(I have no words for this. I’m so sorry. (not really) I hope you like it!)

…

It was the most ferocious war that the world had ever seen. Two opponents, bonded by blood, were locked in a fierce combat, and were set to skirmish to the death. The time? 10am, Christmas morning. The place? Holmes Mansion, living room three. And, as historians would document for centuries to come, the cause of the epic battle was…

“I WANT TO PUT THE STAR ON THE TREE!”

Mycroft glared at his little brother. “You can’t put it on. You did it last year. It would not be fair if you did it this year.”

Sherlock scowled. “But I always do it!”

“All the more reason for someone else to have a turn.”

Mycroft stood on tip-toe, trying to put the ornate golden star on top of the Christmas tree. Sherlock pounced on him, knocking him to the ground and wrestling the star away – he lunged for the tree, but Mycroft snatched it back, putting the decoration up his shirt. They faced each other, fire in their eyes.

“Mycroft, gimme the star!” Sherlock shouted.

“Shan’t!” Mycroft retorted. “Get your own star!”

“Boys, boys!” Mummy Holmes sighed, putting a hand to her head. “Stop fighting, the pair of you!”

Sherlock pouted. “But Mummy-”

“I said stop.” Mummy frowned. The boys fell silent, and she smiled. “That’s better. Mycroft, take the star out from your shirt.”

Mycroft cautiously pulled the decoration out. “Sherlock, don’t you dare steal it.”

His brother’s eyes gleamed. “I’d never do such a thing.”

Mycroft glared at him, turning around to put the star on the tree. Sherlock grinned, sidling to the side of the tree and plucking a long bit of tinsel off.

“Sherlock, what are you- AHHH!”

Sherlock wrapped the tinsel around Mycroft’s throat, squeezing tight like a python strangling its victim. “DROP THE STAR!”

“SHERLOCK!” Mummy Holmes yelled.

“LEGGO!” Mycroft choked.

At that moment, Daddy Holmes walked into the room, yawning and stretching. “Merry Christmas everyone!”

“SHERLOCK, LET GO OF YOUR BROTHER!”

“DROP THE STAR!”

“GET YOUR OWN!”

Daddy smiled. “And a Happy New Year.”

(I go on YouTube a lot… and trntbl is usually in the background while I scroll through Tumblr. Also, when I’m writing a story, thesaurus.com is a real life saver ;) I avoid Facebook like the plague. /ahem/ I hope you like this!!)

…

Sherlock sneered down at the tiny boy, who stared petulantly up at the huge man. “So you are me?”

“Apparently so.” Sherlock Junior nodded.

“How did you even get here?” Sherlock Senior walked around the boy, glancing up and down his body.

“I don’t know.” the boy answered truthfully.

John stared at the two of them from his chair, peering over his newspaper. He stayed silent, just watching, but was ready to burst out laughing at any second. The situation was so ridiculous! The boy, proclaiming himself to be Mr Sherlock Holmes, had turned up on their doorstep a few minutes ago - Mrs Hudson had let him in, and had instantly asked whether this was John and Sherlock’s long-lost child, a question that neither of them could answer.

“So you are really me?” Sherlock Senior seemed completely baffled for once. John was rather enjoying it.

“Yes!” Sherlock Junior groaned. He turned to John. “Who are you?”

“John Watson.” John grinned. “I’m his flatmate.”

Sherlock Junior looked stunned - he turned to Sherlock Senior, staring up at him in awe. “We have a friend?”

There was a long silence. Sherlock Senior looked as if he was about to cry. John buried his head in his newspaper, suddenly incredibly interested in the finance section.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sherlock Junior blinked.

“No, no, not at all.” Sherlock Senior sighed. He sat in his chair, still looking at his younger self. “I don’t remember much from when I was a child.”

“It’s horrific.” Sherlock Junior sighed quietly.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock Senior murmured. His eyes brightened. “But it gets better.”

“How so?”

“Well, we get to solve crimes. And we work with police - oh, just you wait until you meet Anderson!” Sherlock Senior laughed. He quietened down, fixing his gaze on John, who was still hidden. “And we make friends. Lots of them.”

Sherlock Junior frowned. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“So… it does get better?”

John looked up, a small, warm smile on his face. Sherlock Senior nodded. “Much better. I promise.”

(Okay I focussed mainly on the Hogwarts Express bit, because that’s cute and I like it :3 thank you so much for the prompt – hope you like it!)

…

John Watson sat in his empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, feeling a buzz of anticipation as he watched the green English countryside roll away from him. He’d never been away from home before – he wondered what the castle was like, what his friends would be like, what the workload would be like. Harry, his sister, was a third-year Gryffindor at Hogwarts, and loved lording it over John, constantly complaining about the mountains of homework they had to do. John rolled his eyes at his reflection in the window. He doubted first-years got that much work. (He hoped.)

There was a knock on the door. John turned round to see a lanky, black-haired boy in a scruffy yet ludicrously tight uniform standing outside the compartment, a large Muggle rucksack at his feet. His robes were hanging over his arm, and his grey eyes flickered over John as he waited impatiently for the boy to open the door. John stood up, sliding the glass panel over.

“Hello.” John smiled.

“Hi.” the boy looked around the compartment, then at John, his eyes boring into John’s skull and making him nervous. “Can I sit in here?”

