Chapter Text
Sherlock turned his collar up against the November wind Leaves swirled around him as he began his trek
home. A couple kids on bikes sped past him, laughing while they talked with each other.
Friends.
They were something that most people seemed to have. People would sit together at lunch and try to
pair up for projects, play with each other at recess. Sometimes Sherlock overheard them inviting one
another over to their houses.
Once he had even seen two people kiss and call themselves a couple, but Sherlock really didn’t see the
point in that.
He heard footsteps running behind him, and he picked up his pace a little bit. If I can just make it to
Mrs. Hudson’s--
“Hey freak!” laughed a boy as he ran past, shoving Sherlock’s shoulder so that he stumbled. The boy
skidded to a halt, grinning mockingly at him. “No one to walk you home?”
“Go away Anderson.” Sherlock said flatly, staring straight ahead as he kept walking.
“Aw.” Anderson stopped right in front of him, blocking Sherlock as he tried to go around. “Lonely?”
“No.”
“That’s because you’re a freak, any sane person would at least try to make friends.”
I did try. Sherlock thought, staring at the ground now. Back in first year. You told me to go pound sand.
But he said nothing aloud.
“Hey.” Anderson forced his chin up. “Why don’t you talk to people?”
“Because the only person that speaks to me is you, and I don’t like you.” Sherlock pushed the older boy’s hand away.
“Why not?” Anderson asked.
“Because you lower the IQ of everyone in the area when you open your big mouth.” Sherlock’s voice was still even, unemotional.
“Why you little-” Anderson swung at him, but Sherlock ducked under his arm and started sprinting.
Anderson was far too fast for him though, and soon tackled him to the ground.
“Get off!” Sherlock yelled, anger seeping through for the first time. “Get off me!”
“Take it back!” Anderson rolled him over and pinned him to the ground that way.
“No!” Sherlock squirmed, trying to get away.
“One more chance.” Anderson said dangerously, raising a fist.
Sherlock stilled and looked up at him, eyes flashing. “Only fools retort with violence.”
Anderson growled, throwing his punch to Sherlock’s gut, causing Sherlock to curl upwards, catching the
next one in the face.
This continued for a couple minutes, until a voice shouted “HEY!”
Anderson looked up in surprise to see a blond boy in the year above them sprinting towards them. He
quickly got off Sherlock, who rolled over and scrambled backwards, ending in a crab position some ten
feet away.
“What’re you doing?” The older boy demanded, glaring at Anderson.
“N-nothing?”
“Get the hell out of here.” the new boy growled, stepping forward menacingly.
Anderson complied, running away as fast as he could.
The other boy walked over and crouched in front of Sherlock. He was strong looking and wearing a
school rugby uniform. His blue eyes were barely hiding worry for the younger boy in front of him.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Told Anderson he lowered everyone’s IQ.” Sherlock answered warily, looking him over. “Who’re you?”
“Oh, right. John Watson.” John stood and held out a hand for Sherlock.
Sherlock hesitated, then took it. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“Have a place you can go?”
“Yes. It’s just around the corner.” Sherlock’s emotionless voice was back.
“Mind if I walked you there?” John asked casually, trying to mask his concern.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You were just pummeled. I’m coming.” John stated. “Where are we going?”
“There’s no ‘we’ in this situation.”
“There is now.”
Sherlock huffed. “Why are you being so persistent about this?”
“I just saved you from getting beaten to a pulp, let me have this.”
Sherlock tensed, then sighed. “Fine. The address is 221B Baker Street.”
“Your house?”
“My babysitter.” Sherlock hated that word, but he couldn’t think of a better one for someone who
watched him after school while his parents were at work. “My brother will pick me up in a few hours.”
“Cool.” John started walking.
The conversation was dead the whole way. It wasn’t until they reached the door of the flat complex that
John said anything more.
“So how come you come here after work?”
“Parents are working, brother’s got afternoon classes at uni.”
“You’ve got a brother?”
“Yeah. He’s a prig.”
John laughed. “I’ve got a sister, she’s one too. Might be a sibling thing.”
“That would make us prigs to them.” Sherlock remarked, but a slight smile tugged at his lips.
“Probably.” John agreed, rapping the knocker against the door. A moment later a middle-aged woman
appeared, wearing an apron over her dress. “Sherlock! And who’s this?” she looked between Sherlock
and John.
“Hi Mrs. H.” Sherlock greeted. “This is John.”
“Hello.” John shook her hand and smiled at her.
“Oh! Is he a friend of yours Sherlock?”
“He’s. . .an acquaintance.” Sherlock nodded. Not friend, but not indifferent or an enemy either. Acquaintance was right.
“Of course dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Want some tea and biscuits?”
“Yeah.” Sherlock nodded as he went inside.
