Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes, believe it or not, was once a teenager, and was just as arrogant then as he is now. He hated secondary school almost as much as he hated stupidity, bad tobacco or poor standard violinists, but nonetheless was forced to attend. Sherlock Holmes was my roommate at boarding school.

My first memory of him was when he walked into our dorm, his duffel bag over his shoulder. He placed it by his bed, then pulled out and lit a cigarette. I watched in surprise as he took long drags from it casually, the smoke floating in whisps into the air, and I wrinkled my nose at the scent.

Sherlock looked much like he did now, but with teenage imperfections on his face. The same dark, curled hair, those cheekbones you could cut open an envelope with. Even sitting with his legs crossed I could tell he was tall, much taller than myself. His elbows were propped up on his knees and held the cigarette between long fingers while watching the smoke with a pleasured expression.

After six drags of his cigarette, he noticed me sitting on the bed parallel to his. I was half a year into my A-Levels, and while my time in Lower Sixth was somewhat lonely, I was glad to have my own room for the half-term leading to where we are now. Sherlock was the same age as me, judging by the colour of his tie - red - in our grey and black school uniform. In most schools, members of the Sixth Former could wear their own clothes, but in my school - a private boarding school in the centre of London - we were required to wear the uniform. I felt out of depth usually: my parents weren’t rich or royalty, but in the army, so they were travelling. I felt even more out of place around Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes regarded me with an air of arrogance mixed with obscure curiosity as if I was a bluebottle fly that wasn’t bothering him but could be. My mind of an awkward teenager didn’t know how to react, so I settled with a strained “hey.”

“Hello,” Sherlock replied after his seventh drag, the smoke escaping from his mouth like a smoke machine on stage. From his first word, his accent was very British and rather upper-class.

“Hi,” I said, offering a nervous smile. “I’m John Watson.”

“Yes, I saw your name on my information sheet. From first impressions, you’re anxious with low self-esteem. You’re a virgin, haven’t got drunk before, never smoked, never dated. You seem like an ideal roommate,” Sherlock said, the words sliding out in rapid succession, well-pronounced, and I couldn’t help but be irritated at the man I had just met. I opened my mouth to speak, but Sherlock Holmes wasn’t bloody finished. “You have an older sibling who you used to be close with but since then has slipped away from you, because you don’t talk to their friends and you’re really not that charismatic. Or maybe not so much to people you don’t know. As humans adapt to things, you adapt to people over time. I’m assuming you have a sister, as you don’t seem like a brother has beaten the living daylights out of you. ”

I couldn’t help but bite back a scowl, but equally, he was right in every respect. It was infuriating, but frankly incredible. Maybe in time, I'd grow to find it solely incredible.

“You’re right,” I said in wonder, staring at him, dumbfounded.

“I know,” Sherlock replied, before holding out his cigarette between long fingers. “Would you like to change one of those variables?” he asked.

“No, no thanks,” I replied, pushing Sherlock’s hand away apprehensively, who shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

“Are you even allowed to smoke in here?” I asked after a moment, and Sherlock simply shrugged.

“You won’t tell, will you?” he asked, his question more of a statement. “No. You wouldn’t.”

…

After that interaction, I didn’t see much of Sherlock Holmes for a while, but it gave me a lot of time to think about him. His bed was always well made, but he was always out of the dorm before I woke and back while I was asleep. He woke up after I did, and I could tell he wasn’t a morning person, with his unintelligible groans and his cigarette every morning. Luckily, he’d taken to smoking out of the window.

Peculiarly, I hadn’t shared any lessons with Sherlock. I’d seen him around, in corridors, looking mysterious and ominous in the expansive corridors. He never seemed to be lost, despite him just joining the school. Or maybe I was wrong and he’d been there a while, and I hadn’t noticed him. Who knows?

The next time I saw him was in the library: he was hidden behind a pile of books, in fact, three piles of books. I took notice of some of the titles: he was reading biology books and then scribbling rapidly down in a leather-bound notebook, his handwriting quick and scraggly, but legible, with long curled strokes. He looked up as I approached, his eyes slightly red around the irises.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “What was it, Joseph? Jonah--?”

“John Watson,” I corrected, and Sherlock clapped his hands excitedly, pulling up a chair next to him and motioning for me to sit down.

“Alright, Watson. You’re taking biology, correct?” he asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yes, I am.”

