"Everyone, we have a new pupil today." Mrs Albany cooed. "John Watson…" she declared with flourish towards a small, sandy haired boy wearing a baggy jumper. John waved shyly towards the small group of three-year olds, all of whom were staring, glassy-eyed, back at him. Except one: A slight, curious-looking boy with dark curly hair and grey eyes. Unlike the others, he was studying the new arrival with intensity unusual for a boy of his age.

"Okay, children, you can go and play now-"She was cut off, as they all charged off to busy themselves with their usual games. John Watson timidly crept over towards the Wendy house,

A small girl with pretty brown eyes was cradling a doll in her arms, singing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' under her breath, presumably trying to lull the baby to sleep.

"Hello…" she looked up "I'm Sally. What's your name?"

"John…" he replied quietly "I'm new…"

"Would you like to play with me, John?" her eyelashes fluttered unnervingly.

"Ummm…Maybe later?" John murmured nervously. Sally's eyelashes were really starting to irritate the small boy now. Out of the corner of his eye, John caught sight of the boy he had noticed earlier. He was sitting alone at a table, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to observe his peers. John noticed for the first time his surprising attire: He had presumably refused to remove his coat and scarf, even though it was warm inside the nursery.

"Who's that?" John pointed to the boy

"Oh, that's Sherlock…" Sally said his name derisively, as if the boy in question was someone who she rather disliked.

"What's wrong with him?" John was curious

"He's so weird! I heard that he chops up stuffed animals for fun!"

John was taken aback. He thought of his teddy, Simon Bear, and made the resolute decision to leave him at home.

"He looks interesting….I think I'll go and talk to him…"

Sally gave him a warning look "Okay…but trust me, he's a weirdo all right!"

John thought for a moment. Sherlock must have been strange if Sally kept telling him. But then he looked back at the boy. He looked so lonely, sitting at the desk all by himself. John politely thanked Sally for telling him this, and made his way towards the bench, nervously dodging several children who raced past, shrieking their heads off.

"You're John Watson…" a voice said

John turned around and saw Sherlock standing in front of him.

"Yes…I am. How did you kno-". John tailed off. He was experiencing the most peculiar sensation, as if the three year old in front of him was X-raying him using only his eyes.

"I listen…." Sherlock explained. "I can also see that you've got a tan. Now, why would you have a tan if you've been living in Britain…You wouldn't…So, You must have moved here from a hot country…"

John gulped. How did he do it?

"Yes…I've moved here from Portugal….How-"

"Observational deductions." Sherlock murmured, gazing at the floor in embarrassment.

"Pardon?" John hadn't understood either of those long words.

"I can work stuff out just by looking…Hm? What's this? " he added, rising from the chair and walking over to the wall.

"It looks like…Paint?" he ran his finger across the green smudges.

"Hi, Sherlock!" a plump, cheery boy with short brown hair had approached them.

"Hullo, Greg…" Sherlock replied with disinterest. "This is Greg Lestrade, John. He wants to be a famous detective too. Copycat…" he muttered quietly.

Greg shook John's hand vigorously, before turning to Sherlock and asking. "So, can I do anything to help?"

No…Wait, yes! Go and get a few pieces of paper. Dip them each in a different colour paint…Oh, and bring one back here."

"I'm on it!" Greg beamed, tramping off to carry out the boy's instructions. John stood there, feeling a little helpless. "What can I do?"

"Get me a snack, John. I'm starving."

John sighed and wandered over to a table groaning with food. He grabbed a few crackers and a handful of grapes before turning back and heading towards the wall, where Sherlock was in the process of pressing a piece of paper against the blotches. The young boy handed him the rations, which he acknowledged with a small nod, proceeding to take out a plastic knife and a small carton. He peeled back a layer of foil to reveal a strange browny-pink paste.

"What's that?" John had never seen this strange food before.

