I do apologise if it seems as if time has sped up a bit in this story. Nothing much happened in Britain for a good deal of 1940 - well, actually, somebody is probably going to jump in and tell me that this and that happened, but I don't believe it would have much affected a rural boy's school.


John's first year at Sherlock's school went by fairly smoothly. He excelled in both academic studies and in sports, and quickly came to be one of the most popular students among teachers and boys alike; he had a wide circle of good acquaintances, and a few friends, including some of the boys in the upper years who usually surrounded Greg Lestrade. He got on well with William Farrell from his dormitory; it was however the other boy in the room with whom his relationship was rather more complicated.

He considered Sherlock a friend. They had after all shared a room for a year, and they had been effective brothers: at the Holmes's, he and Harry had always tried to involve Sherlock in everything, and this had sometime succeeded. In the absence of Mycroft, Sherlock seemed to want someone else to cling to, and he clung to John, a little in the fashion of a limpet: quietly and without much meaning to.

Sherlock was however an oddity. He never referred to anyone as his friend. It would be "my acquaintance John" or "that Lestrade boy" or "Farrell in my dormy". He rarely conversed in any other way but quietly and in a forced sort of manner. Much as he seemed to appreciate John's company – or at the least, he didn't exactly spurn it – he remained just as introverted around him as if he had been on his own. Where John's grades went up through his acquaintance with Sherlock and assorted others, Sherlock's grades stayed much the same. It was a peculiar phenomenon, but not one that was alien to Sherlock, and so there was nothing in particular to comment upon.

The first year, then, was as normal as it could have been. During the Easter holidays, Mr Watson was welcomed into the Holmes's house with as much warmth as he had been at Christmas. He was still ruddy-faced and smiling as ever, and, as he had at Christmas, he seemed not to rue his children's association with Sherlock and his family.

Meanwhile of Mycroft there was little sign: but nobody really spoke of that, not because they did not care for Mycroft, but because it was evident that he did not want them to.


It went by far too quickly, that first year, and it did not seem long after the snow had melted away that the days were filled with glorious sunshine. The late spring was warm and lazy, and the school days seemed to be occupied mostly by cricket and cold drinks. Everyone eagerly awaited the half-term holiday, which came at last: and Sherlock and John joined Harry at home ready for the week of relaxation.

A particularly warm day encouraged John to suggest going down to the pool. Harry was eager to dip her feet in the cool water, and to climb the trees there; John went and grabbed a towel, and Sherlock went to find Redbeard, who had, incidentally, recovered from whatever illness he had had, but was still a little weak. Sherlock did not like to comment that the dog was getting old. He fitted a lead to his collar, and pulled on his shoes, before meeting Harry and John on the drive.

It was quite marvellous to be in the glade and paddle in the river after a walk with the sun beating down on them. Sherlock let Redbeard join Harry and John, who were splashing around in the water, and trying to drench each other; then he clambered into a bough of one of the trees, and dived into a book he had brought, something about chemistry.

A few minutes later John halted a moment, turning his head a little. He glanced at Harry, who had stopped to watch him.

'Can you smell that?' he asked.

'Smell what?' Harry took a breath, and choked a little, which was as good an affirmative as any.

John bit the inside of his lip. He recognised the smell, and climbed out of the river, before going around the tree to see what Sherlock was up to. The other boy seemed to have given up on his book, and now instead had a cigarette between his fingers. Small swirls of smoke dissolved into the light breeze.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

Sherlock seemed to start from some sort of trance, whether self-induced or brought on by the tobacco John could not tell. 'Nothing.'

'You're smoking.'

'What of it?'

John hesitated for a long moment. 'Smoking's bad.'

'According to some people.'

'There was a study –'

'Maybe there was,' Sherlock said, shrugging indifferently, 'but there are studies to the contrary as well. Would you care to tell me why I should believe the one and not the other?'

'It smells bad,' John said at last.

'Well, don't stand next to me, then.'

'I can smell it from the pool.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He put the cigarette to his lips, drew in a long breath, and then stubbed the cigarette out on the tree trunk.

'Thank you,' said John.

'Now I shan't be able to concentrate,' grumbled Sherlock. John raised one eyebrow. 'Smoking helps me to think. There is nothing better to stimulate the mind than tobacco.' He paused. 'Well, there is, but you would be even more angry at me if I were to smoke that.'

'Won't your mother be angry?'

'Why should she be?'

'It's a dirty habit.'

'Some say it's fashionable... And why should my mother be angry? She doesn't have to know.' Sherlock contemplated John's expression for a few moments before bursting out: 'You'd tell her?'

John looked deeply perplexed.

'Don't tell her, John.'

'And why shouldn't I?'

'Because...' Sherlock seemed to argue with himself for a good few seconds before continuing: 'Because we're friends.'

'We are?' A smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth. He could not deny that he was a little astonished by this comment. 'Well, that's one thing I never thought I would hear you say, at any rate.'

The cigarette fell from Sherlock's fingers into the undergrowth. He seemed just as surprised to have said that as John was to have heard it. He didn't know what else to say, that much was evident; he just gave a vague, almost pained smile, and turned away, and did not say anything else for the rest of the morning.


A/N I found it interesting to discover that even in the early 20th century, studies suggested that smoking was harmful to one's health. Nevertheless these studies were widely ignored, and smoking reached the height of fashion in the 30s and 40s.