A/N: Hello! Yes, I disappeared for a bit, sorry :/ But surprisingly, within my most busy and not very good mood week, today I was actually able to edit and finalize this next chapter. Yay! So, here, you go, enjoy! Thank you for reviews, follows, what not. As always, it really means a lot cause I wasn't really expecting many people to read this when I first started writing it over the summer. So, yes, thank you and you have all made it much more enjoyable to continue.

One last thing real quick. So, it may be a while before I post the next segment, perhaps a month again because that just seems to be my pace right now, and because I do not have the rest of it fully typed up. Also, chapter fourteen, yay! However, that does mean the end is drawing near :O I have the outline of the story, and I'm planning on about twenty chapters, or maybe nineteen and an epilogue, we'll see how it goes. Anyways, that's what the plan is, so yes, unfortunately it may be over sooner than you think. But don't worry! That just means I can start on my other fanfiction ideas I have planned out. I actually have a rather exciting one (or at least I find it as such) that I've been really eager to work on, I just keep telling myself to finish this one first or it will never be done.

So, without further ado, here is the next chapter, and I'll try and work on getting fifteen up. We'll see how it goes. It will either be within the next few days, or multiple weeks from now :)

It had been a week since Sherlock had apologized to John. Almost everyday he had gone back into the forest to meet him after his daily lessons. No one had asked the eight-year-old about it, or what he did in the forest. He was a child playing alone and entertaining himself. Simple as that. They thought.

Today the two boys had decided to meet at the creek again. It was seemingly random how they decided to meet each day. Sometimes they would repeat the same phrase as the day before. Or they'd switch it up and go to their second location. But there was no pattern, and that's what mattered.

Sherlock ran through the bushes into the clearing that made up the area by the creek. John was already there, standing in the creek water with his trouser legs rolled up his calves so they wouldn't get wet. The eight-year-old stood back behind him.

"Isn't it cold?" Sherlock called out, letting John become aware of his presence.

"It's not that bad. Besides, you get used to it," the blond returned, turning around to face Sherlock. "You can sometimes catch fish. Little minnows and things. I found a frog once." He told the Holmes boy. That got the younger boys attention who made his way carefully down the bank closer to John.

"Have you got anything now?"

"No, not yet. Want to help me?"

Sherlock nodded and bent down to roll his trouser legs up as well. He slipped his shoes off, pulling the socks off and storing them in the shoes and setting them on the creek edge next to John. Hesitantly he made his way further down the slight slope to join the other boy.

"Come on, it's really not bad," John told him, motioning for Sherlock to put his feet in the water.

Sherlock paused for a second longer, then trusted the blond boy's words. He stepped into the water, a chill running up his spine.

"It's really cold," he said through slightly chattering teeth.

John just gave him a smile. "Like I said, you'll get used to it."

Sherlock made his way slowly through the water to stand by John. "So, how do you do this?" He asked.

"It's easy, really. Just keep an eye out for anything moving. Then, and you've got to be quick, you grab for it in the water, between your hands," John held his hands out in example. "And when you bring them back out, cup them, to keep some water in them for the fish,"

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, I can try that," he stared down at the clear water, trying to watch out for anything at all. For the longest time the boys were completely silent, stil and unmoving. Then abruptly John broke the peace, bending over and splashing his hands in the water. He stood back up with a grin.

"See?" he said to Sherlock, holding his cupped hands out to the younger boy.

"You got it!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaning over to watch the silvery minnow swim in the minuscule pool that Johns hands made up. "Now what?" He asked, looking back up at the blond.

"Well, now you let it go again," John bent down and set his hands gently back in the water, releasing the fish. He watched it run downstream then stood back up, drying his hands on his trouser legs.

"What did you do that for?" Sherlock asked in shock.

"Well, you can't keep it forever, you know. The point is really just the fun of catching it. Then you have to return it to the water.

"Why can't you keep it as a pet, or something...?"

"Well, first off, my mum would never let me. But also, it belongs in the river, you gotta let it be free, you know?" John replied.

"I suppose," Sherlock agreed. Then he slipped.

