"You okay, Johnny boy?"

"Shut up, Harry!" John snaps at his big sister, who is beginning in some uni that John is glad not to hear anything anymore about. He thought naively that Harry might stay with him in his house through Secondary school (like the good big sister she pretends to be) which she describes in agonising and terrifying detail during their journey, but no, she has to go to uni! Well, she can go to hell for all he cares. "You don't have to keep saying that—"

"Alright, stop it now you two," their mother pipes in, "John, we understand if you're feeling a little bit nervous—"

"I'm not nervous!" John protests with an obvious lie, "I'm sixteen, I'm not even supposed to be a minor."

"My baby brother's going to school! Many a tear shed in joy!" Harry squeals.

"Harry," John growls, "stop it!"

"Darling," his dad speaks to his mum, who's busy sniffling into her handkerchief, "have you given John his lunch?"

But Harry always, always has to reply, just for the sake of replying. "Yeah, of course," and why does Harry have to reply to everything and since when. "I wouldn't want my baby brother starving during his first day at school!"

"John, you remember your phone number?" Their mum interrupts in order to delay another screaming row between the two siblings, "I've written it down in your almanac, just in case."

"Yeah, I've got it," he replies, thankful that Harry decided to stay out of at least one question, "Thanks mum."

The Watson family car parks outside the school building. John gazes at the campus, too long for his father to rouse him from his deep thoughts and nervousness.

"You planning on getting out today, dear?"

John has to admit. He is kinda nervous, maybe on the verge on screaming-out-of-terror nervous.

"Yeah, sorry," he ducks and slips out of the car before his mum cries her eyes out and flings her arms around his neck. He is not five, he is sixteen. Only his dad gets out after him. Perhaps he has told his mum and Harry to stay inside. John feels thankful for that.

"Now John," he looks down at his son with the most tender eyes, too tender for an ex-Lieutenant Commander who had served in Afghanistan.

"You don't have to feel very nervous about school," he hears his father present the speech which he had been preparing for a week in his bedroom and in the long hours in the lavatory and shower, "I know you'll make us proud. School's a very regular thing. You make friends, just as you did back there, you fight," he says with a wink, "and then you make amends as you go along, yeah?"

John nods solemnly, trying not to tell him that he has heard that speech over a million times during an hour that his dad spent in the shower because his father's smile serves to calm him down a bit. Although he is nervous, he really isn't keen on letting that show on his face. He really doesn't want his parents to worry throughout the day.

"Don't get into trouble or fights on the first day itself, save 'em up for later, be nice to everyone and your teachers. You'll need their recommendations for uni, right?"

Nod nod.

"Don't lose your phone, and don't switch it off either. Keep it on silent. I won't text, for sure, but I can't promise about your mum. She's already worried sick. . . but don't let that get to you."

Nod nod again. Again, he is sixteen, not in prep. And it is just school, with other kids his age. Much less dangerous than Afghanistan and the fear of bombings and kidnappings anytime. He is safe, no need to be nervous. He is a soldier, like his father, and he can deal with everything.

But will other kids like him? Will they include him? And will they make fun of the fact that he likes boys, if that somehow happens to come out? Such thoughts trouble John a little.

"Reach all your classes in time," his father advises him and although John knows it at all, he hears it out for one last time, "and if people tell you that you're a homeschooled jungle freak, don't listen to them."

John manages a terse laugh at that. That really isharsh, and just the inspiration he needs. His father was always like that.

"Okay. You ready?" John's father asks him the question to whose answer he has been religiously practising for the past hour or so.

He dons a ridiculously fake smile, "Think so." His dad quirks a you-sure eyebrow at him.

"I'm alright," smile is replaced with laughter. "Fantastic."

And that eyebrow kept going higher and higher.

"Sorry," he sobers up, "I'll be careful."

