Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John is following Sherlock down the hall towards the playground for recess. John is a little worried at the moment because it isn’t technically time for recess. But, as Sherlock explained, “If there’s no teacher there’s no class, therefore two possibilities exist given that it is a weekday and we are in a school. The first is that it is time for recess, the second is that it is lunch time. Clearly, since I am not hungry, having eaten breakfast at a reasonable time, it must be recess. During recess we go to the playground.” All of this was said very quickly while Sherlock pulled John along in his wake. Still, John was a little worried. They were breaking the rules after all. Maybe, he thought excitedly, they could break more.
“Wait a minute,” said John. “could we go to the lunch room anyway?”
Sherlock stopped and whirled around. He quickly scanned John from head to toe. “No.” He said crisply. He whirled again and strode towards the doors to the playground. “Do keep up.” He said without looking back. John hurried along after him.

This certainly was peculiar, John thought to himself. But then, the day had been peculiar almost as soon as Sherlock had arrived. He’d entered the room exuding a distinct air of irritation. He was well dressed for kindergarten. Trousers and a black dress shirt buttoned up the front. Ms. Nales introduced Sherlock to the class then asked Sherlock if there was anything he would like to say.

Sherlock smiled. John noticed something in that smile. A sign that there was danger coming. Sherlock turned to Ms. Nales. “Since you asked, yes. You’re a complete failure and will die alone in an apartment that reeks of cats. You might have had a chance at three cats, but four is a warning sign to any potential suitor. They worry that you might be secretly a crazy cat lady, which is one of the reasons they never call again. There are more of course, for instance your makeup is done all wrong. Your foundation is a shade too dark and doesn’t cover all of your neck and your lipstick is a clear sign of desperate loneliness. Given your age, I’m guessing 34, but you tell people you’re 31. After all, people lie about being 30 all the time, but who would lie about 31? That bit’s actually clever. But aside from that you’re an unattractive, unattached woman living with four cats, thereby ensuring that you will remain alone for another… let’s say two years, at which point your loneliness will compel you to adopt a fifth cat, then a sixth. Let’s be conservative and say that each cat lives fifteen years, from there we can figure out how many years it will be before they’ve all died. Even if all the cats die simultaneously fifteen years from this exact moment, probably because you did something stupid, that would still leave you loveless and alone at forty nine. By this point you’d have diminished social skills. You already spend your days with idiot children like these and now you have to spend your nights taking care of your six cats. You can’t bear to leave them alone for long because it is your nature to nurture. An admirable quality, but one that will ultimately lead to your lonely death in the aforementioned apartment. My brother told me that cats eat the corpses of their owners. Do you think they’ll eat yours?”

At that, Ms. Nales ran crying from the room. This was the most amazing thing John had ever seen. Sherlock surveyed the room, pointing to each child in turn and labeling them. “Stupid, stupid, bed wetter, eats paste, stupid, stupid, coward, dumb, idiot….” It went on this way until Sherlock’s finger settled on John. “You’ll do. Come with me.”
With that, he popped up the collar on his shirt, spun around and strode out of the classroom. John bolted from his desk to follow.

Now they approached the exit doors. John was excited. Could his new friend make it recess all day? What about every day? He’d already defeated a teacher, what more was he capable of?
As the pair walked out onto the playground, they saw an older boy sitting on one of the teacher’s benches. He was reading a book and wearing a three piece suit. Without looking up, the boy said snidely, “You’re later than I’d expected. Ran into trouble did you?” The boy looked up from his book, gazing first at Sherlock then quickly refocusing on John. “Sherlock, please tell me you don’t want to keep one.”
John steps forward, “What now? Sherlock, what’s he talking about, who’s he?”

Sherlock puts an arm out to the side to block John’s advance. Without looking at John, “Mycroft this is John. John, this is my brother Mycroft.” Mycroft cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes as he stares at John. He stares for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he looks at Sherlock, not so intensely but still perplexed, “Why?”
Sherlock is quick to answer. “He was the cleverest one.”

Being both genuinely surprised and pleased by the compliment, John turned to Sherlock beaming, “Thanks Sherlock! That’s quite nice of you.” He was about to compliment Sherlock in return, when Mycroft interrupted disdainfully, “It’s not a particularly good compliment John.”
Sherlock turned to John. “It’s true John. It isn’t, but it was quite nice of me.”
“Oh.” Replied John. Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “So what did you say to make your teacher cry?”
“My teacher?” Said Mycroft with an emphasis on my. “I made every teacher I met on the way out cry. I went from classroom to classroom.”

