"So, do you have a girlfriend?" John asked Sherlock the next day at breakfast, to start a conversation. John had noticed that his new friend wasn't much of a conversation starter, as he spent most of his time studying random people or otherwise just staring off into space in his "mind palace". There was a lot that John wondered about him, one being his relationship status.

Not for any reason, of course. Just curiosity.

"Not really my area," Sherlock responded, without elaboration.

"Oh...." John cleared his throat. "Do you, uh, do you have a boyfriend then?"

Sherlock stared at him, his smokey grey eyes doing the thing where they seemed to be absorbing him. John shifted in his seat.

"No," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm much too involved with my work to engage in ludicrous activities such as dating." John couldn't help but notice that he did not hear an 'I'm not gay.'

"Really?" John asked. "What work is this?"

"I solve cases."

"Cases?" John asked. "What, like crimes?"

"Exactly."

"Wow, that's interesting. Where do you find them?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He still wasn't entirely sure whether or not he could trust this boy, however much he enjoyed his company. He decided to take the risk. "I hacked into Scotland Yard's database of unsolved case files when I was ten. I've been solving those in my spare time ever since, anonymously sending them my results, but they never take them seriously."

John just stared at him in shock. 

"Other than that....I generally just wait around for something exciting to happen," Sherlock admitted.

"That is....wow."

John was in awe, and Sherlock just didn't understand. "Why do you do that?" He blurted out, suddenly.

"Do what?"

"React like that," said Sherlock. "As if you don't think I'm a freak-"

"You're not a freak," John told him. "You're the most clever person I've ever met."

Sherlock was speechless, but didn't get a chance to respond before a large hand picked up John's tray of pancakes and sausage and dumped it over Sherlock's head.

Their bully was back.

"Hey! Why do you have to do that?!" John yelled, as Sherlock sighed and scraped the food out of his hair. Pancakes. That's a first.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the boy responded, sarcastically. "I just liked the way breakfast looked on you so much yesterday that I wanted to see it again." He shoved Sherlock off his chair and to the floor. "Prick."

"Leave him alone!" John demanded, standing up to....well, he wasn't really sure what he was going to do, but nobody pushed his friends around!

"It's alright, John," said Sherlock. "He'll leave once he feels that he's adequately asserted his dominance-"

"Quit using those fancy words!" The bully bellowed. "What, you think you're better than me? I can kick your arse, and I will!"

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock challenged confidently, as if he had not just been doused in breakfast by a boy three times his size.

Unexpectedly, the large kid grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar. Before either Sherlock or John could react, however, a loud voice rang out from across the room.

"Oi! Viktor!"

The bully looked up at the older, brown haired boy making his way toward them. "What's gotten into you, mate? Put that poor kid down!"

Surprisingly, the bully (who's name was apparently Viktor) obliged, dropping Sherlock back into his chair. Sherlock straightened the wrinkles out of his coat, glaring up at Viktor.

Their savior put his arm around the bully's shoulder (with some effort, since he was quite a bit shorter). "Now Viktor, we've talked about this," he said. "You can't be on the team if you keep getting into trouble, and I can't lose another good player. Now beat it before a teacher sees you."

Viktor mumbled a halfhearted apology before lumbering away.

"Sorry about him," the older boy said. "He's got quite a temper. I'm Greg, by the way. Greg Lestrade."

"Nice to meet you Graham," said Sherlock absentmindedly, still staring intently after Viktor. Greg opened his mouth to correct him, but John spoke first.

"Lestrade?" John said, remembering that name. "I've met your dad. He was the one who, well, arrested me."

"Did he?" Greg replied. "Well I apologise if he was a dick. I can assure you I'm not like him."

"Obviously," Sherlock interjected. "You strive to be exactly the opposite of your father, in fact. You spent your childhood-"

"Sherlock," John cut him off. "You've really got to stop doing that. That's kind of the reason you already have an enemy on the second day of school."

"Oh believe me, I have more than one," said Sherlock, almost proudly. "You should've heard me in history class yesterday."

Greg, meanwhile, was cocking his head at Sherlock in a curious way. "Are you by any chance familiar with Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock grimaced. "He's my brother," he responded with distaste.

"Yeah I would've guessed that. He's my roommate," Greg said with a smile. "Anyway, again, sorry about Viktor. I hope once football tryouts start he won't be so easily pissed off."

John suddenly remembered one of the things his father had demanded he do while at this school. "Hey, when do those start by the way?" He asked.

"Next week," Greg replied, eyeing John questionably. "No offense little guy, but are you sure you're interested? A lot of our players are pretty big, and you're....well."

"I know," John said, not at all offended. "My dad wants me to. He thinks being in a sport is a sign of manliness, or whatever. Bottom line, I've got no choice in the matter."

