When I was small, I began my love affair with books. Words were easy to understand where people weren't. The written characters, the roles and heroes, made so much more sense. I saw past all the letters and saw pictures inside them - I could read their thought patterns like they were my own. Nobody else could see the unwritten pictures, and I thought them all blind.

I started writing little stories of my own. Just day-to-day things, but I tried to use metaphors and similes and other things we had learnt in class that day. I liked the way I could make them sound, how I could piece them together in different ways and create rhythms that were impossible for me to see on a music sheet. I had learnt to grasp the unconscious and could tread the paths of subtext, yet still couldn't write in cursive.

Words became my weapon. My vocabulary surpassed my fellow pupils, surpassed my own parents. I thought them dim because they didn't understand what seemed so petulantly simple. I had so many letters and sentences I could toss them out, abandon them to strangers, throw them at passing offenders of the ears. I would never receive a true wit in return. My gifts to their mind were invisible, misunderstood, smothered.

I understood the alien in but a glimpse, yet was alien to my own brethren. Fictions were my expanding universe; each parallel dimension another facet to my salt-crystal imagination. Every character took a place in my heart, rooting deeper than even the rugged family tree. The sciences and fantasies that so strongly held my very soul could be second only to the magical majesty of pure literature.

My world was not what I experienced, but what I discovered through language. What had once been daffodils were now sweetest honey-dew, yellow and open-mouthed as if awakening dawn. The tweet of a bird was now the chatter of the daybreak choir; harmonious and delicate, as only Nature's underrated symphonies can be.

I built my walls with metaphors; granite for a doorway. Sentences flowed like water, forming the moat that swallowed me. I drew breath using adjectives, and I thought in paragraphs. My mind was not mere letters, but titles; structure formed my brittle bones. Each moment had a monologue, and a description of its own.

I chopped words up; merciless but true. My life was forged in wordsmithery, the fine art of our time.

Imagination is no longer the universe I wade, exploring deepest caverns. Now I draw all into the light, scribbling on the twilight rubble. The worlds form around me at my own will, each moment my own creation. My life is with my stories, and my stories are my life. Their heroes are my children, and I need them more than air.

The keypad is my instrument, each symbol a different note. Tap-tap-tap-tap, composing great operas that no orchestra could play. The pen is the baton, flicking thick and fast. The more it sways, the louder the silence and the purer the image that consumes me. Words are lyrics that cannot be sung by any voice - they must be felt. Low notes quiver and plunge readers down deeper, higher notes trill and bring about stark emotions. Music is made to be shared, to be consumed. Stories are made to consume, to swallow up and spit out and leave scars that tell tales of magnificent battles, fine quests and tragic endings.

I write because I want you to feel. I write because I want you to love and relate. I want you to dance under the moonlight with them, to laugh with them, to cry with them because it's your best friend who died, not theirs. I want you not to read, not to imagine, but to be. I want you to know how they feel, the peoples of my universe, and tell them that they are real and understood.

I want you to believe. I want you to scream as they fall. I want you to smile because they're smiling. I want you to fall in love with the people who can never be there, and yet always are.

I want to tell you a story. But only if you wish to hear it.

I wonder if you like your parents.

Naturally, the answer I'm going to get is yes; they're your parents, and you love them. But I'm not asking if you love them. I'm asking if you like them. That's completely different.

Generally the answer I'll get now is no; they're too clingy or too strict or too grouchy or too weird. But you remember you love them - you might even remember you love your annoying siblings.

I don't.

I hate my parents.

I love them, of course, but I hate them so much I forget to love them. If that makes any sense.

It's not as if it's an extreme case; they didn't beat me or anything like that. They just irritated me. Notice the past tense.

I'm rid of them now. Long since rid of them. I'm in care, actually. Up for adoption, even. I don't really want to be adopted - I feel like I can't trust most adults. Apart from Granny Edna, and my teachers, and the lovely postman, and old Mrs Tibbs across the street. Granny Edna's not my granny actually; that's just what we all call her because she makes the most wonderful cookies. Notice the plural.

