This is my first ever fic here. So…yay!

LESTRADE

There were many perks of being a teacher in Banhart's Academy. The salary, for example, was higher than one would expect for a teacher. But seeing as you were responsible for molding the minds of future CEO's, brain surgeons, and politicians, add to that the fact that said future successful being were children from the most prestigious families, it was only fair to get a high pay. No one would ever see a teacher of Banhart's who did not have a car in good working condition, or who did not own a cellular phone of the latest model. It was simply unheard of.

Greg Lestrade himself had been able to buy a brand new car after his first year of teaching. He had been twenty-four, then, fresh-faced and eager to show his prowess before the class.

Now, Lestrade was thirty-six and no longer a teacher. Instead, he was the vice principal and the owner of five cars, a three-storey house with its own pool, and a small villa in Morocco. When it came to money, Lestrade was well-off and quite satisfied. Most teachers were and it was quite rare to have one storm in and demand a raise.

Well, three years ago maybe.

The change was because of Sherlock Holmes, one of the most dangerous students Lestrade had ever set his eyes on. Most teachers hated the boy. It wasn't because he was a bully or a slacker. They hated him for his superior intellect. Strange, yes, but not until you met him. They hated his correcting them and making everyone else look like fools by solving each problem with that smug smile and the muttered words, "I can't believe you weren't able to figure that out." He was also socially inept and seemed to have dropped his moral code some time during his birth. Asperger's Syndrome was what his doctors had diagnosed him with, but Lestrade often thought he was just a big twat. And there was that uncanny ability of deducing things with just one look, that lack of sensitivity as he told the whole school of teachers having affairs and students having sex scandals.

Sherlock was a difficult case, so difficult in fact that two teachers had resigned just to get away from the horror that was the sixteen-year-old. Lestrade knew that if he hadn't been the vice principal, the poor sod in his place wouldn't last a week, Problem students like these were usually sent to the principal, but as carter was always travelling with his wife, it was up to Lestrade to deal with them. Carter wouldn't be able to handle Sherlock, anyway. It was not because Lestrade was a master in the art of patience. Rather, it was because he had known Sherlock since he was just a baby due to his older brother Mycroft being a childhood friend of Lestrade's. Entering the school and becoming a student of his had done little to change their relationship, Sherlock called him Lestrade instead of 'sir' and whenever he wanted to annoy Lestrade, he would call him 'Greg'. Lestrade should have minded, but the thing was, he was so used to Sherlock's company, he often forgot to act professionally.

Right now, he was swearing. Openly cursing in front of a student wasn't acceptable, especially in prep schools such as these were a lawsuit was just waiting round the corner. But they were in his office and this was Sherlock. The same Sherlock Lestrade had helped babysit. The same Sherlock who'd pulled at his sleeve and insisted he come trick-or-treating with him. He had been swearing in front of him for years, and had once, as a joke, given him his first sex talk. Not that Sherlock had even understood. Lestrade doubted Sherlock even had those urges.

This was a bad thing for some members of the student body as Sherlock was considered to be one of the most attractive people in Banhart's. He had a small group of admirers, those who were surprisingly numb to his rude nature. Lestrade had to admit he was good-looking, enough that one would willingly do him favors (if he kept his mouth shut, of course). And he knew it, too, which was why teachers who'd been infuriated with him only moments ago, would melt at the sight of a smile and a few words of flattery. This tactic, however, did not work on Lestrade. Sherlock had tried it a while ago and all it had done to Lestrade was make him nearly rupture an artery.

"I told you a hundred times already. No!" Lestrade was now leaning against his desk, his throat sore from having shout for an hour straight. Across him, sitting in the chair that should have made students cower in fear, was the bane of many teachers' existence. His hands were steepled beneath his chin, his eyes half-closed. Clearly, he'd been tuning him out. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and willed his blood pressure to go down. "Sherlock, I'd happily give you a single if you just stopped doing your experiments."

This had been Sherlock's problem since his sophomore year. He'd had his own dorm room in his first year, insomnia being his excuse. It all ended when, two weeks before the end of the year, Sherlock had managed to set his bed on fire, causing the students in the boy's dormitory to form a stampede. If Mycroft hadn't paid the damages and added some more to the alumni trust fund, Sherlock would have gotten expelled. His brother had suggested Sherlock get himself a roommate as he was less likely to cause as much damage with someone breathing down his shoulder.

