The bell rang and Sherlock and John sat at chairs that were pulled around Mr. G's desk. Mr. G watched as kids filed out of his class room, excited to finally go home. But not Sherlock. And not John. No. They were stuck in a talk with the teacher on the first day of school.

"do forgive me," Mr. G began as the last student left. "may you refresh me on your full legal names?" he looked to Sherlock.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said. Mr. G turned to John.
"Bilbo Baggins," John said. "but I prefer John." Mr. G didn't acknowledge John at all. He stared at Sherlock. Then John. Then he closed his eyes.
"have you, John, ever heard of a hobbit?" he asked in a extremely serious tone. John shook his head. Sherlock was almost choking as he stifled his laughter his face began turning red.
"Sherlock will you cease your childish behavior! This is a very serious matter," Mr. G scolded.
"he's never heard of a hobbit," Sherlock repeated.
"have you ever heard the stories of Sherlock Holmes, the detective inspector?" Mr. G challenged. Sherlock shook his head.
"see, I find that strange too. Out of all the people I know, it is you who doesn't know about Sherlock Holmes," John piped up.
"Mr. Baggins," Mr. G said, his tone reducing to only a simmer. "The both of you, listen to me. This is very serious. Do not take this lightly."
Sherlock and John unintentionally leaned in closer.
"if I told you that you both write your own stories by living every day of your life, would you believe me?" Mr. G said. Sherlock and John both hesitantly nodded.
"is this a sort of medifore or something?" John asked.
"no." John decided to be quiet.
"If I told you your stories run beside one another, does this make sense?" mr. G asks, now beginning to touch his staff. They nodded, though they weren't completely clear what he meant.
"now pretend your life's were two completely different stories. They don't have any relation to one another, and they suddenly crossed story lines. What do you think would happen to those stories?" Mr. G questioned. They were silent.
Suddenly, through the silence, they heard a knock on the door.
"sorry to interrupt," said a familiar female voice. They all turned to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the door way. "Mr. G, we have a meeting. I was told to fetch you."
Mr. G looked back to Sherlock and John.
"think about it. Who are you and what is your story. It might help you in the assignment. See you two next class," mr. G said, grabbing his staff and rising from his seat and meeting Mrs. Hudson at the door. Sherlock and John looked at each-other.
"that is what we stayed in for? Tips on how to do our project?" Sherlock protested as mr. G left the classroom.
"that one's a whack-job, isn't he," John muttered.
"complete nutter. So! Meet me at my house tomorrow after school. 2212 Elementary Road," Sherlock said and left, clutching his copy of the Hobbit In his hand. John took a moment to watch Sherlock walk out the room. There went a new friend. A strange one, indeed, but still a friend.

Sherlock strolled to his locker. As he opened his locker and grabbed his pack, he examined his book. It made him think of his strange discussion with Mr. G. He wanted to understand so badly. So many questions. Sherlock decided on one thing: Mr. G's medifores were terrible.
Then Sherlock thought of John. Small John. He was a little above average intelligence, but he probably forgot Sherlock's address by now. Sherlock took a sticky note and pen and jotting down his address. John wasn't at his locker yet and Sherlock knew he would be gone before John wound reach his locker, so he stuck it on John's locker door. As Sherlock turned back to his own locker, he swallowed back excitement.
"a deck of cards? Really? Who do you play with?" said Jim as he rummaged through Sherlock's locker. Sherlock pushed Jim aside.
"keep it, I don't use them anymore," Sherlock said as he secretly seethed with hatred. Jim shrugged and pocketed the deck of cards.
"guess what!" Jim said bouncing back to Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I don't want to play your games again," Sherlock said.
"I understand. No one likes to be a loser," Jim mocked.
"your games are unfair!" Sherlock objected. Jim grinned wildly. He leaned close.
"its ok. You don't have to play. But..." Jim mumbled, turning on the balls of his feet. Then he looked back. "I know something you don't know." Sherlock thought about it for a second. It was kind of early in the year for Jim to be tampering with his personal life, but he rolled his eyes anyway.
"why should I care. There are lost of things in this worlds I don't know yet," Sherlock said.
"well, this one, you would never figure out without me," Jim said with a shrug. Sherlock went silent, knowing where this was heading.
"why?"
"because you," Jim pushed a finger to Sherlock's chest, "don't understand other people's emotions."
"what do you mean! People can be sad, angry, happy-" Jim's one finger was slowly join by the others and they curled around Sherlock's shirt.
"but can you identify them?"
Sherlock stopped himself. He asked himself the question over and over again in his mind before deciding on a safe responce.
"get off me Jim," Sherlock whispered through clenched teeth. Jim let go and took one big exaggerated step back with his hands up in the air.
"three guesses Sherlock and three clues: that is all you get," Jim said. "then again, that is all you really need." Jim winked at Sherlock then trotted away down the hall. Sherlock was seething. He grabbed his pack and shut his locker, storming out of Baker Secondary, the Hobbit in his hand.

