Author's note – Hey! So I've received requests for more kidlock, and I adore writing kidlock, so I kind of took the request and ran with it. I'm not sure how you guys will respond, so please leave a review to let me know if you like it and want me to continue! Thanks.

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"You're an idiot," I said.

"False. I am unusually bright for my age."

"Yeah, well, for being 'unusually bright' you sure can be dumb."

"For being two years older than me, you sure can be tiny. What are you, 75 pounds?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "No."

He narrowed his eyes, but before he could make another guess, I slammed a textbook on the table in front of him. "Focus."

"You're acting as if it's my fault we aren't following the very simplistic, nineteen-step approach I suggested for this lab."

"It is," I snapped.

"Excuse me? I definitely proposed that we implement them –"

"Irrelevant." Oh, god, I sounded like him. I rubbed a hand across my face. "It's nearly midnight and we're not getting anything done."

"Tomorrow's Saturday, we can finish then. Rather, you can; I'll keep working and update you once I'm done." He started gathering books and papers and rubrics, refusing the school's chemistry supplies I proffered. "I have far superior scientific equipment at home."

Weirdo. "Okay," I said.

"Well, goodnight."

"Yes." I stood awkwardly, neither of us entirely sure what to do. I'd met him years ago, of course, us being neighbors. We weren't strangers.

Except in a way we kind of were, in the context of school. He was twelve, taking ninth grade classes. One of which I was forced to attend. Adding insult to injury was the fact that out of the entire student body, I'd been chosen as his lab partner. At our first (re?)introduction, he rattled off what I'd had for breakfast, how old my cat was, and the length of my phone call with Grandma the previous evening. This he followed up with a blasé, "I know the current state of everything, try me," and, when I did not respond, tacked on an "oh and hello, I'm Sherlock. You are John Hamish –" at which point I either stormed off or tried to tell on him. Neither were ever remotely effective methods of dismissal, though. He followed, too incapable of reading social cues to have any sense of shame, and the teachers had been conditioned to resent and fear him; both he and his brother, it turns out, were hellish all through school and consistently topics of staff meeting gossip. What a badass.

"Goodbye," he said crisply. I realized I was standing, apparently transfixed by the doorknob.

"Let me walk you home," I said.

"It's just down the street," he replied uncertainly, adjusting his wool scarf. "Don't overexert yourself."

"What, do you think I'm going to kick the bucket if I'm forced to walk half a block down the road with you at twelve in the morning?"

"No, but your social life will, if we are seen," he said levelly. "I know that the probability of someone who attends our school and whose opinion you value showing up on this particular road on a Friday evening is highly likely, and I am not particularly keen on blackmailing a horde of fourteen-year-olds. Terribly dull and tedious."

"Do you have the entire grade blackmailed?" I asked. "I don't want to know the answer."

"Why you would ask a question you do not want the answer to is foolish and peculiar." He zipped up his book bag, slung the strap over his shoulder. "I'll see you later."

"Are you sure? I don't mind." I was extremely surprised to discover that I really, genuinely did not mind. Frustrating as odd Sherlock Holmes was, something about his demeanor was... charming. Not the part that dissected the substitute teacher's cat, or that reduced Brenna Ryan to tears on a daily basis, but the part that was so honest and frank and guileless. Moreover, his reference to the fact that he didn't want to go to the bother to blackmail my classmates implied that he would defend me against their harassment, if necessary.

"It's quite alright." He walked down the stairs, skinny arms straining slightly around the fat textbook he couldn't fit in his bag.

"Hey, wait," I said, and stuffed my feet into the closest pair of trainers. I had quite the collection strewn all over the house, much to Mum's chagrin. She had her hands full with Harry, though.

Speaking of. I was halfway to Sherlock when my (troubled) older sister came round the corner, stumbling drunkenly, a beer still clamped in one fist.

"Shit," I said loudly.

Sherlock stopped still in front of her, shoulders back, feet splayed out. "Excuse me," he said.

"Shit, no, Sherlock, don't –" I hurried down the sidewalk, standing protectively in front of the younger guy. "Harry."

"Johnny," she said blearily, and gave an insincere swipe at my face. "You're always my lil brother, my cute Johnny, so lil... HEY. Remember... remember..." She frowned and mumbled at the ground. Sherlock was still, silent, behind me.

