Hello, all! This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, but I couldn't hold back any more after reading so many amazing fanfics. Please read, review, and help me become an active participant in this amazing community.

I don't own Sherlock in this incarnation or any previous. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting alone in a 12x12 apartment eating cereal straight from the box. Or would I?

Chapter One: Bullies

Sixteen year old Sherlock Holmes was not one for holding back when the opportunity to deduce another human to shreds presented itself. By this stage in his life, he had already committed himself to believing that sentimentality and rampant emotionalism was a waste of time and a distraction from the important work that needed doing. Normal people were emotional. Well, normal people were also idiots and Sherlock Holmes was neither normal nor an idiot.

Sherlock had been working on a complicated series of chemical tests in his room at the ridiculously high-class boarding school in which Mummy had placed him. She did not seem to understand that this school would most likely be no different than the three other boarding schools he had attended so far. They were all the same…filled with dull people leading dull lives. Although the boarding schools provided people for him to observe that had a greater median intelligence, they were still no match for the excessive brilliance of one Sherlock Holmes. As such, the people he met fell prey to the age-old human reaction to things they don't understand. Their perception of Sherlock was hovering on a knife's edge between fear and hatred. He might be willing to say that most of them held a grudging respect for his intellect, but no one would dare ever admit it the egotistical genius anyway.

Since the experiments bubbling away in the beakers and tubes in his chambers needed time to percolate, Sherlock had decided to give himself a fifteen minute break. He had travelled outside to the grounds, hoping to find solitude and quiet in the gardens. Mindful of a watchful groundskeeper off in the distance, Sherlock eased his way through the rows of rosebushes and found a soft patch of grass. He lay down, mindful of the springy green stuff and the fact that he was wearing his uniform. The afternoon sun had passed behind the dormitory and the chill of evening was beginning to set in, but Sherlock was comfortable and maybe even a little at peace. He steepled his fingers under his chin and let his thoughts drift off to his mind-palace.

I wish I could tell you that sixteen year old Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon in that quiet place organizing his mind-palace, but it would be a vicious lie.

Sherlock hadn't been in his mind-palace for five minutes when he began to suspect that someone was watching him. He was in Mycroft's wing—the git's birthday was approaching, and even though both Holmes brothers had sworn off sentiment, birthdays were still celebrated, albeit without the little cone-shaped hats and off-key singing. He retreated from his palace and quirked open an eye, hoping that the groundskeeper was just passing through. However, the faces that glared down at Sherlock Holmes in the garden did not belong to Charley the groundskeeper or any other staff for that matter.

Fantastic.Sherlock barely suppressed a small groan as he sat up and faced three teenage boys all dressed as he was, in their grey and burgundy school uniforms. The ringleader of the small group was standing point in front of the other two. Sherlock had faced many bullies in his short life on planet Earth (not that he knew anything about the solar system), but Andrew Riordan and his minions were the most…unpleasant he had met of late. Andrew's shock of spiky black hair matched the color of Sherlock's own soft ebony curls, but that's about where the comparisons ended.

"Hey Sherly," Andrew sneered as he nodded his chin violently in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock had long ago distanced himself from any emotional reaction to the use of the name "Sherly"—really is was a pathetic attempt to…what was that phrase… 'get a rise out of him.' Sherlock had learned that he could easily avoid a row—and therefore the bruises—if he simply learned to stop caring.

"Sherly," Sherlock sighed. "How droll. I'm quite sure I've never heard that one before, Andrew. Really, you must think of better ways to spend your time. Your work in finding new ways to insult me has obviously failed."

"You think you're so smart, Sherly," Andrew shot back at him, curling his hand into a fist at his side.

"Au contraire, Andrew," Sherlock stated in a flawless accent. "I know I'm so smart. For example, I know that your parents have gotten divorced…in the past week too. My condolences, Andrew that must be hard for you and your…what, two younger brothers? Oh no, my apologies, younger brother and sister. Do they know that your father was having an affair?"

For the briefest of moments, Andrew Riordan blanched and his eyes widened fractionally. His sidekicks didn't see it, but he knew Sherlock Holmes did. He cursed under his breath.

"Shut up, freak. You don't know anything about me. You're just a freak of nature and you like to talk about our families because your own doesn't care about you."

Inside his chest, Sherlock's heart twanged ever so slightly at Riordan's comment. Sherlock almost looked down at the offending organ, but he didn't. He'd have to catalogue that reaction to the insult later. Meanwhile, one of Andrew's thugs had started to ask a question.

"But Andrew, how'd he know that?" The blonde boy to Andrew's left was attempting to stage whisper the question, his curiosity clearly getting the best of him. Andrew threw a glare at him but Sherlock's keen hearing caught everything. And when Sherlock Holmes catches an opportunity to deduce someone to shreds, he takes advantage of it.

"It's all quite elementary, really," Sherlock began. "His right sleeve tells us all that we need to…"

And that's all the farther Sherlock Holmes was able to deduce about Andrew Riordan before Andrew threw a fist into Sherlock's face.