“Of course, yeah.” John nodded to the seat opposite.

The boy closed the door behind him and flopped onto the seat, lying on his back like a cat in the sun. He threw his robes and rucksack onto the metal rails above the seat and stared at them, holding his hands in a prayer position under his chin.

John was fascinated by the new boy. He sat down, staring at the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” the boy droned.

“I’m John Watson, hi.”

“Hello.” Sherlock turned his head to face the blond. “Are you a first-year?”

“That’s right.”

“Hm, I thought so. You have a relative that goes to Hogwarts too. Muggle parents, judging by the state of your luggage, so a sibling or a cousin, most likely a sibling. You don’t have a pet, which suggests lack of money and understanding of the Wizarding world. You’re nervous about being away from home, but excited too. First time?” Sherlock smiled.

John gaped at the boy. “Yeah… how did you-”

Another knock on the door interrupted John. A sweet old lady clutched the food trolley with one hand and slid the door open with the other, smiling broadly into the compartment. “Anything from the trolley, dears?”

“Two chocolate frogs and a box of Bertie Botts, please.” Sherlock smiled at the woman. He didn’t sit up. He tossed a coin to John, who caught it and stood, frowning at the lazy boy, to pay the lady and receive the sweets. The trolley lady trundled off, calling out to each compartment in turn. John shut the door.

“What are these?” John turned the box of Bertie Botts in his hand, sitting down in his seat as he did so.

“Every flavour beans – and they mean every flavour.” Sherlock grinned, remembering the time Mycroft got a bogey flavour one. He glanced over John again. “You are a first-year, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I said so earlier.”

“What House do you want to be in?”

John thought for a moment. “Gryffindor. My sister Harry’s a Gryffindor.”

“Yet my brother Mycroft is a Slytherin, and I’d rather die than be like him.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” John chuckled, chucking the box of beans and the frogs to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’d rather be a Hufflepuff.” he stared at the frogs, then tossed one to John, who caught it neatly. “You can have that.”

“Are you sure?” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not hungry. Besides, friends share food. At least, that’s what I’ve read.”

John smiled broadly. “Are we friends?”

Sherlock smiled back. “Do you want to be?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock finally sat up properly, holding out a hand. “Good to meet you, John.”

John shook his hand, grinning. “And you, Sherlock.”

(It doesn’t stink! Brilliant prompt :D thank you so much – I hope you like this!)

…

Sherlock tottered down the lane, holding his rucksack to his back tightly. He walked beside a tall brown fence that was protecting a row of houses beside the lane; Sherlock came up to a corner of the fence and glanced around – no-one in sight. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rounded the corner – and was instantly shoved into the fence, rattling the thing with his back. His rucksack slipped to the floor.

Jason, a tall, burly boy in the year above Sherlock, sneered down at the boy, grabbing his shirt collar to spit in his face. “Watch where you’re walking, Sherlie!”

“You’re the one who pushed me.” Sherlock retorted bitterly.

“Prove it.” Jason grinned.

The bigger boy lifted Sherlock up by the collar – Sherlock’s feet raised slightly off the floor, making him grasp at Jason’s hand to try and put himself down again. He kicked Jason in the belly, but the boy just laughed, shoving Sherlock into the fence again.

“Not gonna cry for your Mummy?”

Sherlock couldn’t reply if he wanted to. Jason had his hands around Sherlock’s throat by now, squeezing like a python around its prey. Jason wasn’t going to actually kill him, was he? Sherlock’s eyes rolled in terror…

“Oi! What’s going on?”

Sherlock glanced to the side – a boy was walking towards them, his outline blurring from the tears in Sherlock’s eyes. Jason released Sherlock, letting him drop to the floor. Sherlock curled into a defensive ball, hugging his rucksack to his chest.

“Nuffin.” Jason answered the new boy. “Who are you?”

“John.” the blond answered. “Who are you?”

“Jason.” the bully smiled cautiously.

Sherlock could see his saviour clearer now – he was short, with blue eyes that stung Sherlock’s brain and sent it careering off-course. Sherlock frowned. What the Hell was this? One moment he was being beaten up, the next he was… the only way to describe it was falling. Sherlock stared at the newcomer. John looked safe enough, authoritative, with a firm ring to his voice, but in that one moment he had upset the entire balance of Sherlock’s world. Sherlock didn’t care.

“What were you doing to him?” John continued, pointing to Sherlock on the ground.

“Why do you wanna know?” Jason snarled.

“I don’t like bullies.” John replied softly. He flexed his arms, showing off his muscles.

Jason gulped. “Look, I don’t want no trouble, ‘kay? Leave it, mate. He’s not worth it.”

John stepped forward deliberately, his face darker than Batman on a bad day. Jason stepped back, holding up his hands.

“The fuck!” Jason yelped.

“Scram.” John growled, cracking his knuckles.

Jason turned tail and fled down the lane, tripping over his own feet and scrambling away. John turned to Sherlock, the dark look replaced with a concerned expression.

“Are you alright?” he murmured, stooping down to look at Sherlock’s bruised throat.

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded slowly. “I’ll be fine.” he rolled himself upright, still clutching his bag. “Thanks.”

John smiled. “Any time.”

For the second time in two minutes, Sherlock felt like he was falling.

