(Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope you like it!)

…

John stood in the corridor, his two suitcases beside his feet and his rucksack draped on his shoulder. This was the room, no doubt about it, but there was something odd - every other door had stickers and posters and notices pinned onto them, but this door was completely blank apart from the plaque declaring the room number. John didn’t believe in omens, but if he did he might have run away right then. As it was, he summoned his courage and knocked hesitantly on the door to his new dorm.

“Hello?” there was no response, so he tried again. “Hello? Anybody home?”

The door swung open violently, and a sharp voice snapped: “What?”

John stared at the tall boy in front of him. “John Watson, hi. Is this 7B?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Good. Can I come in?”

The boy glared at John for a long moment. They stood in silence. John, now incredibly awkward, took the opportunity to glance over the new boy. He was younger than John, but taller, slimmer and more angular; his skin was pale and his cheekbones were high, defined by the slanted grey eyes that seemed to grow colder as John looked into them.

“Sherlock Holmes.” the boy drawled. “Are you my new room-mate?” he spat the words as though they were poison.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You think so or you know so?”

John frowned. “I… know so.”

Sherlock glanced over him, appraising the smaller boy. He smirked. “If you’re going to be my room-mate, you have to adhere to my rules.”

“Alright. What rules?”

“Firstly, the room must be kept exactly as you find it at this instant. You cannot touch my belongings. Secondly, you must not disturb me if I’m thinking, and I will ask you to leave if you do. Thirdly, if you have sexual partners in the dorm, clean up after yourself.”

John’s cheeks tinged pink. “Sexual partners?”

“Correct.” Sherlock kept his cold eyes on John’s face. “Do you agree to uphold these rules?”

“Hold on.” John crossed his arms. “If you have rules, then I can have them too.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Sherlock’s voice wavered - he wasn’t used to this.

“Firstly, you have to respect my belongings too. Secondly, if YOU have sexual partners, you have to clean up too.”

Sherlock laughed once. “I will not be having partners. Not my area.”

“So you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

Sherlock paused. He smiled properly. “I like you, Watson. You may enter.” Sherlock held the door open for John to step into the room.

John grinned and picked up his suitcases. “Thanks. Call me John.” and he shut the door behind him.

(I actually loved writing this so so much! Thank you bby, and I hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock slumped in his chair, glaring at the blackboard. This was pretty much the seventh circle of Hell. Timmy, a not very articulate boy, was stood in front of the class, reciting mechanically from a piece of paper. Mrs Henderson, the English teacher, and the rest of the class were bored stupid. Most of them were yawning, flicking paper at their friends, or literally asleep.

Timmy droned on: “And-that’s-why-my-best-friend-is-the-best-person-in-the-world.” he smiled hesitantly up at Mrs Henderson. “Thank-you.”

Mrs Henderson beamed a fake smile at Timmy. “Well done Tim! I think a round of applause is in order!” she started clapping – no-one else joined in. Timmy sat back down, and Mrs H continued: “Now, who’s next…” she looked around the room. “Sherlock!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I refuse.”

Mrs Henderson sighed. “Sherlock, have you actually done the work?”

Sherlock sneered. “I saw no point to it. What’s the use of making a speech about your ‘best friend’? Besides being a complete waste of time, I don’t even have a best friend.”

“He doesn’t have any friends.” one of the boys at the back giggled. A ripple of laughter waved through the class. Sherlock glared at them.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Mrs Henderson was entirely sure it was true. “There must be someone you can speak about? Your brother, perhaps?”

Sherlock saw red, but kept silent, not wishing to indulge the stupid woman.

“Sherlock, you have to do this speech or you’ll fail. This is twenty percent of your coursework.”

Sherlock groaned. “Fine!” he stood up, scraping his chair across the floor.

“Good boy.”

Sherlock stood at the front of the class. He’d never felt more humiliated in his life. There was a long, dreadful pause; most of the class giggled uncertainly.

“Speak, Sherlock.” Mrs Henderson hissed.

Sherlock ignored her. He glanced around the room. No-one here was his friend, so he could talk about no-one here. What about outside of class? No friends outside of school, none inside… except… Sherlock grinned.

“My best friend,” he proclaimed. “is John Watson.”

