Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4156596.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Harry_Watson, Greg
      Lestrade, Molly_Hooper, Sally_Donovan, Anderson_(Sherlock), Sarah_Sawyer,
      John_Watson's_Parents, Sherlock_Holmes'_Parents, Original_Characters, OC
      -_Character, Victor_Trevor, Mrs._Hudson
  Additional Tags:
      Johnlock_-_Freeform, Kidlock, Teenlock, Unilock, AU, POV_Alternating,
      Fluff, Slow_Burn, Romance, Angst, Unspoken_stuff, Family_Drama, Bullying,
      Grinding, Frotting, Sexual_Tension, Oral_Sex, Rimming, Fingering, Anal,
      switchlock, Virginity
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-18 Completed: 2016-02-14 Chapters: 16/16 Words: 68390
****** First and Only ******
by crimsonwinter
Summary
     Sherlock and John have been inseparable since birth, working through
     life as neighborhood best friends, attached at the hip.
     Unfortunately, reality can break up even the closest of us, and John
     and Sherlock struggle through all that growing up entails. But first
     loves are unforgettable, and the boys come to realize that their love
     is the first and only they'll ever have.
Notes
     Okay, there's going to be a lot of notes for this one.

     First of all, I'm aware that writing kidlock that ends in smut can be
     awkward, but I promise to steer the atmosphere and situations as far
     from creepy as I can. That being said, puberty's a thing, and all
     sexual tension and interaction as an effect are purely in hopes of
     being realistic.

     Also, I did a lot of research for this fic: the complex town
     structures of England, the school system, and everything in between.
     But I did take some creative liberties, seeing as I'm American, so
     please be patient if some of the geography or school lingo is off.
     And lastly, I know Sherlock was born in January, but since this is an
     age-bent AU, he's a June baby instead :)
     P.S. Someone sent me this music video/song and told me that it
     reminded them of this fic. It's ridiculously perfect and I died
     10,000 deaths. ToT
     ~follow my blog for updates and more johnlock~
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Prologue *****
Chapter Summary
     Perhaps, Mrs Watson thought, serious good could come from this
     strange supermarket interaction.
Elizabeth Watson meandered through the aisles, left hand on her round belly,
right clasping a shopping basket. Her grey eyes flicked from brand to brand,
wondering which pickled turnips would satisfy her cravings the best. Irritated
and sore, she'd been perusing the store for much too long, picky about crisps
and fruit. Fortunately, her husband decided to stay in and watch the game, so
she had a bit of freedom in shopping for groceries. 
She shuffled her weary feet against the linoleum and hummed along to the
overplayed 70's pop that echoed, static and basic, through the store. The music
faded as she reached out for a jar, another song coming in right on top of it.
"Oh, not this one!" She laughed to herself, throwing her head back.
"A bit outdated, isn't it?" A pleasant, warm voice beside her chimed.
Looking towards it, the soon-to-be mother found that the voice belonged to a
stunning woman with high cheekbones and startling blue eyes. The woman smiled
kindly and flicked a brunette curl from her cheek.
"Last time I heard this song was when I was just recently out of school.
Everyone always joked around, singing along poorly, no matter when it came on."
The woman holding the pickled turnips hummed, "My brother played it at my
wedding. Everyone groaned but danced wildly just the same."
Something in the woman's face went soft as she turned her body towards
Elizabeth and reached out her hand. "Victoria," she offered. Her eyes dropped
to Elizabeth's stomach. "When are you due?"
It then hit Mrs Watson that Victoria was pregnant as well, round belly
stretching her purple blouse. After placing the turnips in her basket,
Elizabeth rose her eyes back to the woman's face and shook her hand. It was
thin and delicate, a sparkling diamond ring on her left hand. "Late March,
early April. You?"
"June."
"Ah," Elizabeth crossed her ankles. "A summer baby. That'll be nice."
"Mm, yes. Myc was born in October, so he's more glad than me. Won't have to
share his birthday month." Victoria traced a finger over a row of pickled
peppers as she said, "This one your first?" 
Elizabeth was quite taken with this woman's forward but gentle nature. It was a
welcome change in comparison to the skepticism her friends and relatives gave
her.
"Yes." She tried not to sound nervous.
"You'll be fine. You have strong hips."
The blonde chuckled timidly. She looked away, if not for the intensity of
Victoria's stare then for the brashness of her observations.
Victoria spoke again, "It's not so bad." She leaned in, as if to tell a secret,
"Not as gruesome as the movies make it. Just feels like you've got to use the
loo."
"Well," Elizabeth breathed, "That's a relief. Unless you're lying." 
Feeding off the teasing energy, the woman raised her hands defensively, "I'm
not! What could I possibly gain from that?"
Shrugging, Elizabeth felt herself smile again. It was nice, how easy it was to
talk to her, and they'd only just met. There was a comfortable moment of
silence as they scuffled about the aisle. Elizabeth watched at how gracefully
the woman moved, placing a few jars in her own basket with a jingle of her
silver bracelets. Realizing she hadn't introduced herself, the younger woman
broke the silence. "I'm Elizabeth, by the way. Sorry. ...You craving pickled
vegetables as well?"
"Oh no, I want chocolate. My son, Mycroft, likes pickled peppers. He's a
strange one." She said the last bit with a fond smile, and Elizabeth could tell
that she loved her son very much.
"How old is he?"
"Eight. Don't know how he'll react when this one comes," she placed a hand on
her stomach and beamed as mothers often do. "He's smart, so I know he'll take
care of the baby, but he has a tendency to pout when he's not given enough
attention."
"Sounds like my husband."
Victoria chuckled. "You guys live in the area? I haven't seen you, and I know
absolutely everyone around here."
The store loudspeaker crackled about a spill in aisle six as Elizabeth shuffled
again and said, "George and I are looking for a house now. Can't live in an
apartment anymore. Was told this might be a nice place."
"Oh, it is!" Victoria's eyes lit up, "The Fens are a great place to raise a
child, especially if you want to get away from the city. It's all natural and
heavy in agriculture. The towns are nice, and there's plenty of open space for
the kids to play. We have our own property with a small clearing behind the
house. What type of place are you thinking of?"
"Just something bigger. Not too expensive, I mean…"
The brunette swallowed awkwardly. Her pampered curls and pretty bracelets
didn't match Elizabeth's undone hair and pajama pants, although anyone carrying
a child would opt for comfort instead of style. Victoria was perceptive,
though, and had figured that Elizabeth might not be as well off as herself.
That didn't stifle her kindness, however. "Of course. You know, there's a house
that's being sold in my neighborhood, and it might be a good fit. Not assuming
anything, obviously, but it's a thought."
The women, seemingly content with their selections, unconsciously began walking
together as Elizabeth Watson contemplated the proposal. "You think it could
work?"
"I think so. It's a nice, quiet neighborhood and there's a school within
walking distance."
"That sounds lovely. I'll talk to my husband, thank you." Elizabeth looked
about the store as they walked. 
Something resembling complete support and kindness between them went unsaid.
Victoria did not need to speak to her as she shopped, and she especially did
not have to assure her of impending motherhood or offer her a place to move in.
But she did, and Elizabeth was so relieved for any extra help she could get.
She was a bit young to be starting a family, so any older mother with kind eyes
was a Godsend. Elizabeth felt safe around her, as silly as that was. The
woman's slender face beamed with acceptance and love, instead of the snotty
condescension someone with that much beauty could potentially wield. 
Elizabeth thought all this to herself, of course, as they exited the aisle and
moved onto another. The shelves were packed with pasta and other instant meals
of various colors, and Elizabeth wondered if she should come back and pick one
up for dinner. 
She probably would, but she had a question first. "Victoria," she said. "If
this is Wisbech, what's the Fens?"
Raising her chin to answer, the other mother looked out one of the store
windows and into the street. "They call this area, the district, the Fens. Or
the Fenlands. Wisbech is the town, second largest town in Cambridgeshire, which
is part of the region of East Anglia. I can see how it'd be confusing. Where
have you come from?"
"Brent. It's been quite a journey. My brother in law recommended this area, he
said it'd be a change from the city, but we got a bit lost in direction. We're
staying in a motel at the moment." The more she talked about it, Elizabeth
found, the sadder it sounded. She wanted a home, somewhere to settle down.
"Well, come check out the house in my neighborhood. It'd be nice to have a new
mother around, and who knows, maybe the little ones can be friends." She said
it with such certainty and tenderness that Mrs Watson already felt it to be
true.
"Maybe so," she replied, looking down at her stomach.
Elizabeth Watson knew that she'd do anything to make life for her child as
pleasant as she could. With her husband's temper and their lack of wealth, she
worried the baby might not get every opportunity to be happy. Fortunately, the
woman she'd just met turned her kind eyes and soft voice towards her and
assured her that really, it wouldn't be so bad. Victoria had made her feel more
welcome to the realm of motherhood than any of her other friends, and only in a
bit of small talk. 
Perhaps, Mrs Watson thought, serious good could come from this strange
supermarket interaction. Victoria was kind and helpful, and Elizabeth had
already placed her trust in her. She'd been offered the perfect place to
settle, and if it worked out, her child would grow up in a small town in rural
England with a neighbor his or her age to befriend. Elizabeth hoped it'd work.
It was a nice thought.
 
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     It was a silly friendship, but the mothers knew it'd be a great one.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Two weeks after meeting Victoria Holmes, the Watsons moved into the house
they'd been recommended. George Watson had readily agreed, considering he was
impatient and tired of looking for housing. While her husband didn't actively
stymie the move-in process, Elizabeth found Charles, Victoria's husband, much
more helpful. She would have been happy to do the heavy lifting herself, but
her neighbors firmly directed her elsewhere. 
Elsewhere, apparently, was touring the neighborhood. Elizabeth pulled on her
walking shoes and a sunhat and, with Victoria at her side, wandered along
Thomas street. She had explored a bit when checking out the house, but she
hadn't had the time nor the patience to admire the neighborhood fully, so she
gladly took the opportunity.
As the furniture found its angles and the carpets uncurled themselves, the
women toured the area, Mrs Holmes whispering embarrassing secrets about her
neighbors to Mrs Watson. 
Just as predicted, Mrs Watson found that she liked the neighborhood very much.
It consisted of one long, quiet road, at the top of which was the Holmes
residence. The smell of damp earth hung in the air, and almost all of the
mismatching houses along the street had gardens in the back or vines wrapping
'round their structures. The mailboxes were colorful and most seemed to be
painted by hand. The houses varied in size and structure, some with rope swings
in the yard and others with porches, wicker chairs and tables adorning them
pleasantly. Elizabeth admired them individually as they went, although the
street eventually sloped up and towards the Holmes estate.
Victoria's home was large and grand, with curved designs on the bannisters of
the front steps. The many tinted windows kept the house mysterious, although
anyone could guess the interior was just as beautiful. Naturally, it was. 
Creamy vases sat empty atop mahogany dressers, and paintings of fruit and
bridges adorned the wallpapered hallways. The solid doors to the many rooms
remained closed, their knockers and doorknobs glistening from dusty sunbeams
that streamed in and cast an angelic glow in the foyer. A large staircase sat
in the center, splitting into two as it climbed towards the second story.
Elizabeth was in awe as she admired it, and her friend had to nudge her arm to
bring her back. Flushing with embarrassment, the young woman apologized and
stumbled over her words.
"It's just so… big," she struggled.
Chuckling warmly as she often did, Victoria brought an arm around Elizabeth's
waist and responded, "It's not too much?"
"No, no! It's… fantastic."
The woman of the house beamed, high cheeks glowing pink. She turned her
attention back to her home, brown braid swinging between her narrow shoulders
as she went. 
While the house was indeed stylish and founded from wealth, the atmosphere was
anything but pretentious. It was loving and magnificent, like the Holmes couple
themselves, and Elizabeth knew the patterned walls kept many cherished
memories. She also knew there would be endless others once their children were
born.
Leading her through the house, Victoria brought Elizabeth to the back, where
the stretch of land she'd mentioned before lay out like a jade dish, afternoon
sun peaking over the horizon. The grassy plain looked soft and fresh, and
Victoria told Elizabeth that the low, stooping trees that lined the property
gave way to a marsh. Eyes wide and heart thrumming, Elizabeth could see her
child running through the cool shade of the trees, playing happily in the
privacy of the property.
Brimming with hope for her family's future, Elizabeth sighed happily as
Victoria walked her arm in arm out of her house and down the street, back to
her new home.
In contrast to the Holmes' mansion, the Watson's house was simple, a patchwork
of browns and tans with a front porch and shutters on the windows. The house
wasn't unattractive, but it definitely wasn't the best of the block. Mrs Holmes
must have sensed Mrs Watson's distress upon returning, because she leaned in
before releasing her to Mr Watson and told her that there is no shame in
anything she'd accomplished thus far. Her heart swelling with affection for the
woman, Elizabeth gave her one final smile and mouthed her thanks.
"We'll check in tomorrow to make sure you're all settled," Victoria Holmes
proposed as she smoothed her cerulean sundress over her round belly. Then she
was gone, out the door and back to walking up the street, leaving Elizabeth to
look fondly towards the mansion's silhouette at the end of the road.
"You two seem to be getting along," her husband appeared then, pressing a
chaste kiss to her cheek. 
"Of course, she was the one who invited us here."
"Well, I'm glad. We could use a good friend."
Elizabeth agreed. Victoria's friendship had brought her everything she'd
wanted: a lovely place to live, someone to spend time with, and even a friend
for her baby. 
Mrs Watson yawned as the fuzzy edges of sleep crept in. She embraced her
husband and kissed him before disappearing into her unfamiliar bedroom. It had
been a wonderful day, Elizabeth decided, and for the first time in a long time,
she knew the next day would be just as good.
===============================================================================
Over the next few weeks, Victoria and Elizabeth were nearly inseparable.
Neither of them decided to work while pregnant, so they had time to explore the
town when they felt like fresh air and sit around on the mansion's settees with
strawberries when they didn't. Victoria, sweet person that she was, offered
some of her old maternity clothes, as well as a few pretty things to Elizabeth
for when she regained her figure. Shocked at her kindness, Elizabeth accepted
them graciously, but Victoria swore it was no trouble at all. 
The difference in age and wealth between them was irrelevant; they rivaled
teenage girls in compatibility. They talked about their childhoods, their
husbands, and the futures they hoped for their children. Conversation was easy
and light, although anything dark was listened to with soft eyes and an
empathetic heart. Elizabeth opened up about her previous bad relationships, and
Victoria confessed to having a miscarriage the first time she was pregnant. 
The women became each other's sole crutch, especially as they sunk deeper into
their trimesters. Along with cramps and cravings came affectionate nicknames,
and Vic and Liz were happy.
George and Charles didn't get along as well as their wives, but they tried as
best they could to humor them by spending some time together.
The four of them were a strange little family of sorts, waiting out the next
few months in anticipation. The same could be said for Mycroft, although he
mostly preoccupied himself with school and hid away in his room when the
Watsons were over.
Then, after weeks of excited phone calls and visits, Elizabeth went into labor.
John Watson was born March 31st at three in the afternoon. He was pink in the
face and fragile, but Elizabeth loved him fiercely. The nurse that assisted Mrs
Watson told her that she'd never seen such wise eyes on a newborn.
Three months later, at four in the morning, Sherlock Holmes was born. That
sixth of June, Victoria let her love for Mycroft expand to envelope his little
brother as she held her new son in her arms. 
After Sherlock was born, the mothers took some time apart to care for their
sons, independently, wholly and totally absorbed in their newborns. Of course,
whenever they had the chance and could spare the company, they'd come together
in the nursery, the garden, or the sitting room and chat as their babies
slept. 
Sometimes Mycroft would appear and talk to Elizabeth shyly. When she let him,
he'd inspect John and prod at his stomach. He twitched a bit, but otherwise
remained soundly sleeping. Mycroft Holmes would then move onto the other babe,
who was drooling on his mother's chest. Mycroft breathed down on him, warm
breath fluffing his thin curls, before he'd wrinkle his nose and say that the
babies smelled weird. He then would disappear and only return when he was
feeling sentimental. 
He rarely held Sherlock in his arms, no matter how much his mother wanted him
to. When he did, though, it was so tender and so fragile, and his mother would
watch from around the corner, out of sight. She'd catch him speaking to
Sherlock softly, softly, promising him that he'll take care of him, that he'll
never let anyone hurt him. He'd never admit to doing this of course - he was a
stubborn kid. 
The months passed, John and Sherlock eating and spitting and growing, as is the
nature of babies.
Mrs Holmes compared Sherlock's growth to Mycroft's while Elizabeth compared
John's to her niece. Both of them worked together in raising their boys, and as
their sons began to reach out and open their eyes, they immediately set them
together and let him interact. 
The babies were curious of each other and reached out with small hands when
together, squirming and wriggling in a crib as Mrs Holmes and Mrs Watson took
their tea. Sometimes John would suck on his fingers and smear spittle on
Sherlock's forehead, which resulted in a bonk to the nose. It was a silly
friendship, but the mothers knew it'd be a great one.
Both had blue eyes, but John's gleamed slightly grey where Sherlock's often
glinted green. John took after his mother's light hair and small mouth, and
Sherlock developed dark curls and plump lips like Victoria. Both boys were so
pretty that George and Charles had to strain their eyes to see where their
resemblances lay. The women assured them that once the boys got older, they'd
adapt their father's traits. They laughed at the promise, even with the
possibility it might be untrue. The husbands accepted it with a grumble anyway
and left them alone once more.
Sherlock and John grew together, separate and different, but very much
connected. 
When John was two, his sister was born. Harriet was much more stubborn than
John in keeping Elizabeth up at night, but the mother was now well-versed in
how to raise a child, and did a fine job based on her experience with John. 
Unfortunately, as Harry grew, Elizabeth saw less of Victoria. It would have
been easy to stay in touch, considering they lived on the same block, but a
toddler and a child were more to handle than just John, and Elizabeth found her
hands tied. George was of little help, although he did spend some time with
John, bouncing him on his knee as he watched the game. Elizabeth was too tired
most nights to reprimand him, so she settled for what she could get.
It wasn't that her husband resented the children, of course not, she was sure
he loved them, but he was, like some men, still experimenting with fatherhood.
Sometimes he held Harry in one arm and had John in his lap, and sometimes he
let them cry and cry as he drank and ate cold leftovers. He talked to them when
he felt like it and put them to bed when he'd tired them out. 
Mr Watson had found work a few weeks after moving in, and while his job in a
hardware store couldn't necessarily compare to Elizabeth's dreams of opening a
bookshop, somebody had to work while the children grew, and for the moment, it
seemed he was it. 
Once Harriet got a bit older, Elizabeth hired a neighborhood teenage girl to
babysit as she took up a part-time job. She worked at a retirement home in a
quiet part of town, nursing the elderly with the same care that she took
nursing her children. She'd then come home, halfway through the day, and
cherish her actual children.
It was definitely difficult, Elizabeth found, but she was happy. Tired,
irritated, sore, missing her slimmer figure, but definitely happy.
However, she did feel bad for losing touch with the Holmes family. Visiting
them slipped her mind, and once she began working, pleasant afternoons with Vic
were impossible.
