Genesis

by

thedragonaunt

Chapter One

The chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce took the slip road off the A1 and circumnavigated the roundabout, taking the exit for the A41 towards Central London, with its two passengers, sitting side by side on the leather upholstery of the back seat. The two brothers did not speak, one looking straight ahead, the other gazing morosely out through the side window at the unfamiliar landscape, as it rolled past.

'Oh, for goodness sake, stop snivelling, can't you?' the elder brother snapped, at last. 'And wipe your bloody nose!'

Sherlock looked up at his brother and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his brand new bluer.

'Oh, good God, don't you have a handkerchief?' Mycroft hissed.

'No, I don't,' replied Sherlock, petulantly. Mycroft put his hand to his breast pocket and pulled out a clean, white, neatly folded handkerchief, shook it out and thrust it at his little brother. Sherlock took it, blew his nose, noisily, wiped the mucus, roughly, from his jacket cuff and then held the handkerchief out to his big brother.

'I don't want it back now, you idiot! Put it in your pocket and remember to use it, not your sleeve,' Mycroft instructed him. Sherlock scrunched up the handkerchief and thrust it into the pocket of his greyers, also brand new and being worn for the first time since he had tried them on at the school shop, back in June, when he had come down for the New Pupils' Picnic, in his last term at Prep School. Sherlock Holmes was about to embark on the next phase of his education. He was on his way to Harrow School, for his first term. He would be joining the school as a member of The Park, one of the oldest houses, which would be his home for thirty-five weeks of every year for the next five years.

Sherlock's parents had been 'otherwise engaged', so his older brother, Mycroft, had been given the onerous task of delivering him to his house master, on this momentous day in his life, and neither brother was too thrilled about that situation. Mycroft was an Old Etonian, about to begin his third and final year as an under-graduate at Keeble College, Cambridge. He would rather be anywhere else than having to baby-sit his snot-nosed sibling, who had insisted on blubbing, the whole of the way from their family home in Hertfordshire. Sherlock, on the other hand would have rather been anywhere else, too.

He hadn't particularly enjoyed prep school but he had, at least, made a couple of friends there – the other boys referred to them as the 'Geek Squad' – but neither of those boys had applied to Harrow, so Sherlock was about to be deposited at a place where he knew absolutely no one. And he was not the sort who made friends easily. Actually, he was acquainted with some of the boys with whom he would be sharing a house for the next five years. He had made their acquaintance, if one could call it that, on the rugby pitches of the many other prep schools that his school had played against in the prep school rugby division. His exploits on the rugby pitch had mostly consisted of him being dived upon by up to fifteen boys from the opposing side and then carried off, to spend the rest of his Saturday afternoon either in sick bay or, more often, at A and E. He actually held the school record for the number of trips to hospital in one rugby season –it was the only school record he did hold.

He had begged his mother to tell the school to excuse him rugby but she, having never witnessed a rugby match, had no idea how brutal a game it could be and told him he would soon get used to it. Sherlock was not ideally built for rugby, being tall and skinny, but he was fast, so he was always used as a winger. However, that meant he was expected to score tries, which made him a target for all the forwards of the opposing teams, who felt duty bound to flatten him. The full backs on his team were supposed to protect him but he was a 'geek' and not a 'jock' so they did not feel overly protective towards him. Sometimes it was just more fun to watch him disappear under a pile of bodies. Matron eventually took pity on him, or perhaps on herself, as she had been required to spend many a Saturday evening at A and E, watching him get patched up, so she began to keep him Off Games rather longer than was strictly necessary and would give him a library pass, which permitted him to spend his Saturday afternoons in the warmth and comfort of the school library, reading science journals or books about criminology or famous criminals, like Jack the Ripper, or just to hide away where no one would find him.

