"So, Miss Johnson, tell me, how are you feeling today? Have you been having your compulsions? Have you been feeding them? Any more... thoughts?"

"You're talking to me like I'm a child"

"You are a child"

"Yes, maybe in the eyes of the law, but I don't think like one. I can see that you've only just found out that your wife is cheating on you, evident by the sudden removal of your wedding ring and the fact that you slept on the sofa last night- you're too easy to give in, Mr Blake, it's your house, not hers. I can tell that your eldest child has just had some devastating news- probably from university- given by the letter tucked away in your jacket pocket- you're going to call up and defend your child, but you don't really care if they go or not- you put the letter in your pocket, not really a sentimental place, you really don't want your daughter to leave, just like your wife. And" the person speaking pursed their lips "You're quite glad that this is our last meeting because you can't stand me, you haven't been able to stand me since day one, that's probably because your best pals with Mr Johnson. The feeling is quite mutual, quite frankly, I think you're an arrogant pig who hasn't been able to help me from day one, you've been using Mr Johnson for his money despite being best friends, and I think you're a wanker. In other words, Mr Blake, fuck you"

The therapist blinked, sat behind his desk as the scraping of a chair opposite him was heard. The room was silent, dark, dulled, before him, a sixteen-year-old girl with long, cherry red hair, who had her back turned to him.

"Good-bye, Emery" Mr Blake sighed "I'm sure your father would love to hear of our meeting"

"Oh, I'm sure he would, considering your best friends, after all" a faint smirk played on her lips, she turned to her therapist "Oh, I'll tell Mrs Blake you said hi. She stays over a lot, you see, she likes to sleep in Mr Johnson's bed to be specific! Bye!"

Emery wasn't insane, she knew that. As a child, she used to think she was, when she could see people, when she could read them. Mr Johnson- she supposed her father, had labelled her as a nutjob, someone who was insane, challenged, and for a while, she agreed. But, after a while, she knew different; there was no real definition as normal, as she read people, they all had their own issues, their own stories. Her dad, he wasn't normal, he bullied her, he bullied everyone, the children at school, they weren't normal either.

No one was normal, everyone was simply boring.

Except for her.

She loved her mind, the way it was active, the way it worked. At first, she hated how busy it was, how loud her thoughts were, how intrusive they were. But, after a while, she embraced them, she could categorise them, make them less noisy, she could think clearly, she could see clearly. And people hated her for it, but she didn't care, people were dull anyway.

As she managed to control the readings, the thoughts, seeing people's life and activities, the OCD came. That had been significantly less hard to control, having photographic memory, she could see things out of place and it sent her insane. Mr Johnson -her dad- oh, he loved to go into her room and move something, he used to love to listen to her shuffling about, groaning, counting, fixing what he had done. When she left, he used to love hurrying her, disallowing her to check the door was locked, he used to love watching her squirm, itch.

Maybe she was insane.

But, being dull, well, that was boring.

And being boring, that was overrated.

She stood staring up at the large, aged building before her that could have easily been mistaken for a castle, and she let out a small sigh of relief- happiness. Here she was, boarding school, she had been begging for it for years, and finally, Mr Johnson had funded her school. Despite the man being misogynistic, abusive, being a general bastard bully, he had copious amounts of wealth, and he was more than happy to fund her boarding school on the account that she got social services off his back. Of course, he had signed her up with the local therapist within the town, he had to make it look like he cared, when really, he didn't. But she didn't care, she was away from that place, that home, and she was happy.

The boarding school was without any sign of life as she stood there. The sky was vibrant, light blue, without a cloud in the sky, the sun beating down on her making her squirm slightly. She was thankful that there was no school uniform, that would have sent her OCD off, seeing others wear it differently, she shivered at the very thought. To the side of her, a large suitcase, and on her back, a fixed backpack.

"Oi, kid"

She rolled her eyes, turning to the car behind her where Mr Johnson was hanging his head out from the rolled down car window- a Mercedes-Benz S-Class- an expensive car, but a label for Mr Johnson when he went out to impress his friends. It had certainly impressed Mrs Blake, she almost smirked at that.

"Yes?" she pursed her lips.

"Make sure you attend your therapy sessions" he hissed out "Because social services are really getting on my nerves with your shit. You would have figured that having you for ten years, they would have left me alone, but no" he huffed "I don't care what sort of crap you get up to here, just make me look good for social services"

"Will do" she rolled her eyes. He'd only taken in and kept her for the last ten years to keep his public image alive in the village they lived in. There had been horrific rumours that he'd killed someone- and well, she was sure he did, but he'd covered them with lies, adopted her and everyone suddenly thought he was a great man again. He was a pretty shit one.

