Dear Mycroft,
I don't know where to send this to so I've sent it via Mummy. I hope you get it. I know I don't usually send letters to you in term time, or indeed any time; perhaps I regret this, but – anyway, I thought I had better see how you were doing. Where are you stationed? How is the war panning out? Are you allowed to tell me any of this?
John and I arrived safely at school. So did Harry, probably. Mummy and Daddy were sad to see them go. I think they preferred them to us. Unsurprising, really. John is turning out to be good at biology. He doesn't know what he wants to do when he's older. I do. I think he'll be a doctor.
There was an air raid drill this week – the first. The sirens sound weird. And it was annoying because I was in the library in my mind palace and we hadn't been told when the drill would be. The shelter at school is quite big, but not quite big enough. I ended up squashed between John and the rugby captain. I don't imagine the shelter is much use. We're far enough out of London for us not to be a viable target. And anyway, the air raids probably won't start for a while yet.
I'm sorry. I don't know what to put. I'm not good at letters. And to be perfectly fair, I'm about as bothered about what you're doing as you are about what I'm doing. I just want to be sure you're alive. Please write as often as you can.
Your brother,
Sherlock Holmes
Dear Sherlock,
Thank you for your letter. I haven't much time to write so I shall just say that I can't say much. You'll notice, no doubt, that this letter is postmarked Oxford. That's not where I posted it, but if you send letters to the address with which I've headed this letter, they'll find their way to me.
I hereby assure you that I am alive.
Your brother,
Mycroft Holmes
School was going much as can be expected. The days were composed of a meeting in the mornings, lessons, meals and prep. Sherlock found the routine tedious. John found it comforting. The former was apathetic about most things, including chemistry, his favourite subject (supposedly): indeed, he didn't put much energy into anything except playing in the orchestra, which, though he would never admit it, was probably his one true passion. The latter dived headfirst into all of the subjects, trying his absolute hardest; he was best at biology, as Sherlock had noticed, but he enjoyed most things. The teachers warmed very quickly to young John Watson because of this, and because he was polite and amiable. Perhaps they harboured a secret wish that some of this would rub off on Sherlock, who, though he kept an eye on John, scarcely interacted with the boy, and was always at least half in his own world.
John furthermore tried to get involved in as much as possible: it had not escaped the teachers' notice that he was much stronger and bolder than he looked, and so was an unlikely, but splendid, choice for the sports teams. Therefore John was proud to return to his dormitory one day bearing the news that he had been chosen for the junior rugby team.
'Oh,' said Sherlock, who wasn't really listening.
'Sherlock, be nice to John,' murmured William Farrell from his own bed, looking up from his book.
Sherlock sighed, looked up, and said in a bland voice: 'That's very nice, John. I hope you don't get too many black eyes.' He paused. 'Well, I suppose you can only get two at once.'
'Sherlock!' said William Farrell, doing a remarkable impression of Mrs Holmes, who had been hounding at Sherlock for his profound disinterest in his charge. Then, turning to the other boy: 'John, that's great! Who's the captain? – oh, it's that Lestrade boy, isn't it?'
'Greg Lestrade, yes,' John nodded.
'Lestrade's all right,' said Sherlock unexpectedly.
'He's the one who wants to be a policeman, isn't he?' William Farrell commented. 'And Sherlock – didn't he lend you a book about forensics? Did you ever give it back to him?'
'Stop micromanaging my life, Farrell,' Sherlock snapped. When William, smiling a little, had returned to his book, Sherlock immediately dived into his suitcase and drew out a book, blushing a little as he put it to one side and made a mental note to return it later.
'And you want to be a detective,' said John. 'You could be in the police force together.'
'God forbid,' muttered Sherlock. 'I would be a private detective. No – a, a consulting detective. Do consulting detectives exist? I would invent them. And then I would be the only one in the world.' He smiled at this fantasy, and leaned back, preparing to enter his mind palace once again.
'Is Mycroft all right?' asked John suddenly.
'What? – oh, yes, he is,' said Sherlock. 'Why?'
'I just noticed you writing to him. I was curious. I hope he doesn't have to do much – that this war ends soon.'
The topic of the war had not, except during the air raid drill, been brought up much at all. Britain had been at war for a couple of weeks now, and yet nothing seemed to have happened. It was too quiet. Even in the dormitory, where an uneasy silence suddenly fell. John blushed and tried to diffuse the situation.
'Well, if Hitler comes over here, he won't know what's hit him if he has to confront Mycroft,' he laughed. 'And when Mycroft's finished with him, our rugby team will be on to him. If that's not enough, maybe he should meet my sister.'
Both Sherlock and William chuckled. William had never met Harry Watson, but he already knew her to be a true wild card. Her first letter to John, which had arrived earlier this week, had mostly detailed the times she had been told off by her teachers.
The conversation, however, fell flat then, charged as it was with issues that nobody really wanted to discuss. The air raid drill had been enough of a warning of their surreal situation. They could but hope that the whole affair would die down. After all, going to school with Sherlock Holmes was enough of a hurdle without the country being at war.
