Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes sighed, his head thumping against his desk. There were still forty-five agonizing minutes until the final bell rang, releasing him and his fellow classmates on their well deserved winter vacation. Forty-five minutes that were ticking away at a pace that was entirely unacceptable. He sighed again loudly, staring blankly out the window at the flurry of snowflakes, following one with his eyes before it disappeared out of view. He wanted to be outside so badly, not so much to play in the snow, but just to be out there.

"Mr Holmes." Sherlock jerked upright at the sound of his name being called. The teacher, Mrs Harper, looked none too pleased to have found him staring out the window, daydreaming about sitting on a bench, watching the snow flutter by. "Does my class bore you, Mr Holmes?" Mrs Harper asked sharply, her eyes piercing him. It was safe to say that Sherlock wasn't exactly her favorite student. His grade in her class was excellent of course, the highest, nearly a 100%, but he didn't pay attention, choosing to do most of his work outside of class, and when group projects cropped up, he was very skilled at wriggling out of them to work by himself. He was antisocial and had learned early on in the school year that this was something frowned upon in Mrs Harper's 12th grade history class.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"No, Mrs Harper, your class does not bore me." But I would much rather be outside, or perhaps learning about something that is actually relevant, he thought, thinking it better to bite his tongue; he didn't need to be sent to the dean's office for sassing a teacher. Again.

"Then I suggest you quit your daydreaming, Mr Holmes, and actually pay attention. This will be on a test when you return from winter break." And with that said, Mrs Harper returned her attention to the blackboard and resumed droning on about some event in history or another.

The class sniggered quietly, a few students turning discretely in their seats to give Sherlock rude faces. He responded to these students by glaring daggers into their souls until they turned around, looking distinctly disturbed. Fellow students warded off for the time being, Sherlock returned his attention to the snow that was falling thickly outside the thin pane of glass. Thirty-seven minutes to go.

Finally, the bell rang, dismissing them for their two and a half week break. Sherlock was relieved, but at the same time he was disappointed. Of course he wanted to be out of the blasted boarding school, there was nothing desirable about it, but he also didn't want to go home. It was more than likely that he would be stuck all alone with his older brother Mycroft for the entirety of the break. He wouldn't be surprised if his mother and father had taken a vacation to some place warm, leaving their two sons alone on Christmas, they had never been ones for large family gatherings and could barely stand Mycroft and Sherlock together in the same room for more than fifteen minutes, let alone under the same roof for two and a half weeks. So of course they would be out of town.

Sherlock sighed and began to pack his supplies as the other students flittered out of the classroom. He was the last to leave.

Sherlock began packing slowly. No doubt Mycroft had a car waiting for him in the front of the school by now and he was determined to make it wait for as long as possible. He packed enough clothes to last him the break, several books that he hadn't read yet, a travel chemistry set, his iPod, mobile phone, laptop, and violin. Once packed, he swept his gaze round the room, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything important. He found nothing, only an accumulating pile of dirty laundry in one corning (he would have to do something about that when he returned, what he had in his luggage was the only clean clothing he had left), a tidily made bed against the left-hand wall, his own half-made bed against the right, and a messy desk between the two beds, under the only window in the room.

No roommate to impede his thinking process or invade his personal space and items. It was how he liked it. Of course he had had to request it with the school and even then they had been reluctant to giving Sherlock a room all to his own. Apparently there was no telling what a seventeen year-old boy was capable of doing when he was by himself with no other student to keep him company. Eventually, after two years of attending the damned school, the dean had reluctantly granted Sherlock his own dorm room. Sherlock suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, but he wasn't going to ask, lest his brother hold it over his head when he needed help with something for work. No, it was better to pretend he didn't suspect Mycroft of doing something nice.

Sherlock stood for a moment longer in the middle of the room, gazing out the window at the snow that was still falling. Finally he walked to his bed and zipped up his bag. It was time to leave, although he dreaded it.

