It was one of those unbearable August evenings, when the air is so thick with heat that it seems to be sitting on top of your shoulders, weighing you down. John Watson could feel it as he trudged along the dimly lit streets of London, the strap of his duffle bag digging into his shoulder.

I shouldn't be out here. He thought to himself, wiping drops of sweat from his brow. Everything, from the awful humidity to the ominous lighting, was telling him to go home. The city was dangerous at night. But he couldn't. He could never go home again.

Just thinking about what he was leaving behind made John shiver, despite the heat. That final image of his shitty excuse of a father beating up his drunken mother on the kitchen floor, while his sister lay drugged up in her room, was enough to traumatize any fourteen-year-old boy. But John had seen it all before, and worse. That was his life.

Not anymore, though. He reminded himself, as he continued walking to god knows where. Not ever again.

John wasn't really sure what had made him finally decide he'd had enough. There had been plenty of nights much worse than this one, yet John had stayed. Sure, he'd thought about running away millions of times over the years, but he somehow always managed to talk himself out of it.

"My mother needs me," he would tell himself after watching his dad mistreat her, even though she was just as psychotic as her husband when she was drunk. The truth was, they both hit each other, but his father always did the most damage.

"Harry needs me," he would convince himself whenever she came stumbling home after hours of partying, with no one but John to put her to bed and make sure she didn't choke on her own vomit.

In fact, that was exactly what he'd been doing just a few hours ago: watching over his sister as she slept off whatever drugs she had taken, while listening to his parents bitching at each other downstairs, and trying to read a book at the same time.

It was then that John had felt a rush of....something. Testosterone, adrenaline, or just pure anger, he didn't know. But whatever it was made him say to himself "I'm too young for this bullshit.", throw some clothes in a duffle bag, and walk out the front door.

Nobody noticed him leave.

And now here he was, wandering the streets of London past midnight, sweating buckets under one of the hottest nights in the history of England.

John groaned in frustration wondering, not for the first time, why he had such horrid luck. Some teens might have no problem running away; they'd just go straight to a friend's house.

If only John had any friends

Suddenly, he felt tears pooling behind his eyelids. He shook his head and drew them back in before a single one had a chance to fall, as he had long ago learned to do. No use crying about something he couldn't control. He would just have to make do.

At this point, John had no idea where he was going, and he didn't care. That is, until he turned a corner and found himself in an alleyway with a dead end.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, turning around to go a different direction. It was then that he noticed that he didn't recognize a single landmark or street sign. Where the hell was he?

"Shit!" He repeated, much louder. It was a bad sign that he didn't know where he was, since he knew his side of town like the back of his hand. This meant that he had been wandering aimlessly for so long that he was completely out of his territory.

He looked around frantically for something familiar, feeling like a little boy who lost his mum in a supermarket.

"Get a grip, Watson," he told himself. Talking to himself always calmed him down. "It's just dark. You've lived in London all your life, there's got to be something you can go off of."

He went down one of the unfamiliar streets with caution, not knowing what he would run into. But all John could see were houses. Lots and lots of houses. Some were enormous.

John sighed with relief when he realized where he was. This was just the rich side of London. This side of town was safe.

"No wonder I didn't recognize this place," John muttered, laughing to himself. He was so used to the dingy flats and crime ridden streets that came with living on the poor side. He must've wandered quite a bit away from home to be in this place.

Before John could decide where to go from here, the flashing lights of a police car coming around the corner stopped him dead in his tracks. Unfortunately for John, there was one huge downside to ending up in a rich neighborhood: paranoid rich people.

To John's absolute horror, the car pulled over right beside him and the officer stepped out.

"Young man, would you mind telling me what the hell you're doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?" He demanded.

"I-I uh, it-it's not what it looks like," John sputtered in fear, because he knew exactly what it looked like: an obviously poor teenager, covered in sweat, with a large bag over his shoulder, wandering through a rich neighborhood in the dead of night. All it took was one person to look out the window and be suspicious of his figure to call the police. John immediately knew that, no matter what happened now, his journey was over. This officer would surely find out where he lived and take him home.

Funnily enough, that was exactly what happened.

___________________________

John could hardly get out anymore than his pathetic "it's not what it looks like" before the officer confiscated his duffle bag, slapped handcuffs on his wrists, and hauled him to the station.

When they got there, John was put in a room with two officers who went through his bag, which was filled not with cash or valuables, but with enough useless possessions to prove that John was, in fact, not a criminal, but a teenaged runaway.

Then, John was asked a bunch of questions.

"Full name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

"Age?"

"Fourteen."

"Address?"

John didn't want to tell him that one, knowing that he would definitely be taken home, but at three in the morning he was too tired to be difficult. So he told them.

Next, they asked John why he had run away. Immediately, John felt a combination of hope and fear. Maybe if he told them how bad his home life truly was, they would get him out of there. But maybe, he would end up in someplace worse. He had heard some serious horror stories about group homes.

Before John could make up his mind about what to say, however, a third officer, this one female, burst into the room.

"We need backup immediately. Drug bust," she said, her eyes alight with excitement. "And you won't believe who it is."

"Who?" One of the men asked.

The woman officer seemed unable to contain her laughter. "It's that smart arse teenager you guys have been going on about! The one who keeps trying to help us solve crimes."

The two men both raised their eyebrows, seeming delighted.

