John and Sherlock's detention was just as Sherlock had predicted it to be: The boys copied the sentence I will keep my mouth shut while Mr. Dixon is talking, while Mr. Dixon himself paced the room and questioned them about why they were sent to Baskerville's.

They had quite a bit of fun with this, both of them claiming to have been arrested for brutally assaulting their previous chemistry teachers. John said he stabbed his in the neck with a pencil. Sherlock topped this with a frighteningly detailed story involving hydrochloric acid and its effects on the human body.

Dixon ended up dismissing them both after a mere hour's work, looking quite unsettled in their presence. The boys returned to their room in fits of laughter, and Sherlock realised that just being with John Watson made him laugh more than he ever had before in his life.

__________________________

As the first month of the school year progressed, Sherlock kept waiting for the day when John Watson would grow tired of being around him, but that day never came. Even as Sherlock's reputation worsened with every person he pissed off, John remained by him loyally through every confrontation, most of which seemed to happen at breakfast.

Although their original bully, Viktor, did lay off them once football season began (John had nearly been laughed out of tryouts) many other students who hated Sherlock carried on the morning tradition of dumping John's breakfast on his head.

"Why don't you ever stand up for yourself?" John asked him after the fourth or fifth time this happened. John, as always, had tried to stop them but it always happened that the bullies were a lot bigger than he was.

Sherlock just shrugged, the way he always did to avoid questions he did not choose to answer. "I'm sorry you keep losing your breakfast because of me," he said simply.

John just smirked. "Who needs breakfast? Isn't it the most overrated meal of the day? Cereal propaganda and all that?"

Sherlock smiled back, despite himself.

John stopped buying breakfast after this, officially ending their bullies' favorite tradition. From then on the boys spent their mornings in their dorm, where Sherlock continued to read the Harry Potter books with fascination, and John downloaded the movies on his laptop so that they could watch them together once Sherlock finished the series.

By the last week of September, Sherlock was finally beginning to accept that this school year might be alright after all. Mycroft had gone back to avoiding him, most of the bullies had gotten bored of Sherlock's lack of reaction to their taunts, and he actually had a best friend who liked being around him. If the rest of the year stayed like this, he might've even been able to get used to the constant boredom.

Little did he know, things were about to get interesting.

__________________________

"Do you ever eat, Sherlock?" John asked as the two boys sat down for lunch on a Saturday, at their usual table by the window. Or rather, John sat down for lunch while Sherlock simply sat down, once again without a tray.

"When it's convenient," the young genius replied.

"I'm serious, I don't think I've seen you eat one bite of food since I met you. I'm kind of concerned-"

"Don't be," Sherlock cut him off. One benefit of being away from home was that he no longer had Mummy breathing down his neck about his eating habits. He did not need a substitute mother. "I eat in private, when I need to, and no more. I don't need your concern-"

"Well you're going to get it," John insisted. "Like it or not."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. He still wasn't used to being around someone who showed so much emotion, and who made him show emotion. He was saved from having to respond, however, when he noticed sounds of commotion coming from out in the courtyard.

"Do you hear that?" He remarked.

"Hear what?"

"Shhh! Listen."

John did, and over the general sounds of talking and eating throughout the dining hall, he could just barely pick up yelling and scuffling from outside. There was something going on just out of view of the nearest window.

"Probably just people messing around," John guessed.

"Not in this heat. And those are shrieks of panic. Someone's being attacked," Sherlock's eyes lit up with excitement as he leaped up from the table to go investigate.

"Hang on!" John called, running out after him. "We don't know that-"

But Sherlock was already out the double doors that led outside and racing through the humidity, following the shrieks. He turned into the alley on the right of the building, and John followed to witness the same sight.

A small girl with brown hair and pale skin was cowering against the wall by the alley as two boys blocked her escape, laughing as she cried. One of the boys, to John's horror, was shoving his hand up her shirt. John recognized the girl from their chemistry class. Molly Hooper was her name.

"Hey!" John yelled. "What the hell are you doing to her?" But Sherlock was already halfway over there.