"Pâté." Sherlock replied now spreading it on a cracker before taking a bite. He then took the paint covered piece of paper and placed it next to several other samples, each covered in a different coloured paint. The fledgling detective sat down in front of the testers and stared hard at them, as if he could find the connection between them by using sheer willpower.

At that moment, Greg Lestrade came running towards them, breathing heavily.

"Look out, Anderson's coming!" He warned.

Sherlock growled with annoyance as a sallow-skinned boy with a perpetual sneer wandered over to where the trio were currently sat.

"What's this? The little detective with his sidekicks? Oh, how cute!" he jeered in his strangely oily voice.

"Shut up, Anderson…" Sherlock sighed. To John, it was clear that he was confronted by the lad on a regular basis.

"Ah, Ah, Sherlock! What would Mummy say if she heard you talking like that?"

"I said, shut up Anderson!" Sherlock raised his voice.

"What's this junk?" he pointed to the paint-splattered paper. "Evidence?" he scoffed, picking the samples up and tearing them into little pieces.

"There you go, have them ba-" he was cut off as Sherlock's fist connected with his face. Blood oozed from Anderson's nose. The boy snarled and tugged at Sherlock's glossy curls. He then tackled the latter and spat in his face. A swift punch to the temple sent him backwards a couple of feet. Several people had stopped to watch the two boys scrapping, yelling "Fight, Fight, Fight!"

"Children! Stop this at once!" Mrs Albany bellowed. The majority of the three year olds froze and scurried away leaving the two boys in the centre. "Jack Anderson …and Sherlock Holmes. Why am I not surprised…"

"What happened, Jack?"

"Well…I came up and asked Sherlock to play…" he noticed Sherlock give him a poisonous look "Then, for no reason at all, he punched me!"

"It was an experiment!" Sherlock objected. Mrs Albany ignored him. "Then what?" she pressed.

"Then he pulled my hair and pushed me over, and then he was spitting at me!" Anderson's lip trembled emphatically.

"Liar." Sherlock hissed.

Mrs Albany was puzzled by the boy standing soullessly in front of her. Sherlock had used vocabulary inappropriate for his age group since he had first arrived at the nursery, yet he had shunned the other children, preferring to sit alone and work independently. His tenure at the playgroup had sparked several nasty rumours, including one involving Jack Anderson's teddy and a scalpel. Whenever the staff had accused him of breaking the rules, he would reply with 'It's an experiment!" or else shock them with his uncanny knowledge of their personal habits. Only yesterday had he commented that her new perfume had made her smell like a cauliflower.

The teacher took a deep breath and said. "Children, it's time for lunch!" she smiled down at Jack, who looked as if he had been slapped around the face with a wet fish.

As the usual stampede to the lunch room began, John caught up with Sherlock and Greg, who were busily discussing the former's brawl with Anderson.

"I was hoping you'd do that for ages!" Greg slapped him on the back.

"Consider yourself lucky that you weren't punished!" John put in, his voice full of concern.

"Mrs Albany was all for it, but then she changed her mind…" Sherlock murmured. "If you'd have had a go, Greg, you'd be in the Time Out room for certain."

"Why d' you think you got away with it?" John asked curiously. For the first time, he saw Sherlock smile, but he did not respond.

The three boys arrived in the lunch room and collected their lunchboxes from the shelf. Sherlock sat down at a free table, but both John and Greg remained standing, waiting for the boy to object to their presence, however, Sherlock gestured to the empty seats either side of him. The three of them opened their lunches and examined the contents. Sherlock let out an audible groan.

"How many times must I tell her? It's Mycroft who likes spinach, not me! Here, Greg, you have it." He tossed a sandwich towards the boy on his left.

"Who's Mycroft?" John asked.

"My brother….He's ten, but thinks he's about nineteen…"

John nodded. It made sense for Sherlock to have a brother with an as unusual name as himself. His own lunch comprised of a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a carton of orange juice. Sherlock produced a thermos flask and was now pouring brown liquid into the cap. John raised his eyebrows at Greg, who shrugged.

