Chapter Two

Getting to Know You

Sherlock is waiting when John ambles out of the gates at twenty to four that afternoon. He has a lit cigarette in his hand and is lounging against the wall, his restless gaze taking in all the milling students. He spots John and drops the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the toe of his shoe.

"Ready? My driver's just over there." He gestures to a dark car which is idling by the kerb. John gapes.

"Your driver?"

"Of course. Mummy would be horrified if I had to get here by something as common as the bus." This sentence is delivered in a perfectly neutral, deadpan tone and John squints at the taller boy, unsure whether he's serious or if this might be Sherlock's peculiar sense of humour.

"Right. So, will your driver be able to give me a lift back? My dad likes me and Harry to be back by seven at the latest."

"I presume so," Sherlock replies laconically, sliding into the passenger seat. John pauses, sighs and then gets in the back, feeling slightly irritated as he does so. It's like Sherlock goes out of his way to make John feel as stupid and inadequate as possible.

The drive to Sherlock's house takes about ten minutes. Sherlock himself doesn't talk and neither does the driver. John shifts uncomfortably on the leather seat and contents himself with staring out the window at the passing scenery.

Then the car draws into a driveway and John has to physically stop his mouth from falling open in astonishment.

"You live here?"

Sherlock heaves a sigh and gets out of the car. "Obvious, John," he says as he strides up to the front door of the absolutely enormous house. "We'd hardly be pulling up in front of a complete stranger's home would we?"

John trots after him, feeling more self-conscious than ever as he eyes the myriad sparkling windows and the elegant balustrades.

Before Sherlock reaches the door it opens to reveal a fairly small, plump woman wearing a housedress and an apron. Her grey hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head with a few large hairpins skewered through it. She's beaming as Sherlock strides up.

"I thought I heard the car. How was your day, Sherlock?"

"Fine," he responds curtly, moving past her without any other acknowledgement. John hastens up and thrusts his hand out.

"I'm John Watson, Mrs Holmes," he says as Sherlock clearly isn't going introduce him. To his surprise the woman chuckles as she takes his hand and pumps it up and down.

"Good to meet you John Watson but I'm hardly Mrs Holmes. My name's Jean, I'm the housekeeper and general dogsbody."

John flushes a brilliant red as he's towed into the cavernous foyer. "I'm so sorry," he mutters. "I just assumed…"

"Bless you, dear, don't worry."

"For all intents and purposes, John, Jean is my mother. My biological parent can hardly be bothered with me unless it's to discuss my progress in school or my plans for a future career. Both of which, I might add, have so far been a continuous disappointment to her. So unlike my dear brother."

"Now, Sherlock, don't start," Jean scolds, swatting him lightly on the arm. "Your mother's just very busy, that's all."

"Yes, she's been busy for sixteen years," Sherlock drawls. "Well, come along, John. My room's this way." He heads abruptly towards the stairs towards the back of the foyer. John moves to trail after him but his wrist is caught suddenly by Jean who leans towards him confidentially.

"I'm so glad Sherlock's got a friend at last," she says in a low voice. "He's such a lonely boy."

John coughs awkwardly. He can hardly say that he and Sherlock aren't exactly friends and feels embarrassed on Sherlock's behalf. So he mumbles a vague agreement and follows after Sherlock who is now halfway up the staircase.

Sherlock's room is large and one of the strangest bedrooms John's ever been in. Ranged along the back wall are numerous metal tables with various scientific equipment set up on them. Vibrant liquids bubble in a few of the vials and John eyes them cautiously as he edges into the room and drops his bag down by the door. Sherlock is over to his left, clearing a space on a large desk.

"Sorry about the mess," he says suddenly, twisting a hand through his curls. "I'm not the tidiest of people, especially when I'm experimenting."
"Experimenting?" John parrots faintly.

"Yes. I told you, and the whole class, that I'm interested in science. Which is why I believe you're lucky to be paired with me. With my knowledge our project will easily be the best in the class."

John blinks. "Do you actually know what 'modesty' means?"