His dad pats his shoulder, and he starts walking away from his parents and his sister and towards Westhaven High. Nice building, he observes. John walks towards the entrance, trying not to strut, watching the girls and the boys enter the school building. He turns back to see his mum waving furiously at him, and Harry sniggering at him. His mum gives her a tight and well-deserved slap on her back. John feels like a toddler. An utter toddler.

"I'll miss you, Johnny boy," she calls out loud enough for everyone in the world to hear, "Do write to your dear old sister, won't you? And text me at least once an hour!"

John grits his teeth furiously as he rushes away into the building when he realises that people are starting to notice him. He hates being so short, but right now it's working to his advantage. John gazes at different groups sitting outside in the school grounds, already split into cliques on the first day itself.

"Hi!" He waves nervously to some of them with the tiny hope that someone might wave back. They simply stare at him weirdly. John keeps walking, feeling incredibly self-conscious even though no one looks at him. He passes a bunch of people getting high behind the tree, a group of metal-heads setting fire to a poster of Justin Bieber and a girl stuffing two large egg sandwiches into her mouth. He stares at her, not noticing as he almost crashes with another boy, knocking him out for a few seconds. Short height. . . not really to his advantage.

When he recovers himself, he extends a friendly hand out to the boy, "Hi! I'm a new student here. My name's John Watson."

"Talk to me again, and I'll kick your ass," is the grumpy reply as the classic hand of friendship in returned as the fist of get-the-fuck-away-from-me. John looks around helplessly, feeling a little embarrassed. He really should have said sorry instead. Thankfully, he finds the form class within five minutes, and proceeds to take a seat when a jolly voice arrested him. "Oh no. No, no!"

He spins around to see a robust and handsome guy with a healthy tan and a few premature greys in his hair.

"You really don't want to sit in there."

John looks a little puzzled. Kids in school had reserved places for themselves?

"Why not?"

"Umm. . . because Sally Donovan's new boyfriend's going to sit there?" A tall boy offers, sitting in front of the first one. His hair is of a ginger shade, and his speech sounds permanently deadpanned, disconcertingly so. John turns to his right to see a tall, dark-haired, well-built guy come up and kiss a dark-skinned girl with curly hair.

Well, if face-sucking classifies as kissing. "Right, thanks," says John, feeling a little grossed at the PDA.

"No problem."

He nods gratefully and moves to another bench, a front row seat at which the taller one interrupts again, "Not there either."

"Why?"

"Do you want to carry attendance sheets to the office every day?"

John shakes his head and takes a seat in at the back of the class as soon as those two boys lose interest in him. He checks his schedule for the umpteenth time, just to make sure he's in the right class. He has biology with Ms. Hooper and then Math. That's all he needs to know for the time being.

"Hey everyone," surely that was Ms. Hooper. Nervous, pretty-ish, not exactly the most organized of teachers by the looks of it, "Sorry, I'm late, sorry, sorry! So, how was your sum—" She stops short as a plump man comes strutting into the classroom like a mistimed character in a stage enactment of a Shakespeare play, only to be met by the disinterested gaze of all the students except for that of John's.

"Ms. Hooper," he starts pleasantly. "Is everything alright in here?"

"Yeah," she gives a good-natured nervous laugh. "Top-notch."

"Good."

"Fantastic."

All the other students continue watching the two of them weirdly. John takes this as an opportunity to ask who the man was.

"That's Mr. Stamford, principal," says the boy sitting in the bench in the row next to his, "What are you, new here?"

"Yeah." John smiles, an unspoken invitation to be friends.

"Cool." No more than that. John quirked his eyebrows at that. However was that cool? He turns his attention back to the two teachers.

"So. . . how was your summer?" He asks her tenderly.

"Great, great. . ." she begins extra-enthusiastically, and then her face falls, "I mean—I. . . not so great."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

"Toby died."

"Oh my god!" Stamford holds her hands and pats her sympathetically on her back.

"Who's Toby?" John asks a girl sitting next to him.

