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by honey 6/15/2012, 8:48 pmOkay so before anything happens, this is a fanfic based off of BBC's Sherlock. Just about everything belongs to them. <3
Chapter1
The boy was running though the streets. He wore a striped, wool sweater and a dark blue scarf that waved in the wind as he ducked beneath people’s arms. His pale face was flushed, the sharp cheekbones touched with pink. As the boy stopped in front of the police station, he took a moment to regain his breath. He was tall for his age, about thirteen, and slightly unusual for that age as well. After all, what kind of twelve year old child already has sharp cheekbones? He had clever, bright blue eyes that unnerved some—they were too intelligent for a child. The boy patted down his curly black hair, knowing that the officers were already ashamed of having to consult a child about their cases, and if he looked messy they might just kick him out of his job.
He pushed the door open, and sat down on one of the chairs they had in the waiting room. There seemed to be a lot of more crimes lately, much darker than before, but the police had no qualms against consulting a child. Another boy was wandering around. He was fourteen, and he had black, glossy, spiky hair, and grey-brown eyes.
“Hey, Sherlock!” The boy plunked down on a chair near Sherlock.
“Hello, Lestrade.” Sherlock managed a small smile, but he shifted in his seat. He was uncomfortable around this extremely friendly boy. “Why are you here?” He asked, not meaning to be rude, just genuinely curious.
“Oh, you know… school’s out and I was bored.” Greg waved the matter away dismissively. Before he could chatter on about anything else, Mr. Liam Lestrade walked out of his office. Sherlock shot up from his chair, and Greg waved.
“Hi dad,” Greg grinned. Officer Lestrade sent a short smile in Greg’s direction, then turned to Sherlock. He led Sherlock to his office, and as soon as he had closed the door, Sherlock blurted out, “It was Thomas Moriarty.”
Officer Lestrade leaned back in his chair, taking this in. Sherlock continued with giving evidence, and when he was done, a quiet Officer Lestrade nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock. You may go now, and remember to come back next week.” He said after he paid the boy. Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He carefully put the money in his pocket and left, running as soon as he got out of the police station. As he wandered, he saw a bakery, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, being extremely absorbed in his case. He pulled out his money, counting carefully. He had more than enough for two of those croissants in the window. He paid for them, and as he walked back out, he had an eerie feeling—as if he was being watched. He looked right and left, and decided it was just paranoia. And then, as he was walking down the empty street, near a row of dark, empty buildings, a large, rough hand clamped down on his narrow shoulders. Sherlock froze, turning slowly. There was a large man, homeless and dirty, with the look of the desperate in his eyes. That was enough for Sherlock. He aimed his foot right at the man’s crotch, and as the man let go and bellowed in pain, Sherlock ran as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder constantly. And then he crashed into something.
That something went “OW” and went tumbling down with Sherlock. Sherlock leapt away, while the other boy simply sat up, shaking his head to clear it.
The boy was just about a head shorter than Sherlock, and solid. He had wide, steely grey eyes and sandy blonde hair in a somewhat messy side part. He wore a light brown and dark blue striped jumper, jeans, and sneakers. His eyes focused on Sherlock, and the consulting child’s breath caught. Besides the other boy’s ordinary appearance, his eyes unnerved Sherlock because of the subtle intelligence there. Sherlock blinked rapidly, still clutching the brown paper bag that held his croissants.
“I’m sorry,” He apologised, rising fluidly and offering his hand to the sandy-haired boy. The boy grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock pulled him up. “I was running away from—” At that precise moment, the man from before charged down the sidewalk. “From him. Run!” Sherlock yelled and started running. The other boy dashed after Sherlock, or tried to. He was limping, a cane in his hand, one that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. The man was catching up to them. Sherlock’s eyes darted from the boy and the man.
“Here, take my hand!” He said urgently, thrusting his hand to the shorter boy. The boy took one look into Sherlock’s anxious eyes and grasped Sherlock’s hand. And then they were off, racing down unknown streets. When they were sure the man wouldn’t catch them, they were near the train station. They collapsed onto a bench that was pressed against the wall of the train station, laughing. They gasped for breath as they giggled. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall, rolling it to the side to look at the other boy.
