"Sweetheart, remember, you promised to write at least once a month."
"Don't worry, mum, I will, I promise." John gave his mother a quick kiss goodbye and got into the cab behind his sister.
Harry smiled at her little brother as the driver pulled away and the siblings caught a final glimpse of their mother waving on the curb. "So, ground rules now or later?"
"Let's get them sorted now, I'd like to sleep a bit before we arrive."
"Right then. First, we do not interfere with each-others' school work. And yes, that means I won't be relying on you for my English essays. Second, you and I are having lunch every Saturday. No exceptions. Other than Saturday, we need not speak during the week. Third, stay far away from Clara. I know you've got a thing for her."
John frowned. Clara had been a long-time friend of his sister's, and lately she had been spending more and more time at their house, and he had thought she might be interested in him. "What, you don't want me dating your friend?"
Harry glared at him. "No, you idiot, I don't want you hitting on my girlfriend!" Her eyes opened in shock as she realised what she had said.
"You-your what?" An expression of disbelief appeared on John's face as he began to understand. "Oh my god. Harry. Have you told- well- anyone?"
"No. And John, you can't either. I don't know how mum would react, but I'm pretty damn sure Mark would have something to say about it." She looked down.
"I'll take it to the grave." John smiled as his sister's face lit up with gratitude. "Though, would you mind if I told Andrew? You know, the bloke down the street? 'Cos he bet me ten quid he could get you to shag him."
"Honestly, I think you'll survive perfectly well without a handgun in your room. Which, I am told, you will be sharing with another student."
"Fantastic. Sharing a room with a brain dead, hormone driven imbecile for an entire school year. What could possibly be better?"
"Now Sherlock. Entering a situation with preconceived expectations of failure helps no one."
"Yes Mummy."
"Lovely. The car will be here in seven-no, eight, minutes. Traffic."
Sherlock nodded and took one last look around his bedroom, scanning it for things he had forgotten to pack. "He won't be accompanying me, will he?"
"Sherlock, your brother is quickly becoming a very powerful and influential man. It's not exactly difficult for him to obtain permission to take time off and ensure you arrive safely."
"Mother, it's a school of privileged, sheltered idiots with brains barely able to accomplish basic motor functions. I am a genius with antisocial tendencies and a proficiency in hand-to-hand combat, as well as sword play. What could possibly threaten me?"
John made his way to room assignments, passing a few people his age and attempting to spot a kindred spirit, recalling his sister's final rule for the year as they entered the school: One more thing Ham (on of her many nicknames for him) You need a mate. Doesn't matter who, but I know you don't make friends easily and I don't want you to spend the year alone, all right? John sighed. It wasn't that he didn't get along with other people, he just found the majority of them so ordinary and... well, boring. All they thought about was sex and sports. Sometimes money. Not that he didn't like those things, but there was more to life after all.
John was so distracted, lost in thought, that he nearly collided with another student.
"Whoah there, mate." A stocky boy with a sports jersey smiled at John. "Watch where you walk."
"Yeah, sorry."
"It's all right. Mike Stamford." The stranger said with a smile.
"Watson. Uh... John. Watson." John really couldn't understand why he had to be so awkward.
"Well, Watsonumjohnwatson, you new here? You seem my age, but I know everyone in the year and I don't know you."
"Yeah, I just started. My sister's Harry Watson."
"Ah! Thought I recognised the last name. Funny, you don't sound Welsh. Hey, would you mind putting a good word in for me with your sister? Always had a bit of a thing for her."
John laughed. "Believe me mate, you're not her type."
Mike shrugged. "Worth a shot. Well, let's see where you're living."
John followed behind, smiling. Maybe finding a friend wouldn't be so difficult after all. Mike certainly seemed nice enough; this year had potential to not be quite so terrible.
When they reached the lists, Mike ran his finger down the names, then turned to face John with a pained look.
"What?"
"Tell me, Watson, how good are you at dealing with difficult people?
"Oh god, why?"
"Because your room-mate is about as difficult as it gets."
John tilted his head, silently voicing his confusion and telling Mike to continue. Mike led him out of the crowd and down the hallway "How bout a tour of he school?"
