Sherlock grew up with only faint memories of his past. He didn't even know his own surname, and Mrs. Hudson certainly didn't help him piece things together. She always told him that he would be a danger to himself if he ever knew his own story. He had briefly considered the possibility that Mrs. Hudson had kidnapped him, but he had dismissed the idea. When he was still very young, he had called Mrs. Hudson "Mummy" just to try it out. She had raised him, after all. She scolded him and told him that he had real parents out there who would be devastated if he tried replacing them. A kidnapper surely wouldn't be so concerned about him remembering his real parents.

All he really knew was that he had grown up wealthy but had been sequestered in the forest for his own safety when he was very young. Safety was boring, he soon discovered. At twenty years old, he had explored and memorised as much of the forest as Mrs. Hudson would allow. She always wanted him to stay within sight of their little cottage, and she would become terribly upset if he ever strayed. Sherlock hated when Mrs. Hudson was upset with him, as it made their living situation much more difficult.

Mere months before Sherlock's twenty-first birthday, Mrs. Hudson began to go out into one of the closest towns "to talk to some people, dear, think nothing of it." Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what she was doing out there, but he suspected that she was partaking in some sort of covert meeting, as she always went at different times of the day, and judging by the directions he saw her leave, she was going to a different town each time. Love affair, perhaps? It seemed unlikely given her age, but it wasn't entirely impossible to conceive.

So Sherlock was left alone for several hours during the day with strict instructions to stay inside the cottage.

"Don't let anyone in," Mrs. Hudson always warned him before she left. "And don't you dare go out. I'll know it if you have."

Sherlock always rolled his eyes in response, because he knew better than to trust strangers, and he was certain that Mrs. Hudson would not know if he had been out, as he had gotten rather good at covering his tracks.

It was on one such day that Sherlock finally decided to make good on his talent for stealth. When Mrs. Hudson left for her secret meeting, Sherlock stole out of the cottage, taking care not to leave any trace that he had done so.

He took a small basket with him so that he might collect samples for one of his latest experiments while he was out. Mrs. Hudson never kept track of his experiments, so he could always convince her that he had already had the samples in his possession before that day. She would never know that they were fresh. Experimenting was the one thing Sherlock had that allowed him some solace in his unbearably dull life. There was no one to talk to besides Mrs. Hudson, no one to show off to. He hated it. His scientific explorations were enough to at least maintain his interest for a time.

He wandered slightly farther into the forest around the cottage than he was usually permitted to. He still needed to remain close enough to hear if anyone was attempting to break in in his absence. Granted, there wasn't really anyone out there to attempt a break-in in the first place, but he had been taught to be cautious, regardless.

In his exploration of this new part of the forest, he came across a type of tree that he had never seen before. The trees growing around the cottage all had needle-like leaves, but this one had flat, broad ones. Intrigued, he decided that this might be an ideal specimen for his latest experiment, as he had never conducted one involving this particular type of leaf. The leaves weren't particularly low-hanging, seeming to appear at just over two and a half metres, so he would have to climb a bit in order to retrieve one. That was no matter, though. Sherlock had been climbing trees his whole life. He set his basket down and worked his way up to the lowest branch. He pulled himself onto it so that he could sit comfortably while attempting to decide which cluster of leaves to take back down with him.

Before Sherlock even had the chance to begin climbing back down, he heard a noise. Wariness of strangers had been ingrained in him after spending most of his life with only Mrs. Hudson as company, so Sherlock remained silent, eager to see who or what was making the noise without any intention of getting close.

A man emerged from a nearby thicket of trees. Sherlock was so shocked at seeing another person that he nearly tumbled from the tree right then and there. He had been kept in seclusion for the past fifteen years. Seeing someone knew was thrilling, though he was still aware enough to recognise the danger that this man might pose.

The stranger was shorter than Sherlock, with fair hair and a rigid posture. His skin was tanned and weathered. His features were physically pleasing, overall, and Sherlock found himself wanting to map them out with his touch instead of merely his gaze. An odd feeling, that, but it was surely a normal response to meeting someone new. The man's clothes were ill-fitting and mismatched, clearly not his own. The shining, sturdy sword he carried at his left hip seemed misplaced among his shabby clothing. There was a sack over his shoulder, and Sherlock could just make out the glint of jewels beneath its flap. The sword as well as the sack's contents seemed to be priced far higher than anything the man could have possibly afforded. He must have stolen them, then.

Sherlock's deductions were cut off by a startling crack as the branch began to give way under his wait. Sherlock muttered a few choice curses under his breath before his perch broke beneath him.

"What the—" The thief looked up in an attempt to find the source of the noise, and he was soon too occupied to finish his sentence. He stepped forward instinctively and held his arms out so that Sherlock landed rather ungracefully in them.

Sherlock's initial surprise at not being dead was overcome by the realisation that a criminal was now holding him. "Unhand me," he demanded, squirming in his attempts to get away.

