And here I'm again - posting the first chapter. Thanks a lot to Samayori for the review, I really appreciate it and I'll try to follow your advice ^^

Chapter 1 – The first step is always the hardest

One year and 3 months later.

He was floating. Floating into nothingness. There wasn't any color, all was black. It was freezing, his teeth were chattering, but he couldn't hear anything. There was an absolute absence of sound. It was strange, but it wasn't frightening. He kept floating, it was peaceful, he was at ease, for once his ever whirling mind was put to halt. He decided he liked it, until...

"Freak!" an angry voice shouted. He nearly fell out of bed as somebody thundered against his bedroom door. "Get your lazy ass down here at once." Still sleepy he rubbed his eyes. The voice called again, sounding even more irate than before. Light was floating through the window opposite to his bed, the thick blue curtains weren't closed. Normally they would stay open, for he didn't bother to sleep. He rarely ever slept. To sleep meant horror, it meant nightmares. Strangely enough he did sleep the previous night. From time to time he lost the battle against his body – his transport.

The light on his bedside table was still on and the book which he was reading some hours before lay right beside his pillow. A yawn forced itself upon him, he aborted it.

He didn't even remember falling asleep, but it seemed as he had been sleeping at least three hours. Which would be three hours more than he normally got. Nevertheless he was still tired.

"Sherlock!", the voice sounded furious and outright hateful by now. Uh, back to names than, that was never a good sign. "Coming..."; the boy murmured.

It didn't take him long to make himself ready, although with his right hand being in a cast getting dressed was an interesting affair, and to descend from his first floor bedroom down to the kitchen as his father ordered. He was pretty sure his father only wanted him to join breakfast because he knew Sherlock disliked it. As usual he ate very little and he felt the dark eyes of his father boring into his head. Like any other day Sherlock ignored him, his face an ever stoic mask, showing nothing, knowing quite well it would irritate the other even more. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew. There was only so much his father was going to take from him.

"Get going.", the man growled and Sherlock almost flinched at the harsh sound, startled. But his face was as indifferent as it always was when he did as he was told. Eventually it wouldn't do him any good to disobey the other and anger him even more.

Within five minutes he was out of the door. However, he wasn't fast enough, for his father had shoved him again into the door and the handle had made painful contact with his left tight.

It didn't really hurt, not like other times, but his stomach strongly disapproved of the manhandling this early in the morning accompanied with the food it was forced to digest. He made it to the trash bin just in time. His stomach seized and he emptied its contents violently behind the trash. The episode passed as quickly as it begun. He starred at the floor, tears clouding his eyes and the sour smell of vomit assaulting his nose. This has become a frightening habit of his.

He choked again, but his stomach was empty now. "Shit...", he whispered silently.

"Sherlock!", this time, it was his brother. He tried to stand straight, but he could see the worry on his face already. Of course, none besides him would recognize the slightly lifted eyebrow and the almost invisible twitch of the corner of his mouth as "worry", but Sherlock knew his brother better than he cared to admit.

Mycroft was at his side even before he could try and get away from the trash bins. "You're even more pale than you normally are, little brother. You're sick again? And what happened to your arm?", he asked, his voice steady but Sherlock could hear the soft quiver in it. "I'm okay, just fell off the stairs.", he brushed it off. They both knew the story about falling down the stairs was a blatant lie, but neither of them said anything about it.

"This smell... you've thrown up yet again? You know, you should be more careful, eating in the morning...", he tuned his voice out. Since Mycroft had left the family-residence for university and after that started to work at the government, when they saw each other he would fuss even more over him than when they shared a home. They never were as close as after Mycroft started living elsewhere.

"Mycroft. Why are you here?" He felt his cold grey eyes on him. "Father.", he said. "He wanted to see me. Said something about me not being around since eastertime." He shrugged.

"Then you should go find him. Guess he's in the kitchen - that's where I last saw him."

Mycroft eyed him up critically. He knew perfectly well, what was going on in the big, dark mansion their father called his own. But Sherlock would never admit anything, although he tried to get him to talk quite a few times. Nevertheless, he couldn't do anything. Not against their father. Not with his political influence. Maybe sometime in the future, but for now he could only stand by and watch, as much as he loathed it.

Sherlock knew where his brother's thoughts where traveling, and he knew it was his fault. Somehow Mycroft would see right trough his facade of indifference and listlessness and with a squint of his dark gray eyes he would bring him to reveal himself.

