"So, um." Glancing at Holmes—er, Sherlock out of the corners of his eyes, John wonders what exactly one is supposed to talk about with a bizarre, possibly (as far as he can tell) bipolar genius while out on a mysterious adventure. It's not like he's had a lot of experience in these matters.

Regardless, he decides to start with the basics. "Where are we going?"

The only response he gets is a grunt and an impatient sort of hand gesture, like his question is a gnat that Sherlock can bat away with his fingers.

"Okay, um." John frowns, wondering if he should try a different question. But that would be giving in, which is exactly what he's decided he's not going to do. "That's not really an answer, Sherlock. Where are we going and why?"

Abruptly, Sherlock stops walking.

"We're here."

John turns his baffled gaze from him to their surroundings. They're standing in a sort of courtyard, flanked by buildings on three sides. Two of those sides are taken up by greenhouses, low-slung affairs of glass held together by intricate cast iron. But on the left side of the courtyard is a dormitory. It's the newest addition to the school, John remembers Lestrade explaining, although built of the same Gothic stone as the main castle. The castle dormitories couldn't cope with the influx of new students, Lestrade said, so a few years back they built a new building to house the younger forms. The center of the courtyard is a rocky sort of garden, with a few benches and flowerbeds flanked by bristly old trees.

"Here? This is the north quad." John squints up at the dormitory, shading his eyes from the orange sunlight reflecting off the windows.

"Your spatial recognition is indeed magnificent," Sherlock says with his peculiar sort of deadpan, staring intently at one of the benches in the courtyard garden. "We are also currently on Earth."

"Oh, shut up," John laughs, cuffing the taller boy lightly on the arm. "You know what I meant."

The look Sherlock gives him instantly wipes the smile off his face. It's not a glare, by any means, but more a stare of…confusion? Fascination? Whatever it is, Sherlock's looking at John like he's never seen him before. He looks at his own arm, then down at John's hand, and then back to the shorter boy's face, which suddenly feels quite warm.

"Sorry," John mutters, stepping away and raising his hands defensively. "Didn't realize I wasn't worthy of touching you."

Those dark brows draw together for a moment, and John tries to ignore the creeping sensation of being an alien species under a microscope. Then the eyebrows lift, the forehead smoothes, the clouds part, and the scrutinizing look disappears. Looking a fraction as embarrassed as John feels, Sherlock avoids John's curious gaze and returns to staring at the trees up ahead.

"Ah, no…my apologies," the pale boy says haltingly, digging his hands into his pockets. "You are…free to touch me. When you wish."

"Right, um, thanks," John nods brusquely, also keeping his eyes fixed on the trees. "Good to know, I suppose." He clears his throat, deciding that now would be a really great time to change the subject. "So. Why're we here again?"

Sherlock jumps slightly, like he's been sleepwalking and John just woke him up. Tossing his unruly curls out of his eyes, he strolls towards the little courtyard garden, looking from one of the benches to the windows of the dormitory. Sighing under his breath, John hurries after him. He's really starting to wish he had some sort of warning about the movements of Sherlock Holmes; all this sudden starting and stopping is getting quite tiresome.

"Have you heard about that biology test that disappeared?" Sherlock asks in his usual inscrutable fashion, staring intently at that one bench as they approach it.

"Um, yeah," John replies in his usual confused, troll-like fashion, scuttling along beside him. "Got lost, didn't it?"

"Mm," Sherlock grunts, clearly lost once more amidst the endless caverns of his brain. They've reached the bench that seems to be the object of his fascination, but now he's ignoring it; instead, he's rummaging furiously through the flowerbeds around it, crouched amidst the shrubbery like some kind of foraging rabbit. Watching him, John finds himself growing increasingly frustrated. He didn't come all this way to be ignored while Sherlock roots through some bleeding azaleas. Briefly, he considers leaving, but that would be too easy. For what feels like the thousandth time tonight, he wonders if this is all a test.

"Sherlock," he calls. No response. He takes a step closer to the boy's cardigan-clad back. "Sherlock." When that doesn't get even the slightest reaction, he lets an irritated sigh slip past his lips. Jutting out his chin, he strides past the bench and clambers into the flowerbed to stand right in front of Sherlock's squatting form. The blue eyes peer at John's shoes, then find their way up his legs and torso to blink slowly at his face.

"Sherlock, you asked for my help, so I came," John says firmly. "But I will not stand here and stare at you while you do some brilliant thing that I don't understand. It may make you feel clever, but it's a waste of my time. So tell me what's going on, or I'm going back to my room to do my homework."

Sherlock stares up at him for a good thirty seconds, his expression completely unreadable. John would never admit it, but in the back of his mind he's praying, praying that Sherlock will let him help.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightens up, a ghost of a smile flitting about his lips as he says, "Right." In one fluid movement, he sits down on the bench, draws his knees up to his chin, and motions for John to sit on one of the many mossy boulders littering the garden.

