A/N: Hey my sweet readers! :) I'm thinking about making this chapter a poem. Not entirely a poem, but have poems in it. This is about in fourth grade. Answers to reviews

Rubbish Robot- It's okay. I'll try working on those points. Thank you for pointing those out to me. :)

lavanyalabelle- It was. Thank you for your support! :)

Sherlock and I shared the same English class together. One day, our teacher (I'm sorry, I forget her name!) told us that we had to write a poem. It could be any kind, haiku, tanka, free-verse, etc. It also had to be on a school appropriate subject. I didn't know what to write, but Sherlock already started. I wrote a list of things that would probably be considered "school appropriate".

Flowers

Sunsets

Rainbows

Love

Nothing caught my interest. Except love. I took the word and tried to match it to something. I thought of Sherlock. Why Sherlock? He wouldn't commit to a relationship. I've known him for years, yes, but I didn't think he would. The classroom was silent except for the sounds of pencils on paper.

"Sherlock," I whispered, nudging him gently.

"Hmm?"

"Have you started writing your poem?"

"Yes, I would prefer it if you won't ask to read it," he whispered back.

"Sherlock, please, I don't know what to write," I pleaded quietly.

He huffed but slid his notebook over to me.

"In a dark world, I met a flower.

It was unlike another I've seen,

It glowed with a bright light in the first hour.

I was going to make her my queen.

But it started to fade slowly

I pleaded for it to go back the it was.

My problem was only

The harder I tried, the faster it faded was because

It was the center of my lonely world,

Making everything inside swirled."

"Who?" I asked, looking Sherlock.

"Who what?"

"Who are you referring to in it?"

"I'll tell you after school. At our usual spot."

"Can you help me with this, though?"

"Da, moy tsvetok."*

I gave him a confused look.

"Here, what about these?" He wrote down a few words, then slid the paper over to me.

Angel

Light

Brilliant

Perfect

I couldn't believe what I was reading. Immediately, I started coming up with a poem.

In Sherlock's treehouse, I sat in my usual spot across from Sherlock.

"Okay, so who was that poem about," I asked.

"I thought that it was obvious," he stated, gazing cooly at me.

"I don't get it. Please explain, Sherlock," I politely asked.

"How did your poem turn out?" He evaded.

"Sherlock, answer me, please!" I pleaded.

He looked down and whispered, "And the angel doesn't know."

I almost didn't hear him. "What? I-I'm an angel? You think I'm an angel?"

"No," he said, looking back up at me.

A hot knife cut into my heart mercilessly. It felt like my soul was ripped to pieces because of the simplest of words. I didn't let the pain show. Daddy was almost always laughing and smiling, but I could see past his mask. And in return, because of that and school (except for Sherlock) I learned how to make and fix my own.

"I don't think you are. I know you are."

A/N: I hope this was a good chapter. Free virtual hugs for everyone! :D *Sherlock says "Yes, my flower," in Russain pronunciation.