"The human mind reaches conclusions about other people within seconds. However, we should not be so quick to judge our peers," the eighth grade teacher said from the front of the class. "Mr Holmes, would you like to help me start off today's activity?"
"Yes, Ms Francis," he answered, quietly.
"Make your best assumption about… Joffrey," she ordered, gesturing to the large, unfriendly boy in the back of the class. "Walk us through the process, if you might."
Sherlock hesitated, glancing cautiously to the other boy. Joffrey was the class bully, he knew, not that Ms Francis would know that. He inhaled deeply, and turned to examine his classmate.
"His sweater is frayed at the ends, there are deep bags under his eyes. The skin beneath is nose is red, either from a runny nose or crying. It isn't cold season, and he shows no visible signs of congestion, so it is probably the latter. There is a faded bruise low on his chin, and a darker one lower on his collarbone. His pants are too short, ripped at the ends. The poor condition makes it obvious they aren't kept for sentimental value, so it's likely that his parents could not afford a new pair. Economic hardship means excess stress, and by extension often alcohol abuse, occasionally domestic violence which would explain the bruises."
The class gasped when Sherlock turned back to the front of the class, the teacher's face bright red. Students were torn between staring at Sherlock and waiting for Joffrey's reaction, Joffrey who had leapt to his feet half way through the speech.
"That is your assumption," Ms Francis spluttered.
"No," Sherlock replied. "That is my deduction. My assumption is that Joffrey picks on younger kids because he's afraid to fall into the same patterns as his father."
"What'd you say?" Joffrey yelled, his voice heavy with rage. "I ain't gonna end up like 'im!"
Sherlock turned to the other boy, his face calm. "I didn't say that you would fall into those patterns, I said you were afraid to. I have every hope that you will overcome, but frankly, the statistics are not in your favour."
"To the office, Mr Holmes!" the teacher finally intervened, her voice shrill. "Immediately!"
Sherlock quickly packed up his belongings, feeling pleased that Joffrey had confirmed all of his theories. He was getting better at this. He thought about that s he sat on the bench outside the principal's office, and then he started laughing.
"What are you laughing at?" said a smaller student, sitting with an icepack to his head. "Joffrey's going to come after you, now."
Sherlock had no time to think about this fact. He entered the principal's office with his stomach in knots.
"So, John," Dean said. "You've only known Sherlock for a year?"
The Winchesters and Dr. Watson were walking through Central London, searching for a place that sold American food. Although not usually picky, Dean was wary of the restaurants they passed. Too clean, he thought, or too dirty… Never a happy medium.
"Just over a year, yes," John replied. "I met him the day we became flatmates."
Sam raised an eyebrow, and then turned to look at a small diner across the street. "What about that place?" he asked. Dean agreed, and the three entered the establishment.
When their food came, John turned the questioning around. "Why are you here?" he asked. "If Sherlock told me to meet you, why don't you know about him?"
"We know about him," Sam answered, "We haven't met, but we know him."
"Sherlock sent you, the Doctor sent us. I don't know why, but there's something we gotta do." Dean added, "It's a blind date."
"Well, obviously," John said.
"What do you know about Sherlock's new case?" Dean asked, not looking up from the undersized burger in front of him.
"Nothing," John insisted. "I haven't got a clue what he's up to."
Sam studied John's face, deciding that the man was being honest. "Can you take us back to your apartment then? Maybe there's something there."
"Of course," John answered. He wasn't sure why, but he trusted the Winchester brothers. More so Dean than Sam, which was odd. For the younger brother, Sam seemed less caring. Like he was the strong one. It wasn't what you would expect from brothers like these.
When the group reached Baker Street, they found the street blocked by a blue box. There was a man leaning against it, his hair in disarray. A girl with blonde hair stood near him, laughing happily. They were waiting for something, John could tell.
"Here we go again," Dean grumbled.
"That's the Doctor?" John asked. "Not what I expected."
