The shriek of the lunch bell rang through the classroom, dismissing my overcrowded Russian Literature class. My peers poured out of the doors in droves, but I lingered at my desk, carefully placing my books in particular positions in my bag. The risk of being stampeded was too great, and the sub-par cafeteria food wasn't worth any rush at all.

My teacher, Ms. Ivanova, was accustomed to my daily loitering. "Mycroft," she said to me, looking over the rectangular rims of her glasses, "are you enjoying Приглашение на казнь?"

I stared at my English copy of the book, ran my hands over the translated title: Invitation to a Beheading. I sighed deeply. "If I'm honest with you, Valeriya, it's dreadful. There isn't a realistic sentence in this book, and the author seems to go off on a new tangent every other word. It's practically a fantasy story. Nothing about it makes sense!"

She gave me a closed-mouth, knowing smile. "Nabokov wrote it. It's not supposed to make sense." She waved her hand through the air, as though she was shooing me. "Now Mycroft, go eat! You can't expect to understand anything on an empty stomach!"

Her words sent a sense of dread through me; I'd hoped she'd let me stay longer here. The chaotic lunchroom bustle kept me from my thoughts, distracted me from the ideas flying through my mind. The voices of my peers only reminded me how alone I was in my intelligence.

I gave the woman a nod and left her room, stepping out into the now-empty hall. My footsteps echoed around the room, each step on the dark wood sending resounding shivers through the musty air. My lunch-filled paper sack rustled each time it brushed against my leg. The ever-increasing amount of creases in the thick paper bothered me, like an unfinished song or a dry marker.

The near-silence of the hall was broken as soon as I opened the creaking door to the cafeteria. It was a madhouse. My peers ran here and there, tossing apples and unopened milk cartons and fries between themselves like lunatics. With all of the mischief occurring, it was a mystery how the students ate any lunch at all.

I took a seat on a creaking bench at my regular table. I wasn't some sort of loner who sat alone in a corner; I was a loner who sat alone in the middle of the lunch room. Chaos spun around me, as though I was its completely normal, boring epicenter.

My half of the long table was otherwise empty, but the other half was filled with students. As far as neighbors went, they were acceptable: friendly (they'd even invited me to sit with them a few times- experiences I don't like to recall), fairly quiet, and not entirely braindead. I could have joined their group if I'd wished to. The truth was, I rather liked to be alone with my own thoughts.

Also, my spot at the table had a direct view to the only other interesting person in the entire school: Greg Lestrade.

Sure, he was the typical football-loving jock: somewhat immature, far from genius, and terribly attractive. However, he wasn't an exact replica of those athletic boys who had bullied me the prior year, in Year 12: he was kind.

One of my worst social experiences happened in Year 12. I'd been attending Westminster School's Under School since the age of 7, but a load of boys had been admitted in Year 12, and they hadn't exactly taken a liking to me. In fact, each week during Station, the bi-weekly compulsory sports time, I'd been practically attacked by this load of boys.

I remember one Tuesday in particular. I'd been bullied all year, but somehow, I'd made it to the spring without any major injury. I was prepared to face a horrible afternoon of football, and was dressed and standing in Dean's Yard. Our teacher hadn't arrived to direct us, so the whole lot of boys was stood around on the grass, waiting to begin. Naturally, I stood alone several meters away from the others.

This group of new sports fanatics began to approach me in a crowd of eight. They were tall, muscled. It was genuinely terrifying to face this group of massive, pasty boys. Foolishly though, I thought them to be below me and ignored them.

It became a bit harder to ignore them when one, Philip Anderson, promptly moved forward and laid a punch across my cheek.

My cheekbone burned with the strike and the impact sent me flying to the ground. The cool grass contrasted against the absolute fire below my eye. I was vulnerable. This I knew, especially as the boys formed a circle around me, staring down with nothing but menace in their eyes. I genuinely thought it was the end.

I barely managed to squeak out the words. "Wh- What are you doing?"

Philip was the ringleader, and his response, accompanied by a sharp, monosyllabic laugh, only clarified this. "Look at that, lads! Turns out he doesn't know everything after all!"

The group laughed, but all I could seem to hear were snarls and snaps from my beastly peers. Anderson now crouched alongside me, spitting directly in my face.

"You think you're better than us, don't you? Think you're smarter, eh?" A smirk spread across his face. "Try thinkin' your way out of this one, mate."

"Don't blame me for your idiocy," I snarled.

Anderson first replied with a swift, hard kick to my ribs, standing up completely. "Alright, then. Let's teach this oh-so-brilliant bender a real lesson."