"Fine..." John said slowly. "But please explain who and what my room-mate is."
Mike sighed. "His name is Sherlock Holmes."
"You're kidding. Do his parents hate him or something?"
"Nah, they're just traditionalists."
"So this Sherlock bloke, bit of a tosser?"
Mike made a scoffing noise "You've no idea. He was my lab partner all last term. Bloody brilliant, highest marks in the school, and such, cannot be arsed to do any work he considers beneath his massive intellect. He's an antisocial little wanker as well. Spoke about ten words to me the entire time, and every one of them was insulting. He thinks he's better than everyone."
"Fantastic," John groaned as all hopes of an enjoyable, ordinary year vanished.
"Are you positive we can't get around this little detail?" Sherlock sat forward in the seat of the cab, trying not to sound as if he was pleading.
"Sherlock, what do you expect me to do? It's required. No exceptions. You have to share a room."
"But last year-"
"Last year your flatmate drowned in a public swimming pool accident."
"Well couldn't you arrange another?"
"Sherlock, there will be no accidents this year. No chemical explosions, no inappropriate deductions of your professors, nothing. If you get expelled from one more school, father is sending you to a military academy. Is that really what you want?" Mycroft held his little brother's angry gaze as the cab slowed to a stop.
Sherlock huffed and exited the cab, slamming the door as he did so, then marched up the long pathway to the school.
Mycroft sighed and turned the handle of his umbrella in his hand."Could you please take his things in?" He called to the five year CIA operative with 27 years of combat training who was currently in the driver's seat. "And do be careful with his equipment."
At around noon, John walked slowly down the hallway, still adjusting to the castle-like structure of the school. He had bid Mike goodbye after promising to meet for dinner and the start-of-term announcements, then walked off to find his room, unpack his things, and hopefully survive meeting whoever he was sharing the room with. He paused before room 221B, and took a deep breath before slowly pulling his new key from his trouser pocket and unlocking and opening the door. He stared in shock at the nearly seven foot tall body-builder in a very expensive suit who was currently hanging up much too small dark purple and black dress shirts in the right cupboard. On either side of the room was a bed, a cupboard, and a small desk, with about 15 or twenty feet in the middle.
"Um... Sherlock Holmes?"
The body-builder turned and gave John a smile that reminded him of a hyena about to attack. "Do I look like a 16 year old psychopath?" He hung the last shirt and cracked his knuckles slowly.
John gulped. "If I say no, do I get to keep my kneecaps?"
The man looked at him blankly for a second, then chuckled. "You've got spirit. Good on you, mate. I like you, so I'm going to give you a bit of advice for rooming with the young Holmes. Don't back down or let this kid run all over you. He likes a challenge. Want to survive the term? Give him one."
With that, the man picked a pair of black sunglasses up off the desk and left the room. John blinked in confused apprehension. What the hell kind of room-mate did he have? He turned and surveyed the room. The bed next to the cupboard with the dress shirts was already made with dark blue sheets, probably silk from the look of it. John sighed and walked over to the unmade mattress and empty cupboard on the left, then began unpacking.
It was well past five in the afternoon when John finally met his infamous room-mate. He was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard, and re-reading his battered copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein when the noise of his door closing made him start and turn to see the exact opposite of the person he had expected. When John heard about Sherlock Holmes, in his head he pictured a short, pale, spotty ginger with glasses and some sort of pocket protector.
Well, at least he got the pale aspect right. The scowling boy that entered the room was tall and thin, with an elegant and superior way of walking, a flawlessly pale face, the most defined cheekbones he'd ever seen in a human being, and shockingly bright blue-green eyes. His jet black hair fell in unruly curs around his face and his thin mouth sat in a way that suggested it had been involved in the trivial act of smiling a grand total of four times in its existence.
Sherlock Holmes turned and took notice of his companion. Those piercing eyes of his seemed to scan John, then the room around him. He turned back to John and after a solid three minutes of silence, John Watson heard Sherlock Holmes speak for the first time. "Dear God, please tell me you haven't touched anything."
John stuttered. "W-What? No."
"Good. The equipment is extremely valuable." With that, Sherlock crossed to his desk and opened the case that sat on top of it and began rifling through the contents.