The thief muttered, "No need to thank me for saving your life." He dropped Sherlock carelessly on the ground, perhaps as payback for being so ungrateful. "Where did you even come from?"

Sherlock stood and dusted himself off, shooting a glare over at the thief. "I think that should be rather obvious," he snapped, looking pointedly over at the tree. Thankfully the leaves he'd collected were still intact in his hand. He picked up his basket and shoved them inside, fully prepared to just up and leave.

The thief was rolling his eyes when Sherlock glanced back over at him. "Yeah, I could see that, but why were you up in the tree?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man suspiciously. "What does it matter to you?" He couldn't be sure that this thief didn't pose a threat to him. He was a criminal, after all. Who was to say that a mere robber couldn't turn to murder if the mood struck? As he ensured that he had all of his things, he said, "You know, if you're trying to run from the authorities, your best bet isn't to stop for a chat in the woods while you're still carrying everything you've stolen."

The thief gave Sherlock a hard, searching look. "How did you know about that?" There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he tried to determine whether or not he was being threatened. His hand went to the sword on his belt. Sherlock found that he liked this stranger much more now that he looked like that. That look was interesting, equal parts dangerous and curious.

Sherlock himself from his momentary lapse in focus and frowned. "Well, it's obvious," he said, because it was. Was the thief toying with him? Because Sherlock was fairly certain that anyone with eyes would be able to read this man's occupation from his appearance.

"It's not obvious to me." The thief drew his sword out and pointed it at Sherlock. "Now tell me how you know."

Sherlock felt a thrill at the danger of the situation. He wasn't going to allow himself to die by this man's hand, but it was exciting all the same. "Your clothes," he said. When the thief seemed to expect more of an explanation, Sherlock rolled his eyes but continued: "They don't match. Your shirt is too small and your trousers are too big. Your shoes are clearly nicer than anything you could ever afford. I would understand if everything was the same size and was either all too large or all too small. That would indicate that the clothes had been passed down to you by either a family member or a friend. As it is, everything you're wearing clearly came from different people. You stole it all, clearly. That sword in your hand is far nicer than anything else you own, leading me to believe that you were not its original owner. And the bag you have over your shoulder is also a fairly good indication of your profession. I can see jewels peeking out of the top. The man standing in front of me wouldn't have the means to afford something like that legally. So, you must be a thief."

Sherlock wasn't sure why he had needed to say any of that when it was so painfully obvious. All the same, he wasn't anticipating a particularly warm response from the stranger. It was entirely possible that the man would try to kill Sherlock for knowing that much about him. He braced himself to run at the first sign of trouble, confident that he could evade the criminal.

But the thief merely stared at him blankly for a moment before huffing out a laugh. "That's brilliant," he said, and he re-sheathed his sword.

Sherlock's head snapped up. He was surprised. That didn't happen often. "What?" It was a stupid response, but his mind seemed to have stuttered to a halt at the strange words of praise.

"That's brilliant," the man repeated. "Quite extraordinary, actually."

"I wasn't expecting that response," Sherlock admitted.

"What were you expecting, then?" The man looked curious.

"I thought you might chase me with that sword of yours. I would have escaped, of course. I still can escape." Sherlock wanted this stranger to know that it would be useless trying to attack him.

The man actually laughed at that. Laughed. Sherlock started to wonder if this stranger had some sort of mental impairment. "I'm not going to chase you," the thief promised, though a promise from a criminal didn't seem very trustworthy. "Can you do that with everyone?"

Sherlock shrugged. He hadn't thought that it was anything particularly special. When he tried deducing Mrs. Hudson, she always seemed remarkably unimpressed, so Sherlock had assumed that it wasn't a particularly uncommon ability to have. "I should be able to. You're the first person I've encountered in years, though, so I haven't exactly gotten the opportunity to try it out on anyone else."

The thief frowned. "What do you mean? How do you survive without encountering anyone else?"

Sherlock grew wary. "I live with someone else. She provides food and all other items necessary for survival. I hardly need to encounter anyone beyond her." After a moment, he added, "If you try to attack me, she will notice."

The thief raised his hands in the air as an indication that he was going to do no harm. "I'm not going to attack you. I thought I'd already made that clear. I'm just…interested." He shrugged, looking surprisingly bashful about it all.

"Why are you interested?" Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure that he trusted this man.

"Because you're interesting," was the simple reply.

In spite of himself, Sherlock was flattered. He bit his lip in an attempt to hold in his smile, though he doubted that he was very successful in doing that. He looked away before bringing his eyes back up to meet the thief's. "What's your name?"

"John." Sherlock was almost certain that it was a false name. Even in his seclusion he was aware of just how common a name "John" was. For some reason, it seemed to suit the man, so Sherlock didn't push the matter.

"I'm Sherlock."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock." And John—odd, confusing, surprising John—grinned at him.