Sherlock was taken aback. “You didn’t come to my classroom!”
With an exasperated sigh and a slow roll of his eyes, Mycroft explained, “Well I can’t do everything for you Sherlock. Besides,” he continued, “I decided to use that time to get the Principal arrested. It appears he’s embezzling school funds. They take that sort of thing very seriously.”
Sherlock was impressed but also indignant. “How did you do all this before I made my teacher cry?”

Mycroft smiled. “Planning Sherlock, planning. I spent a few hours yesterday learning about the various faculty. I made a mental note of the most efficient word or phrase to bring each to an emotional melt down. I got started early, before most classes had even begun, which gave me time to call in the police who always have a car in this area at the particular time I needed. But no need to worry about Principal Masterson. The evidence is all circumstantial, it will fall apart before it goes to trial. I’m not a monster.”

There is a momentary pause while Mycroft returns to his book, so John jumps in. “So none of the teachers are in their classrooms because they’re all crying?” Mycroft makes a sound somewhere between pain and disgust. John continues, “So why aren’t all the other kids out here too?”
Mycroft throws his head back and slams his book into his lap. “Sherlock please! He’s killing me!”
Sherlock turns to John. “It’s because they’re stupid, John.”
John blinks his eyes a few times, “Ah.”
“Quite.” Sherlock looks John in the eyes. “Would you like to come live with us?”
Mycroft and John simultaneously exclaim, “What!?”

Sherlock looks toward Mycroft. “Look at him Mycroft. His mother doesn’t really love him. Observe the mustard stain at the corner of his mouth, no doubt there since breakfast. No caring mother to groom her poor clever child before sending him into the world. Nor is his father any help. He’s clearly a deeply troubled alcoholic, no doubt driven to that point by the knowledge that John is definitely not his son. On a related note, this is why John’s mother doesn’t love him, but has replaced those feelings with a growing resentment that can only fester into contempt.”
“Yes,” Interrupts an irritated Mycroft. “All of that was obvious at first glance, even for you.”
John stammers out a question to Sherlock, “What… Wha.. Not my father? How dare you! They… oh my God.”
Sherlock and Mycroft mutter, “No such thing.”

John doesn’t notice them. “My parents don’t love me.” There is silence on the playground for a time. Mycroft reads his book, Sherlock begins composing an essay on playground fatality rates while he waits for John to finish watching his entire world fall apart. John stands as still as possible, quietly quivering with repressed emotion. After awhile he is still again. He looks at Sherlock whose gaze is either locked on something far ahead or completely blank. “Sherlock. Do you know who my real father is?”
Sherlock twists his head at John with his eyebrows angled, as if reassessing his choice. “Of course not John!” he barks. “I’m not a wizard!”
Mycroft chimes in, “I am. But I’m afraid I have no ruby slippers for you…” Mycroft pauses for another uncomfortably long period of time. Finally John understands. He shouts, “John! My name is John and you’d best remember it or I’ll box your ears!”
Sherlock and Mycroft burst into laughter. John doesn’t get the joke. “What’s so funny?” They continue laughing. “Stop it!” shouts John, “Stop it right now or I’ll…” John doesn’t get a chance to finish as Mycroft interrupts, “Or you’ll punch me in the mouth?” He and Sherlock are thrown anew into a bout of laughter. Mycroft tries to choke out more through his continued laughter, "Why not just tell us your whole genius plan right from the start? Honestly."

John takes control of his temper. These two are quick. If he just yells he’ll never make any progress. He calms his voice. “Why was that funny? Hmm?”
Sherlock explains as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “John, don’t tell people you’re going to hit them, just hit them. Preferably with a weapon and by surprise.”
Mycroft looks up from his book and gazes dreamily up at the sky. “Some time ago, when I was your age, there was a boy who kept telling me how he was going to beat me up. He was quite specific, so by the time the fight started, I’d already figured it out and started on trigonometry problems to keep me occupied during the messiness of it all.”
“What happened to the boy?” Asked a morbidly curious John.
“Oh he died.” Stated Mycroft.
“You killed him!? You actually killed him?” John said aghast.
“No John, leukemia. He died from leukemia. I’m not a monster.”
Sherlock interrupts, “This is all getting away from the point that we’re taking John home with us.”
“But what if I don’t want to go?” asked an increasingly stressed John.
“Are you serious? Have you seen the life you live? It’s awful.”
John thinks for a moment more. “That’s a good point Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiles, “Then it’s settled. You’ll come home with us. Obviously we’ll have to figure out what to tell your parents. It’s probably easiest if we just have Mycroft fake your death.” John looked at Mycroft who had gone back to his book and was waving one hand dismissively. “Yes, yes we’ll say that he drowned or some such nonsense. Always hard to find the body. Tell me John, can you swim?”
John stood perplexed for a moment, but not wanting to seem slow, he said the first true thing that came to mind. “No.”
Mycroft turned the page in his book. “Good. Yes, that’s good.”
Sherlock agrees. “You’ll see, we’ll fake your death so well that you’ll be surprised you’ve lived as long as you have.”
John’s head moves back about an inch. “So, we’re really going to do this?”
Mycroft jumps in, still reading his book. “What are we going to tell our parents?”