"Ms. Hooper's cat. She was head over heels for him. Are you new here?"

John nods. The girl does not say anything further so he just focuses his attention back to the love-dance in front of him.

"Anytime you feel. . . like, you know, having a chat. . . you can just drop by."

"Yes," she composes herself, and clears her throat, as if asking him to get on with it.

"Right, ahem—well, I just wanted to let everybody know that we have a new student joining us. . . He just moved here all the way from Afghanistan." He looks around, as if trying to locate that student, and then smiled sweetly to Sally Donovan's boyfriend, "Welcome!"

Everybody cranes their necks to look at Sally's new and excessively tanned boyfriend, including Sally herself, as if she doesn't know that her boyfriend came from Afghanistan. A beat later, he rouses himself from oblivion, realising that the attention of the whole class is on him.

"Don't look at me! I'm from Edinburgh!"

Mr. Stamford tries to hide his embarrassment as he coughs uncomfortably. "Great. . . erm. . . Oh yeah, his name's John Hamish Watson. Where are you, John?"

"Over here," John sort of waves, smiling nicely at his two teachers. Ms. Hooper beams at him with a friendly welcome smile, and John feels included automatically. But nobody else graces him with even a look, seeing that John is pretty average with nothing out-of-the-ordinary about him.

John's smile drops, he already feels like his first day in secondary school is a disaster, but he does notice that the shorter of the two boys who talked to him earlier is now silently laughing at his unnecessary excitement. He would have understood, had he known that this is the first time John's attending school, let alone secondary school.

Or maybe he's just laughing at 'Hamish', yeah that's more probable. . . 'Damn, mum!' he thinks inwardly, 'Why John HAMISH Watson?'

"Well, welcome John," says Ms. Hooper as Stamford turned back to her, still smiling at her sweetly. She decides to end the trance with a small cough, "And thank you Mr. Stamford."

"Well, thank you too. And. . . if ever you want. . . if you need anything or if you want to talk to somebody. . ."

"Yeah, maybe some other time, when I've got my boyfriend with me."

Mr. Stamford runs his eyes over her and then looks away, "Okay. Good day everyone." Mr. Stamford leaves the class and Ms. Hooper heaves a sigh of relief at not having to file a sexual harassment law suit, even if it's not strictly applicable.

"Okay! Mycroft," she doesn't look up for once from the file flooding with papers she's going through to even see whether Mycroft's present or not, like she assumes that he will be present even if it were a holiday. Mycroft groans inaudibly, like he knows what's coming next.

"Could you please take the attendance? I need to do one or two things. . ."


When the period ends, the two boys from earlier corner John outside the room.

"That's why I thought My, "says the shorter one with a smirk, "I had never seen this one before."

"Seriously?" The boy called 'My' quips, "John Hamish Watson? Higgins would've been better."

John frowns and tries his best placating smile, "Look guys, I really appreciate you talking to me but I have to get to my next class. It. . . erm, starts in two minutes."

"Relax," says the 'My' guy. John feels relieved to hear that someone's name was as pathetic as 'Hamish' was. And then he cowers inwardly at the fact that Hamish is his father's name.

"No one gets to Biology in time," 'My' continues, trying his best to sound polite, "Ms. Hooper's always late. This is Greg," he breaks off into an undertone, "He's too gay to function."

"What?" John splutters as Greg flashes a set of white teeth cheekily. How in the name of all that is holy was he okay with that, he thinks.

"Oh, poor guy," Greg chuckles, "Don't worry. I'll have him killed if it gets out. And same goes to you too."

John smiles at that, liking the fact that he's already being included.

"And I'm Mycroft," says he, shaking his hands with John formally.

"The two most awesome people you'll ever meet!" Greg quips happily.

"Nice to meet you, erm. . .Greg, Mycroft—" John thinks a hundred times before asking them about a classroom, wishing inwardly that they don't think of him as an idiot for not being able to interpret the map properly, "well. . . do you know where this classroom is?"

