Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Rated T for bullying and bad language.

Chapter Six

When Sherlock left his room to go to his first lesson, he was surprised by the response of the other boys to his appearance back in the house. Boys whom he had never seen before came over to him, asked how he was and told him they were glad to have him back. He found this sudden display of camaraderie quite baffling. He really just wanted to be left alone. Why did no one understand this? By the end of the last lesson of the day, he could not wait to go to fencing. He had been looking forward to it all day. He collected his borrowed fencing gear from his room and lugged them over to the practice hall. He was first to arrive and had to wait outside for the master to turn up. He had obviously heard about the incident on Saturday night, too.

'Holmes, dear boy, how are you?' he gushed. 'Do come in. You can help me get set up.' On entering the hall, Sherlock saw what he meant. Someone had clearly been running an exercise class here and the equipment was still sitting in the middle of the hall. It all needed to be stored in a large store room at the back of the room. The fencing coach showed Sherlock how to move the equipment on its castors and wheel it into the store room. Once he got the hang of that, it was all stowed away in no time. The other pupils arrived, all gawping at Sherlock – did the whole school know who he was now? – but, thankfully, the session got under way, with the warm-up exercises, and they quickly seemed to forget that he was a celebrity.

ooOoo

Reba had just returned to her surgery, having done a tour of the house to check that all the boys had left for Eccer – known as the 'jockers' round' - when the phone rang. It was Mycroft Holmes, returning her call.

'Is Sherlock alright?' was his first question. She assured him that his brother was fine and apologised for alarming him.

'I have a couple of queries which I was hoping you could help me with,' she began.

'I will if I can,' he replied.

'I've been speaking with Sherlock's prep school matron and she has told me some things that have surprised me.'

'Really?' replied Mycroft. 'I am intrigued.' She went on.

'I understand your brother is quite a gifted musician but he hasn't brought his violin to school. I was wondering why.'

'Have you asked him?' Mycroft asked, sounding cautious, now.

'No. I rather wanted to ask you first,' she explained. There was quite a long pause on the other end of the phone but at last Mycroft spoke.

'My father felt it might detract from his academic work if he continued to play the violin. He didn't want him to spread himself too thin. He thought the violin would be too much of a distraction.' She could tell by the tone of his voice that he did not agree with his father's opinion but he would not be so disloyal as to voice this.

'How did Sherlock feel about this?' she enquired.

'He was rather upset. He told our father that, far from it being a distraction, it actually helped him to concentrate, helped him to think. But Father was adamant. I do believe it was one reason why Sherlock was so reluctant to come to school that first day of term. He had never gone anywhere without his violin for years. He even used to take it on holiday with him.' Reba was dumbfounded. She didn't think she had ever heard anything so ridiculous in her life. How could the man be so heartless as to separate the child from something so dear to him at such a crucial stage in his life – starting a new school? It certainly explained a number of things. Reba realised she had not spoken for a while.

'Thank you very much, Mycroft. You've been extremely helpful,' she exclaimed.

'Might I ask you something, Miss Everett?'

'Of course,' she replied.

'I'll be going back up to Cambridge in a couple of weeks and I would like to take my brother out to supper before I leave. Would that be possible?' he asked.

'Pupils are allowed to go out to supper with family members on Saturday evenings but, in order to give permission, the House Master will need a request in writing from your parents or Sherlock's UK guardian, at least a week in advance of the proposed date,' she explained.

'Well, I suppose I am his UK guardian but I will ask my mother to write. Thank you, Miss Everett.' He said goodbye and rang off. Reba was still fuming. She had to speak to her boss about all the things she had learned today. She just hoped he could do something for this poor misunderstood boy in order to reunite him with his beloved violin.

It was not until after Call Over, when the boys had all gone off to Prep, that she was able to speak with her boss. She tapped at the House Master's study door and he invited her in. She related to him everything she had learned that day. George Wilson sat back in his chair, considering what she had told him.

'Well, I have to say, I did know about the Debating Society and the violin. That information was included in the file I received from his prep school but, when I met him, I must say I questioned its veracity. The boy on paper and the boy made flesh seem to be two very different boys. He is so withdrawn, so taciturn. It is hard to imagine him standing up and orating and, when he came without the violin, I just assumed he had decided to give it a break.' He paused to consider some more then drew a breath, decision made.

'The Debating is not a problem. We can point him in that direction. If he is as good as his press clippings suggest, the house will really warm to him. It could give him quite a bit of status. As for the violin, I cannot go against the express wishes of his father. However, I can write to the man and try to change his mind. That's all I can promise.' Reba could see the reality in that. Sometimes one just had to draw a line and move on.

ooOoo

Sherlock was enjoying having a room to himself. He did not spread out and encroach on his erstwhile room-mate's space; he just revelled in the solitude and the peace and quiet. He knew it was to be short-lived but he just made the most of it while it lasted. Sunday arrived all too soon. Sherlock had been in his room nearly all day, apart from Call Over, Chapel and going to meals, enjoying the privacy and peace that it afforded in the hurly-burly of the house and its seventy juvenile occupants. He had been reading a book, or at least trying to. What he really wanted to be doing was playing his violin. Oh, how he missed his violin! There were other boys in the house who played – if you could call it that. They scraped away, at any rate. He was fairly sure that, any one of them, had he asked, would have let him borrow their instrument. But there was no way he could do that. His violin was special, to him. He loved it in a way he loved nothing and no one else. He loved the weight of it, in his hand, the way it vibrated between his jaw and collar bone; he knew it intimately – the curve of the body, the tension on the strings, the patina of the finger board, the way the keys squeaked when he adjusted the tuning. He knew the balance point of the bow, how by a mere tilt of his wrist, he could make the note soft or strident. He loved to stand and play in the window of his room, at home, on sunny days, when the sun would illuminate the motes of rosin that rose like dust, as he drew the bow across the strings, how they glittered in the sunlight. Then there was the tone, the multiple harmonics contained in every note, that combined to produce a clarity of pitch that delighted his ear and swelled his heart. He had to stop thinking about his violin. It was too painful. He went to wipe his nose on his cuff, then remembered Mycroft's admonishment and fished his brother's handkerchief out of a drawer, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. This was just in time, as it happened, because a sharp knock on his door heralded the arrival of Absalom, his Shepherd.

