Dear Lord, I am so so sorry that this has taken so bloody long! Really, I'm sorry!

I don't know where I'm going to go with this story, but I can assure you that there will be absolutely no smut whatsoever. For those of you who have read my "A Finer Education", I shall be updating this soon as well.

Once again, so sorry that this took so long and enjoy!


John had only gotten a few hours of sleep and the forest floor hardly gave him good quality rest; his back was aching, there were leaves nestled in his hair and his mouth tasted vaguely of mud. A splendid start to the year.

He had forty-five minutes to get ready and appear neat and presentable at breakfast -which he still had to locate. Without further ado, John grabbed his musty old towel and budget shampoo and strode confidently out of his room into the noisy corridor.

Scattered about the hallway were boys of his age. Of course they all had different bodies and faces, no two looking alike, but every boy he could see possessed the same expression of contempt and playful disregard. This combined with the similar hair cuts, expensive pyjamas, bellowing posh accents and proud postures made the boys blend in together perfectly, making John stick out like a sore thumb. And everyone noticed. Everyone who actually noticed the boy gave him an act of disapproval: some sniggered, some looked him up and down with a smirk, a few rolled their eyes and one boy shoved into him in the queue for the showers and spat in his face, "you don't fucking belong here, piss."

After a quick shower under tepid water, John rushed back to his room to escape the boys' abuse. The shower had been bad enough.


"Oi homo, are you fucking watching me shower? Yeah, piss, I'm talking to you." John had looked the boy straight in the eyes, taking care to make sure that his gaze didn't deviate, and strongly denied the false accusation. "Yeah, well don't fucking look at me again, piss. We don't appreciate shirt-lifters around here are you'll get yourself into some proper trouble if you aren't careful with those wandering little eyes of yours."

"I'm not a 'shirt-lifter'." John stated, keeping his eyes firmly locked with the other boy's, attempting dominance with a military stance. He was medium height and had an angular face; his dark hair (when dry) had a neat middle parting and a small fringe was greased behind his ears like curtains. The Anderson boy had a sarcastic, nasal voice that made John's blood curdle with disgust.


John shook his hair dry and pulled on the second hand uniform; sharp black trousers, a smooth grey v-neck and a sleek black tie. For formal occasions, John had to wear an expensive black blazer with the school crest on it. Since the uniform was so expensive, his parents opted on a previously owned set that hung loosely from his small frame, subsequently drowning his sturdy figure and making him look lost and vulnerable. God, the bullies are going to love this. John tried to smarten himself up, straightening out his clothes and fiddling with his hair, just to pass the time. He knew the bullies would come to him, no matter how symmetrical his hair was; he dropped back onto the bed with a huff and knit his eyebrows together; how on Earth am I going to survive three years of my life here?

The morning passed quickly, albeit uneventful. The breakfast was cheap and nasty -thick oil and grease coated the hot meal and the milk for cereal tasted processed and budget- John had exchanged brief pleasantries with a boy called Stamford. He was nice enough but a little boring, not to mention he ate far too much of the pungent bacon and beans.

The teachers were smart and well dressed, but they obviously hated the students and droned on and on with no passion whatsoever, except for when shouting at the boys that seemed to be constantly talking over them. The work was hard and John seemed to be the only one actually bothering with it; I guess money doesn't make you clever, then. The classrooms were old but were filled with useless high-tech gadgets that they obviously never used; every feature of the rooms screamed 'unnecessary', leaving John feeling isolated and intimidated.

Finally, the bell for lunch rang and John shoved his way through the corridors with the stampede of other boys. He could no longer bear the constant exposure to posh, nasal voices that seemed to have an unlimited stream of vulgar banter; he had to get away from them.


He stumbled back into his room, flung his bag onto his bed and sat on the floor, wallowing in self-pity. Life here was hell. Just because Harry's gay doesn't mean that I am! Dammit, why should I have to suffer just because she likes girls? This is completely unfair. John had been trying his very best to engulf himself completely in the work so that he wouldn't notice the snide remarks and glares shot at him, not to mention, the adrenaline from meeting Sherlock had worn off a long time ago and now it was just agony being this hated.

John clambered out his window once more. He dared not look into Sherlock's room on his journey down, fearing the boy was in there, but he swore he heard a deep chuckle as he descended. He sprinted across the pitch quickly and hoped that no one would notice him. John ventured a little deeper into the forest and found a lovely, twisting horse chestnut tree that he could climb up with little difficulty. Once a good four metres off the ground, he rested on a thick branch and dangled his legs like a child. The Autumn sun trickled through the canopy and warmed his cheeks, the colourful leaves swayed lightly in the breeze and the soft song of the birds echoed through the valley, mixing delicately with the gentle hum of nature. John's thoughts flowed in synchronization with his breaths and swayed there, undisturbed.


