A/N: Blimey, it's been so long since I posted something with more than one chapter I've forgotten what I'm meant to do here. :D Thanks so much for the positive response, hope you like where I'm taking it.

Ruby :o)

September 1984

I will not steal.

He read the words before him.

I will not steal.

His eyes had started to blur a little now, as he gazed down at the sheet of paper in front of him, his erratic scrawl penciled in neat little lines.

I will not steal. I will not steal. I will not steal.

Sherlock leant his forehead on his hand in a gesture of complete despair as his other hand mechanically continued to scribble the words, his thumb starting to hurt from where the wood of the pencil rubbed against it. He was so bored he felt like crying in frustration, his chest still hollow from the day's events, his eyes drifting now and again towards the front of the empty class room; empty save for Professor Clayton who sat before the blackboard, discreetly flicking through a Viz comic whilst occasionally mumbling "Get a move on boy. You're wasting your own time and mine." Sherlock supposed he had some sort of pressing social occasion to attend to judging by the way he repeatedly glanced at the clock- perhaps some clueless woman had answered the personal advertisement he'd decided to place a month a go. That would explain the stench of aftershave that had slowly fogged up the room.

Sherlock sighed, glancing out of the window, his vision partly obscured by scrappy tendrils of his messy black hair. The pencil continued as if independent from his hand- I will not steal. I will not steal. I will not steal- whilst his stare lingered on the empty playground outside, the sky above starting to darken as the clock approached five. He'd watched as the other children had fled from every door nearly two hours previously, feeling cold with embarrassment and rage. As each head bobbed past, he'd kept a watchful eye on only one, her chocolate-brown pigtails trailing behind her like snakes, and gripped the desk in an attempt to control his fury, his blue and yellow tie growing tight around his skinny neck.

He had been watching her for a long time prior to this, in fact. She lived in the blue-bricked house at the end of his street, the empty old Victorian building that had been sat stationary behind a FOR SALE sign for as long as he could remember- he could see it if he pressed his nose against the glass of his bedroom window. He and Mycroft had decided that it must have been the setting of some gruesome murder many years previously, although Sherlock had scoffed at the idea that the victim's ghost haunted it. Mycroft was nothing if not over-dramatic.

But no, the house had been sold at last, as his mother had exclaimed over the telephone one night whilst he sat at the top of the stairs peering through the gaps in the wooden banister.

"Oh yes, I know- some businessman from Italy. Well I assume he must be, that house has got to be worth a bob or two. Widowed, I think. I know- no, just one I think, a girl, same age as my youngest…"

He had listened, curious despite himself, but the one-sided conversation had done little to alleviate his boredom. He adored his mother but the life she lead held little excitement; he was too young, then, to appreciate the sacrifices she'd made, the struggles she endured since the untimely death of his father. But he saw the solemn frowns she cast as she cooked, or the silent tears of both grief and anger she'd only let fall in her most private, lonely moments; yet she held herself proudly and raised the two boys with a firm yet loving hand. Though he always saw the sorrowed little smile she offered him as she quietly murmured how much he resembled her deceased husband, each night before he slept.

She was always, however, a goldmine for trivial information and was more often than not his first point of call when investigating the local area, with or without her knowledge. She was a mother first- a gossip second.

He'd bounced up the remaining steps and eagerly informed his brother that the blue-bricked house had been sold, that the new resident was a wealthy Italian widower with a daughter his age and that he was due to move in tomorrow, and that he was going to go and investigate and he was welcome to come along if he wished, which of course meant he was not welcome. History proved that whenever his brother did accompany him on one of these endeavors, it always turned into a petty, sour argument that often resulted in a punishment involving physical labour. Thankfully, Mycroft didn't want to risk it; besides, he'd drawled on in a patronizing tone, he had work to do. Sherlock doubted that there was any merit in meticulously organizing historical documents that discussed the Battle of Hastings, and had suggested far more interesting experiments but, sadly, the door had been slammed in his face.

The dead, cloudy summer was drawing to an abrupt close and the following morning, the air growing ever colder, he had chosen a spot in the alcove of a large tree, concealed in the wooded area that grew opposite the blue-bricked house; he'd brought cheese sandwiches and a flask of tea and a pair of binoculars, because he'd decided he'd observe the comings and goings of the new household for a full day if he needed to. He'd brought a journal and pencil, hoping he'd be able to get a glimpse of the inside of the house and to prove (at the very least to his brother and maybe, if he was extremely fortunate, the police) that some heinous crime had in fact taken place there. Because there would always be evidence, even after so many years of lying dormant.

It wasn't long before a great, red lorry had pulled up by the side of the house and he had yanked out the binoculars from his satchel in a hurry, almost jamming himself in the eye with them. A sleek, black Mercedes eased past and parked in front of it, the windows darkened, and Sherlock crawled forward on his stomach with a sudden, pleasurable anticipation, absently reaching for a sandwich.

