As ever, I must thank my fantastic beta/britpicker/cheerleader foreverwholocked, my just because.

Oh, and for the next chapters, I must repeat that Sherlock's adolescence here is highly influenced by Saving Sherlock Holmes (it's on ao3). This work is basically my thought about young Sherlock, and I made some clear references to it. So, if you haven't read it yet, you must correct that mistake soon!

CHAPTER 6

John brought the tray with tea and biscuits and placed it on the coffee table, sitting on the sofa beside Sherlock, in the same way they had sat the night before. "So, ready? Can I meddle in your things again?"

Sherlock nodded. John opened the trunk again and felt some notebooks, pulling two out of the trunk. One looked older than the other. One of them was a notebook of unlined paper, most filled with drawings and sketches, and the other looked like a notebook from one of the classes in Harrow. From the latter, John watched a sheet of paper folded in two fall on the floor. He grabbed it, but was already impressed by the sketches in the older notebook.

It took some time for him to realize that he was browsing through something without its owner's consent. When he looked up, Sherlock was watching him closely, with an amused expression on his face. "Sorry, these are very good. Are these yours?"

"Obviously."

"They aren't signed," John said, now perusing through the notebook shamelessly.

"They aren't artistic, John. They are an experiment... Of sorts," Sherlock said, also looking at the drawings. They were mostly plants, insects and animals. "I was trying to memorize the details of each species and to visualize them without the books."

"So, you were already exercising your Mind Palace," John said, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back. "You could say that, yes. But this notebook isn't that old," he said, taking the notebook in his hands and deducing it, like it was one of the bodies at a crime scene. "Nobody could remember something so specific, I had dozens of notebooks like that. But by the strokes and by the fact that most of them are coloured, I can tell I was more than seven years old."

John raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft? He used to help you with this...," John tried.

"No, quite the opposite. The drawings got better and richer in details after he left for boarding school."

"Oh, come off it, he wasn't that bad!" John laughed.

"He wasn't," Sherlock said, surprising John and himself by the sudden honesty about his brother. "When he was still living with us, I spent much less time sitting and drawing."

"Oh," John said, trying to make sense of what he had just listened. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock that he had almost admitted that he liked his brother, but he had done just that.

"Really, John, I can hear your thoughts from here. And you didn't always dislike Harry, did you? Children are easy to please," Sherlock said, trying to dismiss John's smirk.

"Well, I was. A piece of candy and a ball and I was happy. But you, easily pleased? Even as a kid? Oh, I doubt that, I doubt that very much." John smiled, still browsing the notebook, but now finally noticing the folded sheet of paper on his lap. He opened and smirked. "Reprimand from your tutor in Harrow."

Sherlock ran his eyes through the paper and smiled to himself before quickly trying to sound annoyed. "Mycroft definitely chose the things in this trunk, the fat bastard."

(Nineteen years earlier)

Sherlock didn't even know why he bothered going to any of the stupid classes at all. He was only fifteen, but he was clearly smarter than all the teachers. The other boys didn't even deserve to be mentioned.

He knew none of those idiotic teachers liked being corrected in front of the pupils, but he just couldn't resist it. What was the point of teaching Ancient Greek if not to teach it properly? Frankly, it was all Mycroft's fault, it must've been all part of his fratricidal plan, to kill Sherlock slowly and painfully of boredom through that school. Brilliant plan, nobody would notice, he had to give his brother that.

So, there he was, again, heading to the Headmaster's office for exactly the thirteenth time that year, to listen to some lecture he was going to delete soon after anyway. What was the point?

He would prefer if they would just use the ferule and send him to his room. He had mould to grow, he didn't have time to lose with such deadening people.

Sherlock stopped for a moment outside the Headmaster's office to put on his tie. Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead in the stupid thing, but he wasn't in the mood for one more lecture about proper uniform- that was just going to give him a brain tumour. But he was going to die fighting whoever tried to make him use that awful hat.

He noticed the door not quite closed, and could hear perfectly the voice that he knew so well. What was Mycroft doing there, for God's sake?

"I am, indeed, responsible for Sherlock, Mr Elliot. But one would think you'd be capable of doing your job judging by the amount of money you and your institution receive." Mycroft told the bald man in front of him. His tone was collected and terrifying, as always.

Sherlock smiled from the other side of the door. He was never afraid of Mycroft, but wasn't going to deny himself the pleasure of hearing that impudent man trembling in front of his brother. He leaned on the wall and continued to listen to the conversation.

