We all knew Sherlock Holmes was a strange boy. Us, as in the bus drivers. There were only five of us, one for each day of the week, but we were a close bunch and had brunch on Friday afternoons, the ones who didn't have other jobs, that is. One thing we all noted was Sherlock Holmes. Everyday he would tear home in a flash as soon as the bus stopped, streaking down the street.

We had heard that he had an extra person in his house, a boy a few years older than him, about 14, and who didn't have any family. He was a refugee from a war zone. He spoke English, but he didn't go to school. His stay there was supposed to be very temporary, but it had been a year already.

Unlike other children, Sherlock didn't talk about his home life, just ran home as fast as possible. It was a mystery to all. No one knew anything about Holmes or Watson. Unknowing, we laughed at him trying to get home in such a hurry. "What could be the rush?" We thought. Everyday, without fail, he sprinted from the bus stop. Until one day.

The whole year, he had never missed a single day of school. Then one Monday, he didn't show up. Not for any of us. For a week, he was gone. The following Monday he returned. He didn't run home that say. He dragged his feet as long as possible, trudging down the sidewalk, head cast downwards. It was that night that I read in the paper the most horrible thing I had ever seen.

"War Refugee Commits Suicide!" I snatched the paper up, breathing heavily. As I scanned the paper, my stomach sank lower and lower, bile rising up in my throat.

"A new addition to the Holmes family recently lost his battle with untreated PTSD and depression. John Watson, a 15 year old boy has been depressed for years, reports the Holmes family. No one in the family said they knew about, even going so far as to disregard their 12 year old son, Sherlock's requests for help. 'I just wish I had known earlier,' sobs Mrs. Holmes. The youngest Holmes does not comment."

This was why he had run home. He had known about John and had sprinted in an attempt to catch him before anything like this had happened. And we had laughed at him. The next day he walked home. And the next and the next and the next and the next. Until one day he didn't show up to school. Not the next day either. Or the next or the next or the next or the next.

The paper that month was full of tragic headlines.