Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed the last chapter...here's the second! Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I am making no profit from this. *Also, this fic is rated for language. There are slurs in it as well, some of them homophobic. Now, I happen to find homophobia to be a particularly deplorable trait, as I'm sure do all of you, but not everyone is so accepting, and thus our dear Sherlock and Watson will be the brunt of some nasty remarks. I'm sorry if this offends any of you dear readers, but it is the cold, hard truth that not everyone speaks prettily all the time. Also, people can be real bitches, if you'll excuse my colorful terminology.* /over and out/

Chapter Two

One Year Later

The train drew up to Lerwick station at fifteen past noon, and John Watson was the first one off the train. He dragged a duffel bag behind him, a satchel over his shoulder with spare shirts and football cleats and a pair of socks nearly spilling out—he'd packed in a hurry last night, amidst the hoarse shouts that issued from his parent's bedroom. After the tiny, cramped house outside of London, Lerwick's cool, sunny breeze was literally a breath of fresh air.

"John!" A girl's shout reached his ears moments before a short, lithe figure slammed him into a fierce embrace.

"Hey, Ruth!" John grinned as the girl stepped back, holding him at arm's length. Small and willowy, Ruth Wester had barely grown over the summer holidays. She had cut her brown hair into a shoulder-length style with short, perky bangs. Her hazel eyes skimmed his figure, as if to make certain that he was still in one piece.

"How're things at home?" Ruth asked as they hauled their bags to the nearby bus station. John dragged his duffel bag and shouldered a satchel, his football cleats, spare shirts, and stray socks nearly spilling from the top.

"They're—" John paused for a split second—a split second too long—before replying. "Fine."

Ruth cast him a pitying glance. This was one of the reasons that she had John had become friends during their first year at Newcastle—both came from working-class neighborhoods, and both had fathers whose favorite hobby was pub drinking after work.

"Dad tried to dry out over the summer," Ruth informed him as they paid their bus fares and lugged their bags aboard. The bus was crowded with fellow Newcastle students, all grinning and cheering and rejoicing. "Lasted three days before he came in dead drunk at two AM."

"I'm sorry," John said. Ruth hooked her arm into his, and they sat near the front of the bus.

"It's alright." She smiled thinly. "Have a good holiday?"

John felt like rolling his eyes, smiling, and saying, 'Of course not.'. Instead, he nodded and shrugged.

"Alright."

"Good."

...

"Watson, John H." The aging, stern-faced school secretary raked her finger across a clipboard, searching for John's name. "Right. Room twenty-one, B block." She paused. "Your roommate is Holmes, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes. John had heard the name whispered in the school halls, but never in a complimentary way. Holmes had been a transfer student last year, and had led the school to victory in a local science competition. Still, John wasn't even sure what Sherlock looked like. The boy was like a ghost—people talked about him sometimes, in hushed tones, but John had never actually seen him. Or maybe he had, and not realized who he was looking at.

"Twenty-one, twenty-one..." John roamed the second-floor hallway, searching for his future home. He found the door marked '21' and shouldered it open.

The room was small but bright—John's new roommate had already moved in: the bed under the window was made up, and there was a jumble of what appeared to be scientific instruments arranged on the desk. A very tall, very thin teenage boy stood before the closet, hanging up a gray school sweater.

"Hi." John dropped his duffel bag on the second, bare bed. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," The lanky boy turned, smiling somewhat stiffly. "You're John Watson, I presume?"

"Yeah." John pulled his messily-folded sheets from his duffel bag and began to make up his bed. Sherlock Holmes stood and watched him, arms folded. Sherlock had a severe look about him—his thin, pale face might have been cut from stone, and his pale eyes were sharp like glass. Dark haired curled over his ears, a feature that, on another person, might have been cute. He was by no means ugly, and John realized why some of the younger girls giggled when Holmes' name came up. Still, Sherlock appeared stoney-faced, almost stern. John wondered if this were Sherlock's natural appearance, or if he had taken a disliking to John.

"You play football?" Sherlock sounded surprised. He was staring at John's football kit.

"Been playing since I could walk." John boasted, then grinned. "Well, maybe since I was six or seven."

"Oh." Sherlock sounded suddenly awkward. "You're a sporty type, then."

John heard the implied, 'Not the academic sort, then' in Sherlock's voice. He threw a thin, lumpy white pillow on top of the bed and spread a thin Arsenal football team blanket over the sheets. Sherlock went and sat on his bed. He was already wearing the school uniform.

"How long have you been at Newcastle?" John asked, packing his clothes into the unoccupied dresser drawers. He hung his shirts haphazardly in the closet.

"This will be my second year."

"You won the Science Bowl last year, right?" John crammed a heap of socks into the top drawer. Sherlock smiled thinly, but it did not reach his pale eyes.

"A conversation starter, apparently. I wasn't aware that people remembered that."

"Oh," John laughed. "No, I just heard, you know, around campus...that you're a science-y type."

"I would say so, yes."

Silence fell, and reigned for the next twenty minutes, while John put his toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap in the bathroom.

"Damn." He peered into the depths of the duffel bag. "I forgot a razor."

