I should probably point out that a) I have no clue about British or American schools, apart from tiny tidbits I learned from books, so this is going to be an awkward mesh of British, American, and Australian. b) This follows the Australian school timeline of starting in February and ending around December.

If you have a question, ask me and I'll try to answer it in a semi-quick fashion. Oh, and sorry to all of you who are pining for a glimpse of the Supernatural boys. They will be here, just not yet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Doctor Who, the Avengers, or Supernatural.

Chapter Five:

Sherlock set aside the book, making a mental note to get it back to Bruce sometime in the near future. In truth it had offered only a minor distraction, most of it being wild, fanciful tales that held no real value. Some of them, however, were intriguing. Such as 'Stone Cold Steve', a boy from nearly seventy years before who ventured out during a horrible snowstorm and never returned, suspected to have frozen to death. There was also the tale of the Hound of Baskerville Forest, a fearsome beast which stalked the nearby woods, devouring wayward students and lost travellers. It was even thought to have killed Professor Knight nearly twenty years ago. But those interesting stories were few, lost between tales of gruesome monsters and horrific demons and pathways that never appeared. In short, it was full of boring, childish stories that were of no significance.

Sherlock slumped back in his seat, sighing. Perhaps he could look up the unsolved crimes in this area, or start building profile's of his classmates, find out who he could trust for information. He made no attempt to look up when someone opened his door, hoping they'd think him asleep. But no such luck.

"Hey, uh, Sherlock, it's me, John. Um, it's seven o'clock… you know, dinnertime, so I thought I'd walk you down to the cafeteria. Y'know, make sure you don't get lost." John said, hovering nervously in the doorway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a simpleton. I can read a map."

"I know you're not a simpleton."

"Then why are you still here?"

"It's my job to show you around. I wouldn't be a very good guide if I made you find everything on your own."

"You'd be preferred." Sherlock muttered, sinking deeper into his chair.

"What?"

"Go away. I'm not hungry; it'll slow me down."

"Slow you down? What?" John asked, exasperated. "Look, even if you aren't hungry, you have to come down. Breakfast and dinner are compulsory."

"So tell them I'm in my room."

"No, it doesn't work that way. You have to come down. If you don't… you'll get in trouble, and so will me and Tony and Rory and Bruce."

"Speaking of Bruce, did you know he tried to kill himself? By the looks of it, I'd say a gun or a large knife. Haven't you ever wondered where he got that scar along his neck? Or did he say it happened when he was younger, an accident? I suppose his hands were shaking, maybe he had second thoughts, though the self-loathing in his eyes and the faint scars on his wrists suggests it was more a case of couldn't than wouldn't." Sherlock reeled off, voice just loud enough to carry, though he still didn't deem it important enough to look up. "How does he pay to attend this school? His clothes suggest he's from a poor family. His room, however, suggests no family at all. It lacks any personal touch, as though he expects to be removed from it at a moment's notice. Is he here on some sort of scholarship? Financial aid or something like that? I suppose that would be how the two of you met and 'bonded'."

"Who the fuck told you about Bruce?" John hissed.

"So you did know. Did he confide in you? Do the others know? Somehow I doubt he'd confide in Tony, too volatile. The alcohol hidden in his room probably reminds Banner of his father, scares him, as would the constant change in temperament. Rory is a good listener but I doubt he'd really understand, coming from an average, middle-class family. He's never had to deal with an abusive father, or losing his mother, so Banner probably doesn't identify with him well. But then there's you, John, with your psychosomatic limp and your injured shoulder, you… Ah, that's it, isn't it? The two of you met in some sort of rehabilitation centre. Or perhaps you took physio together? But your wounds were traumatic, emotionally damaging, hence the psychosomatic limp. So group therapy is more likely." Sherlock turned, finally looking at John, grinning as his deduction came together. The grin, however, was short lived, as he was soon grabbed by the collar and dragged to his feet by a seething John.

"Don't you dare breathe one word of this, understand? You can't tell anyone about Bruce, about his past or anything. Say what you like about me, but I don't want the dickheads in this school using his insecurities against him. He has enough trouble without anyone else adding to it, so- so just keep quiet about this, okay? And tell your source to zip their lip too." John whispered, loosening his grip on Sherlock's shirt.

"I don't have a source." Sherlock replied smugly, not in the least bothered by the hand at his throat.

"What?" John frowned. "Then how did you…?"

"I observed. I gathered clues using only my most basic tools; my eyes and my ears."

"You found all of that out… just by looking?"

"Of course. Nearly everything you need to know about someone is completely obvious, if you look properly. I mean, your jumpers tell me that you had a caring, loving mother who would knit for you; the design alone is incredibly unique and intricate, but made from cheap wool. It probably irritates you, annoys you, and it's old, two and a half years at a guess. Yet you still wear it. So, it has sentimental value. The way it's knitted and embroidered would be incredibly difficult for anyone with large hands, which would mean the creator is female. What makes me say it's from your mother? Again, the design would be difficult for anyone with issues with their hands. A grandmother would probably have arthritis or something similar. Then why not say it was from an Aunt? If it had been given to you by an Aunt, it would be buried at the bottom of your dresser drawer, far from sight. Because no matter how delicate the design, it is still a horrid colour and pattern for a boy to wear. So, this person was close to you. It could have been your brother, but an alcoholic would be unable to create such a thing, even if they were sober. What do you mean 'had' a caring, loving mother? Again, sentiment. Were she not dead, you'd only wear that jumper when she was around. Did I get anything wrong?"