The boys backed away from Molly, and John suddenly noticed that one of them- the shorter boy with the suit and the dark, slicked back hair- seemed eerily familiar. The blond boy who was molesting Molly, however, was a stranger.

Sherlock did not stop when he was a few feet from the pair. Instead, he marched straight up to the blond boy, grabbed him by the shirt, and punched him square in the nose. The boy cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground, his face gushing blood. Sherlock ignored him, extending a hand down to Molly, which she gratefully took. He let go the second she was standing, however, turning to the suited boy.

"I know you," Sherlock said with narrowed eyes. "Why do I know you?"

The boy gave a sideways smile that made John shiver. "Deduce me," he said simply. "It shouldn't take the great Sherlock Holmes very long."

John wasn't sure what was going on, so he went over to check on Molly. She was straightening her shirt, still incredibly shaken. "Are you okay?" He asked. She just nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.

John had no sooner turned back to the boys when Sherlock's eyes lit up with clarity. "Jim Moriarty," he said suddenly.

The boy smiled wide. "Hi," he responded in a sing-song voice.

It was then that it clicked for John as well. That boy's name and face had been all over the news two years ago. And he remembered why. The pictures had been painful to look at.

"That took you about 4.3 seconds, by the way," Moriarty commented after glancing at his pocket watch. "Are you having an off day, Sherlock?"

There was a pregnant pause, during which Moriarty calmly checked on his fallen comrade. "Perfectly aimed punch," he whispered, seeming impressed as he examined the boy's nose.

John wasn't sure what he had expected Sherlock to do, but it certainly wasn't what he did: He turned with a quick swish of his long coat, grabbed John and Molly by the arms, and pulled them back through the doors leaving Moriarty and the bleeding boy behind them.

They didn't stop at their lunch table. Sherlock led them both out of the dining hall and up the stairs.

"Sherlock, where are we going?"

"We need to talk. Privately."

When they reached the second floor and turned left, Molly suddenly jerked away. "I can't be here," she said. "It's the boys' wing-"

"Oh, grow up," Sherlock interrupted, grabbing hold of her again and pulling them to dorm 221B.

Once they were inside, John and Sherlock immediately started talking.

"Sherlock, was that-"

"Yes."

"The one who-"

"Yes it was."

"Christ-"

"I know."

"Hey!" Molly interrupted. "What are you two talking about? I don't even know who they were. I was just minding my own business when they-" she cut herself off with a shudder.

"Hey, speaking of which, what were you doing out there?" John wondered. "There's no way you were just sitting around out there in this humidity."

Molly blushed, but Sherlock answered for her. "Molly has suffered from anxiety attacks ever since she arrived at this school, where she clearly doesn't belong. Every time she goes to lunch and realizes that she's a loser with no one to sit with, she has to step outside for some fresh air to keep herself from crying. That's when those two found her-"

"Have you been spying on me or something?!" Molly demanded, furious. She was clearly embarrassed about her anxiety.

"Relax, he just does that," John said with a sigh. "It's kind of a talent of his. Anyway, I'm John. John Watson. That's Sherlock Holmes."

The latter was pacing back and forth across the room at this point, muttering incoherently to himself. He seemed to have forgotten the other two were in the room.

"So, who is this Moriarty bloke?" Molly wanted to know.

"You don't remember?" John asked. "He was all over the news a few years back for burning his baby sister alive."

"Oh my god!" Molly exclaimed. "That's horrible."

"Yeah. I think he got off for a combination of young age and mental instability, though. They locked him up in an asylum for a year."

Molly shook her head in disgust, then turned back to Sherlock, who was still pacing. "Is he-" she motioned to the frantic boy "-all right in the head?"

"I'm not sure," John admitted. "But he's brilliant. And he's my friend."

They watched Sherlock pace and mutter for a few more seconds before John cleared his throat. "You wanted to talk to us about something?"

Sherlock stopped, seemingly startled. "Oh. Right, yes. I have a theory. But first, Molly Hooper, I need you to tell me exactly what happened from the moment you stepped outside."

"Okay....well, when I walked outside I turned straight into the alley, which is where I usually go. And they almost seemed to be waiting for me-"

"That's all I needed to hear," Sherlock interrupted. "Good day." Then he sat at his desk and opened his laptop, seeming excited.