(Hilarious prompt!! I actually love writing Anderson – in my head, he’s so sarcastic and generally rude. He’s awesome :’) Thank you so much :D I hope you like it!)

…

Anderson pulled up his coat collar to protect his neck from the bitter Winter wind. It wasn’t even Christmas – it was a blustery November afternoon, with a grey sky and blurry silver cars buzzing slowly past Anderson as he walked up to 221 Baker Street. He didn’t like it here. Lestrade had asked him to come along – “it’s for an experiment! Sherlock’s very excited!”. Anderson didn’t know why he needed to be there for the experiment to go ahead. Maybe he was going to be the test subject. (Anderson didn’t know this, nor would he ever know it, but he was 100% correct. John had refused, so Anderson was going to be the guinea pig. Until…)

A trickle of dark green smoke leaked out of the first floor window; Anderson watched it undulate slowly and disappear into the air. He shivered and knocked on the front door. No-one answered, but it was unlocked anyway, so Anderson stepped inside.

221 was warm, so much so that Anderson took off his scarf and put it on the bannister with Sherlock’s long coat. He trudged upstairs, not looking forward to whatever this was. He pushed open the door to 221B – and was instantly enveloped in dark green smoke, the same stuff that had been coming out of the window. Anderson coughed, waving the mist away from his face – he sprinted to the windows, opening them wide and frantically pushing the smoke outside. Eventually, after a while of waving his jacket into the air and waving the smoke outside, the room was clearer, and Anderson could make out five tiny shadows on the floor.

“What the-” Anderson frowned.

“GA.” the first tiny shadow came into clear focus. Sherlock – no, wait, not Sherlock… a mini Sherlock.“GA.” the mini-Sherlock announced again. In baby language, that meant: “Oh good God, look what the cat dragged in.”

Another little shadow moved – a mini-Lestrade, of all things! “Anderson! Good – I thought we’d never be rescued!”

Anderson stared at the five toddlers – they couldn’t be more than two years old, swathed in their usual grown-up clothes. Sherlock was a picture of annoyance – either at Anderson or the experiment, he couldn’t tell; Molly’s pink hair ribbon was covering her blushing face; John was bristling with anger about the situation, glaring at Sherlock; Lestrade was stretching up to be picked up by Anderson; and the mini-Mycroft was looking just plain bored. Anderson was quite proud of himself for remembering all these names.

“Well well well.” Anderson grinned. “Isn’t this funny?”

“Shut up, Anderson.” Sherlock frowned.

“Don’t look!” Molly squeaked. Lestrade glanced at her anyway.

Sherlock continued: “The antidote is on the desk. If your tiny mind can comprehend a simple task, get the flask and- what are you doing?”

Anderson clicked the camera button on his phone, grinning as he sent the picture to Donovan. “Oh man! This is hilarious!”

“Anderson!” Lestrade groaned.

Anderson sighed. He picked up the toddlers one by one and took them into Sherlock’s bedroom, tucking them safely under the duvet covers. They fell asleep almost instantly, and Anderson had escaped the flat by the time they were themselves again.

(Poor old Sherlock… he always has a rough time of it in Kid!lock fics! :D thank you so much - you’re not pestering me at all! I hope you like this!)

…

The bully shoved Sherlock against the wall - the bricks scraped painfully across Sherlock’s head and back, ripping his clothes and leaving angry red marks on his skin. Sherlock winced in pain while the gang laughed at him; the first bully, Jacob, hit Sherlock against the wall again and let him slide to the floor.

Jacob spat at the younger boy. “You’re a wanker.”

Sherlock glared up at him. He kept silent, so Jacob aimed another kick at his leg - Sherlock rolled sideways, pressing his back against the wall. He gulped back tears. 

“What? Got nothing to say, Holmes?” Jacob sneered. “You usually have an answer for everything!” he kicked Sherlock’s chest on his last word, emphasising his point and brusing Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock coughed, winded, and tried to crawl away, but Jacob grabbed his hair and pulled him upright. Sherlock glowered at him.

“I hate you.” Jacob hissed. “You’re worthless. You should just kill yourself, you low-life bastard!”

Sherlock was released, and he slumped to the floor, hiding his torn face in the dirt. Jacob stood up and high-fived his friends before they turned away.

“Wait.”

Jacob turned back. “What do you want?”

“You’re not angry at me.” Sherlock raised his head, staring at Jacob with deep, dark eyes. “You’re angry at yourself. How long has it been?”

Jacob went purple. “‘the fuck are you on about?”

“Since your dad left. He left you and your mother a few years ago, but you’ve never been able to forgive yourself.” Sherlock slowly, shakily, stood up, holding a hand against the wall to steady himself. “You also wet the bed, and you’re afraid of girls and sex, most likely because someone sexually abused you when you were smaller - a sister? No, you’re an only child… somehow that’s worse.”

The other boys ignored the sexual abuse fact and, as louts are wont to do, focussed on the “wet the bed” bit. They jeered at Jacob, shoving his shoulder and laughing.

“Do you seriously wet the bed?” one of them guffawed.

Jacob went even more purple. “I do not!”

“Look at his trousers!” Sherlock called weakly.

They did; Jacob put his hands over his crotch area and glared at them. “Fuck off!”

His friends were still laughing. “You wet the bed!”