“I’m Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled.
“John Watson.”
Chapter1
The boy was running though the streets. He wore a striped, wool sweater and a dark blue scarf that waved in the wind as he ducked beneath people’s arms. His pale face was flushed, the sharp cheekbones touched with pink. As the boy stopped in front of the police station, he took a moment to regain his breath. He was tall for his age, about thirteen, and slightly unusual for that age as well. After all, what kind of twelve year old child already has sharp cheekbones? He had clever, bright blue eyes that unnerved some—they were too intelligent for a child. The boy patted down his curly black hair, knowing that the officers were already ashamed of having to consult a child about their cases, and if he looked messy they might just kick him out of his job.
He pushed the door open, and sat down on one of the chairs they had in the waiting room. There seemed to be a lot of more crimes lately, much darker than before, but the police had no qualms against consulting a child. Another boy was wandering around. He was fourteen, and he had black, glossy, spiky hair, and grey-brown eyes.
“Hey, Sherlock!” The boy plunked down on a chair near Sherlock.
“Hello, Lestrade.” Sherlock managed a small smile, but he shifted in his seat. He was uncomfortable around this extremely friendly boy. “Why are you here?” He asked, not meaning to be rude, just genuinely curious.
“Oh, you know… school’s out and I was bored.” Greg waved the matter away dismissively. Before he could chatter on about anything else, Mr. Liam Lestrade walked out of his office. Sherlock shot up from his chair, and Greg waved.
“Hi dad,” Greg grinned. Officer Lestrade sent a short smile in Greg’s direction, then turned to Sherlock. He led Sherlock to his office, and as soon as he had closed the door, Sherlock blurted out, “It was Thomas Moriarty.”
Officer Lestrade leaned back in his chair, taking this in. Sherlock continued with giving evidence, and when he was done, a quiet Officer Lestrade nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock. You may go now, and remember to come back next week.” He said after he paid the boy. Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He carefully put the money in his pocket and left, running as soon as he got out of the police station. As he wandered, he saw a bakery, and his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, being extremely absorbed in his case. He pulled out his money, counting carefully. He had more than enough for two of those croissants in the window. He paid for them, and as he walked back out, he had an eerie feeling—as if he was being watched. He looked right and left, and decided it was just paranoia. And then, as he was walking down the empty street, near a row of dark, empty buildings, a large, rough hand clamped down on his narrow shoulders. Sherlock froze, turning slowly. There was a large man, homeless and dirty, with the look of the desperate in his eyes. That was enough for Sherlock. He aimed his foot right at the man’s crotch, and as the man let go and bellowed in pain, Sherlock ran as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder constantly. And then he crashed into something.
That something went “OW” and went tumbling down with Sherlock. Sherlock leapt away, while the other boy simply sat up, shaking his head to clear it.
The boy was just about a head shorter than Sherlock, and solid. He had wide, steely grey eyes and sandy blonde hair in a somewhat messy side part. He wore a light brown and dark blue striped jumper, jeans, and sneakers. His eyes focused on Sherlock, and the consulting child’s breath caught. Besides the other boy’s ordinary appearance, his eyes unnerved Sherlock because of the subtle intelligence there. Sherlock blinked rapidly, still clutching the brown paper bag that held his croissants.
“I’m sorry,” He apologised, rising fluidly and offering his hand to the sandy-haired boy. The boy grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock pulled him up. “I was running away from—” At that precise moment, the man from before charged down the sidewalk. “From him. Run!” Sherlock yelled and started running. The other boy dashed after Sherlock, or tried to. He was limping, a cane in his hand, one that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. The man was catching up to them. Sherlock’s eyes darted from the boy and the man.
“Here, take my hand!” He said urgently, thrusting his hand to the shorter boy. The boy took one look into Sherlock’s anxious eyes and grasped Sherlock’s hand. And then they were off, racing down unknown streets. When they were sure the man wouldn’t catch them, they were near the train station. They collapsed onto a bench that was pressed against the wall of the train station, laughing. They gasped for breath as they giggled. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall, rolling it to the side to look at the other boy.
“I’m Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled.
“John Watson.”