Chapter Seven – Stories

Sherlock would be the first person to admit that he loathed people; reminding everyone of that was one of his favourite pastimes. So why, in the last month, was always seen with a short, stocky blonde by his side? The boy in question, Mycroft had learned, was called John Watson, also in Year 12, with the strong desire to be a doctor and escape the household that he'd always hated. He knew that they boy lived in a small flat on one of the main roads in central harrow, only ten minutes away from the Holmes' house. He was also aware that it had been 3 weeks since Sherlock had shown up at their front door with John in tow, but that Sherlock had never once stepped foot in John's house. CCTV had told him that. If the boy wouldn't even let Sherlock in his house, he doubted that he would be willing to share any information about Sherlock or about his personal life to Mycroft; their confrontation had told him that. He was resigned to keeping his distance, for now.

Sherlock couldn't see him from where he stood in the busy science corridor. In the doorway to his lab, looking over the heads of more than one hundred pupils who were all filing out to the lunch hall, pushing each other over and swearing far too loudly, he could not see John. John should have been here five minutes ago. Why was he not here? He had an idea, but he needed John, who was nowhere to be seen. Which was rude of him.

Sighing impatiently, he took out his phone.

Science block.

Come at once, if convenient.

SH

It had been five minutes and John still wasn't here.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

(Could be dangerous).

SH

Sherlock hated waiting for John to reply to messages. On the contrary, he was fed up of his phone buzzing with messages from Victor. Victor who had developed some form of obsession for Sherlock, who was sending vulgar and flirtatious messages to Sherlock at least 12 times a day, and who seemed to find the lack of response encouraging. Upon their last meeting, Victor had given Sherlock not only his cigarettes but a drunken kiss. His breath tasted of alcohol, and it was repulsive. Sherlock had pushed him away, told him he was drunk and to fuck off. He hadn't really taken the not-so-subtle hint.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, he slumped back in his chair in the corner of his lab with a dramatic sigh. Sherlock recognised that this wasn't normal behaviour for John, and it was while he was considering the possible ways in which he could have been kidnapped that the Blonde boy showed up at the door, red-faced and breathless.

"Sorry, sorry, you said you needed me? Said it was dangerous?" He'd had PE last; it had run over by 20 minutes… during lunchtime? Ahh of course, Sherlock realised. It was natural that John would be given an opportunity to try out for the rugby team. How dull. "Are you listening to me?" A hand waved in front of his face.

"Oh, yes, sorry no. It was dull, I zoned out."

"You said you needed me for something dangerous?"

"I was trying to lure you here quickly – I see it worked. How do you fancy a trip to London?"

"What, now?" John's panicked face had relaxed into one of his many exasperated 'dealing with Sherlock' expressions.

"I was thinking sometime next June – yes now."

"You know, you don't need to accompany every sarcastic comment with a sarcastic eye-roll. But yes, I'll come with you… but I swear Sherlock it is only because I haven't done my Biology homework and I don't want Dr Grant to kill me. I won't come running to you every time you get bored in school."

The train wasn't very busy, but it wouldn't usually be on a Wednesday afternoon when everyone was either at school or working, unless they were joining Sherlock and John in truanting. And if they were, who could blame them?

"Deduce something for me."

"What?"

"I'm bored," John said with a nudge. "Deduce something for me." Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh… erm, okay." He cleared his throat again. "That man over there, with the dog is cheating on his partner with a man, he's texting on a separate phone – but he's only smiling when he uses one of the phones, the one he's texting his lover with; a work phone, maybe?"

"How do you know it's a man?"

"Look at him, for God's sakes. He gets his haircut at least twice a month, he's very obviously recently redone his fake tan, and his eyebrows can't have been done more than a week ago – he is extremely well groomed."

"Could just take pride in his appearance?"

"Probability says he's gay."

"O-kay."