It was very sudden, unexpected to the both of them. He had lost his footing on the wet rocks within the water, and had fallen forwards, luckily catching himself with his palms. But not before hitting his leg against a sharp rock barely visible from under the water. The eight-year-old ended up sitting in the riverbed, soaked to the skin past his waist. His hands were sore and red from catching himself on the pebbles. But that wasnt the worst of it. His leg was searing in pain, and as Sherlock got a look at it, he saw the cause.

In the middle of his shin was a deep cut, bleeding profusely into the water and creating a red silky solution as it combined with the clear liquid.

"Ow," he made out, in combination of a whine and a groan. It hurt, a lot.

"Sherlock!" John had cried, rushing over to help his friend and seeing the damage. "Sherlock, come on," he help the younger boy stand up, or try to. Sherlock collapsed slightly upon putting weight in his leg. John held the boy up and helped him out of the river and to the creek edge, sitting him down again. Sherlock shivered from his soaked clothes. He gave a soft whimper as the pain became more intense from being out in the open air. The cool water had atleast helped in numbing his leg.

John knelt beside him, his face full of panic. "Um, hold on, alright. I'll get my mum," he told Sherlock quickly, standing up and rushing away out of the forest and across the field to his house, before Sherlock could stop him.

The eight-year-old held himself up in a sitting position, his cut leg stretched out in front of him. He was alone, in the forest, and he didnt like it. He leaned forwards to take another look at his leg. It was pretty bad, and still bleeding generously. He looked around him. What was taking John so long. For a moment he thought perhaps the blond wasnt returning, but then he heard twigs snapping and someone running into the woods. Behind him came his mother, Mrs. Watson, the women that worked for Sherlocks parents. She wasnt rushing quite as much as her son, but when she saw Sherlock on the ground, his leg, and recognizing him as her employers son, her face turned to one of worry. She knelt down next to Sherlock.

"You alright?" She asked, though could tell he wasnt.

Sherlock shook his head. "It hurts," he whimpered, as though it werent obvious. And then Mrs. Watson was placing one arm under his knees, and the other behind his back, lifting him up carefully from the ground.

"We're going to get you fixed up, then get you home," She told him reassuringly. Sherlock didnt do or say anything as he was carried out of the woods and towards Johns house. John followed behind. Mrs. Watson didnt seem to mind that he was soaking wet, and getting her dress as equally so. They crossed the field, the road, and John was rushing forwards to open the door to their house for them. Mrs. Watson carried Sherlock into their front room, setting him in a chair. Once again, not caring that his clothes were wet.

"John, get a towel, please," she told her son, who rushed off to do so.

"Master Holmes, dear, I'll be right back." She left Sherlock alone once more. The eight-year-old found it strange how she hadn't used his first name, although he was confident she knew it. In a few minutes she returned with a metal bowl, a damp cloth, and a roll of bandages. John returned as well, a faded red, almost orange towel in hand.

"Here, wrap yourself in this," she handed Sherlock the towel, and he did draped it over his shoulders and around his arms. It helped a bit with the cold. Then Johns mum went to work on his leg. She cleaned it first, with the cloth, rinsing it out into the bowl of water every so often. Sherlock winced each time, and John watched carefully off to the side, aware each time Sherlock made a whimper.

When his leg was clean, and it was easy to see the cut now that the blood had all been cleared away, Mrs. Watson took out the bandage and began wrapping it tightly around his leg. When she was done she left the room silently, bringing the used the supplies with her.

Sherlock finally got a chance to look around at the house and the room he was in. Both were very small. There wasnt that much stuff in it. The chair he sat it was well used and old. The towel wrapped around him equally so, and faded. He doubted the house had a second story, just the hallway that went back further into the house, containing the bedrooms, he assumed. This house was much different from his own. And he realized just how poor John and his family might be. That was one reason being why his parents wouldn't have wanted him to hang out with John. The Watsons not being as well off as his own family, the Holmes.

He looked to John. "I should go," he nearly whispered, pushing himself off the couch as best he could with his sore leg.

"We can take you home, my mum should be heading there soon anyways," John offered.

"No, it's alright. You've done enough already. Tell your mother thanks." Sherlock returned, removing the towel from around his shoulders and setting it gently on the chair. He limped his way over to the door, and opened it. John came out then waved goodbye before heading deeper into the house. As Sherlock was exiting, Mrs. Watson came out from the kitchen now that her son was gone. She stood in the doorway, and Sherlock noticing, turned before heading farther.

