There were about thirty seats lined in long rows of six, with the smaller children in the front so that the teacher could keep an eye on them, and the older ones in the back. I had to admit that the promise of older children scared me just a little bit, for I had never really met any of the kids around here, save for my brother's friends. I had grown up rather lonely, by my own preference of course, and yet I had heard stories of bullying. My mother warned me when she first agreed to let me go to school a year early, she told me of all the horrible things that kids do to each other when they're jealous. Mycroft said that I wouldn't have an issue, that he never got bullied and he was the nerdiest kid in his whole class. All the same, he was much bigger than me, and would undoubtedly make a more difficult target. I could imagine myself then, hanging from a tree by the back of my underwear...well needless to say I wasn't very excited to meet the other children. Thankfully the first boy to happen into the class didn't seem too daunting. Thankfully the first boy who happened into that class turned out to be something much greater to me than a friend. John first arrived into my life looking very disheveled, in a raggedy coat and a pair of trousers with holes in the knees. His face was red from being out in the sun too long, and his blonde hair was matted against his forehead with sweat. He was obviously out of breath, for as soon as he sank into the chair beside me he kept gasping, looking around the room for something before falling back into his seat and sighing heavily.
"I ran here." he admitted, looking at me very excitedly. I was hesitant; I paused for a moment, wondering if he might actually be talking to me. So many possibilities crossed my mind, was he a bully, was he a friend? Was he smart, or just another dumb farm kid these areas liked to raise?
"Why'd you do that?" I asked finally.
"Didn't want to be late." He said with a grin.
"Well you're not late. You're early." I pointed out. John nodded, rearranging himself in his seat so that he could stick a hand out in greeting.
"I'm John Watson." He introduced cheerfully, giving me a great big smile that was missing a couple of teeth. I reached out and shook his hand, and he wiggled my arm around like a noodle, very inexperienced in the form of formal greeting. He was a ray of sunshine, I knew then that we were polar opposites but were destined to be something more. I knew that he might play a big role in my life, but never could I have guessed to what extent.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." I introduced, always having liked to flaunt around my full and official name.
"Why have you got three names?" John asked in his childish curiosity.
"I suppose because they couldn't decide." I admitted with a shrug. "No one ever explained it to me."
"Which one do you go by?" John wondered.
"William." I admitted quietly.
"How come?" he asked again, full of those childish questions which might get on your nerves if you weren't equally as intrigued. I've always been quite the attention hog, and all of this curiosity entirely focused on my name was something of a flattery.
"Because it's the first." I admitted finally. "And my parents call me William."
"Well I think it's boring. William makes you sound ordinary." John decided.
"Am I not ordinary?" I asked hesitatingly.
"No of course not, you're extraordinary. I can just tell." John admitted with a little wiggle. I returned his smile that time, a genuine smile that I couldn't help but let onto my face. Something about John Watson always made me smile, even back then when I didn't know what love was.
"So I shouldn't go by William then?" I clarified.
"Go by Sherlock." John suggested. "I think it sounds mysterious."
"There's nothing mysterious about me." I debated.
"There might be, some day." John assured. "And by then it'll be too late to go by anything more interesting than William. Then no matter how mysterious you are, you'll always be just a little drab."
"Alright then. Sherlock it is." I agreed with a grin. And that was what he called me; from that day forward I never heard my real name escape his lips. Perhaps he liked the idea of naming me, or perhaps he genuinely thought I was unfit for such a boring name as William. Nevertheless, that was his name for me. A pet name, I suppose, something that only he called me. Sherlock...I was his Sherlock. Well that day at school was uneventful, other than of course my new best friend. I didn't even mention to the teacher about my apple delivery, I was so wrapped up in learning more about John that I had forgotten to make sure I was the teacher's favorite. I sat hunched over in my seat, getting closer to John even though his voice was something much closer to a yell. He told me all about his farm, one which proved to be the one on the other side of my father's own property, just through the corn fields by a dirt road. I had never inquired about that little farm house, yet I could always see it from my window. I had never expected anyone important to live there, for their farm was very small and my father was always talking about how he was going to buy it from them someday, so that he could expand into their territories. Of course the state of John's father's farm would explain the state of his clothes; he was undoubtedly ridden with poverty. Yet he still kept a smile on his face, he never let it show. He was too young to understand money anyway, and too inexperienced to know what life might have been with it. It was money that got him into all his troubles, as I will explain later. Nevertheless, he told me that he lived with his sister Harriet on their farm, that his father was a farmer and his mother a good cook, that he had an aunt who never visited and a grandfather who came for Christmas and smoked a large pipe on the porch, no matter the weather. He told me just about everything about his life, and yet I never interrupted. I never cared to interrupt; I liked to hear his voice. It was so new for me, to hear someone who was not my family member. After he told me all about himself I told him all about myself, and from then on we decided to be friends. We decided to be best friends, actually, and we pink swore on it. John told me that was an unbreakable pledge, and so I obeyed. I swore to him that we would be inseparable, and for a long time we were. Up until fifth grade, we never left each other's side. 

