So, this is my first fanfic! Don't expect much (I beg you) because even though I've read a few already on here, I'm still wary that I'm new to actually writing them.
I don't own most of the characters mentioned in this fanfic - most of them were created by those who created the BBC version of 'Sherlock', but of course my OC is original, and later on in the story I'll introduce some more of my own characters as well.
Anyway, this story is set in an AU; Sherlock is at university. I have tried to keep all the characters in, well, character.
Rating is M for language, future slash scenes and also some attempted rape later on - not wanting to spoil too much of the plot though!
I'll also try and update it as often as I can - I apologise in advance if I don't get a new chapter up for a while, but I've just started on my AS levels at the moment and already the work is taking it's toll on me!

Anyway, please read and review and tell me what you think?

(This chapter is quite long, and I apologise for that - I'm just trying to introduce Sherlock, John and Ivy altogether and save using three chapters for introductions. Sorry!)

Chapter One

The sun lingered in the sky over the late August afternoon. Oxford University was brimming with students, new and old, pulling along suitcases, hugging parents and laughing with friends. Someone was actually shrieking with excitement. Sherlock Holmes stared down at them from his third-storey dormitory, observing as much as he could (which was pretty much everything) about the crowds down below. Some of them would be in his lectures; some will pass him and not notice him. But, most likely, some will hate him. In fact, most will hate him sooner or later. Everyone does.

He turned back to face his dormitory. It was a box. Two beds, two desks, two wardrobes. One window. One bathroom. The smell of fresh paint stung his nostrils. Unfortunately, he was expecting his new roommate to saunter through the door, come up with some pathetic excuse for small talk and realise he had received his worst nightmare for a roommate – a 'freak'. Sherlock could almost hear the insults already. It was always the same, even when he was at primary school, and then secondary school. Every boarding school his parents had shipped him off to assigned Sherlock to a roommate, and every roommate reacted the same way.

Sherlock Holmes didn't belong to anyone. He was fine by himself, anyway. He didn't need anyone, and no one needed him.

All Sherlock needed were his studies. It was his studies that got him through primary school and into any boarding school in the country. It was his studies that got him the graduation he needed. It was his studies that got him a place at Oxford. He could have used his family name to determine a place at Cambridge, like his father and his brother, but Cambridge never appealed to Sherlock. Why should he follow his family name just because he can? Where's the challenge in that? Oxford was a much more practical choice, much to the dismay of his family. It was only an hour away from London by train and it was still in the top five universities in the United Kingdom. He had the grades to get into anywhere, but it was Oxford that appealed to him the most.

He felt a twinge of happiness when a wave of realisation swept through him. He picked up his heavy black suitcase and flung it onto one of the beds and started to unpack. Shirts, jackets, trousers, shoes: they all had their rightful place. He was almost done when a guttural sound came from the doorway to the stairwell. He looked up and groaned.

"What are you doing here?" He snapped, turning his back on him to tuck the suitcase under his new bed.

"Can't I come and wish my younger brother good luck?" Mycroft Holmes stood leaning against a large purple umbrella, blocking the doorway as he did so. He was looking around the beige-coloured box in a mild disgust. "I have to say, Sherlock, even the halls of residence at Cambridge were better than this."

Sherlock clenched his teeth and finally turned to stare at his brother. "I would much rather prefer it if you left, Mycroft," he growled, "I don't particularly want my first day at university to be spoilt by your insufferable presence."

"Sherlock, there is no need to be so negative."

"There is if you're involved."

"You know how Mother would not like it if she learnt how you have acted with me –"

"And I'm sure she wouldn't like it if she learnt how you caused my behaviour, either."

"She was very upset when you told her you didn't want her here today, Sherlock."

"So she sent you down here instead."

"We're all concerned for you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You needn't be."

Mycroft sighed. "Denial is never a good thing, Sherlock. Today could have happened two years ago if you hadn't been so –"

"Your concern is wasted, I'm afraid."

Mycroft chuckled to himself. "You may think so, but I'm afraid that isn't the case. We will be watching you, my dear brother – "

"Oh, I don't doubt that."