Jacob turned on Sherlock, but the boy was already running towards the school. Sherlock smiled to himself as he ran. This wasn’t over, he knew it - but it was closer to the end than he’d dreamed.

(It’s okay - I’ll write it right now. Sorry I haven’t done any of your others - my stupid writer’s block is being stupidly stupid stupidness. /ahem/ I hope you like this!)

…

Sherlock lay across the sofa, glaring at the many waiters and waitresses that swarmed around the Holmes Mansion living room. His Mother’s birthday had been last week, but since Father was away that day, Mycroft insisted on having another party today while they were all home. Sherlock rolled onto his side, resisting the urge to trip over the butler. A huge table was laid out in the centre of the room, filled with cakes and drinks and sandwiches and every other little nibbly food. Sherlock really didn’t see the point - Mummy was too ill to eat, Father would refuse to consume anything but wine, Mycroft would just purge the food out after the party, and the other guests would only stuff the food into their handbags and pockets to scoff later. 

Sherlock lay there for another ten minutes. The staff left the room silently, bursting into gossip as soon as they were out of Sherlock’s earshot. Sherlock sat up. The food was all there - it would all go to waste. He glanced at the clock. One hour and three minutes until the party officially started; one hour and twenty-seven minutes until guests started arriving. Sherlock smiled. He stood up and made his way over to the table.

Sherlock wasn’t that hungry. It was a Sunday, and he’d eaten on Wednesday, so when he grabbed his first bit of cake, he was surprised when his stomach rumbled. He frowned at his abdomen. Shut up! 

He glanced around before taking a huge bite of the cake. It was moist, and his teeth sank into it and left his gums tingling with the sickly sweetness. The icing was a bit dry, having been left in the fridge for a few hours, but the sponge was perfect. Sherlock swallowed and instantly consumed the rest of the piece. And another. And a piece of pie. And another bit of the cake. And… he felt sick, but he kept eating, taking bits of that and that and this and that and - wow. Sherlock’s brain was buzzing, his mouth fizzing with the sweetness of the desserts. 

He scrambled away from the table and leapt onto the sofa, holding a Bakewell tart in his hand. He jumped up and down on the cushions for a moment before leaping off again and running into the garden, grinning his little face off.

Father and Mycroft were deep in a discussion about politics when they saw Sherlock sprint through the huge garden, yelling at the top of his lungs about bees. The youngest Holmes smacked into the shed, toppling over onto his back and letting go of the tart. Mycroft ran over, his skinny frame trembling with laughter.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft frowned. His mouth betrayed him with a smile.

Sherlock didn’t - couldn’t - answer. He bent double, laughing his head off about something or other. He had actual tears in his eyes; his brain was overdrive with colours and scents and deductions. Mycroft sighed and picked him up, flinging his brother over his shoulder. They walked into the Mansion, still laughing. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled.

“Yes?”

“Want some cake?”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “No thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, the smile slipping slowly off his face.

(Waaah poor Sherlock! I have real trouble not writing “Hamish” when I write Kid!lock ;) thank you so much for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

Mycroft folded his newspaper, crossing his legs as he stared out of the window. Cambridge University – it was dull in Winter, dull in Summer, and if Mycroft was honest he should have graduated by now. He was eighteen, after all, and smarter than everyone in his class, even his teacher. He sighed, leaning on the desk with his elbows. Dull.

A knock on the door made Mycroft turn round. He stood up, straightened his blazer, and walked over, pulling the door open. A heavily-panting student – Tom, was it? - stood before Mycroft, his uniform and breathing ragged from the sprint.

“Holmes!” he gulped. “Message for you!”

“From?”

“The headmistress.” the boy panted. “She needs to see you. Her office. Urgent.” he collapsed against the wall dramatically.

Mycroft nodded, ignoring the older boy’s near-death. He stepped over him and walked swiftly to the office, where the headmistress was waiting for him with an ashen face.

“Mr Holmes.” she nodded.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.

“You have a phone call.” she replied, handing him a clunky telephone reciever.

Mycroft frowned as she beetled away. He was alone in the office. “Hello?”

“Is this Mycroft Holmes?” an obscure, crackling voice whispered into the phone.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“We have your brother.”

Mycroft froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sherlock Holmes is in our custody.” the voice sounded amused. “We can prove it to you, if you like. Hey, Sherlock!”

There was a thump, then a voice that was undeniably Sherlock’s yelled out: “HELP!”

“Who are you?” Mycroft hissed.

The voice ignored him. “Fifty thousand pounds by four pm tomorrow, at the front of your school gates. We’ll be there in black. If you don’t bring us the money, little Sherlie will die. Understand?”

Mycroft’s hand curled tighter around the receiver. “I understand.”

“Good.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“My brother had better be safe and alive when I bring you the money.”

The voice chuckled. “We promise nothing.” the telephone clicked, and they hung up.

Mycroft stood still for a moment. He slammed the receiver down on the holder, punching the reception desk with a white-knuckled fist. He kicked it for good measure, his face going red with the effort of not yelling out profanities.

“Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft spun round to see the headmistress standing behind him. He cleared his throat, straightening his uniform and calming himself down.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Perfectly.” Mycroft nodded, breezing past her and up to his room, his body calm but his mind and heart in turmoil. 

(Ooh, I’m hopeless at names! Um… what about… no, my first idea was stupid and I wrote it and deleted it. What would you like to be called?)