John was startled by the boy's voice, a low drawl that sounded like a finely tuned cello. "Well, erm, hello, I'm-"
"John Watson, age 16, born in Cardiff, but moved to London with father after your parents' divorce. Elder sister named Harry, probably short for Harriet, who grew up in Cardiff with your mother. You play football and hope to pursue a medical career. Your father died sometime around a year ago, most likely in a car accident. You were present, it left you with a nervous twitch and an introverted personality. Your father was a military man - Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"What?"
"Simple enough question." Sherlock finally turned to look at him. "Did your father serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Uh- neither, he was injured in a training exercise, lost sight in one eye, deemed unfit for deployment-how the hell did you know all that?" John was thoroughly confused-and more than a bit creeped-out. "Did you- I don't know, google me?"
Sherlock looked repulsed, and a bit exasperated. "No, I did not 'google'" He spat the verb out as if John had suggested he partook in acts of cannibalism. "I observed."
"You observed." John shook his head and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Who the hell are you?"
"You already know my name, that I'm a sociopath with a tendency to patronise and demean, and that I'm more than a little narcissistic."
"Correct, Mr. Holmes. " He said with a smirk. "Well, go on then. How did you 'observe' all those things? And don't act like it's such a burden to tell me. I've met blokes like you before, and they always love to show off. Genius needs an audience, after all."
Sherlock's eyes betrayed his shock at John's words, but they regained their cold apathy quickly. "All right. Your name. John Watson is written on your luggage tag, tucked under your bed. Your eyes are the same shape and color as those of Harry Watson, age 17, girl from Cardiff in the year above. Sister, then. She's got a distinctly Welsh accent, and your speech is tinted with Welsh intonations, but they are almost unnoticeable, implying you moved to London at an early age, probably around four or five. Your sister stays in Wales but you move to London as a toddler? Familial separation, obviously. Could be the death of both parents, you both are sent to live with different parts of your extended family. However, you have a half finished letter to you mother on your desk, and people don't leave letters to the dead just lying about. Divorce, then. Now, who did you move to London with? Could be the mother, but in cases such as this boys usually live with the father and girls the mother. Easier that way. Next for the father's military career and death. Your hair is cut in a distinctly military style and you've unpacked your things and placed them in a manner so organised it could border on the neurotic. Combined with the well worn military jacket hanging in your cupboard, it wasn't a huge leap.
"Now, for the death. This is your first year at this school, your name was on the new arrival's list. Your sister's was not. She's been here for years, but you are just enrolling? You moved back in with your mother then. But why? Is your father abusive? A drunk? If so you would not keep his jacket in your closet, or a picture of the two of you on your desk. You jumped when I closed the door, then tensed as if expecting an attack. You could be naturally paranoid and suspicious, but no one who is in constant fear of assault would leave the door to his room unlocked and open. This does contribute, however, to the abusive father theory, but as I said, sentiment towards the father would not exist if that were the case. Now we take into account the slight tremor in your left hand as you read, as well as the fact that you prefer sitting in an empty room with an old book to socialising with the new friends you have the potential to make, which leads toward the assumption that these are the by-products of physical and emotional trauma, ergo, violent death of the father, car crash is the most common. Oh, and football and the medical career-football kit under your bed and two medical textbooks-not required for any course here- sitting on your desk, not to mention "Frankenstein", interesting choice for a football jock. Any questions?" Sherlock finished with a smug look.
John tried very hard not to look as if he had just been clubbed over the head. "That...was... amazing."
Sherlock frowned. "Not the reaction I usually get."
"Really? What do people normally say?
"Piss off."
John chuckled. "Well, since we are rooming together, and apparently we both share some antisocial tendencies, what do you say?" He extended a hand. "Mates?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No. I don't have friends." And with that, he gave John a nod and opened the door. "Oh, and by the way. Touch any of my experiments or possessions, and I can ensure a very painful death that on all accounts will look like an accident." Then, just when John thought nothing else could shock him, right before walking through the doorway, Sherlock winked. "Afternoon." The door closed behind him, and John was left to wallow in shock and disbelief.