The older brother came with him on the first day, patted his curly, dark mop of hair condescendingly, and left with only this advice: "Stay out of trouble, Sherlock."

The boy rolled his eyes and walked into the Kindergarten room, his hands in his coat pockets as he surveyed the space where he was to be spending his time for the rest of the school year.

"Hm," he said. "There's rather a lack of puzzles."

John was a quiet one. His teacher appreciated that most of the time since there were several boys in the class who certainly weren't. But why he followed that Holmes boy around was a mystery.

"John," he said one day, holding the boy back from returning to the dormitories. "You do know you don't have to do everything Sherlock tells you?"

The boy thought for a moment, his lips pursed. "He's my friend," he concluded.

The teacher wasn't entirely convinced of that. "But when he tells you to, say, go with him to the upper grades to discover the 'root of a mystery' you shouldn't sneak out of class with him."

John stared at him like he was crazy. "But, he's my friend."

The teacher gave up after that and dealt with them as a singular entity.

"That boy," Sherlock asked, pointing at their classmate. He was kneeling over the set of plastic tools in the corner, apparently looking for something. Sherlock thought his hair, sticking up like that, was ridiculous, and while black Converses technically fit the dress code, weren't they a bit ridiculous with slacks? "What's his name?"

"Who?" John said distractedly.

"Him!" Sherlock insisted, stabbing a finger toward the boy.

John finally looked up, following Sherlock's finger with a squint. "Oh. Dunno. Why?"

Sherlock frowned. "There's something … odd about him."

Both of them watched as the strange boy finally found what he was looking for. "There you are!" he exclaimed loudly, holding a screwdriver up triumphantly.

"See? Odd," Sherlock said. Maybe there would be more puzzles than he thought.

Sherlock smiled when he hears the new boy's name. "Endeavour? There's a ship called that, you know," he said, standing at his full height of one meter, seventy-two centimeters.

The red-haired boy looked at him. "I know," he said, with just a touch of contempt.

Sherlock's smile grew. "Excellent. What do you know about puzzles?"

"John. James is looking at us again."

John, who was trying very hard to remain undistracted long enough to complete his art project, sighed and looked at his friend. "Maybe it's because you're looking at him."

"No," Sherlock said shortly. "He was doing it first."

John sighed.

There were boys in the third grade who took it upon themselves to "welcome" the boys in Kindergarten. On the first day, Sherlock had talked them down with his serious eyes and rapid-fire words, but they were back with a vengeance by the second week, determined not to be outsmarted.

Sherlock and John were out in the yard with Endeavour and … whoever that kid who was obsessed with the screwdriver was, when the bullies arrived.

"Hullo, little princesses," one of them snickered.

Sherlock regarded them with cool contempt, putting out a hand to stop John from standing.

"Isn't it time to get your nappies changed?" another said, poking at Endeavour.

The red-haired boy glared in surprise.

"Ignore them," Sherlock told him, taking a bite of his sandwich.

But it was suddenly grabbed out of his hand and thrown in the dirt before he could react. Sherlock's eyes only narrowed but John lept to his feet, small fists raised. The bigger boys laughed, shoving him before he could get a good swing in.

The boy with the screwdriver looked oddly excited. But then, he frequently did.

"Hey!"

There was a sudden shout from across the yard. Two fifth graders were striding across the lawn, their faces stormy. The third-graders scattered before them.

"You lot all right?" one asked. Sherlock didn't recognize him.

"Yeah," Endeavour answered quietly. "All right, Fred."

"We were doing fine on our own, thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock said to the other boy, brushing off his fallen sandwich.

"I can see that, little brother," Mycroft said. "C'mon, Thursday, seems as though we're not needed here."

But John didn't miss the smile Sherlock hid behind his sandwich as he watched his brother walk away.

The boy who loved the screwdriver had taken to calling himself a doctor. And he talked about very strange things, usually to himself. No one played with him for very long.

Sherlock heard a sniffle from John's bed and immediately got up to investigate. "John. Why are you crying?" he said, making little effort to avoid waking the other boys.

John pulled his blanket over his head. "Go away, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't. He sat on the edge of the bed, noticing as John snuck the picture of his mum and dad back under his pillow. Oh. "You're homesick," he concluded.

John sniffed.

And Sherlock came back, dragging Mrs. Hudson, their dorm parent, by the hand. She gently peeled back the covers and coaxed John down to the common room for a cup of tea. Sherlock followed, of course.

"There now, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, handing John his tea and a tissue. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Sherlock perched on the arm of John's chair. "Mrs. Hudson, he'll be all right?"

John glared at him over his teacup. "I'b fibe," he said through his stuffy nose.

Mrs. Hudson patted his knee. "Of course he will, with a friend like you."

"What are you writing?" Sherlock asked, standing imperiously over John's desk.

John looked up, covering his paper with his hand. "Nothing." As soon as he said it, he knew it was only going to make Sherlock more curious. "A story."

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "What about?"

"Sherlock, back to your desk," teacher said. To John's surprise (and teacher's) Sherlock went.

The next day when John reached inside his desk to pull out his "story", it was gone. He looked over at Sherlock and his friend sent him a little smirk.

At recess, on the swings, John made the accusation. "You took my paper," he said.

"You wrote a story about me," Sherlock tossed back.

John felt himself blushing. "Not just about you."

"No, I suppose not. What're you going to do with it?" Sherlock dragged his feet across the ground until the swing came to a halt.

John did the same, though it was a bit of a reach for him. "I'm not sure. Maybe one day I'll sell it and be famous."

Sherlock laughed.

A/N: Sorry, I couldn't help myself once my friend gave me this plot bunny. I hope you enjoyed. :)