Dorm Rooms Are Boring

Sherlock reached his conclusion quickly. Dorm rooms are boring.

Lying outstretched on his bed, fingers steepled above his chest, Sherlock was waiting not-so-patiently for John to return from rugby practice. Why he had to choose to play rugby was beyond Sherlock. It was a pointless game; too few tactics and more to do with how many aliments and injuries you could get from being slammed to the floor by the most idiotic boys in the school. Boring. But the most annoying thing about it was that for three days a week he'd have to live 2 hours without anyone to talk.

The waiting was agonizing if he had nothing better to do. Sometimes of course he spend it in the Chemistry lab or reading. But the rest of the time he couldn't help but remember the small packet of white powder that he'd stashed behind their chest of drawers. He'd only ever done a few times before firmly telling himself that cocaine damaged the neurons irreversibly, which of course could lead to a possible drop in brain function and IQ. Of course he'd kept his find and intended to sell it on- there was no point wasting good drugs- but the temptation was still there.

He looked at the time. 5:22. John would be back soon but he'd probably be able to get it out, have a line and return back to normal before his friend got back. Not that he'd suspect anything anyway, John went through life in a kind of unobservant dream.

((this is a little young Sherlock thing with His-Doctor but anyone is welcome to join oh and I hope you like the title I had no idea what to call it))

John came back a little early from rugby practice grumpy, limping and sporting a set of bruised knuckles. The bruised knuckles he hadn't collected playing the game.

He was quite prepared for his friend to start doing that 'thing' he did. He was amazing, he could just look at someone for a minute and tell them half their life story.

Sherlock looked like he was thinking about something. John had discovered very quickly that Sherlock was chatty enough when he wanted to be but sometimes you just couldn't get a word out of him. You just never knew which way the wind was blowing with Sherlock but John didn't mind that because Sherlock was interesting.

As John slipped into their room Sherlock held back a smile and pretended not to acknowledge his existence. He watched him out the corner of his eye as he threw down his boots and slumped on the end of his bed.
"I didn't know punching people in the nose was now a legalized action in rugby." he smirked, wondering why John was looking so down all of a sudden; he'd been fine before the practice.

"Thought you were busy" John replied turning round pleased to have been noticed.

It didn't lift his mood by much though. "No, it's not in the rules and Mr Baines has suggested I can do detention or sign up for Violin lessons" he stopped "How on earth did you know I bopped the lad on the nose?"

"I am", Sherlock replied curtly; surely John would have learnt by now that he could never have enough time to simply think. He held in a snort of laughter at the idea of John having to partake in violin lessons and went back to staring moodily back up at the ceiling.
"And your knuckles gave it away." he said, motioning to them with a lazy hand. Glancing over at his friend as he put away his kit Sherlock observed the small splatter of blood and couldn't help but wonder why John had 'bopped' this 'lad' so violently. He had a temper which at times could get the better of him yes, but the idea of John falling out with someone in the school- even one of the most thuggish of boys- was so remote, Sherlock simply couldn't understand why it had occurred. He was desperate to press him for an answer of course, but his vanity held him back from asking straight up- it would be a shame to allow John to see he wasn't a genius after all.
"Punch him regularly do you, this 'lad'?" he asked, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice- it might be insensitive or something like that.

“No” John muttered shoving his kit in the cupboard and pushing the door to. He didn't want to look at Sherlock because he knew if he did he would have to tell him what had happened. He sighed. Sherlock would find out anyway. “He said to his mate I was the one who roomed with the freak and laughed. So I chinned him. I'm only telling you before you hear it from someone else.” He took a sideways look at his friend.

“My father won't care, he might even be pleased, that's what an army doctor's son should do, in his books, but mother's going to go bloody apeshit." The thought made him smile. "If I play violin really badly d'ya think they'll just boot me out after the first lesson?” he looked at Sherlock for the answer hoping for the best.