Sherlock is surprised he has to supply the answer to this one. “They said they wanted us to make friends with regular children. I think we can make the case that John counts.”
John felt obligated to speak in his own defense, “So what then, am I a quota? Must have 5 friends to play?”
Exasperatedly Sherlock continues, “John, you’ve fake drowned, there’s no time for existential angst. We must leave immediately after recess and you may never talk to your family or friends again.”
John looks at his feet. “I don’t really have any friends.”
“I know.” Replies Sherlock. “All of your classmates hate you.”
John keeps looking at his feet. “I know.”
“Well then!” exclaims Sherlock. “No need to be sad if you’ve nothing to leave behind, so we can get started straight away. Right after recess”
John is more curious now then concerned, but still asks, “What will we do if any of the teachers come out here?”
Mycroft slams his book shut. “My word John, you must learn to continue to think before you speak. No more getting off at the first stop now hmm? If any other faculty or children dare to challenge us, Sherlock and I will destroy them. Not for real John, I’m speaking...” His voice thickens and slows as John’s Eyebrows bunch closer together. “...figuratively.” Mycroft pauses to think. John had just about controlled his emotions to respond when Mycroft started up again, “You know Sherlock, it occurs to me that we’ve drastically underestimated you.”
Sherlock replied, “Indeed.”
John finally gets his words in edgewise, “Now that I am fake dead, where will we go to school tomorrow?”
Mycroft laughs, “There will be no more school John. This was an experiment and Sherlock and I won.”
John looks at Sherlock. “So what should we do now? I mean, until recess is over.”
“I was thinking we’d try the see-saw. That’s something children do, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

John is crouching behind a corner with a broom handle tightly gripped in two fists. One month of living in the Holmes’ residence and it has all come down to this. Hiding in the most beautiful hallway he’s ever seen, waiting to strike.

The first week had been a lot to take in. The manor was larger than any home John could have imagined. Had he the understanding at the time, he’d say that it was understated, while still indicating enormous wealth. Instead, the best he’d been able to muster had been a lot of staring with his mouth open and dropping the occasional, “Wow!” Or less often, “Wow.”

He had a much better handle on things the second week. By the third week, he’d settled in and simply accepted that he was living in a very nice, but sometimes oddly scary dream and that he was ok with that.

Among the nicest elements of this dream, was Mrs. Hudson, the Nanny. She lived below the suite Sherlock and John shared. She took good care of them despite Sherlock’s dismissive attitude. And she seemed to genuinely care about them both. John liked that. Being cared about was new.

Another, less interesting, but definitely needed element of the dream was his private tutor. His tutor was perfectly nice, but it worried John that he didn’t know the man’s name. Sherlock had introduced him simply as “Your tutor, selected from a carefully prescreened pool of twenty applicants. I spent some amount of attention on it, so you’ll simply have to trust me. This is the best one. He’s only slightly smarter than you so don’t let get him uppity. I’ve also calculated that based on his body mass, endurance and present rate of decay, he’ll live at least long enough to finish your education up until college.” At this, the tutor had turned a deathly pale and the subject of his name never came up again. And now it had been so long that John thought it rude to ask.

Having never seen the Holmes parents, and having all questions such as “Where are they and what are they doing?”, answered with “Somewhere” and “Something”, John decided they were either imaginary or irrelevant. Not that it really mattered to John practically. Mrs. Hudson was all the mother he needed.

But then there was Mycroft. Sherlock and Mycroft were always playing some elaborate game that John barely understood. In fact, there were entire parts of the game John was unaware of, until they directly impacted his life. Which sometimes they did, because apparently Mycroft thought John was worth points.