Sherlock had no desire to be reacquainted with any of these boys but he already knew that three of his old nemeses were members of his new house in his new school. They had all met up, last summer, at the aforementioned Picnic. He had been accompanied on that occasion by his mother. She had been in her element there, enjoying the attentions of the house master, the house tutors and several of the other new boys' fathers, much to the annoyance of the house master's wife and many of the other boys' mothers. Tall, elegant and beautiful, she attracted men like wasps around a jam pot. It was what she did best. Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon sulking in a corner, whilst the other new boys reacquainted themselves with their fellows whom they'd previously met through the social network of prep school sports. They seemed to have the ability to form instant bonds of friendship – something which Sherlock had never managed to fathom. He had spent the entire summer dreading this day when he would be thrown in amongst them and have to sink or swim.

The car slid to a halt, in the vicinity of The Park. There were lots of other cars parked all around or manoeuvring through the narrow streets of Harrow-on-the-Hill, as eight hundred boys were delivered back to school by their relatives or guardians. Mycroft got out of the car and came round to Sherlock's door, opened it and told him to get out. He then led the way along the pavement, followed by Sherlock and the chauffeur, who carried Sherlock's sports bag and dragged his school trunk, on castors, to the front door of his school house. Once inside, Mycroft was greeted by a House Monitor, a senior boy, just two years Mycroft's junior.

'Good afternoon. sir,' the young man addressed Mycroft as he had the relatives of all the other boys who had arrived that day. 'Who have you brought to us today?'

'Holmes,' Mycroft answered, looking bored. The monitor consulted his clip board.

'Absalom!' he called, and a smaller boy, who had been sitting with other smaller boys on a bench, just inside the entrance lobby, jumped up and came over. Sherlock vaguely remembered him from the picnic day.

'Holmes, this is your shepherd. He'll be looking after you for your first two weeks here, show you the ropes and what not. He'll show you to your room.'

Absalom, gave Sherlock a crooked grin and led the way up the stairs. Sherlock followed him, then came the chauffeur, still dragging the trunk, although Absalom had relieved him of the sports bag, and Mycroft brought up the rear, looking around with the mildly disapproving stare of an ex-member of 'Slough Comp', as Eton was referred to by all Harrovians. They arrived at a room which contained two beds, two chairs, two wardrobe/chests of drawers and two desks, with book shelves above. One of the beds had already been claimed; it was newly made up with fresh bed linen and a trunk was open and half empty on the floor beside it. Some books and personal items had been arranged on the book shelves and the open wardrobe door revealed clothes, neatly hung on wooden hangers.

'Looks like someone already bagged that one. He seems to have scarpered but I expect you'll get to meet him soon enough,' Absalom commented. 'This one will be yours, then. Best get unpacked and sorted out. Tea is at four o'clock. I'll come up for you then.' He dropped Sherlock's sports bag onto the floor next to his bed and, grinning again, left them to it. The chauffeur positioned the school trunk next to the bed, also, then turned to Sherlock, removed his cap and offered him his hand.

'Good luck, Master Sherlock,' he said, as he shook the boy's hand. 'I'll be back to collect you for your first Exeat, in about a month.' Sherlock's eyes began to fill with tears again at this small gesture of kindness from his family's employee, at which Mycroft scowled. Turning to Mycroft, the chauffeur said,

'I'll wait in the car, Master Mycroft,' and, replacing his cap, left the room. Mycroft strolled over to Sherlock's desk, pulled out the chair and sat, elegantly crossing one leg over the other.

'Come on. You'd better get on with it or you'll be late for tea.'

Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and set to the task of unpacking his school trunk into the drawers and cupboards of his new home.

ooOoo

At about five to four, when Absalom, Sherlock's shepherd, arrived to escort them down to the Private Side Hall, the room where the New Pupils' Tea would be served, Sherlock had managed to stuff all his belongings, one way or another, into his wardrobe and chest of drawers. His books were placed, willy-nilly on his book shelves and his sports kit bag was on top of the wardrobe. Mycroft still sat at by the desk and had not lifted a finger to assist him, just watched with disdain his attempts at housekeeping.