Sherlock's eye brows shot up in response to John's explanation of the incident. He knew John had always been a little protective over him- it came with the ridiculous amount of loyalty he guessed- but everyone thought Sherlock was a freak. Why had he got so upset about it?
"I see." he replied as frankly as possible, although really he didn't understand at all.
"I think it would be better that you opt for the detention." he smiled back at his friend, slightly uneasy as a new idea crept into his mind. Maybe he didn't like rooming with him? John had always got stick from their other classmates for hanging around Sherlock, but he'd always thought that John didn't care about their petty judgement. Maybe he'd been wrong, Sherlock thought, and a heart he'd suddenly developed started sinking.
"Dinner? Are you coming?" he jumped off the bed with a leap and shrugged off the dressing gown he'd had wrapped over his shirt.

“Nah, you don't see” John smiled warmly and shook his head. “It's called jealousy Sherlock, you are nothing short of being a genius and they all feel stupid standing next to you. People dis you for being the brightest person in the room, when they wish that they were, that's all it is.” John noticed a tiny frown between Sherlock's eyebrows. “He had it coming for doing a filthy tackle on me anyway.”

“Mmm I could eat a scabby donkey and go back for the saddle.” Sherlock was away in seconds and despite knowing how fast Sherlock could move on those improbably long legs and being ready to go, Sherlock, as usual, still left John lagging a pace and a half behind.

Sherlock gritted his teeth slightly in annoyance; John saw straight through him. Although jealously, he wasn't so sure. Anyway, none of that explained why John had gone and punched him- apart from the tackle of course- but he'd have to leave it for now.
Rolling his eyes at John's bizarre as ever statements, they made their way swiftly down the corridor and across the courtyard to the dinner hall.
"Do you have a match this weekend?" he asked quickly as they joined the growing queue. "Good," he carried on without waiting for John's reply, "because I need to go into town tomorrow."

"No haven't been picked. Leg injury. Very bad." he grinned. As if he'd say no to going somewhere with his mad friend. The smile was abruptly wiped off his face by the menu. "Uh yuk, what's that" he said pointing at something meatball shaped lathered in a lurid red tomato sauce. "What do you need to go into town for?"

Sherlock tried to wipe away his grin with the back of his hand so John didn't realise quite how easily he could see straight though his lies- although he was flattered none the less.
"And you wonder why I don't eat this stuff..." Sherlock muttered under his breath and bypassed the lunch queue. They picked a empty table as usual, away from the prying ears of the rest of their classmates. Even though he was pretty sure she wouldn't be here yet, Sherlock scanned the hall for Alder. Something about her put him on edge and as much as he didn't want to see her, a tiny part of him hoped that perhaps he'd be able to sit close enough to hear her conversation with the other girls. Shut up, he thought sternly to himself as he answered John.

"There has been a rather interesting, um, incident." he raised an eyebrow mysteriously but John's look caused him to expand on his vague explanation, "and by that I mean there has been a robbery at the museum. Very interesting, need to look into further, only way is to get down there myself. Police have hardly any leads so far, but of course they wouldn't because they think its an opportunistic robbery- wrong! It's obviously premeditated- that or the robber 'just happened' to have stolen the most valuable item in the whole museum which is the most easy to sell on through the black market, now is that coincidence John?" he paused, no answer, and looked over at John who was scoffing down the disgusting meatballs. "John!?"

John thought he saw a little flicker of a grin from Sherlock but turned away to look at the choice of tables in case the twinkle in his own eyes gave him away and didn't see Sherlock reprimanding himself.

The mystery incident sounded interestingly mysterious.

John looked skywards for inspiration until the mouthful went down. "Well it's this or the chicken" he complained "and even I can tell it's yesterdays leftover chicken in some sort of sauce." he thought for a moment. Sherlock liked him to think out loud "No, it can't be a coincidence not how you've explained it. Do you think they had a buyer waiting?"

"Good question..." Sherlock mused, trying not to focus too much on the meal in front of John. "We're go tomorrow, get the tube in. The robbery happened on Wednesday so the museum has opened back up- well all apart from that one floor, but it shouldn't be too difficult getting in." he flashed John a crooked smile as he got up from the table. "See you back at the dorm." Sherlock called as he grabbed his tray and left John sitting alone.