"What'd you expect?" Sam said. "An actual doctor? Yeah right."
John shot a look in Sam's direction, getting out of the taxi. Dean was already on the street, walking towards the Doctor. John followed, Sam on his heels. "We got the guy," Dean was saying, waving his hand towards John. "Now what?"
"Hello John," the Doctor said. "I'm the Doctor. This is Rose."
"Hello!" she said.
"You're probably very confused, but we haven't time to explain. We have to go," the Doctor said.
John's face crumpled into a look of confusion, and he stared at the Doctor. "Where are we going, exactly?" Sam and Dean looked to be in agreement with this question.
"We're going to help Sherlock, of course," the Doctor answered. "Now, come along. Allons-y!"
The Doctor and Rose both disappeared into the blue box, Sam following behind them. He was remarkably at ease considering the situation, John thought. By comparison, Dean was blown away. "What the hell is allons-y?" he whispered to John.
The reply came from within the TARDIS. "It's French for let's go. Now let's go!"
Dean and John entered the TARDIS, and froze in disbelief. The interior of the police box was enormous. The room was more spacious than anything Dean had ever seen. His younger brother's face expressed a similar sentiment, and the pair exchanged a look.
"Bigger on the inside?" Dean stuttered.
Rose laughed at the looks on their faces. The complete look of terror on the face of newcomers never ceased to amuse her, and she wondered if she wore a similar face the first time she entered the TARDIS. "Yeah, bigger on the inside," she answered.
The Doctor was fiddling with the switches on the console, looking excited. Sam stood next to him, looking at the knobs and gears on the device. He didn't seem particularly impressed by it all, Rose noticed, which was odd. In fact, he looked almost put out by the fact that he didn't already know about these things. What was his problem, she wondered.
Then there was John, searching the TARDIS with his eyes, as though he was trying to remember every detail, to discover every secret hidden in the massive room.
And Dean, of course, whose face was simply shock. None of the men seemed afraid, which didn't surprise her. The Doctor had told her about them. The Winchesters, who hunted things more horrifying than she could imagine, and John, who was braver than anybody he'd ever heard of.
"You said we were going to help Sherlock?" John asked, interrupting Rose's thoughts. He had wandered towards the console, and was standing a little ways from the Doctor. Dean followed, more determinedly than the other two had.
"Yes, he's in a bit of a fix at the moment," the Doctor answered, spinning a handle on the TARDIS.
"Is he in danger?" John demanded.
"Not today," the Doctor replied. "But he was, or is, I suppose, depending on how you look at it. Time travel is funny business."
"Time travel!" Dean exclaimed. "What the hell!"
Rose watched Dean's face as he stared at the Doctor, who was explaining the TARDIS and time travel to the Winchesters, and Watson. Dean was astonishingly handsome, she noted. It was as though he had just fallen out of a magazine and into the TARDIS. His brother, too, was beautiful. Both looked strong and capable, and were obviously good people, considering what they did with their lives.
Dean noticed the girl staring at him, and looked back at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked elsewhere, avoiding his gaze.
"So, we're going to help Sherlock in a different time?" John asked.
"Specifically, Sherlock when he is twelve years old," said the Doctor. "Mycroft, too."
"Wouldn't that be crossing his own time stream, though?" Rose asked.
"Well, yes," he responded. "This is an exception."
Rose rolled her eyes, an action which did not escape Dean's notice.
"Okay," Sam said, at last. "What do we need to do?"
By the end of the day, the entire school had heard about the events of homeroom. They also knew that Joffrey had it out for the twelve year old Sherlock.
So it was that at the end of the day, Sherlock found the path in front of the school blocked by five boys, all of whom were a great deal taller and considerably wider than him. Joffrey's older brother, Cleaver, stood in the middle, obviously their leader. Cleaver was nineteen, and at least six feet tall. The other boys were a combination of twelve and nineteen year olds.