Out in the hall, students were bustling about, telling their friends goodbye and to have a happy Christmas. No one paid any mind to Sherlock, which was to be expected, they preferred to ignore him, hoping that if they acted as if he were invisible to them, that they would be invisible to him in return. He snorted inwardly. As if, he thought, looking around him casually. He caught the eye of one girl, who immediately looked away, as if she hoped he wouldn't be able to read her. Of course it didn't work that way. Sherlock could read a person from the clothes they wore, from how their hair looked, from the expressions on their faces, from the way they held themselves, from the tone of their voices, and from countless other things, it wasn't just eye contact that let him dive deep into their personal lives. From the worried look on the girls face and the way she gnawed at her bottom lip and wrung her hands together, Sherlock knew the girl had upsetting news for someone. But for who? Her body was angled more toward the hallway leading toward the boys' dormitory rooms, rather than toward the exit of the building, and her eyes kept darting to one door in particular. Sherlock turned to look at the number, room 201. Could be a brother, but unlikely. Sherlock had seen the girl around school many times and had seen her parents pick her up and drop her off at the end and beginning of each term, no brother to speak of. So a friend then. But a romantic friend or a regular friend? Sherlock looked at her closely, noting that her hair and makeup were both perfect. No girl, even the ones who were all about looks, would put that time and effort at the end of the last day of school before break just to talk to a regular friend, so boyfriend it was. Now the bad news, what would that be? Her face was unnaturally pale and as Sherlock walked past her, he detected the unmistakable sent of mint toothpaste and vomit. Vomit could indicate several things. She could have snuck out partying the night before, but there were no indications of a hangover. She could have a stomach virus or food poisoning, however, she did not look fatigued and no ill person would go to the trouble of looking that nice. And judging by her frame beneath the bulk of winter clothing, she was not bulimic. So that left one major theory: she was pregnant. Ah, yes, there it was. The slight bump that was barely noticeable beneath her jumper, the way she unconsciously brushed her hand against her belly every now and then. Sherlock smirked to himself. Someone was in for an unpleasant Christmas. He was glad he wasn't the only one.

Pushing his way through the crowded dormitory building, Sherlock made silent deductions of most everyone that crossed his path. It was a rather fun pastime, but it was more enjoyable when he was able to say them to the person's face. He only ever did that when someone had really pushed him over the edge, though, because students here had a tendency to run to teachers and tattle, and Sherlock had gotten in trouble countless times for asking someone or other whether they were aware that their parents were getting a divorce because their mother had slept with the father's best friend, or for telling someone that they had been wanking off in the bathroom before class, or better yet, shagging in the bathroom before class. People had learned quickly to avoid him, and that was exactly how he wanted it. Of course, there were a select few that just never learned and found it amusing to taunt Sherlock. And he always put them in their place, but still they didn't learn.

Finally, Sherlock pushed through the front doors of the dormitory building onto the front steps that led down into campus. Slowly he made his way to the front gates of the school, sure to take the scenic route. The campus was beautiful during the winter when the grounds were blanketed with snow, and the woods that ran parallel to the northern boarder were silent. Most people would consider it to be eerie, but Sherlock enjoyed the silence that snow brought with it. London didn't get the peaceful silence the way the country did, as the city hardly ever slept. Of course, there was no other place he would rather be than London, he just enjoyed getting out of the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets every now and then. Then again, going to a boarding school miles and miles away, he really didn't have much choice.

Quicker than he would have liked, Sherlock found himself at the front gates of the school and immediately spotted the black town car that his brother had sent to fetch him. Sighing, Sherlock meandered over and to his surprise, he found his brother leaning against the side of the car, mobile in hand, eyes racing over some email. He gritted his teeth and marched forward.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, not bothering with hellos.

Mycroft looked up from his mobile and smiled pleasantly at Sherlock. Sherlock bristled.

"Lovely to see you too, brother dear," the man said politely. He was dressed impeccably, as always. Working for the British government, one had to always look his best. Although, he was looking a little plump around the middle, Sherlock noted with a little smirk. Mycroft must have noticed, for his expression turned momentarily before returning to its usual politely blank mask. "I have come to fetch you and bring you home. Why else would I be here?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Why didn't you just send Anthea or something?" He hadn't been planning on seeing his brother for another three, maybe four hours. He needed time to prepare himself, and now he was deprived of that preparation. Sherlock wasn't sure he could handle a three or four hour car ride with his brother without wanting to shoot himself by the end.

"Oh, you know," Mycroft replied airily, waving a dismissive hand. "She had other errands to run."

"I'm sure she did," Sherlock grumbled. "Well, open the boot then, these are getting heavy." He gestured to his luggage and violin case.

