"JOHN, IVE GOT IT!"

John woke with a start at the sound of his roommate's voice. He checked the clock: 7:15 am. Sherlock had been in his mind palace all night.

Irritated by his friend's lack of reaction, Sherlock flipped the light on. John flinched, blinded by it's brightness. "Didn't you hear me? I'VE FIGURED IT OUT!"

"Shhh, be quiet. Just give me a sec to wake up, would you?"

Sherlock waited impatiently while John rubbed his eyes and stretched before finally sitting all the way up in bed. It was only then that he looked properly excited. "So you've really figured out who Moriarty is threatening?"

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, showing John his pages and pages of notes. "And it only took me fourteen hours to narrow it down from 274 suspects to one! A bit longer than I had hoped, to be honest, but I'm absolutely sure-"

"Well who is it?!" John wanted to know. But before Sherlock could answer, the intercom sounded above them:

"Good morning students, I apologize for the early announcement. I need Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to report to the headmaster's office immediately! Holmes and Watson, to the headmaster's office!

"Fuck," Sherlock muttered, looking as if he knew exactly what was going on.

"What? What did we do?" John asked, completely baffled.

"You did nothing, John," said Sherlock with a sigh. Moriarty's plan was starting to make a lot more sense to him now. "Except associate yourself with me."

__________________________

Sherlock waited by the door for John to get dressed, since he himself was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, and then the boys proceeded to their doom.

On the way there, John tried to get some answers out of Sherlock. "What the hell is going on?" He kept asking. "Why are we in trouble?"

But all Sherlock had to say was, "It's all apart of Moriarty's game, John. Just relax and let me do the talking."

But John did not relax; by the time they reached their destination, his heart was hammering in his chest and he felt like he was going to faint from anxiety.

"Calm down John," Sherlock whispered once they stood outside the door. "We'll be okay. I promise." Then, without thinking about it, he reached over and squeezed John's hand.

Then the boys entered the office, and it was only once he saw who was sitting there that John began to piece together what Sherlock had ages ago.

In one of the three chairs in front of the headmaster's desk sat none other than Viktor, their very first bully at this school. Only he was covered in cuts and bruises, and did not appear nearly as scary as he had months before. Probably because he looked so scared himself.

"Sit down, boys," the headmaster said, his face unreadable as he motioned the boys to the two remaining chairs. They sat, and Sherlock immediately started making deductions.

The headmaster was a short, round, and balding man named Mr. Harvey. Though Sherlock and probably two thirds of the student population were at least a head taller than him, he had a certain aura of intimidation about him, as well as a glare so frightening that even the school's biggest delinquents have been known to squirm under it.

Sherlock, however, was not the slightest bit intimidated as he sat himself in between Viktor and John. He knew exactly how this was going to go down.

Mr. Harvey stared at the boys for some time, as if waiting for John and Sherlock to confess, before finally speaking.  "I assume you boys know why you are here-"

"We didn't do anything!" John interrupted. "We swear on our lives!"

"God dammit, John," Sherlock sighed.

"Silence, both of you!" Harvey yelled. Then, quite calmly, he turned to Viktor. "Mr. Jacobsen, why don't you recount the story that you told me earlier?"

Viktor gulped, shaking in fear. Despite the way he had treated him and John at the beginning of the year, Sherlock could not help but feel sorry for the boy. Moriarty must have roughed him up pretty badly to make him this frightened.

"I-I was just minding my own business in my, uh, i-in my room when out of....out of nowhere-" Viktor raised a shaking hand and pointed at Sherlock, "he came in and started.....he....he started hitting me and..."

He stammered on, obviously very afraid. But not, Sherlock knew, of anyone in this room.

"It's alright, Viktor," Harvey said, sympathetically. "He can't hurt you here."

"I didn't hurt him," Sherlock insisted, even knowing that it wouldn't do him any good. This man was an idiot. "It was Jim Moriarty."

"Really?" Harvey asked with raised eyebrows, staring intently at Sherlock so he didn't notice how Viktor flinched at the boy's name. "You seem oddly sure of this."

"He's been out to get me since the school year started," Sherlock explained. "He's also been observing me from the beginning. Presumably, he noticed that Viktor was the first person I didn't get along with and thought it would be clever to brutally harm him. He obviously threatened him with even more intense violence if he didn't blame the attack on me."

