Inspired by a poem called "Whale Songs of the Pacific" by Sora-Seraph on DA. Read it. It's phenomenal.

i.

Listen.

"It's going to be fine, sweetie," John's mother said as she smoothed her warm, callused hand over his brow. "You'll have a wonderful time. You'll make new friends and see the world. This is an amazing opportunity."

His room was dark, layered in shadows that scattered like mice as the headlights from passing cars burst through the blinds. He was lying on his side, blankets drawn up to his chin, while his mother sat on the bed next to him. Part of him wanted to tell her he wasn't a child anymore—he didn't need her to coddle him—but the rest of him felt small and scared and needed her hands carding through his hair more than anything. He couldn't see her face in the dark, but he could imagine her expression: kind and a bit tired. That was how she always looked these days, since Dad finally gave up the pretence and left, howling in the middle of the night, and Harry started stumbling home just hours before dawn.

He smiled thinly even though he knew she couldn't see him. "I know it is. I'm just nervous."

"This is your best chance, John," his mum whispered. "You're going to be something great. I just know it."

John swallowed around the tightness in his throat and nodded. He needed to be brave. He would be brave.

For all of them.

ii.

Listen.

The academy looked like something out of a dream.

John had read all the pamphlets and done the Google image searches, but nothing had prepared him for what it was like to actually arrive on campus. A large, lofty building—he shied away from the more applicable term: castle—perched on a rocky cliff, surrounded by a smattering of other, smaller buildings. Its grey stone blended in with the overcast sky, giving it a hazy appearance. It contrasted heavily with the green, mossy grass sprawling out around it, covered in a thin veil of mist. Everything from the elegant spires to the wrought-iron gate screamed old and prestigious. Gargoyles and statues of women with shrouded faces peered at him with empty, stone eyes. The roar of waves and wind buzzed constantly in John's ears, briefly disorienting him. He was used to ambulance sirens and barking dogs, not the sound of a tempestuous English sea. The air was a brutal mixture of salt and cold, invigorating him even as it stung his nose with every breath.

John had heard that the Sonitum et Furore Academy of Music used to be a monastery before it was converted into a school, but now he believed it. He'd never seen anything as solemnly beautiful as this.

He adjusted his rucksack nervously on his shoulder and glanced back towards the car. His mum was standing by the passenger door with her hands clasped, silent tears streaming down her face as two men—stewards who worked for the academy—juggled his luggage. He glanced around to make certain no students were nearby before turning and running to her. She caught him in her open arms and hugged him tightly to her.

"I'll miss you, sweetie," she whispered into his hair.

"I'll miss you too, mum." He squeezed her firmly and tried to ignore his burning eyes. He pushed her away after a moment that was far too short and smiled. "I'll write whenever I can and tell you all about my new friends. I'll be back before you know it." The lie tasted sour on his tongue.

A flash of black caught his eye, and he spun about. "Oi, I'll carry that!"

The stewards had pulled his clarinet case from the backseat and were seconds away from hurling it on top of his other bags. With a shrug, they laid it on the ground and allowed him to jog over and haul it up by the handle. He gave it an affection pat before turning back to his mum.

She gave him one last hug and then squared her shoulders as if steeling herself. "Be great, John. Be as great as you can be."

Just as he opened his mouth, the stewards coughed impatiently and started making their way towards the gate with his bags, sans case, in tow.

John trailed after them but paused long enough to call back, "I will, mum. I promise."

As he passed over the threshold, he looked up at the archway that marked the entrance to campus and saw the academy's motto chiselled into the wizened stone.

Musicae Aut Mors.

iii.

Listen.

"No, no, no, no!"

Sherlock growled impatiently and wrenched his bow from the strings with an unearthly screech. Professor Woods flinched at the noise, and Sherlock grinned wickedly. He could hear the other students grumbling around him, but that only made his smile grow.

"You cannot simply decide to play your own private solo in the middle of a piece!" the professor shrieked, brandishing his baton like a sword. He was a squat man with a florid face and a stuffy brown suit that reeked perpetually of mothballs. He stood behind the conductor's podium at the front of the stage, just barely tall enough to peer over it. The dim lighting made his sagging face look like melted candle wax. "You may be first chair, but this is still an orchestra. You must play together with the others, not whatever notes pop into your head."