So another year passed, and when John was three, he began school. His mother
walked him all the way to Wesbich Academy, which luckily consisted of pre-
school, primary, and secondary school. It was almost unbelievable, scoring a
house so close to a popular school, but then again, so was thinking that all of
this happiness had come from one supermarket interaction.
Standing outside the school with John holding on tight, Elizabeth caught
herself looking for a flash of purple and dark, curly hair. 
The other children wobbled all over the place with their colorful shirts and
shoes, hiding behind their tired parents. One dad standing beside a tree met
her eyes, and Elizabeth offered a meek smile. He didn't seem to respond, if
he'd noticed at all, and her heart sank.
It flipped in surprise, however, when she felt warm, gentle compression on her
shoulder. Turning, Elizabeth found Vic's smiling face. Immediately she let go
of John and pulled her into a hug, which might have been too forward, if
Victoria hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand and embraced her back.
They exchanged apologies for losing touch, even as they crossed paths many
times, and after a bit of stumbling, they were back to normal. They chatted
away, listing off their complaints, hopes, and expectations for their sons'
first year.
Sherlock and John eyed each other shyly as their mothers talked. There was
something extremely familiar about the other, but both of them felt like this
was the first time they'd ever met. Of course, they were both three years old,
so the complex range of emotions may have been lost as they looked on, curious
but hiding behind their mothers' legs.
===============================================================================
Their mothers had pushed them into the classroom and sat with them all through
introduction. When they had to leave, they kissed John and Sherlock, told them
to stick together, and promised them that they would pick them up later that
day. The boys then were faced with each other for the first time in a long
time. Neither of them said anything, but they barely had a chance to, since
soon they were being ushered into a playroom by a smiley woman with pink lips. 
The classroom was colorful and peaceful, fresh lines of twine stretching across
the ceiling, waiting for new art to display. There were blocks of all shapes
and sizes, as well as toys and stuffed animals, neatly collected in the play
area. In the windows sat jars of colored water, glistening like liquid gems and
aligned in a rainbow pattern. John and Sherlock, while shy, took the sight in
with curious eyes, ignoring their teacher as they looked about. 
Consisting of ten children, a teacher, and an assistant teacher, the pre-school
buzzed with nervous energy but remained quiet as Ms Rachel outlined the
children's options. They could play until nap time and play more until snack
time. It wasn't a very demanding job, being a three year old, but there were
rules. 
While the children tittered with excitement at the newness, they understood
"being good" as their mothers had taught them. This meant washing their hands
after using the loo, respecting each other, and resisting the urge to smear
stickiness anywhere but a canvas or napkin. This last rule seemed a bit far-
fetched, but Ms Rachel said it all the same. 
After that, she let them explore, keeping a close eye on her half as her
assistant watched the other. 
Immediately, the other children wobbled over to the blocks and toys. John and
Sherlock were left sitting on the clock-faced carpet, wondering what on earth
they were meant to do. John, having some experience with communicating with
baby Harriet, offered the first hello. 
Sherlock was silent as he looked at the round face before him. Something was
definitely familiar about the eyes and lips, but everything was so new that he
didn't trust it. Instead, he responded in a meek hello and looked away shyly.
In the next few days, Sherlock and John did what their mothers told them to:
they stuck together. Maybe they didn't talk too much at first, and maybe they
should have interacted with the other boys and girls, develop a little coterie
of toddlers… But they just stayed together. When the other boys and girls drew,
they played with the blocks, and vice versa. Sometimes Sherlock would paint,
and when he did, John would watch him. When John would open up a picture book
and point, Sherlock was there, following along. They slept side by side during
nap time and always ate their crackers and apple slices in the same order.
They'd then go back to whatever they were doing, silently. 
Their mothers always picked them up at the same time every day, asking the same
question.
"And how was today?"
"Good."
Weeks passed like this, and every so often, John and Sherlock would say a
little more to each other. Sometimes it was, "Snack?" Other times it was
"Spider book." They communicated in their own little way, and while their
classmates were loud and grabby and excited, shouting for Ms Rachel's
attention, John and Sherlock just floated along. 
One day, Ms Rachel and Ms Tabitha approached John and Sherlock as they lay in a
pile of blankets, looking at pictures of dogs. 
"John, honey, Sherlock, sweetie, why are you all the way over here?" Ms
Rachel's sticky lipgloss smile said. 
The boys exchanged a glance. It should have been obvious. They wanted to be
over here. 
Neither of them responded. 
"Don't you boys want to play with the other children?" Ms Tabitha kneeled down,
glasses askew. 
Sherlock looked her right in the face and said nothing. John ignored them.
The teacher exchanged a look with her assistant before she said, as nicely as
she could, "You should meet the other children. They - "
"We don't want to," Sherlock interrupted.
"Er… Well, they want to meet you…"
"Why?" John snarked, flipping the page to reveal a bulldog.
"Because you're classmates! John, Sherlock, please just introduce yourselves or
I'll have to…"
Sherlock, for a three year old, had frighteningly intelligent eyes, and when he
turned them on his teacher, she had no choice but to look directly into them.
"They're boring."
"Now, that's not very nice…"
"I know." 
"Sherlock, please just say hello to Greg and Molly and Sally and Phillip - they
want to meet you."
"Why?" John asked again.
"Because they just do! Okay? Go over there right now."
"No." The boys said.
"No snack time if you don't."
"No."
"No toys, either!"
"No."
"I'll tell your mothers…."
Sherlock sighed dramatically, and John closed his book. "Fine."
They then both uncurled from the blankets and walked over to the other children
calmly. The boys approached with scowling faces, Sherlock's pudgy cheeks even
pudgier in a frown. His curly dark hair mismatched John's light tufts, and as
he stood just an inch or two above John, they complimented each other nicely.
Greg nudged the girls and Phillip to attention and clumsily wiped his chestnut-
colored bangs out of his eyes.
The Holmes boy spoke for them both. "I'm Sherlock. This is John. Hello.
Goodbye."
He then turned back around and walked across the small room and back to his
blanket cocoon, John on his heels. 
Ms Rachel and Ms Tabitha sighed and shook their heads.
At the end of that day, Ms Rachel held up Victoria and Elizabeth as Ms Tabitha
collected the little ones.
"Mrs Holmes, Mrs Watson, I'm worried your sons don't get along with the other
children."
Victoria crossed her arms, "They're just shy."
"No, I think they just aren't social."
Elizabeth mirrored her friend, "What's wrong with that?"
"Well, children need to be around other children to learn social skills. The
other children play with each other, in a group, but John and Sherlock just sit
off to the side."
"They have one another to play with," Victoria said. She'd watched this happen
with Mycroft, although he didn't have someone to hide with him. Honestly,
though, he turned out just fine.
"Codependency this young might not be so…"
Elizabeth Watson looked at the woman skeptically, "Don't you want our kids to
develop relationships?"
"Yes, but - "
"John and Sherlock have known each other all their lives," Victoria
interjected.
"Well, all right, but they just - "
"I really don't see how this is a problem. If our sons are shy and just want to
be together, that's not a bad thing." Mrs Watson looked at her companion. "Is
it, Vic?"
"I don't think so. If they open up in the future, great, but for now, they're
fine. Some kids are just different. Good day, Miss. We'll see you tomorrow."
And with that, the mothers turned, called their boys, and walked out, leaving
Ms Rachel at a loss for words.
On the way home, the mothers broached the subject with their sons. With John
and Sherlock in the middle, their mothers at their sides, they walked along the
quiet street.
Victoria squeezed her son's hand. "Sherlock, why don't you want to play with
the other children?" 
"Mycroft doesn't play with other children."
"Well, you're not your brother, now are you?"
"No."
"So why don't you want to?"
"I have John."
"Yes, that's true. You do have John."
Sherlock smiled at his friend, who smiled back openly. It was easier, when they
were like this, than when they were around the other kids. It just felt
different. Safer.
Elizabeth looked up at the sky, where silver clouds floated sweetly on the grey
horizon. She then looked back down at her son, who she found had clasped
Sherlock's hand. She smiled at it. 
"And John," she asked, "Do you not like your classmates?"
Her son looked up at her, eyes brimming with love and honesty. "They're all
right. I'd rather be with Sherlock."
"Right. That's fine, honey, that's fine… But do you think, maybe tomorrow, you
could be with Sherlock around the other kids more? Maybe sit with them, too?"
"And be nice," Victoria added, for Sherlock's benefit more than John's.
"You don't have to be best friends with them, but try to talk to them. Okay?"
Elizabeth said, her hand holding John's left as his right held Sherlock's,
where Sherlock's right was holding Victoria's. They made a happy little chain,
a sweet little family of mothers and sons. 
Sherlock responded to John's mother then, "They won't be John."
"No, they won't. Nobody can be John. Right honey?"
"Right," John chirped at his mother, Sherlock in hand. 
"Okay. So just be nice and talk to the other children, at the end of the day,
you can just be with each other. Good?"
"Good," the boys said.
Once that was settled, the next few weeks were more bearable. Ms Rachel and Ms
Tabitha were somewhat satisfied by John and Sherlock's interactions with the
other children, although with it came the undeniable fact that the boys were
inseparable. When Molly wanted to give Sherlock a drawing she'd made, he showed
it to John. If Greg brought his toy cars to class and asked if John had any,
Sherlock was always right behind, giving Greg a stink eye over John's shoulder.
The boys never held hands at pre-school, but they always did on the walk home.
It was so natural, and they were so trusted, that Victoria and Elizabeth walked
behind, chatting pleasantly, as John and Sherlock lead them home. It was
effortless.
The next year or two passed that way. They were one in the same, and while they
definitely preferred to be together, sometimes they humored the other children
and played with them. But they grew together, as did their imaginations, and
soon they had their own language and code names. When they were four, they even
created a fantasy world based on picture books with dragons, elves, shadow
monsters, and gold treasure. They huddled away together, planning what their
roles would be in that world, and all the other children knew not to bother
them. 
As glued together as they were, the boys were comfortable enough to know when
to pay attention to Ms Rachel and learn whatever there was to learn.
Afterwards, of course, they'd immediately go back to their world. It may have
been "codependency," but neither the boys nor their mothers saw anything wrong
with it, and by the time it was time to move on to primary school, both the
Holmeses and the Watsons knew that their sons would do well as long as they had
each other.
Nobody planned to separate them anytime soon, so there was no problem. 
By the time they were five, they were changing classrooms and gaining
classmates. Their mothers told them it would be different, and there would be
more time to learn and less time to play, but John and Sherlock weren't scared.
They knew how it went. As long as they paid attention or whatever at school,
they would be able to go to one of their houses and play afterwards. 
The most incredible thing of it all, Victoria and Elizabeth found, is that they
never seemed to tire of each other. Sometimes they argued, but they were back
to normal soon enough. They developed this way and grew as one. They grew as
John and Sherlock. Not one without the other, not Sherlock and John and Greg on
the side… Just them. Two boys, two friends, prepared to take on the world, hand
in hand. 
 
Chapter End Notes
     This is actually the fluffiest shit of my life, I can't believe it.
     Sassy and stubborn toddlers who only want to be around each other...
     I'm dying.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     They just went on and on, happiest they had ever been and might ever
     be, innocent and spirited in their frolicking.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Primary school. It didn't seem too difficult, from what their mothers had told
them… Just a lot of following the rules and, later on, finishing assignments
and taking exams. John and Sherlock whined about the exams, when it was
explained to them, but their mothers assured them that they wouldn't come any
time soon. This first year, they said, would just be a lot of shapes and colors
and letters. 
Obviously, they were right. That first day, John and Sherlock walked side by
side into their new classroom, matching school uniforms dressing them up just
like all the other children. 
The boys took in the new sight. The room was dressed with art and toys like
their pre-school room, but it was definitely larger. Most notably was the
stretch of blackboard that claimed one wall. It was freshly washed, not so much
as a grubby fingerprint on it. On another side, there were blocks and stuffed
animals placed prettily around a filled bookcase. Off to one corner was a
little kitchen set with a plastic sink and a wooden microwave oven. A few small
tables and chairs matched it, and Sherlock was itching to carry the blocks from
one side of the room to that table and set them up. Adjacent to the kitchen was
the art space, where three canvases sat, untouched, with fresh paint and
supplies in the little wooden tray.
Really, it wasn't too different from their first classroom, but there was
definitely something more official about it. Maybe it was the higher amount of
nervous, wiggly bodies around them, or maybe it was that looming blackboard.
Either way, John and Sherlock were dumbstruck and stood frozen as the boys and
girls jostled them around with excitement. Many of them went to sit on the
large rectangle carpet in front of the blackboard. They plopped their chubby
bums down onto a colorful square and continued to look around. The boys
followed, finding their legs and shuffling towards it, casting curious eyes at
the different pictures and colors on each small square. The pushy children had
claimed their spots, glowing with smugness at getting what seemed to be the
"best" square. The Watson boy and his friend chose squares in the back, on a
heart and an iguana, and poked and prodded each other until their teacher
appeared and clapped her hands.
The childish chitter died down as the final kids found spots and turned their
round faces to the plump woman. Short and stacked with soft curves, the woman
was pleasant with a long red braid falling down one shoulder. She was much
nicer looking than Ms Rachel, and the boys found themselves already more
comfortable in looking at her motherly face and simple blue skirt.
She stood in front of the blackboard and gave a little speech, most of which
went over the kids' heads. Sherlock picked out some words like "educate" and
"familiarize," which sounded big and fancy. John nudged him to pay attention to
himinstead, and the words turned back into noise.
When she was done, she pulled a guitar from behind her chair and settled in to
teach a song. John liked the guitar because it had one dark, shiny patch in the
shape of a bean on the front. The song was pleasant and simple; it was about
morning birds greeting each other. She taught them the words and the included
hand gestures until the classroom chimed with young voices. It was a good
start, the boys decided, and they felt more sure of what was to come after
sloppily singing along as best they could.
The next few weeks passed easily. Victoria and Elizabeth would walk them to
school, and upon arrival, John and Sherlock would find their spots and sit and
talk. Well, talk in their way.
They planned what to do during play time, since they had to claim the stations
early, else another group would beat them to it and never give it up. The end
of the day always ended in looking at picture books, huddled together by the
bookshelf, as they had in pre-school. John and Sherlock also always paired up
during activities, and unlike Ms Rachel, Ms Josephine didn't seem to mind their
codependency.
Mrs Josephine was soft spoken and kind and cheerful, but not in the false way
that Ms Rachel had been. She was genuine and pretty and glad, teaching the
pointy hats and round bellies of letters with glee and sweetness. When the
children got confused and didn't copy her loopy strokes from the blackboard
onto their own little copies, she was patient and understanding. And during
play time, they were allowed to roam about freely. Sometimes, when the weather
was good, she let them go out.
John and Sherlock were playing in the dirt one day when Greg toddled over.
It was a good day to play, they'd decided, and the dust clumps were far more
interesting than their classmates. Of course, some of their classmates were
more interested in them, inspecting as if they were zoo animals. That was
always the case, it seemed.
"Hey," the not-Sherlock boy said as he plopped himself down beside them, stumpy
legs spreading out around a little mound of dirt. "You guys wanna play?"
"Not really," John responded as he let the brown dust swirl off his
fingertips. 
"We're already playing," Sherlock added. He scratched up a small stick and
happily used it to deepen his hole.
"You're weird." Greg said, glassy eyes darting over Sherlock's shoulder to
where his coterie sat in the grass, watching and giggling.
Sherlock snapped his eyes up, stick cracking in half with the force of his
fist. "We're not weird, you're weird!"
Greg shrugged. In all honesty, he didn't find anything particularly strange
about the boys, but the others did, and it seemed their pleasant interactions
from the year before disappeared as their summer holidays had come and gone.
Since a few of the kids seemed to follow him around, Greg was elected
unofficial leader and was sent to talk to Sherlock'nJohn. He poked a hole in
his mound nervously as the silence continued. He looked back up at his gang.
Seemingly satisfied with the interaction and getting bored with it, Phillip and
Charles turned away and resumed pulling up the grass. Greg then took this
opportunity to reallytalk to them - maybe even get them to like him.
"Maybe I am weird. Maybe we're all weird. What's wrong with that?"
Imitating his mother, John responded quickly without looking up, "Nothing.
Nothing's wrong with that."
"What do you want, Gavin?" Sherlock spat, beaming at John's chuckle.
"I want to be your friend."
"Theydon't want you to." The five-year-old Holmes boy bowed his head towards
his dusty uniform trousers. He knew quite well that some of the children didn't
like him and John, and while he didn't particularly mind, Greg was definitely
not the worst of them, and it hurt to know that he was just going along with
it. Also, how could anyone not like John? 
Greg clapped his hands, dust clouds puffing around them. "I don't just do what
they tell me."
Sherlock huffed, disbelieving. He was about to retort when his friend spoke
instead. 
"What do we get?" John bartered, still engrossed in doodling spirals in the
dirt.
"What?"
"What will you give us if we let you play with us?" Sherlock added, an
extension of John's thought. 
Greg's dark eyes widened, "Er…"
Sherlock took the moment of awkward silence to ponder, his grubby fingers
smudging his face with dirt. He reckoned they only had a little bit of play
time left, so he had to think of something quick. And, honestly, he wouldn't
mind having someone else to play with sometimes… As long as John was still
there. "Your book. We get to have the book you take out this week." He hoped
John would find this acceptable.
"This is silly…" Mr Lestrade's son mumbled into a handful of dirt.
John Watson spoke up, finally looking up and straight into the other boy's
face. "Yeah. Then you can play with us."
"Sometimes." Sherlock reminded.
"Sometimes," John agreed. 
"Er… All right." Greg once again looked over Sherlock's shoulder at his gang,
who was now starting to wonder what was taking him so long. Sherlock noticed
this and offered one final quip.
"When they can't see."
That assured the five-year-old well enough, and he stuck out a dirty palm to
shake on it. He saw some police guys on telly do it and wanted to try it.
Sherlock momentarily stared at his hand, not because he didn't understand it,
but because he didn't think it was that type of transaction. 
To John, apparently, it was, and he clasped the fat fingers with his own,
shaking it jovially. Then Greg stood up, the seat of his trousers dark with
dirt, and waddled back over to his mates.
John and Sherlock looked at each other and silently agreed that it was a
strange turn of events, but they got another book out of it, so it wasn't all
bad. 
===============================================================================
In the middle of September, Sherlock's parents surprised him with a present.
All family, save for Sherlock, lounged about the living room in preparation.
Mycroft pouted.
"Why should he get a present, he's only five! I'm almost thirteen!" 
"Yes, you're almost thirteen, which means you'll be getting lots of other
things soon enough," Charles had said. It resulted in a playful smack on his
thigh from his wife. He chuckled at her before correcting himself, "This is for
Sherlock to get through primary school happily. And the rest of life, really."
Mycroft Holmes sagged his shoulders dramatically. "But he has John!"
Victoria stood from the couch and rubbed his back, cooing, "Oh, Myc, don't be
jealous. Be the big brother, let him have this."
With a huff, Mycroft turned his pimply face away and stormed out of the room,
muttering something about it being a lousy gift anyway. His parents just
watched him go before smiling at each other knowingly. They could understand
Mycroft's complaint, but they were sure that Sherlock would find the gift
incredibly charming.
