Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof.

It's been 5 whole years since I originally posted this on AO3! As an anniversary of sorts, I decided to post here, too. I still love this story. I think that it's probably one of my more creative plots and I really enjoyed writing this. It was a different writing style, too, in that I pieced things together differently than I normally do.

Anyway, I hope that you all enjoy this as much as I did! Updates will be once a week until completed. Please leave a review, if so inclined.

~ Quick cheat here that's kind of important: John's mom is named Elizabeth; she was born in 1968; was 16 in 1984; currently 46
John's dad was born in 1967; was 17 in 1984; currently would be 47; deceased
Harriet Watson was born in 1991; currently 23
John Watson was born in 1998; currently 16
Greg Lestrade was born in 1967 and would be 47; deceased

He's dreaming again. And he tells himself so. But it doesn't make it any less real.

John's standing in his backyard, the one of his childhood where the grass blends into the woods. He's close to the treeline, talking to a very small and very strange boy. The boy is pale with a mane of unkempt dark hair and vivid eyes that change in the dream. They start blue, shimmering and almost transparent. But as the dream progresses, they turn a bright yellow, glowing in the moonlight. He has a very scared expression on his face and he's crying. "Don't leave me behind," the boy whimpers, shuffling his feet as if longing to step forward. "Please. I know everyone does but you're special!"

"Why?" John asks, looking at his boots and then back up at the boy. "Why do they leave you?" He shivers from the chilly breeze.

The boy stares at him and sniffs. "I don't know… I must do something wrong…"

John frowns deeply and straightens up. "You're my best friend. I promise I won't leave you behind. Ever. Just because you're different, doesn't mean you have to be alone!"

Yellow eyes peer up at him but the boy can no longer be seen in the overwhelming darkness. An eerie silence has fallen over the area and John nervously stares around, calling a name he can no longer remember. The growling that suddenly permeates the air startles him awake and he looks around his very dark room warily.

It's been the same dream every night for over a week now. He's tired of it. He's tired in general, really, but that's just the reason why. He throws the covers off himself and lays there, staring at the ceiling. After several silent minutes to himself, Greg, the neighborhood's friendly ghost, wanders into his room with a yawn.

"Bit early for you, isn't it, John?" he asks with a smile. Gregory Lestrade is seventeen but he's been around since 1984 after he was hit by a car on his way home from a party one night. He swears up and down that it was murder and his ex had been behind the wheel. But since his case was filed under "accidental", he can't leave. Or rather, he won't leave. Since John is partial to all the strange creatures and phenomena of the world, Greg's taken a particular liking to him. "Pesky nightmares again, eh?" He sits on the side of the bed.

John rubs his eyes and groans. "It's four in the morning. Do you really consider that to be an appropriate time to be in my bedroom?"

Greg laughs, like he's just heard the best joke all year. "Don't be ridiculous! I can't be inappropriate anymore. And even if I could, you're not really my type. No offense - you're just not… Well, you're not a girl."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," John growls, blushing faintly. "What if I had been asleep?"

Greg shrugs, still grinning goofily. "I wouldn't have bothered you, of course. Really; what kind of guy do you take me for?" When the blond doesn't answer, he decides to continue on; "Dreaming of the boy again? You know, it's probably telling you something. I was always told to pay attention to dreams if you have the same one more than once." Greg rarely talks about family or friends unless he's feeling rather self-destructive. He often cleverly dances around trigger words in such a way that John's not sure he even thinks about it anymore.

John sighs and sits up. "I shouldn't have told you. The whole thing is just silly."

"I don't think it's silly…" Greg remarks seriously, watching the other cautiously. "It's bugging you. Maybe you really did know the kid. What if something traumatic happened that night and that's all you can remember now?"

"Okay, sure," John snaps, getting irritated. "Let's humour this idea for a moment. Say it's true; why would the memory come back now? Nothing's changed. Don't I need a trigger or something?"

Again, Greg shrugs. "I'm not a psychiatrist, John. It's just an idea. But, along those trigger thoughts, what if it's subtle? Something only your subconscious would remember while your main conscious doesn't even register it?"