If Sherlock had found London interesting before, then now was incomparable, with John Watson standing behind him. People, by nature were predictable. They liked to follow structure and order and live lives that they're expected to live because that's how society had always functioned. Not John Watson. While predictable in so many ways, he was also completely foreign to Sherlock in his ability to be the most intelligent (yet extremely ordinary) he'd ever known. He was unpredictable in what he would say or do next, which Sherlock had never experienced before, with any person.

They wandered through the bustling streets, only talking when they needed to, but it was okay. The noise of tourists and shoppers was a low buzz in the background of their thoughts, while they walked and walked aimlessly.

"Is there a real reason we're actually here?" John had asked at one point.

"Yes, of course."

"And?"

"I was bored."

"And I'm supposed to find that a justifiable reason to come to London?"

"No."

"Right."

He pulled out the pack of cigarettes he had picked up from Victor the week before, and flipped it open to find there was only one cigarette left. He was sure he had more than that. "Shit." He'd have to go back to Victor. Today, it seemed; he was already in London. However, the last thing he needed was for John to go anywhere near that place. The life that he spent at school and with John would have to remain separate from Victor and his slimy world of addiction, which Sherlock had more or less avoided successfully. Unless you counted Victor's obsession. Which he didn't. Sherlock weighed up his options, but eventually he decided that the need was too important.

"Actually, you're right. I need cigarettes."

John snorted. "You are unbelievable."

"I know."

Are you in London? I need another pack, but I have company.

SH

Always for you Sherl… so glad you could finally return my texts :* and please bring your friend ;) – Victor

"Who are you texting?"

"Nobody."

Not a chance, just tell me when and where to meet you, I'll have your money and you'll leave me alone.

SH

Two streets away from where we met last time, it's still as quiet but we're trying to keep a low profile. 10 minutes, if you can make it. You don't have to linger. Still bring your friend. – Victor

Well that had sobered him up.

John sighed. "We should do something. Is there anywhere you want to go? Y'know, rather than just wandering around, it is a little boring after a while."

"Cigarettes first."

"Fine." Sherlock could already feel the lecture coming from the tone of John's voice. "You don't need them though, you just want them. You're my friend Sherlock, and honest to God, I think you should quit."

"Be glad it's just cigarettes I'm addicted to."

"Wait, what?"

"What did you call me?" Sherlock paused. "A friend? I don't have friends," Sherlock denied.

"No, you're right. You have me," John said calmly. Sherlock nodded at that.

"John, I'm only taking you here because I have to, just to be clear. The person we're meeting… well, he's a bit of a prick if I'm honest."

John's warm laugh warmed the air between them as they turned left into a narrower street that Sherlock recognised as the one Victor had described. John wouldn't have to be anywhere near a drug den, at least.

"How much further?"

Before Sherlock had answered, a boy who John thought could've been 18 or 19, stepped out in front of them, arm extended, stopping them in their tracks. "Hello Sherlock. Who's this?" The boy smirked. He didn't have a pleasant face, and before John had spoken a word to him he had decided that whoever he was, he wasn't a fan.

"Victor. You know what I want."

"Here," Victor tossed him the cigarettes, and he handed over the money. He vaguely heard Victor asking about 'the other stuff', but he was more aware of John standing next to him. His shoulders had squared up as though he was gearing himself up for a fight, it seemed. A natural response to danger, Sherlock assessed.

"Other stuff? What's he talking about?" The blonde boy next to him, sounded much more put together than Sherlock felt. It was like his stomach had sunk to rest somewhere next to his feet. Why the hell had he brought John here to meet Victor, he thought. This was quite possibly one of the worst ideas he had ever had. Of course this environment would aggravate John if any of the information Sherlock had gathered about John's mother's alcoholism was true; relatives of addicts tended not to be fond of drug dealers.

"Your boyfriend's a little bit feisty there Sherl," Victor grinned.

"Boyfriend?" John looked from Victor to Sherlock in complete confusion, which would have been comical if they were in any other situation. "Do you have a problem here?"

"No problem. Just wondering why you're hanging around with this arsehole when he can't even reply to my texts, that's all."

