"Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you."

Sherlock stared out the window while the history teacher droned on about some ancient war. Even though he wasn't the only one who couldn't care less about who'd won what and when they'd won it and why it was important that they'd won, Sherlock's state of mind was indicative of what his life had been like ever since he'd been deemed old enough to attend school: perpetual boredom. Most of his classmates occupied themselves with doodling in their notebooks, handing each other small notes – the more adventurous boys even threw them at their friends, which no teacher ever seemed to notice – or even listening to music, which was something only the longer-haired could get away with. However, Sherlock didn't engage in such frivolous activities. Everything he did meant something, no matter how insignificant that meaning would be to anyone else. To him the whole world was nothing but a giant laboratory in which he could conduct his 'experiments'.

Most teachers didn't even mind when the thoughts of their students wandered, as long as they didn't disturb the rest of the class and their grades were satisfactory. They did, however, mind it when some of their students, in most cases one in particular, disrupted their lessons either by refuting an adult's theories and explanations with extremely well-constructed monologues and inquisitive questions, by devising all sorts of impromptu 'experiments' that of course had to be performed in class right now, or – and this was the least favourite among the teachers – by using eerily accurate deductions that made the subject of said deductions the center of ridicule. Every single teacher had been at the receiving end of Sherlock's sharp tongue and keen observations at least once and he'd been single-handedly responsible for making at least three teachers burst into tears right in the middle of class. And that had been just during this year.

This particular reaction had turned out to be one of the three standard reactions Sherlock had always gotten ever since he'd grown old enough to form complete, correct and complex sentences, which was something he'd been capable of ever since his third year. People, no matter their age or background or character, seemed to either burst into tears, become angry beyond reason or show a very clear and severe dislike – hate is perhaps too strong a word, although it's not far removed from said dislike – to the boy who never did anything but tell the truth.

Soon this phenomenon led to Sherlock's first theory: People don't like it when you tell them the truth all the time. This puzzled him at first. He'd never been anything but honest with those he came into contact with, because both Mycroft and his mother had always told him, at every chance they got, that honesty was always the best policy. As soon as a younger Sherlock came to this conclusion he began to see discrepancies between what he was being taught by his mother and his 'second parent', as he'd begun to call Mycroft – in secret of course, and at times he even called him his 'second mother' – and how they acted. Or, for that matter, how the whole world acted. No one was honest, at least not all the time.

Even though he'd learned to distinguish between the so-called 'little white lies' and the blatant ones, Sherlock had never quite gotten over the fact that in regards to this whole business about being honest his family had lied to him. What's more, when he'd realized this amazing fact – Everybody Lies, All The Time – he'd also discovered that he was quite adept at recognizing it when people were lying, which in itself was surprising due to the fact he didn't exactly hail from a family that was well-versed in the ways of socially accepted behaviour. Sure, each member of his family could play the part, but behind the scenes they all prided themselves on how they saw themselves as being above most of humanity due to the fact that they kept their emotions in check, and never became too attached to something or someone.

Combined with his massive intellect these discoveries had soon led to Sherlock developing not only a superiority complex, but also to him becoming bitter at an exceptionally young age. Bitter at the fact that his own family had deemed it necessary to lie to him, that everyone seemed to lie to him, and that everyone thought they could get away with it. This might seem like a giant leap to most people, but to Sherlock it was nothing but a logical conclusion after an accumulation and subsequent careful interpretation of all the facts. Imagine how a boy would feel if he could essentially read other people's minds and know, for a fact, that they were lying to him about even the most trivial of matters. Wouldn't such a boy feel insulted? Wouldn't he become bitter as Sherlock had become?

Being more intelligent than the average person and having inherited certain character traits like sporting a huge ego, possessing an air of self-confidence that seemed to be attached to the Holmes-name, and not caring much about other people's state of mind had created two very distinct brothers. Mycroft, being the older one, and thus having been groomed to take over family matters after their mother would've died, had a more stable personality to begin with, and had turned into someone who excelled at diplomacy. He'd used all his considerable skills to work his way up through the ranks of several agencies before even reaching the age of eighteen, and all without most of his co-workers ever meeting him.

Sherlock, being the younger one, had quickly recognized what was expected of him in the way he'd seen his older brother be tutored and had rebelled against it every step of the way. He'd gotten himself expelled on more than one occasion and he'd had to be transferred to at least twelve different schools over the course of seven years. On each separate occasion he'd been responsible for something bad happening to either the school building, one or more students, or – in one case – two teachers. When confronted with his misdeeds Sherlock would inevitably state that he'd gotten bored and that he'd either wanted to prove a point or had wanted to punish someone for trying to harass him.

To any other person it would seem strange that someone like Sherlock, who could've so easily manipulated others into believing his lies, who'd come to the stunning conclusion that everybody lied all the time, would tell the truth. But the heart of the matter was that Sherlock had made the conscious decision to keep on telling the truth even in spite of his discovery, although he'd also vouched to never volunteer the truth about his own misconducts. That is, unless the questions aimed at him were phrased in as specific a manner as possible, a feat which only Mycroft had proven capable of over the course of many years.

