Hi all! I was honestly stunned by the reception my previous story got on the site. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and faved! Anyway, this story is not a one-shot, and the actual plot starts on the next chapter. Again, please review (even if you hate it) as I'm trying to improve.

Sherlock doesn't belong to me.


Ironically, Sherlock Holmes had to pick a lock to steal his first lock picking kit. Twelve-year-old Jeremy Prewett, a boy in his class, had shown up at school that day with a brand new lock picking kit in a small, black leather case brought to him by an uncle who bought it in the States. Jeremy boasted about it all day, and although he had no idea how to use it, he made sure to tell anyone who wouldn't run away fast enough that in the right hands it could pick hundreds of lock types.

Sherlock was fascinated. Nobody else wanted to hear Jeremy's bragging, but Sherlock had listened to Jeremy's lectures secretly from his desk all day. From the moment the Holmes boy saw it, he kept his eyes riveted on the other boy's case like an owl watching its prey. The past month had been horribly dull, and it had been a whole two weeks since he had stolen anything. He could use a challenge, and Jeremy's kit could certainly prove to be one. The fact that he had no idea how to use a lock picking kit was exceedingly irrelevant.

'Now,' the boy thought, touching the tips of his fingers to his lips and refocusing his icy gaze on the leather case, 'I will wait for my chance.' And a chance did come. After four hours of non-stop rambling, the teacher told Jeremy to get rid of his kit and stop talking about it, so the other boy rose from his seat and left to place it in his locker, three hallways away from class.


With the kit completely unattended and only a small metal door separating him from it, Sherlock was plotting like he had never plotted before. He wanted that kit, and he had the one hour and twenty minutes left before break to get the kit. Five minutes later, Sherlock had a complete plan formulated. He told the teacher that he felt really bad and asked to be excused.

He walked slowly out of the room, but once he was out of the teacher's eyeshot he sprinted down the hall. If there was anything he had learnt from all the criminology books he had borrowed from Mycroft, is that the first thing you need is an alibi. For that he went to the boys' toilet, pinched his cheeks a few times to make them red, and then washed his face to appear sweaty. He loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. The result was disappointing. He hardly looked sick at all, but then again, he knew it would not be enough when he first made his plans.

The nurse in their school, Mrs Keating, was a surprisingly observant woman. She would never believe he was unwell unless he looked really sick. The infirmary was a short way away from the toilets, and as he walked there, breathing deeply and trying to appear ill, he looked at his watch and saw that he had one hour and ten minutes left until break time. He stopped at the closest drink machine and took out 1.50 pounds out of his pocket. He used the money to buy himself a 500ml water bottle and he hid it inside his jacket, pinning it in place with one arm. To an outside observer, it looked like a boy clutching his stomach in pain. To Sherlock, it was just an extremely awkward pose to be in. Unfortunately, he saw no alternative.

"Mrs Keating?" He asked as he entered the cramped infirmary and walked to the nurse's office, trying to look as miserable as he possibly could.

"Yes, Mr Holmes?" The nurse did not know all the students by name, but there was not a staff member in the school who did not know Sherlock.

"I feel really sick, can I go home please?" Sherlock swallowed deeply and closed his eyes, making a fantastic impression of someone very nauseous. It was easy. When the boy was younger he decided to learn how to imitate every emotion he could think of, just because it seemed useful. For years he would secretly manipulate the classroom environment just to observe his classmates' expressions. He learnt his perfect nausea face when he was ten and sneaked a dead squirrel into his classroom, leaving it on one of the desks during break time.

"Why don't you lie down for a bit, dear? Perhaps you'll feel better soon," Mrs Keating smiled. The woman reminded Sherlock of his brother a little bit; observant and sharp minded, but hiding it behind a congenial smile and mild manners. This woman was too used to students faking illnesses to allow them to just go home.

"Ok," Sherlock said, lying down in one of the hard beds in the infirmary. His heart was beating out of his chest, and he felt the nurse's eyes boring into his back. She was probably watching him like a hawk. One false move and the whole plan will fail. Sherlock took a deep breath. He shifted in his bed a few times, just to look uncomfortable. Every time he did this he had to make sure that the bottle was still held firmly between his arm and his stomach. Then, after counting four minutes and thirty nine seconds, he got up from his bed and ran to the toilet in the nurse's room, slamming the door behind him and locking it. Nobody would consider this strange. Sherlock Holmes was a very private boy. The next step was tricky. Sherlock cracked open the bottle under his jacket to reduce any noise the plastic might make. Then he took a deep breath, stuffed his finger down his throat to make a convincing retching noise, and then spilled some of the water into the toilet. He repeated this process until the water was gone, then threw the empty bottle out of the window. His throat felt as if he'd scratched it with sandpaper.

'Note to self,' he told himself while flushing the toilet, 'find a way to fake vomiting without sticking a finger down your throat. It's not fun.' He spotted a can of air freshener nearby and used it profusely and as close to the door as possible, to make sure that the nurse heard the sound. Then he gargled some water, splashed some on his face, and unlocked the door. He emerged from the bathroom, shaking and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"How are you feeling?" Mrs Keating asked worriedly. One look at her assured him that his plan had worked.

"Slightly better," Sherlock whimpered (he learnt this face from a classmate who somehow got laxatives in his lunch about a year ago).

"Do you want me to call your parents, dear?"

"They're at work… Can I take the tube home? I just want to rest."

"Okay sweetheart," The nurse took a Styrofoam cup from one of the cupboards, filled it with water and handed it to Sherlock, "Drink this slowly while I talk to them." The nurse entered her office to make the call and Sherlock sipped at his water. It was strange, faking illness and lethargy while he was the complete opposite. His heart was beating wildly and his mind was buzzing with thoughts and plans. He had not had this much fun in a very, very long time. He glanced at his watch. Forty two minutes left. Three minutes later the nurse returned and said that his mother had been notified, and that she gave permission for him to return home by himself. Sherlock thanked her quietly, got up and left the room, supposedly to collect his things from class. Instead he drained his cup in one gulp (throwing all the water away before had made him strangely thirsty) and ran to Jeremy Prewett's locker. He pressed the cup to the door and his ear to the cup and, while listening carefully, slowly tuned the dial. It took a few turns to hear the faint click of the lock, and then he had to repeat the process, alternating between clockwise and counter-clockwise every time he heard the click. Finally, forty-six tries and twenty minutes of work later, the door of the locker was open. With a self-satisfied grin, Sherlock reached inside and stuffed the small leather case into his inner pocket. Then he closed the door again, wiped the dial with his jacket (he didn't suppose anyone would check for fingerprints, but one never knows), and walked back to class. He told his teacher that he was sick and he was going home, took his bag and his notebook from his desk, and strode out of the school. Then he laughed. He laughed all the way on the tube and all the way from the tube to his house. He laughed from the adrenaline and his success. He, twelve year old Sherlock Holmes, had committed the perfect crime. He could not possibly have been more pleased with himself.

I hope you liked that. Please review. Like I said in my last story, if I have any grammar mistakes please correct me, because English is not my first language and I want to improve it! I will post the next chapter in a couple of days (it's already written). And again: If you liked it, please review, if you hated it, please review as well! (I love getting reviews, can you tell?)

By the way, I made the final edit on this at 4am, so I really hope I didn't miss any typos...