It had started simply enough. One morning John was pouring himself a bowl of cereal, and a note fell out. The top half of the note was scrawled in crayon, “U R DUM.” The bottom half was written in ink, with beautiful flourishing penmanship, “Regards, Mycroft.”
Reading the note over his shoulder, Mrs. Hudson comforted John, “Oh never you mind him dear.” She patted John on the shoulder, took the now empty cereal box and as she walked off John could hear her mutter softly, “Poor boy will probably grow up to be evil.”

A few days later, just after John had poured himself a bowl of cereal, Sherlock leapt across the table, grabbed the bowl and threw it full force against the far wall. Mrs. Hudson shrieked as ceramic shards flew through the kitchen. John and Mrs. Hudson watched the milk stain run down the wall as Sherlock took the cereal box and threw it away. He started back with a fresh box, which he was examining closely, when Mrs. Hudson screamed, “Sherlock!”
He didn’t look up as he returned to his seat, “Yes Mrs. Hudson?”
“Why did you ruin John’s breakfast!?”
“I didn’t.” He turned his gaze to Mrs. Hudson, “That cereal was laced with arsenic, no doubt by Mycroft. Not enough to kill John, certainly, but definitely enough to make him ill.”
“Oh dear…” Mrs. Hudson leaned back against the wall. She looked at the mess gathered at the bottom of the wall. “Well did you have to break the bowl Sherlock? I mean really?”
Sherlock passed the box of cereal across the table to John. “I did not.”
Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. Sherlock chomped happily on his breakfast. Forgotten in all the chaos, John piped up, “Excuse me, could I have a new bowl please?” With a pointed look at an oblivious Sherlock, “Mine seems to have exploded.”

The non-lethal pranks went on this way, Sherlock always showing up at the last minute to divert the danger. Every now and again, Mycroft would appear just after Sherlock had saved the day, and drop some snide remark about a boy and his dog. John would’ve been able to put up with the pranks at least a little if Mycroft would just acknowledge that he had a name and wasn’t, in point of fact, a dog. Mycroft obviously knew John’s name, he simply hadn’t used it since John had moved in.
The more John thought about, the more he realized he lived in very real danger. What if Sherlock didn’t save him the next time? What if Mycroft decided to kill John? Who would be able to stop him? No, John thought to himself, if he were to be safe, he’d have to become a player in the game, not just the ball.

So here John crouched, broom handle in hand, waiting in ambush. He’d paid attention in the last week to Mycroft’s habits, where he tended to spend the day, when he took his meals, any information he could learn. Once he’d looked it all over, he’d decided that here, around this corner, would be the most optimal place to catch Mycroft. It was about this time that Mycroft would be heading from the library to the atrium. All John needed to do now was listen.

He waits, he listens and then he hears the sound of footsteps. He knows there’s a chance it’s his tutor coming looking for him, but it’s a chance he’ll have to take. As the footsteps draw closer, John whirls around the corner swinging his broomhandle like a sword at Mycroft’s shins. There’s a satisfying crack, and a sincere exclamation of pain as Mycroft tumbles to the ground. John steps out into the hallway, broomhandle back over his shoulder ready to swing.
As Mycroft rolls himself over, John fixes him with a stare. “What’s my name, Mycroft?”
Mycroft looks at John, fierce, tiny and wielding a broomhandle, unaware of how lethal a weapon it is. Mycroft smiles, “Very well John, with a weapon and by surprise. Well played.”
Sherlock appears to John’s left. “Yes indeed John. Well played.” He looks to Mycroft. “I told you the name thing was starting to bother him.”
Mycroft replies, “Yes, yes.” He looks to John, who is still preparing to swing again, then back to Sherlock. “Now will you please call off your dog?”
“I’m not a dog!” Shouts John and he begins to swing. Sherlock moves in close and checks his swing.
“No John.” He looks to Mycroft, “He’s my tiger.”
John does a quick comparison between dogs and tigers in his head. Tigers win out. “Yeah, alright.” He says, “I’m a tiger!”
Mycroft rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. He smooths out the wrinkles in his vest. “So, it’s to be the two of you versus me then, eh?”
Sherlock replies, “Only if we’re playing a game.”
Mycroft snorts derisively and walks away. After he’s out of earshot, John asks, “Do I have to be your tiger?”
Sherlock seems surprised, “You don’t want to be my tiger?”
“No, I don’t want to be anyone’s anything.”
Sherlock is incredulous, “You don’t want to be a tiger?”
“Yes I want to be a tiger! I just don’t want to be someone’s tiger!”
Sherlock seems to understand now. “Ah, so you do want to be a tiger.”
“Of course!”
“And you’ll be my tiger so long as you’re really a tiger and not my tiger?”
John thinks for a moment, frowns in thought and then says, “Yeah, that’ll work.”
“Excellent!” Says Sherlock, “But I’ll probably call you my tiger in public for the dramatic effect.”
“Ah.”
“Lunch?”
“Let’s.”

