Edinburgh, Scotland
"What on Earth is this, Sherlock?"
"A box."
"I can see that. What's in the box?"
"Industrial grade spectrometer."
"And you couldn't have possibly left that at home?"
"No. Of course not."
"God, I feel sorry for your roommate already."
"I don't see why he would mind," Sherlock said, brushing his dark curls from his forehead as he examined the room. He pointed to the far corner, beneath a window. "Put it there."
"Alright. I think you can handle the rest of this on your own," Mycroft grunted, pushing the box against the wall.
"Yes, I think that will do," Sherlock said as Mycroft stood, wiping his forehead with a hankee.
"Alright. I'll call a cab then," Mycroft said, inching his way past the stacks of boxes towards the door. "I'll tell mum not to worry too much about you."
"Yes. And tell her I'll call," Sherlock said, turning to Mycroft. "Tell her I won't forget."
"But you will."
"I won't," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Alright. But please, try to remember. For her sake," Mycroft said, stepping through the doorway. "Can't say I'll be missing you much."
"Same to you," Sherlock said with a smirk.
"Don't get into trouble."
"No promises."
"You're hopeless," Mycroft said, shaking his head. He left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Sherlock took in his room. The bunk sat in a corner, the top only a foot or two from the ceiling. On the far wall was a shelf, with a desk and a small lamp in the corner. The carpet was a dreary shade of brown, faded near the doorway with wear. The window was relatively clean, with sun filtering in through the blinds. He breathed in slowly, taking in the room's musty scent. Not bad.
"Hello?" a voice called from the other side of the doorway. The door creaked open, revealing a boy with a slight frame and freckled face. "I'm…"
"James Mattock," Sherlock said, turning around to face him. "Isn't it?"
"Yes," he said, nearly dropping his stack of books. "How…how on earth did you know that?"
"I checked the housing roster."
"Oh," he said, laughing. "You had me scared for a moment there."
"Well, we wouldn't want that," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.
"So where are you from?"
"London."
"I've been there once or twice. I have an aunt in Lambeth," he said, letting his books topple onto the lower bunk. He sighed, glancing at Sherlock. "So…mind if I take bottom?"
"I was hoping you'd say that," Sherlock said, tossing a pillow to the top matress.
"Alright," James said, his face breaking out into a toothy grin. "You're turning out to be a pretty good roommate so far."
"You're not so bad yourself," Sherlock said, glancing at his mound of textbooks. "Anatomy. Interesting."
"Yes. I'm doing pre-med…I want to be a doctor."
"No you don't." James looked up, giving Sherlock a puzzled look.
"Yes I do. That's why I'm…"
"You're doing pre-med because your parents want you to do pre-med," Sherlock said, walking to the far corner of the room and slicing open the box labeled "spectrometer".
"How…what did you…"
"Or maybe just your father," Sherlock said, turning back to James. He gazed at him for a moment. "You want to be…a writer? Oh no…no, a musician. You play the cello, don't you?"
"Who are you?" He said, eyes wide.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said, the corners of his lips turning upward slightly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to…well, I usually only do that to people when they're getting annoying, but you're not annoying. Not yet, at least," he said, picking up the spectrometer. "So don't get the wrong impression."
"Are you an agent...like, for some government organization?"
"God no. That's my brother."
"Then how did you know all that?"
"I notice things," he said, uncoiling the wire connecting to the machine's base. "I notice details. I watch for things…what people do, how they work. Little ticks and what-nots."
"But how could you have possibly…"
"I know that you don't like anatomy because your books look untouched, but that folder of sheet music you have over there looks like it's been through a food processer. You play a stringed instrument because your left fingertips are calloused, and from the way you hold your thumb I'm guessing you play either the cello or the bass. Considering your size, cello would be a bit more fitting. And judging by your accent, you're from somewhere in northern Scotland. Golspie, maybe?" He smiled a bit as James' eyes widened.
"Aberdeen…actually."
"Dammit."
"But that was…that was fantastic," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "A bit unnerving, but still…" he looked up, still in awe. "I bet you'd make a great psychologist. Or…or detective! Have you ever considered that?"
"I've considered a lot of things," Sherlock said, sliding a stack of books onto the shelf.
"Chemistry major, I see?" James said, glancing at the titles on the spines.
"I think so. Haven't quite decided," Sherlock said, reaching into his duffle for more books.
"James Mattock," a voice called from the doorway. Both of them turned to face a tall man leaning against the doorframe, round glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. He held out his hand as James approached him.
"Pleasure to see you again, sir," James said, smiling as he turned back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, this is Dr. Malum."
"Patrick Malum," he said, extending his hand to Sherlock. "I'm the head of the Medicine and Physiology Department."
"Name sounds familiar," Sherlock said, accepting his hand.
"I've published work in a few journals here and there, but lately I've been busy in the laboratory," he said, nodding to James. "This young man's father is my right-hand man when it comes to my experiments. Best collegue I've ever worked with, by far."
"Yes. I…I wanted to thank you for the good word you put in for me in admissions," James said, glancing at Sherlock. "Don't think I would've had a shot if it hadn't been…"
"Nonsense!" Dr. Malum said, patting James on the back. "You're the cream of the crop. Plenty of potential."
"Well…thank you."
"Don't thank me…you'll make us all proud," he said, turning to leave. "I'd stay and chat longer, but I've got an orientation at four. Be seeing you soon, I'm sure." He left through the doorway, his shoes echoing down the wooden hall.
"Nice man," James said sadly, sitting down on the edge of his bunk. "He and my father expect so much of me."
"Yes…interesting man," Sherlock murmured, still looking through the doorway where he'd left. "Very interesting."
"…and I've always wanted to make them happy…I mean, what kind of son doesn't want to make their father proud, but I…" Sherlock bent over, touching his finger to the carpet where Dr. Malum had been standing.
"…and I just don't know if I can handle never knowing what it would've been like to be what I really wanted to…"
"Have they been repainting any of the dormitories recently?" Sherlock said, breaking off a chip of yellow paint from the carpet. James looked up, startled.
"No. No, not that I know of." He gazed at Sherlock, puzzled.
"Hmm."
"What?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said, pocketing the chip of paint. "Well, I'm off."
"Off? Off where? You haven't even started unpacking your…"
"Later. I'm going to the chemistry lab. Northracker Hall, isn't it?"
"Yes, but…I don't think it's open until classes start…"
"Perhaps they'll make an exception," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming mischeviously. "Want to come?"
"Are you sure…"
"Yes, now come along. We haven't got all day."