"Good day?" Molly asked. "What, you think I'm leaving?"

"Yes. There's the door."

"Not until you tell me what's going on, I'm not!"

"Oh god, I can't stand inexorable females," Sherlock uttered, already typing into the browser. "John, show her out."

"Hang on now," John protested. "Those thugs just attacked her. If there was a reason for it, she has the right to know."

Sherlock looked up at John, his smokey grey eyes boring into him like they so often did, a curious expression on his face. "Fine," he conceded, and turned from his desk as he waited for a page to load.

"Molly, I'm not sure of the proper etiquette for telling someone this," Sherlock started, awkwardly, "But it appears as though you were seconds from being murdered before we showed up."

Molly's face paled, and John's did the same. "Murdered?" He asked. "How the bloody hell could you know- actually, don't answer that," John added, sensing that Sherlock would go into a twenty minute rant about what kind of suit the boy was wearing, or something.

"That's not the worst part, though," Sherlock continued, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the incident. "He knows who I am."

"That's the worst part?!" Molly yelled in disbelief. "You're telling me I was almost killed, and you're focused on-"

"I've never met him," Sherlock's eyes seemed glazed over, like he was no longer seeing the room in front of him, and he was obviously talking to himself more than he was to Molly or John. "We come from opposite sides of the UK. I only know of him because of the news reports. How has he seen me before?"

"Have you ever thought that he's simply heard about you from people at school?" John pointed out, although he should've known better. Sherlock was always ten steps ahead of everyone.

"No, he knows me," Sherlock said with confidence. "I could tell. The look in his eyes. The way he spoke to me. Like he knew exactly who I was. Dammit, he even knows that my average deduction time is three seconds-" he stopped suddenly, and John could almost hear the click in his overactive brain as something became clear. "Oh, of course," he said, through gritted teeth. "Of course!" He pulled out his cell phone and clicked some buttons before pressing it to his ear with angry force.

As soon as whoever was on the line greeted him, Sherlock said, "My room. Now." Then hung up.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"You'll see in about thirteen seconds."

Exactly thirteen seconds later, the door opened without a knock and in walked Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock practically jumped up from his desk chair and grabbed his brother by the collar. "What do you know about Jim Moriarty?!" He demanded. "And what does he know about me?!"

Mycroft made no effort to push his younger brother off of him, he just stared at him with an unreadable face.

Well, unreadable to John anyway. But it apparently said a thousand words to Sherlock.

"Ireland..." His face showed sudden realization, and then he laughed. "Ah, yes. This does make it more interesting. You're still a dick, though." And with that he shoved Mycroft to the floor.

"Wait, what did we miss?" Molly asked.

"It wasn't my fault," Mycroft argued, ignoring Molly's question as he picked himself up off the ground. "They were interrogating me-"

"You told him my name."

"He found out from his father-"

"And how did his father know???"

"Because the man stole your file from my boss!"

Sherlock sat back and sighed with a mix of frustration and satisfaction. "Ah, so you finally admit that you have a boss now."

John couldn't take it anymore. "What the BLOODY HELL are you two going on about?!"

"I'll explain once he leaves," Sherlock replied, motioning to his brother. "Wouldn't want my dear brother giving out anymore of my personal information for his business, now, would we?"

"What business?" Molly asked. "What kind of important business could a teenager possibly be apart of?"

"That is classified information," Mycroft said, still looking at his brother with disdain. "And Sherlock, I strongly suggest that you not get involved. Whatever Moriarty's plans are, my men are already looking into it. Your idiocy will only get you hurt. Besides, it's none of your concern-"

"You made it my concern when you told him about me!" Sherlock shouted back. John had never seen him this angry. "So anything that happens to me will be YOUR fault!"

The brothers glared at each other for several long, tense seconds. The whole room had gone quiet; even John and Molly had stopped asking questions, suddenly feeling as if they were intruding on a private family matter.

Then, without another word, Mycroft turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him with great force.

"Right, so I suppose I should bring you two up to speed," said Sherlock, turning back to his laptop as if nothing had happened.

