"Mr. Holmes, can you tell me any part of what I just said?" Mrs. Gilman's voice screeched over Sherlock's mind mid-thought, and he flicked his head to her in annoyance.

"Well I can't say that I was paying attention, considering the impossible decibel of your voice at this early hour. But it's fairly simple to see that of course everything is made from tiny particles, with a positive and negative charge equal in many, though not in some, which I deduce that from the lack of the word "isotope" on the blackboard you will not be actually teaching my brain anything other than the insultingly simple lesson that every piece of matter is made out of more matter. Does that adequately answer your question, or must you continue to keep me from more pressing matters?"

Mrs. Gilman stared at Sherlock with impenetrable eyes.

Sherlock stared at Mrs. Gilman with a bored look on his face.

Twelve young boys in year 4 didn't know whether to sneer or cheer.

Mrs. Gilman sighed, and started slowly making her way to Sherlock's desk. "Mr. Holmes, at Yaughternill Down house School for Boys, we do not allow students to talk back to teachers in such a way. I don't know whether public schools usually allow such behavior, but I will assure you that you may not and will not speak in that manner. Considering that you are new, and you are obviously not bred in the same way in which your fellow classmates were, I understand a slipup. But I will accept no more attitude from you, you understand?" Mrs. Gilman reached Sherlock's desk and snapped the front of his unopened text book with her ruler.

Sherlock was all talk and no game. He had never spoken that way to people of supposed authority; he had only attempted it on his first adult a week ago. Considering that was his newly hired Nanny, and she could barely speak English through her think Italian accent, he doubted greatly if she had understand a single part of it. He quickly thought of all the possible ways to get out… Smile and attempt a sarcastic remark? Negative, he could never be sincere enough about it. Roll his eyes and act like the villains on those spy movies Mycroft's always watching? No, he could never act badly enough.

So instead, Sherlock Holmes accepted defeat. He nodded and mumbled "Yes ma'am." as fast as possible, hoping none of his classmates would hear his acknowledgement. He didn't speak fast enough though, because three of the boys in his row snorted as loud as possible, but stopped with a stern look for Mrs. Gilman.

"Yes ma'am? Is that you wussies out in public school call ya instructors?" spouted the boy next to him.

"Do they even have instructors where he's from, or do they just give ya the books and some parchment?" a curly haired boy mocked from the first row.

"Do you even have enough for parchment, or did you have to share?" another boy added in to the flurries of sneers and nasty giggles. As soon as Mrs. Gilman finally got up to the front of the class, she silenced them swiftly. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only one who was all game and no talk.

As soon as class had ended, Sherlock bounded up and used his height and his slight chubbiness to push past the rest of the boys to the door of the classroom, and instead of turning left with the rest of the children, he decided to side-step them all and right. He was going to have to walk completely around the school to get to where his driver would pick him up, but he decided it was better than taking the rest of insults from his fellow students. He trotted out the back door steps and turned around the school corner to see a boy his age walking the same route around the school. That's strange, no one from Yaughternill would ever walk out this way, Sherlock thought initially, but noticed his wrinkled and slightly stained trousers, and his two-sizes-too-big trainers and thought of the most possible solution. He was avoiding the rich brats just like Sherlock was.

Stepping on a large twig, Sherlock quickly alerted the boy of his presence. He quickly turned around and the two boys came face to face. Sherlock, almost 4 inches taller, flit his eyes down to the blonde boy's face. "Wh-Why are you following me?"

"I'm not following you." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"Well, why are you walking all the way out here? Why didn't you just walk through the school?" the boy's words were quavering as he expected a fight from the well-dressed boy in front of him.

"I didn't walk through the school for the same reason you and your trousers didn't walk through the school." Sherlock said coolly.

The boy nodded his head and feeling less scared he attempted a smile. Sherlock didn't. He felt silly showing those kinds of emotions to people who were no better than himself. The boy turned and started to walk with Sherlock to the other end of the school.

"So, uh, what's your name?"

"Sherlock." The boy looked up at him confused, but Sherlock was oblivious to it.

"And yours?"

"Um, I'm Timothy." Sherlock nodded back.

The two continued in silence the rest of the way up to the school-front, Sherlock comfortably, the boy, awkwardly. It was only when Sherlock saw his new driver's black Rolls Royce did he speak up and bid the blonde boy adieu.

"Bye Timothy." Sherlock said loudly, but not excitedly. He walked swiftly to the back passenger seat and got in. The car drove off, almost instantly, the driver annoyed at having to wait for so long. The boy watched the dirt settle.

"Hey John!" the boy looked up to see a little grey car right in front of him. His face broke out in excitement when he saw who was driving.

"Dad!" John bounded over to the passenger seat and jumped up to hug his dad. "I thought you said your training started today?"

"Well I asked them if I could make an exception to see ya after yer big first day at tha new school!" his dad sputtered in his heavy Scottish accent. He reached out and hugged his son again trying to hold on as long as possible.

John sat down and buckled up, but his dad held his hand out and turned to him. "Why did that boy call ya Timothy? Do you already got some nickname after the first day of school?" he laughed, and ruffled his son's hair.

"Um, yeah just a joke Da'. He's a really funny lad."

"Oh yeah? Is his name Timothy but ya call him John?" he laughed again.

"Um yeah his name is Timothy. It's just this big joke." John laughed lightly, and looked worriedly at his dad staring out into space. "…Da'?"

He looked up at him alert, and then smiled. "Yeah, yeah I'm good. Just thinking of what a terrible name that is Timothy. Anyways, ya buckled? Good. We still gotta get ya sister from down the street."

The little grey car drove off onto the overcast road as rain started to hit the windows with aplomb. John looked out the window and watched as little droplets raced others the bottom right of the window. His dad was too busy singing along to a song on the tape to notice John's pensiveness, and he was singing too loudly to hear the word his son was saying. The rain started to hit harder, with unforgiving thuds on the glass. John relished the noise did to the word. There was something about rain that made interesting names even cooler. And this name was more than just interesting on the surface. As John repeated it, he thought of all the dots connecting in his head. The dark curly hair, his voice which almost resembled the people that lived in his tiny section of London, where everyone worked all day, and drank all night, and his air of reclusiveness. It all sounded all too familiar. It was all too familiar. It was a story his dad told him many a night as a bedtime tale. It was the night his mum had found out she was expecting him, his father's favorite night of his life, or at least that's what he told John.

As much as he enjoyed his dad's joyful recollection of every little detail from that night, his favorite part was always a seemingly unimportant bit. A mysterious man who kept his dad company for most of that night, until his mum had announced to him that she was pregnant, was always described as quiet, dark hair, and tall, who had listened to John's dad famous story about his cousin ending up in an old Welsh village, and even seemed to take an interest in the cousin's name.

The name that his dad always choked out with laughter when he told the story.

The name that his little sister would giggle at.

The name that John was repeating to himself.

"Sherlock."