Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock's POV:

It was the texture—too rough, too scratchy, too present. The school shirt wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was a full-blown distraction. I 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 softer uniforms.

Leicester Academy for Misbehaving Boys—regrettably abbreviated to L.A.M.B.—was a marked improvement, despite the unfortunate name. It was an upgrade in many ways. The standards were higher, the rules stricter, and the number of students I could actually tolerate had gone from zero to a tentative three. Life here was better. Also harder. But I didn’t mind that. Hard was interesting.

On one hand, I 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. I could barely manage eye contact in the hallway without triggering a spiral of social rules I was certain had no basis in science.

Humankind was the one mystery I could never solve. Biologically, I 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 I could never quite understand. So I 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. I had a quiet, proven method of roommate repellent. Thirteen times successful. I assumed the school board would eventually catch on. Clearly, they had not. Judging by the box now sitting on the spare bed opposite mine, they were doubling down.
I frowned.

Now, I respect privacy. Theoretically. Mostly because I expect others to extend the same courtesy to me. But the box... the box was open. Slightly. Not rummaged, not staged. Just incomplete. An unclosed equation. A mystery.

“One glance,” I muttered to no one. “Just the variables.”

My eyes flicked up from my desk.

Rugby tape, worn. Mid-range trainers, scuffed at the sides—used for running, not fashion. One clean uniform. Interesting. Surgical scrubs—studying doctor, or perhaps vet. Dog hairs—short, coarse, blonde. Labrador? No, American bulldog. Shedding season. One edge of a leather binder is chewed. The dog’s still young. Or anxious. Or both. And the name. “J. Watson.” Generic. Intentional?

I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin, expression unreadable.
“Well,” I murmured aloud. “Let’s see how long this one lasts.”

I heard the door creak open precisely 47 seconds too early.

I had calculated an hour. Enough time to fully catalog the contents of the mysterious cardboard box, note anything important, scent traces, wear patterns, and—of course—draw early personality profiles. I was mid-examination of a fraying rugby tape roll when the door clicked, and my new roommate stepped in.
Dirty blonde hair. Compact posture. Slight limp—aged injury. Interesting. Shaggy hair—unorganized. Muddy knees. And small thin hairs resting on his jumper. Yes, very much a dog person.

The boy blinked. I didn’t.

“Oh, good,” I said 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 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.

“I see,” the other boy said. “So you’re insane.”

“Statistically unlikely,” I replied. “Though technically not disproven.”

I gestured to the open box. “Your belongings were—are—fascinating. I wasn’t rummaging, of course. Just... observing.”

“You went through my stuff.”

I hesitated. “It was open.”

“It wasn’t yours.”

“Yes, but it was... open.” I said this as if it were obvious I’d look in from the start and even perhaps his fault for leaving it open.

“It also wasn’t an invitation,” John said, crossing his arms. “Look, I don’t know how things work in your brain, but out here in reality, we use manners and don’t go snooping through people’s stuff.” He dumped a duffel bag on his bed and left, presumably to get the rest of his things.
“Roommate thirteen,” I murmured under my breath. “Unusually resilient.”

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

When I walked in, the first thing I saw was some tall, wiry bloke sitting at a desk, staring at my open box like it had personally offended him. Or maybe like it had spoken to him. Hard to say.He looked like one of those kids who’s either a genius or a complete lunatic—maybe both.
Then he opened his mouth and confirmed it. My name, my hometown, my dog, my knee, for God’s sake.

He listed it all off like he was reading a shopping list. And all I could think was, Who the hell is this guy! He must have found some documents inside of my moving box. Sherlock Holmes.. I knew that name! Part genius, part chaos incarnate, equal parts weirdo. Depending on who you asked, he was either a brilliant mind or a walking red flag. Honestly, probably both.

Once he was finally out of the dorm, I could finally unpack without worrying about someone ransacking my things or picking through my life. I knelt by the bed, flipping the flap of the box fully open—not that there was much left to discover.
From the surgical scrubs to the chewed binder, he’d clocked it all. And the thing was… he hadn’t been wrong. Not once. That was the part that stuck. Not the arrogance, not the invasion, but the accuracy. Every word had landed like a dart. Straight to the board. Bullseye.

I didn’t hate the place yet. It was stricter, yeah, but something about it felt... fresh. Like maybe I could reset here. Be someone other than the kid from the divorce, the kid with the limp, the kid who- anyways. But of course, I walk in and get that guy as my roommate. I had heard rumours before I stepped foot in the academy.
Sherlock Holmes. No handshake. No smile. No sense of normal boundaries. A machine in a hoodie. A person humming with potential chaos. I can’t afford to be around someone like that. Or perhaps he was just another arrogant twat, assuming they were special and too good for conversation.

Sherlock Holmes, though… He didn’t seem like the kind of person you could just ignore. He was magnetic in that way—you wanted to avoid him, and yet somehow your attention kept circling back. Not because he was likable. He wasn’t. But because he looked at everything like it was a code to crack. People included.
I wasn’t sure I liked being looked at like that. Like a problem to solve. I tossed a spare pair of socks into the drawer and paused, my hand resting on the handle. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe he’d leave me alone once he figured I was just some average transfer trying to keep his head down.

The door creaked open again, softly this time.

Speak of the devil.

Sherlock slid inside like he didn’t want the hinges to hear. He glanced at me, eyes flicking over the open box, the newly arranged desk, and the half-zipped duffel. Without a glance, he made a beeline for his desk, where he began arranging something that looked suspiciously like a homemade sound sensor.
I stared. “What even is that?”

He didn’t look up. “An experiment. I’m testing whether sleep-talking corresponds to subconscious stress levels.”
I frowned. “Please tell me you’re not testing it on me.”

Still not looking up. “Statistically, one in five people talk in their sleep. And you appear highly stressed.”
I scoffed. “Oh please, and why do you think I’m stressed?”
“Because your jaw clenches when you’re not speaking, your foot bounces when you're idle, and you’ve checked the clock four times in the last ten minutes. Also, you haven’t smiled once since arriving.”

I blinked. “You’re… freakishly observant.”

“Obviously,” he said, finally glancing at me. “The only question is: will you still be here in a week?”

I held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a breath and leaned back on my elbows.

“Depends,” I said. “Are you always this annoying, or is today just special?”

That got me a flicker of a grin—sharp and brief, like lightning behind clouds.

“Annoyance,” he said, “is often a sign of discomfort in the presence of superior intellect.”

I snorted. “Or it’s a sign you’re a bit of a nob.” Game on.

Chapter Text

John's POV:

We didn't speak much. Didn’t need to. There was an unspoken routine — one of us in the room, the other out. We avoided sharing the space for more than a few minutes at a time, at least until late in the evening or early morning. No real eye contact. Just glances — at the floor, the walls, the bed, or each other. Short, functional looks. He didn’t seem to mind. I pretended I didn’t.

Sometimes I’d come in to find him pacing. Not the restless kind of pacing, but measured, exact, like he was rehearsing something in his head. Other times he’d be sitting cross-legged on the floor, tapping two fingers against his knee in a fast rhythm.

Or flicking the edge of a book over and over with his thumb, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Little things. Odd, but not... alarming. Just different. I didn’t mention it. Didn’t seem like the sort of thing you brought up to someone who knew everything about you in a glance.

It was just past six in the morning. Still dark out. I had training in a couple of hours and had barely woken up when I dropped into the chair by the coffee table. I reached for a mug sitting there. It looked normal enough.

“Don’t drink that,” Sherlock said flatly, not even glancing up from his newspaper with some foreign print, ancient Egyptian characters, because of course he could read that.
I froze, hand on the handle. It was seriously unsettling how he could see things without looking. “Why not?” I stared down at the mug suspiciously.

He didn’t even glance up. “It contains sulfuric acid, so I wouldn’t recommend a taste.”

I immediately recoiled and pulled my hand back fast before setting the mug down.

“Sherlock! You can’t keep leaving sulfuric acid around, especially in our dishes!” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, explaining my frustration more than yelling it. Too early for yelling. My heart was already doing enough of that on its own.

“I think you are referring to my dishes, I can do whatever I wish with them. It’s hardly my fault you forget to pack any cutlery or dishes.” Sherlock said, as cold as ice, refusing to look up from his newspaper.

I just stared at him in shock. This boy was so goddamn petty. I could smell something faintly sharp in the air now — acidic. That mug had been within inches of my mouth. One sip and I would have been dead.

The dorm was a hazard zone. Things hidden in plain sight — labeled vials on the windowsill, wires under the desk, glassware that belonged in a lab, not a shared bedroom. No warning, no labels, just quietly waiting to be mistaken for something safe.

At the end of the night, I sat on the edge of my bed, pretending to check my phone, but really I was trying to process what had just happened. Eventually, I reached into my duffel for the leather-bound journal Mum insisted I keep — “It’ll help you stay grounded, love, new place and all.” I hadn’t planned to use it on day one, but here we were.

First impressions, day one: My roommate might be brilliant. He also might be insane. Probably both. He left sulfuric acid in a mug on the table. I nearly drank it. I’m currently deciding whether to keep the journal as evidence in case he murders me in my sleep. Note to self: never touch anything in the dorm without inspecting it first and maybe consider investing in labels.

