'Sherlock.'

'Brother.'

'Are you going to make a deduction on what they found in your lovely blood?'

Sherlock tensed.

'I thought as much. Anyway, the nurse over there said you're going to have to come home with one of us.'

Sherlock sighed, stretched out and tensed again.

'I'm not going home with you, dear brother.'

After about ten minuets of this happening, more or less, Lestrade suddenly decided that it was his time to step in.

'He could come home with me.'

They both stared at him.

'He could sleep on the sofa,' Lestrade continued, 'I could look after him.'

They both stared at him. But then Mycroft nodded, slowly.

'That sounds adequate.'

Sherlock sighed in relief.

-=|SHERLOCK|=-

'Well, this is my set of flats.' Lestrade ventured out for a conversation.

'I've been here before.'

Lestrade took this in.

'You've been inside my flat?'

'Only the kitchen and living room.'

'Right.'

They walked up the stairs to Lestrades flat.

'Well, I guess you know where everything is, pretty much.'

'Yes.'

'It's near dinner-time. What do you want?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'You must be! The last time you ate was about 5 hours ago.'

'I said I'm not hungry!'

'Well, I'll make you some pasta and you can pick at that if you want.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade made his way into the kitchen; Sherlock plonked himself down on the sofa, putting his feet up. No manners. That's one more thing learnt about this strange man. Once the pasta had cooked, Lestrade called Sherlock through to get his pasta. When Sherlock didn't move Lestrade brought it through to him, moving case files off the coffee table.

'Here. Eat this.' They ate in silence, once Lestrade had finished (Sherlock had only poked the food) he needed to go out the filling station just round the corner to get milk. When he got back, Sherlock's bowl of pasta was practically licked clean. But Sherlock was no-where to be found.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade called out to the empty spaces. He checked round all the rooms, panic starting to bubble up from his gut. He checked the bathroom, but he found nothing, apart from the boiler-room door was ajar. When he opened it, he found Sherlock curled up, asleep, next to the boiler.

'Sherlock, why are you in here?'

The laughing. Does it ever stop? There was nowhere where Sherlock could just be without someone being there, asking why he was reading medical journals, or taunting him about his lack of friends, these where only some of the jibes streamlined to Sherlock. He roamed the school, trying to find somewhere, anywhere where he could spend his lunch hour in peace. But one day he was wandering the corridors of the school alone, lost in his own world. He noticed a heat to his left side. He frowned, and before he had even turned his head he had narrowed this heat down to the boiler room, supplying the school with hot water. The door was ajar, projecting the heat across the corridor. Sherlock glanced left and right, slowly pulling the door open. Inside was the cleaner, a semi-balm 50 year old in a blue t-shirt and blue trousers.

Wife just left him (Unshaven, messy, shirt cuffs are frayed). Daughter (Crease lines on forehead, speck of pink nail varnish on boots).

'Oy! What are you doing?'

'I need somewhere to read.'

'This isn't the library.'

'I noticed.'

The man stared at Sherlock.

'So what's your name?'

'Sherlock. What's yours?'

'Craig.'

'So can I read here?'

'I suppose.'

Sherlock sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, taking in the room. There where two circular tanks, next to each other with a maze of pipes leading up and through the walls. The room was in semi-darkness, with a dim bare light bulb lighting up the room.

Sherlock continued to come to the damp room each lunchtime. Craig always gave him tea, and sometimes they talked. It was a nice break and Sherlock began to learn little things about him. Craig liked milk in his tea, his daughter was called Sophie, his wife was called Megan, he had a cat (Sherlock had actually deduced this) called Artemis, he had worked in the local supermarket (before it shut down), he worked with wood in his spare time, and many other little things.

'But I don't know anything about you.'

'What? You know my name is Sherlock, and I like to read.'

'Yes, but, okay. Do you have any siblings?'

'A brother, Mycroft. He's going to uni next year, though.'

'Does he know which one?'

'He wants Oxford.'

'Do you think he will be accepted?'

'I guess.'

'Do you have any hobbies?'

'Err… well, it's not really a hobby…'

'Tell me!'

'I like to deduce stuff. Like a detector.'

'Well I know a detector who might be able to help you into a career.'

And so Sherlock met DI Risumhomo, an Italian detective with a wicked humour.

'What?'

'Sherlock, why are you in the boiler room?'

'No reason!' Sherlock yelled a little too loudly, leaping out of the room with some gusto.

'Sherlock, are you okay'?

'What? Yes. Yes. Why wouldn't I be? I'm fine.' And as he said it he collapsed on the floor, narrowly missing the shower.

'Sherlock!'

Lestrade dragged the man into the living room, hauling him onto the sofa.

''M fine…' Mumbled Sherlock.

'No, Sherlock, you get some sleep. It's getting late anyway. When did you last sleep?'

'Saturday…' His voice was slurred. It was probably killing him to stay awake.

'Sherlock! It's Friday! Right, well, I'll be in my room if you need me.'

'Why would I need you?'

'In case you need something?' Sherlock was asleep before he could even reply.

-=|AUTHERS NOTE|=-

Sorry it's short. Next one will be normal. Probably.