27th August

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27th August 1982

This morning- around eleven o’clock- I was sitting by my window, perched on the chair watching the people and cars that passed down outside, when I saw a familiar head of dark hair.

“Sherlock!” I called. He looked up, he’d been crying by the looks of his puffy red eyes and nose.

“Oh, hello John,” he replied with much less gusto than how he had spoken just a few days ago.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come round your house yesterday,” I said. “But my Dad got mad at me for getting home so late. Now I’m grounded.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Sherlock said.

“Why are you so glum Sherlock?” I asked. “It’ll only be for a few days. I’ll figure something out before the end of the holidays.”

“You’ll ‘figure something out’?” he said then heaved a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t want you to play with me again does he?”

I considered protesting but gave up and instead shook my head sadly.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “It’s okay; I knew something like this would happen. It seems that I am forbidden from having friends.”

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