Chapter Text

John's POV:

It didn’t take long to realize the dorm wasn’t a shared space so much as a loosely contained ecosystem ruled by Sherlock’s invisible, ever-shifting laws. The top left drawer of the desk was apparently off-limits—not because it was locked, but because opening it released a fine cloud of pepper dust meant to "test air dispersal patterns."
My toothbrush went missing on day two, only to be found suspended in a jar labeled “Water Retention in Plastics (control group).” There were mug hierarchies I couldn’t begin to decode, books I wasn’t allowed to touch, and at least three surfaces where setting anything down earned me a sharp, unblinking “Don’t. That’s for spores.”

I tripped over wires daily. I was once jolted awake by the smell of burning copper at 3 a.m. and found Sherlock cross-legged on the floor, muttering about conductivity. I tried moving one of his notebooks once—once—and he didn’t speak to me for two hours, presumably in mourning.
There were rules here, absolutely—but none of them were written, and all of them came with consequences. It was like trying to survive in the natural habitat of a particularly grumpy, highly intelligent ferret. Trial and error. Mostly error. And honestly? I was starting to lose my patience.

Sherlock’s POV:

He moved the books again. Not dramatically—just enough to be irritating. Just enough to prove, once again, that John Watson had no sense of spatial logic. It wasn’t just the aesthetics. It was the principle. The shelf had order. Meaning. Systems layered beneath systems.
He didn’t see that, of course. He never did. He just touched things—my things—as if ownership were a loose suggestion rather than a boundary. He sat on my bed once, left his charger plugged into my socket, and spoke—loudly—during what I had clearly established as silence hours.

There were crumbs on the desk again. His, obviously. I didn’t even eat here. He had no idea how much he was breaking. I watched him fumble through the room like someone trying to navigate a museum blindfolded, bumping into rituals I hadn't explained because I shouldn't have to.

I had half a mind to label everything, but he’d probably ignore that too. He was always asking questions with obvious answers, speaking just to fill the quiet like it might die without him. I found myself cataloging his habits less out of curiosity now and more out of sheer exasperation. The foot-tapping. The whistling. The way he’d start a sentence and never finish it, as if the thought itself wandered off. It was unstructured. Inefficient. Sloppy. If he were a machine, I would have taken him apart just to see how so many contradictions could exist in one body. And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t bother putting him back together.

John’s POV:

So I started moving things. Not a lot—just enough to make a point. A book spine tilted one degree off-center. A beaker nudged a centimeter to the left. A single paper clip placed just slightly off the neat little row he kept on the windowsill.

I wasn’t trying to sabotage his world, not really. I just wanted to see if he’d notice. (He always noticed.) The reaction was never immediate. He’d pause mid-sentence, eyes flicking to the disruption like it was physically painful, and then he’d adjust it—without saying a word. Like the universe had hiccuped and he was the only one qualified to fix it. It became a game. A petty, silent war.

He rearranged. I disarranged. Once, I rotated a stack of post-it notes by 90 degrees and watched him go still for a full thirty seconds, like someone had unplugged him. I knew it was childish. I knew I shouldn’t. But he was just so infuriating—so smug, so untouchable in his little world of rules and logic and cold, clipped sentences. If he got to experiment on me without asking, then maybe I got to nudge a few variables of my own.

Sherlock’s POV:

He was doing it on purpose. That much was clear. The paperclip, the book alignment, the post-it notes—no one was that clumsy consistently. I had tested the theory. Left a ruler precisely parallel to the edge of the desk and noted the shift. Two millimeters to the right by morning. Deliberate. Petty. Amateur.

So I adapted. I retaliated. Subtly, of course. This wasn’t about winning—it was about principle. I started rearranging his side of the room. Just small things. His rugby gear shifted into the laundry bin even when clean. The laces on his trainers tied together, once. His alarm clock—just advanced enough to ensure he was always slightly too early or too late.
I swapped the sugar in the shared tea caddy for salt, just to watch the slow horror bloom across his face during his first sip. I labeled his shampoo as “experimental sample – not for human use.” He didn’t believe me, but he hesitated.

That was enough. It wasn’t personal. It was feedback. You disrupt a system, you get disruption in return. Besides, I was curious to see how far he could be pushed before leaving, like the others.

The experiment, after all, was already underway. All variables accounted for—except, perhaps, for the growing satisfaction I felt every time he narrowed his eyes and muttered my name like a curse under his breath. Petty, yes. But then again, this was war.

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

It escalated fast.

One day, I’m nudging his pencils just slightly off-center to watch the twitch in his left eyebrow, and the next, I’m face-first on the dorm floor after stepping into a perfectly engineered tripwire made of dental floss stretched taut between the bedposts. A tripwire. In a shared bedroom. Who does that?
I went down hard. Landed square on my bad knee. It throbbed for hours. He didn’t even try to hide the smug little smirk afterward.
So I retaliated.

I stole his measuring spoons—each one carefully labeled in his obsessive handwriting—and swapped them for the slightly warped, wildly imprecise ones I “borrowed” from the cafeteria. I didn’t think it would actually throw him off that badly. But it did. It really did.

He had a full-blown meltdown over a 0.2 milliliter discrepancy. An hour of recalibrating, reweighing, checking for “airborne particulate contamination” like he was trying to synthesize gold from saltwater. He didn’t even look up the whole time, just muttered under his breath and occasionally glared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.
Totally worth it.

At first, I was just trying to survive him—his rules, his habits, his constant need to correct everything and everyone. But something shifted. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being about survival and started being about winning.

That’s when I weaponized glitter.

One test tube. Half a gram. It wasn’t even my idea of a major strike—just something to get under his skin. But I underestimated the reach of glitter. It was still showing up days later—on his chair, his sheets, under his nails. It sparkled like a trail of war crimes. He hated it.

And that’s when I knew: Sherlock Holmes had weaknesses. Not normal ones. You couldn’t insult him. You couldn’t out-talk him. You couldn’t even make him feel weird, because he was already orbiting some higher plane of weird and had probably built a vacation home there. But if you touched his little kingdom of logic and structure? If you knocked over one carefully balanced idea?

He crumpled. Not publicly, of course. Never in front of an audience. But you could feel it—the way he got quieter, tighter, more brittle. Like a paper map folded too many times, threatening to tear at the creases.

It was a game now. An infuriating, glorious, exhausting game. And I was all in.

Sherlock’s POV:

The glitter incident confirmed it: John Watson was no longer an unfortunate roommate. He was an opponent.

Fine.

I adjusted my strategy.

Simple mischief wouldn’t do. He was too used to chaos. He needed something sharper. More precise. Psychological warfare would do.

First move: With a little assistance from Mycroft, a few hours of concentration and four energy drinks, I created a convincingly forged email, complete with school letterhead and digital signature, informing him that rugby practice had been moved four hours earlier. Ensuring he showed up exhausted and furious to an empty pitch. Delightful.

Second: I set all his device clocks three minutes fast. Just enough to induce a slow, creeping sense of being perpetually behind. He hasn’t mentioned it yet, but I can see it. The subtle panic every time the bell rings. The way he checks his phone twice, then his watch, then the hallway.

Third: His essays. I began inserting penciled annotations into them, incorrect ones, mind you. Subtle, slightly flawed corrections in his own handwriting. Pages shuffled, margins marked. Nothing definitive. Nothing he could prove. But enough to cause hesitation. Maybe he really did mean “effect” instead of “affect.” Maybe that point about metabolic rates was poorly phrased.

This wasn’t cruelty. It was a curiosity. Observation. He responded to irritation with resistance. I wanted to know how far that resistance would go.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t know I’ve done any of it. That’s the point. His moronic little brain probably hasn’t connected the dots towards me yet, although to be completely sure, I’ll wait. Something tells me this one won’t give up so easily.

I don’t need to trip him to watch him fall.

I just need to tilt the floor.

Chapter Text

John's POV:

It was early. 10 a.m. was too early for me, at least. Sherlock never seemed to sleep—he was always working, or fiddling with strange contraptions in the dark like a Victorian ghost child. Maybe he was a vampire: pale, awkward, allergic to people. Although I’d never heard of a vampire with curly brown hair and a terrifying fixation on blood types by breakfast.
I grabbed my usual cup of Earl Grey—dash of vanilla, just enough to feel like a person—and took a sip.

Salt.

My entire face twisted in betrayal. Sharp. Aggressively saline.
“Are you serious?” I muttered under my breath, already knowing the answer.

I looked over. Yep. There he was, slouched in his usual chair, watching me with all the innocent curiosity of a spider observing a fly untangle itself.
I spat it into the bin, trying to look dignified as I did it. I didn't give him the satisfaction of eye contact. But oh, he knew. He was probably counting the exact milliseconds it took for me to recoil.

Petty. Absolutely petty. For a so-called genius, Sherlock Holmes could be so goddamn childish.

Then the cold started creeping in. Subtle at first. Then more. The kind of cold that gets into your bones. I knew that trick—he’d fiddled with the thermostat again. Bastard liked things controlled to the decimal. Except now he was using it onme. Control for control’s sake.
But I wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted.

