Just saying that in a couple days I'll be moving this to The Sherlock x Avengers Archive (Because those two seem to be the main ones). Also, the Supernatural boys will be showing up soon enough (taking forever isn't it?). Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT FUCKING OWN SHERLOCK, THE AVENGERS, DOCTOR WHO OR SUPERNATURAL. IF I DID I WOULD NOT BE WHERE I AM. I WOULD SITTING ON A THRONE MADE OF CHOCOLATE AND DRINKING FROM AN ICE COFFEE FOUNTAIN.

Chapter Seven:

Bruce shivered as Fury stared at him, unable to guess what the man was thinking. Fury allowed the minutes to tick by, barely blinking. After nearly half an hour of tense silence, he finally spoke, "How have you been, Bruce?"

Bruce's mouth dropped open, startled by the sudden question. "I- I'm okay. Er-"

"Not having any problems in class, or with other students?"

"No, no! I- I haven't had problems with anyone!" Bruce replied, shaking his head.

"Good. That's very good to hear. I hear your schoolwork's going well too. What about outside of school? Have you joined any clubs?"

"I was going to join the Physics Club…"

"But?" Fury prompted.

"But they wouldn't let me."

"Why not?"

"Because I pointed out that one of their experiments was monumentally flawed and that the theory they were testing wouldn't hold up in an actual scientific study. They… disagreed. So I wasn't allowed to join." Bruce said quietly.

"Did that upset you? Make you angry?" Fury asked.

"Sort of. I was mostly disappointed. If they couldn't stand my logical criticism, then they wouldn't make it in a true academic pursuit." Bruce replied steadily.

"You haven't tried to join any other clubs?"

"No… I don't think I'm really a club sort of person. I'd rather stay in the library and read."

"What about your friends? How are you getting along with them?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"And the new boy?"

"He's… different. He's definitely intelligent and talented."

"Do you get along?"

"Well, we haven't spoken all that much. And… when we do, he's very… reserved." Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Why are you asking me all of this?"

Fury shrugged. "Can't a Principal take an interest in the wellbeing of his students without there being an ulterior motive? I'm just checking up on you, Bruce. Making sure you, as one of our more… vulnerable students, are happy and feel safe is one of my top priorities."

"You think I killed Sally." Bruce whispered.

Fury didn't reply.

"Why would I kill Sally? I barely knew her!" Bruce shouted.

"Calm down, Banner." Fury said immediately, face impassive.

"I'm not a monster! I'm not going to go around killing people right and left! I can control myself!"

"I said calm down!"

Bruce sat down again, barely remembering getting to his feet. He took a deep breath, focusing on the meditation techniques taught to him by Jalana and Boz. When he opened his eyes, Fury had moved to sit behind his desk. "I'm not a monster." He repeated again.

"Maybe not… But you are human, mostly, and humans can be stupid when it comes to emotions and petty arguments." Fury replied.

"I only ever spoke to Sally once, and that was to ask her where Tony had hid my book. Please, you have to believe me. I would never hurt her, or anyone. Not on purpose. Please, please, believe me, Principal Fury." Bruce begged.

Fury sighed. "All right, Banner. So far there's nothing substantial to connect you to this crime, and you seem to be telling me the truth. But remember, withholding information about this will lead to a serious reconsideration of your place here at Pandemonium College, and I'm sure you know what that would mean."

Bruce gulped, nodding quickly. "Y- Yes, sir."

"Off you go, then. And stay out of trouble." Fury watched as the boy fled, thinking deeply about the whole fiasco. He'd need to contact a few of his friends in high places, make sure only the best were put onto this case. And perhaps he'd put in a good word for that Lestrade guy. He seemed to have the makings of a good police officer. Yes, he might even be useful in the long run.

"Hey, Brucie, baby, where've you been?" Tony drawled, looking up from where he was laying across the floor of his room.

"Uh, I've been at the, uh, Principal's office." Bruce answered, taking a seat on the bed next to Rory.

John frowned. "Why were you in the Principal's office?"

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. He murmured something unintelligible, staring at the ground.

