This tale begins with a book. It is a rather dull place to begin, but we must.

There was nothing particularly special about this book. As many books are, it was based on the adventures of a swashbuckling pirate that in the end, saves the day and gets the girl. The book's pages were slightly yellowed, but not yet falling to pieces.

At the point in time where we begin this story, the book was being read by a young boy. He was slightly taller than the average boy of his age, but still gangly enough to fit inside a box. His dark black hair was a stark contrast to his pale skin and gaunt expression. With his school uniform hanging off his slender form, the boy looked malnourished.

The boy was sitting at a table in the back corner of his school library when someone approached him. The dark haired boy looked up at the at the short, sandy haired boy approaching him, and instinctively shrank in on himself.

John Watson had had a very long day. He had already been yelled at by several teachers for not paying attention or forgetting homework, and he'd been tripped up in the corridors more times than he cared to count. By this point in the day, John just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. He figured the library would be a safe place - his bullies were so thick that they probably didn't know the school had a library.

As John walked into the library, he saw a tall, dark haired boy sitting alone at a table. As much as John hated most other life forms, there was something about this boy. Something that made him care. Something that pulled him towards the mysterious figure, hunched over a worn book. When John sat down, the boy didn't even look up.

"Hello," John whispered timidly. The boy didn't even look up. Well, that's rude, John thought to himself. He knew people were shy, but John thought that people would at least have the decency to look at the person speaking to them. Despite the less-than-enthusiastic first attempt at contact, John decided to try again.

"So, what's your name?"

Silence.

"What are you reading?"

Nothing.

"...Look, do you actually know how to talk?"

Finally. He got the boy's attention. He looked at John dryly. Then he looked back down and started writing in the book. That's odd. John thought. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to deface school property. As John was thinking, the mysterious boy stood up, put the book back on the shelf, and walked out of the library.

John knew he probably shouldn't, but he was filled with curiosity. He stood up and timidly approached the bookshelf. John picked up the book and turn to the first page.

My name is Sherlock Holmes.

I'm a selective mute.

John was overcome with shock, but he knew what he had to do. He dug a pen out of his bag, and started writing.

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The next day, Sherlock walked into the library, and headed straight over to the bookshelf that he left his book on. Sherlock knew it wasn't technically his book, but so few people went in the library that he knew it would still be in the place where he left it.

As soon as he got to the shelf, it was obvious to Sherlock that the boy had seen his message. Most people wouldn't have realised, but Sherlock had a knack for noticing the small things in life. He walked up to the shelf and grabbed the book, eager to see what the boy had written.

I'm John. You seem quite nice. Maybe we should meet in here at some point?

Sherlock put the book down and, for a fleeting second, smiled at the fact that someone wanted to talk to him. But, as soon as he had this thought, his smile fell once again. As much as Sherlock wanted a friend in this hellhole, he knew it wasn't possible. Anyone who got close to him would only suffer the same fate as him. It was bad enough being mentally and physically abused by the bullies, but if he dragged someone else into it...

He'd never be able to live with the guilt. And with no one wanting him to exist at home, it wouldn't be long before he cut so deep that he wouldn't live through it.

And so, with a heavy heart and hanging head, Sherlock dragged the book off the shelf, wrote his note and left the library, walking straight into the arms of his tormentors, ready for the day's beating.

I guess nothing will ever change... Sherlock thought to himself. Why do I even get my hopes up?

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It was the next day, and the book was still in the same place, on the shelf. However, that was until a young, sandy-haired boy practically skipped into the library, eager to discover the new message from his potential friend. John nearly threw the book off the shelf in his eagerness to see what Sherlock had written for him and tore the book open, a huge smile on his face.

As soon as he read the message, though, the smile fell off John's face, his lower lip wobbled, and his eyes clouded with tears. He wrote a new note in the book and thrust it back on the shelf, for he no longer cared for the object (which is unfair, the book itself never did anything to him).

John ran out of the library, refusing to let himself cry. Then he thought back to what the note said.

No. I shouldn't have started this conversation.

Stay away from me if you know what's good for you.

The only thought that John could process was that the one thing that had made him smile in so long; the one person that would talk to him; the one person who gave him a flicker of hope... Hope that he might have a friend, that the pain might start to fade, that it might get better-

Gone.

He was alone.

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For the following weeks, the book stayed on the same shelf, being moved only twice every day. Once, so that John could write his next note trying to get the dark-haired boy to talk to him. The other time, so that Sherlock could read the new note, wonder if he's doing the right thing, sigh, and put the book back. The book was now so full of notes that the librarian would get very angry if saw it - or cared about the library.

Every time this happened, both boys would shrink that bit further into themselves, wishing for everything to get better. But it wouldn't. Because they didn't know of the other's feelings, they never realised how much they needed each other.

Until that day.

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It was a dreary Thursday, just the same as any other. The book was sitting on the shelf, as usual. Sherlock was in the corner of the library, as usual.

Sherlock was about to leave the library, as he knew that John would enter in exactly 3 minutes and wanted to avoid him (it was better for the both of them - at least, that's what he told himself). There was just one problem.

The door swung open, revealing two of the biggest bullies in the school. I guess they found my hiding place - it took them long enough. The bullies swaggered in, ready to torment their favourite victim, not even noticing as they knocked the book off the shelf.

Although the bullies may not have noticed, John most certainly did when he walked into the library, 3 minutes later. As he was bending down to pick up the book and put it on the shelf, John spotted two of his biggest tormentors in the corner of the library, kicking a limp form on the floor. John was about to turn tail and run away when he noticed the mop of dark hair.

All of a sudden, instincts kicked in and John was no longer in control of his actions. He ran forward and leaped onto the closest bully in an attempt to pull him away from Sherlock. Bad move. The only thing he achieved was alerting the bullies to his presence.

After 10 excruciating minutes, the bullies left, and a bruised John was lying next to a bruised Sherlock. At least they didn't hurt Sherlock after they saw John, even if it meant he was in pain now.

John was about to get up when he heard something. It was croaky and barely audible, but he heard it.

"Thank you."

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20 years later, the book is still on a shelf, but not in a school anymore. In Sherlock and John's last year of school, it was moved to a shelf in John's house. In, John's opinion, it held too many memories to leave, and no one read it so it wouldn't be missed.

Since then, the book was moved many times, to many different places, but it was always in the same house of a certain two people. The story of the swashbuckling pirate was only ever read to the child of the two when they were young, but it didn't matter.

After all, the book now held a far more important story.