"I got ahold of your mother. She thinks we are correct in insisting you finish out the year in your physical education period."

"Mycroft Holmes is authorized to make guardian decisions in loco parentis," Sherlock sneered at the dean of academic affairs a surprising amount of disdain for someone who also had a mouth full of braces. "Call him, not my mother."

"If your mother hadn't been available, we would have, Sherlock." the dean said, "Just because your brother can authorize emergency treatment in case of medical need doesn't mean we skip over your actual parents in the chain of command because you want your big brother to save you."

The dean was actually scowling at him. Sherlock felt overclocked, suddenly, with the outrage and unfairness of it all. "I can't imagine what you must have told her for her to agree with you. Perhaps you left out the bit where I was assaulted."

"Now Sherlock," he said, in his calm, let's-be-reasonable voice. Adults liked to use it on him before he started wreaking havoc, but they tended to lose it around the point where he made up his mind to stop faffing about and bring actual destruction. "Assault is such a strong term. Many boys your age go through one form of teasing or another. If you would make a statement to myself or Mr. Richards, the boys involved would be reprimanded. Until then, my hands are tied."

Sherlock leveled a glare at him. "Excuse me, I think we're done here."

He meant to swivel out on his heel like his father used to, but he botched it by checking his hip against the table as he stood, wincing as he moved across the threshold. He was almost 180 centimeters tall, which was new, but hadn't been as immediately useful to him as he had always fantasized.

The phone was in the commons, and one of the other boys who had been lounging on a sofa nearby gave him a raised eyebrow as he passed. Mycroft always said people were conditioned to stop staring when they felt caught by the object of their gaze, usually occurring during a returned stare. Sherlock employed that now, but St. James just kept looking at him as he punched in a number he knew by heart.

He had to call twice before he got an answer. "I'm sorry Sherlock," his brother said, already sounding weary. "Your mother called me almost immediately after she herself received a call."

Mycroft and Sherlock often foisted ownership of their mother to each other with pronouns. He'd usually be more amused. "And?"

"You do sound terrible," Mycroft said. Sherlock could imagine the wrinkle forming prematurely between his brows and relax a fraction, knowing if he could hear it, his brother was suitable furious on his behalf. "Water damage?"

Sherlock had been nursing himself from a cold with precise doses, but Mycroft must have heard the hoarse edge. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Something like that."

Mycroft said, "I will be down in the morning."

Sherlock spent most of his non-lesson time in his room when he was away at school. The tried-and-true method of avoiding everyone he knew had worked well for him for the entirety of his boarding career, and he'd only relaxed his policy a bit this year in favor of collecting data samples from some of the nearby ferns. The school grounds seemed to be full non-native frogs, and out of sheer boredom during his last year, Sherlock had decided to investigate. On his third night out after dark, trying to catch a live sample with only a small torch, he'd been overwhelmed by three of his year mates.

The attack hadn't been sexual, Sherlock could realize later, but it had certainly seemed so when he'd been stripped of his trousers and then pants, blindfolded and manhandled in the dark, his torch dropped when he'd startled.

They'd bound him at the joints and tossed him in the pool, still blindfolded where he'd spluttered and bobbed for an unknown length of time before he'd made his way out, and was subsequently found on his way back to his room by Mr. Richardson.

Before then, it had always been tedious, but harmless enough exclusion and minor setbacks. None of that had bothered him because he himself excluded all other life forms but his older brother Mycroft, and frequently implied and outright said all manner of things that made his unbearable classmates squirm: about themselves, their parents, and their sticky-fingered help.

After, Sherlock had felt humiliated, both that it had happened, and that his had reacted with such indignity, hiding out and missing all of his divs the next day to lick his wounds like a kicked dog.

It had taken him almost a full day to figure out how to turn the situation to his advantage. He had always hated compulsory sport, and having just turned sixteen this year, Sherlock would still be required to participate in it through the end of the school year.

Mycroft arrived early and vicious, like he'd promised, knocking on Sherlock's door as the sun began to slant through his blinds.

"I had to threaten to pull you out," Mycroft said. "And murder all three of the boys involved."

"Surely you didn't threaten murder," Sherlock said, doubtfully, but starting to cheer up all the same.

"I might as well have," Mycroft said, and his shoulder moved and halted.

Sherlock calculated that Mycroft had started to reach out and ruffle his hair, but had stopped himself because the two of them were much too old for that kind of display, and the thought warmed him the rest of the way. "So," he said, rocking onto his toes in an unconscious impulse to be eye-level with his brother. "What's the verdict?"

"You are going to spend the period engaged in the theoreticals of a sport. Or an equivalent measurement of time," Mycroft explained, fixing him with a serious look. "You're going to present a paper on some aspect at the end of term. I don't want your professor to be able to get through the abstract without a headache. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock saluted, as he had in the past to his father, and Mycroft's lips twitched in reckless amusement. Anyone else would have called it a grimace.

"All three of them will find themselves expelled before the end of the year," Mycroft assured him.

