Down the Sidewalk

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes was not like other sixteen-year-old boys.

"Freak."

Sherlock Holmes was a genius. He could tell everything about a person with one look, and he'd been moved up a grade to keep his mind from imploding from boredom. It was so busy, his mind, full of all sorts of useful things. Things like ink stains and shirt creases and what they might mean, nothing dull or unimportant like the solar system. Yes, Sherlock's head was a busy place, thoughts swirling around like ingredients in a big pot of stew. He was in the process of sorting it all out, creating a building-like mechanism to organize the knowledge currently running free.

"Loser."

Sherlock Holmes did not have many friends. His only friend was John Watson, a rather intelligent seventeen-year-old who had the same chemistry and math classes as Sherlock. John didn't bore Sherlock half to death like the other students. John found Sherlock interesting, the things he could do extraordinary. He was short but strong, and wanted to become a doctor. He had sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes, and he never told Sherlock off for saying something he shouldn't have. Instead, he calmly explained that, yes, if you tell Sally Donovan that her boyfriend -- that Anderson kid -- is cheating on her with her best friend, she will punch you in the face.

"Tosser."

When John was with him, nobody bothered Sherlock. That was because John was on the rugby team and could probably snap most of the boys in their grade in two. That was another thing about John -- he was on the rugby team but didn't act like it. He was actually a kind boy, and most people liked him. Why he'd choose to spend time with Sherlock baffled the younger boy completely.

"Nobody likes you."

When John wasn't with him, more than a few of the boys didn't hesitate to pinch or punch or kick Sherlock around. They even seemed like they were enjoying Sherlock's pain. They trailed after him, called him names. Freak, weirdo, virgin. Sherlock had heard them all, although he failed to see how his sexual history -- or lack thereof -- would be offensive.

"You're disgusting."

It was Friday, and Sherlock was on his way home from school. He was lucky he only lived a ten minute walk away. He didn't have to wait around for parents or an older sibling to pick him up. He gathered his things at the end of the day and left, never staying long enough to even bid John goodbye.

"Are you a blushing virgin, Holmes?"

Sherlock had debated asking John for a ride home more than once, but the blonde boy had rugby practice that started right after school every day. He'd even wondered if John would walk home with him if he asked. Sherlock wasn't sure that the most ruthless of the boys, Jim Moriarty -- who came up with most of the verbal stings and was almost as smart as Sherlock but much better at hiding it -- or Sebastian Moran, Jim's Neanderthal lackey, would back off simply at the sight of John. Sherlock didn't want to make John defend him, anyway. He didn't need defending.

"Just kill yourself."

No, Sherlock Holmes was not like other sixteen-year-old boys.

Molly Hooper was not like other sixteen-year-old girls.

"Do you really need that biscuit?"

Molly's friends were all convinced that they weren't thin enough. They were all obsessed with being unhealthily skinny, while Molly was fine with being the average height and weight for her age, and she was. Molly would know about these things. She had a fascination with the human body that her friends didn't understand.

"Why are you so morbid?"

Molly liked anatomy. She could name every organ in the human body. She knew where they were and what they did. She even knew what they looked like. Molly was intrigued by everything in the human body and how everything could go wrong. She wanted to know how they failed and why and how to fix it.

"Mousy Hooper."

Molly was a timid girl. She wasn't as flirty as Jeanette or as funny as Janine. The only one she really got along with was Sarah, who wanted to be a doctor and was dating an older boy named John Watson. Molly had met him at a party once, when her friends had dragged her there. Molly didn't really like parties. They were too crowded and too loud.

"You're so innocent."

Molly had never had a boyfriend. It didn't bother her much, but her friends took it as a personal offense. Molly wanted to focus on her studies. Her friends just wanted her to get a date. Molly rolled her eyes every time they suggested setting her up. Most boys either didn't notice her or thought she was a bit weird. Her father said they were just intimidated by her intelligence, but Molly didn't agree.

"You should talk more."

Molly didn't feel like she had much to say. She hated those girls who talked and talked about nothing important but couldn't form a single intelligent thought in their heads. Molly could handle one-on-one conversations. She liked those. They usually meant something. When there were more than two other people, as it often was, she was content to simply sit and listen. Everything she liked to talk about, they despised, and Molly knew they wouldn't have the patience to listen anyway. She grew into the habit of carrying a book with her so she would have something to do in such a situation.

"No one cares, Molly."

No, Molly Hooper was not like other sixteen-year-old girls.

It seems only fitting that their lives would collide, for better or for worse.