“Who?” the class murmured.

“John Hamish Watson, in sixth form,” Sherlock continued. “is the kindest person I know. He’s smarter and funnier and a Hell of a lot nicer than you-” he paused. “-than most people I know. He has blond hair and blue eyes and he always greets me with a big smile. He wears jumpers under his blazer, and, no matter what the weather, he always has a flask of tea for break.” Sherlock paused again, thinking quickly. “John plays rugby – I don’t see the attraction myself, but he likes it so it must be fun – and likes football but doesn’t want to play professionally. He wants to be a doctor, but is also interested in a lot of other things, like rugby and joining the army and being an astronaut and stuff.”

“Are you just making this up?” one of the boys at the back called. “You can’t possibly know a sixth former that well!”

“No, it’s all true. John Watson is my best friend.” as he spoke, a warm feeling spread through his chest, and Sherlock smiled proudly. 

(This is so fluffy it made my brain melt. I apologise for any melted brains that may have been caused by this fic. ;) )

…

It isn’t often that England is snowed-in. Usually we have rain and floods, blustery winds, or an escaped cow blocking the road. But today everything was covered in white – even the cow on the road – and everything was shining, happy, peaceful. That is, of course, except for Holmes Mansion. The great grey building was dusted with flaky Christmas snow, but the inside was far from merry.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“I mean it! It’s cold, it’s not even sunny… Ridiculous!”

“Your face is ridiculous.” John chuckled, walking into the living room with a blanket in his arms.

“Very mature.” Sherlock scowled at his friend from the sofa. He was shivering wildly, his arms wrapped around his chest tightly.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” John unfolded the blanket and threw it over Sherlock, plonking himself onto the sofa beside the boy. “You’ve been in a bad mood all day.”

“Bloody snow.” Sherlock muttered, his face hidden in the blanket. “It ruins everything.”

John tugged the blanket away, laying it evenly over their laps. “Well, we’re here and we’re together. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. He relaxed his arms. “I suppose.”

John grinned, snuggling closer up to his friend. Sherlock stared very pointedly at the TV, trying to ignore the warm and impossibly adorable boy beside him.

“What do you want to watch?” John lay back against the sofa, wiggling his bum to get comfortable.

“Something gory.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled.

“No.”

“Yes.” Sherlock grinned. “I’ve had my eye on Silent Hill for a while now.”

“We are not watching Silent Hill.”

“Why not?”

John groaned. “One, it’s the middle of the day, and two, I don’t want to watch a scary movie.”

Sherlock’s grin widened. “Are you chicken?”

“No!”

“CLUCK CLUCK CLUCK!”

“Sherlock! Stop it!”

Sherlock laughed, lunging sideways and tickling John mercilessly under the armpits. John shrieked, hitting Sherlock’s back with his fists – the taller boy leaned back, out of breath from laughter.

John glared at him. “What was that for?!”

Sherlock shrugged, still smiling, settling back down on the sofa. “You’re cute when you laugh.”

John rolled his eyes – he picked up one of the sofa cushions and whacked it against Sherlock’s head. He grinned. “Idiot.”

Sherlock chuckled. He leaned sideways, resting his head on John’s shoulder. John smiled.

“Still cold?”

“No.” Sherlock sighed happily.  

(Okie dokie! Let’s give this a go! Thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

John stared at the spinning bottle, willing it to point anywhere but him. It slowed down, ominously turning in his direction… and… fuck it. The bottle pointed to him.

“Alright, John!” Greg Lestrade grinned. “Truth or dare?”

John sighed. He glanced around the circle. Sherlock Holmes, sat next to John, was looking slightly annoyed at the long pause, while Molly, Dimmock and Mike smiled expectantly, waiting for the reply.

“Dare.” John smirked finally.

“Great.” Greg grinned evilly. “What should we have you do…?”

“Drink the whole bottle of cola!” Mike snatched the full bottle off the table, chuckling happily. 

“No, no, I dare you to run around the hall screaming I LOVE JUSTIN BIEBER!” Dimmock beamed.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t advertise that if I were you, mate.” John smirked. Dimmock’s face fell, and he grumbled something along the lines of I don’t like Justin Bieber… No-one believed him.

