People say that the start is when you meet them. Some say that the start is when you made that single decision that brought you face to face with the one you were made for.

I think that's all bullshit. One decision can't change your life. A series of them maybe. In the end, I think the start depends on when you feel the change. Not when you're told it changed or think it changed. When you truly felt the change.

God. I'm not even making sense now, am I?

Anyway. The Start?

Maybe this was it. Maybe it wasn't.

*-*

Usually the school halls were packed, filled to the brim with students to the point it become a survival mission to walk down the main hall and not be squished into a wall, locker, or another person.

It soon made the already nimble dark haired teen even faster. His thin frame allowed him to easily pass through gaps in the other students that most couldn't. He'd still get barged, of course, everyone did. His speed, however, made sure he was bumped into less often and out of the school before most.

This week he wasn't capable of doing that. The halls were filled even more so then before, the gaps he'd usually slide through nonexistent in the mindless mass of teenagers.

It was stupid. The school was designed for eight hundred students but there were in fact one thousand two hundred and twenty three students attending the school. And now. Now, there was another three hundred and twelve students here from some school in Sussex for a bloody swimming competition!

One thousand five hundred and forty students were currently trying to wade through these corridors like fishes trying to swim north against a strong current that ran south.

Do you know who was currently stuck in the middle of these idiotic fish?

That's right. Our nimble teen, Sherlock Holmes.

Hitching his plain black backpack higher up his shoulder, Sherlock takes a calming breath to prevent himself from reaching out and snapping the neck of the first person who was even slightly annoying.

He pushes through the students, grumbling insults about them as he does.

Self-loathing rich girl that picks on anyone who isn't rich or pretty. "Bitch"

Captain of the football team that beds a different girl every night and breaks hearts for the hell of it. "Whore"

A group of boys handled around a small pile of comics held up a particularly spotty boy. "Idiots"

Fake barbie type girls looking at each other's nails. "Clueless" 

Twins standing and looking at everyone like they could be the next meal at the banquet. "Brats" 

"Ugh" Sherlock scoffs "Idiots. I am surrounded by annoying, unobservant, idiots"

There are so many hands. It makes his skin crawl. The need to scratch at skin until it's red and raw is almost overpowering. He feels like he's being groped by multiple strangers as he walks. Hands are everything. His arms. His legs. His back. His hair. Even his arse. He's yet to go more then a second without being touched.

Sherlock was suddenly barged from the left and he stumbles right and into another student. It causes a domino effect and all the students to his right sway and stumble. He thinks that he even saw one girl fall to the fall.

He doesn't stick around to check, simply hitches his bag up again and continues to get pulled along by the current of students.

Eventually he makes it out of the door and everyone spreads out across the concrete, giving Sherlock the chance to recreate his personal bubble without it being popped.

He gives a content sigh and passes through the school gates, turning left and beginning the trek home.

After ten minutes of walking Sherlock had successfully lost all students. Not only did his long legs put him ahead of everyone, but very few people took the route Sherlock did.

His house was in a rather seculed, and if he was honest, snobby area. Most of the kids at the hell they named school resided closer to the centre of town, where all the shops and industrial parts of town were. Hell, compared to them Sherlock practically lived in the country.

Sherlock turns left and makes his way down a narrow trail, on both sides of the dirt track were lush green bushes that needed a trim. Occasionally Sherlock had to dodge a ridiculously long branch.

It was beautiful though. It was currently June and the weather was decent for England. The sun peeped through the healthy leaves and lit was the path with such a natural glow that the only thing Sherlock could think of that was more beautiful was the stars on a clear night.

Too busy looking at his surroundings, Sherlock notices the bike coming towards him a moment too late. The biker obviously wasn't paying much attention either as he swerves to the side in an attempt to avoid the skinny teen.

Sherlock watches blankly as the person goes flying over his handle bars and into the bush, causing the pretty leaves to float to the ground beside the groaning man.

No, not man. Boy. Sherlock guessed he was even younger then him.

Sherlock waits a moment and assesses the boy. He decides he's fine and begins to walk away, not bothering to apologise or ask if he was okay. He really didn't care.

Just as Sherlock was about to round the corner a voice shouted out.

"Hey! Hey you!" Slight Irish accent. Interesting.

Sherlock doesn't look back, just pretends he didn't hear anything and keeps walking. The stranger seems to debate a moment before abandoning his bike and chasing after the ever fast Sherlock.

A hand clamps down on Sherlock's shoulder and, while he was surprised this boy had caught up to him on foot so quickly, Sherlock didn't react.

"You could have at least helped me up!" The angry Irish boy seethed.

Sherlock blinks, his eyes quickly scanning the other's face. The boy had messy brown hair and Sherlock was tempted to ask if he owned a brush. His frame was skinny and short although he had a slightly tummy. Only made more noticeable by his rather tight top.

He couldn't be more then fourteen. Maybe fifteen at a push.

Sherlock shakes the hand off and the boy frowns at him even more.

"Are you deaf?! Apologise!" The shorter boy crossed his arms, glaring up at Sherlock at if he were the scariest man alive and Sherlock should tremble in fear.

"You were in control of your bike. It's hardly my fault you're a daydreamer and fell" Sherlock replies, his calm tone seeming to spike the boys anger even more.

After a moment of staring the boy huffs and turns away, walking back towards his bike.

"Watch where you go next time, curly!" He spits the words over his shoulder, expression cold.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "What an original nickname. Shall I start calling you Leprechaun? Or maybe Patrick?"

The boy spins around and marches back to Sherlock, getting right in his face. Brown eyes, Sherlock notes. Dull, average, common. Boring.

"You've got some nerve! What the hell gives you the right to speak to me like that?" He looked so close to hitting Sherlock.

The curly haired teen smirks and tilts his head to the side. Pissing people off and getting hit were a daily occurrence for Sherlock now. In fact, he enjoyed it. It was fun tormenting his peers to the point they hit him or cried.

Sherlock wipes his eyes, ridding himself of the nasty spittle shooting out of the peeved boy's mouth.

"I see no reason for me to treat you nicely. For all I know, you're a complete arsehole"

"What is wrong with you?" The boy questions, leaning back and frowning at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugs and turns, walking down the path again. The boy doesn't stop him. Simply turns and goes to get his bike from where it was half lodged into the bush.

By the next day, both of them had forgotten the other.