Little Sherlock part 1/?
Disclaimer: while SirACD's Holmes is public domain, I do not own any of the characters (except the occasional OC) and this version is the BBC's anyway
Rating: PG. probably will bump it to PG-13 later for bloody death
Warnings: AU with young!sherlock and co.
Pairings: none planned. could wind up being John/Sherlock or Jim/Somebodyihaven'tdecided if the writing takes me that way
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a 12-year-old outcast. A new student (John, of course) could be his chance to actually have a friend. Mostly parallels the 3 BBC episodes, but in a school setting
AN: I hate my working title, it's as boring as breathing. Will change when i think of something better.
Sherlock Holmes was an odd duck. Everybody said so. Teachers generally gave a sigh of relief when he left their classes. Other students avoided him like the plague. Of course, they had all loved his older brother. Mycroft was just a dear. What had gone so...strangely...with his little brother?
John Watson, aged 12, surveyed the classroom as he was presented in front of it. So normal. He barely noticed the dark haired boy at the back, bent over something on his desk. Mrs. Hudson put her hands on his shoulders in a motherly fashion to introduce him.
“Class, this is John Watson. He's just come back from a mission trip to Asia. His sister Harriet is a 5th year. I expect everyone to be welcoming and respectful to him. You may take a seat now, John.” John glanced around the room, looking for an open seat.
“There's a free desk just next to Sherlock, there.” Mrs. Hudson pointed. John couldn't help but notice the looks of...pity?...that were on the faces of many of his classmates. He sat down quietly and tried to be attentive as the lesson began. Always a bit of a runt, he had to strain a bit to see over the head of the kid in front of him. About halfway through the lesson - Mrs. Hudson was going on about the solar system - John felt a kick to his left leg. He looked over to see the dark haired boy (Sherlock, wasn't it?) holding a folded piece of paper in his hand near the edge of his desk. He twitched his hand a little, indicating that he wanted John to take it. John cautiously reached over to take the note.
Afghanistan or Iraq?
John looked at Sherlock in bewilderment, but the other boy was gazing fixedly at his pencil. John scribbled a reply and kicked at Sherlock's legs. Sherlock snatched the note up and immediately began writing again.
Afghanistan. How did you know?
You've got a tan, and at this time of year it's unlikely that you would have gotten that from Eastern Asia. Your bag is army-issued and authentic. Probably from your father or mother, who are of course the reason you were in Asia. It wasn't a mission trip; you lived on a military compound. You were injured, so you must have been somewhere dangerous.
How did you know I'd been injured?
Obvious. You limp a bit when you walk (not enough to need a cane, but it's still there). Your left shoulder also seems larger: you've got padding on it, no doubt bandages. Does it hurt?
A bit, yeah. Car bomb. How did you notice all of that?
I simply observed.
Who are you?!
Sherlock Holmes.
“Boys, are you passing notes?” Mrs. Hudson's voice called from the front of the room. John's face heated up.
“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson.” said Sherlock quickly. “John had a few questions about the schedule and some school policies. I thought I'd help him clear it up.” Mrs. Hudson nodded.
“Oh, alright then, dear. As I was saying, the Earth's rotation...”
John stared at Sherlock for a moment. What a fascinating person. Sherlock had returned to staring at the graphite end of his pencil. He had a look of incredible concentration in his eyes. He noticed John and wrote some more on their note.
I'm not a nutter. I just notice things and put them together.
I didn't say you were a nutter. That was just really amazing, how you did that. Brilliant.
You think so? Really?
Of course! It was extraordinary!
That's not what people usually say.
What do they usually say?
Piss off.
Well, if you don't want to tell me...
No, that's what people usually say. They tell me to piss off.
Oh. That's not very nice of them. Can you do that to anybody? Tell them their life story?
Certainly, if I have enough data.
Ha! You talk like a scientist or something. Very proper.
I loathe the butchery which most of my peers put the English language through. And yes, I am a scientist.
Um. Okay then.
Can I show you something during lunch? I think you'd be interested.
Sure, what is it?
You'll see. Could be dangerous.
