"Urgh," Sherlock groaned, turning over.

He was on his back, presumably on the floor of his university dorm. His gangly legs were crossed over each other, his limp arms by his sides with the fuzzy, itchy carpet irritating his bare forearms. His face was the only thing that had managed to turn onto its right side. His body was extremely heavy to say he was laid down. Sherlock forced his eyelashes to part and drag his eyelids with them. He found himself staring at a wonky chair- wait no, it wasn't wonky, his eyesight was. He let it settle on the familiar plastic office chair (familiar not because it was his but because he always awoke like this) before attempting to move again.

"Not again," Sherlock grumbled in a dry gravelly voice when he managed to lift his shoulders off the floor. The bitter punch of metal formed in his mouth as he sat up, so he lifted a hand to his mouth to wipe the blood away. He pulled himself up off the floor and to the mirror to find the source of bleeding; his nose. Again.

The blood was like a flare on the ocean- it stood out so clearly on his undernourished looking skin, yet the vast paleness buried it into looking scarce. There was also blood on the edge of his dark curls which weighed the tips down into a sticky smudge across his forehead. Sherlock looked at it sourly with a dark frown but decided it couldn't be a bad cut, much to his... annoyance? He also checked the purple-green lump on his wrist and the aching bruise across his chest before grabbing his wash bag to go to the bathroom. The door opened sharply as he was about to leave.

"Oh... you're up," muttered Robert, Sherlock's roommate. He was smaller than Sherlock, but had a much larger build and a skinhead on top.

Sherlock didn't even bother to grunt in reply and started to leave before Robert noticed the blood. He smirked.

"They got you good last night, huh?" Robert laughed, shaking his head. "You're gonna cop it one of these days, Freak"

"Don't say that, you'll get my hopes high," Sherlock grumbled with his eyes narrowed. He left quickly and strode down the empty hallway to the bathroom. He washed most of the blood off but struggled with the clump in his hair. His clothes were crumpled from sleeping in them and were bloodstained in parts, but his watch informed him that he had no time to shower nor change his clothes before his first lecture. Instead, Sherlock went back to his room and blindly threw his wash bag in through the slightly open door and made his way down to the tree next to the stairs outside. The tree had a large hole towards the bottom. That was where his bag stayed when he wasn't using its contents: his books and laptop.

"So in other words, you're expecting me to pay for a new set of books and a new laptop when they've been taken by next week," his 'big brother' Mycroft had sighed when Sherlock told him about the tree.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes. "They're safer in the tree than in my dorm. Anyway... it's not like a couple of books and a computer would be much out of your wages, Mr 'David Cameron Is My Middle Name.'"

Sherlock leaned down and pulled out his bag before hauling it onto his bony shoulder. He grimaced slightly- his body was still aching sharply. He knew he was safe now though- nobody ever dared hurt him in day time and certainly nobody would pay enough attention to find his hiding place. Not that he cared anyway. Sherlock was passed caring about pretty much anything. It was only October and university had already managed to bore him into smoking and nagging his friend Lestrade to let him work on unsolved police cases. Lestrade was a good friend of Sherlock's, despite their many differences. He couldn't remember when and how he had met Lestrade because he had known him so long, but he had an inkling (a 99% positivity) that it had something to do with Mycroft. Mycroft was extremely fond of Lestrade even though they conversed around once a year on average. Sherlock found this highly amusing to say the least- Mycroft wasn't 'fond ' of anyone, yet he was all over Lestrade whenever he saw him or even if Sherlock just mentioned him. And then there was that time Mycroft saw Lestrade in his police uniform...

But even with nicotine and Lestrade's stupidity, university was far too dull for Sherlock Holmes. It was lonely (which didn't bother him in the slightest) because he had no friends, but he was actually more bothered about how easy the work was. He had expected it to be difficult and challenging but apparently he had been slow to think that.

Sherlock arrived at his chemistry lecture early-only the professor and one other student was in there, the other student being an 18 year old girl whose name Sherlock hadn't bothered to learn. He didn't actually know the professor's name. He had known it yesterday but then Lestrade sent him a case and he needed more room in his head...

