Chapter Text
One mystery Sherlock would never understand was school. Well that was a lie, give him a few weeks and he’ll probably figure it out. What he was really baffled by was why Mycroft had sent him to one. He’d been homeschooled his entire life but apparently by moving in with Mycroft he’d also agreed to go to regular school. Regular school was going to be undoubtedly boring. Sherlock wasn’t just a ‘gifted student’ he was an embodiment of intelligence. The school wouldn’t have allowed him to join GCSE year otherwise, which was hilarious. He could learn the entire GCSE curriculum in one term. He should probably have them thank him in advance for boasting the school’s grade average.
“This will be good for you, brother. A typical teenager should be in school socialising besides I do not have the money nor the time to find you a tutor to replace mother,” Mycroft’s insufferable voice echoed around his head. He clearly wasn’t a typical teenager and Mycroft absolutely had the money and time to find him a tutor. An atypical teenager,like himself, has close to no chance of surviving the hellish experience that was British highschool.
The sleek black car pulled up to the large concrete mass that Sherlock was trapped in for the next year. It was a daunting sight really, teenagers festering in every area around the building and all of them were staring. Does no on drive to school here? Perhaps it was one of those ‘unspoken rules’ Sherlock could never remember.
“A car will come to pick you up at four,” said the driver.
“I was told lessons end at three?”
“ They do but no driver can pick you up then, you will simply have to take on some after-school activities,” the man was clearly bored with the conversation and waiting for Sherlock to leave already. Begrudgingly he got out the car. It was almost impossible that there was no driver to pick him up at three considering that Mycroft had at least fifteen drivers at his disposal, making it more likely that Mycroft simply wanted Sherlock to join clubs and be forced to make friends. On the list of irritating things about his brother his need to interfere with everything was high up there for the younger Holmes.
The car sped away and Sherlock finally decided to properly look at his new peers. The group of girls to his right were quite clearly low of the school food chain due to their lack of conventional beauty and based purely on the way they held themselves he could tell several of them had less than ideal home lives. The boys to his left were all high although some of them seemed to be high of things much stronger than the typical weed (Sherlock noted who the supplier of the group was for future reference). He continued to deduce things about the people around him until something hit him in the back.
“Who are you, Gaylord? Never seen you around here before, I’d remember a bender like you,” Sneered the boy who had evidently been the one to hit him. The boy had a shaved head and a good build, a rugby player most definitely. He was surrounded by more boys who were likely his fellow rugby players, none of them notable other than the blond one by his side who seemed much less pleased with his friends display than all the others.
“If you need to know, I’m Sherlock,” his response was clearly not enough for the bald boy as he shoved yet again.
“Well, Sherly, you should watch where you decide to stand next time. People don’t like people who get in their way,” with that he left with the rest of his friends. Well, it seemed all the mindless teen dramas Sherlock had watched to prepare himself for high school were right. The mean bully who picked on the new kid was a real thing that happened. At least the lesson would be enjoyable.
A quarter of an hour into English and Sherlock was ready to give up on the world. Everything he had ‘learned’ in his lessons were either things he already knew or completely useless and now the school was telling him to care about the key themes in ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’! This entire class was entirely useless and he refused to give it his attention. Soon he’d be done, he just needed to get through this then whatever club he decided to do. More worksheets he wouldn’t do were given out, more things were written on the whiteboard and more of Sherlock’s brain cells were lost until finally the teacher said, “Alright our times up. Please, if you didn’t complete the work sheets do it as homework. See you next lesson!”
It seemed extra activities weren’t very popular here. On Monday there were only five possible options according to the notice board: dance, hockey, swimming, calligraphy and journalism. The sporting activities (including dance) were definitely a no, calligraphy was simply dull and he had no need for journalism. Sherlock continued stand indecisively in front of the board until someone came up to him.
“Hey, you trying to pick a club?” It was the blond boy from before, his name was John obviously as all the exercise books he was holding had that name on them unless they weren’t his, unlikely. He seemed hesitant to talk to Sherlock, nervous, judging by his continuous fidgeting.
“Yes but none of them seem particularly fun nor useful,” despite his cold tone John was clearly relieved by his response.
“Well I do journalism. I’m actually the head of the club,” he smiled proudly, “so you could, ya know, join us?”
“Do any of your rugby friends do it?” John winced.
“No, they think it’s stupid. Most of them go home a three anyway,” Sherlock considered this for a second. Clearly John didn’t hold any malicious in tensions and the idea of not going into the club completely alone was appealing…
“Alright, I’ll join journalism.”
“Great! We can walk together. I’m John by the way,” he stuck out his free hand which Sherlock ignored completely in favour of walking in the direction he believed journalism to be.
“I know.”
“You know?” John questioned, walking beside him.
“Your books clearly state your name,” John looked at the books in his hand then at Sherlock giving him an amused smile. Maybe Journalism was the right choice.