When his things were safely in the trunk of the car, he slid into the back seat with his brother. He had retrieved his iPod from his bag and now plugged himself in, turning his music all the way up to drown out his brother. If he was going to have to ride in the same car with him for nearly four hours, he was going to ignore him to the best of his ability. Luckily, it wasn't a hard thing to do. Mycroft seemed to preoccupy himself with his mobile for most of the trip, so Sherlock was free to stare out the window. He kept his music on though, to discourage his brother from attempting to start a conversation.

Three hours and forty-five minutes later, the car finally pulled up to a beautiful house in the heart of London. Sherlock unbuckled and stepped out of the car, leaving his things in the boot because he knew they would be brought to his room. The house was exactly the way he had left it start-of-term, including the lack of parents. The floors were scrubbed within an in of their lives, the banisters polished to a shine, not a speck of dust anywhere.

Home sweet home, Sherlock thought bitterly, heading straight up to his bedroom. There were still a few hours until supper, and he needed time to be away from his brother. Naturally, though, Mycroft had already escaped to his study.

On the second floor, down the hall to the right and through the third door on the left, Sherlock locked himself in his room. He considered taking a short nap, but decided against it. What he really wanted was a shower, as he hadn't had time that morning before classes started. He had over slept and found the line much too long. He was not willing to get in trouble for being tardy to class just for a shower.

As if on cue, there was a knock on his door and one of the maids called to him, "Mr Holmes, I'm leaving your things for you outside the door."

Sherlock waited a few seconds before unlocking the door and grabbing his bag and violin case. Rummaging through his clean clothes, he picked out his favourite striped tee-shirt, a worn pair of jeans, and a clean pair of pants. He wanted out of his school uniform. Clean clothes in hand, Sherlock made his way to the bathroom attached to his room. It was exactly as he left it before the term started. Dirty clothes piled behind the door, a towel hanging from a hook on the wall. There were a few books and scientific magazines stacked on the counter, ones that he only read because he enjoyed editing the mistakes he found and belittling the research on its many inaccuracies. Honestly, he always thought, these people really need to learn to do their research.

Setting his clothes on the toilet lid, he returned to his room to retrieve his toiletries.

Mycroft shook his head as Sherlock entered the dinning room for supper. He was clearly displeased with Sherlock's choice of dinner-wear and his still-damp hair. Sherlock couldn't help but grin at his brother, who was, of course, dressed in his usual three piece suit and tie.

"Really now, Sherlock," Mycroft said, the disapproval colouring his tone. "Couldn't you have worn something nicer than those old rags?"

"Pardon me, Mycroft, but I do believe I live here, and therefore, I am free to wear whatever I want to the dinner table." Sherlock took a seat across from his brother, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands under his chin. "Besides, you never specifically stated that I wear something nice."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Very well. Let's just get supper over with. I have an early day tomorrow and would like to get to bed early."

"You're the one who chose to have it so late," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

And they ate supper in near silence, which was nothing new. However, close to the end of their meal Mycroft spoke up. He cleared his throat pointedly and Sherlock looked up, a little shocked that his brother had broken their routine silence.

"Sherlock," the government man began slowly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat again.

"Oh, for god's sake, Mycroft, just spit it out," Sherlock said harshly, his patience wearing thin.

"I require your assistance, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, placing his fork and knife on his plate, and resting his arms on the table. He swallowed uncomfortably.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms and legs, an eyebrow cocked in interest. Since when did Mycroft Holmes need help from anyone? Mycroft Holmes, who was the British government. Oh, this getting was interesting. However, Sherlock had yet to decide whether or not he would help. He said nothing, just watching his brother carefully.

Mycroft cleared his throat again and straightened his back. "You see," he finally continued, "I'm at a little bit of a loss. I seem to have…erm….double booked myself, yet again—"

"You really should look into getting a new assistant. Anthea doesn't seem to be doing a very good job at all," Sherlock interrupted, pushing his food around his plate with his fork. He really wasn't very hungry.

His brother gave him a sharp look. "I seemed to have double booked myself and found, upon looking in my books, that on Tuesday I have a rather important meeting to attend. However, that same day I also have a report due, and I'm afraid I haven't even begun working on it…."

"And you want me to do your report for you," Sherlock finished, rolling his eyes at his idiotic brother.

"Yes, that would be rather helpful. If you haven't got any plans, of course." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the trace of a smirk pulling at the corners of his thin lips.

Sherlock scowled. Mycroft knew damn well that Sherlock had no plans, and even if he had, he would have demanded Sherlock put this report at the top of his to-do list. Mycroft really was a hateful person most of the time, how anyone worked with him was beyond Sherlock's comprehension for he could barely stand being in the same room as him for more than a couple of hours at a time.