It worked a bit. The only problem was, Sherlock was bent on driving his roommates away. Only three days had passed and his roommate, a portly boy named Orson Farrell, was already asking for a switch. Apparently, Sherlock had brought a decomposing pig's head inside the room for another one of his experiments. And he had even placed Farrell's reading glasses on it.

"They keep me sane," Sherlock said after a minute of silence. He opened his eyes. Lestrade tensed under his gaze. Cold and calculating. Those colorless eyes gave him the impression Sherlock was really some sort of demon in disguise. He sure acted like one.

"You know how I get when I'm bored, Lestrade," he continued. "I need something to distract me from the fact that I'm stuck in this place full of imbeciles."

Imbeciles. One of Sherlock's favorite words.

Lestrade groaned. "I really, really wish Mycroft had enrolled you in a different school."

"And I really, really wish he hadn't enrolled me at all. All that talk of needing a formal education…he could have killed me with boredom. You and I both know I don't need one. My brother's insistence of being normal sickens me. I'm far from normal and I'll happily stay that way."

You're a freak, Lestrade thought. He immediately felt guilty. They were not his words but Sally Donovan's, one of the many students who loathed Sherlock.

"Anyway you're experiments…It's not even allowed!"

"And yet you've never done anything to truly stop me. My experiments keep me sane and keeping me sane means I can perfect all those tests. And me passing all those tests guarantees that this school—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're smart and we need you to keep this school's reputation." That was what was worrying. When Sherlock graduated, they might not have another student smart enough to replace him. But then again, someone as smart as Sherlock would have to be a little insane. And the dormitory walls had suffered enough abuse.

"But still, I really can't put you in a single. You're less destructive when you're with someone else."

"You can't find another one. No one's willing, not since I sent Evan Brody to therapy." He looked at Lestrade smugly.

"Or not since you stopped being friends with Victor Trevor."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Lestrade knew he'd regret it. Sherlock was very good at hiding his emotions but Lestrade had learned to read him. The mirth in his eyes faded and they became cold and hard once again.

"It's not your place—"

"I know. Sorry, wasn't thinking clearly."

There were many things you did not talk about with Sherlock if you didn't want your intelligence to be insulted. And there were things that should never see the light of day because they opened old wounds. Victor Trevor was one of these things. There were others of course. His father, for one thing. But Victor was the most recent and it had hurt far more than his father's death.

There was a moment of awkward silence which was broken by Sherlock saying, "I don't want any of them with me, Lestrade. You know why."

"We have a late enrollee who'll arrive this afternoon." He patted the boy's head gently. Sherlock flinched and Lestrade withdrew his hand. We come from a family that never hugs, he recalled Mycroft saying. Even a simple pat on the back was foreign to this estranged boy. Lestrade felt sympathetic towards him, something he knew Sherlock would never forgive him for.

"Be nice to him. I don't want another kid sobbing and another parent complaining. Which means no dead whatevers lying around when he enters the room. Do it. Or I'll call your brother and tell him you're being unreasonable again."

Sherlock grimaced. Threatening him with Mycroft's presence often worked. Sherlock loathed his brother and would do anything just so he could avoid seeing his face.

"Fine. But just today."

"I'd be surprised if you can last more than four hours."

JOHN

John Watson had never been to boarding school. In fact, he had never had a formal education. He had been home-schooled his whole life as his parents were the kind who traveled constantly and who wanted their kids to experience the same wonders as them. He had been to Brazil and Japan and more recently, he'd been to Saudi. He had never entered the school world. John would later find that this was more dangerous than any of the countries he'd been to.

Banhart's was his father's choice. He and John's mother had both graduated there and according to his grandfather, there was no finer school in the world. This never would have happened if John had not been shot during their stay in Saudi. He had gotten a bullet to the shoulder, though John reckoned that had just been a mistake on his attacker's part. Not that John wasn't thankful the robber had been incompetent with a gun. But it had hurt quite a lot and the incident had left John with nightmares of blood and violence.