There's a lot of kids like me, here at the Dumping Ground. And Granny Edna can't look after us all by herself - there's loads of staff, but I only really like Granny Edna. She's great with kids - makes you wonder why she doesn't have her own. You ask any girl, or some of the young boys, if they want to be adopted, and they'll say no; they want to stay at the Dumping Ground with Granny Edna.

The Dumping Ground - that's what we've always called it. It's not that it's dirty - Jack 'Axel' Richards, the chief cook, always keeps the place spring clean after his shifts. It's not that it's shabby - we're not really rich, but the outside is like a mansion, and every room has a TV; even the kitchen. The girls tell me it was just a name from this show about a girl in care, but I think it came from the older boys telling the little ones they'd been dumped; abandoned forever. It puts them into hysterics for some strange reason.

I wasn't dumped. I came here on my own free will. I guess I'd better explain. I was put into care a few years back, when I was only six. I don't really remember exactly what the problem was, but it had something to do with binge-drinking. And I can certainly remember the belt. I've still got the scar on my forehead. It was an accident though - my Dad was under the influence, and Mum was too drunk or too doped to do anything about it. I knew that, and I wasn't scared of them; so I took them back, when Dad was released on bail a year later. I don't know where Mum got the money - she must have won it in a bet. There was champagne and everything. I was even allowed a tiny sip. It tasted revolting, but my parents seemed to like it. They started drinking again. Heavily. I heard them argue a lot in the night. But I'd grown up tough; I wasn't scared of them - though I did worry for their health a bit.

I think hard, but I can't actually recall what compelled me to run away. I just packed a bag or two and left, in the dead of night. I guess I just got fed up with them. I ran all the way across the county to the Dumping Ground, and demanded to move back in. Granny Edna took me in warmly, but Mum and Dad weren't happy. They ordered me to come back home. But the police could see I didn't care to. There was a lot of political stuff that followed that I didn't really understand - but eventually the forms were signed and I was officially a Dumping Ground kid. I couldn't be happier.

So that's me in a nutshell. I'm a Bad Girl. Tough as old boots, me. And I pack a pretty mean kick. I don't miss my parents. Not at all. They can drink themselves to death for all I care. Though I do sometimes wonder what they're up to, how they're getting on. Do they miss me?

I'm only twelve. Very nearly a teenager. It's a lot to happen before you're a teenager, eh?

I'm Alex, by the way. And yes, I am a girl. At first the boys laughed at my guy's name, but I always tell them it's short for Alexia and that shuts them up. I love my name - it's feisty and fun, like me. I'm a feminist, but a real tomboy, and nobody wants to pick a fight with Alex! I love pretend games, though, and making up stories. I still weep at old Disney films, and enjoy playing games like hide-and-seek with the younger children.

That's what I'm going to do now, actually. Play hide-and-seek outside in the evening moonlight. Not with the little ones, though; with Kimberley and Vicky and Fergus - my older friends from school.

I love my friends - if I ever do get adopted; I'd like to still be able to live around here, so I can still play in the woods with them.

Actually... no. I don't care where I end up living at all. I don't care if I never see them again - I just want somebody who'll truly care for me and keep me safe and happy. Somebody even remotely normal.

Nah; I'm a magnet for trouble - it won't happen. Better just go out and play now, they'll be wondering where I am. And hope for even the smallest of adventures to scoop me up and whisk me away.

...It won't. Epic adventures are finished with me. Life can't possibly love me enough to give me anything more... the trip of a lifetime... a real friend... no way.

------

Just up the road from the large expansive building Alex and her peers dubbed 'the Dumping Ground', there was a man, in the longest brown coat you'd ever see, strolling casually down the streets in the twilight with a look of pure pleasure on his face. To glance at him you'd think he'd just won the lottery. Twice. On his wedding day. Or maybe he'd won a luxury cruise around the world, all expenses paid, every essential - and non-essential - item or pleasure catered to him at his whim. Oh, and he could keep the yacht as well.

The Doctor had done neither of these things. What use had he for money and flash cars? He had everything he needed just round the corner, waiting for him. His own future was a blank book. And he preferred to keep it that way. It was much more fun then.