"But this piece is dull," Sherlock whinged, tossing his bow impatiently onto the stand before him. The sound of wood hitting metal rang satisfyingly in the air. He would never abuse his beloved Stradivarius violin that way, but he had loads of replacement bows in his room. He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. "There's no life to it. It's another boring hymn written by boring monks to praise a boring, imaginary deity. My brain is rotting from the utter tedium of it."

"Mister. Holmes." Professor Woods was audibly grinding his teeth. "You will play whatever pieces I tell you to and keep your juvenile commentary to yourself. This is a learning environment, and no matter how much you may think you know better, you will follow my instruction."

"But I do know better," Sherlock sneered. "It's incontestable fact that I'm the most talented student in this entire academy." He gestured grandly to the thirty blank faces seated in a semicircle around him. "The others grind out anything you place in front of them and never think twice about it. Half of them don't know the difference between allegretto and allegro. How am I to derive any pleasure from playing with this lot of imbecilic troglodytes?"

"Mister Holmes, you—"

"Oh, just admit it. There isn't a single student in this school who's worthy of playing on the same stage as me."

There was a beat of tense silence.

Then a door at the back of the auditorium squeaked open.

iv.

Listen.

It had taken John over an hour to find his way from his new dorm room (a wardrobe-sized space with a bare bed and a single small bureau) to the appropriate classroom, but considering how many dimly-lit corridors the academy had, he considered that a personal achievement. The stewards had led him to the front office and then promptly disappeared, leaving him to manage his luggage on his own. A harried-looking secretary had thrust his schedule and an extremely unhelpful map of campus into his hands before ushering him and his things out the door. It seemed he was expected to locate his classes on his own.

The academy was as intimidating on the inside as it was on the outside. The walls were covered in faded paintings and tapestries depicting hunting scenes. There were thankfully electric lights in most of the stone corridors, but some were illuminated only by what light managed to spill through the narrow windows. If nothing else, he could certainly say his new school had atmosphere. He half-expected to encounter a vampire or a banshee in one of the deserted rooms.

John flexed his fingers around the handle of his clarinet case as he stared at the imposing wood door that led to Performance Room #4. Beyond it, his new classmates waited, the people who would hopefully become his friends for the next two years as he attempted to enter the competitive world of professional music. Most people thought of pop stars and tattooed rock bands when the term was mentioned, but the spots in the big opera houses were just as heavily coveted. This was John's opportunity to snag one for himself. Sonitum et Furore—or Sonnet Academy, as it was more colloquially known—was the most esteemed music school in England. If anything could give him a shot at a career as a clarinetist, this was it.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, he braced his shoulder against the door and pushed. Unfortunately, the hinges had recently been oiled, and it slid open far more easily than he'd anticipated. The door emitted a high squeak that echoed throughout the auditorium, and John stumbled forward, only barely managing to keep his balance. Thirty-two heads turned to stare at him from the stage on the far end of the room, the sound of rustling fabric filling the air. He froze and felt hot blood seep into his cheeks. Whispers broke out a moment later, and his face quickly went from hot to nuclear. He straightened up and shifted from foot to foot. He briefly considered waving, but then he discarded the idea as too awkward for words.

The auditorium was medium-sized and shaped like a rounded triangle. Heavy red curtains—well, he assumed they were red under the generous layer of dust coating them—hung around a semi-circular stage upon which his fellow students sat in black folding chairs. Golden chandeliers dripping with cobwebs provided the only light in the room, casting harsh shadows everywhere. The air smelt vaguely musty with a hint of the nearby sea. About fifty rows of theatre seats spread out towards the back wall, which was lined with broken desks, tables and old boxes. It seemed the auditorium doubled as a dumping ground for everything the academy didn't need anymore. He tried not to think too hard about what that meant for him.

The whispering was beginning to irritate him, so John decided he might as well plunge right into the fray. He picked his way through the detritus to the centre aisle and began to trot dutifully down it.

