Initially, John had been nervous about the fact that this was the kind of institution that even hosted such formal events. It wasn't the type of thing that he was used to, and at first he'd felt stupid in his suit. Sherlock hadn't put up a fuss, though, and that had helped to calm John's mood somewhat.

Of course, that moment of calm was shattered soon enough, as John found himself seated in the dining hall with Sherlock at his right, Charles and Sebastian across the table, and the boy who'd been drawing nudes in the garden that afternoon to his left.

He couldn't be certain, but he thought the boy sitting on the other side of the artist bore a resemblance to the subject of those sketches. Dorian, his name was, and John recognized that the boy was devastatingly good-looking.

He fit right in with the room's easily classic design; the walls were panelled in a rich wood, and portraits depicting (by John's estimation) former headmasters and dignified alumni looked down over the long tables.

Curiously, there was also a grand piano stationed in the front of the hall, but at the moment no one was sitting at the bench.

"Basil should show you his portraits sometime," Charles was saying. "They're far better than I could manage."

Basil (being the artist) only shrugged. "I'm still waiting for one piece that I can truly be proud of. Everything I've made so far isn't quite right."

"You and Charles are so modest," Sebastian sighed, cradling the singular glass of wine he'd been allotted in his hands. "I'd be quite happy to show off my talent, if I had any at all."

John couldn't deny that he'd been more or less keeping one eye on Sherlock for the duration of the evening, and he was surprised to see that Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease among the crowd of boys, as if he'd temporarily put his distaste for them aside. Still, his eyes were constantly scanning the room—a nervous habit, John would have thought, like someone searching for an exit, but that didn't match his otherwise calm demeanour.

As far as evenings went, though, this one wasn't so bad, if rather pompous. The food was quite good, John thought, but Charles informed him that the quality would be severely diminished in a month or two.

"But it's good now," John felt it necessary to point out.

"Your lack of cynicism is endearing," Sebastian told him.

"What are you looking for?" John managed to ask after Basil and Charles launched into a discussion of the art teachers (with Sebastian interjecting here and there and Dorian offering a polite remark or two).

"For?" Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing specific. I'm simply seeing what's changed over the summer for most of the people here."

"Anything interesting?"

"New pets, new girlfriends, a few broken limbs, and an exotic vacation or two. In other words, no."

"What would count as interesting?" Everything Sherlock had listed would have counted as exciting by anyone else's standards, and for a brief second John had thought it was an attempt at humour.

Sherlock smirked at John's question though. "Nothing likely to be seen among this crowd."

As far as ambiguous comments went, that one ranked rather highly. Unfortunately, before John could think of a suitable response, he was interrupted by Charles calling his name and leaning towards him.

"There's been a request from down the table—people want to know if you'll be playing rugby."

John blinked. "Oh. I suppose I hadn't thought about it."

"They're quite eager to know."

John followed Charles's gaze to a group of people not far from where they were sitting, all of them staring back with curious expressions.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt, could it?" he mused. He wasn't such a terrible sportsman, in truth; he'd played football here and there, but he'd always felt bad about leaving the team when he changed schools, so his participation had slipped somewhat.

"It's so brutal," Sebastian commented, but Charles had already passed the news of John's agreement back to the questioners. Their cheers of triumph reached their ears a few moments later.

"You'll have to be our liaison with that part of the student body," Basil remarked. "We're rather limited to the artists, I'm afraid. Even Sherlock's in music."

"Really? What do you play?" John regretted having failed to notice an instrument case back in the room.

"Violin." Sherlock's response was accompanied by a slight grimace. "Mycroft's idea. I mostly continue out of spite, to be honest."

"Oh. How so?"

"He thought I'd quit after a year of lessons. I enjoy proving him wrong."

"You enjoy proving everyone wrong," Sebastian corrected, which gained a few laughs from around the table.

They'd finished the main course of the meal when Dorian gently pushed back his chair, whispering something to Basil that the rest of them weren't able to catch (despite their efforts).

"Is this why he's been shut away in the music rooms all day?" Charles asked.

"They asked him to play," Basil explained. "Something to impress the new students."

Suddenly, the piano was starting to make a little more sense. When John glanced up a few minutes later, he saw that Dorian was seated at the bench, hands poised over the keys.

When they finally began to move, effortlessly gliding up and down, John understood why Dorian had been labelled as "impressive"—John couldn't claim to know much about music and its subtleties, but the sweet melody drifting through the room was evidence enough that Dorian had immense talent.

For a second, it made John feel guilty. He couldn't hope to achieve that level of ability, in music or in scholarship. What was he doing here, among these people?

In the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock move ever so slightly, and he was reminded that he didn't necessarily need to make an impression on everyone.

"Music you could fall in love to," Basil sighed when the song eventually concluded. John didn't miss the way he looked longingly at Dorian, or the way Sebastian and Charles locked eyes with one another.

Sherlock looked straight ahead, seemingly unaffected.

A couple of things were starting to make sense to John, and he felt his stomach turn. It wasn't that he was starting to understand a bit more about his new friends and their relationships, enlightening as that was. It was more that he recognized the high likelihood of himself ending up in that situation, nursing a growing infatuation with the boy sitting next to him.

One day wasn't enough to say for certain, but something about Sherlock Holmes was captivating. Of course it would have to be the emotionally guarded, borderline outcast.

John was suddenly glad that there was still a bit of wine remaining in his glass.