“Ooh! Oooh! I have it! Kiss Sherlock!” Molly squeaked.

Sherlock glared at the blonde; John almost fainted. “What?!”

“Yep!” Greg nodded. “That’s the dare, John. Do it or die.”

John glanced at Sherlock. The black-haired teen was fourty-nine shades of pink, and was very pointedly not looking at John. John thought fast.

“A-Actually, Greg, I don’t need to do that dare.”

“Why not?”

John gulped. “Because, ah, we’ve already kissed. Lots of times, in fact. Right, Sherlock?”

The young Holmes stared at him incredulously; John nudged him slightly, urging him to play along. Sherlock smiled reluctantly, sounding almost disappointed as he said to Greg: “That’s right. Hundreds of times. John is a very sloppy kisser, you know. All tongue.”

“Yes, thank you Sherlock!” John snapped. “Uh, I mean, darling.”

The rest of the gang were rolling about on the floor laughing - Greg and Mike had tears in their eyes, while Dimmock was clapping his hands like a seal. Molly was covering her face in second-hand embarrassment. Sherlock sighed.

“Prove it!” Greg howled.

John frowned. “Pardon?”

“Kiss ‘im!” Dimmock chortled. “Kiss ‘im!”

John clenched his fists. “I don’t need to!”

“Go on!” Greg laughed. “You know you want to!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He launched himself sideways, pulling John onto his lap, and pressed his lips against John’s, closing his eyes through the brief kiss. John jolted back, staring wildly at his friend. The gang laughed and cheered, then slowly grew more and more uncomfortable as John kept sitting on Sherlock’s lap, staring into his eyes for a few minutes after the kiss.

Greg cleared his throat. “Uh, John? You okay, buddy?”

John blinked. “Yeah, fine.”

He crawled off Sherlock’s lap - but kept his legs crossed and his body close, resting a knee on Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock smiled.

(Of course! That’s quite a nice prompt, so I’d be happy to :) Thank you so much – I hope you like it!)

…

“I hate school.” Sherlock Holmes groaned. “It’s so dull! Teachers picking on you, students pestering you… might as well be locked in a room with my brother…”

John Watson smiled. “You say this every day.”

“Yes, and every day it’s still true.” Sherlock grumbled.

John chuckled, heaving his rucksack higher onto his shoulder. The two boys strolled slowly down the deserted lane away from school, Sherlock wearing a uniform that was too tight, John wearing a muddy rugby kit. The sky was growing darker as they wandered home. Sherlock stretched out his arms – John flinched away when a hand came too near his face. Sherlock noticed, but didn’t comment, continuing his rant about school.

“I hate homework too. Pointless.”

“Got much to do?” John asked.

“I did it all in my lunch hour. No point in wasting time doing pointless work when I could be investigating the Powers case.”

John groaned. “Sherlock, can’t you let that go? Carl died in an accident.”

“No, John, it was murder!” Sherlock frowned. “No-one believes me! I’d have thought you, my best friend, would back me up on this.”

John raised an eyebrow, stopping dead in the middle of the lane. “I’m your best friend?”

Sherlock smiled. “Obviously.”

He reached out a hand towards John, clasping his friend’s hand – but John pulled back instantly, flinching away with a look of horror on his face.

“What the Hell?!” John yelped.

Sherlock frowned. “I was only-”

“Don’t touch me!”

The taller boy was intrigued now. “Why can’t I touch you?”

John stepped back, glaring at the floor. “I don’t like it when people touch me. It’s not just you, it’s everyone.”

“But… you’re a rugby player!”

“That’s different.” John snapped.

Sherlock and John stared at each other for a moment. The black-haired boy strode forward, stepping right up to his friend, and tried to grasp his hand again – but John pulled back and punched Sherlock in the face, letting his friend drop to his knees.

“You brought that on yourself.” John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t done yet! Sherlock leaned right forward and pressed his lips to John’s in a quick, fleeting kiss. John nearly fainted, lolling backwards on his heels. Sherlock caught him just as he fell, pulling the smaller boy up and crushing him against his chest. John squirmed, his face red and his legs wobbling.

“Let me go, Sherlock!” John growled.

“Tell me why I can’t touch you.”