"I need to go to school anyway." Mycroft nodded in agreement. And he left him standing in front of the grant family home with the extensive garden which seemed both somehow dull to him since he was living there alone with his father. He crossed his hands in front of his chest, his fingers clawed to the ends of the sleeves of his black pullover.

It was a sunny day and he enjoyed the walk to school. He liked nature, the feeling of absolute freedom surrounding him, and he embraced it greedily, although he knew it was just an illusion. Sometimes he wondered if this existence he led could be an illusion as well. That would clear some things up. Things like him going without food nor sleep for quite a few days and still not being admitted to a nuthouse.

"Sherlock?", a soft voice asked behind him. He slowed down a bit to allow the owner of the voice to catch up. A rather small girl appeared by his side, Helena something was here name. "Good morning.", she greeted. She lived in the house next to his father's, and made a habit of accompany him to the school he attended. Right next to it was the university she visited. Sherlock never talked to her much, but as she stated on the very first day they met, since he wasn't really talkative, she could do the talking for both of them. And after a month of more ore less mindless chatter and him trying to ignore her, he just gave up and succumbed to his fate. She wouldn't leave.

After another month she had him even waiting up for her, although he would never admit it. Of course her company had quite a few benefits, because there were no more... incidents on his way to and from school. Incidents like some idiots of his school beating him up – again. Since she was the daughter of the owner of one of his biggest enterprises in town, none had the bollocks to turn on her – or her friends, for that matter – openly.

Her dark eyes were searching his face, for what he didn't know. "You zoned out again.", she said, smiling slightly, flipping her long dark hair back. She was a rather ordinary girl, not really handsome, neither truly ugly. Her face was just a tiny bit to long, her eyes only a little bit to close to one another to be called pretty. But they were as dark as possible, and big, with long, full lashes, giving her an innocent air. Ever so often they would sparkle with laughter and mirth, making her face light up with some strange inner beauty.

She told him about her day, asking some questions in between and answering them herself because she knew he never really talked to anyone. It has been nearly a year since this strange relationship formed, it had been a week into the new school year, he remembered, on his way home he encountered three of his daily tormenters, as dull as dishwater, but rugby-players... Well, needless to say, he wouldn't have stood a chance against them. Helena interrupted their... fun, and although she was only a girl – and a small one at that – she send them running by threatening to tell her father. Most of the parents of the pupils from his school were involved with her father's enterprise, and everybody knew this little fact of course.

Sherlock didn't react well that day, scowling at her and telling her in round terms that he neither asked for her help nor needed it. She just shrugged it of, saying that this wasn't only his way to school, but hers too. And she simply wouldn't take another way. He huffed, but naturally could say anything against it. And then she just... stayed.

He glanced at her. She was two years his senior, but nevertheless more than a head shorter than him. Her frame was rather thin, and although she was about to turn 20 soon, she still had this childlike body and air around her. It was just her eyes that betrayed her true age, without them she could easily go for 15. On the rare occasions he talked to her, he had noticed she would crock her head into his direction. He could guess why – she displayed this behavior not only with him but also with others – she was hearing impaired. It seemed merely her right ear was affected since she made a habit of walking to his right side. Occasionally he wondered about it – why didn't she do anything about it? There were quite a few possibilities for her to improve her hearing. But then again he could imagine why...

"Sherlock?", she asked, and his thoughts returned to the present once more."I know you aren't listening, but maybe you should. I guess you'll need something to keep your astounding mind occupied with. I know that look of yours – you were just trying to depress yourself again, weren't you?"

"She knows me to damn well.", he noticed once more - he knew for a fact that his face didn't betrayed his feelings, it was the same stoic mask as ever. He had learned long ago not to wear his emotions on the sleeve. It would make things even more difficult than they were now. But somehow she would always know when he was spiraling down into one of his darker moods.

"Maybe I do. Since I know you for a year now, I guess that's not too hard.", she answered his inner thoughts, smiling up at him.

Sherlock wasn't looking at her. He wouldn't tell her that being with him wouldn't do the trick. She was very sensitive concerning his moods. But then again, she was the one he talked with the most. Or at all. If he talked – which he didn't do often.

Normally he didn't like people. They were loud, foul, greedy, brutal, nosy and were way to numerous for his liking. Being in school, in class, was like torture for him. He was called anti-social by all of them, and he was perfectly fine with that. For as far as he noticed, they liked him even less than he liked them.

