Author's Note: This is written by my sister, heavily assisted by my brilliant intellect. In other words, I can throw out a plot a minute, but I'm apparently incapable of writing it down. This one she conceived first, and then I actually stopped in the middle of a Doctor Who episode to help her refine it. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Yes, there is an OC in this fic, and I know we all hate those, but as this particular OC is in no way anyone's love interest, I make an exception.

We don't own Sherlock, obviously, as she would have more ninjas and I would have more Lestrade hugs.

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"Look out!"

Startled, Mycroft Holmes looked up in time to see the motorcycle bearing down on him. The next moment he was flying across the pavement, pushed from behind. The motorcycle whizzed by, missing him by inches.

"What's that idiot doing on the sidewalk?" growled the boy who had just pushed him out of the motorcycles path. "He could have killed somebody!"

American, Mycroft noted automatically, sitting up gingerly.

"He's coming back," the kid observed. "Very quickly . . . hey!"

The motorcycle bore down on them at at least sixty mph. "What is he trying to do!" the kid yelled, jumping forward.

Kill me, apparently. Mycroft rolled out of the motorcycle's path, but it swerved after him. Then the kid was there again, running towards the motorcycle. Just when it seemed a collision was imminent, the boy did some kind of somersault/roll, flipped over, and kicked the motorcycle with all his strength as it went by. The motorcycle swerved madly, rocketed past Mycroft, and kept going for another twenty feet or so before the driver regained control.

"Get inside!" the boy yelled, running towards Mycroft, who got quickly to his feet and started for the closest building. The roar of a motor from behind him made him turn to see the motorcycle bearing down on him again. But it's still over there . . . there's two!

He couldn't outrun the motorcycle. Instead, he adopted the same technique the kid had used, rolling out of the way at the last minute, but he wasn't fast enough. The motorcycle ran over his left leg near the ankle. A searing wave of pain almost made him black out, but he fought it. Have to get my phone . . . how could this even be happening? Where are the other pedestrians? And, for that matter, the traffic in general? The street's deserted . . .

He tried to stand, but the pain in his leg was too great. Then an arm was around his shoulders. "Hurry," the boy gasped, "I can't hold them much longer."

They had only made a few feet when the motorcycles were there again. The boy stopped supporting Mycroft, turning to the motorcycles. He fell to the ground again. "Crawl if you can!" the boy shouted, running towards the motorcycles, his hand on his side, as if to draw a gun. The motorcycles swerved away, the cyclists unsure if he was actually armed.

Mycroft really tried, but whenever he shifted his body a wave of pain went through his leg. It'll be worse if you don't, he told himself, but it didn't make any difference. He sent a quick text and then turned to look at the motorcycles.

The boy stood between him and the closest one, tense for action. As the motorcycle bore down, he jumped away and then back in the blink of an eye, and, grabbing the cyclist, pulled himself on to the motorcycle. The cycle veered out of control as they fought for mastery. Then the kid was in control, the cyclist sagging down in front of him.

The kid pushed the cyclist off the front of the bike. He hit the pavement with a dull thud and didn't move. The boy roared towards the other motorcycle, driving between it and Mycroft. For a moment they were on a collision course, and then the other cycle turned. He was coming back around for a second attempt when the wail of sirens pierced the air. The cyclist turned and took off down the street.

Mycroft had been so absorbed in watching the boy fight the cyclist that he had failed to notice the other cyclist coming towards him, apparently recovered from the fight. He had a long knife in his hand. Mycroft looked around frantically for something to fight with but there was nothing. The boy was running towards them, but it was obvious the cyclist would get there first.

Mycroft couldn't think of anything to do, and he didn't like the unfamiliar sensation of helplessness. The boy had stopped and turned away. Probably doesn't want to see me gutted, Mycroft thought, steeling himself for the blow. Then the boy turned back around, and something flew through the air. The cyclist stopped abruptly, took one more step, and then slowly crumpled to the pavement. The hilt of a small dagger protruded from his neck.

