Chapter the First
Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.
At least, that's what Lestrade tells John when he inquires about the tall, pale boy lurking in one corner of the common room. And when he looks closer, John can't exactly say that he's surprised. There's something haughty about that long, angular face, a sort of coldness in his pale eyes that seems almost calculated to frighten people off.
"Bit bonkers, if you ask me," Lestrade says, jerking his head at the angular form across the room. "Bloody genius in his classes, but I don't think I've ever heard him say a word otherwise."
Frowning, John looks back at the boy and decides that lurking isn't quite the right word. It implies something furtive and shy, and this Sherlock kid is much too proud for that. He's slumped against the wall, hands in the pockets of his rumpled sweater, chin tilted up slightly, surveying the room like he owns the place. John can't decide if he's disgusted or fascinated.
And then Sherlock looks over at him, and the movement is so sharp and sudden that John finds himself wondering if the guy can read minds. It almost seems plausible for a moment or two, when John's eyes are locked with those grayish-bluish-greenish ones and he feels himself being nailed to the floor with every blink. It's really sort of mesmerizing.
John's so caught up in this little staring contest that he almost doesn't notice the slow smile that hoists up one corner of the boy's wide, pale mouth. It would probably be slightly less disturbing if the (theoretically) friendly expression extended into his eyes, but they remain an icy wasteland. Shaken, John looks away, the muscles in his shoulders contracting of an accord that is entirely their own. It's downright uncanny, that's what it is.
"Come on." Lestrade motions him towards the door, completely oblivious to everything that has just happened. "I'll show you the refectory."
"L'right," John grunts, daring one last, quick look over his shoulder. The mysterious Sherlock has looked away, resuming his casual surveillance of the room. That disturbing little smirk has disappeared, presumably back to the lightless, slimy cave it inhabits whenever not in use. Shaking his head, John turns away and follows Lestrade out the door. But as he goes, he can swear to god that he feels that cold, penetrating gaze resting on the back of his neck. It takes every fiber of self-control in his entire being to keep himself from looking back.
The sun has set by the time they make it back to the dorm, and John can't remember ever being this tired before. Everything's new and vast and intimidating, and he's barely wrapped his head around the fact that he actually got accepted to St. Donat's School for Boys, let alone the fact that he's going to school in a bloody castle in bloody Wales. Not to mention that he's still not entirely sure that he belongs here, everything is freezing, and there's a goddamn line for the bathroom.
Far, far later than he would have liked, John finally collapses into bed, every muscle in his body simultaneously humming with nerves and gelatinous with fatigue. Next time, he makes a mental note, he really should wear those proper flannel pajama pants to bed. These flimsy little boxer shorts are wholly insufficient protection against the early September draughts that slip past the windows. His London suburb-bred heart grows a bit faint at the thought of its first winter in this draughty seaside castle.
"Alright there?"
John looks up from beneath his blanket mound to see Lestrade glancing over at him, amusement written all over his face in the expressive equivalent of 36 point font.
"Fine," John mutters, coughing awkwardly and gently pushing his top blanket to one side.
"It's alright," Lestrade grins, not unkindly. "The chill takes a bit of getting used to, I know. I sent home for loads and loads of wool socks my first year."
"Brought mine with me," John says with a dry smile, and Lestrade chuckles. John wonders vaguely if his roommate actually has a first name; he introduced himself solely by his last name, and that seems to be what everyone calls him. A bit strange, to be sure, but what does John know from strange anymore? He's living in a castle, for god's sake.
"Best get some sleep," Lestrade counsels, leaning over to fiddle with the alarm clock on his bedside table. "Classes start tomorrow, so we're up at six."
"Lord," John groans, letting his exhausted head flop backwards onto his pillow. That foreign gray lump had seemed alarmingly stiff and uncomfortable this morning, but after a long day of exploring his new campus it's the most inviting thing in the world. His eyes are already drifting shut by the time Lestrade shuts off the light.
