Sherlock hated swimming.

He hated physical exercise in general: what was the point of running around, getting all sweaty, burning energy that he hardly had to burn. Surely there were more important things to do? PE may be needed by those who decided to spend their free time collecting excess fats around their bodies but Sherlock was (fortunately) one of the lucky ones who never seemed to put on weight. It probably had something to do with the fact that despite being a teenage boy he hardly ate, but it still made PE all the more pointless.

He had tried to get Mycroft to write him a note. He was an adult, he could vouch for his 16-year-old brother. But no, the smug bastard made him do this pointless lesson anyway. It was probably because he wanted to make Sherlock suffer as he had when he was at school (despite the fact that Sherlock knew he had never done a PE lesson in his life).

And that's why he hated that he was now stood at the edge of the local swimming pool, his classmates all gathered round, all trying to push each other into the icy depths and laughing at the ridiculousness of their tiny school swimming speedos that they were all subjected to wear. What idiots.

Sherlock peered over the side of the water, swallowing the small lump that had formed in his throat and hoping that this would all be over with quickly. He hated these lessons at the best of times but the rota for what sports they would be doing in lessons had switched; a whole term of being submerged into the water and forced to swim to the bottom to pick up a plastic brick.

Looking around, he spotted the teacher, a tall willowy woman with white hair and the standard yellow and red shorts and polo shirt of the pool life guards.

Hair colour suggested late 50s but depth of wrinkles could mean early sixties. Small pupils dictate tiredness, perhaps from an argument with her long time husband if the lack of ring and small band of white skin on her ring finger are anything to go by. Slept at a friend's house in their guest room last night. Hard and unfamiliar mattress, shown by her stiff posture and the lack of neck rubbing that would be common if sleeping on a sofa.

Dull.

'Right boys,' she said, her voice masking any trace of the deductions that Sherlock had previously made, 'We need to get you into groups. I'll ask you individually about your previous swimming experience and place you according to that. When I call your name on the register, please come here. Anderson.'

The rat-faced boy walked up to the teacher, smugly telling her that he had been having lessons since he was 4, despite the fact that he had the beginnings of a beer belly forming, quite impressive for a year 11. Sherlock hated that boy with a passion. He was so unintelligent, prejudice and such a bully it was hard to believe that he was real. And yet here he was.

Other boys in Sherlock's class were called up to the teacher, all stating their swimming abilities. Finally, 'Holmes' was called from the register.

'I've never had a lesson before,' he deadpanned, giving the teacher his best blank face as he towered over her. He was a bit of an awkward teenager to say the least, all skin and bones and not yet growing into his long limbs.

'Oh. Ok, go in the first lane and wait for my instructions.'

Sherlock did as he was told; he didn't want another lecture from his parents about how they'd send him to another school if he argued with a teacher again. He walked to the first lane where a small, mouse-like boy was holding onto the side like if he didn't he would instantly be dragged under. Sherlock didn't know his name; it wasn't important.

Cautiously, he lowered his body into the water, hissing slightly as the cool water rippled against his skin. However, by the time his shoulders were submerged into the pool he was used to the sensation. Just as he was getting prepared to dunk his head into the water, a tidal wave of water washed over him, making him well and truly wet.

Looking to the source of the splash, the face of a blonde boy emerged from the water. He smiled at Sherlock.

'Sorry about that,' he said, swimming to hang onto the side of the pool, 'I thought it was better to get it over with.'

He nervously rubbed the back of his head and chuckled a little bit. Sherlock frowned at this boy. He was in his class. Judging from his body (muscular but small, compact was a good word) he was a natural athlete: what was he doing in Sherlock's lane?

'Are you in the right lane?' Sherlock asked, watching as the boy smiled a little more cautiously.

'Yeah, I am,' he said, pulling his head away from the side while holding onto it with his hands, 'I like sport but I've never gotten into swimming. I don't like thinking about how many people have already been in this pool.'

He shivered a little which made Sherlock's lips twitch a bit. John turned to face Sherlock fully and then extended a hand.

'John Watson.'

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said after eyeing the hand warily.

'No need to be suspicious mate, unlike all my friends, I won't try to dunk you or anything.'

John sent Sherlock a reassuring smile while funnily enough did make Sherlock feel better.

'Right, lane 1, you get the floats,' the instructor said, tossing them all a blue rectangular float, 'I need you to hold on to the float and kick your legs till you reach the other end.'

'This is so patronizing,' John whispered to Sherlock as he positioned himself.

'She just needs to take out the frustration from her failing marriage on teenage boys, it's nothing to get embarrassed about,' Sherlock whispered back, earning a puzzled look from John. They kicked off the wall but the pair positioned themselves so they were next to each other, the other boy swimming out in front, desperate to get out of the first lane.

'Oh... do you know her then?' John asked awkwardly.

Sherlock sensed John's discomfort.

'No, I deduced it,' he said, his long legs having to kick a little faster than he thought to keep up with John's obviously powerful ones, 'It's quite simple really.'

A pause.

'What can you deduce about me?'

Sherlock looked at John's face. The water from the boy in front's legs splashed a little, causing small droplets to splatter all over his face and his eyes were bright with curiosity.

Well...he asked for it.

