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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