"I doubt that you're in any immediate danger of growing a beard." Sherlock said. John bristled at this—fifteen years old, and he was barely five foot six—to Sherlock, he probably looked like a fourth year student. He had been praying for a growth spurt, but so far no luck. Maybe this year he would sprout up another couple of inches. Of course, compared to Sherlock's lanky height, he was practically a midget.

John forced a laugh, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't think him to be unfriendly, and stripped off his shirt. He scavenged in his drawer for a uniform shirt. Sherlock looked away, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if he did not want to look at John's bare chest.

"Are you going to orientation tonight?" Sherlock queried, his gray eyes still fixed on the ceiling tiles.

"It's mandatory, isn't it?"

"I've sat through it once. I sincerely doubt that I'll need to hear the same mundane ramblings a second time." Sherlock said airily. He crossed the room in several long, easy strides, and began to tape a complex-looking chemistry poster to the cinderblock wall. John sat down on his bed and attempted to organize his school books. He had several notebooks, a ream of clean lined paper, and a packet of pencils. Everything smelled clean and fresh and promising.

Sherlock, noticing the books, said, "Which courses will you take this year?"

John fished his schedule from the bottom of his duffel bag. He read off his classes one by one: "English Literature, Advanced Chemistry, Maths, European History."

He set the list aside. John could not help but notice Sherlock's blank, unimpressed expression.

"English Literature, European History, Advanced Chemistry, Advanced Maths, Advanced Latin." He paused, then added, "And orchestra."

"Wow." John arched his eyebrows, buttoning his uniform shirt quickly. Sherlock Holmes really *was* a genius. John could not imagine squeezing all of those classes into his schedule and having time left over for meals and social activity. "You're not planning on eating or sleeping all year, are you?"

Sherlock's blank expression did not waver, save for a slight incline of his eyebrows. He ripped a piece of tape from the roll. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry?"

"The violin. It does wonders for my concentration," Sherlock pressed the tape carefully onto the poster's edge, making a very thin, straight line.

"Oh," John said. "I don't mind it."

"Good." Sherlock's lips twitched upwards, into a thin smile.

"Do you do a lot of," John paused, glancing towards the jumble of scientific equipment. It looked expensive. "Experiments?"

"Investigations." Sherlock corrected, his smile vanishing. "They're investigations."

"Sorry." John smiled, hoping to convey that he did not mean to insult Sherlock. He thought about asking what exactly Sherlock 'investigated', but decided that it was best to live and let live. He decided to go out and find some of the other footballers. When he said this, though, a strange, almost pinched expression came over Sherlock's face.

John stood up and pulled on a school sweater. "Well," He said awkwardly. "See you round, then."

Sherlock nodded but did not reply. He was fishing around in a leather book-bag. John went out into the hallway, leaving the silent, tranquil world of 21b.

...

The football team was very glad to see John. They had congregated in the school's central quad, a grassy area surrounded by brick and stone buildings. Upon seeing John's approach, they rushed at him, shouting, grinning, waving their arms. Tom Washington tackled him to the ground, and when they cleared away John found himself sprawled on his back, staring at a blue bowl of sky, dizzy with happiness and belonging.

"Damn glad to see you, John!" Tom Washburn cried, slapping John's shoulder. "Maybe we'll turn the team around this year!"

John, whose mind had invariably drifted back to the team many times during the summer holidays, grinned.

"Maybe, Washburn," He said. "Maybe."

They stood around, languid and happy, killing time before orientation began. The talk quickly turned to roommate—who was rooming with who, who already hated the living arrangements...

"I want to kick him." Tom Washburn said fiercely. "I want to kick him, I swear. I come into the room ten minutes late, and he's already thrown his shit everywhere—books, shirts, his damn underwear in the sink. Damn Bart Wiseacres."

There was a general murmur of consent—Bart was ill-liked among his past roommates.

"Who've you got, John?" Lawrence Hanks asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, and at once regretted it. Half of the team broke out into laughter. The other half cast John pitying looks.

"He's not bad," John said fairly. "Quiet, I guess, but not mean."

"Just you wait," Lawrence crowed. "Until he dissects you in the middle of the night! The bloke's a bloody freak!"

"I hear he's..." Tom Washburn cast a furtive glance around. "You know."

"Queer." Someone supplied. "Fuckin' freak."

John felt something twist in his chest. Several of the boys guffawed at this, jostling each other around. Someone murmured a certain homophobic slur that made John all but cringe.

"Come off it," Greg Lestrade said loudly. "It's none of our bloody business." The boys who had smirked or laughed ceased—he was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and a year twelve student. Senior team members were automatically respected as authority figures in the world of secondary school football, but Greg never abused this power. John respected him even more for that.

"He's just a bit..." John paused, searching for a polite term. "Funny."

"Maybe he'll let you play with his chemistry set, John." Tom Washburn said, and nudged John with his elbow. Laughter followed. John shoved Washburn playfully, and they set off in a group for the assembly hall. John couldn't help but feel, for the first time in nearly three months, honestly, truly, happy.


Hello, dear readers! I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter! Please review and tell me what you think of it! (And another chapter is nearly up!)