“It’s not just you!”

“John, tell me.”

“No!”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Ugh! Because I’m scared!” John yelled.

Sherlock obediently released his friend. “Thank you.”

“Bastard.”

Sherlock smiled.

(I love teen!lock :D I always imagine them with braces, thanks to ilovemyjawn :D anyway, thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

A light winter breeze chilled John Watson, clad in his rugby uniform, as he jogged out onto the field, supporting a rugby ball under his arm. He spotted a gang of tall, muscular boys, stood in a tight circle a few metres away, and hurried over to them. He threw the ball to one of his friends, who ignored him and let the ball fall to the floor. John frowned.

“Alright boys, we’re already behind on training, so-” John pushed through into the centre of the circle, but froze when he saw the true nature of the scene.

Harry, a beefy guy that was already covered in mud, was ruthlessly kicking a skinny black-haired boy, who was cowering in a ball on the floor. The boy on the floor looked up – he had a black eye, and his face was splattered with blood, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. John watched in horror as Harry aimed a vicious kick to the boy’s nose – everyone winced when they heard the crack. The boy on the floor slumped his head back down, tears springing into his eyes. He didn’t say anything, which made John even angrier.

“What the Hell are you doing?” John barked at Harry.

“Nuffin.” Harry smirked. He addressed the boy on the floor: “Right, Sherlie Whirly?”

The boy looked up – his eyes pleaded with John, flashing with fear, and he mouthed “help me” at the blond. John strode forward, pushing Harry out of the way, and held his hand out to the beaten boy. He took it gratefully, and John pulled him to his feet. The gang groaned.

“Whatcha doin’, Watson?!” Harry growled.

“Being a decent person.” John snapped back.

John and the boy walked (or hobbled, in the boy’s case) hand-in-hand into the changing rooms, ignoring the cries and jeers of the gang they left behind. John cleared a space on the bench in the corner, sitting the boy down. He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes, but kept hold of John’s hand, gripping him tightly.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Sherlock.” the boy replied quietly.

“Hi Sherlock. I’m John.”

Sherlock said nothing, keeping his eyes closed. John glanced over the boy. His black eye was worse than John had thought, the bruises pattering all the way down his face and arms. His lip with split in two places; his broken nose was bleeding and staining his white shirt, the bone broken at an odd angle. John felt mildly sick when he saw it. Sherlock slowly opened his unbruised eye, scanning John in the same fashion.

“Thanks.” he murmured. 

“Yeah, well. They were being tossers.” John licked his lips. “Do you get bullied a lot?”

“Mm.” Sherlock nodded slightly. “Not by them, though. That’s new.”

“I’m sorry about that.” John sighed. “I know how they get. To be honest, you were lucky they didn’t whack out the hockey sticks.”

“Why are you friends with them?”

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock had both eyes open now, and was staring at him curiously – his clear, grey irises pierced through John’s skull, digging out his soul and replacing it with a warm, welcome, unnameable feeling. John didn’t reply to Sherlock’s question. Instead, he squeezed Sherlock’s hand lightly, reassuring him. The boy winced, breaking his gaze, and closed his eyes again.

“I’ll get the nurse.” John stood up, letting go of Sherlock’s hand.

“No need.”

“Your nose is broken!”

“I can set it myself. Done it before.” Sherlock sighed.

John stared at the boy. “You need help.”

He obviously meant medical help, but Sherlock smiled almost painfully, clenching his skinned fists.

“Ha. So they tell me.”  

(Thank you so much!! Ooh, I do love a bit of Teen!lock :D I hope you like this!)

…

Sherlock had never been to John’s house before. It was a modest building, with a tame garden, orange bricks and small white windowsills with mini flowerpots standing atop them. It was rather cute - better than Holmes Mansion, at any rate. This was more like a house from a fairytale book, not a large and looming establishment in an estate agent’s window like Sherlock’s home.

The taxi stopped outside the little house. Sherlock glanced at John, who smiled reassuringly. The two boys stepped out of the taxi, and John leant on Sherlock’s shoulder as the taller boy helped him inside.  John’s knees were skinned; his legs weren’t badly injured, but he’d needed a few stitches on his right leg. Both knees were bandaged up, and poor John had to hobble up the pathway to his home. He unlocked the door with some difficulty (Sherlock eventually had to get the keys out of John’s back pocket, resulting in an abundance of awkwardness), and they stepped inside.