"Hey, freak," Cleaver said, cruelly.
Sherlock took a step back, but a circle had formed around him, and one of the boys shoved him forward. Sherlock choked back his fear, but knew it showed on his face.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Joffrey added. "Maybe we need to knock some of those brains out of your ugly head."
Joffrey pushed Sherlock to the ground, and aimed a well placed kick to his stomach. Another boy yanked him to his feet by the collar of his shirt, and Cleaver fist slammed into his jaw. Blood pooled in his mouth, unwanted tears stinging his eyes and slipping down his cheek. With each punch, Cleaver seemed to grow more excited, until Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees. His vision was blurred, and the faces of the boys were unclear. One of them kicked him in the ribs, and he fell on his side.
"Get up, freak!"
"Come on, loser, on your feet!"
"Freak! Freak!"
Sherlock struggled to regain his footing, but each time, a hand would shove him back down. All he could feel was agony in his side, and he was certain he had broken a rib. Joffrey launched his foot into his jaw, and Sherlock shouted from the pain of it. He spat blood to the concrete, gasping for breath. The boys laughed.
"Sherlock!" he heard, in the distance. Was he losing consciousness, he wondered? The boys seemed so far away. But then the call was closer, and much louder. "Get away from my brother!"
One of the boys standing over him was thrown sideways, a body having slammed into his back. Suddenly Mycroft was standing between the youngest Holmes and Cleaver Markham. "Get away from my brother," he repeated, pulling Sherlock to his feet. "Run," he whispered, helping Sherlock regain his balance.
"I can't," Sherlock groaned, clutching his brother's arm. Mycroft didn't look down to his brother, afraid that he would lose his momentum. He pulled Sherlock by the hand, trying to walk by the bullies. They closed ranks around the brothers, Cleaver staring straight into Mycroft's face.
The pair were nearly matched, Mycroft only a year younger than Cleaver, and standing just an inch shorter than the other boy. Despite the difference in strength and numbers, Mycroft stared at the other with determination. "Let us pass, Markham," Mycroft demanded, his voice full of authority.
When the boys made no move, he steeled himself and pushed past them, pulling Sherlock along with him. He supposed that the bullies were too astonished by his courage to react immediately. Once they were clear of them, Mycroft pushed Sherlock ahead. "Now run!"
Sherlock burst into a sprint, and Mycroft ran behind him. They could hear the group of bullies coming hot on their heels. "Run, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, speeding up. He was a little ahead of his brother now, but could hear him panting nearby. "Come on!" They were running very quickly now, and soon the sound of footsteps faded. Mycroft turned, relieved, to look at his brother.
Sherlock was not behind him.
Mycroft's heart leapt to his throat, and he ran back the way he'd come, far faster than he thought possible. I am so stupid, Mycroft thought. Why did I get ahead of him?
There was no sign of Sherlock or the bullies on the roads they had come by, and Mycroft was becoming overwhelmed with panic. "SHERLOCK!" he screamed, gripping his hair with his hands.
There was no answer, and with tears in his eyes, Mycroft continued to search.
Sherlock was running as fast as he could, but he lost sight of Mycroft. The pain in his side was too great, and he knew he would not be able to outrun the boys chasing him. Desperate for a hiding place, Sherlock turned sharply into an alleyway, and instantly regretted his decision.
The end of the alley was blocked by a brick wall, and when he turned to exit the alley he found his path blocked once more by Cleaver and his gang. Sherlock backed against the wall. There were no clever words that would get him out of this, he thought. And if there were, they were nowhere in sight as the boys came closer.
"Where'd your big brother go, Holmes?" Joffrey mocked.
"Joffrey, I –" Sherlock mumbled, desperate to hold them off for at least a moment.
"Shut up, kid," Cleaver hissed, towering over Sherlock.
