Just a couple of definitions for anyone from outside Britain:
Primary school: age 4-11
Secondary school: age 11-18
O Levels: Exams taken at 16, c. 1950-1990 ish.
Grammar school: State school which requires students to pass an entrance exam to get their place.
Also, I know that now, attitudes towards the LGBT community have changed dramatically, but given that this is set in the 1980s, having a gay relative would have been much more 'taboo' than it is now.
I hope you enjoy!
~UltimateGryffindork
7-year-old Sherlock Holmes slammed shut the door of his room, pulling off his squiffy tie, kicking off his shoes, pulling off his knee-high socks – one of which had fallen down to his ankle, of course, much to the annoyance of his mother, and his teachers at inspection day.
He wondered what it would be like to have friends. To have people to look out for him; stop the bullies from pushing him quite so hard; someone who would punch back for him, and someone he could punch back for.
His ideal friend wouldn't even have to be that clever. Obviously at the higher end of the average human intelligence; the kind of person who would become a doctor. But they wouldn't have to be the kind of clever that he is. He likes having someone to show off to.
Things hadn't been the same since Mycroft had left for secondary school. His mother liked to refer to it as 'big school', but Sherlock found that too patronising, rolling his eyes whenever she mentioned it. Mycroft hadn't been a friend – far from it – but he had looked out for him, and had been a credible witness when in the Headmaster's office with two or three other boys with bruised fists. Now, Sherlock just gets told to stop answering back and to stop being 'rude', which Sherlock has come to conclude is a term that some grown-ups use for 'clever'.
It would be fun to have a friend. He has tried to make friends before, but he never quite got the knack; there had been a new boy in the class at the beginning of the year. He had been sat in one of the two empty seats – either side of Sherlock – and Sherlock had tried to make friends, he really had.
But he soon found out that congratulating someone on moving in with their rich grandparents, who could afford private school, after their parents had died, wasn't the way forward.
But he imagined that friends would be like in those books he used to read when he was much younger; like The Secret Seven, or Swallows and Amazons.
His parents did seem to find it strange that he'd finished both series by the time he was four.
Yet they were the kinds of friends he wanted. Friends he could go on adventures with. Friends who would always have his back. Friends who, although not necessarily always understanding him, would put up with him.
Maybe 'friends' was a bit ambitious. Maybe he would just stick with 'friend'.
11-year-old John Watson got home from school, pulling off his mucky, too-small polo shirt and trainers.
Only a few more months, he told himself. Only a few more months, and I'll be at secondary school.
Every day, what felt like hundreds of people asked him that dreaded question:
"What are you looking forward to about going to secondary school?"
He got asked more often than most; after all, he was going to the local grammar school; further away, but close enough, whereas the rest of his class were headed to the local comprehensive.
Most people were expecting an answer such as 'learning new things' or 'doing my O Levels'. What no one expected was,
"Making friends."
Primary school had been hard for John; an absent father, an alcoholic mother, and apparently (according to the shouting happening downstairs) a no-longer-closet lesbian older sister, who had made sure that he experienced every moment of her sexuality crisis in excruciating detail, starting with, when he was nine, a far too detailed description of things she'd rather be doing in bed.
It hadn't helped when she'd started going out with her now-ex-girlfriend, who happened to be the older sister of someone else in his class.
News travelled fast.
So, he was the weirdo kid, with the highest marks in every test (even the ones he tried to fail), no father, a drunk mother, and an older sister who was headed the same way as his mother, with added girlfriends.
This led him to conclude that what he needed was a friend.
A friend who could make sure that no one hurt him, and a friend he could protect in return. A friend that made him feel normal.
He knew he was a little old for wanting to go on adventures, but that was the kind of friend he wanted. Someone who would do lots of exciting things, but always involve him. Someone that would sometimes drive him crazy, but still be the most important thing in the world to him.
He just wanted to stop being so lonely.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."
John smiled bemusedly to himself as the mysterious man left the room.
Sherlock grinned to himself as he ran down the corridor, out of the hospital.
Looks like he'd found a friend.
I hope you enjoyed that!
Please leave a comment with feedback,
Thank you for reading!
~UltimateGryffindork