The man who stepped out of the car instantly gave off an air of foreboding authority, and Sherlock would have known just from this first sighting and without all the supporting evidence that he was incredibly wealthy. His suit was charcoal grey and sharply cut, flattering his heavy frame, and his weathered, aged face was painstakingly groomed, his short beard graying a little and his dark brown hair slicked back, which failed to hide a receding hairline. Sherlock observed quietly as another figure exited the vehicle- a woman with thick, blonde hair and large glasses that obscured her drawn, thin face. Disregarding her designer attire, he instantly spotted the enormous engagement ring on her finger. So this man was remarrying, then. One more person exited the car on the opposite side, the vehicle obscuring them completely from view. Sherlock could just make out a small pair of shiny, black buckled shoes on the pavement beneath the car, but they disappeared behind the lorry within seconds.

His eyes followed the couple as they stepped almost elegantly to the glossy white front door, the gentlemen opening it with a grand gesture, beaming at the blonde woman. The removal men started the arduous task of unloading the lorry, the burliest of the three carrying a large, white leather armchair; the woman squealed in delight as they carried it across the threshold. Sherlock tried to see past into the entrance hall but it was too dark to make anything out, but from his position he could hear the clacking of shoes across the floor- must be marble. They must have been the wealthiest people he'd come across in his short life, certainly the wealthiest in the area. They'd be the topic of gossip for weeks, he thought with a silent groan, imagining the endless conversations his mother would be having with their neighbors. He chewed lethargically on his sandwich, scribbling down his observations between bites.

"What are you doing?"

Cheese and crumbs of bread spluttered from his lips as he stood and spun around with lighting speed, gathering up his things haphazardly and clutching them to his chest, the flask of tea spilling onto the dirty ground. Breathing heavily, he felt a blush crawl like a swarm of insects across his face as he eyed the figure before him, starting at the black, buckled Dr. Martins that were now scuffed instead of shining.

She stood amongst the trees as though she had sprung from their very roots, a pinecone clasped in her pale hand. She was wearing an ugly, floral smock and white blouse, which was muddy at the sleeves, and white, knee length socks, one of which had fallen to her ankle. Her long, dark hair was tied in a bun, loose strands escaping past the black velvet headband that rested atop her head, forming some sort of odd, messy halo. His gaze stopped at her eyes, big and wide and a deep, hazel brown, stark against her pale white skin and little pink lips, which were pulled into a confused pout.

Sherlock was silent.

"Were you spying on me?"

"No."

"Then why do you have those binoculars?"

He could feel his skin burning a deep crimson and he shoved the binoculars, journal and half eaten sandwiches back into his worn leather bag, noticing the muddy stains on his cord trousers. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why do you have that pinecone?"

She looked down at it and a little smile tugged at her pouting lips.

"I like to collect things," she said simply, putting the pinecone in her pocket. Her expression then turned back to affronted, and she glared at him. "And it's rude to answer a question with another question. Why were you spying on me?"

"I wasn't spying on you," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He stuck out his chin haughtily, gripping the strap of his bag at his chest with suddenly sweaty palms. "I was spying on your house, actually."

"Really?" she said, looking as though she didn't believe him, "Why would you be doing that? It's just a boring, empty old house." She glanced at her feet during this last comment, said with undisguised malice. So she'd been forced to move against her will. He wondered where they'd lived before, perhaps when her mother had been alive.

"It's not boring," he said. He stood up straighter, announcing grandly, "I'm investigating a murder."

There was a pause.

"A murder?" she said with a sudden awed whisper, smiling at him now. He was a little surprised; he thought she would be squeamish at the subject, as most girls were- not that he'd encountered many. She was fickle too, he observed; her face had displayed countless emotions since she had appeared. "In that house?"

"Well, I'm not certain, but I'm sure I could prove it," he said sheepishly, his eyes still narrowed. He gripped his bag. "It's none of your concern anyway."

"Well I think that it is, I'm the one who'll be living there!" she cried incredulously, folding her arms. "What if the body is still in there?"

He blanched a little. He didn't believe that there was an actual body; it was just a theory. Just an excuse to be nosy, he heard his mothers voice in his head.

"Well that's not my problem!" he said loudly, irritated at having to justify his presence there; he'd not even thought he might be discovered. "I'm sure your father has enough money to get rid of it anyway!"

She opened her mouth and gaped at him, a little gasp escaping her and her face falling into an expression of distress. It made him squirm in sudden anguish.

"Fine!" she cried, and he could tell that he'd upset her. Good, he thought quickly, maybe now she'll leave me alone. "I was going to invite you in for tea, but I won't bother!"

His eyes widened, panic setting in as she began to march away from him- an invitation inside the house?

"Wait!" he called, running after her. "Wait! I didn't mean it!"