"You're getting out of hand," John warns and Greg raises his hands. "In any case, what brought you to my room so bloody early?"

Greg blinks slowly, as if trying to recall the reason, and then absolutely beams. "I remembered something." John sits straighter, feeling the importance of this radiating off the spirit sitting in front of him. Once every so often, Greg will come to him and tell him something of his life and he'll write it down for him. As time goes on, Greg frets about forgetting things - even small things - of his life and it scares him because he feels less real without his memories. "The month before I died, my mum bought me a motorcycle. It was red."

John immediately flicks on his lamp and grabs from his nearby bag the notebook he's appropriately titled "Memories" and a pen. He flips to the page he's been working on and adds this fact. "Did you ever ride it?" He poises the pen over the paper and looks up.

Greg scrunches his nose and then smiles widely. "Yeah, every day. I rode it to school and work and home." John scribbles this down. "Thanks, John… I really appreciate you doing this for me…"

Setting the notebook and pen down, John smiles gently at Greg. "I really don't mind. You led a rather interesting life. Maybe one day, I'll write this out properly - ending with your correct death - and publish it. If that's alright with you, of course?"

A dreamy look passes over Greg's face. "Everyone would know what really happened…" He leans excitedly forward. "Do it, John! I'll help. Just do it!"

John laughs quietly at the expression on his face. "Alright, alright. For now, get out. I might as well get ready for school now that I'm awake." Cackling maniacally, Greg stands and floats out of his room at an alarming speed. He hears his cat, Butterscotch, hiss in surprise and tries not to laugh too loud as he climbs from his bed.

XxX

Greg accompanies him on his walk to school later that morning but they don't talk; he's seemed to have fallen into a rather melancholy mood since they last spoke. John normally doesn't converse with him much in public anyway, lest he seem crazy. At the school gates, Greg waves pathetically and wordlessly drifts off. John's glad he thought to stash the memories notebook in his backpack, just in case, because Greg sometimes gets destructive when in these moods. With a frown, John wanders into the building and heads to his locker to swap books before his first period. He's completely anticipating a very average, and very boring, Monday.

And, for the first two periods, it is. He makes it through his biology and maths classes still relatively awake and ready for history. Molly, his vampiric friend, meets up with him halfway to class.

Now, John may wonder at the amount of non-human friends he's seemed to have made, except that, last year, Molly was not a vampire. They've been friends since primary school and she's been human every day until one last summer. She'd gone to visit family in Romania and had come home with fangs. She can't remember what happened and she promises constantly that she'll never hurt John. He really couldn't care less because she's still so very Molly, just without the beating heart. So they pretend that she's not a vampire and continue to be very good friends.

"Did you finish the book?" she asks him, referring to their assigned literature novel. John shakes his head and she sighs dejectedly. "But it's so good… I finished it last Wednesday and I've been dying to talk about it with someone… The horrible part of never sleeping: just too much time on your hands."

John vaguely wonders if Greg ever has this problem. "Yes, well, we can't all have the benefit of not needing sleep." She huffs sadly. "I'd probably have it finished by now if it weren't for rugby practice. I'm on the last chapter, though."

"I can tell you how it ends," she offers as they walk into their history classroom.

"Yes, you could," he agrees, taking a seat in the second to last row. "But then I wouldn't be able to talk to you about my opinions or thoughts on the book as a whole because I'd be biased."

Molly frowns slightly, sitting next to him and crossing her legs daintily. "Then you'd better hurry. I'm dying, John." He snorts and she gives in, giggling.

"There will come a day, Molly, when that joke isn't funny," John informs her teasingly.

"But it's not yet that day," she replies happily. He rolls his eyes.

The bell rings and the substitute teacher stands in the front of the room, slowly catching everyone's attention as she starts the roll-call. She doesn't get very far, though, before a tall, lanky boy wanders calmly into the room. He's pale with dark hair and a bored expression on his face. "Excuse me," he drawls in a deep, confident voice. The substitute looks up at him, obviously startled. "I'm sorry for my tardiness. I'm new to the school and I had some trouble finding the classroom."