 The first time John ever hit anyone happened to correspond right along with the first time someone ever hurt me. Those bullies that had worried me so greatly had finally caught up to us, the poorest kid in the class, and the skinniest. We were sitting on the edge of the playground, one which only consisted of a hard packed dirt field and an iron hoop on either end. The boys always liked to play marbles, and the girls brought their dolls in their backpacks so as to play during recess. John and I sat off by ourselves, on two logs that were used to mark the edge of the playground and therefore the boundaries for our wandering. The logs were under a very nice oak tree, which shaded us from the sun. Usually we'd just sit and talk, but today we were constructing little structures out of sticks we had collected from the tall grass on the other side of the logs. I was building mine into something of a house, while John was using his to create stick figures in the dirt, pounding them in so that they stayed permanent and snapping them at all angles so as to create the heads. 

"It's us." He said finally, just as soon as I had fitted one of the walls together. I looked over, noticing that he had made two little figures, one taller than the other, and their little stick hands overlapping. I smiled, nodding in agreement.
"Looks a lot like you." I agreed.
"Oh shut up." John laughed. "It's the best that I could do with sticks."
"I know. It looks wonderful." I assured, placing a couple of sticks over the house for something of a roof.
"We're holding hands, too. That's what friends do." John pointed out.
"We've never held hands before." I corrected.
"Then why don't we?" John suggested.
"Isn't that what people do when they're on a date?" I pointed out in something of a shock. I had never held anyone's hand before, save for that of my brother and mother, and the very idea was something of a scandal for my young mind.
"We could be on a date too, if you want to be." John suggested.
"Alright." I agreed finally, for back then I wasn't entirely sure what that all meant. I knew that in a date two people go out together, two people who like each other. The idea of love had never crossed my mind; the idea of homosexuality wasn't even a concept back then. But my heart knew otherwise, it stirred in my chest and it waited, it prepared. Right as soon as our fingers interlocked it felt very appropriate, his fingers were all calloused from his chores on the farm, my hands were smooth from my intellectual pass times. I didn't know those hands well back then, yet I still feel them in mine now. I still remember the feeling, something of a clarity that I had never felt before. It just so happened that my first ever friend would be my only friend, that the first person I happened upon would end up as my soulmate. Back then, however, I just thought it was a happy coincidence that our hands fit into each other's perfectly. I thought it was just a happy coincidence that my heart was doing flip flops in my chest, even before I knew what that might mean. We were like that when Moran approached, the biggest fifth grader in the school and equally the meanest. His father bred cattle, and likewise he was built quite like a bull. He was missing a couple of teeth in the front, and yet he was old enough that they should've grown back. He bragged that they were permanently gone, lost when he got kicked in the face by a feisty heifer. His hair was slicked back into a sickening over comb, and he always stunk like a cow. For whatever reason Moran had something against us, and just as soon as he witnessed us sitting over there on the logs, holding hands and playing with the sticks, well he burst out into a laughter that summoned the whole of the playground over to investigate. Just as soon as his dark shadow approached us my blood ran cold, and I clung to John for protection, I held his hands so tight that I might've cut off circulation momentarily. I just remember pure fear coming over me, staring there at his gapped smile, and wondering in how many ways he might be able to crush me to a pulp.
"Well look at this, two little fa**ots holding hands." Moran teased. I didn't know what that meant, and neither did John by the blank look on his face, yet he got to his feet anyway, keeping hold of my hand so that he yanked me to my feet in the process. He was always a daring boy, perhaps a little bit too daring for a kid of his size. No matter how broad he was, he was always much shorter than the rest. He had to crane his neck to look up at Moran, just a little first grader prepared to fight a fifth grader, someone who had just nearly begun their growth spurt and someone who had far more testosterone. Yet John faced him anyway, he glared into his eyes with that threatening look, the look I came to appreciate as I got older, and as our nemesis grew more threatening. A small crowd was gathered now, comprised entirely of the children in our hall. If Mycroft had been outside he might've helped, but the older kids never got to play. They instead had a social hour, where they chatted in their classroom over lunch.
"Leave us alone, Sebastian." John threatened. The crowd laughed, and Moran leaned over and laughed such a false, intimating laugh that I almost wanted to cower away in fear. Yet John wouldn't allow it, he was holding tight and would never back down. He was so foolish like that, John was. He never could tell when the odds were not in his favor.
"Or what, what are you going to do? Kick my knees?" Moran asked with a little laugh. "What are you going to do?"
"I'll knock out whatever teeth you have left." John threatened, to which the crowd laughed some more.
