The Underaged Detectives Chapter 1 A Study In Scarlet School, a sherlock fanfic

Chapter One- A Study In Scarlet Secondary School

John Watson, aged 15 years, 6 months and 25 days, shifted about violently in his bed. One name was on the tip of his tongue.

His father's name.

He had been dead for a few years now, and the nightmares should've stopped coming.

But they were becoming clearer, haunting him further.

His father had been in the army. He had excelled, and made John and his family proud. His father could get through anything unscathed.

Except the bullet that shot through his brain, burst his cerebal cortex and killed him in two seconds.

John woke with a start, panting heavily. He was sweating as he saw his dreams' ever resent approach to what his father's death would've looked like.

He couldn't do or say anything. His brain didn't seem to respond to the actions that he wanted to carry out. So he just sat there, terror through his mind, for hours on end until sunlight filled the room.

****

John didn't pay any attention to the teasing or the bullying that morning as he strolled silently into lesson, rucksack over his shoulder. He didn't mind that someone was flicking- whatever that purple stuff was at him. He was too preoccupied with terror.

But there was more. More than just simple fear. There was a whole other layer to this. A layer of longing. He wasn't sure why, but he longed to be the one in that khaki uniform, gun over back. He longed to be the one who was running through dangerous terrain without a care in the world.

He was awoken from his thoughts by a new arrival. He was dressed in a sharp, elegant blue coat, the same ordinary suits they were forced to wear, a blue scarf and black boots. His hear was frizzy, and his cheekbones jutted out slightly, like they were trying to force their way out of his skin.

The boy sat down next to John, and John smiled awkwardly at him as he threw off his coat and scarf. The boy noticed this and just grunted, taking out his pencil case from his bag.

"Boys," The voice of the Maths teacher ran out. "We have a new student today. Sherlock Holmes." People started sniggering at his name, but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and closed his hands around a small metal object in his pocket, taking it out to reveal a small patry dish labelled 'Class A Drug Sample- If released in air will react immediately. No explosive consequences, and the smell will immediately cause people to feel the drug. Warning- do not take if allergic to any of the following kinds-' There was a long list that Sherlock honestly couldn't be bothered reading. Sherlock slumped it into his pocket, not listening to the maths' teachers ramblings about life at Scarlet School, and took out his iPhone, unlocking it to see a text from his brother, Mycroft.

You're not aloud to read texts in lessons. I know you are doing so now, you don't care about the rules. Not that you knew them.

Just letting you know.

Hope they don't take your phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and prepared to explain to his teacher why he had it out, but he didn't even notice him take it out. He was facing the whiteboard, still rambling about how 'lovely' the place was. Then, his phone buzzed again and he picked it out, eyes rolling in preparation.

Got something you might like to see. And listen, you're an underaged smoking detective, so tell me everything or you'll be in a cell before I can say 'piss off'.

Meet me at 5 at Brixton, no. 3 Lauriston Gardens.

Just so you know, Anderson will be there.

Lestrade

Sherlock's grin spread across his face, and he prepared for the boring Maths lesson that he would miss. He was looking forward to something. About time to.

Sherlock bit into his Panini, ignoring the sniggers and looks he was getting. He smiled eagerly as his phone buzzed, hoping it would be a text from Lestrade.

No such luck. A message from Mycroft flashed up, reading:

Urgent. Missile plans issued to Bruce Partington stolen. Bruce Partington found dead on train tracks. Peculiar and rather dangerous business that may satisfy you.

Come at once. Battersea train station. Have already bribed your teachers into letting you out. A helicopter will pick you up from the roof when you're ready. Which has to be now.

Sherlock sighed, his fingers dancing across the keyboard, not noticing a boy sit down opposite him.

I already have a case, Mycroft.

Almost immediately, another text flashed up from his brother.

Yes. No. 3 Lauriston Gardens, I saw the message.

Sherlock's fingers danced again.

How?

I hacked your phone ages ago, Sherlock. Give me some credit.

I am changing the settings as soon as I can.

And I'll hack it again. Don't think you can outwit me, dear brother. It will never work.

I already have, countless times. It is how I know that you're shagging your assistant, Amanda was it?

Lucy, Sherlock.

Is that even her real name?

No.

Sherlock inwardly sighed, finally noticing John Watson sitting across from him. Awkward silence ensued, before Sherlock spoke up.

"Look, you might aswell sit somewhere else. I'm a highly functioning sociopath, you're a would-be Army Doctor. I'm not normal, you are. Go and talk to actual people."

"You are a person." John murmured.

"Not in your sense. Do most people solve crimes at my age?"

"You what?" John asked, eyes wide.

"As I said, highly functioning sociopath."

"Wait… With the police? You're a police officer already?"

"Consulting Detective. It's a long story and you probably would be interested, but I'm waiting for my brother's helicopter."

With that, Sherlock walked out, John following him.

"Brother." Mycroft nodded, then frowned as he saw John. The helicopter ride had taken twenty two minutes, and Sherlock surprisingly hadn't put up a fuss. John smiled awkwardly, and Mycroft murmured into Sherlock's ear "You didn't say you were bringing a… pet..."

"He's not with me." Sherlock hissed back.

"Yes I am." John hissed at him.

"I didn't ask you to come." Sherlock said icily.

"You didn't put up a fuss about me climbing into a private helicopter."

"Well, it's not like you're anything like the infamous Moriarty."

"Who?"

"Heard about him a while back, he pulled the strings in a few of my cases."

"Who is he?"

"No idea."

"You never met him?"

"Look…" Sherlock hissed. "Why do you care? Why are you actually here?"

"You fascinate me."

"Oh great, a fan. Just what I need."

"You don't like attention?"

"No!" Sherlock replied gruffly. "It gets in the way."

"Children…" Mycroft hissed. "If you could be so kind as to follow." Mycroft said as he abruptly turned and walked into Battersea, looking at the dead body on the train tracks. Sherlock pulled out a small rectangular glass and immediately pressed it up against places on the body, examining every inch. After about thirty seconds, he stood up.

"He wasn't killed here. There was no blood on the train tracks, but there's a huge gash in his head. Look over there, the train tracks, every few seconds, twist to go a different direction. This is delightfully simple because there was no train ticket on the body, and there was no oyster card or cash. It's so obvious. The body was dumped on top of a train, and was probably far away from the murderer before the train tracks twisted. So, murdered in a completely different place, and I know where. Southwark. And I know who did it, or who most likely did it. His only friend, this man." He held up a photograph. "Who else could've done it? Who else could he trust with the knowledge of missile plans assigned to him by the british government? Mycroft, tell your men to find this man. He'll have the memory stick."

"Bloody… wow." John exclaimed. "That was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off." John and Sherlock allowed themselves to chuckle at that, and unbeknownst to John, Sherlock was warming greatly to Watson in the short time he'd known him.

"Brother, your helicopter awaits." Mycroft gestured to it, and Sherlock walked back with John.