A/N: The plot bunnies were breeding. I heard the song "Who are you, really?" by Mikky Ekko, and it really just inspired this story idea. I really suggest you look up the lyrics. :3 I'd write them on here, but you didn't click on this to read my long ass note, did you?
So I'll just give you a sneak peek:
So you're feeling tied up to a sense of control
And make decisions that you think are your own
You are a stranger here, why have you come?
Why have you come, lift me higher, let me look at the sun

I love reading hurt/comfort fan fiction where John takes care of Sherlock, or helps him through something, and so BAM!, I said to myself, "Well, hey, maybe there are other people out there just like you." We'll see, I guess, won't we?

I'd like to mention that when I looked up whether dogs were allowed on the tube or not I was met with a very funny answer: Pets and dogs are allowed on London Underground, free of charge. Dogs must be kept on leads. All pets, including dogs, must be carried on escalators. This is for safety reasons (tails can easily get caught in the escalator). [awwww]

Okay, please leave a review!
And sorry if it's short.

OH! And can anyone guess what book the lady is reading?

(cover is created by meh!)

Summary: John Watson just wants to become a doctor; preferably an army doctor. And he's not doing so bad - his internship is going, frankly, swell. But then he meets a street kid by the name of Sherlock Holmes - a seemingly intelligent, yet distraught boy with a dog that follows him everywhere. They keep running into each other - John is convinced it's coincidence, fate even, but according to Sherlock the universe is rarely so lazy. John takes it upon himself to aid the mind of a traumatized, and brutally treated teen, even when said teen is arrogant, ungrateful, and a bit of a bastard. AU

Chapter I
On the Tube

John never truly considered the idea of fate.

It was merely a fairy tale in his eyes, something that kept the monsters in the closet. Fate was in league with hope; John, of all people, knew how dangerous hope could be. Fate was defined as the development of events beyond a person's control. John liked to be in control. Perhaps that is why fate had always fallen into the category of terror, horror, danger – in John's mind, at least.

John never truly considered the idea of fate. Until now.

It was terribly annoying, having to take this noisy, bluggering piece of junk across merely a few blocks of London's fine city, when he could have walked and been right on time – if he had just been patient with his blasted alarm clock. But no – he just had to yell, slam his fist down onto its tiny body, allow it to fall off the edge of his bedside table, and stick his head under his fluffy white pillow, so perfectly well that he could no longer hear any buzzing rings summoning him from sleep. Maybe that's because he had broken the damn thing.

Now he was running late. Terribly late.

Not to mention, it's only the first month, Watson!
What in the bloody hell is wrong with you!

Sarah was going to kill him. It's official. He'd be found hidden away in the dumpster behind some low-wage biker bar, heart cut out, smelling like rotten flesh. Okay, sure, perhaps that's a bit colorful, but Sarah would definitely be pissed.

He sighed as he slid into the lonely, metallic bench, awaiting the next train that fell under his destination. The air was cool, cold actually, bustling through alongside the tube that entered on occasion, and startling John, causing his hands to tuck away firmly into his jacket pockets, and his knees to jiggle in anxiousness. He was proud that he had managed to dress rightfully warm in his struggle this morning. Oatmeal shaded sweater, darkly tinted jeans, and green jacket just hovering over the soft cashmere. Well, warm enough at least.

Soon he'd arrive at the hospital, change into his blue blandly designed scrubs, and shuffle around behind the real doctor.

Man, he couldn't wait until he finally passed all his exams, fulfilled all his needed requirements. He wanted to get in on the action – feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, save the life of another, feel the pressure of being pushed to the edge of his comfort zone. He was excited just thinking about it.

The rumble of a slowing train engine yanked him from his delectable thoughts, and he quickly looked up, catching sight of his ride just pulling into the noisy station. People were already scrambling to stand on the platform's brink, observing as their tube approached them. Most stood in their business clothes, hemmed skirts or black slacks, typing on their tablets or perhaps their cell-phones, pulled from the land of the living by technological communication. John only shook his head at them (he wasn't much of an electronics person), nearing the standing point as well, where all waited for the train to halt and open its doors.

And when it did, it was like a circus had just ended and the children who had watched were suddenly eager to try every trick themselves. Every man, or woman, shoved against one another, anxious to board their method of transport; eager to get to work, partake in their needed events, and then call it a day.

John was thrown from side to side, a headache brewing from the constant swishing to and fro, before he finally made it through the automatic doors and into the tiny train compartment. With a short glance around, he took notice of an empty seat just near the exit beside a rather distracted young woman, and a well-dressed, older lady.

He swayed forward, aware that he'd have to claim the seat before anyone else tumbled in. He reached its location and fell backwards against its hard, dark blue, plastic surface. He let out a grunt of discontent, which sent the younger woman glancing his way, to which he nodded a firm greeting, and she smiled awkwardly in return, ending all chances of a leisurely conversation by staring back down at the book she was reading. John sighed, spotting the older lady glaring his way in his peripheral vision, and quickly laid his head back against the seat's hard, upper rim.