John blinked in surprise, dropping his hands. "That… that was… fantastic."

"Fantastic?" Sherlock frowned.

"Well, yeah. I mean, there's no way you could've just asked around about me. I haven't told anyone who made my jumpers… or what happened to my mum. That was just… amazing." John took a step back, suddenly feeling awkward. "Sorry for grabbing you like that. It's just… Bruce has a lot on his plate. He and I are close. I want to protect him, and I just… I'm really sorry."

Sherlock eyed John for a moment, searching for a hint of insincerity. But there was none. Instead, he straightened his tie and collar. "It's fine."

John smiled warmly, relieved. Glancing down at his watch, he swore. "Fuck. We're going to be late. Shit, Coulson'll bust our asses the minute we get there."

"All the better reason not to go." Sherlock said airily, trying to wave John away. John, however, grabbed his outstretched hand and dragged him, unyielding, out the door and along the hallway. After a minute, Sherlock gave up trying to break his grip and chose instead to pout.

John rolled his eyes. "Look, the only thing worse than being late, is not showing up. We might as well take whatever Coulson gives us now 'cause it'll pale in comparison to whatever he'd give us later on. The guy's like… I don't know, a wolf crossed with a hawk crossed with a ninja wrapped up in the skin of a mild-mannered dork. He'd skin us."

Sherlock merely huffed.

"Ooh, John, you naughty boy. Have you been off canoodling with the new boy instead of making your way to dinner?" Tony giggled, skipping alongside them.

"We were not canoodling." John replied, rolling his eyes once more.

"Then why are you holding hands?" Tony teased, nearly tripping over an inconvenient pot plant.

"He wouldn't come to dinner willingly, so I'm dragging him. Besides, if I let go, he might run off."

"Admit it, John, the evidence is all there. The area around his collar's all crumpled, you're still rather red in the face and breathless. There's no way you were-"

John shot him a look. It was one the "shut-up-Tony-before-I-hit-you-with-a-chair-made-of-Nokias-dipped-in-poison-and-covered-in-spikes-and-venomous-snakes-and-crocs" look, which he only used when Tony was really pissing him off. Of course, if you didn't know him, you might find it indistinguishable from his "shut-up-Tony-or-I-will-lock-you-in-your-room-with-Justin-Bieber-playing-fullblast-and-the-Twilight-saga-digital-copy-being-shown-on-every-electronic-device-you-own" or possibly even his "shut-up-Tony-before-I-throw-you-out-the-window-onto-a-field-of-Legos-with-beartraps-and-fire-which-will-also-be-made-from-Legos". Though how you could possibly mistake them is a mystery.

Tony, however, knew John very well, and even in an intoxicated state, knew better than to push him. Thankfully, silence fell, and the trio were able to slip into the dining hall just in time. Sliding into the seats Bruce and Rory had saved them, they all looked expectantly towards the front, where Deputy Coulson would reel off the daily notices while the teachers did a head count.

Coulson looked over his notes once more before clearing his throat. "May I remind all students that distribution of the infamous 'Journal of SJS' will result in detention and confiscation of the book. I am also sorry to inform you all that there will be no Halloween Ball, unless alternative entertainment can be arranged. And we DJ's with any form of curse word in their moniker will not be allowed." He paused for a moment, looking very seriously at 'musos' table. "I would like to offer congratulations to our debate team, who have made it through to the State Finals. And I would like to inform you all, again, that chairs in the cafeteria and in the courtyards are not to be rearranged to suit your p-"

The tail of Coulson's speech was cut off by the sudden screaming of an alarm, and every student glanced up in surprise. Without a moment of hesitation, Coulson strolled off the stage, giving hidden signals to the other teachers. In seconds he had disappeared out the door and it had been smartly bolted shut behind him.

"Alright, students, I want you to remain calm and go about your usual business. I want an orderly line for food and any fighting will result in an immediate detention. You will not be leaving this room until either Deputy Coulson or Principal Fury has given the all-clear. Until that time, I want you to act with dignity and maturity and we shall find a way of keeping you entertained. Do I make myself understood?" Barked Miss Hill, the Head of Physical Education.

"Yes, Miss Hill." The students chorused back.

"Good. Alright, ladies first, then the boys. Ladies, please make your way to the serving line in a civilised manner." Miss Hill said.

"That's fine, Miss Hill. It's not like I'm starving to death or anything." Tony muttered, leaning against John's shoulder.

"Tony, you're not going to die from starvation in the span of five minutes." John replied.

"But I'm hungry." Tony whined.

"Then you should stop skipping meals." Rory said.

"Fuck off, Rory, you're not my mother."

"If that's the way you talk to her then I'm glad I'm not." Rory retorted.

"Ooh, Rory, you cut me so deeply. That hurt, really. I'm crying inside." Tony said sarcastically.

"I wonder what's happened." Bruce said thoughtfully.

"Hopefully it's a murder." Sherlock said, resting his head on his hands. John traded wary looks with Bruce and Rory.

"Er… anyone in particular?" John asked cautiously.

"No. I just want it to be interesting."