It was just after lunch and I was alone in our room. Bored. So unbelievably, irrevocably, inconceivably, bored. I grabbed my violin form its resting place on a dresser and proceeded to tune. A, D, G, E, and re-tune. And re-tune until the strings were perfect. Standing at my full height, arms raised, shoulders relaxed, I closed my eyes. Slowly, I brought my bow up to the string, preparing my fingers to play a B-flat on the G, possibly my favorite note. Fingers were posed, already starting a light vibrato. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and began to pull my bow across the strings with the complete concentration in order to avoid any squeaking.

It's one of the purely happy things that I do for myself. Music was irrelevant when looked at logically. It was not needed in order to survive. Food, shelter, air – all considered generally invaluable to the population. I had different values. Without the out of screeching strings or melodies I would go insane. The sharp, clear sounds of my violin gave me entertainment. The squeals and atonal notes easily drawn from it gave me a sound barrier between me and the rest of the world.

When most people played, it was from sheet music. They would warm up with scales and try to perfect their newest song. I did that too, I had favorite composers like Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, pieces I absolutely hated by Bach and Dvorak. The best thing to play, however, was whatever came out of my brain. Random notes that would come out of my stomach, slide through my arm and into my fingers, new tempos coming out of my heart and head, guiding my bow. It wasn't genius. I didn't compose new symphony's or write new solos. I did it for me. It didn't always sound great, sour notes, mismatched melodies and the like, but it made sense to me, and that was what always mattered.

I stood there for a few hours and played. John was out, doing something, and I didn't expect him back until late. Which was why I was surprised when I heard a voice behind me.

"Beautiful," it breathed. I was startled, but I continued playing, hoping my pause was taken as intentional.

John was standing to my side, watching me play. I could sense him even as my eyes were still closed. I wonder how long he's been there.

I let my bow slow on it's own, my fingers falling lax as I froze for the obligatory two seconds after a solo, the last note ringing through the small room. I opened my eyes and turned to look at John, he was smiling.

"That was wonderful, Sherlock."

"Was it? I had only been half listening myself."

"It was," he confirmed.

How was it that John came in to my life –was it really just a car accident and a sick student that drove him here?

"Thank you," I said, putting away my violin. The words came out a bit stilted, rusty from disuse. I stood stiffly and looked at him, not used to praise.

He just went about his business, picking up and putting up.

"How long have you been playing? You sound great, I bet you had a really good teacher."

"Since I was seven. I found a violin in the attic one day when I was bored. It was missing two strings," I recalled, "and the chin rest was gone, but I, with the help of one of the staff, took it to town and had it fixed. The teacher was unnecessary."

"You, you taught yourself the violin? How could you, that's just, it's brilliant, really," he sputtered. "You're brilliant."

I blushed. "You have food on your face," I changed the subject, picked up a book and fell onto my bed – there. Further away.

"Oh, where?"

"Just… just there." I pointed to the corner of my mouth. John, the imbecile, started wiping at the wrong side.

"Did I get it?"

"No."

"Well hell, where is it?"

He was wiping at his entire face now with his shirt, exposing a large portion of his stomach - "You got it." I settled back with my book.

"Thanks mate. I've got a date tonight."

"What?" I asked. I looked up from my book not having read a word.

"I," said John proudly, "have a date. Tonight. With Susie Cromwell. She asked me. On. A. Date."

"Oh," I said, "have fun then.'

He deflated, leaving me to my book as he changed, but I couldn't concentrate on it. An odd feeling was settling into my stomach, I didn't appreciate the discomfort, but I knew it had to do with John. And his date.

Violin? Boring. Book? Boring. Holiday assignments? Boring. Boring boring BORING.

John was on his date now, leaving me alone. I could see it now. It'd be awkward at first, but she would have picked a scary movie. They'd hold hands and kiss afterward. He'd walk her back to her dorm. They'd text all night and he'd ask to be her boyfriend and it was sickening and I didn't know why.

Yes you do.

Because it means John is like the rest of the world. Because John should be better than to cater to petty, romantic dates that won't last longer than a week. Because I'd rather be out there with him right now.

