"Come through Mrs. Holmes and I'll show you around. This is the room for the 3-4 year olds"
Mrs. Holmes stepped through the door, her little boy trailing behind, clutching her hand. An older boy who could only have been about 7 or 8, but seemed to think himself much older, trailed still further behind, screwing up his face at all the little shriekers and screamers who ran round the brightly colored room of the daycare centre. The little boy tugged at a ringlet of his dark head of whorls and curls, a nervous habit he'd picked up lately. All the other children were dressed in uproariously bright colors, dungarees and cartoon t-shirts. He felt out of place in his small button up shirt and dark denim pants. One of the other boys had rubber shoes that lit up as he ran. The dark haired boy suddenly hated his black lace-ups.
"Sherlock darling, go and play for a bit while Mother talks to the nice lady" his mother gently pushed him forward and he was swept up into the throng. Mycroft amused himself by going over to wear some children where writing and correcting their mistakes, something he loved to do with Sherlock.

Somehow Sherlock found himself standing at the edge of the sandpit, just watching the other children play. Those bright orange dump-trucks did look exciting. He was just mustering up the courage to go over and ask to join in when two bigger boys rushed out of the sandpit, chasing each other. They knocked Sherlock so that he tumbled off the edge and landed smack on the concrete. He bumped his head and grazed his palms so they began to delicately bleed. He was about to cry out for his mother, for Mycroft for anybody when, with patter of plimsols on concrete, someone was beside him. He looked up to see another boy, shorter than him, hair short and sandy blonde, dressed in a camouflage t-shirt and khaki shorts, leaning over him with concern in his eyes.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and winced.
"C'mon. I'll help you"
The boy took his arm and pulled him to his feet. Despite of his shorter stature, the authority he assumed felt natural. He led Sherlock back inside to the art sink and had him sit on one of the plastic chairs. With the ease that suggested frequent practice, he dragged a chair over to the sink, hopped up and wet one of the flannels that lay aside for hand wiping after meal times. He hopped down and hurried back to Sherlock's side. Other children would have just haphazardly swiped at the mess, or been scared by the sight of blood. Not this boy. He daubed gently, clearing the grit out the small lacerations on Sherlock's palm and whispered words of comfort when he winced. He even applied a thin layer of antiseptic cream.
"Plasters just fall off hands" he informed Sherlock, hurrying back up on his chair to fetch a first aid kit "So we has to banage it instead" Despite of his difficulty with pronouns or clear enunciation, the boy was a deft bandager. He wrapped Sherlock's hands tight but not too tight, securing it with tape. Sherlock sat quietly the entire time just watching this boy flit about him, tenderly applying his ministrations.
"Any otha' owwies?"
Sherlock was unsure what "oowies" were but reflexively touched the tender part where his head had been hurt. The boy hurried to it, inspecting it and announcing. "You gots a lump. You needs a icepack"
this he also secured in no time, holding it to Sherlock's head. He was still holding it there when Sherlock's mother emerged from her conversation.
"Sherlock! What happened?!" She and the teacher rushed over, Mrs. Holmes sweeping Sherlock into her arms.
"He fell down. He hurted his hands and banged his head. I cleaned and banaged him and gave him a icepack" the boy informed them.
"Ah John our little paramedic. His uncle's a doctor so he's always rushing around, taking care of people"
Mrs. Holmes didn't give a fig who the boy's uncle was but Sherlock was listening to the teacher intently (a first for him). So the boy's name was John. John was nice. He liked John.
"Oh Sherlock when will you be more careful! You could have concussed yourself"
"No concussion" John informed her. "I checked. He ok. Just bump"
"Thank you but I think I'll get an actual doctor's opinion on that. Come along Mycroft we're going!"
She blustered out, Mycroft following readily after. Sherlock raised a hand to John as he was carried out the door. John grinned and waved back. When they were gone the teacher bent down and took John in her arms.
"Well Johnnie boy. I don't think they're going to be back anytime soon. Shall we go and play with the toy soldiers?"

Needless to say, the doctor at the emergency clinic also concluded Sherlock was concussion free and even applauded the care that had been taken with the cuts on his hands. Sherlock remembered the occurrence for a few days after until Mycroft began to teach him how to deduce and it was deleted along with a whole raft of things in an effort to make room for the meaning of wrinkles in clothes and similar things. He would never make the mistake of deleting John again.