His mother had been even more shaken that him. "Can't afford to lose any of you," she had told him through tears when he woke up in the hospital, battered and bruised. "Leaving you in England will do you good." Then she'd gone on of how she was a horrible mother and how stupid she was because she hadn't kept a close eye on either of them and damn him because what had he been thinking? John's ears were ringing by the time she'd finished.

Harry had complained, of course, and was still complaining. His sister was the wild child, the rebel, the one who always got arrested for petty crimes. John felt a little relieved that his sister got into Banhart's as well. There were rules here, and even though rules could be broken, at least Harry wouldn't be running around with a bottle in her hand every second of the day.

"This is all your fault," she said as they wheeled their bags to their respective dormitories. She was glaring at him and she looked downright frightening with all that eye make-up and her newly pierced nose, so much that John bit his tongue and stared straight ahead. He and Harry often fought, and when it was physical, John always lost. It did not matter that he was a few pounds heavier and that he was athletic because of all that rugby he played. She was nearly a head taller than him, something she never failed to point out, and her fingernails were long enough to be considered talons. John remembered how she had nearly torn off his ear during a scuffle. He wasn't too keen on having that happen again.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Two years. He'd stay here for two years and Harry would graduate this year. If she could even make it that far. Not that John wished she'd get kicked out. Despite Harry's treatment towards him, he did care for her. Silently, he prayed that Banhart's would help clean his sister's act.

"Oi, you brat, pay attention!" She punched his shoulder, the one that was still healing, and glared down at him. John bit his lip and tried not to scream. "If you hadn't been stupid enough to go wandering alone, we wouldn't be in this shithole."

"I was looking for you," he hissed, his patience worn thin. "Honestly, Harry, what were you thinking? Going off on your own in an unknown country to go to some pub. They could have raped you!"

"They were Asian tourists, idiot, and they were big nerds as well. And I know how to take care of myself unlike you. If you went out more, you'd know to avoid dark alleys and to always wear your worst clothes. It's your own fault you were mugged."

"Shot me as well," he muttered, feeling more and more annoyed with Harry. He'd only done the right thing. What if she had gotten drunk and passed out somewhere? They could have molested her in her sleep. "Lucky I'm alive."

"I don't see it that way," she snapped. That one hurt. John gritted his teeth. Damn her! They hadn't always been this way. They'd been good friends when they were kids. What had happened?

They walked in silence. Harry was fuming and so was John. If anyone saw them right now, they'd probably see smoke coming out of their ears. But there was no one, only a few teachers running to their classes and the occasional janitor. A man trimming the hedges outside the boy's dormitory waved at them. John nodded his head curtly, muttered a goodbye to Harry, then lugged his bag up the steps.

The dorm was surprisingly spacious inside. Quiet also, but that was because it was two o'clock and the students were still in class. John paused at the bulletin board near the door where penises were drawn all over notices and fliers. The picture of a boy with wire-rim glasses and a spindly neck had the words Motherfucking Cunt for Headboy written below. John did not know what to make of it. He was not new to graffiti, but he didn't think he'd see them in prestigious prep schools such as Banhart's. Clearly, he had no idea what went on in school.

His room was upstairs. John's heart sank slightly when he realized how many steps there were. His bag was not so heavy, but it would still be a bother to his shoulder. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the climb. By the time he was finished, John was out of breath and his shoulder seemed to be on fire/ He leaned against the wall for a while and willed himself not to pass out from the pain.

The streams of violin music was what kept his mind off it. They seemed to be coming from down the hall. Funny, John thought, why was there a student in the dorm at this time? John dragged his luggage behind him. Tchaikovsky, he guessed. There was someone playing Tchaikovsky in the dorm.

Oh.

In his room.

So he would be meeting his roommate a little earlier than he'd expected. Not a bother. John was pretty sociable. He raised his hand to knock on the door and announce his presence. Only someone was already bidding him enter, even before his knuckles hit wood. The speaker had a deep voice, very posh and one that told John this was someone who'd been born with a silver spoon. John's confidence faltered slightly. They were rich enough to get in the school, but John had been raised modestly. He did not know what he would do if his roommate started talking about stock exchange.

