Sherlock stifled a groan as the minutes slowly drug on, making him feel trapped in the tiny office of despair. He failed to stop a small sigh from escaping his lips when the man across from him flipped another page ever so slowly. Lestrade nudged him with his foot, probably in an attempt to contain Sherlock from starting his new adventure off on the wrong foot.

"So that pretty much covers everything," the headmaster nodded, reading through a stack of papers in front of him. Sherlock sighed again when the man readjusted his glasses for the twentieth time in the last hour. "We were able to gather the rest of your previous records from your various schools in the past," there was a brief pause when the man looked over his glasses skeptically at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow in defense back at him. "Your classes have already been assigned. You're not getting too much of a late start for the Fall term. Based on the previous classes you've taken, hopefully, you'll fit in seamlessly."

Sherlock looked over at his guardian, who was in the chair to his right, and found that Lestrade was nodding along to what the headmaster was saying eagerly, causing Sherlock's eyes to roll (which then earned him a sharp nudge in his ribs from Lestrade's elbow when the Headmaster looked away.)

The headmaster seemed to be oblivious to the silent battle between Sherlock and his guardian and continued on, "I've assigned another student to you that is in most of your classes. He'll give you the tour of the school, show you where your classes are, and that sort of thing. I'll just go make sure he's here," he told them looking back up with a smile. "Back in a tick," he told them with a raised finger before getting up to leave the small office in search of Sherlock's tour guide, leaving them alone in the room momentarily.

Sherlock looked back over to the man to his right, letting out a groan once the door was closed.

"I haven't even started yet and I'm already bored," he bemoaned, letting his arms fall off of the armrests of the chairs and throwing his head back.

"Now, you listen here," Lestrade turned and started in on him fiercely, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to raise in surprise. "You're lucky this place didn't turn you away, given your more colorful track record with schools. I don't want to get one phone call, you hear me?" he paused to point vigorously at him. "Don't deduce and humiliate your teachers," he ticked off a finger, "or your classmates in public." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before finishing off with, "Please, for the love of God, don't make the chem lab explode - "

"That was just the one time," Sherlock cut in defensively, earning him another glare.

"Let's just say that explosions of any kind are off the table," Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. "You can do this Sherlock," Lestrade's face relaxed slightly. "It's only one more year, then you'll be off to college and university."

Sherlock stared down at his still casted arm in contemplation. A lot had happened in the last six months. The man next to him had given him a chance, a home, a new wardrobe, but maybe more importantly, Lestrade made him feel safe. As he looked back at the man with a smirk that made Lestrade narrow his gaze on him even more, Sherlock realized he'd be okay. The least he could do for his new guardian was to not burn down the school, or at least attempt not to.

"Alright, lads, I think we're all set," the headmaster cut in, reappearing in the doorway. "Sherlock, I've got your tour guide all ready to go."

Sherlock turned and saw the borderline pleading look in Lestrade's eyes and let out a sigh.

"Fine," he grumbled and both of them got up from their chairs in the headmaster's office and headed to the main lobby of the school's office.

There was another student waiting, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was several inches shorter than Sherlock, with blonde hair. The other student gave a small wave from across the office as they made their way towards him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as they approached, trying to decipher as much information about the other teen as quickly as possible. The muscle definition first made Sherlock inclined to believe that he played football but when he reached out to shake Sherlock's hand the callouses indicated those of a rugby player which made Sherlock change his opinion.

"John Watson," the other boy greeted with an easy smile.

Another nudge to his ribs from his guardian prodded Sherlock into action.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, returning the firm handshake.

A surprisingly firm handshake for someone close to his age. It indicated a type of confidence that was uncommon for most adolescents. His shoulders were relaxed, but the other boy, John, let them fall to rest behind his back. Possibly due to being raised by a family member in the military.

"John will show you around the rest of the morning," the Headmaster started, breaking Sherlock from his deductions. "Here is a copy of your schedule for the rest of the semester. You'll be expected to report to your afternoon classes after lunch. If there is an issue with any classes, try and get with your year's counselor by the end of the week."

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade shook the headmaster's hand, thanking the man for all of his help. Sherlock stared at Lestrade until their gazes locked back. Lestrade gave Sherlock a comforting smile before turning back to John.

"So, John, nice to meet you, don't let this one push you around too much," he greeted with a point of his thumb towards Sherlock.

John gave them a curious look, but Sherlock decided to cut in before he could finish whatever thought he was about to express.