He popped the last of his chips into his mouth - utterly delicious; just the right level of salt and vinegar, the most delectable crisp texture. Tossing the paper wrapper into the nearest bin, he made a mental note to come back here one day. Maybe last week, that seemed appealing for some reason.

The streetlamps cast eerie, angular shadows around him, making his narrow face look dark and sinister. If only for a second. The Doctor was anything but dark and sinister.

Speaking of dark and sinister...

He looked up at the endless blanket of stars, but his eyes weren't on them, not this time. They'd better get going, he thought to himself. They gave me their word. Come on, don't let me down. Off you go, go on!

He grinned to himself. There it was. A streak of golden light shooting off into space. Anyone seeing it would have been confused for a split second, then called it a comet or a shooting star, and moved on.

Not this time. Someone would realise something was afoot when they found specks of green blood painted around the local nuclear plant. But they'd have missed all the excitement. Oh, well.

'Hope they managed to get you out of that malfunctioning skin suit, mate,' he said to nobody. 'I'd hate to think of a nice, innocent Foamasi like you having the juice squeezed out of you like a lemon.'

Still, he was gone now. Problem solved. The shiny green humanoid would be moving onto greener pastures now. Quite literally, if he'd got his co-ordinates right. Maybe the Doctor would go check up on him sometime. Only time would tell.

The Doctor moved on, hands jammed into spacious tech-filled pockets. The sky was now a silent black bowl pinpricked with dots of fire. He'd be near one of those in a minute. Which one, though? So many choices.

He walked down the path into the street. A trio of young lads were ambling along on the opposite side of the road. One of them shouted a greeting, and, even though with his keen senses he could pick up the faded whiff of ethanol even from here (definitely Scotch, full of malt; a noxious cocktail of bitter-sweet, sour and unpleasant), he waved a cheerful hand in reply. The evening was warm, despite a stiff, swirling, yet gentle breeze which tugged and flapped at the hem of his long coat but hadn't quite decided on the direction it should blow. There was a distant noise of late Friday-night traffic, whistling in the darkness far behind him. The amber smog of London stained the lower sky in front of him with light pollution; the pink-tinged clouds beginning to turn grey and voluminous as the sun set. Two streets away, someone was yelling and laughing.

He strode directly across the road, tacking between parked cars, their bonnets and roofs just displaying the last, almost invisible etchings of Februrary frost. His breath steamed the air. Britain just kept getting colder. The crescent moon was already visible, its wispy, ethereal halo weak and watery, but a moon nonetheless. The night wind licked a couple of small trees nearby; black and violet shadow patterns stirred as they hissed and creaked slightly, and all the shadows around rocked and nodded. The lull of the storm in the hours before the pubs emptied.

There were some kids mulling about under the glow of a streetlamp - two girls and a young boy. The eldest girl, a stocky blonde, was pacing, arms wrapped around herself to shield against the chilling winds of early April. 'Hurry up, Alex,' she muttered to herself, 'it's freezing out here, we wanna play.'

Chuckling to himself, the Doctor went past them - they barely noticed him in the darkness, he had that effect on people sometimes - and slipped into the gloomy back alleyways like a panther on the prowl.

'Lots of gloom,' he murmured. 'Looming gloom. A real gloom loom, assuming gloom can loom,' he added, nonsensically.

There she was. His TARDIS. Beautiful old thing. Right where he'd left it, just like always.

Well, when he said always... Sometimes his ship seemed to have a mind of her own.

The Doctor's mind jumped back to the children for a split second. They'd also missed the excitement. They'd have loved every minute, he'd bet. After all, he had.

He was itching to tell someone that the reptilian creatures he'd just encountered only spoke by clicking; they were physically incapable of speaking Human languages, and the only reason you could understand them was because they had communicators that could translate their native language, which they kept in their mouths. And that Foamasi also had the highest radiation resistance in the galaxy, due to a 20 minute war with a race called the Argolin, which had resulted in their planet becoming sterile and highly radioactive. And that they had hollow bones with double joints every few centimetres, a high liquid content, small organs and a retractable tail, which allowed the Foamasi to compress themselves into very small spaces, such as humanoid skin suits. And that they were known to produce brandy.