John knew it was nearing the end of lunch as he had already spend about an hour up there. Just as he was about to start climbing down, he heard the hushed rustle of leaves and uneven footsteps of someone only metres away. Oh God, if I get caught up here I'll get in so much trouble. Jesus, I'm a dead man! His heart began to beat frantically and his breaths shallowed, adrenaline was pumping through his veins and he just knew that he was screwed.


Sherlock's hunt for rats and other specimens wasn't going so well. He had only another 10 minutes before he had to go back for lessons and he didn't have a single rodent! It would be moronic to try and catch one in the dark and he wouldn't be able to complete his latest experiment if he didn't have a body to test the acid on. Slowly, he straightened his back from his cat-like stance and looked up to see what on Earth had been dropping little pieces of… conker?… into his hair. Maybe a squirrel? Perhaps he could use the squirrel? Hmm, even Sherlock felt uncomfortable catching and killing a completely (well, fairly) innocent creature. Especially as he had a soft spot for squirrels, there was something just so cheeky and mischievous about them that he ador-

Okay, not a squirrel. But John Watson sitting in a tree is at least vaguely interesting.


Okay, what on in God's name is Sherlock Holmes doing? Goddamn scampering and prowling like some kind of cat amongst the leaf drifts? Quickly, John took advantage of the situation and plucked a conker from the branch hanging by his face; it wasn't quite ripe yet so he sliced it open with the pen knife his father had given him and picked out little chunks to drop onto his victim's unsuspecting head.

It was absolutely worth the green gunk now embedded under his stubby nails to see the confusion, anger and then amusement plastered across the tall boy's face. "John Watson?" He shielded his eyes from the sunlight with a pale, spidery hand, "What in God's name are you doing up there?" but he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice and his austere facial expression faltered before a weak smile danced over the corners of his lips.

"Oh, er-" John genuinely didn't know why he was currently sitting in a tree dropping conker pieces on someone he barely knew's head. "I don't really know. I guess the posh kids were getting to me." He mumbled, embarrassed that he was admitting this to a person like Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled deeply, "Not very soldier-esque of you; there's far worse on the battlefield than a few rich idiots." He now seemed serious.

"I wasn't trying to impress you. And I'm not going to be a soldier." John turned his face into the sunlight and squinting, looking a bit like an angry child. "And anyway, why were you prowling around like a feral cat?" John liked that description; Sherlock was very much a feral cat. The way he stalked about gracefully and yet deviously, his knotted and wild hair, his thin and feline eyes that glinted with mischief, and so much wisdom.

"I was looking for a rat." Sherlock huffed, obviously he had not been successful in his endeavors. Oh my God, he actually is a cat!

"Why did you want a rat?" John was utterly confused. Obviously, he wasn't actually a cat but he was most definitely acting like one.

"Do want a rat. I still need one for my experiments." Sherlock grinned, "I'm seeing how long it takes for whiskers to decompose."

John was horrified! "For God's sake! Sherlock, why on earth do you need to know that?" John all but screeched.

Sherlock was baffled, "Why not?" he could not comprehend why someone should not demand the knowledge of the decomposition rate of rat whiskers.

"You're ridiculous." John slapped his head into his hands, shaking it slowly. This man was utterly insane. "You can't just go around killing animals to see how fast they decompose! That's exactly how serial killers start out!"

"What? And you know a lot about them, do you? I've been studying serial killers for years and that is an urban myth. Just because I experiment on animals doesn't mean I'm going to start harvesting up humans. I think I know more about killers that you." Sherlock snorted arrogantly.

"You're still a teenager! You aren't a child prodigy, you haven't gone to university early to study serial killers. Reading about them online doesn't make you any more knowledgeable on them than the rest of us." John couldn't believe that someone could think they were so much bloody better than the rest of humanity!

"I'll have you know that I am, in fact, a genius. I've been tested. We're not all idiots like yourself." Sherlock spat at him, utter disgust written over his face. John was taken aback by the sheer ferocity that rippled from the boy's throat, almost a snarl. And with that he swiftly clambered down the tree and walked straight up to Sherlock, his face so close that he could smell the cigarettes in his breath and feel the cold eminating from his icy white skin.

"I am not an idiot and I am going to be a fucking doctor -not a mindless soldier- I'll have you know!" He pressed ever so slightly closer to the far taller boy before turning on his heels and pacing angrily back up to the school. He didn't know why he had lied to Sherlock about not being in the army; that was what he wanted to do, was it not? And wasn't he proud that one day he'd wield a Browning L9A1 and camo-gear? He most definitely was, but he didn't like the way Sherlock looked at him whenever he spoke of the army. It was angry, arrogant and the tiniest bit sad.

"Daddy won't be impressed, will he? His only son disappointing him, just as his daughter did. How embarrassing." Sherlock called out to him, knowing that this would really hit John's nerves. John fought the urge to turn around right there and slam a punch into that pathetic cat's face. How dare he bring his family into this! But John took the upper road and increased his speed; he really didn't need a bad reputation on his first day of school