A/N: Hey guys, yep, chapter four. Yay! Just want to let you know, that since it is now November, yes, that means NANOWRIMO! However this year I will be working on this more instead of a whole new story. But regardless, I will not post anything until December. I know, I'm sorry. But hopefully by then I'll be really close to done :)

Sherlock left to go back downstairs again. The house was for the most part put together. The extra bedroom was across the hall from Sherlock's own, and that held a spare bed, a chair, and bookshelves. The other two rooms on the floor, his parents and Mycrofts, were complete with their belongings. Downstairs, his fathers new office had been complete with a desk, bookshelves, a filing cabinet. A few boxes containing a books sat on the floor. And the dining room had the table and chairs, the boxes containing the dishes and glasses were still in process of being unpacked, half empty, and some dishes stacked on the wood. The new parlor had the three chairs from the old house, a single bookshelf, and books to be unpacked, stacked on the floor in the corner. These few things were placed neatly in front of and complimenting the small fireplace on one wall of the room.

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen where Mary was putting things away. The eight-year-old went and stood in the doorway. After a few minutes, Mart noticed his presence.

"How's it going then, Sherlock?" she asked, unwrapping a glass dish and setting it in a cupboard.

"Its still boring," he sighed. "Do you know where my mum is?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I believe she's in the parlor, along with your father." Mary replied. She picked up a stack of plates and put them away.

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave the kitchen. He headed slowly to the parlor, seeing his mother and father in it. His father was in one of the chairs, already comfortable in the new house. Sherlocks mother was placing a few of the books on one of the shelves.

Sherlock walked in slowly, going over to his fathers chair.

"Can I go outside?" he asked quietly, leaning on one of the armrests.

"Going to check out the new yard then?" Sherlock gave a small nod. His father looked up, then over to Sherlocks mother. She made eye contact with her husband.

"I suppose so. But stay in the back, alright?" he told the boy. "Don't go exploring in the woods on your own,"

Sherlock sighed to himself before agreeing with another nod.

"Okay. Can I go to the woods later?" he asked hopeful.

"er, we'll see," his father responded. "now off you go." Mr. Holmes gave a smile and motioned for Sherlock to do so. Sherlock grinned and turned to leave the room.

"Try not to ruin your clothes, please," His mother told him as he left. "and be back for supper," she called out after him. But Sherlock had already left to get his shoes on.

Sherlock left the house, closing the door behind him. No one was outside. Their blue car was in the driveway. The movers, and their truck, had already left.

The eight year old looked up at the sky where the sun was already past it's peak. Supper meant close to dark, so he figured he had a couple hours before he had to be back in.

Sherlock walked slowly around the side of the house, his feet crunching on the gravel path. He trailed his fingers along the siding of the house out of boredom. He remembered what his father had said.

'Don't go exploring in the woods on your own.'

Well that was stupid. Why not? Surely there was nothing wrong with it. Besides it wasn't dark out yet and Sherlock doubted there were any animals that might attack him. And even if there were, they would be scared off just by his walking about.

Sherlock came to the back of the house to the small garden area. He walked to the end of it, turning and looking back up at the house.

The only places you could see outside were from the two windows in his and Mycrofts bedrooms. Of course no one was in the younger boy's room. And Sherlock doubted his brother would be looking out his own. Even if the older boy did decide to, surely he wouldn't be able to see very much of the back of the house.

The eight year old turned back to face the forest that was a good distance away, separated by the field of grass.

If he went and explored for a bit, no one would notice. The mud would even be cleared from his shoes as he crossed back through the grass.

And Sherlock really wanted to see what else was out there. The house he had seen as they came up couldn't be too far away. The boy could easily make it there and back in over an hour if he ran.

Sherlock grinned to himself. He took another last glance towards the house, satisfied with his plan.

No one would know.

The eight year old nodded to himself before heading off through the grass field and towards the trees at the end.

Sherlock didnt look back until he was right at the edge of the trees. From there he took one glance at the house, satisfied to see the curtains from his brother's room were closed. He turned away one final time before entering the woods.

Looking up, Sherlock could just barely see through the canopy of tree branches. The eight-year-old figured that if he made sure the sun was to his right, then he would be heading in roughly the same direction. To get back, all he would need to do was keep it to his left.

Sherlock continued on his way, walking at an average pace, only so he could enjoys the time alone. He decided he would walk as far as he could for about an hour. Then he'd turn back and spend the second hour or so returning home. Two hours wasnt long, and wouldn't give his parents a reason to worry, or come looking for him.

The-eight-year old climbed over a fallen down tree log, sliding down the other side, twigs snapping underneath his feet. He was the only one out here. No one around for a good mile atleast. Sherlock grinned to at the idea of having the entire woods to himself. As he continued walking, occasionally pushing aside branches or jumping off logs he had climbed over, Sherlock started forming a new adventure in his head.

The boy paused, looking around him carefully, until he caught sight of it. The perfect stick for a sword. Long and flawlessly straight. Not too many knots, strong and sturdy. It would give a nice thwacking sound when hit against a tree. Sherlock picked it up, weighing it in his hands, then giving a few test swings over his head and in front of him. Excellent. Now he was armed.

Captain Sherlock walked to the edge of the cliff, looking over the drop directly below. The cliff face led straight down into the continuous vastness of trees, stretching on as far as the eye could see. The pirate turned back, looking towards the towering trees he had just come through. He wondered how far he had come. How far since the sandy beach where he had left his magnificent beauty of a ship, and half his crew? The rest of his men were here with him, following behind, wary of any natives or animals that might attack at any point in time. The captain nodded to his crew to follow. They would continue on, watching for the setting of the sun to make sure they set up camp before dark.