But there was no-one with him to tell.

The Doctor had travelled alone before, often for decades at a time. After he'd lost everything but his TARDIS, he'd decided he didn't need companions or friends anymore. But then he'd met Rose, who had been both those things and so much more. He'd vowed to travel alone again after he'd lost her... Well, that hadn't lasted, and quite right too.

He found he was smiling, even though he was feeling a little sad.

About a week ago he'd met a bloke called Jackson Lake, back in the early twentieth century, who had ended up knowing the Doctor far better than a lot of people. For a while he'd thought he was the Doctor. Poor guy. And he had told him, after the CyberKing had been defeated, during that Christmas dinner, that maybe he ought to find somebody new to travel with, because he wasn't really the same man when he was on his own. After all, he would know.

The Doctor had initially tossed that idea aside. After what had happened to Donna? Was he mad? But after some thought... well, it was worth considering.

He thought about those children again for a moment, mucking about, oblivious to the escapades he'd gotten himself involved in.

Yes, he thought. Somebody else would be nice.

He patted the doors of his ship fondly. 'Just you and me again, old girl,' he said. 'Still... probably find someone worth talking to soon.'

The TARDIS hummed in response.

He smiled. 'Ah, you know I love you really. Tell you what, you can pick where we go next. Just hit random shuffle, eh? Lucky dip.'

Then, with a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching, he opened the doors and stepped inside. Where to next? He wondered again. Let's try... the future.

Liz Strider was not an immaculate student by any means, but she was highly respected by student and teacher alike. She'd been attending London's top university for some months now, and she was only recently starting to get used to the place. Her dorm just off campus was cosy but it wasn't home, and the university wasn't as friendly as college, or as sweet and simple as high school. It was the sheer scale of the place that got to her.

But she had friends, definitely, and she got along fairly well with most of the teachers. So that was all right then. Through all intents and purposes, she was coping. On the surface, she was a studious, cheerful, popular young woman, destined to do very well in whatever field of work she chose.

Inwardly, she was craving something more. She couldn't place it, what was wrong, what was missing. Just a niggling, unnameable something.

The bell rang, signalling her next lecture, and Liz hurriedly shrugged off the feeling. She needed to focus, especially today. Today was Psychology, her favourite subject. She jammed a bookmark into The Reckoning and scampered off to lesson, bag thumping against her side.

She arrived only just in time, and narrowly escaped a sour look from Mr Howard, who lectured them for Psychology. Most of the seats had already been taken, but Liz quickly found a place in the second row, anxious to be near the front so she could hear and see everything. Beside her, several students were chattering excitedly together about something, and making petty comments about somebody or other that she was too uninterested to listen to. She retrieved her notebook and quickly scribbled down the title on the whiteboard.

'Today,' Mr Howard announced, with a subtle, teacherly kind of glee, 'we are going to discuss the criminal justice system. Why do people commit crimes? Why do we hear far more of male criminals than female? Do prisons work? These are all questions we are going to ask today.'

A few people groaned, already bored, but most people, including Liz, were actually very interested in this sort of thing, and paid close attention. About halfway through it turned into a spectacular debate, half the room (mostly the girls) putting forward ideas for more "equal" prison landscapes and rules, and the other half arguing for "tougher" prisons. Liz didn't know where she stood in this respect. She always seemed to be in agreement with whoever happened to be speaking at the time. There really were no right answers. It was very frustrating, but very enlightening, too.

Then Mr Howard announced that they should now put themselves into small groups and discuss the fors and againsts of keeping criminals of a more "serious" nature - serial killers and such - separate from petty thieves and those who regularly got into drunken fights. At that point, Liz withdrew. She'd never liked group activities of any sort. She always managed to get pushed out of whatever was going on. She preferred to work alone. Around her, her classmates swapped seats and leaned across their chairs to work in their friendship groups. Liz stayed where she was, huddled over her notebook and going over everything in her mind. She simply couldn't decide on a yes or no answer. Both had their disadvantages.

