen asked. "Or do I have to kick both your arses?"

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed, much to John's disbelief. "You use your size for intimidation, but you've never fought anyone in your life."

The large boy narrowed his eyes, but John thought he saw a glimpse of panic in them. "You don't know me," he said. "You don't know why I was sent here-"

"Petty theft," Sherlock interrupted. "You're an undiagnosed kleptomaniac with dead parents and no friends. You were sent here by your grandparents who thought this place would help you learn to control your thievery. Little do they know you also suffer from a deeply rooted psychological need for control, possibly contributing to your stealing impulse as well as to your desire for threatening people and making them scared of you. However, you would never actually hurt anyone, mainly because of your fear of failure, and I suggest you quit wasting your breath by trying to convince me otherwise."

John stared at Sherlock in awe, and the large boy looked for a second- unbelievably- like he was about to cry. Instead, he grabbed John's tray of food and dumped it on Sherlock's head before racing out of the dining hall.

Several surrounding students were unable to believe the sight: a humongous bully running away in tears from two scrawny losers who hadn't thrown a single punch.

Sherlock sighed as he pulled scrambled eggs from out of his dark curls, not even bothering to go to the bathroom. He acted as if it was a normal, if slightly annoying occurrence to have school breakfast in his hair.

"How...how do you do that?" John asked, his voice full of amazement.

"Do what?"

"You know what. Figure out things about people like that, just by looking at them."

"....Oh." Sherlock had actually assumed John was asking him how he managed to be such an annoying prick, which he had been asked countless times by a variety of different people. "It's really quite easy, actually. It's just simple deduction-" Sherlock stopped with the realization that he was being modest, something he had probably never been before in his life.

"Well I think it's brilliant," John said with a huge grin.

Sherlock felt himself flush with pride, but tried his best to hide it. "I made most of those deductions yesterday when I saw him out the window. It also helps that bullies are quite possibly the most predictable people on the planet."

John chuckled. "If you say so. Hey, don't you want to go wash that stuff out of your hair?"

But before Sherlock could answer, the first bell rang. He left the table with John, pausing only to dunk his hair under the water fountain really quick. Then, both boys consulted their schedules.

"Oh neat, we have chemistry together first class," John remarked excitedly. The taller boy just nodded, still unable to believe that he had met someone who seemed excited to be around him.

They shared a smile before heading off to class together.

___________________________

Having skipped breakfast that morning, Mycroft had missed the episode that had occurred with the bully and his younger brother. However, it wasn't hard to deduce once he walked into chemistry and saw Sherlock's damp hair and slightly flushed face.

"Getting into trouble this soon in the school year, Sherlock?" Mycroft remarked to him, taking a seat behind and to the right of his brother, so that they were diagonal (the better to keep an eye on him).

"I thought you weren't speaking to me." Sherlock muttered without turning around. The short blond boy to his left did turn, however.

"I assume we'll have to speak eventually, seeing as how we're in the same chemistry class."

"And how the hell did that happen?" Sherlock was indignant. "You're three years above me."

"Every class here is remedial, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, obviously angry about this as well. "They don't offer Advanced Physics."

"I'm sorry," the blond boy spoke up. "Who are you?"

"John, this is my arch nemesis, Mycroft," Sherlock responded, glaring at his brother.

Mycroft nodded to John. "Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you."

This was a lie. He was never pleased to meet anyone. Mycroft hated people.

"Holmes?" John's eyes darted back and forth between the two brothers. "So you two are-"

"Unfortunately," they both said simultaneously.

It was at that moment that the second bell rang and the burly teacher walked in. "Good morning class," his voice boomed, silencing those still talking. "I am Mr. Dixon. We're going to get started right away, but first I want to make one thing clear."

He stood right in front of his desk and scanned the room, managing to meet the eye of every single student with his hard gaze. "You were all sent to this school for a reason. You are all ungrateful, uneducated, disrespecting little creeps who think themselves to be above the law. That's why your parents sent you here. And you know what? I don't give a damn whether this school fixes you or not. I still get my paycheck.

"However," he paused to meet the eyes of some of the students who looked especially troublesome. "I hope you know that I do not tolerate any funny business in my classroom. I don't care what you get away with anywhere else, it will not fly in here. No warnings. No second chances. Understood?"

Nobody answered. Mycroft could tell that he was one of those teachers who never asked a question that wasn't rhetorical. He didn't care what anyone else thought, ever.

"Good," Mr. Dixon nodded in approval. "Now, open your textbooks to page 394-" he began, turning towards the blackboard, only to be hit in the back of the head with a ball of paper the moment he did so. "Hey!" He yelled, turning back immediately. "Who threw that?!"

Sherlock joined the other students in looking around the room for the culprit, although both Mycroft and John had seen him do it.

