Author's Note: Okay so this is kind of like my other story (Pint-sized Flat mate) but i didn't like how it turned out so this is kind-of like my rewrite of it. Depending on reception I will decide which one to continue.

So John is a kid, because the dynamic of Sherlock's and John's friendship is just so cool. The story is pretty much an AU but will have some elements of the series.

Sorry if I made John act older than his age, but you know he is John.

Enjoy :)

FYI: I know nothing of English accents. Feel free to use your imagination.

"YOU'RE DEAD! You hear that midget?! When we catch you, you're dead MEAT!"

You're not going to catch me! John thought, but dared not waste the energy on saying out loud.

Even though he was small for his age John knew he could out run Cobi, the street kid whose "territory" he had apparently trespassed on. But he'd need all his strength to get away from the goon's two lanky lackeys.

Concentrating solely on breathing and where he was going to put his feet next, John raced through the city.

He had gotten familiar with London's streets and alleys over the past two weeks. Being on his own had been harder than he had expected. Hunger, cold nights, rude strangers, and gangs, were just a few of the problems John had become newly acquainted with.

While living on the streets was tough, there was no way he would ever return to the boys' foster home. Not withthat man waiting for him there.

John cut corners, switched streets randomly, even crossed during a green light, he did everything he could think of till his pursuers were out of sight.

Once the area around him became more populated, filled with shops and restaurants, John finally allowed his pace to slow.

Running in a crowd would only draw attention.

After making certain that he was no longer being followed he let out a much-relieved sigh, and decided to stop ignoring the gnawing pain in his stomach. It was a feeling he always seemed to have nowadays, but he didn't mind.

It helped dull the pain of his parents' death.

John was always very careful when picking a place to eat at.
It couldn't be too expensive, or the workers would be too watchful. It couldn't be too cheap because if there was anything harder than stealing from a rich person, it was stealing from a poor one.
Finding a cafe that satisfied his conditions, John tried to get his breathing back to normal, before swinging the door open and walking in...

The little cafe was semi-packed, there was a single visible employee manning the cash register at the counter. The strong smell of coffee and tea filled his senses, but John's attention narrowed in on some wrapped sandwiches on a display case.

He attempted to casually make his way over to the prospective lunch, blushing a little at the feeling of multiple pairs of eyes on him. He could only imagine what the adults must think of him.

John knew he must look a sight, with his blonde hair nearly reaching his eyes, his grimy oversized army jacket and worn out jeans, plus his overall dirty appearance.

Ignoring the stares, the youngster's hand was halfway to one of the sandwiches when the nearby newspaper stand caught his eye.

There, plastered on the front page of the newspaper, was a photograph.

A photograph of his teenage sister.

The picture had been taken recently. John had seen it in their social-worker's folder. But what really concerned him was what the caption under the picture said.

"FOSTER CHILD GONE MISSING: 15 year-old Harriet Watson has been missing for over a week. Stumped Investigators continue their search for her, any information on her whereabouts or disappearance should be given to the authorities."

There was more text under the main heading, but John's brain was still trying to catch up to what he had just read. He gawked at the newspaper, wanting to believe it wasn't his sister. How could she be missing? And why? Was it possible that she had gone looking for him? But then, why hadn't the newspaper mentioned anything about his disappearance? Was she even okay?

His fingers curled around the page, one hand hovering over the face of the only family he had left.

"Oi, you!"

John's head snapped up in the direction of the voice, hands automatically tightening around the newspaper.

The man who had called him out was the employee working the cash register. He did not look happy.

"Well? Are you planning on buying anything? Trying to steal that newspaper?" The worker demanded throwing a harsh disdainful glare at him.

Trying to quickly establish his innocence (Who would want to steal a newspaper?), John fumbled over his words,

"No, no I was only-"

"So 'no' you're not planning on buying anything?! Then get out of my shop before call the constable over! Freeloading brat!"

The employee made a move towards John, but the kid didn't need to be told twice to scram. In seconds he was out of the door and once again racing down the busy street, pushing past strangers, and ignoring the insults thrown his way.

