Miles' POV
As we walked past the Hall of Memories, I couldn't help but look at the very first photo I put up on the wall since we came here. It was the time when I almost lost my brother. It had been some of the most anxious and horrifying days of my life because I knew that there was very little room for error.

This chain of events occurred not too long ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. My best friend, Cecil Wyatt (that's pronounced Cee-cil, by the way), and I were travelling back home from school via the Bakerloo line. We had just gotten out of Baker Street Station after taking a quick detour to visit some acquaintances from Queen's Park, to return a package labelled 'DEADLY VENOM'. But that's a story for another day.

Anyway, the train was crowded with people of all sizes, releasing their body heat into the stale air; as I emerged into the bright streets of London, I took a moment to inhale the refreshingly cold air before exhaling a plume of white steam. Beside the door leading out onto the busy street, there was a stand of daily newspapers so I picked one up, keen to learn about what breaking news they had in store for us today.

The wind was brisk yet blustery at times, and I could hear thunder clapping ferociously in the distance. Lugging my backpack over my shoulders, I handed the newspaper to Cecil. He had ash blonde hair and forest green eyes, and he wore our normal Silver Leaf Academy school uniform. For quite a while, he had been silent, probably too deep in his analytical thoughts to comprehend the gusty weather.

After a few more uncomfortable moments of silence, I decided to speak up and called out, "Cecil! What are you thinking about?" But he waved me off and replied,
"Oh nothing. Just thinking about the quickest way to get home."

However, as he gestured with his hand, I saw something on the newspaper that instantly caught my eye. On the front page of the paper was an article with the headline 'ARMED AMBUSH AT LOCAL SCHOOL' and an image of a graffitied school wall with the words 'Look with new eyes' on it.

Cecil quickly skimmed through the article, taking in every bit of detail that was included. He tilted his head down to the bottom of the page where a row of photos and corresponding names were printed. This was apparently a list of people reported missing after the incident. Glancing over his shoulder, I peered at each individual photo until I saw one that stuck out for me. And that was when my body just shut down.

I was unable to move, let alone speak. I was as speechless as a mime. My face tightened up, my mouth was slightly open. I could feel the colour draining from my face as I stared wide-eyed at an image of a young boy with a round face and a small - almost unidentifiable - smile. I snatched the paper out of Cecil's hands and jabbed my finger at the picture. Unable to find the right words, I struggled to mutter, "Th-that's Jacob! That's my brother!"

Two minutes later, after I was brought back to my senses, Cecil was still whispering to himself,
"This is bad. This is very, very bad!" He had met Jacob a few times and instantly loved him almost as much as I did, because he was like the younger brother Cecil never had. Jacob was also one of the only other people who didn't find him 'weird' or 'abnormal'.

This might be a good time to mention that Cecil was a sucker for everything mystery and logic related. Since a very young age, he had taken a liking to one particular fictional character - Sherlock Holmes. This was because he found out that they shared distinct minds.

And because of this, he was intent on acting like his role model - which included trying to talk like him every now and then (emphasis on trying). Plus, he could pretend that our shoulder-to-shoulder neighbouring houses in Baker Street really was the legendary 221B Baker Street flat where Holmes and Dr Watson resided.

You see, he was brought up in a small family with only him, his parents and his nanny. And his parents weren't the average, loving people he'd hoped to live with. They weren't bad parents. They just didn't have the time to talk to him, or look after him or, you know, raise him - to put it bluntly.

Soon after he was born, they found a babysitter to look after him when they were away at work. She later became his full-time nanny and he spent more time with her than he did with his actual parents. He didn't like to talk about her to most people because he was afraid that they would tease him and call him bad names, if you get what I mean. Some of the teenagers at school still found out. We hated our school. Don't get me wrong, I was keen about learning and we both did well at school but it was just the students who we didn't like. But for now, let's get back to the story.

"Come, Dr Watson," he beckoned to me, "we must get to 221B Baker Street as soon as possible. There isn't a moment to spare!"
"Don't call me Dr Watson! My name is just Miles Cage! And we don't live there!" I tried to call out, but he was already out of earshot. The wind became increasingly violent, tackling long-haired women and those with loose clothing.

I tried to push my way through the tempestuous weather but the wind was stronger. It was pushing me in the opposite direction as if to say, 'No! Don't go that way!' Just then, Cecil's hat blew off of his head as he desperately attempted to grasp it.

He failed miserably.

The hat was a feather, drifting along the twists and turns of the overcrowded London roads. "No! We need to go home now. There's no time to catch your hat!" I tried to explain over the deafening wind.
"Not to worry," Cecil said, "This is the fastest way home anyway. Quick! Follow me." So I did. He was racing ahead, trying to catch up to his fleeing hat, as I trailed behind him, trying to run at the same pace.