((A/N) By the way, I've never written a fanfiction before. I'm brand new to this, please give me some feedback so I can get an idea of how I'm doing!)
John examined his schedule and tried to match the room numbers to the different areas of the school. Even on paper the place was bloody confusing.
He glanced at the clock and cursed. Orientation was starting in twenty minutes and he had no idea where the main reception hall was.
He stumbled out of the room, ignoring his stiff leg, and headed in the only direction he still remembered—out of Hall B.
John was unconsciously stomping, annoyed but trying to pretend that nothing was bothering him. How? How could someone know so much about him so fast? It wasn't even as though he could have figured something out by asking around. John was brand new. And Harry's drinking? He never talked about that. Not to anyone.
John was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn't paying enough care to his surroundings, which led him to running directly into a student with an armful of books. The entire stack crashed to the ground.
"I am so sorry!" John sputtered, immediately bending to pick them all up.
"Don't worry about it!" the girl assured him. "I wasn't paying any attention to where I was going."
"Well, neither was I," John muttered, handing the girl her books. She was tiny and cute, with auburn hair and a shy smile. "I'm John," he introduced himself.
"Molly," she replied, balancing the stack in one arm as she shook his had. "Are you new here?" she asked.
John nodded. Her face fell slightly.
"What is it?" John asked, startling at the vivid blush that bloomed over her cheeks.
"It's nothing," she said, her eyes downcast. John was fairly well versed in the strange language of young women (Harry had made sure of that) so he was well aware that there was, in fact, something. He folded his arms and waited patiently. "I was just looking for someone," she finally answered, blushing deeper. "But you're new, you won't know him."
John laughed. "You've got a point there. I've only met Mike Stamford and my completely mental roommate. And you, I guess." For an instant John considered flirting, but quickly disabused himself of the thought. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Molly was obviously infatuated with someone else. "Could you help me real fast?" he asked as she started to edge away.
"Of course," she responded readily.
"Can you point me in the direction of the Main Reception Hall? I have no idea where anything is."
Molly smiled and gave him brief directions that John tried to commit to memory. He thanked the sweet girl and she scurried away, in search of…whoever it was she was looking for.
John ignored the map and followed Molly's directions. With minor backtracking he made it to the Reception Hall just in time for the beginnings of Orientation. John sat in the back, distancing himself from the first years who were chattering excitedly with each other, looking rather like a pack of caffeinated squirrels.
The Reception Hall was a large lecture room with rows of seats staggered up, looking down at a sunken stage where a projector was flipping through the slides of a power point. A professor spoke into a microphone, reading the litany of useless material from each individual frame.
There was a flurry of movement at his side before someone rushed into the seat next to him, collapsing limply. John glanced up, surprised to find that Sherlock had joined him. The pale boy settled in his seat, pocketing a corked test tube as he did so. John had half hoped that Sherlock had been kidding about toxic chemicals, but evidently that was not the case.
Something occurred to John as a professor began droning on about safety guidelines.
"You aren't new," he whispered to Sherlock. It was a statement, not a question.
"Obviously," Sherlock muttered, glancing around the room rapidly.
"Then why are you at Orientation?"
Sherlock smirked at him briefly before turning his attention back to the students again. John thought he was going to ignore the question before Sherlock finally answered.
"I skipped it last year," he said shortly. "And I thought that it would be a good chance to catalogue the freshmen." He pointed out an athletic looking kid who was constantly distracting those around him from the lecture. "Abused at home, vents the anger he holds towards his manipulative mother and deadbeat father in contact sports. He gets no attention in his house, so he tries to get as much as he can at school, positive and negative. He'll be a problem student." Sherlock pointed out an intelligent looking child who was obviously bored with the reception. "Kleptomaniac. Just before we came in here he stole another boy's watch. That girl is a spelling bee champion with an irrational fear of clowns. There, that boy volunteers at an animal hospital, and that girl there was a dancing protégée until an injury three years ago which left her unable to continue lessons. And there-"
"You can't do this," John finally interrupted. Sherlock glanced back at him, looking annoyed and bored. "People can't just…know everything about someone like that. You've got to be making it up."
"Did I make up everything about you?" Sherlock asked, something mischievous dancing in his verdigris eyes. "I was right about it, wasn't I? It's the science of deduction, Watson. Everything you ever need to know is right before you, you just have to see it."
"Then how?"John finally asked, his voice beginning to hinge on desperation. "How did you know everything about me?"
Sherlock glanced at him warily before smirking. "Your backpack," he began. "You set it down with your duffel as soon as you came into the room. It wasn't the standard backpack that you get at the market, oh no. It was military grade, designed for a combative soldier, and the coloring of the camouflage suggests a desert environment. The design is several years old, which logically suggest that the conflict took place in either Afghanistan or Iraq.