…

“Holmes, stay behind.”

The rest of the class sniggered as Sherlock glared at his backpack. Dr Watson sat at his desk at the front of the classroom, watching Sherlock put away his things and meander over to him, scowling.

“Yes, sir?” Sherlock resisted the urge to strangle the teacher. “What is it?”

“You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you think.” Dr Watson shrugged lazily.

Sherlock frowned. “Then what?”

Dr Watson uncrossed his arms, his expression softening. “Are you being bullied, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was taken aback. “Pardon?”

“Are you being bullied? I saw you and that boy Powers arguing yesterday, and today, this morning, you were at it again. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sherlock glared at the Doctor. The bell had rung three minutes ago, and he was rather desperate to escape this damn school. The Biology classroom was hot and humid, making Sherlock’s shirt stick to him. Dr Watson tried not to look at Sherlock’s chest and failed miserably.

Sherlock crossed his arms. “What’s it to you?”

Dr Watson tore his gaze away to glare at a pile of textbooks. “I’m worried about you! You’re a good student, Sherlock – A grades in everything.”

“Worried.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Right.”

“What, you don’t believe me?” Dr Watson raised an eyebrow.

“No, I believe you. I’m just sceptical that someone is worried about me.”

There was a pause. Dr Watson felt a surge of pity in his chest – poor Sherlock! Was he always this lonely? Dr Watson shook his head.

“Sherlock, I am genuinely concerned.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock gazed at the floor. “No-one else is.”

Dr Watson stood up and walked around his desk to look into Sherlock’s eyes properly. The boy was tall for his age, while the teacher was short – they matched, sort of.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

“Why?”

“Just look at me.”

Sherlock glanced up reluctantly. Dr Watson moved forward, hugging Sherlock to his chest. The boy squirmed.

“What are you doing?!” Sherlock yelped.

“I’m hugging you.” Dr Watson smiled happily.

“Why?!”

“Because I love you.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped and he pushed away, glaring at the teacher. “Are you insane?”

Dr Watson shrugged. “I fell in love with you. Maybe I am.” his eyes sparkled. “And that’s brilliant.”

(Thank you so much!! I really enjoyed writing this, so I hope you like it!!)

…

Quidditch pitch. 5pm. The sky was just getting dark, and the sun had disappeared behind the Hogwarts castle. Jim Moriarty leant against one of the old stone walls, a nearly finished cigarette in his hand and his bag on the floor. He sighed, watching the smoke swirl out of his mouth and dissipate into the air. He wished he could apparate at school. That would be funny.

A sort of commotion sprung up a few yards away, and Jim could see a bunch of Slytherins ganging up on a rather tall Ravenclaw. His shoes said ‘fourth-year’ – and his dark eyes said ‘help me’. Jim dropped his cigarette.

“Say it, Holmes!” one of the larger Slytherin boys growled.

“Never.” the Ravenclaw hissed through his teeth.

The Slytherin aimed a kick to the taller boy’s ankle, and Holmes dropped to the floor, gritting his teeth against a cry. The bullies laughed. Jim clenched his fists.

“Oi, you lot!” he yelled.

The Slytherins turned round. “What do you want?”

“I want you unicorn turds to go back to the dungeons before I kick your arses.” Jim smirked.

The larger Slytherin laughed. “A scrawny son of a banshee like you? I don’t think so.”

Jim sighed. He glanced at the Ravenclaw. “What’s his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” the Slytherin replied. “Don’t get too close – he’s a gay.”

Jim chuckled. “Right, okay. Not that you’re trying to cover up anything.”

“What?” the Slytherin growled.

“Just saying.” Jim raised his hands and shrugged. “People who bully people for being gay are often trying to cover up their own homosexuality.”

“You little-” the Slytherin shrieked – but Sherlock had seen his chance and kicked the boy in the back of the knee, pushing him to the ground.

Jim raised his wand. “EXPELLIARMUS!”

The Slytherins flew backwards, landing hard onto the ground. Jim held out his hand for Sherlock to grab, and the two boys pelted out of the field, running fast into the castle. They paused for breath in the Ravenclaw common room. Sherlock glanced over Jim.

“You’re a Slytherin.” he frowned.

“Yeah.” Jim nodded. “Not by choice.”

“What, you want to be a Hufflepuff?” Sherlock smirked.

Jim laughed. “Ravenclaw, actually. I’m a genius.”

“You’re modest.” Sherlock replied sarcastically. Jim just grinned.

“Evening, freak.” Donovan flounced down the stairs, holding Anderson’s hand. She frowned at Jim. “Who’s that?”

“Yes, what is your name?” Sherlock frowned.

“Jim Moriarty.” Jim smiled.

Sherlock beamed. “Donovan, meet Jim. He’s my friend.”

Jim and Donovan shared a look of surprise. Sherlock just looked proud, crossing his arms over his bruised chest.

“Great.” Anderson groaned. “Now there’s two freaks.”

Jim and Sherlock ignored him.  

(Of course!! I really like this prompt – kid!potter!lock forever!! :D Thank you for the prompt – sorry it took so long – and I hope you like it!)

…

“Morning, Holmes.” Sebastian smirked.

Sherlock sighed. “Good morning, Wilkes.”