But she ignored him and ran across the road, scampering up the entrance steps and disappearing through the door. He stopped at the tree line and stared, feeling sick with disappointment- and something else. There was some dark feeling writhing uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, one that was intensified to huge proportions at as young an age as he.

Guilt.

It wasn't long before their paths crossed again.

The following day after yanking his woolen coat on his scrawny frame, his mother dumped an upside down Quality Street tin in his arms, inside which he'd seen her place an enormous Victoria Sponge. He swallowed, glancing at it wearily.

"Why have I got this?"

"Don't be cheeky," she said warningly, buttoning her own coat. "You're coming with me to say hello to the new neighbors."

His face paled.

"What?"

"It's only polite to welcome them. Besides, you are always asking about that house, Sherlock. Aren't you interested to see what's inside?"

He stared up at her as though she'd betrayed him in the worst way possible, and felt like throwing the tin on the floor.

"Well, why can't you take Mycroft?" he whined, frowning at her as she put some lipstick on hurriedly. She rolled her eyes.

"You know that your brother is busy with his school project," she sighed. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking of his brother cooped away in the pleasant darkness of his room, scribbling away at his precious essay on the Norman invasion and never hating him more. "Besides, we won't be there for long."

She glanced down fondly at him and attempted to smooth down his hair, but it sprung back up stubbornly. He continued to glare at her as though she'd sentenced him to death.

He stood behind her polyester-clad legs with the tin at his chest as they waited at the door of the blue-bricked house; he glanced nervously at the large arched windows for any sign of life within. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nervous; his first day at school, perhaps, but his expectations of that disaster had been met and to this day he spent his lunchtimes alone in the library or, on particularly bad days, a toilet cubicle. No, this was a different kind of nervousness; something that was clawing away at him ever more deeply the longer they stood there waiting.

The door suddenly opened to reveal the large gentleman, suited and sharp as he had been yesterday and his mother, a little taken aback, beamed brightly at him.

Sherlock barely glanced at him though. Hiding behind the man's legs and mirroring his own stance stood her.

"Hello! I'm Marion Holmes and this is my son, Sherlock. We, uh, just wanted to pop by and say welcome to the area. If you ever need anything, we're at number 12."

The speech sounded like she had rehearsed it, and Sherlock saw the weary expression on the man's face before he masked it with a relaxed grin of his own. His eyes flicked back down to the girl, who was staring at him with a sly, laughing smile. No longer upset, then. Fickle.

"Of course, of course!" said the man, patting the young girl on the head. "How thoughtful of you. Come in, please, please."

His mother placed a hand on his back and nudged him forward and he stumbled a little, glancing down at the large black and white marble floor tiles, then back up to the young girl. She was still smiling as though she held some hideous secret and he watched her warily, as though she might trick him.

"Richard Adler," the gentleman was saying, shaking his mother's hand. He then glanced down at the girl with simple adoration. "And this is my daughter, Irene."

Irene. For some reason, he could feel himself blushing again.

"It's lovely to meet you Mrs. Holmes," she said suddenly, holding out her own hand. Something about the sickly way she said this made Sherlock grit his teeth together and glare.

"Hello Irene," his mother said lovingly, bending down so that she could shake her hand. "What a pretty name. How old are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm ten next week," Irene said with a gap-tooth grin, and he noticed her attire was much neater than yesterday, her hair pulled back into a glossy plait and her short-sleeved red dress spotless. She wriggled a little, pulling at the hem and he frowned further; her father and stepmother had obviously forced her into it, just like they'd forced her to move from her home and he could almost see the deep set resentment that lurked behind her false smile.

"Same as my Sherlock!" his mother said brightly, as if she hadn't been told this information two days ago, grinning down at him and ruffling his hair. He grimaced. "Well, I'm sure these two will get along famously!"

Sherlock wanted to groan at his mother's naivety as he often did, but instead offered a strained smile, staring quickly down at the Quality Street tin. Before he knew it, Richard Adler was leading his mother through a door to their right whilst she chatted for England and he was left alone with the girl in the grand entranceway. He looked around keenly, at the lush red-carpeted stairway and the impossible height of the ceiling where a great chandelier hung brightly above. He swallowed, intimidated, before facing the girl- Irene- once more, who was looking at him with a curious expression.

"What kind of name is Sherlock?" she asked, a cruel edge to her voice. He sniffed, used to being teased about his name but feeling hurt anyway- more so than usual.

"I can't see how Irene is any better," he murmured, feeling absurdly shy and hating himself for it. He clung to the tin like it was a buoyancy aid, his only support as he continued to float adrift in a tempestuous ocean.

"Irene was my grandmother's name," she said with a smug air, folding her arms again; she did that whenever she felt vulnerable then, he noted. "Anyway- are you going to say sorry about yesterday?"

