"You look distracted Sherlock, that's not like you." Mycroft commented over the dinner table. It was a good night for the brothers, for that twenty pounds that Sherlock had earned off of the cat had been enough to get the boys a whole loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, enough for them to feast on and still have enough for breakfast the next morning. Sherlock, however, was sitting quietly, staring rather vacantly at his dinner plate as his brother was cutting up some more bread for them to eat.
"Oh it's nothing, it's just someone I met today, that's all." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. It was an odd sort of delusion, for some reason he couldn't get that funny boy out of his head. Well of course there was nothing too spectacular about him, he was just a rich person, a rich person that had taken a special interest in Sherlock that was all. So why was he so bothered, why did he stare down at his bread and see that smile once more? It was just odd, that was the only diagnosis he could put on it.
"Not anyone I should be concerned with?" Mycroft wondered in a nervous voice, growing serious for some reason. Sherlock sighed heavily, shaking his head reassuringly.
"No, no one important." He assured.
"Not a police man?" Mycroft murmured, looking up at his brother with his eyebrows slanted worriedly. He always hated the mention of the law, for he knew that Sherlock's occupation was one dedicated police man away from being shut down and prosecuted. Mycroft's greatest fear was for his brother to hang, however he knew that it was necessary for them to take a little risk just to put food on the table.
"Not a police man no." Sherlock assured in boredom, taking a piece of bread just so as to distract his brother from his worrying. However Mycroft still looked worried, almost as if the vagueness in Sherlock's voice was enough to consider what the boy might be hiding.
"Not a police man, so then who? What could get you all distracted Sherlock? Surely not a woman?" Mycroft guessed, a small smile appearing on his lips despite the iciness in his voice. Sherlock felt his cheeks go red without any consent, and he simply groaned in disinterest.
"No, no of course it's not a woman. Why would it be a woman?" Sherlock growled. Mycroft hummed, going back to his dinner all while keeping his eyes rather annoyingly on his little brother, his brain turning curiously.
"Well I don't know, I thought that the day must come when you might start to be interested in them, the curious breed of human beings that they are." Mycroft admitted with a shrug.
"Oh now don't be absurd. You were never interested in them, why on earth should I be?" Sherlock snapped, sulking into his chair as if too ashamed to look his brother in the eye. It was always an embarrassing subject, love, for his brother had been the one to have to explain most everything to him. It made them both very uncomfortable simply because the concept was simply so foreign, and yet sometimes Sherlock wondered if that was Mycroft's hobby, making Sherlock uncomfortable.
"I can never explain you Sherlock; I've never hoped to try." Mycroft murmured.
"If you really must know I met a boy today, someone in the market. I did a trick for him, he tipped me generously, he was very kind, that's all." Sherlock assured, all the while the memory of John going through his head once more.
"Making friends then? That's good." Mycroft said with a little hum of approval.
"No I'm not making friends, he's not my friend. We just happened to run into each other, that's all. I couldn't possibly think of being friends with him, he seemed rich." Sherlock insisted, as if trying to justify why he hadn't done much of anything to keep John Watson around for long. He regretted letting that boy walk off without knowing when he might come back, if at all. Most everyone promised to return, yet none of them ever did.
"Well then that's all the better reason to keep him around. We should make you business cards Sherlock, that would be quite funny." Mycroft suggested with a chuckle.
"No he's not business related." Sherlock snapped.
"Then a friend?" Mycroft wondered again.
"Not that either." Sherlock assured with a frown. Mycroft stared at him rather blankly, finally shaking his head and slicing off a piece of cheddar.
"Like I said Sherlock, I'll never hope to understand you. Now eat, we can't have you going hungry when there's all this food." Mycroft insisted, passing along some cheese to Sherlock and moving on from the subject of the ever so curious John Watson. 

 The brothers had overslept that night, for their stomachs were full and they were feeling quite tired when they finally put themselves to bed. It wasn't the end of the world of course; however it meant they had to take their breakfast on the road. Sherlock dressed quietly, feeling well rested yet still rather unsatisfied, as if there was suddenly something he needed that couldn't be satisfied by food or sleep. It was certainly an odd feeling, and yet he decided that there was nothing a good day at work wouldn't fix. Their financial situation wasn't nearly as dire as it had been in the day before, and so there was a lot less pressure on poor Sherlock's back. It was also Thursday, which meant that there would be more people about and that tomorrow Mycroft would be in to help Sherlock soon, not having to work on weekends. They walked to the market silently, Sherlock's arms full with the tent and with his breakfast, and together they scuttled on in the dirt roads. When they arrived at the market they found that the good spots were all mostly taken by peddlers and beggars, and so Sherlock set up his tent near the edge of the road and hoped that enough people would traffic by so that he might make a decent profit. 

"Alright Sherlock, I'll be heading off now, you know how Mr. Moran hates it when I'm late." Mycroft mumbled after he had helped Sherlock put up the tent. Sherlock nodded, setting the tin down on the ground and looking around with a sigh.