"Hey!" a voice came from behind them. The bullies broke apart, turning to face the intruder. A blonde girl stood in the entrance to the alleyway, staring bravely into the faces of the boys in front of her. She appeared to be the same age as Cleaver and his friends. "Let him go," she commanded.
"Who're you, sweetheart?" Cleaver murmured, approaching the girl.
Instead of backing away as Cleaver had hoped she would, she took a step towards him. "Rose," she answered coldly. "Now, let him go."
"Don't think I will," Cleaver laughed, glancing back at Sherlock, who was shaking and pressed hard against the wall with fear. His small frame seemed even tinier. Rose narrowed her eyes at Cleaver, who seemed to find the whole situation amusing. "He deserves it."
"Think you're tough, do ya?" Rose said. "Picking on a little kid? Outnumbering him five to one? Yeah, you're real heroes. Now let him go."
"You heard her," a deep voice said from behind. Two tall men appeared, one standing on either side of Rose. They were enormous, and terrifying to the bullies. "Let the kid go."
Cleaver stood his ground, staring at the Winchester brothers obnoxiously. "Nah, I won't."
Sam took a step towards him, towering over him. His face was like ice, and he stared down at Cleaver with malice. "Now."
"Let's go," Joffrey whispered from behind, horrified. "Come on, Cleaver."
"Yeah, Cleaver," Rose mocked. "Better get going."
Cleaver seemed to agree, and the bullies ran past the Winchester and Rose, out of the alley and down the street until they were out of sight. Sherlock had slumped to the floor, shaking violently. Rose ran to him, crouching down. She held him against her, whispering comfortingly to him.
Dean stood over her, looking down at Sherlock Holmes. The kid's face was covered in blood, and his entire body was beaten. Dean was overcome with a desire to chase after those kids and beat the tar out of them himself. Sam, noticing this, placed a large hand on his brother's shoulder, shaking his head.
Rose glanced up at the Winchesters, her eyes filled with tears. "We need to get him to the TARDIS," she said. Dean lifted Sherlock easily, and the young Holmes lost consciousness quickly. Sam led the way, back to the Doctor and the TARDIS.
"I guess the Doctor isn't a medical doctor, is he?" Sam asked.
"No, he's not," Rose answered, unhappily. She glanced worriedly at Sherlock every few moments.
"Watson's a doctor," Dean replied amiably.
That seemed to cheer her up, and when they reached the TARDIS, she seemed to be in slightly better spirits. She led Dean down a long hallway, and held open a door to a small bedroom. "Set him on the bed," she told him.
Dean did as commanded, laying Sherlock on the bed carefully. Rose stood beside the Winchester, and both looked down at him. "Poor kid," said Rose.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Come on; let's find the Doctor and John."
Mycroft was sitting on the curb, holding his head in his hands. He had no idea where Sherlock could have gone, where Cleaver had gone, or what to do next. So he just sat there, hoping that Sherlock would find his way to him.
He was still sitting there when a man in an over coat appeared, and stood before him. Mycroft glanced up at the strange man, and slid a bit further away from him. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"It is not of import," he replied. "Your brother is safe."
"What!" Mycroft exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Where is he?"
"With friends," he told him. "You can't see him now."
"Why not?"
"You have another job. This," Castiel said, handing Mycroft a sealed envelope, "Is from the Doctor."
Mycroft gripped the envelope in his hands, distrustful of the man before him. "Who are you?" he asked again.
"My name is Castiel. Your brother is a very special person, Mr. Holmes. He has a large destiny, and you are perhaps the biggest part of his future."
"What are you talking about?" Mycroft demanded.
"In order for your brother to achieve his destiny, you are going to have to play a role. If you fail to do this, your brother will surely fail, and will perish."
"Sherlock will die?" Mycroft stammered, turning the envelope over, examining it. When he glanced back towards the man, he had disappeared. "Hello!" he called. There was no answer.
The streets had grown dark, and Mycroft felt sick with worry for his brother. After a few moments, he went home, feeling more alone than he ever had before.