Chapter Text
Between the four walls of a bedroom decorated in expensive shades of brown, gold and black, lots and lots of black, lives a boy who, no matter how much noise the world around him can throw at him, remains undisturbed.
A boy so absorbed in his own thoughts, that simply communicating with him feels like breaking something delicate, like a pane of glass, or a necklace, or a single thread. As if any disruption to his stream of thoughts will send the whole world hurtling towards the sun.
On his head, curls of the darkest brown, a thick, fluffy collection of untameable ringlets, parted on one side and somehow laying in all the right ways on the cream linen pillow case his head rested on. Draped over his cold, pale body, a light blue button-up shirt, far too loose on a boy so slim, paired of course, with matching linen trousers that barely covered his ankles, not that he minded in the slightest.
On this particular night, in this particular room, lay a boy, atop the covers of his bed, lit only by candlelight and caressed by the cool breeze entering from the window left ajar. In this moment, nothing matters, not the paper lifting at the edge in response to the wind's every breath, not the spilled water on the bedside table, nothing matters because nothing could possibly matter more than tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow, the boy will be starting at a new school. For most people, this brings excitement, new friends, extra-curricular clubs and freedom, for him, it brought the dread of pointless conversation and small talk, and no more knowledge than he already had. The school, as he remembered, was a grand collection of towers, halls, libraries and gardens as far as the eye can see. It rests in the outskirts of London, and goes by the name of Conan Doyle Academy.
"Sherlock Holmes!" came a rich tone rippling through the chilling air. The owner of the voice twisting the handle and pushing open the door.
"What are you doing awake at his hour, Mycroft?" the boy sprawled across the bed huffed, now turning to face towards the wall away from the boy.
The figure still dressed in his green pinstripe suit and waistcoat from earlier entered the room, "I just thought I'd come and give my best wishes," he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, "I know how worried you must be about starting at a new school, that's all."
"Yes well you've done it now, Goodnight Mycroft," spitting out the last word as if it was a foul taste in his mouth.
"Sherlock."
No reply...
"I was there for you before," Mycroft lowered his voice, "I'll be there for you again,"
"Can we expect a world war any time soon?."
"I beg your pardon?"
Sherlock turned to face his brother once more, "Well it's just that, its 10 o' clock and you're not dressed for bed yet, One can only assume you've been working late, but you never do such a thing. The last time you did this, the country was facing a crisis. So, what is it? A world war? Water shortage? Oo! don't tell me- have all of the bakeries in England burnt to the ground?"
The corners of the older boy's mouth twitched in disgust, "Sherlock Holmes! How can you possibly expect to make any friends tomorrow with an attitude like that!?"
"That's just it, brother dear, I don't intend on doing so, now you better get writing to the bakeries quickly, I'm afraid if Morstan bakery closes, you and mother will be driven to insanity, and I, for one, do not want to be there when it happens."
"Give my best wishes to Mrs Hudson will you." The red haired man rose to his feet, glancing shortly at the open window, "Close the window also."
"The bakeries, Mycroft..." The dark haired boy teased.
The door was closed and Sherlock, was left alone once more.
Was Mycroft right? Would Sherlock spend his school days alone, It was what he wanted after all? Sherlock wasn't really sure, not sure he'd ever be sure. He snaked under the cream, textured duvet covers, extinguished the candle by his side and turned to face the moon. It was unlikely he slept a wink that night.
***
Miles away, in a modest home with cone shaped roofs and a tiny garden, in a quiet town, another boy lived. A boy who lived a very different life. Surrounded by friends, achieved fairly average academic results and excelled in sports. John Watson lived with his mother who worked as a child minder and a baker, his sister, Harriet Watson and his pet cat, Rosie. Despite growing up being taught how to bake, cook, look after children, clean and play sports, John Watson had his eyes set on joining the armed forces as an army doctor. Ever since his father was killed in war when he was a young child, he'd been set on becoming an army doctor, he hoped this job would enable him to save lives like his father's, lives that could have been saved, given the right treatment.
"Johnnnn!!" came a bright, voice.
"Yes mother I won't be a minute!" John called, matching the same bright tone of his mother.
"Alright but I've left some of Mrs Stamford's plumbs on the side by the door! be sure to meet Michael at the station in time! I can't come with you, Mrs Kent asked if I could take Arthur a little earlier this morning. "
John adjusted his long grey socks, pulling them up so they finished just under the knee. "Okay you can come in now!"
