The headmaster frowned a bit, peering over the desk at John. He was rather short, hardly taller than his desk—and yet, he managed to command the respect of his students. None of them dared to cross him.
"John Watson?" he questioned, glaring accusingly at the young man sitting across from him.
John nodded, flinching slightly—it had been Jim's idea. He had laughed on and on about how, saying that it was the perfect alias. Yet it mandated fear and paranoia, at the idea that someone there would recognize him for whom he used to be.
Squaring himself a bit, John stared at the headmaster.
"I am Headmaster Charles Milverton," the headmaster nodded. He smiled scornfully at John for a moment, fiddling with a paperweight in front of him. "I trust you realize the strings your father had to pull in order to ensure your enrollment here."
John nodded again, stiffly recalling the details of the identity. Jim had elected to be the official parental contact for John—a lie that wasn't too far from the truth. And in case of an emergency, Sebastian had been identified as John's brother, a respectable business owner in America.
Headmaster Milverton sighed a bit. "You aren't a talkative young man, are you John?"
"Not at all," John smiled faintly. "Now, erm…You said that I would be assigned to an empty dormitory, yes?"
The headmaster shook his head, drawing attention to his absurd mustache. It was thin and narrow, more fitting of a dictator than a professor. "We've assigned you to room 221B—you'll be rooming with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
John swallowed thickly. He had studied the photos of Sherlock on the way here. The first thing that had struck him was how gorgeous the teen was. The curly hair drew the eye, and there was something ethereal about the gaze.
Yet most importantly, John could see vulnerability—he was broken, damaged goods.
"And my courses?" John asked. He already knew them—Jim had arranged for him to share them all with Sherlock. It was his job to never leave Sherlock's side, and to always be poised to snap his beautiful neck.
Headmaster Milverton reached into his drawer with his grubby hands, pulling out a fresh, clean sheet of paper. He handed it over to John without any sort of ceremony, only gesturing vaguely at the room numbers scribbled down all over the page.
"Now, Mr. Watson," the headmaster coughed. "Tell me about your last school—let me know a little bit about you, eh?"
John blinked a bit, before nodding. Just by reading the body language of the old headmaster, he could tell he wanted nothing more to do with John. It was all formality, mere window dressing.
"I'd rather not say, sir," John laughed a bit. "It would ruin the mystery."
The headmaster shook his head. "You best keep on your toes, Mr. Watson—nothing gets past me."
"Of course," John stated kindly, rising from the chair. His school uniform scratched against him, and he squirmed slightly, pulling at the collar on it. Abandoned at the floor was his bag, stuffed with books and paper—items that he had no intention of actually using.
He wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of going through school again.
"Good," the headmaster barked. "Now, get your bag and get out of my sight, Watson."
In room 221B, Sherlock was stretched out on the floor, the room illuminated with darkness. He never bothered to turn the lights on, instead preferring to strain his eyes to decipher the writing on the page. It would serve him later on in life, he claimed.
"Fascinating," he murmured to himself, turning the page of his book.
It was a detailed look at death in the American Civil War, detailing the various methods of body disposal and the eventual emergence of a policy as what to do with the corpses. It was all he had to read, having finished all of the Sherringford Hastings novels that the library could provide.
Might as well beg Mycroft for a few, he sighed, grumbling a bit to himself. He threw the book aside, hearing the paper flop and bend as it hit the wall. Reaching for his phone, he slid it open, holding it above his head.
Need more Sherringford books. ASAP. –SH
His phone vibrated a moment later. Smirking, Sherlock glanced at his brother's response—Mycroft had become more and more responsive lately. Sherlock likened it to his increased protectiveness, due to Sherlock being at school all alone, out of the reach of his melon headed interference.
Ask Father Christmas then. –MH
Sherlock frowned, rolling onto his stomach. He propped himself up on his elbows, typing furiously away at the small padded keys.
Don't be absurd. Get me some books or I'll have a scene. –SH
It took less than a minute for Mycroft to reply.