School was as boring as ever. He sat in the back of the classroom, as far away from the rest of the pupils as he could get. The sun lit the room up, making it slightly less dull. It was a nice indian summer day. The leafs were already changing colours, but it was still warm enough to go without jackets.

"Class, today I would like to introduce you to our new student, John Watson. He has been transferred recently. Let's welcome him." This got Sherlock's attention. Next to his teacher stood a boy, man, whatever, an unknown male person. He was rather small, Sherlock noticed, compared to himself, and very slender with short ash-blonde hair. He looked tired. This was the first real school in quite a long time the boy attended, Sherlock deduced by the way this John-person held himself and his eyes flickered around the room seemingly finding and memorizing the exits and potential escapes. He seemed really uncomfortable, nervous. His bag hung low on his right shoulder, obviously because his left was injured. Most likely a car crash or something along the line maybe even an accident with rugby, which appeared to be the only sport which he had played.

"You will sit next to Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Holmes, please raise your hand." He did as he had been told. The new one flashed him a shy although bright smile and murmured a "Hello." but Sherlock ignored him, just like he did with the rest. However, he observed him from the corner of his eyes. He looked kind of good, he decided. Attractive. His eyes shone a bright blue, like the sky on a midsummer's day. Although it was rather warm outside he wore a dark blue long sleeved shirt and tight black jeans which hung kind of low on his hips, although they were well cared for, it was obvious that they were hand-me-downs, either from an older sibling or – more likely – from a second-hand-shop. What he could spot from the skin seemed to be nicely tanned. Yeah, this guy would be prey to Sally and the other girls, maybe even for some of the boys. He was not to be envied. They could be trouble, even dangerous sometimes if you didn't obey to their very thoughts.

Luckily, they never tried to hunt him down, though there were some remarkable incidents. And fortunately he convinced them rather fast to let him be.

Art class proved itself as dull as he thought it would be. They were told to do a still life of some apples, nothing too creative in his opinion. It seemed this school wouldn't be too different from the others he attended. The teacher who had taken him to his new class appeared to be okay, maybe a little bit shy and some what young for a high school teacher but he was friendly.

The principal was another story. The man knew as much as anyone could find out of his (rather large) files. He was wary and John was quite sure the man had done all he could so that he wouldn't be allowed on this school. But it was a public school after all and so they had to take him in. Although John had some strong suspicions that his sister did point the law out to the principal.

Strangely enough the teacher – whatever his name was – didn't seem to know anything about him. He couldn't believe the guy would have been so nice if he knew. Nobody was. Nobody – except his sister and his psychologist. Not even his mother did look at him the way she used to. And he suspected the psychologist only was because she was getting paid for being nice. Well, actually she was getting paid for helping him, but that includes being nice somehow, doesn't it?

What ever. The kids in the class just seemed as ordinary as the school itself. There wasn't anything special, he thought, until... until he saw him. The guy in the last row, sitting as far away from the others as humanly possible.

He was breathtaking. First of all this raven black curly hair making him stand out of the crowd, but the very moment the kid looked at him he nearly choked. The fascinating hair was forgotten the second he saw his eyes. They were the most piercing green he ever saw, gazing at him as if he could see right through his soul and that wasn't even oddest thing. They were cold, those breathtaking eyes, ice cold and indifferent. They were lifeless and yet there was a silent sparkle in them to which he couldn't put a name on. And he stared at him, the bright eyes wouldn't leave his for a second. They wouldn't look away, those bright, bright eyes... He didn't notice the teacher introducing him and he nearly missed when he told him to sit next to this gorgeous creature with the bright, cold eyes.

When he went to the back row he noticed the guy was watching him. He smiled shyly and greeted him, the other one didn't react in any way. John examined the other, he was actually very cute. Apart from his scary eyes, that was. He was rather tall from what he could see – surely at least 25 inches taller than him, and very slim, almost scrawny, his right arm and wrist were in a cast. His hair fell into his eyes and when they weren't directed at him, he reminding him of a lost puppy.

The moment the bell rang was a huge relieve – that class was even more boring than he anticipated.

"So, would you be so kind and show me how to get to room 306?", he asked the boy, Holmes, the teacher called him, next to him. The other only shrugged, seemingly having no interest to help him. But John wasn't one to back away only because someone showed him the cold shoulder. He was persistent, always had been. And right now, he wanted to get to know the other – and no one was going to stop him.

Thanks a lot for reading - I hope you liked it and I'd really love to hear what you think about it.

Countess