"I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him." Sherlock kicked at a stone and tried to picture it as Mycroft's head as it skidded over the pavement and tumbled into the gutter. It made him feel marginally better.

He glanced over his shoulder at the large house, noting with some satisfaction that all windows were still dark. So his escape had not been discovered yet. Of course not. Mycroft had been snoring up a storm when Sherlock snuck out. No wonder, considering the amount of weight he had been putting on since Christmas. 2.4 pounds at least. Maybe 2.6. Mother really should find a better place to hide the biscuits.

If Sherlock could find them in less than five minutes, it would be even easier for his brother who was not only older and taller but, according to himself at least, more than twice as smart as Sherlock. As if! Mycroft wasn't smarter. He just knew more. Because he'd gone to school longer.

Sherlock had been going for almost two years now. And he had learned a lot of stuff. Not as much as he'd been teaching himself at home, obviously, but enough to appreciate the necessity of being educated and the power that came with knowledge and skill.

So, determined to learn as much as possible, as fast as possible, Sherlock had been sneaking into Mycroft's room almost daily for the past year. Going through his books and learning all sorts of new stuff. A lot of it didn't make sense, since he lacked context, but he would store it away for later use.

He'd also learned some stuff he wished he hadn't. Like the time he had come across one of Mycroft's old diaries. From around the time Sherlock was born. His brother had really not appreciated the addition to the family. He had described infant Sherlock as smelly, wrinkly, loud and most of all stupid. Imbecilic. Moronic. Simple.

Sherlock had never really admitted to himself how much he admired his older brother. Not until the moment when he realised how much his brother detested him. The moment he decided that from now on he didn't like his brother. He didn't like him one bit.

After that, Sherlock had ignored anything personal in his brother's room, focusing on the textbooks. He liked the ones about chemistry, biology, physics and maths. They were hardly touched since Mycroft fancied himself a politician. He was going to go to Cambridge as soon as he'd finished at Harrow. He got good grades in every subject, of course, but the only ones he really cared about were the ones having to do with history and politics.

Those books were terribly dull. Sherlock only looked in them when he was really really bored. Sometimes he'd find some funny stuff, but most of it was just stupid. Mycroft was stupid for caring about such things. Mycroft was stupid, period.

Sherlock was the smart one and as soon as he was old enough to take the interesting classes, he'd show them all. He'd start uni at 15. 14, maybe! And Mycroft would be so jealous. So jealous that his stupid face would turn bright green.

Sherlock was so smart that Mycroft never knew he had been in his room. Until today. And it really wasn't Sherlock's fault he had gotten caught. Mycroft had deviated from his usual behaviour. He always took a bath after supper. 7.5 minutes to fill the tub, 20 minutes to soak and then 3 to wash his hair, 4.5 to dry and drain the tub. So when he headed for the bathroom, Sherlock knew exactly how long he'd have to study.

But today, for some reason, Mycroft had only soaked for 10 minutes. And Sherlock had been so engrossed in a very detailed illustration of the various layers of skin on an adult male human, that he had not heard his brother until he was standing in the door to his room.

The row had been brief but vehement and ended in Sherlock running to his own room, slamming the door behind him. If Mummy had been home, she would have intervened. Told Mycroft that he was being unreasonable. But not only were their parents out of the country, they had left Mycroft 'in charge'.

Sherlock huffed and kicked another stone.

He had stayed in his room until his brother had gone to bed, and then he had packed his bag, tiptoed to the upstairs bathroom and climbed down the drainpipe. And here he was. Off on his own, on his way to adventure and greatness. And where better to start than London?

Luckily, the local station had quite recently had a ticket machine installed, so he would not have to face any awkward questions before he was actually on the train. And he had that part figured out too.

There were very few passengers at this late hour, and as soon as the train was in motion, Sherlock hurried out to the toilet and locked it from the outside. He returned to his seat, just in time to smile at the conductor and tell her that: "Ma let me hold the ticket while she went to the bathroom. See? I have the ticket. Will you punch it, please?" He blinked and tilted his head in the way that made a single curl fall down over his eyes. The conductor smiled and told him that he was a very sweet and clever boy and his mother must be very proud of him.