"Four," Sherlock said, half-gleeful with the knowledge that his brother had missed something.

Mycroft looked him over for a long moment before nodding. "All four," he acknowledged.

Sherlock chooses football, because it is the only sport that none of the boys he wants to avoid play.

He sits in the stands while they play, six on six sometimes, and full teams others, and Sherlock keeps a careful eye on the angles and musculature of the boys' bodies, the force of the ball and the movement of the goalkeeper.

One of the players draws his eye, because he is compact, but fleet and wry. He seems to use his body in intelligent, strategized ways.

After hours of research, complete with diagrams and 2D renderings of musculature and a precise practical application of graduate level physics, Sherlock is most intrigued by the finding that John Watson is kind of undersized. The revelation is utterly horrifying.

Sherlock is not sure why he notices this: John is in his last year, and certainly Sherlock has seen him before, around the school; he's never seemed extraordinary. Sherlock tries to divide his attention evenly, keeping something broad in mind and reminding himself that it isn't a case study.

Sherlock always attempts to leave as practice ends, getting back to his room quickly to make sense of his scrawled notes.

Two weeks after he starts observing the evening practices, it ends more suddenly than he is ready for, and he scrambles to collect his scattered pages and stuff them back into his bag.

"Hello," John Watson says to him with a hand extended. "I'm John Watson. You're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock blinks at the boy before him, hand coming up clumsily to touch his. He's smaller up close, his brain helpfully supplies. John Watson is one hundred sixty three centimeters if he's a meter. "Interesting introduction," Sherlock says, because John's already commandeered his line, so he's at a loss.

John grins wryly. "Sorry mate. For one thing, it'd be silly to pretend that everybody doesn't know who you are, and for another, with your reputation, I wasn't sure you'd respond to a proper introduction."

Over John's shoulder, Sherlock can see the rest of the boys who had gathered to play the little pick-up game starting to take their bags and move inside. They keep glancing back at the two of them, like timid children getting on a train.

Sherlock frowns at John Watson for a moment, sizing up his fraying football kit, cuticles dry from over-washing, precise haircut. He tries not to let his gaze linger on his musculature or facial structure. There had been pins in his leg at some point, but he'd started using it before it was fully healed, Sherlock could see it clearly. "Now that you've told me who I am, shall I return the favor?" Sherlock challenged, raising an eyebrow.

John grinned. "Go ahead."

John seemed to be impressed with Sherlock's deduction, and hadn't hit him, which was puzzling.

John followed him back to his room, seemingly naturally falling into step with him on the way back to the school, but it quickly became apparent that he was going in a direction that wouldn't take him back to his own.

When Sherlock asked him about it, John said, "Sorry. Actually, I was supposed to tell you something."

"Well," Sherlock said, icily, feeling the strange easiness fade away as anxiety pushed into him like a tidal wave. "Go ahead with it."

"Well, the lads think that you're…" John fumbled uneasily, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. "Well, they're wondering why you've been watching practice."

"Bugger off," Sherlock said, sharply veering to the left, his meaning immediately apparent.

"No," John backpedaled, tailing him closely. "I'm not saying it's a problem."

"Oh, I'm sure," Sherlock mocked, using his new legs to his advantage. He may not have regained his old grace yet, but he had sheer length in his favor. He could hear John behind him, following at a canter.

"I thought, if you wanted to learn, or you're shy..."

Sherlock whirled around, mouth hanging slack. "You think I watch football practice because I'm shy?"

"Well," John said, suddenly unsure. Sherlock tried his best not to be aware of the way John's fair hair was sticking up on one side like a patch of rumpled feathers while the other side followed the contours of his skull, made malleable by damp. "You've been watching for three weeks now. I thought maybe you wanted to play but were, uh, you know…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John finished: "Yeah, shy. I guess that's the best I've got."

"I've got no interest in your ridiculous sport besides the academic," Sherlock said loftily.

It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Academic, eh? How's that work out?"

"Not that it's any of your concern, but I am doing a paper on the physics of the game."

"Instead of playing?"

Sherlock scowled. "Yes."

"Well, are you planning on putting your data to practical use?"

"No."

"What a shame," John said, giving him a grin. "Well, I'll see you around, Sherlock Holmes."

The next time he watches a pick up game, held unofficially on Wednesday between the team's biweekly practices, John wasn't playing. The other players gave him the side eye, but he focus on their bodies and velocity. Someone's momentum from a kick pulls them all the way around and Sherlock laments not asking Mycroft to send him his camcorder because he needs to see that again.

He leaves before the boys do.

That friday night when he was finished with his divs and back in his room skipping dinner, there was a knock on his door.

Sherlock was not accustomed to having visitors, and went wearily to the door. Sherlock was secretly pleased and dismayed in rapid succession when he opened the door to find John Watson (the pleased floods his chest embarrassingly) with a split lip and bruised temple.

"Watson," Sherlock barks. And he meant to say what the hell happened to you but instead he said, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock can see the what the hell happened to you in the fact that John was still in his football kit and the angle of the bruise on his temple (curved from the side but not from above, which doesn't make sense because John is the shortest in his year unless…) and the way he is walking, like an impacted hip or tailbone.