What a throw, Mycroft thought, looking at the boy as he ran toward him. Then, surprised, he realized something else. That kid, he's enjoying this! He couldn't tell what had given him the impression, but it had definitely been there.

"Are you alright?" The boy bent over his leg.

"I think it's broken," Mycroft replied through gritted teeth.

The boy walked over to the fallen cyclist, pulled the knife out of the man's neck, and wiped the blade on the cyclist's jacket. He came back over to Mycroft. "Mind if I look at it?"

"Go ahead." Mycroft tried to pull up his trouser leg, but it hurt too badly. The boy stooped and carefully cut up one side of the trouser leg, and then around at the knee. He studied the bloodied leg and then shook his head. "I can't tell when it's like that. The police will probably be better than I am. I just know basic first aid."

"Speaking of the police, they finally got here," Mycroft observed as two police cars and an ambulance sped down the street.

"Am I going to get arrested for that?" the boy asked, nodding towards the dead cyclist.

"I hardly think so," Mycroft answered absent-mindedly.

The paramedics were there then, and a policeman took the boy away to give a statement. The paramedic confirmed that the femur was indeed broken, but the ankle was untouched. "Pretty lucky, too," the man remarked. "A few inches to the right and you'd be walking with a cane the rest of your life."

The paramedic helped Mycroft to the ambulance, then went back to look at the dead man. Mycroft pulled out his phone and started his secret service working to trace the other cyclist. He had no doubt that they would succeed.

A policeman came up to ask him some questions about the incident. It didn't take long, and then the paramedic was back to put a temporary splint on his leg. Mycroft deliberated for a moment, then turned back to his phone and sent one more text: I want any information you can gather on the boy that was at the scene today.

The ambulance started up and drove away to the hospital.

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"Really struck gold there," the policeman said to the boy, having finished with all the formalities.

"Gold?" the boy asked, looking at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"You don't know? Kid, that was Mycroft Holmes you just saved!"

"Who's that?"

"Who's that? Kid, that's one of the most important men in the British government!"

"But what does that have to do with me . . . oh. You think he'll reward me."

"I'll bet you'd be able to live comfortably for at least a year on what he gives you," the policeman asserted.

"I didn't save his life for money."

"Of course not, but the money still comes in awful handy." The policeman winked and walked away.

"Ha," the boy muttered after him. Then his expression grew thoughtful. "Mycroft Holmes . . ." He pulled out his phone.

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JOSHUA KALMAN

AGE: 17

DISCRIPTION: Height, 5'8". Weight, roughly 140. Eyes brown, hair dark brown nearing black. No identifying tattoos or jewelry of any kind.

WORK: No steady jobs, does odd jobs when he can find them

RESIDENCE: Lives alone in 147 Sudbury Ave. Landlord says prompt with rent.

BACKGROUND: Came from America two months ago on student Visa. Illegitimate son, mother dead, father gone. Police from his area say good reputation, had a steady job. Noteworthy incident when stopped a bank robbery by assaulting the robber.

So basically, could be any other exchange student. Mycroft sighed. He had work to do; he couldn't spend a lot of time on this. The solution was simple. Give the boy some money and forget about it.

But someone had made sure that street was deserted. Someone had blocked all traffic so the motorcycles would have an open route. Yet, the boy had been there.

No one else.

It didn't make sense, unless the boy was in league with the cyclists and had arranged to fight them off, hoping to gain Mycroft's trust. That was a plausible explanation.

He'd just give the kid money and be done with him.

The surviving cyclist had been tracked down, but was unwilling to reveal any information.

It didn't really matter. Mycroft had received a text five minutes after the incident.

Just keeping you on your toes.

JM

Of course, he wasn't going to get away with it.

Actually, he probably was. It was also probably the least Mycroft would have to worry about soon.

When Jim Moriarty got bored, the world was shaken.