Chapter Text

The day had started simply enough. John and Sherlock we’re being driven into town by the driver. Yet another man whose name hadn’t come up. John marveled through the window at the community they were driving through. Sherlock’s manor was one of many. He surprises himself by speaking out loud. “Everyone here is very rich.”
Sherlock agrees, “Yes, and private. The community and the town are all walled off.”
John continues looking out the window as they drive into town. Every window seems to belong to some sort of shop, or salon or restaurant. “What’s the name of this town anyway?”
Sherlock is silent for a moment. “I don’t think it’s ever come up actually.”
John decides that now is the time to accept that nobody cares what anything or any servant is called. He thinks it’s appalling, another new word he’s learned, but doesn’t see much he can do about it.

Eventually the driver let’s them off in the center of town. Sherlock tells the driver to wait, who then promptly pulls out a book.
The center of town is, as expected, stunningly beautiful. Marble fountains, well trimmed shrubbery and rose bushes. This was a fairy land obviously, thought John. Or perhaps he’d gone to some strange and twisted heaven. He was never quite sure.

While he was still taking it all in, Sherlock strode off, snapping his fingers twice at John to keep up. John ran after Sherlock, calling out, “Damnit Sherlock, don’t snap at me! We’ve talked about this!”
“So we have!” And Sherlock continued walking.

As John followed Sherlock into town, his suspicions were confirmed. Every building was a shop of some kind. As far as he could tell, no one actually lived in town. They must all live in the manors. The second thing that seemed odd to John was the lack of adults, well at least, adults that weren’t servants of some kind.
Sherlock took an abrupt turn and entered a small grocery. They walked past aisle after aisle towards the produce section. Down each aisle, John can see one or more servants shopping for their employers. He wonders if anyone does anything for themselves around here.
As they approach the produce section, a woman calls out to Sherlock. He puts on his best approximation of a human smile and manages not to look terrifying as he approaches her.
Sherlock begins introductions. “John, this is Ms. Keller. The portly anxious man slightly behind her is Mr. Keller. As you may have surmised, they are married. Mr and Ms. Keller, this is John. He’s my tiger.”
As John opens his mouth to object, Ms. Keller interrupts with, “Very nice to meet you John. And Sherlock, thanks for coming down so quickly.”
“Not at all.” Replies Sherlock, “What sort of puzzle do you have today?”
“Well,” Begins Ms. Keller, “It’s about the oranges.”
“I see.” Says Sherlock with solemnity. “Do go on.”
“Right,” She says. She starts looking over the sheets on the clipboard she carries “Every now and again I notice that the numbers don’t quite add up. The number of oranges that we order and the number that go out are sometimes slightly different. Now, I’d been chalking it up to human error, but last month the numbers were way off, so I started paying closer attention. I think someone is stealing oranges.”
Sherlock wastes no time. “I’m sorry to say Ms. Keller that you are correct. In fact, there are two people stealing your oranges. The first is your husband. Look at how he fidgets. He’s been swiping the occasional orange now and again and hoping you wouldn’t notice. He knows it’s not grounds for divorce, but he’s conflict averse and so has hoped to evade notice, which until this point, he has.”
Ms. Keller looks at her husband in shock. “Jerry! Is this true!”
Jerry’s face lights up red in shame, “It is dear, but it was only ever a few, I swear I don’t know about the other ones. I’m so sorry Katie, please forgive me. You know how much I love oranges.”
Ms. Keller frowns for a moment. “Well I suppose I knew that when I married you.” She playfully smacks him in the chest with her clipboard and plants a quick kiss on his cheek. Jerry smiles and looks relieved. John notices Sherlock becoming bored by lack of personal attention. He decides to get things moving again. “But Sherlock, you said there were two people stealing oranges. Who’s the other one?”
Sherlock turns his back to the three of them and stares off into the distance dramatically. “I don’t know John, but I intend to find out, even if it takes all day. Possibly some of the evening.” He turns back towards the owners of the grocery, “I should have a solution for you tomorrow. But never fear, your oranges will never be stolen again by the second party. I cannot, of course, speak for Mr. Keller’s actions going forward, those are between him and his… hmm.”
John suggests, “God?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “No such thing. Need something better.”
Slightly irritated at the unintentional shot at her belief system, Ms. Keller interjects, “How about between him and his wife?”
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and looks back and forth between the couple. “Yes. I think that will do nicely.”
Sherlock turns to John, “Our work has begun! Quickly John, we have a thief to catch!” With that, Sherlock took off at a sprint for the grocery exit. A bit startled, but growing accustomed to this behavior, John hurried after him as fast as he could.

