A/N: Well, its been a while. Hello, Rainy here. Short version: Not dead.

No, seriously. I haven't had a good... However long it's been since I last posted. (It feels like an eternity, but something tells me it's only been a bit longer than a month.)

It's taking me an awful lot of courage to post this here after such a long time away, but you know what? I've finally realized that the reason I write is to make me happy, and this makes me happy. Am I confident in this? No. But am I ever fully confident in anything I do? Hell no. So will this help me improve my writing and make me happy, and maybe expose me to new people who will provide encouragement, and maybe even become my friends? Hopefully. So I'm posting this.

There will be 100 of these, as the name of the challenge implies. Most will be extremely short. As in, under 500 words short. They won't be posted in order, nor will they be posted on a regular, set time-frame. I will, however, try to upload at least two at a time.

Not beta'd or brit-picked. Title is a bastardization of a line from the song "New Theory" by Washed Out.

Dedicated to those I know and love. To those who helped me through this. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

1. Intro

They met on a Saturday afternoon.

The younger one was sitting underneath a birch tree, plucking moodily at a violin, soft summer breeze playing with his dark curls.

The older one sat next to him, looking out at the meadow with his eyes closed, listening curiously as his companion continued to pluck at the violin.

The older boy came here a lot, but he'd never seen the younger one before.

He (the older) turned to him. "What're you doing here?"

The other plucked another string. "I'd assume the same thing you're doing."

The older quirked a blonde eyebrow. "So your sister is running around at home, drunk and breaking things?"

The younger one sniffed. "My fat older brother is annoying me."

The older one smiled. "What's your name?"

The younger one stopped plucking and looked at him. "Sherlock Holmes. And before you ask, I'm five."

The elder child smiled. "My name's John Watson, and I'm six."

Sherlock smiled hesitantly back, before his face turned serious again. "Does the violin bother you?"

John opened his mouth. "What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept speaking. "Sometimes I won't speak for days straight."

John stared at him in confusion.

Sherlock sighed in a put-upon fashion. "Potential friends should know the worst about each other."

John frowned, and before he could speak the strange boy (Sherlock, he reminded himself) had stood up and started to walk away.

"Wait!" John called out, "Where'm I supposed to meet you again?"

Sherlock stopped and turned around, blue-grey eyes shining. "Same time here, tomorrow."

And then John blinked, and he was gone.

John rubbed his eyes, tired. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing.

Still, what was the harm in coming back tomorrow?

He leaned further against the tree, closing his eyes and yawning. He'd go back home in a few hours. Harry should be calmed down (or maybe even gone) by then.

He smiled as he fell asleep, warm air filling his lungs as he thought of home and his new friend.

Sherlock.