The nightmares weren't so bad, really. As long as he made sure to muffle his sobs into a pillow and bite down on his fist to keep from screaming, the only attention he got was a raised eyebrow from his father in the morning at breakfast or a worried look from a teacher after he fell asleep in class yet again.

No, the worst part was when the nightmares happened during the day: when without warning his mind was filled with headlights glaring midday bright and charging the wrong way down the road or the sudden noise of crumpling metal and shattering glass.

When that happened, it was all he could do to stand frozen in place and try to keep from screaming or throwing up or passing out or all of the above. He'd grip onto the back of a chair or a doorframe and try to slow his shallow, frenzied breaths, try some of the bullshit exercises his therapist had taught him to deal with the attacks.

At night, after the worst of his sobs had subsided and he could open his eyes without fear of seeing blood and broken glass, he wondered if he had actually died that night.

Because John was fairly sure he was in hell.

...

"And how do you spell that again, dear?" It was the third time the woman at the administration desk had asked this. Her hair was an unnatural red, nearly the same color as her talon-like nails and John couldn't help but wonder if she had planned it that way.

"It's Watson. John and Harriet Watson. W-A-T-S-O-N."

"Right. You're kind of old to be a transfer student aren't you? What are you, seventeen?" Her nails made a steady click click click against the keyboard as she entered their names into the computer.

"Sixteen," he said, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Next to him, Harry made a small grumpy noise and dug her nails into his palm.

"Stop it, Harriet," he whispered, and she switched from digging her nails to scratching at his hand. He tried his best to surreptitiously kick her in the shins without the secretary noticing.

The spaces between the ticks of the clock in the stuffy little office seemed to grow longer and longer, and John had the sudden feeling that he was being led into a trap.

One year, he told himself. Just one year.

...

"It'll be good for both of you," their father had said a few weeks ago. They were sitting in the kitchen in their old flat (which had once felt cheerfully cramped and cozy but now had altogether too much space), picking at takeaway containers of pad thai. None of them were particularly hungry and the noodles grew cold and limp as he spoke. "St. Bart's is a fantastic school, and that friend of yours from primary school goes there, Mike Stratford or Stamford or something like that. Remember him, Johnny? Still keep in touch?"

"Yeah, Dad. Of course." John hadn't spoken to Mike Stamford since the Watsons had moved to London when he was nine, but he didn't have the heart to tell his father that, not when it was so obvious that he thought that this was something that would make the two of them happy.

Harry, on the other, wasn't anywhere near as eager to placate their father.

"I won't have any friends there. You won't be there. I'll hate it and I'll be bored and the only things I'll have to keep me company are stinking fat cows and John."

John was about to open his mouth to protest his being categorized with cows (and stinking fat ones at that) when his father cut him off.

"It's near a lovely little town, and I promise you, dear, there are no cows to be seen. And it'll be good for the two of you to get London out of your lungs. Besides, Ella agrees that it's a good idea for John. She thinks it'll help."

John gave his father a weak smile.

Shut up, he thought desperately. Please. I'll go to this school if you'll just shut up and stop reminding me that I've got a bloody therapist and that I can't get through the day without a bloody panic attack.

Harry flopped down dramatically face first onto the table, one braid landing amidst the noodles.

"Why should I be punished just because John's a nutter?" she muttered into her sleeve.

"Harriet!" his father shouted, his voice too loud in the stifling silence of the flat. "Apologize to your brother this instant."

"Sorry, Johnny," Harry said, scraping her chair back from the table and standing up, not sounding particularly sorry. She picked up her pad thai and made it halfway to the refrigerator before throwing it onto the floor and storming out of the room. From the other end of the flat, they could hear her stomping down the hall and slamming her bedroom door shut.

"It's hard on her too, you know," his father said, leaving his seat to clean up Harry's mess. His eyes were apologetic as he looked at John, as if he could erase what had just happened. "Ten year olds aren't exactly known for their grief coping skills. She doesn't mean any of it."

"I know, Dad. It doesn't bother me. Honestly," John replied, standing up to help him pick noodles and bean sprouts off the floor.

"Just one year, Johnny. That's all I'm asking for. If you don't like it, if it doesn't help with- everything, then you can come back. And it's only a forty minute train ride away if you want to come back and visit or if you need to see Ella. I just- I just think it'll be good for you to get away from all these memories. For the both of you."

John mustered up his best imitation of a smile. He could see the toll this summer had taken on his father. He seemed to have aged ten years in three months and sometimes he'd disappear into his bedroom for hours. John could hear the quiet click of the lock and his soft sobs from his room, and they always made him feel deeply unsettled, as if he was witnessing something he was never supposed to see.