Naturally, as was anything Sherlock's family produced, it was.
One fall evening, Sherlock's parents had called him in from his room. He
galloped down the long staircase, clad in alice blue pyjamas, innocent grin
tight against his round cheeks. For once, John wasn't over, and instead was
taking care of baby Harriet (as best he could). 
Sherlock's cheeks turned pink as he hustled through the kitchen and clambered
up onto a chair, leaning with palms flat on the dining room table, turquoise
eyes gleaming mischievously at the large white box before him. 
His father and mother appeared regally, beaming at him. "Now, Sherlock… We
think you'd do well with something like this, but know that it's a big
responsibility, and you'll need to come home every day after school to play
with it." Mr Holmes said, handsome face crinkling in a smile from the end of
the table. Mrs Holmes leaned into him with her arms crossed. They were a lovely
couple, and they loved their sons very much.
Sherlock raised his excited eyes at them, childish wonder immediately warming
his parents' hearts. "Can John play, too?"
"Yes, John is always welcome, honey," Mrs Holmes said. "Now, go on, open it!"
And then Sherlock was almost lunging across the table, knees on the white lace
spread. His grabby little hands ripped the perforated lid from the box, and
before he could even see inside, it was all fur and tongue and paws.
The boy's stomach dropped in surprise but his face warmed as the new puppy
licked it. He giggled and squeaked and tried to hold the wiggly pup as his
parents looked on. When he finally found its small body and pushed it away from
him, he looked at its happy face.
The Irish setter pup panted, pink tongue twitching against deep brick-colored
fur. Sherlock stared on for a long time, understanding the pure excitement and
love in the dog's loopy smile more than anything he'd seen before. A warm voice
broke him from his moment, however, when his mother asked how he liked it.
"I love him!" 
"What do you want to call him?" His father added.
The boy thought for a moment, but just a moment. If this new friend would be
around to adventure with at any time, he'd need to be willing to sail the seas.
"Redbeard!"
His parents hummed with pride. "Redbeard it is, then. Welcome to the family."
Redbeard jumped up again, and this time Sherlock pulled him close to his
thrumming heart and laughed as he licked at his ears and neck. A soft presence
at his side spoke again as his mother's delicate hand pet the pup. 
"You'll take care of him, won't you?" His mother asked.
"Obviously," Sherlock shrieked as Redbeard bit his ear.
"Feed him, bathe him, run him all over…" Sherlock's father added, now
contributing to playing with Redbeard and letting him nip his finger.
The puppy had calmed down a bit now, and was mostly just sniffing Sherlock's
curls, which were damp from his bath. "Yeah, yeah definitely. I will."
"All right," Mrs Holmes concluded, "Make sure you do. We can't be around to
take care of him for you."
"All right, I got it!" he would have been snarky about it, but he was too
excited. A puppy! A real dog! He'd knew all about them from the book he and
John looked at, and he found this breed so regal and fascinating.
Charles and Victoria then retracted their involvement and moved so Sherlock
could look at them, puppy still flung over his shoulder. "Be good to him."
Charles told Sherlock with serious eyes.
"And you," Victoria pointed at Redbeard's wiggly bum, "Be good to him."
===============================================================================
It was snack time when Sherlock told John about Redbeard. He would have told
him earlier, on the walk to school, but he wanted a dramatic reveal. His mum
must have mentioned something to John's mum, because as they sent them off for
the day, Elizabeth smiled at Sherlock and told him to have fun with his new
friend. John was oblivious to the comment as he was already waddling towards
his iguana square. 
Then, during snack, John was working on celery and peanut butter when Sherlock
leaned in, strawberry yogurt on his breath, and said he had a surprise.
John buzzed with excitement. They rarely ever had surprises that the other
didn't immediately know about, even in their small little world of school and
play. "What is it, what is it? I wanna know!"
He wanted to hold out, he really did, but John's wide eyes were so blue, and
his sticky peanut butter mouth was hanging open, so he had to comply. "I got a
dog," Sherlock whispered.
"You did!?" John shouted. Mrs Josephine gave them a curious eye, so Sherlock
tugged him back down and into his bubble. John got yogurt on his sleeve as a
result, but this was important business, and John hadn't noticed.
"Yeah! Last night. His name is Redbeard."
"What kind, what kind!?"
"Irish setter."
"The red one?!"
"The red one."
John glowed. It was about time something interesting happened. "Can we play
with him?"
Sherlock smiled, oblivious to how, if they'd been older, John's assumption of
access to the dog would have been forward and possessive. But they were five,
and none of this occurred to them. Only each other and the dog existed, and
both were more than ready to play. "Yeah, at home. We gotta go fast, so he's
not lonely."
"No, not lonely! Today?"
The other children must have caught wind of their furious whispers and elated
buzz because a few of them had locked eyes on the hunched two as they suckled
the remaining sweetness off their fingers. 
"Today. In the back."
"Wow," John breathed, "A dog!"
"Yep."
"Is he cute?"
"Yep. And wiggly."
John leaned back then, dragging the yogurt with him. "I wanna play now!"
"I know, just wait 'til we get home." Sherlock meant his home, of course, but
it was all the same to them. 
There was nothing left to say except how excited they were and how if John had
a dog he'd want a bulldog, so they chittered and chattered a bit until Mrs
Josephine called for clean up and pointed out the yogurt on John's sleeve.
===============================================================================
Finally, after anxious energy and thrill, the school day ended and John and
Sherlock were free to rush to Sherlock's house. Their mothers barely had time
to call on them as they ran past, stubby legs carrying them as fast as they
could. Victoria and Elizabeth shared a confused glance before pinning down
their purses and hats and rushing after them.
About halfway up the street, Sherlock and John grew tired and flopped onto the
sidewalk. Their mothers caught up to them in a huff, laughing and scolding them
all at once. The boys promised not to run off without them again, and after the
guarantee that they'd be allowed to walk home alone when they were older, they
stood up with wobbly knees and took their mothers hands.
The whole way up to Sherlock's house, Sherlock talked about the dog. Victoria
loved to hear him go on and on, even if parts of his speech weren't necessarily
coherent. However, she admitted to feeling sorry for both Sherlock and Redbeard
- they had to go so long without each other. She knew that having pets was
difficult when the house remained empty for more than half the day, but she
supposed after school, weekends, and holidays would be have to be good enough.
Once at the front steps of the splendid house, the boys were nearly wetting
themselves with glee. Victoria unlocked the house and stayed back with
Elizabeth as John and Sherlock rushed inside, yelling something
indistinguishable. 
The mothers just laughed, resting their legs and watching as the little figures
went straight through the foyer and kitchen and directly to the meadow in the
back.
Sherlock and John found the puppy in a large kennel on the porch, shaded and
cozy and well supplied with food and water. Sherlock knocked lightly on the
roof and cooed, "I'm home, Redbeard. Come out! It's time to play!"
John's breath hitched as the pup's face came into view with his little black
nose and floppy, crimped ears. Sherlock said hello as Redbeard leapt to be
picked up. The boy complied and took his dog into his arms, immediately
receiving kisses and nips on his face.
The moment was incredibly innocent, really. Two friends standing silent,
watching as the puppy squirmed for attention. A light breeze passed the porch
and grassy plain, ruffling Sherlock's dark curls and Redbeard's soft rusty
coat. John looked on at how his friend rubbed his face against his dog's,
laughing sweetly. If John had known any better, he'd have understood this to be
one of his favorite memories, just being with Sherlock at his home, itching
with delight in knowing that he'd get his turn to play. 
Sherlock, too, would find this to be one of his favorite moments with John -
and there had already been plenty.
Finally, the Holmes boy turned towards John and shuffled forward, beckoning him
to pet the dog. John put out a careful hand, to which Redbeard immediately
licked. John laughed like a child, light and sweet, as he moved his hand to pet
down the dog's shoulders and back. 
Redbeard seemed to like John well enough, so after that, the boys fell into
play easily. They ran through the grass with the puppy, tumbling down and
rolling around in the meadow, Redbeard close behind and jumping onto one of the
boys' chests. Sometimes he'd climb all over Sherlock, at which John would just
watch and laugh, track his fingers through the air to get Redbeard's attention
and call him over. Then it was Sherlock's turn to watch, and he rolled onto his
stomach and scratched the pup's tailbone as he snuffled through John's armpits
and chin. 
They played through every wave of exhaustion, perking up again as Redbeard
barked and nipped at their fingers. They pet and played with the dog, happy and
breathless, until the sun began to set. 
John and Sherlock didn't notice this of course, nor did they notice how their
mothers had appeared in the doorway to watch them. They were lost to that
childhood magic of playing the afternoon away, oblivious to the creeping golden
dusk and hunger pains. They just went on and on, happiest they had ever been
and might ever be, innocent and spirited in their frolicking.
And, honestly, when a puppy and a best friend are involved, there's nothing
better, is there?
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     [ENTER REDBEARD]

     I'm not even much of a dog person, but I could really feel Sherlock's
     love and excitement. And lmao at how John and Sherlock continue to be
     trash children who don't hang out with anyone else. ALSO that last
     scene is so fluffy with childlike romance that I cry to think what
     happens in canon...
     P.S. I will be away without internet for a week, and this year I
     decided against taking up my laptop, so I won't be working on chapter
     4 until I come back! I just need a break, I think. stay tuned, tho!
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The look of horror on an annoying classmate's face was always worth
     the consequence.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Second year. Things had become just a bit more interesting. In the classroom,
there was less introduction and more discovery. Sherlock was fascinated with
the science lessons, learning how the flowers grow and at one point, housing
butterflies and watching them stretch their delicate, new wings. He was also
quick in maths, which could partly be attributed to Victoria and Mycroft, who'd
had him counting since he was a toddler. He didn't have trouble in academics,
not one bit, but John wasn't as lucky. He wasn't slow, actually quite smart,
but sometimes he seemed to have better things to do than pay attention to the
simple lesson. Most of those things included teasing Sherlock.
Their new teacher, Mrs Finnerty, was stricter than their last, and always
shushed Sherlock when John bugged him. This, in turn, earned John a glare,
intelligent eyes sharp and cold. They always softened after the lesson, of
course. 
Besides the differences in curriculum, John and Sherlock found that second year
was distinct in the sense that there were more things to think about. Now that
Greg sometimes played with them, they had to factor in his opinions, and often,
his playground reports included the opinions of his other friends. 
He'd go on and on about which boys thought John needed a new haircut and which
girls thought Sherlock was cute. Neither of the boys cared, obviously, and at
one point Sherlock even told Greg to quit it, else he wouldn't be able to keep
playing with them. Greg stopped after that, and the cops and robbers type games
continued without a fuss. 
After school, of course, John and Sherlock would play with Redbeard and lounge
around Sherlock's room, acting out scenes with his toys or spying on Mycroft.
Sometimes they'd come up with plans on how to prank the most irritating boys
the next day at school, which Sherlock could perfect with his hypotheses. One
of these ideas had actually turned into a plan, and the boys were giddy in
their mischief as they planned to do it the next day at school.
Eager to get started, they came rushing down the stairs and ravaged the
cupboards for ingredients. Victoria and Elizabeth, who'd be having tea and
biscuits, just shook their heads and watched them toddle off again, arms full
of supplies. 
When morning came, with their backpacks stuffed tight, John and Sherlock padded
on ahead of their mothers, down the street and ready to carry out their prank.
At school, they played it cool. None of their classmates noticed any
troublesome energy. 
Neither of them mentioned anything to each other until Sherlock whispered to
John before they took their spots at their tables. He said that they'd do it
during their weekly stretching time. John just nodded and giggled because
Sherlock's breath tickled his ear. 
Inconspicuously they resumed normal activity. A few lessons, a bit of laughter,
and then, in the late morning, they removed their shoes like everyone else and
scrambled with the other children to the carpet. The boys and girls in their
class started stretching along with their teacher, and once Mrs Finnerty was
satisfied that they were behaving, she closed her eyes and took a few deep
breaths. 
This gave John and Sherlock their window of opportunity. Soundlessly, they
sneaked away from the circle and to the cubbies, where all the children's shoes
lay. They fumbled around for their supplies, giggled some more, shushed each
other, and pulled out tupperware filled with milk and flour. John had to cover
his mouth as Sherlock poured the sticky, wet mixture into Phillip's shoes. The
boys watched the white, clumpy liquid settle against the leather until the very
last drop.
Sherlock was putting away the empty container, devilish smile contorting his
plump cheeks, when he heard their names called. The cubbies had hid their
activities from the other students, so John and Sherlock could creep around the
corner as if nothing had happened. The whole class was staring at them, and
John felt his stomach churn. 
His friend, however, seemed unfazed. He spoke without being prompted, "John had
to check something."
"And you had to help him?" Mrs Finnerty scowled.
The eyes of their classmates burned red into John's cheeks. 
"It concerned me," Sherlock said effortlessly. His vocabulary had always been
bigger than that of the other children, and while John found it impressive and
wonderful, he caught a few of the other kids roll their eyes. He wanted to
sneer at them, but Sherlock just stepped ahead and lead John back, as if
nothing had happened.
Mrs Finnerty squinted at them through her glasses. She watched as they took
their places and let out an exasperated sigh when the duo just blinked at her
innocently. "All right. Just know not to leave during an activity, okay?" 
The boys nodded, mischief hidden behind their sorry smiles. 
So stretching continued, and John and Sherlock were paragons of good behavior.
They followed along silently, rolling their spines and stretching their arms
with vigor. After the forty minutes was up, the students were directed to put
their shoes back on and come back to their tables to work on group projects.
Sherlock and John shared a look. They didn't get up. They just… waited.
Apparently, Phillip was so eager to start on his project that he didn't even
glance once at his shoes before he was cramming his small, socked foot into one
of them. A wail came from behind the cubbies just as John and Sherlock were
standing to retrieve their shoes. Anderson cried and cried as the other kids
shoved to get a look of what happened.
The culprits just sneaked by, got their own shoes, and took their spots at the
far table, smiling. 
The hysteria didn't die down for the next few minutes, and John and Sherlock
took the time to start their project, calm and confident. John swore he saw
Greg give them a smug smile from his spot by the bookshelves, but he couldn't
be sure.
===============================================================================
At the end of the day, Mrs Finnerty had a talk with John and Sherlock's
mothers. The boys stood behind them, looking as small and innocent as
possible. 
Snippets like "prank" and "not in good fun" and "ruined poor Phillip's new
shoes" and "nuisance" cut through the air like knives, but John and Sherlock
wouldn't take back what they'd done for all the snacks in the world. Phillip
only got what he deserved. Maybe he never harmed them directly, but he just…
existed. That was irritation enough. 
Victoria and Elizabeth looked down at their sons with a scolding eye before
speaking for them. "I'll talk to him," they said. 
"See that this isn't the first prank of many!" Their teacher said, before
turning back with a huff and consoling Anderson, who was still upset. His small
eyes were red and puffy and Sherlock tried not to snicker at it.
A tense minute passed before the mothers ushered their sons out and turned to
them. 
"Why, Sherlock?" Victoria asked.
The boy shrugged. "He deserved it."
"What did he do? Did he bully you?"
"He looks at us like we're different."
"Honey, you and Johnare different," Elizabeth offered, with a tone that cast
her as if she was Sherlock's second mother. 
The sentiment was soft and Victoria understood that her friend meant no harm by
it. She glanced at the pretty woman's profile with love in her eyes before
turning back to her scowling son. "There's nothing wrong with being different,
Sherlock."
He huffed. John nudged him with his shoulder as a form of support. 
The four them were off to the side, under a tree, as the rest of the children
and their parents passed by. Mrs Holmes and Mrs Watson squatted in front of
them, hands running up and down their arms in comfort. They didn't see Phillip
Anderson's mother give them a dirty look, sloppy shoes in hand.
"Promise me you won't do it again," Victoria said, brunette curl fluffing
across her cheek in the wind.
Sherlock made no such promise. She could have expected that. 
John stayed quiet, but his mother looked sternly at him just the same. 
It was silent and powerful as if John and Sherlock were waving a flag of
revolution. Respectfully, of course, since they loved their mothers very much.
The women shared a glance before sighing. The boys were impossible. 
Elizabeth offered the last word. "Just… try and keep out of trouble, okay?" 
To this, Sherlock nodded, and John copied him. Then their mothers kissed them
both on the cheeks, one after another, and stood. They ruffled their hair and
pushed them along. 
"Time to go home," Victoria hummed. 
===============================================================================
The incident wasn't brought up at all in the following months. Sherlock and
John were still planning other pranks, of course, but these would have to be
less obvious. Maybe they'd pour salt in one of the other boy's milk or drop a
handful of ants down a girl's school uniform. They'd be caught, they always
would, since from then on they were known as the pranksters, but they didn't
care. They'd have to just do it after school or during play time. They'd figure
it out. The look of horror on an annoying classmate's face was always worth the
consequence.
School continued on, with more dirty looks from Anderson and his gang than ever
before, but neither Sherlock nor John minded. Greg still played with them
sometimes, which earned him official ejection from Anderson's company. He
didn't seem to mind, really. John knew, from that smug look before, that he was
proud of them for the prank and probably would have done the same thing if he'd
had more skill and confidence.
Life was good. Redbeard was good. Books were good. Food was good. It was a
simple life, and John and Sherlock stayed attached at the hip when they could.
Of course, now that they were a bit older, they could spend more time apart.
When they weren't placed at the same table or group, they wouldn't throw
tantrums like they would have in pre-school. They knew they'd be together soon
enough, and it was all fine.
Naturally, they grew more independent while maintaining that closeness.
It was late in March when what they were to each other was actually discussed
for the first time. 
Sherlock was painting a portrait of Redbeard on a canvas beside Molly. She was
painting a princess, but had only the background and blobby pink dress so far.
Like their previous classrooms, this one had an art space. It seemed their
school was happily supplied with creative outlets, and for this, Sherlock was
grateful. He loved books and lined paper and experiments, but sometimes he just
wanted to draw. It gave him a different sort of peace than maths did. So today
he indulged in art, taking an empty canvas during free time. Molly had joined
him soon after, asking if she could. He only grunted, but she'd already started
setting up her paints. 
He didn't particularly dislike her, but he didn't like her, either. On numerous
occasions, Greg and a few other classmates had told him that she liked him.
Again, he only grunted. They pressed on. Apparently sheliked him. 
"And?" Sherlock had responded a few weeks prior as they gathered around his
table. His hands were busy with doodling purple vines over John's fingers, and
he didn't acknowledge them otherwise.
"Well, don't you like her?" 
"Not particularly."
John shifted under his hands and Sherlock looked up at him. He seemed to be
concentrating hard on the vines, thin blond brows furrowed, but Sherlock could
tell he felt uncomfortable with everyone crowding them in.
"Go away," Sherlock added then, eyes still on John. He looked up and into
Sherlock's face, relieved.
The girls just shrugged and left, muttering amongst themselves. 
It was no surprise then, when Molly tried conversation with him as they
painted.
Sherlock gave a few half-hearted hums as she did, but remained focused on the
reddish-brown mix of Redbeard's coat. John was somewhere else, so Sherlock
couldn't ignore her and talk to him instead. 