"Good evening," John said, smiling through his battered mouth. At some point, blood had burst in his mouth; Sherlock can smell it on his breath. "Missed you at practice today."

Sherlock grabbed him by the back of his collar and hoisted him bodily into his room.

John balked. To be fair, Sherlock had potted ferns laid out on a grid on the floor to take stock of their reactions relative to the daytime sunlight he gets during the day, there were papers on every surface of his room, his bed was filled with stacks of books, open and in piles, except the corner he squished into to sleep and there was a giant corkboard on his free wall to keep track of his most recent project which was, of course, football.

"Why was someone with so much muscle mass sitting on your hips, assaulting you?"

"Assault is kind of a strong word," John shrugged, and Sherlock flinched. John scratched the back of his neck in a boyish gesture. "Ah, shit. I mean, uh. Not to trivialize getting punched, but."

Sherlock noticed his hands just then. "I see. You didn't start it, though," he said.

John shrugged. "Depends how you define starting."

Ambiguously started. Started the argument? Sherlock thought it over as he turned John's hand over in both of his own, scraped knuckles and dented flesh.

"My sister's gay. Too young for her to be worrying about it, but I'm fairly certain. And half of the blokes here suck each other off after-hours to slough off the tenstion but by God, have any actual suspicious, and they're having five-alarm fires."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that you started this fight because the your football mates think…"

"Does it matter? I just came to tell you I don't think you should watch them practice anymore. I, ah. I won't be attending practice, either."

Sherlock was struck dumb. "You… Quit?"

"Who needs it, you know? I'm in my last year – I could use the extra time to keep up with my studies, anyway. It's not required, anyway."

"You're really disappointed. You like it a lot, and you like being liked. You've always known you play with wankers, but it's never been so overt before. You're disappointed they couldn't wait until after graduation to show you."

John's scraped knuckled clenched and unclenched as if he was warming them up from the cold, or holding the reigns to his temper as if it was a physical beast. Sherlock was deliciously intrigued. "Anything else you want to say?"

"Yes. You're a King's Scholar; I've seen you headed from that direction. You love football, but you've never seen a match." If there was a time to get punched in the face, balance of probability would say this is it: the moment ofter Sherlock deduced someone else's relative povery had always been a dangerous one.

John clenched his jaw. "And?"

"Would you like to?"

John's lip healed up nicely, and his hands, although two points of contact seem like they might leave a scar for the foreseeable future.

True to his word, John stopped playing pick up games with the football lads and started rowing. He's got short arms, but after two weeks, John stops mentioning the perpetual soreness in his shoulders. Sherlock accidentally potices that they will shape up nicely.

At some point, Sherlock started being mindful of keeping at least one chair free of debris so that John has somewhere to sit when he visited, which became less and less of an oddity in a relatively short time.

Sherlock wrote to Mycroft, in his best penmanship and on actual stationary, which is the surest way to soften Mycroft to his will. Dearest Brother, he wrote, smirking in the way he learned to show haughty amusement without exposing his braces.

"What are you writing?" John asked, from a chair that used to belong to Sherlock's microscope and slides when they weren't in use. When John isn't sitting in it, it houses a silly Union Jack pillow that seemed to have migrated into Sherlock's room from somewhere outside of Sherlock's room without his consent.

Sherlock's face shuttered. At some point he'd grown accustomed to John's presence, and John gained the ability to surprise him with a simple reminder of his continued existance. The whole thing is ridiculous. Other people, ordinary people seem to have the innate ability to manage more than one friendship at a time but Sherlock is suddenly in possession of one and he finds himself suitably overwhelmed. Something about John Watson's presence, mundane as it is, throws off his internal temperature. He wants to run studies on the phenomenon of his own biochemistry reacting to someone else's, but he is unable to do that while also trying to ignore it with every fiber of his being.

"Oh, nothing," he dismissed, tapping his fountain pen (again, if he wants anything from Mycroft, and he doesn't have any recent malicious damage against his person to do the trick, he has to be on his best behavior) against some of his spare notes.

"Not nothing," John said, flicking through his textbook with intent, "you were smiling."

"Was not," Sherlock argued, and then felt silly. "I'm writing a letter. To my older brother."

"How chummy of you," John said, trying to stifle his smile. Which was ridiculous, of course. John's smile was a little feral under the surface. Sherlock secretly thought of John as a wolf, playing about being domestic, with his perfect canines wrapped up in the most unassuming, friendly mouth. "Harry would be jealous."

"I am not writing to chat, John!" Sherlock said.

"Heaven forbid," John said, rolling his eyes. "You don't have to sound so scandalized."

Sherlock quieted John with a wave of his hand as he returned to his letter, and John obliged. It was one of his many tolerable qualities. My grasp of this ridiculous sport is limited by my ability to only watch schoolboys at it. I would be much obliged if you could arrange for myself and my research partner further insight. I had hoped…