"One year," he said, trying his best to make his tone sound as positive as possible.

"That's my good lad." His father patted John's back, giving him a weak smile and John suddenly felt desperate to get out of the room.

"Listen, Dad, I'm absolutely knackered, so I'm heading to bed. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

"Right. Well, remember you've got an appointment with Ella at noon."

Right. Of course. How could he forget that he couldn't make it through the week without a visit to his therapist?

John left the room, heading into his bedroom and shutting the door carefully behind him. From the kitchen, he could hear his father putting the last of the dishes away, and then flicking off the kitchen light.

The bedroom door shut.

The lock clicked into place.

And try as he might, John could hear everything.

...

"Right. So d'you know where you're headed?" They'd left the administration building and were heading down a path shaded by trees, Harry's slightly sweaty hand wrapped around John's. Other families helping their children move in milled about, lugging trunks and suitcases, younger siblings in tow.

"Course I do. I'm not a baby, John." He'd have to beg to differ, seeing as her shoes were untied and her braids had collapsed into a rumpled mess after she had fallen asleep on the train ride from London.

"Of course you're not. But at least let me help you move your things in. You can't lift that trunk up the stairs on your own."

"Neither can you," said Harry, sending a pointed look in the direction of John's left shoulder. As if on cue, it gave a sudden twinge and he winced, gingerly rubbing at the scar tissue through his shirt.

"Shut up," he answered through gritted teeth. He needed to change the subject. "Right, so the girl's dormitory is called Wethersfield, which is supposed to be down this path and on the right."

Or was it the left? The map that the secretary had given him was nearly impossible to read and he was fairly sure that he was looking at it upside down.

Harry gave an exasperated sigh and sat down on top of her trunk. She began to pick at the peeling black paint along the sides.

John was about to give up when someone further down the path began to wave at him. He gave a limp wave back and the figure broke into a run.

Shit. How have I already done something wrong on the first day?

"John? John Watson? Is that you?" It was a boy, heavyset with sandy hair and wire framed glasses, his face red from his run.

"Mike," John said, watching as Mike swiped at his forehead. "Erm- hi."

"I was on the lookout for you," Mike replied, holding out a damp hand for John to shake. "Heard you were coming."

"How?" John was genuinely curious. He hadn't spoken to Mike since he was nine.

"Facebook," Mike said quickly. His eyes fell on the bundle of papers John had crumpled in his fist. The secretary had printed them out for him: a map of the school, his schedule, and an envelope containing a pale blue slip of paper with his rooming assignment and his key which he hadn't opened yet. "Here, let me have a look at who your roommate is. I'll see if you've got a normal bloke or some complete weirdo."

Before John could say anything in reply, Mike had taken the envelope out of his hands, ripping the flap as he opened it. He fished out the paper, dropping the key into John's palm, and squinted at it.

"Right, so you're in Baker of course, because that's the boys' dorm…and you're in 221…good so you're just a few doors down from me and Anderson. You'll have to meet Anderson, though I'll warn you- he's a bit of a prat. And your roommate- oh."

(It wasn't a particularly encouraging oh.)

"Who is it?" He leaned in closer to Mike, craning his neck to read the paper. Next to the words Roommate was printed in small black letters Sherlock Holmes. "Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's…" Mike sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Impossible to describe and impossible to deal with. He's absolutely bloody brilliant- I mean really smart, scary smart. But I'd imagine he'd make an awful roommate. Good luck, John." He clapped John on the back, grinning at him as if John's awful roommate was a particularly funny joke.

(Then again, John was fairly sure that someone who had nightmares that made them wake up screaming also fell into the category of awful roommate, so they'd be a matched pair, him and this mysterious Sherlock Holmes.)

"Here, I'm on my way to Baker anyway. Want me to show you the way?" Mike's face was growing redder and he looked desperate to get out of the blazing late August sun.

"That'd be great. Harry, are you okay to-"

But Harry had already set off on her own down the path, lugging her trunk stubbornly behind her despite the fact that it was twice her size. Mike chuckled.

"Harry doesn't get on well with you, I take it?"

"Harry doesn't get on well with the world."

They started making their way towards Baker Hall, a tall building made of red bricks that sat slightly apart from everything else. Boys accompanied by parents were carrying in their things, talking and laughing and jostling each other.

"How are you though, John? I heard about- well, you know. I'm sorry. That's awful." Mike's expression was the same one he'd seen on the faces of everyone around him for the past three months, a mix of sympathy, pity, and oh thank God this didn't happen to me.

