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A/N: Hello, people!

I don't own Sherlock.

I have no beta.

ENJOY!

Eleven year old John Watson, stared at the letter in his hands. He was so excited to get a return, only to find the letter he'd sent a week ago, on the floor in front of the door. Well actually, it was a letter addressed to him, from someone named Sherlock Holmes. Inside though, was the letter he'd sent the week previous, along with another letter.

Mike never got his letter.

He looked at the note from the Sherlock person.

To Whom it May Concern,

This letter found its way into our post on the fifth of May and no one by that name resides in our neighborhood. Many apologies for the time wasted, but do try to address your letters properly next time.

May fortune favor you,

W. Sherlock S. Holmes.

John showed the note to his mother, who urged him to send a reply with gratitude. He had to search his dictionary a bit, before he could properly respond.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Thank you for not throwing my letter out. It was also very kind of you to send it back to me.

I'm apologize if I don't sound as smart as you, I'm only eleven and writing a letter such as this is confusing.

My mum told me to thank you, so I am.

Hoping you have a good life,

John H. Watson.

When he sent that letter, he did not expect a reply. In fact, when he got one, his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

Dear John,

It was no great trouble, returning your letter. A simple act of kindness that shall fill my roster for the year.

As for age, one should not let their age dictate whether they are intelligent or not. I am eight years of age and I have a very extensive vocabulary, if I do say so myself. You sound rather fine, yourself.

My own mother has pushed me into replying. Apparently, I have a habit of repelling other children and since you have not 'met me in person', you 'cannot run away' from me. She is under the impression that we will become 'friends' of some sort, soon enough.

I'll leave that decision in your hands. I have never had a friend and it wouldn't offend me if I never have one.

It has been a pleasure,

Sherlock Holmes.

John was beside himself when he got another letter back! And even more so when he learned that Sherlock was younger than him! And that he had no friends. That made John sad.

Dear Sherlock,

I have decided. You are my new friend. To not have a friend, is mad. So if the people know won't be your friends, I'll be your friend.

Now, because you are new to this, I have to explain it all.

Friends:

-share stories of their lives.

-tell/keep each other's secrets.

-have each other's backs when in trouble.

-stand up for each other no matter what.

-always tell each other the truth.

-sometimes mess with other people for a good laugh.

-and generally be there, when others aren't.

There are more things to add, but I think this is a good list to go on for now.

I'll start off with information.

John Hamish Watson:

11 years old.

Blonde, short hair, blue eyes.

Short(not fair, by the way).

I have an older sibling who acts 'superior' to me.

Though my vocabulary isn't generally intelligent sounding like your own, I can be smart when I want to. I read the dictionary for fun, also.  I get anything related to Biology, Chemistry, and Geometry, really well. All of my classes are advanced placement and I've skipped to my penultimate year in secondary.

I intend to be a doctor/pharmacist.

I like making tea.

What about you? (This is where you exchange information about yourself in return)

Yours truly,

John Watson.

The letter he got in return, made him jump for joy!

Dear John,

I do understand what a friendship is, I have just never been in one. As for being my… friend, I'll wait before completely agreeing. Aren't friends supposed to accept each other's faults? I have many and you wouldn't like me if I told you all of them.

I guess I shall be somewhat forthcoming with you.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes:

8 years old.

Black, curly hair, blue/green/silver eyes.

I am 5 ft. tall.

I too have an elder sibling who feels entitled to make my life a bore. Thinking he has the right to 'assert' himself over me, seeing as he is older.

I have a tutor who 'teaches' me for six hours a day. She is a fool and her methods are questionable at best. She insists upon foisting unwanted 'knowledge' on me. I care nothing for Astronomy, it will do me no good later in life. However, I have taken to English, Science and History rather well.

I like to experiment, which led me into pursuing Chemistry and Biology as well.

I apparently have a form of Autism called Asperger's Syndrome. I for one, just think that I don't like being around people. They are loud. They are liars. They never say what they mean and then get offended when I point all the facts out. I'd prefer the term  sociopath , instead of being treated like I possess a 'disease' of the mind. My mind is fine.

I deduce people, like a detective would.

For example: You attend a rather high end institution on scholarship. You have an older brother who doesn't and is jealous so he teases you for being intelligent. Possibly a drug addict or a drunkard, he is. Your father is not present in your lives. He either left when you were young or is dead. You are a generally kind person who doesn't like it when someone is 'left out', which is why you wish to be my friend. You like contact sports, possibly rugby and prefer honesty above all. You hate your lack of height because your brother teases you over it. You wish to be a doctor in order to save people, which goes along with your kindness. You are considering joining the military, so you can be an even bigger help.

If you are not offended by now, then I'm impressed that you stuck it out when no one else has. If you do not wish to continue this correspondence, stop writing altogether. I will not mind.

Time will tell,

Sherlock Holmes.

John frowned. Sherlock has Asperger's Syndrome. He looked that up and couldn't really believe it. Someone with it wouldn't be able to sit down long enough to write a letter, let alone such a detailed, long one that Sherlock gave him. He received a response within two days of sending his letter, meaning between sleeping, eating, cleansing, experimenting and schooling, Sherlock found time to reply to his letter.

He couldn't possibly have Asperger's.

John set about writing him back. How foolish to think that John would ignore him!

Dear Sherlock,

Yes, I want to still be your friend. It's amazing that you got all of that from just a little bit of information. Except I have a sister, not a brother, though Harry is rather boyish at times. You're impressive.

As for Asperger's Syndrome. I looked it up and from what little I know of you and your varied interests, I do not believe that you have it. You wouldn't have been able to find yourself time at all or time enough to be calm enough to send me such long letters.