"I'm sorry," said Greg, sympathetically. "My dad's a controlling bastard too. "

The bell rang and Greg bid them farewell. "See you around, er..."

"Oh. Uh, John," John replied. "And this is Sherlock," he motioned to his friend who stood silently beside him.

"Right. Catch you later John and Sherlock," he waved at them as he headed off to class.

The two boys walked to chemistry, with Sherlock still picking bits of pancake out of his hair. "You're lucky I don't like syrup with those," John said, reaching over and running his fingers through Sherlock's curls in an effort to dislodge remaining crumbs.

As John's fingers brushed through his hair, Sherlock felt himself shudder involuntarily. He froze in the middle of the hallway. What the bloody hell was that?

"Sherlock?" John said, noticing that the boy had stopped. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock honestly wasn't sure. He had never felt anything like that before. What was that? "Yes...yes I'm fine." He continued walking, extremely grateful that John hadn't seemed to notice Sherlock's involuntary response to his touch.

And indeed, John hadn't noticed, for he was too busy pondering the shudder that had run through his own body as he had run his hand through Sherlock's silky smooth curls.

___________________________

No no no no no no.

That was all Mycroft could think as he typed furiously on his laptop, waiting for chemistry class to start. A few kids had given him strange looks, but he was quite used to these and was able to ignore them completely. It also helped that all of his attention was focused completely on the horrifying message his supervisor had just sent to him via coded email.

This can't be happening. Not here. He can't be here, Mycroft panicked internally as he hammered back a response with less than his usual calm demeanor.

His boss had made it quite clear that Mycroft had no choice in the matter, that to refuse would be in violation of his contract, but Mycroft didn't care. To do this would not only be putting himself and half the students in this school in grave danger (this alone Mycroft could live with), but his little brother as well. And that's where he drew the line.

Just as he was ending the letter with a suggestion as to where exactly his boss could stick their contract, a familiar voice made him jump. "Christ, Mycroft what have you gotten yourself into now?"

Mycroft whirled around in his seat to find Sherlock and his clueless blond friend staring intently over his shoulder. Mycroft slammed his laptop shut, scowling at them. "That is no concern of yours," he said, trying to sound as his usual self, but was embarrassed to hear his voice shake.

"You don't sound very composed, brother," said Sherlock, looking both curious and amused. "Has that job of yours finally become more than you can handle?"

Mycroft's response was cut off by the sound of the late bell, so he just shot Sherlock a contemptuous glare, hiding his laptop under his desk before Mr. Dixon could see it and confiscate it.

Sherlock, meanwhile, took his seat and began to contemplate what little of Mycroft's letter he had been able to decipher, trying to figure out what, indeed, his brother had gotten himself into now.

"What was that about?" John whispered to him as Dixon began his lecture.

"As far as I can tell, he's been asked to do something he's not okay with, which is surprising when you consider that my brother has very few morals-"

"Yes, but what did you mean his job?" John asked.

"Oh, that....well, while he's never admitted to anything, I think it's fair to deduce from what I know that he's a member of a secret international intelligence agency," Sherlock responded, in a low voice.

"Um....what?" John said, for he could think of nothing else.

"I know, and to think they turned me down."

John was taken aback. "Really? That's bullshit. You're a bloody genius. Any secret agency would be lucky to have you."

"I know," said Sherlock. "But they said my 'maturity level needs work', which is complete and utter nonsense-"

"Excuse me, are you two quite finished talking back there?" Mr. Dixon said loudly, making John jump.

"Mind your business dickhead, we're having an important conversation," Sherlock said back, making the entire class- even Mycroft- burst out in laughter.

Dixon's face turned a frightening shade of purple. "Detention, BOTH of you!" He yelled, pointing fingers at Sherlock and John.

"Wait a minute, John didn't do anything-"

"BOTH OF YOU!" Dixon's booming voice silenced the last of the laughter. Sherlock stood up, preparing to argue John's innocence to the death.

"Sherlock it's okay, please just sit down," John begged, and it was his pleading voice combined with Dixon's murderous glare that made him comply.

The rest of the class passed without further disruption, and as soon as the bell rang, John and Sherlock were called up to the teacher's desk.

Mycroft lingered as well, dropping his notebook near where his brother was standing and taking his time to pick up the papers that scattered. He had a feeling he would be needed.

"Do you think it's funny to disrupt my class?" Dixon asked in a threatening tone, no doubt amusing Sherlock rather than intimidating him.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer this rhetorical question, but Mycroft quickly reached up and tapped Sherlock twice between the shoulder blades. He closed his mouth immediately.

"I didn't think so. In fact, I'll bet you feel really foolish now, don't you?"