Seems only fair to give them cellmates, so they don't go stir-crazy... but then most people just re-offend when they're released anyway. So you ought to keep them separate, to stop them swapping tips and getting aggressive with each other. Argh, no wonder the justice system's so inadequate, there's no way to make it okay for everyone!

'Elizabeth, whose group are you in?' Mr Howard asked, in a friendly enough manner, but Liz felt offended by the question. Plus, she hated people using her full name, but all teachers insisted on it.

'Er, no-one's, sir. I'm working by myself. It's okay, I don't mind.'

'Well I can't have two students working on their own. Why don't you two join up, go through it together?'

He was referring to the boy in the row just in front of her, who was sat alone and hadn't spoken so much as a syllable during the whole lecture. Liz had noticed, before, that nobody had sat any less than three seats away from him at any point, and that they all seemed to instinctively ignore him, as though he wasn't there. In fact, if Mr Howard hadn't pointed him out, she might not have noticed him at all, or thought him to be a ghost. He was effectively invisible, and it seemed to be a strain even on Mr Howard to pay some form to attention to him.

Liz felt an uneasiness in her stomach; partly to do with her fear of groupwork, and partly to do with the silent, broody boy in the front row. She swallowed, and played Good Girl. 'Yes, okay, sir.'

'Good. Now why don't you move down to sit nearer to each other, eh?'

When the boy didn't react, or even make a move to show that he'd heard the request, Liz hesitantly picked up her things and shuffled a little further down the row until she was sitting behind him. After that, it seemed that she was utterly alone but for him - everybody else had gathered elsewhere, carelessly but definitely avoiding him.

Liz stared at the back of his head, curious and nervous in equal measure. She'd never seen hair quite so dark or quite so curly before. It gathered on the boy's head in a permanant storm cloud - like in cartoons when a character is particularly miserable. The coat he wore was black as night; the collar turned up so that it was impossible to tell where the neck ended and he began. It felt very, very creepy.

She licked her dry lips, and tapped his shoulder gently. 'Um... hey. I'm supposed to be working with you, like sir said?' Her tone made it sound like an enquiry. 'So, um... what do you think?'

The only reply was a soft sigh and a slight inclination of one shoulder; not a shrug, not a shake or a nod of the head.

Someone across the way - Sally, probably - sniggered. 'Poor Lizzie's been put with the freak, look. Sir's overestimated her charisma, I think.'

'She'll get nothing out of him,' Danni added, with a bit more sympathy. 'Lord knows I've tried, but he's, like, not at all as nice as he looks.'

This merely succeeded in making Liz more angry, more determined to get some sort of response from this guy. She poked him again, harder. 'Come on, we're supposed to be discussing this. Discussing means talking, so tell me what you're thinking about this whole thing.'

'Indifferent.' There was no trace of irritation in the low, velvet voice, just a bland kind of emptiness. It was the sort of voice you couldn't help but listen to. He sounded incredibly bored by the whole thing. 'What happens inside the prisons doesn't make any impact on the rest of us, so why should we care? All that is clear is that it doesn't work, but there is no way to make it work effectively. End of story.'

It was the most Liz had heard him say in the whole year. It was the first time she'd heard him utter so much as a complete sentence. And yet, despite the lack of audible emotion, she could almost taste the tension hanging around him. End of story. Do not speak any more of it to me.

Normally, Liz would have taken that as the perfect moment to move away and do her own thing, but something about his self-aware, almost ego-centric manner infuriated her. She kept her head, and continued to speak, at him rather than to him, as if his opinion meant nothing to her anyway. 'Okay, well what about Class A to D prisons? Murderers in Class A, working through the ranks until they get to Class D and are released. That's what they do, apparently, so don't you think that might have some effect?'

At this point the boy whipped round to face her, a stern look on his face, and Liz struggled not to gasp aloud. Not just at the sudden movement, but his eyes... They were an icy blue-grey unlike anything she had ever seen. They seemed to pierce her, taking in every single little detail. They flickered up and down her in a split-second, and then returned to her face, gaze sharp. 'What do you think, Elizabeth?'