You're a genius aren't you? You seem like one to me at least.

As for faults, I tend to be too 'compassionate'? That's what my mum told me at least. I'm a bit of a 'mother hen' to people and it can be annoying. I'm always trying to solve situations in way where everyone comes out happy. My carefree nature can get annoying. I'm usually optimistic. I also dump all of Harry's lagers when she isn't home.

I like you, Sherlock.

Hope to hear from you soon,

John!


J,

I've chosen Cambridge as opposed to Oxford. Mycroft is none too pleased that I broke family tradition, but it's my life and I will decide.

I intend to go for a Mastery in Chemistry. I'll achieve my goal, no doubt.

Were you accepted yet?

We won't be able to write as often if you go away, you do know that, right?

Yours,

SH.


The last letter John received regarding Sherlock, was sad. It was from his older brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft very blandly stated that Sherlock had gotten in with the wrong crowd, due to his Asperger's acting up and he was currently in rehabilitation for severe drug abuse. No outside influence beyond family was permitted in his case. And that was that. John last heard word of Sherlock when he was twenty-eight and nothing from that day forward.

And just when he had felt that he was falling for his long time pen pal too.

He was depressed for a while - seven months - and never truly forgot Sherlock, even when in other relationships. No one was the same. No one could ever replace Sherlock.

And so he settled for 'normal' and boring' relationships, because he knew that the Sherlock sized hole in his heart, would never be filled. Long term relationships weren't his style anymore. They didn't matter. No one could compete with Sherlock.


At the age of thirty-three, John Watson was injured by a sniper and because he refused to treat himself immediately, the wound never healed correctly. He had to be honorably discharged. It was terrible.

He hadn't been a normal civilian in years. He didn't know how to live among a city. He was pretty certain that army actions weren't going to be favorably looked upon among the populace.

The bedsit was hell. The food was at least better. People were annoying to be around.

His therapist was an idiot. His psychosomatic limp was enough to drive him mad.

Cold weather made the pain act up a bit. He hated rainy days. He couldn't go anywhere when it was pissing down.

And this day was like all others. Get up. Shower. Blog. Got out for a brisk limp/walk around the area. Coffee. Get back to the bedsit.

He needed better accommodations and a job. Harry would be no help, especially since she just walked out on her wife Clara and was a recovering alcoholic.

As he sat on the park bench, contemplating how exactly he was getting out of the hell hole he lived in, someone sat beside him and asked, "Excuse me, can I borrow your phone? Mine just lost power."

John looked to his left, confronted by striking blue/silver eyes and cheekbones! Good God this man was like perfection!

John barely registered himself handing over the phone Harry gave him. A gift from Clara, that she no longer wanted.

The man smirked and John's stomach fluttered at how much more attractive it made him

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the Adonis like man asked casually as he flipped the phone open and began texting someone.

John froze and gaped, "Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"Your posture, haircut, and tan lines show that you've been in a lot of sun but not on holiday. You have a cane, which means an injury, recently. Where would a man get such distinctive tan lines and an injury, with your specifics? Afghanistan or Iraq."

John gaped some more, completely blown away by this man.

"You live at the local bedsit and are looking for better lodging. Tell me, how do you feel about the violin?"

"Uh… it's a nice instrument. Why?"

"I've got my eye on a nice place in central London that we should be able to afford once my job really takes off. The landlady requested that I have a flatmate for purposes of not being alone, should I lean toward unsavory actions. As a former military man, recently invalided home, you'd have a better moral compass than most and would stop me before I got rash.

Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you by any chance?"

John just stared, even as his phone was placed back in his still outstretched palm.

"You want to share a flat when we don't even know each other?"

"Then we get to know each other."

The man turned to him, looking him over. "Army, twelve - no - thirteen years. Returned two months ago. Therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, correct I'm afraid. Calloused hands show a lot of work, could be day to day handling of various weaponry, but you're very fluid in movement, so must be a surgeon. So, army doctor. Having a doctor assist me in cases would be helpful. I can't stand the medical 'professionals' the Yard has. We can cure that limp of yours really quickly as well. I think this is enough to be going on, don't you?"

John shook his head, though still amazed.

"As spectacular as you are, I still don't know you."

The man flushed suddenly, eyes going wide. "You're not… unnerved?"

"No, that whole thing was rather brilliant. I just don't know a thing about you, other than the fact that you're really observant."

Cheekbones smiled slightly and offered his hand, "I'm the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes."

John's stomach dropped.

He inhaled quickly, loudly, catching Sherlock's attention.

"You've heard of me?"

How many Sherlock Holmes' were there? Really? Holmes wasn't a common name.

John sputtered to respond. "Uh! What do you think of the name Sherrinford?"

Blue eyes widened instantly and Sherlock was leaning close to him, "Have I met you before? Did I delete you?"

"Not necessarily 'met'," John said, leaning back onto the arm of the bench even as Sherlock drew nearer. "That doesn't mean I don't know you."

"You think you know me when we've never met," Sherlock said, sounding incredulous.

John bristled and straightened, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, thirty years old this year. You have a Masters in Chemistry which you received upon attending Cambridge which you chose in order to rile your family up, breaking the Oxford tradition. You use your knowledge in order to conduct experiments. You constructed a Mind Palace for yourself when you were seven years of age and you hate Astronomy, proven by the fact that you deleted the fact that the earth revolves around the sun. Your older brother is Mycroft Holmes, a right tosser with a position in the government. You were in rehab, thanks to Mycroft, for drug abuse. Need I continue?"

