(When reading this chapter, I recomend that you'll listen to the song "Nowhere man" by The Beatles. I listened to it a lot while writing this, and I think it fits quite well.)

Sherlock opened his eyes, slowly. Then closed them again, not quite wanting to realize that class was starting in less than 20 minutes. He sighed. Yet another class with ignorant students, not capable of retaining even the most basic information given to them. He was in fact was looking very much forward to quit this school. The problem was that he had absolutely nowhere to go. He'd assisted the police in smaller investigation cases to pay off his study loan and text books. A small, plain wooden clock showed that he was going to be late for class. Sherlock got up from bed, pulled on a pair of grey trousers and a white, slightly wrinkled shirt and pulled his fingers through his dark hair that curled up and curly locks looped into each other. His tousled fringe was covering most of his forehead and his tired ice-blue eyes. His gaze was distant, yet somehow sharp.

He took a quick look around his flat. It was quite small, but big enough for Sherlock alone. His apartment was localized in the 3rd floor of the university he was attending. It consisted of a small living room where his bed was placed in the left corner, a bathroom and a tiny kitchen that he rarely used. A big window showed the view of the northern part of London. The school yard was very little appealing, but also other tall buildings could be seen.

His entire flat was filled with school applications, work applications, and other applications that seemed to find its way to his dorm. He knew a huge amount of them was most likely from the police. He yawned and rubbed his eyes before taking long and careful steps across the room to avoid stepping on something. The floor was filled up with different things, as he was too tired to clean them up and to actually have an organized system. Everything from clothes, to his latest science project had found its way to his floor, and never left.

Sherlock brushed his hair and again, let his long and slender fingers feel their way through his dark curls and pulled away his fringe before grabbing his school bag and walked out from his room and walked with determined steps to room 204, where his science class was about to start.

The hallway was almost empty. The white, cold walls seemed like they were in desperate need of a makeover. The teachers had tried to decorate with a few pictures, most of them by the English royalty, something that didn't really make the cold walls any less cold. Most of the students were already in their classes by now, and Sherlock reached for the door handle, and, unwillingly opened the door. Inside the class, Sherlock walked over to his seat in the left corner of the classroom. He had an old and fairly used desk; an old and rather unpleasant chair that matched the desk pretty well was placed next to it. He sat down, knowing that considering his situation, he shouldn't complain, as it surely would be perceived as rude, not that he already had a bad rumor going on about being highly intelligent and rude, two things that weren't among the most popular personality traits.

The students were eagerly chatting on about their favourite bands and movies, which club to visit when the weekend came and most likely more that he didn't really pay attention to. Sherlock on the other hand, sat alone with his book.

The door was opened, and in came a teacher. A rather old man with a thick and bushy mustache that seemed to take up a big part of his face, but he seemed to believe the mustache to be one of his very best physical features, but in return, he had very little, almost no hair, and he wore a plain black suit, and a bright, red necktie. But Sherlock barely paid any attention to the middle-aged man. What caught his attention, was the young man that followed him in the classroom. Sherlock could guess he was about his age; he had blonde, slightly tousled hair and a mop-top haircut. There was something about the young boy that caught his attention. He noticed how he kept looking down, a sign of nervousness and discomfort, most likely also low self-esteem.

The man with the thick mustache coughed rather loud to get everyone's attention. The class stopped whatever they were doing immediately.

"This is John Hamish Watson. He will stay in your class for the next two years." He didn't say more, but showed him to his seat, which happened to be right next to Sherlock. He didn't say anything, but placed his black leather bag on the floor right next to his chair.

Sherlock reached out his hand. John took it with a firm grip.

"John. John Watson." He said.

Sherlock frowned. "interesting… Interesting indeed."

John gave him a confused look. "I'm not quite sure if I understand."

"The name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock said with a straightforward voice. "Which room are you staying at?" he continued.

"I don't know yet," John admitted. "The principal, Mrs. Hudson is going to talk to me about it after class."

John glanced at the mysterious young man who sat next to him. He didn't know what, but there was something about him that caught his attention. Perhaps it was his physical appearance, or maybe his mysterious and incomprehensible personality. Come to think of it, how did Sherlock know that he was going to live at the school?

"How exactly did you know that-" he started, but Sherlock seemed as if he had been waiting for just this question.

"Well, you can't go home, now can you? Abusive parents must be difficult; difficult enough to leave your home, or maybe you ran away?"

John gaped, confused. "H-how did you know…?"

"I draw conclusions from observing. It was quite obvious in this case." Sherlock stopped, hesitated for a slight moment. "You're using that jacket to cover up your bruises, am I right?"

John pulled down the sleeves of his jacket, as if they weren't before, afraid that someone might see him for what he was: a victim, a defenceless and weak person.

Sherlock didn't speak with John anymore that school day, but they both quite frequently took a break from their text books to take a look at each other.

When the clock showed 3pm and the class was dismissed, Sherlock picked up his grey, plain school bag and hurried to his dorm. On his way through the hall, he was stopped by Mrs. Hudson who wanted to know how he was settling in his new flat. To that he replied, that he was indeed very happy about the flat, though the rent would be a little too much for him alone to pay.

"That's exactly what I need to talk to you about." Mrs. Hudson said. "I'm sure you've met young Mr. Watson."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I have."

"He's in need of a flat, but need a flat mate, as he can't afford to pay the rent on his own."

"And you want him to be my flat mate." Sherlock finished her sentence.