Before he got halfway to the stage, a boy with pale skin and a shock of black curls stood up from the spot John recognised as the first violin's chair.

"Not a scholarship student, despite his appearance," the boy droned in a deep, dry voice. "His clothes are new but not brand-name, so someone without a lot of money was trying to make a good first impression. He comes from a working-class family with an absent parent and an alcoholic older brother, judging by the state of his shoes. He had ambitions to study medicine, but his family couldn't afford to send him to the proper preparatory schools. Music is his last shot at glory, so to speak."

John skidded to a halt and stared at the boy. He fleetingly wondered if he'd just encountered a psychic, but then a dowdy, older man who was clearly the professor rounded on the pale boy and shouted, "Holmes, I've had enough of you for one day! This class was not designed to give you opportunities to flaunt your observation skills! You will stay behind after lecture tomorrow and sort sheet music as punishment."

"What, couldn't think up a punishment for today?" the boy said in a tone that oscillated between ennui and disdain.

"Oh, no." The professor clasped his hands together with obvious glee. "Today you'll have a special punishment. I'm appointing you the task of showing our latest addition about after practice. We all know how much you love to help your fellow students. Please," he flourished his hand in John's direction, "meet our new clarinetist: John Watson."

v.

Listen.

Sherlock spent the rest of the class sat rigidly in his chair, watching the new boy out of the corner of his eye. John Watson, as the professor had named him, was blond, tan and more muscular than the majority of students at the academy, albeit quite a bit shorter as well. He'd likely played some form of recreational sport at his last school, probably rugby if the scattering of scars on his hands were any indication. His hair was tousled in a boyish way, and his lips curved up naturally into a semblance of a smile. He stood out from the other sour, pasty faces in the woodwinds section like a beam of sunshine.

Sherlock's first instinct was to hate him viciously.

If there was one thing he despised more than the students who bounced about with fake peppiness, pretending their lives were perfectly normal even as their mothers slept with the postman and their fathers drank too much, it was the students who were genuinely happy. John had the look of someone who'd never had much in life and yet managed to be content anyway, and that made Sherlock want to punch him.

Considering Sherlock was also now saddled with the arduous task of showing John around (which would take all of two minutes; the only interesting places in the academy were the observatory and the library), it should have been easy for him to develop a severe dislike for the boy.

He'd just settled on the idea when John glanced across the room and caught his eye. The boy looked startled at first—probably due to the undoubtedly vitriolic look on Sherlock's face—but then he smiled hesitantly. Something in Sherlock's expression must have encouraged him, because his grin grew, and he favoured him with a cheeky wink.

Sherlock looked quickly away, his heart pounding inexplicably in his chest. He picked up his violin and tried to focus on his sheet music, but the notes swam.

He had the sudden, sinking suspicion that John Watson was much more than he appeared.

vi.

Listen.

John felt comfortable admitting he had no idea what to expect from Sherlock Holmes.

When class ended—it was thankfully the last of the day. He'd managed to miss all his morning lectures during the long drive over—his eyes went straight to the mysterious boy. Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be ignoring him. He gathered his sheet music and clacked it smartly against his stand to straighten it before placing it in the black messenger bag by his side. He then took out a soft cloth and wiped fingerprints from his violin in a way John could only describe as loving. Sherlock's face changed as he admired the gleaming, cherry-stained wood, his eyes softening and his lips quirking up into just a hint of a smile.

John's heart stuttered, and he looked pointedly at the floor. He needed to keep his guard up. This was the same boy who'd taken one glance at him and told the entire class his life story, after all. It seemed he was not only capable of making his life hell but was perfectly willing to.

John packed his clarinet away as quickly as he could and then hesitated. Sherlock didn't appear to be in a rush to leave, but that didn't necessarily mean he was waiting for him. He might have no intention of honouring their professor's order. He might tell John to piss off the moment he approached him. Sherlock had made it readily apparent all through class that he had no respect for authority. That was how John had learnt his name. Professor Woods had stopped them every ten minutes and shouted it along with some admonition, which Sherlock snidely returned.

John was still debating his next move when a shadow fell across his face. He looked up and saw a tall boy with tan skin and large, brown eyes standing before him, grinning widely.

