I had a lot of fun writing this chapter with the notorious smart-ass Mr Sherlock Holmes :P I love getting feedback of any kind and would really appreciate notes on how to improve! Thanks for reading!

Summer had flown by and John's parents slowly began to accept his decision. Jeanette, John's on-and-off girlfriend, had flown off to Canada at the beginning of summer. He had called to tell her of his plans, to which she flat out disagreed. He informed her that there wasn't much she could do about it, but that he was excited to see her when she got back. John and Harry made sure to spend time together before school started up and their lives became too busy.

September rolled around, bringing leaves lazily falling from their homes atop the trees. Amidst the sinking leaves were students, excited and bustling around, lost in their own worlds. John was no exception. He packed a pen and an extra just in case. He brought several pieces of paper, unsure if he'd be taking notes the first day or not. His first day of university!

He left the house with lots of time to get to school and find his classrooms. He didn't have money for a car, but rode around on a bike instead. Pulling up to the school, he looked amazed at how big the school seemed. Sure, it had been years since he had been at school, but this was a whole new level of intimidating. He locked his bike up outside and set his jaw as he walked inside.

You can do this, John.

He marched into the school, the first of many battles to come.

He scanned along the walls, reading the printouts to find his name. He eventually found his name next to a few other Watsons. His first class was to be in room 2-147, one of his Biology classes. He found the classroom numbers for each of his other four classes and wrote them down. As he headed off to find his first class, he overheard a boy his age yelling at a woman. The boy, or maybe man is a better word, was tall with dark, curly hair. John couldn't see his face, but by the exaggerated hand motions that shook his long, black coat with each movement, John could see that he was mad.

"What is this bullocks?" The man said a little too loud, shoving his hands towards the classroom charts.

"An-and you're sure that your name isn't there?" The lady looked frightened of him. John couldn't blame her. The man was at least six feet tall, thin with very light skin and dressed from head to toe in dark apparel. It was mysterious, alluring and threatening at the same time.

"Ohhhh! My name! Is that what I was supposed to look for?" He sighed in mock-relief then stated coldly, "Of course I looked for my name. It's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. It's not like my name is lost in a sea of Smiths. It should be easy enough to locate, however it is not there which is why I've come to you for assistance. Fat lot of good that did me." He seemed to say it all without pausing for breath, the last sentence had lost most of its volume, but John just managed to catch it.

The woman looked completely flustered. "We can check the registration log on the computer…?"

"What a good idea," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

John watched them leave and walk towards the Administrations Office. He shook his head at this man- Sherlock- and his completely hostile composure. How could he be so heartless to someone he doesn't know.

John shook his head again, this time to clear it. He straightened out and headed to class.

He was early enough to have a variety of seats to choose from, and he sat close to the front. Slowly more and more students trickled in, followed by the teacher who arrived right on the hour.

"Hello class, I'm Professor Davis and I'll be teaching Biology 111, which is Human Anatomy and Physiology." Davis spoke blandly. John's professor was short, shorter than him in fact and was a little heavier than average with greying hair.

"We'll start with an outline of the course and go over what you'll be learni-"

The doors flew open, revealing a grimacing Sherlock on the other side. His face quickly turned for the better, seemingly pleased that he had finally found the right classroom. He took a seat in one of the middle rows, completely unaffected that he had interrupted Davis. John wanted to laugh at Sherlock's utter ignorance of the world around him.

The rest of the class passed uneventfully, as did most classes for the next few weeks. As it turned out, Sherlock was in three of John's five classes, and Sherlock's complete lack of social talent never failed to surprise John. Sherlock would openly scoff in class at something a professor would say, then attempt to correct him before the teacher would inevitably say, "Do be quiet, Mr Holmes."

Once when he tried to correct Davis, he asked if Sherlock wanted to teach the class instead. Sherlock seemed a little taken aback, but agreed. As he stood to go to the front Davis looked at him coldly.

"Sit. Down. Mr Holmes."

It had almost become a game to John, watching and waiting for Sherlock to speak out. To be honest, Sherlock was probably the one of the only reasons he came to class. His frustrations toward Sherlock had turned into amusement. Soon John was able to predict when Sherlock would challenge the teachers, as if there was a pattern to it. There were certain subjects or areas of subjects that would rile him up.

Autumn had turned to winter, which had slowly rolled into spring. With each changing season, John's grades began to slip more and more as he spent most of his time anticipating Sherlock's actions instead of paying attention to the course material. Worried about his future as a doctor, John resolved to concentrate more in class, regardless of Sherlock's witty commentary.

The next class, a Chemistry course, which John and Sherlock had together, went by as usual. However, this time when Sherlock made a smart-ass comment, John ignored him and kept working. There were a few people who always seemed to appreciate Sherlock's remarks, and he knew exactly where each of them sat. Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly to see each of their reactions, not wanting to be seen appreciating their attention. A group of football players sat at the back, clearly bored because they had no need to learn Chemistry. Sherlock determined they only liked his comments because they resented the teacher for keeping them here. There were a few girls scattered around the centre of the room that appeared to be entertained by his observations, but Sherlock couldn't decide if they were really interested in his remarks or in Sherlock himself. Girls were very predictable, and he was a tall, slender young man with soft, dark curls and piercing blue eyes. And then there was the small young man who sat a few rows ahead of Sherlock, and a little to the left. He was the one Sherlock liked to see react to his comments. His sandy hair would shake slowly from side to side, and Sherlock always felt as though the young man was disapproving until one day he had turned around and made eye contact with Sherlock. His eyes sparkled with amusement and he had the smallest of smiles escaping. That image had stuck with Sherlock since, and with every remark he made, he was trying to get that man's attention. Sometimes he could see his shoulders shake, as if he was chuckling to himself, other times the man would turn around for a split second as if to congratulate his wit. This time, however, there was nothing. Not even a pause in his writing. Had Sherlock imagined it all?

When time was up, Sherlock left class quickly, put off by the lack of reaction he had received from the bloke sitting ahead of him. Once outside, he headed to his dorm, a short walk from the campus. A man a few inches shorter than him, dressed in a suit, walked up.

"Mr Holmes?"

"No," Sherlock responded swiftly as he kept walking.

"Mr Holmes, I'll need you to come with me."

Sherlock wasn't impressed by his false bravado. He could easily identify the waiver in his voice and see the nervous rubbing of the man's thumb against his index finger. Sherlock sighed. Regardless of being intimidated, he knew that the man would not give up. He sighed and followed the man back to a sleek, black car and climbed in.

Sherlock watched the passing scenery for a while, but grew bored. He knew this drive by heart, and he could determine their destination. They travelled for over an hour, far out into the country. Upon their arrival, he slowly emerged from the car to be greeted by a familiar face framed by carefully combed ginger hair. Beneath the oval face was a slender body dressed in a pin-stripe suit.

"Ahh, Sherlock. Good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same, Mycroft." Sherlock looked his brother up and down. "You've gained weight."

"It's these cases, Sherlock. They have me at my wit's end. I hate to admit it, but I could really use your help." Mycroft didn't want to lose his position of power to Sherlock, but that's how it always was with the Holmes boys. Mycroft was in charge, or so he was allowed to think, until he needed Sherlock's help.

"You know, you could just send me a text. I would have come. You don't have to abduct me from the university."

Mycroft gazed upon Sherlock with tired eyes. He wasn't up for an argument.

"Come on inside. I'll make you a cuppa and we'll go over the cases."

The Holmes brothers walked silently into the country house one after the other. Despite their differences, they only had each other.