His Majesty, The Queen

Mazarin School For Boys

The first picture Sherlock took was of the countryside, a terrible and blurry picture taken at the high speed of the train. His eyes could process things much better than could the camera, and so as he stared out the window he could make out all of the little farms, with their red barns and their pastures, much better than could the camera and its poor reaction time. He wanted to document the American countryside, for it was as foreign to his brother as it was to him, and these pictures would be no fun if Mycroft recognized all that he saw. When he processed these pictures he would have to be sure to discard the very first one, as it would depict nothing except the velocity at which he was moving. Then again, Mycroft might appreciate that as well. He might appreciate anything that was docile, anything that was high moving for no other purpose but transportation. He was stuck in the war, across the ocean, across the channel. Stuck in France, with a gun in his hand, appreciating nothing but another second of being alive, another breath, another heartbeat. It was more than most could hope for, it was more than most received. Sherlock wasn't a religious boy, yet just as soon as his brother was shipped to France he began to pray every night. It was one of those times when you could call on nothing but a higher power, as it would seem luck and humanity had spanned far out of anyone's reach. Sherlock had the carriage to himself, as it was a first class seat and therefore meant to be solitary. His father had wanted him to be alone all the way from the port to the school, though he hadn't really anticipated the amount of questions his son would have. Sherlock had never been out of England before, not even to visit Ireland or Scotland. London was all he knew, the high society of the military families, the galas and the meetings and the city streets. And so this was an entirely new landscape for him, Sherlock had never seen so much cropland all at once; he had never seen so much green all at once! So much untouched land, sprouting from the ground in the form of gigantic trees as far as the eye could see, melting into the horizon with an unbreakable canopy of green. It was completely breathtaking, and seeing nature in all of its raw power sprouted so many questions, about the history of America, the present state, and the future! Just how long had those trees been there? Since the revolution, since the Native Americans? Had they seen war yet, or were they just larger trees than would ever manage to sprout in England? And the farms, the landscape, the politics! America was just so foreign, and here he was stuck in the middle of it, going alone at one hundred miles per hour to some fancy boarding school. His father called it protection...well surely it was just exile. He would be eighteen in just a couple of months, ready to join his brother on the front lines and follow in his father's footsteps. Who knows, perhaps he could be a general someday too! Perhaps he could find glory not only in academics, but in strategy as well. Sherlock may have been the one to single handedly take down Hitler, the entirety of the German Reich! And yet he was sent to America, where the English military will forget all about him, and here he would stay until the bombs had ceased to fall on the city he called home. What a waste of potential, what a ghastly humiliation! This school was intended to change his life, the best of all boarding schools in America, a superb institution where young school boys grew into mature and educated adults. Yet his education was nothing more than an excuse to get him to safety, where he could be cradled by the arms of Uncle Sam and his neutrality. The truth of the matter was, Sherlock was the baby of the family. He was the youngest brother, and after his mother had died there seemed to be only one thing that brought out the softness in his distraught father. Only one child who could make him smile once more. And so while Mycroft was sent to war Sherlock was sent to safety, where all the cowards ran to hide, and where he would be dropped off in the middle of who knows which state, ready to face the foreigners alone. Sherlock sighed, staring now at the view which had been impeded by a thick forest along the tracks. He pulled out his silver pocket watch, a beautiful shining thing that had been gifted to him on his fifteenth birthday by his father. It was engraved with his full name, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and showed the time on the most magnificent face. It shouldn't be long now, according to the watch. When the train finally stopped Sherlock was beginning to feel a little bit sick, and as he wobbled out of his compartment with his gigantic trunk dragging behind he found that the platform was just about as empty as was his carriage. There was but one lonely man standing near the benches, holding a sign that read in neat cursive writing Mazarin Priority School For Boys, and frankly looking quite miserable. Well Sherlock was the only boy who got off of the train, and yet he still didn't seem to notice him until Sherlock waved his hand around in the air and gave a little noise of signaling. Thankfully the man walked over to help with his trunk, for Sherlock wasn't sure he could carry the thing for long.
"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked in that bland American accent, the one which sounded about as monotonous and flat as one could hope for in a language. Sherlock nodded a bit nervously, wondering if he might need documentation or something to prove the fact. His father had sent along all the necessary paperwork to the Headmaster before he had arrived, yet still they might be worried about a fraud.
"Yes I am." Sherlock agreed, which seemed about as much as the man needed. He gave a little sniff of approval, dropping Sherlock's trunk rather heavily on the ground and lighting up a cigarette, starting off towards the road just as the train began to puff merrily away. Sherlock wasn't too disappointed about leaving that machine behind, though he was rather reluctant to follow to wherever he was going to. He wished that he might just catch another train back to England, where he could live alone in his large and comfortable house, left to listen to the sounds of the city and enjoy the sunshine. Sherlock followed reluctantly, wincing every time the driver's hand slackened and let his trunk skid across the cement for a second too long. Oh it must be doing horrors to the leather. The car ride was just about as exciting as the train ride, and so just as long as the scenery was interesting. Thankfully Sherlock was able to see more than just countryside, and as he sat in the back of the car he watched houses go by, farms from up close, and even the beginnings of a little town. Surely they were getting close, the air was beginning to feel much denser, as if it was loaded with the hurried breaths of stressed boys, cramming for their next exam or panicking over their lack of chemistry homework. Sherlock could always feel the desperation when he neared a place of education, he could always feel the stress. The driver didn't say a word, in fact he seemed hardly able to keep the car on the road. They were weaving and bouncing around, stopping abruptly at every traffic light and nearly rear ending each and every vehicle on the road. The buildings were beginning to get closer and quainter, with little shops on the corners and cafes along the sidewalks. There seemed to be more money in this area, funded by taxes no doubt, and by the homes of professors and headmasters as they searched for a place of convenient real estate. And yes, just as Sherlock predicted! They rounded the corner and were faced with something that looked startlingly like a large mausoleum, one with much too elaborate detailing to hide the fact that it was in the end just a gigantic square of bricks and marble. Behind the pillars and the moldings, Sherlock was reminded shockingly of a prison he had visited on a school trip, just a bland building which contained captives who had absolutely no choice in the matter. Prisons and boarding schools always had a very fine line between them, and this one seemed to have one foot on either side. Oh it was miserable, and as this car puttered up the driveway Sherlock was filled with intense hatred for his father, if it wasn't for his overwhelming and frankly undeserving love Sherlock would be headed for the front lines soon, not headed for another classroom! He would be going to make his country proud, not fleeing the thing just as soon as the waters got rough. He was a coward without his consent, and as the car stopped under a great archway Sherlock couldn't help thinking that this better be worth it. If he was here to shame himself and hide from battle, well this better be the best year of his entire life. Oh he had no idea, did he? As he raised that camera to his eye and took a picture of the great oak doors which he was to be led through, he had no idea what could ever be waiting for him on the other side.