"What did you say?" Tony asked, sitting up.

"He said 'they think I killed Sally'." Rory replied, staring at Bruce with a startled expression. "Why would they think you killed her?"

"Probably due to his anger management issues. Though there is some valuable data missing, so my first answer is mostly conjecture." Sherlock said, leaning forward from where he had squeezed himself between Tony's bookshelf and desk.

Bruce stared at Sherlock in shock, before turning to John. "You- you told h-"

"No. I swear on- on my mother's grave I haven't said anything to him! He just guesses these things and gets it bang on." John replied, shaking his head at a dizzying speed. "He did it before! Guessed about my mother and my sweaters."

"I do not guess!" Sherlock said hotly. "I told you, John, I observe what's happening around me and use the information to form a greater picture."

"Putting that aside, how the hell does the living incarnate of Buddha have anger management issues and how the fuck did you know before we did?" Tony asked, sending a heated glare towards John and Bruce.

"Obviously it has something to do with his personal life. And I simply observed him. His minor movements such as clenching of the jaw and hands, tendency to retreat into a meditative state when stressed and the snap band he wears about his wrist. Most people with anger issues wear them and, when they're annoyed or stressed, snap them against their wrist to take their mind off of whatever is angering them. I'm not sure how effective it is though." Sherlock answered. "Though I honestly don't know how they could think you had killed her. They just have to look at your shoes." He added.

"What? My shoes?" Bruce said, looking down with a puzzled look upon his face.

"Yes. You take good care of them; they're probably your only pair. But even you couldn't dig mud out of the treads without leaving markings. After all, it did rain quite a bit during the night, though I believe it had ceased before the victim was murdered."

"So… you can look at someone and know their entire life story?" Tony asked, serious disbelief colouring his tone.

"Yes, if the data is there."

Tony stood out, arms aloft. "Try me."

John sighed softly. "Tony, don't."

Tony waved him away, doing a small turn. "Go ahead. Observe me at your will."

Sherlock smirked and got to his feet. "Fine. But remember, you asked for it." He walked once around Tony before stopping, a smug smile plastering his face. "You're an only child with a limited relationship between you and your mother, and an almost non-existent one with your father. You already have a drinking problem, which you hide from most people and that your friends do not call attention to. Twice your drinking problem has nearly cost you and even your dear friend John's life, though it wasn't entirely your fault. But it still left him with a debilitating injury which he will carry with him for the rest of his life. And you can't help but blame yourself for it. So you drink more and wipe it away. Then, of course, there is Jarvis. Few people know he was once a real person, a butler of some sort who cared for you when you were young, who then passed away from a disease or possibly just old age. So you built an Artificially Intelligent device to care for you as a replacement, and named him accordingly. You're parents are extremely wealthy, which is the only way you could ever remain at this school for this length of time. In short, every time you screw up, they throw a little money the school's way and everything is forgiven. You are talented and extremely intelligent, evidenced by your ability to build an AI, but your father either doesn't know, doesn't care, or both. This causes you to feel a sense of unimportance, so you do whatever you can to gain attention from the surrounding students and staff. You use your natural charm to get what you want and you usually succeed. The only people who hang around you without an ulterior motive are your closest friends, and even then you won't let them too close. Because that has dangerous consequences, doesn't it? You know how it feels to be betrayed by someone extremely close to you." Sherlock ended his monologue, his smile turning cold and tight. "Did I get anything wrong?"

Tony's usual grin had been wiped away the minute Sherlock had mentioned his parents, and his expression had grown darker by the second. Now, conscious of the others staring at him, he straightened up and smiled in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, I'll give you one thing, Sherly, you certainly can deliver. Well done."

"Tony." John murmured.

"No, no really, well done. I hadn't thought anyone could do it, but obviously I was wrong. As usual. Congratulations." Tony said, volume growing by the syllable.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock noted.

"No! Of course I'm not! I mean, having my life ripped open for my friends to gawk at isn't anything to be upset about, is it? As you said, I asked for it."