"Oh, I thought you'd be longer-," She opened the door and glanced at her son, wearing his full school uniform, "Oh darling... you look so handsome! Oh you look just like your father." John met his mother's eyes and was sure her eyes weren't as shiny before.
His mother cradled his face in her hand, feeling him smile into her, and brought him into an embrace.
"I'll come and visit in the holidays, don't fret!" John assured.
"I know, but it won't be the same, John. You're growing up now" she muttered into his hair, now stroking his fluffy blonde hair with the hand that wasn't wrapped around him.
He squirmed around a bit, he loved his mum but this hug seemed to be lasting forever, and John had a train to catch. "Ma, I really have to go, Mike will be on his way."
"You're right, don't want to be late for your first day," she let go and straightened his maroon school jacket, "You be good for me?"
John spat a laugh and reached for his trunk, "Of course! take care, Mother."
He swept up the bag of plumbs from the side and secured them in his bag, "Bye Harry! See you at Christmas!"
"If you make it back..." she remarked, arms folded and a stiff expression dawning her face.
"That's not a very nice way to talk to your dear brother, Harriet!" his mother hissed, the rare use of this tone startling both of the children.
"Sorry, bye John, I'll miss you rattling around." She smiled, accepting the hug that John had flung at her.
"I'll miss you more, Harry."
***
"John!"
John looked around the masses of people, searching for who the owner of the voice could be.
Noticing John's confusion, Mike thought it be better if he yell his name, it had been a little while since they last spoke after all. "Mike! Mike Stamford" Mike yelled, finally catching the eye of John.
"Oh there you are! Mike!" John hurried through the group of people between the two of them.
"Oh Mike I haven't seen you in, well... ages!"
"I has been a while hasn't it? Well, are you excited John?!" Mike nudged John when the door of the huge red train was opened, motioning for them to get on, "Midnight feasts! Sports tournaments! Girllllllsssssss" adding a playful tone to the last one.
"Mike, You know we are separated by sex, right?" John laughed.
"Oh yeah... Well, there's always chapel, you find ways, John."
The two boys made their way to the back half of the train, picking a cart with an empty set of benches. The interior of the train was simple, with moderately padded, navy benches and wooden walls.
"So, how'd you get into Conan Doyle anyway?" Mike asked, already reaching into his bag for a mini pork pie.
"Scholarship, just this writing competition I won last year, The judges thought I'd be better suited to a big, academic centred school like Conan Doyle" John replied, hoping mike wouldn't ask any more about what he'd written, it wasn't that he wasn't proud of it, his mind was elsewhere and he wanted nothing more than to be able to gaze out of the window and not utter a word for the entire journey.
Luckily, he didn't have to say anymore, but his hopes for not having to talk much were shattered by the entrance of another young boy who, like Mike Stamford, had attended Conan Doyle for years.
"If it's not Greg Lestrade himself!" Mike cheered, sliding the array of things he'd scattered across the bench back into his case, making way for Greg.
"John, this is my friend, Greg, Greg, this is John!"
"Well its brilliant to meet you John, and it's great to see you Chuck!"
I was hoping to get some time to think but- "Yes, hello, Greg is it? It's nice to meet you."
"John was just telling me about how he got awarded his scholarship, Say's he won some writing competition...thing." Mike explained, through mouthfuls.
"Yes, well it was just some silly detective story, do sit down, Greg"
Greg did as instructed.
"So, John, Any idea which dorm you'll be in" Greg asked, his rich cockney accent catching John's interest.
"Ur no, No I've not been told, I assume I'll be informed when I arrive."
***
"So, you know what I'm about to say." Sherlock's Mother started.
"Enlighten me, Mother." Sherlock answered between eye rolls. Take me anywhere as long as it is not here and now.
His mother softened despite Sherlock's harsh tone and continued to fix his collar, much to Sherlock's distaste. "Don't try to be clever, Sherl, do be nice to the other boys."
"Sherlock, is the name you gave me," he wriggled beneath her busy hands, "and yes, I'll try my best to be anything but myself, Mother."
This caused a small laugh in his mother, creases either side of her piercing blue eyes appearing as she did.
