Down the Sidewalk

Chapter One

"I'll see you in chemistry tomorrow, Sherlock," John said, gathering his books.

Sherlock hummed in reply, already halfway out the door. He spent a grand total of six and a half minutes at his locker -- nearly twice as long as usual -- before bolting out of the school and down his usual route to get home. Only a small number of kids walked this way, and most only for a few minutes until they branched off and went down their separate paths.

Today, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were waiting for him.

"Hey, Freak," Jim called, a cheeky grin decorating his face. "You on your way home?"

"That's not my name."

"Isn't it? It's what you are. A freak."

Sherlock walked past them, keeping his eyes ahead of him. Sebastian grabbed his arm and wrenched him back. Sherlock knew those extra two and a half minutes would come back to bite him.

"I asked you a question, Freak. How rude of you not to answer."

"What answer do you want?"

Jim rolled his eyes. He nodded at Sebastian, who knocked Sherlock's books out of his hands.

"You're so boring, Freak. So very ordinary."

Sherlock knelt to pick up his things, and the two boys walked away, laughing to themselves at what a pathetic mess he was. His mother would be annoyed at the state of his uniform trousers after this, Sherlock thought absently. He heard small footsteps behind him and sighed. One thing he didn't want right now was an audience.

"Are you okay?"

"I- what?" He turned to face a doe-eyed girl with long brown hair.

"Are you okay?" she repeated. Her cheeks turned pink and she looked away, kneeling down to put some of Sherlock's English papers in the wrong folder.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took the folder from her. "I'm fine."

"Good, um," she stammered. "Don't listen to them. You're not a freak."

"How would you know? Maybe I am. Perhaps I dissect human beings and paint my walls with their organs?"

"Do you?"

He frowned. "I might be a psychopath."

"Are you?"

Sherlock swallowed. "No."

"Then I believe you."

"Why should you?"

The girl blushed furiously. "I know you don't know me, but you should listen to me, not them. You're not a freak."

"No, I don't know you. But you know me."

"No," the girl admitted, "but neither do they. I mean, I've heard of you before. But still. So... which one of us are you going to believe?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved his disorganized binder into his already heavy messenger bag. He rose to his feet and brushed off his uniform. The girl stood and did the same to her skirt. Sherlock slung his bag over his shoulder and started walking, away from school, away from the girl, away from Jim Moriarty.

"I'm Molly Hooper."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're sixteen. You either don't have friends or hate the ones you do have. Your mother passed away three, no, four years ago; you moved here around that time. You've never had a boyfriend or a close relationship of any kind with a male other than your father. Your favorite color is pink -- how trite."