Sherlock's eyes traveled over his form, very closely. John was preparing himself for some sort of terrifying evaluation.

"Mycroft told me that you were disappointed in my drug use at that you didn't want to speak to me anymore, John."

It was said in a whisper. A heartbroken whisper.

John scoffed, "I knew he was a complete arse! I got a letter five years ago, after nearly six months of no response from you, from your brother. He told me that you were in rehab and that you weren't allowed to communicate with anyone who wasn't a member of your family. I received no letters from then on."

Sherlock. This was Sherlock. He found himself appreciating him. Form and all. What he had imagined, hadn't even come close. Sherlock was perfection. Cheekbones.

The consulting detective sat back, frowning. "You're telling the truth."

He looked away. "Mycroft told me, in front of both of my parents, that you wanted nothing to do with me, because I took cocaine. My mother, who was the one to push me to try a friendship with you, was particularly angered. She said it was betrayal. She said a few other things as well."

John sighed. He knew Mycroft could be bad, but did he seriously jeapordise his little brother's only friendship? Why?

Sherlock stood suddenly, "John, stand for me."

The doctor stood slowly, leaning on his cane.

Sherlock pulled him away from the bench and began circling him. "I can't believe we'd been writing each other for years and never entertained the thought of sharing what we look like. I envisioned you much shorter."

John laughed, "Well, you aren't what I expected either."

"What did you expect?" Sherlock asked, stepping really close, into his personal space. His eyes, a literal mix of blue and green and some silver, were somehow shining.

"Well, not perfection, for one."

Sherlock was flushed suddenly. "'Perfection'?"

"You have seen yourself, right?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, before pursing his lips and saying, "I think you're perfect too. All compact and comfortable looking in your ridiculous oatmeal colored jumper."

John looked down, frowning. His jumper wasn't ridiculous. Cable knit was lovely and good at keeping in the warmth.

"So, to be clear, you don't hate me for doing drugs?"

John sighed, "I was disappointed, but I figured that it was because of the Mind Palace thing. You told me once that if you don't have something to hold your attention, your mind becomes unbearable to you. Loud. I figured that you replaced the violin with drugs."

"Quite right. Come, John!" Sherlock nodded, taking off in a random direction.

"Where?!" John called out, hobbling after him.

"The bedsit is in this direction. You kept all of our letters. You're sentimental like that. Did you keep the one Mycroft sent you?"

"Yes. Though I did want to rip it up and toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. Why?"

"We're going to see mummy."

"From what you told me, it sounds like she hates me!"

"That's why we're going to show her Mycroft's letter. He'll be in trouble for lying to not only me, but her as well. And the result of his lie, led to me being in rehab for three extra years due to depression and attempted suicide."

"'Suicide'?!"

"You were my only friend, John. Of course I wasn't happy to learn that my actions which were only done to make the boredom and voices go away, had also pushed you away. Life didn't seem as worth living. I've been out for six months."

John frowned, not liking that. Was mycroft that heartless? "Are you sure your mother won't try to kill me?"

"Was Mycroft's letter typed or written?"

"Written. I thought it was really feminine."

"That's Mycroft."


Mummy Holmes had been terrifying.

Sherlock dragged John and his box of letters, dusty and unopened in years, out to Cornwall to see his parents.

Sherlock had them take a ridiculous course to get there, explaining that Mycroft was practically the British Government now and had control of the CCTV. They avoided all cameras.

The house was large and made of stone. There was an iron gate and even a cobblestone walkway.

Sherlock literally dragged John by his free hand, to the front door.

The woman who answered, was definitely older than she looked. No sixty something year old woman should look that young.

"Sherlock! I haven't seen you in months!" the woman threw her arms around him, smiling.

"Mummy, I wanted you to meet my friend."

The woman had stilled at that, turning to John. She scrutinized him closely, jaw as stiff as her silvery bun.

John tried to smile, but it was probably more of a grimace. "Colonel John Watson, Md. It's a pleasure, Mrs. Holmes."

Her eyes goggled instantly and she stepped forward quickly, John was good enough still, to spot the hand that lashed out in his direction. He caught it effortlessly, stopping her from smacking him. He loosely held her wrist in front of her gaping face.

Sherlock intervened then, pulling his mother away from John. "Mummy, we have something important to show you. Mycroft has been a bad boy."

The woman looked between her son and John and a twinge of disbelief lit her face. "He didn't?"

"Come, Mummy, John."

The woman's reaction to the letter, was enough to truly terrify John. Especially when she pulled out her mobile and dialed furiously.

"Mycroft Harold Sigeberht Holmes, how dare you lie to your little brother about his friend! I have half a mind to bend you over my knee and cane your unruly behind, young man! Do you not understand how grievous your actions were? You're brother nearly killed himself because of you! Is this how you've turned out? Is this what I raised? Such a callous brat? You better get your behind over here or so help me you will regret ignoring me!"

Mr. Holmes was a lot more accommodating. He wasn't scary either. Soft spoken and calm for the most part, though he did frown at the revelation of Mycroft's actions.

A few hours later and John was officially listed as Sherlock's assistant, his flatmate and was allowed to be his private doctor as well as his friend.

Mycroft was properly taken to task over his actions and John agreed with Sherlock. Nothing else could have been more beautiful.

Mummy made a big point to impress upon him that his actions nearly killed Sherlock. Mycroft's auburn head dipped low in reaction to her remonstrance.

He then apologized to them all, though Sherlock refused accept any of it and latched onto John, telling him not to accept it either.

In return for his actions, the elder Holmes brother had to promise them constant vigilance and apparently he'd have to help if either of them asked for assistance or wanted something. Any time.