"And if I refuse?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes. "It really isn't my problem that you over-extended yourself yet again, Mycroft. I should just let you face your higher-ups, let you suffer the consequences of not doing your homework. Besides, Tuesday is in four days, more than enough time to get your report finished."

Mycroft shook his head, sighing in a way that made Sherlock want to punch him. It was a sigh that clearly said "Feel bad for me! Oh woe is me!" and it was detestable.

"I have other engagements to attend to unfortunately. I shan't have enough time to complete it thoroughly. You, on the other hand, have nothing planed and four days of free time, ample enough time to get it finished. It shouldn't take you more that a few hours at most, knowing you. I've had everything you'll need, including the instructions sent to your room, they should be on your bed." Before Sherlock had time to object, Mycroft excused himself, setting his napkin on his plate and pushing back from the table. "Well, good night, brother, dear."

It was now about 3 o'clock in the morning and Sherlock found himself with nothing to do. He had finished reading one of the books he had brought with him and had decided before he had returned home that he would only read one book a night, and even then he would be left with nothing to read by the end of the trip, as he had only brought nine with him. So there he was, bored out of his mind, laying on his bed with his head dangling over the edge.

From his upside-down vantage point, Sherlock noticed the stack of files and papers he had tossed on the floor hours earlier. They were the documents that Mycroft wanted him base a report off of. Sighing grudgingly, he rolled onto his stomach and reached to grab them. There was no point in putting it off until later, his brother would only continue to harass him if he chose to procrastinate. It was better to just get it over with, and that way he would have the next three days to himself, rather than fussing over the damned report.

Sighing once more, he shuffled through the papers, skimming highlighted paragraphs, reading over the messy notes that were scrawled in the margins in his brother's hand-writing. It was rubbish, all of it, but if he wanted to make the report passable as Mycroft's, he had to stick with what was written on the papers.

As he went over them for the second time, Sherlock remembered why he detested politics with his entire soul. Politicians were manipulative bastards, the lot of them, and Mycroft wasn't any different.

With a little growl at being bullied into this assignment by his snake of a brother, Sherlock dug his laptop from his bag, booting it up. After a moment, his dim room was lit by the bright light of monitor. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, grabbing his computer and plopping down on his bed, leaning against the wall. The papers were spread out on either side of him and he dove headfirst into the work.

At some point in the early morning, as the horizon began to turn grey with pre-dawn light, Sherlock was stumped and stood up, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. Time for a break, he thought, moving to the door. He padded silently down the hall to the back stairs that led to the kitchen; he was a little bit peckish, since he had hardly eaten at supper. It was dark when he made it down and he felt his way to the refrigerator, opening the door and gazing at the contents as the cool air washed over him. Decided on an apple and a bottle of water, Sherlock returned to his room.

His little early morning snack didn't help him with his puzzle, though. He was still unsure how to word the next section without sounding to critical or sounding like he had no idea what he was talking about. But really, the information he had was insufficient and he wanted desperately to state as much in the report. However, he knew it would displease Mycroft and he would never hear the end of it. How would brother dear word this? he thought sarcastically, his head dangling once more over the edge of his bed. With a huff, Sherlock sat up and grabbed his violin; he found that playing helped him to clear his mind.

The sun was high in the sky when Sherlock was finally finished with the report, and his eyes were blurry with lack of sleep. He saved the document to an empty memory stick and stood up, wobbling a little bit before catching his balance. Irritated and more than a little bit sleepy, Sherlock stomped out of his room and down the hall and stairs to his brother's study where he was most likely to be found. Sure enough, there Mycroft was, reclined back in a leather desk chair, his feet crossed on his desk, and his head hiding behind the morning paper.

"Here's your damned report," Sherlock all but snarled, tossing the memory stick on the top of the piles of paper that littered the surface of his brother's desk. "I hope you're happy." His voice was filled with venom.

Mycroft only smiled at him pleasantly, but Sherlock could see the triumph in his eyes. The man folded his paper neatly and removed his feet so he could have a better look at his younger brother. Sherlock could tell he was taking in the dark circles under his eyes, and his messy hair and rumpled clothes, the same he had put on after he had showered. He knew Mycroft could read from his appearance that he had stayed up all night working on that blasted report and it was nearly maddening to see the smug expression on his face. Sherlock glared.