I stood, calm as anything, walked over to my locker and pulled out the oversized hoodie I’d stashed there for post-practice showers or post-breakup sulking. It was practically a blanket with sleeves. I tugged it on slowly, like it was a style choice, not a necessity. I caught his reflection in the window as I moved. Still watching. Calculating. Like I was part of an equation. I gave him a glare. Flipped him off.

Then—brilliant—accidentally took another sip of the salted tea like the world’s most tragic goldfish. I made the walk of shame back to the bin with all the grace I could muster.
He didn’t laugh. Just blinked at me. Which was worse, somehow. Fine. He wanted games? I could play games. I glanced up at the overhead lights. He liked control? Let’s see how he did with chaos.

Sherlock’s POV:

The dorm’s overhead light flickered—flickered again—too sudden, too sharp. My eyes jerked upward with each glint before repeatedly forcing them back to my work. The brightness shifted, jarring, stabbing at my senses.
A pulse started—at the back of my skull—a steady, growing pulse of discomfort. A migraine forming. Clench jaw. Clench tighter. Focus. Focus on the desk clutter. Focus on anything but the lights.

John didn’t comment. He never did. He just stood there, staring as the world suffocated me. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the relentless hum of that damned flickering light. I could feel every nerve screaming, every shadow twisting in the corners of my vision.
I hated this—hated the chaos clawing beneath my skin—but worse was the knowing he saw it all, yet said nothing. Everyone did that. That quiet observation was almost worse than the pain itself. Not weakness, no. Control.

Control at all costs.

Control. I needed control. I dug my fingernails into my palm hard enough to draw blood, no, no. That wasn’t optimal. The lights taunted me, catching my peripheral vision again. I need my protective equipment.
I reached into the top drawer of my desk without looking. Left side, under the graphite pencils, precisely where they should be. I slid on the sunglasses—lenses dark enough to mute the strobe of the light overhead.

Next, the noise-canceling headphones. Over the ears. Tight. The hum dulled instantly. The world faded at the edges, blurred into manageable static. I let out a slow breath through my nose. Not relief—never that—but a pause in the chaos.
John was still watching. I didn’t look at him, but I felt the weight of his gaze. Curious. Maybe concerned. Maybe not. Didn’t matter. The experiment would continue, and I had work to do. Sensory overload was not an excuse. It was data. Data could be managed, and this was manageable.

John’s POV:

Holy shit.

HOLY SHIT.

I just wanted to mess with him. Just a little. Flick a switch. Poke the animal in the jar, see if it scuttled. I didn’t think it would break him. He hadn’t said a word since. Just curled into himself with his sunglasses and those heavy headphones like the world was trying to eat him alive.
He wasn’t working. Not twitching like usual. Not tapping his pen against the desk or monologuing to the wall. He was still. Too still.

I stared at him for a long time. Thought about going over. Thought about saying something stupid like “You alright?” and getting my face ripped off for my trouble. But something in me twisted. Guilt?

Maybe. I didn’t like Sherlock. Not really. He was weird. He was rude. He was smarter than everyone and made sure you knew it. But he didn’t deserve to look like this. Like the world was too loud for his skin.

I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the floor. Did I break my roommate? Because it sure as hell looked like I did.

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

It was stupid.

A light. One bloody flickering light.

That’s what did it. That’s what cracked him open.

Not the glitter, not the tweaking of stuff, not even the randomisation of all his little science spoons which cost him hours to organise to it’s original state. No. A stupid, twitchy ceiling bulb that I did on a whim.

I didn’t know what I expected after that—an explosion maybe. Another snide comment. Some biting remark about "primitive emotional outbursts" or "dramatic overreactions." But instead, he just... shut down.

Sherlock Holmes, insufferable genius with the top marks in everything, had gone silent.
And not just normal-silent. Not the usual focused, brooding, scientific silent. This was still in a way that made the whole room feel off. Like time had paused but no one sent me the memo.

I didn’t even know what to say. “Sorry for triggering a full-system shutdown, mate” didn’t quite cover it.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I fixed the light.

Swapped out the bulb before dinner, slid the chair across the floor as quietly as possible, didn’t even glance his way while I did it. When I climbed down and flicked the switch, the room warmed by a single degree. Not just in light. In tension.

He didn’t say anything. Just tapped his fingers against the desk, twice, then stilled.

Progress.

Sherlock’s POV

The new bulb was incandescent. Old model. Emits a warmer hue. Lower flicker threshold. He must’ve gone out of his way to find it.
Uncharacteristically thoughtful.

Statistically, such a gesture suggested an attempt at resolution. Or guilt. Or both. But I chose not to acknowledge it. That would open doors. I didn’t like doors. I liked walls. Predictable. Contained. Still, the sensory input had been corrected. And I hadn’t done it.
Curious.

I watched him over the rim of my glasses, eyes shielded but sharp. He was pretending to scroll through his phone, but his good knee was bouncing—small, erratic movements. Anxious. Regret, most likely.

He had come dangerously close to seeing too much. Vulnerability, even theoretical, is dangerous. But he hadn’t weaponized it. He hadn’t laughed.
Instead, he changed the bulb. So I returned the gesture. I swapped the salt back for sugar and considered the possibility of buying a label-maker for my experiments.

John’s POV:

The next morning, the tea didn’t taste like a sodium bomb. It tasted... normal. Familiar.

I stared into the mug like it had grown legs.
That petty bastard.

Was this an apology? It had to be. A quiet, weird, Holmes-style apology made with grains of sugar instead of words. I almost laughed. Instead, I just sipped again, pretending I didn’t notice. Although I think my smirk couldn’t exactly be called subtle, especially when the best detective in our school was watching.

I refrained from messing with his neat stationary today. He looked confused. He scanned the room about forty times before freezing in the center, staring at a random place on the wall. After twenty minutes he glanced back at me, seemingly content and sat down at his desk before continuing his work.

We didn’t talk about anything important that day. But he handed me a clean mug without being asked, and I—God help me—warned him that the janitor had spotted his illegal Bunsen burner setup and was on the warpath. He stared at me like I’d just offered him an organ.

“You’re informing me... in advance?”

“Don’t make a big thing of it,” I muttered, grabbing my boots.

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a sentient fungus with human eyes. “Interesting.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is. Statistically rare behavior from someone I’ve psychologically terrorized for six consecutive days.”

“Psychological- really? That is a lot of hype for replacing sugar with salt Sherlock. Anyways, don’t flatter yourself. I’m only telling you so you don’t get us both expelled.”
His eyes gleamed. “Mutually assured destruction while becoming an accomplice. Fascinating.”

I rolled my eyes, shoving my arm into my jacket. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re predictable.”

There was no real bite in it. No heat. Just rhythm. Routine.

We were learning each other’s angles.

And—God help me—I didn’t hate it.

That night, we were both awake late, each pretending we didn’t notice the other was too. He was flicking through some ancient-looking notebook. I was rewriting the same line in my mum’s journal for the fourth time. ‘Sherlock Holmes was Odd. An obnoxious, yet nice, odd.’

I glanced up. Sherlock was wearing the noise-canceling headphones around his neck, not on. His sunglasses were off. The light was steady. The tea was sweet.
A good day with Sherlock Holmes. I wrote that down.

But I looked across the room at Sherlock—still weird, still brilliant, still an absolute pain in the arse—and gave the smallest nod.
“Night, Sherlock.”

He didn’t look up. Just tapped his fingers on the book in rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Pause.

A reply.

Begrudging, silent, and very, very him.

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

I woke up to silence.

Not the usual morning shuffle, not the obnoxious sound of Sherlock scraping toast without butter, not even the aggressive flipping of notebook pages like a dying man with a mission to accomplish. Just... quiet.

The sun hadn’t poured in yet. I brushed back the curtains to see the pitch black sky. It was 3:00am. Extremely early. I checked my alarm, almost certain Sherlock was trying to continue our prank wars but no tampering was visible, nothing wrong, apart from the fact that the bed opposite mine was empty.

Neatly made. Untouched. Weird.

Sherlock Holmes did not make his bed.

My stomach turned, instinct prickling. It wasn’t like him to disappear without eccentrics, in fact I barely saw him leave his room apart from classes. If he had been kidnapped, I’d have received a passive-aggressive note by now. Or a trail of glitter spelling out “I told you not to touch my pipettes.” But nothing. No note. No text. Just absence. I pulled on a hoodie over my pyjamas and went looking. First place I checked? The science lab. Second? His ridiculous rooftop hideaway behind the east stairwell, oh god I hated that I knew that. Third? The janitor’s closet, because he’d used it as a ‘temporary darkroom’ once before. (Don’t ask.) Nothing.

By the time I made it to breakfast, I was torn between worrying and plotting elaborate revenge involving decaf coffee and a bag of lentils. Then the door quietly clicked and he walked in. Casually. Like nothing was wrong.

Coat on. Curly hair windswept. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. And a look on his face that could’ve powered a small city. “Morning,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me like he hadn’t just disappeared out of our dorm for who-knew-how-long.

