Sherlock's in-school chemistry lab was a very small space. It was even smaller when both he and John Watson were crowded around his small desk, staring intently at the colony bacteria that had grown on Sherlock's agar plate. Sherlock carefully lifted the lid, his eyes frowning but focused as he scraped a tiny bit of bacteria onto the glass slide John was holding, and slid it under the microscope. While examining it, he was all too aware of John's curious face looming behind him.
"Where exactly did you get the bacteria from, to grow it?"
"I took various samples from the table-tops in the cafeteria, the sinks in the biology lab, and from under the toilet seats in the boy's bathr-"
"That's really, honestly, so, so lovely Sherlock," John interrupted loudly, trying to mask his amusement with annoyance. He wasn't sure whether or not it worked.
Sherlock's phone buzzed from his pocket.
"Pass me my phone." It wasn't a question.
John looked around the tight space Sherlock had made on the cluttered workbench, lifting papers and moving books, trying to find his way around the mess. "Where is it?"
"My blazer." Sherlock twirled the little dial on the side of the microscope, focusing on the small colony in front of his eyes. His intense focus was disrupted however, when John pulled him roughly backwards and rummaged in his inside pocket with quite a bit of force. He scowled. "Careful."
It was Victor. Sherlock pocketed his phone quickly, without even opening the message. Not today, he thought, bitterly, leaning backwards in his chair. He hadn't touched the heroin that victor had given him; he felt it would be better to use it when he needed it, rather than for curiosity's sake. Not that he hadn't examined it with some thoroughness under the microscope.
He drifted back to the present when John flung himself into the chair next to Sherlock; the boy's eyes were daggers. Apparently Sherlock had done something wrong, then. He was always doing that, but he never actually knew what he done wrong - usually he just spoke and people would get flustered over nothing. Or start crying - that had happened once or twice. He didn't think he'd said anything this time though? He didn't remember saying anything. Sherlock looked at John carefully, avoiding eye contact – he was very obviously worried about something or other. It was alarming Sherlock hadn't noticed it before now; it was written across this face. But then he had been distracted. John was frowning now, but not as though he was concentrating, and he kept biting his lip subconsciously. Worried about Harry maybe?
"What is it?" His curiosity overruled him, as usual.
"What's what?" The defensive tone in his voice gave him away.
"You know what. What's wrong?"
"I met a friend of yours last night."
"A friend?" This was news to Sherlock.
"Well, I wouldn't say a 'friend', actually, I have no idea who he was, but actually he didn't seem like much of a friend at all. I was more or less kidnapped by him."
Sherlock hesitated. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes." John was relaxing slightly now; Sherlock knew who this man was and didn't seem at all fazed by it, so he doubted he was going to get brutally murdered by him. Well, he hoped not anyway.
"Did you take it?"
"What? No, of course I didn't… Who was he?" Sherlock sighed.
"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now." Checking his phone again, he decided he couldn't stay in this stuffy room any longer, and got up swiftly, pulling his coat on and striding out of the lab. "Come on, John!"
"Where are we going?"
"Out." And with that he strode down the corridor, around the corner and out of sight down the stairs, his coat billowing behind him.
Bloody drama queen, John thought, but somehow he really didn't mind at all.
They stood outside the gates again, hidden from the rain amongst the overgrown trees while Sherlock smoked. He had four cigarettes left now – he was smoking at least 3 cigarettes a day, so as not to be noticed by Mycroft, but this kind of resistance wouldn't last long at all. It had been four days since the agonising torture of not having any cigarettes ended, but it was also four days with the knowledge that he would run out soon, which increased his already-high risk of him turning to something all the more harmful. He really was considering going to one of the convenience stores nearby and trying to pass for 18, which would probably work except that everyone knew everyone around here. More importantly, and a lot more concerning for Sherlock however, was that the likelihood that Mycroft had access to the CCTV here was very high; there were only so many stores in harrow, as opposed to the thousands in London city centre.
He thought about this for a while, going over his options, while John stood beside him in a comfortable silence that they'd already grown used to after only a day and a half together. He'd been in his usual spot smoking this morning, when John had found him, which confused Sherlock immensely – John had had to explain why he was there. "I found you 'cause I wanted to spend some time with you, you muppet," John had laughed. He had also declined the offer of a cigarette, Sherlock had noticed. He still didn't seem to be very keen on Sherlock smoking, though he never said a word.
They stood there now, side by side, and watched the tiny droplets of water fall to the ground in front of them, like minuscule diamonds glistening as they fell from the sky. Sherlock liked the rain. It calmed him down when he was thinking too much, and it was helping today.
