A/N: I am suffering MAJOR writers block, so decided to venture into the wonderful world of AU Teenage!Sherlock. John is here too, as are others, but not Sarah, sorry everyone. If the world of Sarah-Fans *do* exist, could you let me know? I wanna know if they're just a myth, like the unicorn, but of course, Unicorns are real, if you know where to look…. Oh, look! Sorry, you just missed one!
This has no real plot, so everything that happens is pretty much spur-of-the-moment. I write it whenever I've had a pretty crap day at school because of Teachers or whatever, so Sherlocks' school-life might not be too fun. Bless. Wish me luck!
Disclaimer for the entire story: This playpen belongs to the Moffanator, the Godtiss and the Big British Castle; I just play with the toys and see what happens!
"I'm not going." I crossed my arms defiantly at my brother, eyes on the floor. I wasn't backing out of this one.
"Sherlock. Come on, don't be silly-"
"I fail to see how not wanting to go to a Public School," the words were like poison in my mouth "is being silly. I don't need to, all the lessons will be dull, the teachers will be boring, and the students will be…" I didn't know how to end that sentence. What would they be like?
Mycroft looked at me sternly, catching my eye and not letting go. I stared him down, determined not to lose.
When he saw it wasn't working, Mycroft stepped closer, very much closer, knowing I wasn't comfortable with the closeness.
Closing the final barrier, he put his hand on my shoulder, the contact making me shiver slightly.
"Why can't I stay home and be home-tutored, like I always have been?" My family never saw much point in making me go to school, as I had shown exceptional skill in memory and logic from a young age, making me go to school seem worthless and unnecessary.
"You know Mother can't cope on her own. She's ill enough and weak enough as it is without you in the house unwatched. She's been through too many of your antics already."
Of course, Mycroft was referring to two weeks ago when I had slipped out of the house in the dead of night to get to the swimming pool on the other side of London.
"I've told you! Carl Powers' was murdered! It's obvious!" I insisted. I'd got to the swimming pool and slipped in easy enough, claiming to be 'a friend of Carls and here to collect his bag if possible'. It only took a few tears and a wavering voice. The police had started getting suspicious when I started trying to convince them that he was murdered but couldn't back up my theory. I was just a kid, what did I know?
"Sherlock. You have no proof. All the evidence is pointing the other way. Carl drowned. A tragic accident, but true."
I sighed, it was impossible. "I wouldn't be a problem for Mother. I promise."
"It would make it easier if you just went to school."
"But I don't want to!"
"Our Father would have wanted you to."
I looked down, my eyes prickling slightly. Father had died 3 weeks ago, and I had realised that showing emotion and tears and getting close to people was just a waste of time and it always hurt in the end.
All emotions had been ruthlessly shut out since Fathers' death, and I was refusing the tears to get the better of me.
"But Father's not here any more." I tore myself away from my older brother and stormed for the stairs. I knew I had no choice about the school, but it had been worth a try.
It was still early, so I still had about an hour until school started. Better start getting ready.
Walking into my room I noticed our maid, Shannon, had lain out my uniform on a hook on the back of my door. The black and red tie glared out at me, laughing at me.
Sighing, I slipped into the trousers and shirt, rolling up the sleeves and keeping the top button undone. Leaving the tie where it was for a moment, I fell onto my bed, looking at the ceiling, sighing loudly again without anyone to hear.
Looking around my room, I tried to work out if any other students at my school would have rooms like this. The richer ones might have the new games console and the brick-like phone, and the less-rich ones might have fantast books and posters and records and maybe CDs.
I just had a writing desk, which I mostly used just for work my tutor had given me, a few books on Criminal-rates and casebooks, which were on a shelf by the desk. A chest of draws and a wardrobe containing my shirts were in the corner, and a different desk for my Experiments and test tubes. I still had one going now, trying to work out where the stones the house was made of had originally come from.
So really, my room was basic, devoid of character and cold.
On the wall above me were newspaper clippings and articles about Carl Powers. The police were missing something, but I wasn't sure what, and to be honest I doubted I'd ever know. The very thought was infuriating.
I closed my eyes, thinking about the Carl Powers problem. Mycroft worked for the Government in some way. He was very sheltered about what he did there, but he definitely worked quite high up. He had control over the police in a sort of sense, but refused to trust my judgement about the murder.
My mind started whizzing through what I knew about it. His shoes had been missing, and there was no known reason for his muscles failing on him that day and causing him to drown. I cast my eyes over the articles again. Just a kid, so obviously no enemies. Lived nowhere near London, but in a nice little area, where no-one could hate you.
I let out a sound of frustration. No way to go at it.
I must have drifted of whilst my mind was trying to fix the situation over, because suddenly Mycroft was calling me to get in the car.
Jumping up, I grabbed the tie, carelessly throwing it round my neck and tugged on the blazer, hating the roughness against my skin. Stepping into the new-smelling shoes, I tied them up in a double knot and ran out of my door.
There was no point trying to pull my hair into shape, because it was always ruined as soon as I shook my head slightly. Besides, I didn't want to be too neat.
It was time to try and find out what kind of life normal kids had in a normal life with normal friends and a normal school.
This was going to be hell.
A/N: I know he's not even there yet, but this bit seemed sort of important and has been running in my mind for a few weeks now. I stole the 'mother being ill' theory from the Young Sherlock Holmes books by Andy Lane. They are AMAZING. And in those books his Father isn't there either, but it lets a few ideas' out of how he got all his deductive skills, and the violin skill and what-have-yous'.
So yes, I hope you liked it, I certainly had fun writing this out, whilst drinking coffee and watching Benny and Martin on my DVD.