His Majesty, The Queen

Too Much Testosterone

"Classes start tomorrow, I'm sure you're excited?" Greg muttered, sitting up against the wall and sticking his socks up towards the other end of the bed, so that he was twisted around in a very uncomfortable looking position.
"Yes, well I suppose I have no choice but to be. I especially enjoy chemistry, I was happy to see that on my course schedule." Sherlock said with a little smile.
"Oh just you wait! Professor Turner will have you in tears by the time the class is over. I never want to see another molecule in my life!" Greg groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. Sherlock didn't want to have to be the one to tell him that everything was made of molecules, and that if he didn't want to see another one he might just have to gouge his eyes out. Then again, that might be too morbid for a first introduction at least.
"What's your favorite subject?" Sherlock wondered.
"None of them. Lunch time." Greg said immediately, now turning to lay down backwards on his bed, sticking his feet up and over the headboard and swinging them for a little while.
"Quite the academic, then?" Sherlock presumed sarcastically.
"Academics come easy, that's why they're no fun. And with the professors Moran hires, well of course they're not going to be fun!" Greg complained.
"Well at least you've got a brain in your head." Sherlock muttered. "I was starting to wonder."
"If you must know, I am second in the class." Greg said proudly, holding his head up just about as high as he could get it despite his sitting horizontally.
"Third, now." Sherlock corrected carelessly, sliding his camera into its case and setting it on his side of the table.
"I'm sorry?" Greg clarified, with something of a surprised little pout.
"You're third in the class now. Or at least you will be, after my grades return." Sherlock muttered. "I'm the top of my class in England, one of the top in the country."
"Well if you must know, your highness, we're not as stupid as we look here. Top of your country may not mean half as much as it means here. John and I, we're about as sharp as they come." Greg defended, to which Sherlock nodded and pulled a book from his desk, sitting up against his headboard as he opened it up to where he had shoved his leather bookmark, deciding that if Greg wanted to quarrel then he would just have to mind his own business.
"I'm sure you are." He agreed finally, and with that he stuck his nose in his book and did not emerge again until it was absolutely necessary. Sherlock was mildly surprised with how easy it was to get lost in the country, not only in the landscape but also in your own mind. In London things were constantly moving, traffic outside, maids inside. Car horns blared and tea kettles screamed, making it to be a very loud existence. In the American country side it seemed as though the only interruption to his imagination was the movements of his roommate, as Greg went about his afternoon trying to complete his homework. He would move from his desk to his bed and then back again, occasionally writing something down, occasionally going through notes, but mostly just sitting at the end of his bad staring up at the ceiling, looking perplexed. Sherlock didn't feel the need to help him; if he wanted to be all high and mighty then he was fighting his own academic battles. Sherlock would be here only if he asked, and due to that boy's ego Sherlock presumed that would not come very soon. After a while the book began to drag, though Sherlock had no other option than to keep himself immersed in the world which the author had created for him, a world which was here to offer him some sort of escape from the school he was now forced into. What were his other options, really? He could not set down the book to talk to friends, he didn't know the grounds well enough to take a walk, and certainly he would not be chatting with his roommate any time soon. Oh he didn't even have homework yet to distract himself with, how dreadful! And so he sat there reading, until at last a knock on the door interrupted both he and Greg from their solitary studies.
"Oh man, here we go." Greg said with a little chuckle of enthusiasm, getting to his feet immediately and pouncing towards the door to pull it open. There was another boy of similar stature standing in the hallway, with blonde hair, a short and stocky build, and a rather tough looking complexion. In fact they looked nearly identical, when wearing the same outfit.
"John Watson, what a pleasant surprise!" Greg exclaimed sarcastically, opening the door wider and allowing the boy to walk into the room with a sort of swagger to him, as if he was under the impression that he owned any ground he stepped on. Sherlock rearranged himself in his bed, staring up at this stranger and feeling an immediate sense of dislike.