All in all, it was an interesting day for John Watson.


John was officially Sherlock's personal blogger. The two managed to live together just fine, especially after they got to know each other in person.

Sherlock easily deduced that he was bisexual, which led to a discussion of their past experiences.

Sherlock had been with some guy named Victor, for a little while. He didn't like women much.

Months passed. John met DI Lestrade and his band of merry men/women. Sherlock's business expanded. They were constantly in danger. His limp was gone. He had to fight his flatmate to eat and sleep like a normal person. Overall, it was all great.

And then Moriarty happened and John was forced to admit that he was in love with his best friend. When he wrapped his arms around the maniac while having a bomb strapped to his chest, he was able to internally admit that he loved Sherlock.

And then things turned out fine and John was relieved to be able to spend more time with his friend. But Moriarty was still around.

And Sherlock changed after the semtex incident. He seemed to follow John more often than not. He was always in the kitchen when John cooked or made tea. He was always in the living area when John watched the telly or even blogging. He also remained a lot closer than normal at crime scenes and when they sat in cabs. Their arms frequently brushed when they walked.

John even caught him grinning when Angelo, the restaurant owner, when he called them a couple and wished them well on their 'date'.

And then when Irene Adler entered the picture, things seemed a little strained. John was watching his best friend/crush, flirt with some dominatrix who was a little too forward for his liking.

And then she flirted even more, threatening to bend Sherlock over the desk and have him begging for mercy. Twice.

"I've never begged a day in my life," Sherlock had replied.

"Twice," she replied, cocking a brow as she smirked.

John had to intervene then, pretty much outing Sherlock, but also showing Irene that she wouldn't be the first to get Sherlock to beg.

"I remember a month ago, when you hadn't had a case in a week and I wouldn't let you have a simple fag and you kept repeating the word 'please' to me as you tore the flat apart, searching for the pack."

John said it with a smirk, sure that there was a bright twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock flushed, amazingly enough. Irene's jaw dropped. John felt proud of himself.

And when the whole Irene incident was over, in which John learned that she really liked Sherlock but he apparently ignored her existence for the most part, which made him feel great for some reason, he noticed that Sherlock was staring at him more openly.

After an odd week of staring, John finally had to ask, "Why do you keep staring at me? I'm not so interesting."

Sherlock was sitting in the standard 'thinking pose' with hands held in from of his mouth in a prayer position. "Irene had sent me some interesting messages and at first I ignored them. Until a week ago, I received a final goodbye and some advice to read them all again. Tell me John, do you fancy me?"

John knew better than to drink when Sherlock spoke, so when he spit his tea up, it was his own fault. Sherlock didn't flinch and inch.

"Say what? What about Irene's texts would make you ask that?"

"She pointed out your flowery writing where I am concerned and suggested a few variables that aren't too preposterous, now that I have thoroughly pondered them all."

John flushed instantly and placed his cup and saucer down.

"Fine. I like you, there you go."

"Hm. I expected a more emotional and sentimental confession."

"You don't do emotional and sentimental," John pointed out, earning a small Sherlockian grin.

"Touche."

And they sat there for several minutes, John refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

And then Sherlock was there, kneeling in front of his chair. "That's why you were so put off by Irene's presence. You were jealous because you assumed that I was attracted to her."

He never gave John the chance respond. Sherlock was a talker. "You were incorrect, of course. Her intelligence was indeed interesting, but I was not interested in her like that. Her gender put me off."

John's eyes bulged, "Meaning you only like…?"

"Men, yes. So John, what do you have to say to that?"

John could form the words. He had questions.

"Will you possibly take advantage of this new revelation?" Sherlock inquired, silvery/blue/green eyes sparkling.

John stared for another minute. He took in the fact that Sherlock was currently kneeling between his spread legs. A nice visual. The fact that Sherlock was staring at him expectantly and then his recent question ringing through the doctor's mind.

Take advantage of revelation? Yes!

"Oh God, yes!"

And John launched himself at his flatmate/best friend/crush, locking lips instantly.

Sherlock easily caught him, taking them both to the floor.

"A better reaction that what I expected," he breathed after a moment of fervent snogging.

"You git."

Sherlock chuckled, "Perhaps, but now I have my doctor forever, so you'll have to forgive me."

"Forever," John grinned. "I like that."

A/N: Done!

Harold- power, leader, ruler.

Sigeberht- bright victory.

I thought they were good names for Mycroft.

Check out my other Sherlock fics!

See ya! :D

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Chapter Text

A/N: Hello, people!

I don't own Sherlock.

I have no beta.

ENJOY!

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was an intelligent young boy of eight years, four months, twenty-four days and fifteen hours. He knew that he was brilliant, compared to other children his age. In fact, he was considered a genius by everyone.

That was all well and good for them, but their opinions didn't matter.

People attempted to get closer to the 'genius boy', only to have him speak plainly and they'd rush off in tears or pure affront. It wasn't any fault of his own if they didn't like it that their 'secrets' were aired to the public. Perhaps they should have kept a tighter reign of themselves and possibly hid the 'secrets'. Too obvious.

He saw things. They stood out to him and ever since he was a babe, he knew when people lied. He knew just what to say to get them to confess to their misdeeds. He was good at playing the foolish like well strung fiddles.

His parents were horrified over his actions. When comparing him to his older brother Mycroft, they always found him wanting. Why couldn't he cater to the social whims and expectations like Mycroft did? Why couldn't he be a perfect little puppet? Why did he have to open his mouth? Why did he have to be himself?