Liz was startled; too dumb-struck for a moment to correct him on using her full name. 'Um, well, I... I'm not sure what I think. I'd like to say that a lot of criminals change their ways after prison - I would, it sounds awful - but they seem to be the exception to the rule. It just seems like they repeat the same test, in which they are told the right answers. If you can say "I promise not to do it ever again" enough times, they let you go. Sounds cynical, but I don't know. My mind's all over the place with this one.'

The boy smirked, humourlessly. 'So we both have no opinion. There is nothing to discuss.' And he turned round to face the front again, folding his arms childishly as if to say "and that is the end of it".

Liz was so astounded by his rudeness that she did indeed just leave that at that. She scuttled crossly back to her seat and wouldn't look at him again for the entire lecture. The rest of the time was taken up by Mr Howard telling them all about different cases of serial killers and how they turned out, and there was some excitement brought up by the subject of psychopaths.

'Sounds like Sherlock right there,' somebody said, far too loudly to be a mere comment, and the boy at the front fidgeted a bit but otherwise did not react.

Besides that, the lecture went fairly smoothly, and by the time the bell went for dinnertime Liz was beginning to feel a bit less tense about what had happened. As soon as the bell rang the boy at the front was off, his coat flapping behind him, pulling his bag up after him and leaving the room at breakneck speed. Liz stared after him, stricken. That hadn't been because of her, had it? Or that flyaway comment?

Brushing the thought far from her mind, she scooped up her things, nodded a goodbye to Mr Howard, and fled to the canteen.

*

'So come on then, spill!' Danni cried the moment she sat down, tray of fish and chips clattering on the tabletop. 'What's he like? What'd he say to you?'

'W-what?' Liz was halfway through a mouthful of chicken and rice, and almost choked on it in surprise. 'Who? What are you on about?'

'Sherlock Holmes!' Danni's blue eyes were wide and twinkling with mischief. 'That boy in the lecture just now. What did he say to you? Did he tell you to piss off? Or did you tell him first?'

'Oh!' Sherlock Holmes. So that was his name? 'No, but I kind of wanted to by the end. He's perfectly horrible. He didn't seem to care about what he was listening to - and certainly wasn't the least bit interested in anything anyone had to say. I wonder how the teachers can stand him. I mean, I only spoke to him for a second, but... he's just... hateful.'

Becki stole one of Danni's chips with her fork, waving it around dramatically as she spoke. 'Don't take it personally, Liz. He's like that with everyone. He just seems to not like people in general. I've got him in all my Science lessons - he's a whiz at it, but you should've seen him in Biology. The way he was treating the sheep's eyes... ugh! Miss had to tell him off for putting them over the Bunsen burners. I mean, why would you do that?' She crammed the chip in her mouth, adding with her mouth full, '"It was just an experiment," he said. He's a creep.'

'I think he's gay, myself,' Danni murmured. 'Been trying to talk to him for weeks, but he just looks right through me. Completely uninterested. At least he actually talks around the guys.'

'Nobody's interested in you, Dan. You're ugly,' Becki teased, flicking a pea at her friend.

'And you're a bitch,' Danni retorted, giggling. 'Either way, he's a dick, but he's still pretty fit - am I right or am I right?'

Liz scoffed. 'Whatever you say. I'm not into bad boys. I don't really care, to be honest. He's horrible, and that's all I need to know.'

They didn't talk about Sherlock Holmes any more that dinnertime. At least, not until the last ten minutes of so of break, at which point the subject turned suddenly back round to him again.

It happened because the girls wandered into the library to look up their respective subjects, and Liz stiffened when she saw that the boy in question was there too, scrutinising a Chemistry textbook closely.

Danni spotted him too, and pulled her aside. 'Ignore him. Read your novel or something, pretend he's not there.' She picked up the latest issue of Closer and flicked it open.

Liz tried hard to do so, but for some reason Edgar Allan Poe just couldn't hold her attention today. She kept glancing up at Sherlock Holmes nervously, as if afraid that he would suddenly jump up and decide he was going to set the room alight to see what colour the flames were. She couldn't quite put that past him.