Sherlock swallowed, frowning at her like it was a trap. The truth was, the more he played yesterday's events over in his head, the more tormented with guilt he became. He'd rolled around in his bed, her distraught expression swimming in and out of his vision and at that point he'd wanted nothing more than to grovel at her feet for forgiveness, thinking he'd never get a good night's sleep again.

Now, though, something lurked in her eyes that he'd only seen a glimpse of yesterday; some deceptive, selfish glint.

"Say sorry," she said with a smirk "And I'll tell you what I found in the attic."

"I'm sorry."

She dragged him by the sleeve of his duffle coat up the endless marble staircases and he gawped at the size of the house from within, still clutching the tin under one arm and trying to catch his breath. She was giggling as she skipped down hallway after hallway- at times he had to run to catch up with her- and it sounded musical, the harmonious melody laced with cunning.

"It's huge," she was saying, slowing down a little when they reached another red-carpeted corridor and he stared in awe at the bookcase that ran floor-to-ceiling along the wall. "The house, I mean. I spent all day going through every room, looking for evidence. But all I found were some dusty old books- until I pulled down the ladder in my room…"

He tried to listen but his eyes were fixed upon the door that she'd stopped in front of. Her name was painted on the white door in deep crimson ink, like a ribbon that curved and danced to form each letter. Flowers dotted around the text and she stood beneath it like she was part of the painting herself, an expectant grin on her face.

"You have to swear you won't tell anyone else," she whispered. "It's mine now, I found it."

He nodded dumbly, still staring at her door like it was the gateway to some terrible dimension, freezing to the spot as her tiny slender hand turned the rusty handle and she opened it.

The first thing that hit him was bright, lemon yellow, and the sun bounced across the walls through white, gossamer curtains, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. He stood at the threshold while she skipped in, watching the light dance across the wooden floorboards, noticing the little pattern of daisies that ran along the white skirting board, saw the double four poster with painted white beams and yellow and white gingham sheets. He looked up at the ceiling and saw the little square door that lead to the attic.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"

Glaring petulantly, he hesitantly stepped through and she raced to shut the door behind him, still grinning madly. He didn't even try to smile, the frown he'd worn whilst standing on the stone steps plastered permanently on his face as he glanced around nervously, keeping an eye-out for trap doors or crossbows or any other immediate danger.

Because he had already decided the moment he'd laid eyes on her that she was completely untrustworthy.

Her room was full of trinkets that took up every free space on her shelves or drawers or windowsill. There was a collection of pinecones on her bedside cabinet next to some rose quartz and jade stones, a rubix cube and a bright, colour photograph of a baby Irene being carried by a woman with rich, honey coloured hair, whose smile was mesmerisingly lovely. Beside that was an open velvet box full of jewelry, many pieces genuine gold or silver encasing precious gems.

He reached for the photograph, trailing a finger across the glass and pulling off a thin film of dust.

"Is that your mother?"

She ripped the frame from the desk and held it at her chest, her mouth a tight line and a fiery emotion in her eyes.

"Yes. Don't touch it."

"Okay."

She nodded slowly and placed the photograph back, before smiling shyly and walking around the side of her bed, diving underneath so she could pull something out. His eyes continued to wander across the wide expanse of her room, all the while his cheeks burning. He had never been in another child's room before, let alone a girl's room. He didn't know what to think; he did think however that it was at least three times as big as his own room. He adjusted the weight of the tin in his arms, the smell of the butter-cream icing beginning to swim out.

"I was just nosing around in the attic, when I saw something," she was saying, her voice muffled as she maneuvered under the bed. He watched her little legs, clad in white cotton tights, wave madly around in the open air. "It was a drawer. It had been wallpapered over but I could see the outline, so I got a pencil and scratched through the surface…"

As she crawled on her belly out from beneath the bed, Sherlock saw she was carrying the very drawer she'd been talking about. The wood was old and dense with damp, filled with scraps and sheets of yellowed paper, and she dropped it unceremoniously on the floor at his feet. He stood watching, motionless.

"Come and look then!" she said with a grin from her position on the floor and, feeling foolish, he knelt opposite from her, the drawer between them. He placed the Quality Street tin beside it.

"What's in there, anyway?" she asked, briefly distracted.

"A sponge cake," he said, a little defensively. "My mother baked it."

She smiled as if all her Christmases had come at once. "Brilliant!" she cried, and before he could protest she'd pulled it open, immediately running a finger along side where the icing was and licking it clean with a smack. "Wow, thanks!"

He grimaced a little, but his eyes wandered to the drawer again. She noticed, and placed her hands inside gently, pulling out a heavy, framed photograph. She was smiling as though preparing to tell some sort of horrific ghost story, and handed him the photo frame like it was buried treasure.

It was a sepia-coloured image that had faded terribly with age, depicting a man and woman on their wedding day. The man was in army attire; Sherlock guessed from as old as the 20's, and he gazed at the woman beside him in the picture with such an intensity that for a moment it looked to Sherlock as though he must hate her. But no, the skinny yet oddly pretty woman was staring up at him with the same expression, and on her face it was impossible to mistake the stare of one passionately in love.