Absalom led them down stairs to Private Side Hall and then left them, as he went to join other Remove boys, who were walking around the room with plates of sandwiches and cakes, serving the adults and young boys, and some girls, who were siblings of the new boys. A lady in a smart grey trouser suit was serving tea to anyone who approached the tea table, where she stood, and also juice to the younger members of the assembled host. She happened to catch Sherlock's eye and smiled but he just stared at her and then continued to look around at the other people in the room. Mycroft was approached by the house master, Mr Wilson.

'Good afternoon. Mr Holmes, I presume?' he asked.

'Indeed,' said Mycroft with a pompous smile and a slight bow, shaking the house master's proffered hand.' Turning to Sherlock, the HSM said,

'Did you have a good summer, Holmes?'

'Yes, sir, thank you, sir,' replied Sherlock, though his facial expression did not match the sentiment of the words.

'Good!' said the HSM, cheerfully, and turned to engage Mycroft in conversation. For want of anything better to do, Sherlock wandered over to the tea table and stood in line to be served. When it was his turn, the lady in the grey suit said,

'What would you like, sweetie?' Sherlock was tempted to say he would rather like to go home but he knew that was not an option so he asked, politely, for a cup of tea. The lady poured it and invited him to add his own milk and sugar.

'You are Holmes, aren't you?' she asked. He nodded, mutely.

'I'm Matron. I think we did meet in the summer but you probably don't remember,' she explained. He shook his head.

'I will be having a little chat with all you Shells this evening, after supper, in my sitting room, just to tell you all the things you need to know about my role in the house. There'll be hot chocolate and marshmallows. Do you like those?' she asked. He nodded. Then someone else wanted tea, so he took his cup and saucer and went to stand in a corner, out of the way, to drink his tea.

Eventually, the house master tapped his cup with a spoon to bring the room to silent attention.

'Ladies, gentlemen and young people,' he began, 'the time has come for you to leave your boys in our care. I can assure you that my staff and I will do everything in our power to ensure that their transition to boarding life is as smooth and seamless as possible. Remember, we are just a phone call away. If you mums, dads and siblings would care to make your way out of the house, a monitor will take you on to your meeting with the Head Master.' The parents of the other boys began to make their way towards the exit, with lots of hugs and last minute words of advice for the boys being left behind, and Mycroft approached Sherlock.

'Look here, old man, here is some pocket money. Try to make it last until your exeat, at least.' Mycroft pressed a twenty pound note into his hand, as he shook it, and then turned and walked out of the room. The twelve new Shells and the twelve Removes, who were their shepherds, were left in the Hall, with the HSM, the House Tutors and Matron. Then Mr Wilson spoke,

'Right, chaps, you have about half an hour, now, before you go for your first assembly as pupils at Harrow. Use it wisely. Go and finish unpacking. If you have any medication, please give it to Matron and if you have any pocket money, bring it to Queue now, in my study.'

Sherlock followed the HSM to his study and stood in front of his desk whilst the man wrote his name in a large ledger, recorded the deposit of £20 and took the note from him.

'Are you unpacked, Holmes?' he asked.

'Yes, sir', he replied.

'Got anything to give to Matron?'

'No, sir.'

'Good, then you are a free man for the next twenty minutes. Go and find something useful to do.' Sherlock, considering himself dismissed, left the study and walked back up the stairs to his room. As he walked into the room, he was confronted by a group of boys, all sitting on and around the bed of his roommate. He stopped in the doorway, taken by surprise. The boys all stopped talking and turned and looked at him. There was a short pause, and then one boy gasped,