“Now, help me with this,” Sherlock said, motioning to his paper with his annoyingly neat but characteristic handwriting. I scanned his notes, which were about the theory of the impact of bruising after death: hypothetically, Sherlock was saying that if bruising could still happen to a corpse after death, it would be influential in a homicide case. He then gave multiple examples, which I didn’t read into, but glanced up at him, as Sherlock was awaiting my answer.

“Looks like it would work,” I said optimistically, knowing I should stay on good terms with a man who could tell my whole romantic life from a glance.

“Are you up for testing it?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow mischievously. I hadn’t been acquainted with him for long, but I could tell he was scheming.

I hesitated before answering: “How?”

Sherlock grinned. “I have a few ideas.”

…

I hadn’t broken any rules since I’d joined my school; I didn’t want to picture the look of disappointment on my parents' faces if they knew I was sneaking out after curfew to conduct science experiments on the corpses of frogs in the biology room.

Sherlock and I were walking through the corridors, which were enclosed in darkness. He’d somehow gathered the staff timetable for hallway watch (which was actually real in the late eighties) and he was abusing it to its full potential. I don’t know how he managed to get it, and I thought this over to myself while we walked to the biology rooms, jumping at every shadow. I could feel his gaze linger on me as I did so, annoying and patronising. Once, we turned a corner and scared a bird outside; I almost jumped out of my skin. I heard a snicker come from Sherlock’s lips and could feel a blush form on my face. Luckily, he couldn’t see it in the darkness.

Once we reached the entrance to the biology room, Sherlock knelt on his knee to the level of the door, pulled a hairpin and a pointed-looking object out of his pocket, and pushed it gently into the lock.

Is he picking a lock right now? I thought to myself, just as the door clicked, and Sherlock pressed down on the handle and let himself into the science lab.

“Wow,” I said, somewhat awestruck, as he closed the door behind us. Sherlock Holmes simply smiled somewhat smugly at my amazement, before turning to the science prep room and picking that lock as well. “Do you do this often?” I asked as he worked before the door clicked open again.

“Only when I’m bored. It’s usually chemistry,” Sherlock replied. “Did you not think about why I got back into our dorm so late? No, no, I suppose you didn’t.”

One moment Sherlock and I were having a conversation, and the next he placed a dead frog on the table in front of me. I had done required practicals on animals before, but I could not get over the stench, every time. Sherlock, however, seemed unbothered, naturally, as he began hitting it with a ruler. A plastic one, if it makes anyone feel better.

He was beating the remains of this poor frog (for science) for a good five minutes, before placing the ruler down, thank the Lord, and turning to me. “Set a timer, Watson,” he said, somewhat out of breath, and I nodded obligingly, before watching as Sherlock walked over to the sinks and washed his hands in one of them.

“You didn’t wear safety goggles,” I pointed out in a lazy attempt at humour.

“You entered the science lab without teacher supervision,” Sherlock replied, walking back over and taking the pen and notebook out of my hands and scribbling down notes, observing the frog eagerly.

“I suppose I did.” I leaned against the table next to him, the room still in darkness, but I don’t think Sherlock really minded, as he wrote and observed with the amount of interest and precision I would’ve thought it was full daylight.

“Are you bored a lot?” I asked, simply making conversation.

“Say it as a statement,” Sherlock requested, and I tried not to seem confused.

“You’re bored a lot,” I said, as if the words were unfamiliar on my tongue. But then it clicked. The answer to my question earlier. “Oh.”
But Sherlock looked up at me and smiled. It looked oddly formidable as he stood over the dead frog, and I found myself laughing.

“What?” Sherlock asked his expression a humorous one.

“This is like a nightly activity,” I said, nodding.

“Yes, yes, and we should leave before the teachers find us. I’ve got all I need.” Sherlock closed his notebook, picked up the tray with the frog on, and quickly put it back in the lab tech’s room. He then silently motioned for me to follow him as he opened the door silently and we disappeared through the corridors.

When we got back to our dorm, I felt oddly satisfied. Sherlock sat down cross-legged on
his bed and opened his notebook in front of him, reading over his results.

“Oh, Watson, that was very successful,” he remarked as he rested his head on his hands.

“Was it?” I remarked, leaning back against the wall as I sat on my bed.