He slid into his usual place at the end of the Ravenclaw breakfast table, near the Great Hall doors, Sebastian and his cronies eyeing him from their Slytherin table. A small Ravenclaw boy sat next to them, talking hurriedly and shooting glances at Sherlock every now and again. Sherlock kept his gaze on the floor.

The fourth-year Ravenclaw, Sherlock Holmes, was despised by a lot of people – he was what the Muggles called ‘nerdy’, and his constantly dirty uniform and shifty eyes made him seem mysterious and sinister. He was alone constantly, forever in a book or skiving class. Sebastian Wilkes, a burly, thuggish boy, stood up and walked over to Sherlock, his friends flanking him on both sides. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his cereal.

“What is it, Wilkes?” Sherlock sighed.

“Sammy heard you crying last night.” Sebastian smirked, nodding to the small Ravenclaw from earlier. “Missing your mummy?”

The bullies sniggered. Sherlock shrugged.

“I suppose. My father is away a lot, and my brother’s a twat, so she’s home alone. Yes, I’m missing her a lot.”

Sebastian blinked at him, then grinned. “So you were crying?”

Sherlock kept silent. The Slytherins laughed.

“Mummy’s boy!” one of them snickered.

Sherlock glanced over Sebastian. “Oh? But you had a late night too.”

They fell silent. Sebastian frowned. “What?”

“Doesn’t Chrissie Parkinson already have a boyfriend?” Sherlock smiled.

“What?” Sebastian repeated.

“In fact I saw her only last week with Brian Higson.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder and waved at the Hufflepuff Higson. He waved back happily.

Sebastian sighed. “You know, Holmes, I’m getting really tired of your gay stalker bullshit.”

“Not my fault if you’re so transparent.” Sherlock shrugged.

Sebastian slammed his hands down on the table. The whole Hall turned to look at him, and he glared into Sherlock’s eyes.

“You are such a Dobby’s sock!”

Sherlock nearly laughed. “You can talk, you Voldemort’s nipple!”

The students around them gasped, and even Sebastian’s friends were shocked. Sebastian merely smiled, straightening up.

“Quidditch pitch. 5pm. Be there.”

He turned on his heels and stalked out of the Hall, his friends beside him. Sherlock grimaced. This again. 

(Hey! I know. Thank you for the prompt – I was wondering when someone was going to pick up on that! :D hope you like it! Post referenced: http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/30478811562)

…

Sherlock, six years old, and Mycroft, thirteen years old, walked into the small playground, hand in hand. Sherlock hadn’t held his brother’s hand in years, maybe ever, so Mycroft was happy that Sherlock trusted him to protect him. The other children in the playground stared at the two Holmes’ as they entered, and some of the parents glared at the tiny boys. Mycroft just smiled pleasantly at them, stooping slightly lower to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, you will be a good boy, won’t you?” he smiled softly.

“Peasants.” Sherlock spat at the other kids.

Mycroft frowned. “Yes, they are, but don’t tell them that. You are a pirate, correct?”

“Correct!”

“Then pretend that you are the pirate Captain, and they are your crew.”

Sherlock mused over that for a second, then beamed and nodded. “Alright.”

“Good boy. Now go on, go play.” Mycroft let go of him.

Sherlock stepped warily into the playground, towards the slide. Mycroft walked towards the parents.

“Good morning.” he smiled.

The adults looked down their noses at the small boy. One of them was nice enough to wave at him, but they all ignored him after that. Mycroft sighed, leaning on the fence to read his book. Sherlock bounced up to one of the children (the name on his jacket label said ‘Tim’ and the mud on his socks said ‘friend’).

“Hello, Tim.” Sherlock smiled.

Tim whirled round, along with his friends, Brian and Jacob. Tim glared at Sherlock. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your jacket.” Sherlock shrugged. “My name’s Sherlock.”

Tim chuckled and nudged Brian, who scoffed: “That’s a stupid name!”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is. My Mummy is French, and she has a thing for exotic names.” Sherlock smiled.

The children simply blinked at him, not understanding. Sherlock sighed. He was right – they were peasants.

“Anyway, would you like to play pirates with me?” Sherlock smiled.

“Pirates?”

“Yes. I’ve read about them in books – I am the Captain of the ship, and you can be my crew, if you are worthy.” Sherlock grinned.

“Why should we play with you?” Jacob frowned.

“Because I’m the Captain!” Sherlock bounced up the slide steps, standing at the top and waving an imaginary sword in the air. “Yo ho, my hearties!”

Tim, Jacob, Brian and the other children in the playground stared at him – then burst out laughing, nudging each other.

“What a freak!” Jacob laughed.

“Do you actually believe you’re a pirate?” Tim chuckled.

Sherlock lowered his hand, his lip wobbling. “Well, no, I know it’s not real, but-”

“Stupid Pirate Sherlock!” Brian yelled.

They started a chant of that name, and soon the whole playground was singing it at a terrified Sherlock. He slid down the slide, running over to Mycroft and hugging his brother’s legs.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” Mycroft murmured. He looked up at the chanting kids, then down at Sherlock, who was crying into Mycroft’s jacket. Mycroft growled, turning to the parents. “Can’t you keep your children under control?”

One of the mothers turned to him with a scowl. “Aren’t you a bit young to be bossing people about?”

Mycroft held Sherlock tightly. “They made my brother cry!”

