"You're not a dragonfly."

"Silly boy! I can't fly at all!" Her voice tinkles like chimes in the breeze. She walks into his outstretched palm and does a tiny turn for him. "No wings for me."

He raises his hand to eye level, accidentally knocking the little creature over in his rush. "I-I'm sorry, are you okay?" He asks, as she staggers to her feet only to be toppled over again.

"You don't have to yell!" She says, leaning back on her hand as she rubbed the top of her head. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock." He mumbles with a shy grin.

"I'm Molly."

"I don't like school very much." Sherlock muttered, using a clean pipette to put a few drops of tea into a thimble. The little spriteling leans against the warm metal and pats his finger nail. It's a comforting gesture and he sighs while laying his head down on the desk, burying himself into his arms Molly drags a few pieces of his hair on to her lap as a blanket and strokes his finger nail with her delicate hands.

"What happened Sherlock, you know that you can tell me anything." He still wonders how he can hear her, how she can even exist, but really he's too grateful for her presence to really care too much.

"I-I'm a freak,Molly." Sherlock says quietly, his body shaking and Molly leaps up and scrambles underneath his arms to find large puddles forming on the slick wooden surface. Her tiny hand splays across his cheek and she makes a long sweeping arch to wipe away a tear.

"No you're not, Sherlock, you're different. You're unique. You have something they don't." Molly assures him. He lifts his head and gives her a doubtful look.

"What a sprite friend?"

"No, you have a heart."

"Mycroft, I need those back this instant."

"They're dolls clothes, Sherly. They cannot be that important." Mycroft grins as his younger brother proceeds to root around the room, forming deductions about where the small clothing might be

Fourteen year old Sherlock does not tell him that he actually stole clothes from a lost and found to give to his sprite friend that's been living in his desk drawer for the past seven years, he can never tell Mycroft anything thing.

Mycroft ruins everything that he touches and if he found out about Molly then-

"Look if you're so distressed, here they are." Mycroft drones, pulling open his own desk drawer and fishing out the clothes. "I do wonder how they have actual stains on them. They're frayed and would probably need to be replaced soon, as if someone has been wearing them."

"Children are careless with their toys." Sherlock responds, taking the garments with more force than necessary. They're wrinkled, but Molly will just be happy to have her clothes back.

"Yes," Mycroft gives Sherlock an odd look as the younger brother backs out of the room. "Yes, they do."

It was only weeks later that Mycroft found Molly asleep in Sherlock's upper drawer while trying to get a pen back that was nicked from him. He stared at the little creature in wonder as she smiled up at him and gave a tiny wave.

Impossible! His mind told him.No clearly not impossible, but not exactly probable. This is Sherlock so nothing is exactly improbable.

He said not a word as Sherlock entered the room, blaring his head off about respecting boundaries and slamming the drawer shut.

"Now Sherly, that couldn't have been easy for your little friend to handle in there." Mycroft said evenly, lifting an eyebrow. The color drains from Sherlock's face and Mycroft sees his hand twitch towards the drawer. "At least that explains the doll clothes." Mycroft sniffs and then leaves. Neither brother mentions when the new sturdy dresses suddenly appear in Molly's drawer after the incident.

"Sherlock, please! No!" Molly cries, pushing the needle away from his arm.

"Sod off, Molly." He goes to flick her away when the needle pricks her skin and Molly cries out. Suddenly, everything is much clearer as she stumbles and sways. "Molly?" He mumbles scooping her up in his cold and thin hands. "Molly!"

She doesn't respond, and he panics.

"Mycroft, it's Molly."

"You have to help that poor woman." Molly says, snuggled between the layers of his scarf, and watching the woman tremble in fear across the street.

"Not my problem." Sherlock breathes, releasing a stream of cigarette smoke. He is sober, but he has to have something to keep his mind from constantly spinning. Molly hates it. She coughs and fans the smoke away from her with a glare.

"Sherlock, who else could help her but you?" His eyes are drawn down to the petite sprite and he looks up just in time to see the older woman beaten by her husband. "She needs your help. Scotland Yards has done nothing."

"I'm not a detective." Sherlock says watching the train wreck play out before him.

"But you could be."

Weeks later, Sherlock is living in the little flat across the street from the dingy apartment where he used to stay. Marcus Hudson is to be imprisoned for life in Florida, and Martha Hudson swears that she's not his housekeeper. That this situation is only temporary until he finds a better place to live and a stable job.

"Molly, I need to you to stay very quiet." Sherlock muttered under his breath as he felt the little sprite squirm in his breast pocket. He felt a tiny push against his chest as the squirming settled down and a few tiny pats on his chest as he sat in the cheap metal chair in the office of one Greg Lestrade.

"So what is it exactly that you do?" The graying DI asks the man in front of him.

"I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world." Sherlock's response is firm and steady, this is his truth. Lestrade looks at the file on his desk. Immediately the words Drug History have him wanting to run for the hills. But the awkward youth shifts in the chair and Greg sees himself ten years ago and wanting to make something of himself.

"Alright Holmes, we'll give you a shot."