Moments later, his eyelids snap open like rat traps. Perhaps it's the strange, elastic quality that time takes on when one is falling asleep, or maybe there really were only a few seconds between when the lights went out and when the music started.
It's quite faint, drifting through the wall beside John's bed like a ghost in a terrible old horror movie. At first, he wonders if he's dreaming; he sits up on his elbows and rubs at his eyes, just to make sure. This can't be a dream—everything is entirely as it was just moments ago, except for that damn music. Perplexed, he glances over at Lestrade, who has miraculously transformed into a blanket-covered lump with a pillow for a head.
"Lestrade?" John whispers, slightly embarrassed at the frightened-child quality his voice has suddenly acquired.
"Mmph?" the pillow-head grunts.
"D'you hear that?" It's getting louder; loud enough for John to discern the melancholy strains of a lone violin.
A sigh hisses out from under the blankets across the room, and then the pillow-head slides to one side to reveal Lestrade's exasperated face.
"Yeah, I hear it." He, too, pushes himself up onto his elbows and meets John's confused eyes. "S'the nutter next door practicing his violin."
"Practicing violin?" John repeats incredulously. "At this hour?"
"Yeah," Lestrade sighs. "Does it every bleedin' year."
"Every year? Why haven't his roommates murdered him yet?"
"Doesn't have any." Lestrade flops face-down onto his mattress. "He's had the psycho single for years now."
"Fine, why haven't the people in the rooms next to him murdered him?" John persists, completely confounded by Lestrade's apathetic reaction.
Sighing, Lestrade turns his head to look at John through the darkness, cheek pressed against his mattress. "You remember that bloke I pointed out in the common room today?"
Automatically, John nods. "Yeah, Sherlock Holmes. The creepy one. I remember."
"Yeah." Lestrade smiles grimly. "Well, that's why."
John blinks. "You mean…that," he jerks his head at the wall emitting the insistent violin music, "Is Sherlock Holmes?"
"I do," Lestrade nods. "And that, young John, is why I recommend that you learn to fall asleep to violin music."
"I—what? That's ridiculous!" John huffs. "I'll never get to sleep with all this bloody racket."
"Well, then, you'll just have to make do with less rest," Lestrade shrugs. "Don't think you can wait him out; the guy doesn't sleep."
"This is insane," John mutters, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. "I'm not putting up with this."
"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," Lestrade cautions as John stands up and pulls on the socks he abandoned beside his bed.
"What's the big deal?" John asks, voice muffled by the thick jumper he's pulling on over his head. "I'll just ask him to stop. He can't be that unreasonable."
"Oh-kay," Lestrade chuckles, his voice clearly suggesting that John has no idea what he's getting into. "Do what you like, mate."
"Be back in a minute," John tells him firmly, ignoring the worrying note of amusement in his roommate's voice. Opening the door to their room without a sound, he slips out into the dark hallway and closes the door behind him just as silently.
The violin music dances eerily about his head as he pads down the icy stone floor to the so-called 'psycho single' next door. Out here, all alone in the dark, he doesn't feel quite so brave and indignant. Maybe it's not the greatest of ideas to burst into the room of the weirdest bloke in the school in the middle of the night and chew him out for playing the violin. Maybe he really is as idiotic and naïve as Lestrade seems to think.
By the time he reaches the door, his stomach is twisting itself into knots of anxiety. But then he sees the light under the door and hears the sawing of the violin and thinks, What right does he have? What bloody right does this weirdo have to keep me up all night playing his stupid bloody violin? Why should I be afraid of him?
Teeth gritted, jaw pushed forward resolutely, he lifts one hand to knock—and nearly jumps out of his skin as a voice from within calls, "The door's unlocked."
Oh. Okay then. The thought is surprisingly calm, as if he was entirely expecting to be telepathically recognized outside the door. Without so much as another thought, he turns the doorknob and enters the belly of the beast.