John studies him curiously, feeling that he somehow knows this boy. He's standing with perfect posture, his nose turned up every so slightly as if he wholly believes he's better than everyone else in the room. He's wearing slacks and a purple button-down that looks better on him than it probably should. Over all he gives off a very "I am far more important than you" vibe that John's not sure he really appreciates. He glances at Molly to get her thoughts and notices that she's rigid and looks uncomfortable. "What's wrong?" he whispers but she shakes her head.

"That's quite alright," the teacher finally says, as if remembering she has a voice, and draws John's attention back to the front of the room. "What's your name?" She turns back to the list of names, a faint blush on her cheeks. She's young but he still finds it not quite appropriate.

"Sherlock Holmes," the boy answers dutifully, pursing his lips.

She scans the list and ends up writing in his name at the bottom of the second sheet. "Go ahead and sit anywhere," she tells him, smiling.

He glances around the room and spots the empty seat next to John. With a slight twitch of his lips, he glides over and sits down, setting his bag on the ground beside his feet. He folds his hands together on the desk and listens with rapt attention to the roll-call, as if it's the most interesting thing he's ever heard. After John's name is called, she turns and writes "Ms. Shelby" on the board while Sherlock shifts his attention to the blond. For the first quarter of the lecture on the beginnings of the industrial revolution in England, he manages to ignore him. And he's quite proud of this, even as he finally turns to glare at the new student. "Can I help you?" he hisses impatiently.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replies coolly. "Am I somehow bothering you?" When John can't quite form an answer, he smiles triumphantly and looks back at the board.

Feeling annoyed, John turns back to the board as well and pulls out a notebook and a pen from his bag so he can take notes. Near the end of period, Ms. Shelby turns to the class, picking up a stack of packets from the teacher's desk. "You're teacher left me instructions to get you started on a group project. She wants you to compare what the industrial revolution was about to modern steampunk ideas." She passes out the packets and then goes back to the desk to snag a paper that she stares at as she says, "You have assigned groups so here we go…"

John listens carefully, hoping to be working with his friend. But Molly is grouped with a girl named Bailey and her crush, Jim. He's a bit miffed when he's told he's supposed to work with someone who never shows up. Sherlock is tacked onto his group, which makes him feel a little better; hopefully he won't be doing the whole project alone. He sighs and turns to his partner, who is staring at him with vividly blue eyes that momentarily transfix him into silence. Thankfully, the bell rings and Sherlock inquires, "Should I find you at lunch to discuss the project?"

"Well, uh," John mumbles, blinking rapidly to get his mind back into gear. "I have second lunch."

"Oh," Sherlock replies, frowning. "I have first. That won't work…" He furrows his brow, thinking.

John puts the packet into his notebook and shoves the whole thing into his bag. "Let's just meet in the library after school. We can divide this up and pick days to meet. Sound okay?" He looks up and Sherlock nods. "I'm John Watson, by the way." He sticks out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock hesitates and then shakes it. "Sherlock Holmes. It's…" He mumbles the next part but John's sure he hears, "Good to see you again…" Before he can ask, Sherlock stands abruptly, gathers his things, and leaves the classroom.

John sits there a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. But after a minute of being unable to do so, he's grateful that Molly decides to intervene and remind him that he still has another class before lunch.

XxX

He meets up with Molly again at lunch. While he wants to ask her about her reaction to the new student, she seems to be pointedly avoiding it. "How's Greg doing?" she asks as they sit on the bench under the stairs. She's only seen the ghost a handful of times because Greg thinks she's "too cute to be around" and will conveniently disappear whenever she visits.

He shrugs, munching on the grapes he'd brought from home. "Moody. He remembered that his mum bought him a red motorcycle a month before he died and he used to ride it everywhere."

"I'm glad to hear he remembered something like that," Molly says, smiling widely. "I mean, it must have been a big things when he first got it!"

"Probably," John agrees with a slow nod. "But I think mentioning his mum put him in a foul mood; he didn't say a word to me on the way to school later."

She frowns, stirring her pasta. "It must be hard… Never even getting to say goodbye to your family before you're just...gone. And now to be stuck here… I think I'd go crazy…"

He looks at her consideringly and hesitantly asks, "What are you going to do?"