Mycroft smirked, despite himself. He hadn't been in a class with his younger brother since that year in primary school when everyone had to learn the recorder (which had taken both boys about sixty seconds). He had forgotten how much Sherlock enjoyed disrespecting teachers. It was really quite entertaining.

When no one could answer Mr. Dixon's question, he just sneered. "If that ever happens again, the whole class gets detention!" He yelled before turning back to the blackboard.

Sherlock reached for something else to throw but John stopped him. "No."

"But John, I'm bored," the tall boy whispered.

"No, Sherlock."

The rest of the period passed by uneventfully.

___________________________

Sherlock had four classes with John: chemistry, English, maths, and Behavioral Correction. That last one- a required class that was supposed to teach every student how to "be a better person"- sounded like the most boring thing in the known universe to Sherlock. He was glad to have John to keep him company.

The "classroom" looked more like a lounge room than anything else, only there weren't any chairs. Just several cushions set up in a circle on the floor. Their teacher, a young blonde woman named Miss Sandy, sat in the middle of the circle, appearing to be dressed for yoga. Sherlock hoped to god that wasn't what they were doing.

"Good afternoon, students," Miss Sandy spoke in a soft voice as John, Sherlock, and various young lawbreakers sat on the floor around her. "Welcome to behavioral correction class. I look forward to working with all of you" She smiled around the room at everyone, but it looked extremely forced. Sherlock noticed her left eye twitch. "Throughout the year, we will work on building character and self confidence, practicing restraint and kindness, and enriching your....wonderful personalities."

I may vomit, Sherlock thought, unable to refrain from deducing the woman. Bitter, divorced, and possibly the phoniest person he had ever laid eyes on. Ah well. She's so full of shit, it'll be easy to ignore her. At least this isn't a yoga class.

"We're going to start off with some breathing exercises. Everyone close your eyes."

Oh, what fresh hell is this? Sherlock glanced over at John and was pleased to see his look of revulsion. He didn't like this anymore than Sherlock did.

Unbelievably, they were the only two who didn't follow Miss Sandy's instructions. Sherlock was disappointed at the compliance of most of the teenagers in this place. Where was everyone's rebellious spirit?

"Take a deep breath in," Miss Sandy commanded. "One...two...three. And let it out. Feel all the stress just drift away...."

Sherlock mimed throwing up into his lap, and John had to suppress a giggle. Then, Sherlock motioned to the open door. Let's get out of here, he mouthed.

John glanced around the circle nervously, but everyone was still breathing deeply with their eyes closed. "Now imagine that you're lying on a beach," Miss Sandy was saying.

John grimaced and nodded at Sherlock. Together, the boys stood up from their cushions and silently creeped out the door.

They waited until they were a safe distance down the hall, and Miss Sandy's phony-soothing voice had faded out of earshot, to let out the breaths they were holding.

"Wow, what a load of crap," John remarked, chuckling. "They actually think that's supposed to fix behavioral problems?"

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock agreed. "That's a class I won't be attending again."

"Think we can get away with it?" John asked, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at the way he said "we". As if it was just implied that they would be ditching class together. As if they were, dare he think it, friends.

"Please," Sherlock responded. "Security here is a joke and the teachers are all idiots."

"You seem to think that about everyone, though," John commented.

"Yeah, well practically everyone is."

John didn't respond, leaving Sherlock to wonder if he had just offended him.

They were mostly quiet until they reached their dorm, having left from their last class of the day. It was there that John broke the silence. "Hey, so I've been wondering....what exactly are you here for? I mean, it's fine if you don't want to answer, but you already know so much about me and....well, I don't know anything about you. Except that you tend to piss people off."

Sherlock smirked, but didn't answer his question right away. For a minute, he considered lying to John, or just not telling him. He didn't want his roommate and possible new friend to look at him differently. Normally he wouldn't care, but....this boy was different. For one thing, he had known Sherlock for over 24 hours and still didn't hate him, which was a new record. And for another, Sherlock actually enjoyed his company as well, which was an even rarer occurrence.

Finally, he decided that if John was going to judge him, it would be better to end this friendship now. "I attempted to purchase several grams of cocaine through the black market, only to find out my drug dealer was an undercover cop."

Unexpectedly, John burst out laughing. "No, seriously Sherlock. What are you here for?"

Sherlock stared. "That is the reason. Why do you not believe me?"

"Because what the hell would a fourteen year old genius want with cocaine?"

"It was for an experiment!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration. "Why can nobody understand that?"

John shook his head, chuckling. "You....are one interesting person, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock paused. What was that? An insult? A compliment? If it was the latter, did that make them friends? How long were two people required to know each other before they became friends? He needed to ponder this further.

He sat back on his bed and arranged himself in his classic mind palace position, with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled just below his lips. But before he could begin to think-

"Hey Sherlock, do you-"

"Rule number one of living with me, John: do not speak to me when I'm in my mind palace," Sherlock stated without opening his eyes.