The day so far had not been an easy one, starting that morning when John practically had to drag Sherlock out of chemistry when he proclaimed loud and clear to Mr Henderson that he was an inadequate teacher, and had no idea how to appreciate Chemistry for what it was, after failing to achieve the correct result on an experiment. This was how they had both ended up in the office of Mr Carson, their form tutor, who looked far too amused to be really giving Sherlock into trouble.
After a short lecture to which Sherlock had answered as sarcastically as possible, Mr Carson turned to John and asked him if he planned on joining Sherlock in all of the trouble he was bound to cause in coming months. Without a second thought, or even a tiny moment of doubt, John had replied "Oh, most definitely, Sir."
"You know, I really can't be bothered going to gym – it's not like we're going to miss anything. Fancy just ditching instead?" John broke the silence, like a knock on the front door inside Sherlock's mind palace, reminding him of his place in the suddenly quite bearable present.
"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be leading you astray? Where do you want to go?"
"Anywhere."
The two boys slipped back upstairs amongst the crowds of their peers returning to class; John collected their books together and shoved them into their bags, while Sherlock tidied his collection of petri dishes away into their (very specific) index. Together they crept through the science department, down two flights of stairs, and turned left through the closest fire exit, all the time making sure that their faces were hidden.
Anyone who would have looked out the window at that point in time would have only seen two dark figures retreating into the crisp January afternoon. The trod quietly, contentedly, aimlessly, their quick footsteps' echo bouncing from the buildings on the deserted streets they walked through. Tuesday afternoons were always quiet, eerie almost, but Sherlock found it relaxing. He wondered if John did too.
"We should go somewhere, or do something." John's voice broke through the gentle noises of the rain, as they took another right down to the main street. "Do you have any ideas?"
"There's never anything interesting to do here," Sherlock groaned, remembering that John had only just moved here. At that thought, an idea popped into his head that was somewhat terrifying to Sherlock. "Why don't you come over to mine?" He blurted, before he could stop himself.
"Are you sure?" Disbelief coloured John's voice. He coughed. "I mean, that would be lovely, thanks, just as long as I'm not a bother."
"Of course not; nobody will be in."
"How far away do you live?" He sounded quite hesitant, and that worried Sherlock. They were passing under an industrial grey railway bridge now sheltering from the rain. There were no longer deserted in the quiet streets; the people around them heading in and out of the convenience store, grocery store, butchers as well as an alarming number of men entering the pub at two in the afternoon.
"Not too far, only another mile. Keep up." They walked for another 15 minutes or so following the busy street as it twisted around a few corners, John always trailing ever so slightly behind. Eventually, Sherlock began to slow down, and the road that was lined with shops shifted slowly into a very average English housing estate.
It was only when Sherlock took a left down a quieter street that John realised; this is where he actually lives. Why did it seem so surreal to him that Sherlock Holmes lived on an ordinary street, had an ordinary house, and lived with an ordinary, functioning family; parents who loved him and fed him? Why had John imagined him alone?
The curly-haired boy ahead of him then turned left again, up a wide driveway. The house in front of him was fairly large, and painted a brilliant white, with the charcoal door and window frames giving it a rather dramatic look. The left side of the upper floor had a large bay-window, looking out onto the street, while the right half of the house was joined with a small garage. Ivy was twined round the porch, extending delicately over the roof of the garage and up the side of the house, into the gutter above. It was exactly the sort of house John would have imagined Sherlock living in, if he had imagined Sherlock with a normal life. Which he really hadn't. That itself was really quite stupid of him, now that he came to think about it; why would Sherlock be going to a normal school in a normal town in greater London if he didn't live a fairly normal life? He would hardly be going to Bart's if he lived in some fancy country mansion, John thought, somewhat bitterly.
"Come on John," Sherlock called somewhat impatiently from inside the doorway. John stepped into the house and looked around him, tugging off his coat. On his right, a dark wooden staircase let up to the first floor of the house, which seemed enormous to John now – the walls were light and modern, contrasting with the deep mahogany stairs, creating a wide, open, space.
"Take your shoes off before you go upstairs, John." Sherlock was already halfway up the staircase when he shouted down to the blonde-haired boy.
"Aren't you going to give me a tour?" Sherlock froze in his tracks. John was beaming at him innocently from the bottom of the stairs. It was with an exasperated sigh that he complied.
Across from the staircase, on the left side of the front door, was the living room. Much like the hall it was big and white, and decorated with very little; a brown sofa, two mismatching armchairs, a large flat-screen TV, and a coffee table to match the colour of all the doors, the stairs, the skirting boards, and every other bit of wood in the house. "This is the living room," Sherlock drawled, "This is where I tend to avoid." He swept through to the kitchen which matched the rest of the house in its ability to feel both modern and old at the same time. On the right of the door into the kitchen there was a slight archway leading into the dining room; double doors lined the left wall, giving the view of a small, but obviously well cared-for garden. "Yes, yes it's all very interesting," he muttered sarcastically, "it's a house, can we move on? I have an experiment waiting for me upstairs."