The girl had her feet up on the row in front but the professor was too busy setting up apparatus to say anything. Sherlock sat away from the girl so neither of them had to look at each other.

The professor looked up as Sherlock sat down but he didn't bother to say anything either. He was a short man with wispy grey hair that was falling out rapidly. A lot of the class thought he was a joke with his tatty blazers and spotty bow ties, and even Sherlock couldn't disagree with this one. He was pathetic.

Sherlock sighed as he dropped his assignment on the professor's desk and got his laptop out to start working on the next one. He was extremely far ahead of the rest of his class so he worked on assignments as the professor spoke, taking in the new information as he typed out the previous. Although the professor had originally argued with Sherlock to put his laptop away and listen, he eventually gave up and consented to it. Sherlock had a feeling Mycroft may have 'intervened'. People found Mycroft was very persuasive and powerful, despite his young age.

"Ah, thank you William," said the professor, picking up the assignment. He always insisted on calling Sherlock by his 'official' first name.

"Please it's Sherlock," Sherlock mumbled, scowling.

"The register says William Sherlock Scott Holmes," the professor argued, looking down his glasses at Sherlock.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock lied. "It's actually Sherlock William."

"Well I'm afraid I can only call you by your first name on this piece of paper."
There was a pause as Sherlock thought for a moment. "My brother calls me Sherlock," he said, smiling slightly.

The professor sighed, figuring out Sherlock's game. He did, however, know he couldn't argue. "Sherlock it is," he muttered, turning back to his apparatus.

A few more students trickled in, mainly females, but also a couple of boys. One of them was Sebastian Moran. He was part of the gang that beat Sherlock up regularly. Sebastian only glanced slightly at Sherlock, and 'accidently' knocked his laptop shut before sitting down. As irritating as he found this, Sherlock knew he was safe in the middle of a classroom mid-morning. Sebastian hadn't been one of the group that hurt Sherlock last night, but he often joined in on Friday nights.

Not many males attended class on Mondays, even less so the ones that beat Sherlock up. Females also bunked off, but weren't as scarce as males. After the professor (Turner, someone had called him) had been waiting five minutes, he decided to get on with the lecture. Only 6 out of 17 students were in attendance, but even he was clever enough to notice the pattern of not turning up on Mondays. Professor Turner recapped on the relevance of ionic bonding and demonstrated an experiment to get the students interested. Sherlock typed away until the end of the lesson. As usual, he packed his things away and stood up, rubbing his tender chest.

He waited until everyone else had left before heading for the door himself- this was a tactic he often used to decrease the chance of getting caught in a crowd and getting more injured than necessary.

"Wil- Sherlock!" Professor Turner called after him. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, before spinning round on his agile heels.

"Sherlock, I forgot to say. Somebody asked me to send you to the Harley block after this class. That's the medicine centre," the professor said catching Sherlock up at the doorway.

"Yes, I know where it is," Sherlock snapped. "Who was this somebody?"

"Er... I can't say I know, if I'm honest. I forgot to ask. Short fellow, blond hair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as it fit the description of Carl Thomas, one of the bullies in the same gang as Moran. Carl Thomas was pretty much the leader of the gang, actually.

Although being in Carl's presence was a painful experience for Sherlock (mentally and often physically) he decided to go anyway to find out what he wanted. Sherlock doubted Carl would try anything at this time, even if it was in an empty lecture theatre. Besides, he was already battered into passing out at least twice a week, what did he actually have to lose?

Five minutes later Sherlock was entering the main office of Harley block, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and scowl more protruding than ever. The office worker was on her computer and looked up as she saw him. She rolled her eyes- a response considered normal when encountering a Holmes.

"Hello, Holmes. What is it this time? Have you come to tell me what I had for breakfast this morning or are we stepping it up again?"

Sherlock smirked as he remembered the last time he saw her. He had explained that her step mum and boyfriend were having an affair. According to Lestrade, that isn't considered... 'tactful'.

"Apparently somebody wanted me here," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming.

"Really? Somebody wanted you? Here?" She replied incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes this time. "Very funny... Donovan, is it? Somebody asked for me, I don't know who. Possibly Carl Thomas."

