The Secret of Sherlock Holmes

I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I did my research.

"Why do you want to go to the library, again?" asked a rather annoyed sixteen-year-old Mycroft, his question directed toward the back of the car, where his little brother sat quietly.

"I need to do some research on psychology." was the short answer Mycroft Holmes received, but he was used to that by now.

"Okay, call me when you want to be picked up." Mycroft said, sighing. Sherlock jumped out of the car, a small backpack around his shoulders, and walked into the extensive library that he was lucky to have a card for.

"May I help you, dear?" a kind old woman's voice spoke from behind him. he was startled, but didn't show it. He turned around and deduced that her husband was having an affair with her sister. Poor old lady.

"No, thank you." answered Sherlock carefully, for he didn't want to be rude. She walked off to some other part of the library, and he strode to the psychology section, and got to work.

He didn't realize it, but he had spent four hours on the research already, and the library was closing any second. He looked up when the lights were shut off. "Hey. . ." He muttered but noticed what happened quickly and pulled a small black headlamp that he had nicked off of Mycroft out of his backpack along with a sandwich.

"Did you decide to stay the night, too?" A girl's voice that sounded about his age chirped from behind him after about a half-hour. He DID jump that time, and whirled around. He saw exactly what he was expecting, a fairly pretty girl about his age. She had snarly brown hair and light green eyes, but she was wearing contacts and was near-sighted. She was deducing him, and she was allergic to cats. Wait, what? She was deducing him?

"So you can deduce, too? That's why I don't have friends, people think I'm too much of a freak." She whispered sadly. "You're not a freak, you're a high-functioning sociopath, just like me. I did all the research." He defended quickly, puzzled at why he felt sad when she called herself a freak.

"Really? That's why I stayed in the library, though I guess I wasn't reading the right books. My name's Charlotte Millers, what's yours?" She smiled, happy again. "My name is William Holmes, though I prefer being called Sherlock." Sherlock muttered, and just like that, all thoughts about research vanished. They spent the rest of the night talking, the last thread of conversation being a sleepy "Will you be my friend?" and the answer being a yawn and a tired "Of course."