Viktor was staring at him in awe, subconsciously nodding along with the explanation, but still Harvey had eyes only for Sherlock. "....interesting. Very specific. You seem to have given much thought to this explanation."

"I have, and I'm 100 percent positive of it's accuracy."

"Really?" Harvey's tone matched that of a parent who was entertaining a particularly imaginative story from their child. "Well, would you like to know what I think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not really, since I'm sure it's both idiotic and incorrect."

John did a literal facepalm, while Harvey's intense gaze grew even more fierce. "That was a rhetorical question, Holmes."

"Oh."

Harvey stood up from his chair, dramatically slow, and leaned over the desk so that he was less than a foot from Sherlock's face. The boy did not drop his eyes in fear, but stared right back at the headmaster with equal intensity.

"Based on what I've heard," Harvey practically whispered, "both from your teachers and Mr. Jacobsen here, I think you are more than intelligent enough to come up with a story like that on the spot. I also think you are a liar. An evil, rotten, devious little liar."

John and Viktor were frozen in their seats, mesmerized by the confrontation going on between them, and for about five seconds you could have heard a pin drop in the office.

"On the contrary," Sherlock retorted just as quietly, "I am quite probably the most honest person in this room."

"Did you attack Mr. Jacobsen?"

"No."

"You didn't give him these bruises?"

"No."

"Then why are you also covered in bruises?"

"I fought with my older brother yesterday."

"Well, what a coincidence."

"Yes, actually, it is."

"Can you prove it?"

"Better than you can prove your accusation."

Harvey leaned back in frustration. He shuffled through some papers on his desk, grumbling under his breath. He was obviously searching desperately for something- anything- to use against the boy. Here was a man, deduced Sherlock, who detested nothing more than being proven wrong and looking stupid. And right now, Sherlock was making him out to be both.

"Where were you during your last Behavioral Corrections class?"  Harvey demanded, randomly.

"In my room."

"Why?"

"Because the class is bollucks, and I wouldn't sit through it if you paid me."

"You have perfect marks in all your other classes."

"Yes, that sounds about right."

"Are you a cheater, Mr. Holmes?"

"Nope. Just more intelligent than all of my teachers combined."

The room grew quiet and still once more, as neither Harvey nor Sherlock wished to back down and accept defeat. The original intent of the meeting seemed to have been long forgotten, as it had now turned in to a battle of the wills between Mr. Harvey and Sherlock.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't expel you right now," Harvey said, with narrowed eyes.

"Simple: you have no probable cause."

"You attacked Mr. Jacobsen."

"You have no proof."

"How do you know I won't....happen to find some?" Harvey asked with a smirk, his tone making it all too clear what he was implying.

Sherlock, however, smirked back and pulled a small, grey device out of his pocket: a tape recorder. "I think I'm safe," he said.

Harvey's smile dropped. In the same moment, the tension eased and John relaxed. It was clear who had won.

However, the look on Harvey's face as he eagerly dismissed the boys made it clear that this was not over.

"Very well," he said. "I suppose it's time that you boys be off to your classes. But know this, Mr. Holmes: until I figure out what exactly is going on around here, I will be having your teachers keep a very, very close watch over you. Both of you," he turned to John suddenly. "Don't think I don't know you're involved in this somehow as well, Mister Watson. And if not....well, you hang around Sherlock Holmes too much for your own good."

John stayed silent, taking that as their cue to leave. Knowing how much his friend enjoyed having the last word, however, John expected Sherlock to give Harvey one last smart arse response. But instead, the clever boy simply nodded and exited the office silently with John and Viktor.

__________________________

"Are you sure you want to do this now?" Greg asked nervously, as he tried to keep up with Mycroft's brisk pace down the B hall.

"I should have done it weeks ago," Mycroft responded simply, still staring straight ahead of him as he walked with purpose. And it was true. He had delayed this for too long, and he wasn't even sure why anymore. Consequences be damned. It was time to kill Jim Moriarty.

"Wait! Come on Myc, let's think about this." Greg put a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to stop him, but Mycroft shrugged him off.

"Mycroft, calm down. Just because Sherlock was called to Harvey's office doesn't mean Moriarty had anything to do with it!"