Molly shrugs, tucking some stray hair behind her ear. "I'm not sure yet… Do you think I could just tell my parents and maybe they'll help me?"

"I have no clue," John answers honestly. To lighten things up, he adds, "I think rulebooks and a suggestion guide should be handed to every new vampire. It'd uncomplicate everything." She laughs and agrees. Smiling, he changes the subject. "You coming to my game Friday?"

"Wouldn't miss it," she replies cheerfully. "How many left in the season?"

"Seven and then the big game, assuming we qualify," he answers, deflating slightly. "I'm not sure we will… We have to win six more to qualify, since we had such a rough start this year…"

Molly snorts, rolling her eyes. "You guys just needed to learn how to work together. It's always hard when the seniors leave. You'll be leaving next year and they'll be lucky if they find a back half as good as you."

John smiles shyly. "You give me way too much credit, Molly…"

"You just need to stop being so modest," she says, nudging him with her elbow.

"As soon as you take credit for that anatomy mural in Mr. McCarthy's room," he responds easily and she tries to hide behind her hair. "Thought not." He grins.

XxX

John heads to the library after his literature class, looking through the project packet. He's not thrilled with some of the options but a few look plausible. He glances around the library as he walks in; not seeing Sherlock, he goes to find a secluded corner to start brainstorming. Sitting down by the nonfiction section, he pulls his history notebook out and a pen. After a few minutes of scratching out ideas, Sherlock drops his bag on the table. "I apologise for being late," he says as John looks up. "My maths teacher wanted to give me a placement quiz." He digs around in his backpack for the packet and some paper. "May I see what you have so far?"

"Yeah, sure," he answers, sliding his notebook across the table as Sherlock sits down. He watches the dark-haired boy closely while he reads and then, quite suddenly, blurts, "Have we met before?"

Slowly, Sherlock looks up at him. For a moment, it doesn't seem as if he'll answer. Finally, though, he replies, "No… I don't think so… Unless you count history class?"

"I don't," John says, not amused. "But you did say something weird before you left class. About how it's good to see me again?"

Surprise flashes briefly across his face before the bored expression takes over again and he stares at him with his hauntingly familiar blue eyes. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about… Maybe you imagined me saying it." John's positive he hadn't but realizes that Sherlock isn't going to budge. Reluctantly, he decides to drop it and instead asks for opinions on his ideas. "I like the idea of recreating two inventions, one from the actual era and one inspired by steampunk. I think it would be the most straightforward comparison." He pauses and passes the notebook back. "But would they be functional?"

John stares at him blankly. "Functional…?" he repeats.

Sherlock nods impatiently. "Yes, functional. Because we have a three week timeline for this."

"I was thinking just models…" John answers, mildly confused. "We obviously wouldn't have time to make them actually work."

"We wouldn't?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow questioningly. "Three weeks, five days in each…"

"I don't have five free days," John interrupts, raising a finger. "I'm on the rugby team; three of my weekdays and every other Saturday are dedicated to practice. I'm lucky to have today because of our game Friday."

Sherlock frowns deeply. "That does complicate things a bit…" he admits slowly. He doesn't look very happy. "So we only have two days a week, maybe three to work on this together?"

John shrugs. "Rugby practice lasts between two and three hours. Depending on how much homework I get daily, I may be able to spare an hour after that for this project." At the skeptical look he receives, he bristles and snaps, "Look, my grades are important and I'm not necessarily prioritizing my sport over this. I'm just telling you what I can do."

"It simply sounds like rugby is more important to you," Sherlock replies smoothly, eyeing John as if expecting him to lunge across the table and attack him. "I have no clue what your grades look like, nor do I care to right now. All I'd like to know is how much time we actually have to work on this together. Splitting this up will be difficult without this knowledge."

John sighs and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Mondays and Wednesdays are my free days, so we can meet here on those days." He looks up again. "If I can get your number, I can text you after practices on my other days, see if you're available to work on this. However, I still think we should just make them models."

Sherlock twirls his pen between his fingers thoughtfully before scribbling something down on a sheet of paper. "I think you're correct. It would be far too time-consuming to make any invention work. Here's my number." He slides the paper across the table. "Now, what will the inventions be?"