He walked past another door across from the front door which John hadn't noticed before, as he followed Sherlock up the stairs. "Bathroom."
"What?"
"I said, 'that's the bathroom'."
"Oh." John followed him up to the top of the stairs and down to a door at the end of a narrow hallway, which he assumed must be Sherlock's bedroom. It suddenly felt very strange to be standing outside the door of this boy's bedroom; this strange boy of whom he knew next to nothing about. And somehow, surprisingly, he was very okay with that. He stepped inside.
This room was very different to all the other rooms in the house. The light walls had morphed into a deeper blue, with matching curtains and bedsheets, and a soft rug on the floor in the middle of the room. The room was very long, with a beautiful bay window in the middle of the opposite wall, but it felt smaller and more cramped than it should, due to the clutter that covered the entire place. There was a large bed opposite the door, the sheets perfectly made but covered in a layer of textbooks, papers and notes. On the other side of the window there was a desk which was impossible to see under the mess – the only distinguishable feature being a laptop sitting open on the corner of the table. Above the desk an old and wrinkled periodic table poster had been plastered on the wall. There was a kitchen unit installed along the wall from where he was standing, across from Sherlock's desk, next to his wardrobe. With a lit Bunsen burner sitting on top of it.
"John," Sherlock's voice came from window as John wandered across the room. "Don't touch it."
"How long has it been lit?"
"Several hours more than my mother would appreciate."
John sighed. "And what was so important that risked you burning your house down?"
"Experiment." He was sitting on the window ledge, his tie on the floor, sleeves rolled up, his violin in his grip.
"So, what is there to do here?" John pulled out the chair from Sherlock's desk and sat down.
"Oh, I don't know. How do you usually pass time?"
"I don't know. Why did we spend 45 minutes walking here if there's nothing to do?"
"Better than standing in the rain."
"I guess." They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, before Sherlock brought his violin up to his chin.
The music was beautiful; long, slow notes hit John's ears first before the melody quickly sped up to a steady pace, filled with some deep hidden emotion pouring out of every note that Sherlock played so tenderly. The piece ended much sooner than John would have liked, not that Sherlock needed to hear that; his head was big enough. It didn't matter anyway, because John found himself utterly speechless as he sat there. When he looked up, Sherlock hadn't noticed John's reaction, or rather pretended he hadn't because Sherlock noticed everything. And so there they sat, Sherlock playing violin and John listening, neither saying a word until Sherlock finally put his violin down, with a worrying amount of force.
"I'm bored." John though about this for a while, until he had an idea.
"Sherlock, do you have the game Cluedo?"
Half an hour, two games, and four arguments later, Sherlock threw his cards down with an exasperated sigh. "It's no use, John; the only logical conclusion is that it was Professor Plum!"
"I've told you twice already Sherlock, I have Professor Plum." He spoke each word slowly, clearly and very loudly, causing Sherlock to flinch. With a look complete disgust, Sherlock tore open the pack on the middle of the board to reveal that the murderer was in fact-
"Mrs. White?!" He spluttered. "It is not Mrs. White," He spat. John was thankful when his phone rang, interrupting their domestic.
"Mum, hi," Sherlock's ears perked up as he tried hard to listen to what John's mother was saying on the other end of the phone. "Yeah? Yeah, I know. Hmm? Yeah. When will you be home? Oh. Okay. Yup. Bye." Disappointment had washed over the boy's face. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry, I've got to head home now. Mum's… busy. I don't know when she'll be home tonight. So I need to make sure Harry eats something and probably tidy up a bit too before she gets in…" He trailed off, sadly.
"Of course, I'll see you out." Sherlock paused. "Do you want me to walk with you or-"
"No, no, it's fine really, it's okay." John's smile was not convincing in the slightest as he pulled on his shoes, lifted his bag onto his back and turned away from Sherlock, down the stairs and out the front door.
"See you tomorrow, John."
"See you, Sherlock."
The door shut behind the boy, and Sherlock was alone. He returned to his room, taking his usual position on his bed, deep in thought. He was wandering deep inside the corridors of his mind palace, to the remote places, creating spaces, deleting things. Solar System? Gone. Kings and Queens? Gone. Prime Minister? Gone. Instead there was John Watson, creeping into every crevice and corner, there was always just a little bit of John, like he was filling the place up from the bottom to the top; unstoppable. A flood. John, who liked apples. John, who played rugby. John, who was good at English and Biology, but terrible at Music. John, who had dragged Sherlock through corridors and noise and people, just to make sure he ate something. John, who had walked all the way over to Sherlock's house for violin and Cluedo. John Watson, who had decided that Sherlock Holmes was his friend.