Sherlock woke up at five-fifteen am and as usual, got slowly out of bed and carefully moved barefoot in the darkness towards the door. He opened it silent, applying pressure to the handle so it would not creak.
He wasn't afraid of the two boys he shared his dormitory with- Gregory Lestrade and Moira Anderson. Lestrade was a soft-hearted Prefect who lived for discipline and Anderson, well, he was just an idiot. Besides, Sherlock was a head taller than both of them, not that they were afraid of him either. His tall frame was definitive, but certainly not imposing.
Slipping out the door, Sherlock stepped into the pitch black hall, pausing to listen for Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson ran Baker St Children's Home alone, apart from the teachers that were paid to work from nine until four Monday to Friday. She was a kind but firm woman who cared deeply for the children.
Sherlock counted eight steps to hit left, before extending his arms in front of him and reaching forwards. His hands met the mahogany frame of what he knew to be a massive oil painting of a blue bowl of pears, set against a yellow walled background.
The painting had caught his attention when he was five, after he noticed that the blunt vibrant colours of the painting totally mismatched the mauve wall it decorated. Mrs Hudson, who was openly fastidious about colour co-ordination, would surely have thought this layout a total abomination. Yet, she passed it every day and made no adjustments.
Five-year-old Sherlock was convinced that this meant the painting was hiding something. So he snuck out one night and pulled one side towards him, and it swung back revealing a hollow in the wall with a metal room no more than three feet high and three feet wide. He recognised it as a dumbwaiter, and even nine years later Sherlock still considered it his hiding place.
Tonight, he performed his usual ritual of opening the door-like painting and climbing into the small space before shutting the canvas in front of him. He fumbled in his pockets and lit a match, watching it ignite, glow, and eventually simmer into darkness.
It felt like only a few minutes, but Sherlock's watch told him he'd been there an hour and a half. Reluctantly, he returned to the dormitory, the halls still cloaked in darkness at quarter to seven. He clambered into bed and drifted in and out of a light sleep for fifteen minutes until Mrs Hudson finally rang the morning gong at seven.
When he sat up, Lestrade was already out of bed and Anderson was rubbing his eyes drowsily, fumbling for his glasses. In his searching he knocked them to the floor, and Sherlock couldn't resist a smirk.
Anderson flushed. "What are you looking at, weirdo." He snapped, kicking off his sheets.
"Not a lot, I assure you." Sherlock replied pleasantly, and Anderson grimaced.
"Hey, want to see something?" Lestrade grinned.
Sherlock shrugged and Anderson nodded eagerly. Lestrade pulled off his shirt and lifted his arms above his head, displaying two small patches of mousey hair on either armpit.
"Whoa," said Anderson enviously.
Sherlock didn't understand the excitement. "Lestrade, you're nearly fifteen. What do you expect, a small army of earthworms?"
"Shut up," mumbled Lestrade, "And actually, would you mind calling me Greg? You don't need to call everyone by their last name."
Sherlock shrugged again and crouched down behind his bed and began to get dressed.
"Anyway, it's not as if you have any." Anderson chimed in. Sherlock did not reply. In truth, he had plenty of hair, which he shaved sometimes with his pocket knife. Sherlock was in fact rather mature physically, yet he was no more muscular or toned than he was four years ago. Somehow, he suspected this would never change.
He pulled his trousers from his bed and slipped them on awkwardly.
"What is it, Sherly, scared we'll find out your secret?" Sneered Anderson.
Sherlock turned around abruptly. "What secret?" He snapped.
"That you're funny."
Sherlock sighed. He and Anderson had this conversation at least once a week. According to Anderson, refusing to change his clothes in front of him and Lestrade, having no interest in sport and not reading Playboy magazines made Sherlock Holmes unquestionably gay.
"Anderson, if you can remember out last conversation- I know it was five whole days ago- you will recall that I assured you that no, I am not gay, least of all for you. In fact, I'm sure you'd turn any male off being gay."
Lestrade stifled a giggle and Anderson flushed red. "At least I've got a girlfriend. Lorraine-"
"Ah yes, Lorraine. Does she know that Sally Donovan is your preferred squeeze? Behind the hut encounters, I believe. Kinky."
"Hold on, who told you-"
"You did."
"Me?!"
"Both of you, really. Perhaps I'm mistaken. I'm sure both of you happen to need the bathroom at the same time, need to fetch a book at the same time, need to go to your room and make your bed at the same time. Yes, I must be mistaken."
"What does that have to do with-"
"The hut? Come on, have you seen your shoes lately? Every time you both return from one of your 'trips' your shoes are caked in more and more grass and mud. Also the ends of your trousers are streaked with diatomaceous; the white powder used in the slug killer Mrs Hudson had sprinkled in her flower garden, behind the hut. Funny, this kills two birds with one stone. Now we also know who has been trampling Mrs Hudson's rhododendrons."
Anderson was furious, Lestrade was dumbfounded as usual.
"Thank you, Moira." He said as he tied his scarf and propped up the collar on his school coat, heading downstairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Mrs Hudson was standing in from the door, and she was patting the shoulder of a boy about Sherlock's age. He was smaller, with a round face and a flat brow. Blonde hair, dark blue eyes and a straight back.
"Ah, Sherlock." Smiled Mrs Hudson. "This is John Watson, he's going to be joining us at Baker St from now on. He'll be sharing your dormitory, will you look after him? The man's coming to fix the washing machine."
Sherlock ignored the question. Instead, he looked John once from head to toe, and then locked eyes with him. "So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"