This was the last day of Shepherding. After today, the Shells were deemed to have completed their induction to the school. This evening, they would all be tested on the rules and on the traditional terms, for everyday things, used at Harrow, and then their period of Grace would be over. They would then be considered responsible for any infringements and would be punished, accordingly. Frankly, Absalom was rather glad he would not have to Shepherd Holmes any more. The boy was impossible. He didn't want to do anything but sit in his room. He didn't want to join in anything. Absalom's own former Shepherd, now a 5th Year, was one of his closest friends in the house. They got on like a house on fire and Absalom really looked up to him, like an older brother. He had hoped to forge a similar relationship with Holmes, but the guy was just not interested.

'Holmes, I've been asked to tell you that Mr Wilson wants you in his study in half an hour, OK?' Sherlock looked at the other boy and nodded his head. Absalom turned to leave and then turned back.

'You know, Holmes, if you are going to get anything out of being at a school like Harrow, you really will have to start joining in. The whole point of coming to a place like this is to make friends that will last a lifetime and to take advantage of all the extra-curricular activities on offer. If you don't do that, you may as well not be here.' Sherlock looked at the other boy for a moment and then spoke.

'I didn't come here to make friends, Absalom, I came here to get an education and if I don't have friends or get involved in any extra-curricular activities then I am likely to have more time to study, which would mean that I get more out of being here, don't you think? And, truth be told, Absalom, I'd much rather not be here anyway, but I don't have any control over that.'

The Shepherd stared at him, momentarily struck dumb by the insolence of the little prat, but not for long.

'What an arrogant prick you are, Holmes. I'm not surprised Morris tried to kill you. Frankly, I could kill you myself.'

Still reclining on his bed, book in hand, Sherlock looked down his perfect retroussé nose at the other boy.

'Really, Absalom? How terribly ambitious of you.' Absalom clenched his fists and fought an almost irresistible urge to punch the little dick head.

'Fuck you, Holmes,' he said, instead, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With a bit of luck, he would never have to even look at, let alone speak to, the little git ever again.

ooOoo

At the appointed time, Sherlock presented himself at the house master's study. He knocked on the door and waited. He could hear voices inside but could not hear what they were saying. Presently, the door was opened and Mr Wilson invited him into the room. Stepping through the door, he was brought up short when he saw Morris sitting there, on the HSM's sofa, next to a larger, older version of himself. Both Morrises, major and minor, turned to stare at him, as he entered the room. The only other person in the room, apart from himself and Mr Wilson, was Miss Everett, the matron. Sherlock walked forward and stood on the Indian rug, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The house master kicked things off.

'Holmes, I've asked you here because Morris has something to say to you, don't you, Morris?' Morris stood up, nodding and muttering,

'Yes, sir.' He walked towards Sherlock, looking every inch the Prop Forward, and held out his hand. Despite his better judgement, Sherlock felt obliged to take the hand.

'I am really sorry for what I did, Holmes. I will never do anything like it again,' Morris mumbled, giving Sherlock's hand a sharp shake, which felt anything but apologetic.

'What do you say to that, Holmes?' Mr Wilson asked, beaming at both boys.

'Er, fine, I suppose, sir,' Sherlock replied.

'Good!' exclaimed the house master, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. 'Very good! Now, I think you boys can run along. I expect you will both be doing some cramming for your test this evening.' He opened the door and ushered the two boys out. Morris turned and smiled, half-heartedly, at his father, Brigadier-General Morris of the International Security Assistance Forces in the Middle East, and followed Sherlock through the house and back to their room. Sherlock felt the other boy's gaze boring into his back, all the way up the stairs so he was not at all surprised when, once inside the security of the room, Morris placed a large hand on his shoulder and spun him around. Gripping him by his tee-shirt front, Morris leaned into him and hissed, though gritted teeth,

'You don't fool me, Holmes, you little shit. I know what you did, holding your breath like that, pretending to be half dead, just to get me and Kendall in Skew. Well, you better watch your back, 'cos next time, you won't need to pretend.' With that, Morris pushed him hard and he staggered across the floor, crashing into his desk and upsetting all the books on the bookshelves above, causing them to fall onto his desk top and to the floor. Sherlock rubbed his arm, where it had made contact with the desk, then set about returning all his books and files to their assigned position, in his book case, and counting the days to his first exeat. Maybe he could develop some terrible illness, which made it impossible for him to return to Harrow, ever.

ooOoo

Sorry this has been awhile coming but Demon was taking up all my brain space so this one had to go on the cerebral back burner. But I'm back now! To those of you who have 'followed' or 'favourited', many thanks, and for those who have reviewed, extra thanks. Your words of encouragement are much appreciated.

Even more thanks, to all my readers, for your patience!