“I’M HOME!” John called. No reply. “They must be out.”

Sherlock nodded. They walked slowly into the living room, and John flopped down on the sofa, putting an arm over his eyes. Sherlock hovered awkwardly by the chair.

“I’ll be going, then.” he thinned his lips.

“No!” John sat up, wincing. “Don’t leave!”

Sherlock smiled. He sat next to John, patting his friend’s shoulder gently. John chuckled.

“Wanna watch TV?”

“Alright.”

John reached towards the table and grabbed the remote, turning on the television with a click of the button. BBC Three sprang up, and John’s eyes widened.

“Doctor Who’s on!”

“Doctor What?”

“No-” John paused, glaring at the grinning Sherlock. “Very funny.” he turned back to the TV. “That’s Donna, so this is-“

“Partners in Crime, episode one, series four.”

John blinked at his friend. “How’d you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft likes it. We have all the New and Old Who series’ on DVD.”

John shook his head in disbelief. The perks of being rich! After a few scenes, John turned to Sherlock and smiled. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

Sherlock beamed. “You’re welcome, John.” 

(Of course I don’t mind – thank you so much for the prompt! A random day in the life of Teen!Sherlock characters – I hope you like it! I’m so sorry it took so long. I rewrote it about ten times to make it readable. Enjoy!)

…

Mycroft was being annoying again, offering him a ride to school as usual. The lanky sixteen-year old Sherlock just shrugged his brother off and made his way to the bus stop. John met him there with a warm smile, and they spent the half-hour ride playing cards and trying to finish homework. The bus arrived outside Priory High School, and the two boys entered through the front gates, John waving to a few friends, Sherlock ignoring everyone.

They reached the form room and found Greg and Molly already sat at their table, waving them over. Greg had his legs propped up on the table, Molly almost hidden behind a tower of books.

“Morning!” she smiled.

“Morning, Molly. Hey Greg, I saw the rugby team is looking for new players – want to try out?” John smiled at the light-blond boy, who grinned.

“Sure! Lunchtime? We’ll go over to the gym and ask.”

“Perfect!” John set his books down on the floor and sat down.

Sherlock slumped into his own chair, resting his legs on John’s lap, hiding his face in an upside-down book. Their form tutor, Mrs Mortimer, entered the room and called for silence.

This was how the four friends usually started the school day – lounging in the form room until lessons started. Lessons weren’t bad: John and Molly shared the same subjects, while Greg and Sherlock shared two. Sherlock and John only had one subject together, while Greg and Molly never crossed over. The teachers at the school weren’t as strict as they seemed: Mrs Mortimer, Psychology; Mr Hope, Maths; Miss Morstan, Physics; Mr Knight, Chemistry; Mrs Stapleton, Biology; and many more. The students often teased John about having a crush on Miss Morstan, but John didn’t care. He did have a crush. No secret. She was hot.

Once lunchtime came around, Sherlock slipped up to the Chemistry labs to do some tests. Greg was sure they were illegal, or at least banned by the school, but didn’t press the matter, mostly because Sherlock hadn’t ratted him out to the teachers when he caught the older boy smoking – although Sherlock had asked for a cigarette after he caught him. Once Sherlock’s tests were over, he went down to the canteen to see John and Greg talking heatedly, Molly over with her other friends in the corner.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock sat next to Greg with a frown.

“The rugby team’s full.” Greg sighed.

“So?”

“So we can’t play rugby.” John said miserably. He cleared his throat and plastered a smile onto his face. “Oh well. No point in worrying about it. How were your experiments, Sherlock?”

“Conclusive.” Sherlock murmured. John nodded, a real smile tracing his lips.

“Oi, shrimp!”

“And here we go again.” Sherlock murmured. John and Greg glanced at each other in confusion.

“Hello, Carl.” Sherlock stood up, facing the burly Sixth Form boy with a grimace. “It’s pronounced ‘Sherlock’.”

“Like I care.” Carl sneered. His bodyguards flanked him like a pack of wolves. Then again, wolves are clever. These boys are idiots.

