Hello, friends. It's teen!lock, high school AU. I don't know anything about British schooling, aside from what I've gleaned from Harry Potter. Anyway...please read and review. Let me know if you enjoy it! :)

Saint Dorsey's Academy, London, England

November

His heart was free-fall. John Watson stared at the small black letter printed beside History, Quarter 1. An F. He wanted to crush to grade report, tear it into a thousand pieces, toss it in a bin and never think about it.

"I'm sure you know what this means," Mr. Burns informed him. The balding professor pinched the bridge of his nose. "You'll have to put in extra hours if you want to get an A on the exam in December."

John nearly groaned. Burns' exams were notoriously difficult-students rarely scored above a C average on them, it was unheard of to achieve anything higher than a B. But if John wanted to pass the class, he would be forced to do the impossible.

"Sir, I don't think I'll be able to-"

Burns cut him off with a loud tsk-tsk.

"Such negativity will only hinder your academic performance, Watson."

An even worse thought than having to repeat History struck him: his place on Dorsey's football team.

"Sir, please, I'm on the football team and they won't let me play if I'm failing a class-"

Burns interrupted again, this time silencing John with a stern glare.

"Your hobbies are hardly any of my concern, Mr. Watson."

Anger pulsed through John's veins, and he clenched his fists around the grade report. He wanted to shout at Burns, tell him that football wasn't just a hobby-it was his life. If he couldn't play football, he might as well throw away an athletic scholarship to university.

"I suggest that you work with one of your peers to improve your grade," Burns was saying. John bit back a snort; his friends were the sporting type, burly footballers who excelled at ramming each other at high speeds, kicking things into nets and very little else.

"See you later, sir," John muttered, gathering his things. He couldn't stand another second of Burns' nasally voice and cluttered office that reeked of sour milk.

"Good evening, Mr. Watson."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," John muttered, letting his head fall against the table. The dining hall was roaring with the noise of several hundred students eating, talking, and laughing, but all that John could hear was the sound of his future collapsing.

"You could cheat," Boris offered, spearing a potato and cramming it into his mouth. "You know, pay someone to do the homework for you rest of the semester."

John snorted.

"I'm broke. And it's not risking my neck for."

Boris shrugged.

"Suit yourself."

Timothy Greenwald poked him in the side.

"The old fucker won't help you himself?"

John shook his head.

"Said it's 'my responsibility' since I'm the one who's failing."

Tim nodded, lips wrapped around a plastic straw like it was a cigarette.

"Well, I'd help you if I could..."

Greg Lestrade, a burly twelfth year, leaned over Tim's shoulder.

"Does this mean you're off the team, mate?"

A hush fell over the group of footballers. There was no worse fate than being booted off the Dorsey Rangers, especially for a student who had been accepted to the school on a football scholarship.

"I don't know," John told them. "I'm going to talk to Coach Hester, see if he'll let me keep playing."

Greg gripped John's shoulder with a calloused hand.

"We won't let you go, mate. You're the best right wing we've got."

John offered him a weak smile. As much as he appreciated the concern of his teammates, there was nothing they could do to help. He stood, dumping his half-eaten dinner into the trash bin.

"I'm going to go," John announced to no one in particular. Then he turned and rushed from the dining hall, the grade report in his book bag weighing him down like an anchor.

Eager to escape from the cheerful clamor of the dining hall, John fled to the silent library. It was nearly empty, save for a handful of twelfth years who occupied the row of desktop computers. John selected a desk in the back corner, dropping his book bag and slumping into the wooden chair. He couldn't fathom anything worse than not being able to play football. It wasn't only the game that he loved-the roar of an excited crowd, the adrenaline that pumped through his veins as he chased the ball down the field...since John was a young boy, football had been his way out, his chance at a better life. Football was the reason that he was here, at the prestigious Saint Dorsey's, instead of the neighborhood public school.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone touched his shoulder.

"Christ!" John gasped, then realized that it was only Molly Hooper, a pale, thin girl in the year under him. He didn't know her very well, but they came from the same neighborhood in Chelsea; he remembered vaguely that her father was a garbage collector. Like him, Molly had been awarded a scholarship to Dorsey's, although he guessed that hers was academic.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I just...I heard you talking earlier...in the dining hall, you know?"

John glanced down, ashamed that she had heard his desperate conversation.

"I, um, I know someone who can help you." She paused for a moment, looking around. "Sherlock Holmes, he's in your year."

Oh, not bloody Holmes. Anyone but Holmes.

"I know him," John replied flatly. He didn't need to mention that Sherlock Holmes was widely regarded as a freak, and quite possibly the most hated member of Dorsey's student body; he was sure that Molly already knew this.

"You should ask him," she said, her voice quiet. Her pale fingers found the worn sleeve of her sweater and she began to pick nervously at the fabric. "He's brilliant, you know."

He wanted to say something, he wasn't quite sure what, but Molly was already whipping out of sight. Her thin form disappeared into the stacks of books, and John was left alone in silence.

Thanks for reading! Please review.