"– and we all wish you to have a pleasant year," the older Holmes gave his brother a smile that was like a bullet from a gun before turning to leave – but before he closed the door fully and Sherlock was free once again, the door swung again and Mycroft's smug face appeared once again. "Oh, and do try to stay out of trouble, Sherlock – I'm sure you've noticed the sudden change in Father's blood pressure." And with that, the door clicked! shut and Sherlock Holmes was alone once again.

He stared at the door for seconds afterwards as Mycroft's footsteps were drowned out by the distorted noises from the stairwell beyond. He flickered his gaze back out the window and almost instantly spied the thinning-haired head of his older brother, sauntering through the crowds with his umbrella – despite the clear skies and August sun – swinging in his grip. Sherlock stared at him in disgust as Mycroft reached a black limousine with a curvy brunette standing in front of it, a mobile phone plastered in her hand. Without looking up from the phone, the brunette opened the car door for the older man, and for a millisecond, Sherlock swore Mycroft brushed his fingers across the woman's thigh – but instantly shrugged it away as the brunette climbed in afterwards and closed the door, and the limousine pulled away.

As he stood in the middle of his new home, Sherlock blocked out all the noises from outside the window and the door and shamefully let his anger shoot through him like tidal waves. His fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were whiter than his exceptionally pale skin, and he thought the indents from his fingernails were going to be permanent. He knew he shouldn't let his brother get to him like this, but it didn't help the fact that Mycroft knew exactly how to press his buttons. It was maddening. All his life, Sherlock was always in Mycroft's shadow – and despite what Sherlock knew, Mycroft was his parents' pride and joy. They seemed to always be a lot stricter on Sherlock – maybe that was what made him lash out. Sherlock was almost never confused, but some things were a complete mystery to him – and even his own emotions were one of them. He didn't know why he felt this way when he came to his family – but he did know that one day he was determined to figure it out.

Sherlock's stewing was fortunately cut short, when the automatic lock on the dormitory's door shifted and the door opened. A bulky man strode in, pulling along a suitcase and carrying a sports bag on his left shoulder. His short brown hair was pushed back carelessly and his t-shirt had some sort of designer logo stretched across his chest almost obscenely obviously. He glanced once at Sherlock before dropping his stuff on the spare bed on the other side of the room.

Sherlock watched him. He was obviously some sort of sports player – rugby, by the look of his stature – with a family made of money. The fact that all of his possessions – and that means all – had some kind of designer name on them gave Sherlock this impression. Finally, his new roommate turned and smiled at him and held out his hand.

"I'm Sebastian Wilkes," he said. His voice was deep. The word conceited came to Sherlock's hard-working brain.

Sherlock gave him a quick smile back, shook his hand and added, "I'm Sherlock Holmes," before retreating back to his own bed and continued to finish unpacking his books onto his desk. He didn't care to organise them, and just left them in disarrayed piles.

Sebastian did the same, instead he arranged his so they were in alphabetical – by surname of author, of course, Sherlock observed. From the look of the titles, he also concluded that he was studying something to do with economics.

The silence in the room was overwhelming. Sherlock knew before any conversations, of course, that the differences between him and his new roommate were going to obvious soon enough. Sherlock didn't care for sports or designer clothing, for example. And he definitely couldn't deny the dread that consumed him when Sebastian started the first conversation between them.

"I can't believe I'm finally at Oxford!" He began, clapping his hands together, his eyes darting about the room. Sherlock carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "My family have always come here – my grandfather, my uncle, my father, my mother, and both my sisters, and now me. My parents met here, you know. Of course I had to carry on the family customs – I had my eye on Durham for a while, but I guess I'm a sucker for tradition." Sebastian chuckled and sat down on his bed and carried on, "I couldn't believe it when I got the grades, too. It was a fucking miracle! Seriously, man, you do not know the pressure I was under on that results day – I don't know what I would've done if I didn't get in here, my dad would've gone ape-shit."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He could see another difference – Sebastian liked talking about himself, and Sherlock couldn't care less.

"I had to put my foot down about the course though. Dad wanted me to go into sciences or something, but I've always liked money and why would I go into sciences if I like money and there's a perfectly good course for economics? My uncle works in the financial district in London and he studied economics and managing and he's well high-up in what he does – Dad wasn't entirely happy that I wasn't going to become a doctor or whatever like him, but he should be happy I'm actually doing something other than rugby."

