Author's Note:

This is my first story on here and I had the most awful exam of my life yesterday so please don't be too harsh. Constructive criticism and reviews are welcome, as is 'Brit-picking' although I am British so there shouldn't be too much as far as that's concerned. I had this story going around in my head for ages and it was distracting me so I thought I'd write it down and put it here. Chapter 2 is in the works but that will be it. Probably.

Disclaimer:

All characters and settings belong to their respective creators. They are not mine and never will be. I may wish I owned them but I don't; I am using them for the sake of the story.

The first time John Watson met Alex Rider, the boy was huddled half dead on the steps of 221B. He had been living with Sherlock for a month, had Lestrade on speed dial, and seemed on a constant mission to pick up more milk. Indeed, he was currently returning from his latest epic battle with the chip and pin machine. The London rain soaked his jacket and made the steps slippery so when he tripped he was not immediately alarmed. Then he saw the blood mixing with the spilt milk. His first thought, ironically for a doctor, was to wonder how he had injured himself; then, upon realising he wasn't injured, what exactly was bleeding all over the steps. He saw the boy. In a flash, he was on his feet and, ignoring his shopping (the milk was gone anyway), turned to the teenager slumped unconscious before him.

He was not foolish enough to ask if he was alright. In a show of skill, he identified the injury (stab wound to the lower left abdomen) and decided he could be carried into the flat. As he bent down to lift him, the boy groaned and opened brown eyes wearily. "Don't move," John told him, "I'm a doctor. I'm just going to take you upstairs, then maybe call an ambulance." To his surprise, the boy seemed to grow more and more alarmed before finally shooting out a hand and grabbing his wrist. His grip was disconcertingly strong. "Tell no one I'm here, doctor. No amb'lance." His speech had started to slur from blood loss and John quickly hoisted him up and hauled him ungracefully up the remainder of the stairs, shouting for Sherlock to "open the bloody door" as he did so. Sherlock ignored him but Mrs Hudson was kind enough to come up and help him with the keys after much exclamation over his unexpected guest. He laid him out on the sofa and ran to get the emergency first aid kit (under the bathroom sink- Sherlock had way too many "accidents"). The boy's jacket came off, then his shirt, to reveal a simple but deep stab wound. It hadn't hit any vital organs but would definitely need stitches and probably overnight observation. His hand barely shook as he stitched the wound and he was so engrossed in his work he didn't notice Sherlock until his hand landed on his shoulder. He was frowning and had picked up the t-shirt from the floor. He was deducing.

"What do you think?" John asked him, curious. But Sherlock didn't reply, still staring at the teenager on the sofa, bare chest showing the scars John hadn't noticed in his hurry to stitch him up. He saw them now though and was shocked. The scar on his breast was the most obvious and recognisable: a sniper's bullet wound just a few inches above the heart. John had a matching one on his shoulder. Just as he leant closer to touch it, the boy sat up sharply and caused him to jerk back with a start. Sherlock seemed to nod to himself and started to list his deductions. "You're British born but live in America, have done for a few years. No; less; one. You have no living blood relations so you don't live with family. Who then? Friends most likely. You're in England for a reason but you're not supposed to be. You're worried you'll be found by someone. Your scar was made by a sniper and you are obviously fit and healthy so I would say military but they wouldn't accept you in the States and you were too young before you left here so how? You're tough, born and raised in London, have just been stabbed and shouldn't be in the country. You're some kind of criminal I'd guess, perhaps a gang or drugs perhaps." He looked at Sherlock in surprise and John laughed at his expression. "Did he get it right?" He asked, still chuckling. The boy shook his head though and the laughter stopped. "What did I miss?" Sherlock hissed angrily and glared at the boy; he hated to get things wrong. The boy just gave an enigmatic smile and struggled upright, reaching for his shirt. John helped him put it on and frowned at him seriously. "I think we have a right to know your name." The boy frowned back and seemed to consider for a moment before replying. "I think I have a right to know yours." John reached out a hand to shake as he replied "John Watson. My friend who's currently in a mood is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective." He smiled and shook his hand. "The name's Rider, Alex Rider."

