Harrow: Part One
A/N: It didn't save my author's note last time. Hi. I have updated, as promised. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to all the wonderful people who have reviewed or favourited etc. I love you. Sherlock is thirteen in this one. And here is something to scare you: Benedict Cumberbatch went to Harrow as well, but I didn't find that out until after I'd written this. I am, in fact, psychic. Enjoy.
"Sherlock, darling, we need to have a little talk."
Sherlock just stared at the simpering blonde woman on the sofa in front of him, his expression blank. His father shifted himself on the seat and cleared his throat.
"Sherlock, we think it would be best if you were to go to boarding school. Mycroft got on very well at Harrow and…we want you to go there as well."
Sherlock looked at his father for a moment. "When's the entrance exam?"
"Next March. We've spoken to the school about it and they're very-"
"All right. I'll do it."
His father and his stepmother glanced at each other. Sherlock stood on the rug before them, staring through the rain-soaked window at the front lawn. He did not seem upset by the news. He did not seem angry. If anything, he seemed bored.
"So…we'll put your name down then? For the exam?" his stepmother's wide brown eyes had grown even wider, and she was looking up at him through black lashes heavy with mascara. She had that expression on her face that meant she thought Sherlock was repressing something. She fancied she knew a lot about psychology.
Sherlock nodded. "Can I go now?"
"Well…ye-es…"
Sherlock turned and walked out of the room.
There was a moment of silence between the two adults left on the sofa.
"Thank God for that."
Nine months later, a tall, skinny dark-haired boy stood surrounded by other small, frightened children in The Grove, being shepherded around by one of the older boys. Sherlock wasn't listening much to what he was saying; he'd work out what he had to do. He was more interested in the boys around him. It was time to practice his deducting skills.
The boy next to him was an only child; there was a boy in front of him who had had a relative in the school in about 1975; at the edge of the group there was a tiny child who had asthma. There were two more boys nearby, but they were behind him. One of them had a limp.
He was put into a room with the only child. He sniffled as he unpacked his suitcase.
"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked. The crying was beginning to irritate him.
The boy shook his head. "Nothing. I just miss home."
"Oh." Sherlock was content to leave it at that, but his roommate seemed intent on continuing the conversation.
"What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"James Smith. It's nice to meet you." And he smiled. He had a sweet smile. His lips cracked open to reveal crooked white teeth and his bright green eyes sparkled.
Sherlock nodded.
"Where're you from?"
"London."
"Wow. I'm from Canterbury. London's probably more exciting."
Sherlock shrugged and continued to unpack his things. James didn't try talking to him again until they were going to sleep that night.
"Good day?"
"It was all right."
Sherlock could hear the smile in his roommate's voice. "Good."