"Hey," the boy said. "M'name's Lestrade. You're Watson, right?"

He stuck out a hand, and John paused for only a moment before taking it and shaking it firmly. "Yeah, but you can call me John."

"You'd best call me Greg, then. Welcome to Sonnet Academy."

"Thanks, mate. Glad to be here."

There was an awkward pause, and Greg raked his fingers through his longish brown hair. He glanced nervously over his shoulder before turning back to John and saying, "Look, you're obviously a big boy, and I'm sure you can take care of yourself, but . . . don't let Sherlock get to you. He's an all right bloke if you ignore everything he says, but he can be a bit difficult to get along with."

"There's an understatement if I've ever heard one." Another boy with brown hair and an unpleasant look on his face joined them, dragging a pretty dark-skinned girl by the hand. "Holmes is a miserable tosspot, and you," he jabbed a finger at John's chest, "would do well to stay as far away from him as you can."

John's eyes narrowed at the boy's derisive tone. "I think I'd rather decide that for myself, thanks."

"Don't listen to Anderson," Greg cut in. "He's still in a strop because Sherlock deduced that he and Sally here have been shagging since last term. Nearly lost my lunch that day."

"Shut it, Lestrade," the girl—Sally—said in a tired voice. She sounded just like his mother did when Harry and he bickered over nothing. "We're just trying to give the new bloke some friendly advice." She folded her arms and fixed John in her dark gaze. "Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath, and if you don't watch your blond arse, you'll be his next victim. He's a complete freak, that one. Struts about here like he owns the place. There's not a student in this school who can stomach him."

"If you're quite finished," said a cold voice behind them, "I believe I've a tour to give."

John's stomach lurched guiltily as he craned his neck to look behind Greg. Sherlock was standing a few metres away, glaring at them. John had never been close enough to notice the unusual colour of his eyes—a mixture of blue and grey like rain clouds—but now they pierced into him, dragging down his body and under his skin. He couldn't say how, but John felt like Sherlock knew every secret he'd ever had just from looking at him. Combined with his wild curls and angular face, he looked otherworldly. And beautiful.

"Speak of the freak," Sally scoffed, though she shuffled behind Anderson in what John recognised as a defensive manoeuvre. "We were just telling Watson here to stay away from you if he knows what's good for him."

Sherlock flexed his fingers around the handle of his slender violin case and looked down his nose at her. "How kind of you, Donovan, though considering your home life, I hardly think you should be dispensing advice. Tell me, how long has your mother been away? Does she even bother to ring you and your little sister anymore?"

Sally paled, her skin turning the colour of toffee. Anderson started forward, but Sally grabbed his arm and said something to him in a low voice. The two of them gave Sherlock a heated glare before plodding away, muttering to each other.

"Can't give it a rest for a single day, can you, Sherlock?" Greg sighed.

"I was not the one who instigated this time."

"All right, yes, I suppose you didn't. You certainly don't make my job as class rep any easier, though. I'll go have a chat with them in a mo'." Greg scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and John got the distinct impression that this was not the first time he'd had to clean up after Sherlock. "Please don't perform any hazardous experiments on John, yeah? This one actually seems like a decent bloke. And John," he turned to face him, "just remember what I said."

John glanced briefly at Sherlock. He was still studying him with his unnervingly sharp gaze. John swallowed thickly but nodded, and Greg seemed to take that as all the assurance he needed. He gathered his own things (John had pegged him for a percussion sort of bloke, but he actually played viola) and trotted off after Anderson and Sally. It was then that John realised everyone else had already left. Sherlock and he were alone in the dimly-lit auditorium.

"I doubt you need a formal introduction," Sherlock began, "since you know my name quite well by now, but I'll offer one regardless." The gesture would have been polite, but the way he said it—like he loathed having to waste time on every single word—destroyed the effect entirely. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm seventeen, like you, and I will one day be known as the greatest violinist who ever lived."

He inclined his head slightly, and a few curls spilled over his forehead. John was briefly mesmerised by the artful motion before he snapped out of it. "How did you know I'm seventeen?"

