Sherlock's P.O.V.
I was not a normal boy. This much I knew. It'd been drilled into my head since I was a little boy- so why was my mother making me go to a normal school? Given, Mycroft went there, and was head boy, so she figured I'd start out with a good reputation.
Highly unlikely.
But, normal boy, good reputation, or not, here I was, Sherlock Holmes standing in front of some daft new school- by new I mean it had around for something of five or so years. Baskerville Academy, I believe.
Did I mention I was next to my brother? Mycroft Holmes. Just a few inches taller than me, brown hair slicked back, head boy patch already pinned on.
Oh, how I despised him.
He turned to me and said, "alright, Sherlock, I hope you find everything alright, you know how to contact me if anything happens, and- do please stay out of trouble and act like an adu-"
"Piss off, Mycroft," I grumbled, picking up my suitcase and pushing my way through the crowd of teenagers to get to the B building. Since that was where my dorm was- 221B.
And the building looked no more appealing to me on the inside than it did on the out.
I scanned a couple of the prefects that were walking about, showing students around, but none were very interesting in the slightest.
I walked up a flight of stairs and wandered down a corridor with branched off hallways, before seeing a hallway with a plague on the wall stating:
Dorms 211B through 221B.
I turned into the hallway, walking down to the end. On my way, I bumped into a tall man with balding dark hair.
He seemed rather rude.
The door that said 221B was already open just a crack, so I pushed it the rest of the way and stepped in.
The room was dull, with white walls and ceiling, a short gray carpeting covering parts of the floor, and two beds pushed up against the wall, a nightstand between them. On either side of the beds was a small bookshelf and a closet built into the wall.
There was a desk in the corner, and a door which I assumed led to a bathroom.
Next to one of the beds, a short boy was standing. He had short, neatly cropped golden hair, and blue-brown eyes. He looked nervous, to say the least.
"Um, hello. You must be my roommate. I'm John Watson," the boy said, holding out his hand, which I wouldn't have shook even if my hands hadn't been full. Once he realized that he pulled it back and rubbed the back of his head.
I sighed, and said, "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
I set my suitcase down next to the other bed and threw my backpack onto it. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked John, turning around.
He looked at me with a surprised expression.
"Your father. Afghanistan or Iraq," I pressed.
John frowned, but answered, "Afghanistan. How'd you know?"
"Ran into him. His haircut, the way he held himself screamed army. And the tanning, so Afghanistan or Iraq."
"No, but how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I noticed. Just like I noticed that you have a trust issues, probably from your father, obvious anger and alcohol problems on him. Your brother- he probably has an alcohol problem too, maybe just left his wife, judging that you obviously have his phone, even though it's new. Scratches around the charging port. That's how I knew about the drinking, since I can see you wondering. Never see a sober man's with them, never see a drunk's without. I also know that you're here on a football scholarship, and your family doesn't have much money, hand-me-down shirt and jacket," I said triumphantly.
John looked absolutely amazed- and a little scared. "That was amazing," he stated.
"Really?" I asked. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
I felt myself grin. "Piss off."
John grinned as well and started to unpack from his suitcase. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "erm, Sherlock?"
I glanced up. "Hm?"
He looked slightly embarrassed. "What's the uniform in this school?"
I ran a hand through my unruly dark curls before answering, "well, you can wear any shirt with a collar, and long pants. It's not too strict. But uniforms are given to everyone, though normally prefects are the only ones who wear them and normal students only wear them on special occasions."
John nodded and turned back to his unpacking, folding up a pair of football shorts or something like that.
I, on the other hand, had already unpacked my clothing from the two suitcases I had brought. Two? We were here until winter break, with no specified uniform. Yes I brought two.
So I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my laptop and a file folder that was barely held together by a few rubber bands, and filled with police reports. I could almost feel the questioning look that came from John, but the shorter boy said nothing to me.
Wait a second. "I've forgotten something," I heard myself mutter.
No, impossible. I just hadn't had it and forgotten to get it- but what was it.
Just with that thought, there was a knock at the door, and I immediately scowled.
John went to open the door, and without turning around, I spat, "Mycroft."
I spun around as he said, his voice sickly sweet, "hello my dear brother."
"What do you want?" I asked, narrowing my eyes, and he held up a violin case, and it dawned on me what I had forgotten. "Trying to steal my violin, are you? The next time you steal something from me, I'll microwave your eyes," I threatened, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Oh do behave Sherlock, and take your violin."
I sighed and grabbed the violin from him. "Lighter."
Mycroft gave me an odd look. "Excuse me?"
"Lighter," I pressed. "You took my lighter, Mycroft, give it back."
He sighed. "Sherlock-"
"Give it here."
Mycroft groaned in defeat and handed me a lighter from his back pocket and said, "just don't do it where anyone can see you. I don't need to be kicked out of my position because my little brother breaks rules. Goodbye, Sherlock, I'll be in touch."
I grumbled something incoherent about shaving his head and slammed the door in his face.
"Who was that?" John asked, looking confused.
"My older brother Mycroft. Yes, he's a prefect," I replied.
John sat on his bed and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh. So you play violin?"
I only nodded.
"Um, are you going to the orientation?" John asked.
"Dull," I muttered. "It starts soon, go on ahead without me. There's a football meeting after that- your team captain, his name is Greg Lestrade."
John shot me an uneasy look, then left the dorm.
I sighed and shot off a quick text, to Greg Lestrade's father. Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard police force.
I then cracked open a fresh pack of cigs and pulled one out, lighting it before bringing it to my lips and unzipping the case of my violin and positioning myself to look out the window.
I played and smoked for near three hours before John got back.
Damn, I needed more cigarettes.