"Sher..." John began. He sighed. He had no idea why Sherlock had dashed off like that. Possibly to prevent him from objecting to..."oh...yeah" he muttered under his breath. He wanted to know what this valuable item actually was!

He sat and justified having to go to help his friend therefore neatly avoiding facing the possibility that he liked being half of the team and not being entirely sensible.

Sherlock had made his way not back to the dorm, but first to the library. After a few minutes of scanning titles, he found the perfect book on "Encyclopedia of Various Artifacts". This would make a fun read, he thought, rolling his eyes to himself. But anything to help with the case was worth it in the long run.
He settled down to read it, but couldn't help but worrying about the cocaine. If he didn't sell it soon enough he'd have to find somewhere to hide it in the summer. But selling it came with all sort of risks, and it was very difficult to remain anonymous in such situations. He desperately wanted to ask John what he should do- he'd know- but dragging him into it would be unfair and he'd probably have a strop at Sherlock about having it in the first place.
The book was so boring he fell off into a dreamless sleep before managing to get past prehistoric artifacts...

A couple of mates wandered into the refectory and passed small talk about lessons and school trips. John glazed over slightly at the way they were so eager to do only what was expected of them. He'd still be there keen on doing the same thing except Sherlock had shown him a different way to think.

He sauntered back to the dorm and seeing Sherlock was asleep very carefully lifted the heavy book off his bed without waking him. He sat and read the page it was open at: 'Prehistoric artifacts, stone axe heads polished and traded across Britain 4,000 years ago'. All made by hand, fancy that.

He then went to get changed into his pyjamas and within 10 minutes of getting into bed had dozed off.

The next morning Sherlock awoke in a daze. He couldn't remember falling asleep and the book on artifacts was on John's bedside table as opposed to his. Very strange. It was already late and he had Baritsu club in twenty minutes so he changed quickly into his kit, listening to John's unusually loud snores.
"John..." he shook his shoulder gently before standing back to wait for him to wake up. "John!" he shook it harder this time. "Look I need you to do something for me. We need more information of the missing artifact." he carried on over John's moan. "I'll leave it up to you to do some research as I don't pretend to be an expert on historical artifacts." he released his shoulder awkwardly, aware that maybe waking him at such an hour on the weekend probably wasn't very room mate-y.
"See you later." he said more quietly as he made his way out of the room and down to the gym.
It was the first Baritsu club of the new term, and although it was Sherlock's favorite sport, he couldn't help feel a bit disheartened at the fact that there were no opponents good enough for him in the entire school. Of course there were taller, quicker and stronger boys, but none of them could beat his agility and quality of defense; so therefore the club was becoming a bit boring.
Therefore he strode into the gym with the usual confidence in his step went over to the benches on the far side to start warming up. The door creaked open and an unfamiliar set of footsteps echoed through the hall. The other boys turned to look at the visitor, and Sherlock couldn't resist so turned as well. And there, in the gym, dressed for Baritsu, was Alder. Irene Adler to be precise.

"Whaaat, what?!" John groaned. "What was stolen?"

Without worrying, Irene walked towards the Baritsu club. The boys were about to get a shock and if they underestimated her, she would show her skills. She walked through the hall on her high heels, before taking them off to enter the DoJo (Japanese for martial-arts training centre).
When she walked in, all the boys' eyes were fixed on her. All but one. Sherlock Holmes was a tiny bit later than the others. She smirked very contently when he looked at her too.
The trainer did not look so startled, because she had been talking with him before. He was worried about her fragility and whether it was smart to challenge her against the tough boys. She had convinced him very well that she was suited to attend the Baritsu club.

"Irene Adler, present." She said when she reached the boys and placed herself in the middle of the row of boys. The trainer coughed and began to check the absence list.

While he did that, Irene looked at Sherlock from the corner of her eyes. He was a peculiar boy, not like the others. The mainstream boys were very boring, stupid and childish. Only interested in mainstream sports and mainstream music and all things mainstream. That did not mean that they were not into her, oh no. Almost every boy, she believed, had a crush on her (small or big, it didn't matter). But she had not got a grip on Sherlock's whereabouts. It looked like he was not interested in girls at all. He never went out, not counting the times he and his roommate John Watson ran through town to do mysterious things. Around Sherlock hung an air of maturity already, though he was 16 or 17, she did not know exactly.