"Tea…black with two sugars." Sherlock said when he saw their mystified expressions. He took a sip, giving a contented sigh after swallowing. "Want some?" he offered them the flask. Greg declined, but John took it, eager to see what it tasted like.

"Tasty." He gasped, after taking a large gulp of tea.

Suddenly, something lodged itself in John's hair. He felt his head and pulled out a jellybean.

"You okay, John?" Sherlock was frowning towards a boy who was sniggering to the girl sitting next to him. "Don't worry, I've got this." He smiled mischievously and seized John's uneaten apple. He proceeded to throw it in a perfect arc, hitting the boy between the shoulder blades. The boy whirled round, scowling at his assailant. In retaliation, his companion snatched up a jam sandwich and hurled it towards Sherlock, who ducked under the table. Greg had grabbed a banana skin and was now aiming it at the girl. He missed and it hit Jack Anderson, who roared with fury and grasped a slice of pie and flung it across the room. John was hit full in the face with sticky cherry puree.

Sherlock peered over the edge of the table and took off his coat and scarf, revealing a long-sleeved shirt. Another wicked smile crossed his features as he hollered "FOOD FIGHT!"

At once, the lunch room was in chaos: Raisins rained down onto unsuspecting heads, Bananas splattered in people's faces and carrot sticks whizzed lethally through the air. Under the cover of confusion, Sherlock, who had thus far managed to avoid being hit by anything, frantically scanned the room for anyone acting suspiciously. Several people had taken refuge under tables and Sherlock glanced over them all furtively.

At that moment, Greg and John appeared beside him. John had been splattered with yoghurt, whereas Greg was covered in jam.

"What happened to you two?" Sherlock grinned

"Anderson and that girl, Sally, cornered us…" Greg replied grimly.

"Found anything out yet?" John asked, as if they were discussing something as trivial as the weather.

"Not really…I think we'll need to go back to the scene of the crime to discover more…"

John was astounded. Sherlock was talking like a proper detective, yet he was only three years old!

The mania of the food fight was still raging as the three boys came out from their hiding place. Sherlock nimbly caught a pear heading for John's forehead mid-flight, chucking it into Anderson's face.

"CHILDREN!" A terrifying voice thundered.

Mrs Albany was covered in Marmite and chocolate spread, and a ham sandwich had landed squarely on top of her head. Sherlock bit back the desire to laugh.

"Who was the lunatic that conducted this outrage?" her eyes popped alarmingly. Again, Sherlock fought to stop himself from laughing. "I asked you, who started this?"

There was a moment's deafening silence, and then the school chorused as one:

"Sherlock…."

Glaring back defiantly into Mrs Albany's protruding eyes, Sherlock gave a single nod.

"SHERLOCK BRANSTON HOLMES!" She boomed, making some of the more sensitive youngsters burst into tears. Mrs Albany dug her nails into the detective's wrist and dragged him towards the Time Out room. Sherlock couldn't help but notice her chipped nail varnish, which must have been at least two days old.

The Time Out room was small and sparse, with a small box of books in one corner and a desk with a pad of paper in the other. Sherlock knew this room well, as he had spent a healthy amount of time inside. How long one spent in the Time Out room depended on the severity of the offence. The longest time Sherlock himself had done was half a day, when Anderson's teddy had been found dismembered on a desk, along with a piece of paper bearing his handwriting.

"Sherlock, I may have let you get away with things in the past, but this is just unacceptable…You are to stay here and think about what you have done…"

"Yes, Mrs Albany…" Sherlock grunted, privately thinking about how he should have hit Anderson harder. The teacher stalked off, her high-heeled boots clacking on the polished wood floor.