So much for not attracting attention.

But he didn't stop running till he was out of breath and a good distance away from the accursed cafe. John ducked into an alley and leaned against the stonewall to regain his composer, and at the same time, berate himself for being so careless.

It would be a long time before he'd be able to show his face anywhere near that place again.

Brooding over the loss of a good lunch place, John was surprised to find that he was still holding on to the newspaper from the cafe. Catching a glimpse of the front cover, the reality of losing his sister hit him hard.

What could have happened to her?

John had to find her, especially if that man was involved, Harriet would be in danger. He just had to find her. He would find her. But how?

"Found ya, Johnny."

Uh oh.

Fools! Idiots! Idiots the lot of them!

Sherlock huffed, all but raging towards Baker Street, hands jammed angrily into his coat's pockets.

How dare they not let him into the case! Those fools would be tripping over themselves for his help in a couple of hours. They still believed that those three deaths were suicides.

Sherlock scoffed. Lestrade would call him soon enough asking for his opinion on the crimes. He was certain of it.

Till then, Sherlock would just have to keep himself occupied with the chemical bases he was experimenting with at home-

"OOF!"

Something small crashed into him with enough force to knock them both over.

Blinking away his surprise and pain, Sherlock picked himself up off the concrete and turned to glare/examine the thing that had caused his fall*.

He found himself looking at a young blond-haired child, one that couldn't have been over nine years old.

The boy had a split-lip and a dark bruise forming on his left cheek. His wide blue eyes traveled up until they locked with Sherlock's own stormy-gray ones.

The boy's expression instantly became guarded, eyes narrowed in distrust.

"Watch where you're going ya overgrown giant."

The man raised an eyebrow at the pint-sized punk.

"If you don't want to get stepped on then don't get under foot."

The corners of the child's mouth drew upwards but he covered it with a snort. Just as he was about to say something back, three older and much rougher-looking boys rounded the corner. They came to an erupt stop when they caught sight of the two.

The consulting detective gave them each a sharp look over, it didn't take a lot of effort to realize what was happening.

Letting out a small gasp, the blonde-haired boy tried to turn and make a run for it, only to be stopped by Sherlock for a second time.

The three street punks weren't sure of what to do when the tall dark-haired man grabbed their target by the arm. Normally, they would just beat the tar out of anyone who stood in their way. But there was something different about this man's stare, something that reminded them of that man.

The three young thugs just stood there, facing the tall man and short kid in what appeared to be some sort of a standoff.

John was struggling to free his arm of the stranger's grasp, but the beanpole was stronger than he looked.

"Aren't you all a little young to be reported for assaulting a child and attempt at kidnapping? That alone warrants a few years in an institution."

The two taller boys looked uneasy, but the other one simply raised his hands in mock-surrender.

"Look, that kid stole some money from my pa's shop. We'll just take the little thief and go if you don't mind."

-"Was that really the best lie you could come up with?"

-"Oh come on, really?"

Both Sherlock and John protested at the same time. The two glanced at each other (John momentarily pausing his struggles) with perplexed looks before focusing on the three teens again.

"Just hand him over or else-"

"Or else what?" Sherlock took a threatening step forward. "Do you really think your drug supplier will care if you three end up missing tomorrow morning?"

The man looked at the self-appointed thug leader straight in the eye. "I'm sure your alcoholic father would be all too pleased to finally be rid of you."

The older boy flinched back, mouth opened wide in shock.

Sherlock leaned in (still keeping a tight grip on the other boy) before whispering, "I suggest you leave now, before I make it so that no one offers you any ever again and your dead bodies end up in the Thames."

All street toughness failed the punks at that moment, any will of fighting against the man melted under the heat of his murderous gaze. Knowing they would have to face consequences for failing that man, they decided they rather risk that, then face the crazy-psychopath in front of them.

They ran away as if the devil himself was at their heels.

Sherlock was satisfied that he had managed to put those punks in their place. So satisfied that he had forgotten the little boy attached to the arm he was still holding on tightly to.

"Thanks, for saving me back there."