Mycroft stopped dead. Sherlock. Even sixteen hours after their fight, the mere thought of his brother brought on a tsunami of stupid emotions: anger, frustration, annoyance, guilt, shame, sadness. Everything painful. But most of all, he was worried beyond belief. Sherlock was in trouble, and he was positive that Moriarty was involved somehow.

But it wasn't as if he had shared any of this with Lestrade.

"How do you know that's why I'm going?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh please. You think you're so mysterious, but I can read you like a book. It's obvious that you care about your brother, no matter how much you two fight."

Mycroft blushed, but chose to ignore his last statement. "I've been suspecting that Moriarty was looking to frame Sherlock for some time. It's the only reason he would wait so long to act. Of course, my brother would be too stupid to realize this himself–" he cut himself off suddenly, detecting the sound of footsteps coming from around the corner.

Then, there were voices:

"All I'm saying is that-"

"I get what you're saying, and I don't want to hear it!"

"Come on, it's a good plan! Just because it's not your stupid idea-"

"I'm warning you, shut up!"

Panicking, Mycroft opened the door of the nearest supply cupboard. Thankfully, it was unlocked. He grabbed Greg by the arm and pulled him into the darkened space with him, moving the door so that they couldn't be seen, but could still see and hear what was going on in the hall.

"What are you-?"

"Shhh!" Mycroft quieted his friend, trying to listen. Yes, the voices were getting closer. And one of them was definitely Moriarty's.

"Please Jim, just hear me out," begged a female voice that Mycroft thought he recognized from somewhere. "If we do it my way everything will get taken care of much quicker: The older one would be dealt with, Sherlock would go to prison, and we'd be on the run by the end of the week–"

"I don't want Sherlock to go to prison," Moriarty said in a tone both fierce and finalizing. They were still out of his line of vision, but Mycroft was sure that the girl flinched at the sound of it. "I want him destroyed."

"Alright, alright, keep your pants on! It was just an idea," the girl backtracked. Although she hid it rather well, she was obviously afraid of Moriarty and did not want to make him mad.

Their voices grew louder as the two came closer to Mycroft's and Greg's hiding place. Mycroft held his breath, eager to see the face of Moriarty's female companion. Why was her voice so familiar?

"Well you're not here to share your ideas," Moriarty responded. "You know why you're here...."

The next few seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. First, there they were: Jim Moriarty and a tall girl with wavy brown hair whom Mycroft immediately recognized as Irene Adler (or The Woman, as she was known throughout the criminal world). Astonished to see her here when he had sworn she was last rumored to be hiding in America, Mycroft leaned forward, briefly exposing his face through the crack in the door.

At that moment, Irene dropped her handbag and it's contents spilled onto the floor: a makeup compact, a tube of lipgloss, a comb, a cream-colored wallet decorated with red hearts, a 9mm pistol, something small and round that looked suspiciously like a smoke bomb, and four syringes full of a clear liquid (the purpose of which, Mycroft cringed to think about).

Cursing, Irene bent down to quickly pick up the mess. Moriarty rolled his eyes at her clumsiness, but stopped to wait for her, and it was then that his eyes met Mycroft's.

For a split second, all molecular motion seemed to cease. Mycroft swore that he could hear Greg's heartbeat behind him, even through the pounding of his own. Pull out your gun! His mind was screaming at him. Do it! Shoot him now! But his body wouldn't move, and something else was telling him that it wasn't the right time. That killing Moriarty now would only seal his brother's fate.

And just like that, the second was over. Irene straightened up, all of her possessions safely returned to her handbag, and Moriarty glanced away.

"Well? Do you have more things to drop or can we move on now?" He asked Irene sarcastically, as if that last second had never happened. As if he had never even noticed Mycroft.

"Shut up, you dick, it was an accident! Besides, it's not like anyone saw us," she bit back, even as she scanned the hall nervously. "Everyone's at breakfast."

"Of course," said Moriarty confidently, and Mycroft wondered if he had simply imagined being seen.

Just before the duo walked away, however, Moriarty added, "And even if someone did happen to see us, I'm sure he's smart enough to realize that he will be the first one to die."

They shared a laugh and continued on to their room, leaving Mycroft and Greg to sit in the darkened supply cupboard in stunned silence, working desperately to calm down their hearts and to summon the courage to leave.

