Chapter 1

Sherlock slipped the eyeglasses that lacked in any prescription he loathed so much over his nose, brushing fingers through his dyed reddish hair, unable to tame the distinctive whorl adjacent to his hairline; the rest fell to the back of his neck in tapered curls. The glasses were petite, too round, and worthless for anybody that may actually need them, needing to look under them in order to focus properly and move the entire head to keep their vision straight. Nevertheless, they accentuated his disguise. He suppressed a wistful chuckle as he remembered what The Woman had told him.

"You know the problem with a disguise? No matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." At the time, her postulation was far from logical in his eyes, but as he straightened the nameplate on his desk, the initials J.W. reminded him of the only reason he was keeping himself hidden at all, let alone alive. It may very well be the only thing that keeps his namesake hope. Surely somebody at home had observed closely enough to notice something was amiss at the funeral procession. Then again, unfortunately, too many people miss the most absolutely obvious of things. Sherlock didn't miss anything, ever.

Besides John Watson.

He was in Ireland now, making a meager, boring living teaching private violin lessons to what were mostly talentless and simple children, with even less attention span than – and he shuddered to think – Anderson. Sherlock had assumed the name of Mr. John Wright and begrudgingly retired his peacoat and striped scarf for a rather ordinary linen white shirt, solid tie, and straight ebony slacks. His blog had gone completely stale, though now he spilled observations into a leather journal, ink leaving a metallic smudge along the side of his hand after a particularly interesting day (and what day wasn't particularly interesting when you look closely enough?), or at least to document minutia like the solar system for later reference. He had learned his lesson when useless information was the ransom for a girls' life.

Today he was to begin instructing a new student. At this point, Sherlock had less than no expectations and therefore uncharacteristically high tolerance. If kindness is proportional to tolerance, Sherlock had dramatically changed in terms of pretending like ignorance was acceptable. Perhaps he could even strike up a chat with Scotland Yard, if it wouldn't cause a string of murders. He was waiting on the lower floor of the music center for his new student to arrive, one leg up on his folding chair to balance his arm enough to cradle his violin, which he was absentmindedly plucking at, head slightly cocked. It was dangerous, thinking like this. Often Sherlock would stay in his mind palace for hours, sloughing off noises and the pestering existence of others – not selfishly; for the sake of meditation.

A knock on his sliding glass door shook him out of his trance, and an eerily small Richard Brook-like accent eked through, muffled:
"Hello, is this Mr. Wright?" Sherlock blinked, pushed his glasses up, and squinted through the glass. The boy's sharply angled eyes reflected his own as if two mirrors were reflecting each other. Shaking his head at what was almost a miniature episode of vertigo, Sherlock reached for the wooden door handle and slid it backward slowly.

"Yes." The boy stepped cautiously and lightly over the small bump of the metal doorframe and one side of his mouth tugged upward in a welcoming smile. His violin case swung carelessly at his side and Sherlock's hand reached out to steady it. "Afternoon. Have a seat. What's your name?" He realized the direct and somewhat interrogative nature of his communication was not as child-friendly as it should have been and he hoped he wasn't making the boy uncomfortable. The boy sat, crossed his ankles under the chair and leaned slightly forward, throwing dark curls in his face.

"Lucas Holmes, sir." Sherlock's brow wrinkled in a quick moment of panic, then snorted at the coincidence and shook it off.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Have you played before?"

"Only for fun. Never correctly, I doubt."

"Well, you're one step ahead already." Lucas smiled and leaned over his chair to unlatch his case. This one's not as obnoxious, Sherlock noted. Almost mature. Hm.

As he began the lesson, Sherlock noticed how the surprisingly slender hands of a boy of eight wrapped around the bow and neck of the instrument with no trouble. By the end of the half hour, they had gone through what was normally three lessons' worth of the method book.

"Mr. Holmes, I must say I'm very impressed. I will be anticipating your arrival next week. Lucas's eyes lit up, almost as if he didn't get praise often at all, and he rose from his chair.

"Thank you, sir! My father's here. I also look forward to this. A lot." Sherlock was probably right. Doesn't often get praise…but why? Too mature for his age; calm, collected, polite, left out… ah. Familiar territory. Lucas's disheveled hair even showed the same evidence of sleeplessness and yet boundless energy evident in young Sherlock as well. The resemblance was eerie enough that it gave Sherlock something to do, drawing parallels.

The science of deduction was a very useful skill, and none had it quite as fine-tuned as he, but the closeness to which he observed things robbed Sherlock of much of the blissful ignorance that made beautiful and mysterious what science made simple and boring. Sometimes he just wished he could start over.