Fine. Behave yourself. –MH
Sherlock smirked slightly, before tossing the phone across the room. It hid the wall, yet he wasn't concerned in the slightest—the phone had proven to be indestructible so far.
And at that same moment, he heard something far more interesting—someone was walking down the hallway, heading towards this very room, dragging something heavy behind him. Straining his ears, Sherlock frowned a bit, hoping that he wouldn't be forced to have a roommate.
His roommates were always dreadful, and they never allowed him to room with Renny. The school board was convinced the two of them would go at it like rabbits—a behavior that confounded Sherlock.
A key was inserted into the lock of his door, and Sherlock watched as the doorknob turned slowly. Light crept in, eliminating the cave like feel of the room. Jerking back a bit from the brightness, Sherlock squinted up at the intruder.
It was a strong man—couldn't have been any younger than twenty years old—and horror was etched into his face. Sherlock's eyes swept over him, noting each feature about the young man—he was in some sort of service, and isolated.
"Hi, I'm John," the serviceman said awkwardly, coughing a bit. "I'm your new roommate."
Roommate? Sherlock frowned, not bothering to move from his position on the floor. Seems more like a hit man, but…No hit man would be so stupid as to live with their target.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock announced, sitting up from his position on the floor. "I sleep on the left side. You'll have the right side. If you must masturbate or have sex, do try to be quiet about it—I like to think."
John frowned a bit. "Sorry?"
Held back, potentially? Ran away and enlisted underage?
Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. "It's quite simple. We'll get along unless you traverse to my side of the room—and then, we'll have a problem."
"I…," John paused, seemingly at a loss for words. "You haven't even told me your name."
"You know it already," Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Does your brother know that you completed military service already?"
John's jaw dropped, and Sherlock blossomed with pride. There was a terrified glint in John's eyes as he almost ran to his bed, pushing his bag to the floor in front of him. He glanced around the room, in the manner a trapped animal looks for any route of escape.
"I won't tell," Sherlock muttered, picking up his book from the floor. "It's a waste of my time to get you caught—I prefer to keep this as leverage."
Smirking a bit, Sherlock heard his phone vibrate twice—Renny. He chuckled a bit, realizing that she must have already known about his new roommate, and probably wanted all of the details on him.
He glanced over at John, seeing him calmly unpack his bags, despite his identity being pulled apart. When he bent over, Sherlock turned slightly red.
Perhaps having a roommate won't be so bad after all…
The halls of the school were filled with students, with the younger ones sporting tear stained faces. They bustled around wildly, in an attempt to find their classes. Sherlock and Renny wrinkled their noses, holding hands as they walked down the hall.
It was part of their required handholding time—otherwise, people would begin to suspect that the relationship was indeed fake. And at a boarding school, gossip traveled quickly. No one had anything else to do.
Luckily, they had most of their classes together this year. It hadn't always been the case, and both of them detested the thought of working on group projects with other people.
"Imbeciles everywhere," Sherlock sighed, sweeping into the physics room. Renny followed him, tugging a bit on her fingerless gloves, in order to get some of the wrinkles to leave.
The professor was already there, busying himself with writing various symbols on the board in a looping handwriting. In a glance, Sherlock already deduced the very first unit—kinematics.
"Not everyone can be brilliant," Renny chuckled. "Though it would be rather divine—brilliance is rather attractive."
"Says the sapiosexual," Sherlock retorted, flopping dramatically down into a seat. It creaked a bit, swinging forwards and backwards, before Sherlock stabilized it with his feet.
Renny rolled her eyes, taking her seat gracefully next to him. "I like what I like—I shouldn't be blamed for having good taste."
Her eyes drifted away from Sherlock, finding a girl with bright red hair. Winking at her, the girl blushed, yet motioned slightly down towards her pockets.
"Got one," Renny grinned, pulling out her phone to rapidly send a text. "I assume you don't mind, O Boyfriend?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have no protest," he muttered, glancing backwards as the last few students entered the room.
John Watson rushed in, hurrying down the rows. He headed towards the pair, yet Renny slid her backpack slightly into the aisle. For whatever reason, John failed to notice it, tripping and flying down the remainder of the rows, only stopping at the bottom of the classroom.