"Tony!" John shouted, grabbing him by the wrist. "It's okay!"

"Oh, yes, everything's real fucking okay!" Tony shouted back, wrenching his arm from John's grasp. He made to push the boy out of his way, probably to storm out, but before he could get four steps, Rory was in front of him, taking him by the wrists and forcing him into his computer chair.

"Tony, we don't care about any of that crap. It's okay. Calm down." Rory said.

"I AM TOTALLY FUCKING CALM! I AM BUDDHA ON WEED!" Tony yelled, kicking out at Rory, who slapped him across the face in response.

"I said calm down, you twit." Rory snapped. "John, maybe you should take Sherlock for a walk while I keep Mr 'Buddha on Weed' and Bruce here to calm down."

"I'm not angry." Bruce replied curtly.

"Bruce, you were so pissed off that your glasses broke in your hand and you didn't even notice."

Bruce looked down and saw that he had, indeed, broken his glasses, cutting his palm in the process. "Oh. Shit, those were my last pair." He murmured.

"Sherlock, come with me." John said quietly, half-dragging the curly-haired boy from the room.

"Let me go." Sherlock hissed.

"We're going for a walk. A long one." John responded bluntly, ignoring Sherlock's protests.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

"You were out of line, Sherlock."

"I did what he asked. Is that not polite?"

John stopped, letting go of Sherlock's shoulder and watching as he stumbled slightly. "That? That was not polite, Sherlock! You could have just talked about Jarvis or something and he would have believed you. What you did just then was cruel."

Sherlock let out a snort of derision. "Please, John, they were facts. It was the truth."

"And the truth hurts, Sherlock. That's why people prefer lies."

"So I should have lied?" Sherlock said coldly.

"You should have been gentler. If that's the way you act around everyone then it's no wonder you haven't got any friends!"

"Hmph. I don't need friends. Thank you for wasting my time." Sherlock replied, turning on his heel and beginning to march away.

"Wait, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." John said, grabbing his elbow and turning him back around. "Please, just… don't go. Please."

"Fine."

"C'mon, let's walk to the lake." John offered, gesturing for Sherlock to follow him. Sherlock would have argued, but at that moment a fluttering piece of yellow tape in the distance caught his eye. He smirked. Of course, they must have finished up with the scene and released it. Hmm. "Perhaps, instead, we could go up there." He suggested, pointing in the general direction of the crime scene.

"Uh, okay, sure. I mean, there isn't much out there, but it'll give you a good glimpse of the forest and the village." John shrugged.

Sherlock barely left him time to finish the sentence before striding off, leaving John to chase after him. In minutes he was surveying the ground, though it was little use seeing as those lumbering oafs they call policemen had stomped all over the ground. There was, however, still a very visible bloodstain and he hastened to it eagerly.

"Ah, this explains why you wanted to go this way." John muttered, coming up the small slope and eying Sherlock. "You really like murder, don't you?"

"I like interesting murders. Serial killers especially."

"You think this guy was a serial killer?" John asked.

"Hmm, that's a good thought, John. Whoever this was obviously had no problem with blood, as evidenced by the spatter and this stain. Perhaps, when we go back to the dorms, I should look up whether there have been any other murders like this. Oh I hope it's a serial killer." Sherlock whispered excitedly, straightening up and moving towards a lone tree. "John, come here. I need a second opinion on these markings."

"I somehow doubt that." John said, but moved to his side anyway, peering at the bark of the tree.

"What does this look like to you?" Sherlock queried, pointing to two deep scars in the wood.

"Ah, an axe maybe? Or a sharp knife?" John guessed.

"Yes, it does seem likely, doesn't it?" Sherlock nodded. "But one mark is shallower than the other. How would you explain that?"

John frowned, glancing back to the bloodstains. He took a few steps back, standing beside the worst of the spatter. Experimentally, he stretched his arm out as if he were holding a knife. "Hmm, it couldn't have been the knife accidentally flying out of his hand?"

"Not if it happened twice." Sherlock agreed. "So, why the marks on the tree?"