After she had left, Sherlock paced around the Time Out room in frustration. If only Greg or even John had stuck up for him, he wouldn't be stuck in here, unable to solve the case that was dominating his brain cells. For anyone else, he reasoned, a stint in the Time Out room would be mildly boring, but for Sherlock, this slight dullness was transformed into a purely maddening stupor. With such a rapid brain as his own, Sherlock had previously saved his mind from imploding only by deducing the cause of each miniscule dent and scratch in the paintwork.

Presently, he wandered over to the desk and began to scrawl down everything he had worked out about the paint smudges in the wall.

The Case of the Green Smudges:

Background: Roughly 11 a.m, Little Lions Nursery; right wall near desk at the back of room

Witnesses: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade

Appearance: Irregular, light green paint stains (Possibly of same composition as paint used for recreational purposes.)

Sherlock chewed his pencil in thought, and then started scribbling again:

Must analyse crime scene for further information

Now, all he needed to get this piece of paper to Greg and John. There was a small window on one side of the room, kept locked at all times, but Sherlock was, as usual, one step ahead of the staff.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a paperclip. He then jiggled it around inside the window's lock. Sherlock smiled deviously as it clicked open. He then folded the paper, like Mycroft had showed him, into an aeroplane shape, tapering the edges slightly. The boy examined the view outside the room. John and Greg were sitting beside each other. Perfect.

"Ow!" Greg gasped, as something sharp came into contact with the back of his neck.

"What is it?" John looked up from the storybook he had been reading.

"Sherlock…" Greg smiled, and scribbled a reply on a piece of paper. And so began one of the most bizarre conversations John had ever experienced

There's something new! Crumbs on the floor by the smudges!

Hmmm…..Did you know who might have made them?

Well, I'm not accusing anyone, but I don't like the look of that Sally girl…You know, the one with the annoying eyelashes?

Yes, I agree she's a little suspicious...but probably innocent…Oh, I hope it's Anderson!

Sherlock, you can't just accuse Anderson because you don't like him!

For your information, I believe the feelings we have towards each other are entirely mutual

English please, Sherlock…

He feels the same way about me…

Anyway, back to the crumbs…

Ah, Greg, could you possibly fetch me a sample?

The following plane arrived with several crumbs embedded within the wings. Sherlock took a couple and popped them in his mouth. After several moments, he tossed his reply through the open window.

Custard creams...

But I didn't see any custard creams earlier…

Exactly…The paint and crumbs must be related; as they're right next to each other…The culprit must have visited the crime scene while we were all in lunch…

At that moment, Mrs Albany stepped primly into the room, followed by a vaguely plump boy of about ten and a tall woman with Sherlock's dark curls and well-defined cheekbones.

"Mother, Mycroft! Why…." He glanced at the woman, who wore an expression of utmost despair. Mycroft scowled at his younger brother, who glared back with equal intensity.

"Another experiment?" Mrs Holmes raised her eyebrows at Mrs Albany

"Well, he attacked Jack Anderson for no reason at all, them he conducted a horrific food fight, in which he solely responsible for the damage caused-"

"She's lying, Mother! Anderson ripped up some very important evidence, and I only said the words 'Food fight', I didn't damage any property…."

"Not from what we've heard…" Mycroft smirked

"Oh, shut up!"

"Boys ! That's enough!" Mrs Holmes frowned. "I am sure Sherlock was not the only perpetrator, and that Anderson child seems like a nasty piece of work …"

"My point exactly, Mother!"

"I am therefore telling you to excuse him from any punishment…." Her eyes, so like Sherlock's, gazed into the teacher's with tangible ferocity.

"O-Of course, Mrs Holmes…" Mrs Albany was gobsmacked. "Yes…Yes! You can join the other children now, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and swaggered back to the main room of the nursery. Greg and John rushed up to him, John's eyes wide with blatant adoration. Greg tossed back the boy's coat and scarf, and he put them on. The change was almost instant. Whereas before, Sherlock had been a mischievous, wisecracking rogue, now his manner reverted to the cold, distant boy who disliked the company of others. He marched over to the wall where the smudges had now dried.

