In first period Italian the next day, the clock moved slowly, taunting me from its place on the wall behind the teacher's desk. I hadn't seen the boy that morning, and I wasn't sure whether or not I would be able to see him at all over the course of the day. These thoughts distracted me throughout the teacher's lesson, and I was caught off guard when she called on me to answer a question.

My head snapped up from its relaxed position upon hearing my name. "Sorry, what?"

The entire class snickered. I heard a bit of whispering. Of course, it never seemed such a big deal when any of the other students made a mistake, but anything I did wrong was like a lion being frightened by a gazelle: out of place, out of character, and, simply, incorrect.

The teacher smiled, but not in a friendly way. She seemed to be laughing at me. She was no exception to the rule that every single person in this school despised me. "I said, what is a synonym for Grande?"

"Enorme," I answered quickly, trying to rid myself of so much attention. It didn't leave easily, and I felt the judgmental stares of my classmates throughout the rest of class.

It felt like years had passed by the time the lunch bell rang, and I was tempted to sprint to the cafeteria (of course, I resisted the temptation; there was no use in drawing extra, unnecessary attention to myself). After purchasing my food, I lingered in the cafeteria. Despite the ridicule I got from everyone, I hung around the lunch tables, scanning them for any sign of the boy. Nothing.

Giving up and believing he was absent, I stormed towards the library and back into the bathroom. Slamming my tray onto the paper towel dispenser, I collapsed against the tile wall, head in my hands. How could someone do this to me emotionally? And a guy, no less? I'd never felt so strongly about anyone or anything in my life, and the feelings were coming over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me if I didn't swim well enough.

Something crunched from a few feet in front of me, and I raised my head too quickly, slamming it against the wall.

The cruncher laughed. "You're definitely a strange one, I'll give you that."

The words appeared all around him, but I didn't need them today. The boy was back, staring me directly in the face. There weren't enough words in the world to say the things I thought about him.

Despite my poetic, emotional thoughts, my words were clumsy. "You're the kid- you're back here? Why?"

He shrugged. "Haven't got anywhere else to go, I suppose. Your head okay? That sounded kind of painful."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain my usual composure. "Of course my head is alright." I tried to stand, just to prove my point, but was met with a sudden dizziness and sat down again.

"I don't think you are." He laughed a bit, but it wasn't the kind of laughter I was used to. He sounded nervous, innocent- almost worried about me. People never seemed to worry about me anymore. If anything, they wished bad things upon me most of the time.

"I think I may have to agree with you."

His eyes lit up. "Ooh! Do you want me to test you for a concussion? I haven't tried it yet, but I read an article online about it and was just fascinated. Did you know that-" He noticed my confused look and stopped talking. "Sorry."

I waved away his apology. "No, please. Continue."

He blushed. "It's just a stupid little-"

"It isn't stupid. It's something you're passionate about. Tell me more."

The boy smiled at me and continued talking about the concussion article. I tried to pay attention, but was distracted by the pain in the back of my head as well as the butterflies in my stomach.

When he finished, he looked at me expectantly. "So? Do you want me to?"

I blinked, long and hard. "Want you to what?"

"Test you for a concussion."

"Oh, uh... Yeah. Sure."

He beamed for a moment, but then took a breath, composing himself. He drew a phone from his pocket (obviously a beat-up hand-me-down, but it was still a nice old thing) and crawled over to me, sitting just inches to my left. He turned the flashlight of his phone on and shined it in my left eye, then my right. I could feel every breath he took, the warmth that radiated off of his body, but I remained calm. Now was not the time for a little crush.

He backed away after a moment, turning off the light. "You seem to be fine. Might have a bump there, though."

"You're a good doctor."

The boy shrugged, trying to act casual, but I saw a look of excitement pass briefly over his face. "I've always wanted to be a doctor, ever since, you know, the accident."

I nodded. "You would make a good one, Mr. ...?"

"Oh!" He extended a hand, which I shook, filled with warmth that I tried to subdue upon feeling his touch. "John. John Watson, that is."

"Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you, John."

I finally released my grip after an awkwardly long handshake. He nodded, and returned to his original spot, a few feet away. I stumbled to my feet, retrieved my food, and sat again. We ate in silence for several minutes.

After a few bites of apple (which made the same crunchy sound that I had first heard), he studied me again. "I still can't believe that you're a mega genius, and you still feel like you have to lock yourself away like this."

I shrugged. "I guess high school students don't really like mega geniuses."

"I don't mind you."

I chuckled. "That's got to be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

He laughed, and I was surprised at how comfortable he sounded. Could we really be becoming... Friends?