Sherlock kept walking, dragging the stick along through the dirt, or using it to clear through bushes, or push aside branches. But as he entered a small clearing Sherlock gave a grin.

The troop had continued in their way, silent save for the twigs snapping beneath them and the shuffling of their feet. But it was sudden, when without warning one crew member tripped on something hidden beneath the leaves, quickly being pulled into the air by his ankle and hanging high above their heads. Then another man was pulled into the trees. And another. Nobody hesitated in acting, drawing their weapons and readying their defensive stances. Captain Sherlock held his sword ready in front of him looking around warily, turning slowly in a circle. What was that? There? An out of figure shadow not lining up with the log beside it. Sherlock's eyes widened as he gave a warning signal to his crew. But they were too late. Out of nowhere a band of natives, dressed in cloth and leaf clothing, faces and bodies covered in masks of red and white clay paint. They jumped out silently, pulling out bows and arrows, poison dart tubes, and mini throwing knives and daggers. The men of the Black Elm attacked, not waiting to run after the natives who had snuck up on them.

Sherlock spun in a circle, bringing the stick down on a rock. The weapons cracked against the stone, echoing through the expanse of trees. The eight-year-old swung at a tree trunk, then another invisible target off to the side. He ran over and jumped onto a log, assessing the imaginary scene in front of him.

Captain Sherlock jumped onto a rock where he knew his men would be able to see him. He watched as the men were slashing their swords, ducking from opposing weapons. Bodies falling to the ground , both those of his own men and some of their attackers. The captain raised his sword, whistling loudly for his crew.

"Aye, save yerselves and run!" he shouted, not waiting to do so himself as he jumped down from the rock, running off in their earlier direction of travel. The Black Elm crew didnt hesitate in following, running after him as they were chased from behind, the remaining natives in still trying to hit the pirates with their long-range weapons. Arrows and knives stuck into the trees or the dirt right as Captain Sherlock and his crew passed. He didnt have to look behind him, but knew from a sudden outcry here and there that some of the sharp objects had hit their targets. But none of the pirates stopped, even if they knew each step could be their last.

The eight-year ran through the woods, trees whipping past him as his small legs carried him deeper into the trees. He jumped, ducked and brushed past bushes, stick still in hand as he imagined him and his pirate crew being pursued by the imaginary native tribe. Sherlock turned to looked behind him as he ran, only for a brief second. But as he turned back, the sunlight opened up, nearly blinding him as the tree line stopped, and suddenly instead of uneven ground covered in twigs and leaves, Sherlock was running on grass. He stopped suddenly, his heart pounding in his chest and now more noticeable from the abrupt halt. He had come to the edge of the forest in this direction. And now, not more than a hundred meters away, and across a gravel road, was the house Sherlock had seen earlier in the journey to his new home.

The boy backed away a bit, ducking into the cover of trees just in case any person might happen to be nearby. He slid down into a crouch behind a log, watching the small field he had just run into, the house across from him, and the road seperating the two.

Just as Sherlock ducked behind the bushes, he saw a figure come running down the road. After a moment, he realized it was a little boy, probably no older than Sherlock himself. The other boy had on dark shorts ending right above his knees, and a cream jumper, looking as if his mum had knit it for him. Sherlock watched as this boy came down the graveled road, chasing after a small football that rolled out in front of him. The other boy caught up to it, dribbled it in front of him for a bit, then kicked it towards the grass lawn in front of the house, following it again.

Sherlock didnt move, and hardly breathed perhaps afraid the other boy could hear him even at this distance. But the eight-year-old didnt move, more out of fascination, and a bit of joy. He assumed this other boy lived here, in the house across from the forest. Sherlocks parents had been wrong about the house being vacant. And that meantt Sherlock would have someone to play with. He turned his attention back to what the boy with the jumper was doing.

The boy continued to play with his ball, kicking it around in the yard. Then after a while he had picked up a stick, holding it like a rifle and stalking around the house, or ducking behind trees and bushes as if in an imaginary war. He had just laid down in the grass on his stomach, the pretend gun on the ground in front of him, and aimed at something unseen off in the distance.

That's when a stout woman appeared in the doorway to the house, calling out. From his position in the bushes, Sherlock couldn't make out fully what she had said. A name possibly, but he couldn't hear what it was. Then also something about coming inside ... for supper, perhaps?

Apparently it had been directed at the boy in the jumper, because at the sound of the woman's voice he leapt out of the grass, brushing off his front. He left the stick on the ground before rushing to retrieve his ball, and running inside. The door closed behind him, and then Sherlock was left alone again. At least, he assumed so.

The eight-year-old waited in the bushes for a while longer, thinking over and processing what he had witnessed. Then a thought came to him and he looked up at the sky. The other boy had been called in, meaning it was nearing late. And by looking through the treetops, Sherlock could just barely see the remains io the sun, concluding that it would be getting dark soon. He needed to get back home before anyone started wondering where he was, and possibly would go looking for him in the backyard, where he wouldn't be found.

Sherlock got up quickly from his perch behind the log, turning from his view of the house across the road. He would come back tomorrow if possible, maybe introduce himself to this other boy. Sherlock grinned at the thought, eager to do so.

Without further hesitation, he ran off back into the woods, doing his best to go quickly and not waste tine, whilst also dodging through branches and around the trees and logs without tripping or getting hurt.