"Football or Rugby?" Sherlock inquired, keeping his face straight when the other boy looked confused by the question.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered defeatedly under his breath.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, still clearly trying to figure out what Sherlock was getting at.

"Your physique suggests more of a footballer," Sherlock began, ignoring the sigh from Lestrade next to him. "However, it's new calluses that have just recently healed on your hands that indicate that you have switched sports. Possibly due to an injury, more likely due to potential scholarship opportunities. Either way, the calluses must have interfered with your clarinet playing."

John and Lestrade started in on him at the same time.

"How could you possibly-"

"Sherlock, what did we just talk about?" Lestrade asked, covering his face in embarrassment.

"That was amazing," John responded, staring at Sherlock in awe.

"Really?" Sherlock and Lestrade responded in sync.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and frowned at the surprise in the man's voice.

"What?" Lestrade asked Sherlock with a shrug. "It's not like that's one of your more personable party tricks," he muttered.

John looked between the two staring down at each other before awkwardly speaking up, "I'll, uh, just be out here when you're ready," John said, pointing towards the door before stepping into the hall and out of earshot.

Sherlock watched as his guide for the day awkwardly exited the school office and then turned back to Lestrade, unsure how to proceed.

Lestrade watched the other boy exit, turning back to Sherlock with raised eyebrows, "So, this is it then," he stated nervously. "You've got everything you need? Do you need pens or anything? I've probably got one somewhere," Lestrade began to pat down his suit jacket.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock replied evenly. He watched on as Lestrade began to panic over his pen search.

"Can't believe I don't have a pen," Lestrade continued with a frown.

Sherlock let the man continue to look for several more seconds before cutting in, "Makes you a bit of a crap detective," Sherlock shot at him.

"Oi!" Lestrade replied, looking hurt at the statement. However, it had its intended effect, snapping him out of his pen obsession.

Sherlock pouted, "You act as if I've never done this before," he grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Pardon me for not having faith in your previous ways of coping, seeing as your previous extracurricular activities put you in rehab," came Lestrade's sarcastic response.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't you have to go to work or something?" he grumbled. "I'm sure a tardy mark on your first day as a homicide Detective Inspector will be looked on poorly by your superiors."

"Right," Lestrade nodded, looking to give Sherlock a smile. "You'll be fine," he stated, and Sherlock wasn't sure which one of them he was reassuring. "We'll do that Thai place you like for dinner," he offered. "You know, to celebrate."

Sherlock nodded his agreement, "Assuming I make it through the day without you receiving a phone call?"

"Frankly, I'll just be happy if you survive the tour," Lestrade replied with a challenging smirk.

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head at his guardian's sense of humor.

"Ok well, I'll let you get to it," Lestrade looked around unsurely. "I kind of feel like this is a hug moment," he let out a large grin at Sherlock's obvious signs of discomfort.

"I assure you it's not," Sherlock threatened with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Humor me," Lestrade spoke softly, taking a step closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed but didn't run away when Lestrade came to wrap his arms around him. Sherlock returned the gesture and let his eyes fall closed for the briefest moments before letting go. A sense of calm came over him, and the comfort the other man instilled in him only cemented the fact Sherlock had made the right choice. He could do this.

"One more thing, Sherlock," Greg said with hands on his shoulders, looking pleadingly at Sherlock. "Be nice. John looks like a nice kid," he finished, jabbing his chin in the other teen's direction.

"I'll see you tonight," Sherlock said pointedly, not ready to let his guardian know that he had won, and walked out in the hall towards John. "Go solve something, Inspector," he called back behind him. The faint arse heard from under Lestrade's breath brought a smile to his face that stayed until he reached his tour guide.

Sherlock finally made his way over to where John was waiting for him. John had obviously been watching their interactions through the office window but tried to discreetly change his gaze to something else when he saw Sherlock make his way towards him.

John smiled as Sherlock made his approach, "Your dad seems like a nice guy. He worries about you," John nodded at his cast.

"Mmmm," Was all Sherlock could say, not sure how to go about attempting to explain his relationship with Lestrade with someone he'd only just met.

"So, I was thinking of the tour first. Make sure you get a good feel for the school," John carried on with an easy-going smile. "We actually have a lot of the same classes together. The only difference is that I have orchestra at the end of the day, although you probably gathered that since you somehow knew that I played the clarinet," John said with a frown, pausing to look back to Sherlock. "How did you know I played the clarinet?"

Sherlock smirked, not bothering to look at the other boy, "I observed the facts and came to the appropriate conclusion," he finished with an air of someone more elitist than he was actually feeling. Actually, it felt like he was channeling a bit of Mycroft, and that thought alone was enough to bring a frown to his face.