"Simple. You don't look stupid enough to have been held back a year, but for your parents to allow you to transfer to a new school between terms, you must be near legal adulthood. Plus, there is the rather telling fact that your date of birth is printed on the emergency contact card you attached to the handle of your clarinet case." He pointed with a long, slender finger to the white rectangle of paper that was indeed tied to his case. "Though why you thought anyone in possession of a lost clarinet would need your DOB is beyond me."

"Brilliant," John blurted and then immediately flushed.

Sherlock looked as though he'd just been slapped. "Was it?"

"Absolutely! That was . . . quite brilliant."

"You might want to add some new entries to your lexicon. At the moment it seems a bit bare."

John wanted to be insulted, but he was too impressed. He took a moment to appraise his new classmate. Instead of the usual shirt-and-jeans combo that most teenagers wore to school, he was wearing a tight purple dress shirt that seemed one deep breath away from bursting open and a stylish black suit jacket. His trousers had clearly been tailored to emphasise his narrow hips and long legs, making him appear even taller and leaner. And that was saying something.

"You don't eat enough, do you?"

Sherlock gave him an appraising look. "Not the most astute of observations, but better than most. Is that your medical opinion?"

"Ah, yes, how did you know I wanted to study medicine? And everything else you said when I first walked in? You're not stalking me, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't know, I saw. I've already explained the bit about your clothing. My guess is your mother bought you that hideous jumper to assuage the guilt she feels at not being able to care for you properly. The scuffs on your shoes and the wear on the inner sole—no offense, but you're clearly a bit bow-legged—suggests they're second-hand. If you mother cared enough about your appearance to spend much-needed money on clothing, she would never let you buy used shoes, so they obviously belonged to a family member; an older brother is most likely. I can tell he's an alcoholic from the worn heels. It was a shot in the dark, but a good one. He's come stumbling home drunk one too many times. Your family clearly cares about maintaining appearances. If your father were present, he would never tolerate such behaviour from an eldest son, so absent parent it is. And your interest in medicine was the simplest bit: you have a lanyard for St Bartholomew's Hospital around your neck. They only give those out to students who have attended their summer classes, meaning you intended to go there but ultimately couldn't. A lack of finances was the most logical conclusion."

John stared at the boy as if he'd grown a second head. "Blimey . . . that's incredible. And you got all that just from looking at me?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up into a flicker of a smile. "Yes. It's simple deductive reasoning. Anyone could do it if they just opened their eyes, though the average person could never match my aptitude for it."

"I don't doubt it," John said, smiling. "You did get one thing wrong, though."

Sherlock huffed. "There's always something. What'd I miss?"

"These shoes belonged to my sister. Harriet's a bit of a tomboy and has fairly big feet for a girl."

"Sister," Sherlock hissed. "An older sister. I should have known."

"Don't beat yourself up, mate. You were in sparkling form otherwise." John stood up and stretched, forcing himself not to flush when Sherlock swept his gaze up and down his body as if studying a painting. "Well, I suppose we'd best get this tour out of the way, yeah? I'd like to find some dinner and get unpacked at some point."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, but then he stepped back and gestured to the exit with his free hand. "After you."

vii.

Listen.

The air outside buzzed with the sharp tang of ozone. In the short time they'd been in class, storm clouds had gathered and were looming ominously over the academy's spindly towers. Tonight would be one of the nights Sherlock loved best, a night when the wind shrieked and beat against his shutters, and lightning split the sky into chunks of obsidian.

Sherlock inhaled a lungful of salt and the smell of rain. Much as he enjoyed the fresh air, his fingers twitched for want of a cigarette. He was only able to smuggle them in about once a month, and his supply had run out days ago. He tried to ignore his itching veins as his blood screamed for sweet tar and nicotine. He lived for the sharp crackle of burning leaves and the smoke that coiled lazily between his lips, even as it killed him.

The grass squished wetly beneath his feet as he led the way across the grounds, John trailing dutifully behind him. The observatory was on the edge of campus: a towering building made of moss-covered white rock. It was one of Sherlock's favourite places, partially because it was beautiful and partially because no one ever went there. He could climb up to the top and read for hours or play his violin. He could pretend he was the last person to mar the face of the Earth, the last to see the scars and pockmarks dug into her face by human ambition.