John sits, and Sherlock says, "About that biology test, then."

John raises an eyebrow. "Is that what this is about? I thought the professor just forgot his satchel on a train or something."

"That's what he told his class." Sherlock shakes his head firmly. "No, it was stolen."

"So…he lied to his students so they wouldn't think anything was wrong?"

"Precisely." Absentmindedly, Sherlock starts winding a loose curl around one long, pale finger. John has to struggle to tear his eyes away from it and actually force his brain to work for a second. How does Sherlock even know any of this?

"Hang on…have you been eavesdropping on teachers?" John demands, not knowing whether to be scandalized or impressed.

"Mmm…sort of," Sherlock shrugs, doing an almost perfect job of being uninterested. "If you stand in the second stall from the end in the third floor bathroom you can hear their faculty meetings quite clearly. Even more clearly if you've got a recorder that you can use to clean up and amplify the sound afterwards."

Okay, definitely impressed.

"Sherlock!" The word is half lost in an irrepressible laugh, and John can't quite fight off the awed smile spreading across his face. "Why on earth would you do that?"

The thin boy shrugs again, inspecting a grimy patch on his knee. "I like to keep an eye on them. It's good to have a bit of warning before they're about to do anything stupid."

"Just so we're clear," John interrupts, still half-grinning for some ridiculous reason, "These are our teachers you're talking about, right?"

The look Sherlock fixes him with is decidedly unamused. "I know it's all a bit beyond you, but really do try and keep up, John. Yes, they're our teachers. And they all seem to like you a lot, god knows why."

"No accounting for taste, I s'pose," John says flippantly, leaning back on his boulder. "I'd bet that you're a fairly regular topic of conversation at these meetings."

"Whatever would give you that idea," Sherlock says dryly, and John can't quite tell whether it's a joke or not. He's pretty sure it is; Sherlock seems to have a pretty good idea of just what a bad boy he is. Even seems to revel in it sometimes.

"Anyway," Sherlock huffs, steepling his fingers in front of his face professorially. "Apart from the usual inane chatter about how to keep first-years from flunking out of Latin, I occasionally glean something useful."

"Do you really?" John inquires playfully. If Sherlock wants to tell him a story, he'll play along for the moment.

"Though, of course," Sherlock adds thoughtfully, "Being me, I generally know more than the teachers themselves."

Modest, John thinks, but merely raises his eyebrows and waits for Sherlock to go on.

"Just for example," Sherlock continues, "Our brilliant faculty is unaware that whoever snatched that test is now selling the answers for fifteen quid a pop."

If possible, John's eyebrows rise even further up his forehead. "Selling them? Who'd be desperate enough to pay fifteen quid for a test answer? Seems like studying's a lot cheaper."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock says grimly, folding his hands behind his head. "Entitled upper-class boys aren't over fond of schoolwork, and the rich allowances their daddies send them each month make them particularly susceptible to enterprising cheaters."

"Guess so." John pauses for a moment, chewing his lower lip and mulling everything over. Once again, he gets that faint hold on… sensation in the back of his head.

"So if the teachers don't even know about this, how did you find out?"

Here, Sherlock allows himself a smug little smile. "However bountiful our cherished founts of wisdom may be, they are rather clueless when it comes to the internet. Especially when it comes to the illicit message boards that our test thief uses to contact prospective buyers."

John is not at all awed. Not in the slightest. His mouth has certainly not dropped open, and he is most definitely not goggling at Sherlock Holmes like he's the eighth wonder of the world.

He is clearly excellent at hiding his lack of awe, because the eighth wonder says, "Don't look so shocked, John. I think it is vitally important to have one's finger on the pulse of school life, which by definition involves monitoring both the academic and the criminal."

"You're a bloody madman," John breathes before he can stop himself. "How do you have time for schoolwork?"

"Oh, schoolwork," Sherlock scoffs. "A silly, pointless exercise in wasting valuable time. I tend not to bother with it whenever I can avoid it."

John opens his mouth to ask why (or, more accurately, how in the world) Sherlock is still enrolled at this prominent school, but then it occurs to him that the boy most likely single-handedly raises the test scores of the entire student body. Not to mention that, judging by the contents of Sherlock's room, his family has more money than God.

"Alright, so," John says, trying rather weakly to regain his businesslike attitude, "What's the north quad got to do with the missing test?"

Sherlock shoots him a look that he can't quite decipher but sort of hopes is one of approval. Honestly, he can never tell.

"This is where the satchel containing the test disappeared," Sherlock explains, getting to his feet. "The professor left it on this bench-" he points to the seat he has just vacated, "-And stepped into this group of trees-" he strides across the garden path and into a small copse of wiry, wind-battered trees, "-To inspect a particularly fascinating specimen of beetle. When he returned from his examination, the satchel had disappeared."