Sally Donovan sighed and picked up the phone. She dialled the upstairs office and talked quietly for about 20 seconds before putting the phone down again.

"Upstairs, room Med2," she muttered, glad to get rid of Sherlock.

He was just as pleased to be leaving and walked upstairs and along the corridor. There was a light on in Med2, but he couldn't see anyone through the small window in the door. Sherlock pushed it open cautiously before stepping in slowly. At the other end of the room was a small figure hunched over some papers. He seemed to be ticking them and making notes. Professor Turner was right, the man was small and blond, but he definitely wasn't Carl Thomas. He was different somehow, Sherlock could tell that without even seeing the guy's face. Yet he couldn't help being sceptical. He held back at the door as he cleared his throat. The man looked up and smiled broadly.

"Come in, come in," he said enthusiastically. "You must be Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped forward and nodded sternly. "You must be new."

"Sorry?" the man asked, standing up.

"I've never seen you before."

"I'm a medicine doctor. You're a chemistry student. I don't think you should have seen me before. And you've only been here a month," he replied. It was a short reply but he was still smiling kindly.

Sherlock stood closer and analysed his face. He had lines but he wasn't old, he was wise to Sherlock's game, but Sherlock suspected this was because the man was well-informed rather than intelligent. But somehow, he was smart in a way that Sherlock couldn't understand.

"So... you're not new?" Sherlock frowned.

"Afraid not. Dr John Watson." He extended his hand.

Sherlock shied away from it. "How do I know you're a doctor? You could be anyone"

Dr Watson looked away, looking almost offended for a moment, before turning his attention back to Sherlock. Neither of them said anything, so Sherlock spoke first.

"I was expecting somebody else. I assume you're well acquainted with him," Sherlock explained.

Dr Watson looked at Sherlock, confused. "Somebody else?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine we'll do this your way. Carl Thomas. I'm assuming it's one of his plans for you to pretend to be a doctor. Then do what... lure me to another room where they're all going to jump me? Or is it in here? Are you simply buying time until they get their lazy 'backsides' out of bed and bother to come and finish me off?"

The doctor looked up at him. "You have something red in your hair."

"So do you."
Watson blushed as he looked at his phone mirror and wiped it out. "Jam. And yours?"

Sherlock looked away so the doctor persisted in a way only a teacher could.

"Professor Turner tells me you're leaps and bounds ahead of the chemistry class so he thought you might enjoy taking an extra class. I offered to give you extra tutor sessions on medicine if you're interested. Or you can turn up to my mainstream classes whenever time allows you," he explained.

Sherlock felt his cheeks redden as he looked down at his feet. Was this actually a tutor? Was he really being reasonable with him? Sherlock saw no signs of lying in Watson's face, but surely this was work of Carl Thomas, he'd been positive about it.

Only because of the man's description, though, Sherlock reminded himself.

He walked over to the table where Dr Watson had been working. The paper on top was an essay on the development of medicine in the UK. It was half marked-that was the scribbles he had making when Sherlock arrived.

"Is that enough proof for you, or should I start carrying ID with me?" Watson joked, as though he had read Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock was all set to believe him when: "You called me Sherlock. Why would you call me Sherlock when the university papers say my name is William?"

Watson smiled and let a chuckle slip. "Professor Turner told me you prefer it. Okay?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "When's your next class?"

"This afternoon, 2:30... So the red stuff in your hair. Is that blood?"

"Yes."

Watson looked at Sherlock, with narrowed eyes, as if he was trying to work him out. But his eyebrows were tilted up in the middle and Sherlock knew he was concerned and in need of an explanation- an explanation that Sherlock wasn't keen to give to a stranger.

Instead of asking for one, though, Watson asked, "So you're coming to the class?"

Sherlock nodded and looked at him. "I will. But my brother lives close by and I have him on speed dial," he warned, even though he was lying. "2:30 it is."

He picked up his bag that he didn't even realise he'd dropped, then walked out of the door without a look back. Sherlock walked quickly, adrenaline pumping, convinced he was going to get ambushed any second. But he didn't. He was back by his tree ten minutes later without a new scar on him. And he couldn't stop thinking about that funny little Watson man.