“Where were you?”

“I was out.”

“Yeah, I gathered. Out where, exactly?”

He took a bite of toast and chewed slowly. “Working.”

“Working on what, exactly?”

He pulled out a folded paper from his coat pocket and dropped it onto the table like a playing card. “Aren’t you meant to be sleeping?” He said as if John was a robot, programmed to sleep between 11pm to 10am.

John took a look at the paper. A flier. Handwritten. Crumpled.

"Lost: Red Sketchbook. Contains private drawings. Will trade three chocolate bars for its return. No questions asked. —Anxious Year 8 with a blue backpack."
My eyes flicked from the flier to his face.

“What’s this?”

He smiled—infuriatingly pleased with himself. “A case.”

“A case? What are you on about Sherlock?! “It’s 3 a.m. I thought you’d been finally beat up after aggravating the wrong person. Why the hell would you think this was okay?”

“I needed enrichment.”

“You’re not a dog, Sherlock.”

“No,” he said, completely unfazed. “Dogs don’t typically solve mysteries under the cover of darkness.”

I blinked at him. “Do people just... come to you?”

“Sometimes. Other times I go to them. Usually after they’ve posted fliers or whispered about it in the library. You’d be amazed how many students come to the library to share private information. It’s absurd but terribly efficient in finding clients.”

I stared. “Clients?! You sneak out of our dorm. I don’t even know how many times you’ve done this. Risk getting caught. To solve lost-and-found cases for sweets.”
“Rarely ever sweets. Usually it’s answers. Last night was both.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re just jealous I’ve been having a far more interesting time than you.”

I didn’t say anything for a long moment, frozen in time if this strange robotic version of a boy was serious but mostly because I was torn between yelling at him or asking to come along next time.

Which was insane. I’m not insane.

He took another bite of toast and added, completely deadpan, “Oh, and before you ask—yes, I already hacked the dorm cameras. I replaced the feed with a loop of us sleeping soundly at 2:34 a.m. No one suspects a thing.”

I choked. “You what?!”

He tilted his head. “Don’t look so scandalized. You turned my beaker into a glitter trap. Ethics aren’t exactly your strong suit.”

“That was war!

“War that left me shimmering like a radioactive experiments for two days.”

He had a point. Still, it was worth it.

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms. “You’re going to get caught.”

“Nope,” he said, casually, not even looking up as he pulled out a second flier. This one had smudged handwriting and a teardrop stain on it.
"Missing: Blue badge from Year 10 science fair. Not valuable but very important. Reward: my eternal gratitude."

My jaw twitched.

Damn it.

“...That badge means something to someone,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.
Sherlock looked up, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. “It does.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. If I happen to wake up at 2:34 and happen to be in shoes, maybe I’ll join you.”
“You’d slow me down.” Sherlock said bluntly.

“You need someone to tell you when you're being a twit, or else you’re going to get caught.”

“Only if I take you with me.” He looked up from the crumpled flier, taking off his sunglasses to reveal his gleaming eyes. He never looked as human as he did now. I swallowed, ready to volunteer, but Sherlock shook his head sharply.

“No.”
“What? Come on—”

“Absolutely not.” His voice was flat, no room for argument. “You’re a liability.”

I blinked. “Liability?”

“Yes. You have a tendency to make noise, draw attention, and say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

I folded my arms, trying to hide the sting. “You don’t have to be such a prick about it.”

“I’m not asking.” He picked up the second flier, ignoring me. “You stay here. This is my work. I can’t have a crippled person struggling to run after me.”

“Cripple?! Sher-” I bit back the frustration. Sherlock, ever horrible at reading faces, looked content and turned back to his bed. There was no way in hell I wasn’t joining him, whether he agreed or not. Sherlock Holmes and I were going investigating.

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

It was 2:30 a.m.

I wasn’t planning to follow him, not really. I’d just left my boots by the door. And maybe I hadn’t exactly turned off my alarm. And maybe I was already dressed. But that didn’t mean I was following him. Not until he slipped out the door like a Victorian ghost, coat swishing, and I counted to ten before following.

I kept my distance. He was fast for someone so lean and allegedly un-sporty. He didn’t take the direct route either—twists and turns through the quad, over a fence (which I barely made without face planting), and then through a side door that definitely required a key card.

I waited five seconds before wedging it open with a bit of folded paper. It was dark. Quiet. Too quiet. Until—

“You’re the worst tail I’ve ever seen,” came a voice from up ahead.

I froze.

Sherlock was standing there. Hands in his pockets. Smugness radiating off him like heat from a toaster.

“You knew I was following you?” I hissed.

“You breathe like a mildly asthmatic hippo. And you tripped over your own shoelace five minutes ago. Twice.”

“I was being stealthy.”

“You were being loud. There’s a difference.”

I jogged to catch up. “You’re not seriously doing this again. Midnight sleuthing? What is it this time? Another sketchbook? A stolen calculator?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking. I caught up anyway.

“Look, I’m already here. You may as well make use of my company.”

“You’ll slow me down.”

“Then walk faster.”

We bickered the whole way. In whispers, of course, because we weren’t idiots. But still: whisper-bickering. Like we were two pensioners on a spy mission.

Sherlock’s POV:

He kept stepping on twigs. Who leaves twigs indoors? Who even notices twigs? He trailed behind like an echo with bad balance.

So I retaliated. I nudged the loose tile near the faculty door, knowing he’d trip (he did). I ‘accidentally’ walked him straight into a low branch in the courtyard. I slowed just enough for him to almost crash into me at least three times.

Small victories.

“Stop doing that,” he hissed at one point.

“Doing what?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

I smirked. “It’s not my fault you lack spatial awareness Watson.”

Before he could reply, a beam of light sliced across the corridor. A flashlight. Footsteps. Heavy ones.
Security.

John stiffened beside me. I ducked instinctively behind a column. John didn’t move.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Sherlock—what do we—”

“Don’t speak.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Of course I—”

“Who’s there?” a voice barked.

John moved.

Not ran. Not hid. Moved.

He stepped straight into the light like he belonged there, anxiety pouring off him in waves. He yawned, rubbed the back of his neck, and said:
“Sorry, sir. Just heading to early training.”

The guard blinked. “Training?”

“Rugby. Coach gave me permission to start morning sprints early this term—said I needed the extra work. Not official yet, but I figured better to start now, you know? Tryin’ to keep my scholarship.” He gave a sheepish shrug that probably made mothers in five-mile radiuses want to feed him soup.

The guard narrowed his eyes. “At three in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” John said smoothly. “Was hoping the cold air might help.” He glanced behind him. “This one’s a science kid. Got turned around looking for his project. I found him wandering near the athletics shed.”

I stepped into the light with the grace of a hostage. The guard looked between us, clearly weighing the effort of giving a damn.

“Sherlock Holmes? You know you’re not meant to go out of your dorm at night. I should write you both up.”

“You could,” John said, lowering his voice just a notch, “or you could let us go and not have to do any paperwork at all.”

The guard stared for a beat. Then sighed. “Get back to your dorms. If I see either of you again tonight, I’m calling your Head.”

“Understood,” John said cheerfully, already tugging me back by the sleeve. “Appreciate it, sir. Have a good one.”

We didn’t speak until we were two buildings away and clear.

Then:

“Rugby training?”

“Looked more believable than ‘midnight crime-solving goose chase.’”

Sherlock gave me a long, unreadable look.

“I knew you’d get us caught. I was just preparing to clean up.”

“You knew you’d get us caught. I saved your arse.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either. I watched him for a minute, then flopped onto my bed.

“You’re exhausting,” I said.

“You’re nosy.”

“Only because you’re dangerous.”

“You’re predictable.”

“And you’re weird.”

“Correct.”

We didn’t talk after that. But we didn’t need to.

Tomorrow, I’d probably be trailing after him again. Not because I had to.
But because, somehow, without asking, we were in this together now.
And—God help me—I didn’t hate it.

Chapter Text

John's POV:

Neither of us could sleep, not that Sherlock ever really did. I was in my room, writing down in my journal (Not diary) about the shocking events that had happened this midnight when I smelt it.

The scent hit me like a low punch—sweet, sharp, unmistakable. It didn’t belong in our dorm room, and certainly not at 3 a.m., when the rest of the school was busy dreaming innocent dreams about test scores and soccer trophies. Sherlock was on the windowsill, legs folded in a weird way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable to anybody but him. A thin line of smoke curled from between his fingers, lazy and unapologetic.

“Is that—” I choked. “Are you smoking?”

He exhaled like someone performing for an audience of one. “Cannabis sativa. Not particularly strong. Bit dry. Tastes like topsoil.”

“What—how—why?”
No way. NO WAY! Sherlock Holmes, the nerdiest, most antisocial little sociopath was doing- drugs?! Now maybe I was an indoors type of kid but I couldn't believe it. I thought usually assholes or evil people did drugs.. and I'd encountered it once or twice with a few sport friends, but that only confimed my suspicions.

He looked over at me, eyes glassy but still infuriatingly focused. “Because the investigation was shut down, Watson. So this” he held up the joint like a toast “is me letting go.”