"That kid's a druggie?" One of them asked, laughing. "Praise The Lord! I've been dying for a reason to arrest that prick."

The other man laughed and nodded in agreement. "I can't wait to wipe that smug grin off his stupid face!"

They both raced out the door to follow the woman officer, and John thinks they've forgotten about him until one of the men hands a slip of paper to another officer outside the door.

"Take that kid home," he told him, pointing at John. "Here's his address. I've got some important business to attend to." Then he ran after his partner, giggling like a schoolgirl.

John had no idea what the hell that was about, or how one teenager could earn so much hate from so many police officers, but he was too tired to contemplate it at the moment. It had nothing to do with him, anyway.

___________________________

By the time John arrived home, it was 3:45 am, and he was practically sleepwalking. Yet, he managed to stay upright as the policeman walked him to his flat and rang the doorbell. And he had just enough energy left to feel fear when his dad opened the door.

John's father was a clever, manipulative man. He took one look at the officer and immediately wrapped John in what appeared to be a hug that a worried, caring father would give. However, John felt more like he was being squeezed to death by a jungle snake than being hugged by his dad.

"Son, thank god!" His father said.
"We've been looking everywhere for you! We called all your friends. We were just about to call the police."

He pulled away from John and looked at the officer. "Thank you for bringing him home. Please tell me he didn't get into trouble."

John had to admit, he was impressed. This was probably the best performance he'd ever seen from his dad, and he'd once watched him look the landlord in the eye and swear on his life that no one in his family did drugs.

The officer gave a charming smile. "Don't worry about it Mr. Watson. Happens all the time. Teenagers get pissed off about something stupid and decide to run away, we find 'em and bring 'em home. It's what we do."

"Well I can't thank you enough," John's dad replied. "I must say, this one has been giving me quite a bit of trouble recently. And you can bet that he will be punished for this."

The undertone with which his dad said the last part made John gulp. He would've given anything to be back at the police station being interrogated right now.

"Kids these days have no respect for their parents," the officer said. "Believe me. I've had problems with my own kids as well. However, if I may offer a solution-" The officer then pulled a brochure out of his pocket, where he seemed to have a whole collection of them.

John expected his dad to take the brochure and then carry on with his charade, but to John's surprise, his dad began to flip through it with legitimate interest.

"It's called Baskerville's School for Troubled Teens," the officer continued. "It's what we're recommending to all parents nowadays. It's like a regular boarding school, only it focuses especially on correcting behavioral problems. The school challenges your child both academically and physically...."

The officer rambled on with his obviously rehearsed speech, but John had stopped listening. He was looking at his dad, who was examining the brochure. And smiling.

No. No, this could not be happening. There was no way his dad would pay money to-

"-And it's absolutely free-"

NO. Oh god please no, anything but this.

"-Completely covered in taxes, since it's considered a behavioral correction facility, but it's a school, too. And quite a challenging one-"

John felt like he was going to pass out, but no longer from exhaustion. He could practically see his carefully planned future evaporating before his eyes. What university would take someone who graduated from a school for "troubled teens"? What chance did he have of becoming a doctor now?

"-Been sending my own son there for the past two years. The place has worked wonders on the kid."

"Well....you've certainly given me quite a bit to think about," John's dad said, with the most satisfied expression John had ever seen him wear. "Thank you very much, Officer...." He searched for a name tag.

"Lestrade," the man said, revealing a name tag from under his coat. "Officer Lestrade." He then smirked down at John in a condescending manner. "And hey, if you do end up going there, say hi to my son Greg." Then, without another word, the officer strolled off.

As soon as the man was out of sight, John's dad yanked him through the doorway, shutting and locking the door behind them. John found himself grateful that the officer hadn't come inside. The place was just as trashed as it was when John had left, with empty beer bottles everywhere and bloodstains on the kitchen walls. His mother was passed out on the couch, with bruises covering every inch of her face. John was relieved to see her breathing.

"Who the fuck gave you permission to leave?!" His father yelled, suddenly. "And what did you tell the police?"

"Nothing, I swear!" John cried, glad that he was being honest. "They were all preoccupied with something else. I wouldn't have even gotten the chance."

John's father looked relieved, but wasn't fuming any less. He glanced at the brochure still in his hand. "Well, you're going to this school!" He yelled.

"Dad, no-"

"Don't you talk back to me! Think you can just go wherever the hell you want, whenever you want? We'll see about that. It says here they start in week, and you can bet your arse you're going!"

"Please Dad, it sounds like a prison! Don't send me there, I'll do anything-"

His father threw a punch that knocked John to the floor, then gave him a savage kick to his ribs. "WHAT DID I JUST SAY-" he gave another kick "ABOUT TALKING-" kick "BACK-" kick "TO ME?!"

John screamed and groaned in pain, finally releasing the damned tears he had been holding back all night.

"You're going to this school! And that's FINAL!" His father finished off his ranting with a final kick, this time to John's face, before storming out of the room.

John lay on the floor for a long time afterward, sobbing. Not really because of the horrendous pain he felt in his face and abdomen, or because he actually regretted not telling the police about his family at this point, or even because he was being sent to a school that would surely ruin his chances of getting into Cambridge.

No, John cried because he had no one to hold him through the pain of all of these things, to comfort him on the worst night of his life. He was completely alone.