"I thought I had made it clear to you Victor, I am not interested, not that you payed any attention when I told you last time; I've received more than 300 texts in the last month." Victor's ears had turned slightly pink. "Come on John."

"Wait a fucking minute, you faggot," Victor growled.

"Hold on, what did you just call him?" John roared.

"John, it's not worth it."

"I'm not leaving until this bastard apologises."

"So this is it Sherlock? You come to me for your cheap cigs and then you just fuck off?"

"Yes. I don't want you Victor, I never have done, and I told you that from the beginning. It's not my fault you didn't listen," Sherlock muttered. And with that, Victor punched him.

"You prick." John used his left hand to shove Sherlock backwards, and swung his right arm round to hit Victor on the jaw with all the force he could muster, which was quite a lot.

Then, three things happened at once. First, everything slowed down. Not like in a movie where there's a dramatic slow motion sequence and the hero manages to escape. It was more like an adrenaline fuelled panic where everything felt terrifying but nothing felt real. Secondly, Victor's head connected with the brick wall behind him, his skull hitting off of the stones with a deafening crack, before he slumped to the ground, only somewhat conscious. And thirdly, a voice yelled from the end of the street – "Hey!"

"Shit," John muttered. The two officers approached them quickly, one crouching down to check on Victor. The second officer turned to the two boys. Sherlock could hardly hear him asking them to stand with their backs to the wall, over the pounding of his heart which seemed to be vibrating in his ears.

"Shit, Sherlock, what've we done?" John muttered. The second officer, Lestrade, he had said, was looking them up and down. He looked slightly too amused for Sherlock to be worried, but he could hear the fear in John's voice.

"Names?"

"John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade smirked and jotted down their names in his notebook.

"Date of birth?"

"6th January 2000," Sherlock muttered.

"29th September 1999."

"And you're both 16? You don't look 16," Lestrade directed at Sherlock.

"And you don't look like someone who'd be wasting his time interrogating children, when you could instead catch your wife in bed with another man."

"What did you just say?" Lestrade's ears turned pink, his eyes steely, and John let out an exasperated sigh beside him.

"You can't be more than 30, but your hair is starting to turn grey, stress it seems, though also partially genetics. You have an authoritative air about your; you enjoy your job, so it's something else that's causing you stress – your home life. You obviously know that your wife is having an affair, the way you've been fiddling with your wedding ring tells me that, but you still wear it. That shows your commitment – you still want to be with her but yet you know that she doesn't feel the same commitment as you, therefore showing why you're more inclined to feel as stressed today; because you're subconsciously thinking about her now. Most likely because you're suspicious she's cheating on you again, right now, as we speak."

Everyone was looking at Sherlock, opened-mouthed, except John, who was laughing silently. Even though he knew this was the worst timing, he couldn't help but laugh; of course Sherlock Holmes would be able to deduce the officer standing in front of them, mid-way through a possible arrest.

"How the hell did you know that?" Any hint of authority had slipped away now, and Lestrade was bewildered, staring at Sherlock as though he was an alien, which to be fair, didn't seem far from the truth right now.

"I didn't know, I saw. Observation, deduction. It's simple really."

"Oh shut up you pompous prick," John laughed. Sherlock was glad that John at least found it amusing; he'd expected anger.

"That's bloody fantastic, that is." The man, Lestrade didn't even seem to be joking when he said that. The other officer, a woman, was looking between Lestrade and Sherlock, but she didn't appear to be as amused. "Right okay, anyway... What School do you go to?"

"St Bart's Academy, Harrow."

They continued like this for another five minutes, while the second police officer began interrogating Victor, who was giving rather half-arsed answers, John thought to himself. And then, they were allowed to go – they'd be issued with a stern warning from Officer Lestrade and told to stay out of trouble, but not before Sherlock was asked a few more questions about his 'talents'.

"So how do you really do it? How do you notice these things?"

"It just sort of happens. I look at people and I see the pieces of information that are given to me."