"If they ask, you never talked to my son."

"I-," Sherlock started before she cut him off. He didnt understand fully.

"You were playing in the forest, and fell in the creek. I was outside and saw and helped you. John was not around, understand?"

Sherlock swallowed then nodded. What was the point of this precaution? He knew he had to be careful about what he said to his parents anyways, but now he was being told to outright lie. By an adult.

"Tell me in words you understand, promise me," Mrs Watson added sternly.

"I, er, yes, yes I will." Sherlock nodded quickly, turning to leave again.

"Sherlock," she called out again after him. Sherlock paused again and turned from where he was halfway across the road. Shed used his name this time. "Thank you, for playing with my son," The boy gave a small nod and smile and then Mrs. Watson was gone back inside. The front door closed and Sherlock turned away again, limping, half running his way back into the forest and to his house, stopping first for his shoes at the creekbed. When he got home, he would have to quickly run upstairs and change, then make sure his bandage was unnoticeable. Maybe he could practice covering his limp too so his parents wouldn't see. Mrs. Watson had wanted him to lie about the whole thing, but what if he just never told them.

The eight-year-old had been expecting his mum to be waiting for him at the door. And he hadn't had time to cover up his limp, or roll down his trouser leg where the bandage was covering his cut.

"Sherlock!" She gasped, running forwards to embrace his shoulder. Then feeling how wet his clothes were, she kneeled down in front of him on the gravel. "Sherlock, darling, what happened? Why are you all wet? Are you alright? Oh, Sherlock, what were you doing? Who did this?"

"Mum, it's alright, I fell in the river." He mumbled. So much for covering it up.

"Yes, but... who did this?" She pointed to the bandage on his leg.

"Oh, Mrs. Watson did. Apparently she lives nearby the forest. She helped me." Sherlock said it with a grin, as if it were a good thing. Were it not?

"Sherlock, come inside," his mother told him quickly, ushering him forwards, fast, but slow enough for him to do so with his leg. She kneeled before her son again, in front of the stairs. "You're going to go upstairs right now, and change. Then when your father comes home, you'll tell him you scraped it outside in the backyard. Mary fixed it up, and I'm going to go tell her that. You mustn't tell him you were in the forest, or that-"

"Mum, I don't understand-" Sherlock cut in.

"Sherlock, shh. Don't please, just do as I ask." She pleaded.

Just then the front door was opened, and Mr Holmes stepped in, briefcase in hand. He hung up his hand and coat, set down his bag, then noticed Sherlock standing there sopping wet, and Mrs. Holmes crouched in front of him.

"What the hell is this? What happened Sherlock?"

"I, er-" Sherlock looked to his mum who nodded. He might as well says the truth now that his father had seen him. Or, atleast what his mother assumed was the truth. "I was playing in the woods by the field, in the creek, and I slipped and fell. But Mrs Watson was nearby and she heard me and brought me to her house and fixed it up," he said quickly, pointing to his leg but not daring to leave eye contact with his father.

"Mrs. Watson?" Mr. Holmes repeated in question.

"Yes, mrs. Watson, the cook." Sherlock said again, quietly.

"Did she help you home?"

"No, she just fixed it up, then told me to come back home right away."

"It was just her, correct?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes, just mrs Watson." He wanted to asked, 'why should there have been someone else?' But knew that would land him in trouble for being smart. But more importantly, why was his dad asking. Obviously she knew Mrs. Watson had a son. So did he suspect John and Sherlock playing.

Mr. Holmes gave a curt nod. "I don't want you playing in the forest, again. What did I tell you about doing so? And on your own of all things, do you understand. It's too dangerous to be alone out there, see? This is what happens! You are not go in there again by yourself. And don't ever go as far as the creek or field again, and especially not by that house, do you understand me?" Mr. Holmes spoke very loudly.

All Sherlock could do was nod slowly, trying not to show his wide eyes of fear of getting in more trouble then just this.

"I don't want to see you passing that tree line. Ever. Again." He repeated before storming off and heading into his office, the door slamming harder than he probably should have behind him.