"Who's this?" John wondered, pausing in the middle of the room and casting his brown eyes onto Sherlock, where he sat rather timidly on his bed.
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock muttered rather stiffly, not wanting to make a move of immediate greeting. There were rather threatening vibes radiating off of this newcomer, ones that did not settle well within him. This John Watson seemed just about as tough as Greg, yet hardly friendly at all. In fact he seemed completely unsociable, and as he stood there with a hand in his pocket he looked as though he was about ready to pull a knife and cut of Sherlock's nose or something equally ghastly. Perhaps he had underestimated the warzone he himself had walked into, instead of any proper boarding school.
"This is the top of our class, John Watson." Greg introduced. "My new roommate claims to be the top of the class already, without having met the professors or anything." he explained in something of a whisper, to which John only chuckled. He shook his head and at last emerged his hand from his pocket, revealing a carton of cigarettes.
"Oh ya?" John chuckled, pulling two out and handing one to Greg while the latter sparked up a lighter to ignite them. For a moment they stood and smoked, all the while Sherlock tried to sit up straight and look about as proper as he could manage. Despite these boys' threatening appearance, Sherlock knew that he had to be on his best behavior. He had to impress them, no matter what.
"Well yes, I'm sure the academics in England are much more challenging than what you might be taught here." Sherlock said with a rather confused nod. He wasn't entirely sure why these boys dared to challenge him, for they had no idea the intellectual capabilities which he possessed!
"Perhaps so. But there will be an adjustment period, of course. As you learn the professors, how they operate, how they teach, what they expect from you. Strutting in here half way through the semester won't do much good either; you'll have to pick it up quick." John warned. "Now consider again, that Greg and I have been here for all seven years. We know the professors, the courses, the kids. Maybe that brain of yours is superior, but that's not all you need to make it here."
"You need wits." Greg agreed, polluting the air around him with a large cloud of white and stinking smoke.
"So do you." Sherlock muttered under his breath, to which John Watson could only manage a chuckle.
"Would you like a cigarette?" John wondered, holding out the carton and waving it around Sherlock's face for a moment, at least until he shook his head.
"No, I don't smoke." Sherlock muttered, and John simply nodded, shoving it back into his pocket and holding his own cigarette between his forefingers.
"You've been in England then, during the bombings?" John presumed. Sherlock sighed, shutting the book atop his lap as he realized he would get no more reading done. These boys would most likely terrorize him until he spilled every one of his life secrets, when in retrospect would not be nearly as interesting as they had imagined.
"During the first couple, yes." Sherlock agreed with something of a shutter, hearing those sirens ringing in the back of his mind just as soon as John pried the conversation up.
"You live in London?" John wondered. Sherlock chuckled, presuming that John could not have guessed another city if he tried. Though he humored him, just this once, as John had guessed correctly.
"I do." Sherlock nodded. "Though my house was never hit."
"I hate the war, I'm sorry you have to be so near to it." John grumbled.
"I'm not near to it anymore." Sherlock snapped, though just as soon as he defended himself he realized that John meant that in a more metaphorical way. Sherlock had never been near the war itself, never to the front lines. Though he was close in regards to the soldiers, those who lived in his neighborhood prior to their deployment. He was close to the mothers, and the sisters, and the widows. He was close to the shattered glass, the crumbling bricks, and the bent metal that was left behind after a bomb had collapsed a church. He was close to the pain and the suffering, without having to feel any pain yet himself.
"It'll get us all in the end, I'm sure." Greg muttered. "Though I'm not all together opposed. War seems a good opportunity for the lot of us, to get medals and appreciation."
"And a bullet through your head." Sherlock offered. "War isn't about living as a hero; it's about dying as one."
"Not if you're good enough to stay alive." Greg protested.
"It's luck, not skill, that keeps those bullets away." Sherlock snarled. "Don't speak of things you don't understand."
"As if you understand it any better!" Greg exclaimed. "You're not up there fighting, are you?"
