Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

AN: Another of those ideas that struck me at a completely random moment, this time during maths class. Each part is exactly 100 words.


'Why do they do that?' Sherlock asked curiously, pointing at the roses outside. Mycroft looked up irritably, glancing at Sherlock before returning his attention to his homework.


'That,' Sherlock jabbed his finger at the glass – at the bees outside diving in and out of the clusters of red petals.

'I don't know. I'm busy.'

'You didn't even look,' Sherlock pouted. Mycroft was no fun anymore – only ever interested in his friends, his work – he never had time for Sherlock.

'I'm busy,' he repeated.

'But –'

'Not now,'

'Fine then,' Sherlock huffed, stomping towards the door. 'I'll find out myself.'


At nine years old, Sherlock was already taller than most of his classmates, and looked oddly out of place on the edge of the huddle of children around their teacher. His limbs, thin as twigs but even now deceptively strong, stuck awkwardly out of his sleeves and shorts as though to emphasise the air of difference about him.

Sherlock hated P.E. It was pointless and boring and seemed mostly to involve running around screaming in another of the games the others enjoyed so much.

When everyone was told to choose partners, Sherlock didn't much mind being left on his own.


Science was one of the few lessons Sherlock had any real interest in, though the attitudes of the other pupils irritated him. They asked stupid questions and giggled constantly. It was dull and juvenile, and Sherlock hated it.

The experiments were a mild compensation, though too often he was streets ahead of the rest of them and had to wait for them to catch up.

When they were asked to pair up again, Sherlock raised his hand.

'May I work alone?'

The teacher agreed, but watched him with concern. She needn't have; he got the highest grade in the class.


'I can help you,' Sherlock insisted,

'We don't need your help son, why don't you get yourself home now?'

Sherlock bristled at the patronising reply, 'I'm not drunk –'

'I never said you were.'

'If you'd just –'

'Look, if you've got information you can go through the proper channels, alright? There's a helpline on the posters.'

'Why don't you listen?' Sherlock's voice rose to a frustrated shout and the detective shook his head.

'I'm listening, but it's more than my job's worth to let an amateur get involved –'

Sherlock turned and left. He'd solve the case by himself.


If Sherlock was going to come off the drugs, he was going to do it his way. He did not need Mycroft's interference or any of the support his brother offered him. He did not need advice and he was not going into rehab. If he did it, he did it his way, in his time, on his terms. Because he wanted to, not for anyone else, not even Mummy.

He did not so much as glance at the long list of phone numbers Mycroft had supplied him with before throwing it in the bin with a snort of disgust.


Sherlock has been working alongside the police for five years now, but never really with them. He has never wanted to – why would he? They are all dull, so irritating and ordinary...he much prefers to work alone.

The man currently sat in the other room though, this Doctor Watson...somehow he is different.

It occurs to Sherlock that he could prove useful to have around, if persuaded to come along...

'You're a doctor,' Sherlock begins, pulling his gloves on as he returns to the room, 'in fact you're an army doctor.'

Even he cannot predict quite how different this will be.