Channing.

Channing Manrell is one of the Academy's greatest donator. The golden boy, the purest of all Nobles in school. The firstborn child, one who'll lead his family's company once he grew up. With the high status in the political state.

And also, the very same bully John has to suffer with everyday.

"What do we have here? The limping trash."

"What do you want, Channing?" John grumbled as he tries to stood up, only to be pushed back down by a buff arm.

"Look at you, you are so pathetic." The blond sneered, spitting on the ground beside John as he dusted his hands, as if he'd just cleaned a very dirty attic as his goons laughed behind him.

"Let's just settle this peacefully, alright?"
Channing barked a laugh.

"You wished, trash."

How original.

"Fine Channing, you won. What is it?" John sighed.

"You to die."

"How about no? You see, I have studies to think of, so I don't really fancy the idea of comitting suicide when it's just few months to graduate."

A fist flung to his cheek and John flew to a wall, tears prickling in his eyes as his left cheek stung so badly. He was sure that his lower lip is splitted.

"Don't talk back to me, trash."

"I don't. I was just stating the facts-"
A hand held the collar of his shirt and forced him to stood up, choking when his feet could no longer feel the ground.

"You are disgusting. Even hearing your name sickens me."
John grasped the large wrist holding him as he struggled to get free.

"You don't deserve to live you piece of trash. Commoners aren't even supposed to live in the first place. You are but a mistake."

"Wow. I wonder how many cells it takes to create that heartwarming speech." Surprisingly it wasn't John who said those words,-though he'll be happy to-, it was from another person.

All of them turned around to see a boy leaning against the mouth of the alleyway. He's wearing a coat and a blue scarf, for the evening air had gone chilly. A woolen cap sat ontop of his somewhat-unruly dark hair, with his hands crossed over his chest.

"Who are you?" Channing growled.

The boy shrugs.

"Just a random passerby."

"A Commoner then?" Channing grinned as he dropped John, who wheezed for air as the blond leveled up on the boy, who didn't even look shaken.

"Listen here, trash. You saw noth-"
It all happened fast.

The boy moved with the speed of lightning, sending a clean uppercut at Channing's jaw, which made him crumpled to the ground unconscious. Leaving John and Channing's goons gaping.

"Close your mouth boys, or you'll attract flies."
One of Channing's henchmen growled and lunged at the boy. Who in turn, sidestepped him and sent a punch to his head.

"Get him!"

They lunged at him. Seven against one is really isn't fair. Atleast that's what John thought.

Untill he sees the boy fight.

He didn't move with the grace of a swan, nor did he bother to do complicated moves like the ones John saw in battle rings. No.

He fights dirty.

He moves with the speed of lightning and cunning precision. He wove in and out through the dozen punches thrown at him, and didn't even hesitates to kick them in the jewels.

There is no art of gracefullness in his fightings whatsoever. It's brutal and messy.

And most effective.

He took them down. All seven of them, in twelve seconds flat.

"This is not over trash!" One of them yelled as they scurried away, running and even some are crying for their mothers.

John can't help but gape.

"T-thank you for your help. Thank you so much, I wouldn't've-" John stuttered as he leaned on the brick wall to stand, his hand had now found his cane.

The boy didn't answer him. Instead, he sent John a scrutinizing gaze, one that makes John suddenly felt self-conscious. The boy's eyes are sharp, piercing through his masks like blades.

It made John uncomfortable.

"You know, you don't really need your cane, right?"
John paused, his right hand fingered his newly found cane nervously.

"Wha-what do you mean? The doc-"

"Your doctor is clearly a bloody stupid man. He obviously lied to you so you would pay him more for therapies, which you don't need at all." The boy said as he approached John, looking at him closely.

John stood frozen. He did not know how to respond to that. So instead, he offered a hand, straining a smile albeit pain shooting flares from his leg.

"I'm John. John Watson."

The boy eyed his hand but didn't took it. So John retreated his palm back when the boy spoke,

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock." John nodded, tasting the foreign name rolling off his tongue. It's a strange peculiar name, one that John never heard before.

But it does sound lovely. Unique and different.

"No last name?" John asked.

The boy seemed to ponder for a moment, shrugging then answering,

"Holmes."

John felt off-putted. He had hear the name, previously. Yet he can't remember when. Nor where if that matters.

"So.. about my doctor.."

"Ah yes," The boy shoved his hands into his coat's pockets, glancing at John.

"You're not actually injured. You are only suffering from psychogenic. Caused by the strain and stress you keep piling up. That's just show how hellish your life is for suffering that stress, seems like you have a broken home. Your father and brother,-whom recently was in a fight with his wife-, are drinking out of despair, and your mother isn't able to support the whole family.."

"Ho-how do you know my family is-..?" John trailed off, shock visible on his face.

The boy shrugged, nonchalantly.

"You're wearing Linston Boys Academy uniform. That's a quite prestigious school here in London. Yet you are absent of the typical arrogance of a Noble, which means you are a scholarship student, a Commoner,"

John blinked, unsure on what to take his words as.

"In Linston, every weekends, you are allowed to return and stay at your respective houses. Am I correct?"