"Good" he spoke "Now get lost. Have to make sure you get in"

"Like you care" she mumbled, picking her suitcase up and heading to the door. She turned around, and sure enough, the car was gone, because he didn't care. Of course, he didn't care. She pushed the doors open, being met with a receptionist who eyed her warily before speaking.

"Yes?"

"Emery Johnson, I'm starting here today"

"Oh, of course" the woman mumbled. She was elderly, ageing brown eyes with grey curly hair. Emery could see she was miserable with her job, and life for that matter- the woman was contemplating suicide evident by the pills tucked away in her cardigan, and the receipt for many more tucked away under some paperwork. The receptionist handed her a small, silver key, that had a number etched on.

"Room 23, floor A, side B" the receptionist mumbled "The floors are of unisex, you are allowed visitors, overnight we're not bothered as long as there's no teenage pregnancies" she pursed her lips, eyeing Emery up and down "Try to behave, lights out at eleven. Anything you do in your time is your own business as long as it doesn't affect the school"

With that, the receptionist wondered off, leaving Emery with her key in her hand, her suitcase in her other. The teenager sighed, gripped the key, before wondering off to her room. She begged internally that she had a lone room, that she wouldn't be sharing, she couldn't imagine sharing a room. Whilst Mr Johnson had been a prick, she hadn't had to share a room, and she was thankful for that.

She avoided contact with students as they came bustling out of their classroom, eye contact and physical; she could see their questions whirling around in their minds; who was she, what was she doing there, where would she be saying? They really were annoying, it wasn't their business. But, she understood their questions, they were curious, she loved curiosity.

Time seemed to slow for a moment as she locked eyes with a stranger in the corridor, despite trying her best to avoid eye contact. A boy, with black curly hair and vibrant grey eyes that if looked at differently, seemed to settle with either blue or green. He sported a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black trousers; he seemed to be the only one interested in formal wear compared to the rest of the school. He blinked, staring into her bright blue eyes, and then everything seemed to pause for a moment.

Until the boy she had locked eyes with looked away, hurrying down the corridor. She blinked in shock; he was abnormal. Everyone else, they read the same, they all had their individual issues, troubles, but the boy, he looked her as if he could read her. She could tell he had family issues, that he hated the boarding school, that by the slight bruise on his sharp cheek bones that he was bullied- not a lot, and often deserving, he probably let his mouth run a little far, further than he should. She had done that a number of times, she still did. He was antisocial, he didn't like people or friends, evident by the fact that he had stood on his own whereas most people walked with their friends. He liked science, she could see that too, there were chemical stains on his fingers- he didn't like taking precautions, he liked danger.

She found him interesting.

She carried on going down the corridor, walking to the dorms, standing before her room. She slotted the key into the slot, turning the key once, hearing the door unlock, before turning the key back to locking the door. She sighed, turning it again, turning it back again, before doing the same once more, opening the door finally- she found doing things in threes sometimes comforted her- well, satisfied the compulsions.

The door swung open; the room wasn't big but wasn't necessarily small- there was a single bed pushed to the wall nearby the window that was relatively big- she could sit by the window and peer out at the grassland below, followed by the forestry. There was a desk to the corner of her room, too, it was empty and plain with a wooden chair. And then there was simply a small set of draws. There was a bathroom she had passed on the way down- communal, but there weren't many rooms in the corridor, and she imagined there was another bathroom further down the corridor. The walls were simply a cream colour, and the flooring brown and wooden- she was glad, carpet was too much hard work.

She supposed she could work with this.

She unzipped her suitcase, opening it and letting out a small sigh noting Mr Johnson hadn't messed anything up from her neat organisation. She took her clothes out, unfolding them and folding them again, before slotting them neatly into the chest of drawers, in an organisation she knew too well. She took her stationary next, three pencils to the left, five pens to the right of the desk, paper in the middle. She glanced around the room, frowning- there wasn't a book shelf, but she could fix that she supposed. There hadn't been anything in the rules of the school about making modifications to the room, and Mr Johnson had agreed to send £50 to her bank every week, given she made him look good to social services, meaning she could afford a book shelf.

Perhaps, things wouldn't be that bad after all.

A/N

Hello reader.

This book explores teenage Sherlock, Emery Johnson. The original intention of the book is to explore Emery and Sherlock's past, their friendship, and everything else. John Watson is NOT in this book.

This book, once completed, will be followed by the BBC's version of Sherlock, with the inclusion of Emery, will I'll write. I wanted to write this first to get a set up for Emery, I have been thinking about this, and would prefer this book to be the first book, before delving into the BBC version of Sherlock (where Sherlock is portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch, and John by Martin Freeman).

Another note; this book will contain:

- OCD

- Mentions of mental illness

- Mentions of/and self harm

- Abusive parents - Not physically.

- Bullying