"No!" he yelled with irritation, furiously punching the wall "Now we can't test the composition!"

"We still have the crumbs…" John interjected.

"Yes, but, they don't prove anything do they?"

"Well, maybe…"

"Oh, just shut up, John! What do you know about solving mysteries?"

John was stung by Sherlock's harsh comment. "I thought you wanted me to help…"

"Well, you thought WRONG! You too, Greg, thinking you're a proper detective, just because you tag along after me! You both think you're so clever, don't you? But, you know what I think? I think you're just IDIOTS!"

The two boys backed away slowly. John was on the verge of tears: He had thought Sherlock was his friend, but how wrong he'd been.

"Leave him…" Greg whispered, obviously seasoned in the complex emotions that Sherlock experienced.

"Children, it's time to go home!" Mrs Albany's sugar-coated voice rang out.

As if by magic, parents came surging through the doors. Sherlock could tell Sally's mother was the one whose nails were filed into claws and was wearing lipstick of a shocking pink shade really unsuitable for collecting her three-year old daughter. She was glancing coyly at a greasy-haired fellow, who could only have been Anderson's father. "Yuck…" Sherlock grimaced at the thought of these two fortysomething individuals acting like lovesick teenagers.

"John….psst…John!"

John looked up to see Sherlock's brother Mycroft. He was smiling, but it didn't seem to extend to his eyes.

"I've noticed you spend a lot of time around my brother…" Mycroft continued. John was wondering what he was getting at.

"I've just come to warn you to be careful….When you spend time with Sherlock Holmes…People can get hurt….." he smiled again. John looked over his shoulder, where Sherlock was pacing around, looking irritable.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes called to her youngest son. Sherlock looked none the wiser as to Mycroft's chat with John. Mycroft grinned: Sherlock may have been all-seeing, but he wasn't all-hearing!

Once they were home, Sherlock immediately stomped into his room, still fuming from his argument with John.

"He is an idiot…"

"But he wanted to help you…."

"I didn't ask for his help!"

"He was being generous!"

"I don't want people's generosity!"

"Well, you're not going to make any friends with that attitude…"

"I don't need FRIENDS!"

The inner struggle against his conscience was exhausting him. Was this how normal people felt?

Sherlock's foul mood lasted over the rest of the day: He threw Mycroft's science project down the stairs, ripped up his mother's letters and beheaded his last intact teddy using a model guillotine.

"Eat up, Sherlock," his mother chided.

"Eating's boring…" Sherlock replied, flicking peas at Mycroft with surprising accuracy.

"Hey!" Mycroft shouted, as a pea wedged itself into his right ear. "I don't know what's gotten into you! Ever since your fight with that John Watson, you've been acting really stupidly…"

"I don't know what you mean…." Sherlock replied innocently.

"Sherlock…..You need to apologize…" Mrs Holmes said softly.

"Excuse me a moment….." Sherlock leapt down from his chair and wandered into the hall.

"What're you doing!" Mycroft cried, spotting his brother, who was now putting on his coat and scarf. His hand was on the doorknob as he turned round. "Apologizing…" he muttered, before slamming the door in Mycroft's stunned face.

Nobody noticed the peculiar three-year-old as he walked purposefully through the London streets in the twilight. Nobody realized that his overly observant eyes were scanning their every move.

As he walked, Sherlock began to whistle a vaguely familiar tune. He had once seen a musical on stage, and developed a liking for this particular song.

I have often walked down this street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I Several stories high.
Knowing I'm on the street where you live.

He suppressed the desire to skip along the pavement in bizarre euphoria. Where he had previously felt irritation and bewilderment, it was now replaced with jovial excitement.

A balloon seller was just getting ready to pack up his stall when he noticed the young boy in a coat and scarf whistling along the street. The boy held out his hand, to which the seller passed a small red balloon. The fellow tossed him a pound coin, before being on his way.

Giddy with bliss, Sherlock burst into song, continuing from where he had left off.