Sherlock cared not for their feelings or the feelings of those who only wanted to be near him for fame or possibly finding favor in the eyes of his family. Girls who were primped and paraded before him in hopes that he'd take a shine to one.

First, he was only eight years old. He was not interested in signing his life away to some foolish little chit who only wanted him for his family wealth. Second, he had a feeling that he would never want to marry anyone. People were annoying and he severely doubted he'd be able to like someone enough to marry them. Third and final, no one would ever accept him for who he truly was. 'Faults' and all.

Life was rather dull if he didn't count his experiments. His tutor was an imbecile. She knew nothing and assumed that teaching him about Astronomy would assist him in life. How? What relevance did the sun, moon, and stars have in botany?

With annoyances like that to pester him, he was always bored.

And then everything changed one day.

He'd been conveniently near the post box when the post came that day. He decided to do his one good deed for the year by taking it to his father. The only letter though, was addressed to someone whom he knew did not live in their neighborhood.

There was no 'Mike Stamford' anywhere near Sussex.

Sherlock sighed and decided to make that his one good deed for the year. Since it wasn't for his father, he still needed something to fill in the expectation.

He returned to his room and sat himself at his desk. He flicked the light on and pulled out some stationary. He drafted a return letter for the child - obviously it was a child - who sent the letter. He kept it neat, plain, simple, and with just a hint of chastisement.

To Whom it May Concern,

This letter found its way into our post on the fifth of May and no one by that name resides in our neighborhood. Many apologies for the time wasted, but do try to address your letters properly next time.

May fortune favor you,

W. Sherlock S. Holmes.

He sent the letter out to be delivered immediately.

He never expected to receive a reply.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Thank you for not throwing my letter out. It was also very kind of you to send it back to me.

I apologize if I don't sound as smart as you, I'm only eleven and writing a letter such as this is confusing.

My mum told me to thank you, so I am.

Hoping you have a good life,

John H. Watson.

Sherlock could tell from the letter that John Watson was a rather easy going child who was happy most of the time. Sherlock did feel the need to correct a grievous error in the boy's logic.

During his writing, he did not notice the presence behind im and almost jumped when his mother asked him what he was doing. He huffed indignantly and briefly explained to her the situation. The pure joy radiating from her eyes was enough to stifle him. She encouraged him to respond to John Watson and told him to be friendly. That maybe they could be friends because John hadn't met him in person and therefore couldn't run away from him in tears.

He sighed at her theatrics and turned back to what he was doing before she interrupted him.

He wrote the letter and sent it immediately.

Dear John,

It was no great trouble, returning your letter. A simple act of kindness that shall fill my roster for the year.

As for age, one should not let their age dictate whether they are intelligent or not. I am eight years of age and I have a very extensive vocabulary, if I do say so myself. You sound rather fine, yourself.

My own mother has pushed me into replying. Apparently, I have a habit of repelling other children and since you have not 'met me in person', you 'cannot run away' from me. She is under the impression that we will become 'friends' of some sort, soon enough.

I'll leave that decision in your hands. I have never had a friend and it wouldn't offend me if I never have one.

It has been a pleasure,

Sherlock Holmes.

Honesty was the best course. He truly felt that nothing would be wrong in not having a friend. Since he'd never felt friendship, he couldn't compare to never having it and the 'pain' people claimed to feel when lonesome. Humans always judged on past experiences, but since he'd never had the experience, he couldn't determine his reaction to the 'probable' situation.

Imagine his surprise when John replied. The letter came and unfortunately, Mycroft got his hands on it first. The protuberance covered irritating consumer got his corpulent fingers all over Sherlock's letter! And then dared to open it! And then read it!

Sherlock told Mummy. Mummy wasn't pleased. Mycroft was in trouble.

Once he was safely sequestered in his room, he opened the letter.

Dear Sherlock,

I have decided. You are my new friend.

Well then. John got right to the point. Very succinct. Sherlock could appreciate that at least.

To not have a friend, is mad. So if the people you know won't be your friends, I'll be your friend.

Now, because you are new to this, I have to explain it all.

Friends:

-share stories of their lives.

-tell/keep each other's secrets.

-have each other's backs when in trouble.

-stand up for each other no matter what.

-always tell each other the truth.

-sometimes mess with other people for a good laugh.

-and generally be there, when others aren't.

There are more things to add, but I think this is a good list to go on for now.

I'll start off with information.

John Hamish Watson:

11 years old.

Blonde, short hair, blue eyes.

Short(not fair, by the way).

I have an older sibling who acts 'superior' to me.

Though my vocabulary isn't generally intelligent sounding like your own, I can be smart when I want to. I read the dictionary for fun, also.

I get anything related to Biology, Chemistry, and Geometry, really well. All of my classes are advanced placement and I've skipped to my penultimate year in secondary.

I intend to be a doctor/pharmacist.

I like making tea.

What about you? (This is where you exchange information about yourself in return)

Yours truly,

John Watson.

Sherlock's eyes ran over the information John gave. He deduced what he could. Apparently, John was extremely intelligent for his age. Eleven year olds usually started secondary when they turned eleven.

He was impressed with this John Watson. John wanted to be his friend.

He sighed, knowing that being forthcoming would only be best. He wouldn't build a 'friendship' on lies. That wasn't the right thing to do. And he didn't believe in holding secrets.

If John still wanted to be his friend after this, then Sherlock would be on a metaphorical cloud nine.

Dear John,

I do understand what a friendship is, I have just never been in one. As for being my… friend, I'll wait before completely agreeing. Aren't friends supposed to accept each other's faults? I have many and you wouldn't like me if I told you all of them.