Often, after spurts of talking for ages, she went silent. Sherlock would then
steal a glance at her to calculate what her expression meant. Her short brown
hair fell straight against her cheeks and her small mouth was pulled tight. Her
blue patterned dress would have looked better if it wasn't so baggy around the
middle, Sherlock thought. 
But he recognized her look of rejection and sadness, so he offered some words
of attention, and she perked right back up. Her eyes were bright as she began
babbling again. 
Sherlock turned back to his painting and feigned interest. He got a few strokes
in as she kept talking. 
Suddenly, two arms were quickly wrapping around his middle and hugging him.
Sherlock twitched in surprise and bristled when he felt a warm cheek on the
back of his shoulder. His heart beat furiously, and he was rooted to the spot.
He could feel Molly's eyes on him and the person behind him, but he didn't dare
meet her gaze.
"You're my best friend," John said into his shoulder, words unprompted but
heavy with sentiment. 
Sherlock's stomach tightened. His friend's breath was warm and cut through his
uniform shirt, but then it was gone, along with his arms. Sherlock huffed out
the breath he was holding as the emptiness settled over him. 
Molly's mouth hung open, either in disgust at being interrupted or envy at not
being allowed to do such a thing to Sherlock. 
He regained himself and gave her a small smile, mind blank and buzzing.
Redbeard's round black eyes stared back at him knowingly.
===============================================================================
A few days later, it was John's birthday. He was turning seven, which was a big
deal for the both of them because their mothers had promised them that they
could walk home alone as soon as he was. Victoria and Elizabeth had things to
do, no doubt, and as the boys had walked home hundreds of times, they were sure
they'd be fine as long as they were together.
There was a small reception at John's house that weekend, and John was wearing
his best blue shirt and slacks, his blond fringe slicked back. He had been
beaming all week. 
The living room had a few streamers here and there, and the kitchen was stocked
with crisps, cookies, and hidden in the fridge, a cake. It wasn't grand, as it
didn't have to be. The people who loved John were there and that was all that
mattered. Some of the children from school, like Greg and a few of the other
boys and girls who didn't dislike him, had stopped by with their parents for a
bit, offered their congratulations, dropped off a small present, and
disappeared again.
This was perfect for John because he didn't have to interact with them for long
but still felt like enough people had paid attention to him. The pile of
presents on one end of the dining room table grew slightly, although it wasn't
big to start out. 
His father made an appearance and hugged John, wishing him well, but as the
other kids started to filter in, he left again, leaving his wife and Mrs Holmes
to host them.
Elizabeth was dressed in a pretty pink sweater and beige slacks, where Victoria
adorned her usual dark colors, this time draped around her in a pretty, slim
dress. They watched as the kids came and left, chatting quietly and laughing as
Victoria told Elizabeth secrets about the parents who accompanied them.
As evening drew closer, Greg's father said that they should be going. Greg
Lestrade had stayed the longest of all of them, talking to them and asking them
if they'd like to go out to the park the next day. They agreed and spent the
next hour or so planning what to play once there. They settled on robot
pirates, but Greg's father bid them farewell and took him away before they
could finish planning the end of the scene.
Sherlock and John were left then, in the kitchen, the pile of presents in front
of John half unwrapped. 
He'd gotten a lot of toys, such as dinosaurs and boats and cars, but a few of
the presents were more practical, no doubt chosen by the parents. He got a new
notebook, new pens and pencils, and from Greg, a pack of dress shirts. From his
parents, John had gotten a play gun and medical kit which he'd wanted for
months, along with dog treats he could feed Redbeard. It was Sherlock's dog,
obviously, but the families were so twined that it almost didn't matter. 
Mrs Watson's son was on his last present when darkness and quiet settled over
the kitchen. She and Mrs Holmes were in the living room, drinking wine and
talking about their favorite birthdays. Victoria's was her 24th, Elizabeth's
was her 18th. 
Back in the kitchen, the boys were alone. Sherlock had been social all evening,
but as they sat now, a weird reluctance crept over him. John noisily revealed
the final present, a basketball, smiled wildly, and held it up for Sherlock to
see. 
He nodded and gave a half-hearted smile, but his grin fell and his thinking
face returned.
John's heart sank. Was Sherlock not having fun? He put the basketball away and
turned to him. "What's wrong?" 
He didn't answer right away. The kitchen clock ticked on. The TV static from
George Watson's bedroom rippled through the small house. 
Finally, Sherlock took a breath and looked straight into John's eyes. "Did you…
Did you mean what you said?"
Confused, John asked, "What did I say?"
"You… You said I was your best friend." 
Sherlock looked so sad about it, and John was thoroughly perplexed. John took a
moment to register that Sherlock was actually concerned about it. Something
inside John hurt because of it. 
He was very still as he quietly responded. "'Course… 'Course I meant it."
Sherlock sighed deeply and opened his mouth, but John cut him off, "Why would
you think…?"
John's best friend shrugged. "You never said it before."
The birthday boy didn't believe that. He was sure he had said it, since it was
more than true! Sherlock wasn't just his best friend, he was… Well, he was
Sherlock! There was nobody like him anywhere, they were always together, they
were basically brothers! How could he not have said it?
"Oh. Well… Well you are. 'Course you are. Sorry." 
It was a strangely heavy conversation for a seven-year-old and a six-year-old
to have, but John and Sherlock were different, as the world had reminded them
often. 
Sherlock looked a bit relieved, but his eyes were still on his hands. "You… You
are too. My best friend." It was soft and small, but John could hear it clearly
in the quiet kitchen. 
Something tense passed between them then, something without a name, something
that probably shouldn't have been hanging around a child's birthday. But it was
there anyway, and John cleared his throat to get it to go away. "Good," he
added. He then changed the subject, "You wanna watch something?"
Sherlock took the opportunity John was giving him to get back to their natural,
easy way. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, let's watch something."
They stood from the table and shuffled into the living room. Victoria and
Elizabeth set their glasses down and welcomed them in. John and Sherlock
settled between the two women and drew their legs up onto the couch. 
Serenity blanketed the four of them as the mothers wrapped their sons in love
until the awkwardness from earlier had left completely, only family and
friendship remaining. 
They watched John's favorite James Bond movie in the dark until the boys got
sleepy and drifted off. Their mothers carried them up to John's room and put
them to bed, kissing their foreheads before returning to the kitchen to eat the
remaining candy and cake left over from the party.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     This is some gay little kid shit right here. Nice.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Boys teased girls, girls told them to bugger off, and John and
     Sherlock just stuck together, not really interested in making cards
     for anyone.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Another year, another batch of memories. John and Sherlock had been growing
like weeds, and their mothers had to buy them new school uniforms to make up
for their gained inches. Sherlock had gotten taller, where John had gotten
stronger, and while they were still young children, they were less… little. At
seven, kids often discovered how to get it together. They were now figuring out
how to keep themselves still at dinner, how to run without tripping, and
sometimes even, how to put themselves to bed. It was the prime age to be let
loose with a friend, scrape up some knees, and explore. So, being perceptive
mothers, Victoria and Elizabeth took them out on holidays.
Over the summer, Sherlock and John had gone adventuring, with Redbeard running
ahead and their mothers trailing behind. They'd explored forests, rivers, and
places in the town that Victoria suggested. It was so easy with the four of
them, just visiting sweet shops and museums and war memorials, happy as ever.
Sherlock and John only got into mischief on occasion, only cried sometimes, and
fortunately, they'd kept their silly tiffs to a minimum. Mostly, they just
wanted to see and observe, learn how the world worked and gawk at the people
snogging on public benches. It was a pleasant sort of newness, these
adventures, and while the husbands certainly wouldn't have been unwelcome, as
the boys grew, Victoria and Elizabeth shared something with the boys that
George and Charles didn't. So they adventured on, until Sherlock, John, and the
dog were all worn out and begging to go home.
The rest of the summer was spent as it always was: playing with Redbeard,
teasing Mycroft, eating too many crisps and sweets, making fun of Phillip, and
just generally enjoying life. Only once had the "best friend" question been
brought up, and it had been when they were out and on their way to the park.
Someone had told Victoria and Elizabeth that John and Sherlock were adorable,
at which Sherlock looked up from petting Redbeard and shouted, "He's my best
friend!" 
Sherlock's birthday in June reminded them of John's and how close they came to
nearly losing the easy, unspoken connection they'd formed, but afterwards, it
went unmentioned. The words were always present, and the weight of them made
Sherlock and John wonder plenty of unsaid things.
But life went on. It was all fine. Year three had come and, as it always was,
John and Sherlock continued to be inseparable. Which was truly no surprise as
everyone in their previous classrooms now knew of both their pranking
shenanigans and their friendship, and whenever one was alone, they knew the
other was close by. 
This time when John and Sherlock met their new teacher and classroom, they were
ready for it. Any consequences from the year previous had hardened them up into
mischievous, smart little devils, and nothing could scare them. Well, except
those stacks of textbooks around the place, thick and ominous.
Fortunately, it turned out to be fine. The boys used their notebooks to write
notes, assignments, and a weekly journal as they were directed, and their first
male teacher, Mr Embers, was thorough and clear in his lessons. Their thirst
for knowledge, both in academics and the outside world, was satisfied by the
balance of maths, history, science, geography, vocabulary, and everything in
between, as well as the stories Mr Embers told about his days as a volunteer
worker in a hospital, where he often met war veterans. This, John found
incredibly interesting. 
This particular day, one of the other teachers had popped her head in Mr
Ember's class as he was giving a lecture.  Mr Embers was in his mid-thirties
and charming, with slicked chestnut hair and dark, pretty eyes. 
"…And that's why bees are so important. Oh, hello Mrs Finnerty." He turned
towards the door and acknowledged the older woman with a smile. Something about
that smile always made Sherlock and John want to look at him for ages. They
didn't really understand it, though. 
Sherlock and John's previous teacher peered around, inevitably causing the boys
to shrink into their seats. "You're not telling the children stories again, are
you?"
He chuckled and ran a tan hand through his hair, "No, no! Just going over
pollination."
Her thin maroon lips crinkled dubiously as she said, "Save tidbits about your
personal life for outside of the classroom, Barrett." Then she disappeared,
clicking down the halls. Mr Embers let out a breath before checking to see
she'd really gone and turned back to his students, who sat attentive and
curious in their desks. 
"Anyway, like I was saying, this one time in the 70's, I met this fantastic old
fart," the students giggled at the word, and their teacher paused before
continuing. "He told me this story of meeting and falling in love with this
totally fit, green-eyed nurse."
John and Sherlock perked up, they liked hearing these kinds of stories,
although any and all affection directed at them was simply irritating. Mr
Embers sat on his desk and smoothed his hands over his jeans.
"Her name was Keira, he said. He said that he'd been hurt during the first
world war, his leg, I guess, and he was in the infirmary. That's the place they
put the sick and hurt people for them to get better. Anyway, he thought it was
all over, y'know, he was saying his prayers, thinking of his mother, wishing
that they'd just get rid of his leg and he'd die of blood loss or something…"
A few children bristled then. Mr Embers cleared his throat, suddenly
remembering he probably wouldn't want to mention inevitable death around third
years. Sherlock and John looked extremely interested, though, as did Greg and
Sally, so he pressed on, careful not to get too dark. 
"And he was lying on the cot, holding his grandmother's locket in one hand,
when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. His vision was blurry
from the tears and dust, but when the something came to stand over him, it
looked like a figure, a person. He said a warm hand then came out and touched
his cheek and wiped the grit from his eyes. When he found his sense of sight
again, he said he was looking up at the face of an angel." He sighed, eyes
closed, as if he could really see the woman. Then he opened them and went on,
"He told me that he'd never seen anything as beautiful as her face, with her
big green eyes and pretty skin. She promised to take care of him, and she did,
but while she was mending his leg…" Mr Embers hesitated and looked out the
window for dramatic effect. It was raining, as it often did in January. "…She
also mended his heart."
Some of the girls sighed, along with a couple squeaks of delight. The handsome
teacher chuckled. Someone ought to read these kids more love stories, he
thought. He licked his lips and took a breath before continuing, "While he was
getting better, he talked to her all the time, told her all about his home, and
she told him about hers. They had some things in common, it seemed. They both
liked the same book that they read as children, I can't really remember what he
said it was. They talked and talked until his leg healed, but by then, he'd
already fallen totally in love with her. He told her this, and she loved him,
too. They decided to elope. That means run away and get married in secret. The
old guy told me he'd never been so sure of anything in his life, and he was
sure that Keira felt the same way. And, well, isn't that just about the
sweetest thing you've ever heard?"
Apparently, his story was over, and the children around Sherlock and John
nodded, some of them still making happy noises. Sherlock wasn't content,
though, he wanted to know what happened. He was about to raise his hand and
ask, but Sally Donovan beat him to it. 
Screwing up her pretty brown face and tilting her head so her curls bounced,
she said, "So? Did they get married and live happily ever after?"
Mr Embers grimaced and fumbled for words. Sherlock watched him intently.
Finally, he responded. "Well, no… Once the old guy got better, he was shipped
off again, and his girl had other soldiers to attend to. They… er… They never
saw each other after that."
A collective groan (and a few gasps) swept over the classroom. John and
Sherlock looked at each other in confusion. They hadn't heard a story like that
that didn't end, well… happy!
Scratching the back of his head nervously, Mr Embers wondered if he should have
lied, told them that it was fine and that the old guy hadn't been holding onto
the fleeting romance his entire life, hopeless and sure he'd never meet her
again. Damn it, man! How hard is it to lie to children!?
The students muttered amongst themselves until Mr Embers raised two pink palms
and quieted them down. "All right, all right, that's enough. It's just a story.
True love exists, I promise you. Sometimes… Sometimes it's totally new and
catches you by surprise, and sometimes it's been there the whole time. Just…
Keep that in mind as Valentine's Day is coming up, all right?"
Sherlock, John, and some of the other girls breathed a sigh of relief and
watched as their teacher struggled to move onto the next subject. Clearly, they
should go back to bees. 
Bees, a strangely appealing male teacher, an old wartime love story - it all
piqued the boys' interest, and if they'd been older, they'd have known that
this story and lesson would be very significant in developing their
characters. 
The boys talked amongst themselves as Mr Embers pulled down the world map and
began their geography lesson.
===============================================================================
By the time it was February, the rain had relentlessly washed the streets of
Wisbech clean. Redbeard loved to play in the puddles, as did John and Sherlock
in their galoshes, but they missed the rare sun and couldn't very well play
football in the backyard unless they wanted to catch a cold. Which they did,
sometimes. Their mothers then would keep them apart if one of them was sick and
other wasn't, which was totally not fair. 
The rain was the least interesting thing to them as the year progressed.
Sherlock and John found that they loved to talk to Mr Embers and ask for more
stories after class. He'd tell them a few, romantic or no, before shooing them
off. They'd then walk home together in the rain and warm by the fireplace with
Redbeard as they talked about how great their teacher was. They were completely
oblivious to their little crush, but Victoria and Elizabeth weren't, and every
time they ran up to them to report a new story, the women just chuckled behind
their tea when they were gone and wondered if one day John and Sherlock would
figure it out.
Then all of a sudden, Valentine's Day happened. The week surrounding it, Mr
Embers let the children make Valentines cards and decorate the classroom in
gaudy pink and red hearts. The previous years, there'd been a bit of
celebration, but Mr Embers was clearly a sucker for romantic stuff, and he let
the children go crazy. And besides, seven and eight-year-olds often had silly
little crushes on their classmates, so it was a good a time as any to give them
a chance to say it. 
Boys teased girls, girls told them to bugger off, and John and Sherlock just
stuck together, not really interested in making cards for anyone. 
Of course, some of the girls had noticed John and Sherlock. The boys' pretty
eyes or smart mouths had caught some attention, and before John knew what to do
with it, a girl named Danielle with too many clips in her thin orange hair was
shoving a sparkly, sticky heart in his hands, blushing, and running away. 
John blushed himself, feeling Sherlock's jealous eyes on him, before turning
the Valentine over and seeing what it said. "Your not mine," it said, (Sherlock
scoffed, she could have at least tried to spell correctly), "But your cute
anyways. Be my Valentine?"
He gulped, unsure of what to do, before he caught Sherlock shooting daggers at
Danielle from across the room. She gave a scared peep and hid behind Molly, who
had been watching the interaction. That seemed to be the end of it.
A few days later, on the actual holiday, Sherlock found a card in his notebook.
It was light blue with dark blue designs and a white lace trim. It was a full
card, folded and neat, with sparkly lettering on the front that said his name.
His stomach twisted, and he blinked at it for a few minutes before he finally
took it from his notebook and opened it. Inside was a message.
"Sherlock, you are Smart, Heroic, Exciting, Rational, Loyal, Original,
Creative, and Kind. I'm glad I know you. Happy Valentine's. Be mine? Love, your
eternal admirer." 
He read it and read it again, staring at the delicate cursive letters until
they looked like shapes. Those words, all of which were some of his favorites,
were describing him. He knew he was smart, but… Exciting? Heroic? Kind?
Admirer?!Perhaps only in his dreams, only on pirate adventures with John and
his dog…
However disbelieving the boy was, the message wasn't lost on him, and the
acronym rolled around in his overactive brain. His mother had described him in
a similar way, but this was from someone he didn't know! Who could possibly
think this of him? And more than that, sign it with "Love?" 
Sherlock swallowed and looked at the card again, searching for clues. It wasn't
made in the classroom, the paper and designs weren't those of their supplies,
and the handwriting… This was not one of his classmate's handwriting. It was
too nice, too perfect, and in pen! It must have been someone's mother. Someone
must have asked their mother for help to… "Make Sherlock a Valentine." It
seemed so strange. He understood why John got one, but he didn't think he'dget
one. 
Still searching for answers, he looked around to see if anyone was watching
him. Everyone was taking notes as Mr Embers went on, cool, deep voice curling
'round the tips of Sherlock's blushing ears. Nobody that counted was looking at
him, not even John. Only Molly was looking at him.
Of course, Molly!Sherlock, satisfied at having found the answer, carefully
slipped the card back inside the pocket of his folder and flipped to a blank
page, quickly summarizing whatever Mr Embers was droning on about. 
Then, during recess, Sherlock disregarded John and rushed to where Molly was
sitting with Danielle and another girl named Jen-something. They were picking
the petals off flowers and chanting some riddle when Sherlock approached and
rudely interrupted.
"Molly!" he said loudly. 
Startled, she turned pink, eyes wide. "Sherlock?"
Quickly, and with little finesse, he showed her the card. "Did you do this?"
"I - "
"Your mother helped you, the quality is too good for what Mr Embers gave us to
work with. The content isunique, but somewhat overdone."
"Sherlock - "
"A good attempt, however, I'm not really sure how to answer what you asked me
at the end. What does 'Be mine' even mean?"
"Sherlock!" 
"Did you mean being your Valentine? What doesthat mean? What are the actual
duties? Is there rules somewhere? Do I have to spend time with you - "
"I didn't!" She snapped, finally getting through to him. Molly was covered in a
sheen of nervous sweat, tears pooling around her sad eyes. Sherlock's stomach
sunk at the sight, not because of Molly, but because of the pain in her face,
and he was at a loss for words when she scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve. "I… I
didn't make you that. Not… that one. I did… make one."