“Had enough of teasing Jim? I must say, that boy has some tenacity. I’d watch out if I were you.” Sherlock smiled.

“I don’t think so. Jim Moriarty’s a freak.” Carl said it loud enough that the whole of the canteen went quiet and stared at the two boys. Carl didn’t notice. Greg had risen to his feet, but the bigger boy was now focussed on John, who was glaring at him. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched. “Oh, jokes about my sexuality? How original.”

“So he is your boyfriend?” Carl grinned. The bodyguards laughed.

“What’s it to you?” John frowned. The bullies stared at him. “Carl Powers? Huh. I know you. I know your secrets.” John smiled at Sherlock, who widened his eyes. “John Watson. This is Greg Lestrade. Heard of us? Of course you have. So if you don’t want me to tell the headmaster about you and your boys smoking in the locker rooms, I’d go now.”

Carl stared at John in utter bewilderment. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“Oh, didn’t you understand me? I’ve got plenty more. Smoking, drugs, alcohol… so if you don’t want any of that to get out…” John glared at Carl ferociously. “I’d back away from my friend right now.”

Greg cracked his knuckles, making Carl jump and Sherlock grin. The older boy stuttered over non-existent words, and he glanced over the canteen, which was packed with people just staring at him. Carl glared at Sherlock one last time before fleeing, his friends right behind him. Sherlock gazed at John, who just sat down next to a grinning Greg and shrugged.

“You think I can’t intimidate people?” John grinned like a wolf at Sherlock.

Wolves are clever. They stick together.

Two more lessons, and home time loomed. Sherlock wasn’t looking forward to it – he never was, to be honest. Dinner with Mycroft. Huzzah. John wasn’t particularly ecstatic about home either, but his home life was pretty pleasant. Greg and Molly… Sherlock had never thought to ask them about their homes. He knew Molly had a cat and a mother. Greg never talked about home. Sherlock made a mental note to ask them later. That note was lost behind his Mind Sofa.

“Have a good night, John, Molly, Greg.” Sherlock smiled. Molly and Greg walked out of the front gates, waving at their friends. John started to walk out too, but Sherlock called after him: “John!”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Thanks. For earlier, I mean.”

John just grinned and walked away, a spring in his step. Sherlock smiled happily, then remembered. Dinner with Mycroft. Can’t fucking wait.

(Mwah ha ha ha! Moriarty is watching yooou… ;) I’m not very happy with this one, but I hope you like it!!)

“Oh, hi, hey Sherlock!” Molly Hooper rushed towards the lanky boy, her large folder clutched in her arms. Sherlock turned round, his face cold and unfeeling. Molly gulped. “I-I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee, if you want, I don’t mind, I just thought you-”

“Sure.”

“R-Really?!”

“Black, two sugars. I’ll be in the library.” Sherlock smiled quickly at Molly and strode off, his massive backpack swinging from one shoulder. Molly watched him go, feeling a bit sick.

“See you in a minute, then…” she called. He didn’t look round.

Sherlock entered the library. It was empty, as usual, and he settled down into his favourite nook in the corner, pulling out a large book. Suddenly, a streak of white and black popped up from behind a bookshelf, startling him.

“Hey Sherlie!” Irene Adler grinned.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. “Hello, Miss Adler.”

“Irene, sweetie. It’s Irene.”

“Mm.” Sherlock returned to his book.

Irene perched on the desk, her hand tracing the edges of the book, walking her fingers across the page towards Sherlock’s hand. She took it, bringing the hand towards her face.

“You work too much, honey.”

“I am not ‘honey’, and I only wish to be left in peace.”

“Boring!” Irene sighed. She lay a soft kiss to Sherlock’s hand, but he jerked it back immediately, his eyes narrowing.

“I think you should go. This is a library, not a club.”

“Fine. I’ll read with you.” Irene grinned. She pulled a chair towards the desk, leaning her chin on Sherlock’s shoulder to read his book. “Forensic science, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“My little police officer!” she laughed.

“Detective.” Sherlock corrected her in a strained voice. He closed the book. “It’s almost time for class.”

“Lunchtime has barely started yet!”