I guess I shall be somewhat forthcoming with you.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes:

8 years old.

Black, curly hair, blue/green eyes.

I am 5 ft. tall.

I too have an elder sibling who feels entitled to make my life a bore. Thinking he has the right to 'assert' himself over me, seeing as he is older.

I have a tutor who 'teaches' me for six hours a day. She is a fool and her methods are questionable at best. She insists upon foisting unwanted 'knowledge' on me. I care nothing for Astronomy, it will do me no good later in life. However, I have taken to English, Science and History rather well.

I like to experiment, which led me into pursuing Chemistry and Biology as well.

I apparently have a form of Autism called Asperger's Syndrome. I for one, just think that I don't like being around people. They are loud. They are liars. They never say what they mean and then get offended when I point all the facts out. I'd prefer the term  sociopath , instead of being treated like I possess a 'disease' of the mind. My mind is fine.

I deduce people, like a detective would.

For example: You attend a rather high end institution on scholarship. You have an older brother who doesn't and is jealous so he teases you for being intelligent. Possibly a drug addict or a drunkard, he is. Your father is not present in your lives. He either left when you were young or is dead. You are a generally kind person who doesn't like it when someone is 'left out', which is why you wish to be my friend. You like contact sports, possibly rugby and prefer honesty above all. You hate your lack of height because your brother teases you over it. You wish to be a doctor in order to save people, which goes along with your kindness. You are considering joining the military, so you can be an even bigger help.

If you are not offended by now, then I'm impressed that you stuck it out when no one else has. If you do not wish to continue this correspondence, stop writing altogether. I will not mind.

Time will tell,

Sherlock Holmes.

He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. This was the nicest anyone had ever been to him. Even more than his own family. He'd like it for John to be his friend. John was nice.

Two days later, a new letter for him!

Dear Sherlock,

Yes, I want to still be your friend. It's amazing that you got all of that from just a little bit of information. Except I have a sister, not a brother, though Harry is rather boyish at times. You're impressive.

As for Asperger's Syndrome. I looked it up and from what little I know of you and your varied interests, I do not believe that you have it. You wouldn't have been able to find yourself time at all or time enough to be calm enough to send me such long letters.

You're a genius aren't you? You seem like one to me at least.

As for faults, I tend to be too 'compassionate'? That's what my mum told me at least. I'm a bit of a 'mother hen' to people and it can be annoying. I always trying to solve situations in way where everyone comes out happy. My carefree nature can get annoying. I'm usually optimistic. I also dump all of Harry's lagers when she isn't home.

I like you, Sherlock.

Hope to hear from you soon,

John!

John was telling the truth! About everything he had written! He really wanted to be Sherlock's friend. It was amazing, how this revelation made him feel lighter. Like he'd literally float away. Like a cloud.

Sherlock smiled down at the paper. He felt giddy!


Over the years, they sent letters back and forth weekly, each getting a response, sometimes even two!

They grew older, John was surprisingly ahead of him. He was brilliant. Already done with university at the age of seventeen. Incredible!

A year later, John followed through with his intentions of joining the military. He was already a certified physician and Biologist, but now he was also going to be a soldier.

Sherlock had skipped a year and used the Standardized Test to enroll into University early. He was fifteen.

He sent John a letter about it.

J,

I've chosen Cambridge as opposed to Oxford. Mycroft is none too pleased that I broke family tradition, but it's my life and I will decide.

I intend to go for a Mastery in Chemistry. I'll achieve my goal, no doubt.

Were you accepted yet?

We won't be able to write as often if you go away, you do know that, right?

Yours,

SH.

John knew it very well and secretly, Sherlock worried. When he finally would get deployed, his life would be in danger, always.

Sherlock didn't want to lose the only friend he ever had.

John was everything.


Sherlock had been working with Scotland Yard for a few years. Taking on cases and finding culprits was enough to keep him mentally sane. Busy. Not thinking of John some five thousand kilometers away, getting shot at in wretched heat.

And challenging his mind was always good fun.

And then an experiment on pure Opium went wrong. Very wrong.

He realized that the narcotic had a certain effect on his mind. It didn't necessarily feel good or get him high, but it helped silence the voices in his head. Allowed him to devote all his mental capacity to solving the case. He began shooting up, using Opium to solve cases faster. In half the time it normally took.

But then he was curious. What would others drugs be like? How would they affect him?

He went from the Heroin from the Opium, to Cannabis indica, which was rather easy to acquire, and all the way up to Methamphetamines. Dopamine wasn't very effective in him. The most drugs ever did, was make his brain work better. They allowed him to think clearly! They couldn't be all that bad despite what some people said.

And then Mycroft found out a few months in. He was cut off from his Trust and given an ultimatum. He didn't follow said ultimatum and was physically 'escorted' to the best rehabilitation center in the country.

Mycroft told them he had Aspergers and abused drugs in order to make it go away. He looked plainly at the man and stated very clearly that he wasn't an idiot, that he didn't do it for that reason and that he was never actually 'diagnosed' with Autism and that he should stop spinning high tales.

The workers conceded to Sherlock in that regard at least. And it was blatantly obvious that he wasn't mentally ill when he deduced every single one of the workers he came into contact with and proved his intelligence with early examinations and Intelligence Quotient tests.

He demanded to write to John and make sure that John never knew about his problem. John did not like drugs. His sister abused them frequently and was an severe alcoholic. John could never know.

And the Mycroft happened.

He told John and the response he got, when he asked what John had said, was heartbreaking. Horrifying. Tear inducing. It left him empty.