"It's from 1929," whispered Irene, as though even speaking loudly might break the glass, "I looked on the back. I was careful though, I put it back alright."

Sherlock nodded, glancing back up at her and noticed she was eating the cake, having carved a piece out with her fingers. He swallowed, for some reason lacking the will to chastise her. Instead, the smell of it invading his senses, he placed the frame gently on the floor and reached for his own piece.

"Who are they?" he asked, his curiosity peaked.

"Debbie and Andrew Davids," she said, her voice muffled as she rammed the remains of her cake into her mouth. "It was written on the back. And it got me thinking, you know, who could they be? Did they live in this house?"

He nodded again, glancing back at the photo, a little mesmerized himself, and he suddenly wanted to know the answers to her questions, wanted to find out exactly who these people were, what had happened to them. Because the photograph was like buried treasure, a relic from the past, and although his brother was normally the one who loved anything to do with history, something about the way Irene was grinning made him suddenly interested in anything she had to say on the matter.

"So I went to the library," she said proudly, puffing out her chest, "All by myself. And I found out."

Her sticky fingers dived back into the drawer but she didn't seem to care as she pulled out a clear plastic wallet with an old newspaper clipping in it- but before she handed to him, she gazed at him with bright eyes and a knowing smile. He found himself holding his breath as she readied herself for an announcement.

"You were right, Sherlock," she said, and he felt an odd sort of lurch in his chest when she said his name with such glee. "There was a murder here."

He stared at her, gob-smacked, a hesitant smile on his face, his eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Look!"

She thrust the wallet into his lap and, wiping his hands on his coat to rid them of icing, he picked it up.

It was a clipping from the year 1940, brown along the edges and the type faded almost to nothing. But the masthead was still clear.

MAN FOUND HANGED BESIDE BODY OF WIFE, MURDERED

Tragedy as local man shoots spouse dead, then takes own life.

"It was huge news at the time, the lady at the library said," Irene was exclaiming as his eyes scanned across the page, most of the copy sadly unreadable. "I told her it was for a school project, because she looked at me all funny when I was asking about it."

A little awed, both that his own suspicions had been confirmed true (although a little disappointed that the mystery had already been solved) and that she had gone to such lengths to prove it, he handed the wallet back to her and wiped a hand across his mouth to get rid of the jam that had clung to his lips.

"And it was in this house?" he said, looking around like the ghosts of the deceased couple would spring out at any moment, unable to stop himself from smiling, if a little shyly. "Doesn't it scare you?"

"Pfft, no!" she cried with a bold grin, and his gaze was now fixed on her as she gestured wildly with her hands "It's so exciting! I hated this house, before. I didn't want to live in this boring place at all. I know it was years ago, but still, don't you find it really interesting?"

He felt his smile growing on his face and he suddenly felt a little lightheaded. "Yes," he said quietly.

"She must have done something terrible," Irene said dramatically "Like…I don't know, but it must have been unforgivable."

"She fell in love with someone else."

He froze as she suddenly grabbed his hands in her excitement.

"Yes! Oh, and they planned to run away together. But when her husband found out…"

She ran her finger across her throat, a mad expression on her face, her eyes crossed, and he surprised himself by letting out a little laugh, blushing deeply afterwards. Her other hand still gripped his fingers and the remnants of icing and jam stuck them together. He found himself staring oddly at where they were joined.

There was a moment of silence and he felt a chill in the air as she pulled away to shove the old drawer back under her bed. She suddenly looked sad.

"My dad didn't even notice I was gone yesterday," she said in a quiet voice, playing with the hem of her skirt, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable. "Too busy fussing around Angela."

"Is she your step-mum?" he asked, curious. He didn't know why he was curious, because he knew this to be a fact.

"No. She's just some stupid woman my Dad wants to marry."

"Oh."

Sitting there in the huge space of her room as she gazed down at the floor looking lost, he watched silently and thought that she must be very lonely. She didn't have a doting mother who loved her, like he did. She didn't have a sibling she could fight with or try to best at every turn, like he did. She had just moved here, leaving behind any friends she had.

He didn't have friends. He didn't go out. Yet he'd never felt truly alone before, it had never bothered him as much as it should have. He enjoyed his own company; he liked to be on his own.

Looking at her, though, he felt it all. Felt all the hurt and alienation and fright that had wormed its way throughout his body, formed through years of being ignored, or teased, or shoved onto the ground, or called a freak. It was there, the feeling was there no matter how much he tried to get rid of it through logic and reason.

"Anyway," she suddenly said with a sigh, looking back at him with a little smile again. "You go to St. James School, don't you?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice still small and he cleared his throat, repeated himself. "Yes."

