A little under year had passed since Carl Powers' death and Sherlock had taken a fair number of cases. His first attempt long forgotten but still present in the back of his ever developing mind palace.

That morning when Sherlock woke up, he smiled. It was Saturday.

Saturday. Most teenagers favourite day, and Sherlock was no exception

He loved Saturdays. He always had something to do. Like going to the town's near deserted library or doing an experiment in his bedroom while his parents were out and couldn't complain about certain odours or fumes.

Sherlock had decided to make his way into town and go sit in the library for some time. A rather brutal murder case had just been solved by the student/detective and he needed to catch up on some homework.

Sherlock had completed his school work in under an hour and had been reading a book named The Body After Death when his mum's reminder of dinner being on the table at six thirty popped into his head. 

A glance at his watch and a few moments of searching his pockets later, Sherlock nods to himself and continues to read. If he caught the bus home then he easily got another ten minutes reading time before he absolutely had to leave.

The bus that passed his house made few stops, three in total, and got him home much faster despite the fact he was a fast walker.

After he finishes the chapter he'd been on, Sherlock stands and brushes nonexistent dirt from the front of his shirt. He then returns the book to the shelf it lived on.

As he exits, the librarian sat at the desk gives him a sympathetic smile as if pitying the fact he had no friends. Sherlock doesn't even try to hold back the eye roll.

*

The bus was relatively empty, as ever, and Sherlock took a seat towards the back of the bus. He was sat a few seats in front of a group of four teenage boys, no particularly desiring to sit any where near those idiots but always favouring the back of the bus.

Three of them were surrounding one boy, picking on him. They shoved and kick and hissed abuse at the boy. Sherlock paid no mind to the group, looking out the window and watching the world go by.

The groups taunts were getting louder and Sherlock grits his teeth, wishing he'd brought headphones so he could listen to music on his phone. One of his recorded violin pieces would be perfect to drown out the irritating drivel from behind him.

"Gay boy!"

"Faggot!"

That struck a nerve within Sherlock. Homophobia disgusts him, what with his aunt and all. She was proud to be gay and from a young age Sherlock had seen same sex relationships as the norm. When he was sent to public school and discovered that there were people who hated the idea, he was physically sick.

But being Sherlock, he pushes that out. Pushes out the emotions and reminds himself of his brothers words.

The taunts were getting louder then, they echoed through the whole bus.

"You going to go home to your mummy and cry?"

"Oh wait! He can't."

"Because your mummy was just left for dead, weren't she?"

Sherlock snorts. Couldn't they at least come up with more original ways to beat down a person's confidence? Really, there were countless ways to insult someone. Although, even Sherlock had to admit that the dead-mother card was a good way to make the boy cry.

The boys behind him fall silent and he realises that his snort was much louder than he intended. He didn't turn however, despite the gazes that burned into his back. He didn't much care for such childish bullies and refused to show any sign he was scared or afraid.

The footsteps of one of the boys rattle the floor as he thumps his way down the aisle, coming to a stop beside Sherlock's seat.

Sherlock turns to face the both, a small smirk on his face. He was a tall, pale and ginger boy, but he wasn't quite as tall as Sherlock and used his height (and the fact Sherlock was sitting) to make himself look as threatening as possible. Much like in the library, Sherlock didn't hold back the eye roll.

"Got a problem?" He asks, crossing his arms and glaring down at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs, dismissively. "A few. None that concern you"

"Oh! A posh boy!" One calls from behind him.

Sherlock snorts again and shakes his head. Was that supposed to be an insult? He'd rather he posh than be an uncivilised chav.

The bus comes to a stop then and the ginger looks towards the road. He gives Sherlock a long glare before he looks to his friends and jerks his heads forward. The other two boys glare at him as they pass. They exit the bus and the ginger flips Sherlock the finger as the bus goes passed.

Sherlock just laughs. Some idiots truly were amusing.

He goes back to look out the window, watching the world go by. He'd forgotten about the whole incident with the three idiots when the seat beside him dips and he turns to see the boy they'd been picking on.

Grunting in disinterest, Sherlock turns back to the window.

"You didn't have to do that" The boy speaks, his soft Irish accent oddly familiar to Sherlock.

"Do what?" Sherlock questions immediately, but he didn't face the other (younger) teen again.

It was the other's turn to snort. "Come on! No-one snorts that loudly. I had it under control"

"Clearly" Sherlock agrees, eyes widening as he makes his sarcastic remark.

Silence drags out for a while and just when Sherlock was once again losing himself in the world outside the window, his Irish friend speaks up again.

"Why were you snorting?"

"Their insults were terrible. Other than the dead mother thing, that was a decent angle consider how emotional it renders those you've lost someone" Sherlock explains, tone still suggesting he found the conversation more than dull.

There's a pause and then: "My mother's not actually dead. That's just the cover story"

Cover story?..

That did spike Sherlock's interest. Cover stories tend to mean criminal activity or danger. One of the two. Sometimes both.

"I don't really care if she is or not" Sherlock tells him. Because he really didn't care about the boys mother. The cover story thing, however, was another thing all together.

A chuckle follows Sherlock's comment. "At least your honest"

Sherlock just hums.

The bus comes to a stop just a moment later and Sherlock turns to the boy, taking in his appearance more than he had before. He only did so for a moment before standing.

"This is my stop."

"Oh!" The teen jumps up. He was a skinny thing, even more so than Sherlock. That struck Sherlock as extremely odd. Perhaps he wasn't eating. Maybe couldn't? Not money issues, going by his expensive clothes.

Sherlock pivots around him and walks away without a word.

He vaguely registers the way the boy shouts after him, telling him he's rude for just walking away or something. Sherlock didn't really care, far more interested in going home and seeing if Mycroft had a new case for him.

-

That was the only other time during Sherlock's teen years that the two boys had crossed paths again. This time it took them two days or so to forget about the other. Sherlock couldn't shake off where he'd heard that voice before, but it had been different somehow. Before long, though, the boy and the bus ride faded into the past.