Nope, don't own Sherlock. Wish I did.

I've been wanting to write Teen!lock for a while and now I am! So much fun. The book titles mentioned in this are actual forensic science books. Look them up if you don't believe me.

Have you ever stared at something for a really long time and it just ceases to be an object and just becomes an image? Like on a 2D screen. Like it no longer has a meaning, its just something in front of your eyes.

This is what has happened to my english teacher.

I'm seeing him leaning against his desk, and I'm hearing his voice, like a sort of low buzzing on the inside of my ears. But I'm having trouble viewing him as one entity, he's just sort of separated into a bunch of lines.

I am so bloody bored.

I've managed to carve a circle into the wood of my desk with the pressure of my pencil. I should be taking notes, but this requires a lot less effort and I just can't concentrate today. My mind is numb and melting all in the same instant. And its a Monday. I have four more days of this.

The bell won't ring for another twenty seven minutes.

The bell won't ring for another twenty three minutes

Twenty two minutes

Twenty minutes left.

I'm usually better than this. I'm a good student and I work really hard. I just didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I had to stay up in case Harry stumbled home and couldn't make it up the stairs. Last time she came home completely pissed, she tripped and fell on the stairs and just decided not to get up. She vomited on the step next to her and fell asleep.

I make an effort to bring the monotonous hum of the teacher's voice into focus, but I can't - why is grammar so boring?

My head thunks down on my desk, but I have to quickly pull it up in case it calls attention to my catatonic state.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Fourteen.

Twelve.

I blink my eyes repeatedly, captivated by the way the word John, printed across the top of the paper, slides in and out of focus.

Ten.

Nine.

I will not look at the clock again, it just makes time seem to pass even slower.

Five.

Oh thank God. Five more minutes. I can get through five more minutes.

At the three minute mark I start to slide my papers together, and hook my foot under one strap of my bag to pull it closer to me.

One minute.

I am packed and out of the door a second after the bell rings.

Chatter rises from opening classrooms and the fog over John's brain lifts a little with it. At his locker, he twists the combination quickly and pulls it open. Charlie appears next to him, science binder and pencil case hanging casually in his left hand. "Have fun with Mr. Dawson?"

John gives him a look. "As always. Right laugh, he is."

Charlie grins, "At least you didn't have piles of worksheets on 'simple and complex machines' assigned. And I have rugby practice." He groans, "It won't be any fun without you there, mate. When can you play again?" He eyes John's left shoulder, dislocated during a particularly vicious tackle.

John sighs, it really is inconvenient, "Nine weeks to go, I can't even carry my bloody bag properly." He glances at his backpack, that now hangs from his right shoulder. It doesn't feel right.

Charlie makes a noise in sympathy, before pushing off from the locker to make way for a guy with thick blond hair and copious amounts of acne. "Well, see you John. You know how coach is."

"Yeah, better make a run for it. See you tomorrow." John watches Charlie jog down the hallway for a second, briefly wishing be to running with him. But its been a long day and he's sort of relieved not to have to jog around a pitch for hours.

John grabs a few books out of his locker and stuffs them into his bag. He slams the door shut, snaps the lock and starts his walk home, through the throngs of students clogging the arteries of the hallways.

He's makes it about halfway to his house before the contemplation on where Harry will be tonight, and whether or not his father will be late home from 'work' finally makes him turn back around.

He can put off dealing with them for a few more hours.

Instead, John tugs his bag into a more comfortable position on his good shoulder, and walks four streets over, to a small library that he frequents often during the summer. Escaping his father, who yells and disappears from the house, and his sister, who giggles in her room with her newest 'friend' and the clink of bottles and glasses. And his mother, who no matter how often or loudly anyone yells at her, just feebly accepts anything that comes at her.

The bell over the door jingles like a metal laugh.

The elderly lady behind the counter, in a worn, overstuffed armchair, glances up as John enters and greets him with a warm smile. "John, dear! Oh I haven't seen you in ages, how have you been?" She meets him halfway, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate hug.

John grins, and hugs her back. "I've been fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just school has been a little difficult lately. I don't have football practice for a while, so I thought I'd stop by."

Mrs. Hudson gives him a knowing look. She had been his outlet when things had got too much at home. She was a constant. Hot tea and a good book.

"Family issues are always the worst. You should've seen my husband, but Sherlock sorted it all out." John gives a start at the odd name, he'd heard it somewhere before. He was that kid that Anderson constantly complained about. Rich. Odd. "Oh you simply must meet him. You two would get along splendidly."

John wasn't completely sure about that. He'd seen Sherlock once or twice. He was pale and gangly and almost ethereal in his looks. And Anderson, prick that he was, could not have exaggerated all of his stories completely. If there was any kernel of truth in any of the stories about Sherlock Holmes, he was a self absorbed genius and a complete prat. Not exactly a winning combination. But Mrs. Hudson had clapped her hands over her breast at the mention of this boy's name and was wearing such a fond expression, that John couldn't bear to let her down. So he followed her through the winding stacks of musty books until she reached a table that had clearly been dragged over, and pushed between shelves that held heavy, musty books with names like Criminalistics and Forensic Science: Advanced Investigations. The desk was piled high with books from much the same vein, and nearly obscured by the piles, was a head of dark, curly hair. A contrast to the bright sunlight that carried dust mites through the window deep set into the wall.

"Sherlock, dear. Come and meet John."

And there we have it. I've already started the second chapter, and am just working a few things out, so that will be up soon. Sorry about the switches in person, it started as a first person, but then I remembered that I hate first person and also that I can't write first person, so third it was.

And Charlie is a character of my own invention because I feel like John needs friends. I could have used Mike, but it doesn't seem to me like him and John were ever particularly good friends, more like they had a mutual friend or they were acquaintances.

I have to apologize for the sad lack of Sherlock in this chapter. There will be much more of him in the next (:

Feel free to tell me (please do) if you notice any OCCness and I will try my best to remedy it. Reviews are more than welcome, constructive criticism, criticism, and blatant praise as well *hint hint*