“Then he shouldn’t be so weak!” one of the fathers snapped.

Mycroft gaped at him, then steered Sherlock out of the field, towards their home.

“Th-They called me a freak!” Sherlock gulped.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “They didn’t mean it.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother. “Am I a freak?”

Mycroft didn’t answer. 

(Thank you for the prompt! I love wholock, so I really hope I’ve done a good job and that you like it!)

…

Sherlock Holmes sat in his room, lazily moving a toy train across the floor with his foot. The rusty wheels squeaked – the toy had been in the attic, found as a result of one of Sherlock’s late night escapades around Holmes Mansion. (From the stains and faded paint he deduced that it was his Father’s, but he really couldn’t care less.)

Sundays were boring. No homework to keep him busy, no other students to annoy (to be fair, they annoyed him more than he annoyed them. Morons.). Mycroft was at Uni and God knows where his parents were. So Sherlock sat in his room, staring at the old toy train.

VWOOORP!

Sherlock looked up with a frown. That was weird.

VWOOOOORP!

Sherlock sprang up from the bed, looking around. A massive faded shape slowly materialised in the corner of the room, the bright light near the ceiling flashing and emitting the “vworp” noise. Sherlock stepped back, the wind whipping his hair and shirt. The noise died down, and there, in the corner of his room, was a huge blue box. The door opened with a creak not unlike the train wheels, and a strange man stepped out, adjusting his red bow-tie. He grinned at Sherlock.

“Hello!”

“Hello.” Sherlock crossed his arms, trying not to look impressed. He failed. “Who are you?”

“I’m the Doctor.” the stranger smiled. “Who are you?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Good point!” the Doctor beamed. “Good boy, never tell a stranger your name. Well done.”

“…thank you.” Sherlock coughed.

“So what year is this?”

“1985.”

“And how old are you?”

“Nine.”

“Good. Good age, that. Nine.”

“How old are you?”

The Doctor laughed. “A lot older than you.”

Sherlock just nodded. There was a long pause, then: “Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You’re not a stranger any more… so that’s my name.”

The Doctor’s jaw dropped open. “You’re Mr Holmes?!”

“Um… yes.”

The Doctor stepped back into the blue box, scurrying about inside. Sherlock frowned. He was about to look inside the box when the Doctor ran out again, closing the door behind him. He slammed a large treasure chest onto Sherlock’s bed and started rifling through it, throwing out bits of paraphernalia and souvenirs and whatever that was, eventually finding what he was looking for. He drew it out with an expression that fluctuated between a grimace and a smile.

“Sherlock Holmes, meet Skully. Skully, meet… him.”

Sherlock stared at the grey-ish object. The name was apt – it was a large human skull, the mouth in a natural smile and the eye-sockets staring up at him grimly. Sherlock stroked the jawline.

“Hello, Skully.”

The Doctor handed the thing over, and Sherlock took it gingerly, passing it from hand to hand.

“Why are you giving him to me?” Sherlock asked.

“He was a friend of yours.” the Doctor smiled. “A very, very good friend. He saved your life. More than once, actually.”

“A friend?” Sherlock laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t have friends.”

The Doctor blinked. “1985, eh? Well, young Mr Holmes,” he lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “you, in the future, will have lots of friends. I promise.”

“I will.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Alright then.”

“No, it’s true!” the Doctor beamed. He nodded to Skully. “And he was your best friend of all.”

“What was his real name?”

The Doctor hesitated. “You’ll find out soon, I promise.”

“Another promise.” Sherlock sighed.

“Hey, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s promises.” the Doctor smiled. “Now then. Got any fish fingers? I’m starving!”

Prompt: Sherlock being bullied and comforted by John and maybe some Mycroft being a good big brother?

Prompt from the brilliant everythingispoetry.

I can’t wait for that cake! :D

…

“I know you killed him, you psychopath!”

Sherlock’s back was slammed into the wall, his head bouncing off the hard surface. He slumped forwards, head lolling, but the bully pushed him back again, pinning his neck down.

“Why did you kill him?!” the bully spat.

“I don’t know what you mean!” Sherlock whispered.

Another punch landed onto his ribcage and Sherlock fell forwards onto his knees, gasping for air.

“You killed Carl Powers.” the bully growled.

“No I didn’t!” Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh at the boy’s incompetence.

“Then who did?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Liar!” the bully aimed another kick to Sherlock’s face, landing his boot right on Sherlock’s cheekbone. The younger boy yelled out, now lying flat on the floor. He struggled onto his elbows, spitting out blood.

“Th-This is very out of character for you. You usually tease me about being smart or gay. Why the sudden interest in Powers?” Sherlock asked.

“None of your fucking business!” the bully growled.

Sherlock grinned. “Are you two in a relationship?”

The bully stood still for a moment, then let out a gigantic yell and pounced on Sherlock, punching his face. Sherlock lay there, his vision swimming, trying to prise the boy off. Everything went red.

“Hey!” someone yelled. The bully looked round – and then he was against the wall, someone’s arm pinning him like he pinned Sherlock. “You’re going to turn around, walk away, and never come near my brother again. Do you understand me?”

“What the f-”

The arm tightened. “I could make you disappear from the face of the planet, but I’m being very very calm, so I won’t. However, if you do this again, I will personally make sure you and your gang of misfits never walk again. Do you understand me?”

