The case went horribly.

Absolutely. Horribly.

And this, in turn, made Sherlock very, very upset.

In fact, the ten-year-old grumbled to himself rather loudly for the entire ride to 221B as he sat in the back seat of the taxi cab, arms crossed over his chest at a careful height that was sure not to squash his little friend squirming around in his coat pocket. Speaking of the guy, part of him—the part not focused on his continuing and pointless litany that he sincerely hoped would annoy his teacher—was tempted to reach down and pull the hedgehog out, because somehow Martin always made sentimental moments not so…sentimental and painful—but he knew that was a bad idea, what with John right there, and so much anger and disappointment in between them already.

So no, Sherlock let Martin settle himself in his coat pocket, and instead kept his eyes resolutely directed outside the window—on anything and anywhere that wasn't his teacher at that exact moment.

Eventually, Sherlock grew tired of the mumbling. So instead, he fell silent, and John stayed silent, and no words were spoken for the entire rest of the taxi cab ride over to his teacher's flat.

The biggest problem was that he couldn't deduce whether this quiet was a good or a bad thing.

"Sherlock."

When John finally spoke to him, they were at his flat, and Sherlock had already started walking to Mrs. Hudson's 221A—because whenever he came over, she always had the best cookies and made the best hot chocolate. He quickly stopped, however, upon hearing that tone in his teacher's voice—despite the fact that instinct and logic told him to ignore the man because he had officially ruined everything—and when it had all been for his sake, too. But he set his mouth and stayed put, although he refused to turn around. The wood beneath his socked feet was suddenly very interesting although he had already studied every grain of it from his multiple visits.

This didn't seem to deter John, who merely sighed. "You should call your parents."

Something in Sherlock knew he was going to say that. So he cringed, teeth gritting themselves together harder as he uttered, "…they're probably asleep."

"They're probably worried sick." A warning tone, this time. The same chime and pitch as the annoying dark oak grandfather clock in Sherlock's living room that stood as tall and imposing as his father. It made Sherlock tense, scrunch his shoulders up—Martin, in turn, wriggled in his coat pocket—but he still refused to move.

John sighed. "I'm not even sure why you gave the security officer my number instead of theirs. They ought to be the ones picking you up when you decide to sneak off into zoos to kidnap unsuspecting river otters—not your teacher."

There wasn't any malice in his tone—just aggravated exhaustion, which Sherlock could understand…a bit. (Was sleep really so important to ordinary people? How weird.) But grudgingly, the boy had to admit to himself that he also understood Dr. Watson's confusion. The choice would be odd to pick a teacher to come to his rescue rather than his flesh-and-blood parents—but to Sherlock, it made all the sense in the world.

Why call his parents to come get him when they were just going to send Mycroft or someone else equally annoying to do their dirty work for them anyway, when he could have John come and get him?

(John, who was so very much more interesting—even when angry. And it wasn't just because when he called John, that the man himself actually came—not someone else he sent along—although that was something exciting and…nice to get used to the first couple of times he had phoned his teacher in to pick him up from various places—but it was also because of other reasons: like how the man was not really a doctor, but was one at the same time; like how he had a limp that sometimes was there, and sometimes wasn't. That sort of thing.)

But his teacher was right.

Mummy would get so upset. And then Mycroft would get all the desserts for the week and get even fatter.

And he couldn't have that now, could he? The complaints would be terrible.

So when he sighed, body relaxing into submission, and the next thing he felt was the firm press of his teacher's mobile phone on his shoulder. He didn't say a word as he grabbed it with a deep frown, punching in the numbers he had memorized since birth, practically, and pulled away, walking further down the hall in order to have this conversation in privacy.

But John followed him anyway, which earned him a short-lived glare, even though Sherlock knew why he was there: to ensure that the words, "I'm sorry," actually made it out of his reliably-stubborn lips.

Which was annoying.

But John gave him a quite frankly flat look in response, which Sherlock knew he could never win out against.

Then there was a click.

"The Holmes residence."

Sherlock sighed and immediately turned back around again. Subconsciously, he let his hand drift down to his pocket, fingers brushing on the bundle of soft quills inside snoring as he quickly cleared his throat. "Hello, Anthea. It's Sherlock."