__________________________

It's amazing how quickly word spreads throughout a large group of bored adolescents, Sherlock remarked mentally as he was confronted by a random student for the fifth time before first period.

"Is it true that you tried to kill Viktor Jacobsen?" Asked an eager boy who stopped him and John in the hallway.

"No, but I'm sure your idiot mind will believe whatever it wants to."

"You're kind of a prick. I think you did try to kill him!"

"And there you go," he sighed, calmly moving around the kid and proceeding to chemistry.

John did not respond to the false accusations as calmly as Sherlock did. "Bugger off!" He told the kid, shoving him aside as he followed Sherlock.

The second they entered the chemistry classroom, the boys were greeted by an obnoxious shriek from Philip Anderson. "Watch out everyone, here comes Sherlock!" He cried in pretend fright. "Don't make eye contact, or you might be next on his list!"

Most of the class laughed, following Anderson's lead and ducking under their desks as Sherlock passed them to get to his seat.

Molly was the only one who didn't mimic the rest, instead scooting her desk closer to Sherlock's so that she could talk to him.

"Careful, Hooper," Anderson warned with a grin. "The kid's vicious. Who's to say he wouldn't hit girls, too? I heard–"

"Fuck off, Anderson. Don't you have a dermatologist appointment to get to?" Molly cut him off, cruelly. The class laughed louder that they had when taunting Sherlock, and Anderson's acne-scarred face turned bright red as he reluctantly slunk off.

Molly's expression changed from annoyed to worried as she turned back to Sherlock. "It's not true, is it?" She whispered. "You didn't beat up Viktor, did you?"

John couldn't believe that she would even ask, but Sherlock didn't seem offended.

"Of course not," he responded, and then proceeded to explain that he had spent all of last night making deductions, and had figured out that Moriarty had done it specifically to frame him.

Molly visually relaxed. "I knew that it wasn't you. I just had to double check. So, what did you tell Mr. Harvey?"

"Exactly what I just told you," Sherlock explained. "But I'm sure you can guess how that turned out."

Molly nodded, obviously wishing to say something comforting, but was forced to turn forward in her seat when the bell rang.

It was only when Dixon walked in and started taking attendance that Sherlock noticed the empty seat behind him. Mycroft was missing.

Good, Sherlock thought, memories of yesterday's fight flooding back to him. He never wanted to see his brother again. Wherever he is, I hope that's where he stays.

But as the hour ticked by and Mycroft didn't show up, Sherlock found himself growing increasingly anxious. Where the hell was he?

Sometime in the middle of Dixon's tedious lecture, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He had to go look for him.

"May I be excused?" He blurted out, without raising his hand.

Dixon narrowed his eyes. "Why? Got more innocent students to send to the hospital?"

"No, I just need to–"

"I don't think so, Mister Holmes. Harvey told me to keep a close eye on you, and after what you've done, I don't blame him. I told him that I've always known you were nothing more than a delinquent. For the rest of the year, you are forbidden from leaving my class until you have to report to your next one. I will not have you causing anymore trouble at this school."

Dixon continued his lecture as students snickered under their breath. Meanwhile, Sherlock seethed. He couldn't give any less fucks what his fellow students believed about him, but when a false accusation started stripping him of his rights, that's when he got pissed off.

John nudged him, raising his eyebrows. What's wrong? He was asking, telepathically.

Sherlock sighed and motioned to his brother's empty seat.

John nodded sympathetically. In the corner of his notebook, he scrawled a note to Sherlock: Don't worry. I'm sure he's fine.

Sherlock wasn't convinced. However, he didn't really want to think about his brother anymore. He picked up John's pencil and wrote back: I need a distraction. Something to get my mind off things. What should I do?

John read the note and thought for a moment before answering.

Actually pay attention in class for once?

Boring.

Go to your mind palace and develop the cure for cancer?

Tedious.

After class, we could sneak into Harvey's office and paint the seat of his chair with shoe polish.

Nah, too easy.

John chuckled under his breath, and pretty soon the passing of the notebook became a distraction within itself.

Well, we could always hunt down some cocaine to experiment with.

Sherlock smirked. Been there, done that, he responded. Any other ideas?

