"Go away Aunt Sharon!" Amelia slammed the front door shut and ran through the front garden, away from the house and towards the main street of Leadworth. At 8 years old, her Aunt Sharon had moved Amelia Pond from Scotland to this small village in the middle of nowhere, England. She hated it, and didn't hide her hatred.
Angry tears stinging her eyes, she continued to hurry towards the bench outside the church. She got here, snuffling only a little as she stared at the boy who had stretched himself across the seat, ankles crossed and resting on the armrest, head perched on the other and fingers meeting at the tips.
Amelia was momentarily speechless at the sight of the boy, but quickly recovered.
"Hi, there!" she sang, eliminating any trace of anger that had been there before. The boy didn't respond, so Amelia stepped closer. "Are you going to make room for me? You should be being a gentleman," she nodded her mock-disapproval at him as she chastised him, using both hands to life his legs to make room for her.
The boy opened one eye and lifted his head, his dark curls obscuring his grey-blue-green eyes, watching Amelia lay his legs on her lap, leaving his ankles resting in the same place they started.
"Morning," the dark haired boy greeting Amelia. He moved his hands to rest on his stomach, but didn't sit up. He was comfortable.
"I'm Amelia Pond," she smiled.
"Just like in a fairytale…" he muttered. "Sherlock Holmes." The smile of Amelia's grew into a grin.
"I love your name! It's great. I'm 8, how old are you?"
"12. You're Scottish."
"Yup," she popped the p, frowning now as she looked at Sherlock's legs, still on her lap.
"Are you on holiday?"
"No… I've just moved here. Aunt Sharon took me away from all my friends. I don't like it here. It's boring," she sighed.
Sherlock sat up abruptly. He'd found a likeminded soul.
"I don't like it here, either," he muttered. He swivelled, placing his feet on the ground and Amelia shuffled along the bench, closer to her new friend.
"Have you just moved here, too?" Amelia leaned into him, gently pressing the conversation from him.
"Hmmm," he shook his head. "The Mother thought that this place is the epitome of fun. It's not." He sighed, then turned his head so his eyes met hers. "What do you do for fun around here, then?" The 12 year old boy was desperate for something to do.
"Not much, really," the girl's voice sang it's Scottish melody.
"Well then, let's find us something to do!" He grinned and stood, Amelia quickly copying his movements, grabbing his hand so she didn't fall behind.
This boy intrigued her. She wasn't sure what it was, exactly, but something abut him pulled her in. And little Amelia Pond: the curiosity Sherlock had for the Scottish fairytale girl in Leadworth meant he didn't recoil from their hands connecting as he would in different – normal – company.