"I'm starting there next week. What's it like?"

It's horrible. It's full of cruel, taunting children who are wild and foolish and don't know anything about the world.

"It's okay."

This answer seemed to satisfy her and she offered him another toothy grin. He'd seen that smile a few times now and it always sent a little shiver to each of his nerve endings.

"I am sorry," he said suddenly in a tiny voice. She raised her eyebrows.

"What for?"

"For yesterday, I mean. I didn't…" He frowned, feeling idiotic. "I upset you."

She looked at him strangely, her tongue poking out to lick scraps of icing from her lips.

"You're odd," she said finally. His faced burned, but she was still smiling. "Can I have some more of that cake?"

His mother dragged him down the road back home not long after. He and Irene had finished the cake and she was furious.

"Honestly, that was for all of them," she sighed as they reached the door. "Anyhow, I don't suppose we'll be seeing them again. Different class of people, the wealthy. I could see the two of them looking down their noses at us, I don't know who that Angela thinks she is."

Sherlock swallowed, his hands rammed in his coat pockets, thinking about Irene pressing her nose up against the windows by the door when they'd left. She'd ran off and had left a little mark of icing sugar on the glass and he'd smiled stupidly.

"But that little Irene seemed quite lovely," she said, ushering him in and unbuttoning her coat. "I expect you'll see her at school, Sherlock. I was surprised they were sending her there- would have thought people that rich would ship her off to some boarding school…"

Not really listening, he cast a long look down the road where he could just make out the blue-bricked house. He saw the high windows with white, gossamer curtains, could smell that sweet, sickly butter cream icing still sticking to his fingers and stood motionless for a moment before his mother shut the door.

It was a bitterly cold autumn and the start of term came along far too quickly, ushering out the bleak, wet summer that had passed. He'd stood in front of the mirror for fifteen minutes just looking at himself and running his fingers nervously through his long, curly black hair.

Nervous. Pathetic. But perhaps it wasn't nerves, this felt different. In the beginning he'd dreaded the school day, but over time he had grown used to the trials it offered, learnt how to cope with it, how to avoid it. So what was this? Anticipation? Excitement?

He was a fool if he was excited, he told himself. But he couldn't help but wonder if she would be sat there, waiting for him, the only other child she knew. He wondered if she would sit beside him whilst their teacher called the register, if she would whisper silly jokes or giggle inappropriately. He wondered if she would follow him around, enjoy the things he enjoyed, dislike the things he disliked, if she would call him a friend.

He wondered if he would like that. He wasn't sure.

Mycroft walked past with a sneer and smacked him round the head. "Hurry up, we'll be late."

The two of them walked along the damp, grey pavement, Sherlock wiping the red lipstick mark from his cheek, Mycroft sorting through the papers that made up his precious project. Sherlock imagined what reaction he would get if he yanked them from his hands and threw them into the wind.

Mycroft glanced at him and, as if reading his mind, said with a haughty air "At least I did something productive this summer. What have you done, besides spy on that old blue house?"

"I wasn't spying!"

"Don't try and weasel your way out of this one, I've seen you!" he said with a bark of laughter "Watching that place everyday, walking up and down the street- you've never been out of the house more!"

Sherlock went so red he thought he might explode. He shoved his brother as hard as he could and watched as he stumbled back in shock.

"Alright, calm down!" he cried, still laughing a little but he spotted a hint of concern in his eyes "What's wrong with you? You've been acting strange all week. Even stranger than usual, I mean."

"Go away!"

He stormed off and heard his brother shouting behind him "Oh yes, jolly good argument there, well done, I think you've got me beat!"

Laughter rang through his head as his brother's obnoxious friends caught up with him and he marched on with his eyes fixed on the ground, feeling like it was his first day all over again and they hadn't even reached the school gates. He thought back once more to a week earlier, to that extraordinary moment in time that felt like some bizarre dream. He hadn't told his brother about the murder as he'd originally planned to- it was his and his alone, that afternoon. He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling a little sick, wishing to be back there where he'd somehow felt safe and simultaneously loathing that fact.

When he finally arrived at the old building surrounded by screaming children, he found himself looking for her. His eyes scanned the playground with a jittery motion, glancing back to his shoes every now and again, his fingers forming a tight, sweaty grip on the strap of his bag. It wouldn't be long before some boorish idiot kicked him in the shins or stole his bag from him, and until today it had never bothered him because it didn't matter what they thought of him, he had nothing to prove to them. He knew he was better than them and that was a victory in itself, surely. But now, he stood sheepishly by the wall, frowning as he gave up his short-lived search, thinking that being clever wasn't worth much if you couldn't prove it to anybody.

His head shot up as the already unmistakable sound of her laughter danced across the air and he felt that peculiar lurch once more as his eyes fell upon her.

