Sherlock Holmes was in his first-year at Atkinson Academy, a venerable boarding school north of London. He was at the top of his class by a wide margin, but Holmes still felt dwarfed in his older brother's shadow. Mycroft Holmes graduated early with highest honors, going on to continue his studies in the city. Most professors couldn't stop talking about how impressive Mycroft Holmes had been.

Where his older brother focused all of his energies on academics, Sherlock Holmes enjoyed playing tennis as a way of practicing discipline and staying active. One early spring morning, Holmes joined the rest of the team out on the courts behind the school for practice.

"Corbyn, Holmes, you're up!" said Coach Necket. "You'll be playing one set, first to six games. Don't hold back, we're determining who's going to lead off in this weekend's tournament."

Holmes and Corbyn stood across from each other. Holmes was several inches shorter, considerably lankier, and three years younger, but his grey eyes had hawk-like sharpness. Corbyn looked tired and overconfident.

Corbyn's collar was wrinkled and his socks were mismatched, one black and one navy blue. He was sluggish. Holmes had passed by him earlier and smelled the trace of peach hand soap, distinct to the girl's dormitory. Corbyn is usually well-kept. Looks like he was up late last night and didn't want to wake someone up when leaving her dorm. Probably drinks involved. Good, he'll be tired.

Corbyn bounced the ball a couple times on the hard clay. Corbyn's got a good serve, but he almost always hits it to the same spot. Corbyn tossed the ball up and smacked it across the court. The serve was scorchingly fast, but Holmes was positioned perfectly. He returned the ball with a precise forehand groundstroke that forced Corbyn to sprint to the other end of the court. He returned it with a backhand, and the two boys volleyed one stroke each before Holmes snuck a shot past Corbyn that ricocheted off his baseline.

"Zero serving fifteen," said Coach Necket.

Corbyn grimaced. "Lucky shot," he said as he grabbed another ball and walked back to serve. Holmes watched Corbyn's eyes; he had a bad habit of telegraphing his aim. Holmes returned the second serve and won another point.

Corbyn was one of the best players at the school. He was stronger and faster than most of the boys, and he was able to put a wicked spin on his shots. As good as he was, Holmes was able to exploit his weaknesses fairly easily: unsteady backhand, slow step with his left foot due to a childhood injury, notably sloppy form when he got tired. His spin shots weren't as daunting as Holmes was usually able to calculate the speed and direction of the spin based on the angle and velocity of Corbyn's swing.

Corbyn scored the next point, but Holmes took the next two to win the first game. He won the next game too, and Corbyn started to get more aggressive. He had come into this match cocky to play against such a young opponent. He started giving it his all, but Holmes was able to hold his ground. What he lacked in physicality he excelled at in technique.

They traded games and back and forth until the score was five games to four, Holmes's advantage. One more win and he would take the set. Corbyn was pushing hard, fighting for survival against a first-year.

"Coach Necket, that was out of bounds!" he protested after a crafty serve by Holmes put Holmes up forty to thirty.

Coach Necket shook his head. "That was on the line. Set point."

Corbyn returned Holmes's next serve with a two-handed swing. He was starting to overcommit to each shot, practically diving to save one on his left sideline. He's off-balance. Good luck returning this. Holmes stepped forward and swished his racket, feigning a shot to Corbyn's back left corner, then twisted the racket back around to deliver a no-look shot in the other direction. Corbyn bit on the fake. He realized too late, stumbling as he tried to change direction. He leapt out and extended his body to make the save, but he was only able to clip the ball with the hard edge of his racket, sending it bouncing out of bounds. Corbyn smacked his fists on the court before standing.

"Nice set, Holmes," said Coach Necket. "You're nothing like your older brother, he never took his games seriously. Keep up the good work."

Holmes smiled and wiped a line of sweat from his brow, brushing his shaggy, dark hair back. That was one advantage that the younger Holmes could count on. Coach Necket wrote something on his clipboard. Holmes could tell from the movement of the back of the pencil that the phrase included the words, "Sherlock Holmes."