The bully nodded quickly and the someone let him run off, back into school. The older boy helped Sherlock to his feet and brushed down his uniform.

“How many times is this, Sherlock?” the stranger whispered in a honey-like voice.

“I lost count.” Sherlock mumbled.

“You can’t keep doing this!”

“It’s not my fault, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “They just… they’re idiots, the lot of them.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock for a moment more, assessing his injuries. “Let’s get you to the office. Mummy won’t be pleased.”

Sherlock leant on his brother’s shoulder and hobbled into school, the other students staring at him as they walked. He didn’t care. Morons. They eventually got to the nurses’ office and Mycroft dropped him into an empty seat before walking back to class, calling someone possibly important on his mobile phone. Sherlock sighed.

“Hello?” a short blond boy walked into the room, his eyes widening when he saw Sherlock.

“Hello.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Bullies?”

“How did you know?” Sherlock frowned.

The blond boy just threw him a tight-lipped smile and sat next to him, looking over Sherlock’s injuries. “I’ve seen this before. You’re not alone, you know.”

“Who are you?”

“John Watson.” the blond smiled. “I’m training to be a doctor, so I’m always either in class or in here.” he gestured to the office. “If you need me, I’m here for you.”

“I don’t need you.”

John laughed once. “Okay. But I’ll be here anyway, just in case.”

Sherlock glanced at the boy – kind, short, friendly. Someone genuine, someone nice. That was rare in people nowadays. He smiled.

“Would you like to… be friends?”

John beamed. “Okay!”

Sherlock smiled. It hurt his face, but he didn’t care. John was nice. That’s all that mattered.

Prompt: Sherlock when he was a young child and the whole Carl thing happened and nobody listened to him.

Prompt received from the brilliant everythingispoetry – and don’t worry, I’ll never get annoyed! I’m just so flattered that you send me prompts! Enjoy!

…

“Sir, there’s someone here to see you.” the intercom sounded almost amused by this, and DI Gregson could hear a sharp, whiny voice in the background complain about something. The intercom buzzed again. “He says it’s urgent.”

“Send him in.” Gregson smiled.

The door to his office opened three seconds later, revealing a lanky little boy. Gregson was taken aback, but composed himself and stood up.

“Hello, son.” Gregson smiled.

“No time for chit-chat.” the lanky boy frowned. He was rather tall, about twelve-years old, and his shaggy black hair kept flopping into his face as he strode towards Gregson’s desk. The expression on his elfin face showed he meant business. “I am here about the murder of Carl Powers.”

Gregson’s face hardened. “That case is classified… How did you – um, son, I think-“

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am here to set this apocalyptic police outfit straight!” the lanky boy snapped.

Any trace of humour on Gregson’s face had now disappeared. “Mr Holmes, is it? Well, I think-“

“Yes, I know exactly what you think. I’m here for the facts, sir!” Sherlock frowned. His face lit up slightly – he knew he was onto something. “Carl Powers didn’t die in a freak accident. He was murdered in cold blood. The shoes prove it!” he slammed a large manilla envelope onto the DI’s desk and stepped back. “Look at the evidence!”

“Do you… do you know who I am?” Gregson flushed a rather uncomfortable shade of purple. “You can’t waltz in here and tell me how to do my job!”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “I just single-handedly uncovered some very promising evidence towards a case, and you want to play guessing games?” he shook his head in disbelief. “Fine. I’ll play along. DI James Gregson. You have a wife and two children – a boy and a girl – and had a cheese sandwich for lunch about half an hour ago. You’re an honest man, and haven’t cheated on your family – well done! That’s so rare to find in people these days.”

“Have you been stalking me?!” Gregson growled.

“No, I-”

“How old are you? Six?”

“I’m twelve and a half!”

“I don’t care! I want you out! Now!”

“But the murder-“

“OUT.”

“Just look in the envelope. Please.”

Gregson pushed a button on his desk. “Leave, or you will be escorted off the premises. I can’t believe Kathy let you up here…”

“My brother Mycroft didn’t believe me either.”

Gregson froze. “I’m sorry?”

“Mycroft Holmes. Brightest student in his school – but still utterly clueless.” Sherlock sighed. His eyes flicked back to the envelope. “I understand that you think you’ve got this case wrapped up. Really, I do. But this evidence could unravel everything – it could lead you straight to the murderer!”

Gregson unfroze, but kept his gaze on Sherlock. “What makes you think it’s murder?”

Sherlock sighed in relief. “Every piece of evidence points to it! Carl wasn’t liked in school – he was a bully.”

“That doesn’t mean someone would want to kill him.”

“Oh, no?” Sherlock looked at the floor. “Then I suppose you’ve never been bullied, Detective Inspector.”

Gregson felt a pang in his stomach. This kid truly believed what he was saying was true. He shook his head – a kid. That’s all. Just a kid.

“Please leave, Mr Holmes.” he said quietly. “Take your evidence with you. We’ve got this case covered.”

Sherlock stared at Gregson for a moment, then seemed to resign his agenda, collecting his envelope. “If you’d taken this case, you’d have gone places. Shame.”

Sherlock walked out of the office, ignoring the security guards who were about five minutes late in escorting him out. Gregson sunk into his chair.

“Just a kid.”

“Sorry, sir?” one of the guards asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”