"I've packed you some lemon drops, some toffee, and a box of Turkish delight to share with your friends."
"I don't have any" he scoffed.
"Well do try Sherlock, for me?"
"Yes," he glanced at his mother who wore an expression half-way between pleading and stern, "Alright." he answered quickly, the word escaping his mouth, weightless, meaning nothing at all.
"You alright to go on alone now?" she asked, voice much quieter.
"Yes, See you at Christmas, Mother" and strangely enough, it was Sherlock that initiated the hug, His mum swore she could have cried then and there, but held it together and treasured holding his frail body to her own, nourished, healthy body.
"Do try to plump up a little, Sherlock, I worry about you." he blinked. "See you at Christmas, dear."
Sherlock turned and, carrying his case beside him, climbed onto the red train waiting for him.
When he boarded, light chatter, laughter and the rustling of paper bags hung in the air like a swarm of vicious wasps. He peered to his right to find a woman, dressed in dark red with her hair pulled into a bun. The wedding ring, much larger than her own, on a chain around her neck telling him she was a single mother to the child beside her. It's been a while though, since her partner died, both her and the child beside her wore bright clothes, expensive clothes, perhaps she was granted some money after her partner's death.
This time, Sherlock glanced to his left, beside him, a young boy, nervous, first day. He could tell by the way his Mother had left a little good luck note attached to the brown paper bag that could only contain his lunch, going by the size. He was sitting on his hands, obviously a technique he was adopting to stop him from fidgeting with his hands, made even more likely by the restlessness of his legs and feet, he was small, and wore flimsy glasses frames high on his face. Social outcast, he'd brought so many books with him that he had to bring another separate bag, no ordinary, social person has time to read all of those books.
The noise continued to follow him as he made his way closer to the back of the train, it was at this point that he decided to spend the trip deducing the woman dressed in a dark teal dress and the man beside her, dressed in much scruffier clothes on the bench furthest back. He wanted to make it his mission to figure out what a woman as finely dressed as her would possibly want from a man who looked like he's been living at the bottom of a well for 6 weeks.
***
"That's Sherlock" Mike whispered to John, saying his name like it was delicate and that if the boy heard, they'd have to jump off the moving train and flee.
"Sherlock?" why do you say his name like that?" John asked, bringing his gaze from Sherlock, back to Mike.
"Well, it's just that, he's a bit peculiar see look, he's just staring at that girl, what a bit o' raspberry she is..." Mike trailed off.
"Mike! keep your eyes to yourself!" Greg exclaimed, making John jump, he'd almost forgot Greg was even there.
"Yeah, Mike, I'm sure he's got his... reasons," John tried to justify, not entirely sure why he was defending the mystery boy.
It seemed to do the trick anyway, the three of them returned to the game of snap they were playing. John couldn't concentrate on the game, he kept matching cards that weren't the same, he was curious, interested in what this Sherlock boy could possibly be doing, he thought it better to not go and explicitly ask, so he simply observed from his bench.
***
Wealthy then, dress says expensive, no ring, I assume she was born into her wealth...
***
When the train finally arrived at it's destination, the boys, followed by Sherlock, departed the train and started on their way to the school just a short trip away, a path encased by rows of trees either side, past beautiful houses with thatched rooves.
Greg and Mike blabbered on about nothing important, John tried to join in but found himself focussing more on how the heat from the sun felt on his skin, how the handle of his bag didn't seem to fit properly in his hand, how the ground beneath him felt, and how fast or slow his breathing was. His mother had taught him how to manage his breathing, something he found useful for times like these when John felt as if the world had pushed him into the deep end. Everyone seemed to be breathing just fine. But John felt as though pushing the air around his body was like breathing in honey.
Sherlock followed at the back of the group, he was tossing something between his hands. A penny, marked with the date, 1881, the year Mycroft was born. He found it once, picked it up off of the floor when his mother dropped some coins one time, he didn't intend on keeping it but his mother saw his amusement at the date and allowed him to keep it. Sherlock was very young at the time, 7 at most and Mycroft was 15. He shined the penny every so often, keeping it shiny before it had the chance to brown, always keeping it with him throughout everything that happened in the last 9 years.
The boys rounded a corner, clearing the tall trees and hedges that surrounded the building. Greg and Mike were first of the group to make it round.
"Wow!! get a good look at that!" called Greg.
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