I don't know, Sherlock. What do you want to do?

Sherlock contemplated this question. What did he want to do?

Honestly....I just want to leave. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere far away from everyone.

Slightly hurt by this, John asked, Even me?

Sherlock answered immediately. Alright, except you.

John grinned. Excellent! We can run away together. Ditch Baskerville's and live out the rest of our adolescence as fugitives.

Sounds like a plan. When should we leave?

RIGHT NOW.

Alright. Let's go.

Alright.

Alright.

Neither boy left their seat, however. Of course they knew that they couldn't really run away from their problems. But that didn't stop them from grinning ear to ear as they silently entertained the prospect.

Underneath their table, John found himself reaching for Sherlock's hand and grasping it.

Sherlock did not object.

__________________________

Mycroft was sure that he and Greg had been sitting silently in the dark cupboard for over half an hour before one of them finally spoke.

"'He will be the first to die'??? What the hell does that mean?!"

"What do you think it means, Greg?" Mycroft growled. "I overheard his plans. He's going to kill me."

"Well, not if you kill him first!" Greg shouted. By now Mycroft's eyes had entirely adjusted to the dark, and he could see that his friend's face was etched in panic. "Come on, what are you waiting for, let's go kill him!"

"He'll be in class already, you idiot. The bell rang ages ago."

"....Oh."

And that little, insignificant, two-letter word was what did it. Not the realization that Moriarty was going to kill both him and his brother, and he had no idea how to stop it. No, it was that word– breathed out by his stupidly attractive roommate in his stupidly sexy voice, and what it did to his heart– that broke Mycroft Holmes.

His temper flared up beyond belief. "But of course, why would you care?!" He yelled, making Greg jump. "You're so stupid, you're failing every class! You don't care about anything but sports and looking cool and following me around everywhere I fucking go! You know something, Lestrade? Ever since I met you my life has been a living HELL!! I swear, being around you has made me so STUPID! More so than I ever thought possible! When you're in the room, I can't focus! I can't think straight! I forget who I fucking am half the time, that's how stupid you've made me!!! If it weren't for you, I would've killed Moriarty before he had a chance to put a plan into place! But you slowed me down! And now my little brother and I are both screwed! AND IT'S ALL THANKS TO YOU!!!"

Silence.

"....Where the bloody hell did that come from?" Greg asked quietly, his voice shaking. "Have you always felt like this?"

Mycroft didn't answer, still breathing heavily and trying to figure out why the fuck he had just said all of that. Sure, he was pissed off by everything that was going on, but he didn't blame Greg. He just took it out on him because....well, because being with Greg forced him to feel. And he hated it.

Slowly but confidently, Greg stood up. "Well, I had no idea I was such a burden to you. I really wish you would've told me sooner, before I–" he cut himself off with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am. I'm sorry I've wasted so much time and energy getting to know you, when you've never cared about me at all. I'm....I'm sorry."

And with that, Greg threw open the door and ran.

Mycroft almost followed him, but stopped himself in the doorway. What was the point? He would only make things worse.

Filled with sorrow and wanting nothing more than to die on the spot, Mycroft closed the door, shutting himself back into the darkened cupboard.

__________________________

Much like every other student in the school with more than a single brain cell, Jim never attended the required Behavioral Corrections class. Instead, he often spent first period roaming the empty hallways, thinking and plotting.

On this particular day he was in the process of deciding how he was going to go about the next phase of his plan, when suddenly he was interrupted by loud sobbing coming from down the hall.

Always intrigued by the misfortune of others, Jim followed the sound all the way to an empty classroom just off of the history wing. There, crumpled up underneath the windowsill and looking quite miserable, was an older boy Jim recognized as Greg Lestrade, captain of the football team and often seen hanging around–

"FUCKING. MYCROFT. HOLMES!" He cried out in anger suddenly, kicking aside the nearest desk. He then put his head in his hands and continued sobbing even louder.

Meanwhile, just outside the door, Jim was grinning wider than a greedy child on Christmas morning. This....hell, finding the Holmes boys' weaknesses was already easy enough, but this....this was too much.

He had to hold back a joyous cackle as he tip-toed away from the room with the sobbing boy, eager to share this latest development with Seb and Irene.

If possible, Jim's convoluted plan had just become even more interesting.