She was bent over in hysterics, her hair in long pigtails, strands of it already escaping messily. She wore a bright red coat over her uniform that looked expensive even from where he stood, quite a distance a way, and he felt his mouth trying to break into a hesitant smile as he watched her shoot up straight, making mad gestures with her hands. The group of girls that stood around her giggled along with her- with her, not at her. The air seemed to glow around her, the sound of her unashamedly loud, nasal cackle sounding even more strangely lovely than he had remembered. He swallowed, taking small steps towards her, his eyes fixed upon her in an expectant gaze as he waited for her to spot him.

She froze in mid spin when she saw him, and his hand itched to wave at her, but the expression on her face made him falter. Her smile had all but vanished and she stared at him like she would a stranger, the girls at her side following her gaze.

This time, their laughter was cruel. His breathing was shallow as they pointed at him, their eyes full of malice, and he tried to ignore the sudden leaden drop in his chest as she smiled and laughed along with them, barely offering him a glance as she let the girls drag her away.

Sitting in the toilet cubicle at break time and staring numbly at the graffiti scrawled on the locked door, he'd decided that he had never felt more foolish in his entire life. Foolish to even hope that she'd want to spend her time with him, that he'd actually contemplated the idea of having a friend. He almost laughed at himself, feeling mortified as he remembered Clayton introducing her to the class, how her smile hadn't been the frightened one he'd imagined but one of arrogance and spite, how she'd clearly adored the attention being lavished upon her. He'd sat at the very back of the room as usual and she'd bared him one, bored glance before skipping off towards that gaggle of girls who fawned over her coat, her bag, her shiny pens and pencils and her long, chocolate brown hair. It was like she'd been snatched away from him and he would have felt something other than embarrassed fury had he not come to the realization that she'd never really been his in the first place. It was just a moment in time now, more dreamlike in quality than ever before, and he decided he wouldn't dwell on it for a moment longer because such a tumultuous storm of emotion was the worst hindrance imaginable, that it would only lead to ugly, needless despair. She'd turned him into a joke- he'd fancied having a friend, a friend! Just a useless grievance, a weakness- leaches that used you until they decided to move on to greener pastures, completely worthless attachments that just slowed you down. He'd never wanted any before and now he remembered why.

The day wore on at its usual pace and he went out of his way to avoid contact with anyone, remaining in total silence during class and hiding in his usual spot in the library at lunch. He didn't read anything and instead scribbled observations in his notebook as he watched the others jump around like mad fools, catching sight of his brother from time to time, telling some blown-up fantastical story to his drooling group of companions. She had raced past at one point and his pencil had stopped writing as she saw him through the window, pausing in her race to look at him properly. When he saw something akin to pity in her gaze he gathered his things in a mad urgency and all but ran to the nearest classroom, still feeling the burn of her hazel stare on his back. Fickle, fickle, fickle.

The last hour of the day, he sat stoically and without a sound as the free-spirited Ms. Walker, one of the schools decidedly more eccentric members of staff, tried to force useless, trivial facts into his skull. This particular afternoon was science, which normally he found some kind of morbid interest in when doing practical work, but today he copied down notes without any concentration, his hand wandering across the page completely on its own, whilst his eyes scanned the class as they normally did- for he found a much greater source of interest in the comings and goings of people around him, instead of listening to his teachers tell him how uncommonly bright he was, and that he would achieve so much more if he'd only learn to concentrate. He didn't need them to tell him he was clever.

Irritated, he watched her routine more often than he did anyone else's, like she was a shining beacon amidst a dark storm of chaos. Lovely, little Irene. He scowled.

She looked almost miserably bored. Obviously the clear joys of being the new girl who everybody loved had worn thin, and the actual task of having to work was clearly too much for her. He felt like he'd won some kind of silly battle but was furious as he felt his stomach jolt when she glanced his way, catching his stare and poking her tongue out with a crafty grin. Turning crimson, he faced the front of the class and, for the first time in months, paid total attention to what Ms. Walker was discussing.

Ms. Walker- with her wooden beads and coloured rings on every finger, with her earrings the size of plates and her manic, bushy brown hair, Ms. Walker who he knew had spent her life alone with her cat, her earth coloured clothes covered in ginger hair- seemed a little more animated today. Behind her on the board was a diagram of various layers of rock, their types named, and the word GEODES underlined above. Mind-numbingly dull…but he forced himself to appear completely captivated.

"…and this is what they look like," Ms. Walker said with a grin that said this moment was what the lesson had been building towards. He leaned forwards a little as she pulled a large, mottled grey rock from her desk drawer. "I'll pass it around the class. Be careful, I brought it from home."

The rock was about the size of his palm, if a little bigger, and as it was placed into his hands, he noticed it was bursting with deep purple crystals, white-silver along the edges where it had been cut and polished. He rested his chin on his palm and held it to the light, twirling it around and watching as the dull glow from the dense grey sky outside bounced off it. It reminded him of the pink and green jagged-edged stones he'd seen in Irene's room and, appalled, he immediately shoved it into the eager hands of the child next to him. He heard some scoff of laughter from the group of boys sat close behind him and resisted the urge to turn around, instead resting his elbows on the desk and holding his forehead in his palms.