“Definitely.” Sherlock continued reading, his eyes flicking over his answers inspectingly.

We sat in a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes. There was too much adrenaline for me to sleep, so I was just lying there as Sherlock read through his findings. But eventually, I worked up the courage to break the calm quiteless over the room.

“So,” I began, keeping my voice straight. “Where did you… Come from?”

Bemused, Sherlock glanced at me from over the top of his hands. “I grew up in the countryside near Birmingham, but something tells me this is not what you’re asking.”

I nodded my agreement. “Yeah, no, I mean more like… You kind of just appeared. It’s halfway through the year, and you just joined. I mean, I was enjoying having this room to myself…”

“Of course. Well, the truth is,” Sherlock began, before pausing for a measured moment to weigh up whether to tell me or not: “I got expelled. Back in Third Year. And so my brother and my parents pulled some strings to get me back in here, because, God forbid, I attend a much more interesting school.”

I listened, questions circling in my mind like sharks. “What did you do?”

To my surprise, Sherlock laughed. “I accused another student of murder,” he said simply.

“Just like that?”

“How else? Anyway, I had lots of evidence for the case, anyway,” Sherlock said. “Means, motive, opportunity, along with the whole story of how it happened. I wouldn’t let it go. And so they suspended me. On my suspension, I was still hooked on this case and I found the perpetrator and confronted him, but the school intervened. Despite that, I’m back,” he concluded, before lighting a cigarette and opening the window.

“Wow,” I replied, somewhat awestruck. “And nobody took your murder case seriously?”

“My brother did. But he was disappointed that I tried to take care of it myself. What a twat.” Sherlock gritted his teeth: I could tell that he disliked his brother to some extent. There seemed to be some tension there.

“Ah,” I replied instead of sharing my analysis.

“Mhm.” Sherlock, who ten minutes before this interaction was whipping a frog, was now smoking a cigarette. I thought over what he’d just told me, his story adding depth to his personality somewhat. He intrigued me.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and I shared one lesson, and that was Physical Education. At my school, we ended up having a lesson of PE a fortnight, as it's a boarding school and if you didn’t do that, everyone would be sat around the whole time.

I found I had a dislike for PE and sports quite strongly, despite taking a Sports Studies O-Level. My careers advisor said I should take it if I wanted to become a doctor, which was mainly what my parents wanted. But I supposed I liked helping people too.

Though Sherlock had never spoken about it, he was really good at sports. He spoke about having done boxing when I made conversation as we were running a lap around the field while the rest of the class was playing rounders. I got sent to run for ‘slacking’ and Sherlock defended me (“but the game was nowhere near John.”) and so now we were stuck here together. Sherlock didn’t protest though, just grumbled about the hierarchy and maybe something about physics, I didn’t hear much. I appreciated the gesture, though, and felt I needed to thank him.

“Thank you, by the way,” I said. “For standing up for me.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just glanced distractedly across the field, and he didn’t say anything until we finished our lap. When we returned to the game, three members of the Upper Sixth were watching our PE lesson: one was tall and with hair a few shades lighter than Sherlock’s, almost with a red tint to it. He was tall and lean, and leant against the fence with a confident prowess, watching the same through almond-shaped, hazel, eyes. He, I would later learn, was Mycroft Holmes.

Next to him stood a shorter man with dark hair and a snarky smile on his face. If Sherlock disliked Mycroft, he hated this man. This was James Moriarty. His shirt was untucked and his tie hung loosely around his neck, his smirk never faltering. Finally, on the other side of Mycroft stood Greg Lestrade, who was taller than Moriarty but shorter than Mycroft. Over his uniform, he wore a grey coat which was too long in the sleeves. He seemed more interested in the rounders game we were playing than whatever Mycroft was saying to him.

Sherlock glanced over at me with a scowl on his face, deepening when Mycroft waved at him, inviting Sherlock over to talk with him.

“No, I’m not going alone. That’s the brother I’ve been talking to you about," Sherlock said dramatically, and I let him pull on my arm to go and speak to Mycroft and his friends. I decided I wasn’t going to protest, especially after Sherlock stood up for me earlier, and so I let him.

“Ah, you didn’t ignore me, like last time,” Mycroft said, his tone patronising but polite.

“Mycroft, I’m in the middle of a lesson,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms over his chest. I mirrored his position, mostly because it was freezing cold and if I stood in the same spot for more than two minutes I would probably freeze.