"Well, your brother has been telling us for three years that he is smarter than everyone in Harrow, and if he continues to act like that it won't make our jobs easy," the nervous man replied.

"He is," Mycroft said, with an impatient sigh that clearly meant My bosses have wars to control, I don't have time for this.

"I beg your pardon," Mr Elliot interjected, startled.

"Please, Mr. Elliot. My brother is smarter. It's a fact. And if you don't know this after three years, you really aren't doing your job," Mycroft said while tapping his umbrella on the floor. "I know you like to sell the idea of challenging the young pupils, but my brother is the greatest challenge you'll ever have."

"You are quite right. He is incorrigible," the man said.

"Quite, mostly because when you try to correct him, he's actually right," Mycroft said.

"Mr. Holmes! That's exactly-"

"Mr. Elliot, three years ago, you told me you'd be delighted to have a Holmes between your pupils," Mycroft interjected.

"Of course, it's an honour."

"Good. That's exactly the issue here: your inability in dealing with a Holmes. The problem isn't his behaviour, as you're an experienced man and this is not the first rebellious teenager you've ever seen. It's the family trait you can't quite grasp. Sherlock has his particular way of joining this too."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you," Mr. Elliot said, sounding lost.

"You are trying to make my brother fit on your normal schedules and rules. That would be ideal, Mr Elliot, but we don't live in an ideal world, do we? He's bored. He's been reading these books since he was six years old. This is being a Holmes. I'm afraid you ended up with the most difficult one of us, but that's an opportunity to do your job, since he is one of the most brilliant also."

Well, Sherlock had to agree with his brother on that. He was probably the most brilliant one out of all of them, but Mycroft would never admit that. Sherlock smirked. He heard Mr Elliot sigh and his brother tap the umbrella on the floor.

"He's a very difficult young man. We try, Mr Holmes. He managed to drive off every one of the boys that occupied the rooms next to his. We tried to offer a violin tutor," Mr Elliot sighed.

"Why on Earth would you do that?"

"Well, since it seems he isn't going to give the thing up. But it's been three years that he's been trying to learn by himself, and he plays – or tries to play – at the most ungodly hours."

From the other side of the door, Sherlock snorted. Why would he make things easier by playing soothing melodies on his violin if he could simply drive everybody mad with awful noises at three in the morning?

"Oh, I see," Mycroft sighed. "He's been tricking you to think he can't play the violin for three years." Mycroft sounded bored. "I imagine that it must be quite an effort for him, since he's been playing beautifully since he was seven, and composing since he was ten. It's one of the few things he loves to do."

Sherlock could almost hear Mr Elliot grasping for air.

"This is Sherlock being a Holmes and a teenager, Mr Elliot. As you can see, he is, in fact, the smartest boy between your pupils. You and his Tutor should probably think of better activities for him. My suggestion would be for you to open the lab for him to do his own particular experiments. There'll be always something for him to learn and I'm sure his Chemistry teacher can learn a lot from him."

What was that? Was Mycroft complimenting him? No. That was going too far. The bastard must be planning something. Probably killing him in the lab. But that was a better idea than to die of tediousness. Sherlock thought that was the perfect time to make an entrance, but the idea of being able to use the lab officially – because honestly, only Mr Elliot could be so stupid to think he wasn't already using it – sounded so appealing that he even knocked before entering.

"Mr. Holmes," Mr Elliot nodded.

"I brought my reprimand. Mr Stoper and Mr Howell already signed it," Sherlock said, trying to ignore the amused expression he was receiving from Mycroft, that clearly said 'I see you're wearing a tie, how polished of you'. Insufferable fatty.

"Mycroft," he said, simply, not to risk the chance to have full access to the lab. He could see on Mr Elliot's eyes that he was mostly convinced.

"Mr Holmes, you can go back to your House, since your brother is here, I'll sign your reprimand and give it to him."

"Actually," Mycroft said, standing up and turning to his brother. "Wait for me outside."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped off the room, but couldn't resist the urge to listen to end of that remarkable conversation.

"I'm afraid I really must be going, Mr Elliot," Mycroft said.

"Of course. Here is the reprimand, some altercation with the Greek teacher," Mr Elliot said, probably standing up, by the sound of his chair.

"I see," Mycroft said, absently. "Thank you, Mr Elliot, and I won't forget your kindness in opening the lab to my brother's use."