A small voice in the back of his head told him he was an idiot for showing the observatory to John—what if he loved it and started spending time there?—but he squashed it down. He didn't yet know why, but he liked John. The word sounded strange even in his head, but it was true. The blond teen seemed to offset the stormy sky like a drop of gold following just behind him. Sherlock couldn't stop picturing the look in John's dark blue eyes when he'd called him brilliant. It was ridiculous and sentimental, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"So," John said, half-jogging to keep pace with Sherlock's long legs, "why does a music school have an observatory?"

"This wasn't always a music school, as you undoubtedly already know. The monks who ran the monastery hundreds of years ago were fond of stargazing. You can still read their records of planetary movement and constellations in the library. The more recent ones, at least. The school has an irksome predilection for putting anything of true value behind glass, where no one will ever read it again." Sherlock had lost count of the number of times he'd been caught trying to get his hands on some of the older, restricted texts.

"Are we allowed to be out here? It's nearly nightfall. I'd think it was against the rules for us to wander about on our own."

"Ugh, rules. Rules are boring." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As long as we're in Main Hall by suppertime, no one will miss us. Besides, if one of the administrators stops us, I'll simply tell them that Professor Woods ordered me to give you a tour, which is true."

John grinned that warm, disarming grin of his. "Fantastic."

"Do you realise you say that aloud?"

"Oh, sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's, um . . . fine."

They reached the entrance—a heavy, wooden door set deep in the stone—and Sherlock flung it open. He was hit with a familiar, musty smell: old books and history. The inside was relatively bare, just a winding stone staircase that led up to the observation deck and a few scattered candelabra. The building had never been outfitted with electricity, and all the useful furniture had long been placed into storage. Sherlock dug his silver zippo out of his pocket and lit the large candle he kept purposefully near the door.

He led the way up the stairs without looking to see if John was following, though he could hear his soft footsteps behind him. They climbed in silence until they reached a blank wall at the top of the stairs. There was nothing in sight but a single support beam off to the side. Sherlock heard John suck in a breath to ask what they should do now, but he stopped him and pointed to the low ceiling just above their heads. There was a square hatch that was nearly invisible beneath a layer of dust and grime.

"You can't seriously mean—"

"Hold this," Sherlock said, impatiently thrusting the candle into John's hand. "The next part is tricky. They removed the ladder years ago to keep students from climbing up here. Obviously they weren't entirely successful." Sherlock reached up on tip toes and fingered the nearly-invisible latch until he felt it slide back. He then jumped up and hit the door as hard as he could, forcing it open with a bang. Sherlock grinned and glanced back at John. The other teen was alternating between staring at Sherlock and staring at the black square above them, his expression apprehensive but not, Sherlock was pleased to note, fearful.

"Give me a boost, and I'll pull you up," Sherlock said, extending his hand for the candle. John hesitated. Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not going to leave you down here, all right? Look, here's some insurance." He dug into his pocket and pulled out his zippo, proffering it to John.

John paused for only a moment longer before saying, "All right." He traded the candle for the lighter, tucked the latter into the pocket of his jeans and then laced his fingers together, forming a foothold.

Sherlock held back a grin as he inserted his right foot into the boost, grabbing John's shoulder with his free hand for balance. He noted almost absently that the muscles he could feel tensing beneath his fingers were quite well-developed for a teenager. He angled the candle towards the hole in the ceiling and carefully shifted his weight onto the other teen's hands. John raised him up with surprising ease, and within seconds, Sherlock's head was clear. He scrambled to set the candle down before bracing his palms on either side of the opening and hoisting himself the rest of the way through. The old planks that comprised the floor creaked beneath his weight but held firmly. Once he was situated, he laid flat and reached back through. It was difficult to see sans candle, and John was admittedly heavier than he'd anticipated, but with a firm grip and a bit of grunting from them both, Sherlock yanked him up, and they tumbled to the ground.

"That," John said, rolling onto his back and panting, "was insane."

