If it weren't for Sherlock Holmes, John would've said that his first year at Newberry Academy was rather uneventful.

It was June 10th, and only one more week of school was left before summer break.

After dinner on that Friday night, John grabbed the medical journal he'd been meaning to start, Epidemiologic Reviews, and settled into an old armchair in the living room. As he read the introduction, John once again found his thoughts drifting to Sherlock Holmes.

After spending nearly a year of sharing a room with Sherlock and following the boy everywhere, John had concluded several important things.

First and foremost, the boy was undeniably a genius. He also had a bit of a death wish. Sherlock didn't care about boundaries, or any of the unwritten rules of society. He had a sharp mouth that made ruthless and cutting deductions at the expense of others. Even to John, he could be cruel and thoughtless. For a fifteen year old, Sherlock was extremely cold in appearance. Sherlock could go 48 hours straight with no sleep and accomplish things that should take months with anyone else.

But it wasn't all this that made Sherlock easily the most complex and fascinating person on earth to John, but rather the startling number of contrasts that was within the boy.

Once, out of boredom and reluctant fascination with the boy, John tried making a list of all the topics he knew of and Sherlock's level of expertise at it.

Sherlock knew of practically every murder committed in the last century, yet he didn't know who the Prime Minister was.

Sherlock memorized everything on the periodic table and what their reaction was to each other, yet he didn't know that the earth went around the sun.

A smile played on the corner of John's lips as he recalled the irony of that conversation with the boy who seemed to know everything.


"Sherlock, I still can't believe you did that," John giggled, shutting their dorm door and leaning against it, trying in vain to contain his laughter. It was hours past curfew.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to remain stoic. "I was trying to prove a point."

John was still giggling when he plopped down on his bed and looked up at Sherlock. "What? Were you trying to prove that he didn't know that the earth goes around the sun?

Sherlock looked at John blankly for a moment, the closest thing he'd do to admitting he didn't understand something.

John propped himself up on his elbows and smiled. "It's an expression Sherlock." John knew that while Sherlock was a genius, he sometimes didn't know the most basic of common culture.

He blinked, still staring at John.

A small puff of laughter escaped John's mouth and a fond smile quirked on his mouth. "It's supposed to mean that the person is so unknowledgeable that they don't even know first grade astronomy."

"Oh." Sherlock looked slightly defensive. "Not everyone knows that the earth goes around the sun John."

"Everyone knows that," John said.

"No," Sherlock insisted, "some people just might not care about things like that."

"But it's the most—" John stopped, his eyes widening, suddenly taking in Sherlock's uncomfortable posture and tone. He grinned. "Wait, did you not know that the earth goes around the sun?"

Sherlock harrumphed and refused to answer. John could see the beginnings of a blush blooming on his cheeks. John's smile only grew wider.

"I must've deleted it," Sherlock said. To most people, he would've seemed as cool and collected as ever, but by now John knows the difference. The slightest twitch in his hand gave his discomfort away. John mused that Sherlock would've been proud of him for noticing that level of detail.

"Deleted it?" John echoed.

Sherlock walked over and sat next to John on his bed. The intimacy of that move should've made John blush, but he'd found out a long time ago that Sherlock didn't understand boundaries.

He didn't mind either way.

"I have a system of organization," Sherlock started explaining, pointing to his head. "I treat my brain as if it were a hard drive. See most people cloud their thoughts with all kinds of rubbish, which makes it hard to actually get to the information that matters. I delete those kind of unnecessary things, and only remember what helps me."

"Wow," John said. He suspected he'd never cease at being amazed by Sherlock.

The blush deepened on Sherlock's face.

"I call it my mind palace," Sherlock said.

John pulled up the covers so it covered his knee and scooted closer to Sherlock.

"How do you organize your mind palace?" John asked.

Though he was interested, it wasn't that John was so completely fascinated with how Sherlock organized his mind palace that he could listen to him talk about for hours, but rather he was fascinated by the way Sherlock would move his arms and hands to emphasize something. The way his eyes would light up when he got excited about something. It was the way his whole body would become so animated when he started talking about something he really cared about.