"Yes, you better go. Do you have money for lunch?" Sherlock wondered. Mycroft just smiled at him, as if he was happy that his brother was finally beginning to worry about him.
"Yes I do Sherlock, no need to be concerned. Now you just stay here, do your tricks, and with all luck your little friend will show up and give you more money." Mycroft said with a chuckle. Sherlock nodded, his heart jumping in his chest at the mention of John Watson, having temporarily forgotten about the hope of seeing him in the streets once more.
"I'll only see him if he seeks me out, this is a rather bad spot to be noticed." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Maybe walk around a bit then." Mycroft insisted. "I could get used to dinners like that."
"That was the cat woman's doing, not John's." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh so that's his name then?" Mycroft wondered in a teasing voice.
"Just get going Mycroft, and stop pestering me!" Sherlock growled, pushing his giggling brother away into the street. Mycroft sighed, brushing off his jacket and nodding finally, trying to put on his more professional mask before bidding his brother good day and starting off towards his work. Sherlock was left alone to sit in the mouth of his tent and watch his neighbors get set up. There was a musician in front of him with some sort of funny looking accordion; he always liked it when musicians were around because they provided some sort of background music to his shows. Sometimes people didn't even realize they were two separate acts, and they enjoyed being serenaded while watching Sherlock preform. In these cases Sherlock felt it necessary to give some of his earnings to the musicians, and so sometimes they flocked around his tent purposely. On his left there was a simple beggar, sitting upright now that there were no crowds and looking quite normal. He was arranging his scrawny hat on the sidewalk in front of him so as to make it look more desperate, smoking a cigarette and leaning carelessly against the wall behind him. He was evidently some sort of professional beggar then, for he seemed plenty well off when he wasn't hunched over and begging for money. That was the sort of profession that simply disgusted Sherlock, he was one of the many that worked for his money and to see someone just scrabbling in the dirt and earning just as much, well it was almost dreadful. On Sherlock's right there was another beggar, this one with a small thin dog, all wrapped up in a blanket so as to look cold and miserable. Another faker. Sherlock sighed heavily, however he knew that there was nothing he could do about the injustices in this world. Obviously these people would just have to live with themselves, knowing that they fed their families with money that was only one step above stolen. When the crowds began to come to life Sherlock got his stupid hat on his head and took to wandering about, preforming magic and all sorts of other 'tricks' that would persuade people to drop a shiny little penny in his tin. Business was slow as there were hardly any people mingling around these parts of the streets, and so Sherlock decided to take Mycroft's advice and walk around a little bit. Now what Sherlock wouldn't admit to himself was that this trek was very obviously a selfish endeavor, for money was not on his mind whatsoever. He knew that as he stayed here on this side of the street there might be a chance that John wouldn't see him, and the very idea of that boy made the ever present feeling of withdrawal return to his heart. It was a horrible feeling really, however the idea of satisfying it seemed ever so tempting, and so he started off down the street with his tin in hand, parading around a long piece of string that had taken on the appearance of a little dog on a leash. It was a neat little trick if he did say so himself, and it waddled about on its stringy little legs and took on most other doggy actions. It sniffed at some people's shoes, it barked with a very soft little chirp at a cat it noticed sitting on a step, and it attracted just the amount of attention Sherlock had anticipated. As he paraded it around people came up and dropped some coins into his tin, which he was shaking all the while he was trying to lead the string dog around the mess of people and their feet. Now he had made it to the middle of the market place and had stirred quite a crowd, a circle of people had gathered and were all craning their necks to see what sort of tricks the dog might do next. And so of course Sherlock had to entertain, dropping the makeshift leash and taking a match from his pocket. He struck up a little bit of a flame before blowing it out promptly; making the crowd stir in excitement, wondering what he was going to do next. He mumbled at the smoke that was rising from the match, black smoke that was visible enough to most anyone who would be standing in the back of the crowd. As he dropped the match he willed the smoke to make something of a little circle, a circle that would act as a hoop to the little stringy dog.
"Alright now, cute as he may be my little companion is also very talented, you see this hoop here?" Sherlock asked the crowd, getting to his feet and gesturing towards the smoke that had formed a perfect ring for him. The crowd looked very anxious, muttering to their friends wondrously. The piece of string wagged its little tail excitedly at the sight of the hoop; it knew that it was going to have to entertain.
"Ah, but before we do anything spectacular my dog needs to have a name, for how would I command it? How about you little miss, do you have a name that might match my dog. He's a special breed you know, can't get one quite like him anywhere." Sherlock said with a laugh, kneeling down to a small girl of maybe six, who clutched onto her mother's hand while giggling at Sherlock's stupid hat.
"String!" she said excitedly, looking over Sherlock's shoulder at the dog. It jumped up and down excitedly, as if he had heard and approved of the name.
"String, what a creative name!" Sherlock exclaimed, to which the adults laughed for they knew proper sarcasm when they heard it.
"Now then String, show the crowd what you can do!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet and gesturing to the dog once more. It wagged its little tail and went running at the hoop, leaping through to which everyone clapped, well everyone except Sherlock. He crossed his arms and looked at the dog as if he was disappointed in it, to which the crowd finally noticed and silenced themselves.
