AN before I start, I want you to know that I write this mainly for myself but partly for those who follow me as an author. It would mean the world to me if you reviewed and I would also respond to any queries or criticisms you may have. Also, if you have a story request , just pm me (or guest review) and ill do my best. Thanks!

I focused on putting my books away in the locker. New, shiny locker. Not covered in pictures. Not like my old one, in my school where- stop it. I cursed myself. Reminders were not good. It did not do to dwell on the past. I must move on, forget. I trained my thoughts on organising my books first by size, then colour. I unfolded my new timetable, flickered my eyes over the days subjects before carefully selecting the appropriate books. New books. New school. New classes. New people. I ignored the rush of people, trying not to catch anyone's eye. Until i was used to this, to the school and the constant haunting, friends and girlfriends were a definite no-go. Anything could set me off. I didn't need this. The locker next to mine opened,revealing a messy interior of mold, torn books and a section of-

" Are those human thumbs?!" As soon as the words left my mouth, I willed them back and prayed the owner of the locker with said objects was not listening. No such luck. A head of soft, floppy black curls turned my way.

" Yeess.." He answered lazily, as though this were obvious and a normal thing. As his eyes caught mine, I noticed the sharp, clearness of his and the pronounced, pale face. I noticed I was staring and quickly averted my eyes as he continued to look mw up and down, studying me as though I were some book. Hardly interesting from the outside, wearing casual clothes to fit in , I was very different on the inside. If only you knew what made up this boring person you see , I thought bitterly. The boy seemed a solitary type, given that he was the only one not surrounded by people and seemed happy about this. He was intriguing, the only one wearing a suit, although the shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the shirt was tucked in and his shoes shined. The boys face ,upon further inspection, seemed bruised and I could see no reason for him to have enemies. At least, until he spoke again.

" Brother or sister?"

"What?!"

" Who was it that shot you, brother or sister?" He seemed impatient. I stood there , silent. He tapped his foot.u

" Sister" I croaked, after an age.

" Thought so. " he replied triumphantly. " And your father also drinks , and your mother, dead?" I began to shake . Memories flooded my head , swirling. Darkness, men, guns, alcohol, pain,blood .. Images swirled around , dizzying me. I leaned into the locker for support. I went to ky happy place like my therapist told me to, thought of happiness but the darkness kept cascading , falling in on me and I couldn't fight it , couldn't breathe.

" John?" The floppy haired boy looked mildly concerned, but mainly intrigued. I didn't, no, couldn't think of how he knew my name as I fell, unconscious to the floor.

"John?" A voice pulled me out of the darkness, the world going back into focus. The floppy haired boy was looking at me with a very peculiar expression.

"What was that? " I said , gingerly picking myself up off the floor and checking for injuries. " Who are you? What's your name? Where are you from? Will we be in any of the same classes? " my words and questions tumbled out of my mouth, jumbling up in their attempt to leave my head. The boy smirked at my awkwardness.

" The name's Sherlock Holmes, I'm a consulting detective and genius, and as for what that was, it was a deduction. Your jeans are patched, someone does that for you, a woman because of the stitches. So, a mother. But they cant do it anymore as no-one else has patched up the new hole. And the patches are faded. So your mother is dead. Your fingers smell of alcohol, but you are underage and sensible. So your father drinks. Your bags are second hand, but you carry them strangely, so a hand-me-down. The bag smells of alcohol as well, so your sister drinks. You were shot in the knee,you can see the scar through your jeans. Your father was a military man, you stand straight and are orderly in your ways. You look betrayed, so the person who shot you was close to you. Not your father, he was military, so your sister. She then felt bad so gave you her old school bags as a gift to say sorry. " I stood there open mouthed.
" brilliant!" A gang of boys thundered down the corridor, yelling 'Freak' at him and knocking him into the locker. The corridors were now empty, and
I didn't want Sherlock to leave. I was dealing with trauma in a new school. I needed all the friends I could get. I began to go to chemistry, hating my leg and beginning the painful shuffle that was limping. Sherlock caught up with me, not difficult with his graceful stride, and asked
" How?" It needed no explanation. I sighed, steeling myself.
" One night, Harry and Dad were drunk to high heaven. I had gone out to the garden to hide, and my mum had gone to coax me inside. Harry and Dad decided to grab Dad's guns and shoot into the night. The shots , they peppered my Mum and I was shot twice. Shoulder and knee. Mum died of her wounds and I was sent away to boarding school near a therapist. " I finished.
" I'm sorry?" He said, sounding so questioning that I burst out laughing.
" Was that not the right thing to say? " I continued to laugh.
" Tell me! I don't understand human emotions and social protocols. "
" No, it was fine its just.."
" Just what?"
" You are a funny one, Sherlock Holmes. Meet you by the lockers after Chem?" He nodded and hurried off in his graceful gallop. I wanted to know more about him. I felt gravitated towards this strange fellow. I wanted to keep him close.