A/N: To all those who read and reviewed, thank you for your support! I hope you enjoyed! This chapter is a bit longer than the other one, and I think they will get progressively longer. Sorry if it sucks, it is my first fanfic. To all you Merlin fans, my friend wholocked12 has a story called A Turn In The Century that is hilarious.

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The bell jolted John out of his reverie. Oh god I have to get to class! Panic flashed through him as the mob of students cascaded through the now-open doors. Forced to keep up, he rushed along with them, whisked away from the stranger, er, Sherlock. What an exotic name, very fancy. It suited his admirable looks. NOPE, NOT GOING THERE. Oh look, the office. THE OFFICE. Struggling against the onslaught of large, pubescent bodies, John somehow made it back to the office doors. Maybe being the shortest kid in your grade did have some upsides. His meager hopes of making a good impression were shattered when he caught a reflection of himself in the glass of the door. His tie was mangled beyond repair, looking more akin to a hangman's noose than a sophisticated piece of clothing. The shirt his mother had carefully and lovingly ironed for him would need a heck of a lot more ironing after today if this morning was any indication. And his hair, oh my, that was not a pretty sight to behold.

The receptionist sitting at the foremost desk looked at him with sympathetic eyes. Did he really look that pathetic? "Um, excuse me, uh ma'am?" he faltered, not sure how to address the woman. Manners were always good though. "Oh! You must be our new student, John Watson! Am I correct? And so polite, we need more of that here!" John wasn't sure if her kindness was genuine, but a quick glance at her eyes revealed she was. What a kind woman, he didn't meet many office-workers that actually enjoyed their job. "Here's your schedule, hon. There's a map attached in back, and if you get lost there are prefects that are stationed in the hallways every hour." She smiled brightly as she handed him the items. "Also, your assignment notebook," a chunky object he didn't plan on using was also handed over, "A printing card, and a take-home folder for Thursdays. You keep the card in the library and the folder in your homeroom. Speaking of, you homeroom teacher is Mr. Holmes." Holmes, why was that familiar?

Another bell rang, the late bell. He hoped he would be excused since it was his first day and he was still sorting everything out. John consulted the map in his hands. It seemed Mr. Holmes' room was on the far side of the building, accessed only through a pair of double-doors on his left. Stumbling into the lecture hall, he was surprised to see the man he met earlier, Sherlock, Sherlock, what was it again? Oh yes, Holmes, arguing with the man at the lectern, most likely Mr. Holmes. Wait, they were both Holmes? He didn't think they put relatives in the same class, but maybe it was special circumstance. He tried to sneak to an open seat without causing a fuss, but Mr. Holmes noticed him with eagle-sharp eyes. "Young man, where do you think you are going?" the teacher asked with a forced politeness, he obviously wasn't happy. "I-I'm your transfer student, John Watson." John managed to force it out of his unyielding vocal cords.

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Sherlock got to class early, stashing his bag on the floor by his chair. Why on Earth did they think it was a good idea to put him in his brother's homeroom? It was bad enough Mycroft taught at the school he attended, but being in his class? It seems to be divine punishment, not that there is such a thing. Picking up his book, "The Risen Empire" by Scott Westerfeld, he immersed himself in the world of the future. Frivolous pursuits such as reading fiction didn't normally engage him, but the book was skillfully written, plunging you into the storyline from page one. A presence at his side pulled him from the battlefront and back into reality. "What do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock sighed inwardly, turning his gaze back to his book, the first in a series, one he planned to have read by the end of the day.

A rough hand grasped his chin firmly, craning his neck to look into cold, watered-down grey eyes. "Look at me when I'm speaking, brother dear." The sneer was evident in his voice alone, but pictured on his face was one of epic proportions. "Well, you weren't talking until a few moments ago, so you have no reason to ridicule me." Sherlock's witty retort earned another hard glare from his dearest brother. His mind meandered back to the bloke from before, who had been brutally torn from him mid-sentence by the ungracious bell. He was so kind, that was a new experience for Sherlock, and a pleasant one. Feeling himself getting dragged to his feet, he grasped the thin thread of consciousness in the present, binging himself back.