"How did I know it was your father? That's more complicated. Your family wouldn't be able to afford this school on their own, the duct tape sealing up a hole on the duffel bag speaks volumes on that end alone. That necessitates some sort of scholarship or grant to give you admission. Your right leg troubles you, so you wouldn't be here for sports. Therefore, the remaining conclusions are academics or the military scholarship offered by the school. The deduction there was obvious, the backpack was right there after all. The scholarship calls for a close family member, meaning it had to be your older brother or one of your parents. You hold yourself with military style, straight back, squared shoulders, and arms at ease. This suggests imitation from a figure you look up to, most likely your father since you disapprove of your brother's habits."
"How… did you know about Harry?" John finally interjected, feeling defensive on his sibling's behalf.
Sherlock grinned and continued to speak. "Ah, your brother. The duffel bag used to be his. The tag on it says as much, although 'Harry' has been crossed out and your own name has been written above it. There are stains on the bag that belong to a yellowish brown substance, although that could be apple juice as easily as beer. Your phone, however, confirms alcoholism. A flip phone, several years out of date, therefore it's most likely to be a hand me down, which is not surprising in a home with your family's economic status. The phone is very banged up, frequently dropped, and there are small scuff marks near the port for the charger. The owner's fine motor skills are frequently impaired. He fumbles and drops the phone when he calls for a ride, and his hand trembles when he plugs it back in for the night. Therefore, you brother is a drinker, most likely a partier due to his age. At university now, correct? At any rate, this behavior is not uncommon in a dysfunctional household; it's likely a rebellion against your strict military father.
"This brings us to the limp. Your ankle was sprained, that much is obvious from the way you're still used to putting your weight on it, but you no longer wear any sort of bandage or brace. It's all healed up then, but you have a tendency to revert to the limp. Unless there is an internal reason for the limp to stick around, it is probably partly psychosomatic due to the stress in your household. As to whether it's a cry for a detached parent's attention or a defense mechanism to avoid abuse, I honestly can't say, although I'm leaning more towards emotional negligence than physical violence. Did I get anything incorrect?"
John gaped at Sherlock, trying to fathom how someone could possibly do what he just did.
"That was…" John finally sputtered, "absolutely amazing."
"Amazing?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly to the side as though the compliment surprised him.
"Yes, of course," John said, his voice still hushed. "What else?"
Sherlock was quiet for a second.
"That's not what people normally say," he said thoughtfully.
"What do people normally say?" John asked.
"'Piss off,'" Sherlock replied dryly.
John was lost to a convulsion of giggles. After a moment Sherlock joined him. They laughed until a professor sternly banished them from the Reception Hall.
"I wonder what I was supposed to have learned," John wondered as they were forced back into the corridor.
"Nothing of value," Sherlock assured him. "'Don't break the rules' and 'make sure to give big donations when you graduate,' that sort of thing, I'm sure." Sherlock was didn't say anything for a moment as they walked back to their dormitory. "Did I get everything right?" he asked after a brief hesitation.
"What?" John didn't quite follow.
"About you, did I get everything right? I'm still working out the kinks in this science; feedback is critical."
John sighed. "My father was stationed in Afghanistan. He started hitting the bottle hard when he came back. Funds have been low; they're being used to support his habits. Harry, instead of learning from him, drinks to forget about it."
"All of it, then? I didn't think I'd done that well." Sherlock seemed pleased with himself.
"Harry is short for Harriet," John added with a small smile.
Sherlock scowled. "Sister! Argh, there's always something."
"It was still bloody brilliant," John assured him, still blown away by the display. "Absolutely fantastic."
"Oy!" a familiar voice called. John and Sherlock simultaneously turned around to look behind them. "There you two are! Glad to see you're getting along, then!" Mike trotted up to them with a small package in his hands. He passed it to Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson is having me run errands again. But look at you! Class hasn't even started yet and you're getting mail."
"Interesting," Sherlock said, pocketing the package. Mike looked like he was expecting some sort of explanation, but John was learning that he likely wouldn't get anything. "Give Mrs. Hudson my regards. I'll be at our appointment tomorrow afternoon, most likely."
Sherlock started wandering off. John prepared to follow him, but Mike caught his arm.
"Getting on with him, then?" Mike asked, excitement bright in his eyes. John grinned.
"He's a little off, but I might be able to get used to him," John answered honestly. "Although it's only been an hour."
"An hour is more than enough to get a clear picture of Sherlock Holmes," Mike laughed. "The fact that you haven't already demanded a room reassignment is a blessing in itself! You two will be thick as thieves in the week!"
John was skeptical. He couldn't see Sherlock becoming pals with anyone. John assumed that he was being allowed to tag along because Sherlock was bored.
"Right," he said halfheartedly. "I'm going to go head back to my room, unpack a bit. I'll catch you later?"
"Sure thing!" Mike said. "Have a good one!"
John turned away with a small smile and walked alone for about a minute before he realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was or where he was going. With a long suffering sigh he took his map out of his pocket again and began to navigate.