John strolled down the halls of the school. He could at least recognize where he was. He noticed all the cliques. It wasn't hard to tell what they were into either. He saw all the jocks one one side of the hall - he heard them talking about an upcoming football game - the nerds and the pretty girls and the out casts that usually huddled in small groups in dark corners. Then there were the punks. They stared. John stared back. Then, he recognized a face. That girl. The one Sherlock fancied. Suddenly, she was walking towards him.
"you're new," she said again. "welcome."
"ah ya, I know," John replied, trying to go around.
"are you and Sherlock friends?" she asked, flipping her black hair back.
"ya, I guess," John shrugged, beginng to walk around again.
"I'm Irene," she said. "you should probably know. And you are?"
"John," he mumbled, walking passed her and continuing down the hall. Then a hand was on his shoulder. He turned around.
"are you-" she began, but she paused, as if the sentence wasn't sounding right I n her head. "Do you know Dorothy?"
John raised an eyebrow. "am I supposed to know Dorothy?"
"nevermind. I think you do, but just haven't met her yet," Irene said and walked away. John was so confused.
He got to his locker. He found the sticky not Sherlock left him and pocketed it. John had been thinking about what "do you know Dorothy" meant. He knew it couldn't have been an actually person. It was code for something. John got his things and left.
John came home to an empty house. No people, scarce furniture. Boxes and packing paper here and there.
Home sweet home.
John climbed the silent stairs and went down the blank hall to his room. Only his bed and his dresser was present. He put his backpack at the foot of his bed and eyed the boxes in the corner. He didn't want to touch them. All the things from his past were there. He was not fond of the past. He sat on his bed. It sunk a bit.
"Maybe a new mattress," he said aloud. His voice echoed on the walls. This house was as empty as he was. John picked up his book. The hobbit. Why did this seem so familiar yet so foreign. He read a bit.
After a while, his feet began to ache. John laid down. He read a while longer. He found it very amusing how Bilbo didn't want any adventures, though that was all he seemed to be getting. Reminded him of himself a bit. John chuckled. Sherlock was right. It really was a children's book. No where near grade 10 matterial.
John itched his feet. They ached to no end. He decided to walk around a bit. May as well explore the house.
He went out to the empty hall way. His door was the first of the four in the hall way. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. He went down stairs to the living room. There was a little mantel over the fire place. At least his mother had managed to put up one picture. An old family Christmas picture.
There stood John's family. Everyone seemed so innocent. His mother and father were actually smiling. His sister, so young and untouched, sat in a lovely dress, he hair tied back in a braid. Then there was John. He was maybe only 7 in the picture. He noticed how curly it was. And longer. It made him think of Sherlock.
It was only one day. They only knew each-other for one day and yet... John didn't want to think about it that way. He can't trust anyone like that so quickly. His naivety is what made him give it all up last time. He could not repeat the past. He would not.
John noticed he had picked the picture up. He put it back. He move on to the dining table. He found, on the table, an empty bottle laying on its side. John rolled his eyes and swiped it. He took it to the full bottle return box. He couldn't believe it was full. No. He could believe that quiet easily. What he couldn't believe was that his parents let Harriet do it.
John opened the fridge. He pushed aside the leftovers from last night's take-out meal and took the water pitcher. He poured himself a glass.
John traipsed into the living room where he sat down on the single couch. There wasn't anything else in the room, so he looked out the window. Snow fell.
The door opened.
"look what the cat dragged in," John mumbled, not making eye contact.
"hey," his sister replied sounding drowsy as ever. She wobbled her way to the kitchen where John heard glass clink. No doubt she was pouring herself a glass of poison.
John decided to leave before he could experience any more. He calmly walked out of the living room, trying to hide his anxiousness to evacuate.

In his bedroom, John laid on his bed. He reflected on today, but, honestly, he could only think about PE. Jim in Gym, John chuckled to himself, trying to make the thoughts less awkward for himself to digest. He recalled the way he looked at him. Well, I guess it was more of an evaluation. The gaze from across the room. The shiver down his spine as he pulled a shirt over his head. Flattery poured over him, but it felt wrong. He didn't even know Jim. Nor who he was or what he does. None the less, John liked it.

Why must it be a guy? John rolled over onto his side. Girls are nice. Girls are pretty. Girls are fun. Why? A girl can be so smart and kind, but John, you can stop right there because you sir, you won the golden ticket to the attraction called BOYS.

John got out of bed. He grabbed a box and began to unpack it.