Greg looks down at John's schedule and nods without passing any judgement on John's apparently poor map-reading skills, "Yeah, you have bio now, yeah? I'm taking some bio too. My has gotta go to. . . "

"Physics," says Mycroft, checking his tubelight-white schedule, "See you later."

"Bye."

"Bye Mycroft."


Greg's more than okay, he's a good guy and actually quite fun and certainly not too gay to function, according to John anyway. He's also into rugby and soccer, and he consistently argues with John over the fact the soccer's the greatest sport in the world whereas John's more of a rugby fellow. John doesn't really mind that, in fact he's glad and moreover, thankful, that he isn't alone in that huge surreal, stressful place.

It seems that the only classes Greg doesn't share with him are Chemistry and French. And as for Mycroft, he doesn't have any classes with Greg at all. So, during French, when John looks at the alien room timidly, Mycroft is there to keep him some company. He goes to him at once, smiling at his new friend.

"Hello," says he politely, peering from the top of his textbook, and that gesture itself makes John feel a little like he mustn't take any liberties with that guy. "How was your day till now?"

"Okay. A little stressful." John waits till Mycroft moves away to make some space for him and then he goes and sits next to him.

"So. . . what happened?" Mycroft sounds a little awkward while trying to make conversation. John doesn't blame him, even he had been awkward. "Why d'you move here from Afghanistan?"

"Dad got retired. My sister had to go to a uni, get some degree."

Mycroft gives him an acknowledging nod, gulping down some bottled water, "I've heard that it's very violent in there. Even schools are, you know. . ."

"Yeah," John smiles, "It is. That's why I was homeschooled."

Mycroft chokes on the water that he had been gulping down his throat, "What?! You've never been to school before?"

"No. My mum taught me most of the stuff—"

"I think you're. . . really lucky."

John raises his eyebrows, trying to dissect all sorts of meanings in Mycroft's words, "Really? Are schools that bad?"

Mycroft only gives him a deadpan smile, "Surely you mean Secondary-school world? You'll see."

John really doesn't like the tone of his words.


When the class ends, Mycroft leads him outside and waits for Greg to come out of German. John checks his schedule again. Health class. Without John's knowledge, Mycroft points to it and nudges his best friend, "Yeah, don't worry John. We'll get you there."

"Yeah, "Greg gives him a wide, trustworthy smile, "Come on, or we'll be late."

"And you don't want to be late for Health class!" Mycroft speaks ominously, "Coach Gregson will play hell."

They successfully make their way through the crowd, and out in the school grounds, with Mycroft leading as usual as Greg calls out from behind, "Watch out, new meat coming through!" Mycroft scoffs at his words, telling him that he's not hip saying all that, and Greg tells him to shut up, telling him not to copy his dialogues and not to say 'hip' because he doesn't sound hip when he says 'hip'.

"Stop saying 'hip'," Mycroft says, and John laughs.

"Get a room guys. . . but where's this health class room, guys?"

"Oh don't worry. Yeah, just right here." Mycroft promptly sits down on the grass. Well on his handkerchief actually, under the comfortable shade of a tree. He pulls John down on the well-kept grass and aims a kick in Greg's direction.

"Yeah, okay I'm sitting. Don't be a cock, My."

"Is it okay?" John looks a little anxious, while trying to comes across as bordering on nonchalant. His mum and dad had told him to reach all his classes in time or else he'd be punished. "I mean, won't we get into some sort of trouble for this?"

"Yeah," Mycroft nods nonchalantly, taking out a university-level calculus textbook, "if you show up late."

"But if you just don't show up at all," says Greg, fishing into his bag for something, "they'll never even notice. Not everyone's like Ms. Hooper. Nobody else bothers with attendance."

