A/N: I'm hoping to make this into a multi-chapter story, but a reasonably small number of chapters. This is my first time writing in a fair few years, so constructive criticism is very, very much welcome. Enjoy, and if you don't please let me know why! ^^ (Oh and the title is stolen from William Beckett, fantastic song, do look it up)
Sherlock strode into the room with signature disregard for those around him, settling onto a table of the least obnoxious students. In other words, the outcasts. He still found a fair amount of them stupid beyond redemption and unwilling to make any attempts to rectify it, but they were at least less arrogant than the majority of the school. Naturally Sherlock had as little to do with as many people as possible, and much to his delight passed generally unnoticed by most. At first there had been unwelcome interest, his brother had taken a different tact and it seemed it was expected he would follow in his footsteps. However, he wasn't interested in making useful contacts, in making 'friends' that could later be called upon for favours. If he needed information he could observe it from the clumsy actions of his fellow classmates, he failed to see what else he could possibly want with people. Mycroft had smiled knowingly when Sherlock told him as much in an infuriatingly superior manner and told him he would see, eventually. Sherlock told him he looked fatter.
Glancing around the room he felt the vague feeling of disgust tugging at his throat, they made him feel physically sick. Pointedly ignoring the expectant looks of the others on the table, probably waiting for him to make conversation, he set about examining the room. It was a sea of the same smirking faces, all trying to one-up the last elaborate account of summer antics. All but one face, looking more than a little lost and vaguely embarrassed. The shadow of a smile settled on Sherlock's face as he watched interestedly, obviously he had to be the scholarship student, that explained why he was embarrassed by the blatant boasting. By all accounts he was the closest thing the school had ever seen to normality, a combination of academic and sporting skills having secured him the scholarship.
Tearing his gaze away Sherlock stood up and walked out of the dining room and back to his room. After all, if he was going to avoid lessons all day he'd need supplies.
He gazed out at the forest that sprawled out beyond the school grounds, hidden behind a cluster of trees just beyond the rugby field. He mentally noted that he was at least 20 minutes late for biology, and the teacher no doubt knew exactly where he was. He scowled childishly to himself, it wouldn't be an issue if his teacher wasn't a complete dolt.
"Er, they sent me to look for you."
Sherlock turned to look at the intruder, intrigued to find the scholarship boy. He waited for the other to continue, not replying. "I'm John, you're Sherlock, aren't you? Unless I've got the wrong person, but I think I recognise you. We're in the same class, though I haven't actually seen you in any classes yet. Mind you, we've only had two. Um, yeah, well I'm supposed to bring you back."
"I'm not done yet." Sherlock replied sharply before taking a long drag of the cigarette in his hand.
"I can always say I got lost on the way here," John shrugged and replied good naturedly, "Not sure why he sent me off all people, send the new guy, that's logical."
"Johnson's halfway to senile, he probably didn't realise you're new."
Sherlock started when John laughed earnestly and nodded.
"He does look about as old as this school," he lowered his voice to a mutter Sherlock probably wasn't meant to hear, "Which would be quite a feat."
He spared the boy a glance, wondering if he had imagined the hint of bitterness and distaste in his comment.
"Why have you come to this school, the results aren't much better than other schools you could have chosen?" Sherlock asked, maintaining a level on disinterest.
John awkwardly looked out of the window avoiding eye contact,
"Well, mum thought it might by good. For, well-"
"Networking." The taller supplied humourlessly, "In which case you've chosen the wrong person to talk to."
"Good!" John replied with surprising enthusiasm, "I'm sick of talking to posh wankers."
Feeling a smile tugging at his lips Sherlock decided not to point that he probably would consider him fairly 'posh'.
"So am I." He cast an appalled glance back towards the school, accidentally blowing smoke in John's direction.
John coughed pointedly; more interested than surprised when the other didn't so much as throw him an apologetic smile.
"Not your sort of people then?"
Sherlock threw him a sharp look and muttered lowly,
"Arrogant idiots with their rotting minds."
Suspecting it wasn't really a reply to him, John dropped the subject and let them lapse into silence. He jumped when he noticed Sherlock extinguish his cigarette and glance to the shorter,
"Let's go, they'll be thinking I've murdered you."
John chuckled and followed the taller, ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of his mind telling him that it was less of an offhand comment than the other meant it to seem.