John followed, looking about. The stairs creaked as they went up them. The yellow wall paper was old
but in decent condition. The railing was smooth from years of hands running up and down it. The whole
building smelled like baked goods, which he suspected was from the restaurant on the ground floor.
Mrs. Hudson walked them into a flat and told them to wait just a moment.
Sherlock settled his lanky body into an armchair, hands folded in front of his face. John looked around awkwardly before sitting down in the one across from him.
“So. . .what is this place?” he asked after clearing his thoat.
“Hm? Oh, this.” Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. “It’s my flat.”
“Wait, this whole place is yours?!”
“Well, not technically, but it’s Mrs. H can’t get anyone to rent it out, so she lets me use it.” He stood and
strode over to a corner, picking something up. “She lets me keep some of my stuff here too.” he said,
showing John a violin case.
“You play?” John raised an eyebrow.
Sherlock nodded. “Since I was eight.” he sat back down in his chair.
“Would you mind showing me?”
Sherlock tilted his head. “Maybe after tea.”
“Right. Of course.” John settled back in his chair, shifting so that no weight was on his left leg.
“You hurt your leg.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, playing rugby about a month ago.” John shrugged.
“It’s psychosomatic.”
“Pardon?”
“You got tackled from your right side and the injury was in your shoulder.”
“H-how did you know that? Exactly?” John was bewildered.
“I didn’t know, I observed. You didn’t have it while you were running, it started up when Anderson left.
And I was watching rugby the day it happened.”
“That.” John leaned back in his chair. “Was amazing.”
Sherlock tilted his head. “Not what most people say.”
“Why, what do most people say?”
“’Piss off’.”
John looked at him for a second then burst into laughter. Sherlock laughed along with him, surprising
Himself.
A second later Mrs. H returned with tea and biscuits. “Here you go—Sherlock, what happened to your
eye?” she asked in alarm.
“Nothing.” Sherlock shrugged her question away, reaching for a biscuit.
Mrs. Hudson held the tray out of his reach. “No food until you tell me.”
“Hey!”
“You heard me.”
“Fine, Anderson punched me. Again. Happy?” Sherlock huffed.
“I’m going to talk to the school about him.” Mrs. Hudson sighed, placing the tray on the little table next
to him before walking back downstairs.
“Is she really going to call?” John asked, looking at the platter.
“Doesn’t matter if she does, he always does it off of school grounds.” Sherlock picked up a biscuit and tossed it at John. “Think fast.”
“That sucks.” John caught it with no problems. “Thanks.”
“It is what it is.” said Sherlock with a wry smile.
“And what it is, is schist.” John retorted, biting into his biscuit. “Man, these are good. Think she’d let me
have the recipe?”
“I don’t know, but you can ask if you want.”
After a few minutes of silence as they finished their food, John cleared his throat again. “So. . .would you mind showing me the violin?”
“Yeah, ok.” Sherlock carefully pulled the instrument out of its case. He passed it to John, who looked it
over before handing it back. “Want me to play?”
“Only if you want to.” John said, but he was really was curious about it.
Sherlock just nodded, then brought the thing to his chin and started.
“Woah.” John breathed when he finished. “What was that?”
“Something I wrote.” Sherlock said, lowering the violin and bow.
“You compose?!”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s bloody incredible.” John shook his head. “You’re what, fourteen?”
“Thirteen.” Sherlock corrected him, smiling slightly.
“Bloody hell.”
“What’s all this?” A college age boy appeared in the doorway.
“Oh. Hi Mycroft.” Sherlock said, sounding bored again.
“Who’s thins?” Mycroft asked, gesturing at John.
“John Watson.” He said, standing and extending his hand.
Mycroft looked at him for a minute and then nodded, not bothering to shake. “Pleasure.” he said, but
nothing in his tone indicated anything of the sort. He leaned against his umbrella, which John thought
odd, seeing as it wasn’t raining out. “Well little brother? Coming home today?”
“Don’t call me that.” Sherlock said coolly, staying right where he was.
“Don’t make me order you Sherlock.”
“I’d like to see you try.” John laughed a little at that.
“Sherlock, this isn’t the time for games.”
Instead of answering, Sherlock pulled out his violin.
“Oh, Sherlock, please tell me you aren’t going to-” Mycroft started before Sherlock cut him off with a
sharp series of notes. “This is-” more off-tune music “-really rather-” even more music “-immature!”
John was actively holding back laughter now, and Sherlock stood, bowed to him, and left with his
brother.
John followed them out, waving to Sherlock as he drove by.
Sherlock waved back, then switched to his normal routine and stared out the window, ignoring his brother.
“Good day at school then?” Mycroft asked, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.
“Normal.”
“You aren’t normally with another person after school.” Mycroft remarked.
“That wasn’t at school.”
“I see.” Mycroft did not push the issue.