"Moreover, you're now our friend, John. Why would we get you into trouble?" Mycroft looks so sincere that John gives up. After all, Mycroft says that they are friends, and John's in no position to pass up friends.

"In case you're wondering what happens in Health class," Greg begins, breaking up a chocolate bar and giving Mycroft the biggest piece, leaving two small bites for John and himself, "They ask you to carry mosquito repellents with yourselves, or else you'll get dengue," he tries a poor imitation of a poltergeist trying to scare off kids, "and die."

"Or 'D-A-N-G-O-O, as Coach Gregson spells it. Always the same thing every time," Mycroft shakes his head, his diet forgotten. John nodded, processing the information. Health class sounds mundane.

"And it's the sort of class you learn not to pay any attention to, so there's no point in attending. . . Anyway, why are you reading uni - level calc book, My?" says Greg, pointing to the textbook.

"Hell bent on passing IMO this year as well," says Mycroft absentmindedly, turning the pages carefully as if they are lost treasures, "it'll be second year in a row if I get that medal again. Not that they expect calculus, but the answer comes to me easier and faster and then I can always work out some other crackpot solution without wasting my time. . ."

Greg gives John a look that tells him to zone out for sometime if he doesn't understand what Mycroft says.

Greg and Mycroft complement each other. They're complete opposites of each other, and yet they're the best of friends. Well, whoever said that opposites attracted was right after all. Greg loves everything American and greaser, almost like a wannabe, while Mycroft's completely English, with proper hair and button-down tucked-in shirt. Greg's sweet and sort of tame, trying his best to appear cool whereas Mycroft appears bold and dominating, while trying his best to be polite. SO much that when Greg says something that's outrageous by his standards, Mycroft looks at him with surprise as if he had never known him, maybe pass one or two polite comments too. . .

"Okay," Greg speaks with infectious excitement, whereas Mycroft's having none of it as he buries himself into his textbook, keeping an occasional ear on their conversation, "I'm going to mentor you. . . what else is important that I can tell you about? Oh yeah, the cafeteria is terrible, you're gonna have to buy your lunch at the school store. I recommend white cheddar cheezits."

"No worries," says John brightly, "My mum gave me my lunch."

Greg and Mycroft stare at him like he's an alien. John realises that bringing lunch from home is something you're not supposed to do. He makes a mental note to tell his mum about it.

Fortunately, Mycroft breaks the silence when it gets too awkward, "So, why didn't your parents keep. . . I don't know, homeschooling you?"

"They wanted me to get socialized, meet new people."

Mycroft and Greg smirk identically. Greg puts a reassuring arm on John's shoulder. "Oh, don't worry. You'll get socialized all right, a hunk like you. Just give it a month."

"Hunk?" Mycroft repeats, looking almost scandalised, "Hunk?! God, Gregory! I told you," he beckoned to John, "too gay—"

"Yeah whatevs," Greg growls, "But I guarantee you, you'll hit it off with many chicks here."

John doesn't want to tell them that he's not interested in girls at all. He gazes in the direction of the school. Greg and Mycroft follow his gaze.

"Oh for God's sake, is Philip Anderson wearing his pants inside out?"

The three break into laughter, "Of course he is," says Mycroft contemptuously. "Now John, whatever you do in school, you must remember that there are always some people who can ruin your life."

"Yeah, and they have a name. The Plastics."

John frowned, "What's Plastics?"

"Teen royalty. Or at least they consider themselves to be royalty."

"They're the most talked about peeps, even on the Westhaven centric page If this school was the Daily Mail, they would be there on every single page."

"And if there was a caste system here, everyone would be worshiping the ground upon which they walk. . . Well, everyone except us."

"That's right." Now Greg actually, completely sounds like the host of an American infomercial. The That's right, you can lose sixty pounds in three hours sort of guy.

"And you too, now that you're one of us."

John looks at them hopefully, "I am?"

"Course you are, isn't that true Mycroft?"

"Yes, of course."

