A/N: I suppose I should mention a few things at the start of this. First, that I have very little shame, because there's something infinitely satisfying about school AUs. Second, I've never attended a boarding school, so if by some chance you have, then you'll need to excuse the rampant inaccuracies. And third… I couldn't resist with the cameos. With any luck they'll stop trying to take over the entire fic as I keep writing. Anyway, that said, enjoy!
John Watson was used to new schools. He'd been to a fair share of them, with mum moving from job to job while dad was away with the military. Very few of John's old schools, however, had felt so permanent.
"Boarding school will be good for you," mum had promised. "It'll be like having a proper home. You'll get such a good education—and you'll make such good friends!"
She seemed a little sad when she said it, though.
John tried to be positive about it, partly for her. There were the obvious downsides: strict uniforms, bratty rich kids, and no girls whatsoever (John was of a particular age). When they'd toured the grounds back in February, though, it was hard to deny that it was a nice place.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not it was the kind of place that could substitute for a proper home.
John had been a little concerned to find that he'd only filled a few bags when he was packing. Was that really all his life came down to? He supposed he'd stopped collecting useless trinkets after the second or third move, finding them too difficult to carry from place to place.
At least it made walking to the second floor of the dormitory easier. Room 221, he'd been told, though he shouldn't worry if he forgot. As the administrators had mentioned, on the door to each room was a pair of brass nameplates, with the surnames of the inhabitants engraved on them.
John's previous schools would have used index cards.
He took the time to read some of the names, wondering what kind of people they belonged to. Kirkland, Jones, Edwards, Doherty. There were a few of these boys bustling back and forth between rooms, but they paid no attention to John as he made his way to the end of the hall.
That much was to be expected. They'd had a year to make friends, alliances, and enemies; John was a latecomer, perhaps even an intruder.
As the numbers on the doors grew higher, John took care to pay closer attention to the names. The second to last door on the left—Room 219—bore the names Hallward and Gray, while the last on the right (220) proclaimed its inhabitants as Ryder and Flyte.
And there, the final door on the left. John looked at the delicately engraved Watson, eyes drifting above it to the other nameplate. Holmes, it read. That sounded normal enough.
John reached out a hand to knock, in case Holmes was in at the moment—he didn't want to start out by being rude. However, before his hand was even fully raised, the opposite door burst open in a rather dramatic fashion.
"Are you going to stand there and wait—" The young man who'd opened the door stopped as he registered John's confused face. "Good heavens, you're not Sebastian. I'm terribly sorry."
"That's… that's quite all right," John replied, hoping he didn't look too surprised.
"Holmes's roommate, are you?"
"That's me." John offered a quick smile. "That, er, isn't a problem, is it?"
The other boy shrugged. "Depends. Most people can't stand him, but in truth he isn't so bad—there's worse types. The name's Charles, by the way. And you are?"
"John. Watson, that is."
"We guessed that much from the door," Charles laughed. "You seem all right, whatever they might say about your friend over there. You'll have to stop by later—Sebastian is desperate to meet you."
"It's very kind of you to offer," John replied. "I'll see what I can do."
"Excellent." Charles gave John a friendly pat on the shoulder, glancing back at the closed door across from them. "And best of luck to you."
With Charles back inside the room on the left, John returned to the task of alerting Holmes to his presence. His home and surrogate family for the next two months—certainly no pressure or anything.
Still, John managed a confident knock, which he had to feel slightly pleased about.
"Open," came a muffled voice from inside. John took that to mean that the door wasn't locked, so turned the doorknob and nudged it open.
Holmes was lying on one of the two simple beds, hands folded on his chest and eyes fixated on the ceiling. It made it difficult to get an idea of his appearance, but John could tell that he was tall, with dark curly hair.
"Hello," John greeted him. It seemed strange that Holmes was making no move to acknowledge his presence, but maybe his had been asleep or something.
"Mind the door," came the response. John quickly closed it behind him. "That's better."
"I'm John." Maybe if he ignored Holmes's strange manner, things would work out.
"Sherlock." It took a moment for John to realize that it was the boy's name—it was certainly an interesting one, and he wondered if there was a story behind it. "That side of the room is yours," Sherlock continued, "and I would ask that you refrain from interfering with my own belongings. There are a number of delicate materials I've brought for study purposes, and I assume neither of us is keen on an accident."
"Right." John crossed the floor to the empty bed, depositing his bags on the flat surface. He had to unpack at some point, and though it seemed like a chore at the moment, it was probably best to get it over with now rather than later.
Everyone had bad days, he thought as he started removing his clothes from where they'd been neatly folded. He was trying to hide his own anxiety about moving in, and it wouldn't be unreasonable to guess that Sherlock was similarly bad with transitions.
"I apologize," a meeker voice said a minute or two later, interrupting John's thoughts. "It isn't entirely your fault. I was expecting someone of a more tedious nature—they run rampant in this place, you'll find. It gets dull."
"So I'm not dull, then?"
"Father in the military, a sister you haven't seen in at least a year, and numerous schools before this one. Infinitely more exciting than most."
John frowned. "Did someone tell you?"
"It's the lack of friends that confirms it."
"Excuse me?" John turned, anger briefly flaring up inside of him. It was strange enough to hear that Sherlock knew the basic details of his life, but that comment was uncalled for.
"I'd expect you to come with photos, or even notes from friends, but you've only brought the one of your parents—the army green is quite noticeable—and you and the girl, who looks far too similar to you to be your girlfriend." Sherlock turned so that he was looking at John, a certain kind of smugness in his expression. At the same time, it was curiously devoid of cruelty, which momentarily confused John.
"How… how did you know it had been a few years?" John looked down at the photos that were still in his hands, noticing the date stamp even as he said it. The room was small enough that Sherlock could've seen the numbers from where he lay, though it was astounding that he'd paid close enough attention.
"You see, don't you?"
John nodded. "All from two photos?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes," Holmes agreed. "And the telling lack of more."
"That's… that's fantastic," John breathed. "You're a genius."
"An eye for observation, no more." Sherlock turned away once again, but John thought he saw a hint of a smile.
Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.