"I should be concerned by how often my actions are met with that remark, but I actually find it rather exciting."

John let out a short bark of laughter before sitting up and stretching, his jumper pulling taut across his broad shoulders. He paused for a moment before turning to face Sherlock, a thoughtful expression visible on his face even in the flickering light. "I thought you said you come here all the time."

"I do." Sherlock almost grinned as he watched gears turn behind blue eyes.

"Alone?"

"Yes. Always."

"But how do you get up here when you don't have someone to give you a boost?"

"I scale that wooden beam down there. It takes a minute, but at this point I've got it down to a science, so to speak. I'd have done this time, but since you were right there . . . ."

"Unbelievable," John said, but he was chuckling, and then Sherlock was laughing as well.

"Come on," he said, climbing to his feet. "I'll show you the best part. Leave the candle."

Sherlock had only gone a few steps when he heard a rustling sound and then felt something warm encircle his wrist.

"Er," John's voice said from inches away, "this is a bit awkward, but I don't know the way in the dark as well as you seem to, and I can't see, so . . . ." He trailed off, and Sherlock could practically feel John's cheeks flaming.

He flexed his fingers but didn't break the grip. "It's this way. I'll walk slowly."

He led John through the darkness until they reached the far wall. Then he said in a low voice, "I want you to close your eyes and stand right here until I tell you to open them." He paused for a moment and then added, "I know you have no reason to believe I won't pull some adolescent prank and leave you up here in the dark, but I'm asking you to trust me. It'll be worth it if you do."

There was a brief beat of silence, and then John replied, "My eyes are closed."

"Good. I'll be back momentarily."

Sherlock gently broke John's grip on his wrist and moved forward with practiced ease, knowing precisely what he was reaching for. A few tugs of heavy cloth later—how the stewards could stand to hang curtains over the glass that took up half of the domed ceiling was beyond him—and the room flooded with light. The storm had abated just in time for the sun to set, and Sherlock took a moment to admire the sight of it, resplendent in pink and gold, kissing the distant horizon as its rays scattered over the sea. The waves had calmed to gentle white caps that lapped almost flirtatiously against the rocky shore. The few clouds that still dotted the sky were bruised purple and burned bright orange around the edges. No matter how many times Sherlock had stood in this spot and watched the sun sink beneath the waves, the simple beauty of it was never lost on him.

He moved quietly to John's side, and—unable to resist a bit of theatrics—he leant in until his breath tickled John's ear. "All right, open your eyes."

The initial gasp and sharp intake of breath made the whole thing utterly worth it.

"Wow." John eyes were wide, encircled in a halo of white lashes, and reflected the colours of the sky. "It's lovely." He seemed like he wanted to say more but couldn't quite bring himself to. Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. He had a mad impulse to take that traditional English reticence and slowly unravel it, but it was only John's first day. They had plenty of time.

They. Novel.

"I'm glad you like it," Sherlock said. In a rush of impulse he added, "You can come here whenever you'd like, even if I'm not with you. Just don't tell anyone else about it. If I climb up here one day and find it full of those idiots from our class, I'll set fire to your clarinet."

Sherlock was trying to sound menacing, but John just laughed again. "I promise to respect the sanctity of this place. It'd be a shame to share it with just anyone."

They stood there silently, watching as the sun slipped down until it disappeared entirely. When the last drops of light faded, stars flooded the sky: a bed of white flowers bursting open in a blue field.

"You'd never see that in London," Sherlock said before he entirely realised he was speaking. "Not unless it was a billion years from now and all of civilisation had returned to dust."

He felt John's eyes on him. "Is that where you grew up? London?"

"No, but it's where I'm going to live when I'm a legal adult and can finally escape this abominable place. I'll find a flat in the centre of everything and play my violin every day, even if it's just on the street corners."

He glanced over at John, anticipating derision, and was surprised to see he was smiling.

"Sounds like fun. I'd love to go to London."

"It'll be heaven." Sherlock nodded reluctantly towards the exit. "We should go. We were supposed to be back ages ago."

"We can go in a bit. I want to enjoy this."

"What about the rules?"

"Rules?" John repeated, his face deadly serious. "Rules are boring."