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"Alistair!" John hollered, running into the stable. His bum burned and he hissed, slowing his pace to a walk.

"Whoa, easy, lad‒what's all the fuss?" Alistair was finishing John's abandoned polishing and he wiped his hands on a towel.

"I'm going to school!"

Alistair grinned. "Are you, now?"

"Mr. Holmes asked me this morning and I said yes of course and I‒wait a second, did you know?"

Alistair was still smiling. "I may have known a thing or two about it…"

John was still smiling stupidly and Sherlock trotted up behind him. "Sherlock's going to help with my work today and then he's going to help me study for my entrance exams." John said.

"Sherlock's a good friend." Al said.

"Yeah, he is."

Sherlock beamed.


The chores were finished in record time and Sherlock hauled John back to his bedroom.

"I remember the entrance exam. It's easy." Sherlock pulled a few textbooks off his shelf and threw them on the bed. "Maths, English, reading comprehension, science‒you'll do fine." More books followed.

John pursed his lips. It didn't sound easy.

"Get that look off your face." Sherlock said. John frowned. Sherlock wasn't even facing him. "You will do well on this exam." Sherlock came to the table with four textbooks. "Read these. I've bookmarked which pages you'll need to know."

John grabbed the first one, An Introduction to Biology, and opened to the first marked page. There was a detailed illustration of a cell with all the parts labeled. John remembered going over something like this in a class he took a few years ago. He turned to another page. The digestive system and the brain. Hm, maybe this wouldn't be so bad…

Sherlock coached him for the rest of the weekend. John's exam was set for Tuesday afternoon and he was very nervous.

"Don't worry," Sherlock told him the morning of the exam over breakfast. "We went through it all fast, but you're not supposed to really study for these kinds of tests anyway."

"What do you mean?" John put his cereal spoon down. "There's kinds of tests that you don't study for?" John had never heard of such a thing.

"They're designed to gauge what you already know. General knowledge. Basic stuff. You know about politics already, right?"

"Yeah." He'd learned some stuff at the courses in the communal home, but Sherlock's speed-teaching had filled in some gaps.

"You'll do fine." Sherlock slid off his chair, wincing slightly. "Good luck." He left to catch the school bus and John finished his food, feeling queasy. The test wasn't until after lunchtime, so he still had time to review a few things. He got up and reached for his empty bowl, bringing to the sink to wash. A servant appeared out of the wings and took it respectfully from him. He kept forgetting that there were servants here to specifically do these tasks for him. He was so used to cleaning up after himself and other people and doing his own washing at the home. Yet another difference between Sherlock's world and his.

The family driver brought him to Saint Gabriel's at one thirty. There was a lunch break going on, and boys in various navy and white uniforms milled about in a fenced in common area. John hoped he'd get a glimpse of Sherlock, but no. The interior of the school was neat and clean and John walked past a few paintings of former heads of school and into the main reception office. A nice woman in a green dress greeted him at the front desk, and then another office worker took him to a conference room and placed the test face-down in front of him, along with two pens and two pencils.

"Would you like some water?" She asked.

John nodded stiffly. She left, then returned with a bottle of water.

"Good luck, John. Someone will be back here in an hour. You may begin."

She left and John flipped over the paper. Taking a deep breath, he read the first question.


Sherlock got off at three, so John and the driver waited in the car park until he was finished.

"So?" Sherlock asked, opening the back door. "How did you do?" He threw his bag in and sat beside his friend. The car roared off.

"I don't know." John said miserably, thinking of all the question he might have missed. "They're going to mail the results this week."

"You did fine."

"I forgot what onomatopoeia meant." John moaned.

"That's okay. Half the kids in my English class don't even know what a noun is. You passed."

John wished he felt so confident.

Thus began the longest days of John's life. He didn't expect anything the next day, or the next. Or Friday. The weekend was hell, especially Sunday since he knew for sure he wasn't going to find out until at least Monday. When Alistair walked into the stable and handed him a big envelope the next Tuesday afternoon, John's heart nearly stopped. He was starting to wonder if the whole thing hadn't been a particularly lucid dream.

