After almost twenty minutes of confusion, Dean finally found his way to the Baskerville Tower- it was a high dark-stone pillar like building, and could only be reached by seemingly endless stairs.

Glowering as he reached the top, Dean found himself facing a heavy oak door- locked. Unsure, he shoved against it, willing it to open. "Son of a bitch!" He growled, kicking it angrily. When it didn't budge, he began to bang on it with his fist, stopping only when he heard voices on the other side. Though muffled through the thick door, he could make out what was being said.

"Send them away, John." The first voice was stern and sharp but clear.

"I'm sorry, what?" The second voice was softer, but seemed startled.

"It is John, isn't it? Send away whoever's at the door; I'm thinking."

Dean heard a scowl, and the door opened. A boy not much taller than Sammy with a flat brow and blonde hair frowned up at him. "Sorry there, apparently the common room isn't open for public use until he decides so." The blonde shot a glare across the room, and Dean noticed someone in the corner.

He was tall, even sitting down it was obvious from his long back. He had dark curly hair falling over his forehead. He was thin, with an angular face and sharp cheekbones. He was wearing a purple shirt and black trousers, with his hands pressed together tightly with fingertips resting beneath his chin.

Dean realised the blonde was offering his hand. "John Watson." He said. He stood with a straight back and square shoulders, his hand was standing out straight from his elbow. It reminded Dean of his father, and without thinking found himself doing the same.

"Dean Winchester." He replied, shaking John's hand. He glanced at the dark haired boy. "And who's Bela Lugosi over there?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The dark haired boy said flatly. "And I'm trying to think. One person in the room I can cope with, two of you will surely interact and therefore test my patience. As you may have noticed, I'm thinking, and I need you both to leave."

John's expression was still flat. "See what I'm dealing with?" He shook his head. "Come on, I'll show you the dorm."

As John lead Dean out of the common room and up steps into the dormitory, Dean could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back and it made him unimaginably uncomfortable. He glanced backwards, and met the pale blue eyes seeming to illuminate in the darkness in the shadowed corner Sherlock sat in.

The dormitory was a small, round room made of grey stone. There were six beds around the walls, each with a curtain between them to pull as a partition. There was a window behind each bed and a large trunk at the end that was almost the same size as the bed itself. Dean sat on the bed, looking around the empty room. It would be the first time since Sam was born that they would sleep in separate rooms.

"Sorry about him," John was saying, sitting on his own bed, directly across from the one Dean has chosen. "I only joined last term, so I'm a bit new to everything as well. From what I can gather, he's always like that."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, but he'd better stop staring at me, it's freaking weird."

John shuffled. "I've noticed he does that too. And, er, don't take offense if he starts… well, if he starts talking to you, er, about yourself."

"What?"

John stood up, shifting from one foot to another. He lowered his voice slightly. "Look, Sherlock does this thing where he tells you stuff about yourself that… well, you wouldn't want him knowing. I've seen him do it, I've been lucky so far. But sometimes he looks at you and it's like he's reading your mind." Dean noticed John become almost glassy eyed as he spoke of this. "Genius, really."

Dean frowned, and turned to his bag, pulling things out of it. His uniform was already on the bed, a black trousers and pale blue shirt with a black blazer and navy tie, with the school crest embroidered on the front. "Like hell I'm wearing this crap." He growled under his breath, not noticing John leave the room. He rummaged through the bag until he had extracted all of its contents- underwear, jeans, t-shirts and a jacket. He also had a small silver knife his father had given him at the age of seven, in case he or Sam were ever threatened while John was away working. He tucked it carefully under his pillow.

Now aware he was alone, Dean flopped himself down on the bed and rested his head on the pillow. The bed was comfortable- more comfortable than most beds he had slept in, and he took a moment to try and block out his thoughts and relax. He began to feel himself slip away, his mind cleared slowly as the room fell into darkness-

An abrupt sound sliced through the air, and he jolted upright. The noise had been high and sharp, and incredibly sudden. Then, another noise came, a hum of a violin drifted through the air, it was apparent it was being played by someone wise to the strings of it.

Dean however, was not in the mood for a Tchaikovsky session and founds himself in the common room again, frowning at the source of the noise. "Dude, I'm trying to sleep, could you hold band practice some other time?"

Sherlock ignored him, and continued playing. John was on the other side of the room, holding a book, but his eyes were on Sherlock. His head was titled to one side, his chin slightly raised. He was concentrating.

After taking a moment to wait for a reply, Dean marched across the room and pulled the violin out of Sherlock's hands. Almost instantly, Sherlock was on his feet and Dean realised he was almost the same height as him- but Dean still had a slight advantage and made a point of tilting his head down at the Sherlock, whose sharp glare was enhanced by his thin face.

"Give me my violin." Sherlock said slowly, clicking his tongue at the end of the sentence.

Dean held it high above his head. "Will you stop playing it?"

Sherlock scoffed, and reached upwards, his eyes still glaring intensely into Dean's. However he wasn't quite tall enough to reach the instrument, with his hand brushing against the bottom of the end pin.

Sherlock then smirked, his crystal blue eyes moving down to Dean's feet, then slowly rising again as far as the top of his head, by the time they reached his face again, Sherlock was already speaking. "You're American- obviously. Where? Can't say- you're accent's too mixed. Why? Well that's obvious too. For virtually as long as you've been talking you've been moving around, haven't you? A few months west, a few months east. Bit of south there too. It's apparent from your uneven hairline that you cut your own hair. Why is that- that jacket you've got there is good quality, surely you can afford a haircut every now and then? Ah yes, because you've never thought of it. Your family isn't fully functioning, is it? Obviously no mother-figure, she would never let you out in that condition, those shoes must be years old-"

Dean's grip tightened on the violin. "Stop it." He breathed.

"And as for a father figure," Sherlock continued, sounding almost contempt, "well he obviously couldn't give a damn about you, dumping you outside without turning back." His eyes narrowed. "It's a big hall, with big walls. And walls have windows- taking notice, observing, that was hint one. Hint two was the fact you're here in the first place. It's clear he doesn't give a damn about your brother either, poor little-"

"You shut up about Sammy." Dean growled dangerously, raising the violin threateningly.

"Child." Sherlock finished with a smirk, his voice lowering to a whisper. "He is a child though, isn't he? But you never were. And now that he's alone, and he's going to miss out too-"

Dean swung his arm, prepared to bring the violin down over Sherlock's head, but before he could, he felt a sharp pain against the back of his right knee, and it buckled under him, causing him to fall to the floor. John stood over him and snatched the violin, handing it to Sherlock, who seemed almost as surprised as Dean was.

A knock sounded on the other side of the door, breaking the silence. "I'll get it," John mumbled, stepping away from Dean and Sherlock, to retrieve the key of the door.

Dean didn't know what to do- he knew what he wanted to do: hit the cocky son of a bitch over and over until his tonsils bled, but somehow it didn't seem right. He was in utter shock, as he stared at Sherlock, who was back in his armchair, cradling the violin. His eyes flickered to Dean once more, and though Dean didn't realise, Sherlock had only gathered one thing from those past minutes, and it was something that would serve him again:

I've found your weakness, he thought.