Hello, everyone. So basically this is about how teenaged John Watson and Sherlock Holmes meet at the Merwick House, a home for 'troubled' kids. Please enjoy and REVIEW!
I would give anything to not be here right now. John sat in a plastic chair in the narrow hall, swinging his feet and feeling rather like a naughty schoolboy sent to the headmaster's office. A battered suitcase sat next to him, the handles broken and frayed, bound shut with twine. Across the hall was a cluttered office with the nameplate 'Miss Hudson' tacked to the door. Inside, he could hear the low voices of young Metro police officer Davies and a woman, presumably Miss Hudson. He knew that they were discussing him-him and his poor situation. Everything smelled like sour milk and the lights in the hallway were flickering yellow. John was strongly and unpleasantly reminded of the council housing flats that he had grown up in. He wondered if the Merwick House would be any different from the housing project, with the druggies and single mums and bullies and drunks stumbling down the halls in the wee hours of the morning.
After a few minutes, Davies and a middle-aged woman with thin brown hair emerged from the small office. The police officer clapped John on the shoulder.
"This is Miss Hudson, she's agreed to let you stay here for as long as you need to, alright?"
John nodded, unsure of what else he should say. He was unimaginably grateful to his new friend in the police department for bringing him here. If not for the kindness of Davies, he would have been sleeping another night on the streets.
"I've got to run, but Miss Hudson here will help you set up your things." He gave John another brotherly pat on the shoulder and then strode down the hall and out the door, leaving John alone with a woman he'd never met.
"Well then, dearie, let's get you upstairs." Miss Hudson ushered him up a narrow flight of stairs to the second story, where there was another long hall that also smelt like sour milk. He followed her to the very end, past doors that opened to messy bedrooms, all clearly belonging to other teenagers. Heavy rap music thudded from somewhere, and a girl's high giggle floated from the opposite end of the hall.
"Girls are on that side, boys on this side," Miss Hudson informed him, pointing to a strip of masking tape that had been laid across the thin carpet. "No crossing the lines, Johnny."
John felt a sick squirm in his stomach at the use of his old pet name.
"Actually, it's just John," he told her quietly. Miss Hudson patted his shoulder.
"Of course, dear." She raised one hand and knocked on the last door on the left. A little plaque hung crookedly next to it: 'Room 21b'. After a long moment of awkward silence, the door opened a few inches. A tall, lanky boy stood there, his pale face framed with dark hair.
"Sherlock, this is John, your new room mate." Miss Hudson steered John and his suitcase inside, past a narrow-eyed Sherlock.
What a funny name, John thought. He tried to imagine a set of parents cruel enough to give their son such a strange title and failed. The boys he knew had names like George and Paul and Robbie and Dave.
"I thought it was clear that I was to live alone," Sherlock murmured, his lips barely moving. Miss Hudson paused in the doorway and gave him a slightly bemused smile.
"Well, Sherlock, you can't expect us to pander to every individual's demands now, can you?" She reached out and straightened his shirt collar. "Explain the rules to John, won't you?"
And then she was gone, bustling off down the hall. A horribly awkward silence followed during which John put his things on the empty bed next to the wall. Sherlock had already claimed the one next to the window. The room was small and cluttered-a wardrobe and a bookcase that was filled with market stall tit tat and overflowing with numerous thick tomes. Several beakers filled with brightly coloured gloop were lined up on the windowsill.
"So, I suppose you're my new room mate," he said, the distaste audible in his voice. "Let's set some ground rules, shall we?"
John shrugged and began to unpack his meagre collection of clothing, folding worn jumpers and old jeans into the bottom drawer of the wardrobe as Sherlock talked about not touching anything that wasn't his and keeping away from the experiments and how they should respect each other's privacy. He was aware that Sherlock was watching him rather intently, like a scientist observing an interesting specimen through a microscope. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
"You ran away from home."
John jerked upright, dropping his jumper.