Sherlock tilts his head as he eyes John speculatively. "I know what false modesty is, John. I know I'm exceptional at science and I'm quantifiably a genius. Since you, and everybody else in Hughes's class, are neither exceptional at science nor a genius I see no fault in saying that our project will be the best. It's simply fact. What would I gain in lying?"

"You could just not say it to start with," John mumbles, trying to quell his anger. The vague guilt he's been experiencing almost continually since agreeing to Rob's plan evaporates quickly. Rob is right. Sherlock does need to be taken down a peg or two. "Come on then, genius. Let's get started."

Thankfully, once they embark on discussing ideas and experiments for their project, it gets a little easier between them. Sherlock even seems quite pleased at some of the suggestions John comes out with and every time he praises him John can't help the small, warm glow of happiness he feels, deep inside. He suspects this is because praise from Sherlock is not shallow nor meaningless. Whenever Sherlock Holmes says well done, John knows that he means it.

By about six o'clock, Sherlock stretches his arms languidly over his head. "Should we leave it there?" he asks. "I know you said you need to be home by seven. Where do you live?"

"Not far," John replies. "The Cranbrook estate."

"Ah yes," Sherlock says, and to his credit doesn't flinch at all. "That's about ten minutes from here, right?"

"Probably," John agrees, shrugging.

"Well, in that case, do you perhaps…" Sherlock glances at the floor and runs a hand through his hair, "… do you, I mean if you don't want to head straight…"

"Just spit it out," John says, smiling slightly at the almost nervous expression on Sherlock's face.

"Would you like to have a look at some of my experiments?" Sherlock asks quickly, his pale face flushing.

John shrugs, interested despite himself. "Sure. They're not going to blow up in my face or anything are they?"

Sherlock quirks his lips in the first approximation of a smile John's ever seen from him. "Shouldn't do."

To his surprise, John thoroughly enjoys the half hour or so they spend glancing over Sherlock's experiments. The knowledge Sherlock has of almost everything is incredible and John wonders what it must be like to have such a first class mind. He can almost understand Sherlock's arrogance and rudeness to others. Almost.

As he reaches the car and opens the door, John twists around to ask Sherlock something which has been bothering him for awhile.

"You said yourself that you think everybody else idiots and yet you went out of your way to talk to me that first day at school. Why?"

Sherlock shrugs and kicks lightly at the ground. "I don't really know." He glances up at John and then slides his gaze away. "Perhaps I thought you were slightly less idiotic than the others."

John huffs a laugh, nods and then climbs into the passenger seat. "Right. Well, I'll see you tomorrow then."

XXXXXXXXXX

The next day is Friday and most of John's friends are making plans about what to do at the weekend.

"You up for that new film, John?" Ryan asks, clapping him so hard on the back it makes John wince slightly. "It's supposed to be sick. And it's got that actress in it, you know, the one with the massive tits."

John flinches and then forces a sickly smile onto his face. Although he's attracted to boys he still likes girls but the way his mates talk about them sometimes makes him feel slightly ill.

"Erm, maybe. I think my Dad might want me to do a few things around the house," he says evasively.

"Aww, don't be such a loser, John."

Just as John is about to mumble something in response, someone else interrupts. "Just because John doesn't wish to see some vapid film with a no doubt predictable plot, dull actors and horrendous writing does not make him a loser. In fact, I should think it makes him rather the opposite."

John glances around to see Sherlock standing coolly just off to the side, his arms folded across his chest, his school uniform pristine as always.

"Fuck off, faggot. We're not talking to you," Ryan scoffs, turning away.

"C'mon, don't call him that," John says rather weakly, hating himself for his cowardice but unable to stand up for Sherlock any more.

"Well, he is," Ryan sneers. "Aren't you, Sherly?"

"I hardly believe my sexual preference is any of your business," Sherlock drawls, "and don't call me Sherly. John, don't forget we have practice for our project later."

"Oooh, practice for the project John," Joe says, laughing. "Can't miss that, can you?"

Aware of all his mates smirking and laughing, John feels his face flushing bright red and can't meet Sherlock's eyes as he shrugs his shoulders.

"Whatever," he mumbles, turning away and heading out of the lunch hall. He feels Sherlock's gaze all the way, like a brand scorching his back.