"That's it then? You can do better than that, String." Sherlock scolded. The dog barked its tiny little bark and finally gave the hoop another shot, this time standing on the inside smoke (to which the crowd oohed and awed) and started to run on it like a hamster in a wheel. It rushed about the crowd on the little hoop like it was trapped in a tire, making the audience laugh. Sherlock laughed then, feeling the need to praise the little inanimate thing, and finally clapped his hands approvingly.
"There we go, there we go." He said with a laugh. And with a snap of his fingers the smoke disappeared, and all that was left of his little performance was a ball of string, still once more. The crowd clapped and awed, and there was actually quite a line to toss some coins into his tin. Sherlock thanked them graciously, bowing a couple of times all while keeping a mindful eye on the tin that lay near his feet. Not only did he want to make sure people were donating but he also wanted to make sure none of them would steal it. He had seen that happen just once before, where a beggar was bent so far over that his eyes were shielded and some school boys stole his hat full of pennies and run away. Sherlock had been one of the people that had tried to stop the hooligans; however whatever powers he might have had to stop them were useless as he was in a large crowd. Surely he couldn't use his magic in an emergency like that, especially not when police were involved! In the end the boys had got away, and all the rest of the performers on the streets learned to be extra careful. When finally the crowd cleared away Sherlock took up the string and the tin, shaking it about and feeling its weight, deciding that it was probably just about where he should be at this time. Now of course some of his earnings would be spent on his lunch, however most would go back to Mycroft to help pay for dinner. The crowd had thinned out and Sherlock found himself looking this way and that for any sign of his new friend, if that was an appropriate term for such an odd companion. It would seem, however, that John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock sighed heavily, however he knew he couldn't stand about here for long while the crowds were going around him carelessly. The shopkeepers never liked him putting on his shoes in the middle of the square, and there sides of the street were all taken. And so finally Sherlock took one last look about the market and started back for his little tent, deciding that maybe he would come back a little later. Besides, he had to get lunch somehow. Sherlock then walked rather gloomily back to his tent, finding that it was unharmed and not very busy. All of his neighbors had gotten into their positions; the beggars were both bent over and whining while the accordion player danced around and played his merry tunes. But for some reason even the music wasn't an aid in getting Sherlock cheered up, for some reason his mood sat miserably in the dust, waiting for the one person to walk by that might put a smile on his face. It was very odd, he had never felt this sort of reliance with anyone before, and of course John Watson was like most everyone else on this earth, just a person! He had been a gracious donator of course, however most all people were willing to put in a pound or two if they had the sort of personal experience Sherlock had offered to him. Maybe it was just the lingering fact of his age that excited Sherlock so much, he was young, just about as old as Sherlock and perfectly willing to form some sort of relationship. Well maybe that was it, maybe he was lonely, looking for a friend, that was diagnose his internal aching to see the boy again. Sherlock had never had a proper friend before; he didn't know the emotions that went along with it, maybe that was all this was. It was interesting; he had never anticipated that friendship would hurt so much. Maybe this was why Mycroft had no companions at all, because he knew of the pain that came along with a new friend. Sherlock put on a very small little show before lunch time, entertaining a single couple that had happened to walk by. Usually he didn't take to terrorizing lonely people much; however the woman was wearing an ever so tempting hat, one that looked perfect for pulling things out of. Well from this hat Sherlock had spawned a small bird, one that must have been summoned into his hand from a tree or a bush nearby, a small one at that. The woman had laughed and the man looked somewhat suspicious, as if he thought that by pulling a bird out of the woman's hat Sherlock was in some way trying to flirt with her. However they left a decent enough tip and Sherlock was left with the small little bird in his hand, thanking them gratefully. For a short moment Sherlock stood with the bird quivering in his fingers, its bony little wings aching to take flight, and he smiled at it, petting its little feathery head with his thumb as to calm the poor thing down. It looked up at him with beady black eyes, chirping once or twice before finally he opened his fingers so as to release it. However it was a curious thing, for instead of taking flight it simply opened its wings and hopped once or twice on his outstretched fingers, almost as if it thought he was a perch.
"Well get on then, this isn't a charity." Sherlock laughed, throwing the bird into the air and hoping it would get the message to fly off. It took flight as he had hoped, however instead of heading off towards the forest it turned and landed promptly on the brim of his stupid hat, chirping happily as if it thought that his hat made a very nice seat indeed.
"What on earth are you doing, now get off of that!" Sherlock insisted madly, taking off his hat to which the bird simply took flight once more, this time landing on his shoulder. Sherlock craned his neck rather painfully so as to get just a slightest glimpse of the thing, however he was actually starting to appreciate it's dedication to being his companion. Maybe if could sense his loneliness and whatever to give him a friend. Sherlock sighed heavily, throwing his hat into his tent and filling his pocket with all the money from the tin. He then stowed this things inside the tent and drew the strings, watching his neighbors suspiciously as if he expected one of them to try to get their hands on such a lovely hat. Well in that case they could certainly have it, for that awful thing was replaceable.