The squeak of floorboard at the middle third of the corridor told him everything. It was a grating squeak, like nails grinding into the slate panels that hung in every classroom. Most of his housemates took care to avoid it at all costs.

He didn't bother to look about. He was the only one in the room, a casualty of the summer holidays and the diplomatic corps dispatching Father and Mother to some far-flung region (he was fair with his geography, but recent events were making it impossible to keep up). God knew where Mycroft was—starting that internship, most like, but the news of it had bored Sherlock to tears.

The footsteps were heavy; weighted, as though what caused them favored one side over the other (right, it had to be, given the squeak). It was the presence of another set of them that put the thin chill down the twelve year old's nearly-exposed spine.

There was no one in the room. It was a third floor arrangement (more stairs, but quieter roommates), so trying for the windows wasn't an option. Even if he had, there were no sills to balance on, no architectural landings or rails to gain a footing. Though he didn't mind heights, Sherlock knew it was impossible for human beings to safely take flight.

Passing his end table, he crept near the bed next to his—Neville's, a quiet sort who fancied cricket—and found the bottle of linseed oil tucked under the mattress. "Never know when it might come handy," Neville had said, after most of the others had bollocked him for oiling his bat in their quarters. "Despite the smell."

The shadows at the door began to grow deeper; he had only seconds. Sherlock's eyes widened at the shape of a weapon in a hand that was gaining in size with each breath.

Come on, come on, he willed, working at the stubborn screw top of the oil bottle. Relief flooded over his thin frame as it slowly began to work off the caked threads of the bottleneck. Long thin hands coated themselves in the smelly lubricant, taking care to glide over the soles of his house shoes while thickly smearing a generous puddle onto the floor around him.

"Little brat should be asleep, yeah?" a voice oozed, stopping Sherlock cold. The little boy took one last look around him, spying the empty beds, the spent bottle, and the feel of chilled oil nipping into his hands.

He cast his eyes on his books: several by Fleming, a shelf full of Stout's detectives, a few on criminology, and one by some doctor named Joseph Bell that Mycroft assured him he would like. Oddly enough, he had.

"Dunno 'bout this one," another voice wheezed, and it was painfully familiar to Sherlock's ears. "Never seems to sleep. Or mind that others might need it."

Thinking fast, Sherlock flattened his hand against the flaking paint in the wall. He knew from his reading that there was a high chance the fingerprints would stand out, if one knew how to look.

The door whined as it opened, a thin, high pitched sound. There were no closets, no open corridors—not even an open window to escape through. The clod of footsteps moved closer, quickened by the sight of their prey curled nearly under the bed. As they closed in, Sherlock gave a small cry—a small, strangled sound, one he knew would reach no friendly ear. Though he had been versed in what to do in such situations, his heart still pounded in his throat at the sight of the Glock.

"Nice and easy, lad," the calm voice purred. Sherlock could almost feel the smile from which it came. "Don't make trouble, if you value your skin." The hands that grabbed him were rough, putting an end to his attempt to crawl under the bedframe and flee.

"Yeah, brat," the aging housemaster wheezed, his liquored breath nearly gagging his captive. "God knows you'd have it comin', if'n you did..."

"Enough of that," the mastermind of the pair snapped. "There's more than money at stake." A well-defined arm snaked around Sherlock's neck, tightening like a vice as he struggled to escape. The cold bite of metal connecting with his spine stilled him instantly.

The terrified little boy (and that was an accurate description, given the circumstances) moved stiffly past his bed and into the corridor, trying in vain to leave clear evidence of what was happening to him as he was pushed down the stairs and into the black courtyard. Once he was inside his abductors' van (had to be a van; he could sit upright instead of shoved to the floor) Sherlock was bound, blinded and left only with his thoughts as his first prison sped away into the night.


Notes:

This piece came from a thought I found on TV Tropes (a great site for trivia fans!): the idea that Sherlock was able to walk through the scenes in the missing children's dormitory (particularly the boy) fairly quickly because he himself had been in a similar situation. Coupled with the horrible display with the housemistress, and I thought, "There might be a story in that..."

The title comes from Stone Sour's "Through Glass," which carries the lines "when you're outside looking in, describing what you see/remember what you're staring at is me/'cause I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed..." I own neither this nor anything from Sherlock that you recognize.