"Oh God." He whispered. The school's name was in the return address.

"Are you gonna open it or stare at it?" Alistair asked.

"I think I'll wait for Sherlock to come home." In truth, John thought he would vomit no matter what the results were, and he had just swept this floor. And besides, Sherlock had helped him study, John felt he should be there to see the results. He didn't have to wait long.

"Did it come!?" Sherlock ran into the stable, as he had been doing every day after school since John had taken the exam.

"Yeah." John breathed.

"And?!"

"I didn't open it yet."

"What are you waiting for, you idiot? Come on!"

They went up into the loft and Sherlock knelt up on the cot as John grabbed the envelope in sweating hands. He wanted it, of course he did, but he almost wanted it for Sherlock's sake more. John knew that if he got in, Sherlock would never have a bad day again‒not if he could help it.

He tore at the flap with shaking fingers and extracted the typed letter inside.

"Dear Mr. Watson…we are happy to inform you that‒"

"‒Yes!" Sherlock leaped off the cot.

"I got in!" John threw the pages aside.

"You got in!" They spontaneously high-fived. Sherlock whooped and cheered and more or less hopped around the loft. John smiled and joined him. He got in! It was exactly what he wanted. School‒real school. He was happier than he remembered being in a long time, so why was there such a nagging pit of worry in his chest?


"We'll need to get a uniform for you, Johnny." Sherringford said over dinner that night. The family, John and Alistair were eating at the big oak table. John was totally stuffed from the celebratory dinner. He'd never had lobster before, and the chocolate cake had been amazing.

"He can share mine until he gets his own." Sherlock said.

"John's uniform will be different." Mycroft said. "He's a year above you."

Sherlock made a face at him.

"We still have time. Normally we would just order through the school, but since the year's already started, I can take you to the shop over the weekend, John." Sherringford said.

"What about books?" John asked, still worried about the expense.

"The school will provide those for you."

John worried for the rest of the week. Everyday Sherlock or his father would suggest something he might need for class, and the sheer amount of things was starting to sound dizzyingly expensive. The uniform, the supplies, the tuition, all the fees. He was going on Thursday to the GP for the required physical and injections. He got quieter and more worried the closer the first day came.

On Saturday morning, Sherringford and John were getting ready to go to the uniform shop.

"I'm coming too!" Sherlock declared.

"No. Stay home for this one, okay?" Sherringford said.

"Why?" Sherlock whined.

"Because I told you to."

John soon found himself alone in the silver Jaguar with Mr. Holmes. He fiddled nervously with his seat belt and stared out the window.

"Alright, John, what's on your mind?"

"Nothing, sir."

"None of that. Don't worry, son, whatever it is, you can tell me. Do you still want to go to Saint Gabriel's?"

Damn, he was perceptive. Cheekbones weren't the only thing Sherlock inherited.

"I do." John said. And he did.

"Okay. Are you nervous about your first day?"

"Ah…not too much, sir." Going to various jobs and being in and out of schools for most of his youth made him very good at meeting people and fitting in.

"So, what then? Truly, you can tell me anything, John. Is it something with Sherlock?"

"Oh no, sir. The truth is, I, well, I'm worried about the payments. It's a public school, and I…don't have money."

"Oh John, don't worry at all about that." Sherringford sounded relieved.

"No? But, how am I going to be allowed there? What if I fail out?"

"You won't." He said firmly. "You won't fail out and you'll be paid in full. Charlotte and I are covering your tuition, son. I thought that was clear."

"Oh." Now John felt like the idiot Sherlock said he was.

"Okay?" Mr. Holmes said.

"Yes, sir." John felt much more relieved.

"Good. Any problems you have, John, any at all, you come to me or Charlotte, okay? We want you to succeed."

"Thank you, sir." John whispered. He leaned his head back on the seat. No one had ever spoken like this to him. It was nice. Really nice. It was like having a real family.