And then one of the younger boys approached him and asked him a question. Liz couldn't hear what was said, but Sherlock groaned and then muttered something long-winded in reply, to which the younger boy paled and then laughed hysterically and scurried back to his mates, who were falling about with laughter. Liz narrowed her eyes at them, but couldn't determine what the joke was.

'What are they...?' But she didn't need to finish her question.

'They say Sherlock Holmes can tell you your whole life story at a glance,' Becki said, without looking up. She pushed her glasses back up onto her sharp nose, accentuating her spatter of freckles. 'Without having any prior knowledge. It's made him famous here, or infamous as the case may be. He can even tell you who you slept with last week, or so I hear.'

'Pity he's not in any of my lectures, or I'd be asking him after everyone on campus,' Danni grinned. 'But somehow I don't think Drama or Music are really his sort of thing, you know?'

'Too right,' Liz murmured, casting another side-long glance at Sherlock. Curled up in one of the chairs, coat still on despite the heat, she could see now how shockingly thin he was, and yet how well-built too. He was quite tall, taller than most of the other students, and his lean frame made him appear even taller. He probably got into a lot of fights. And won them all.

She was curious, though, about this supposed ability. Surely nobody was that clever? There weren't really people like Poirot and Dupin in existence, were there?

She'd insisted that she wasn't interested, that she wasn't planning to go anywhere near him for the rest of her days. But after hearing a thing like that... she couldn't not jump at the chance. And so she determined that the very next time she saw him, she was going to ask him to tell her everything he could figure out about her. Only after that, and her curiosity had been satisfied, would she be more than happy to stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as the rest of her peers seemed to deem acceptable.

*

The next morning, Liz left the dorm much earlier than usual, on the excuse that she had urgent homework to be done. Danni and Becki had exchanged smiling glances and allowed her to get away with it. She hadn't told them of her plan - she wanted to be absolutely sure that no-one told him anything about her beforehand. She was going to be more than a little disappointed if it all turned out to be a trick.

Stupidly, she was also going to be disappointed when this Sherlock character couldn't tell her anything that wasn't incredibly obvious. Like that she was right-handed or something. But then, hadn't she always had a problem with setting her hopes too high? Great, she cursed herself bitterly. You've set yourself up for nothing.

She'd even prepared herself beforehand, to try and catch him out. She'd put on make-up for once - lipstick, mascara and blush - parted her hair differently, rolled her sleeves up. She hated looking like that, but it would all easily be fixed in the girls' bathrooms later.

If she ever got this thing over with, that is.

She looked for him for half an hour, searching all the likeliest places: the library, the science labs, the computer suites. The creepy guy was nowhere to be found. Liz stomped back out into the main corridor, frustrated with herself, with him, with what she was doing. Why couldn't she just leave well enough alone? She cast her eyes down all the side corridors furtively, like a predator.

Maybe he just materialises in lessons and otherwise doesn't exist at all. Hovering in the ground, waiting to pop up and scare the living daylights out of-

'OOF!' The sound uncontrollably left her lips as her body made sharp contact with the sharper form of Sherlock Holmes, who had appeared somehow from one of the classrooms. 'God. Sorry. You scared me.'

'Evidently.' He didn't seem quite as affected by the bump as she was, but then he was stronger, and fitter, and armoured by that ominous black coat. 'A little early, aren't you? What are you doing? And don't say homework because that's obviously a lie considering where we are currently standing.'

Liz was heavily disconcerted by the way his gaze lingered on her, scanning her feverishly for something. She was also shocked by how rude he was continuing to be.

Sooner this is over and done with, the better.

'Why don't you tell me?' she challenged, not even trying to keep the venom out of her voice. 'They say you can read faces. If you're that clever, you should just be able to... see what you need to know.'

The boy didn't say anything for a long time, continuing to just watch her furtively, like a curious animal. The longer he stared at her, the more Liz began to feel very awkward, even a bit self-conscious. His expression was completely level; impossible to figure out. Only now did she notice his high, sharp cheekbones - she could have cut herself punching that face. And the way he looked at her... not a flicker of emotion, not a blink, not a waver.

She swallowed, suddenly nervous. This boy was stronger and taller than her, a year or maybe two older, and frankly was a bit frightening. Maybe if she just walked away now before she spooked him...