John paced around the area for a moment more, before stooping down and inspecting the ground. He glanced back to the tree, biting his lip. "What if… what if the killer had two weapons? And he used one to take Sally down. Knock her unconscious, or kill her straight off. But he wanted to use the second weapon for something else. Couldn't have the first weapon too close, or the blood would have made an impression of it. So, to keep it out of the way, he, you know, tries to whack the tree with it so it'll stay, but it wasn't deep enough, so he had to do it again." John looked up to find Sherlock watching him with a smirk. "That's completely wrong, isn't it?"

"No. It's not wrong. Very good. But why would the murderer need a second weapon?"

"I don't know. Was she missing a finger? Maybe someone hired a hit on her and wanted proof."

"Someone hired a hit man for a sixteen year old girl?" Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at John. "Why?"

John shrugged. "She saw something? She was annoying them? I don't know. Maybe the killer just wanted a souvenir."

"Which circles back to serial killer." Sherlock said.

"Ahem." Someone coughed. "What are you two up to?"

John whipped around, looking slightly guilty. Sherlock simply flicked his eyes towards the speaker, a mask of boredom settling over his features.

"Oh, it's you, Doctor." John sighed in relief.

"Yes, just me." The Doctor said cheerfully, striding forward. "Now, what are you up to?"

"We're just… Um." John paused, unable to think of a worthy and reasonable excuse. "Uh… I- I don't… Sherlock?"

"We're investigating." Sherlock replied, hands behind his back. He took a few steps forward, bringing himself level with John, staring at the Doctor. "Tell me, does the school know you're an alien?"

"An alien?" The Doctor laughed. "You think I'm an alien?"

"You're obviously not human." Sherlock replied.

"Ha, good one." The Doctor chuckled a bit more, slapping Sherlock's arm cheerfully. "Very funny, Mr Holmes. I assure you, I'm a very human-y… human. Ahem." He trailed off awkwardly.

"No. You're not."

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "Would you please not, you know, accuse my teacher of being ET."

"But he is, John. Can't you see- Oh, right, you aren't as observational as I am. My apologies." Sherlock sighed. "Just look at his clothes, John. The smudge of oil on his fingers, that is most definitely not from earth. Even the gel in his hair is a dead giveaway."

The Doctor tensed, surveying Sherlock with a look he usually reserved for students who got a one hundred percent on the end of year exam. "Sherlock… you are a very unusual human being."

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you."

"I didn't necessarily mean it as a compliment."

John looked from one to the other, lost for words. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and turned away, heading towards the forest.

"John?" Sherlock called. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know, but I'm not stopping 'til I find a shred of sanity." John replied over his shoulder.

In a few strides, Sherlock was at his side. "Why do you need to find sanity?"

"Because there's obviously none around here."

"Of course there is. I'm sane, aren't I?"

"Maybe not." John muttered.

"You think I'm insane?" Sherlock asked.

John stopped, turning to give Sherlock his 'are-you-fucking-kidding-me-I-don't-believe-this-shit' look, which he normally reserved for the crap Tony spewed. "You just implied the Doctor was an alien. An alien, Sherlock! How is that not crazy?"

"Because I'm not simply making a thoughtless accusation. I'm not jumping to conclusions. I have observed him, and that only left me with more questions. After various experiments, research, and a number of trips into my mind palace, I have concluded that there is only one explanation: the Doctor is an alien." Sherlock said in complete seriousness.

John physically struggled to contain his disbelief, rubbing a hand through his hair. Exhaling slowly, he cast around for something he could use to smack the sense back into the wannabe detective. Failing that, he decided to go for a less violent approach. "What, exactly, makes you think he's an alien? What proof do you have?"

"Enough for it to be convincing."

"Show me." John ordered.

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine." He paused for a moment, sending John a surprisingly warm look. "It's good that you're asking for evidence first, you know. Though from now on I would prefer it if you merely believed me on principle."

"Yeah, I doubt that's going to happen." John scoffed, following the younger boy back to his dormitories, neither aware of a pair of eyes watching suspiciously watching them from a dark corner.