"My brother is on the front lines, I read his letters! He explains to me everything he sees, everything he's done so far! He explains to me the lives he's taken, and the men he's seen fall. Now tell me again, Greg, that war is glamorous!" Sherlock defended; nearly ready to get to his feet had John's laughter not interrupted him. It was an interesting way to break the tension, though it was effective in its own complexity. Which part of this John found funny was yet to be seen, though he laughed all the same, all while Greg stood looking guilty and Sherlock sat with red cheeks.
"Greg he got you there." John said after a while, recomposing himself and tapping the ash from his cigarette at his feet. Sherlock stare for a moment, feeling rather in the spotlight once more. He really did hate quarrels, especially when they involved nothing more than snapping back and forth. There was nothing Greg could say in response, and so he merely turned to his desk where his homework was spread out, summoning John to his side for some assistance. Sherlock watched them for a moment, though he didn't feel the need to help. They were discussing mathematics, which in all reality was one of the most straight forward topics to struggle with. He knew the formulas they were pondering all too well, and yet instead of getting to his feet to help he settled himself at his own desk, starting up a letter to his brother explaining his journey and his first day adventures. These activities kept the room occupied until at last the boys sat back in their chairs, exhausted from the strain of their problems, and looked at the clock which hung above the door.
"Dinner time, don't you think?" John muttered. Sherlock checked the time as well, pulling out his pocket watch as discreetly as he could manage, seeing as though it had already gotten to six thirty. He wasn't hungry just yet, as they ate much later in Europe, though he understood he would have to get used to the American schedule as soon as he could manage.
"I think so." Greg agreed, though he didn't seem the type to protest against a good meal. They both got to their feet, pulling open the window and airing the room out as best they could before they would open the door and let the wafting scent betray them to the hall monitor. Smoking was not allowed; that much Sherlock had learned from the pamphlet he was given. He sat idly at his desk, now having begun his second page to Mycroft, and still with loads more to say. He spoke already of the boat ride, that terrible vessel which had taken him drudgingly across the waves. Now he was explaining the exterior of the school, though not with much enthusiasm at all. Surely these boys would be insulted if they had read over it, for this school must be what they considered luxury. The two rearranged themselves to fit the dress code, Greg finally cramming shoes onto his feet all the while John fixed his hair in one of the mirrors, preening much like a bird before at last he deemed himself fit for the public eye. When finally they pulled open the door John paused, all the while Greg continued out without realizing they were forgetting something. John turned to look at Sherlock, who had paused his writing to get back into his rhythm of thought, having been distracted by all their moving around.
"Well, your majesty?" John asked, leaning a bit heavily on the door and making the hinges squeal dangerously beneath his weight. Sherlock looked up in some surprise, realizing after a moment that those words were aimed at him.
"I'm not royalty." Sherlock corrected at last.
"Well then stop acting like it." John snapped. "Are you coming to dinner, or not?"
"I didn't think I was, well... invited." Sherlock admitted with something of a mutter.
"We might be jerks, but we're not about to leave you to fend for yourself. Not in the dining hall, at least." John assured. Sherlock felt himself soften, just an annoying bit. His shoulders relaxed and he thought for a moment, tapping his pen against the paper as he processed the request, wondering if it might be some sort of trap. Though no, even Greg had paused in the hallway, as if waiting for Sherlock to get a move on.