"Ah, thank you Sherlock," Mycroft said in a polite voice. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"You could have done it yourself," Sherlock retorted, his eyes like granite. "It took me five hours, you could have had it done in the same amount of time. Divided between last night, tonight, Sunday night, and Monday night you could have easily had it finished. You really are an insufferable twat sometimes, shoving your duties off on others. It's a wonder you haven't been sacked yet." Sherlock was pleased to see the look of mild shock on Mycroft's face before the emotion was masked over.

His mind spoken, Sherlock turned on his heel and stomped back up to his room, closing his door with more force than was strictly necessary. With a great sigh, he collapsed on his bed, crushing papers beneath his stomach and not caring in the slightest. He pushed his laptop under his pillow and angled his hips up so he could pull his covers from beneath them, then pulled his blankets over himself, closing his eyes to sleep.

However, just as he was beginning to drift off, a sharp knock came to his door and Mycroft let himself in. He was, of course, dressed to kill and seemed to have something on his mind.

"Sherlock, I need your help wish something—"

"No," Sherlock immediately responded, not bothering to open his eyes.

"But you haven't even—"

"No," he repeated, burrowing deeper into the depths of his blankets. He was not going to help Mycroft with yet another put off project, one was more than enough for his visit.

"Really now, Sherlock. At least let me finish my senten—"

"What part of the word 'no' do you not comprehend, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed. Silence. And then fabric shifting as Mycroft made to leave the room. "Close the door on your way out." He heard a disgruntled noise and the door clicked softly shut.

Sherlock sighed, his brain going pleasantly blank as he drifted to sleep.

Sherlock woke to find the house empty of his brother. It was refreshing, hearing nothing but silence all around him; perhaps he would actually be able to enjoy himself while his brother was out. He only hoped Mycroft wouldn't return until very late.

In the kitchen he made himself a breakfast—well it was more of a very, very late lunch, really—of cereal and toast with strawberry jam and it was the most peaceful time he had ever spent in the house. As he ate, he read the paper from that morning. The news was as dull as ever and he quickly grew bored with it, tossing it aside to gaze out the large french-doors that lead to the back garden. He watched as birds hopped around the flagstone, pecking at the birdseed that was spread there (most likely by the maids).

Finishing off his food, Sherlock placed his dirty dishes in the sink and returned to his bedroom to shower. He fancied a stroll through the town, but he felt disgusting and grungy after staying up all night, then sleeping all day. In the bathroom, he turned on the water and ran a comb quickly through his tangled curls, wincing a little as the teeth snagged a particularly nasty knot. After, he brushed his teeth and stripped, stepping under the warm water.

Sherlock wet his hair and just stood there for a few minutes, head tipped back, eyes closed, letting the warmth creep through his body. It must have been more than a few minutes, because all too soon the water began to cool and Sherlock was forced to wash. He scrubbed his body and hair until he felt clean, turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, water dripping from him. He wrapped a towel around his slender hips and walked through the open bathroom door into his bedroom. Sherlock's clean clothes were laying on his bed, but he ignored them, walking to the window.

It was overcast, and the clouds looked as if they might let loose a curtain of rain at any minute. I'll have to remember to bring an umbrella with me, Sherlock thought, meandering back to his bed, sitting down. He sighed and picked up his clean pants, tugging them on before discarding the damp towel on the floor. Next came his jeans, then a plain white long-sleeved tee-shirt, and lastly, a navy blue jumper. Standing up, he stooped down to scoop up his towel, running it over his still-dripping hair to dry it some, he didn't want to step outside and catch cold because he had a wet head. When Sherlock was convinced that he would not catch sick the moment he stepped out into the chilly December air, he returned the towel to the hook on the wall in the bathroom and pulled on his socks and trainers once back in his room.

Sherlock was now ready for a day, or rather, what was left of it, out. He found that he was actually looking forward to it, since he hadn't wandered around London in quite a while. It would be nice to actually be around common population, rather than the other students at Monkshood Academy. Either way, he had decided to visit Mrs Hudson, an old family friend. He would need to catch a cab, but he didn't mind, if anything, it gave him an excuse to spend his father's "well earned money". Grabbing his wallet from his bag, Sherlock made sure the plastic bank card his parents had so generously given him at start of term two years previous was in its usual slot and stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

As he walked through the foyer, he debated whether or not he should leave Mycroft a note should he return before Sherlock. Of course he decided against it. Sherlock had a mobile and Mycroft was capable of picking up the telephone and ringing him. Mind made up, he snatched the spare set of house keys from the key hook in the coat closet, as well as an umbrella, and left, locking the front door behind him.