"You think?!" Molly squeaked, looking so angry that John wouldn't have been surprised if she spontaneously combusted.

The page on Sherlock's laptop had finally loaded to reveal a very official, top-secret-looking website with a homepage written entirely in code. John was surprised to recognize the code as similar to something he had seen on Mycroft's laptop over a fortnight ago.

"Sherlock, is this the website of the secret agency Mycroft works for?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up at him, obviously impressed. "Yes it is," he said. "Well done, John."

Noting that Molly was about to explode with frustration, John turned to fill her in on what little he knew about Mycroft. "Apparently his brother is in some kind of secret service involving international communications, or something," he explained, rather lamely.

"Okay, but what does that have to do with Moriarty?!" she asked Sherlock. "Are you ever going to tell me what's going on?!"

"All in good time, Molly dear," he muttered, not glancing up from the screen, but John thought he glimpsed the smallest hint of a smirk. He seemed to enjoy keeping Molly waiting, as if her growing frustration amused him.

While Molly tapped her foot, huffing impatiently every now and then, John watched her and tried to deduce her the way Sherlock did to people. He knew very little about her from the one class they had together, except that she was very quiet and always did her work, and was always one of the first people to complete tests (after Sherlock, of course). He wondered what she could've done to end up in Baskerville's School for Troubled Teens. Sherlock had said something before about Molly not belonging here. Had she possibly been sent here by mistake? Did Sherlock know this simply by looking at her?

Then John found himself wondering how much Sherlock had to look at Molly to know what he did about her. She sat two seats to John's left in chemistry. Was it her that Sherlock was staring at when he seemed to be spacing off in that direction? Why had he been so quick to punch that boy who had his hand up her shirt, and to help her up afterward? Did Sherlock like Molly? Did he-

"Right then!" Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, interrupting John's paranoid train of thought in time for him to note his own feelings of jealousy before they slithered back to wherever they had come from. What the hell was that about?

"So did you find what you were looking for?" Molly asked eagerly.

"Yes."

"And?" Molly urged him on. "What did it have to do with Moriarty?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"WHAT?" Molly shrieked, while John laughed out loud. It was not unlike Sherlock to get sidetracked. He had no doubt that whatever Sherlock had been looking at was important, but maybe not to their current situation.

"Don't worry Molly Hooper, it was nothing that concerns you. Now, as for Moriarty," Sherlock finally began his explanation while Molly fumed. "I remember his case exactly. For the brutal murder of his sister he was sentenced to a year in an asylum and four additional years in a behavioral correction facility. That's why he's here. However, he's known about me for a long time. I know how and why he's heard of me now, but I still don't know when....anyway, apparently he was ecstatic when he found out that I was here as well. He wanted my attention immediately. Yes, Molly, he was definitely about to murder you today. You're quite lucky that friend of his wanted to have his fun first. But you needn't worry, as your life is no longer in danger. You see, the murder was just his plan to get my attention."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "Really? And why does this random psychopath care so much about you?"

"That's what I'm still trying to figure out!" Sherlock yelled, standing up again suddenly and resuming his frantic pacing. "He knows all about my skills in deduction and about my hobby of solving crimes because my brother," he spat the word like it was disgusting, "fed the information to his boss who then filed me under 'People to Track' or some rubbish like that. I think it's safe to deduce that Mycroft was briefly captured when he visited Ireland to investigate the Moriarty family. Jim's father must've stolen whatever file I was in long before that, but it was when Jim talked to Mycroft that he found out the personal stuff. The bastard," Sherlock scowled, and it was unclear to John whether he was insulting Moriarty or his brother.

"But that still doesn't explain why Jim cares so much!" Sherlock continued. His eyes were darting around with incredible speed as he paced, searching his mind palace frantically for answers while he ranted. "I mean, he obviously wants to murder me eventually, but why? Does he see me as a threat to his father's operation? Why me and not my brother? I'm not even in the secret service! What does he want from me?! Urggggh!" Frustrated at not knowing, Sherlock picked up one of his textbooks from his desk and threw it against the wall.