A few moments of silence between Sherlock and his mother, than Mrs. Holmes brushed the curls out of her sons eyes.

"Sherlock, go change, please," she requested, standing up and turning him around to face the stairs. "I'll call you down for supper." she added before leaving him on his own and heading into his fathers office, closing the door much softer than Mr Holmes had.

Once upstairs Sherlock changed out of his wet clothes, then flopped onto his bed. He set his head in his pillow, and cried. Softly, not enough for anyone to hear. Especially Mycroft who was only in the next room over. But he did. And when the boy finally lifted his head up, his eyes red, glistening tears running down his cheeks, he just sat there. Didnt move. Didnt make a noise. He crawled across the bed to the window, standing up on the mattress and holding onto the sill so he could lean over the frame and try to see anything. It had grown dark in the last while of him being upstairs. You couldn't see past the forest. Sherlock could make out the little clearing, that meant the field, and the road, the creek, Johns house. He couldn't ever go there again, or he would get in even more trouble. Was he in trouble? He didnt know yet.

From downstairs, Sherlock heard his mother leave the study, then voices in the kitchen. She would be upstairs soon. The eight-year-old stepped off his bed quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

A few moments later Sherlocks mum came into the room. She saw him on his bed, coming over to join him.

"Does it still hurt?" Sherlock gave a small nod in reply. "I think we should stay out of the forest for a little while, okay? And it'll be much colder soon, I don't want you outside anyways." She continued, and gave him a small smile, having requested it much more calmly than his father had. "Why don't you come down for some supper, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and stood up, his mother following after him as he headed downstairs, noting how she had avoided talking about their previous discussion.

Mr. Holmes was not at the table, apparently stuck with work to do in his office. Sherlock sat there for a good few minutes, stirring his soup around in his bowl until finally his mother told him to stop and eat it. He did. Slowly. He hated this. He'd just been forgiven by John too. And now he wouldn't be allowed back to play with the other boy, probably forever. And his parents would easily be able to keep him from doing so.

Sherlock glanced up from his food. Mycroft caught his eye and they locked the contact for a moment before the eight-year-old looked away again. There was no doubt his older brother had been told what had happened, especially after their father had left the discussion rather loudly. But Sherlock also knew that Mycroft had guessed the whole story. The younger Holmes had not been alone at the creek, the elder brother knew that much. Though it didn't matter now anymore, and he wouldn't say anything about it anyway.

Mycroft left the table first, to go invest in some new textbook Mr. Richards had recommended. Their mother stayed behind, even though already done, waiting until Sherlock was finished putting off clearing his own bowl. When he was finally done and Mary cleared the dishes, Mrs. Holmes spoke up again.

"Go upstairs and change for bed. Perhaps lie there and read a book for a little while, rest your leg a bit. It should feel better in the morning." She suggested.

Sherlock did as he was told, giving his mother a light kiss on the cheek with a breif murmured 'goodnight' before hurrying on his way out of the dining room. He paused halfway on the stairs, looking back to see if his mother had left the room yet. She hadn't, and he turned to continue up, taking his time and careful not to put full pressure on his sore leg.

He got upstairs again, pausing outside Mycroft door. Sherlock wondered why his brother hadn't said anything, though the eight-year-old wouldn't mention it, thanking his brother silently for keeping the secret all this time. He knew now how mad his father would be if he'd known John was his friend.

Sherlock continued into his room, changing once more into his pyjamas. Then he flopped on his back onto his bed, the mattress springs squeaking slightly underneath him. Maybe... no, it would be a risk, and it might not work even. But... maybe, just maybe sherlock could send a note along with Mrs. Watson, for her to deliver to John. Sherlock could explain everything. Perhaps even the blond could send something back. The eight-year-old didn't know how he would get a note to the cook anyways, not allowed in the kitchen anymore since John had been there the one time. But he would write one anyways, and see if it was a possibility to send it.

With his mind only slightly more at ease, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. It was already dark enough for the moonbeams to light the room up slightly through the window pane. He lay there silently, thinking through the events of the day. Everything had all happened rather quickly. But there was still an aching pit in his stomach over the idea that he may never see the boy with the jumpers ever again