Sherlock knew this question to be rhetorical without Mycroft's signal. 'Dont you?' questions usually were.

"Of course you do. I hope you both know that I have the power to make your lives a living hell, and think better about acting out in my class again. I'll expect you both back here after your classes this afternoon to do lines. Fail to show up, and it'll be something much worse. Disrespect me again, and it'll be something much worse. Got it?"

John nodded, but Sherlock, unsure if he was still being rhetorical or not, stayed silent. Mycroft sighed.

"What about you, smart arse?" Dixon asked, glaring at Sherlock. "Do you get it?"

"Er, yes," Sherlock responded.

"Alright then. Now, get the hell out of my classroom."

___________________________

After the three boys left and went their separate ways, Mycroft returned to panicking about the job he had been asked to do. He had not been able to send his angry reply before being forced to shut his laptop, but now he wasn't sure if he should. The consequences of breaking his contract would be detrimental to his future, and there really wasn't anything else he wanted to do in life.

Besides, it was going to be done whether he agreed to do it or not, and it made the most sense that Mycroft should do it. But the consequences of failing....the consequences of failing.

"Well, then you better not fail," Mycroft muttered to himself, officially making up his mind.

As soon as he arrived to his next class, he opened up his laptop, erased the email he had been about to send, and typed up a new one:

Consider it done.

He sent it.

___________________________

"So....lines. Is it just me, or do you feel like we got off too easy?"

Having skipped out on Behavioral Corrections the same way as they had yesterday, John and Sherlock had a whole hour to kill before their detention. Both boys sat on their individual beds: Sherlock flipping through one of John's anatomy textbooks while John doodled aimlessly on the corner of his unfinished maths homework.

"He wants to use this as an opportunity to learn who he's dealing with," Sherlock said in response to John's question, not looking up from a diagram of a skeleton that he was committing to memory. "He's giving us an easy task so he can talk to us simultaneously, probably to ask questions about our pasts."

"I guess that makes sense," said John. "But damn, after that big talk he gave us yesterday about what a hard arse he was going to be, this just seems suspiciously pitiful. I won't be surprised if he gives us a special pen that makes us write words in our own blood-"

"John, that is both impossible and ridiculous. Please tell me you're joking."

John looked up at Sherlock to see him staring intently at him, obviously judging his intelligence very harshly. "Sherlock, that was a reference. What, you've never read Harry Potter?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"Sherlock....please tell me you've at least seen Harry Potter."

"I don't watch films or read books unless they have relevant information that I could possibly use in the future-"

"Christ Sherlock, what was your childhood?!" John exclaimed, incredulous. "Did you ever do anything fun?"

Sherlock opened his mouth.

"Besides solving cases!"

"But solving cases is fun."

"Sure, but haven't you ever done anything else?" John asked.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Well, there were a few years of carefree youth during which my brother and I attempted to learn all the languages in the world. That was fun....if you discount all the times we got beaten up for it."

"Oh," John said, not sure what else to say to that. He knew all too well what it was like to be beaten up often, only for him it was usually because he was poor.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked.

"Hm?"

"What do you do for fun?"

"I read," John said without hesitation.

"Anything besides children's novels?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock scoffed. "What a waste of time. They're so boring. So irrelevant. Is that all you ever did?"

It was John's turn to think for a moment. "I guess so. It's not like I ever had enough money for anything else. I would go to the library all the time as a kid, just to escape my house. Some Saturdays, I would wait outside it until it opened, and stay there until the moment they closed. I've always loved the library. That's where I discovered the Harry Potter series. I thought that whole, magical world was so wonderful, and reading it always helped me forget my life. I think I read all seven books five times each before the librarian just bought a new set and let me keep the old one. That was the happiest day of my life...."

John trailed off, blushing when he realized how much he had said without meaning to. Sherlock stared at him with intense fascination, his eyes absorbing him, but with a softness that John had never seen before.

"Do you have them with you?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"The books. Do you have them with you?"

"Y-yeah. Hold on." John dug around in his trunk for a bit until he found his well-read copy of The Philosopher's Stone. He stood up when he found it, and was surprised to find Sherlock right behind him, his hand outstretched. John stared right into his eyes as he handed him the book, mesmerized by how grey they were.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. As the book changed hands, their fingers grazed each other, and as John felt the same cold shudder from earlier pass through his body, he could've sworn- could he have imagined it?- that Sherlock's pupils dilated a fraction.

Then it was over. Sherlock accepted the book without a word, returned to his bed, and immediately started reading it.

John, meanwhile, returned to his maths worksheet, but did very little of it. He kept sneaking glances at Sherlock, who was progressing very quickly through the book, and wondering what it was about him....

The boys stayed like that until it was time for their detention.

___________________________

"Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft."