"How come? I haven't done anything, have I? Not yet anyway." Moran said with a little chuckle. At that he grabbed me by the front of my shirt, pulling me away from John so fiercely that our hands were ripped apart, and just as soon as I lost the grip of my protector I began to cry. That only motivated Moran more, for as soon as I began to cry he began to laugh, commenting on how much of a baby I was. He took me then, by the neck, and threw me to the ground as hard as he could. I fell into the dirt face first, feeling my chin hit against a large stone, and lay there on the ground for a long while. I missed the actual fight; or rather I missed John's first swing. He tried to punch at Moran's face, yet only made contact with his chest, to which his fist just bounced harmlessly off. That was what he told me, later. I'm not sure what happened afterwards, for my own recollection was just the laughter and the screams of aggression, but one way or another John ended up lying next to me in the dirt, with his nose cracked the wrong way and oozing blood into the dust. That was when the teacher ran out, I could hear her frightened screams, she dragged Moran back to the schoolhouse by the ear and promised him the ruler. All the while she took care of our bully she had forgotten us, lying on the ground with our blood pooling. Yet John was still smiling, he looked proud of himself all the same, and he took my hand as we were lying there together. He held my hand as if nothing had even happened, as if nothing had even changed. And yet it did change, something between us had multiplied, that same bond that would grow to be bigger than anyone might have imagined. Something between us bonded together, fused us by our fingertips and by our bleeding faces. Something made us inseparable, perhaps not in body but in soul. We were made half of each other that day, even if we were too young to realize it yet."

 Mr. Watson paused, which startled Greg so much that he nearly jumped out of his chair. He had been writing, or at least he had been trying his best to keep up. Yet they had gotten into a rhythm, one which had been so mesmerizing that he had almost forgotten that this was just a story, a story told from someone's mouth and not displayed on a screen or a page. The way Mr. Watson phrased the events, the way he spoke of them with such emotion in his voice, well it felt as though Greg was hearing a dramatic retelling of a momentous event, or watching a documentary that used such vivid imagery to get its point across. And now, in the silence, well he finished that last word and jerked his head up in shock, not having realized that the man could stop talking after he had begun.
"It's getting late." Mr. Watson finally announced, pulling out a pocket watch and biting down on his now cold pipe. "I don't want to keep you from your family any longer."
"No, no you're...I'm happy to stay." Greg assured finally, not yet capping his pen in the hopes that he might be able to hear a little bit more. There was something entrancing about the innocence of Mr. Watson's tale, something that made Greg want to sit and listen forever. It was a wonderful story, even more so when Mr. Watson added in his own commentary to the events, and when the end result was becoming ever the more obvious. Mr. Watson smiled, setting aside his pipe and getting very shakily to his feet.
"You can come back tomorrow, if you would like." He offered. "But I am too tired to continue on. I haven't said that many words in twelve years."
"It's a wonderful story." Greg said immediately, feeling as though he had ought to say something to congratulate Mr. Watson on his ability to entertain. The man chuckled, standing now next to the book shelf and tidying his coat a little bit around his thin, sagging shoulders.
"Well I'm glad you think so, Mr. Lestrade. Though as it is my life, it's hard to find it very surprising." He admitted with a small smile.
"I have to admit that I'm already in great suspense as to what happens next. Your offense, or rather the confession, it's something serious?" Greg asked anxiously.
"We'll get there." Mr. Watson said in a more mournful tone, letting his gaze drop to the floor for a moment before nodding his head again. "We'll get there."
"Thank you then, Mr. Watson, for a lovely evening. I'll be back tomorrow if that's alright. Same time?" Greg aske a bit anxiously, setting the notebook down on the desk where he had found it. Mr. Watson nodded, shuffling towards the door so as to see his guest out.
"Four o'clock works for me." he agreed quietly.
"Wonderful." Greg said, stepping outside into the brisk winter wind and turning to say one final goodbye. His host was standing at the door, looking a bit lost in his own thoughts, and before Greg could manage another word Mr. Watson gave a pitiful little wave and slammed the door shut. Greg breathed for a moment, looking a bit confused yet nodding all the same, and heading back down the way he had come. His brain was swirling with thoughts; all of them completely centered around what could become of Mr. Watson's tale, and what he had already found out. How different that man was when he was in his home, and how interesting his life had been up to this point! Greg couldn't help but feel terribly sorry for the man, for even while he had been very grouchy and irritable he also must be so lonely. The late John Watson, his friend turned husband with who knows how many steps in between! Well how different his life must be, how lonely it must be, to have spent as many years as you could recollect together, only to be separated by death. How boring those last twelve years had been for the man, and how sad he must have been. Greg wondered if talking about his life and relationships would be reopening scars or instead letting them heal. He wondered if bringing John Watson to mind would be breaking his heart all over again, for he was now remembering how joyous his life had been when that man had been around. And the reason for the confession, the crime itself? Greg was wracking his brain to try to remember any cold cases that he had looked over. Well surely there wasn't anything too criminal that hadn't been solved, that or he might have known about it. Mr. Watson, that man of mysteries, what could his crime have been?