Sherlock watched Adler carefully. She didn't seem the least bit phased by the proceedings of the warm up and stretches, in fact quite the opposite. He caught he smirking in his direction and put it down to the fact that she was probably getting her eyeful of 'the freak'.
On the jog around the hall Sherlock exercised his mind a little, deducing a few facts about his classmates.

Johnston- a little hungover, up until 2, no 3 the last night, fight with girlfriend.
Smith- stressed over exams, behind on physics coursework already, mum called last night...
Howlett- punched by John in the nose yesterday, tried to ice it but with little success, also got a telling off from Baines but didn't get the option of violin lessons...
And Adler- impeccable and new kit, none of the usual make-up and. Um.
She caught his eye and flashed a smiled. His mind froze and he stumbled a little whilst balancing on one leg to stretch. She looked away and he regained concentration but he couldn't deduce anymore about her apart from the obvious. She was a mystery too him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the coach shouting for them to partner up for the first drill. Usually an unlucky one of the other boys had to pair with him, so he waited patiently for one to sulk over to him and try and make small talk.

John had never really given archaeological remains much thought until his father had been posted to Salisbury. Some important fellow had given a slideshow lecture on using the MOD training grounds while also avoiding destroying old mounds of earth. He had wished Sherlock had told him what had been stolen from the museum before dashing off to his Baritsu class.

He got himself organised and went to the library to look at the last few days news online. The stolen museum item at first sounded like some kind of expensive Olympics gold trophy but it turned out not to be anything that looked valuable. In fact it was broken and there were bits missing!

He then went back to the dorm and found the book that Sherlock had been reading before he had been put to sleep by it.

Irene was perfectly amused by the way Sherlock stumbled over his feet. Not because he was 'the freak' but because he was probably 'deducing' her and failed. One day, she had found Jessica Sharpe, crying in the bathroom surrounded by girls. She had told them that Sherlock had found out about her anorexia and that she had a crush on Jason Howard. Howard was the hunk every brainless girl had a crush on and unfortunately for Jessica, Jason had stood just a few feet away from her. She was heartbroken, but Irene wasn't interested in her emotional state and asked how Holmes had known that. Jessica had blurted out that he had 'just looked at her'. Now thát was an interesting fact.

They had to pair up in teams and Irene knew what to do. She walked straight forward to Sherlock, who was staring around. The boys apparently didn't like to pair with 'the freak'. Was that because he was 'weird' or genuinely better than them? She was about to find out. She stopped before him, one hand on her hip and stated: "Hit me."

He said nothing for a second and she added. "Come on. Hit me."

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow, Adler was turning out to be more than he'd expected. he'd just assumed at first that she was an observant academic not so dissimilar to him. But turning up at the club was an unexpected event; Sherlock had not even known she was into sports. She was unpredictable it seemed. You shouldn't hit girls- his mum's voice echoed through his head. "Hit you?" he drawled, "You do realise we are meant to be practicing kicks."
Adler stared back at him, a glint in her eyes; she had meant it. She had unusual eyes, a part of Sherlock's mind processed, emerald green irises bordered with dark lashes.
"As you wish." he smiled warningly and Adler braced herself. Sherlock drew in a quick breath and then threw a well-practiced kick at her thigh, a move which aimed to throw the opponent off balance by pushing them sideways. However his leg never got to connect with her as a lightening fast hand had deflected his shin.

Irene blocked Sherlock's leg from hitting her. her lips curled in a satisfied smile when she saw the surprise on his face. Didn't expect that, did you? She blocked four other of his blows at her body when she started to bore herself.
With a devious grin, she said: "My turn." and threw a flawless kick at his head, which he dodged by ducking. She was not surprised. It was a very easy one to dodge. She turned around and made him jump in the air, because of her leg aiming his ankles. These were just to warm him up. She loved to see him dance.
Then, she threw a hit with a flat hand to his neck, which he parried. She knew she cheated on that one. Not that it mattered to her.

(wrong profile soz)