I flopped on my bed, confused and defeated; and spread out, stretching my long limbs around and under the sheets. Under my pillow. Between the headboard and mattress I stretched my hand until it came in contact with a forgotten metal object once more.

The gun.

I hadn't looked at it in months. It was still fascinating to me, something so small that could do so much damage from so far. I dragged it up from the crevasse and held it above my head, spinning it on my finger, dropping it on my chest. Still bored. Don't want to move. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I live in London, England. I go to St. Bart's boarding school, which was currently practically empty. I am a freak, a loner, a weirdo, a fag. I have one friend, John Watson. He is my roommate in dorm B of 221, which resides on the top floor of Town Wing. The top floor.

The top floor.

I aimed my gun at the ceiling directly above me. The weight swayed my arms back and forth, a reverse pendulum. I placed my finger on the trigger.

Breathe.

Aim.

Fire.

The noise made my body jump and the recoil knocked my arm to the side. Louder than I thought. NO one was around to hear it. Some dust from the ceiling floated down onto the bed, but I could make out the small, dark bullet hole among the various stains and cracks already present. It was a satisfying feeling.

I aimed again, ready for the noise and feel of it, and fired.

Bang. BangBangBang. Bang.

A lopsided smiley-face stared back at me. I laughed.

The gun was slightly lighter now and I rested it against my chest as the dust continued to settle around me. I fell asleep.

The door squeaked and I cracked open an eye to watch John come in. He had seen me 'asleep' and tiptoed to his bed. I couldn't see his face, but I felt him turn to look at me.

"It's rude to stare, you know," my voice echoed in the until-then silent room.

He sighed. "It's rude to feign sleep too."

"Is it?" I sat up. His back was to me placing his jacket in the closet.

"Did your, er, date-thing go well?"

"Yes, it went fine," he turned, "Sherlock, are you oka- where the hell did you get a gun?"

"Oh yes," I looked down, "this. Nicked it at the start of term, got bored today." I decided not to mention the bullet holes, maybe he wouldn't notice them.

"WHAT in the BLOODIEST OF HELLS DID YOU DO TO OUR CEILING?!"

He noticed.

"I told you, I got bored."

He strolled over to me and grabbed the gun.

"Dammit Sherlock, you can't just do stuff like that! What will Mrs. Hudson say? What if the ceiling had come down or the gun misfired? What if you had gotten hurt? What would I have done then?"

It was the first time I had ever seen John get angry with me, even after he had found out about the stolen jam. I was shocked.

"Sorry," I muttered in a small voice. I was upset, upset because John was upset with me. I looked down.

He paused.

"Just don't," a breath, "don't ever do this again, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

I looked up. I was off the hook, just like that? He still looked upset, there was something wrong. I got up and went over to him.

"What else are you upset about?" I asked.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Then he rushed forward to my arms, nearly knocking me over, and hugged me.

"It was the date, Sherlock," he muttered into my shirt. "It was awful. I had a dinner and a movie planned. The dinner was fine, pasta is always good, but when we were walking to the cinema we got jumped."

He swallowed, I stiffened. Who did this to him!

"Or I, I got jumped. It was all a set-up, the jocks and Susie were in on it. She got a free meal and the jocks got me. They pulled me into an alleyway and pushed me against the wall. They said," he swallowed, continuing in a whisper. "Oh God Sherlock, they were saying awful things. About you and me. They said, it was awful Sherlock. Everyone hates me now because I'm friends with the freak, Sherlock Holmes."

I stiffened and tried to pull away, "I am terribly sorry," I began, spitting out the words. "Do you plan on calling Mrs. Hudson or shall I?"

He hung tighter but looked up at me.

"NO, no Sherlock! I didn't mean it like that!"

I relaxed a fraction in his arms, he just clung tighter. I could see the bruises forming on his face now. Oh John. Before I could stop myself I was lightly touching his face where the bruises were starting to form.

"They're all idiots, every one of them. You aren't a fr-"

"A what? A freak? Of course I am John, I am every single one of the things that they call me. Freak, loner, psychopath, weirdo, creep, fag-"

John leaned up and I was cut off by his mouth on mine.