"Oh good," she sounded vaguely pleased. Distracted as always—no doubt—by her mobile. "You're not dead. I assume this means you're at Mr. Watson's flat? A…2-2-1-B Baker Street?"

The man would always be "Dr. Watson" to him—but nobody else, apparently, understood the importance of that and always ignored him whenever he made that correction—so Sherlock had long since given up trying to right that wrong, even if it grated him every time he heard "Mr. Watson." "Yes. Will you be coming to pick me up?"

There was a soft hum on the other end as if she was listening to someone else. Then she spoke up again, voice close, "Yes. Mycroft is coming, too, apparently. He's very upset."

"Hm. Yes. I imagine so," Sherlock murmured back, not feeling very guilty at all.

Anthea continued. "He says if you wanted to give Mr. Watson a river otter as a present, you could have just asked. Much less trouble."

Sherlock just grit his teeth in agitation against all things pompously Mycroft that thought they were so much better than everyone else and had all the answers to the world's problems. No wonder the young man was going to go into politics. "Yes, well, tell him I didn't ask for his advice—and that I won't ever need his advice, so he can keep his undesired suggestions to himself."

A soft sigh and hum combination. "Hm. Noted, he says. We're on our way."

"Good."

With that, Sherlock clicks the conversation to end, and turns back around to toss John his mobile back. "My brother is on his way, he said."

His sandy-haired teacher nodded, looking far more relieved at that. "Good," he answered, sticking his phone back in his pocket. He gave a quick glance around, eyes finding the nearest clock and checking the time with a wince, before he nodded again. "Good. Well. We might as well sit and wait for him, then. Nothing much else to do in the mean time."

Sherlock hummed and nodded back, and once John sat down on a stair, he sat down beside him, a hand flying inside his pocket to ease Martin into the change in position, although the little hedgehog hardly noticed. His cool nose stuck out, wriggled around a bit, before shimmying back into safe darkness.

It was a strangely notable period of time that passed before the not-quite-doctor finally asked The Question.

"…Sherlock, why did you try to break into the zoo?" With a distinctive, confused frown that was becoming more and more commonplace the more the days passed by with the youngest Holmes member in his class, John turned to the boy, continuing, "Otters surely can't be that important to you? I mean, you already have a hedgehog."

At the reminder of Martin, Sherlock's fingertips then began to pet the idle, contented lump in his pocket as he thought. Quickly, he cast a brief glance up the stairs to 221B, and thought of all the lonely nights his teacher must have had up there, with no one to talk to—at least, no one besides Mrs. Hudson occasionally—but no one, really, to truly understand him. No one to vent to, no one to confide in; no one to stare at when he just was utterly and completely bored with nothing else to do—and above all, no one to be his companion in the same way Martin was to himself.

He thought of that lonely life, all of its emptiness and grays and then found that really, it wasn't very hard to come back to that desire to steal the river otter for Dr. Watson.

But he shook his head anyway, mumbling, "Experiment," to just brush the situation by—and if John noticed the dodge in answer, the quick evasion from the truth, he said nothing about it, choosing instead to roll his eyes, sigh tiredly, and mutter back, "Of course. Of course it was," with something dangerously close to fondness in his tone.

Crystal's Notes: Okay. 8D So how did you guys like it? It's a bit of an experiment for me, and a bit of a stretch-I know, I know. I mean, me, I've always toyed with the idea of kid!lock and teacher!John-who has a modified background to fit this AU-but haven't really found the motivation or good storyline to use it in, really. Nothing would stick to make it cohesive.

But then this challenge on Tumblr popped up. 8DD Called "Let's Write Sherlock," and of course, I, as a Sherlock fan and fanfiction author, thought, "WHY NOT?" So I decided to use my AU for this. x3 Because in the rules, and it said I could use...AU. So. Y'know.

Let me know what you guys think! x3 Because if it's well-received, I may keep doing more of these. x3 In this AU, I mean. At least, I'm currently toying with the idea of using this AU for all of the other challenges in the "Let's Write Sherlock" thingymabob, but of course, I don't want to, and in fact, won't, if nobody wants to read them. So. JUSTLETMEKNOW.

And thanks for reading! x3 Have a wonderful day! Also, before I go, just in case any of you wanted the original prompt, here it is, for your perusing:

After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…

Yep! So have a great day! x3