Monday morning found John and Sherlock waiting on the corner for the school bus. Sherlock was in his blazer and trousers with the striped tie. John was wearing a variation on that: grey trousers with a navy shirt. He didn't button the cuffs or his collar, instead choosing to keep the long sleeves rolled up loosely over his muscled forearms. A whole summer of farm labor had seriously bulked him up. The top button was undone as well, giving his appearance a more casual feel. His bag was slung over one shoulder, holding notebooks and pens and the like. John was excited and Sherlock was thrilled.

"We'll see each other at lunch." Sherlock said. "Our years eat together."

"Jim going to be there?"

"Unless he's absent." Sherlock said.

"Good." John cracked a knuckle.

The bus pulled up and both boys got on.

The first half of John's day went well enough. The kids weren't nearly as intimidating or scary as he feared. Spending a summer with Sherlock and seeing how he lived his daily life had prepared John for spending his time around a whole group of equally as wealthy students his own age. He made a few friends in his maths and English courses, his casual wearing of the uniform and quick grin attracting curious attention from classmates and unwanted attention from teachers. He sat between two boys in his English class, Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade, who were friendly and happy to invite John to sit with them and the rest of the rugby team at lunch. So far, the day was going well.

"John!" Greg was waving to him across the lunch area. John waved back, then held up his index finger, indicating that he wanted them to wait. He scanned the room and saw Sherlock in the corner, sitting at an end of a lunch table by himself.

"Hey." John dropped to the seat across from him. "How's your day going?"

"Fine." Sherlock said. "Yours?"

"Not bad. You want to come sit with me at my table?" John looked over at the new group and a few of the guys were eying him curiously. Sherlock stared at them, rather, he stared at their muscles and calculated how quickly they could snap his neck.

"They won't bug you. If they do, fuck 'em‒I'll sit here with you."

"Fine." Sherlock gathered his food and got up, following John to the new table. John was right at home, but Sherlock didn't exactly fit in with the brawny, loud group. Sure, they were nice enough to him since he was with John. Mike even shared his chips with him and by the end of the break, Sherlock was smiling, much to John's relief.

The rest of the day passed quickly and the last bell finally rang. John met up with Greg and Mike outside. "Who's that kid you were with at lunch?" Greg asked. "He your brother?"

"No. He's my friend. He sometimes has a rough time of school."

"Yeah, he's scrawny." Mike added.

John gave him a glare and Greg laughed in delight. "You need to join the team, the other guys are already debating about which position you're going to play."

John peered around, looking for Sherlock. He'd yet to see either Jim or Seb, which was good for their sakes. John looked through the milling crowd and spied a familiar dark curly head. Sherlock was backed in a corner, a dark haired boy and his larger, ginger crony looming over him. That must be Jim and Seb. John couldn't believe it‒Jim was in John's year! He wasn't even the same age as Sherlock. What a coward. John grinned. He couldn't wait to meet him. Mike and Greg saw where John was looking.

"We're behind you, mate."

Thrilled to have a posse of his own, John stormed through the crowd and landed one big hand on Jim's shoulder, just as he had his own fist raised to pummel a cowering Sherlock. John yanked him back, spinning him around.

"What the fuck?" Jim spat.

"Pick on someone your own size, James." John said. With that, he hauled off and punched him across the mouth, sending him sprawling. Seb yelled in protest and grabbed John by the lapels. "You're going to regret that, you bastard." Mike and Greg shoved Seb off of John, flexing their rugby-born muscled arms. Seb stepped back and sized them up. John was glaring up at him, and Mike and Greg were flanking him, hands in fists, ready to beat on Seb should he do something stupid. Scowling, he ran off, leaving Jim to fend for himself. A small crowd had formed, and a few more members of the rugby team slowly came forward, eager to back their mates up.

Jim got off the ground, his lip split. He took one look at John and his group and took off without a word. Satisfied, John helped Sherlock up from where he was sitting on the dirt. He dusted Sherlock's blazer. Mike picked up Sherlock's bag.

"Alright?" John asked, flicking dirt off his shoulder.

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah, I am."

"Good." John clapped him on the back. "I don't think Jim or Seb are going to be bothering you anymore."