Sherlock dropped the boy's arm as if the touch burned him.

"I didn't do it for your sake, I would just rather avoid any unsavory confrontations before I get home." He wiped his hands on his coat as if the contact had contaminated him.

The boy gave a light laugh. "I believe the proper response is 'you're welcome'."

The child rubbed his arm, his expression changing suddenly again as he stared up at Sherlock with suspicious eyes.

"Are you... with Scotland yard?"

Sherlock's face twisted into an unpleased frown. "Don't insult me, I'm not with the police"

Waving his arm to gesture to the direction the other boys had fled in, John asked,
"Then how did you know about?..."

"I didn't know I saw, now if you will excuse me."

Sherlock turned from the boy and began to walk away. The consulting detective decided it would just be better to end all conversation here, and never look back at the child.

But that suddenly became impossible when said child ran to catch up and walk beside to him.

John was still shaking his head in disbelief, his little mind now fill with curiosity.

"What does that even mean? Are you psychic?"

"Don't be stupid. I am a consulting detective."

John nodded, not really knowing what that was. But he had seen a show where a 'detective' helped catch a killer. Maybe this man had a job kind of like that.

"So…could you find, a person? One that went missing?" John said, in a tone that he hoped sounded like he really didn't care either way.

"Well if your parents are dead, then whom are you searching for?"

John did a double take. Who was this guy? "How did you know my parents were dead?"

Sherlock gave him an annoyed side-glance. "Just answer the question."

Despite still being in awe of the man's strange ability John held up the newspaper for Sherlock to see.

"It's my older sister, they say she went missing, but I think she's been kidnapped."

This was risky, especially if that man found out, John knew that, but there was something about this man. He was kind-of weird, but he seemed like the kind of person who wouldn't be scared off by a bit of danger.

Besides this guy was his only hope at the moment.

Sherlock gave the page a once-over.
While the girl's disappearance did seem suspicious, and the case held obvious potential, Sherlock had no doubt that he would have to deal with this boy on a daily basis if he did take the case.

Making a quick decision Sherlock pushed the newspaper back into the child's hands.

"No, I charge for solving private cases."

John dropped the newspaper in favor of grabbing ahold of the tall man's coat.

"Wait! Maybe I could work for you! Be a helper or something." John said desperately, clutching Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The word you're looking for is 'assistant', and what makes you think I would need one?"

John couldn't help what came out of his mouth next.
"Seriously? Someone like you is probably not very popular. I could help you with stuff that has to do with people. I could do the shopping, plus I can clean and cook-"

"You wouldn't last a day with me." Sherlock tossed at him.

"Yes I would!" John assured stubbornly. "Besides, what you did earlier was really cool."

Sherlock gave him a glare. "You don't mean that."

"I do! I really do! It's like you have a superpower, and you can help people with it."

John was at the end of his rope. "PLEASE! If you don't make any progress after a week, I'l-l leave you alone and you'll never have to see me again!"

After that comment on his deduction abilities, Sherlock looked, really looked, at the boy.

Sherlock had always been good at telling when others were lying (the signs were painfully obvious), but he found only sincerity in the boy's sky blue eyes.
Sincerity and something more. The boy had an odd look of someone who was more concerned with survival, rather than living. There was a strange soberness that one never usually saw in a child. As if the boy had seen too much of the world in his short years, and simply kept it buried under his child-like innocence.

Well at least if Sherlock did take this case, he could be certain that it wouldn't be a boring one.

"Fine."

John's heart did a tiny dance in relief.

The consulting detective whirled around, started walking towards his home at a brisk pace.

"Come along then child, we have a lot to get done."

"Yeah, my name is John by the way. You know we are technically still strangers right? I mean I don't' even know your name, what is your name anyway? And where exactly are we going?"

Sherlock's patience was going to running on reserve fumes if this little boy-'John' didn't stop pestering him with so many questions.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street, do try to keep up."

A/N: Guessed who that man was yet? We will be seeing into the reason for why Sherlock saved John a little more in the next chapter.

Reviews and constructive criticism welcomed.

*See what I did there? ;)