The fifteen year old Sherlock Holmes was the school's heartthrob. How could he not be, with those high cheekbones, those dazzling eyes, that aloof manner? Girls swooned when he looked in their direction, they blushed, and fiddled my hair, and stared at the floor, but he never noticed. He'd never had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter, though several of the boys were in love with him. 'He thinks he's too good for us', some speculated. 'I heard he has a girlfriend abroad!" others gossiped. But the truth was that Sherlock had never even contemplated the possibility of having a relationship with someone- why would he want that? What was the point?
Charlotte Malory had her eye on Sherlock. He was the only boy in the entire school she didn't have wrapped round her little finger. None of her usual techniques had worked: the fluttering of the eyelashes, the suggestive wink, the seductive brush of the hand. Sherlock just returned them all with a vague, bewildered smile, and sometimes not even that if he had something on his mind. He infuriated her.
Mycroft was draped languidly over the living room chair when Sherlock finally arrived home. He was surrounded by homework, but instead of doing it, he chose to peel an apple slowly into his lap. Sherlock dumped his heavy satchel onto the floor, and flung his coat onto a chair.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft, "Why did you take the route through the graveyard?" Sherlock looked down. Of course: a white lily petal on the back of his shoe, and the clayish soil only found around the church.
"Avoiding everyone," he answered, "there were lots of people at the end of the road."
"Waiting for you, no doubt," said Mycroft with just a hint of jealousy.
"Me?" asked Sherlock incredulously, "Why would they wait for me?" Mycroft chuckled softly.
"Oh," he said, "I thought he knew."
Sherlock sat alone in his poky room, doing his and Mycroft's chemistry homework, even though Mycroft's was three years above what he should have been doing. He filled them both in, alternating between his own and Mycroft's handwriting- it was all simple, really, if he applied himself. He hardly had to think for a minute before he answered A-level chemistry questions. The thing that annoyed him, though, was that Mycroft could have done it in even less time. Mycroft excelled at chemistry, but was always too lazy to do it. Sherlock had to work ridiculously hard at it, and even then wasn't as good as Mycroft.
When the pages were all neatly filled in, Sherlock lay back on his dingy bed and thought. What could Mycroft have meant, 'waiting for him'? Sherlock had no friends. People wouldn't just 'wait for him'. That was what friends did- or at least, Sherlock thought, but he wasn't really sure on the finer points of the concept. People at the end of the road... Well, not people. Girls, more specifically. Lots of girls. At the end of the street. Giggling. Sherlock hated it when they giggled- it was as if all of them were in on a huge secret he knew nothing of. He ignored them for the most part. Girls.
"Mycroft, why would they have been waiting for me?" asked Sherlock, as they ate their dinner (their mother was out, as she always was). Mycroft chuckled.
"I can only presume they think you're good-looking." he said, "Can't think why. You're ugly as hell." Sherlock ignored this.
"And why would that matter?" Mycroft moved into unknown territory.
"I don't know. I suppose they want to talk to you and things."
"Yes, but why?" moaned Sherlock, "I don't talk to them."
"Except to show off with your deductions," muttered Mycroft.
"I do not show off."
"Of course, brother dear." Sherlock scowled and pushed his plate to one side.
"I'm going to bed."
"At half five?"
"Yes."
But Sherlock soon grew bored in the drabness of his bedroom, and returned to talk to his brother, as Mycroft knew he would.
"Had a nice sleep?" Mycroft asked sweetly.
"Naturally."
"Good, good."
"Mycroft," said Sherlock hesitantly, "when you say talk to me, do you mean... be my girlfriend?" Sherlock's pale face flushed pink.
"Yes," said Mycroft delicately, "I suppose."
"I've never understood the concept. It all seems pointless to me, and there are enough people crying over heartbreak to put me off." (Sherlock was a regular watcher of Eastenders).
"Humans do odd things, Sherlock."
"There must be something in it, though, if everyone does it." said Sherlock slowly.
"Ye-es. I suppose." Sherlock smiled.
"I propose an experiment, brother dear."