She shuffled around in her bag and pulled out a pink heart that was covered in
bee stickers. She looked at it for a moment before turning her head away and
giving it to him, fingers trembling. 
Sherlock took it and looked between her friends as she sniffled. They glared at
him until he walked away, confused and farther from a solution than ever.
He put the blue Valentine away and found John, so he went to him in silence.
They sat as he read Molly's card. It was simple, "Bee my Valentine?" and
Sherlock's face flushed in embarrassment. 
"Whassat?" John said, blue eyes on Sherlock's hands, mouth full of Valentine
chocolate.
"Molly…" 
"Oh," John said, eyes sliding over to where she sat hunched, trying to regain
herself. "Cool."
John sounded disconnected, and Sherlock felt bad about making Molly cry. What
was worse was that he had no more ideas about the "eternal admirer." He
supposed he'd just ask his mum, figure it out later. Right now he needed to
talk to John and perk himself up.
===============================================================================
That night, at Sherlock's house, his parents were hosting a small Valentine's
party. Their house was decorated like his classroom had been, pink and red
streamers hanging from the bannisters, hearts taped to the doors. Sherlock
caught Mycroft prodding at the bowl of candy on the dining room table and
rolling his eyes. He was fifteen and apparently wanted nothing to do with
anything. 
Sherlock wandered through his house, sweet violin music drifting down the
halls. He'd always liked his mother's old records, and on a number of
occasions, she'd asked him if he wanted to start playing. He always responded
with "Maybe later," but later seemed to get closer and closer to now, and
Sherlock thought of picking up lessons soon. 
He entered the grand kitchen and watched his two families interact, John's and
his. 
George and Charles were drinking pink, blended drinks and swallowing candy
hearts by the handful while their wives leaned against the spotless counter and
laughed, their own drinks in hand, slightly red hues to their cheeks.
Surprisingly, Mycroft was actually around, off to one corner in the farthest
room. Sherlock cocked his head to see what he was doing, which apparently, was
lifting baby Harriet into his arms and letting her tug on his ears and wrap her
chubby arms around his neck. He bounced her up and down and smiled at the
weight of her. Sherlock was lucky he hadn't caught him watching, or he wouldn't
hear the end of it.
It was weird seeing him act so soft and loving towards a child, someone else's
no less, but if Sherlock had known better, which he didn't, he'd have seen that
Mycroft missed holding Sherlock like that, as he sometimes had. Mycroft liked
to feel the sleepy, warm, weight of a younger sibling in his arms, and little
Harry seemed to like Mycroft just the same.
The house was warm and lively, and while nobody other than the neighboring
families were invited, their quiet chatter and tipsy bodies, swaying to the
violin music as they ate chocolate dipped strawberries and the like, was enough
to make Sherlock feel like this is what a loving house was supposed to be
like. 
He was still solemn, though, about the card and Molly. He didn't want to dwell
on it, but there was something he didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. 
John appeared then, chocolate smeared on his lips, and sat beside Sherlock
where he had hid, slumped in the sitting room against the settee, bum on the
floor, back to one of the legs.
"How's it goin'?" John asked. He licked the chocolate off his fingers and wiped
his mouth with his sleeve when Sherlock pointed at his lips. 
"I dunno."
"What don't you know?" 
Sherlock sighed and pulled out the card, which was slightly crumpled, from his
trouser pocket. "Who gave me this."
John gulped and looked away. "Oh…"
"Yeah. I thought it was Molly. It wasn't."
"Do… Do you like it?"
"The card?"
John nodded.
"Yeah… Yes. I do." Sherlock hesitated.
John picked up on this and asked, "And?"
"It's just different."
"Different is good," John chanted. It was sort of like a religious affirmation
to them.
Sherlock looked down at the card again. Some of the glitter had come off in his
pocket and made his fingers sparkly. "I know. I just wish I knew…"  
Elizabeth appeared then, pink eyeshadow smudging off from her fourth
Valentine's Day drink no doubt making her sloppy and forgetful that she was
even wearing any in the first place. She looked silly and happy and had a
little stain on her blouse, but she wasn't a mess, nor was she out of control.
She just looked to have cut back with some strawberry margarita. Really, she
deserved it, not just because of John and Harry, but as she had Sherlock as a
sort of third child.
She stood in front of them and swayed a little bit. "Oh! Sherlock, John! We're
gonna watch a sappy romance movie that Victoria… Hey, honey, you got the card
John made for you? Isn't it sweet, he asked me to help him with the handwriting
and the words and stuff, but otherwise it was all him! 'Eternal admirer.' I
thought that part was very cute. Scootch over, okay?" And then she was
clambering to sit between them on the floor and pulling them into her floral-
scented breasts and neck, hugging them both and saying, "Happy Valentine's Day,
boys, you're gonna have a great time one day."
Sherlock didn't really understood what she meant by that, but his heart was
tender and his face felt hot at learning that John had made him the card. All
those things he said, the words he used, the "I'm glad I know you," the "be
mine," and the "eternal admirer…" They came from John.
It made sense, since John was the closest to him (he was John,after all).
Still, his best friend was barely ever vocal with what he thought of Sherlock
and to know he thought so highly of him that he asked his mum for help, figured
out some of Sherlock's favorite words, and sneaked it into his notebook was
just overwhelming. 
Sherlock swallowed his embarrassment down as his mum sat on the settee, just
above them. She lovingly stroked his head and leaned to pet John, too. Then,
like the night of John's seventh birthday, they all settled in for a movie. 
Blushing and still gripping onto the blue Valentine, Sherlock leaned forward to
peer around Elizabeth to look at John. He was pink in the face and nibbling on
a cookie Victoria brought him. He glanced at Sherlock for half a second,
nervously, before darting his eyes back to the screen.
Sherlock's chest felt tight and he found himself stealing looks at John from
the corner of his eye as the black and white film started. He couldn't look
away, knowing now that John had given him the card, complete with "Be mine?"
and "Love, your eternal admirer." 
Elizabeth cuddled them in as Victoria sat above them, their husbands finishing
the remains of the margaritas in the kitchen. 
Sherlock tried to pay attention to the movie, but John and that blasted card
were on his mind.
He felt the same way thinking about being John's Valentine as he did when
talking to Mr Embers after school: light headed and happy and hot in his face. 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     You thought the last chapter was too cute? This is literally the
     "Sherlock and John start to like boys" chapter. The fluff just keeps
     coming, get on my level. ;)
     And a special thank you to brokenlibrarygirl for the suggestion of
     the Valentine's card! It set everything up wonderfully!
     P.S. Their mums know, oh my god, they totally know.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock and John took every day like they should: an opportunity to
     learn new things and get excited about what they loved.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sherlock and John's blushing, somewhat romantic energy existed between them all
through the end of third year, and seemed to burn the hottest whenever one of
them wasn't paying attention. Sometimes they couldn't tell when their faces
were pink, or when there was butterflies in their stomach, because they were so
used to it. 
The boys were sad when they had to say goodbye to the beloved Mr. Embers,
however. He said he enjoyed having them in class, especially since they both
stayed attentive and interested, no matter the subject. John and Sherlock
hugged him, red in the face, on the last day, before rushing home. Summer once
again came and went, and while there was little difference in the form of time
spent together, much more of it was silly and flirty - well, as flirty as two
eight-year-olds could make it. 
By year four, Victoria and Elizabeth were posing the question of after school
activity and potential interests. They said that while it was great that they
had the freedom to come home and see Redbeard every day, at some point, they
should take up extracurricular lessons or sports. John and Sherlock spent a day
and night in John's room, considering this. When they emerged in the morning,
Elizabeth had made breakfast for them, and George was at the table, scowling
into his coffee.
Mrs Watson said good morning and asked if they'd thought about what they had
talked about the day before.
"I want to play sports," John said. "Football and rugby."
"That's wonderful, sweetie! What about you, Sherl?" 
"No sports. I want to learn to play the violin."
Elizabeth grinned, her tired morning eyes lighting up like they usually did
when talking to her son and his friend. "Vic will be so glad to hear it!"
George Watson grunted and picked at his potatoes. He wasn't a morning person in
the slightest, or perhaps it was that he disliked the squeak in his wife's
voice when she talked about Victoria. Nobody knew, really. He did speak,
though, and it took all three of them by surprise. "So is that what you'll be,
then? A professional violinist?"
Mrs Watson caught the spite in his voice. He seemed to like Sherlock, but when
he and John went to bed, he always grumbled that he was "too smart for his age"
and that "people would get the wrong idea." His wife's bright eyes were now
cold and angry as she addressed him. "George…" 
"I'm just saying, can't very well make a living off being a musician."
Elizabeth blocked him out. "Don't listen to him, honey, playing the violin is
wonderful. Is there something else you're interested in, though? I see you like
science experiments, and John tells me you're quite the little chemist at
school."
Sherlock pondered this for a moment, palms pressed together in prayer under his
chin as he moved to sit at the dining table. John followed, hearts in his eyes
at Sherlock's thinking pose. 
He parted his plump lips soundlessly before finally saying, "I think I'd like
to be a pirate."
"A pirate!"
"Or a detective."
"A detective!"
Elizabeth's laugh was pretty and light as he closed her eyes and lay a hand
over Sherlock's. The gesture was welcome and warm and Sherlock didn't feel any
shame about his decision. He beamed when she looked him right in his eyes and
said, "You can do it, Sherlock. You can be a detective. Or a pirate. The best
anyone's ever seen! Because you're brilliant, you're brilliant and mad and
passionate. I know you'll be great, whatever you do."
The small kitchen and dining table was then blanketed in a warm love,
Elizabeth's support and motherly instinct causing Sherlock's stomach to twist
and heart to thrum. Her words sounded so sincere and so true that he didn't
know what to say back, and the silence settled in with the weight of a thousand
promises. 
George grunted and ruined it, knocking the table rudely as he arose. He made a
racket as he put his plate and cup away, then left with a huff, as if he was
personally offended by how much his wife loved Victoria's son. Elizabeth sighed
and retracted her hand. 
"What about you then, Johnny? What do you want to do?"
John gulped, face a bit pink as if he was still reeling from watching his mom
say something so nice to Sherlock. He licked his lips nervously and looked
between them before saying, "I like the war and stuff."
"John's really interested in the military," Sherlock added smartly, "Especially
medicine and health practices."
Elizabeth smiled. Her son's friend was so well-spoken, she couldn't see how
George resented it. "Yes, John has always had a little doctor inside him.
Remember when you fell and scraped your knee, and he cleaned and bandaged it,
Sherlock? It healed up in no time."
Sherlock remembered. He always remembered. 
"Mr. Embers says that they always need doctors in the wars. They fix up the
broken soldiers," John added. It was a heavy job, no doubt, but to John, it was
an honor.
His mother stood then, and took her own dishes back to the sink. "It's quite a
job. Well, sweetheart, I think that's a fine thing to want to do. Serve your
country, save lives, return home a hero. You'd be perfect for it." She began
rinsing as she said, "But how about, until you can really get your hands on a
wounded soldier, you play rugby and football and read up on all this doctor
stuff, okay? You have to learn about it before you can do it. And you,
Sherlock, you read up about crimes and experiments and detective business. Or
sailing the seas, whichever. Now you two need to eat, so get something in your
stomach before you go out today." 
The boys obeyed and began shoveling potatoes, toast, eggs, and fruit onto their
plates from the plethora in the center of the table. 
That discussion with John's mother basically solidified their interests,
although there were still some things to prepare for. Sherlock told Mycroft
about wanting to be a pirate and his mother about the violin lessons. The
detective dream he kept close to his heart, where only John and Elizabeth could
find it. 
Meanwhile, John took his mother's advice and began looking into medicine, as
well as training himself for after school sports. The rest of the summer was
spent playing in Sherlock's backyard with his old football 'til sundown. Then
the boys would retreat into the living room to read about crimes and illness.
Their love of learning narrowed into their preferred subjects, but the
excitement for life and new things remained.
===============================================================================
Their fourth year teacher was a plain, slim woman named Ms Smith. She had
pretty brown eyes and straight hair to match. She looked a bit like an adult
Molly, and the two got along famously as the year progressed. Greg sort of had
a crush on Ms Smith, it was obvious - he blushed every time she called on him
and stuttered when he tried answering. 
John and Sherlock liked her well enough, though, and they especially liked when
she brought muffins on Wednesdays. One time, John and Sherlock met with her
after school and asked if they could have access to some of the books reserved
for older students. She seemed surprised by their interest, but once she
allowed it, their attention in her lessons sparked and she found them
whispering over the books during recess. 
Sherlock basically knew everything there was to know about pirates, so he was
proud and eager to study about detectives. He took any opportunity he could to
ask Ms Smith questions about cases, mostly during recess. His teacher was
surprised by his interest in homicides and suicides, but he didn't seem fazed
by the dark content, so she always told him whatever she could. His eyes filled
with wonder, Sherlock would begin to rattle off predictions about his future
career. Ms Smith just watched him go, amazed at the intelligence and passion in
her student. Sherlock's rant would often be interrupted by John, who would run
in from playing scrap rugby with Greg and shout at Sherlock to come back out
and play.
Life was fine, it was perfectly fine, and Sherlock and John liked it very much.
That is… Until Colton happened.
Colton Sherrington had come from the city and moved to Wisbech as his mother
and father split. There were rumors that his father had been a drug abuser, and
by consequence, abused his mother, which is why she moved out to the country.
He was placed in Ms Smith's class in late September and stood at the front of
the class as she introduced him. He was big for a child, a bit tall and a bit
round, with a sunburnt face and coarse, mousy hair. When he smiled, he looked
pained, which is why he didn't smile too often. He didn't look right in the
light blue school uniform, as if he was already out of place. He was sent to an
empty desk in the back, where he stayed quiet and awkward as the class
continued with a lesson he knew nothing about. 
For Sherlock and John, life passed normally. The new student didn't influence
their worlds, and they didn't influence his. Sherlock and John took every day
like they should: an opportunity to learn new things and get excited about what
they loved.
Unfortunately, a few weeks after Colton arrived, it was clear that he was
different. Not different like John and Sherlock were different, as they'd
already been established as a smart, tricky pair. Colton was different in that
he wasn't part of a pair, and it would have been sad if he didn't growl and
spit insults at any of the friendly girls and boys who approached him. Soon he
was alone, of his own doing, and not even the friendly, down to earth John
Watson wanted try to befriend him.
Indeed, John had gained a bit of popularity, as much as he could in primary
school. He was getting into sports and made a bunch of new mates on his teams.
With this, came attention from girls, which he already had, and while he wasn't
interested in girls inthatway, it didn't hurt to have a few of them giggle when
he smiled at them. 
In contrast, Sherlock was alone when John was at practice. He had followed
through in taking violin lessons at school from one of the upper level
professors, which proved to be easy enough as he grasped the concepts quickly.
His mother had told the professor that Sherlock learned quickly, and the white-
haired man soon believed her as Sherlock mastered reading music and stroking
the strings with perfect care. 
One autumn day, John was scrimmaging with his team as Sherlock took his
lessons. It was around four thirty when Sherlock finished, and he was beaming
and lively from playing. He walked through the halls confidently with his
backpack taut against his shoulders, a few upperclassmen strolling by with
their dates and snickering at his nerdy look. He didn't mind, though, he was
smarter than all of them, and he knew it. 
Sherlock exited through the back and walked through the courtyard on his way to
the field. John's practice let out at five, so he always liked to watch him
play until they could walk home together. 
He was minding his own business, thinking about John and what he'd be like if
he was a violin song, when Colton called out to him.
"Hey, freak."
Sherlock used to be addressed as such, but never recently. All of his
classmates had learned that his off-putting smarts and quick tongue were as
much a part of him as John was, and they were used to it. Callousness and
teasing wasn't so common for him anymore.
Colton didn't seem to understand this, though, and on the few occasions that
Sherlock said something witty or smart in his direction, he must have took it
as a personal offense. 
Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel in his direction. There was no point in
ignoring him, really, and he didn't feel like shouting back, so he just looked
at him for a moment before responding. The courtyard was deserted, save for
Colton, who was leaning up against the wall of the building. Sherlock nodded to
him, "Hello, Colton."
"Don't act like we're friends, Holmes. I know what you've been saying about
me."
Sherlock was confused by what he meant, but it was the dramatic tone and
menacing glare that tweaked his irritation. He tried not to roll his eyes.
Colton was trying so hard to be intimidating that his presentation was
laughable, tired, and cartoonish at best. And in regards to what he said,
Sherlock truly didn't understand. He had barely spoken about him, certainly not
in a negative way. Except to John, of course, when he and John were at home,
but John never let their secrets out. Not ever.
The aspiring pirate didn't move from his spot, but Colton did, and he crossed
the cement with surprising agility. "Say something," he barked.
Suddenly, Colton didn't seem so thoughtless. A lump formed in Sherlock's throat
that made his small voice even smaller. "I don't know what you're talking
about. I've never - "
"You did, you did, Phillip told me! You said my mom's a punching bag and my
dad's a druggie and I'm fucked up because of it." 
Sherlock's breath caught in his lungs, and it stung. 
A punching bag? A druggie? That certainly didn't sound like something he'd say,
not in the slightest, and Colton's use of a swear word surprised him. Nobody
but people on telly or John's father used that word. He knew what it meant, in
most contexts, but it was pointless to use when you're eight. …Nine? How old is
he, anyway?
"I don't talk to Anderson." 
Colton smelled like cheese and dust, and while there was a foot of space
between them, it was definitely too close for Sherlock's liking.
"You obviously do," he mocked, spitting out the word in the way Sherlock was
known to. "You think you can just say something like that like it won't matter
because you're so smart? Because you talk to Ms Smith and ask her for special
treatment? You think you can just float along by - nothing you do meansanything
because you're the smart one! The teacher's pet!" He fists were clenched at his
sides, teeth bared. Sherlock honestly had no idea where any of this was coming
from, nor how he knew him, or what he was like. Sherlock had been laying low in
the weeks after he came to school in fear something like this might happen. Of
course, he hadn't toned down the smarts at all, only took pride in them like
Elizabeth wanted him to.
Sherlock tried to shake his head, but his neck was stuck. Colton was wrong, he
was so wrong about all of it, but something in his words rang true inside
Sherlock, and he panicked. He couldn't find the strength in his legs to run, or
the power in his voice to tell him off, so he just stood there, knuckles white
as he gripped the straps of his backpack, Colton's green eyes afire with rage. 
Sherlock swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I don't know what you're talking
about."
"Yes you do! You told everyone I'm stupid! You told them I'm nothing!"
"I don't remember - "
"Don't lie!" Colton shouted then, two rough hands snapping out and shoving
Sherlock hard, so hard that he fell to the ground, backpack crunching under
him. 
Sherlock's chest hurt, but he managed to speak, palms pressing down into the
cement, eyes burning. "Colton, I really don't know what you're on about!" 
"You're so smart, you're so smart, you're the 'best of all of us,' they said.
Well you're not. You're just trying - " Colton stepped closer. Sherlock's heart
was pounding furiously, but he couldn't move. "Trying to make us all look
bad!" 