'Strange,' he said suddenly, in that idiosyncratic baritone purr, and she jumped, startled. 'You're not like the others.'

'What? How... How do you mean?'

'You're frightened of me, but only because of my physical form. Most people just discern me a... freak...' he hissed the word like it was filthy, 'because of my superior intellect. You're just worried I might pull a knife on you because of my coat.'

'Not exactly bashful, are you?' Liz murmured, and then shook her head. 'How did you know what I was thinking just then? I mean, about the knife. That was pretty much my exact thought in that very moment you said it.'

'I followed your eyeline.' Sherlock sighed, as if this conversation were tedious. 'So simple even you could do it. It's nice, though.'

Liz stared at him, lost. 'Sorry, what's nice?'

'To face a different sort of prejudice. It's not often my appearance means more than my reputation these days. I'm not sure whether I prefer it.'

And with that, he swept past her on his way to wherever he was headed, and it took Liz a few moments to remember what she had come all this way for. 'Hey, wait!' she shouted after him, and after a moment he sighed again, and turned back to her.

'What is it?'

'Is it true?'

'Is what true?' It looked like he already knew the answer.

'What they say about you around here. What you can do.'

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, as if begging it to fall in on him. 'You want to know whether I can read your life in your face.'

Liz wasn't sure if he meant it as a query or as a statement, so she just nodded. 'Unless it's too much trouble,' she said, curtly.

There was a slight pause, then: 'Try me first.'

'Excuse me?'

'I'm curious.' Sherlock smirked, and held out his arms. His coat flapped like a cape taunting a bull. 'Look at me, Elizabeth Strider - the girl who's never seen me before - and tell me what you see.'

'I see tall, dark and ignorant.'

'No, what do you see?' he commanded, ignoring this remark.

Groaning inwardly, Liz decided that the best way to co-ordinate with this weirdo was to go along with his game. She gave him the once-over. Twice-over. What was she meant to be looking for?

She shrugged, irritated. 'Right-handed, maybe. Socially secluded. Still toying with ignorant.'

'You guessed those things.'

'But I'm right, aren't I? Especially about the ignorant.'

Sherlock Holmes tilted his head to one side, in a look that stated do you really think so. Liz bristled, and took an involuntary step back as he approached her.

'Alright,' he said smoothly. 'Now it's my turn.'

Liz bit her lip, and stood her ground. This had better be good.

He took a deep breath, and then, eyes closed, announced the following in one complete breath. 'You're right-handed, suffer from inexorable insomnia, and you're looking to enter either forensics or police work despite your step-father's wishes - he'd prefer you to be a lawyer like him - but he's not really all that bothered because clearly he dotes on you, and your friends want you to go on a diet with them but I wouldn't listen to them, you're perfectly healthy.'

Liz's mouth dropped open. She gaped like a drowning fish for a moment before hastily recollecting herself. Sherlock simply rolled his grey-blue eyes, obviously used to this sort of response.

'How... on earth... could you know all that from my face?'

'The same way I know that your mother's a vegetarian and that you put all that make-up on just to test me. Straighten yourself out for God's sake; only fifteen minutes left until first lesson.' And with a swish of his coat, he turned and strode quickly away, without once looking back. Suddenly Liz felt utterly alone in the world, as though he'd taken her energy, her thoughts, along with him. Her heart was pounding.

He had been right. On every count.

She'd never told anyone that her mum was a vegetarian. Or that her step-dad was a lawyer. She just hadn't found the time. So how could he possibly know?

Mind racing, she made her way to the nearest bathroom. She needed to get all that muck off her face. Once inside and clean she glared at her reflection, trying to find anything that could have somehow given any information of that sort away. But it was impossible.

Liz leaned back against the door, breathing heavy and face still dripping softly with tap water. She glanced up once more into the mirror. All she saw was a young girl with flowing dark hair and fierce, frightened eyes. Just an ordinary girl. A stranger in her own skin.

This strange, manic... freakish boy had managed to read her life like one of her novels. Just like Becki had said. But had it satisfied her curiosity? Not one bit.

She wanted answers.