Chapter Text
It was the texture, too rough, too scratchy, too present. The school shirt wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was a full-blown distraction. Sherlock had already submitted several formal complaints to the school board (punctuated with charts, naturally), but no one seemed inclined to care. Apparently, raising the entire school’s academic average by 43% didn’t warrant some greater care. Cobham Hall was a marked improvement to Sherlock’s prior academy. It was an upgrade in many ways. The standards were higher, the rules stricter, and the number of students he could actually tolerate had gone from zero to a tentative three. Life here was better. Also harder. But he didn’t mind that. Hard was interesting.
On one hand, he was fed, clean, and had access to academic materials. On the other hand, people. People were everywhere. In the classes, in the canteen area, and worse, in the dorms. Roommates. The idea alone was physically repulsive. Sharing space was already an infringement, sharing air? Borderline unethical. He could barely manage eye contact in the hallway without triggering a spiral of social rules he was certain had no basis in science. Humankind was the one mystery he could never solve. Biologically, he understood them perfectly. But psychology? “Don’t do this. Don’t say that. Smile, but not too much. Speak, but only when spoken to.” Idiotic. A myriad of social cues and conventions Sherlock could never quite understand. So he stuck to facts and figures. Math, science, the foundations of the world that could never lie.
So naturally, the last roommate hadn’t lasted. Nor the one before that. Sherlock had a quiet, proven method of roommate repellent. Thirteen times successful. He assumed the school board would eventually catch on, yet clearly, they had not. Judging by the box now sitting on the spare bed opposite his, they were doubling down. He frowned. Now, Sherlock respected privacy. Theoretically. Mostly because he expected others to extend the same courtesy to him. But the box... the box was open. Slightly. Not rummaged, not staged. Just incomplete. An unclosed equation. A mystery.
“One glance,” he muttered to no one. “Just the variables.” His eyes flicked up from his desk.
Rugby tape, worn. Small trainers, scuffed at the sides—middle class. Odd. One clean uniform. Surgical scrubs—studying doctor, or perhaps vet. Something in medicine. Dog hairs—short, coarse, blonde. Labrador? No, American bulldog. The corner of the leather binder was chewed. The dog’s still young. Or anxious. Or both. And the name. “J. Watson.” Generic.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable. “Well,” Sherlock murmured aloud. “J. Watson. Let’s see how long you last.” As if the universe had heard Sherlock, it chose that exact moment for the door to open quietly. Shaggy blonde hair. Compact posture. Slight limp—aged injury. Loose threads in a new uniform, unorganized. And small thin hairs resting on his jumper. Yes, very much a dog person.
The boy blinked. Sherlock didn’t. “Oh, good,” Sherlock started blandly. “You’re early. That saves me the trouble of estimating your stride length to determine your weight.” The boy blinked again.
“Right,” he said slowly, dropping his duffel by the bed. “And you are...”
“Sherlock Holmes. You’re Watson. First initial J. Jason? Jim? No matter. Originally from the Midlands, likely Leamington based on the train tags. Transferred here the midterm. Parents divorced. You have an older brother. Dog owner. Not a recent haircut. Prefers strong coffee. And your right knee clicks when you walk.”
A pause. “Uhm, okay, I’m John. I’m new.” John took a moment to process the scene. Sherlock was hovering over his now opened moving box. “Are you going through my stuff?"
Sherlock very poorly feigned a look of shock and gestured to the box. “What? Oh, no, no. Of course not- I was just stretching and happened to glance upon it when you walked in.” He said, in his completely unconvincing tone.” John hesitated. “Are you lying to me right now?”
“Perhaps, but it was open.” Sherlock said, as if it were obvious he’d look from the start and even perhaps it was John’s fault for leaving it open.
“So?,” John said, moving to his bed and closing his box again. “Look, I don’t know you or this school, but I prefer you don’t go through my things, thanks.” He dumped a duffel bag on his bed and left with a tired sigh, presumably to get the rest of his things.
“Roommate fourteen,” Sherlock murmured under his breath. “Unusually resilient.”