John sat on his bed, feeling very weak all of a sudden. It was all so much to take in. Was it possible that only a half hour ago he was sitting down to enjoy a nice lunch? And now there was a vicious murderer out to get his best friend, and possibly- it suddenly occurred to him- anyone associated with him.

Sherlock turned from the dent he had made in the wall and looked surprised to find that Molly was standing there, listening attentively. "Why are you still here?" he snapped, quite rudely. "Didn't you hear me when I said your life's no longer in danger?"

"Well, yes but-" Molly began, timidly.

"But what? Do you want it to be?!"

"No-"

"Then get the hell out of here before he decides to use you as bait a second time!"

Molly opened her mouth, then closed it again. She obviously did not want to leave, but didn't seem to know what to say. She bit her lip, then quickly turned and left the room.

Sherlock collapsed onto his bed face down. This had all seemed so new and exciting and fun to him at first, but now he was confused. He hated being confused; it was possibly the worst feeling there ever was. He had to find out what Jim Moriarty wanted with him, but he did not have nearly enough information to just go skipping up to his dorm and asking him. For all he knew, Moriarty was just waiting for an opportunity to kill him. And Sherlock was positive that's what Jim's ultimate goal was. The file he had read on the laptop proved that.

Yes, Sherlock had lied to Molly Hooper slightly. The file he was looking through had a lot to do with Moriarty. It shouldn't have, because it was his older brother's case file that he had hacked into, but it did. And now he knew what Mycroft clearly had no interest in telling him. He knew what Mycroft's next assignment was, and why.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?" John whispered. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He couldn't. The cold electricity that he had come to associate with John's touch had just jolted through him stronger than ever before, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he would find that he had stopped breathing.

"This is....wow this is a lot. I have no idea how you must be feeling right now," said John, and Sherlock wanted so badly for John to take his hand off him, but at the same time wanted him to keep it there forever. He had no idea what that meant, but it was strange.

"I get it," said John, removing his hand. Sherlock sighed in both relief and disappointment. "I'll leave you alone."

"Wait," Sherlock sat up so quickly that he got a head rush. "Sorry, I just....John, there are so many things that I don't know, and that scares the hell out of me." Sherlock wasn't sure what made him say it, but he did. What was it about John that made him so honest?

"Honestly?" John said, staring right into Sherlock's cold grey eyes with his warm blue ones. "That scares the hell out of me, too."

__________________________

Mycroft was running back to his dorm. This struck him as odd even through his panic, because he almost never ran. He hardly had a reason to, even when he was on a job. Being a spy in real life wasn't like the movies, where people are always getting chased and shot at.

When you get captured as a spy in real life, there's no fighting your captors and escaping to a nearby helicopter amidst bullets and explosions. Instead, your boss sends men to come rescue you. If those men fail, well, you're pretty much fucked because "there's no money in the budget to send out two rescue missions for the same shithead who was dumb enough to get his arse captured". And that was the code of the international secret service.

The only mission on which Mycroft was ever captured, that one unfortunate incident in Ireland now responsible for all his current problems, Mycroft was ordered to answer all of Mr. Moriarty's questions honestly. He had to keep saying useful and interesting things, whatever it took to avoid death long enough for the rescue mission to get there. Fifteen year old Mycroft had never been more scared in his life.

So yes, he told them about his brother, who Moriarty evidently already had a file on. "I have a younger brother" was the first thing he could think of to say when confronted with "So, tell me about yourself". Moriarty wanted to know the secret plans of Mycroft's unit, and he chose to sell out Sherlock instead.

Then the man brought in his son Jim, who apparently felt like he had a lot in common with Sherlock and wanted to hear more about him.

Mycroft talked about Sherlock until the rescue team arrived. He told Jim what Sherlock looked like, what he liked to do, his favorite classes in school, everything. Jim took in even the seemingly useless information about him hungrily, smiling like a shark in front of a school of fish, his cold black eyes glowing with excitement.

By the time the men from his unit arrived and negotiated a peaceful deal with the Moriarty family, Mycroft had managed to go his entire interrogation without letting a single secret slip, instead having told Jim everything there was to know about his little brother.