The smell on antiseptic greeted him, strong but not enough to mask the sweet scent of rot. The room was very large with dark green walls. It was also very messy. In the center stood a tall boy with his back to John, a violin dangling from his left hand.

"Hi," John said, feeling nervous. He extended his hand. "I'm—"

"John Watson, I know." The boy turned on his heel to face him. He had a slightly elfin face with high cheekbones and very, very light eyes. And pale. His roommate was nearly paper. The dark curls on his forehead stood out against all that white. "I did my research."

John lowered his hand. "What?"

"Lestrade told me your name." Those pale eyes flickered over him. "And I figured out the rest. Saudi, correct?"

John blinked. His roommate was already moving to the bed on the right which was covered with jars and papers and petri dishes. John noticed the microscope sitting at the headrest instead of a pillow.

"You have questions to ask. Fire away. I have time to talk."

"Oh…uh, okay, how'd you know about Saudi?"

"Tan but not above the wrists and there's an atrocious giant gold bracelet around it—do take it off it looks ridiculous. You're a traveler which I can see from the state of your bag and the indeterminate accent you have. You've been with a drinker as well as I can smell alcohol on you. Not you as it's not on your breath. The drinker's a member of your family. Not a girlfriend as you travel a lot. Not your parents as travelers such as them would prefer something more exotic and that's just Budweiser I can smell. A brother, then, and he's been with you all morning or you two have been stuck in a car with so much luggage that the lack of space required more body contact than necessary." The boy paused then looked at the wall clock. John closed his mouth which had fallen open at some point in the boy's monologue. "That," he stammered, "was absolutely brilliant!"

The boy seemed startled. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, you've figured everything out! Well, you got the brother part wrong because I have a sister but she is an alcoholic."

"A sister?" He seemed almost upset to have gotten it wrong. "There's always something." He pressed his lips together until they were almost a line. "Well, I haven't managed to frighten you off so introductions are a must. The name's Sherlock Holmes. I play the violin during the hours of night and early morning and sometimes I go days without talking. I experiment a lot so don't be surprised to see me walking in with some random body part—and that explains the smell which Lestrade forced me to get rid of. The mini fridge is filled with my petri dishes and experiments but I suppose you can move them if you have to put food in there. Your bed." He pointed to the bed at the left. "Mine." He pointed at the mess that was his. "Keep to your space and I'll do my best to keep to mine."

Smart but far from friendly. John nodded then set to unpacking. Sherlock had made some space in his bed so he could sit down. He watched John unpack while he played some Verdi.

"Why aren't you in class then? John asked as he folded his jumpers. Sherlock eyed them with distaste. "I mean, it's only two-thirty."

"Sometimes I go, sometimes I don't. The faculty's not very fond of me as I keep revealing how incompetent they really are. No one minds. It's only when I'm absent for three days straight that Lestrade forces me to go to class."

"You're close to the vice principal, huh?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He's my older brother's friend and I've known him since birth."

"That's...awkward."

"It's a leverage."

John finished folding. He scratched the back of his neck, looked for something else to do, then gave up and began asking Sherlock questions again. "So what goes on in this school?" he asked. "I mean, this is my first time to go to one because, uh, I've been homeschooled my whole life and well, I…I was kind of wondering if…"

"You're asking me show you the ropes. You're wasting your time. I'm not loved here."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed as if John had done something very stupid. "Why should I be?"

It was Mike Stamford who told him why the following morning. John's first class was Chemistry and the beefy teenager had been assigned his lab partner. They talked about rugby for a while until Mike ruined the mood by asking him if he was Sherlock's roommate.

"Wow, I'm sorry for you," he said, sounding quite sincere. "Boy's a big twat, he is. Always showing off how smart he is and nosing about. Kid's a psycho if you ask me." They both looked over their shoulders Sherlock was at the back, working solo. He did not look very happy to there, either. John had woken up to the vice principal knocking on their door. He then watched while Mr. Lestrade pried the sheets off Sherlock and half dragged him to the bathroom, yelling how dare he not attend any of his classes.

"He's a freak." The speaker was a black girl named Sally Donovan. Her curly hair bounced when she whipped her head to look at them. "One day you'll see him in the headlines as serial killer. Causes trouble because he says he gets bored. I'm surprised he hasn't killed you yet."