Sherlock stole himself a smug smile. He went over and sat at his desk as Sebastian babbled on. Sherlock zoned himself out until his roommate's pompous voice was just white noise in the background, and settled himself into starting an experiment involving dog hair, hydrochloric acid and a tanning bulb.

After a while, Sherlock realised that Sebastian had gone quiet. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed the confused look on his roommate's usually smug face.

"What are you doing?" were the first words Sebastian had said that weren't about himself since he had walked into the dormitory.

"Experiment," Sherlock merely said, turning back to his pipette of acid. He had learnt not to talk about his experiments in too much detail throughout the years – the details usually disgusted and repelled others, and after years of Sherlock's mother begging him to take others' feelings into account, he felt he would save Sebastian from the explanation.

Sebastian continued to look both afraid and puzzled but left Sherlock to it. He pretended to check the time, grabbed his jacket and left. And before Sherlock knew what he was doing, as soon as the door closed, he grinned smugly to himself and let out a laugh.

...

Ivy Coates made her way to the block of dormitories that would soon become her home for at least the next year. The entire campus was bustling with fellow students, and it seemed all of them had arrived with at least someone – but Ivy was alone. She couldn't deny that some small part of her envied those girls with crying mothers, or even the boys with rough handshakes from fathers. But that was only a very small part of her. If she had wanted someone to embrace her and make a fuss, she wouldn't have denied her older brother, Zach, the opportunity to accompany her on the train and make the fuss she kept on witnessing as she walked through the campus. God knows he wanted to.

Finally, she arrived at the door of her halls of residence. The building was beautiful – traditional Oxford University architecture and with stone the colour of sand. The only downside was that it was positively full to capacity with students and their families, much like the campus outside – though she knew it was only because it was the first day of the new year. Christmas was a long time away for most people.

She pushed her way through the crowds and carried her suitcases up the staircase. Thankfully, her assigned dormitory was only on the second floor. As she made her way up the flight of stairs, she kept her eyes out for anything that could potentially harm her: she saw that most of the residence out in the corridors and stairwells were actually male, and as she dodged a flying football, she almost fell right into a tall older man in a tweed suit with an umbrella.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" She apologised loudly over the din of chatter, stepping back and keeping her head down.

"Not at all, it's hardly your fault," The man in the tweed suit replied haughtily, gripping tightly onto his umbrella. Strange, thought Ivy, it's hardly going to rain today.

She looked up to smile once again at him, but found that he was already on the next stair case going down. Shrugging, she carried on up the stairs until she came to her room – Room 206, one of the first on the second storey. She quickly unlocked the door and stepped inside, and sighed with content when she dropped all of her bags on the floor in the middle of the room. Directly opposite the door was a large window, overlooking the campus below. Even though it was afternoon, the crowds were still arriving. There was only a few cars leaving – one of which was a black limousine. Pretentious was the first word to come to Ivy's mind.

The rest of the room was exceptionally plain. The two beds, on opposite ends of the square room, were grey from a mattress with no sheets, and each were accompanied with a desk and a wardrobe. The layout of the room was almost as if someone had drawn an invisible line down the centre, creating two identical halves. Even both sides had a wooden door – the only difference was the position of them. The right side had the door to the stairwell, right next to the bed, whereas the left side had the door to the bathroom, at the end of the bed. By the look of it, her roommate hadn't arrived yet, so fortunately, Ivy had first pick of what bed she wanted – the left side.

She had just begun to unpack when there was a sharp knock at the door. Ivy sharply turned to see a stout woman, in an outfit that made her look far too frumpy, staring at a clipboard. Her greying hair was pulled up in a small neat bun, with absolutely no frays, and her thinned lips were pursed so tightly, Ivy thought she was trying to permanently get rid of her lips altogether.

"Miss Coates?" The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were grey and emotionless, and her voice was as precise as her hairdo.

"Erm, yes?" Ivy tried to smile.

"You're a lucky girl today, Miss Coates," it seemed to Ivy that the woman was also trying to smile, too, "the other girl who was going to be sharing with you has just called to say that she won't be joining us in halls until Christmas."

