Nine-year-old Sherlock tapped his pencil on the desk of his primary school, absolutely bored. He had solved the equation minutes ago, yet the childish (well, they were children, but exceptionally childish) people he was forced to call classmates were having a rough time writing out the variables. It was rather simple, anyway. So, instead, he looked to his teacher, and decided to pull his favorite trick- guess what his substitute teacher was like. She was new, anyways. It was polite to get to know her.

He stared at Miss Aldebourne, fully checking each detail.

Hmmm, curled hair, obviously a hasty job, so probably not very good at time managing. Dark circles under the eyes, so not much of a sleeper, either. Ticking fingers, tapping the desk and her side and darting eyes- attention disorder. A tan line from a ring- married for a while, but it hadn't been worn in a while, so divorce? Obvious ash stains on her shirt- regular smoker, but must've quit a bit back, judging by the fade on them. There was also what looked like alcohol stains-looking at the light coloring, probably scotch. Also faded, alluding to quitting a while back.

"You shouldn't have stopped." Sherlock commented. Miss Aldebourne turned to stare at him, her eyes wide with confusion.

"How-how did-" She stuttered.

"You shouldn't have stopped smoking and drinking, Miss Aldebourne. It may be crap for your body, but at least it kept your life sort of stable after you and your husband divorced." Sherlock said casually. "You don't sleep, you don't manage time and, well, you obviously have some sort of mental disorder- ADD, perhaps? Anyways, point made."

Miss Aldebourne stared at him for a full minute before picking up her things and running out of the classroom. The whole class turned to stare at Sherlock. Whispers echoed around the classroom, and eyes darted back and forth from him and away from him nervously, like he was suddenly going to grow claws and teeth and eat them all. This, Sherlock thought with longing, would be absolutely lovely.

"God, he's so creepy."

"That's the fourth one this week!"

"Sherlock's such a freak."

Yes, Sherlock thought. That's me.

Sherlock walked home alone nowadays, as his brother, Mycroft, had left two years to go to secondary school. The streets didn't scare Sherlock, however- he knew that he was safer out here than in there, for his peers judged him so badly. The cracked asphalt didn't judge you. The street lamp didn't whisper about you. The sidewalk didn't laugh and call you names. Sherlock had always preferred solitude. Mycroft didn't like being seen with baby brother, as he was a rising star in his family-a genius with a military edge, as his teachers praised. Maybe if they had torn away for a moment to look at little Sherlock, they would see another bright boy with an eagerness to investigate. Alas, Sherlock was cast into his brother's shadow, and he learned to love being alone.

"Sherlock Loner!"

Sherlock heart wrenched. A big, brawny boy stood there, his fancy clothes stretched tight over his thick figure and a mop of ugly brown hair topping the beast off. He reminded Sherlock of a bull-large, clunky, and extremely aggressive. Evan was a rich yet terrifying boy and had a knack for dropping people that didn't please them onto their heads. His father owned a fair amount of property and was a real estate man.

He kept walking.

"Sherlock, boy, where ya going? The freak convention is that way!" Evan laughed.

Sherlock kept on walking.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, freakazoid!" The boy called.

"Go away, Evan!" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"I have to go home, so see you later, freak!" Evan cackled. Sherlock turned. Suddenly, he heard an OOF! It was followed by a heavy thud. Sherlock whipped back around.

"You little beast, you got my polo dirty!" Evan cursed, standing up and dusting himself off. Evan blocked Sherlock's view of whoever the unlucky sap was.

"I'm s-s-sorry!" Another voice stuttered.

"Sorry doesn't get my polo clean, doofus!" Evan said nastily. He stuck out a fist and lifted up another boy.

He must've been seven or eight, because he looked younger than Sherlock, but not by much. His brown aviator jacket looked too big from him and it was ragged, like he had always worn it. He had short-cut honey colored hair, and short, but sturdy. Not fat, but hefty. Sherlock guessed he would probably lose in hand to hand combat with him. The things that struck Sherlock the hardest was his eyes, however. He had big, brown eyes that reminded him of a puppy that's been kicked around a fair few times. It broke his heart.

Sherlock suddenly found himself running towards Evan. Everything logical in him was screaming at him, but his body didn't care. He rushed to Evan's side, and found his scrawny fist hurdling towards Evan's mouth. It connected with his jaw, and Evan buckled. He dropped the boy. Sherlock grabbed the younger boy's hand and started running away from Evan, who was beginning to stir from the blow. The two boys ran for their lives down the street. Sherlock panted, not daring to look behind him. The little boy didn't have to struggle to keep up with Sherlock, he kept stride as Sherlock wheezed and huffed. Sherlock finally slid to a stop on his street. Inhaling air like he hadn't had it in years, he turned to the younger boy.

"I'm sorry." The boy said, giving Sherlock an apologetic look. "I usually can handle that kinda stuff."

"It's-It's alright." Sherlock gasped. "I know Evan can be rather awful."

He looked up at John.

"I'm sorry I dragged you down here. Where do you live?" Sherlock asked.

The boy looked at his feet. "I- I don't have a home right now."

Sherlock immediately felt bad about asking. "Sorry. But…what do you mean 'right now'?"

The boy didn't answer.

"It's alright. I'm sure I can take you in at least for the night." Sherlock blurted.

The boy looked at him hopefully. "Really?"

"Yeah, sure. As long as you don't mind sharing a bed for a night." Sherlock shrugged.

"No…I haven't slept on a bed in ages…" The boy murmured.

Sherlock walked up the steps to his apartment. Just as he opened the door, he paused.

"I'm sorry, I have no manners. I'm Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock stuck out his hand.

"John. John Watson." The younger boy said, smiling up at Sherlock.

First time writing Sherlock, so be nice? :3

-Vi