"Right," John replied slowly, still continuing their trek down the hallway. "Well, between the haircut and your know-it-all attitude, you're coming off as kind of a dick," he finished, keeping his head pointed forward, but Sherlock could see the joking smile on his new classmate's face.

"So I suppose that means I should keep my comments to myself regarding your backpack that was clearly handed down to you by your older brother," Sherlock pointed to the worn backpack on John's back.

John paused in the hallway to stare at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pausing his steps to look back at the other boy.

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked him, but the excitement in his voice and the small smile threatening to spill onto his face gave him away.

Sherlock smirked back at John and turned to carry on down the hall without his guide. It took a couple of moments before the sound of the shorter student's footsteps caught back up with him.

"You're right," John started with a smile. "I got this backpack from Harry," he told him with a nod. Sherlock stood a little taller at the affirmation of his correct answer. "Harry is short for Harriet," John finished with a raise of his eyebrows.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the hallway and let his head hang, "Sister!" he fumed, snapping his head back up. "It's always something," he grumbled, trying to ignore the growing smile on John's face.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at the other student. John didn't seem displeased or overly disturbed by Sherlock's ability to read him. It was… nice.

"So, Sherlock Holmes," John started, returning Sherlock's smile. "Where to next?"

"What does the school's chemistry lab look like?" he asked John curiously.

John nodded and nudged his head towards a different hallway before turning to head that way himself. Sherlock smiled at the back of the blonde head leading him towards the lab.

Maybe this whole school thing wouldn't be so bad after all.

.

.

.

20 Years Later

Two years of maddening work came to an end. He hadn't rested until his son's name was cleared. Too little, too late. Still, Sherlock deserved the redemption, even if it was posthumous. He withdrew another cigarette and took a long drag, standing on the steps of NSY and resisting the urge to flip the building off. He supposed he was lucky that they allowed him to continue to work, despite being demoted back to Sergeant and only with supervision. Even though Donovan and Anderson convinced the lot of them his son….. It didn't matter now. Sherlock was cleared. He'd done what he set out to do. Maybe he'd finally turn in his resignation, it'd serve them all right.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock's voice rang clear in his mind and he took another deep drag of his cig. He finished with another long drag and lit up another one.

Maybe he'd text John and they could have a beer soon to commemorate the occasion. Though he hadn't seen much of the young doctor as of late, on Sherlock's birthday and the anniversary of his death, John made sure to come around and make sure he was okay. They'd have a drink and a cry and go on their ways. They tried to keep in touch earlier on, but it had been too difficult for the both of them.

Mycroft was always keeping an eye on him, though. The two hadn't had much interaction since the night of Sherlock's, well, since Sherlock left. But every time he saw a sleek black town car, or heard the whir of one of the CCTV cameras change their direction, he knew that the older Holmes brother was still keeping tabs on him. Greg glanced at a nearby security camera and gave a small salute. Mycroft had promised that Sherlock's trust fund would continue to pay for the Baker Street flat until Greg was ready to say goodbye to it. He also assured Greg that there was more than enough to take care of Greg for as much time he felt he needed to take off after Sherlock…

But that wasn't Greg. He needed to get back to work; needed to prove all those tossers wrong. And after two years of soul-crushing work, he wasn't sure what to do with himself exactly. Maybe he'd take Mycroft on that offer after all and do some traveling. Maybe he'd relocate altogether just to get away from this blasted city and all the memories associated with it. Surely his qualifications would get him another job doing police work somewhere.

Greg put out his last cig after chain-smoking his way all the way back to his flat. His phone chimed with dozens of texts. The press conference must be over then. The world finally knew the truth. He pulled out to scroll through some of the texts:

Sally Donovan: Greg, I'm so sorry I hope you know -

Sandra Littleton: Come round for dinner soon.

Phillip Anderson: There's a new theory -

Greg rolled his eyes. The elevator dinged on his floor at the same time a new text came through.

Mycroft Holmes: Vatican Cameos

Greg paused with keys in hand. Memories came flooding back of times past. Mycroft had expressed concerns, via Anthea, about the press conference today. He knew there would be some blowback, but that could be dealt with another day. Tonight would be for him. He just wanted to sit with a glass of scotch, turn off his phone, and do nothing but remember happier times.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and let himself in, tossing his keys on the entry table and hanging his jacket up, ready to head to the kitchen to make himself a stiff drink. He paused, taking a glance into the living room. A lone shadow stretched across the room, startling Greg. He wasn't alone.