Before Sherlock could wrap his head around what Colton was on about, a quick,
solid blow crashed into his stomach. The dull pain had Sherlock keeling over
and onto his side, where he reflexively curled up.
"D-don't…" he stuttered. 
"No! You - " Colton kicked again in the same spot, catching Sherlock's hands
and fingers as they cradled his stomach, "can't - " another kick, " do - "
another, "that! - " and another. 
Sherlock wheezed, pain shooting through his stomach, ribs, hands, and spine,
tears stinging his eyes. He was breathless and confused, but the kicks stopped
for a moment, allowing Sherlock to roll his face away, hoping to shield it.
Colton was prattling on about the same thing, acting as if he were the victim
from something Sherlock might have said. Actually said? I said that? I probably
did.Sherlock thought, his crunched hands leaving his stomach for a moment, only
to help him roll away, turn over, do something,move. 
Nevertheless, Sherlock was kicked again, this time in the ribs. It was powerful
and caused Sherlock's face to scrape against the cement, his tender cheek skin
fraying while his lip split. 
There was another pause as Sherlock groaned and cried. He felt like he was
dying, his insides hurt so fiercely. I can't die yet, he thought, John's not
here.
But bullies don't care if their subjects fear death, need their friends, or if
even the bodies they mangle are still young and fragile. They just want to
hurt. 
Colton just shuffled around him and kicked him again, this time in the back of
the thigh before running off, sneakers padding across the cement. 
Sherlock lay there in pain for a while. He understood the pain, he understood
the bruises and the tenderness of his ribs and how the wind was knocked out of
him and how his skin had been scraped, but what he didn't understand was why. 
He hadn't talked to Colton once, barely even about him, save for maybe a quick
deduction during recess the first day he came. But that was to John, not to
Phillip, and it certainly wasn't as crass as what Colton had made it out to be.
In fact, Sherlock just told John he thought he might have trouble fitting in,
since he was new and seemed sort of shy. That's it. No jab at his mother, no
flaunting of his smarts, nothing like that.
So where had it come from?
Was it the way Sherlock carried himself, the pride in his eyes after a lesson,
the way he always raised his hand to answer? Was it how he was always smiling
with John, happy to have someone to play with, when Colton clearly didn't? 
What had he done wrong? 
Sherlock didn't know. He didn't know where the sudden violence came from, and
he didn't know he'd even affected Colton in any way. But he had, somehow, he
did something wrong, obviously, and as he curled in again, tears stinging the
rash on his cheek and falling into the split in his lip, he promised not to
draw attention to himself anymore. It only got him in trouble.
And he hated that he had to do that, he really did, because he loved to be the
smart one. He loved the way John looked at him when he was at the head of the
class. 
Still crying, Sherlock dry heaved in realizing that this would probably happen
again. He'd have to see Colton again. He couldn't disappear right here, in this
spot, as much as he wanted to, as much as he feared he would.
It was a complicated attack of emotions when you've been beaten and left to cry
in the middle of the school courtyard. 
===============================================================================
"All right, boys! Good work today! Nathan, you played a great forward, Sam,
good sweeping, and John, fantastic defense! That's it for today, so go home and
wash off and - "
"John!" 
Someone interrupted the coach with a pained screech as they ran across the
field. Their pink dress was splattered with mud from crossing, as the autumn
rain had wet the field. 
"Molly?" John turned to her, embarrassed, his team watching curiously.
She was breathless and looked scared. "It's Sherlock."
John's heart stopped. "What happened?" 
"He's hurt." She breathed hard. "He's in the nurse's office."
His teammates bristled and his coach stepped between them and John, if only for
a bit of privacy. 
Ice shot through John's previously warmed muscles. He repeated himself, louder
in panic, "What happened?"
"I don't know, just please come."
"Right, okay." John took off running then, surprised his legs worked at all.
His coach shouted after him, but he didn't hear. Blood rushed in his ears, and
he was barely aware that Molly was running beside him, pink flats stained and
caked in mud.
She must care about him, too.Somewhere in his mind, John knew Molly loved
Sherlock, not only from knowing of her long-term crush but how she stood up for
him when people told him to sod off with his "deductions." 
John sprinted off the field and towards the courtyard. He didn't notice the
small bloodstain from Sherlock's split lip, and he barely knew the way to the
nurse's office. He wondered if the nurse would even be on campus this late
after school. 
But she was, apparently, as Molly lead him through the empty hallways and to
her office. The lights were on.
They both stood, panting, outside the door. John didn't want to go in. He
didn't want to see Sherlock hurt. If he did, it'd be like admitting that they
weren't toddlers anymore. They couldn't curl up under the beanie bags, where
their only issue was their young pre-school teachers telling them to be nice to
the other children.
John knocked anyway. 
The door opened and John's stomach clenched in nervousness. The nurse, a squat,
busty woman with chopsticks in her silver hair, looked him and Molly up and
down. "Are you - ?"
"I'm John."
"All right, come in. Thank you, Molly. You can go home now."
John turned back and looked at her. She had been crying, and she still looked
scared. 
What was she doing here so late?
Molly nodded and walked on trembling legs down the hall. John watched her go,
oblivious to how she'd seen Sherlock hobble, hunched and bloodied, into the
office on her way back from dance class. Wisbech Academy had many after school
activities, which proved to be lucky for John, as he was just halfway across a
campus when Sherlock needed him.
But what did he need him for? How was he hurt? What happened!? 
John was confused and angry, but he was now presented with the opportunity to
find out, so he looked away from Molly and stepped inside, brushing past Mrs
Jameson. In the office, Sherlock was curled up on the patient's table, bandages
on his fingers and hands and lip. 
"Sherlock!" John couldn't feel anything inside him, save for his heart beating
in his throat. He rushed to Sherlock's side. Everything was slow, like a
nightmare, but John could hear himself shouting, "What happened, what
happened?" 
John reached out a trembling hand, unsure of where to put it. He settled it on
Sherlock's hip. Sherlock didn't react, his eyes were still closed. 
Remembering there was an adult in the room, John turned to her, eyes scared and
wide. 
She took her chained glasses off and let them hang around her neck. She glanced
at Sherlock's fragile form. "Seemed he got in a row. Found him in the courtyard
on my way back from a meeting. He hasn't said anything about what happened, but
he's really beaten up, so there's no question that someone did it to him.
Didn't seem to be a very fair fight, by the looks of it."
John didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do, how to act, or who to
blame. He just sighed a broken sob and looked on, Sherlock's pretty, pale young
skin scratched and swollen around his cheekbone, his breathing light and
pained.
===============================================================================
John stayed with Sherlock and gave the nurse all the necessary information. Mrs
Jameson then called Sherlock's mother, and Victoria picked them up in the car,
since Mrs Jameson told her they wouldn't be able to walk home. Victoria arrived
quickly, but the minutes waiting for her seemed like years. Her eyes were
scared and sad as she found them and helped Sherlock limp to the car. She sent
John in after him and closed the door lightly as she talked to the nurse.
The backseat felt heavy. John didn't like it, so he tried to talk to Sherlock
again, who had been disconnected and quiet since he opened his eyes.
"Sherlock…" John missed Sherlock's voice.
"John."
"What happened?" He'd asked that a lot, but he didn't really receive any good
answers, so he kept asking.
Sherlock barely moved his swollen lip, his voice small, as he said, "Colton."
John turned his face downwards and grimaced. "Why… Why did he do…" John looked
back up at Sherlock, who was turned away from him, bandaged hands protective on
his stomach. "This?"
"I don't know."
"Did he say anything?"
Sherlock's voice didn't sound like him at all, almost as if he didn't want to
tell John, but he had to. He had to. "He said I was smarter than everyone. That
I made him feel stupid. I made him look bad. I made him feel like nothing."
"But you didn't say anything, did you?"
Sherlock didn't answer that. John knew he didn't say anything, he felt dumb for
even questioning it.
John wanted to take Sherlock's hand, but he couldn't. "What else?"
"He said Phillip told him I was saying all these mean things about him."
"Did you tell him you weren't?"
"I said I didn't know what he was talking about."
"Sher - "
"I didn't. I didn't know what he was talking about. You know that."
"Then what happened?"
Sherlock waited before responding. Victoria turned towards the car, opened the
right-side door, and climbed in, silent.
"He pushed me down and kicked me."
His mother sighed and sniffed a bit, but she didn't turn around. She knew this
was John's moment. She started the car and drove away as the silence settled in
again. John, once more, didn't know what to say. He didn't have anything
against Colton, really, but he knew he was a bit of a jerk. Now though, now he
had every reason in the world to hate him. He hurt his best friend, his
everything.
They were halfway down the street, past John's house, when Sherlock spoke
again.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't get back at him. It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. Look at you."
Sherlock hadn't been eight for more than four months, but he looked much, much
older in that moment. He turned to John. His eyes were lifeless and swollen.
"It's not your fight."
"Yes, it is!"
"He'll hurt you, John."
"He's already hurt you!" 
They were climbing the long driveway up to the Holmes mansion now. Victoria was
still silent. John couldn't see her crying. 
Sherlock breathed deeply, and it sounded like it hurt him. "It's fine. Let's
just… forget about it."
John had no idea what Sherlock was thinking, how he was feeling, or what he
meant by wanting John to forget it. He obviously wouldn't forget it. Colton
hurt his best friend, his Sherlock, he hurt him bad, and John wasn't going to
just "forget about it."
Victoria parked the car as John gawked at Sherlock, unable to speak. She got
out and moved around to get Sherlock first. She opened the door, unbuckled him,
and took him out carefully. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to
hold her baby, hold him so tightly and not let go for a very long time, but the
nurse must've told her about his stomach and rib injuries, so all she could do
was help him carefully out of the car and into the house. 
John was left in the car, upset and confused. 
He hoped this wasn't the first of many incidents, but he couldn't be sure.
===============================================================================
A few months later, things were back to normal. …Sort of. The Colton situation
had worked itself out, and Sherlock had healed up fine. 
The night of the attack, Victoria had cried and cried, Charles holding her the
way she wanted to hold her son. Mycroft was nowhere to be found. John and
Sherlock were in the sitting room, struggling to talk about it, when Victoria
came in and said that Sherlock needed to rest. She changed his ice-pack before
leading him up to his room. When he was put to bed, she went down to talk to
John. 
As she approached, John swore he saw something move out from the around the
corner. Mycroft disappeared down the hallway, but not before looking back at
John. He'd never seen Mycroft look so scared and hurt. Victoria moved in front
of him then, and Sherlock's older brother was gone. 
She kneeled before him, holding his arms and looking up at him with swollen,
reddened eyes. "John. Do you know anything about what happened?"
"Not really."
"Do you know who did this?"
"Yeah."
"Who did this?"
"Sherlock said it was Colton. Colton Sherrington. He's the new kid."
"Why did Colton hurt him? Do you know?"
"He thought Sherlock was being mean to him."
Her grip tightened on John's arms. "Was he?"
Sherlock hadn't been clear about that part. John couldn't know what Sherlock
said when he was around, but he knew what Sherlock had said to him, and it
wasn't bad. "No… No. He wasn't. Colton is wrong."
Victoria dipped her head, dark curls coming loose from her bun. She gave a few
half-hearted sobs before standing up and hugging John tight. "Of course he's
wrong. Sherlock would never do that."
After a week or so, Sherlock's smaller scrapes and bruises healed up. The large
bruises on his stomach, thigh, and ribs, took much longer.
Luckily, as he was healing, John and Victoria had the opportunity to talk to
the headmaster and Ms Smith, who were both horrified. They said that they
understood where Colton's anger was coming from, but that it was no excuse to
harm another student. They apologized for Colton's actions, resentful that
Sherlock was the victim he chose. They gave their best regards to Sherlock,
allowing him as much time as he needed to heal up. John brought him home his
school work, which made it easier for Sherlock to stay involved, which kept up
his mood. A bit.
After they brought Sherlock in for question, as well as Colton, Colton was
expelled. 
Things went back to normal as best they could, although Sherlock was definitely
less proud, less of a show-off. He was moody and reserved and quiet, and John
didn't like it, he didn't like to see Sherlock keep his hand down for a
question he'd love to answer, and he didn't like to see Sherlock hiding in the
shadows as he practiced football, instead of right in the sun on the sidelines,
cheering him on.
It wasn't the same, and the year went by slowly, but Sherlock was safe, and no
matter how much he begged John not to, John swore that he'd protect him from
then on. Always.  
 
Chapter End Notes
     I changed the rating and added some tags because of this chapter, and
     I feel bad for beating up our small fav, but you knew it wasn't going
     to be easy. It never is.

     Also, I'm warning you now, things don't really get any easier from
     here on out. Sorry.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Year five proved to be a bit of a distraction from the memory of year
     four.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
A lot of things were the same after the incident. Sherlock still played with
Redbeard, he still ate his mother's fresh scones, and he still talked to John.
His house was still grand and intricate, and he still caused a ruckus in his
upstairs bedroom during experiments. That said, there was something missing. It
was like Sherlock was a bit of an empty shell. It was like what was left of him
was only a casing of the spunky nine-year-old he could have been, and nobody
but his family could see it. His brilliant eyes were sometimes dull, and while
John caught him laughing and rolling off his bed late at night, comic book in
hand, a silence would take over and Sherlock's pretty lips would fall into a
flat line.
Mycroft could see this change clearly, and since he didn't have the courage to
talk to Sherlock about it, he talked to John. His seventeen-year-old cynicism
melted, just for a moment, and he'd talk to John with all the care and concern
they both shared. Harriet, even, could see something had changed, and she was
deep in her own little world of friends and exciting life. Nevertheless, when
Sherlock was over, she'd pad on over and look at him, smile her innocent year
three smile, and ask if he was okay.
The answers the same, every time. I'm fine. It's nothing. Don't worry about
me.On occasion, it was Stop asking me that.orLeave me alone. 
Nobody, not even John, was used to Sherlock acting this way. The way he'd snap,
how he'd shut them out, how the excitement in his eyes had dulled. And while
John and Sherlock's family noticed it, if anybody else had watched him, they'd
say that he was just moody. "Fifth years can be like that," they'd say. "He's
just growing," they'd say.
But it wasn't really obvious, either. There wasn't a grey cloud hanging over
his curly brunet head, nor was he always frowning. He was just more reserved,
more soft-spoken. He did smile, he did laugh, but it wasn't the same. 
Summer was different this time. It was less adventurous, less childish. John
often missed the way it used to be.
So many things had changed, John and Sherlock's appearances one of them. John's
football practice had strengthened his legs and core and his bright, innocent
eyes now held a touch of sorrow. Sherlock, too, looked different. All of his
bruises had healed and his skin resumed its natural pale glow, but the light
dusting of his freckles across the bridge of his nose had darkened. The baby
fat in his cheeks slowly dripped away, revealing the prominent cheekbones he
and his mother shared. He was still young and scrawny, and by no means tall and
impressive like Mycroft, but there was a maturity in him that probably
shouldn't have been there, not quite so soon. 
Halfway through the summer, Sherlock's darkness seemed to lighten up. His fits
of isolation weren't as common, and on some days, it was like nothing ever
happened. Perhaps he felt more free to be himself over holiday, since the
remainder of the school year had been the worst for him.
John was almost ready to say it was all better, that Sherlock was back, but it
wasn't that easy. Fate wouldn't make it that easy. It never did.
Sherlock and John were lounging in various positions in John's bedroom,
laughing until their stomachs hurt, rock songs that tried too hard their
soundtrack, when the doorbell rang.
Elizabeth wasn't home, she and Harry were out looking for clothes. Harry wanted
something patterned and pretty, so John's mother took her out on the fine
summer day. This had John and Sherlock alone, left to scramble out of the room
and rush through the house, still half-singing the chorus of the last song,
when they heard the bell chime.
When John got to the door, Sherlock was poking him in the back and tickling
under his armpits. He told him to quit it just as he opened the door. 
A few of John's school football mates were standing at his door, muddy football
and all. Their jerseys were splattered with mud and their faces were flushed as
if they'd already been playing. They smiled at him before they realized
Sherlock was standing behind him. Their eyes dropped to their shoes for a
moment like the only thing they associated Sherlock with was being kicked into
a pulp. John hated when they looked at him like that.
"H-hey guys," John stuttered, hoping to get them to stop feeling bad for
something that didn't concern them.
Nathan switched the ball to the other arm and raised his eyes, "John! Mate!"
"What's going on?" John tried to make the question more casual and less Why are
you interrupting the one good day I had with him?
"Thought you might want to get out," Nathan quipped. "Fancy a scrimmage?"
John's hand tightened on the doorknob. Nathan couldn't see it. Sherlock could. 
"Ah, I'm a bit busy today. Raincheck?"
Nathan, Dean, and Seamus looked from John to Sherlock. Dean nodded, "All right.
That's fine. We just thought - "
"Actually, he's not busy." Sherlock's unforgettably intelligent voice grumbled
from behind John. "I was just leaving. Goodbye, John."
He then pushed past John and the three other boys, coolly and sternly, before
walking down the street and turning up towards his house. None of John's mates
saw him start running, but John did.
John sighed. They were so close to being normal again, to letting the violent
memory slip away through the sound of laughter and dumb jokes, but any reminder
of school, of what happened, set Sherlock off. John glanced at the silhouette
of the mansion before stepping outside and taking the ball.
"That was weird," Seamus said.
===============================================================================
Something about John's friends made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable. They
weren't the ones who beat him up, but he knew, from how John recounted that
day, that they were with him when they heard Sherlock was hurt. He must have
been having a grand old time with them when he got the news. It probably
embarrassed John, having to leave them to clean up after him.
God, and they always had those guilty eyes. Those, "I'm sorry the new kid beat
you up" eyes with a touch of "But we all knew he'd snap on someone" foot
shuffling. 
Sherlock ran up the street and passed the pleasant houses. Some younger
children played in their front lawns, spraying each other with hoses. There was
a little white dog leading its snooty-looking bald master down the street, tiny
paws covered in boots to keep the heat out. A biker passed Sherlock's other
side, music from her small radio in the basket surging and fading as she went.
It was summer, so everyone was out, but Sherlock wished they weren't. He closed
his eyes and slowed to a walk, blocking them out and retreating into his mind.
He went over what happened, like he often did.
It was flashes of sneakers, the sound of retreating footsteps, and the taste of
blood in his mouth. It was his mother's disappointed eyes and John's
embarrassed questions. It was the whispers and looks from students when he came
back and sympathetic smiles from teachers. It was random, unprompted violence,
and it only happened once, but Sherlock couldn't shake the memory. He couldn't
shake the guilt. 
Sherlock grimaced - it shouldn't even matter anymore! It happened months ago.
Colton was long gone by the time he returned to school. He'd caught up on the
lessons he missed, returned to violin practice, and had loads and loads of
support and comforting words from people.
So why did it hurt so bad?
John had told him, time and time again, that he was so scared when he heard
Sherlock was hurt, that he ran with Molly as fast as he could to see him, that
he's beyond grateful that he's okay, that Colton is gone. He tried everything
he could to make Sherlock feel better, be better.
But Sherlock couldn't find the strength to be better. He believed John, some
days, but mostly he just didn't know how to make it better. What Colton said of
him was true, hedidfloat on by, hedidthink he was above everyone, and he was
smart. It was his fault that Colton snapped. He couldn't blame him, really.