John looks at them with amazement. It's like they practice their dialogues to be in sync with each other. "That one over there," Mycroft points discreetly to a tall boy with alabaster complexion and slightly weird hair, "is Philip Anderson. He's one of the most stupid people on the earth, and I'm NOT exaggerating at all."

"Mycroft sat next to him in French last year."

"He asked me on which day Tuesday fell on. Goodness!"

Greg winks playfully at John, "My gets really annoyed when stupid people talk to him." John smiles good-naturedly at that, thinking that Mycroft probably did not think of him as an idiot, even if he read uni-level calculus.

"That brunette over there, Irene Adler. She knows everything about everyone. . . Anderson and Adler are best friends for life. Almost siblings."

John glances at her. Her gym clothes consist of the tiniest shorts ever forged by man, and a bandana for a shirt. John frowns, openly pointing at her, "Is that a. . . shirt or a handkerchief?"

"I don't know, John," Mycroft says with a chuckle, "But I do know that she's very rich and an absolute slut."

"And that phone of hers, there are all sorts of secrets in there."

"And evil takes a human form in Jim Moriarty," Greg points to a dark haired handsome guy,

"They would have been an item, Jim and Irene, but Jim's gay."

John exhales a silent sigh of relief at that. If one of the most popular kids in the school is gay, then other kids would definitely not make fun of him for being gay.

"But people overlook this little fact because he's the leader of The Plastics," Mycroft continues, cherishing the feel of chocolate in his mouth, and all hopes of John not being ridiculed for his sexuality are dashed, "And whatever they do is the new fashion. School follows him like religion. There was this one time he punched a boy just because he felt like it."

"And that fellow said that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him."

"That is so lame," John says , frowning.

"I know," Greg shakes his head sadly, "As for Jim Moriarty, don't be fooled. He'll seem like a good ol' mate like the ones calling you on fishing and hunting trips. And then he'll break you down, and he'll stab you in the back."

"Seriously Greg? Fishing trips? Anyway," he turns to John, "not just that," Mycroft voice becomes a growl, "He's the self-proclaimed king of the school, he is a dictator. And those two, Philip and Irene, they're his minions."

John turns his head back towards Jim Moriarty, instant fascination arising in him.

"Last year, he made Irene's father talk to the Tower of London Security and let him wear the Crown Jewels."

Mycroft and John turn to him with a disbelieving face. "That's impossible."

"Didn't you see the photo?" he pleads.

"It must have been Photoshoped, you idiot! God, I don't know why I stay with you. I'd rather stay with my painful brother."

"Your. . . brother? Oh, you've got a brother as well?" John asks, thinking about Harry and painful siblings. He could relate.

"Oh right. . ." Greg's eyes widen, "We haven't told him the main part yet."

John quirks an eyebrow at him, "Told me. . . what?"

"Yes, I've got a brother," Mycroft begins another ballad, "in a manner of speaking. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And he's one of the biggest reasons Jim Moriarty is on top of the 'food chain'."

"He's Jim's ex-boyfriend. Well, they've been going on-again and off-again and again since the last year."

"Quiet sort of fellow, doesn't really talk much, that is, until you go and talk to him."

"All the girls were smitten with Sherlock when he first arrived, that is, until they found out that he was gay."

"Some of the freshers who don't know about his orientation still fancy him, because he's a looker. But when they go and try to talk to him, they wish they had never known him."

"Gregory, don't talk about my brother like that. Not in front of me at least. You've truly out-gayed yourself."

"Out-gayed?" Greg scoffs, "What sort of English is that, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft makes an irritated face, "Anyway, Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant waste-of-space. But for some reason, girls love that. He does boxing and a little athletics and he's one of the best students in the school."

"I can tell that Sherlock hates it," Greg speaks in a low voice, "all that attention. We have this special thing—"

"Shut it, Greg! Yeah so, it was obvious that Jim had to go out with him."