He’s outside the Grocery, down the street a bit and just about to catch up, when Sherlock slows to a walk. John jogs up beside him. “What’s going on?” He asks. “I thought we were running.”
“Ah. Yes we were.”
“I assumed that was because we were in a hurry.”
“I can see how one would assume that.”
“Right. So are we in a hurry?”
“No John, but we are about important business.”
“Ah good, so we are going to catch the thief then.”
“Probably.” Responds a slightly distracted Sherlock, “But first we have important business to attend to.”
Befuddled, John asks, “What’s more important than catching the orange thief?”
“The candy shop. We’re going there now.”

John continues to marvel at the variety of stores as they walk through the town. They pass three different candy shops until they arrive at the one Sherlock has designated as “the” candy store. As if all the others were irrelevant, which John reflected, perhaps they were. Or at the very least, redundant. John smiled to himself. Redundant was another word he’d learned this week and he’d already found a way to work it into a sentence.

As they entered the candy shop, a kindly looking, bespectacled old man behind the counter greeted them warmly. “Hello young Master Holmes, here for your sour apple jellies are you?”
Sherlock glances at him as he walks towards the back of the shop, “Pleasantries to you as well, and yes. Also meet John, he’s my tiger.”
The old man smiles warmly as he looks at John, “Oh that’s very good John, I think it’s just wonderful to be a tiger.”
John tilts his head at the proprietor, “Do you?”
“Oh my yes.” A wistful look appears on the old man’s face, “Just think, you’d a have tail, and whiskers. Just delightful.”
Noticing that the man has drifted off into thoughts about tigers, John takes the opportunity to meet Sherlock near the back of the shop. Sherlock is standing in front of a bin of sour apple jellies and frowning.
John stands next to him silently for a moment. The moment continues. With growing discomfort John asks, “What are we doing here?”
Without removing his eyes from the candy bin, “Observing. John, examine this bin, what do you see?”
John moves closer to the bin. The scoop seems to be in fine condition. The sneeze guard is down and looks well maintained and the bin is full of candy. John sees nothing wrong and says so.
Sherlock is disappointed, “John, there has clearly been a 3% reduction in volume of sour apple jellies. Just as there has been each time I’ve come back this month.”

John is surprised, “You’ve been to town this month?”
“Of course, you haven’t noticed?”
“No, I haven’t”
“We need to work on your observational skills.”
“Wait a minute!” explodes John, “How exactly were my observational skills supposed to tell me there’s been a 3% reduction in the volume or whatever? I don’t even fully understand what those words mean! I’m doing times tables right now, do you understand? You’re speaking math at me that I can’t possibly understand!”
Sherlock looks at John. “You’re absolutely right. How silly of me. The point is that I am the only one who buys these candies. Mr. Withers keeps them in stock just for me. Yet! Someone else is reducing the amount of candies in this bin by a specific amount. They are doing so because they know it will catch my attention and only mine.”
John thinks for a moment, “So there’s another thief?”
“No.” Says Sherlock, “There is but one. And I shall catch him.”
“We.” States John, “We’ll catch him. I’m the tiger remember?”
“Quite correct John. With you as my trusty tiger…”
“As a tiger.”
“... as my trusty tiger, we surely cannot fail.”
John sighs.
“But first,” declares Sherlock reaching his hand into the candy bin, foregoing the scoop, much to John’s horror, “I shall require a pound of these.”

Some time later, as the shops are beginning to close and the sun is starting to set, John and Sherlock sit on a sidewalk bench. Sherlock munching sour apple jellies, John watching in horror at the vast amount of damage Sherlock must be doing to his teeth.
“You know,” starts John in his best responsible voice, “You shouldn’t eat so much candy.”
“Shut up.” Says Sherlock matter of factly. “Helps me think.”
“Hey now, I’m just looking out for you.”
Sherlock turns to look sharply at John. “I get enough of this from Mycroft, please don’t you start on it too. The sugar helps me think. I’m working right now.”