Sherlock balled his fists and scraped his eyes, gritting his teeth as his mind
transitioned into remembering John's reaction. It hurt to think of John's face
when Sherlock told him not to get involved.
"Sherlock, I need to protect you,"John had said.
"No, you don't."
"I need to be there."
"No."
"Please, just let me tell them to stop bugging you about it - "
"No, it's fine it doesn't matter."
Sherlock let out a silent sob as he turned into the long driveway up to his
house. It did matter. It does matter. He didn't know when it would stop
mattering.
===============================================================================
Year five proved to be a bit of a distraction from the memory of year four.
Although some of the students still looked at Sherlock like they felt sorry for
him, the incident had long since passed, and new drama proved to be more
interesting. The boys that girls liked who didn't like them back were the talk
at the lunch tables, as well as talk of how hard the girls tried to be cool as
they put pink plastic hair extensions in. The teachers directed them to take it
out, of course, but the memory stayed. Nobody really remembered Colton anymore.
Their new teacher, Mr Chamberlain, was informed of the incident and its effect
on Sherlock, but that was purely a precaution, and he never mentioned it to the
boy.
Sherlock was trying hard to be over it, and it was getting easier as it seemed
the other kids didn't care, but something reminding him of it still hung in the
air. The courtyard, Ms Smith, and… John.
He didn't want to associate John with it. John was a beacon, his conductor of
light, the most important and most caring person in his life, but sometimes
John looked at him with eyes that saw a scraped cheek and a bloody lip. It made
him remember whenever they were together, and he hated it. But he couldn't
command John to stop looking at him, and he didn't know how to admit to flip-
flopping between being over it and not. 
Sherlock knew a lot of things, and he only knew more and more as he kept
studying, passing classes easily, but how to get past this… was the one thing
he didn't know.
John, luckily, had an idea, and he'd been carrying it out fairly well in the
first few months of school. 
His idea was to carry on. He understood that what made Sherlock the most
uncomfortable was when people remembered, so he strained his little heart to
make Sherlock feel like everything was normal. Surprise attacks from new kids
didn't change anything, and not changing anything meant not smothering him.
John didn't force him to accept his help, his protection, but he didn't leave
him lonely. It was the perfect remedy, and some days, when Sherlock needed more
help, more attention, John gave it to him lovingly.
A working friendship, a serene compatibility, John and Sherlock fed off each
other's energy, negative or positive, and continued on as they had been. Things
were back to the way they were… mostly.
===============================================================================
It was late into their fifth year when Sherlock completed his violin lessons.
He really didn't need to continue with them after summer, when he'd practiced
the most, but he wanted to be sure that it was flawless, so he stuck with it.
And he would've stayed longer if his professor hadn't told him, astonished,
that he'd mastered it, and there was nothing left to teach him. He just had to
practice and practice and play and play and he'd be playing professionally or
composing in no time. Sherlock thanked him on that last day and left, fingers
itching to play.
Victoria had bought him his own violin when his professor instructed he ought
to get one, but he left it at home when he went to school so it wouldn't get
ruined. Now, knowing that there would be no more lessons, he wanted to play it.
And he often did, at home. He'd play covers of his favorite old songs and songs
John requested.
In fact, one of his favorite memories from the summer included both John and
his violin.
Before John's football mates showed up at his door and scared Sherlock away,
Sherlock and John were in Sherlock's room, lazy and stuffed with chocolate.
John was lounging upside-down on Sherlock's bed, blond fringe (which he let
grow out, and honestly, Sherlock sort of liked it) revealing his cerulean-grey
eyes. He was humming one of their favorite songs, and the summer breeze drifted
in through Sherlock's open window as he sat as his desk, probing plant plasma
and dropping different types of acid on it.
"Sherlock," John said, his voice doing that thing whenever he said his name
that Sherlock liked very much.
"Hm?"
"Think about it."
He looked up from his experiment and paused before turning to John, who was
talking to him with his eyes closed, hands clasped on his chest. He looked very
nice. "Think about what?"
"Like… this moment."
And Sherlock did. He thought about the old shirt of John's that he was wearing
since he had to change after playing in the lawn sprinkler, he thought about
the way John sweetly hummed, and he thought about the smell of plant and acid.
The breeze rustled the pages of the open book on his desk, and the clock on the
far wall ticked on. Sherlock tried to really focus on this moment, so he looked
around at the trinkets and such in his room, many of which came from adventures
with John. He had a book of dried flowers that he picked, wrappers from the
sweets they got in town, and a bear with a conductor's hat from the train
station. There were a few pictures, too. Pictures of Redbeard and John and him,
rolling around in the grass, the sun catching the shine in John's hair and
Redbeard's coat. There was a picture of Sherlock's first science experiment,
where he was covered in glop from making a non-newtonian fluid. John was
laughing in the corner of the picture. Shortly after his father took the
picture, Sherlock remembered throwing some of the mixture at John. It hit him
solidly in the arm, but slipped off and into a puddle at his feet. 
Sherlock was looking around at the pictures, nostalgia washing over him, when
his gaze fell on John again. 
He watched him hum silently, eyes closed. 
John had seen him grow up, and Sherlock had seen the same. Maybe they weren't
grown yet, since they were hardly out of primary school, but they certainly
weren't toddlers anymore. They talked more now. They had real, fulfilling
conversations, and sometimes they joked about things that they probably
shouldn't know about, like illness and murder. Toddlers didn't do that. 
His slim chest was rising and falling gently when he spoke again. "Are you
thinking about it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"What about you? What… do you think?"
John opened his eyes. His lashes were blond and thin and caught the afternoon
light. "I think this would be better if you played for me."
Sherlock's heart flipped. "What?"
"Play something for me. On your violin." John mimed playing the violin in the
air. It was clumsy and incorrect, but Sherlock liked it just the same.
He swallowed, "I don't know, John…"
"Please, please?" John scooted farther down the bed so his head dipped low. He
looked at Sherlock with an upside-down pout.
"No, I don't think…"
"C'mon, I know you're good! Just one song. It'll make this afternoon even more
perfect."
Sherlock's stomach clenched at that. Something in John's voice was ridiculously
honest, and his eyes gleamed so blue, that the aspiring violinist had to
comply. He rose from his desk and moved to the shelf where his violin was
sitting undisturbed in its case. He took it out with careful hands, feeling
John watch him all the while, before he rose and walked to the window. He
looked out at the neighborhood and set the violin under his chin, breathing
deeply at the feeling. Calmness was taking him over already, his voice smooth
and soft as he asked, "What shall I play?"
"I don't know. Anything. Whatever you like."
Sherlock hummed, back turned towards John. He raised the bow and placed it
gently on the strings. He had an idea of what John wanted to hear, so he
mentally arranged the notes before he played the first. Then, with a great
breath and one long stroke, he began to play.
The notes swirled in the stomach of the instrument and carried on the wind over
to John's ears. He'd flipped over onto his stomach in preparation, and was now
watching Sherlock sway with his chin on his forearms. 
He was so graceful in playing that he didn't quite look like a disheveled kid
in his best friend's old t-shirt. His arm moved carefully and his legs stayed
strong and solid. John looked on lovingly and felt a warmth bloom in his chest
that he didn't know what to call other than the usual reaction to Sherlock
doing something extraordinary. Then, just as the warmth was catching in his
throat, John recognized the tune.
Sherlock was playing a slow, acoustic version of John's favorite song. The
original was fast-paced and complicated, but as Sherlock strung it out now,
John couldn't see how anything other style would fit. The rhythm was like a
beating heart, thrumming in John's bones, the melody, too, swept over him,
familiar but new all at once.
Like Sherlock.
John closed his eyes and tilted his head so his cheek was pudgy against his
arms. As he breathed, the music swelled. Wrapped in melody, John sunk into the
serenity. It was a calm like he'd never known, and he was almost drifting off
to a land of sweeping pale arms and brilliant turquoise eyes before the music
faded and Sherlock was calling him awake.
Sherlock, in looking back, had no idea that John was so passionately lost to
the music he played because truthfully, he was just as lost. Playing with such
ease, bringing a new spark to a well-known song, feeling the rush of air from
his strokes on his cheek… it had him floating into the clouds. 
He truly loved playing the violin, more than he knew how to express, and to
have John love it just as much was more than he could ever ask for. 
Coming back to reality with notes still drifting in his head, Sherlock
refocused his eyes and remembered where he was currently. He was leaning up
against a stubby tree in the shade, watching John practice. He had plenty more
time to do this now that his lessons were over, and while he missed the time to
play, he certainly didn't mind having the spare time to watch. 
He caught a flash of maroon, of Watson #7, before he smiled a private smile and
slipped down the trunk. He sat against it, pulled out a book from his pack, and
began reading. It was only when a football rolled towards him did he look up.
===============================================================================
"Hey," John said, foot trapping the ball as it bumped against Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock looked up at him, eyes dazzling and nostalgic like they were when he
went far, far away. "Hi."
"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" 
His best friend sighed and ended it with a hum, "Music."
"Ah." 
John wanted to sit beside him in the grass and watch the boys play. He wanted
Sherlock to read to him like he sometimes did, and if he was being honest with
himself, he wanted them not to be disturbed by anything for a very, very long
time. Instead, he just ground his cleated foot into the grass and waited for
Sherlock to say something. He didn't. "What… do you want to do today?" John
offered.
Sherlock turned back down to his book, not a sign of dismissing John, but
multitasking. He'd listen and respond to John's voice and continue an
experiment at the same time. "I don't know."
"Well, we could… Take Redbeard out… Or we could bake something… Or we could go
exploring by the marsh." 
These seemed like fine options to John, since anything was fine as long as they
were together. Sherlock didn't reply quite yet, and John feared he might not
want to do anything at all. However, not once, not even when Sherlock was moody
and sulking, did he tell John he didn't want to spend time together. His mother
often said it for him and sent John home on particularly bad days, but John had
never heard it come out of Sherlock's own mouth. So, naturally, he was grateful
when this time, it didn't. 
"I think we should continue with the story."
"The story?"
"The one about the crimson dragon and the elves." 
The football squeaked under John's foot as he chuckled. "Oh, right, that one!
What was it called… Fantasialand?"
"Fantivia Kingdom. In the land of Drireshard. We're knights." Sherlock
remembered. Of course he did.
"All right," John said, checking over his shoulder, memory of their wild,
imaginary characters already dancing about in his head. The team had been
scrimmaging with two balls on the field, a strange but effective exercise, so
John's presence with Sherlock wasn't necessarily harmful. Still, he should be
getting back. He looked down at Sherlock, "Today then, after practice. We can
continue the story."
Sherlock didn't make a sound of agreement, but John took it to mean yes anyway.
He turned with a swivel and popped the ball above him, hitting it once with his
knee. He dribbled it a few feet away before he heard Sherlock shout.
"Nathan's not playing well today. You'll have to move up towards midfield if
you want to counter him."
John turned back to thank him, but Sherlock's curly fringe was bowed as his
head was in his book. John smiled anyway and hustled back onto the field.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Poor Sherlock, slipping into a bit of depression after Colton beat
     him up. But things got better!

     Also, lmao at how in love they are already. I can't believe this.
     They don't even fucking get it...
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     The rest of the morning was unbelievably perfect.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Finally, the last year of primary school. Year six had come and John and
Sherlock could feel the tired, repetitive, childlike drama of primary school
squeak out one last hurrah as the school year started. True, they would still
be at Wisbech academy the next year, but they'd be insecondary school, with the
older kids. They'd have more challenging classes, better after school
activities, and, in some cases, opportunities for "different kinds" of
adventures. At least, that's what Mycroft said. He spat it with a sneer, of
course, but John and Sherlock could almost see the glint of mischief in his
intelligent eyes. 
He was going off to university soon, and Sherlock didn't think he'd miss him
too much. His snotty remarks and conversation that only consisted of what he
wanted to study had worn Sherlock down, and the sooner he could shack up with
some sorry bloke, the better. That didn't mean he didn't still love him,
obviously. It was just his turn to be a teenager - Mycroft's time was well up.
After a summer holiday of scraped elbows and muddy shoes, John and Sherlock
approached year six with tired eyes but hope in their hearts. This year, their
teacher was a crockety old guy named Mr Maxwell. He was a good teacher, but
sometimes  he snapped at the young girls, and often he'd say something akin to
"you can't do this because you're a girl." Sherlock and John weren't really
affected by this, although it bugged them a bit when he talked about motherhood
in a shameful way. And, now that John's sister was eight, he had a better clue
of what little girls liked, so when their misogynistic teacher mentioned
something, he'd tell her, and she'd get all riled up. Molly and Sally were
annoyed, too, but they couldn't very well stand up to him and get him fired.
That's just not how it worked.
Outside of the cringing sexism, John and Sherlock liked Mr Maxwell's ideas
about history. He told them all about England's wars, like Mr Embers had, but
his stories focused more on cause and effect and less on love stories. He told
them of the rival countries and the American revolution, most recollections
tainted with a bit of spite. 
Sherlock and John listened attentively, taking notes, passing notes, and
teaming up on projects. And, in their preferred subjects, they'd study even
harder, ask questions, and stay in to figure something out. More often than
not, Sherlock could help John with chemistry and science and math, where John
wouldn't hesitate to remind Sherlock of the constellations and historic events.
Academics were easy enough for them, seeing as they helped each other as much
as they could, but Mycroft would often tell Sherlock at the dinner table that
year six work was far from difficult. It was easy, pointless, and just a
pretense for the real work. Even secondary school work wasn't hard, or the
college classes Mycroft took now. He often acted like nothing academic would be
a challenge for a brilliant mind like his, an "extraordinarily, exceptional
mind" as Victoria called it, but Sherlock knew that part of him was scared. If
not for the rigor of university, then for the inescapable social aspect. 
He knew his brother well enough to see anxiety, and it went both ways. Mycroft
deduced eelings and actions in Sherlock that he hadn't yet discovered, and the
cold, hard cynicism that Mycroft protected himself with seemed translucent to
the bright, innocent eyes of a child.
Obviously, Sherlock had realized that life wasn't innocent. Bruised ribs and a
split lip did that to a boy, and while the childlike wonder of primary school
lingered around for another year, Sherlock's classmates had developed vulgar
tongues and questionable preferences. Many of the young, school uniform clad
bodies around John and Sherlock were just discovering true "crushes," their
faces turning red with rosy pink lips pressed to their cheeks. Once again, the
thrill of the new year brought new drama and relationships, and John and
Sherlock avoided it as best they could. 
By winter, the boys and girls were buzzing again, giving each other little
gifts in the days leading up to Christmas holiday and hiding their blush-
stained noses and cheeks in their scarves. They padded through the warm
hallways without a care, but bundled up in coats and hats once they left.
Football practice for John wasn't really an option, seeing as snow blanketed
the field and the muddy puddles were iced over. Sherlock took to reading in the
library, rather than outside, with John beside him. Then, when they were shooed
away, they'd toddle home, seeking warmth, and make cocoa. 
With winter, of course, came Christmas. It was the natural order of things, and
while Sherlock and John had spent every Christmas holiday together since
Victoria and Elizabeth had bore them, something felt different about this one.
It may have been that their plead for gift ideas from their parents was turned
away, met with only "You're ten now, figure it out." It may have been that all
the materialistic presents they could have given, like toys and clothes,
wouldn't have conveyed the importance and necessity of the other boy in their
lives. Perhaps it was the something between them that neither of them knew what
to call. Any of these reasons could have made that Christmas different, but no
matter what, it was still as magical and loving as ever.
Sherlock and John had been working on their gifts for weeks, which caused them
to spend some time apart for secrecy. Their mothers both had an inkling on what
sort of feeling and reaction surrounded the gifts, but the content was unclear.
It was hidden away in the boys' rooms, along with the anxiety that came with
it. Sherlock worried that what he meant wouldn't come through, and John didn't
want his words to fall flat. 
Both of them held their breath as the Holmes' Christmas party came, after which
they'd spend the night together and wake up early, tumble down the stairs, and
sit amongst the gifts.
===============================================================================
 
On Christmas Eve, the night of the party, Sherlock padded downstairs with his
hair slicked back with his father's gel, white dress shirt matching the pure
snow that covered the mansion. The halls were decorated with paper snowflakes
that he and John had made in school, as well as a few styrofoam snowmen
lounging about in vases. The sitting room, guest room, and kitchen were aglow
with red, white, and green lights, flickering to the rhythm of some overplayed
holiday tune. Sherlock rounded the corner of the sitting room and leaned
against the wall, admiring the Christmas tree. It was large and rose high into
the ceiling, humming with lights and strings of popcorn. There was a star at
the top of the tree, golden and sparkling with a little angel figurine in the
center. Her wings lit up. The whole tree was beautiful in that classic,
intricate way, and part of Sherlock wished his house could feel like this all
the time. The boy caught his reflection in a large, glossy red ornament. He
looked on for a bit longer, memories of his life with John present in the other
ornaments, some of which they made together, others featuring pictures of them
in the snow. Similar pictures sat on the tables around the room, flickering
orange with the lit fireplace. A few presents sat under the tree, but those
were the starting gifts, given by relatives and friends. Their parents' gifts
would come in the morning, or Sherlock supposed, gifts from Santa. 
He smiled to himself. Santa. That mystery had been solved years ago, due in
part to Mycroft bouncing him on his knee when he was five and saying, "Do you
think Santa really comes, Sherlock?" That touch of doubt spiraled the curious
child into his own discoveries, crawling amongst the gifts and noticing the
handwriting on the tags was similar to his dad's. He was a smart baby, now a
smart kid.
Sherlock was breathing lightly, standing by himself, admiring the ornamental
tree, when he felt the usual presence of John appear beside him.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said. 
Heart thrumming happily at the familiar voice, Sherlock returned the sentiment
and flicked his eyes to John. That steady thrum tripped up when he saw that
John had the same idea as him to slick his hair back. His fringe now exposed
his forehead and pretty eyes, blond lashes tinted red and green in the light.
His smile was warm and friendly, and something about him seemed much older than
Sherlock remembered. He hadn't seen him in a few days, actually, since he was
working on the gift, so maybe he just missed his face. He was clad in a god
awful Christmas sweater, but it hugged his shoulders and waist nicely, and
Sherlock's cheeks felt tender at looking at it. 
John caught him staring and matched the look with his blue eyes. They seemed to
say I missed you, in whatever way they could, and Sherlock twitched his lips to
say it back.
"So," John then cut the intense look and dug his hands into his khaki pockets,
"What do you think you'll get this year?"
Sherlock moved into the room and stood in front of the presents. He didn't feel
like deducing each and every box this year, although his mind was already
shooting off ideas before he could stop it. He crossed his arms and cocked his
head before John joined him. "Aunt Rose got me a play chemistry set, doesn't
know I've got a real one. Uncle Ed's given me a tie, don't know why he thought
I needed another… and your mum's stocked me up with pencils and notebooks,
along with a new mug. That's nice."
"She knew you'd filled up the last ones," John said with a laugh. "And you
broke that old mug when Redbeard tried to get at the cocoa."
"Liz is quite thoughtful." 
John beamed. He liked it when Sherlock called his mum by Victoria's nickname
for her.