Wincing a bit, John rose to his feet, collapsing into a nearby chair. He favored his right leg when he walked.
"Twisted his ankle," Renny chuckled a bit. "Now you'll thank me later, when you're screwing him."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. "How do I profit from his injury?"
"You can be his knight in shining armor, of course," Renny grinned widely. "And he's got to be gay, if he's at this place—and it's obvious when you look at him as well."
He rolled his eyes, pulling out his notebook and setting it in front of him. Yet his eyes were indeed trained to the blonde head at the front row, whom the eccentric professor was conversing with. At one point, John nodded at his leg, and the professor bit his lip sympathetically.
"It isn't twisted—it's broken," Sherlock said.
"Even better," Renny replied, pulling out her own notebook.
Pulling his glance away from John proved to be difficult, though possible. The professor vacated his position next to John and returned to the front of the room, writing his name on the blackboard.
"Good morning, class!" the professor announced cheerily. "I'm Mr. Smith, and I'll be your professor for this year."
His hair stuck up at a variety of angles, the shade a bit darker than John's dirty blonde. He clicked his tongue while he talked, as well as gesturing far too much—it was almost tiring to watch him, to keep track of his each and every movement.
"Now, physics, physics, physics…" Mr. Smith paused a bit, glancing down in front of him. "Oh! Right! Attendance. I almost forgot."
He chuckled a bit, turning his back. In that moment, the redheaded girl quickly jumped out of her seat, sliding into the one next to Renny.
"Elsie," Sherlock greeted coldly.
Elsie grinned awkwardly a bit. "Sherlock. I'll beat you again this year, I 'spect."
Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly. Elsie was in the same year as he was in most things, with the exception of mathematics. And yet, the school continued to award her the highest academic achievement awards.
It drove Sherlock mad, even if he knew it was a matter of ambition—Elsie couldn't stand losing.
"You can choose to believe that," Sherlock mumbled, only half paying attention to Mr. Smith as he called out dozens of names.
Elsie giggled a bit, squeezing Renny's hand. "I'm glad you're letting me date your girlfriend, Holmes."
"So am I," Sherlock snorted. "I do a terrible job at it, as she loves to remind me."
The girl's grin only widened further, and her freckles became more prominent. Sherlock averted his gaze, hardly bothering to respond when Mr. Smith called out his name. Renny squeezed his hand comfortingly, before pulling out a few pieces of gum, and distributing them to Elsie and him.
"Right," Mr. Smith grinned. "Looks like we're all here—now, where was I?"
"Physics, physics, physics…?" a sullen kid blurted out, their voice void of life and passion.
Mr. Smith spun on his heel, acting like a hyperactive puppy. "Right! So, if William jumps off a building, why does he fall?"
Sherlock frowned a bit. Is he having us do problems with death?
A hand shot up, and Mr. Smith nodded, pointing at them as if he was pointing at a fan in a rock concert.
John cleared his voice, before standing up timidly, putting all of his weight onto his left leg. "Gravity, professor—it pulls William down towards the pavement, causes him to smash his head and die."
"Correctamundo!" Mr. Smith cheered, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. "Now, if William's friend James jumps off as well, at the same time, and at the same speed, who hits the pavement first?"
He's insane. The parents will go mental when they find out. Yet Sherlock smiled a bit, standing up without bothering to raise his hand.
"They hit the pavement at the same time," Sherlock called out, his voice ringing throughout the room. "And for a few moments, they are still alive, living in painful agony…Once that is done, the police will be notified, and they will wonder why two boys jumped off a roof—they will conclude it was suicide, when it was homicide."
Mr. Smith chuckled a bit. "This isn't forensics, but yes—what is your name?—that is correct."
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock boasted, taking his seat again. "The one and only."
Renny hit him lightly, yet Sherlock only smirked more. Everyone was gazing towards with, their faces a mix of horror and fascination. Only one person refused to turn and look—John.
Sherlock frowned, sinking into his seat a bit. The attention didn't seem to be nearly as amusing as it had been before.