Somewhere in the back of his fiercely occupied mind, Mycroft vaguely registered his roommate's voice. However, he did not immediately comprehend it. He was far too busy staring out the window, wondering how the hell he was going to complete the task that he had already agreed to....

"MYCROFT!"

He snapped to attention, glancing over at Greg who was sitting at his desk, looking quite exasperated. "I've been trying to ask you something for, like, ten minutes!"

"Well, what do you want?" Mycroft asked irritably, eager to get back to his thinking.

"Did I do these right?" Greg replied sheepishly, holding up his French homework.

Sighing, Mycroft took Greg's paper and examined it. "Your syntax is atrocious."

"My what?"

"Grammar, Lestrade. Your ability to arrange words into comprehensible sentences. Every question will need to be redone."

Greg looked horrified at the thought of starting over. "Alright, say I leave my, uh, syntax the way it is. Will I at least get partial credit?"

Mycroft looked over his work, doing some quick calculations in his head. "You'll pass-"

"Yes!"

"-but barely."

"Don't care!" said Greg, still elated as he snatched back his worksheet and stuffed it quite roughly into his bag. "A pass is a pass!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the empty space he had been staring off into previously.

Greg, of course, now unoccupied, turned his attention to his favorite pastime of bugging Mycroft. He rolled his chair up by the window so he was right behind his roommate. "Hey Myc," He said with a smile. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"

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

"Oh, come on," said Greg, exasperated. "Don't you ever share anything?"

"Rarely."

"Well that's not going to get you very far, is it?"

Mycroft ignored him, trying to think through his anxiety.

"What's the matter? You've seemed stressed all day. Maybe I can help."

Mycroft shook his head, still saying nothing.

"Okay," Greg stood up suddenly and started pacing, voicing his thoughts as he did so. "You obviously can't tell me what's up, but maybe I can figure it out. From what I've gathered, you're involved in some kind of secret stuff, right?"

"Fascinating deduction, Lestrade. You really should take up detective work."

"You know, I'm not as stupid as you think!" Greg snapped, surprising Mycroft by sounding angry for the first time. He ruffled his own hair, clearly irritated. "Sure, at first I thought you were joshing me with all this secret service stuff, but now I understand that it's probably real. No one just goes around writing letters in Korean and typing in secret code and....and wearing suits that effing nice!"

Mycroft glanced down at himself, unsure of what his suit had to do with his job.

Greg blushed and continued. "Look, I understand that there's probably some things that really are classified-"

"Most things are classified."

-but," Greg insisted. "You don't have to shut me out completely."

Mycroft considered this and immediately felt guilty about his snide remark. Greg really was just trying to help. While there was no way in hell Mycroft could tell him what he had been assigned to do, he didn't have to be a dick about it.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, the words feeling strange and foreign in his mouth. "I have been rather stressed today. There's something I have to do that I'm not sure....I can handle."

"Let me guess," said Greg, his voice light and humorous once again. "You have to assassinate someone?"

Mycroft froze. How....how did he...?

But Greg was laughing. "Yeah right, like they'd make a teenager do that. No, that can't be it."

Mycroft relaxed and laughed nervously. "You're not going to guess it, Lestrade, but thanks for trying."

"Whatever," said Greg, finally, Mycroft noted with relief, seeming exhausted of the conversation. He pulled a football out of his bag and started tossing it from one hand to the other, absentmindedly.

The boys were silent for a few moments until Greg spoke again. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I met your brother at breakfast this morning."

Mycroft whirled around, instantly intrigued. Both him and his brother shared a hatred for morning meals. "He goes to breakfast?"

"Yeah," said Greg. "I don't think he eats, though. He mostly just sits around with this blond kid named John, and apparently pisses people off for the fun of it. I caught one of my football players trying to strangle him this morning."

Mycroft's heart froze. "Did you, uh, did you stop him?" He asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

"'Course I did. Can't have my goalkeeper getting in trouble, can I?"

Mycroft felt relief, which quickly turned into fury. Why the hell did Sherlock insist on always making trouble for himself?! Would Mycroft have to start enlisting people to spy on him, just to make sure he stays safe?

"You know, you and your brother are a lot alike," Greg remarked.

"We most certainly are not!" Mycroft snapped, embarrassed by his own childlike tone.

Greg laughed. "Sorry to break it to you mate, but it took me about twelve seconds to guess that he was your brother, and you two don't exactly look similar. It's the way you talk. Also, he seems to be under the impression that my name is Graham." Greg laughed again and resumed playing with his football.

Mycroft tried to return to his planning, but gave up after a couple minutes. Far too distracted at this point, he decided to give thinking a break, and settled instead for watching Greg as he threw the ball up into the air and caught it with impressive reflexes.