Hello everyone!

So this is my first 'Sherlock' fic. This is also a deaging fic, as there really aren't too many Sherlock deaging fics (but kid!Sherlock seems like it'd be so cute! 8D) . Probably because it's a bit hard to do...so I hope you enjoy this! And if you have any suggestions, please tell me! I want to bring happiness and joy to all my readers ^_^

ALLONS-Y! 8D

I don't own anything owned by anything else (i.e. Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

Bored.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

Sherlock lay reclining on the sofa with a look of utter distaste. His dark curls hung over his eyebrows in a way that gave him the appearance of a moody child, his desperate need for a haircut only enhancing this. He glared at the ceiling, as if it were the reason for his lack of occupation. All of this, tied in with the prospect of an oncoming cold, made the consulting detective all the more ill humoured and boorish for his flatmate, John Watson.

"Stop sulking, it's not going to make anything better."

The detective didn't even acknowledge the sweater clad man hidden behind the newspaper. Instead he continued staring at the ceiling, sniffing in an attempt to ward off an earth shattering sneeze that threatened to break the ultimately incessant silence.

Suddenly he bolted upwards, causing the couch to make a horrendous creaking sound despite his thin frame. John looked over his newspaper (more out of irritation than surprise) to see Sherlock massaging his temples, eyebrows furrowed with annoyance.

"I need a case! My brain is cooking! Why doesn't Lestrade-"

"My word! Calm down, you're like a child!"

"I need a case!"

"NO. You do not!"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and fell back, staring at the ceiling again. For a few moments the silence returned. But soon afterwards Sherlock once again broke it with the drumming of fingers on his arm, which was covered by the sleeve of a purple button up shirt. Finally John slammed the paper shut and placed it on his lap. To this the detective only sniffed and continued what he was doing.

"Why don't you go out and...do something...? You know...like a normal human being?"

"Normal is dull. I need a case."

"Okay...then go do something abnormal."

"Everything you consider abnormal is dull. Dull, dull, dull! Nothing interesting!"

Throughout his vent, Sherlock's voice had begun steadily rising until finally it was almost a yell. He shot up into a standing position and proceeded to stalk to the cabinet, which held his gun. Unfortunately when he got there he found that it had been deadlocked. Annoyance surged through him and he clomped back to an exasperated John.

"Where's the key, John."

"No."

"John."

"Sherlock, you are NOT blowing holes in the wall, I just patched up your last episode! And, if you care to know, it was very expensive."

"John. Key. Now. I know you have it."

"No. Go blog."

Sherlock gave a grunt and viciously ran his fingers through his already frazzled hair. Walking around the room, he continued muttering under his breath until blessedly, his phone rang. Relief overtook his features, and he practically dove over a table to reach the device, which lay on the arm of the sofa he had been laying on. But his face fell when the text ended up being an ad, not Lestrade. John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him, even if he was being a bit of a brat. The consulting detective was much like a child. When he couldn't do what he wanted, he felt useless, almost rejected. And the endless flow of information that his brilliant mind continually processed was enough to send anyone into sensory overload. Adding the fact that most people practically hated him, he rarely had any other social interaction outside of his detective work. This all made him a bit antsy, to say the least.

As if to prove John's point, Sherlock flung himself back down on the couch, mumbling and moving his hands in the air eccentrically.

"Boring, boring, boring! I'm in a world of boringness that hangs in space surrounded by a big black BORING."

"The Earth revolves around the sun, Sherlock! I still don't understand how you don't know that!"

"Because. It's not. Important!"

John groaned and brought his palm to his forehead, bringing it down slowly to rest on his chin.

He's about to go mad, and he's going to take me with him if I don't do something...

With that thought, John stood up. He gave a forced smile (which ended up looking more like a grimace) and walked over to Sherlock, grabbed his arm and led him to the door. Needless to say, the detective wasn't too fond of the gesture and attempted to rid himself of John's ironlike grasp. But John held fast, as he was used to leading unwilling patients to treatment.

"Where are we going."

"Somewhere that will keep you entertained."

"Where."

"I don't know. Maybe you can go scream in a library if that's abnormal enough for you. And if you say 'boring' or anything relating to that word, you'll wish you had never been born."

After trying numerous options, Sherlock finally decided on a store that carried numerous chemicals and the like. John wasn't exactly too fond of this (as the experiments usually ended up having to be cleaned by him), but it was better than having a wall full of bullets. So after Sherlock made his purchases, they made their way back to the apartment and the detective promptly shut himself up in his room.

The rest of the evening was fairly quiet, much to John's delight. Usually, by now they would have been solving a case or Sherlock would have been looking for another one to occupy himself with. It was nice, and it gave the doctor time to get a few things done, such as updating his blog. So it was to his great disappointment and surprise that he heard a large explosion in the next room. Watson quickly set aside his laptop and made his way to the shut door. He knocked lightly.

"Are you all right?"

When no answer came, John entered slowly. He almost wished he hadn't. Books and other oddities had been strewn all over the floor in the explosion. On the bed, there was a long piece of blackened meat that the detective had seemingly been experimenting on. The only thing missing from the scene was Sherlock Holmes...

Until the head of a child with wild looking curls popped up over the bed. He scowled at John and crossed his arms, his big gray-green eyes gazing at John sternly.

"You needn't have come in. I was about to come out."

John's eyes bugged out of his skull and his mouth hung open in complete shock. After a few seconds, he closed it, though he still looked stunned.

"Sherlock...?"

The boy crinkled his face incredulously and cocked his head to the side.

"Yes...?"

John sighed in a tone of 'oh-great-you've-done-it-now-Sherlock', and scratched his head.

"Okay...uhm...you stay in here...and I'm going to get...someone...yeah."

John slowly walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. After doing so, he leaned against the door with his mouth open once again. It was not possible. How could this have happened? But most of all, what was he going to do? Lestrade couldn't help, no one at work would know what to do...the only possible explanation would be...

Oh, Sherlock will be beside himself...

But like it or not, that was the only choice. Mycroft Holmes was practically the only person who knew his brother in their younger years...so only he would know how to deal with him until his brother's...'condition' was cleared up. And assuming Sherlock hadn't figured it out yet (or he hadn't when John found him), Mycroft would best know how to break it too him.

Sherlock's done something stupid. Please come immediately.
JW

On my way
M

And there ya go! =D Please let me know if you want me to finish it, and if you have anything that would make it better =)