Outside, the air was brisk and Sherlock's breath puffed out in front of his face. He wished he had grabbed a coat, but made his way down the front steps anyway, walking a few blocks before hailing a cab near the corner.

"221B Baker Street, please," he said to the cabbie, settling back in the seat.

He watched as the street names passed him by, absentmindedly thinking to himself that they could have taken a left here, or continued straight there. He knew the cabbie was deliberately taking him the long way around, milking him for every cent he could. Sherlock really couldn't care less, it wasn't his money anyway. And besides, it was relaxing watching the streets of London passing by. However, in mid-thought, he was interrupted rudely by his mobile buzzing, letting him know he had a text. Pulling his phone from his jeans pocket, he saw that it was from Mycroft. Figures, Sherlock thought, opening the message. It was a continuation of their conversation from that morning. Mycroft apparently wanted help with yet another of his government assignment. Sherlock was just about to reply "NO" when his battery died. Ah well, at least now he could think in peace. He would use Mrs Hudson's phone to text his brother when he got to Baker Street.

A half hour later, the cab slowed to a stop in front of 221B and Sherlock stepped out, paying the cabbie. He walked up to the door and knocked.

From inside, Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson yell something and then her footsteps came down the hall to the door. A second later, she flung it open and stood looking at Sherlock. She was wearing a floral apron and her face was smudged with flower. Baking then, Sherlock thought with a little smile.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, beaming. "So good to see you! Come in, come in! We were just doing a bit of baking. If I'd known you were coming over, I'd have put the kettle on." She talked as they moved back down the hall to the kitchen.

When they walked into the room, Sherlock saw a sandy haired boy washing dishes at the sink. He was about his same age, though shorter by a good four or five inches. He was muscular, probably from playing sports, football, if Sherlock had to guess. One of his parents was in the military, judging by his posture and hair cut, but he was having family issues, otherwise he would be staying with them for the holiday rather than Mrs Hudson. How did Sherlock know the boy was staying with Mrs Hudson? Simple. There had been a suitcase under one of the coats, the boy's coat, in the entrance, so he had just arrived. Sherlock smirked to himself as he watched the other, but quickly masked the show of emotion when the blonde turned around, giving him a friendly smile.

"Sherlock, this is John Watson. His mother is a friend of mine, we were in a book group together a few years back." Mrs Hudson gestured to the blonde who shifted from one foot to the other. "John, this is Sherlock Holmes. I've know his family for ages. Used to baby-sit when the nanny need a night off." She gestured to Sherlock now. "I'll put the kettle on, you boys go in the drawing room and get acquainted." When John looked as if he would protest, shifting toward the sink that was still crammed with dishes, Mrs Hudson would hear nothing of it and shooed the two of them out.

Sherlock stopped at the door. "Mrs Hudson, could I borrow your mobile? Mine's died and I prefer to text."

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Sorry dear. I've misplaced mine. Just vanished one day and I haven't been able to find it since."

Sherlock looked over at John when he saw the boy reach into his pocket, pulling out an expensive looking phone. "Here," he said, handing it to Sherlock. "Use mine."

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking mildly surprised. "Thank you." He glanced at the phone before sliding it open and punching in his brother's number and typing "No. –SH". Sherlock handed the phone back.

"Alright now boys, off to the drawing room, off with you," Mrs Hudson chided, waving them away.

Sherlock saw no point in arguing. He just walked through the drawing room door and sat down the sofa. It was hard from lack of use and no matter how he adjusted, he simply could not get comfortable. He assumed the chairs were just as bad, because John was shifting in the one he was seated in, a look of discomfort on his face. Finally the blonde just settle on perching at the very edge of the cushion.

Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs, watching John with calculating eyes. When he finally spoke the other boy jumped at the sound of his voice.

"So. Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, not taking his eyes off John. He could see surprise mingled with shock flash across his face.

"….I'm sorry. What?" John finally said.

"Where was your parent? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated, still watching the blonde closely.

John hesitated, trying to adjust himself better in the hard chair. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—" but he was cut off when Mrs Hudson brought the tea, chatting about the damp weather and how it was making her hip ach more than it usually did.