Vatican Cameos, Mycroft's text came back to him. He reached to his holster and withdrew his gun before slowly taking himself toward the living room. The person had their back to him. He had long shoulder-length curly hair, ratted clothes, and was taking in the chaos of his living room.

"I'm sorry," the stranger spoke quietly. Their voice was deep and raspy as if it had not gotten much use, or was overcome with emotion. Possibly both. There was something about the timbre of the voice that made Greg lower his gun. He knew that voice - but it couldn't be.

It couldn't be. His mind was playing tricks on him. The emotions from the day, from the last two years, were finally catching up with him.

"I'm so sorry. I did it to save you," the mystery ragged man refused to turn around, instead continuing to look at the various papers that had littered his walls and string attaching various clues to each other.

Greg's living room had turned into a situation room of sorts. It looked mad. He didn't have many visitors aside from John or Mike, and they understood. Neither tried to talk him out of taking even a single piece of paper down. Greg had to admit that he had gone a little mad over the last couple of years, but losing your son will do that to a man.

That voice though, he knew that voice in his bones. It'd been two years since he'd been able to hear that deep baritone voice explain a murder, joke with John, or call him dad. That was the voice of his son.

"Sherlock?" he asked, holding back his tears. His own voice sounded treacherous to his ears as he holstered his gun. Greg needed to see the man's face. He needed to know.

Hesitantly, he extended a shaking arm, reaching for the arm of the other man to turn him around. He thought he had fooled himself. This was just some vagrant that somehow managed to get into his apartment. And then through the mess of hair, he saw those eyes. Those eyes that haunted his mind.

"Oh my god!" Greg gasped. "Sherlock!" he cried and crushed the man to him.

"He was going to kill you. I couldn't lose you, Dad. You and John and Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's voice was thick with emotion, and somehow the monotonous rhythm that the kid used displayed the shock that Sherlock was probably feeling himself.

"You daft, bleeding idiot!" Greg cried and lost the ability to keep himself upright, crumpling both of them to the floor.

"He was going to kill you," Sherlock's dazed voice repeated.

Greg squeezed Sherlock tighter to him, crying harder when he felt Sherlock's arms wrap back around his shoulders. He could feel Sherlock's own tears fall to his head as the two sat and cried. They cried tears of joy, sadness, anger.

"You smell atrocious," Greg finally spoke, wiping tears from his face and grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders to take him in. "You're really here?"

Sherlock nodded and his hair fell to obstruct his face again.

"Christ, Sherlock. What have you done to yourself?" Greg asked, finally registering everything in front of him. The kid's ragged clothes were falling off of him. "Did you eat at all while you were out traipsing across god knows where? You feel like you've lost at least a stone," Greg commented, rubbing the kid's upper arms. Sherlock was also holding the middle of his abdomen as if he was in pain. He needed to get the kid checked out.

Sherlock shrugged, refusing to look back at Greg. What untold hell had the kid put himself through?

Greg let out a sigh and stood up to pace the living room while his son remained on his knees. He clearly needed medical attention, but the Sergeant wasn't sure how to check one's deceased son into A&E. Christ, this meant he'd have to call Mycroft and John, he thought, covering his face with his hands and taking a deep calming breath. One thing at a time.

"Come on, kid. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" Greg asked, helping his son to his feet. He was there to help Sherlock correct the slight wobble that threatened to bring him back to the floor. He led him into the bathroom and turned the shower on. "I'm burning those clothes when you're done," he tried to joke, pointing to the tattered clothes hanging off of Sherlock's already slim frame.

Sherlock nodded, still refusing to look Greg in the eye, and closed the door to take a shower.

Greg felt the tears gathering, and he had to lean back against the closed bathroom door for support to keep himself from collapsing to the floor. This was real. Sherlock was back. Clearly, he had been through something, and he'd get the story from the kid at some point, but not tonight. Tonight was for Greg.

The bathroom door opened, startling Greg from his thoughts. Sherlock caught Greg from falling back, seeing as the door was holding most of Lestrade's weight at the moment.

Greg looked at him concerned, "Hey, kid, is everything okay?" He looked into the bathroom, concerned that maybe he had run out of clean towels, but Sherlock's arms enveloping him in a comforting hug pulled him back to the present.

"I felt as if this was a hug moment," Sherlock whispered, bending down to rest his forehead on top of his dad's shoulder.

Greg felt a chuckle escape him and returned the display of affection with equal force. This was real. Sherlock wasn't dead, his prayers had been answered.

Sherlock was home.

His son was home.