Sherlock actually smirked at that. That was so Mycroft, making the person in front of him think he agreed to something in such a way that he won't realize he hasn't until he had already signed all the papers.

"Oh, I noticed you were thinking about collecting his violin. I strongly advice you not to. He would probably get it back in less than half an hour, and it wouldn't be worth your trouble. You definitely don't want Sherlock's brain working in a way to rebel against someone who took our Grandfather's Stradivarius. He does love to be dramatic about it," Mycroft said, with a sigh, walking towards the door. Sherlock could hear him turning to the Headmaster one last time. "Ah, and the Greek was, indeed, wrong. Good afternoon."

Sherlock managed to get some distance from the door, and leaned on the wall, waiting for Mycroft to bore him to death.

"For Goodness' sake, at least play the violin. You're insulting Grandpa making dying cat noises, and Sherrinford is already dead, stop mocking the poor cat," Mycroft said, while they walked out the imposing wooden doors.

John laughed. "That's what your brother said when I met him."

"What?"

"He said that you did love to be dramatic," John chuckled. "And you really don't help with the coat and the dressing gown."

Sherlock snorted. "As if Mycroft could be the one judging my theatrics."

"That's exactly what I told him," John said, laughing harder. At Sherlock amused expression, he explained. "I said 'Thank God you're above all that'."

The synchronized giggles filled the flat. And John couldn't help the warmth in his chest at the look of adoration Sherlock was giving him.

"I can't believe you gave up playing your violin just to despise your schoolmates," John said shaking his head. "No, actually, I do believe that," he giggled.

"I had a hideout to play. I just made the noises when I was in my room. But I started to play after that – good music in exchange of the lab. Fortunately I didn't have to share my room."

"You know, Mycroft made a great job defending you. Not that I don't sympathize with the Headmaster. I know dealing with you and your brother can be quite traumatizing," John laughed. "I'll probably have Holmes-induced PTSD when I get old."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're still going to be dealing with a Holmes when you get old," Sherlock said dismissively.

John smiled. If anyone asked him what he wanted of life, he'd say exactly that. Even with the drama, the insufficient sleep and the general chaos of Sherlock. "Yes, I will," he said after a moment. "So, Mycroft knew how to deal with you, I dare say he still knows."

"I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that. He did something nice, even if he has his creepy ways. And he is very creepy," John snorted. "Are you going to explain it someday? I'm really curious."

"About what?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"You and your brother," John answered. "The simple idea of childish feud doesn't seem enough to explain you two. And I can't imagine a normal motive for your bickering." And John really didn't. If something could be said about the Holmes brothers, it was that they weren't normal. How the British Government and the world's only Consulting Detective could possibly have any normal sibling relationship? The very idea sounded unreal.

"I do no such thing as bickering," Sherlock said, outraged.

"You do, you definitely do," John chuckled. "We sound like an old married couple most of the time," he said, even before he could think of the words that were coming out of his mouth.

Sherlock smirked. "That's your own fault, you should just do as I say, and not waste our time arguing with me," he concluded.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, I really shouldn't."

"Yes, you should," Sherlock replied. And when did they become so god damn close? Was it warm in there? Why was it so warm?

John cleared his throat, trying to clear the haze in his own thoughts caused by those eyes. "I know you think that I'm useless, but you can't even remember to eat. And you do need more medical care than the average person," John joked. Sherlock seemed almost hurt and John didn't know what to make of that. "I know you're not average," he rolled his eyes. Surely Sherlock didn't need John to repeat that every damn time, did he?

"I-," Sherlock stammered, and that alone was so unusual that John was already looking for signs that something might be physically wrong with his flatmate. "-do not think you're useless, John."

Oh.

Well. "That's nice of you, thanks," John said, more awkwardly than he had ever felt. That was nice, actually. Almost a compliment. For Sherlock Holmes it was definitely a compliment.

Sherlock scanned John's face for a moment and then looked straight ahead, without focusing anywhere, apparently lost in his own thoughts. "You do believe I find you useless," he said, and his tone was almost a whisper, revealing that it was a private realization and not information he was sharing.

John felt like he was invading his friend's privacy, since he was having a conversation more with himself than with John. The doctor stood up and carried the tray of tea to the kitchen. He would give Sherlock some private time and make more tea.

Not that his own hands were slightly shaking, not at all.

Not that his own heart was beating a little faster than it should, no.

But what the hell had just happened?