This was all the invitation the boys needed, and they began to close in further. Only then, as they spat on me and prepared to beat me half to death, yelling obscenities all the while, did a new face appear above me. Greg genuinely looked like an angel, the early spring sun a halo behind him as he gently pushed the lads away from me, working his way into the group.

For a brief moment, I thought he was only there to join in on the boys' fun, but they all stared at him, simply waiting, as he began to speak. "Come on, you lot. You aren't really going to beat him like this, are you? He may be kind of a twat, but you guys really aren't making yourselves look good here."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Oh, good guy Greg. Can't we just have a little fun?"

"Football is fun. Station is fun. Breaking the ribs of some defenseless kid isn't."

The jocks seemed to consider this. Most shrugged and walked away, leaving only Anderson and Greg standing above me.

Philip looked as though he'd just bitten into a lemon. "Why do you always do that, Lestrade? What is it with you and ruining all the fun around here?"

"Sorry, mate. Not all of us enjoy acting like total arses." As soon as Anderson turned and stormed away, Greg offered me a hand, which I gladly took. "You alright, then?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "Fine."

He ran a thumb across my injured cheek, causing me to wince. "You should go get some ice on that."

"I'm fine."

Lestrade's brow remained furrowed for only a moment longer, before he shrugged. "Suit yourself, mate."

Even as his back retreated away from me, I offered no thanks. I never was the gracious type, but even as I sat in that noisy cafeteria half a year later, I regretted not calling out after the gorgeous Greg Lestrade.

I quickly realized that I'd been staring at Greg for far longer than usual, and tore my eyes away from him, turning them back to the sandwich I'd started in on. He never returned my looks. Lestrade may have been a hero in my mind, but he probably didn't have the slightest idea who I was.

According to the watch strapped around my wrist, there were only ten minutes left of the lunch period- it was time for me to leave. Much like the rush to lunch, I had no desire to be caught in the stampede of boys hurrying to return to their classes.

As I gathered the mess I'd made on the table, a voice nipped in the back of my head. One more look. This wasn't necessarily routine- it wasn't as though I spent every waking moment dying to look at the football player. Today, however, the voice was present and I couldn't help but oblige.

I moved my eyes up from the spot on the wooden table they'd been dissecting. Soft brown eyes met my gaze, full lips that flicked upwards in the corners upon making eye contact with me. This time, as I stared, Greg stared directly back at me.

Violently, I pulled my eyes away from him. He wasn't supposed to know who I was- and he definitely wasn't supposed to know me as the creepy kid who constantly stared at him. Cover blown.

Without so much as another glance in his direction, I stood, exiting the loud cafeteria with whatever shreds of dignity I still had.

--

The door to 221B Baker Street closed behind me with a click. Immediately, I was met with the shrill sound of my younger brother, Sherlock, playing violin in his bedroom. How I was ever expected to manage a clear thought with the screech of the instrument as a constant backing track, I didn't know.

I walked down the hall, paces long and steady, to Sherlock's bedroom door. I gave it a swift whack with the palm of my hand. "Little brother, do you mind?"

The music crescendoed, and I groaned. This was routine: my need for quiet upon arriving home, the unbearable sound of screeching strings, his sass, spoken or not. I gave up (that too, was routine) and opened the door to my room just across the hall.

The heels of my shoes clicked against the dark hardwood as I paced back and forth, trying my best to block out the instrument as I thought. I'd be applying to universities in just over a year, and it was about time I began considering which one to enroll in.

My concern wasn't in whether or not I'd be accepted (it was a given that I would be; top of my class, prestigious school, caucasian male... no question there), but rather, whether any university could be challenging enough for me to not die of boredom in the three years I'd be there.

As I tossed around schools in my mind (Cambridge? Oxford? Harvard, even?), one image kept flicking me out of my train of thoughts. Particularly, the one I'd faced earlier that day: Greg, staring directly back at me, for once. Brown eyes clear from miles away, chocolate hair half-brushed up away from his forehead...

I shook my head, trying to expel his face from my mind. Those who were irresistible tended to be trouble, it seemed. The last thing I needed was a crush- hell, I was Mycroft Holmes! Known all over London specifically for lacking in emotions! Success didn't come from "love" or "feelings" or whatever Valentine's Day bullshit they fed society through greeting cards and Hallmark shows. Success was born from isolation and productivity.

I groaned in frustration, opened my door and crossed the hall in a matter of steps, began to shout. The strings of Sherlock's violin squealed on.