Even after all that had befallen him – the scoldings, the punishments, the expulsions, the quite horrendous act of his older brother taking away his violin – Sherlock's mind was always occupied with sorting through the various possibilities of alleviating his boredom. At this particular moment in time these possibilities encompassed either acts of carefully planned and executed revenge on two of the school's self-appointed bullies, or more random and spontaneous acts of humiliation to be performed on any of the three teachers who had taken it upon themselves to make Sherlock 'their personal project'. Some of the imagined results made Sherlock's eyes, whose colour was prone to change depending on lighting and his moods, darken in delight and his lips curve into what most people would perceive to be an angelic smile. But, then again, most people had no idea of the dark depths that lurked behind that smile, until they had been at the receiving end of it.

Of course some of the classmates of this self-proclaimed most brilliant mind knew. They could either 'read' Sherlock on some instinctual level or they recognized something of themselves or others in one of those rare glimpses into his soul, which resulted in them doing their level best to always be somewhere else, to be in a place where Sherlock wasn't, or to not be in a place where Sherlock was. This only served to make Sherlock happy, because he couldn't care less for the company of others. Until this particular day.

Suddenly and quite unexpectedly the monotonous droning of mister McCallum was interrupted by one of the school's caretakers, Douglas, who opened the door and entered the classroom. This in itself was something out of the ordinary, since no one was allowed to enter a classroom once class had commenced other than the principal or a caretaker, in case of an emergency. Sherlock focused his attention on Douglas immediately, his mind racing with all sorts of scenarios of possible emergencies, but his thoughts came to a screeching halt when he noticed Douglas hadn't entered alone. A little off to the caretaker's left, approximately one step behind him, stood a boy. A boy whose face, whose entire demeanour, told Sherlock all he needed to know to decide right then and there that he'd finally found someone. Someone just like him.

"Pardon me for this intrusion, mister McCallum, but principal Hardwick asked me to bring this new student to you immediately, to make sure he wouldn't fall behind. It seems young mister Moriarty has been unable to attend school for quite some time before his transfer to Saint Thomas. Here are his papers. He is to present these to each of his teachers today and tomorrow."

Douglas handed a few sheets of paper to McCallum, inclined his head and began to turn when he added: "Again I apologize for this interruption, sir. Thank you for your time."

The door closed and silence descended. Most boys looked at the teacher as they waited for him to give them some information on their new classmate, but Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the new boy. Moriarty. Irish. Arrogant. Extremely brilliant, like himself. Rich family. No lingering signs of disease or an injury that might account for his presumed absence from school, so that would mean the reason had to lie in his life outside of school. When McCallum had read the paper and began to tell the class a little bit about Moriarty – James Moriarty – Sherlock spotted the carefully constructed lies as easily as a regular person would spot a red rose in a field of yellow ones and it made him smile appreciatively. Right as he did Moriarty turned his head and looked straight at him. There was a moment of nerve-tingling recognition when Sherlock's piercing gaze met his match. A silent acknowledgement was reached: We are the same. Moriarty smiled. Sherlock shivered.

"… which is why mister Moriarty has been transferred to this school. Are there any questions? No? Right, James, if you would please take a seat right next to David, I can explain next week's assignment. I hope you will try to complete it, but I'd understand it if you-"

McCallum stopped talking mid-sentence, which caused all the students – well, all but one – to glance at their teacher, who in turn was staring at James, who had walked right past the indicated spot and made his way to the back of the classroom, to the empty spot right next to Sherlock. More and more heads turned to stare at what they would all later agree on they had expected to be a form of delayed suicide, but which turned out to be something more dangerous than anyone could have ever predicted. Amidst the silent stares of his new classmates and his new teacher Jim came to a halt in front of Sherlock and extended his right hand.

"James Moriarty," he spoke, in a clear voice with an outspoken Irish accent, "but you can call me Jim."

The bane of many a school and the nightmare of many a teacher and student alike took Jim's offered hand and shook it.
"Sherlock Holmes. You can call me Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

"Likewise, Jim."

Mundane pleasantries, spoken out loud, to fool the world that had never understood nor could ever hope to understand the meeting of minds that had taken place in this dull classroom on this dreary day. They didn't hear the unspoken conversation, didn't see the subtle body language these two exchanged. Pale, grey eyes met dark, brown eyes, and they spoke.

You're like me.

Yes.

Bored.

Yes.

So am I.

So it would seem.

Excellent.

Jim sat down next to Sherlock, flashed him a deliciously wicked grin and, as if on cue, both boys turned in their seats and looked around the classroom. Several of the other boys blinked, some gulped, and only the bravest, or the most stupid, didn't avert their gaze until after McCallum politely coughed a few times.

"Right then. Now that mister Moriarty's settled, we'll continue with today's subject. World War One. Some people call this war a transitional war, as the technology that was used elevated it…"

One after the other the students sunk back into their self-imposed stupor, all but two. As soon as Jim had sat down and opened his school books, pretending to be paying attention to the droning teacher, Sherlock and he began to write in each other's notebooks. The rest of the hour was spent very efficiently with the two of them getting to know each other, exchanging stories, making plans. Due to their mutual genius they quickly devised a unique version of shorthand script that only they could understand. Sherlock couldn't stop smiling, and he just knew Jim could neither. For the first time in his life Sherlock finally had the feeling that he'd met someone who truly understood him. He wondered if this was what happiness felt like.