XXXXXXXXXX

The drive to Sherlock's house is as quiet as always, but something seems a little off about it this time. They don't speak a word to each other until they've reached the sanctuary of Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says abruptly. "I won't talk to you at school if you don't want me to. I understand."

Immediately John feels like the world's biggest arsehole and he sucks in a deep breath. "No, God Sherlock, I'm the one who should be apologising. My friends are all dicks."

"Then why are you friends with them?" Sherlock asks bluntly. "They don't have a brain cell to rub together between them."

"They're not that bad," John protests half-heartedly. "They're just… different people to you, that's all."

"Yes, they're idiots," Sherlock repeats.

"Intelligence isn't everything," John snaps, feeling stung into defending his friends. Also, because he can't shake the feeling that Sherlock is classing him in with the rest of them.

"Oh, fine, if you're going to get all emotional about it," Sherlock says dismissively, waving a hand and turning away. "Shall we get started? I reckon if we carry on as we're going we should have a solid presentation for next month."

John sinks down on the chair next to Sherlock's and sighs. "Fine. Go ahead."

By the time they finish their work John is starting to feel heartily sick of science and says as much to Sherlock who frowns.

"Is there something you'd rather do?"

John shrugs. "I dunno. D'you have any films? Sitcoms?"

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. "Is that what normal people do? Very well, I think there are some in the lounge."

The lounge turns out to be a large, cosy room just down the corridor. There's a big flat screen television in the corner and a cabinet just to its left containing a vast array of DVDs, games and various different consoles. John gazes at it in astonishment.

"My mother has a very definite idea of what teenage boys should like," Sherlock says quietly by way of an explanation. "I think I've been in this room twice before and never of my own free will."

"Yes, you'd much rather spend your time fiddling around with your little experiments," a deep voice drawls from the doorway. John spins around, startled, but Sherlock merely heaves a long-suffering sigh.

"I thought you were still at Uni, Mycroft," he says tiredly. "What happened? Did the campus cafeteria run out of cake?"

"Oh hilarious, Sherlock," the man at the door replies, his eyes fixed on John who is still none the wiser as to who this person is. "You're being very rude. Why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

"Mycroft, this is John Watson. John this is my older brother. There, are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Mycroft replies sarcastically.

"It's nice to meet you," John says, holding out his hand. Mycroft raises an eyebrow but then shakes it firmly. He turns to Sherlock.

"I'm back from Uni for a week. I did tell you," he says, slightly reprovingly.

"Oh really? I must have deleted it."

"Deleted it?" John queries faintly.

"His mind palace," Mycroft says. "Anything he experiences which he deems unimportant or not worth remembering he deletes. That would include such basic knowledge as the Solar System."

John turns to Sherlock incredulously. "You've forgotten the Solar System? Seriously?"

"It's not like it's going to help me in the future," Sherlock replies defensively, a blush spreading up from his neck. "Mycroft why can't you just sod off? John and I were about to watch a film. Or a sitcom."

"Really?"

"Yeah," John says. "D'you fancy joining us?"

Both brothers stare at him blankly. Eventually Mycroft chuckles. "No, thank you John. I have some research to be doing in the library. I just wanted to make my presence known."

"What are you studying at Uni?" John asks politely.

"I'm currently doing a Masters course in Experimental Physics and Politics," Mycroft replies smoothly. John feels his jaw slacken.

"That's in addition to the other half a dozen degrees he's got," Sherlock says sarcastically. "And he's only twenty-three. I'm sure you can understand why I'm such a continual disappointment to my dear mother when I have a sibling like darling Mycroft."

"Now, now Sherlock," Mycroft replies reprovingly. "You know if you'd just apply yourself more you could be much more successful."

"Sorry but my dream is not to run the country, Mycroft. I can't imagine anything more tediously dull and boring. Now please, don't let us keep you from your research." With this, Sherlock flings himself down on the sofa and buries his head in the cushions. John stares at him and then looks back at Mycroft who smiles slightly.

"Right, well I'll be off then. It was interesting to meet you John."

He turns and disappears out the door. John stays where he is for a moment, processing what's just happened and then turns to pick out a DVD since it's fairly obvious that Sherlock won't be moving from the sofa for awhile.