Are there lilac trees in the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour Out of ev'ry door?
No, it's just on the street where you live!

He skipped across the road in elation, knowing he was getting close to John's house by now. The stars had begun to show themselves presently. Sherlock stopped to gaze up at them, marvelling at the miraculous beauty of the heavens above. His bad mood had evaporated, leaving him at a rare moment of peace from his breakneck intellect. He continued confidently down the street.

People stop and stare. They don't bother me.
For there's nowhere else on earth that I would rather be.
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Can be here on the street where you-

Sherlock had stopped in front of a plain, brick front house, with pansies and hyacinths blooming from the window boxes. The scent was overpowering.

"Live…" he gulped, finishing the song. Now he knew that this was John's house, he was unsure whether he should have come at all. He took a deep breath; then resolutely marched up the front door and pressed the doorbell. A loud voice from within, then footsteps followed. The door opened, revealing a round, jolly man with John's tawny hair. He looked mystified at the sight of a small boy on his doorstep.

"Um…May I speak to John, please?"

The man nodded, and then retreated inside his house. Sherlock heard him ask his son whether he'd given any 'strange boys' his address.

After a second, John appeared at the door, looking as if he'd been crying.

"Sherlock….I, I…."

"No, John…." Sherlock was surprised to feel his eyes brimming with tears

"It's my fault….."

"No, I'm to blame…..I…" He was cut off as John flung his arms around Sherlock's waist. Shocked at this sudden gesture of affection, the detective did not object. He heard John murmur "I'm sorry" in-between sobs. Sherlock rested his head against John's shoulder and let the tears flow thick and fast onto his first friend's jumper.

The next morning, Sherlock went to playgroup in a much better temperament. Joining John and Greg at a table, he grinned at the two of them before taking out a book entitled Accusers and Accused: A Comprehensive Guide to Solving Mysteries.

"What happened to you?" Greg asked, wide eyed.

"I apologized…." Again, Sherlock beamed.

That day was a thoroughly amusing affair for the three boys. They joked about Anderson, Sally and Mrs Albany, the former looking like a dazed troll whenever they did this, the latter finding their jokes rather less amusing. It was only after a particularly humorous impression of Anderson on John's part that Sherlock realized that there was another boy at the table.

James was not a particularly tall boy, but he had huge eyes and a slightly disturbing smile that looked out of place on a three-year-old boy. James had a reputation for being a bully, but he wasn't the thuggish type like Anderson, he was clever and manipulative, which caused Sherlock to hold him in much higher respect the he did the former. Presently, James snorted with laughter.

"Oh, I didn't realize we were doing farm animals now… Gloucester Old Spot, unless I am much mistaken, which I never am, Sherlock replied coolly.

"Oh, very funny, Mr Holmes…" James' Irish drawl, along with his habit of addressing people by their last names, made this sentence sound oddly sinister.

"I wasn't intending it to be funny…" Sherlock looked at James with fierce intensity.

"Oh, I know…" James smirked

Sherlock was growing bored of this uneventful conversation. Luckily, Mrs Albany then announced that it was time to go outside. The boys and girls bundled out the door and onto the playground.

"Want to play Hide and Seek?" Greg asked

"Meh…..Okay, then." Sherlock was at loss to how children found this game exciting "I'll count…." And he proceeded to count to 3482.

The bell rang, signalling the end of break. Sighing, Sherlock and Greg wandered back inside. It suddenly occurred to the two boys that John had not followed them in.

"Have you seen John?" he asked Greg, careful to not let on that he had grown to care for the other boy.

"No…..It's a bit odd, isn't it?"

"It's more than just 'odd', Greg…It's an enigmatic conundrum."

When John did not appear for lunch, Sherlock began to worry. By home time, this worry had descended into pure panic. Brushing Mycroft and his mother away, he tore down the deserted corridors.