John felt a little uncomfortable with the conversation. Sherlock was rude but he hadn't been very mean. The only bad thing John had experienced so far was opening the fridge to find a human hand on a plate of fine china.

"I don't think he's so bad."

"It's only because you're new. You'll learn to hate him soon enough. He's so unbearable it's no wonder he doesn't have friends."

"Remember when Victor Trevor pretended to be friends wit him for a bet? I almost felt sorry for the freak. Then I remembered how horrible he is." Mike and Sally clapped their hands over their mouths to muffle their laughter. John tried to join in but it died in his chest. He looked back again and was not surprised to see Sherlock staring at him.

John's fresh meat status wasn't much of a disadvantage to knowing how things worked in school. Classes were easy enough to understand, but thanks to Mike and another boy named Davis, John got the gist of how they interacted. He sat with the athletic types everyday during lunch. Their table faced one of the huge bay windows in the canteen, where John could clearly see Sherlock. He never entered the canteen which was no wonder as John doubted the boy even ate anything at all. He always sat under a huge oak tree, thinking or sticking nicotine patches to his forearm. He was not there on Wednesday which John guessed was the day Sherlock had lunch with the vice principal and his family. He had an annoyed expression on his face when he returned to the dorm, and there was s smear of red sauce on the corner of his mouth, plus a kiss mark on his forehead.

Obviously, Sherlock was not well-loved. People murmured angrily whenever he passed, and once, John saw a senior shove him on his way to the lab. Sherlock hadn't fought back, but he did glare at the other boy. This seemed to be an even bigger threat than a fist as his attacker had slunk away.

Not everyone hated Sherlock, though. A few of the teachers, mostly the female ones, seemed quite fond of him. Mrs. Hudson their music teacher had even ruffled his hair when he sat down and picked up his violin. He was her favorite, even when he wasn't holding an instrument. Meanwhile, John had been chided for dropping the clarinet he'd been handed as Davis had been trying to make him laugh.

One student, a girl name Molly Hooper, was head-over-heels for Sherlock. She would openly attack anyone who insulted him. "He's a sweetheart, really. People just don't understand," she said, seeming to have forgotten Sherlock pointing out the pimple on her nose and telling her how unflattering it was. Then she ran off to get him some coffee from the vending machine.

John did not hate Sherlock either and he felt that he never would. Yes, he was rude and annoying and he dissected frogs too much for John's liking. But all in all, he was not a bad person. He was just frank and too smart for his own good.

John wondered if Sherlock did not like him. He often stared at John curiously and he never failed to tell him his jumpers looked hideous. He treated him like a servant sometimes by telling John to get him a drink or to go get a book from the library. He also had no respect for other's privacy. John would wake up in the middle of the night to see Sherlock in the window seat playing violin. He would open his closet to see that some of his clothes had become part of Sherlock's experiments. A normal person would have bolted away or picked a fight but John was a very patient person. Also, it was clear Sherlock was only doing this to make him move out, showing John that this was what he'd experience for the rest of the year if he didn't leave now. John didn't give in easily. And besides, life with Sherlock was interesting.

By the end of his first week, the answer to John's question was revealed.

He was studying for vocab when Sherlock entered the room, looking a little puzzled. He then made some space on the desk and sat right on John's notes. Keep to your space and I'll keep to mine, John recalled. Only Sherlock didn't seem to get the idea of personal space. He often sat too close, and when John had complained, Sherlock had only pressed against him to become more infuriating.

John tapped his pencil against his temple and tried to ignore Sherlock. But he was too much of a distraction. Besides, his butt was covering John's lectures.

"You're not boring," was what Sherlock told him. John looked at him, waiting for more. They never came though as their were none to add. Sherlock got off the desk, grabbed his moleskine, then went off, telling John he'd bother Lestrade for a while. It was only when Sherlock was out of the room that John realized that that was the closest thing to a compliment coming from Sherlock.

So Sherlock did not hate him as in his world, there was only boring and not boring.

For some reason, this was more flattering than any of the compliment's he'd received. Perhaps it was because this was Sherlock, the same boy who was rumored to actually be a robot in disguise. The fact that he'd actually admitted another human being was interesting was astounding.

John allowed himself to smile. He was not boring.