“A lesson that you don’t care about. Sherlock, how are you settling in?” Mycroft asked.

“Great. I’ve been to this school before--”

“Well, our father’s coming to make sure you’re not messing around again,” Mycroft hissed, his tone annoyed. From an onlooker's point of view, it seemed Mycroft was not pleased with this development.

“Thank you for telling me?” Sherlock said. “Couldn’t it have just waited until a free period? I’m going to have to run a lap for this.”

Mycroft’s expression became one of disapproval. “No, you won’t. Just say you were talking to me. Also, someone broke into the biology room last night. I was going to ask you if you’d like to investigate it,” Mycroft said, and one of his friends whispered something to the other and they both broke into fits of giggles. Sherlock’s very expression read ‘What’s so funny?’

“Well, I appreciate the gesture, brother, but I’m very busy with schoolwork at the moment,” Sherlock said, all matter-of-factly. I could feel my face going red, but it might just have been me catching a
cold.

“Of course. Just asking if you knew anything. You haven’t introduced me to your friend.” Mycroft’s gaze flicked to me, his smile widening, his friends following his line of vision. The man I know now as Lestrade offered a wave while Moriarty stared down his nose at me.

“John Watson,” I said, as I knew Sherlock wouldn’t for me.

“Sherlock’s found an accomplice,” Mycroft commented.

“Or a boyfriend,” Moriarty added quickly, his quip making my face go red, and not from the cold, as I stuttered to defend myself.

“John’s my roommate,” Sherlock covered for me, but it didn’t do much help; Moriarty still snickered and even Mycroft chimed in with a chuckle.

“We can laugh all we like but Sherlock’ll grow bored of you soon,” Moriarty said, his tone harsh. It made me wonder if Sherlock had done anything to offend him. “Jim Moriarty, by the way,” Moriarty said, his Irish accent lacing his tone.

“Lovely to see you, as usual, brother mine. Behave,” Mycroft stood up straight, his gaze sweeping over us one more time before he zeroed in on me. “I’m Mycroft Holmes, by the way. Nice to meet you, John Watson.”

Once the three of them had walked away, I turned to Sherlock. “What the hell was that? That was like something out of a teen drama,” I said as we made our way to the playing field once more, me still shivering from the cold and it seemed Sherlock’s scowl had frozen on his face.

“Yes, my brother’s a fan of his dramatics. As is Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, Moriarty’s name sounding harsh to him. Maybe I’d ask him about it that evening: Sherlock was more open to talking later at night. “My brother is also arrogant and stuck up, just as he’s head boy he has power and influence over people. In reality, he has no self-esteem and gets lonely, and he seeks others for validation. Like that… Gosh, what was his name? George Lestrade? Anyway, him. He seeks validation from those he looks up to, in the current case, this Lestrade fellow.” Sherlock reeled off this information like he could’ve been reading it.

“Like, romantically?” I asked after a moment, as I took my spot in the fielding position of my rounders team. I was what's called backstop, so I stood behind the stumps getting cold and looking miserable. Sherlock was next to be batting, so I stood back.

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know, but it would be great to tease him about.”

...

That evening, Sherlock and I sat parallel to each other, reading books and doing homework. I listened to the scratchy sound of Sherlock’s pen against paper and contemplated whether to break our little bubble of silence. It was stormy outside, and rain lashed against the window, but inside Sherlock and I’s room, it was peaceful and kind of calm. I thought Sherlock was good at being calm, I’d discovered, until he wasn’t. When he was hooked on something, like the frog incident, he was impossible to distract, engrossed in his work. He wrote four essays about that frog: I even got credit for one of them when I gave it to my biology teacher.

But homework was obviously not stimulating enough for him, as after about ten minutes or so, he sighed dramatically and snapped the book shut.

“Boring!” He exclaimed, and I didn’t have to look up from my own work to know he was lighting a cigarette.

I thought now was my chance to ask him about Moriarty, despite this nagging feeling not to. “Sherlock,” I began nervously. “Your brother’s friend, Moriarty. There seems to be some… Tension between you two.”

Sherlock’s expression somewhat darkened, and his scowl from earlier returned. “He was the student I told you about.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “The one you accused of…?!”