"JOHN!" he bellowed, hurtling through the dark passageways. He stopped for a moment, listening intently for some sign of his friend, for that was what Sherlock considered John to be. All of a sudden, he heard a muffled whimper coming from the direction of the playground.

"JOHN!"

He raced over to the gate separating the building from the schoolyard and smoothly vaulted over it. The playground had dissolved into shadows, and al noises magnified by the still air. Although he glanced over the yard vigorously, he could see neither hide nor hair of John. The cry came again. Sherlock looked up, for the first time terrified. There was a looming oak tree in the yard, branches brittle with age. And, lying flat out on one of the upper boughs was John.

Sherlock was up the tree like a startled cat, swinging nimbly from the branches and crawling across the limbs until he was directly below the branch where John was sobbing with fright. He had been tied to the bough with skipping ropes, and the drop from here must have been at least 30 feet. Sherlock made to untie his friend, but just then, a smooth voice sliced through the darkness.

"Excellent timing, Mr Holmes…."

James Moriarty slipped down from a higher branch, proceeding to sit on the fragile branch beside him.

"Good evening, James….To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Well, I suppose you'd want to come and rescue your friend…." He flourished towards John, who moaned again.

"Why him, James?" Sherlock showed a brief moment of confusion, before answering his own question "Ah….Exploitation! Clever….You've certainly led me astray…And I take it you planted the smudges and crumbs as a distraction?

"Yes…." James smirked "I've done it….I've fooled Sherlock Holmes! I'm the only one who's actually been able to do it!"

"And, now I'm here, what do you intend to do?"

James laughed "I'm surprised the great detective hasn't been able to figure it out!" He glanced deliberately at John, and then produced a pair of scissors from his pocket. Beside him, John burst into tears.

"I gather that these ropes are the only thing stopping John from falling…"

James giggled.

Sherlock went even paler than usual "No…..I won't let you…." Then very quietly, he added "Kill me instead…"

"Oh, I plan to…but, first, you're going to watch your friend die…." He was now advancing across the limb of the tree, opening the scissors menacingly. John let out a scream of terror. The blades were barely an inch from the ropes, when Sherlock seized his collar and dragged him backwards. Very aware that James was armed, he smacked the boy hard on the arm, causing him to drop the scissors, which then fell to the floor below. Now he posed no advantage over his opponent, James realized that he'd have to use physical force to overcome his rival. He promptly kneed Sherlock in the groin, causing the latter to double over, eyes watering. The two struggled on the fragile branch, punching and kicking at each other, until they both heard a loud crack. James leapt back two feet, so he had his back against the trunk. Sherlock saw him flash a smile before he vanished into the darkness. There was a horrid creaking sound. Sherlock was ready for the impact of hitting the ground…But the ground never came. Opening his eyes, he realized that both he and John were still clinging to the branch- only now that branch was at a vertical angle to the ground.

"Sherlock…" John wailed.

Turning to his friend, he saw that he had slipped further down the bough, and the ropes restraining him were frayed to the point of snapping.

"John….I need you to do something for me. Reach out your hand…"

John obliged

"Right, John. This might be a little scary…I'm going to snap the ropes. When I do, you must grab my hand, so I can pull you up. Otherwise…"

John nodded, and then replied "How are you going to break the ropes?

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic knife he'd used the day before, then proceeded to rub it against the splitting ropes.

"NOW, JOHN!" he yelled. John gripped his hand just as the ropes gave way, sending the broken branch tumbling to the earth. Sherlock looked down and saw John, halfway between laughing and crying. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hauled the two of them over to a safer branch, out of harm's way.

"Are you okay?" John gasped, still not over the shock of narrowly avoiding being killed.

"Of course…." Sherlock muttered. His jaw was bruised, and he had a few scratches, but other than that, he felt fine.

"Where did James go?"

"No idea…" he replied darkly. "He'll be back though…"

"How do you know?"

For an answer, Sherlock just shrugged.

They sat there for a while, just talking. Throughout this casual exchange, neither boy realized that they were still holding hands.