John found himself awaiting lunch period with anticipation. The bell seemed to take forever. John found himself watching Sherlock throughout the lesson, hoping to be able to deduce things about him, but found himself completely at a loss. He seemed like a normal, albeit very tall and skinny boy, who happened to have an exceptional brain.
When the bell finally rang, Sherlock leaped out of his seat with unexpected speed. John rushed to gather his things and follow him.
“You don't mind missing lunch?” Sherlock asked as he walked. John almost had to jog to keep up.
“Nah, I had a big breakfast.”
“I thought as much. Toast with jam and eggs. Shredded wheat with raspberry, I believe.” Sherlock waved him off when John tried to ask how he knew.
“Trivialities. But if you were worried, you don't have food stains on your clothes. This way.” Sherlock lead him through some back doors towards the building that housed the older students. A tall, sharp-eyed boy was leaning up against a wall, evidently waiting.
“Who's this?” said the boy when John and Sherlock approached.
“He's with me.” The boy laughed and turned to John. He extended a hand.
“Greg Lestrade. Call me by my surname.” John shook awkwardly.
“John Watson.”
“I haven't seen you around, are you new?”
“Yeah, I just moved here.”
“And you've decided to hang out with Holmes? Brave one, are you?” John gave him a confused look, but Lestrade shrugged.
“Well, you wanted to take a look, and I can't get you more than two minutes. We're technically not supposed to be by the rabbit cages.”
Sherlock snorted derisively. Lestrade lead them around the back of the building. The wall was lined in cages, each with a rabbit inside.
“For one of the biology classes.” said Lestrade. “This one.” He pointed at a cage with a very dead rabbit in it.
“Jenny Wilson's. Jenny promised not to tell the teachers until I've had a look. It's the same as the other three. But there's a...note of sorts this time.” Sherlock was already bending to look around the cage. He opened it to have a look at the dead rabbit.
“Were they...poisoned?” asked John.
“Looks like it. We can't really know without all sorts of tests, but that's all we can think of, since their necks haven't been broken.”
“Rache...Does that mean anything to you, Lestrade?”
“Well, it means 'revenge' in German.”
“That must be it. Or the name Rachel, but the killer certainly had time to write the letter 'L', judging by the age of the footprints.”
“The footprints?”
“Yes of course. The ground was wet with dew this morning, making the ground softer. Judging from the depth and how much they've dried, he was probably here between 6:30 and 7. No-one would have been around at that time, unless a teacher was here for something. So the most likely meaning is the German one.”
“Anything else you can get?”
“Like I said before, it's a male student, or a girl with very masculine feet and stride. Nothing to distinguish him from any other student so far. Now where's the rabbit's collar? You must have taken it off to see if the neck was broken.”
“Collar?”
“Collar, yes. There's an indent in Pinky's fur where a collar sat, and traces of pink nylon thread where it rubbed. What have you done with it?”
“There wasn't a collar.”
“What?” Sherlock straightened up.
“There wasn't a collar, I never saw a collar.”
“But...didn't Jenny say anything about it?”
“I think she was a bit too upset to notice anything like that. She was really attached to Pinky.”
Sherlock looked stunned for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed.
“Why would he take the collar? That doesn't make any sense.”
“Well, see if you can make sense of it later, we have to go. Mr. Brown is gonna be here soon, and I need to get back to hall-monitoring.”
Sherlock and John parted with Lestrade and headed back towards the cafeteria.
“Was that what you wanted to show me?” John asked.
“Yes. Not as exciting as I had hoped, but it is an intriguing case.”
“Do you do that often? Go and find out who killed who's rabbit?”
“When it's interesting enough, yes. Lestrade brings a lot of his problems to me.”
“I see...” John trailed off as they crossed the courtyard. A boy and a girl stood side by side, evidently waiting for them.
“You're in for it this time, Holmes!” called the boy, a greasy-haired kid with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock said, an exasperated tone in his voice.
“You told everyone about us kissing behind the oak tree!” cried the pigtailed girl. She looked particularly hostile.
“I most certainly did not tell everyone. I told, in fact, no-one. I implied to Lestrade. If you're so upset about people knowing, you'd best take it up with him.”