“You’re letting go by doing drugs in our shared room?”

Sherlock shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Everybody is asleep, nobody will smell it.”

I gaped at him. “That’s the dumbest logic I’ve ever heard. And I’ve taken social studies.”

“That's the real tragedy. I pity your education.” He said, blowing smoke from his lips. Goddamn he did look dead good—Not that that was an excuse of reason to poison your own body! It barely looked cool. He just looked.. mysterious.

“You’re literally high right now.”

“And yet still the smartest person in the room.”

Silence fell. He took another drag, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to make the silence heavier. I crossed the room and yanked the window wider, letting in the cold night air.
He didn’t even flinch. Just pulled his knees up closer to his chest and blinked at me like I was the one being unreasonable.

“You’re going to get us both expelled,” I muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Perhaps, if you tell someone.”

“Oh, so now I’m your co-conspirator?”

“You were already complicit the moment you didn’t knock.”

“I live here.”

“And yet you didn’t knock.”

“I will strangle you with your own shoelaces.”

“That’s a bit violent for someone who claims to believe in pacifism.”

“I never claimed that.”

“You didn’t have to. You’ve got the face of a youth group volunteer.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “You are the most exhausting person I’ve ever met.”

He smiled faintly, blowing another stream of smoke out the window. “And yet, here you are.”

“I’m here because I live here,” I snapped again, though admittedly with less venom this time. I sat on my seat and glared at him through the smoke.
For a moment we just sat like that—me fuming, him floating somewhere above it.

Then: “You know this is pathetic, right?” I muttered.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was an admission. This wasn’t cool rebellion. This wasn’t clever protest. This was a sixteen-year-old who hated feeling useless and was doing something stupid about it. I should’ve left it there. Should’ve shut up, gone back to writing in my not-a-diary and let him stew in his own fumes.
But of course I didn’t.

“I mean, it’s sort of tragic,” I added. “You solve mysteries like some prodigy Victorian detective, but your big dramatic rebellion is... what? A badly rolled joint and a sad stare out the window? Should I fetch your violin and a thunderstorm too?”

That got a laugh—short, dry, and surprisingly genuine.

“Good idea. I’d ask you to fetch the violin, but I don’t trust you not to break it.”

“Fair,” I said, crossing my arms. “You know, for someone so smart, you really are an idiot.”

Sherlock glanced at me sideways. “Are you going to bed or will I have to converse with you all night? Although the violin idea is interesting” Sherlock muttered.

“Unlike you I need my sleep, I have rugby in a bit anyway. Just make sure you go to bed soon Sherlock. I don’t need someone to think there’s a gas leak from that horrid smell.” I walked back to bed.

Chapter Text

John’s POV:

There are many crimes in this world. Some are subtle—like sabotage, or slander, or stealing someone’s lunch from the communal fridge. And some are unforgivable.
Like playing the violin at six in the morning.

Badly? Maybe forgivable.

Mediocre? Depends on context.

But perfectly—brilliantly—like a concert soloist being possessed by the ghost of Paganini?

That was Sherlock Holmes’s crime.

It was 6:03 a.m. when I woke up in a state of total panic, convinced I was either dead or dreaming or mid-heist in an extremely classy European museum. And then I realized it was none of those things. It was Sherlock. Of course.

In the center of our living room, barefoot, still in his rumpled shirt from the night before, bow flashing like a blade as he tore through something that probably hadn’t been legally played before breakfast in any country. I flung a pillow at him. He dodged without missing a note. “Ah! Good morning, Watson. You’re up.”

“You woke me up, you lunatic.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” he said cheerfully. “Technically, the violin did. I just wielded it.”

He stopped suddenly—mid-phrase, mid-fury, mid-glory—and tilted his head. “Did you hear that?”

“I hear you. That’s the problem.”

“No, not that—under the G-string. A slight rattle. The sound post must’ve slipped.” He flipped the violin over, peered into the f-hole, and muttered, “Can’t have that. Precision matters. Always. Even in noise.”

Then he was gone. Into the closet. Out again with a screwdriver, a mug of tea, and an open notebook balanced precariously on his forearm. He was muttering to himself as he jotted something down with one hand and adjusted a string with the other. I watched this all from my bed, half-under the blanket, equal parts horrified and impressed.

“What’s wrong with you- How much caffeine have you ingested?”

“I haven’t had caffeine yet,” Sherlock replied, entirely serious. “Didn’t need it. My brain’s been absolutely thrumming since about 4:50. Woke up with a breakthrough about the missing sketchbook.”

“The case that got shut down? Wait, you only went to bed at 3am, you slept for 1 hour and you’re acting manic. Not in a charming way.”

“Exactly! Isn’t it wonderful? The human brain rebels against boredom. Deprive it of stimulation and it improvises. My dreams last night were incredible. Vivid, architectural. I saw a code hidden in the carpet pattern of the north wing. At first I thought it was just my subconscious being clever, but no—it’s real.”

“You think the rug is the key to your mystery.”

“I know it is.” He was smiling now—unusually wide, like he couldn’t stop. “You should see what’s under it. No, wait—you will.” He pointed at me with the bow. “Dress warmly. We’ll need to be outside by 7:10. Also, we may need bolt cutters. Possibly rope.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not your sidekick.”

“You’re my roommate. It’s functionally the same thing.”

“I hate you.”

He grinned, grabbing his coat and violin case at the same time. “And yet here you are.”

I groaned into my pillow. Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, “SHUT UP, HOLMES!”

“Ah,” he said brightly. “An audience.”

“They’re not applauding, Sherlock,” I groaned from under my blanket.

“Not yet,” he said, already adjusting his stance like he was onstage at the Royal Albert Hall. “Perhaps they simply lack taste. Or functioning eardrums.”

Then he launched straight into a violent, galloping version of Carmen, deliberately off-tempo, with the kind of dramatic flourish that would get him banned from orchestras worldwide. Down the hall, someone actually screamed.

“Sherlock!” I barked.

“Yes?” he said over the music.

“You’re doing this on purpose you shithead.”

“Obviously. You can’t let mediocrity win, Watson. Sometimes you have to raise the stakes.”

A knock at the door cut through the chaos.

Sherlock lowered the violin an inch. “Is that—”

I sat bolt upright. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock whispered dramatically.

“No. You’re done. Closet. Now.”

“Watson, this is censorship.”

“It’s damage control. Get in.”

“But I haven’t reached the aria—”

“Sherlock!”

He made a face like I’d asked him to eat raw onions, but I was already dragging him toward the closet. He resisted just long enough to be dramatic, then allowed himself to be shoved in, violin and all.

“Don’t step on the cereal box,” I muttered as I slammed the door shut.

A second later, the RA’s voice rang through: “Everything alright in there?”

I flung the door open, breathless. “Sorry! Alarm went off. I thought it was a fire drill. It wasn’t. All good now. Definitely not a violin solo. That would be insane. Yeah? Uh.. yeah.” John said quickly without breaths, leaving him panting.

The RA blinked at me. “Right... well. Keep it down, yeah?”

“Absolutely. Quiet as the grave. Or perhaps, something less uh grim..” I said, so extremely nervously but the RA just gave me a pitying look and walked away.

I exhaled, turned around, and opened the closet.

Sherlock stumbled out, blinking at the ceiling like he’d just emerged from a car wreck, adjusting his shirt collar.

“That was unnecessarily aggressive,” he muttered.

“You’re high,” I said, not even asking, just diagnosing the disaster.

Sherlock blinked at me, surprised, like I’d accused him of being ordinary. “Oh please.”

I looked at his dilated pupils, mild tremor, flushed cheeks, talking at around 200 beats per minute. “No, you’re high, you’re chemically compromised.”

“Perhaps. Only a smidge.” Sherlock smirked like a taunting cat.

I squinted harder. “Your eyes aren’t tracking quite right. You’re sweating. Your coordination is too fluid to be natural. Sherlock—what the hell did you take?”

He flopped into the armchair like a spoiled debutante with the vapors. “Only what was necessary. Possibly a stimulant. Or three. Microdose, really. Very micro.”

I dropped onto the sofa and covered my face with both hands. “This is going to end in fire. Or detention. Or both.
”
“Possibly,” Sherlock said, getting up as fast as he had sat down. He walked to the closet and jankily put his classic coat with the hire collar and walked to the door. “Coming Watson? The games afoot.”

He smiled, Sherlock Holmes smiled, and left the dorm before I could even respond. So what did I do..? I followed him of course.

Chapter Text

John's POV:

Sherlock didn’t slow down. Not when we hit the quad. Not when the wind picked up. Not even when I grabbed his arm and said his name like it was supposed to mean something.
Maybe it was because of the substances he had taken? No, he was determined. I could see it in the eyes I’d never really looked in before. Crystal blue, hard but not cold. Compelling. Perhaps that’s why I trailed behind him despite this being completely not my problem.

He cut across the grass like a bloodhound on a mission, trench coat flapping behind him like we were in some kind of dramatic student film. I jogged after him, muttering every step of the way.

“Where are we even going?”