"It must be really useful, it's the sort of thing you'd need to become a police officer," Lestrade suggested.

"Or a detective," he said pointedly. "Specifically, a consulting-detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, you would consult me." John had heard this line before but he still found it to be one of the most pretentious yet hilarious things Sherlock had said.

"I doubt you're that good," Lestrade laughed.

Ten minutes later, however, he disagreed. Sherlock had received a job offer that Lestrade didn't want anyone else to know about. Apparently it wasn't exactly legal, but if he ever wanted some work experience in solving minor crimes, he just had to "stick his head in the door", and "'ask for Officer Lestrade".

When they finally left, Sherlock felt positively gleeful. He walked with his head slightly higher, his footsteps slightly more bouncy, and he was talking more than he ever had before. He'd even taken value in John's opinion, which had shocked the smaller boy.

"Do you want to get coffee?" Sherlock asked. "I know the perfect café."

They walked back the way they had come into the more familiar streets of central London. On the way, John picked Sherlock's brains on his family. Sherlock was more honest than he'd been with anyone; he had a mother and a father, both fairly ordinary people who kept to themselves, and had passed their antisocial trait onto their children. Sherlock also found himself grudgingly admitting that he had a brother who was, most definitely, a colossal prick. He decided not to mention to John that it was Mycroft who had kidnapped him, but instead chose to talk more about his parents. His mother was apparently the source of both of her sons' brilliance, being an ex-mathematician herself, but in Sherlock's high opinion neither of his parents could deduce quite like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

When the two boys had reached the little café and ordered their drinks, they found a booth by the window and continued their conversation. Sherlock decided to turn the topic to John, keen to find out what he wasn't able to guess.

"What about your family?" He asked this in his gentle tone, the one that he used for persuading and getting information out of people. Sherlock knew that he wasn't being malicious and that he was just curious, but somehow the guilt was burning at the back of his throat when he used this personality against the boy before him.

"Well, you know it's just me, Mum and Harry." He paused. "And you know that Mum is, well, she's…" John took a deep breath, and tried to steady his voice. "She's an alcoholic and well, not exactly what you'd call a good mother. But it isn't her fault. Ii know that, but somehow I still blame her and I know I shouldn't because it isn't fair." He pinched the bridge of his nose as his voice trailed off.

"We moved here just before Christmas, as school ended. We lived in a council estate in Peckham, but we all agreed we needed a fresh start. My mum had always felt as though she had to stay there, in case my dad came back, but he never did. He left when I was five. He's the reason mum's an alcoholic. They'd been together since they were teenagers; my grandparents never approved so we don't see them anymore. My mum chose my dad over them because she was 'in love'. She got pregnant with me when she was 19, dad was 20, and they weren't ready to be parents. There were a lot of arguments when I was little. I don't really remember them though. Harry came three years later, and things started to fall into place, apart from the drinking.

"We were always looked after; Dad had a job working in a garage while Mum stayed at home looking after us. We were always fed, we were taught manners and we knew how to behave. We went to nursery and then to school, and even after Dad left things sort of just went on. But mum drank more, and it was never a happy household. There were always some strange men around the house; mum's drinking buddies that she'd met at the pub when she left us home alone on Saturday nights. I used to sit and try to get Harry to stop crying when mum first started to leave at nights; I was 8, she was 5.

The sun was sitting low in the sky now, and Sherlock found that he had absolutely nothing to say, so instead he stood, slowly, and made his way to the door. John followed behind him. Sherlock decided it best not to acknowledge what John had told him with anything but a smile, and treating him as he always would.

"We should probably head back now." He used his gentle voice again, this time for comfort, not persuasion. It had the desired effect.

"Yeah, yeah you're right." John smiled back at him. "You know if I'm honest, I'm surprised you haven't run away screaming." He hesitated. He was always hesitating; a lifetime of having to be careful of what he said, Sherlock presumed. "So, y'know… thanks."

"No," Sherlock turned to look at the boy beside him. "Thank you."