Mr and Mrs Watson were shouting again. And Harry just stood there, taking it all in with her eyes wide and incredulous. "Put your shoes on, John, we're going out." She said bluntly, not taking her eyes from the incandescent parents who appeared to be turning a delicate shade of purple.

When John did not reply, Harry shot her stare over her shoulder, her eyes deeply embedded within her skull and dark rings pulsating around them in pure rage, "Now!" she screamed. Not wanting to be beaten to a pulp, John grabbed pulled on his ragged shoes and ran out the door as fast as he could, avoiding his parents' disbelieving glare.

"Those fucking arseholes! How dare they tell me who I can and cannot go out with! Clara is far more decent than any of my old "boyfriends"; but since she doesn't have a fucking dick that makes her wrong? Those fucking homophobes; I can't believe them!" Harry screamed, ripping her sandy hair from it's roots until the large clumps entwined in her fingers convinced her to stop. She dropped the the strands onto the pavement and lit a cigarette, puffing away angrily.

John silently retrieved a damp old shopping bag from the neighbors hedge and threw a consoling arm around his sister's back.

Harry didn't come to the swimming pool with John as she usually did. Whenever either of them wanted to escape their up-tight parents, they'd grab their swimming costumes from a bush and sneak off to be children again. "I've got to see Clara, see how her parents reacted… Sorry John."

John stood in his crusty trunks, awkwardly folding his arms across his chest and scanning the pool to see if he knew anyone there. Nope. Although one person did catch his eye: a strange, dark figure, lying on their back in the deep end. They were too far away for John to make out, but he assumed it was a boy, late teens (probably) with a big clump of dark hair.

With a loud splash, John plummeted from the diving board. He wasn't a good swimmer; he'd only had a few lessons when he was younger and he was the slowest out of his friends, but he adored it none the less. The slightly-too-cold water cleansed his mind each time he swam, shutting down his body and numbing out his thoughts. John would hold his breath for as long as he could; submerged, listening the deep thuds and pulse of the water, before flicking his "curtains" (as his friends called his un-boyishly long hair cut) out of the water, flicking tiny droplets onto the faces of agitated parents and bemused children. He'd suck in as much air as he could before diving off on laps until he thought he was going to faint.

After 10 or so minutes of these childish games, John stopped ignoring everyone and began the next stage: people watching. He pulled his body down until his upper lip was resting gently on the cool water and the waves splashing lightly on his cheeks, pushing him back against the bumpy wall of the pool.

He watched the "fat club" waddle into the water and then awkwardly stand waist deep, nervously glancing around to see if their weight loss instructor was watching them "exercise", but he never was; the 17 year old girls in their skimpy bikinis were clearly far more interesting to the lazy bastard. John looked away from the man, disgusted. You're old enough to be their father!

Next, John looked over to the group of 9 year olds splashing water in each others' eyes with gleeful smiles. He looked at one of the girls, self consciously covering her body with little arms, she was (purposely) slightly too far away from her friends to be involved in their games. He sighed pitifully.

John bobbed in the pool for an immeasurable amount of time, finally deciding to get out when his prune fingers had crinkled beyond a healthy level. One last dunk, John allowed himself, plunging into the water, scraping his knees on the bottom before wriggling along the floor like an ungraceful dolphin. He swam to the deep end and looked up; there was that boy again. John was puzzled at how he could possibly had not seen him while observing his fellow swimmers earlier? I guess he just blends in? He is pretty damn pale…

John was fascinated by this boy, who clearly had not moved since John had arrived. The boy had a long, but not awkward, icy white body, sculpted with a thin coating of muscle and protruding bones. He floated limply in the water, and if John hadn't know better, he would have thought he was dead.

His back had a worrying amount of messy, white scars that twinkled in the glassy water. Accidental scars, probably from falling off things and generally being rather clumsy, John noticed; he had been on quite a few medical training courses (although university was still a good few years away) and he had been taught how to recognize different types of scars.

The strange boy wore expensive black swimming trunks that contrasted greatly with his snowy body. He had a thick mop of curly dark hair that moved in synchronization with the gentle ripples and he really did look rather dashing.

John was torn from his admiration of this creature violently: a water filter had managed to swallow his hair and was holding him down to the bottom of the pool. Shit. Shit. Fuck. John desperately needed air but he was being held as an invisible prisoner to this fucking machine that was actually killing him. John couldn't believe it: he was drowning! He felt his throat cease up and his face turn crimson, blood was heavily coursing through his head and he could almost feel it pouring out of his ears and into the dark water, life being sucked out of his, now blue, lips. His eyes began to strain under the pressure and he let go. Water slammed through his mouth and forced it's way down his throat, tearing at his delicate lungs. John was in agony, and then it began to fade. The light slipped from his eyes and his minded was subdued into a state of complete submission.

A pair of strong, muscular and yet so very thin hands strongly grasped the limp body that rested peacefully on the floor. Sherlock Holmes shoved an arm around waxy ribs and with the other hand ripped the sandy hair from the filter. A lot of hair was torn from the poor boy's scalp and a small quantity of blood was dancing through the water.

As soon as Sherlock had stolen the unconscious limbs, he darted back to the surface urgently where a life guard who had only just realized what had happened grabbed the body off of him and quickly began to perform CPR. Sherlock watched intently, hearing water slosh around inside the short boy's chest that shuddered under every compression.

Finally, the lad vomited up water all over the lifeguard, spluttering and coughing, colour returning to his cheeks and life slowly restoring itself in his still distant eyes that seemed to have locked on Sherlock. He promptly kneeled next to the injured, staring back into those hazy eyes and deemed the boy safe. He rose elegantly and tied a towel around his waist, hurrying out of the immediate area and leaving the sports centre as soon as possible, a faint smile flickering on his lips