Sherlock wasnt pleased. No, he wasnt pleased one bit.
They were sending him to America, of all places, those rubbish beings who called themselves his parents. For crashing a crime scene. And he solved the bloody crime, they should be rewarding him!
But no, they shipped him off to America, and not even anywhere interesting, like New York, or LA. Hell, he'd even take Detroit or St. Louis right now. No, he was stuck in some little town in the bland state of Illinois. He might just die from sheer boredom.
They had been off the interstate for half an hour before they reached the town of Sherlocks banishment.
Oregon, the sign read. Population 3,696.
Dull.
Sherlock huffed out a sigh, sinking lower into his seat.
They hadnt even bothered sending him somewhere with a private school, oh no. He was going to a public high school for the rest of this year and all of next year.
Sherlock dropped his head against the window with an alarmingly loud thud. The driver, almost concerned, glanced back at him in the rear view mirror.
"Were almost to your uncle's, Master Holmes."
Sherlock sighed. Uncle Warren had been the black sheep among the Holmes family. Incredibly intelligent, but mischievious as a child and a rebel as an adolescent. He had been 16 when he announced that he was gay and that he wanted to be an English teacher. When he was 18, he had moved to the States to go to University and never came home. Sherlock had met the man once, when he and his partner, the much more Holmsian Nicholas, had come to London for a family reunion of sorts. Sherlock had been 10, and very much adored Warren for his rebellious nature and Nicholas for his observatory skills and intellect.
The driver pulled up in front of an ordinary, indistinct house. Two story, with a small attic and a basement. Much larger than anything in London, but much smaller than the Holmes Manor. Standing on the covered porch is Uncle Warren, every one of his 45 years showing, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt.
Sherlock unfolds himself from the back seat of the black car, and smooths down his shirt before buttoning his suit jacket. The driver starts pulling Sherlocks many suitcases from the boot and sets them on the curb.
"Uncle," Sherlock greets the man, taking the front steps two at a time, then offering the older man a hand to shake. Warren takes it, returning a firm handshake.
"Sherlock. My, you've grown. You're looking just like your mother. Hows Mycroft?"
"Wouldn't know. He's working on taking over Father's position."
Warren gives one knowing nod. The driver has almost finished carrying Sherlocks cases into the house, and when he brings in the last one, Warren ushers Sherlock inside.
The front door opens into a fairly spacious, well-worn sitting room. A set of stairs lead on upstairs, but Warren leads Sherlock on through the sitting room and into the kitchen. Theres a small dining table in one corner, where Nicholas is sat. He looks up from the paperwork scattered across the table, and pulls himself up from his chair when he sees Sherlock.
He offers a hand to Sherlock, which he accepts.
"Nice to see you again, Sherlock. Make yourself at home."
"Thank you, sir."
Warren watches the two interact, and notices many parallels between the two. Physically, the two could be mistaken as father and son. Both were tall, thin and pale with high, sharp cheekbones and unruly, dark hair. Both dressed to the 9's, almost cold in their calculating, observing mannerisms.
When the pair finish with their short, odd reunion, Nicholas returns to his work and Warren starts to show Sherlock around the house. Warrens office and a bathroom round out the rooms downstairs. Upstairs, Warren points out his and Nicholas' room, another bathroom, Nicholas' office, and a spare bedroom. Finally, Warren leads Sherlock up the stairs at the end of the hall, and opening the door to the attic. To Sherlock's utmost surprise, its finished and rather more warm and cozy than expected. Theres a large bed pushed to one wall, an oak desk against another. A wardrobe more that big enough for Sherlocks clothing near the end of the bed. Its dark, but there are plenty of windows and lamps.
"This is going to be your room. Nicholas and I figured youd want a bit more privacy than the spare room downstairs. Only downside is you have to go down there for the bathroom, but its all yours, because Nick and I share the en suite in our room."
"This is perfect, Uncle. Thank you."
Warren smiles at his nephew, before offering to help him carry his cases up. Once the job is done, though, he leaves Sherlock to his own devices and returns to the ground floor to relax in his armchair.
Sherlock sets to unpack, organizing everything to his liking, before collapsing on the rather comfy bed. He sighs loudly, closing his eyes. As much as he liked Nicholas and Warren, the next year and a half would be hell. Away from the bustle of city life. Away from England. Hell, even away from Mycroft. It would drive him mad.
Around 6, Warren called Sherlock downstairs for dinner. Sherlock pushed his food around his plate, only taking a few bites of his chicken. When hes excused from the table, he goes into the sitting room, grabs a book from the case and settles onto the couch. Nicholas retreats upstairs to continue work. Warren makes himself a cup of tea, sipping on it in the kitchen. When he finishes it, he strides into the sitting room purposefully. Sherlock is sprawled across the couch, immersed in the book.
It takes almost 20 minutes to get Sherlocks attention. When he does, its to talk about school. Hes already been enrolled in the local high school, where Warren works. Warren tells Sherlock about the school, answering all his questions. When their finished, Sherlock pulls himself up from the couch and heads back upstairs. His book lay abandoned on the sofa.