The room is…not what he expected. Although he's not entirely sure what he expected, he supposes it involved heaps of books, clothing, and dismembered body parts. Instead, it's small, plain, and inhumanly tidy. John and Lestrade arrived just this morning, and their room is already halfway gone to pigsty; on the other hand, Creepy Holmes (as John has now taken to referring to him within the safety of his own head) has apparently had this room for years and there's not a speck of dust to be found anywhere. Books are neatly tucked into shelves, the bed is made with military preciseness, and there's a chest of drawers that John would bet a million pounds contains expensive, carefully folded clothes (possibly sorted by color).
This person, John decides firmly, is fucked up in the head. This person, he realizes with a faint start, is also standing in the center of his freakishly clean room, wearing nothing but a tee shirt, a pair of boxers, and a violin.
"Can I help you?" Creepy Holmes inquires, letting his probably-extremely-valuable violin dangle carelessly at his side. John tries to stare at it and not the pale, thin legs that seem to go on for miles and miles.
"Um." He clears his throat, trying to find a way to look Holmes in the face without getting pinned down by those stone-grey eyes again. Failing at that, he matches the steely gaze and says, "Could you please keep it down? I don't know about you, but I've got to get up at six and go to class tomorrow, and Vivaldi in the middle of the night is not exactly restful."
"You recognized it," Holmes says, something in his voice that's not quite surprise but probably should be. "A little rugby thug like you recognized a Vivaldi concerto."
"I don't play rugby," John replies coldly, another reason to dislike this boy joining his ever-growing list. Acts like he owns everything and everyone, stares at me creepily, plays violin at intolerable hours, and…judges me for how I look. Over the years he's gotten his fill of being assumed stupid for his short, blond hair and thickset build.
"Football, then." Holmes waves his bow through the hair impatiently, as though he hasn't the time to debate the minutiae of sports. "One of those types with permanent grass stains on their knees."
John can feel his temperature rising by the second. Who the hell does he think he is?
"Look," he snaps, the effort maintaining a civil tone requires nearly breaking his voice in two, "I play football and recognize Vivaldi concertos. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit into your narrow little world view, but that's how I am. Now, if you don't mind, I'd really appreciate it if you'd put your violin away and let the rest of us get some sleep."
There's a pause, and to his surprise John can feel his heartbeat thudding violently in his throat. He feels as if he should be trembling with pent-up rage (or possibly terror), but his hands are perfectly steady.
Holmes blinks at him for a good minute before murmuring, "Of course." Stowing violin and bow in the case lying open on the bed, he moves slowly and deliberately but with an inherent grace that stocky John can't help but envy. Even through his irritation, he finds himself fascinated by the long, pale fingers that deftly close the silver clasps on the elegant case. When Holmes turns around, he catches him staring. John feels the tips of his ears begin to go red.
"Thanks," he says tersely, and turns to go.
He's halfway out the door by the time he hears it, and it's so soft that he might just be able to convince himself that he's imagined it. But part of him knows that he heard creepy Sherlock Holmes whisper, "Good night."
Shutting the door firmly behind him, he hurries across the cold floor of the hallway and into his room, not daring to pause for breath until he's safe in the warm embrace of his bed.
He's barely pulled the blankets up around his ears when Lestrade says, "He stopped."
"Yes," John agrees curtly, hoping that his roommate will not always be this thick this late at night. Then again, he reminds himself, not everyone can be as interesting as Sherlock Holmes. His ears growing still hotter, he immediately tries to forget that thought.
"You made him stop," Lestrade continues incredulously. Unspoken is: "You, a quiet nobody fresh out of state school, made him stop."
"It's amazing what you can get if you ask nicely," John says brusquely and rolls over to face the wall. Lestrade doesn't ask any more questions, and John quickly drops off to sleep.
AN: *waves shyly* So this is my very first Sherlock fic. Not entirely sure what I'm doing but having a heck of a lot of fun with it anyway. Thanks so much for reading and leave me some lovely notes if you please! I'd love to know what you think. Next chapter should be up fairly soonish. Catch you later, beautiful people! xxx