"Harry, get inside."

"Mum will be livid." Her face broke into a manic grin, and uncontrollable laughter took over. She was clutching her sides, about to keel over onto the road, guffawing. "Mum will be so-ho-ho livid."

"Okay, okay." I sucked in a breath and grabbed her wrist.

"Don't touch me," she said, and backed up unsteadily.

"Please go inside the house. You're going to get hurt."

"Nahhhh." She chuckled.

It happened in an instant; a car horn, a scream, the dull thud of a body hitting the ground. I landed in the hedges, sharp needles poking into my skin. "Fuck!" I yelled, jumping to my feet and launching myself onto the pavement. Someone caught me before I fell head first onto a telephone pole.

"You're a liability, John Watson," said Sherlock. He was red-faced, curls every which way, and the tail of his coat had an imprint of a wheel on it.

"You almost got run over," I said breathlessly, grateful for his firm grasp on my elbow.

"I didn't. I heard the car coming from six streets away, deduced that the angle at which it was approaching would inevitably impact your sister, and took necessary action. She's alright. Vomiting on your lawn, right now."

"Thank you," I said, finally regaining the ability to stand on my own. She was struggling to her feet, still very intoxicated, but safe. "Are you okay?"

"I did hit the ground a bit hard." He pressed his ribs, wincing slightly. "I think I'm fine. Just bruised."

"I have bandages inside."

He paused, eyes flickering between me and my sister. "I think it's best if I leave."

"Right." I flushed. "I'm so sorry, I – you shouldn't have had to –"

"John. It's perfectly fine." He pressed his lips together, gave a small, reassuring nod. "Don't worry."

"Okay."

He looked at me for a moment longer, then turned around and started plodding towards his house.

"Sherlock?" I called. He did not slow down.

"Johnny, he's lurvely," babbled Harry.

"He saved your sodding arse," I said angrily, seizing her none too gently under the armpits. "I'm calling Molly."

"We aren't friends," she whined, limp in my arms.

"She's the closest you've got to one."

"She's Mum's favorite."

"We're family friends, Harry. She's like a cousin. She's the only other one who knows about you."

"And that boy... that boy Sh.. Sher... Sherlock. Sherly. Sherly you're in love with Sherly. Oh, I'm funny."

"Stop it."

"Sherrrrrr –"

"Yes, whatever, him too. He knows about you now. Get up. Go and wait in the kitchen."

"Johnny, I'm hungry."

I hated my life. "Deal with it." I was going to fail science, no doubt. And I had this to deal with, and I just... deep breaths.

Leaving her on the grass, I pulled out my mobile and dialed Molly Hooper's number.

"Molls?"

"John! What's up?" She sounded surprised, but her voice was clear; I hadn't woken her, and she hadn't been partying.

"Harry..." I was suddenly very exhausted. "Harry's..."

"I'll be there in ten," she said briskly, and hung up.

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"You shouldn't have to do this," I said apologetically as she got off her bike and knelt down beside my sister. "You're fifteen, you've got better things to do."

"I care about her. So do you. Come on, put her in the recovery position. Like I taught you."

We rearranged her flaccid limbs. "Thank you," I said. "God, I'm sick of people saving her for me all the time. Isn't that my job?"

Molly looked at me, quirked her mouth sadly. "It shouldn't be anybody's job. The only one who can really save her is herself."

"Yeah, well, try telling her that."

"I know."

"Do you think this one's bad?"

"Not as bad as last time, wouldn't you think?"

I took inventory; Harry had been drinking for a solid four years now, and I was well attuned to her body language, knew from a flick of the wrist how bad the hangover would be. Sherlock may have known the current state of everything, but I knew the current state of Harry. "No," I said.

Her eyes were fluttering shut. She gave a small hiccup and started to curl into a fetal position. "She's going to fall asleep. We'd better get her inside."

"Yeah." We took our places silently: Molly steadied her by the shoulders while I guided her ankles through the back doorway. Floorboards creaked, but we'd long mastered the art of being quiet, as well as maneuvering our way through Harry's pigsty of a room and tucking her in nicely.

"Goodnight, Harry," said Molly softly, pushing a strand of dirty blond hair out of my sister's face. "We love you."