"How did you- right, Facebook. I'm fine."

When Mike's expression didn't change, John added, "Really, I am."

Mike gave him a sad little smile and John had to suppress the sudden and violent urge to punch him.

"So, what is there to do around here?" he asked, desperate to change the subject.

"Honestly? Not all that much. I mean, there's the town which is about a ten minute's walk, but that's all quaint touristy shops and old people. Other than that, it's mostly just cows."

So Harry's prediction that all St. Bart's had to offer was cows and John was true after all. He tried to tell himself that he wouldn't mind the boredom, that the peace and quiet of the countryside would be a nice break after the constant thrumming rattle and hum that was London.

(It wasn't worth the effort to try and convince himself of that.)

The inside of Baker was noisy, filled with parents and students filing up and down the narrow staircase bearing trunks and bags. Mike had disappeared into the crowds and John was left standing alone in the lobby.

"'Scuse me," he asked a man wearing a gray wool three piece suit despite the fact that it was a sweltering day in August. The man looked too young to be a parent and was definitely too old to be a student, and there was a faint swelling along his waistband, indicating a slight plumpness that was hidden well by his suit's immaculate tailoring. "Could you tell me where room 221 might be?"

The man looked down at John as if he were something particularly nasty that he'd found on the bottom of his shoes. At the mention of the room number, his mouth quirked into something that John would've considered a smile if he hadn't been sure that the man had never once smiled in his life.

"Up the stairs, take a left, door at the end of the hallway."

John nodded his thanks and made his way towards the stairs. When he attempted to lift his trunk off the ground, his shoulder exploded into a bright blossom of pain that left him seeing dancing black spots. He only made it to the landing halfway up before he had to stop, leaning his head against the cool glass of a windowpane and ignoring the curious looks of those around him.

Great. The first day and already I'll be known as the cripple. Fucking fantastic.

When the stabbing throbs had subsided into a dull ache, John picked up his trunk again, gritting his teeth against the pain. At the bottom of the stairs, he could see the man in the suit watching him intently, then turning sharply on one heel and vanishing into the crowd.

By the time he made it up the stairs, he had broken the skin on his lip from biting it in pain and he could taste the metallic tang of iron and salt in his mouth. He dropped his trunk and dragged it behind him for the rest of his walk.

The hallway was very clearly the residence of teenage boys. Loud music thumped from behind closed doors, shouts echoed through the hallways, and already the faint odor of unwashed socks and Old Spice hung in a thick cloud.

The crowds thinned out as he neared 221, the number of people dwindling away until he stood alone in front of the door. It was slightly ajar and he realized with a sudden twist of nervousness that the mysterious Sherlock Holmes was probably already inside.

No use in waiting. He knocked the door open with his foot and slipped inside, trunk thumping along behind him.

The room was small, with a window featuring a view of the sports fields behind Baker Hall. Each half of the room had a bed with a lumpy looking mattress, a desk, a bedside table and a dresser, but the similarities ended there.

One side of the room was somehow already cluttered- books piled up in teetering stacks on the desk, papers in haphazard towers climbing towards the ceiling from the bedside table and along the floor. A trunk lay half unpacked on the bed, a uniform lying neatly folded on top of the dresser along with- Jesus Christ, was that a skull?

The other side of the room was stark and utilitarian, the bed stripped of sheets, the bedside table empty save for a lamp and an alarm clock. John supposed that was his side.

The room appeared to be free of any roommates, (awful or otherwise) and he hefted his trunk up onto his bed, doing his best to ignore the stab of pain, and began to unpack.

"It was a car accident, wasn't it?"

A boy's head had appeared from underneath the other bed, looking at him with unsettling gray eyes. His dark curls were covered in a fine layer of dust, the remnants of a cobweb tangled throughout.

John jumped, dropping his armful of shirts.

"Jesus Christ - what the fuck are you doing under there?"

The boy emerged from underneath the bed, unfolding his lanky frame. He stood several inches taller than John, but he was unbelievably skinny. He blinked down at John, his eyes searching him in a way that felt oddly familiar.

"Some of my experiments are sensitive to light. I needed a dark place for them."

"Experiments? What do you mean exper-" John began, but the boy cut him off, holding out a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Right. Of course." Oh God, Mike was right. He had gotten a nutter for a roommate. "And I'm-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John Watson. Let's see- you're from London obviously, but based on your faint trace of an accent you weren't raised entirely there, somewhere up north, I'd say. You took an early train in, but your parents didn't stick around to help you move in, leaving you to manage both yourself and your younger brother- quite a feat, I'd imagine, considering the pain your shoulder must be in and the fact that you had a panic attack this morning, in the train lavatory of all places if I'm not mistaken. You and your younger brother don't quite get on, despite your best efforts. You'd like to think that's just a phase but in reality it's because he most likely blames you for your mother's recent death, which brings me back to my original question."