As soon as she was out of sight, he went to unlock the toilet door and then moved to a different seat. There were only two stops before London, so avoiding the conductor on her subsequent trips through the train wasn't as much hassle as he would have expected.

And then he was there. Victoria Station. London!

The tube was closed for the night, so Sherlock set off on foot, making his way to a nearby park, where he found a bench, shielded on three sides by large bushes. He got a thin blanket out of his bag and settled down, only shivering a little.

Why did Mycroft have to be such a git? And why now? Couldn't he have waited for summer? So it wouldn't be so unbearably cold?

…

"Ooh-oo!"

Sherlock was startled out of a confusing dream by the strange sound. It took him several seconds to figure out that he was not in his bed and then remember where he actually was and why. He opened one eye. It was considerably lighter than when he got here, but not yet full daylight. So very early morning. Why was some crazy lady roaming the park at this hour? He shrugged. It was no concern of his. He pulled the blanket further up, determined to go back to sleep.

"Ooh-oo!" it sounded again. "Excuse me." Someone gently touched his shoulder.

With a startled squeak, Sherlock sat up, blinking at the woman who was looming over him. "Don't... Don't hurt me..." he gasped, before he could compose himself enough to realise that the dark blonde woman, obviously, posed no threat.

"Oh, poor dear," she said, taking a step back and holding up her hands. "Look, I'm not attacking you. Did you run away from home?"

"No..." Sherlock lied. But he could tell she did not believe him, so he shrugged and muttered: "How did you know?" Maybe she was some kind of detective.

The woman smiled. "Well, look at you. I don't think you're used to sleeping outdoors. And you're only so young... No one would let you, if they knew."

"I don't care," Sherlock said, sitting up but keeping his blanket wrapped tightly around him. "Nobody tells me what I can and cannot do."

"Of course not," she said indulgently. "But you must be freezing. How about we find a warm, cosy place to talk?"

He looked up at her, at once suspicious. Had he read her wrong? Did she have sinister intentions after all?

But her expression spoke only of friendly concern with a hint of curiosity.

"We have nothing to talk about," he muttered. But he would like to get warm, so he hesitantly got to his feet.

"Well, we don't have to talk, but surely you'll want a cup of tea. Or hot chocolate, if you prefer," she said, giving him a friendly nod. "Be sure you bring everything with you." She looked at the bench to make sure nothing was left behind and then started walking towards the park's exit.

Carrying his blanket over one arm, Sherlock shouldered his bag and hurried after her. He was imagining the hot chocolate and they were almost out of the park, when he realised he had slipped his hand into hers.

It was nice and warm, but also absolutely mortifying. He was much too old for holding an adult's hand when walking.

Sherlock wanted to pull his hand away but realised that would only draw more attention to it. Maybe she hadn't even noticed. She certainly didn't seem to mind.

"So what's your name, young man?" the woman asked as they were waiting to cross the road.

"Billy," Sherlock said quickly. "Billy Bones." He cringed. Seriously? He really needed to practise lying. "What's yours?" he asked, hoping to deflect any further questions.

"I'm Mrs Martha Hudson," she said with a sigh, as though something about that name was a reason for despair. But then she cheered up: "It's very nice to meet you, Billy."

"It's nice to meet you too, Mrs Hudson." He smiled up at her, trying to figure out what was bothering her. "You're very kind."

She laughed. "Oh, I try. And well, if I see an odd bundle of clothes on a bench during my morning walk, I'm too curious not to check it. Who'd have known I'd find a polite little boy!"

Sherlock giggled. "I guess that's not something you find every day." Mrs Hudson did not have children. But that was not what she was upset about.

"Quite right," she said. "Well, let's go in here." She squeezed his hand a little as she led him into a small teahouse.

"Do you like cake, Billy?" she asked as they sat down at a round table with a flowery tablecloth.