“I thought we were working.”

“We are, just you’re doing it without eating sugar to make you smarter.”

“I’m not sure if that’s how it works.”

“No, you’re not sure are you? Listen John we don’t have time to quibble about this. Now, without looking directly at it, what do you notice about that shop over there across the street?”
“The Fro-yo to Go-Go?”
“No, to the right.”
“It’s right or my right?
“My right.”
“Ah. Right. The Bike and Trike?”
“Yes, that’s exactly the one. Now John, tell me, how many tricycles are chained up in front of it?”

John tries to count out of the corner of his eyes. “I see six.”
Sherlock speaks around a mouthful of candy, “Excellent John, there are in fact six. But there used to be ten.”
“Someone bought tricycles for their four children?”
“No, I asked the owner how sales were. He had nothing interesting to say. He didn’t even mention the tricycles, probably hasn’t even noticed they’ve been going missing.”

“Been going missing? Someone is stealing them regularly?”

“Yes John, very regularly, every Thursday night for the past month.”

“But today is Thursday!”

Sherlock looks at John, “Obviously. As I said, we’re working. Now, let’s hide somewhere.”
“What? Sherlock you can’t be serious, this could be dangerous.” John looks around. Sherlock is sprinting across the street to the Bike and Trike. John Grumbles and starts after him. Sherlock dives into some shrubbery. John stops short.
“Sherlock, I said this could be dangerous!”
“Well it very well will be if you don’t get in this shrubbery with me.”

John gives up and tries to find a comfortable way to hide in shrubbery. He fails. Luckily, the sun has only been down for about an hour when they see someone approaching the Bike and Trike through the shadows. It looks to be a young boy about their age, dressed in all black with a stocking cap. The boy sneaks to the edge of the line of tricycles, picks open the lock on the chain, then starts pulling a little blue tricycle off the line.
Sherlock whispers urgently, “Now John! We strike!” With that he runs charging from the bushes, with John only a few feet behind him. The thief sees Sherlock coming, and as Sherlock makes a diving tackle, the thief easily sidesteps, though Sherlock does manage to rip off the stocking cap.
As her hat comes off, her hair falls down to her shoulders. It’s a dark color, but even in the moonlight John can see there are brightly dyed streaks of red, blue and purple throughout it. She is, John realizes, very pretty.
Sherlock jumps to his feet, ready to fight again, but John calls out, “Sherlock stop, she’s a girl!”
The girl’s eyes widen in shock, she takes a step back and looks at herself as if for the first time. “My god, you’re right.” She sticks out her tongue at John. “Clearly you’re not Sherlock.” She turns to Sherlock, “I thought at first that you might be John based on how poorly you attacked me, but based on recent observations I have to say that I’m disappointed in you Sherlock. John, you’re as I expected.”
John is about to object when Sherlock interjects, “So then, you know who I am, as I have already surmised before this meeting. Clearly you were trying to attract my attention with all your petty thefts.”
The girl smiles, “Well it clearly worked didn’t it?”
“Obviously. But you have us at a disadvantage. What is your name? Or shall I call you Steals Things Girl?”
John covers his eyes and sighs, “Sherlock we’re not letting you name anything, ever.”

The girl takes a step towards Sherlock, “Oh it’s alright, I don’t mind. My name is Irene. Irene Adler.”
Sherlock’s face betrays no reaction. “I’ve heard of you. You’re clever. But I’m afraid to say you are not cleverer than I.”
Irene states matter of factly, “But I am cleverer than John.”
“Oh of course,” agrees Sherlock too quickly for John’s liking. “But we’re all cleverer than John.”

“Hey!” Shouts John, “I am not stupid!”

Irene and Sherlock turn to John simultaneously, both offering words of assurance. John is feeling a little better until Irene adds, “You’re just stupid compared to us. That’s not your fault at all, so don’t feel bad.”
John decides just to be angry rather than say anything else.

Sherlock stands across from Irene. “These crimes are small enough, and no one seems to care. But I simply cannot allow this to continue.”
Irene laughs, “You’re not the boss of me. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Sherlock sneers, “But I can tell your parents what you’re doing.”
Now it’s Irene’s turn to sneer. “It would take you months to find them. By that time I’ll have taken all of the tricycles! You are powerless to stop me Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh?” Said Sherlock with amusement. “And why is that?”
“Because I know your weakness.”
Sherlock is genuinely offended, “What? I have no weaknesses!”

