Sherlock sat up. A gush of sickeningly clotted blood oozed from his nose – when he had fallen, it had somehow connected with his knee. He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose: it was broken. Sighing, he went to find his house matron.

Matron Jones was not a woman to mess with. At well over six foot, she would have made a tremendous impression anyway. But she was also incredibly wide, with a voluptuous bosom and lots of wide slopes. Despite her bulk, she was a stunning woman: a short, thick brown bob, sparkling green eyes and lightly freckled skin. Her voice was deep and booming, with its Scottish roots strongly embedded. She was loved by all of Shark house, despite her cupboard filled with foul tasting medicine.

"Matron?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm not surprised. What is it this time – broken arm, broken leg, bleeding lip?"

"Broken nose, Matron."

A deep sigh sounded, and the woman appeared from behind a screen in the corner of the room.

"Come here, you silly boy."

Sherlock, who was lightly pinching the end of his nose, sat on the treatment bed. The woman fumbled with some things in a cupboard, before producing several things. She gave Sherlock an icepack wrapped in a thin chequered towel, which he firmly placed against his nose, ignoring the agonising pain in his nose. Then she poured some nasty, white syrup onto a spoon and forced it into his mouth. It tasted foul, and left a film in his mouth even after he had swallowed it. Then, she took some gauze, adjusted where Sherlock was holding the ice and packed it into his nose, causing him to feel an odd feeling as he lost the ability to breath through it.

"That should do it. Now for the head of house report. How did it happen?"

The woman took a pad of long strips of paper, and started to fill it in as Sherlock replied to her questions.

Name of student: Sherlock Holmes

Age: 8 years

Year: Year 4

Reason for Visit: Suspected broken nose.

Treatment: Ice pack applied to area, pain medication given, gauze placed in nose.

Injury caused: Other student, Archie Abbot, threw Sherlock to the floor. His nose smashed into his knee, breaking it.

Treated by: Matron Jones

Date: 1st September

"Archie again?" Matron commented disapprovingly as Sherlock unwillingly gave some of the details of his attack.

Sherlock refrained from answering back.

"Well, chickadee, just take this along to Shark house office."

"Thank you, Matron."

As Sherlock walked to his house office, he was surrounded by other students. Freak, retard, remedial, spack. Twit, snob, pompous. Words had never hurt Sherlock: he was used to them. Before he started school it was his mother and brother. Here it was the other students. No big deal. The insults were all so mind-numbingly prosaic they didn't even register any more. He soon found the large red door, and rapped on it.

"Enter!" a stately voice called.

William Storkey, head of Shark house, was not a man to cross. He was a sadist. Even for the tiniest infraction, he would whip out his cane, or his slipper. Most students despised him, or were terrified of him – except for Sherlock. The two shared the same sense of dry, sharp humour, and Mr. Storkey was the codes teacher. Plus, Sherlock was used to both emotional and physical pain from his mother, so sharp remarks and boxed ears made no impression on her. All in all a figure of admiration to Sherlock.

"Holmes, why does it not surprise me that you are here already?" The large, porky man sighed as the skinny boy entered.

"Hello, sir. Nice to see you to."

"Don't get smart with me, boy. What do you want?"

"House report." Was Sherlock's reply. He handed over the slip of paper.

"ABBOT!" bellowed the man. He tossed the slip into the bin and sharply said to Sherlock.

"Stay there."

Sherlock knew what was going to happen, and despite what Archie had done to him, he didn't wish to stay. That was why he quietly allowed himself to slip into his mind palace. A place where he could ignore the rest of the world, be cut off from his feelings. Recently, it had gotten easier and easier to go there. He thought longingly of his violin as he slipped away.

Even Sherlock couldn't completely cut himself off from the world. He tried to freeze his feelings, but he still felt that gently creeping feeling of regret at telling the truth when he heard the swish of the cane.

"You can go, Abbot, Holmes."

Later that night, in the Shark common room, Mycroft made his way over to Sherlock.

"I heard what happened and I assume that you are okay."

"Yes, I am."

"Good." There was a short pause, then, "I do worry about you Sherlock. Even if you are a total tit, you're still my brother."

"Yes. Well, goodbye."

The next morning Sherlock awoke where he usually did after a rough night: in the common room, under the sofa. He slept there whenever he wanted to avoid a beating from those in his dorm. Yawning, he shuffled out from under the sofa and looked around. The room was empty. The clock said half six. He could probably sneak into the dorm and get his washing things, and his satchel with his books in. Quickly, he ran through the silent corridors to the dorm and swept around it as lightly as a ghost. He even managed to change into fresh, uncrumpled uniform. His timetable was pretty much the same as last year, but this year he would be taking the sciences with the Year 9 classes because of his extreme intelligence in those subjects.

Breakfast was a plain affair: a bowl of porridge, a slice of toast and a cup of tea. He was the first one down nary a couple of the few under-fives who boarded full time. Once he had eaten and quickly wiped his face in the after-meal wash room, he went to the library. The library was his haven, his most beloved place. Thousands upon thousands of books, comfortable armchairs and a soft, sweet librarian called Mrs Brooks who would often sneak him boiled sweets. He briefly greeted her before finding his favourite book: Swiss Family Robinson. The rich storyline of the family of six, their two dogs and their monkey intrigued him, and he could read it in one go without even stopping for a glass of water. He found his favourite spot to sit in, and settled down. Of course, his favourite spot wasn't a chair, it was a shelf. If you climbed up one of the bookshelves to the very top of the room, you'd find a lovely broad empty shelf. Sherlock had discovered it age five, and adopted it as his own. Up there he kept a cushion to plonk under his backside, a blanket for when it was nippy, a bottle which he constantly refilled with different drinks – lemonade, ginger beer, orange juice, water – and a huge jar of sweets. He was quite content on a Saturday to sit and read and eat his sweets and drink his drink.

An hour later, it was time for morning assembly. This was the only thing that boys and girls were split up for. Boys assembly's were lead by the elderly, fairly stern headmaster Mr Strafford, or sir to everyone who had a brain, while the girls had assembly's with Miss Hutch, the headmistress, who was Mrs Brooks the librarian's maiden sister and just as sweet as she. Sherlock found himself a seat, and sat, watching the others file in in clusters. He saw his own brother lope towards the back with his friend Greg. Archie, looking rather subdued, sat as far away from Sherlock as possible.

"Welcome back, young one's! As you know, this is a brand new year at this school which brings brand new opportunities. The Year 9's will make their options for the GCE exams, and the Year 11's for their O Levels. The little one's will pick their vocational subject. A fresh start. Sadly, several points have already been lost by all three houses: Shark have lost 20 for bullying, Whale have lost 10 for mobbing about in the dinner cue and Dolphin five for talking after lights out – not a good start, eh boys? Now, please stand for prayers."

Sherlock truly hated prayers. He wasn't religious. He had always found the idea of a 'greater being' improbable, and had held this opinion since he was a small child, but if he didn't proclaim his love for God as loudly as the next boy he'd get the cane on the spot.

And so, the story of the missing money begins.

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