Back home, Mycroft was promoted by his boss and admired by his entire unit. Everyone said he was the best agent they ever had. He had survived a two hour long interrogation without spilling a single secret, even when told he was allowed. He had outsmarted the great and powerful Moriarty family with useless details about his stupid little brother! This kid is going places, everyone said. He'll own the British government before he's thirty!

Meanwhile, the brilliant spy Mycroft Holmes went back to his house, ignored his parents who asked how "summer camp" in Ireland was, ignored his twelve-year-old, inevitably doomed little brother who wanted to know why the hell he had really gone to Ireland, ignored his phone buzzing with what were undoubtedly coded texts describing his next mission, went upstairs to his room, and slammed his head into the door repeatedly.

__________________________

Now, Mycroft ran into his dorm, ignored his concerned roommate, and did the exact same thing, cursing himself between every bang of his head.

BANG "Stupid-" BANG "-fucking-" BANG "-idiot!"

"Mycroft, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Greg tried to pull him away from the door, but Mycroft just hit his head harder against it. He wanted a concussion. He wanted amnesia. He wanted to knock the genius right out of his brain so that the secret service would fire him, because apparently being a monster who sells out your family just gets you promoted in this business.

"Mycroft, calm down! Stop! CALM DOWN!"

BANG. "Fucking-" BANG "-stupid-" BANG "-moron-"

Suddenly, Mycroft was on the floor, having been tackled by his muscular roommate who saw no other way of getting his attention. Greg was sitting on Mycroft's legs and had his arms pinned down above his head, leaning down so that their faces were inches apart. Mycroft fell completely silent. He even stopped breathing. Everything was erased from his mind, and he was aware of nothing except the position he and Greg were in, and what it was doing to his heart.

"Are you calm now?" Greg whispered.

Not even slightly. "Yes."

"Good," said Greg, but he didn't move an inch. "Now, I don't know what the hell happened to you, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I know that banging your head against the door won't solve anything."

No, but it might help me forget how badly I've fucked everything up. "I know."

"Okay," said Greg. "Now, I'm going to get off you. And when I do, you're not going to resume trying to crack your head open. If you want to talk, I'm here to listen. Okay?"

"Okay."

Greg stood up, freeing Mycroft to do the same. Mycroft waited for his heart rate to return to normal before he spoke, and for the first time, he did not hold back.

"A little over two years ago I was captured on one of my investigations. They wanted to know every piece of classified information I had to offer. Not wanting to fail one of my first out-of-country missions, I told them about my crime-solving younger brother instead. Don't ask me why, it just made sense at the time. Unfortunately, the son of the criminal mastermind took a legitimate interest in Sherlock. He asked personal questions about him, and I answered every one. I managed to survive the interrogation with my agency's plans for taking down Moriarty still secret, but at the price of my brother's safety.

"While Jim Moriarty was institutionalized last year, we succeeded at taking down his father. For awhile, we though we had won. I was promoted once again and assigned to other matters.

"But a few weeks ago, I was informed via coded email that Jim Moriarty is free, now attends this school, and has inherited his father's dreams to corrupt the government. My next assignment: kill Jim Moriarty. In my boss's words, 'He's a stupid, overambitious teenage boy without a plan. I'm sure you can handle it.'

"But they don't know the truth, Greg. They've never met him, and they underestimate him. Jim Moriarty is, in fact, a brilliant, overambitious teenage boy with an unhealthy obsession with my brother, and I just know that Sherlock is part of his plan somehow."

Greg listened calmly as Mycroft blurted out the story and, much to Mycroft's surprise, did not look at him with disgust when Mycroft told him what he had done to Sherlock.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Greg said, scaring Mycroft slightly with how calm he was being. "You've got to kill Moriarty. Just find out where his dorm is and shoot him. You've got a gun, don't you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, Greg, but it's not that simple. If it were, I would've done it already. He's expecting me, and I still need information! I don't know what his plan is. I don't even know who he's working with. All I know is that he's after Sherlock, and now that Sherlock knows this he's going to be putting himself in even more danger because he has to play fucking detective!" Mycroft sank to the floor, his head in his hands. "Everything is so fucked up now," he muttered.

Greg sat down on the floor as well and put his arm around his friend. "I couldn't agree more, mate."