"Did you know, John, that Sherlock has an unusual talent for being able to read people?" Mrs Hudson said conversationally, changing the subject from her hip to Sherlock in the blink of an eye.

John looked intrigued either way, looking at Sherlock curiously. "Really? How do you mean?"

"He can take one look at you and tell you your whole life story is how I mean," Mrs Hudson said scandalously. "He's probably got you already figured out, haven't you Sherlock."

Sherlock just sat, his eyes never moving from John. He could tell the blonde was skeptical and grinned faintly. "Don't you believe in me, John?" he asked softly. "Would you like me to prove it?" Sherlock looked hard at John's face. "I know you play sports, most likely football judging by your build. I know one of your parents, probably your father, was in Afghanistan, but was recently invalided home due to a serious injury. I know you're having home issues, you wouldn't be here during the holiday if it weren't the case. Maybe you've had a row with a parent, maybe your father is suffering from PTSD and your mother doesn't want you in that environment, more than likely the latter. And I know you have a much older brother that you don't approve of, possible because of his drinking, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." He paused, looking over at John, the boy had a stunned expression on his face.

"How can you possibly know all that?" he finally managed to ask.

"I don't know, I notice. The way you hold yourself and your haircut clearly says military, but you're too young to enlist, still in the 12th grade I'm assuming, so that leaves the parents. Statistically, it's more likely that the father is in service, so there's that. Military leaves mainly Afghanistan or Iraq. As for your father being invalided home, there was a hospital visitors badge on your coat hanging in the entrance, with the name of whom I can safely assume is your father printed under 'visiting', simple. The issues with your family are straightforward. The hospital badge is recent, but since you're here with Mrs Hudson, that must mean your father is being released soon or already has been. If there were nothing wrong with him, you'd be home, celebrating Christmas with your parents, but you're not, which tells me something is off. So you either had a row or your father has PTSD, which is common in war veterans. The PTSD must be pretty bad, though, if your mother doesn't want you around that. As for your brother, your mobile. You wouldn't be able to afford something like that on your own, phone plans are expensive, and it's unlikely your parents would pamper you with it, you're from a military family after all. There were also tiny scratches on the back, so it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. It's unlikely that a young man such as yourself would purchase a luxury item like this and mistreat it in that way, so it had a previous owner. We've already established that it wouldn't have been your mother or father, no, this is a young man's gadget, email capabilities, mp3 player. Unlikely you have any cousins you're close to, otherwise you'd be staying with them, so brother it is. The next one's easy, you already know it."

"The engraving," John said, blinking.

"Right. 'To: Harry Love: Clara'. Clara, who's Clara? Price of the gift says wife not girlfriend. But it was given to him recently, this model's only six months old. Six months and his already giving it away? State of unmarriage right there. If she'd left him, he would have kept it, people always do. Sentiment. No, he left her. And the fact that he's even giving it to you says he wants you to stay in touch, but you're not likely to do that, at least not for a while, because something he's done 's rubbed you the wrong way. A good reason would be his walking out on his wife, but there's another reason, too." He gave John a pointed look.

"How can you possible know about the drinking?" John asked in stunned disbelief.

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark. A good one though. The power connection. There are tiny little scuff marks around the edges. So he went to plug the phone in at night but his hands were shaking. You'd never see a sober man's phone with them, never see a drunk's without." He sat back and watched the other boy, judging his reaction.

After a few moments of blinking in shock, John finally spoke. "That….was amazing," he said.

It was Sherlock's turn to be shocked. "You really think so?"

"Of course I do. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock admitted.

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

He looked up and saw John smiling and heard a light chuckle rumble from his chest. Sherlock smiled faintly as well. "Did I get anything wrong?"

John thought for a moment before he spoke. "Dad has got PTSD. Pretty badly, apparently. Harry and I don't get on, never really have. Harry and Clara have been divorced for….three months, I think. Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock couldn't suppress the grin the formed on his lips. "Spot on then," he said smugly. "Didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry is short for Harriet," the footballer added, as if it were an afterthought.

Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds. "Harry is your sister…."

John nodded. "Yes."

"Your sister! Ah, well, there's always something." Sherlock sighed.

"Still, that was amazing," John pipped up, flashing Sherlock a charming smile that caught him off guard.

"Ah—yes—well. Thank you," he finally managed lamely, having to look away from the other's face. He could feel his cheeks flushing and only hoped John didn't notice.