'John Watson, you go to St Hamish's School for boys, your body suggests that you take regular trips to the gym as well as partaking in various school clubs but those have recently been put on hold due to a leg injury caused by the sport. Due to the nature of the injury I would say that it was in a rugby game. You've been recommended to continue with PE lessons, especially swimming due to the slightly more relaxing nature of the sport and not for your previously stated reasons. Anyone who jumps into a pool obviously has previous experience in the sport. You attend St Hamish's because you can't afford to attend the other private schools in the area, shown by the slightly frayed drawstring on your standard school issue swimwear. Conclusion? Second hand.'

Sherlock looked at John's face. It was flushed slightly, but there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.

'That...was amazing,' he breathed.

'Really?' Sherlock asked, slightly bemused at the uncommon reaction.

'Well, yeah! You could tell all that about me a glance? That's fantastic!'

'That's not what people normally say.'

'Oh yeah, what do they normally say?'

'Piss off.'

The rest of the lesson went without any incidents minus Anderson pretending to drown, only to kick the side of the pool, scream, swallow a load of pool water and start to choke (Sherlock found this very amusing while John scolded him with a smile).

The pair continued to talk about their lives while continuously swimming relaxed lengths. Sherlock decided that lane one wasn't that that bad at all. After finishing their lesson, the gaggle of school boys all hauled themselves out of the pool and into the changing rooms. Each went to a separate shower, slinging their towels over the door of their cubicle while continuing the standard male banter that Sherlock found terribly mundane. Sherlock and John continued talking until they walked into their own cubicle, choosing ones next to each other.

While in the shower, Sherlock considered his new friendship (if you could call it that) with John Watson. No-one had ever bothered to try and befriend him before so he didn't really have any data to compare with. After washing his hair thoroughly and then thinking about the boy in the shower next door, Sherlock turned off the water and reached for his towel.

Shit. It was gone.

Sherlock groaned loudly and slumped against the door. He bet it was Anderson and his neanderthal friends. They always had it out for him.

'Sherlock, you ok mate?' he heard from next door.

'They've taken my towel John,' Sherlock said, letting out another groan as he realized he'd have to walk through the changing rooms naked. So much for his self-esteem.

There was silence from his friend and then another towel was thrown over the top of the dividing wall. Sherlock caught it in his hands and turned it over for a while. It was a light lilac colour and smelt of washing powder, unlike Sherlock's own towel that always smelt like a new shop (he swore they never actually washed anything in his house, just replaced it with an identical copy).

'John, I can't take this,' Sherlock said, realizing that it would now be John walking around in the nude.

'No worries Sherlock, Just give it back later. I'm almost dry anyway.'

Sherlock felt the towel. Judging by the dampness, it was obvious that John had just used it to dry his hair a little bit.

'Er, thanks John. I'll...give it back...later,' Sherlock said, awkwardly wrapping the huge towel around his shoulders.

'No problem,' came the voice from the other side of the wall.

Sherlock made his way back to his locker, retrieved his clothes and made his way to the changing area. He put his briefs on before taking the towel off his shoulders to avoid any embarrassment. He had never been interested in the going ons of his body but that didn't mean he was comfortable with other people seeing it.

'So freak, where'd you pikey that towel from?' Anderson sneered as he tried to tower over Sherlock in his standard school shirt and baggy trousers.

'None of your business Anderson,' Sherlock spat, 'I do feel that I need to get some revenge somehow but I feel that it'll be enough when your girlfriend finds out about how one Sally Donovan from Hadenfield Girls School has been cleaning your carpets.'

'W-what?' Anderson spluttered, leaving Sherlock with a very smug grin.

'Well, I don't know what else she must be doing when her knees look like that,' he drawled.

Anderson looked like he was going to punch Sherlock in the face until a loud voice made them stop.

'Gentlemen, please, calm down.'

Sherlock turned to look at the source of the voice and tell them to mind their own business, only to flush and widen his eyes when he realized John was stood in front of him. Stark naked. He averted his eyes.

Anderson opened and closed his mouth like a fish and, once he finally realized that he didn't have anything intelligent to say, walked away with an air of shame.

'Honestly, we're old enough not to have these childish fights,' John said, turning to go to his locker and retrieve his clothes, giving Sherlock a nice view of his rear. When the boy turned back round, Sherlock avoided his eyes, body and general direction and continued to get changed, hoping that the fluttery feeling in his stomach wasn't visible.

Unfortunately, John decided to dump his stuff next to Sherlock's and proceeded to get dressed next to him.

'Anderson is such a douchebag,' John muttered, 'Sorry about your towel.'

'It's fine,' Sherlock said quickly, wanting to move on from the whole topic of towels, 'Thanks.'

He looked up to see John smiling at him and he found himself smiling back.

'One sec mate, your hair looks a bit odd,' John said, taking his hands and running them gently over Sherlock's damp curls. Sherlock panicked a bit at the touch but forced himself not to pull back. Once he relaxed a little, he realized that it wasn't that bad. It was almost...good.

'That's better,' John said quietly, pulling his hands away and smiling at Sherlock again. It was at this point that the dark haired boy realized how close they were stood and how little clothing they were wearing, a thought that made his stomach flop over.

Sherlock turned away from the blonde boy who had leant him a towel and saved him from a nasty confrontation with Anderson and carried on dressing himself.

A/N: Thanks for reading guys :) If you want more, let me know!