“Northwest,” he called over his shoulder, as if that answered anything. “I remembered something crucial during Carmen. Well—between Carmen and the RA incident.”

“Oh, that narrows it down.”

He spun suddenly, pointing to the statue at the center of the quad. “There. The pattern starts there. Look at the way the moss grows—there’s a break in the usual distribution. That’s not nature. That’s someone interfering.”

“It’s a patchy statue, Sherlock. Welcome to weather and time.”

“No, Watson, look—three vertical patches of exposed stone, precisely six inches apart. Someone cleaned something off. Recently.” He darted forward and stuck his face inches from the base of the statue.

I sighed, hands on hips. “What do you think they cleaned? Graffiti? Bird poop?”

“Secrets,” he whispered dramatically.

“Oh for—”

But he was already circling the statue like a caffeine-high vulture, tapping at the base and muttering numbers to himself. Then, without warning, he dropped flat onto the ground and rolled under the stone bench beside it.

“Sherlock!”

“Mmmhmmph.” That was the sound of someone talking through concrete and grass.

I crouched beside him, peering under. “What could you possibly be hoping to find under there?”

“There’s gum. Fifteen distinct pieces. Four brands. One of them still soft.” He sounded delighted. “Which means someone was here recently. Possibly hiding something.”

I blinked at him. “You're building a theory based on... chewed gum?”

“And moss. And a dream I had at 5:13 a.m.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why do I even bother?”

He wormed his way out, somehow dirtier than before, holding something between his fingers. “Behold!” he cried triumphantly.

“That’s a leaf.”

“It’s a marker. It was folded. Deliberately. A trail sign.”

“A leaf. Was folded. So it’s a trail sign.”

He stood up, full height, eyes alight. “You’re catching on.”

I wasn’t. But he was already walking again—no, striding, like he was leading troops into battle. And me? I followed. Again. Like an idiot.

He didn’t tell me where we were going, but I recognized the building when we got closer: Upper East Dorms. Mostly seniors. Definitely not our year.

“Sherlock—” I jogged up beside him. “You can’t just walk in there.”

“I’m not walking. I’m sneaking. You should try it sometime, Watson. It builds character.”

“Sherlock, no. No no no—” I physically blocked him from the entryway. “This is someone else’s dorm. A senior’s dorm. Do you want to be expelled? Because this is how you get expelled.”

“I don’t want to be expelled,” he said calmly. “I want to be correct.” Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a paperclip.

“Oh god.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You are literally about to break and enter—”

“Correction,” he said, already kneeling in front of the lock. “I’m about to liberate a truth being unjustly imprisoned behind poor architecture.”

I looked around wildly. “We are so going to jail. School jail. Is that a thing? It should be. For this.”

There was a click, a creak, and then the door eased open like it was welcoming him home.

“After you,” Sherlock said with a slight bow, like this was all perfectly civilized.

“I am not—”

But he was already inside.

And unfortunately, so was I.

The room was dark, too quiet, and smelled faintly of old cereal and male despair.

Sherlock stepped inside like he owned the place, which was bold for someone committing a felony in socks. He spun slowly in place, arms slightly outstretched, taking it all in like a symphony conductor who’d forgotten the orchestra.

“Lock the door, Watson,” he said dreamily. “Wouldn’t want the world barging in while we’re unearthing truth.”

I hesitated, then—because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts—clicked the lock shut.

“This is Marcus Bellamy’s dorm,” Sherlock murmured, poking a cactus on the windowsill like it might answer his questions. “The sketches he turned in last week were… hollow.
Uninspired. I think he panicked. Hid the good ones.”

“So now we’re criminal accomplices because Marcus is emotionally repressed?”

“No. We’re artists, John. But undercover. Like... jazz agents.”

“Oh my god.”

Sherlock dropped to his knees, opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of socks, and held them up like they were sacred scrolls. “Who pairs polka dots with linen? Chaos. No wonder he cracked.”

“Okay,” I whispered, shutting the door behind us as quietly as possible. “Sherlock. Buddy. I’m begging you—let’s not get expelled before breakfast.”

Sherlock dropped to his knees and started rifling through the drawers of a plastic storage bin. “This is important, Watson. This is justice.”

“You are elbows-deep in another human’s sock drawer.”

“I’ve been deeper.”

“Sherlock.”

“Relax.” He held up a single sock with a look of deep betrayal. “Who pairs polka dots with linens? Chaotic and disorderly, no wonder he cracked.”

I slid down onto the edge of a chair and tried not to pass out. “We’re going to die. Or be murdered by Marcus. Oh god I think he’s on the senior rugby team too.”

Sherlock had already moved on—now poking through the underside of the bed with a ruler he’d pulled from who-knows-where. “It has to be here. Somewhere low, somewhere rushed. He wouldn’t have had time for a proper hideaway. Somewhere close but not obvious-”

“You’re not obvious?” I hissed.

He popped up suddenly, triumphant. “The vent!”

I took a cautious step forward. It was a sketch of the statue from the quad—but under it was a series of symbols, hatch marks, and what looked like a trapdoor.
“Oh no.”

“Oh yes, Watson. This is classic. Predictable, even. Everyone thinks vents are clever until they realize they’re also filthy, loud, and full of cobwebs, unless they've been touched recently.”

“Fantastic. Let’s check for black mold while we’re at it.”

Sherlock dropped to the floor, yanked a screwdriver out of his coat (because of course he had one), and began unscrewing the vent cover like this was just a normal Tuesday and not an active violation of at least seven school rules.

I pressed my face into my hands. “I can’t believe I followed you. I could be asleep right now. Or having toast. Or not being complicit in a B&E.”

“John,” Sherlock said, sticking his entire arm into the vent up to the shoulder, “I want you to think back. What is the one thing I asked of you this morning?”

“To dress warmly.”

“Exactly. And yet here you are, warm, well-dressed, and on the edge of a breakthrough.”

“I’m on the edge of a breakdown.”

Sherlock grunted, pulled back, and held up a dusty, rolled sheet of paper with a grin that could power the entire school. “Ta-da.”

I stared. “You’re kidding me.”

He unrolled it gently, revealing a pencil sketch of the same statue from earlier—but beneath it was a series of hatch marks, strange symbols, and what looked like a rough diagram of a trapdoor.

“You’re not kidding me.”

“Never,” Sherlock said, eyes glowing. “I told you. The dream was real. The rug is the key.”

I stared at the paper, then at him, then back at the vent.

Click. Rattle.

My heart dropped. Someone was turning the doorknob.

Sherlock, still on the floor, looked up with an angelic smile.

“Oh. Right. He’s just on time.” He said, glancing at his watch.

Chapter Text

Click. Rattle.

My heart dropped. Someone was turning the doorknob.
Sherlock, still crouched by the vent, looked up with a strange, beatific smile. “Oh. Right. He’s just on time.” He tapped his watch as if that explained anything.

“What do you mean ‘on time’? Sherlock, is someone coming in here?!”

“Statistically speaking,” he murmured, rising with the eerie calm of someone who definitely shouldn’t be calm, “every locked door has its key. Every key has a bearer. And every bearer eventually—”

“Sherlock.”

“Marcus,” he said brightly, clapping his hands once. “Right on schedule.”

I whirled on the door. “Are you kidding me?! That’s Marcus Bellamy! The guy whose room we are currently breaking and entering into!”

“Investigating,” Sherlock corrected, now drifting toward the window like he was deciding which cloud to marry. “And I wouldn’t say his room. The academy’s room really, and Mycroft is on the student council-”

“Oh my god.”

The doorknob jiggled again. There was a heavy thunk as someone gave it a frustrated shake, followed by Marcus’s muffled voice:
“Why the hell is my door locked?”

Sherlock drew the curtain aside and stared at the drop beyond. “Third floor. Not ideal. But survivable with the right materials.”

“You do not have the right materials!”

He patted his coat pockets like a magician prepping for a card trick. “Don’t be so sure. I once escaped a school basement with a fork and a curtain rod.”

“This is not a basement. This is high. Very high. Much like you are right now.”

“I am focused,” Sherlock said proudly, pulling out a tangled pair of earbuds like they might become a zipline. “And brilliant.”

The key scraped ominously in the lock.

“Ohgodohgodohgod—”

Sherlock blinked. “Did we lock it?”

“Yes, you told me to lock it!”

He nodded. “Good. That buys us… exactly twenty-eight seconds.”

Another rattle.

“Is someone in there?!” Marcus called, voice sharp now.

Sherlock meandered to the door and cupped a hand to his ear. “Yes! Hold, please!”

I lunged, slapped a hand over his mouth. “What are you doing?!”

He gently peeled my fingers off like I was a child trying to silence a wind-up toy. “Interacting.”

There was a loud bang as Marcus hit the door with something heavy.

“Is that Holmes?!”

Sherlock beamed. “Quite astute reasoning skills!”

I smothered a scream. “Stop talking.”

He wandered cheerfully back toward the vent like none of this concerned him.

The key turned halfway again—grinding resistance. Not long now.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, straightening like I was about to take an oral exam. “Okay. Fine.”

I stepped to the door, cleared my throat, and projected the calm, professional voice I’d spent two years of medical school prep perfecting.