Just then, Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and both boys jumped; they had forgotten the woman was in the room with them.

"Didn't I tell you he was amazing, John? It's a little unnerving if you ask me, having your life story told to you like that by someone you've only just met. Ah, but Sherlock's a good lad." She looked at Sherlock fondly and he gave her a genuine smile.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, giving him a hug before he left. It was quite late and it was about time he got home.

"Of course," Sherlock said with a smile, stooping down to kiss the woman on the cheek. He glanced over her shoulder at John. "It was nice meeting you, John."

"It was nice meeting you, too," John responded, with a slight nod and a polite smile. "I'm sure I'll see you again before the break is over."

Only if I'm really lucky, Sherlock found himself thinking. He caught himself and shook his head, clearing his throat. "Hopefully," he said with the trace of a smile. "Well, I'm off. It's late and Mycroft is probably wondering where I've got off to. Good night." He stepped down the two front steps, turning to give a little wave. The road was quiet and Sherlock found that he had to walk a few blocks before he was able to hail down a cab.

Once on the way home, the only thoughts on his mind were those of John Watson. He growled quietly to himself. How was it that a boy he had only known for five hours had managed to worm his way so deeply into his brain? Sherlock would say it was unreasonable to feel even remotely affectionate for John, that he barely knew him, but that was not entirely true. He knew almost everything about the footballer. It was unnerving. Five hours and he was practically swooning, it was pathetic. Besides, John Watson was not gay, there was no way he would be even remotely interested in Sherlock. It was very dejecting when Sherlock thought hard about it. He found someone he liked for the first time….well, ever, really, and he had about the same amount of chance with him as a snowball had in Hell.

His thoughts distracted him the entire trip and before he knew it, the cab pulled up in front of his house. Sighing, Sherlock stepped out of the car, paid the cabbie, and walked slowly up the front steps. He hoped very much that Mycroft wasn't home, and maybe even if he was, Sherlock would be able to slip up to his room undetected by his brother. One could only hope. So, as silently as he could, Sherlock unlocked and opened the front door, and crept inside. The house was silent, but Mycroft could very well be up in his study, or in the drawing room or library.

Sherlock slipped off his shoes and padded across the floor in his socks, not making a sound. Long ago, he had memorized where the creaks in the wood were. As he was making his way silently up the stairs, he heard shoe heals clicking against the hardwood, moving from the kitchen to the dinning room, making their way to the foyer and, ultimately, to where Sherlock was. His heart leapt into his throat and he took the last few stairs two at a time, moving like a ghost. Luckily, the upper levels were carpeted and that made it much easier to move along stealthily.

Once in his room, Sherlock shut and bolted the door, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He was safe. If he kept up this routine for the rest of his time in London, Sherlock would never have to cross paths with his brother, not even in their own home. It could work. The thought was a pleasant one; however, its distraction didn't last long and soon, Sherlock found his thoughts had wandered once more to John Watson.

Frustrated, he flung himself on his bed, burying his face in a pillow, and tried desperately to think of something other than the blonde footballer and how attractive he probably looked in his football kit. It was nearly impossible. Whenever he managed to focus his mind on something unrelated, John would pop up, smiling at him in the most charming way. Groaning, Sherlock rolled himself over and stared at the ceiling, hoping that a solution might come from its pattern. Of course, none came. It had taken John Watson a mere five hours to completely engulf Sherlock Holmes' mind, that had to be a record somewhere.

Feelings were not something Sherlock was well equipped to deal with, he usually had no problems shoving all emotions behind the barrier he had built for himself as protection years ago. Somehow, though, John had broken past those walls, walls that Mycroft had been trying (and failing) to chip away at since they went up. Walls that seemed to be meters thick, and John Watson broke them down without realizing, as if they were the thinnest glass. It was unthinkable, and if he were being completely honest with himself, it frightened Sherlock beyond all comprehension. One boy and five hours later, and he was reduced to an emotional and hormonal train wreck. He had to get straightened up, start rebuilding the walls, stronger this time.

Sighing, Sherlock ran his hands through his dark curls, his fingers catching in knots which he pulled out mercilessly. He had to clear his mind of everything, it was the only way he could begin to repair his defenses. Of course he had no way of knowing that in a matter of hours, those newly rebuilt, still setting walls would once again be ripped down, and probably never rebuilt the same again. At least not the same to John Watson.