“Yes, fantastic deduction, John,” Sherlock said, the last of his words ringing out with sarcasm.

“But he’s friends with your brother!” I exclaimed. “You said he believed you.”

“He does. Another thing about Mycroft is that he takes upon a lot of responsibility,” Sherlock explained, talking to me as if I was a child who needed statements to be dumbed down. “And some of that responsibility, apparently, is to back up Moriarty to get information from him. But Moriarty is just playing Mycroft, even you would see it.” Sherlock’s tone was becoming increasingly more angry, and he seemed to realise it, as he took a deep breath and steepled his fingers, composing himself. His gaze was locked on the ceiling. “And Mycroft keeps him around, apparently for safety’s sake. He was my friend first, and maybe a part of it, a little tiny part of it, is to spite me,” Sherlock ranted, and then finally turned to me, hesitated, before saying: “and what do you think?”

I was a bit taken aback, as usually Sherlock didn’t ask me these things. “Well… I understand why you look at the situation like that. But if Mycroft is like any other elder sibling, he’s doing this to protect you,” I said, stuttering and stopping to make sure I didn't confuse myself. “He's worried about you, and he's using Moriarty to make sure that you can't do anything stupid.”

It seemed like, for a moment Sherlock considered this, before nodding slowly. “I understand,” he contemplated, tapping his hand against his knee.

“Yeah?” I asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“Okay. So, what should I do about this situation?” Sherlock asked, and I frantically wracked my brain for answers.

“Well, I think the best thing for you to do is to not let it bother you. Put on effort around your brother and his friends, and hey, at least that Lestrade guy seemed nice,” I said optimistically.

“Ha! And even if he is befriending Moriarty to spite me, seeing it not get to me will get under his skin!” Sherlock exclaimed, his tapping stopping as he clapped his hands gleefully.

“Not what I was going for, but that works too!” I exclaimed, trying to match his enthusiasm.

Chapter Text

This plot only thickened when I next saw Mycroft and his cronies, which was at breakfast one morning. It was a Saturday, so breakfast was extended. I stayed around Sherlock when we weren't in lessons, and he was never boring company, to say the least. It was exciting. We hadn't had another frog escapade yet, but we'd skipped a PE lesson once and investigated as to whether the science teacher was keeping beer in their flask during lessons (they weren't).

Sherlock and I sat eating our bacon and eggs when the elder Holmes brother and his friends approached us again. It was the weekend so we were allowed to wear our own clothes: I wore a plaid shirt and beige trousers, while Sherlock wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and black trousers. It looked like a variation of our school uniform apart from the long black coat hung over the back of his chair. The inside of the hall was warm, whereas the Northern winter outside would've been an unpleasant bitterness. Mycroft was wearing a dramatic coat too, but grey. Maybe they got a buy one get one half-price deal.

“Morning, Sherlock, John,” Mycroft said, inviting himself to sit opposite us, Moriarty on his left and Greg Lestrade on his right.

“Morning,” I muttered, suddenly more interested in my toast, but Sherlock seemed incredibly engaged in this conversation.

“Hello, Mycroft. Lovely day, isn’t it? Oh, Moriarty, are you looking forward to science second period? Chemistry,” Sherlock said, coming off as incredibly excited. Moriarty didn't really share this. I thought the interaction was jarring on both ends.

“Ecstatic,” Moriarty drawled in his Irish accent, digging into his Marmite toast. Of course, he liked Marmite. “You two going to that party tomorrow?” He asked after a large bite.

I had heard many whispers about this gathering but I thought the suitable coping mechanism was to just avoid it. In our school, parties were almost impossible to arrange and even less possible to achieve. But apparently, this one was on the field on the other side of the sports pitch. Mycroft had called a ‘student council meeting’ and so that would be the excuse why no one was in their rooms. It made very little sense to me, but if Sherlock and I could sneak to the biology rooms to experiment on a dead frog, then anything was possible. Mycroft seemed like a force to be reckoned with amongst the ranks of the school: he seemed to have more power than most teachers. Believe it or not, Mycroft was quite the rebel in his school days but in that cool, important way.

“Definitely,” Sherlock replied for me while I was distracted by analyzing Mycroft's character (which Sherlock and I did far too often now), and I pretended not to look surprised. I wasn’t sure if I was completely on board with Sherlock’s ‘show my brother I have my own friend’s’ plan. “Right, John?”