It is at this exact moment that Irene swings her foot up hard and fast into Sherlock’s crotch. The force almost takes him off of his feet. As Irene’s leg pulls back, there is a brief moment when Sherlock thinks he might be fine, but then the pain sets in. New and insistent. Irene is preparing to kick again, but stops when Sherlock covers his crotch and falls to the ground moaning.

John stood in shock. He’d heard stories, but he’d never actually seen it happen. It looked at least as bad as he’d heard. He quickly stepped back and covered his crotch.

Irene laughed. She jumped back, struck a fighting pose and barked, “Krav Maga, suckers!”
With that, she spun away and leapt onto the little blue tricycle and sped down the sidewalk. John contemplated jumping on one of the other trikes to chase after her, but Sherlock obviously needed his help.

Although, John wasn’t sure what kind of help he could offer. “You alright?”

“I think so. I think it’s passing.”

“Was it as bad as they say?”

“Quite. Yes. Definitely quite.”

“Well it looked just awful.”

Sherlock continues to lie on the sidewalk outside the Bike and Trike. “Oh I imagine so yes.” Sherlock is quiet for a moment.
“You know John, it didn’t occur to me that she might do that.”
John nods with solemnity.
Sherlock continues, “Hence it not being accounted for in the plan.”
“Oh?” Says John, faking surprise, “It wasn’t?”
“Obviously.”
“Because it had been such a good plan so far. We’d catch a thief who was stealing tricycles anyone could buy and nobody cared about, by ourselves, two children I might add, instead of just telling the police the thief would be here.” John looks at an irritated, but still prone, Sherlock. “Tell me, Sherlock. Are there any police in this magical fairyland we live in?”
“Don’t be silly John. Of course there are police. But what are we to do? Trouble them with trying to catch a thief stealing tricycles nobody cares about? They have real crimes to deal with John. Be serious.”
John shrugs. He walks over to Sherlock and offers him a hand up. “Up you go, come on.” Sherlock takes his hand, but rises carefully to his feet.
Once Sherlock is standing, John tries to sympathize, “I’m really sorry you got kicked in the balls, Sherlock.”
“As am I, John, I assure you. It was quite awful.”
“Yeah,” starts John with an air of relief, “I can only imagine.” His sentence is punctuated with a sharp exhalation of air as Sherlock’s foot slams hard into his crotch. Like Sherlock, for a moment, John thinks that he might be fine. But then his stomach sinks, and he implodes with pain.
As John lies on the ground moaning, Sherlock stares off at the stars. He breathes the crisp night air in deeply and exhales with a satisfied sigh. “Shared experience, John. We’re bonding. Right now. Right at this very moment our friendship is becoming stronger. I’ve read about it.”
John grumbles out, “I’m going to bond my fist with your face.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Please John, how would that work? How would we live, the two of us, with your fist bonded to my face? No pullover tops for me obviously. Then of course there’s the matter of your arm, we can’t actually put a sleeve on it can we? Honestly, John. The whole idea is ridiculous.”
“All right!” Shouts John as he continues to lie on the sidewalk “Still, she got away didn’t she? What are we going to do about the trike?”
“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It isn’t about the tricycle John.”

“How is it not about the tricycle?”

“Well it is, but it isn’t”

John gets to his feet. “You’re going to have to do a bit better than that.”

Sherlock looks at John. “Well it’s obvious isn’t it? You said it yourself on the ride into town. Everybody here is very rich. No one would need to steal anything. No, someone is playing a game.”
“You mean Irene.”
“No.” Responds Sherlock quickly. “Well yes, but she’s on her own side. No, I think someone else is playing a deeper game. A game of which I am now aware and therefore inextricably bound to play.”
John sets his jaw. “Well then I’m in too”
Sherlock smiles, “Of course you are, you’re my tiger.”
“We’ve talked about this, I am a tiger, not your tiger.”
“Irene thinks you’re my tiger.”
“How would you know exactly?”
“I don’t, I was making it up.”
“Why?”
“Boredom.”
“I see.”

The two stand for a moment, until Sherlock says, “There was a second reason that I kicked you.”
“Oh good.” Replied John with dry sarcasm. “I was hoping there would be more reasons.”
Sherlock scrunches his face into a frown. “John I would apologize, had it not been for your own good. I needed you to learn the same lesson Irene taught me.”
“And what lesson might that be?”
Sherlock looked John straight in the eyes. “We need to learn Krav Maga.”