The bell rings and Greg stands up, helping John to his feet and then extending his hand to Mycroft, only to withdraw it at the last second and let Mycroft fall back on the grass.

"That's one for aiming a kick at me," he laughs merrily as he pulls John away, and then jostles with his best friend. John smiles at them. Suddenly, Mycroft's eyes fall on a bullhorn by the side of the field, "Greg, on your left."

Greg snags the bullhorn as they pass. Right as they get to the door, he turns it on and announces into it, "Irene Adler is a Gucci Hoochie!"

John stares at him in confusion, wondering what Greg means. Mycroft and Greg pull him inside just in time as Irene Adler turns in their direction. Mycroft rolls his eyes, trying not to laugh "You're just so gay to function!"

"What's a Gucci Hoochie?"

"A girl with designer clothes worth 1000 bucks on a body worth 2 bucks," says Greg as Mycroft tries his best not to laugh or even get caught. If John was on the right track of thought, he could see what Mycroft and Greg looked like. They should marry. Totally.


It's all too much for John for the first day. School's not just about books and teachers. It's more about who likes who, or who's going out with who, or whom to say hi to and who to avoid.

But mostly, it's about what Irene Adler or Jim Moriarty wear and what all pets they have.

Jim Moriarty.

John sees a close-up of the dark haired Irish teen outside English class, one bookbag slung over his shoulder which he gives to a tall, well built, bouncer-at-the-club sort of guy to hold for him till he reaches his class and the latter's more than happy to do him that service. Irene's got a black Gucci handbag to go with her outfit, which is more or less like her gym clothes. Jim does look like he might be the kind of person on top of the food-chain, going by the way people look at him when he passes them in corridors. John can actually feel 'royalty' emanate from him as Jim passes him while he remains in a corner, unknown, unnoticed, unpopular. Jim seems like the most decently dressed fellow in the school, apart from Mycroft, of course. John watches the dark haired Irish teen with awe, wondering how someone could manage to be so much on top of the food chain.

Throughout the first day, John keeps running into trouble, sometimes with the teachers, sometimes with discipline matters, because apparently kids aren't allowed food when they are hungry.

"No eating in class!" Their math teacher shouts at him. John watches her with a scared expression on his face.

"But I'm hungry," he protests weakly.

"Well, I am too! But I'm still teaching stupid sods like you, aren't I?"

That's very rude and very unprofessional of her but John doesn't comment. He can feelIrene Adler's curious eyes on him, "But—"

"In that case, finish your lunch outside the class!"

John nods innocently at the scandalized teacher and obediently walks out of the class, finishing his lunch and strolls back into the classroom.

"Where d'you think you're going, young man?"

John could not express how self-conscious he felt when the teacher shrieked at him. He thinks that his best option is to tell the truth.

"To. . . my desk?" he glances at Greg, who's shaking his head as inconspicuously as possible.

"Go out and ask for permission," she snaps.

John looks at the students helplessly, who are all watching him with an amused expression on their faces. He walks out of the class and asks a little louder than necessary, "May I come in, Ms—?"

The Math teacher replies in the same volume in which he had spoken, "No. Stay outside for the rest of your life!"

And some similar anecdotes.

John has never felt so helpless in his life. He really should have been mainstream-schooled a little earlier. No one has ever told him that he has to stay in one place, or that he has to have a 'lavatory pass' to go to washroom. He's never encountered adults who don't trust him or kids who laugh at his expense or whenever he feels embarrassed. He's never had to worry about anything else than studying, playing and surviving the war. He was thankful for having moved from Afghanistan, but this is worse. The school's like a minefield and the students and teachers ready to explode at the slightest contact. He feels like a victim, right on the first day in this new place called secondary school. He wonders how the rest of the year would go.

John feels like a fool for having thought that war's over. That surviving is over and now it's time to start living. In Secondary-school world, as Mycroft puts it, war is never over.