AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first attempt at writing the Sherlock characters as youngsters. (When I say young, I mean teenage.) Mycroft is only two years older than Sherlock here, which isn't accurate... but anyway. Please review.
Settling in at this new school wasn't going to be simple. I wasn't going to be able to go home at the end of the day and tell mum and dad how my day had been tedious or fun or informative. No, this was a boarding school. And since my parents came into money it seemed appropriate to send me to a private institution from age sixteen to eighteen.
I like to see myself as quite a down-to-earth kind of guy, not at all pompous or self-obsessed. Sure, I wanted to be a doctor someday, but I would never let my intelligence turn me into a snob. My name's John Watson by the way. And this is how the first day at my new school went...
…
There was that 'old building' smell in the corridors, a mixture of decaying wood, pencil sharpenings and paper. I took care to locate the room I'd be staying in. Apparently, it was room number 221, on the East side of the school – the boy's side. Upon entering the room, I noticed there were four beds. Two boys seemed to be unpacking their cases for the term ahead. One of the boys had mousey-coloured hair and the other had a neat dark brown style.
The mousey boy turned round to look at me with a wide, toothy grin. He was quite handsome, in an endearing way. He had dark puppy-dog eyes and a short nose. He held out his hand for me to shake.
"Hey, I'm Gregory Lestrade. Friends call me Greg. You must be the new kid, yeah? John Watson? We were told to expect ya." He had a Cockney accent.
The other boy turned around with a haughty expression on his face. He was a hell of a lot taller than Greg and I.
"And I'm Mycroft Holmes," he said stiffly. "Do be careful not to muck up my side of the room. I need it in pristine condition this term."
"Oi, it wasn't me who messed up your stuff last time! It was your brother!" Greg retorted defensively. "Where is he anyway?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes and shrugged before leaving the room.
I cleared my throat awkwardly a few moments after the tall boy had left. "He seems… weird."
Greg smiled and shook his head. "You think he's weird? Wait till you see his brother. He's the real nutcase here. I don't get to speak to him much, though. All he does is sit around reading, conducting experiments or playing the violin."
"Bit socially awkward then?"
"Yeah, but he's a genius. And mad as a box of frogs."
"I'd, er, better watch out for him then. What's his name?"
"Sherlock Holmes. And don't worry, I'll show you who he is in our next lesson… which is, erm…" Greg consulted his watch, "-in about half an hour!"
…
I loved science lessons. In fact, I thrived in my last school - which specialised in biology. Becoming a doctor in some way, shape or form was important to me. My physical fitness led my parents to think I might join the army. I used to think that was quite an absurd notion. But perhaps not. An army doctor might be just the career I was made for.
I took a seat opposite Greg, who was sitting next to a pretty, petite girl I assumed he had a crush on. He was going bright red, after all. Her name was Molly Hooper according to her workbook, and her pigtails and upturned nose made her look even cuter than she acted. No wonder Greg was babbling on about God knows what. She wasn't my type though. I don't even know if I had a type. People think I'm some kind of womaniser but it's only because I like companionship, and what's wrong with that?
This time, Molly had gone bright red, but it wasn't over Greg. It wasn't over me, either. I turned around to see who she was looking at and that's when I saw him. Sherlock Holmes.
He was tall, like his brother, but much paler and almost ethereal in beauty. I suppose some could say he was so pale that he was almost blue. Not in an ill, malnourished way... but in a glowing way. His almond-shaped eyes were of the brightest, iciest sky-blue I'd ever seen, and his lips were shaped in a way that made his Cupid's bow very prominent. Beneath a mop of untamed, wavy dark hair, he had a pair of very high and sharp cheekbones. Overall, he was striking. Unusual. Alien. But striking was probably the first word I'd use.
I swallowed thickly and turned back to Greg and Molly, who were still staring at Sherlock with their mouths slightly open like a couple of goldfish. When I looked around the room, it seemed that other students were busy throwing little glances his way too. When I returned my gaze to Sherlock Holmes, however, I found he was looking straight at me with a stare so intense I could have fallen off my seat…