Mycroft and Sherlock were smothered by their mother as soon as they returned home.
"Mycroft, dear, how was school today?" Mrs Holmes asked, unnecessarily smoothing down her eldest son's neat, light brown hair.
"Mother, I told you, it's University now..." Mycroft moaned, pulling away and scurrying off.
"How about my little Sherlock?" she said, whipping around to face her youngest son.
"Mother you are 157.5 centimetres tall whereas I am nearly 169. I don't think you can call me little," Sherlock sighed.
"But how was your day Sherlock?"
"Dull. Mr. Richardson has just started seeing the caretaker's wife though," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"Oh..." his mother said, her eyes wide. "How nice of them to share that with you. Anyway, I must make dinner -"
"Mother, I don't like pea soup," Sherlock complained, his tone child-like and whiny.
"How did you - never mind," she sighed, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "Homework! Now! And if you make one more snide remark about how A Level mathematics numbs your brain you are more than welcome to read my dissertation on elliptical curves!"
She turned and strutted into the kitchen before fastening her apron around her waist.
Sherlock kicked off his shoes and stomped up the stairs, hoping that his mother would at least deduce the fact he hated doing his homework as she seemed incapable of inferring much else.
He entered his dimly-lit bedroom. He preferred solitude, so having the thick curtains drawn made him feel more comfortable. He waded through the sea of brown boxes that he couldn't be bothered to unpack. They were inked with labels like Sherlock's Shirts and Sherlock's Books in his mother's elaborate handwriting. A few were opened, the sellotape carelessly ripped away from the flaps but just managing to cling on. But Sherlock would happily continue living with cardboard boxes for a carpet if it meant his mother would stay out of his room. Mrs Holmes hated mess, but had given up trying to instil the same tidy demeanour in Sherlock: she had finally resolved to act as though his room were Area 51.
He finally reached his bed, which was unmade and sprinkled with newspaper clippings. He flopped onto the mattress and pulled his phone from his pocket. He typed in the number Mycroft had given him and then composed a simple text.
Sherlock: Hello Sophie. It's Sherlock.
Sophie's reply was brief and to the point.
16:02
Sophie: Piss off Sherlock I'm working.
Sherlock: Say it's an emergency.
Sophie: But I don't want to talk to you.
Sherlock: How rude.
Sophie: Says you. Now stop texting me!
16:33
Sherlock: Hello Sophie.
Sophie: LEAVE. ME. ALONE.
Sherlock: Meet me after college tomorrow at the bus stop outside the gates.
Sophie: No.
17:18
Sherlock: See you there then.
Sophie: Just because I've finished working doesn't mean I want to talk to you.
Sherlock: How about at 3:45?
Sophie: ARGGH!! If it will shut you up. (And in future, if you want to talk to me, be nice to me there and then instead of getting my number from Mycroft, okay?)
Sherlock smiled to himself. She had agreed to meet up with him! Finally he was no longer the odd one out. So what if she hated him? She would warm to him eventually. That was enough for Sherlock.
----------
But someone out there was not happy with this little arrangement. For their plan to work, they could not afford to have Sherlock Holmes and Sophie Marie Thompson together.
They would have to be eliminated.
YOU ARE READING
Young Sherlock | School of Deduction (Book One)
Mystery / Thriller- COMPLETED - (To be edited.) Sherlock Holmes is far from your ordinary human being, and now he's moved to London he's realised that either he is exceptionally intelligent or that everybody else is exceptionally stupid. Maybe even both. But when h...