John thought about the hundreds of late night conversations they've had on his bed, sometimes they were thoughtful, other times utterly pointless.

He'd always felt in those moments that he was as happy as one could be, just talking with Sherlock Holmes.

But John also didn't fool himself into thinking that Sherlock was always so talkative and amiable. There were moments in Sherlock's behavior that made John so angry and hurt that he wanted to give up and ask the headmaster to be reassigned to a different roommate.


"Shut up John," Sherlock snapped.

John flinched as the hateful force of Sherlock's stormy grey eyes were directed at him.

"Sherlock," John tried again. "It's not your fault, you're only 15, you couldn't—"

"What do you know?" Sherlock's voice grew dark and flat. "You're just another stupid teenager who doesn't understand anything."

John inhaled sharply, Sherlock's words cutting into his wave of sympathy and turning it into anger.

"What should've I have done then?" John nearly shouted, remembering at the last second that it was late. "Let you starve yourself to try and catch this killer?"

Sherlock was seething, his fists clenching and unclenching. "I can take care of myself. The killer is gone forever now because of you."

"I care about you Sherlock, and I'm your friend. I will not apologize for trying to help you." John said slowly, trying to stay calm.

"Friends," Sherlock mocked, his face completely devoid of the affection John had seen only five hours ago. "I don't have friends John, don't delude yourself into thinking you are one."

To say it was like a slap in the face would be beyond an understatement. It felt like a hurricane flung him to the ground. John suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe.

He shakily grabbed the doorknob and rushed outside, shutting their dorm door and leaning against it.

There was nowhere he could go, it was dead in the middle of the night. If he were caught, there was a chance he would be suspended.

So John just sat outside their dorm room. He stared at the wall, trying to not think.


John had given up trying to make a list of Sherlock's attributes, but he had drawn the conclusion that he would never stop following Sherlock through dark alleys at 3 am, or crowded school halls.

Just as John had almost cleared his thoughts enough so that he could go back to his book, his phone rang. It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he greeted, smiling even though he couldn't see John.

"Bored."

John chuckled. "Are you at school?"

"Yes. It's boring without you here," Sherlock complained

"Why don't you go back to your house over the weekend then?" John asked

John knew that some people chose to stay at Newberry over the weekend instead of going back every Friday night, and only went back on holidays. But that was only really for students who lived really far away, and as far as he knew Sherlock lived in London.

"Eh," came Sherlock's vague response. "Anyways, what time are you getting here Monday?"

"Probably around 6:15, class starts at 7:30 and I need to drop my stuff off and eat breakfast."

"Good. Earlier the better."

John smiled. "Nice to know I'm missed."

Sherlock groaned. "I've been conducting some experiments with liver but it's really boring. Why can't you be here already?"

John had been considering something, but he wasn't sure. He decided to run it past Sherlock first, but he had already guessed what his response would probably be.

"Maybe next year I'll stay at Newberry over the weekend and go back to my house at the end of the month instead."

"Yes!" Sherlock's voice brightened. "We can get so much more done if you stay over the weekend!"

"By work you don't actually mean homework."

Sherlock laughed. "Of course not. I've found a new burglary case that you might be interested in helping me with. The security footage hasn't been tampered with, yet there isn't a single trace of the burglar on the tape."

"What store?"

"Some maximum-security jewelry store. Really, even I thought it was impressive that someone pulled that off."

"Alright, we'll take a look at it when I get back Monday."

John heard a faint beep from Sherlock's side.

"I should go John, the liver's going to explode in twenty seconds if I don't go get it."

"Don't destroy anything," John warned, imaging the dorm a complete mess when he gets there.

"I won't. Good night John."

"Good night."

Sherlock hung up and John found himself setting the phone down with a stupid smile on his face.

There was one other conclusion he had drawn in his first year at Newberry. He was absolutely in love with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.