A/N: I'm still working on Subconscious Comfort, don't worry. This story is not planned out, it came to me out of the blue and I jotted down what I could, to see if anyone would be interested in seeing it played out. If you like it, and want to see more, let me know! If you don't see any potential, let me know that too. I have a few vague ideas as to what could happen, but I'll take a lot of ideas and let reviewers decide. You guys are creative and sometimes even have better ideas than the authors themselves; so let the juices flow and go on an adventure!

The story isn't betaed yet, but it will get there. None of the show's characters are mine, though I'm sure to create a character or two. The kidnappers are mine, of course.

I hope you enjoy this prologue of sorts!


It's a Hard Knock Life for Us

Prologue:

John had been in London's Home for Wayward Boys for at least 3 years now, ever since his parents had died in the car wreck when he was ten. He and his sister, who had been fourteen at the time, had survived, though neither had come out unscathed. John had a severely broken leg that gives him trouble to this day. His sister, Harriett, had been traumatized by the gore and death. She had been placed in some sort of psychological facility to recover, before being placed in a group home for girls. He missed her, but he knew most families couldn't take more than one child at a time in this economy too. He hoped she got a nice family.

Despite his sibling being unreachable, across the city, John Watson, was not alone. The teenager was quite likeable, despite his temper, and had made many friends with the other kids. Though he had his share of friends, he preferred to spend most of his time with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was one of the youngest in the home, and was often bullied for his age, size, and intellect. The youngster's only memory of family was Mycroft, his older brother. The Holmes sibling's parents had been murdered by the boy's kidnappers once they realized that they wouldn't be paid. Afterward, the then five year old and thirteen year old were dumped back at their home. Mycroft had dragged his little brother off to call the police about their parents and then tried to look after them both. Apparently they had found refuge with the local homeless for a time, before they had been caught. That was all John could ever get out of his friend, and that was more than most were able to pry out of the sardonic mouth. The brothers had been separated, and Sherlock hadn't heard from Mycroft since.

Every unclaimed youth was plagued by nightmares, though there was no one to care or comfort. There were cliques, but rarely did friends consider each other family. Their warden, while meaning well, always reminded them that a family didn't often adopt more than one child, much less at a time. So, even amongst close groups, there was always a rivalry going on. Adoption was a competition and many of them were losing.