AN: Again, this is mostly sevenpercent's fault. Title will be explained at the end for those of you who don't spoil it for yourself. ;)
Sherlock was ten when he ran away for the first time. Mycroft had left for university the fall before, and he was stuck at home with parents that didn't understand him. They always wanted him to be more like Mycroft, except they didn't know everything, so blind to what was in front of them, the traces of frosted sugar on his sleeves and his complete disinterest in his so called 'girlfriend'. Sherlock knew she was just a show.
And school was worse. The other children were stupid and horrible. They all hated him, which Sherlock supposed he made it easy to do, telling them things they didn't want to hear, despite already knowing them themselves. It really didn't help that he'd have up to five seizures during the school day, occasionally wetting himself, which was an embarrassment that could never be overcome, no matter how many presentations on epilepsy were made to the school or how many students were given detention for horribly abusing him.
Still, he didn't mind school, although it was tedious and boring, but he enjoyed the library and his beanbag chair.
It was when spring break rolled around and he was forced to spent a whole week at home with his parents and no Mycroft, because his spring break was a different week.
It was when his father threw out his experiment with the worms, the one that Sherlock felt was making real progress, and yelled at him for half an hour about acceptable activities and appearances, that Sherlock calmly went to his room, packed a bag, and walked right out the front door. His parents didn't notice, his mother having gone to her room, claiming a headache, and his father having gone to his study to drink.
He wondered if they would ever notice he was gone.