'Oh, look who you are bunking in with, Morris. It's The Geek from Brambletye' Just my luck, he thought. I'm bunking in with a jock. The jock in question was built like a brick outhouse – clearly a prop forward – and had been instrumental, on many occasions, in arranging Sherlock's Saturday evening entertainment. As all the boys stood up and turned to look at him, Sherlock did an about turn and bolted from the room, down the stairs, through the hall way and out of the front door. Once outside, he had no idea which way to go, so he randomly turned right and ran down hill until he came to another right turn, which he took as well, and continued to run downhill, until the road ran out and the landscape opened up into a wide green expanse. He slowed down and then stopped, looking around. Panic abated, he was beginning to regret doing a runner. He had a vague notion that this might be the school sports centre. He seemed to remember that the back garden of his house gave direct access to this green space, so he reasoned that, if he made another right turn, he would have gone round three sides of a square and then one more right turn would bring him up to the back of the house. He might then be able to sneak back in, before he was missed. Following this logic, he set off across the school golf course, hopeful of finding his new home with relative ease. Sadly, Sherlock's luck did not seem to be with him that day.

'You, boy! What are you doing here?' a voice called out. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to see a man, in jeans, a sweater and a cycling jacket, striding towards him, across the grass. He stood, feeling apprehensive as the man approached. He had short, light-brown hair and a short-trimmed, ginger beard and moustache. He looked quite young, maybe late twenties, early thirties. When he reached Sherlock, he stopped and looked down at him, in quite a friendly way.

'I'm guessing you're a new Shell, yes?' he asked.

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock nodded.

'Which house are you?' Sherlock told him.

'So how did you get out here?'

'Don't really know, sir.' Much to his deep shame, Sherlock felt the tears welling in his eyes again and he tried to blink them away but that just made them more obvious.

'Well, you are a bit out of your way, boy. What's your name?' the man asked.

'Holmes, sir,' Sherlock squeaked, past the lump in his throat.

'Well, Holmes, I'm Mr Anders. I'm a beak, Sculpture teacher, actually. If you come along with me, I'll show you the way back to your house.'

'Please, sir. Please would you show me the way to the garden? I would really rather they didn't know I'd been out,' Sherlock gave Mr Anders a pleading look. The beak looked back at him, weighing up what the boy had requested then made a decision. He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and turned him around.

'Come on, then,' he said, and Sherlock detected a slight twang of a Northern accent. 'You'll probably get me sacked but I'll take you to the back door.' Mr Anders led Sherlock back up the hill and they eventually came to a pathway which led along the back of his house. Just as he was beginning to think he had made it back undiscovered, the house matron – the lady in the grey suit – suddenly appeared on the path ahead. She spotted him immediately and stopped short, looking exceedingly relieved.

'Oh, Holmes, where have you been? We've been looking everywhere!' she declared. Mr Anders gave Sherlock an apologetic look and spoke to the lady.

'I found him wandering about on the golf course, matron. I think he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.'

'Well, thank goodness he ran into you, Mr Anders. Thank you so much for bringing him back. Come along, Sherlock, let's get you in.' She took him back to The Park, through the garden and the back door. Once inside the house, they went straight to the HSM's study, where the relief and explanation scenario was re-enacted.. The house master turned to him and gave him a long, concerned look.

'Now, you know you are not in trouble, don't you, Holmes? You are in Grace for the first two weeks of your time here, so we can cut you some slack but you really must promise me you will not have any more adventures, is that clear?' he concluded.

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock conceded.

'Right, well, you'd better cut along or you'll be late for Speech Room.' Sherlock left the study, to be met by his shepherd, who had been waiting outside the room.

'What did you scarper for, you twit?' he asked, angrily. 'You nearly got me in Skew. I'm supposed to take care of you. Anyway, come on.' Absalom marched off towards the school hall and Sherlock trotted after him, to keep up.

Reba Everett turned to the house master.

'I think we are going to have to keep a close eye on young Master Holmes,' she said.

'Yes,' agreed Mr Wilson. 'God, people think these boys are so privileged. Materially, yes, but emotionally? Positively neglected, some of them.'

'Well, that's where we come in, isn't it,' she reminded him.

I've taken a bit of a liberty here, with poetic licence, putting Sherlock in BC's school and house so, if I've upset any purists, I apologise. But this is just a plot device to ground this fic in the real world.