John

Sherlock Holmes. What name was that, John wondered. It was one of the most absurd names he'd ever heard, quiet possibly the most. Unfortunately for John, however, that was his partner in medical sciences. He didn't know what the kid looked like, but it was on the sheet the teacher gave out as he walked into the room. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be in such a high class at his level, but he'd passed tests in order to prove he was ready, as well as jump the other, lesser classes in order to excel early towards his life goal.

John wanted more than anything in the world to be a doctor. Sometimes, his mother would joke about how he'd steal the pediatrics stethoscope or any other instrument, and attempt to take it home by way of throwing a tantrum whenever he had to give it back. By his fifth birthday, his parents had bought him his own set of doctor tools to which he constantly examined his parents.

In class, currently, he took notes as if his life depended on it. Around him, most students were in their last two years, or last year, of school and were taking the class for an easy credit. John vowed not to give his homework or notes to any of the sad looking teenagers.

Half way through the class, he paused to take a few deep breaths and rotate his wrists. It was hard writing virtually everything the teacher said. Oftentimes a point or two was lost but that was why he had a textbook, one in which he copied by hand during free periods or after hanging out with friends.

As he rotated his wrist, John actually looked up. He had an odd, tingling feeling and he turned to look over his shoulder. Near the back of the class, for he'd picked a front row seat, a kid was looking at him. Rather intently. John narrowed his eyes, not sure what to make of the boy. His hair was dark and curlier than most girls' hairs he'd seen. His eyes, from what he could tell, were sharp and possibly blue. He wore a coat, though it wasn't tremendously chilly outside, let alone in the classroom. The coat was turned up around his neck, hiding most of his features from neck down. Bony fingers pointed out of the sleeves, resting upon the desk. As if the boy had nothing better to do, his eyes narrowed right back, not breaking eye contact.

As he did so, a stray dark curl slipped and landed almost perfectly upon the bridge of his nose. The boy went cross eyed and stared at the clump before raising a hand and ever-so-gently placed it back into its place among the curls. Once satisfied it wouldn't bounce back down, he continued his staring at John.

Feeling prickles of unease rise the hair along his back and neck, John turned around and tried his absolute hardest to ignore the strange boy. It would do no good to start a fight with some random asshole kid in the middle of class. Let alone first day of school.

As the time went by, John forgot about the kid in the back. Once class was over, he waited only a few moments as the traffic of the kids slowed so he could leave easier. He rose from his chair only to start violently, almost dropping his books. The kid from the back was right behind his desk, staring at him. The last kids from the class filed out, leaving just them two and the teacher.

"Hello." The kid drawled, his voice deeper than John's would have expected. For a moment, he was stunned at the height and overall bad feeling he got from him.

"Hi," he finally managed to say, feeling beyond awkward.

"My name is Sherlock. I suppose you are John Watson."

"Oh you're him!" John exclaimed suddenly. The loudness filling the quiet room startled the teacher, who would have otherwise let the boys do what they wanted so long as they behaved, glared at them.

"Yes, I'm your partner for the year." Sherlock's voice was deep, and borderline bored. John would probably not be surprised if Sherlock yawned.

"Okay," John replied, unsure what Sherlock was attempting. They didn't have to do anything for class since it was first day, therefore there was no need to introduce themselves.

"I figured you should know, being new and all. Also, I am capable of doing my work on my own. I won't let you ride on my intellect, therefore if you find yourself incapable of doing the work, don't snivel your way over to me." Sherlock's voice had lowered to a dangerous octave. John felt both threatened and insulted.

"I hope your intellect," John practically hissed the word, "doesn't get in my way of doing my work." Both boys stared at each other for a few more minutes before a bell rang and Sherlock stiffened, walking past John as if he were a homeless man who smelt of cigarette and booze.

John, more insulted than he could remember being, left the classroom and headed to his locker to snatch his next set of books.

Thankfully, the only classes John had to share with Sherlock whom he had already started hating were medical science and PE. John didn't even have to interact with Sherlock at all, and it seemed that not many people did, in fact, desire to interact with the boy. Only a small handful of people had been seen actually talking with Sherlock. Two of which John knew were named Molly and Lestrade. Anderson was sometimes seen in the group but would oftentimes run off for unknown reasons.

The rest of the week passed almost as uneventful as the first day. Except that John found himself having to sit next to Sherlock in his medical science class because they would have to get used to one another. It was hard to even look at the boy let alone sit next to him. He kept hearing huffs and small chuckles from him as the teacher spoke and John was one snicker away from smacking the kid in the face with his textbook by the time the bell rang.

"If you think you're so smart, Sherlock, why don't you just leave the rest of us to learn in peace, huh?" John said suddenly at the end of class one day. A few classmates snickered and Sherlock stared completely devoid of expression at John who started feeling uncomfortable and left, calling the boy a weirdo in the process.