“Yup.”

A look of surprise passed over Mycroft’s features. “Right, okay. Look forward to seeing you there.”

...

I still wasn’t on board with this idea, even as Sherlock and I were walking around the sports field and through the gap in the fence. Sherlock was wearing his mysterious long coat with the collar turned up against the wind. To this day, I still hate British winters, but somehow they seemed even colder then.

“It’s so cold,” I complained, my breath forming mist in front of me, and Sherlock hummed his agreement.

“Yes, John.”

“This won’t be worth it,” I said, wrapping my parka coat around myself.

“Yes, John.”

“Can we go back?”

“No, John.”

And with that, I gave up, and followed like a ghost, until we were pounced on by a figure, clothed in darkness, jumping out of the bushes.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed, darting backwards, and Sherlock followed suit silently, but before long the hood of the character’s coat was removed to reveal Moriarty.

“Ah! That was priceless,” he exclaimed with a harsh cackle.

I blinked rapidly, glancing at Sherlock. His cheeks were red and flushed, his sharp cheekbones seemingly sharper by the dusk light. Pale skin brought out his grey-blue eyes. He grew out of his ache as he got older, but back then he looked young and boyish in that sunset. Boyish and skittish, like a sudden move would send him running. Moriarty was too busy laughing to notice his vulnerability.

“I don’t think that was too funny,” Sherlock argued, his intelligent demeanour returning.

“I do,” Moriarty teased, clapping Sherlock on the forearm. “Come on. Let’s get you two introverts to the crowd,” he said, while I silently willed Sherlock to object, turn away and walk back to their dorm.

Sherlock paused instead and turned to look back at me. It was like he was reading me for a moment, his expression articulate and measured.

And then he did. Or at least tried.

“Thank you, James, but I think John and I may head back soon. We only intended to come out for a walk,” he said off-handedly, his gaze not leaving me.

Moriarty cackled in that same sinister tone again. “Come on, boys. At least show your face. I’ll owe your brother a tenner if you don’t show up.”

“Then I’ll compensate,” Sherlock replied quickly.

“I’ll go halves,” I added.

Moriarty regarded us for a moment, calculating. “I think your brother will be glad if you don’t show up anyway,” he said before turning, disappearing towards where we assumed the party was held.
This whole interaction bothered Sherlock immensely. I could tell by his silence that he wasn’t satisfied at all, but we didn’t share a word until we got back to our room and he sat on the bed. My friend leaned against the wall and sat with his legs crossed, staring at the wall opposite.

“Are you--?”

No, I am not okay. I don’t understand,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“No?”

“No. Why would Moriarty say that? It bothers me. I know Mycroft wouldn’t want me to turn up because I'd embarrass him or something. Well, and he cares for me. He cares for me and his reputation, in whichever order applies,” Sherlock said, and I nodded. Maybe our little Mycroft chats should become weekly therapy or something.

“Moriarty’s just trying to get under your skin,” I consoled, and Sherlock hummed his… agreement? His acknowledgement? I couldn't tell, but I knew he was too busy thinking to notice my confusion. “Come on, let’s do something to get your mind off it,” I said, pondering. “A card game? Guess Who?”

“If I can figure out whom, why would I have to guess?” Sherlock asked, dragging out the 'whom' just to prove his 'intellectual prowess' or something boring.

“These English language students need to be stopped,” I said, looking over at Sherlock from where I was sitting at the edge of my bed, to see him smiling at my little joke. Due to this, he gave in, and I picked up a run-down pack of cards from the drawer of my bedside table, next to my revision cards, and dealt them to play a game of rummy.

But, before we had a chance to start playing, there was a knock on the door of our dorm. Sherlock and I exchanged a wary glance before he placed down his cards and stood before walking soundlessly over to the door.

“Hello?” he asked, crouching and looking through the keyhole.

“It’s Greg Lestrade,” came the voice on the other side. The man, usually so composed, sounded less so. He sounded scared.

“Okay,” Sherlock said slowly, opening the door for Greg to come in. “The staff member on duty changed--” Sherlock checked his watch “-- over half an hour ago. They should still be there. How did you get into the Lower Sixth Dorms?”

Lestrade just shook his head, his expression weary as he said, in hurried tones, “I walked here. Sherlock, there’s been a murder.”