"Yes...yes alright." Sherlock agreed anxiously, stumbling a bit as he got to his feet quickly, bumping into the desk and making the thing rattle as he scrambled to the door. John watched him with something of a tired expression, though just as soon as Sherlock joined him in the hallway they were off, set down towards the stairwell and into uncharted territory. Sherlock walked behind the two boys, who were walking side by side in a prearranged pattern. Of course they knew this school like the back of their hand, and maneuvered the turns and long stretches with precision. Sherlock, on the other hand, was stumbling about behind, rather happy to have an escort as he felt as though he would never have discovered this dining hall alone. When at last they descended a flight of stairs Sherlock found himself in a great room, with multiple long wooden tables stretched from end to end. There were long windows on the right wall, displaying quite the same view that Sherlock had from his window. And so they must be directly below their shared room, or at least on the same side of the building. As for the clientele, well it honestly reminded Sherlock of anarchy. All of the boys were sitting on the long tables, with hardly a gap between them to slide into. There was a constant roar of noise, chattering and clanging and banging, as each and every boy fought for his share of food on the table. It seemed to be operating family style, in which the food was sat in the middle of the tables in great big bowls or plates, so that everyone could take their share without having to move around too much. The trouble with that was evident, for the most popular items were vanishing quickly while there were still heaping piles of vegetables that no one seemed to want to touch. Cooks were swarming about in their white aprons, trying to keep up with the constant rush for the food, though they seemed understaffed and frankly exhausted next to the never ending appetites of two hundred or so boys. 

"See why we couldn't let you stay behind? They'll eat you too, if you linger for too long." John muttered with a laugh, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder as he started over to where his designated table was. Sherlock jumped at the touch, not immediately sure if it was an attack or merely a shove in the right direction. He followed just as soon as John began to walk away, and found himself sitting next to the boy and across from Greg, who was looking rather irritated as he nearly slapped a younger looking boy away from the bowl of mashed potatoes. The seats were mere benches, with a small arrangement of plates, cups, and silverware at intervals along the table. Sherlock noticed that Greg had left a spot open, right next to him, as if they were still expecting another companion.
"It's rather violent in here." Sherlock commented, watching as two newly arrived boys at the table across began to push and shove for the last pork chop, all the while a kitchen worker was racing to their location with a newly stocked plate.
"Too much testosterone." Greg shrugged, as if that was a rather expectable excuse for everything. Sherlock hummed quietly, looking left and right before at last helping himself to a respectable portion of green beans. The food here was a little bit bland looking, though mostly familiar. Thankfully he didn't live on a diet of exclusively English foods, and so had been exposed to most every cuisine he could get his hands on. And so it wasn't shocking, the American food that was being passed around.
"See there's always that little conflict, one between helping yourself and leaving enough for everyone else." John muttered, as he stabbed now two pork chops from the platter and pushed them onto his plate. "It goes back to ancient survival techniques."
"Obviously you've gone the less generous route." Sherlock observed, seeing now as John piled a large load of potatoes onto his plate.
"I've discovered long ago that it's better to eat then be eaten. Or worse even, starve." John grumbled, though he still passed enough food towards Sherlock for him to make his plate.
"I went to a private school, though we mostly just packed our lunches." Sherlock admitted. "I could never stand the food they served."
"Are you rich?" Greg wondered at last, having finished chopping up his food and was now shoveling it into his face about as fast as he could manage without throwing up. Sherlock faltered for a moment, disgusted at the scene before him yet much too shy to say a word against it.
"Yes." He said simply. "My father is a general."
"How interesting. So he's in the war too then, fighting those Nazis?" Greg clarified, obviously Sherlock's plea for common sense not having sunken in. He still fantasized about the war, even though it left nothing but ruin in its path.
"Yes he is. That's why I'm here; they wanted to keep me away from the fighting, away from the draft." Sherlock admitted with a groan, stabbing at his plate a bit angrily and spearing a green bean violently.
"You don't seem too happy about that." John commented obviously.
"Well I'm not, really! It's not like I want to fight in the war, but if the rest of my family is then I just look like a coward! I don't want to be in America, I want to be in France!" Sherlock growled.
"Sucks being seventeen, doesn't it?" Greg sighed. "But not to worry, we'll get our chance soon enough." Sherlock looked over to John for his opinion; though found that he was surprisingly unresponsive. Perhaps he didn't want to share his thoughts on the subject; perhaps he didn't want to be judged either way. Thankfully he didn't have to comment, for just as soon as Greg turned his gray eyes onto his friend a boy appeared from the crowd and sat down beside him, so abruptly yet so importantly that Sherlock thought not to question it.