Lunch ended just a few minutes later, and we tossed our disposable trays into the trash, exiting the library. We went our separate ways, not bothering to say goodbyes. I quickly retrieved my books from my locker, and hurried off to Earth Sciences. The bell rang just as I took my seat, alone in the back of the class. We were all divided into pairs, except for me. I worked alone, not by choice, but because the seat next to me remained empty all year (of course, working alone was best for me, as I could move as quickly as possible without worry or distraction of another human).

The teacher, a creep of an old man named Mr. Hart, had just begun his lesson when the door creaked open. I didn't look up from my desk, which I stared at throughout most of Mr. Hart's tiring old lessons; I already knew all of the material anyway.

"Ah," purred Mr. Hart in his strangely-pedophilic way, "you must be my new student. Have a seat back with Mr. Sherlock there, won't you?"

I quickly raised my head. A desk partner? This idiot of a teacher must have realized what a terrible idea that was! My new lab partner took a seat next to me, but I paid her no notice, still fuming over the senseless decision to place me with a partner.

She extended her hand out towards me as soon as she’d made it to the desk. "Molly Hooper."

I said nothing.

The girl continued attempting small talk throughout the class period, but I gave no response. She was too friendly, too boring, and she fancied me upon sight: a telltale sign of a complete idiot. She was new to the school, which was shown rather obviously to the hours it had taken her to assemble and prepare her outfit and hair. I didn't like her, and by the end of the class, she didn't like me.

The rest of school went slowly, as always, and I was relieved to be home a few hours after the dreadful science class. Today, rather than having me distract him at the kitchen table, Mycroft met me at the door.

He was seated on the stairs when I walked inside. "We need to talk, little brother."

"Your company isn't exactly desirable; I think I'll have to pass."

I tried to move past him, to get upstairs, but he stood quickly and blocked me. He was an inch taller than me, and able to look down at me with a threatening glint in his eye from his position on the second step.

"We need to talk," he repeated through his teeth.

I took a step backwards, but straightened my back and raised my eyebrows. "I can't imagine why you'd ever want to talk to me."

"Because for once, little William, you're interesting."

"I must say, I never thought you would ever manage to say that to me."

He narrowed his eyes. "Look, you're just a child. You have claimed all of the attention in this house for yourself and turned all of our lives into a mystery story that always revolves around you." He moved closer to me, until he was just inches away, and I could practically feel the anger and jealousy radiating off of his body. "I swear to god Sherlock, if you make that story into a romance as well, you will be out of this house before you know it."

I took a deep breath. "I don't know what you mean."

Mycroft smirked and moved back to a comfortable distance. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to me. On it was a picture of John, as well as his age, height, weight, and what seemed to be most of his history. "Your boyfriend?"

"How did you get that?"

My older brother shrugged. "You would be surprised what you would find when given enough time."

I reached for the paper, but Mycroft pulled it away from me, folding it back up and putting it into his pocket again. "Top secret, little brother."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't think that's your business at all. It should be kept only for important people, like... The government, perhaps."

I snorted. "Are you implying that you actually managed to get a job?"

He nodded, looking down his nose at me. "I daresay I'll be out of the house soon, off into my own manor, or something along those lines. They pay rather well."

I raised my eyebrows, trying my best to hide the fact that I was greatly impressed by my brother. "Who did you have to kill?"

He gave me a sarcastic smile. "If I'm lucky enough, perhaps I'll get the order to kill you. Wouldn't that be convenient?"

"As if you could ever manage that."

"Sherlock, under order of the greatest powers in London, you could manage anything." He promptly turned and walked away, back to the kitchen.

"Speak for yourself!" I called after him, before hurrying upstairs to my bedroom.

Instead of reaching for my schoolbooks upon entering my room, I pulled out my trusty old Cremona violin, and launched into Bartok's Melodia. My violin playing had always annoyed my brother, and that was good, but the great plus was the pleasure it brought my mother.

I was still playing when she arrived home from her book club, and she knocked on my door almost soon as she had returned. I quit playing and opened the door for her, greeting her with one of my rare hugs.

"Sherlock! You're playing again!"

"Yes, Mum, I do most afternoons."

She furrowed her brow. "Not yesterday! It was so difficult to rest without your music, dear; you know how I love it!"

I gave her a small smile. "Yes, well... I was a bit preoccupied yesterday."

Her eyes dilated. "Oh Sherlock dear, you aren't on drugs, are you?!"

I laughed. "Of course not, Mum."

"Then what could be worrying you?"

"Just, you know, school. Now, if you don't mind..." I held up my violin.

"Oh! Of course, of course. I'll let you get back to playing. Love you, dear!" She exited, and shut the door behind her.

I smiled and returned to my song, a happy, Celtic tune. My mother was one of the few people in the world who truly appreciated me.

Could John be one as well?