Sherlock was reading under a tree; he did not notice the other child staring at him.

'I hear that you know everythin' about everyone!'

Sherlock looked up. The child was a year above him: the boy was in year 5. His clothes where messy, with the threads fraying at the wrist of the sleeve, the term was only 3 weeks old, probably hand-me-downs. They where too big for him. He had a bruise on his cheek, it was too small to be a punch, and it was red around it. It was fresh, only no fights or anything of the sort had happened in the last three days. It was at home, then. The child's neck was tense; the rest of his body was too, only it was hidden by his clothes. He was spoiling for a fight.

Conclusion: The boy suffered from child abuse: his parents where poor and did not care about him. He had been probably bullied at a previous school, he would be delighted to find someone whom he could be counted as 'above'.

'Then what you have heard is untrue.'

The boy didn't move. He was still tense. Sherlock went back to his book.

'Ha! I don' think so!'

Sherlock glanced at him again.

'Listen to me!'

Sherlock didn't look up.

The boy's friend in the same year ambled by: and stood by his friend, interested to hear where this was going.

'Whassup, Mike?'

'This little freak isn't listening to me!'

Sherlock had stopped reading, his eyes staying still on the page. But the boys where too stupid to notice, as ever.

'Well, we'll have to do something about that.'

The boys took a step closer. Sherlock held his breath. He couldn't let himself be beaten up… again. The bruises had only just faded from his last attack.

'Wait!' Sherlock burst out. The boys raised their eyebrows. 'If you don't hurt me,' at this the boys sniggered, 'I'll tell you about Mike!'

The boys glanced at each other: this would be fun.

'Okay then. Tell me about myself.'

Sherlock took a deep breath.

'Your clothes are old: the cloth's thread has frayed. So they're hand-me-downs or from last year. You could have done that this year, but we're three weeks in. You wouldn't have done that already. For a start, you would be told off by your parents. That's your mum and dad,' Sherlock added with raised eyebrows, 'You've got a bruise on your cheek, but there haven't been any fights in the last three days, and the bruise is resent. Last 24 hours at the most: so your mum and dad don't just tell you off: your father, which is more likely, beats you with something: probably a belt, the marks are the right size. The fact that you've got either hand-me-downs or are having to wear last years uniform means that your parents aren't poor, but don't have as much money to spend as they like. And that you get beaten and you've not got new uniform despite the fact that it's clearly in need or repair or a new replacement means that they don't really care about you.'

Sherlock sat, panting slightly, as Mike stood staring, transfixed. His friend glanced at Mike with a worried look.

'You alright, mate?'

'How did you…? You… freak! You've been spying on me!' The boy aimed a kick at Sherlock, which he quickly dodged by rolling over. Sherlock's finger, witch had been keeping his page on his book, slipped out. Sherlock sighed. Sherlock leapt up and began to run, forgetting his book, Mike and his friend hot at his heels.

'You can't out run us, freak!' called one of the boys.

'We'll see about that' Sherlock muttered under his breath.

They where now running through the play-ground. Other children where running, skipping, chatting but none, oddly enough, fearing for their life. The staff who where on duty, watching over the kids with a cup of coffee in hand, didn't notice anything wrong with a eight year old child running full pelt with two older kids behind him. Of course they wouldn't. They where stupid like the rest of them.

Sherlock ran on, barely out of breath, but the other boys where beginning to slow a little. They had now reached the bottom of the L shaped building. Sherlock spotted a dustbin, and leapt onto it and then onto the roof. The boys slowed just in time, panting heavily.

'How did he get up there?' asked Mike through big breaths. The other boy shrugged.

Sherlock turned, his back facing the boys, and grinned to himself. He'd be told off by his mother later, but it was worth it for outrunning two older boys.

But then the whistle, making everyone stop, rang out through the playground.

'SHERLOCK HOLMES! GET DOWN HERE NOW!'

Sherlock wasn't grinning anymore.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

I was finishing off a bacon butty when I heard the whistling. The tune summoning the closest Irregular to Mister Holmes. I stuffed the rest of the butty in her mouth and walked over to where the whistling was coming from. Then I spotted Mister Holmes walking out of some hotel, and strode towards him.

'Get any change, sir?'

'For what?'

'For a cup of tea, of course!

He slipped me a piece of paper. On it, was written,

Get to Lestrade. I need his flat keys. Office third on the left. Grey hair, brown jacket. His keys have a dark blue key ring on. £50.

I held back a grin, and nodded. I walked over to the New Scotland Yard. It's a police place, wasn't it? I didn't know. I slipped inside. It was a nice place, with people busying about. No-one gave me a second glance. I was just a witness, or a victim to them. I counted one door, two doors, three doors. I looked behind my shoulder, and slipped inside. More people, no more than the first glance. Then I heard someone calling.

'Anderson!' A man called out. Grey hair… brown jacket! This was my man.

'Yes boss?' A man replied.

'Get a forensics team together, and get Donovan to get a police team together.'

'Yes boss. What case are we on?'

'The new case, the one with the suicide.'

'Okay.' The man turned and headed off. He was no longer important to me.

Lestrade turned back to sit at his desk. He started to pull out papers and eventually a key with three key rings on… a red one, a photo one and a dark blue one. Five minuets later, after rifling through a file, he got up and made his way to the door. This was my chance. He was heading straight towards it… good. As he was about halfway to the exit, I stood in front of him, when he turned his head to look. He rammed into me, tipping me over.

'Sorry! Sorry!' I said, putting on my best worried my-husbands-just-been-shot voice.

'What? Oh, no worries.' He held out a hand for me to help pick myself up with. I clasped my left hand in his right and pulled myself up. I pretended to over balance and staggered forward, almost ramming into his right side. As I went past, my hand shot into his pocket. I pulled out the keys and quickly hid them in my jeans pockets.

'Thanks. Sorry again, I should've been looking where I was going!' I said.

'Oh, no, it was my fault.' He smiled.

'Bye.' I smiled at him.

'Bye.' He continued on to the exit.

I hung about, waiting for Anderson and his group to leave. When they did, I tagged along the back. I went back down the corridor and out of the exit. Mister Holmes was leaning against a lamp-post. When I came out and he saw me, I asked him:

'Any change, sir?' I was almost next to him now.

'Don't mind if I do!' He held his hand out just in front of him. In his palm was a £50 note. I took the note, and gave him the keys. He grinned at me, and walked off down the road. Just as before he turned a corner, I noticed a slight swag in his step.