Author's Note: ok, here is my re-Written version, sorry for any annoyance or confusion since I changed the original story. thanks, and reviewing would be really helpful, (you don't have to have an FF account to review) thanks!


John sighed, exasperated with the teacher as he made another mistake. He gazed aimlessly out of the window for a few minutes before noticing a car pull up at the gates. A tall figure climbed out of one side, apparently shouting at the person in the front seat. A teenage boy slid out of it, arguing with his companion, and swinging a bag over his shoulder. He was clad in the school's uniform, wearing a thin grey jumper over his school shirt and tie. After a few minutes he seemed to give up, abruptly turning and walked quickly towards the main building, stopping mid-sentence. John turned away, unimpressed by the skirmish. Great, another dramatic family in the school.

Sherlock marched past the confused receptionist at her desk and straight to the head master's office, furious at his swung open the door and stood inside, startling the man sitting behind the desk."Mr. Wilberton." The headmaster glared up at him, jerking in his chair. Mr Wilberton bulged out of his chair when he moved and sweat seemed to endlessly flow from his pours.

"Sit."

"I prefer to stand." Sherlock's eyes bored into the headmasters, prompting him to stand as well.

"I've read your file,er," he checked a sheet of paper in front of him,"Sherlock, and I'm not impressed. I can to tell you now-"

"That I can't expect to act like I did in other schools," Sherlock interrupted, staring down at Mr Wilberforce, Taking advantage of the height difference between them, "That your school is different, but your wrong. Goodbye." Grinning once the headmaster couldn't see his face, Sherlock span on his heel and strolled out, leaving an outraged headmaster in his wake.

After English John had psychology, which was artfully placed right at the other side of the school. He chucked his notebook into his bag, slung it over his shoulder and followed the rest of the class out of the door. Moping down the corridors, he hesitated before getting the notebook back out, the pen still attached to the ring binder. He flipped the cover back and opened it by the first page. It was his very first sketch, the one he had done the day he had arrived at Shargridge Academy, two years before. It showed his father, out by the gates, pulling a slightly younger John inside. Chuckling to himself as he turned down another corridor, John flicked through the notebook until he was about two thirds into the book, landing on his latest addition. Pulling out the Biro, he added some extra shading and tone to the drawing until he was happy with it.

John didn't stop sketching until he got to his next class, and then only because his teacher had already threatened to take the notebook away three times that week. Sighing, John stumbled to his usual seat.

It took nearly an hour for the receptionist to process Sherlock's information, which made him miss his first lesson entirely. That annoyed him. A lot. It wasn't as if he wanted to go to English, he could speak the language perfectly without any assistance, but the fact that she wasted so much time just talking. She was constantly asking unnecessary questions, where he grew up, his favourite band, even what he preferred to eat for breakfast and although he met each with the same cold, indifferent glare, she continued almost relentlessly.

John stared out of the window as usual, occasionally adding to the drawing in his sketchbook that he had hidden behind the blind. About twenty minutes into the lesson, the new kid from outside walked in, not bothering to knock. Sherlock glared at the teacher, who Beaming at him and hauled him in front of the rest of the class, who turned silent as they noticed him.

"Now, Class, this is... " she had to stop to ask him his name, frowning when she heard it. "That's unusual..." she muttered to him before turning back to the others. "'Sherlock'. He's new, so help him out, ok?" She ushered the grumbling new boy forward, inviting him to take a seat. Muttering angrily under his breath Sherlock marched to the only empty seat in sight, next to John.

As the new kid came over, John quickly stuffed the notebook behind the curtain fully; he didn't want to look like some freak, drawing strangers. Sherlock noticed his movements and smirked arrogantly as he relaxed in his chair, dumping his bag under the table. John smiled sheepishly and nudged under the table, holding out his hand. "John, Watson." Sherlock looked down at his hand, sniffed, then shook it a little hesitantly.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock looked John up and down before turning back to the front, disinterest plain on his face. A little self conscious and now irritated, John poked him a little harder.

"And you are?"

"Sherlock. Holmes." The new boy didn't bother turning to look at John, just answering in a monotone. John huffed at him, exasperated, and sat in silence throughout the rest of their lesson, shooting Sherlock glares at every opportunity, who was oblivious as he scribbled into his own notebook.

The new boy wasn't in John's next lesson, history. As he made his way into the lunch hall after another unhelpful session with the teacher from hell, John saw Sherlock sitting in the corner. He was alone on his table, despite the crowds of students around all of the others. It seemed that the rest of the school had already decided that Sherlock wasn't exactly friendly. John bought a sandwich and reluctantly made his way over to Sherlock, rolling his eyes and muttering about how it was the only table with a seat left anyway. "So," he said, sitting with his back to the rest of the school, "what type are you then?" he smirked as Sherlock looked up at him, obviously confused. "You know, loner, tortured genius, rebel, or just dull?" Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the screen of his phone.

"Genius, but not tortured." He said, rather to nonchalantly for John's liking.

"seriously? I don't believe you..."

"Why not?" Sherlock turned his gaze onto John, his eyes darker than most people as he stared, unblinkingly.

"Because you, you just..." John mumbled away into nothing as he reluctantly realised that Sherlock did seem like a genius, well, either that or a nutter anyway... As he turned his drifting attention back to the boy opposite, he realised Sherlock was waiting for his full attention.

"how eloquent. Don't believe me? Fine. Take a look around you, John, what do you know about the people you waste the majority of your life with? Maybe that one of them is your neighbour, or that your P.E teacher in year seven is married to your second cousin, but nothing important. For example, take that teacher there," Sherlock was speaking very fast now, barely pausing for breath as he indicated to their English teacher at the back of the room."Mr Thrickson. He's only taught you for a few months, you barely know his name, but I've learnt more in this moment, this second, than you would have this year. Want to know what? First, he has a tumour. Surprised? Ask him. He only found out this weekend, hasn't told his family yet." John's eyes flicked from Sherlock to the teacher, perplexed, "He better soon, he's only got a few months left, six at the most.. more? He has two children, two girls, both in primary school. He worries about their future, how they'll cope without him. He's a single parent, his wife left him six years ago, with a baby and a four year old." Sherlock glared at John after he had finished, but it soon changed to his usual smirk as he saw the look of awe on John's face. His mouth was even a little open, how quaint.

"...Whoa. That was...amazing." A grin spread across John's face, confusing Sherlock.

"really? That's not how people usually react..." he squinted slightly at John, as if trying to tell if he was trying to make fun of him.

"then what do they say?"

"normally, 'piss off.' " John burst out laughing, causing Sherlock to chuckle in spite of himself.

End of chapter one