He was never waking up late again – this was torture.

As he stayed there, eyes closed, he heard more footsteps pounding around, frantic men and women possibly tardy for work as well, and the shift of automatic doors opening and closing. He heard the clip clopping of eccentric high heels, and the soft claps of fancy dress shoes, most likely worn by men along with handsome suits. Strangely enough, and in rather close proximity, he heard the clicks of – what is that? Nails? Perhaps a pet – followed by the final hiss of closing doors and someone on the speaker mumbling, "the train is now in motion".

His eyelids fluttered open, the world tinted a slight blue as his eyes adjusted, and he took in the differences of the tube's intake. Everyone was sitting now, and all was calm, as if the chaos, that had just taken place outside, never happened. John spotted the usual – people on their phones, reading books, listening to music through white headphones, some just chatting away with the person beside them. J

ohn looked at the young woman next to him. Still reading.
He squinted, attempting to read the words written on the current page of her book.

" It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived."

As John read it, only briefly as the elderly woman was glowering at him again, it made him think of his own father – almost the opposite of what the book described, apart from the "bravery" statement. He'd always been John's hero – survivor of war, medical genius. He missed his family. It'd been a while since he'd seen them – they lived far from the depths of London, and John didn't get much visit time, and now they were much too old to travel to his own humble abode – a flat he could barely keep hold of. But he stayed in contact: phone calls, Skype, emails, and so on.

Harry on the other hand was a different story. He let her be, and that includes allowing her to experiment with her sexuality (she was interested in girls) and her drinking (she was a bit of an alcoholic). It was only after Clara died, her first girlfriend, that she really went downhill.

John cleared his throat and shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the pitiful topic his mind had dwelled on. He caught a glimpse of the older woman again. Somehow, she had now dozed off, mouth wide open catching flies, and eyes nearly rolled all the way back.

John shivered.

Just as he turned to face forward and close his own eyes again, he froze upon seeing something quite interesting – or rather, someone. A being, his dark grey hoodie draped over his face, hiding whatever expression or visage he held, and a red, Irish setter sprawled out by his feet – no leash, no collar. John narrowed his eyes, now taking the mysterious figure in farther.

He was tall, unbelievably tall, and thin, much too thin, terribly thin. He wore washed out and faded, light blue jeans, seemingly torn and wrecked by god-knows-what. His hands were tucked away in the front pocket of his grey hooded jumper, and he was leaned casually against the tube window behind him, the backdrop like a motion picture.

He was wearing rather interesting shoes, flat and black, white laces, and a white rim around the edge. Headphones were lying effortlessly on his stomach, sprouting from his front pocket, and trailing up the curve of his jacket, vanishing under the depths of his hood, which pointed downwards as though he was trying very hard not to be seen.

John waited until the precise moment the boy looked up and he was instantly mesmerized by the foreign and rather exotic appearance. The boy's pale blue – maybe silver? Turquoise green? – eyes fixed on John's wide-eyed expression, and the medical intern immediately flushed.

He seemed to be, maybe, nineteen? Twenty? Definitely not John's age of twenty-three.

His skin was incredibly pale, contrasting well with the dark grey of his hooded jumper, and his face appeared as though it had been sculpted, beautifully and carefully – Michelangelo had nothing on this kid. His lips formed a perfect cupid's bow, a pale, subtle pink, and John could just see the fringe of curly, dark brown hair – wavy and divine like that of rich chocolate.

But his expression was twisted into that of distrust, perhaps discontent, which John understood in a place like this. Too many people, too much noise. He glanced down at the earphones the kid still wore, wondering slightly what he may be listening to. From the kid's punk-like appearance, John would say heavy metal maybe, perhaps even an easy rock playlist.

He wasn't sure why he found himself so compelled by the being. He was just different from anyone John had taken witness to before. He knew no one, he had seen no one, who appeared so very exotic, so very surreal. He tried to observe the kid more discretely, whenever that calculating gaze dropped onto his expression, but it was terribly hard under the eyes of the very figure.

He held a gaze that seemed so very intelligent, so very wise. He almost looked as though he knew too much for someone his age. Perhaps he did. He watched minutely as one of the being's hands removed itself from his jacket pocket and landed swiftly on the dog's head, whom of which leaned into the touch, tail wagging happily.

It was captivating to John, as he observed this young man, dog warming his feet effortlessly, appearing impossibly clever, impossibly intelligent.
John wondered if he really was.

He didn't get the chance to find out, however, because as soon as the automatic doors opened with a hiss, and the speaker stated a muffled, "Mind the gap", the remarkable being, John had been gaping at for at least more than five minutes, was gone – no trace of a dog or a hooded figure anywhere.

John sighed, shook his head, and prepared himself for a day of work – and Sarah's scolding.