"Excuse me?"
Sherlock was pacing now, one hand on his chin, as though he were a playwright about to discourse on some fascinating history.
"Your father is an alcoholic, your mother is addicted to prescription medication and you have an older brother who you don't get along with. Your father is abusive towards your mother, both physically and verbally. Your older brother turned to drinking to escape the pain but you left home to escape the conflict. You play football, too, and you're good at it."
John felt something stirring in his chest, something angry and scared and at once chilling and burning with anger. Who the bloody hell was this bloke? He had just described John's life to a tee, right down his vicoden-obsessed mum. Except, John thought, with a sort of strange pride, that he had an older sister, not an older brother.
"How in the hell do you know that?" His voice quavered and John felt disgusted with himself. Sherlock, however, simply smirked. Clearly, he was enjoying himself immensely.
"I observe, John."
And he proceeded to flop down on his bed with a thick book entitled A History of Forensic Science and bury his nose in the pages. John stared at him for a long moment, transfixed by the cold intelligence that seemed to radiate from the other boy. There was something very strange about Sherlock, though John couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Dinner that night was something else. A mass of teenagers assembled in the dining hall downstairs, all shouting and laughing and shoving each other. John, unsure of where to sit but certain that he didn't wish to dine with Sherlock, chose a seat at a wide table near the door. A pretty African-American girl and a strapping older boy moved over to make room for him.
"Greg Lestrade," the older boy introduced himself. The African-American girl said that her name was Sally Donovan.
"So you're rooming with Sherlock Holmes, eh?" Sally inquired.
"Yeah, that's right," John agreed around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. It was the first meal in days that he hadn't dug out of a trash bin.
"Better watch out for him," Sally warned. Greg rolled his eyes, as though he had heard this little speech before. "He's a right freak, that Sherlock Holmes. Completely obsessed with dead bodies and serial murderers and blood spatters. And he thinks he's so much better than us, because his family's rich and he's so bloody clever. I wouldn't be surprised if one day he becomes one of those serial murderers that he's so obsessed with…"
John's eyebrows were rising, tilting towards each other in confusion. Greg was shaking his head.
"So he's…mad or something? He seems alright to me."
This was a lie. Sherlock seemed creepy, weird and a little bit mad, but not alright. Still, John was not one to make quick judgements. He had only known Sherlock for a few hours at the most.
"He's sort of odd," Greg admitted. "But he's not that bad, if you get to know him."
Sally snorted into her greens.
"Aye, if he doesn't dissect you first." She winked saucily at John. "Have fun getting to sleep knowing he's in the same room as you, mate."
Suddenly, John was a lot less eager to go back to room 21b.
Sherlock, as it turned out, hadn't gone down to dinner at all. When John returned to the corner room, the dark-haired boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his nose buried in a thick book. It was not the one he had been reading earlier, and John wondered how Sherlock could possibly speed through the volume so quickly.
"Make any new friends?" Sherlock inquired, his voice chilly. John gathered his pyjamas from the bottom drawer and ducked behind the wardrobe to change.
"Everyone here seems nice," he offered, not eager to inform Sherlock of exactly what his fellows here thought of him. There was a loud snort from the other bed.
"Nice. Well, I'm sure they were lovely to someone like you."
John tied his pyjamas and came around to sit on the edge of his bed and pull on a thick pair of socks. It had become chilly in the little room despite the fact that it was early summer.
"What do you mean, someone like me?"
John could imagine what Sherlock was going to say: someone poor. Someone beaten. Someone from council housing. Someone screwed up. Instead, the other boy gave a dark chuckle.
"Someone ordinary."
And Sherlock fell silent for the rest of the evening. John lay down in the cold bed, pulled the thin woollen blanket up to his chin and tried to fall asleep. His roommate kept reading long into the night, after the streetlamps outside had flickered on and bathed the interior of Merwick House in a strange green light. Eventually, John fell into a restless slumber.