As the opening titles start to play, Sherlock twists himself around so he's gazing at the screen.

"What on earth is this drivel?"

"It's Lord of the Rings," John replies defensively. "And it's not drivel. The original books were Tolkien's masterpiece and the film adaptations are quite frankly epic."

Sherlock, to his credit, stays silent and for about twenty minutes his eyes remain fixed on the screen.

"What in the world are hobbits?" he says after awhile.

John sighs exasperatedly. "It's all explained if you'll just watch it," he replies. Sherlock snorts but doesn't say anything further.

About halfway through, John becomes aware that Sherlock has shifted his position slightly so that his toes are brushing John's upper thigh. John watches as Sherlock wriggles his feet around, his gaze still fixed on the screen. John opens his mouth and then thinks better of it and shuts it again. But a small smile finds its way onto his face and stays there for the rest of the film.

When it finishes, John asks Sherlock what he thought.

"Well, it was utter nonsense from start to finish but I suppose it wasn't completely unenjoyable," he admits. "The screenwriters and the director seemed to know what they were doing which is more than I can say for a lot of films made nowadays."

John grins broadly. "You know, I think exactly the same thing. Like that film my mates want me to see tomorrow. It's gonna be utter crap, I know it."

Sherlock pulls himself upright and sits cross-legged on the sofa, facing John. "Then why are you going? You've said it yourself, the film will likely be absolute rubbish. You have to learn not to be so easily led, John."

"I'm not easily led!" John bristles. "Who the fuck d'you think you are?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't get so offended. I understand your position. You're in the popular crowd but unsure of exactly how you got there. You enjoy not being hassled at school, you were bullied at your previous one, and so you don't want to do or say anything to rock the boat. So even though you are clearly head and shoulders above your friends in terms of your intelligence you lower yourself and follow whatever they do. That means you are easily led."

John stares at him, torn between fury and a strange warmth at the compliment Sherlock's managed to squeeze in there.

"You think I'm intelligent?" he manages at last.

"Clearly not anywhere near my level but you're not completely idiotic. You have your own mind and I wish that you'd use it instead of following those cavemen around blindly. During our study periods here you've demonstrated a sound working knowledge of Chemistry. Yet in class you'd rather pass notes with Rob and Joe and completely ignore Mr Hughes."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," John says tightly. Much to his surprise, Sherlock doesn't push it.

"Fine." They sit in silence for a minute or so until John becomes aware that Sherlock is fidgeting uncomfortably on the sofa.

"What?" he asks eventually.

"Well, if you decide that you don't want to go and watch this vapid film with your equally vapid friends, I suppose you could always come here. We can… do things that you'd like to do. We have fairly extensive grounds here. We could make a den or climb trees or swim in the lake. If you'd like."

John gazes at him. "Make a den? Climb trees? Jesus, how old are you Sherlock? Seven? I grew out of all that years ago."

Sherlock flushes a brilliant crimson and turns away. "Right. Of course. Well, enjoy your film." John blinks and then remembers Jean's comment.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Here, give me your mobile number and I'll text you if I don't go to the film. Okay?"

Sherlock rattles off a number, still not looking at him, and John quickly enters it into his phone. Suddenly John freezes.

"Shit! Shit!"

"What is it?"

"The time, Sherlock! It's nearly half past eight!"

Sherlock twists back around to face him, comprehension dawning on his face. "Ah. Your father?"

"Yes! Oh bugger." John leaps up from the sofa and begins pacing. "He's going to be furious." His mobile begins ringing, the display saying 'Harry'. Still cursing under his breath he swipes the screen and holds it to his ear. Faintly, Sherlock can hear a female voice talking at the speed of light.

"I know. I know, Harry, I… I'm just at a friend's, I lost track of time. Jesus, I know! Just tell him I'm coming home now alright? Great. See you." He ends the call and looks pleadingly at Sherlock. "Can your driver take me home now?"

"Of course," Sherlock says quietly. "Come on."

As John opens the passenger door, Sherlock takes hold of his wrist. "If you… get into trouble and you need somebody just give me a call, yeah?"

John blinks in surprise, nods sharply and then slides into the seat, pulling the door shut behind him.