Normally stronger than his brother, his brief trip to his mind-palace changed that. Sherlock allowed Mycroft to drag him to the front podium. Once there, Mycroft started wildly gesticulating to something on his laptop. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock regarded the file his brother had pulled up on the screen. It seemed to be the class plans for the day, but someone had tampered with it. A genius tampering, he added with an inner smile. "It wasn't me, Myc; you should be able to recognize my work by now. This," he gestured to the file, "is obviously not my work. I would never stoop to such an unintelligent level of antagonization." After a moment, he considered what he said and added, "Even for you."

Mycroft's face was beet red by the time students started filing in, exhaustion evident on their already school-weary faces. Sherlock snuck a quick glance at the list of students in this class. Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade, Phillip Anderson, Sally Donovan, Irene Adler, Kitty Riley, John Watson, Arthur Conan-Doyle, Charles A. Magnussen, Andrew Scott. He couldn't finish reading the list before Mycroft snatched it away and positioned it under his beak of a nose to read off the roll. Ugh, the females were less than desirable in this class. They either hated him with a fierce passion or were prominent members of his alleged "fan club." John Watson, the bloke he met before, was also on the list. A part of him, hidden deep inside the recesses of his being, wanted the fellow to sit by him.

When Sherlock escaped his brother's grasp, he headed back to his seat in the rear of the room. A small click at the door alerted him to another presence. A very flustered John Watson unsuccessfully tried to sneak into the classroom. Sherlock looked to the seat next to him. Empty, as always. That small part of him inside rejoiced when he noticed his was the only empty seat left. "Young man, where do you think you are going?" he heard Mycroft direct at John with that sickeningly sweet, fake politeness of his. "I-I'm your transfer student, John Watson." John stuttered out, clearly flustered.

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I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes, I got lost." John faced the hawk-like gaze of his professor's eyes. "I'm in your class, so I'll just, sit." Get yourself together, come on, channel your father. He glanced around, finding the only open seat next to the student he met earlier. Sherlock looked very bored, John thought, immersed in a work of fiction. Glancing at the cover, he found it was a book by one of his favorite authors. "That's a fantastic book." John whispered to the man sitting next to him. "Books are the best weapons in the world you know." He only got a curt nod in response. Were his friendly advances being pushed away? Sherlock seemed so open and accepting of him earlier, maybe John was wrong.

He took out his notebook and a pencil to take notes on what seemed to be calculus. Math. In. The. Morning. Blimey, he would have to get used to some different sleeping schedules if he was to get through the school year alive. At least he could see Sherlock in the morning, the first real almost-friend he had made this year. A chorus of giggles erupted from the row before them, and John noticed the group of girls had been among the gaggle surrounding Sherlock before school in the courtyard. A fan-club maybe? They seemed the type. His suspicions were confirmed when he glanced between their shoulders and saw what they were giggling at. A horrendous drawing of Sherlock was scrawled on the paper they were supposed to use to take notes. This photo was surrounded by illegible signatures that John mused were the girl's names with Sherlock's surname attached on the end.

Glancing over at Sherlock, John noticed he wasn't even paying attention to the lecture. Shoot, he wasn't either! He looked at the board with trepidation, oh gosh, how did all that get on the board? He felt a nudge at his hand. A notebook full of notes on this lesson was scrawled in barely-legible script. John looked at Sherlock with thanks brimming over. Maybe he did want to be friends? He seemed pretty lonely. He quickly scribbled down the notes before sliding back the notebook. In the corner of the page underneath was something dark.

Flipping the page, there was an intricate drawing of a dog. It almost looked as if it would jump out of the page and lick him on the face. The notebook was slammed closed and whipped from his hands. He looked up to find steely green-blue eyes staring into his. John gulped. He wasn't thinking about how beautiful those eyes were, or how full those lips were, and what it would feel like when those smooth hands touched his face. When? How about if? Wait, what? He shouldn't be having these thoughts at all. Rubbing his temples, John contemplated his life choices, not noticing the grey eyes glaring up at him.