Sherlock Holmes, Royal (Left Cheekbone). That's how he's listed in the court volumes. Nothing after that, because an addition for a Royal means rule, and no ruler and council would ever elect Sherlock as heir. When he's twenty-five, education done with and a whole host of boring positions on offer, he tells Mycroft that he's done with it all, and to hell with the Royal positions. "And what, exactly, do you plan on doing?" "I'm going to solve crime," Sherlock informs him sharply. "The watchmen are abysmal, it's downright painful to watch them. Knights don't have the brains for solving crimes. More Royals ought to do it." Mycroft is against it, predictably, and so is the rest of the court. A Royal can't lower themselves to that. The classes are there for a reason. They'll be forced to put him in the cells if he won't see sense. Sherlock knows how to break out of the cells, though, and the capital is hardly the fortress they seem to think it is. By morning, he's miles from the place.