Ms. Walker continued to ramble on about the natural wonder of the geode, and Sherlock's grey-blue eyes peered between his fingers and followed the spiked rock until it landed in front of Irene. Her eyes widened, their caramel colour darkening as some indecipherable emotion glowed behind them, her face turning a rosy pink. He watched, unwillingly fascinated, as she held the rock with such precision and care, staring at it as if it were indeed the most beautiful sight ever beheld. There was a greedy expression on her face, her mouth forming a lopsided smile, and only he noticed the little dart of envy in her frown as Ms. Walker took it from her and placed it gently on the desk.

Fickle. It always sprung up in his head, the first thing he'd noticed about her. She was ruled by her erratic emotions, a thousand different ways her face fell or brightened, her eyes aglow with some kind of deceiving enchantment. She'd lured in everyone around her with an almost frightening ease, like she'd cast some kind of spell over them, and for the life of him he couldn't understand it. It was like trying to catch smoke, trying to solve her, work her out; she was definitely more trouble than she was worth.

It was a puzzle, though, and there were few things in this world he loved more than that.

The bell suddenly droned its tiresome wail across the room and the others around him leapt from their seats in a hurry, desperate to escape the confines of the building and race each other home. They shoved past him, pushing him forward aggressively and he wrapped his arms around himself, that ageless sense of self-loathing and paranoia wriggling up through him at the sound of their scornful laughter, some note in their boisterous yells aimed at him. Idiots.

He reached down to pick up his things- and saw with some dull, weary emotion that they'd poured squash all over the inside of his bag, his books sodden and ruined, a purple puddle spreading slowly across the floor.

For a moment he just sat there staring as the classroom emptied around him. It was almost comforting to know that some things hadn't changed at all. The hurt that burned behind his eyes had dulled over time, and he closed them briefly before reaching for the paper towels by the sink behind him and attempting to clear up the mess.

From his position on the floor, he saw a little pair of Dr. Martins hover by the desk as Ms. Walker ushered the other children out of the door. He looked up a fraction, saw all the events unfold before him very quickly; Irene's petite hand reached for the sparkling rock that lay on the desk and, without even looking at it, let it fall from the desk and into her coat pocket. Ms. Walker didn't see a thing and smiled as Irene danced out of the door.

Making an unconscious decision on the spot, he gathered up his sodden things and raced out after her, following her with little stealth until she arrived in an empty corridor.

"I saw that!"

She stopped at his sudden shout and turned to face him. She didn't look guilty, was the first thing he noticed. He stood as tall as he could, feeling suddenly bold, trying to salvage what remained of an awful day; a day spent wallowing in self-pity and uncontrollable feeling.

"Oh," she said quietly with a small, crooked smile. "Hello."

This caught him off guard a little.

"I see you've made plenty of friends today," he said daringly, but his tiny, hoarse voice betrayed him. "You do…realize that they're just…sycophantic idiots who have only befriended you because you're wearing a nice coat."

"Do you like it?" she said with a grin, twirling around and pulling at her red collar, "It's a bit bright, I thought."

He scowled at her, unable to believe that this was the same girl who'd gone all the way to the library on her own, just to research a murder for him. The same girl who'd been close to tears when he'd mentioned her wealthy upbringing before. Fickle.

"Put that rock back," he said, feeling the soggy base of his bag, thinking of all his ruined notes, thinking that this one act of moral justice might remedy it.

She plucked the stone from her pocket and twirled it around in the light, like he had done moments ago, and stepped forward, just a foot away from him.

"Why? I like it."

Why. Well, he could think of plenty of logical reasons. Stealing was wrong. Ms. Walker would be upset. She couldn't just take something if she liked it. He didn't really care about any of those reasons though, and blurted out the first one that had crossed his mind.

"You'll get into trouble."

She let out a merry little laugh, bearing her teeth at him- and at a sudden noise from behind him, her face paled as she glanced over his shoulder and, before he could comprehend what was happening, she shoved the rock into his clammy grasp and, with a quick grin in his direction, skipped off down the corridor and out the door. He stood there motionless, staring down at the item in his hands, at a complete loss.

"Sherlock!"

The shout made him jolt forward and he craned his neck behind him to see Ms. Walker looming above him, staring down at him with such an unbearable look of disappointment and anger that he didn't even protest as she snatched the crystal from him and dragged him by his coat back to the classroom.

I will not steal.

He'd arrived home with the words still flickering across his eyes and he marched straight to his bedroom, ignoring his mother's yells.

I will not steal.

And the worse thing was, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get the smell of butter cream icing from his hands.