The little boy sat, intently watching the clock. Even as a child Sherlock Holmes had never been a fidget yet now, tiny in his father's broad leather armchair, he simply couldn't keep still. His pale eyes were the only part of him that did not move. They were fixed, glued to the hands of the carriage clock that took pride of place on the Holmes family mantelpiece. With each tick, Sherlock's little heart beat faster in the anticipation of what was to come. In what seemed like an eternity to the young boy, came the three sharp knocks- characteristic of only one person who visited regularly.
Sherlock stopped squirming. He leapt to his feet and ran to the door, knocking Mycroft into a table on his way. The boy halted abruptly in front of the door and stared. The heavy bolt his father had insisted on having gleamed, shiny and new, far above his reach. Even on tiptoes he could only just brush the bottom of the latch with his fingertips. With his ear pressed against the door, he could hear impatient shuffling.
"Mother!" he shouted.
He could hear her in the living room, presumably having a lie down during one of her migraines. It was beginning to take too long and Sherlock had no intention of missing out on company. The shuffling on the doorstep stopped; there was a loud sigh of disappointment and then the slapping of shoes that did not fit properly getting quieter as Sherlock's one and only friend in the world began to walk away. Suddenly, he could not breathe. His panic was taking over in a way Sherlock never let it before. Even at a young age, Sherlock was sure of himself and never succumbed to fear like ordinary children. That was, until shaken by the thought of missing out on time with him. With John.
…
John Watson was an ordinary boy. To the outside world it seemed remarkable that Sherlock Holmes would choose someone that normal to be his only friend in the world.