"I... No..." Sherlock stammered. He did like cake, but about six months ago he had decided that cake was Mycroft's thing, so he wouldn't eat it anymore.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said, a little disappointed. "They make the most delicious chocolate cake here. And the hot apple pie! Is there something else you'd like to eat, then?"

"Uhm... biscuits?" Mycroft did like biscuits too, but he preferred cake. Sherlock couldn't just avoid everything that Mycroft liked. Biscuits would be okay.

"Oh, of course!" She brightened up right away at the prospect of feeding him. "They have perfect biscuits, crunchy and buttery and with just a hint of cinnamon..." She gestured at the elderly waitress, who greeted her as though she knew her quite well and then took Mrs Hudson's order.

"Who's your young friend then, Martha?" the waitress asked as she brought over a piece of apple pie and a stack of biscuits, along with some extra small plates filled with chocolates, marshmallows and other sweets.

"Billy," Mrs Hudson answered. "He's taking a little holiday and I'm watching over him. Poor thing would have caught a cold if I hadn't brought him here. Billy, this is Angela."

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock said. He squirmed a little in his seat. Now that he was finally getting warm, he was starting to notice another, suddenly quite urgent need.

Mrs Hudson frowned at him for a moment, then said: "Oh." She waited discreetly until Angela had returned behind the counter, and then whispered: "The bathroom's in the back, love. Just those two steps down and you'll see it."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, as he hurried off.

When he was washing his hands afterwards, he realised that he had left all his possessions with Mrs Hudson. He giggled. He must really trust her a lot.

He was practically bouncing as he returned to the table, only feeling a little bit disappointed when his hot chocolate wasn't already waiting for him.

"That's better," Mrs Hudson said, beaming at him. Then she called: "Angela, he's back!" She bent over the table to whisper again. "I told her to wait a moment with the drinks, as I wouldn't want your chocolate to cool down before you could get to it."

"That was very clever," Sherlock whispered back. Then he forgot everything else as the chocolate came close enough for him to smell. He sighed happily and his stomach made a rather rude but perfectly understandable sound.

Mrs Hudson giggled and picked up a fork to start on her pie.

An hour later, Sherlock was full of chocolate, biscuits, several other treats that Angela had slipped him and, most of all, the sincere fondness with which the two women treated him. Sherlock could not remember ever feeling this relaxed.

So relaxed, in fact, that he found his eyes drooping as he fought valiantly to suppress a yawn.

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You can't have been comfortable on that hard bench. Should we find you a bed? Or do you have other plans now?"

"I am off..." He yawned. "... on an adventure..."

"Oh, but I know all about adventures, and you definitely can't start one if you didn't get enough sleep," Mrs Hudson said. "You'll make all kinds of decisions that you'll regret later."

That did make sense. Pouting slightly, Sherlock nodded. "You're right," he said. "I need to find a lair. Establish a base."

"A lair?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock blushed but nodded. "Yeah. Like a cave or a... or a cove... You know, to hide my treasure and rest between raids..." He'd never realised how silly it sounded, until he said it out loud. No wonder Mycroft mocked him.

"Treasure and raids... You're a dragon?" Mrs Hudson guessed.

"I'm a pirate!" Sherlock straightened his back and tried to look mean.

"Oh, of course!" Mrs Hudson said. "How silly of me. I should have seen it right away. And it's a good thing, too. I must admit I'd be rather reluctant to let a fire-breathing lizard into my new house, but surely a nice pirate won't do any harm."

Sherlock giggled. "You can trust me," he said. "I'll protect you from dragons and bullies."

"Oh, that's very nice! You're a true gentleman. For a pirate, of course." Mrs Hudson winked. "So do you want to come with me? Or is there someone you'd like to call first?"

"I have nobody to call," Sherlock said. "I'd like to come and see your house."

"Alright." Mrs Hudson waved at Angela, paid the bill and told her she'd see her tomorrow. Once outside, she flagged down a cab.

Sherlock had never been in a cab before. A proper London cab!

He examined the backseat thoroughly and then pressed his nose to the glass, watching the city glide by.

But long before they reached their destination, he had drifted off, curled up with his head in Mrs Hudson's lap.