Sherlock returns from the shady grove and waves at the empty bench like a magician who has just pulled off a particularly magnificent trick. "Spotted, snatched up, and stolen in just under ten minutes."

"Right, okay," John says slowly, sliding off his boulder and moving to stand in front of the bench. "So…someone was following him?"

"Doubtful." Sherlock lopes over to stand beside John. "It's an enormous open expanse from the main castle to the north quad. Following someone all that way is far too risky."

"So…he was waiting for him?" John suggests, wondering vaguely if he's doing more to solve the case or make Sherlock feel good about himself.

"Also unlikely." Sherlock shakes his head, tracing the bench's cast iron armrest with one long finger. "Stopping here was completely outside of the professor's usual routine. He came over to check on a private experiment he's been running in one of the greenhouses, spotted this intriguing insect of his, and dropped everything to examine it. Besides, there aren't many places to hide here, even from a short-sighted professor who's well on his way to senility. No, John, I'd say that this was a crime of opportunity."

"So that means," John murmurs, turning to look at the stone building towering overhead, "That someone in one of those dorm rooms must have looked out his window, seen the satchel, and dashed down here to nab it."

"Precisely," Sherlock nods, giving John a look that is most definitely approving. John has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a self-satisfied little smile. He will not yearn desperately for Sherlock's approval like some lovesick puppy. Honestly, he could care less what the boy thinks of him.

"What time was the satchel taken, then?" John asks, definitely not in order to impress Sherlock. Certainly not. It's merely a necessary fact in the case.

"Around seven in the evening." Sherlock's gaze has grown even more appreciative, and John could swear that there's a tiny hint of a smile tugging at one corner of that wide mouth. Promptly, he decides that staring at Sherlock's mouth is not the best course of action and looks instead at the bench.

"Seven?" John repeats, still staring fixedly at the battered green garden ornament. "Who on earth is sitting in their dorm room at seven at night?"

He looks up to discover that all traces of approval have instantly vanished from Sherlock's expression, to be replaced with the usual half-irritated boredom.

"Oh, only every single first year," he drawls, and John feels his stomach shrivel up into a tiny ball of shame. What did he think he was playing at, pretending to actually be intelligent and useful? Clearly, it was horrifyingly stupid of him to imagine himself anything more than the stupid, bumbling troll that he really is.

"You wouldn't know," Sherlock continues, his voice softening slightly around the edges. John feels his eyes light up and instantly curses himself. He's not supposed to care. "You were never a first year here. They all have mandatory study time in their rooms from six to seven thirty."

"Great," John says grimly, turning to look up at the imposing stone building. "So we've got an entire dorm to choose our thief from."

"Not exactly," Sherlock says vaguely, ambling across the garden and kicking absently at a small boulder, "D'you think this is about satchel-sized?"

"Um." Blinking at the sudden change in topic, John moves to stand beside Sherlock and look down at his chosen rock. "Sure, yeah."

"Good. So do I." Satisfied, Sherlock bends down and starts to lift the boulder. His thin spine nearly folds in half as he clumsily heaves the heavy thing a few inches off the ground and starts to stagger sideways.

"Let me get that," John says hastily, trying to hide his wince at the painful awkwardness with which Sherlock attempts to perform manual labor. For his part, Sherlock does his best to mask his relief as he drops the boulder back to the ground.

"If you please," the thin boy shrugs as John easily hefts the rock into his arms. "Put it on the bench."

Obedient as ever, John straightens up, deposits the boulder on the bench, and steps back, dusting off his hands.

"So…now what? We see if anyone steals the rock?" John laughs extra loudly at his own joke to compensate for the fact that Sherlock hasn't even cracked a smile.

"No," he says shortly, turning and striding towards the looming dorm building. "We go inside," he points to the dorm's sun-gilded windows, "And figure out which windows the boulder can be seen through, thereby considerably narrowing our list of possible thieves from an entire dorm to just a few rooms."

"I…wow, okay," John manages intelligently, trotting to catch up with Sherlock's rapid pace. "Yeah, that…that sounds like a good idea."

"Of course it's good," Sherlock agrees with the faintest hint of a smirk. "It's mine, isn't it?"

In spite of himself, John laughs. Ordinarily, he would hate this kind of excessive self-confidence, but something about Sherlock's dry humor, coupled with that knife sharp intellect and (god, how is he even thinking this) those brooding good looks makes it bearable. Pleasant, even.

"Yeah, yeah, brilliant, you git," John chuckles, giving the taller boy a companionable smack on the arm. This time, Sherlock doesn't even flinch.

AN: Dear god it's been ages. Thanks to a long and complicated series of technical difficulties, I couldn't upload this chapter until now. I hope people still remember what's happening...anyway, leave me comments if you please! 3