They watched telly that night. Alex had opted to stay after John threatened to put Mycroft on him so they had ordered takeaway, Alex had claimed the sofa for his own and they had stuck a James Bond movie on. Sherlock tutted his way through most of it, complaining that the plot twist was too obvious, but it was Alex who wore a disapproving scowl for the whole film. Q was "not as good as Smithers", the explosions were "unrealistic" and his biggest complaint: "he's a pretty useless spy if everyone's expecting him!" He was sarcastic and made John laugh but John wished he hadn't spoilt the movies for him. "How do you know so much about spying?" Sherlock asked afterwards. Alex froze, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly, and looked at the floor for a moment before replying. "My uncle taught me." Then he turned over a went to sleep.

John woke him early the next morning to check his stitches. The still groggy Alex was far more pliable and answered more questions than before. He seemed to have a never ending tale to tell when asked. He wanted to leave but John forced him back and asked him why. "I'm cursed," he had responded, "everyone who cares about me dies." Then he opened up. "He was right, you know. I have no blood relatives. My parents died when I was a kid, my uncle died when I was 14. Then my guardian, Jack, died when I was 15 and I went to live with the Pleasures. They were great but They found me again and I couldn't let Sabina and her parents get hurt so I went back to London and stayed with Tom. Then They followed me here and I had to go back and now I'm here." John noticed the inflection in his voice and recognised the hesitations of a man hiding secrets. "Back where?" He asked in confusion. Alex yawned and gave a blissful grin. "The bank of course. Vauxhall Road." He blinked sleepily and John told him to rest while he made some tea. They sat in the darkened living room, Alex with the mug, John on his laptop open on Google earth, researching Vauxhall Road. Sherlock came in and looked over his shoulder, giving a start when he saw what John was looking at. It was an article about a shooting that had happened only metres from a major bank, the Royal and General, and the victim was a teenage boy, name withheld, age unknown, as was the shooter's purpose. He had almost died that day, would have if he hadn't stepped off the pavement. Sherlock wasn't interested in that though. "Mycroft or Blunt's?" He asked and Alex turned to him incredulously. "Excuse me?" Sherlock was like a bloodhound on a fox and dove in for the kill. "The Royal and General on Vauxhall Road. It's all a front but you seem very familiar with it, familiar enough to get shot as you left so I'll ask again. Are you Mycroft's or Blunt's?" Alex looked more and more terrified and John knew Sherlock had realised something he hadn't. "Don't tell them I'm here. Please, I can't go back yet." Sherlock was rapidly losing his patience and I grabbed his arm warningly. "Mycroft or Blunt's?" He asked again and the boy's head lowered in defeat. "Blunt," he whispered and Sherlock shook his head sadly. "How long?" Alex didn't take long to reply this time and bitterness had crept into his tone. "Since I was 14. I didn't want it." John was quickly becoming confused and stood to get more tea. Sherlock and Alex sat just a little closer and spoke in low voices.

He left the next day. John still had no idea who 'Blunt' was or why the Royal and General was 'a front' but Alex had got on much better with Sherlock and had even offered to help with dinner. He was unphased by Sherlock's experiments: the severed head in the fridge, the toes on the grill, the eyes in the microwave or the worms he had kept in a box in top of the bread bin. He was a proficient cook, until he made the kettle explode. How he did it, John had no idea but it caused Mrs Hudson to yell loudly about her rules regarding explosives which John hadn't realised they had (although with Sherlock around he shouldn't have been surprised). John had checked his stitches and pronounced him fit to leave but he decided to stay the night anyway. "One more night before they send me off to who-knows-where," he had responded when asked. Sherlock promised to look into who exactly his attacker was but Alex just shook his head. "Better if you don't know," he stated, "they tend to kill people who find out about them." Sherlock simply sighed and muttered something about spies being boringly noble. The boy chuckled and stepped out the door after carefully looking both ways and up to the rooftops. He turned slightly, waved, and was lost to the crowd, a single blond head among thousands.