"Oh!" relief washes through Ivy as the woman writes something on her clipboard and leaves, closing the door behind her. At least she could put off being forced actual human interaction for at least a few months.

Surprisingly, unpacking didn't take as long as she thought. After what appeared to be in no time, she stepped back and admired her organisation – she had brought every book she could carry, and they were all in alphabetical order from the author's surname on her desk, as well as her workbooks and files. Her clothes were all hung up neatly in the wardrobe, and the bed was made with her favourite sheets from home. It still lacked character, though, but for the first day of university, she hadn't done a bad job.

She sighed and found her new timetable for the year. It listed all the lectures, her professors and what rooms and it all seemed so… daunting to her. She hoped to God that she could deal with it all – she hoped that her lecturers were nice and the work wasn't too much. It had taken a lot out of her to get this far. She had pretty much sacrificed any life at all when she was taking her A-levels to make sure she got the grades, and she doesn't think anyone could understand the pure happiness that had sparked in her when she had when that envelope dropped through the letterbox of her brother's house, when she opened it and read that absolutely marvellous sentence that determined her fate.

That morning, she cried with happiness for the first time in what seemed like years.

...

"I can't believe my little brother is going to Oxford University!" Harriet Watson literally shrieked as she gave her brother the tenth hug that day.

John Watson blushed and picked up his bags. Just like what seemed like everyone else at Oxford that day, he was standing just outside the building where his dormitory was waiting for him, saying his final goodbyes to his family. He could feel the others surrounding him and his sister and his sister's girlfriend – Clara, was it? – as Harry screamed and hugged and made it extremely clear how proud she was of him. It was odd – normally, Harry didn't care one bit about John, but today, it was almost as if she had been replaced with someone completely different. John hated it, he hated this new Harry, and he hated how awkward Clara was just standing there, averting her eyes everywhere but the people she was actually with. He knew they didn't have to come, but he couldn't go against his sister's insists.

"Ok, ok, we'll let you go," Harry squealed again. "But, Oxford, John! Oxford!" She squeezed her brother once again, before slowly retreating. John caught her eye and saw something even more unfamiliar to her behaviour. "John, keep safe, if you know what I mean." She winked, and hugged him again. John's cheeks burned even more.

She turned to Clara and, fortunately for John, was about to leave, when she turned again to face him, and added, "Oh and don't forget about your studies when you're out getting drunk – just because you're in Oxford, doesn't mean you'll graduate. And a bit of advice: weed is actually healthier for the brain than alcohol," she winked again and walked again, lacing her fingers with Clara's. She only turned once to wave.

John exhaled in relief. The families around him didn't notice him too much, so he made his way to his dormitory. Room 123 – nice and easy to remember. As he made his way through the crowded building, the anxiety boiled inside his gut. Harry had distracted him all morning on the way to Oxford, but now that she was gone, he remembered all about his worries: what was is roommate going to be like? What about his studies? Did he actually have what it takes to graduate from Oxford University, one of the most prestigious universities in the United Kingdom? He groaned internally as he reached his dormitory.

When he unlocked his door, he found that his roommate had actually already arrived. He was greeted by a chubby man with glasses wearing a sweater vest. Shamefully, John actually thought he resembled somewhat of a pig. John smiled, and his roommate smiled back, holding out a stumpy hand. John took it and introduced himself.

"Hi, John, I'm Mike. Mike Stamford." Mike smiled, revealing a smile with short, square teeth. John wondered whether he had ever lost his baby teeth. "Sorry – I hope you mind I helped myself to the bed nearest to the bathroom." He was a Geordie.

"No, I don't mind at all!" John dropped his bags on the spare bed and felt his shoulders thank him for the loss of weight.

"So, what're studying, John?" John could almost detect a glimmer of hope in Mike's voice.

"Erm, biomedical sciences – you?"

Mike's eyes shone brighter. "Me too! I was hoping I'd find someone who might be in the same lectures as me!"

John smiled at his roommate. He seemed nice enough – and he had to admit, he could have done a lot worse. Perhaps there wasn't any reason for John to be as anxious as he was in the stairwell.