“You're just a freak!”
“Unimaginative, Sally.” said Sherlock, trying to walk past the two. Anderson stepped in front of him.
“I suggest you move, Anderson. I'm showing John around, and we don't want to be late.”
Anderson smirked at John. John decided that he truly hated this boy.
“He's showing you around? Probably giving you a tour of the waste bins and chemistry labs. Has he tried to sniff you yet?”
“Why on Earth would he do that?”
“Because he's a freak.” Sally piped in.
“John, let's go.” said Sherlock, and John was quick to comply. They pushed past Anderson and walked away.
“Sorry about that.”
“Why were they saying that you're a freak?”
“Because I am one, as far as they're concerned. I'm sure that if they were literate, they could find a more appropriate word.”
John chuckled.
“They did seem like stupid prats.”
“You should probably get something to eat. I have to go and check on something. See you after school.”
“After school? Are you not showing up to class?”
“I am, but you aren't. You've got a meeting with the school counselor right after lunch. Ms. Tisdale is very long-winded. You'll be there for the rest of the day.”
“How did you-”
“Your release slip is hanging out of your bag.” John hurried to tuck it back.
“Um, well, see you, then.”
“Afternoon.” Sherlock winked and strode away, leaving John feeling like he had just left a surrealist painting.
John was lost. He had eaten slowly, and talked to few. He was okay with social interactions, but was a bit timid on beginning conversations. And no-one seemed to know where the counselor's office was. Damn. He glanced around the deserted hallway, hoping to see a teacher.
“Lost, are you?” said a voice from behind him. He spun around to see a tall boy, probably in his late teens, watching him. Where had he come from?
“Erm, yeah. I need to find Ms. Tisdale's-”
“I'll show you where it is. Walk with me.” John fell into step beside the young man.
“John Watson, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I've heard that you sit next to Sherlock Holmes in class. Already becoming quite chummy, are you?”
“Er, he was just showing me around today...”
“And bringing you into his little crime-solving ventures?”
“He said he thought I'd find it interesting. Anyway, why do you care?” John felt some indignation at this line of questioning.
“Are you a friend of Sherlock's?”
“You've met him. How many friends to you imagine he has? No, I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes has.”
“What's that?”
“An enemy. He'd probably say that I'm his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.” John was at a loss for words. How do you even talk to a person like this?
“You know, I'd be willing to give you some extra money. More than you get for pocket money, anyway.”
John was very suspicious now.
“What for?”
“A boy like you can always use extra money.”
“I meant: what would I have to do?”
“Keep an eye on Sherlock for me. Tell me what he gets up to at school. Where he goes when he misses a class, that sort of thing.”
“I'm gonna say: no.”
“You're very loyal, very quickly.”
“Not really. I'm just not interested in that sort of thing. Bit creepy, isn't it?”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Watson. Here's the counselor's office for you.”
“Thank you.” John hurried into the room. Who the hell did that guy think he was?
Sherlock had been right of course; Ms. Tisdale was indeed long-winded. John had amused himself by reading her writing upside down. Which is probably why she had scrawled 'trust issues' on the page, but John didn't much care. He probably did have trust issues, anyway. She gave him a notebook, and asked him to write at least a page every day, to help sort his thoughts out. She had dismissed him five minutes after the final bell. John remembered his way this time, and made his way to the front gates of the school. He caught sight of Sherlock leaning against the brick wall that encircled the grounds. He wore a haughty expression, but looked quite ridiculous in an oversized charcoal coat. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. He noticed John and nodded. John walked to him.
“Hello.” John said. “You were right about Ms. Tisdale. God, that was boring.” Sherlock's lip twitched, almost a smile.
“I suppose she wants you to keep a journal. Write down all your feelings so she can try to sort them out for you?” He said 'feelings' in a way that reminded John of that pointy eared man on Star Trek.
“Yeah. Load of bollocks.”
“Agreed. Come on.” Sherlock waved a hand in beckoning.
“Where are we going?”
“Crime scene.”
“What?!”
“Oh, it's just at the rabbit cages. Our serial killer left something there.” Sherlock grinned and held up a bus pass.
