Chemistry

Introduction

Between the four walls of a bedroom decorated in expensive shades of brown, gold and black, lots and lots of black, lives a boy who, no matter how much noise the world around him can throw at him, remains undisturbed.

A boy so absorbed in his own thoughts, that simply communicating with him feels like breaking something delicate, like a pane of glass, or a necklace, or a single thread. As if any disruption to his stream of thoughts will send the whole world hurtling towards the sun.

On his head, curls of the darkest brown, a thick, fluffy collection of untameable ringlets, parted on one side and somehow laying in all the right ways on the cream linen pillow case his head rested on. Draped over his cold, pale body, a light blue button-up shirt, far too loose on a boy so slim, paired of course, with matching linen trousers that barely covered his ankles, not that he minded in the slightest.

On this particular night, in this particular room, lay a boy, atop the covers of his bed, lit only by candlelight and caressed by the cool breeze entering from the window left ajar. In this moment, nothing matters, not the paper lifting at the edge in response to the wind's every breath, not the spilled water on the bedside table, nothing matters because nothing could possibly matter more than tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow, the boy will be starting at a new school. For most people, this brings excitement, new friends, extra-curricular clubs and freedom, for him, it brought the dread of pointless conversation and small talk, and no more knowledge than he already had. The school, as he remembered, was a grand collection of towers, halls, libraries and gardens as far as the eye can see. It rests in the outskirts of London, and goes by the name of Conan Doyle Academy.

"Sherlock Holmes!" came a rich tone rippling through the chilling air. The owner of the voice twisting the handle and pushing open the door.

"What are you doing awake at his hour, Mycroft?" the boy sprawled across the bed huffed, now turning to face towards the wall away from the boy.

The figure still dressed in his green pinstripe suit and waistcoat from earlier entered the room, "I just thought I'd come and give my best wishes," he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, "I know how worried you must be about starting at a new school, that's all."

"Yes well you've done it now, Goodnight Mycroft," spitting out the last word as if it was a foul taste in his mouth.

"Sherlock."

No reply...

"I was there for you before," Mycroft lowered his voice, "I'll be there for you again,"

"Can we expect a world war any time soon?."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock turned to face his brother once more, "Well it's just that, its 10 o' clock and you're not dressed for bed yet, One can only assume you've been working late, but you never do such a thing. The last time you did this, the country was facing a crisis. So, what is it? A world war? Water shortage? Oo! don't tell me- have all of the bakeries in England burnt to the ground?"

The corners of the older boy's mouth twitched in disgust, "Sherlock Holmes! How can you possibly expect to make any friends tomorrow with an attitude like that!?"

"That's just it, brother dear, I don't intend on doing so, now you better get writing to the bakeries quickly, I'm afraid if Morstan bakery closes, you and mother will be driven to insanity, and I, for one, do not want to be there when it happens."

"Give my best wishes to Mrs Hudson will you." The red haired man rose to his feet, glancing shortly at the open window, "Close the window also."

"The bakeries, Mycroft..." The dark haired boy teased.