The locker room became an ensemble of bustling sounds: cleats on title, lockers slamming shut, and the excited chatter of 24 boys on their first day back in season. The prestigious private school was home to the most competitive high school soccer program in the country, and as John Watson slid his shin guards into his socks, he couldn't help but gap at the reality of his new situation.
"Damn, bout' time for some new cleats, don't you think?"
John looked up. The tall, hooked-nosed goalkeeper's stared down at him, sneering slightly.
"They're lucky," John lied. He picked some dried mud from the bottom of his cleats. The tattered shoes were barely useable, held together with duck-tape and thread. But every time the water seeped through, chilling his socks, or his heels bled from friction, John simply counted his blessings. The Watson family was using all their income to send him to the esteemed private academy in the hopes of pursuing a career in sports, so he was hardly in any position to complain about a few scuffs.
"They must be," said Greg Lestrade, the team captain who was bound to be recruited by the end of the season, as he slipped his practice jersey over his head. "Did you notice that you're the only one to make the team who isn't a returner?"
John had, in fact, noticed. Since last season's graduating class was unusually minimal, the competition for the single opening spot was fierce throughout all of summer try outs. He'd actually seen teenage boys in tears after getting cut.
The goalkeeper's eyes lit up. "So what are we gonna make him do? It's got to be good."
John squinted. "Um, what?"
Greg rolled his eyes. "It's tradition for new players to have a… well, we call it orientation, but it's more like a dare. Last year we made Anderson do a lap in his underpants."
Some of the boys listening in began to laugh in remembrance.
"That doesn't sound too bad," said John.
"It was raining," said the goalkeeper bitterly.
"Fine then, Anderson," said a defender (Jerry, maybe Garry. No, definitely Jerry) "You get to choose what this poor bloke has to do."
A smile stretched across Anderson's sallow features.
"You have a name, then?" asked Greg, staying beside John as the team began to flood out the locker room.
"John Watson."
"Age?"
"I'm about to turn sevente—" But he was cut off by Anderson's sudden halt.
"HOLD ON. See that boy over there?" He pointed across the field.
"Oh now that's just cruel to John," muttered Jerry.
"I…" Then John saw him: the lanky, dark figure sitting alone in the grass. Most of his uniform was hidden beneath a large, black overcoat that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. Brown curls covered half his face as he read some textbook with an unusual ardency. "Okay, I see him."
"Get him to accompany you to Ally Hooper's back to school party," concluded Anderson.
"Get off it, Anderson. That's impossible," said Greg.
"I want to see him try," argued Anderson. Some other boys entered the conversation, rallying behind Anderson's decision.
John looked back toward the boy in the grass. His head jerked upward, and John was met by a pair of inquisitive blue-green eyes, as though he had sensed John's gaze.
"I don't get it… who is that?"
Anderson smirked. "That is Sherlock Holmes. He's hasn't got any friends. He's some sort of psychopath. I'd take rain and under paints over that nutter any day."
….
John was positive that he'd miss home. Admittedly, he wasn't sure how much he'd miss the hour long train ride that he endured for every day of tryouts. Nor would he miss his sister's blaring music from her bedroom right across the hall, the faulty air conditioner that often ceased working on the hottest days of the year, or any of the darkest memories he could retrieve from his childhood house. But living in a boarding school? Well, it'd be a new experience at the least.
It was the day before first quarter and the halls were beginning to fill. After morning practice and a quick shower, John headed nervously to the headmaster's office.
He was a bit early for his scheduled appointment and ended up waiting awkwardly outside the door. Voices were just barely audible from within, and John listened despite his better judgment.
"Please sir. I don't think I can make it through an entire year with him!"
"School policy states that students must have cause before switching roommates."
"I have cause. He's a…. Well, you know how he is. Please, sir."
"I'll take your request into consideration. Now if you don't mind, I have another student to meet."
The door opened, and a very dejected looking boy came out into the hall. John stepped nervously into the headmaster's office. The man waiting to greet him was tall, stony-faced and grey in complexion, reminding John vaguely of the gargoyles in front of the school.
"Hello there. Mr. Watson, correct? Congratulations on making the football team. Take a seat," said the man warmly.
"Thanks, Mr. Conan," said John as he placed himself in a greenish chair besides the man's tall desk.
"You had some concerns about your living arrangements?"
"Yeah… It's just that," he inhaled deeply, "I get severe night terrors."
The headmaster leaned forward, resting his head on an upturned fist. "Night terrors, you say?"
John hated talking about it. He always felt like some freak of nature. "It's sort of like a nightmare, except it's not. I wake up screaming and sweating and can't ever remember why. My psychiatrist says they're a result of my Posttraumatic stress disorder. I just thought you should know that before assigning me a roommate. Some people get really, well, bothered to say the least."
"Right. Well, thank you for sharing this with me. I wish I could offer you a private room, but I'm afraid that would be against school policy. The only solution I could think of would, well, maybe that's a bit too off-case…"
"What is it?" asked John. "I'll do anything, really."
"There's another student that's known to be, well, a disruptive roommate for several relatively minor reasons. I suppose it seems logical to pair you to together. Not as a punishment, of course, but as a fair balance."
"That seems like a decent idea," muttered John.
The headmaster smiled, typing something into his computer. "You seem like a nice young man, John. Thinking of others shows nobleness and maturity. Maybe this is a good thing. This student, well, he could use a friend like you. You're new dorm is room 221B, and you'll be living with Sherlock Holmes."