"Yes."

"And yet here you are, wandering in the streets. Which left it to three reasons. One, your house is nearby. Which was crossed out since you are clearly heading for the school grounds, and that you are wearing a uniform.

"Two, you don't have a house. Quite a possibility but no. Your clothes are clearly too large for you, yet it was sewn into your size rather carefully. It's probably your mother's work and since that brand of sewing thread is quite expensive, so she must've used her best kit for you. Only mothers would do that far to her son. So my take is, if she can buy that thread, you clearly still can afford to live under a roof.

"And that leaves three, you dislike your family. You like your mother and so did she, as I had explain beforehand. Yet you heavily dislike your father and brother, maybe even hate."

"H-how do you know that?"

"Your psychogenic. I don't think Linston school can cause that much stress,-Nobles wouldn't want their children getting too much homeworks and assignments, the Drama Queens they are-, even with bullies. Psychogenic is caused by something deep that scarred your deep mind and mental. So it must've been in the family. Not your mother, so father it is. Your walking cane is slightly bent, and not caused by that goon there by throwing it. It was bent from hitting. Seeing you, and your state, I doubted you'll use it for hitting. You have high morals."

"Err.. thanks..?" John said, rather confused as Sherlock continues,

"Your mother won't do it, she care for you afterall, she wouldn't want her son's walking cane got bent. So again, your father. If that cane was used to hit furnitures, it would've has scratches, which it doesn't. Meaning, he used it to hit something not hard, over and over so that it got bent. And that leaves you, my dear Watson. He abused you."

Hearing it, coming from another person, made John's blood ran cold. It was like there is nothing between him and Sherlock, he was exposed.

Sherlock then offered him a handkerchief. John, dumbstruck, took it. He examined it before realising,

"This is mine."

"You dropped it on the pavement few blocks away. I was going to return it to you when I also caught those goons."

John nodded.
"So that's why you helped me."

"Not really. I'm just generally disgusted by those who used their bloodlines to proove they are more.. high. Royal. It sickens me." Sherlock spat those words with so much venom it made John thought of how much the boy hates the Nobles.

"So either way, I would always kick their bloody arses."

John stiffled a laugh. Which made Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"What?"

"Nevermind me. Do continue."

"Continue? Oh right. Your handkerchief belonged to your brother, Harry. It was from his wife isn't it? There is a message embroidred on the top right corner. 'From Clara to Harry. xxx.' Triple Xs. A friend? No, too much kisses. A wife it is. But if she's his lover, he wouldn't have given it to you, would he? So that means he's in a fight. Your brother is okay with you, but he's drinking. The edge of the handkerchief is stained with brandy. A strong one at that.

"And judging from your face, you didn't even realise that handkerchief has that embroidry, nor of the brandy stain." Sherlock finishes, raising an eyebrow at John's wide-eyed-open-mouthed expression. He's gaping like a goldfish.

Untill John snaps and his eyes practically filled with stars, awing at Sherlock who looked.. disturbed.

"That's a bloody awesome deduction! How'd you do that? That's just.. wow!"

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected outcome. His lips slowly curled up into a small smile.

"Heh. Well that's unexpected. Usually people would tell me something else when I did that."

"What would they say?"

"'Piss off'." Sherlock shrugs, adjusting his woolen cap sitting ontop of his nest of curly dark hair.

"Well then. Now that my job here is done, I should take my leave." Sherlock said, giving an overexagerrated bow as he turned on his heels and left. His shoes thumping softly against the stone pavement.

"You are an interesting man, John. I do hope we meet again someday."

"Sherlock!" John called before the taller boy are three steps out from the alleyway, hurrying over to catch him.

Sherlock turned at raised an eyebrow at John's haste. His hands inside his pockets.

"What is it John?"

John raised one hand to tell him to wait as he panted, and then straightening up,

"Harry is short for Harriet."

The change in Sherlock's face is very much amusing. His nose scrunched up, and his eyes narrowed with great irritation and annoyance.

"A woman."

"I have to go now. The school's gates are closing in few more minutes." John bid his goodbye and left, heading for the tall and grand building.

Before he entered the school's frontyard, however, he heard a voice shouting that unmistakeably belonged to Sherlock,

"A woman!"

John cracked up laughing.

Heyooooo potatoes! How's that? I hope you guys like Sher's dramatic entrance, talk about Drama King right? *flips hair*

Anyways, do you notice Sherlock's fighting skills? I haven't particularly scanned through Sherlock's fighting skills in the BBC, but I'm thinking that Sherlock fight dirty is more suited to him. I mean, yeah he's elegant and all that jazz, but let's be realistic. If he fights in the streets like that, he'll be dead in thirty seconds flat. So fighting dirty or die. That simple.

And yes, I said that Sherlock's a girl in this fic but not yet. We're following John first in here, and John hasn't know that Sherlock's a girl. Yet. Don't worry, all will be reavealed later on.

I really do love writing deductions. I'm having so much fun with all the deducting ideas I have *squeals* I can't wait to show you guys all of it!

That's all and thank you potatoes!