The Borrower called John.

AU: Basically a kidlock fiction. Sherlock Holmes is a misunderstood but intelligent child who is sent to the country to live with his grandparents – his grandmother says that she sees little people in the garden and soon he starts seeing them too…in particular, the one who calls himself John. Cute friendship MAGIC!

Disclaimer: I haven't read the Borrower's, though I have watched the studio ghibli film based on the book.

K Fantasy/family.

Sherlock Holmes was different than the other little boys in his class; only twelve and already finding his school work boring. While most his age would play football and bin cricket in the dirt fields behind the school, he would sneak off to an unused and broken water drain pipe, a space so cramped that he couldn't stretch out his long legs; he had to bend them and press his feet to the concrete pipe wall to fit.

He endured the tight squeeze for one reason: there, in his private little hiding place, he would be hidden from all the others that didn't understand him. Many days Sherlock brought books to read – often only remerging when the sun had long since gone down. Other days he fell asleep there only to be jolted awake by his father carrying him to the car. But that was a long time ago, when his father had the time to be concerned about his youngest son. Nowadays things were different.

Sherlock he first found the secluded place when he antagonised some older boys and needed to find a place to hide and lick his wounds; the broken pipe was hidden in a slippery, muddy slope – once buried in the hill but the soil had crumbled away with rain, so it made a perfect hide away. The older boys lingered around well into the late afternoon but Sherlock enjoyed the silence and secrecy of his spot so much that he lost track of time. His father had to ruin it though, shouting Sherlock's name and forcing him to respond.

When Sherlock asked his father how he had found him his father simply glanced at his eldest son, Mycroft making Sherlock scowl. Bloody Mycroft and his insipid nosiness.


The next time Sherlock hid himself away was only two years ago, he had tried to run away from home. Unfortunately with no money for a cab, and as he had missed his bus out of town, he returned to his hide away, sitting on the ledge and swinging his legs in the air, his backpack slumped next to him. It had gotten quite cold so he pulled out the jumper he'd snatched from an op-shop, a place where one donated old clothes for the less fortunate – A very different type than the brands his mother insisted he should wear, and something that didn't remind him of his house. It was cream coloured and baggy on his skinny frame but warm nonetheless. It was perfect to wear when he felt so cold and alone.

It was past midnight, when Mycroft braved the slope with his Italian leather shoes – umbrella open, as it had started to rain – the dirt long since turning to mud and the croak of the local frogs sounding through the air.

'Are you done sulking, brother?' Mycroft asked, staring at the pouting child in the empty pipe.

'Where's father?' Sherlock asked, for it was always father that came to get him, be it from detention or seclusion (though never without the constant look of discontent on his face.) But for the past year it had been the driver that picked him up and Sherlock didn't like that. Even though he always looked disapproving Sherlock liked it better when his father came for him. He had thought that running away would make his father come to his aid again. That hypothesis appeared to be incorrect. But why? He looked to Mycroft: where was his father?

'I won't concern him with your temper tantrums' Mycroft softly explained.

'He's gone again is he?' Sherlock muttered – there was no other reason why Mycroft would be speaking so calmly.

'Mummy is very concerned about you' Mycroft huffed. His eyes gazed around the deserted hill, looking everywhere but his younger brother. He was a young politician, only in his early 20's. Already so much had been placed upon his shoulders; he couldn't stand with more guilt.

'Did she just remember she had a second son?' Sherlock questioned a bitter smile on his face.

'Come now, its time for us to go home' Mycroft reached to grab Sherlock, but only catching the jumper – as it was too baggy Sherlock slipped out of it and scooted back further into the old water pipe. The elder Holmes sighed in exasperation.

'What do you think you're going? Running away to join the circus? Sadly, they have no more space in the freak show!' Mycroft didn't give him a chance to answer before quickly grabbing one of Sherlock's feet, and trying to pull the shouting, writhing boy out.

It ended with Sherlock getting into his brother's car grumbling and missing a shoe. It was irritating that his hypothesis had failed but it was worth seeing Mycroft's suit and face covered in mud – Sherlock couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face when Mummy stared at her muddy son in shock and surprise.


