It was good to be back at St Christopher's with all his friends. Greg Lestrade was a popular boy, Captain of Rugby as his shiny new badge told the world. His shiny new badge pinned on his brand new Captain's blazer. Sixth formers wore royal blue blazers, the lower years wore grey. If you were a prefect or a sport's captain you wore black.

"And we are delighted to welcome a new boy into our upper sixth this term." The headmaster was just finishing up the term notices. Greg looked up at the stage, where the new boy was now standing next to the headmaster. He was a tall boy, impeccably dressed in his black blazer, black waistcoat and grey trousers. His shoes looked so shiny you could have probably seen up his nose. He wasn't handsome, but he was striking, and his eyes were a piercing and bright silvery blue.

"Mycroft is joining us from Harrow School before he goes up to Cambridge next year. Mycroft's younger brother Sherlock is also joining us in the first year."

Next to the tall boy, a much smaller, younger and more slender boy with barely tamed black curly hair scowled out at the assembled school. First years normally didn't get introduced individually. Greg wondered who they were, perhaps a wealthy family, although why the little brother wasn't following his big brother, his rather attractive big brother, to Harrow, was a puzzle.

"Mycroft would you like to tell us a little about yourself?" The older boy smiled at the headmaster and confidently began to speak.

"Thank you headmaster. Good evening, my name is Mycroft Holmes..."

Greg, like the majority wasn't listening to a word of it. Unlike the majority who weren't listening because they didn't care what the new boy had to say, Greg wasn't listening because he was too busy imagining Mycroft with no clothes on.

It was only after undressing the new boy several times that a thought occurred to Greg. When he had arrived earlier that day and found his room there were two names on the door. His own and M HOLMES. No one knew who M Holmes was. But now Greg realised. Mycroft was his new roommate.

"Bad luck Greg, looks like you got stuck with the stiff!" Paul Bradstreet whacked him cheerfully on the head and sat down at the table. "I mean what a fucking geek. Did you hear him?"

"Yeah. I heard him." Greg shoved another piece of lasagne in his mouth. The evening meal was in full swing. The first night before the start of term at St Christopher's. Everyone catching up on six weeks of news from everyone else. Noise.

"My name's Michael and I've already taken my A-levels and I'm only here to see what happens at a school for normal people. Twat!" Paul had really taken a dislike to the new boy.

"Mycroft."

"What?"

"He said his name was Mycroft. Not Michael. Mycroft Holmes."

"Yeah, whatever Greg. Might have known he wouldn't have a normal name." Paul helped himself to a plateful of food.

"Do you think he plays Rugby?" Greg asked hopefully.

"I doubt it. And I'd watch your arse if I were you."

"What?" Greg choked on a mouthful of peas.

"I bet he's queer. Mycroft Homo! You can tell by the hair."

"Really?" Greg subconsciously ran a hand through his own spiky locks. He thought about Mycroft's hair, it was dark and gelled back neatly but didn't look that much different to anyone else's hair.

"Yeah. He's like all neat and he looks like he trims his eyebrows."

"I didn't notice his eyebrows." Which was true. Greg had been too busy looking at the new boy's broad shoulders. And his long legs. And his pale skin.

"And did you see his brother? Whole family of poofs! And the brother's got a girl's name."

"Sherlock? Is that a girl's name?" Greg had never heard the name before, for boy or girl.

"Sounds like one. Hey watch out. Fag alert." Paul nudged Greg and looked over to the door of the great hall where Mycroft and his brother had just been shown in by Professor Fry, the headmaster. The two boys were now wearing casual clothes like everyone else. Sherlock, the younger boy had changed from his uniform into black skinny fit jeans, a purple checked shirt and a pair of Vans that looked like they were wounded. Mycroft was wearing dark blue jeans and a pale pink checked shirt, tucked in. He still looked smart, almost adult. They were shown to the house table, Professor Fry guiding Mycroft with a paternal hand on his shoulder. The only empty seats were next to Greg and Paul. Once Sherlock and Mycroft were seated the headmaster left them to it.