John didn't want anything to do with an addict like him. He didn't even talk to his sister, so Sherlock knew he wasn't lying.

And he was hollow form that moment forward. And every time he visited, Mycroft made sure to point out that his egregious actions pushed the only person he had cared for, away. That people would easily backstab him. That 'caring was not an advantage'.

And a month after that revelation, he picked the supply closet's lock and tried to hang himself. Someone caught him before he could finish tying the bloody rope.

He waited a year before attempting again. Led them into a false sense of security and then got his hands on some cutlery.

He didn't get very far. Someone found him and called for help quickly. Once again, they took his damn decision from him. Did they not understand that he felt useless? That he felt unworthy? Why would they want to subject him to more of these emotions? These, feelings!

He was in rehabilitation for five years. Three years longer than he should have been. Then he was discharged when he was thirty, on the mindset that only The Work was important and nothing else. That was it.

Life was rather easy going. Lestrade allowed him back on cases and routinely checked his flat for drugs, just in case.

Everything was back to normal. Everything was as it should have been.

That wasn't true. It was far from true, actually. He was back to being friendless and he could definitely draw from experience now. Being lonely, to put it in rather bland terminology, sucked.

No more letters or emails. No more fawning over John's wit. All he had left of John, were his letters. And Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to burn them in the fireplace. His last link to John Watson. Sentiment.


Of course his phone power would die the moment he needed to text Lestrade about the details needed to catch the culprit.

His eyes zeroed in on the man sitting on the parks bench. He was stiff in posture and his mouth was tight, drawn. His breathing was controlled. Mid thirties most likely. Army man. Limp if judging by the cane. Discharged recently due to slight discomfort when looking at passing civilians. Unused to normal people. Had been enlisted for years then. At least a decade. Tans lines were dark. Very dark.

Sherlock made him his destination and sat beside the man before asking, "Excuse me, can I borrow your phone? Mine just lost power."

He gave his most award winning smile and was pleased to see the man blink at him for a few seconds, before mechanically handing his mobile over. It was new. Three months due to the fact that it was only just released recently. There was a message on the back. It wasn't originally his phone. Probably a brother's. Scuff marks around the port showed use of alcohol.

He began texting what he wanted Lestrade to know, even as he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

There was silence, before a voice, unmistakably male, but English - maybe a bit Cockney - that was slightly slightly tinted with an Irish quality.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked, "Your posture, haircut, and tan lines show that you've been in a lot of sun but not on holiday. You've a cane, which means an injury, recently. Where would a man get such distinctive tan lines and an injury, with your specifics? Afghanistan or Iraq."

Sherlock took in the gaping man's appearance quickly at further stated, "You live at the local bedsit and are looking for better lodging. Tell me, how do you feel about the violin?"

"Uh… it's a nice instrument. Why?"

"I've got my eye on a nice place in central London that we should be able to afford once my job really takes off. The landlady requested that I have a flatmate for purposes of not being alone, should I lean toward unsavory actions. As a former military man, recently invalided home, you'd have a better moral compass than most and would stop me before I got rash.

Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you by any chance?"

He kept up the disarming smile even as he handed the gadget back. The man was working on autopilot when he blinked.

"You want to share a flat when we don't even know each other?"

Sherlock shrugged and shifted in his direction.

"Army, twelve - no - thirteen years. Returned two months ago. Therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, correct I'm afraid. Calloused hands show a lot of work, could be day to day handling of various weaponry, but you're very fluid in movement, so must be a surgeon. So, army doctor. Having a doctor assist me in cases would be helpful. I can't stand the medical 'professionals' the Yard has. We can cure that limp of yours really quickly as well. I think this is enough to be going on, don't you?"

And they were staring at each other.

Mr. Army Doctor shook his head as his blue eyes went wide. "As spectacular as you are, I still don't know you."

Sherlock's stomach was suddenly full of butterflies. No one other than him had complimented his deductions. "You're not… unnerved?" he asked, unable to keep himself from sounding small.

"No, that whole thing was rather brilliant. I just don't know a thing about you, other than the fact that you're really observant."

He wasn't lying.

Sherlock's fake smile melted into a genuine one. Not strained. He held his hand out and said, "I'm the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes."

Mr. Army Doctor inhaled, blue eyes dilated slightly and he leaned back, away from Sherlock.

"You've heard of me?"

He fixed this man with all of his attention, taking in every possible factor. Had they met before?

"Uh! What do you think of the name Sherrinford?"

They had to have met then! View people knew about Mummy's attempt at naming him Sherrinford.

He couldn't help but lean into the man's personal space. Like personal space mattered to him anyway. "Have I met you before? Did I delete you?"

"Not necessarily 'met'," the blonde said, leaning back onto the arm of the bench even as Sherlock drew nearer. "That doesn't mean I don't know you."

"You think you know me when we've never met?"

Sherlock couldn't help but be skeptical. Only he could know a person from a single glance.

The man glared suddenly and he wrinkled his nose. Conditioned reflex. Preparing for a long speech.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, thirty years old this year. You have a Masters in Chemistry which you received upon attending Cambridge which you chose in order to rile your family up, breaking the Oxford tradition. You use your knowledge in order to conduct experiments. You constructed a Mind Palace for yourself when you were seven years of age and you hate Astronomy, proven by the fact that you deleted the fact that the earth revolves around the sun. Your older brother is Mycroft Holmes, a right tosser with a position in the government. You were in rehab, thanks to Mycroft, for drug abuse. Need I continue?"

Sherlock felt a shock run through him. Only one person knew of his reason for going to Cambridge. He'd only ever told one person why he did it. He took in the short stature, blonde hair and blue eyes. Army history and a doctor. John.

