There was an isolated country graveyard atop a hill, away from civilization. No person would ever come there, the cemetery was filled and nobody bothered to expand it, so there the dead would stay, not realizing that their decaying bodies were to never be visited, and the white paint on their wooden graves would continue to peel away.

The atmosphere above the fenced marble town tinted gray with slight smudges of orange. And off to the side, Sherlock Holmes stood, alone, beaten, and very skinny. He was thirteen, still considered a child by most condescending adults, but could easily outwit any of them in a heartbeat. One of the few joys he could ever have. Sunset was beautifully descending on the cloaked boy leaning against a tombstone, illuminating his eyes so they shone a brighter shade of dark green, and made his pale face glow almost astrologically, mysterious at its center and broken at its core. Cuts and bruises and blood lined every line on his profile, the red claret rising to the top of the detective's skin, a result of the usual ambush that never stopped. Sherlock knew the scars wouldn't go away, but would recall his weakness, a reminder that no matter how many cases he solved, no matter how high his intelligence was, it would do nothing to impede the flight of a blade. What a tender world that would be.

Sherlock watched the sunset. It didn't interest him in the slightest, and he didn't find any source of entertainment leaning against a tombstone, but he had nowhere else to go.

Home wasn't an option, his mother and father would ignore him (which didn't bother him that much), but Mycroft would surely be home drunk again, grieving the loss of his child barely anyone knew about. Mycroft Holmes usually trustworthy and responsible, had stupidly given everything he had to a girl, who had left him with a broken heart and a child. The child was only one year old when she perished from being caught in a house fire, a result of being kidnapped earlier that evening. When the authorities traced the baby's origins back to Mycroft, he lied and said that the real father had left his child with him to go to America and start his life over. Since there were no witnesses that knew about the child or the mother having the child, Mycroft's explanation was believed and not further looked into.

It was an unusual situation, but Mycroft's position in his job made sure no one questioned his story any further. Because of this, he quickly developed a theory, a phrase to shield him from further heartbreak, "Caring is not an advantage." And through all this, the only one who knew was a dark haired Sherlock Holmes, and while his brother's later decline into alcohol came as a slight shock to everyone, Sherlock merely glared from behind wooden doorposts watching Mycroft kill himself sip by sip. Of course, there were worse ways one could kill themselves, but all of them led to one conclusion one way or another. After a significant amount of time, Mycroft began taking his anger out on his younger brother, beating him whenever he couldn't think straight, or when Sherlock had done something unintelligent. Either way, it hurt. Yes, home was not a favorable option.

He shouldn't go back to school, unless he favored a death wish. Teachers disliked him, students even more so, not a single word was spoken to Sherlock Holmes as he walked from class to class at his public school, which would be more acceptable if the cigarette butts and scent would take a hike. What made him shudder about going anywhere near that place was some specific people inside it's hallways. The Bullies, as they stupidly called themselves, spent their every waking moment making Sherlock's life a living hell. In a way, Sherlock took it as a form of flattery concerning his genius. His own little fan club, his own small group of stalkers.

He was fine with being called an idiot, freak, know-it-all, along with several other names in the mix. He could handle being pushed and shoved and abused and bloodied. The boy never cried, he had no use for it. Crying wouldn't magically make everything better. It wouldn't stop the blood. He had heard several times about people crying out to someone about all their tortured feelings, letting their emotions flow out of every breath let free. There was a superstition that doing that was supposed to make a person feel better, and put them on the road to recovery.

But Sherlock Holmes wasn't 'people'.

Sherlock Holmes didn't have 'tortured feelings'.

Sherlock Holmes didn't cry out to anyone.

Sherlock Holmes' emotions were erased.

There was no road to recovery.

He couldn't visit the backstreets of London, even though he had one acquaintance there who would always like a visit from the young detective, he was wanted for selling illegal drugs and was currently being hunted by the police. Sherlock just happened to be one of his clients, and wasn't in the mood to be hauled off to prison for withholding drugs at age thirteen. There would be plenty of years for that later.

Even the morgue was off limits, for he was banned temporarily due to annoying the shit out of everyone there. He would be banned longer, but unfortunately for them, police needed his genius to solve the murders, therefore allowing Sherlock access to the victim's body whenever he pleased. Since there weren't any new murders or killers running through London, Sherlock would have to live without doing his favorite pastime.

There were no more places he could go.

So there Sherlock Homes was, alone, beaten, and very skinny. Black curly shaggy hair was heightened very slightly by small winds picking up from the East. The last half sliver of a fiery sun was dripping like honey behind low hills. Soon, in another country, the same sun would please dozens of kids, annoy even more adults, and infuriate countless teenagers, grumbling about school.

But now, as the shadows of graves elongated and slowly disappeared when the light reached it's highest point, there was silence. And beauty. And an awakening, brightening moon, casting away fading clouds for the illuminating stars to appear. The sky directly above split in two. The hills refused to let go of the orange pink smudge of sunlight, still hovering for half a mile, and the lights on the other side covered a twilight violet shade of blue, with an old moon overhead.

Air turned cold. A boy in a long dark coat turned around to go home, not wanting to face the wrath of Mycroft before starting his homework. As he used the grave he was leaning on to help him up, Sherlock couldn't help notice the engraving, which could possibly be the oldest in the cemetery judging by the moss and stone bits cracking off. And etched on the stone were the faint words,

John Hamish Watson

Born March 31, 1853

Died July 16, 1866

A legend

This struck Sherlock as strange. The boy was only thirteen years old when he died. 'A legend,' thought the detective. Who was this boy? Where was he from? How did he die? Who was this John, a boy so seemingly important yet whose memorial was so plain? How did he live? All these questions immediately rose to Sherlocks mind, the more he tried to deduce, the more lost he became.

Who was John Hamish Watson?

Sherlock could have sworn he felt a small tugging sensation, as if he had known this boy from over 150 years ago, but pushed it aside and told himself he was being paranoid. He stopped staring and turned his face against a slight breeze, then walked out of the low wooden fence, leaving behind his thoughts. The last drop of sunlight vanished behind him, and the graveyard descended into darkness. Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes kept on walking, not daring to look back.