"Hi. I'm Greg Lestrade!" He held out a hand. Both new boys ignored it. Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"I believe we are sharing a room." It was a statement not a question.

"Yes?"

"Your friend has misgivings about this because he believes I'm homosexual and I will be after your arse."

"Er...well..." Greg went red. Paul went redder.

"Believe me. I am just as unhappy as you are with this arrangement. I came here on the understanding I would have my own room. Sherlock are you eating that or making friends with it?" The younger boy was pushing food around his plate with his knife.

"I don't make friends." It sounded as though his voice was breaking. He looked significantly at his brother and then glared at the rest of the table. The statement was perfectly believable.

"Quite." Mycroft helped himself to a large bowl of chocolate pudding and custard and the meal continued.

"So Mike, do you play Rugby?" Paul tried to break the awkward silence.

"Can't you tell by looking at him that he doesn't?" Sherlock spoke scornfully. "He's too fat and unfit to play sports. Are you stupid?"

"Nobody calls me Mike. And as my brother pointed out, I don't really have the inclination for sports." The tall boy finished his pudding and stood up. "You were quite correct in your first assumption though Paul, I am homosexual. I'm sure your father will be very pleased with how your detective abilities are coming along. Goodnight."

"How did he? My father? What?" Paul was left open mouthed. His father was the Assistant Police Commissioner for West Yorkshire and was hoping his son would follow him in to the force.

"He deduced it." Sherlock followed his brother, leaving his food uneaten. As they left the dining hall, Greg noticed that Sherlock was holding his brother's hand.

"Fucking freaks!" Paul spat after them. "I'd ask for a different room Greg. Greg?"

Greg was thoughtfully watching the two boys as they left the hall.

"Yeah. Look. I've just remembered I need to go and do something." Greg hurried out of the hall, to his secret place.

There was precious little privacy at school. Even if you locked yourself in a bathroom someone was always banging on the door telling you to hurry up. There were always people. There was always noise. No chance to be on your own with just yourself. Which was strange because it was the loneliest place Greg had ever been. Yes he had lots of friends. Everyone liked him. He was Good Old Greg. Rugby Greg. He never got the best marks, but he was never bottom of the class either. The teachers liked him because he was polite and attentive, but the other guys liked him because he wasn't a suck up. But he still felt alone.

Greg had found the hollow in the tree by accident. From the front the tree looked whole and solid, but a quick look around it showed that there was an enormous hollow in the back of the trunk. Big enough for him, perhaps big enough for someone else as well. Someone he hadn't met yet, who would want to share it with him.

There was a lot of wanking going on at St. Christopher's. Eight hundred boys aged eleven to eighteen and no girls. There was a lot of porn being passed around; everyone had magazines hidden not so subtly under their mattresses. Even Greg. He had the obligatory copy of the Playboy Beach Volleyball Edition. Everyone had. The near naked girls in the magazine did nothing for him. More often than not Greg found himself jerking off over a copy of Rugby World.

That's what Greg liked. And that's why he had found Mycroft so distracting. Greg liked big tall guys. Mycroft was tall; he was nearly as tall as Professor Fry, who had to duck when he went through doorways. If Greg was being totally honest, he'd always had a little bit of a thing for Professor Fry. Under the neat clothes, Greg was sure Mycroft was well built, but not fat. Greg wondered what he'd look like naked, if he'd look like one of the guys in the magazine.

He pushed his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, his cock springing free and upwards. It was a cool evening but the lazy strokes of his hand soon warmed him up as he thought about his new roommate naked. He thought about Mycroft's cock. How would it feel to stroke it? Would it be big or small? He decided it would be long and thick like the rest of Mycroft. Fantasy Mycroft. He'd only met the guy a few hours ago. This was wrong. Greg was wrong. But he didn't care. He closed his eyes.

Paul Bradstreet had warned Greg to watch out for Mycroft. He wondered if anyone would warn Mycroft to watch out for Greg?