He made eye contact and couldn't stop himself from whispering, "Mycroft told me that you were disappointed in my drug use at that you didn't want to speak to me anymore, John."

Those blue orbs tightened instantly. Indignation. Fury. Mycroft lied.

John gave a dry scoff. "I knew he was a complete arse! I got a letter five years ago, after nearly six months of no response from you, from your brother. He told me that you were in rehab and that you weren't allowed to communicate with anyone who wasn't a member of your family. I received no letters from then on."

John received a letter when he was twenty-eight, which meant it was at the time Sherlock was admitted to the rehabilitation center. Stories correlated.

John was looking him over and Sherlock did not miss the obvious appreciative gleam in his eyes.

"You're telling the truth," Sherlock said while sitting back. He looked away. "Mycroft told me, in front of both of my parents, that you wanted nothing to do with me, because I took cocaine. My mother, who was the one to push me to try friendship with you, was particularly angered. She said it was betrayal. She said a few other things as well."

Sherlock didn't mention the use of the other drugs. He'd wait before that.

John was frowning, much like he was.

Sherlock stood suddenly, "John, stand for me."

The doctor did so, leaning on the cane. As soon as he stood though, he shifted into parade rest, proving Sherlock prior assessment of the limp being psychosomatic.

Sherlock pulled John away from the bench and began to circle him, looking him over closely.

"I can't believe we'd been writing each other for years and never entertained the thought of sharing what we look like. I envisioned you much shorter."

John laughed, "Well, you aren't what I expected either."

"What did you expect?" Sherlock asked, stepping really close, into John's personal space. He was intrigued to hear John's answer.

"Well, not perfection, for one."

It was said so casually. As if it was truth and should just be accepted as that. Sherlock had a feeling that he was flushing.

"'Perfection'?"

"You have seen yourself, right?"

Sherlock glanced at a nearby tree, hoping to will the heat in his cheeks away. "I think you're perfect too. All compact and comfortable looking in your ridiculous oatmeal colored jumper."

John looked down at his jumper and frowned. He obviously loved the wretched thing. Sherlock mentally huffed.

"So, to be clear, you don't hate me for doing drugs?" he asked.

John sighed, "I was disappointed, but I figured that it was because of the Mind Palace thing. You told me once that if you don't have something to hold your attention, your mind becomes unbearable to you. Loud. I figured that you replaced the violin with drugs."

Sherlock smiled. John understood and didn't hate him!

"Quite right. Come, John!" Sherlock nodded, as he began walking toward the local bedsit.

"Where?!"

"The bedsit is in this direction. You kept all of our letters. You're sentimental like that. Did you keep the one Mycroft sent you?"

"Yes. Thought I did want to rip it up and toss it in the nearest rubbish bin. Why?"

Sherlock felt a measure of pleasure as he said, "We're going to see mummy."

"From what you told me, it sounds like she hates me!"

"That's why we're going to show her Mycroft's letter. He'll be in trouble for lying to not only me, but her as well. And the result of his lie, led to me being in rehab for three extra years due to depression and attempted suicide." Mycroft was in so much trouble!

"'Suicide'?!" John sounded terrified. He really cared. Sherlock's chest was warm suddenly.

"You were my only friend, John. Of course I wasn't happy to learn that my actions which were only done to make the boredom and voices go away, had also pushed you away. Life didn't seem as worth living. I've been out for six months."

John was frowning, but didn't say anything about that.

"Are you sure your mother won't try to kill me?" he asked instead.

"Was Mycroft's letter typed or written?"

"Written. I thought it was really feminine."

"That's Mycroft."


Mummy was not pleased. She reamed into Mycroft severely, right in their drawing room. Sherlock grinned the entire time and found himself glad that he didn't succeed in his attempts at suicide. Otherwise he never would have met John and wouldn't gotten his friend back.

John was good at writing, though Sherlock to tease him about it being flowery. John's blogging got him my clients though, so there was nothing actually wrong with it.

Life was rather easy and John wasn't mean about his experiments. He even made jokes about the body pieces in the fridge.

And then Jim Moriarty happened and he strapped John to a bomb.

When they made it out of that situation, Sherlock shadowed John closely. He had to make sure that there was no chance for a repeat performance. John couldn't be at risk because of him.

And the Irene Adler held his attention for a while. It was like a game of chess between them. She was good compared to most others.

John did not like her.

After saving her life, Sherlock received a farewell text that explained something he'd pondered several times. If Irene could notice it, then he wasn't wrong.

He then made sure to stare at John until he asked him what was wrong.

It worked splendidly and John admitted to being attracted to him. John was gay.

Sherlock knelt before John's chair. "That's why you were so put off by Irene's presence. You were jealous because you assumed that I was attracted to her. You were incorrect, of course. Her intelligence was indeed interesting, but I was not interested in her like that. Her gender put me off."

John's eyes bulged, "Meaning you like…?"

"Men, yes. So John, what do you have to say to that?"

John stared.

"Will you possibly take advantage of this new revelation?" Sherlock challenged with a smirk.

The doctor threw himself at Sherlock, "Oh God, yes!"

Sherlock caught him as they fell in a heap of limbs, lips connected heatedly.

"A better reaction that what I expected," he breathed after a moment of fervent snogging.

"You git."

Sherlock chuckled, "Perhaps, but now I have my doctor forever, so you'll have to forgive me."

"Forever," John grinned. "I like that."

Sherlock smiled back. This wasn't an ending, but a really good beginning. Only the most learned of men would make sure it'd be the best it could be.

A/N: Done!

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