“Marcus? Don’t panic. This room is currently under temporary medical quarantine.”

A pause. A long one.

“…what?”

“Possible outbreak of norovirus with—uh—dermatological complications,” I added. “We were dispatched to investigate suspicious symptoms reported in your hallway.”

Behind me, Sherlock gave me a double thumbs-up and whispered, “Excellent bedside manner.”

I shoved him lightly toward the corner.

Marcus’s voice was skeptical. “That’s a load of crap.”

“Do you really want to take that risk?” I replied smoothly. “This strain presents delayed gastrointestinal markers. We already have three students in containment. One of them puked on the Headmaster’s shoes. The other has hives shaped like Idaho.”

Silence. Then a very quiet shuffle of retreating footsteps.

“Idaho?” Sherlock whispered.

“I panicked!”

Marcus’s voice came again, more uncertain this time. “That sounds made-up.”

“You think I want to be in here?!” I snapped, stepping up the performance. “Do you know how contagious this is? I’ve been exposed for four minutes and I already feel—” I doubled over, gagged loudly, and slammed my hand against the wall for effect.

Sherlock whispered, delighted, “Did you take theatre, Watson?”

Marcus swore under his breath.

It was working.

Until it wasn’t.

The doorknob rattled violently, followed by, “I knew this smelled like Holmes. You’re lying. I’m calling the RA, and then I’m getting a crowbar.”

I spun to Sherlock, eyes wide. “Window. Now.”

He pulled the curtain back with a flourish. “I told you.”

“You don’t even have rope!”

“No rope, no problem.” He popped the window open with a shove. “Gravity’s just enthusiastic encouragement.”

“You’re going to die.”

“I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”

I dragged a chair to the window and climbed up beside him, heart hammering. “We’re going to get suspended. I’m going to have to explain to my parents that I got expelled because of a sketchbook conspiracy.”

Sherlock hoisted himself onto the ledge like he was stepping into a cab. “Worth it.”

The key finally turned. The bolt scraped free. Marcus shoved the door open with a crash— And we were gone. Out the window. Into the wind.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s POV:

We landed with the kind of impact that makes you suddenly aware of your skeleton.
John hit the ground with a noise that was 90% horror, 10% disbelief, and then—worse—rolled toward me like he was about to start CPR.'

“Oh my god—don’t move. Do not move. Can you feel your legs? How many fingers am I holding up? Do you know where you are?!”

I blinked up at the sky. “Outside.”

John shoved my shoulder. “We just fell three stories!”

“Dropped,” I corrected. “Falling is chaotic. Dropping can be calculated. I aimed for us to land in the shrubs.”

“You aimed for the shrubs?”

“They distribute kinetic force. Cushion the landing. I scouted them last week when I realized the room faced east.”

“Why would the direction matter?!”

“Wind resistance,” I said, sitting up and brushing pine needles from my coat. “Also potential glare from security floodlights. East-facing rooms are ideal for nocturnal exit strategies.”

John just stared at me, eyes wide with the kind of adrenaline that usually precedes either vomiting or violence. I patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You rotated midair. Good reflexes. Low knee risk. You should be better in a few minutes.”

He groaned and flopped back onto the grass. “I hate you so much.”

Five minutes later, we were walking across the quad. Correction: I was walking. John was limping slightly and muttering threats under his breath.
“You know,” I said conversationally, “your gait’s uneven. Right foot pronates more than left. Instability in your lateral arch. Could be from rugby, but I suspect a childhood fracture that healed unevenly.”

“Sherlock,” he snapped, “if you diagnose me one more time, I swear I will deck you.”

“Just saying. If you ever take up parkour, you’ll want insoles.”

He stopped walking. “Dorms are that way.”

“Ah,” I said. “Small detour.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock—”

“We need the lab.”

John threw his hands up. “Are you kidding me?! We just committed breaking and entering, fell out a window, and narrowly avoided an assault! And now you want to do science?”
“I always want to do science.”

“You promised we were going back to the dorms.”

“I said we’d head back. I never said we’d arrive.”

He groaned again. “Is this about the sketchbook?”

“It’s not a sketchbook,” I said, already texting Molly. “It’s a map. A puzzle. A key to the trapdoor.”

“And you think the science lab is where we’ll find the answer.”

“Where else would you take something ancient and mysterious for analysis?”

John blinked. “Sherlock. That paper was like three days old. You saw the pencil marks. It’s a school assignment.”

“Which is what they want you to think.”

He closed his eyes. “Do you ever stop?”

“Never.”

We arrived at her dorm minutes later.

I knocked once—precisely—and waited.

The door creaked open to reveal a sleepy girl in pink pajama pants and a t-shirt that said “Trust Me, I Know Where Your Organs Are.” She blinked at us behind oversized glasses, her hair in a loose braid falling over one shoulder.

“Sherlock?” she whispered. “What time is it?”

“Time for truth,” I said.

“Oh no,” she muttered, and then blinked again. “Wait. Are you bleeding?”

“Barely. I hadn’t checked on the progress of the growing twigs, quite sharp.”

Her gaze shifted to John. “Oh! Hello. Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I just wasn’t expecting... someone new.”

John gave a small, confused wave. “Hi. Sorry. This is... not my usual Thursday.”

“It’s Friday now,” she said gently, stepping aside. “Come in. You both look like you lost a fight with a hedge.”

“We won,” I muttered, brushing twigs off my coat.

John muttered, “Debatable.”

Her dorm was warm. Softly lit. A frog plush guarded her bookshelf like an amphibious sentinel.

“I was up studying mitosis,” she explained, rummaging for a hoodie. “Then I fell asleep on my notes and dreamt I was a cell. It was weird. What’s happening?”

I unrolled the sketch with a flourish and set it gently on her desk. “This.”

She blinked, then beamed. “Ooh. That’s really well done. What is it?”

“It’s also a code. Or a warning.”

“Of course it is,” she said, already slipping on her shoes. “Do you want the lab?”

“Yes.”

“I need to date the paper. Check its composition. Cross-reference symbol use with existing academy blueprints.”

She blinked. “Really, again?”

“I know. It’s the perfect time for clarity. Everyone’s brain is half-asleep. Easier to see between the cracks.”

“I was hoping to see my bed.”

“You can sleep when we’ve proven reality.”

She sighed—but smiled. “Fine. I’ll grab my Biology Club key. We’ll use the lab.”

John stared at her. “You can just do that?”

“She runs the club,” I explained. “Molly has access. She also has standards. And gummy frogs.”

She blushed slightly, grabbing a zip-up and her lanyard. “I don’t let just anyone in the lab.”

“Yet you’re letting him in,” John said, thumbing at me.

“I make exceptions,” she said sweetly. “Like when Sherlock looks like he’s going to vibrate through a wall.”

“I was excited.”

“You were vibrating.”

We snuck into the science wing like ghosts in sneakers. Molly led the way with a small keycard and a massive yawn. She turned on just one lab light—low, gold, cozy—and set up a slide under the scope like she did this every day. She probably did. I handed her the sketch with care.

“Handle it gently,” I said. “It may contain secrets.”

“It may contain charcoal,” she said gently, pulling on gloves. “But I’ll treat it like the Magna Carta.”

John sat on a stool, looking wildly out of place. “Do you do this often?” he asked.

“Sherlock emergencies?” Molly smiled, peering into the microscope. “Only every other week. But I don’t mind.”

He tilted his head. “You’re... really nice.”

She gave a warm smile, brushing hair behind her ear. “Thanks! I try to be. It’s sort of my thing.”

John blinked, then nodded. “Right. Cool. Just wasn’t expecting—y’know—someone actually cheerful to be involved.”

“I’ve learned to stay cheerful around Sherlock,” she said, a little playfully, glancing at me. “Someone has to balance out the chaos gremlin energy.”

“Gremlin’s are fictional species,” I muttered.

Molly handed him a pair of gloves. “See?”

John gave a soft huff of a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Fair point.”

Fifteen minutes later, Molly had the sketch under a high-intensity filter.

“Well,” she said, gently. “It’s... not old. Maybe a month. The graphite’s top-grade, soft—like 6B, maybe. Paper’s a studio-grade blend. Really good stuff.”
I frowned. “So not some hidden map from the archives.” (Archives of our own??)

“Nope. It’s an art student’s high-stress final.”

John groaned like he’d been hit with a dictionary. “Oh god. We broke into a dorm for vibes.”

Molly blinked again. “You... broke into a dorm?”

“Hardly,” I said.

John stared. “We escaped out the window.”

“I was intrigued.”

Molly gave a slow, understanding nod. “Well. I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

I stared at the sketch, betrayed. “So… there’s no trapdoor. Just a drawing.”

Molly looked at it for a long moment, then said softly, “I think it is a trapdoor. Just not the kind you were expecting.”

I frowned. “But that’s not useful. It’s metaphor, not function. There’s no map. No clue. Just—art.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, gently: "At least you found the student’s notebook?”

Silence. I didn’t like it. Didn’t know what to say to it. Then, out of nowhere, Molly reached out and gave my sleeve a small, careful squeeze.
“You’re still brilliant, Sherlock,” she said. “Even when it’s not the kind of mystery you can solve.”