He stopped and waited, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Well?"

(John knew that there were several things he should be saying to his new roommate, something along the lines of "How on earth did you know all that?" or "Don't ever mention my mother ever again," or "Is it too early to switch roommates?")

But all that came out of his mouth was, "Sister. Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Damn. The rest was spot on, though?"

John nodded, aware that his mouth had fallen slackly open.

Sherlock grinned. "I'll be better than Mycroft yet," he said, though this seemed to be mainly a comment to himself.

"That was amazing. I mean, really spectacular. Jesus Christ. How could you know all of that?" John was still standing stock still by his bed, head spinning. He supposed he should be angry with Sherlock for bringing up his mother, but to be honest, he was sick of everyone around him tiptoeing around the topic for the past three months. It was a relief to finally have it out in the open.

(Besides, it was difficult to summon up any real anger towards Sherlock, difficult to summon up any sort of feeling besides this is brilliant. He is brilliant.)

Sherlock rolled his eyes and disappeared back under his bed.

"Easy," he said, his voice slipping out from the dark gap. "Your train ticket is still sticking out of your pocket, so that gave me half of it. The pain in your shoulder is evident, as well as the distinct absence of your parents to help you move in. If your mother had been alive, then obviously she would've wanted to come see you off, whereas a father is more likely to leave using work as an excuse."

"The car accident?"

"Your shoulder is healed enough for you to use it but still obviously painful, which indicates a recent injury. You don't seem overly athletic, so not sports, and the way you try your best to ignore it despite the obvious pain suggests a traumatic incident, most likely one associated with a loss of someone close to you."

"But all of that about Harry-"

"You're wearing a sock clearly meant for someone smaller than yourself, a younger sibling most likely. And I can tell you don't get on because she seems to have scratched a rather poorly worded death threat into the paint of your trunk. Rather malicious for a ten year old, isn't she?"

"You've no idea," John said as he inspected his trunk, which indeed had the words "I hope your ceiling caves in on your head" scratched into it. (A threat that might've been slightly more effective if ceiling had been spelled ceeleng.)

"That was extraordinary, you know that, right? I mean you must know that you're a proper genius."

From underneath the bed came an exasperated snort.

"Of course I know I'm a proper genius. Then again, compared to half the idiots at this school, even you'd be considered a genius."

John was about to respond, his mouth opening to ask whether this was an insult or a compliment, but he decided he'd rather not know.

"You really think that was extraordinary though?" Sherlock's head had emerged from beneath the bed again. One hand gripped a petri dish filled with some rather furry looking pink fungus.

"Of course it was! I mean, you just told me my entire life story just by bloody looking at me! What else would it be?"

"Intrusive, rude and impertinent. At least according to nearly everyone else." Sherlock had disappeared back under the bed again, his voice far away and muffled.

John laughed at that and there was a quiet chuckle from under the bed. He turned back to packing.

"So what's your story then?" he asked, scooping clothes out of his trunk and laying them in the empty dresser drawers. From underneath the bed he could hear a rather ominous banging noise. "Seeing as I can't bloody figure it out based on the paint on your trunk and the way your shirt is buttoned and all that."

"It's really not- oof- interesting," Sherlock said. There was a loud clatter from under the bed and he could hear Sherlock's deep baritone muttering several choice curses. "Mother, father, older brother, all that rot. Not worth wasting my breath. Why does your sister blame you for your mother's death?"

John stiffened. Sherlock figuring out that his mother was dead was one thing, but confessing the details of her death on the first day they met was another thing entirely. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, desperately hoping that Sherlock was wrong about this particular fact.

"Bit of a private question, don't you think?"

"Well, roommates ought to know the worst about each other. I'd rather know sooner rather than later if you arranged some sort of accident for her so that I'd know to be on guard around you."

John didn't realize until after there was a long stretch of silence that that had been Sherlock's rather poor attempt at a joke, as if he was trying to put John at ease after prying too far into his personal life.

"Sod off, you idiot, or I'll arrange an accident for you."

This made Sherlock laugh, which made John laugh, and they laughed like idiots together until Sherlock tried to get up too quickly from underneath the bed, whacking his head with an audible thump on the bedframe, which sent them both into peals of laughter again.

That night, for the first night that entire summer, John slept soundly.