"Yeah," I whispered, flashbacks of bike rides and playground adventures flitting through my mind. "We really do."

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"What were you doing up so late anyway?" I asked Molly. We had biscuits and apple juice while I tried valiantly to make sense of this godforsaken lab. Damned if the bloke who'd just saved my sister's life was going to do all the work.

"Research."

"Oh. Still want to work at that death place?"

"It's called a morgue. And yes."

"Well, you're smart."

"Thank you. Sorry I'm rubbish at this chem stuff, though. I'm sure Sherlock's got your back on this one. My friend's little sister said he's really intelligent." She yawned and checked her watch. "I should skedaddle."

"Okay." I stood, gave her a hug. Being a painfully late bloomer, I only came up to her chin. "Thank you again."

"No problem. Just please... please tell your Mum."

Mum would suspect. Did she really need confirmation? "She'll worry."

"Just be honest."

"But I..."

"Honesty is the best policy."

I stuck my tongue out at her. She wagged a finger at me and mounted her bicycle, slipping her long ponytail through the back of her helmet before clipping it on.

"Bye, Johnny," she said.

"Bye," I said, and watched her cycle down the road until she turned the corner and was gone.

–––––

He answered the door before I could even raise my fist to knock. "Hello," he said.

I gawked at him. "I didn't –"

"Your gait is distinctive."

"So you just...?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I'm assuming you're here about the lab?"

"Yeah. I, er, tried to... well, it was rather late, and..." I passed him a handful of lined paper, embarrassed. "Sorry. It's not very..."

He didn't say a word, merely read my clumsy writing, and gave it back. Then he went to his desk in the living room and emerged with a neat, typewritten print-out. "Here," he said. "You can turn this in."

"What?" Utterly confused, I flipped through the packet. "You did all of this? You wrote this? This is, like, professional. I can't take credit."

"I wrote that awhile ago," he said dismissively. "You were preoccupied last night. Therefore, it is perfectly acceptable for you to borrow my work."

"But that's... lying. Cheating." Sherlock seemed so rule-driven, such a goody two shoes. Never color outside of the lines.

"Do you understand it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then you grasp the material, which was the only goal of the assignment. Take it."

"How did you do all this research so quickly?"

"I told you, I wrote that awhile ago."

"But this was assigned on Thursday."

"Oh. No, not for me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He seemed almost embarrassed, before he cleared his throat and said stiffly, "I've already done the lab."

"Yeah, last night."

"No, last year, actually. I used to have the unfortunate habit of sneaking into other classrooms during my lunch period, so the chemistry teachers finally just told me to do the labs if it would shut me up. I did this one during that one really rainy week and I was stuck inside, so I kind of wrote up five different analyses of the results. They're all correct, by the way. I checked. I only handed one in, so I've got four extras just... just in case." He pursed his lips, a shadow of uncertainty passing over his face. "If you don't like that one...?"

"I..." I was speechless. "Of course."

"Of course you like it? I've others, if you don't deem it competent."

"This is like a bloody textbook, of course I 'deem it competent.'"

"Don't mock me, John, it's very unflattering. Mycroft does it all the time and I detest it. I know I speak in an odd manner –"

"Stop. You don't speak weird."

"Weirdly."

"Shut up. I'm trying to thank you here."

"My apologies. Continue." He folded his hands on the table.

"Thank you for last night, and for this," I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Is that it? Lengthy. I can really tell you're grateful."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know. Social interactions, if you hadn't noticed, are not my strong suit."

"Right. So." Why were we always in the awkward position of saying goodbye, but not really saying goodbye quite yet?

"Goodbye," he said. Well, that should do it.

I slowly headed for the door.

He cleared his throat. "Would you... do you want me to walk you?"

"What?"

"To your house. In case your life needs saving."

"I think I'm good."

"Alright."

"Yes." I ducked my head and left.

When I looked up once I was on the sidewalk, I caught him staring at me from his window. If it was anybody else, I'd have screamed, possibly given them the finger, and laughed about it at lunch the next day.

But it wasn't anybody else. Instead, I smiled encouragingly at the kid, and he raised his hand in a hesitant wave.

Maybe having Sherlock Holmes as my lab partner wasn't so bad after all.