“Must have dropped right out of his pocket. Can't very well get home without it, can he?”
“Fantastic.” said John, grinning back at Sherlock and lengthening his stride to keep up. They reached the rabbit cages, and Sherlock pulled John behind a wall.
“Judging from his shoe size and the crime he decided on, he's at least in 11th year. He'll be coming from that direction.” Sherlock gestured behind them. “We'll just have to wait.”
They didn't have to wait long. After a few minutes of silence, they heard a rustling noise from the rabbit cages. Or rather, Sherlock heard it, and John noticed it when Sherlock stiffened beside him. The taller boy peered around the corner. He turned to John.
“That's him all right. Right shoes.” He stepped with unprecedented grace and silence. John stayed put, not trusting himself to be as quiet as his companion. He watched as Sherlock walked closer to the boy.
“Have something against Jenny Wilson, do you?” The boy started.
“Er...I dropped something over here earlier...” he began. John stepped out, but remained largely unnoticed due to Sherlock's presence.
“Do you mean this?” Sherlock asked, holding up the bus card.
“Erm, yeah.” The boy held out his hand for the laminated paper, but did not receive it.
“What did you do with the collar? I assume that that was just to scare Jenny a bit.”
The boy's face darkened.
“Dunno what you're talking about.”
“Oh I think you do.” Sherlock stepped forward and the boy backed up defensively. Not exactly the move of an innocent.
“So what did Jenny do to you? The other rabbits were just tests, of course. You only wrote the note on hers.”
The boy didn't answer. In a quick movement, he turned and began to sprint away. Sherlock gave chase, his coat flapping behind him. John did his best to follow, but with his sore knee and short legs, he hadn't a chance. He fell behind and lost the trail. Bugger, just as he was starting to have some fun. He leaned against a wall to catch his breath and think through his next course of action. He looked up at the sky. Well, the roof of the very tall building he was leaning against. Wait...the roof! He knew that there was a fire escape somewhere, and set about finding it. It wasn't hard, he was just around the corner from it. He clambered up, and took a good look around, hoping to see his quarry. They were not below him anywhere. They were on his level.
The boy had Sherlock pinned, face digging into the rocks, on the building across from John. John did not think, he acted. That generally worked for him. He took a running leap and landed with a roll. He ignored the scrapes that accumulated on his arms.
John was a small boy. He had always been amoung the shortest in his class, and was usually quiet. Which was why nobody suspected him of being very strong. And also very good at aiming. His hand closed around a good sized stone. The aim was true; the boy was struck in the forehead and fell back, away from Sherlock. John threw another for good measure. It hit him in the shoulder. Sherlock pushed himself up to gape at John. Blood ran down from a split lip, and his right cheek was scratched. The other boy lay on his back, at least stunned by the hard blows.
“Good shot.” said Sherlock, spraying blood as he did so.
“You okay?” asked John.
“Fine. Nothing some bandages won't solve. And you?”
“Bloody fantastic.” John grinned at Sherlock, who grinned back. Both descended into a fit of laughter.
“I think I made a friend today.” murmered Sherlock, sitting on his bed, facing the skull on his pillow. “I'm not sure though. I need more data.” The skull stared back vacantly. Sherlock contemplated and shared his thoughts telepathically with the skull. Who, of course, did not receive the messages. It only sat there.
“You might as well come in, Mycroft.” He said loudly. The door to his bedroom opened.
“I convinced Mummy that you tripped on your coat and fell again.”
“I suppose that you're expecting me to thank you.”
“I know better than that.”
“Now she won't let me wear the coat to school anymore. I'll have to wear that hateful jacket.”
“It isn't so bad. It's in fashion.”
“It's bright red. Also, you gave it to me.”
“Ah. Well, just get cleverer about hiding the overcoat then.” Mycroft turned to leave. As he shut the door, he added, “Congratulations, by the way.” Sherlock threw a pillow after him.
“Piss off.” When he was absolutely sure that Mycroft had gone, he whispered, “Thanks.” although he wasn't sure who he was saying it to.
Part 2 is here