That sat wrong in my chest. Not because it wasn’t nice. Because I think she meant it. And I didn’t know what to do with that.

Chapter Text

We were still in the science lab when the door slammed open so hard it rattled the test tubes. Marcus Bellamy stormed in like someone had lit a match in his locker. He zeroed in on Sherlock like a heat-seeking missile. “You absolute freak,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You stole my sketchbook.”

Sherlock didn’t flinch. Just blinked mildly over his shoulder like Marcus had walked in to offer snacks.

“You stole it first,” Sherlock countered, spinning slowly in his lab stool. “Which really makes this more of a restoration effort than a theft.”

Marcus looked like he was about two seconds from turning that lab table into splinters. I raised my hands like that would do anything. “Okay, whoa—can we just lower the testosterone for like five seconds?”

Marcus shot me a look. “And who the hell are you?”

“John Watson. I’m—new. Not part of this, technically.”

“Technically?” Marcus snapped.

Molly, still by the microscope, cleared her throat gently. “He’s not lying. I let them in here. Sherlock brought the n, and I was just helping them check it out. That’s all.”

Marcus turned back to Sherlock, fists clenched. “You’ve got a problem, Holmes. A serious one. You think you can do whatever you want just because you’re clever and weird and no one wants to deal with you.”

Sherlock stood, calm and maddeningly unbothered. “I don’t think that.”

“Oh, no? Because you’ve harassed three different RAs, broke the library scanner with a piece of copper wire, and convinced Dr. Kline his coffee mug was bugged.”

“It was buzzing,” Sherlock said, deadpan.

“That was his toothbrush on the desk next to it, you lunatic!”

“Unfortunate placement,” Sherlock muttered.

I stepped in fast, trying to intercept. “Look, maybe let’s not turn this into a disciplinary hearing. It’s late. Everyone’s tired. We were just trying to return the notebook to the girl-”

Marcus’s lip curled. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s pressure—teachers, parents, the whole damn institution breathing down my neck. Not that you’d get that.”

Sherlock blinked, tone neutral. “I assumed it was just poor time management.”

“Keep running your mouth,” Marcus growled. “You think being smart gives you a pass? You’re not clever. You’re just some wind-up toy with a superiority complex.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “At least I don’t need to steal answers to prove I'm functional.”

“God, you’re such a smug little robot.” Marcus stepped closer, voice lowering. “Everyone thinks you’re some genius, but you’re just a parasite. You don’t help anyone. You don’t even like people.”

“I like people fine,” Sherlock said coolly. “From a distance. Preferably silent.”

Marcus let out a dry, angry laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you? You walk around like nothing touches you. You make us all look like idiots, then act surprised when people hate you for it.”

“I didn’t make you look like anything,” Sherlock said. “That was your own doing.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky I was the one who took that book. Anyone else would've snapped it in half just to keep it out of your hands.”

“Then I’d have glued it back together,” Sherlock said lightly. “Possibly better than it started.”

Marcus’s jaw twitched. “You think this is funny?”

“Not especially,” Sherlock said. “But your tantrum is predictable.”

“Tantrum—?” Marcus lunged forward suddenly, shoving Sherlock against the wall with a loud thud.

Test tubes clinked dangerously in their racks.

John jumped, halfway forward. “Marcus, seriously—”

Marcus ignored him. One hand clamped Sherlock by the collar, dragging him close. “You think I won’t hit you?” Marcus hissed.

Sherlock looked him dead in the eye, utterly composed. “I think you already made up your mind.”

“You really think this makes you clever?” Marcus’s voice was all venom. “You don’t belong here. You're just some cold, broken freak someone forgot to throw away.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t budge. John hovered, unsure—torn between stepping in and knowing it could make things worse. Marcus’s grip tightened. “Say something, you smug bastard.”

Sherlock’s voice came low, dry. “You might want to reconsider the punch. Wall’s hard.”

Marcus’s eyes burned. “You arrogant little—”

He reeled his fist back—and slammed it into the concrete wall beside Sherlock’s head. The crack of impact echoed, loud and sharp. Dust scattered. Knuckles split. Sherlock didn’t move. Barely blinked. Like he knew that would happen. Just stared, cool as ever, like he’d already calculated the exact angle of the swing.

Marcus stood there, breathing hard, fist trembling against the wall. For a second, no one said anything. Then Sherlock calmly straightened his collar. “You missed.”

Marcus ripped his hand back and stormed out of the room, jaw clenched and bleeding. The door slammed. Glass rattled. John let out a slow breath. “So… that went well.”

Sherlock smoothed his shirt, glancing down at a fleck of dust on his cuff. “Better than average.”

The silence in the lab hung like dust, slow to settle. Sherlock didn’t move for a few seconds after Marcus left. Then, with deliberate calm, he brushed a nonexistent speck of lint from his shirt and turned back to the workstation, like being shoved into a wall was an hourly inconvenience. Molly cleared her throat softly. “Okay… that happened.”

She leaned over the lab table and opened the sketchbook, her voice low and unsure. “Might as well see what was worth getting slammed into drywall for.”
Her eyes scanned the pages. “Most of this is standard—notes, half-done biology diagrams. But…” She flipped a page, frowned. “Wait. John, look at this.”

I stepped over, still half-watching Sherlock in case he suddenly keeled over or evaporated into thin air. Molly flattened a wrinkled page under the lamp. It showed rough architectural lines—like blueprints done in pencil. At the center, a small rectangle was etched into the layered structures. One word scribbled next to it in block letters: HATCH? The word lit up something in my memory. I turned to Sherlock.

“You said something about a hatch before. You didn’t mean here—in the building. You meant this. The drawing.”

Sherlock gave the page a passing glance, then tilted his head. “Obviously.”

I stared at him. “You could’ve said that.”

“I did,” he said mildly. “You just assumed I meant a physical hatch. Not my fault language remains a blunt tool.”

Molly gave a small, tired chuckle. “So this whole thing—this sketchbook—was the missing piece? The girl drew something she wasn’t supposed to. And Marcus had it the whole time.”
Sherlock finally moved closer, peering over our shoulders. “Not just something she wasn’t supposed to. Something someone wanted hidden. Or missed. Or forgot. She noticed it.”
“And now we did,” I added.

Sherlock nodded once, then folded his arms, already losing interest. “Well. Case closed.”

“That’s it?” I asked. “No dramatic monologue?”

Sherlock blinked. “Do you want one?”

Molly closed the book carefully. “Honestly? I’d like a sandwich.”

“Reasonable,” Sherlock said, already halfway to the door. “I’ll allow it.”

Chapter Text

She got the text at 11:42 PM.

Sherlock Holmes:

Your notebook has been recovered. Meet me in the east common room. Bring no one. Unless it’s a cat. I like cats. Fifteen minutes later, she arrived in pajama pants and a hoodie, looking equal parts confused and cautious. Her eyes flicked between the three of us as she stepped into the dimly lit room.

“You sent me a text,” she said, eyeing Sherlock. “And now there are... people?”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely toward us. “This is Molly Hooper. studying biologist. 9th year. And this,” he added, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder, “is John Watson.”
She tilted her head. “And who are you?”

John hesitated just half a second too long.

“Well, I— I, um...” He straightened up slightly. “I’m his partner. Yeah. His detective partner.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow like he was about to comment, then paused. “Acceptable.”

Molly smiled. “It’s true. He jumped out a window for him earlier. It was very dramatic.”

The girl blinked. “What?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Never mind that. The important part is: we got your notebook, and here’s what happened.”

He stepped forward, hands behind his back, tone shifting into that smooth, confident register that always meant he was about to casually unravel an entire mystery in front of someone like it was a grocery list. Sherlock gestured to the sketchbook now resting safely in the girl’s lap.

The girl blinked. “Marcus said he just wanted my notes.. And when I didn’t give him them, they went missing, right?”

“He did,” Sherlock confirmed. “At first. He panicked. Project deadlines, failing grades, probably an overbearing advisor. He grabbed the sketchbook because he thought it was just annotated diagrams. He didn’t even notice the drawing.”

John leaned forward. “So how did you notice?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “I flipped through it while avoiding a broom closet concussion. It stood out.”

“But Sherlock,” John said slowly, “if you never saw the book before… how did you know there was a trapdoor drawing in it in the first place?”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “Ah. I didn’t.”

He blinked. “What? Then… how—?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Creative deduction under chemical influence.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You were high. It was just… incoherent gibberish.”

Sherlock looked unbothered. “Inspired incoherent gibberish.”

Molly, seated nearby with a gummy frog halfway to her mouth, added, “To be fair, it did lead us to the right room. Eventually.”

The girl let out a startled laugh, tucking her notebook tighter under her arm. “You’re all completely insane.”

“Undeniably,” Sherlock agreed, already turning toward the exit. “But also correct.”

The three of us made our way out together—Sherlock striding ahead, Molly humming quietly, and me—John Watson—trailing behind with a small, incredulous smile. I didn’t know what was waiting next. But I knew this much: I had a partner now.
God help me.