Sherlock Holmes leaned agaisnt the tombstone and let out a punch of pent up air. He breathed hard for several moments, watching his breath plume. His hands and legs shook violently. He scrabbled to keep his feet, holding tight to the tombstone's graveled side. A groan escpaed him as pain flared up his side and lights danced in front of his eyes.
The boys who had chased him here were gone. He'd lost them half a mile ago, running at his all out best. He was alone now in the country cemetary, breathing out hot air. A wrenching sob escaped the frail boy, and the tears leaking from eyes froze immediately on his cheeks.
"Sherlock?" A soft voice. A hand grasped his shoulder. He'd heard the footsteps approaching, and wasn't shocked at all. He saw the girl through the prism of his agony, standing amid the tombstones. It was Emma Forester. The Misfit. But no one dared beat a girl like they beat him. She was holding a spotted toad in her hand, stroking it gently with a finger. Emma, with her shaggy blond hair and soft voice. Emmie was as "unlady like" as Sherlock's odd auntie Martha and she, unlike corpulent Marhta, hunted for frogs and bugs with him.
Emmie, who was now present to see him sobbing against the side of a tombstone, clutching his exploding side. So embarassing! Pray think, what else is there to lose? Thought the scrawny nine year old.
"They did this?" The soft voice was full of outrage. Emma knelt next to him, looking carefully into his eyes.
Sherlock Holmes nodded. The momentum of his head caused more tears to spill from his eyes and freeze as pearls on his cheeks. "T-they...I was just o-out walking...and the w-whole group came down on me. I tried to run..."
"Poor Sherlock." She took his hand gently in her own. He almost cringed away. Nothing to lose, old boy. No one cares if you're holding hands with a girl. They all just want you dead. You have absoltely no reputation to lose. Yet, he didn't think the gesture romantic. It seemed...well, out of pity.
She touched his side and he nearly screamed. "Emma! Wh-wha-?"
"I'm trying to see if you have any broken ribs."
"Be gentle."
"I barely touched you."
"It feels like you're stabbing! Oww, Emmie it hurts! Please, stop, stop! Ouuuch!"
Emmie nodded curtly, pushing her wirerimmed spectacles up on her beakish nose. She wore a grey, woolen shirt and smelled, to Sherlock, like a wet dog. She had been down by the lake, collecting toads again, so that explained it. Emmie would never have a lady's grace. She walked with a slight limp in her left foot and was contanstly adjusting her too big spectacles.
Yet, as she felt his side, even through the stabbing pain, he felt his heart rate acclerating. Foolish nonsense. Utter claptrap! Screamed fat Aunt Marhta in his mind. Foolish young lad! The exact words she had shouted at Sherlock when he had splashed tea onto her lap then tried to appoligize. He can still see Martha's grey eyes exploding with hatred as she stands, gesturing madly.
"Shh. Tis all right. I don't think you've broken anything." He stood, knowing tommorow he would only manage a stagger.
"Why did they attack you? Oh, you can pet Gordon if you like." She handed him the slimy toad and felt her heart soar at the smile that lit his face. He's into some weird things, just like me. No wonder all the boys don't get along with him. He's...well he's sort of softish, I guess. But in a good way. And his mind is good...She paused in her thinking as a strange, foreign thought glowed in her mind. Why Emmie, you're falling in love!
"His proper name is Bufo Bufo," said Sherlock Holmes, stroking the slimy, bulging side. "Common toad, you know? I've looked them all up in the book at home. The one Mycroft and John got me for Christmas. Oh, right, John's going to beat them silly when he finds out-!" His thin lips stretched into an even broader smile, contrasting with the tears still frozen on his cheeks. But everything about him is so...I don't know...oppoisite and weird. And...oh, oh shut it out!
"I would love to!" exclaimed Emmie, eyes huge behind her spectacles. "Can I have Buffo Buffo back? Oh, Sherlock, have you ever heard the fairytale about the princess and the frog. You know, the one where she...the princess...you know...she...umm..."
He shook his head, not really paying attention. He was too busy examining the toad, and feeling a tad guilty for the disection he'd performed on a similar specimen while brother Mycroft looked on excitedly.
Emmie, blast, you're being ridiculous. He...
"She does this!" Finished Emmie, and kissed him squarely on his lips. The toad hit the ground with a thunk and the young Sherlock Holmes were wider than saucers. It was Sherlock Holmes' first and last kiss. He wiped a hand slowly across his lips, tasting something minty.
Why had she done it? They were such good friends, and girls had loads of germs, everyone knew! Blast, blasssst! If anyone saw. If any of the lads knew. First holding hands, and...what was that anyway? Had she really smacked a kiss on his lips? His Emmie? And it had been wet, awful, just foul in a way, but mostly it was...wonderful?
"Emmie, why did you do that?" He said, still wiping his mouth.
"Ohhhh, I'm so stupid!" Shouted Emma, and she turned from him, leaving him in one of the retropective sileneces she hated. Of course he didn't fancy her. Who did?
"Wait!" Shouted Sherlock Holmes. "Come back!" He considered flying off after her, but he ached too much, outside and inside. It had been a rubbish day, and he didn't need this. Didn't want this. "Emmie, I didn't mean-! Be careful if the lads are still out there. I don't they'd hestiate too much about whacking a girl." He said this more softly, and only Buffo Buffo heard, but didn't care because the drop had nearly killed him. She was out of sight before he could count to twenty.
Someone grabbed him firmly by the shoulderblades. This time, he hadn't been watching his back. Sherlock Holmes screamed.