(A/N) I'm truly appalled at myself for writing something so dreadfully cliche as a *shivers* high school AU. But alas, the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, and I already felt bad for leaving you readers hanging so long. Lo and behold my mutinous muse.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and by all that is good, after writing this, I hope no one gives me the rights to it.

"Chess Club"

Sherlock was never fond of chess.

It had the framework and potential to be an excellent brain workout, yet all this was for naught. Sherlock found himself bored during every match, not even having to plan ahead to wind up winning. No, chess might have been interesting, if it weren't for the dreadful intellect of anyone that thought to play it. With the most rudimentary grasp of the pieces' movements, obtained in the span of twenty seconds from Google, Sherlock was uncontested.

Despite all his irritation with the game, Sherlock found himself at chess club. Not for the challenge that was never offered, but rather for the ring of keys the janitor always dropped off after school. Being the most regular participant, and therefore the president of such an innocuous club let him dictate the hours. In this way he had free reign over the darker, emptied parts of the school whenever he liked- so long as he locked up after himself.

This luxury offered him use of the biology labs (provided he was quiet, scrupulously clean, and therefore unseen), and often a peek or two at his classmates' papers whenever he found himself fascinated with a student's behavior. Unfortunately, no one was remarkable as of late.

So there Sherlock sat, hating the very club he was president of. Forced to host the meeting for the three, (boring) erudites that the club had attracted, he was delighted when one of them stood to leave early. That would mean he could sit out a match. Sighing idly, the teen folded his arms behind his curly locks and watched the well-dressed boy twist the knob and exit.

However, as the door drifted close again, it caught on a hand and was pushed back open. The gaping door revealed a disheveled blonde with downcast eyes, interestingly dressed out of uniform. Sitting up in his chair, Sherlock's interest was piqued. A new face meant a new student. He hadn't heard of any fresh transfers, so he immediately sized up the teen that set a purposeful stride to the desks jammed together for chess club.

Sherlock's first impression was surprise. This boy, clad in a well-worn rugby jersey and faded jeans, scruffy hair and an empty backpack, this boy wanted to join chess club? A sheepish expression was etched on the newcomer's face as he made eye contact with Sherlock. The other two members hardly spared him a glance, so enthralled they were in the (admittedly low level) match that had just begun.

"I'm sorry I'm late. Do you still take new members?" The boy dropped his bag to the floor with a slight 'thump'.

Sherlock's ears perked up. The bag had dropped with solidity, so it hadn't been empty as he previously thought. He'd heard the whisper of material on material, so a change of clothes maybe? Perhaps a school uniform? No, that was wrong; the uniform was given to students on their first day, folded over a hanger, meticulously pressed and covered as if from a dry cleaner, no such thing could be easily tucked into a pack. His eyes darted down to the bag, noticing the faint curve of the material over something rounded but soft enough to give under the weak weight of the stiff fabric. Something thick or padded? A ball- no, a helmet. Ah. That was it.

"Do you really want to join? If rugby was your first choice, chess club might not be the way to go. Your mum would probably understand." His answer had been immediate, only mere seconds necessary to analyze the arrival. A flash of interest had sprung across the other's face.

"My mum, yea? She's making me participate in some extra-curricular, and the rugby team was already set last month. Bugger jumping into the middle of the year." The boy shrugged, unapologetic. "How'd you do that?" Only slightly put off by the teen's forthcoming demeanor, Sherlock felt a smirk turn at his mouth.

"Do what?"

"That thing. You knew why I was here before I even sat down."

"Oh, that. Mere deduction. It was obvious, really." Nonchalant, ready for an immediate denial or more cautious approach from the stranger, Sherlock was astonished yet again to see a friendly glint in the blonde's eye.

"That's fantastic! Amazing, actually. Can you do that with everyone?" A hesitant nod answered his question. Finally deciding to sit in the desk across the brunette, another disarming smile lit up his face. "I hope you're not so good at chess, though, because I just picked it up at random."

"You still want to join?" Incredulity seeped into his tone.

"Well, yea."

Some things could still be surprising.

"What's your name?" Sherlock was rarely intrigued, but he was also rarely approached so kindly.

"John Watson." A hand stretched across the desk to shake his, a firm grip but just as much amenable.

"Sherlock Holmes." He returned the handshake without feeling the need to fake a smile. As suspected, this did not dampen John's mood in the slightest. "So, you've come to chess club. You might as well play some chess." He slid a checkered board over, no longer disappointed in the fact that he did have to participate today. They set up the pieces quickly, quietly, and began.

Sherlock was hardly focusing on the game; the match was the last thing on his mind. His steely blue eyes only flicked the occasional glance at the chessboard. Instead, they were scouring John Watson. There was something odd about him. There were lines on his young face and bags under his eyes. The upbeat attitude he initially wore seemed to have slowly dissolved, breaking apart to reveal a tired and troubled boy. Such symptoms could be spotted in many people forced to abandon their homes and forge new connections elsewhere, but somehow Sherlock thought there might be more with John. He wasn't just a new kid faced with hard prospects at a new school, there was something else there. It must be something serious, but the details remained elusive.

His shirt sleeve had a loose thread and the small bleach mark told him that the jersey was at least two maybe three years old, but had seen much more wear than expected. His hair was messy, but clean, and it had been lightened from exposure to the sun. The faint scent that was almost untraceable told him precisely which detergent John's mum used, yet all this was fruitless. Sure, the kid spent any free time outside, playing sports, but that was beside the point. None of it told him what he wanted to know.

While they took turns silently, Sherlock let his fingers dance over the pieces. He absentmindedly noted that John had an intense focus on the match with the way his brow scrunched and his eyes darted across, projecting possible moves. It was almost amusing how much effort he was pouring into it, so much so that Sherlock could practically see the cogs working (painfully slow in his opinion, but still) in the other's mind. After realizing that he had lost track of the match with his study of the other boy's attire, Sherlock glanced back down.

At the same moment, John shifted a rook three spaces forward and said very confidently, "Check ma-"

"Rematch."

The silvery eyes of the president of chess club were glued to the board, disbelievingly scanning it again and again.

"What?" John had been interrupted, and his features clouded in momentary confusion.

"I want a rematch." His pride was wounded beyond repair, and he loathed the fact that the other members of his club had broken from their own match to stare with gaping mouths at John.

"Yeah, sure. This game isn't so hard, after all." Was the lighthearted jab, accompanied by a short smile. Where Sherlock wanted to be angry at himself for letting his concentration slip (it was unforgivable), he only found a smile of his own slipping out. He actually had to pay attention, which meant that John, (while not a genius) was still sharper than the average student. Perhaps chess club wouldn't be so bad after all.

Let it be known, that was the last time John ever beat Sherlock at chess.

(A/N) So my muse is cruel, and I have an inkling of what I would do if this were longer. So if you want me to continue, let me know. It could easily evolve into a long fic... which is why John's issue hasn't actually come to light here. Sorry. Review and let me know what you think? Sorry this is what's given after my hiatus on this series of drabbles~ Thanks for reading!