"Your what?"

"My mind palace, John, I'm quite sure I didn't stutter. If you're going to be an idiot, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the room."

The young genius then receded into the deep recesses of his mind, and John was left to wonder why the hell he liked this kid so much, seeing as how he could be kind of a dick.

But the fact was, he did like him. For whatever reason, John liked Sherlock a lot.

___________________________

Mycroft was pleased to discover that he had no more classes with his brother. He did, however, have two classes with Greg Lestrade: European History and French, in both of which Greg insisted on sitting next to Mycroft.

It annoyed the older Holmes boy immensely that Lestrade seemed to think being roommates automatically made them friends. He thought of voicing this complaint in third period history, when Lestrade's constant jabbering made it difficult for Mycroft to pretend to pay attention, but....something about the way Greg smiled when he talked to him, something Mycroft couldn't quite explain, made him reluctant to say anything that might hurt his feelings.

His last class of the day was French, a class that Mycroft had only signed up for because a foreign language was required for his grade level. Since he was already fluent in French, he decided that this would be the class where he would conduct important business....or maybe just let his mind drift off for awhile.

That is, until he saw Greg motioning him towards a seat in the back.

Mycroft sighed. That's it. I will get nothing done in here, will I? So much for giving my mind a break.

"Hey Myc," Greg greeted him with a wink, receiving a glare from Mycroft. "Where were you at lunch?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Come on Myc, what were you doing?"

"Call me Myc again and I definitely won't tell you."

The boy ruffled his own brown hair, something he seemed to do when irritated. "Alright then Mycroft," he sighed. "Where were you?"

"I was emailing my secretary important information to send to my supervisor in Russia regarding our engagement in Hong Kong, that's all."

"Oh, that's all?" Greg questioned with raised eyebrows. "I thought it'd be something interesting." He chuckled at his own sarcasm as the teacher greeted the class in French, beginning their lesson.

At the end of the class, the teacher gave them all ten minutes to work
on their homework, but Mycroft was already finished. He pulled out his phone.

"How are you finished already?" Greg whispered in frustration. "I cant even translate the first question-"

"Christ, Lestrade. It's simple conjugation," Mycroft replied without looking up from his screen. "Do you have trouble finding your way to the toilet at night, as well?"

"Oh, well excuse me mister smart arse," Greg snapped. "Not all of us can be international spies, or whatever the hell you are."

Mycroft said nothing, completely absorbed in his phone.

Both boys were silent for awhile until Greg finally couldn't take it anymore. "Alright, what the bloody hell are you doing now?" He whispered angrily.

"It's crucial international business involving Afghanistan and nuclear weapons," Mycroft recited, still not looking up from his phone. "I'm currently in a heated texting debate with Osama Bin Laden, who is intent on killing American President Roosevelt and taking over the Western Hemisphere unless I supply Al Qaeda with nukes."

Greg's eyes widened. "Really???"

Mycroft sighed. "No Lestrade, I'm playing angry birds." He showed Greg his screen which indeed featured an angry birds level.

Greg blushed furiously. "Oh."

"Greg, you're an idiot."

"I know-"

"I was holding my phone sideways."

"...Some people text sideways."

"Also, there were several things wrong with that statement."

"Yes, I realise this now, thanks-"

"Roosevelt was several presidents ago and Bin Laden is dead-"

"Yeah, I get it Mycroft, I'm an idiot-"

"A complete and utter imbecile."

The bell rang then, and both boys stayed seated, glaring at each other. Three seconds later, they busted out laughing. They laughed so hard they fell out of their seats, and the French teacher glared at them until they left.

They continued laughing all the way to their room, when they had to pull themselves together because they were both too weak from laughter to unlock the door.

When they were finally in their room, Mycroft dried his eyes. "Oh dear lord, why was that so funny?"

Greg shrugged, still chuckling himself. "I don't know," he breathed, wiping away a tear. "I've never laughed at someone calling me an idiot before."

"You know something...." Mycroft came to a sudden realization. "I don't think I've ever really laughed before."

Greg looked shocked. "At all?"

"I'm sure I've sneered. Chuckled, maybe. But never laughed."

"Not even when you were a toddler?" Greg asked, skeptically.

"Oh, heavens no. I found peek-a-boo redundant and extremely tedious, and I told my father so."

"Yeah, that sounds like you," Greg smirked. "Hey, so can you help me with my French homework now?"

"Only if you can tell me who the current president of America is."

"Hmm," Greg pondered the question. "Will I get credit for being in the right century? Because I'm, like, ninety-five percent sure it's Clinton."

Mycroft laughed out loud and passed Greg his French notes, forgetting for a moment that he had ever found the boy annoying.