Now Sherlock was twelve and half-way through an interesting medical file that he had swiped when the doctor wasn't looking – the girl (young woman, Mummy had corrected but to Sherlock a girl is a girl) was called Molly Hooper. The new doctor – or 'Intern, Sherlock, I'm not a doctor yet just an intern,' she told him again and again - had most of the other doctors' attention but she seemed to prefer Sherlock's company whenever he asked to borrow her books or inquire into interesting illnesses happening that day.

She told him he was a 'cool kid' and he often heard her muttering 'if only you were older' when he said something charming or flattering. Often when he sat in one of the chairs reading a medical dictionary she would ask, " Wouldn't you prefer a different book, something easier?" but he always shook his head and kept reading.

He was only borrowing it anyway, he returned it when he went back – Mummy only allowed him to visit this often because she assumed it was Sherlock finding his calling as a doctor. It wasn't. But he wasn't going to tell the woman that.

Sherlock was sitting in his hideaway and it wasn't that late in the day so some children had wandered over from the park, playing make believe –pirates (Sherlock corrected them sometimes on the pirate and ship names), adventurers and fairies. The usual bunch wasn't here; it was, after all, an over-cast day and looked as though it was going to rain soon. A little girl carrying a house made from ice-cream sticks and bark came into Sherlock's line of sight when she crawled close to his hiding spot and peered up at him.

She must've only been eight or nine, with short, soft-looking brown hair.

'What are you doing up there?' She called, just noticing the dark haired boy staring down at her.

'Nothing' Sherlock huffed, 'Reading'

'Funny place to read,' the girl said, and then whistled though one of her missing teeth. 'Funny place to put a fairy house,' Sherlock shot back. Someone smart would put it on top of the hill; this girl was putting it in the gully where, when it rained, it would surely be swept away.

The girl stared at the house in her hands and huffed,

'You boys are so dumb! Just 'cause I'm a girl you think it's for stupid fairies. Fairies are so dumb.' The girl rolled her eyes.

'For a frog then?' Sherlock queried, snickering a little but the girl just poked her tongue out in disgust.

'Ew! No slimy frogs are coming near this house!'

'Then who is it for?' Sherlock asked, adding, 'Besides, it's not slime; it's mucus!'

'It's for little people,' the girl mumbled.

'So fairies?' Sherlock grinned condescendingly at the little girl, about to tell her that there was no such thing.

'No! Little people are different than fairies, and they're real,' she shot back.

'Whatever,' Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued reading. He had no time for idiots.

'…' The girl was finally silent, shooting a shy look to Sherlock every so often as she continued to find the perfect place for her little person house.

'My names Irene…Mr. Non-believer' She sniffed when she'd finished. '…My names Sherlock,' Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his reading, missing Irene's small, shy smile.


Irene had gone before Sherlock looked up again. As Sherlock stared at the little house it began to lightly rain – and then the familiar roll of his brother's car was soon heard through the pit-pat of rain droplets coming closer. That was funny- usually Mycroft made Sherlock suffer in the rain for longer. With a sigh, Sherlock shoved the medical files back in his bag and jumped out of the pipe, still wearing his school uniform though his jacket wasn't done up and his tie had been shoved somewhere deep in his bag.

Sherlock walked to the little house noticing where water had started to pool around it – a lot of effort had gone into it and surely the girl would be crushed in the morning when it was a sodden mess. Mycroft beeped his horn impatiently, and Sherlock grumbled to himself about stupid little girls and sentiment. He picked up the house anyway and before it got drenched placed it in his hiding place, dry as a bone and hidden from prying eyes.

Sherlock made his way up the slope and to Mycroft's car without looking back; with a scowl he flung the door open only to see not Mycroft's smug face but his father's sombre expression. On the man's face it was almost an improvement to his usual disproval.

'Your grandfather passed on today,' was all Sherlock's father said.

'Oh,' Sherlock muttered.

'When we get home we need to pack your bag, we're catching the train in the morning to comfort your grandmother and attend the funeral,'

Sherlock slipped into the seat, turned to his father and asked,

'What did he die of?'

'Old age.' His father responded not looking at Sherlock.

'Dull,' Sherlock sighed, and they pulled away from the corner – Sherlock staring out of the window as the street lights flashed in the rain.


TBC?

Going a little AU Sherlock crazy, Irene why you so cute: D please leave a comment, I have an awesome beta, Pinlie. Many thanks for the comments and the support as well – if you like this story and like owls, have a look at my 'Detective of Ga'hoole' owllock story too XD