As if to confirm that, Molly walked into the library, two takeaway cups of coffee balanced precariously on her huge folder. She noticed Irene hugging Sherlock’s neck, the tall boy doing nothing to remove her, and Molly squeaked at the sight. Both of them looked up at the blonde, Sherlock’s eyes growing wider than Irene’s huge grin.

“Hello, my dear.” Irene purred. “Is that coffee for us?”

“N-N-N-No!” Molly glanced at Sherlock, who frowned. “The left is for Sherlock, and the right is mine…” she lowered her folder so they were easier to reach. Irene reluctantly untangled her arms from Sherlock’s neck and stepped back.

“Irene, you know Molly.” Sherlock took the one on the right, knowing she’d gotten them mixed up. Molly beamed, then risked a glance at Irene, who just smiled dangerously.

“Yes. Sociology class.” Irene’s face grew hard, her eyes losing their flirty edge.

“That’s right. Well. Yes. I’ll see you later, Sherlock – we’ve got Chemistry later, so I’ll see you then…” Molly smiled quickly.

“Bye.” Sherlock took a sip from his coffee. He’d been right about the mix-up. Molly turned to go, but Sherlock took a hold of her arm and made her look at him. He smiled.

“Thank you. For the coffee, I mean. Thanks.”

He let her go, and Molly ran into the corridor, heart thumping a million miles a minute. She leant against the library door with a smile.

“He said thank you…” she whispered.

(I kind of combined the first 2 and added a bit… I hope you like it!)

The first time Sherlock Holmes saw Greg Lestrade was when he was 10 years old. Location: the park. Motivation: fun. According to Mycroft, that is.

“What are you doing?” the shorter boy had frowned at Sherlock, who was playing in the sandbox.

“Building a ship.” was the reply. Obviously.

“Yeah, but why?” Greg sat next to the strange boy.

“Because I’m a pirate.” sighed Sherlock. “And as everyone knows, pirates captain ships. They are the commanders of their vessel, and answer to no-one.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered. “They shoot anyone that doesn’t obey them, and they take the treasure that is rightfully theirs. It is a lifestyle that I wish to adopt.”

“That sounds awful.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Why would you want to shoot people?”

“Because I get bored.” Sherlock shrugged. Greg stood up and dusted the sand off his trousers.

“You’re mad.” he giggled. Sherlock looked up at him, a little bewildered. “But mad is good.” Greg grinned.

xxx

High school should have been boring, but with his notorious image spreading throughout the school, Sherlock was never alone. Age 17, pushed into a stupid school because Mycroft wanted him to be “normal”, whatever that meant. Plus he could never argue with Mummy.

“Sherlock, I’m not sure about this!” Greg whispered.

“Shut up.” Sherlock frowned. They crossed the field, their huge bags slung against their backs.

“We could get a criminal record!”

“For the last time, shut UP, Lestrade!” Sherlock whispered furiously. The light-blonde boy fell silent. They pulled the spray-cans out of their bags and started painting.

It was only the next morning that someone noticed the graffiti on the wall. Mycroft was called; Lestrade’s mother was called; both of them were fuming.

“Sherlock, what on Earth possessed you to write ‘the headmistress is sleeping with the gym teacher’ on the wall?” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock and Greg glanced at each other.

“I was bored.” Sherlock grinned.

xxx

Although he had known Sherlock for at least 30 years, the first time that Greg really saw Sherlock was at Hamish Holmes’ seventh birthday. The child had been given a magnifying glass from his other father, John Watson, and he was happily jumping around, examining random objects with it.

“He likes it.” Sherlock smiled. John smiled too, and kissed Sherlock quickly on the cheek. He ran over to Hamish to help him with some other presents. Greg glanced at Sherlock, who was smiling happily.

“You’re proud of him, aren’t you?” Greg asked Sherlock. The taller man looked at Greg with sparkling eyes. It reminded Greg of the first time they had met, when Sherlock had built that ship in the sand. He was the same little boy he had always been – but now he had finally become a man.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s gaze went back to Hamish and John.

“I knew, one day, you’d become a good man.” Greg smiled. Sherlock grinned.

“Thanks, Lestrade.”

“My pleasure, Sherlock.”