His eyes swept over the presents under the tree. He didn't have a lot of
relatives, certainly not as many as Sherlock, but the ones he did have had
dropped off his presents on their passing through to say hello a few days ago,
and Elizabeth brought them to Sherlock's house, since they did a joint
Christmas anyway. They sat, mismatched, in the mass of Sherlock's. 
John licked his lips and nudged him, "All right then, what did your mum get
me?"
"John."
"I know, I know. Just kidding."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, eyes sweeping up and down the tree. John watched
him, then turned back to the tree. They stood there for a while, just soaking
in every last bit of serene Christmas wonder they could before they'd have to
interact with Sherlock's family. Their moment, obviously, was cut off as
Mycroft appeared in the door, eggnog in hand, scowl present. 
"There you are. They want you."
"I'mbusy," Sherlock snapped, eyes never leaving the golden trinkets hanging
high on the tree. 
"Clearly." He hesitated. John felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. He
may have known Mycroft for as long as he knew Sherlock, but something about his
scrutiny was unsettling, whereas Sherlock's was thrilling. He wondered why that
was. Mycroft interrupted his wondering. "Come on, John. They want to see you
again. He'll come soon, don't worry."
John looked at Sherlock once more, who just sighed. He then followed Mycroft
into the kitchen and dining room, where the rest of the family thrived,
drinking and eating and laughing. When John appeared, Aunt Rose set her drink
down and shouted his name, throwing out her flabby arms and moving to hug him.
She smelled like cigarettes and peppermint, and John gave Victoria a pleading
look over her shoulder.
"Look how big you've gotten! He's no longer a runt, this one!" She poked his
stomach and smiled, bits of something stuck in her horse-like teeth. John was
amazed at how someone so ugly could be in any way related to Sherlock.
Sherlock's entire family was beautiful, actually. Aunt Rose looked over the top
of his head, "And where is Sherlock? I miss that little genius!"
"He's - "
"There he is! Sherl!" 
The same treatment for John was then given to Sherlock, although Aunt Rose
kissed him wetly on both cheeks and hugged him twice. John shivered and
wandered off and towards the table, on the prowl for cookies. Charles,
Sherlock's dad, clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in, "She's only
touchy like that when she's drunk."
"So she's drunk."
"Exactly. She'll pass out by ten. Ed will take her home, and you and Sherlock
will be safe."
John smiled kindly, and Charles recognized the silent response as something
John had picked up from his son. He released John and turned back to his
brother, Remus, resuming their discussion about fission and chemical energy.
While no longer a toddler in height, John was still small compared to
Sherlock's tall family, and he kept his head low as he found the perfect
cookies, poured himself some egg nog, and went to hide in a corner. He was
halfway through the second cookie when Sherlock joined him, maroon lipstick
marks on his cheeks. John laughed and spit out crumbs. Sherlock just shook his
head. 
The rest of the night, before dinner, was spent hiding from relatives 'til they
couldn't, making a short appearance, and resuming their hiding. John and
Sherlock were playing with Redbeard in the guest room when they were called for
dinner.
Although the only people John was actually related to were his parents and
Harry, who was dressed in a pretty green dress, eyes to match, the lively
Christmas dinner, complete with laughter and grabby, hungry hands, made John
feel like part of the Holmes family just the same. Sherlock's cousins, uncles,
aunts, and one grandparent scrambled for food across Victoria's beautifully set
table. Aunt Rose was laughing, giant, yellow teeth bared like an angry donkey,
whereas Uncle Remus was reserved and smiling happily to himself, eating his
Christmas ham in small pieces. John was laughing to himself at the sight,
although he was fairly used to it from previous years. It was a rare treat to
see such a side of Sherlock's family, when most often he interacted with
Sherlock and his parents. As human as John knew Sherlock was, a lot of people
at school thought he was cold and closed off and would have a family to match,
but they were wrong. Sherlock's family and relatives were loud, rude, silly,
and loving. Most of them were tall and smart, just like Sherlock, but their
talents seemed to range. Where Mycroft was logical and factual, Uncle Ed's
stubby fingers held surprising agility when faced with architecture. Charles's
regal but kind air was combated by Sherlock's cousins, who were all snotty and
posh, taking the regality to another level. 
John sat, warm and pink, nibbling on his cranberry coated ham, the film of his
sparkling cider glowing amber with the warm, golden air. 
Sherlock caught his eye a few times, smiling into his food, before he had to
direct his attention back to a cousin or two. They asked him how school was
going, if he liked any girls, and if he still wanted to be a "criminal
investigator."
"Detective," he corrected. Seemed word got out as he studied harder, his books
on chemistry and tracking clues piling up on his desk. His cousins just nodded
their pasty faces, dyed hair dipping into the potatoes, already moving onto
better subjects.
His two female cousins then rattled on about their jobs in retail, one of them
talking about some "cow" who tried to fit into a tight skirt, while the other
mentioned a "totally fit bloke" she saw at the fountain across the mall.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes and tried not to smile and admit that he liked
their silliness; he liked their rare presence. 
When dinner was finished and everyone was chubby and happy, plates nearly
clean, fingers still scooping the extra potato-cranberry mix from the china,
the conversation died down a bit. Everyone sat around, still talking of their
lives, sharing stories, but the rambunctious, hungry energy had mellowed into a
sort of food-coma induced hum. 
John and Sherlock bid farewell to Sherlock's family then, took their plates
into the kitchen, and sneaked into the sitting room. 
John's parents apparently had the same idea, and they were (oddly) cuddling on
the settee. Harry was asleep in one of the nearby chairs, dress wrinkled and
hiked up as her thin legs curled under her body. The room was still, both of
John's parents, as well as his sister, enjoying the quiet evening. Elizabeth
noticed John and Sherlock's presence and raised her head from George's chest,
untucking one hand from around his beer belly and reaching out for John. He
approached them and sat by his mother. Sherlock was left standing odd and
alone, out of place in his own home, and Elizabeth was about to turn back from
petting John's head to welcome Sherlock in, but he was gone.
George had grimaced at him, but neither John nor Liz knew that.
It was quiet for a bit, the embers of the fire crackling as John sat beside his
parents, flits of laughter drifting in from the kitchen. When his mother
finally spoke, she nudged him back to reality and purred softly. "So, John, how
do you feel about this Christmas?"
"S'good."
"Just good? Not incredible, not fantastic?" His mother's tone was light but he
knew what she meant, the twinge of It's not good enough?hiddenunder her sweet
alto voice.
John shifted a bit, hand on in his stiff hair. It was crunchy and a bit
annoying. "No, it's fine. I just like being with everyone."
"Oh, honey, we like being with you, too." She patted his knee, pretty gold
bracelets jingling, familiar, warm face smiling at him.
He felt he needed to explain a bit further, "Like, a few years ago, I only
wanted the presents. Sometimes I counted them, even. But now… It's like, just
being here. With everyone. Seeing the tree. Sitting around our tree at home.
It's what matters more."
Elizabeth hummed happily, and reached to stroke John's crunchy head. 
George hadn't said anything up until this point, but now he turned towards his
wife and son and said, "You don't want the presents anymore?"
John's father didn't talk to him often, especially not as John was seemingly
more capable of talking back. "Well, not as much - "
"Do you know how much your mother and I have to work to get you those
presents?"
The calm, happy air from before had now turned sharp and cold and John's heart
beat quickly like it always did when his dad raised his voice. Harry twitched
in the chair beside them, the sudden sharpness cutting through her sleep.
Elizabeth retracted her touch from her husband and sat up stiffly, bringing an
arm around John as she scolded, "George!" She turned to John and whispered, as
soft as she could, "We love to give you presents, John. We do it because we
love you. It's not a bur - "
"We work all day so we can pay for your school teams, your books, your trips,
and now, the holiday that has us scraping by, and you're not even grateful!"
His body had suddenly seemed big and threatening as he turned his attention
towards them and braced each thick arm on the settee. His eyes accused John,
the tired, somewhat baggy surrounding flesh now red and irritated. 
"George. Stop it."
"No, Elizabeth, he needs to hear this. John, you have to be grateful for what
people give you. People work hard for you."
John wanted to say,I know, I am grateful,but his throat was tight.
"You can't get anything for free. We work to make money, and sometimes we don't
have enoughmoney to get you bloody things, but we do it anyway. You can't just
up and decide that money doesn't matter."
Elizabeth bristled, arm still around John. "Money doesn't matter - " 
"Yes! - "
"Not for us."
"Especiallyfor us. We're sodding poor!" He looked around the sitting room as if
he'd been reminded of it just by being in the Holmes residence. He scraped a
palm down his face to clear the image and focused back on his son. "John, did
you know we had to sell some of your grandmother's old things just to get you
those fancy cleats you wanted? Or that I had to beg for a raise to keep up with
your... adventures?" His voice was gruff. John was scared.
"George, please stop! John, we were happy to buy you those - "
Mr. Watson stood and loomed over them. "We're barely getting by as it is.
That's why we can't have nice things. Why we buy in bulk. We have no money. No
sodding money!  And for the holidays we pull it together to get you something
nice, and you don't even want it. Ungrateful child." Then he was storming out
of the sitting room, booming voice and heavy steps leaving the room tense.
Harry had awoken. She sat up in the chair, young eyes the same wide, confusion
John's had been when Sherlock was hurt. 
"Why's Daddy yelling?"
Elizabeth didn't move for a moment, the silence echoing through the room and
stealing John and his mother's breath. Then she was over to Harry in a flash,
kissing her cheeks and saying, "Daddy's just grumpy, it's fine. I'm going to
talk to him right now." She stood with all the power and strength of an
Amazonian woman and directed John to watch Harriet. Then she was gone, out the
front door to follow her husband. 
John gulped and tried to still his racing heart.
"Johnny?"
"Harry, mum didn't tell you this, but I will." He turned to her just as the
beginnings of a row were starting outside. He talked over it. "You see this
place? See how nice it is?"
She looked all around, one cheek red from sleeping on it. "Yeah."
"Our house doesn't look like this. That's because Sherlock's family has money.
We don't. Dad's mad about that. He's mad because I'm…" an ungrateful child.
John slinked back down into his seat. He shut his eyes. Harry didn't ask him
anything else, and instead crawled over to him and sat beside him.
The two children sat there in silence as the happy sounds from Sherlock's
family in the kitchen mixed with the muffled screaming of their parents
fighting outside. 
===============================================================================
When John and Sherlock went to bed, John told him what had happened with his
dad. Sherlock said he heard it all. They stayed up for a bit then, lying back-
to-back in Sherlock's bed, talking in little soft quips and intervals until
they fell asleep. In the morning, all the stiffness had rubbed out of their
hair and into their pillows, and they laughed at each other when they woke up,
hair sticking up wild and messy. 
They didn't have the patience to dress, so they just rushed downstairs in their
pajamas, eager hands sliding down the bannister as they went. They rushed into
the sitting room, and John had to force the memory of his father down as the
morning sun filtered in and cast golden patches of light on the tree and
presents. Sherlock sunk to his knees in front of the pile, which was piled high
with new presents, before looking at John and smiling big.
"Merry Christmas, John."
This time it was John who just hummed in response, joining Sherlock on the
carpet, gaze fixated on Sherlock's young, handsome face instead of the mass of
gifts before them. 
Sherlock was always so beautiful when he was happy. It didn't matter if he was
young and chubby-cheeked with strawberry jam on his lips, or if he was swaying
his thin arms as he danced to music in John's room, a soft smile playing up and
into his closed eyes. Every time was magnificent, and even though last night
Sherlock had seemed less than interested in the presents, something was now
making his cheeks glow pink, eyes afire with excitement. 
What John didn't know was that it wasn't the presents Sherlock was excited for,
but spending Christmas with John. He beamed at knowing John would be right
there all morning, and while there was a shard of nervousness in both their
stomachs about giving their gifts, it was nervous excitement, a giddy
silliness. 
This silliness is what caused Sherlock to pounce on John and tackle him to the
ground, tickling him under his arms and over his sides. John squirmed and
huffed under Sherlock's weight, laughing all the while. He tried to tickle
back, but Sherlock's wiry body evaded him, and John was left to suffer alone. 
Elizabeth and Victoria saved him, though, as they appeared in the doorway.
"Boys!"
Sherlock leapt up off of John and went to them, hugging them both, one arm
around each feminine waist. Elizabeth shared a glance with Sherlock's mother
and pet his head. "Someone's excited," she said.
"Mum," Sherlock looked up, eyes bright and glassy, "Breakfast?"
Victoria laughed, looked at John over her son's curly head, and said, "What do
you think, John? Breakfast and then presents?"
John had sat up from the tickle attack and was rubbing the tingling sensation
out from under his arms. He just smiled, gaze falling to Sherlock as he left
their mothers and joined him back on the carpet.
"Fine, fine. I'll make some. Liz, watch those little monsters." 
Mrs Watson, who'd spent the night as well, joined her son and Sherlock on the
carpet, kissing their cheeks. John could see that she'd been crying all night,
and he hugged her a bit tighter for it. He wasn't going to ask where his father
was, since he wasn't particularly keen to find out. Instead, he asked where his
sister was.
"Still asleep in Myc's room. They seem to get on quite well, despite the ten
year age difference. He's a good sitter. Don't you think so, Sherlock?"
"Mycroft can be …loving when he wants to be. With me, he never wanted to be."
Elizabeth shook her head. She knew that wasn't true, she'd seen him play with
Sherlock so many times as they were growing up. "That's not true, and you know
it."
Sherlock snorted.
John's mother offered him an out, "Why don't you two go wake them up?"
John and Sherlock obeyed with a huff and stood, knocking each other and trying
to trip each other as they went. Their laughter filled the long halls of the
mansion as good breakfast smells pilfered through. When they made it to
Mycroft's large, intricate room, Harry was sleeping on the couch, while the
young man himself was already up, smoothing down his shirt as he looked out the
bedroom window. Sherlock called him down, while John moved across the spotless
floor and shook his little sister awake.
"Wake up, Harry. It's Christmas."
===============================================================================
The rest of the morning was unbelievably perfect. They were joined by
Sherlock's father and uncle Remus, who'd been the only relative who was welcome
to stay the night, and they had scones and bacon and eggs and potatoes and
leftovers for breakfast. They took their tea and juice before the kids
scrambled into the sitting room and dove into the pile. Mycroft, Harriet, John,
and Sherlock all seemed to agree to be on good terms, and they crawled over
each other for their presents, tearing the golden, red, and green paper to
bits. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock spoiled the surprise for anyone when they
deduced what each gift was, and on occasion, they were stumped by tricky
wrapping and double packaging. All of the adults, omitting George Watson, who'd
gone home the night before, sat around the room, opening their own presents and
watching as the children and Mycroft revealed their gifts. The sound of paper
tearing, light chatter, laughter, and many "Thanks, mum!" cast the scene as
friendly and filial. The Holmes family and the Watson family enjoyed the
holiday together, meshing into one unit comfortably, Uncle Remus soon offering
John advice while Mycroft and Elizabeth swapped stories of their school days.
There was no magic like it, and both John and Sherlock wouldn't change a bit of
it for the world. 
By noon, all the presents, save for two, had been revealed. The sitting room,
littered with wrapping paper, darkened in a grey haze as a cloud passed across
the sun. John and Sherlock sat with their mothers on each side of the room,
Charles and Remus refreshing the drinks and snacks.
"Two more," Victoria said, looking across the way at Elizabeth, who's tired,
wet eyes from the night before were now glowing and lovely, messy morning hair
piled into a sloppy bun that peeked at Victoria as she bent down to kiss John's
head. 
"Go on, Johnny, see what Sherlock's given you."
Victoria nudged her son in the ribs, "You too, mister. We've waited all
morning!"
John and Sherlock exchanged a look as they both crawled forward and towards the
two unwrapped gifts. The one for Sherlock was shaped like a cylinder with a
bulge at the end, where John's was a sturdy box. They swallowed their
excitement and reached for the gifts, checking the tags twice just to see their
names in the other's handwriting, before returning to their mothers.
Sherlock's uncle and father had returned just as Harry was scrambling up into
Mycroft's lap to get a better view. Victoria brushed the curls away from her
face and Elizabeth pulled her knees in. The boys tried not to think about the
audience watching them. They turned their gifts over in their hands, savoring
the surprise.
Harry, apparently, had no time to lose. "Get on with it!" she shouted.
The adults laughed as Sherlock and John blushed. Finally, they slowly peeled
away the wrapping paper. John revealed a wooden box while Sherlock now had a
tube of paper with a ribbon on it, microscope lens poking out of one end. Both
of the boys' stomachs flipped, hearts fluttering, as Sherlock uncoiled the tube
and John opened the box.
Inside John's box were a few marbles and stones, a feather, a tape, and a few
sheets of paper adorned with a smattering of notes. It was done in pen, with
some ink smudges on the corners, and Sherlock's thin handwriting read "John's
Song" on the top. He'd written a song for him on his violin. John handled the
paper carefully, tears teasing the corners of his eyes as his mother behind him
gasped. "Oh, Sherlock…" 
Sherlock had uncurled the paper, which was lightly tinted blue and smelled a
bit like mint. He set the microscope aside, noting that it was the same model
Sherlock had pointed out on their last adventure to town. He took a breath and
peeked at the words on the paper. In John's squat handwriting, it read "For
Sherlock." He glanced at the arrangement of words and realized it was a poem.
His heart flickered before he rolled it up again and breathed out the breath he
was holding.
"I'lll…. I'll read it later," he said in soft, small voice. Victoria patted his
back and glanced over at Elizabeth, who was smoothing down John's hair as he
set the song Sherlock composed for him back in the box.
"Me too." John said, although he meant listen to it via the tape.
Everyone in the room was still as the nervous, childlike love swept through,
telling and quiet. Victoria nudged Sherlock then, who cut through the quiet and
finally raised his eyes to John across the way.
"Thanks, John..."
John bristled like he'd forgotten something and said back, "You too. Thanks
for… this."
The silence settled in again. It wasn't awkward or misplaced, it was just
heavy. Heavy with something unspoken, something all of the adults, Harry, and
Mycroft understood. Nobody could say if John or Sherlock understood it, but
they had to at least sensesomething, as it took Charles to bring the mood back
to silly.
"Well, boys, those are quite the gifts. Good work. Now, is everyone full on
sweets, or shall we get lunch?
Elizabeth and Victoria hugged their sons as they added to the light chatter,
leaving the boys to question all existence and meaning as they stared at their
gifts.
===============================================================================
The families dressed and went out for a late Chinese lunch around two, during
which, the clear sentimental tension from before had whisked away on the
snowflakes. It was silly and light and fun again, and everyone listed off their
presents and what they planned to do with them. Mycroft had gotten books on
government influence as well as a university bonus for what Victoria and
Charles called "having fun." 
"Ever heard of it, Myc?" Sherlock teased.
John, along with the song, had gotten more clothes, as he was growing, and some
paintings and books he showed interest in. He felt too old for new toys, and
his parents had understood this, as the only toy-like thing he got was a new
basket for his bike.
Sherlock had almost every detective book available, but somehow Victoria had
found some Russian and French novels, translated into English, that she gave
him. Charles and Mycroft had conspired to get Sherlock hair products for
himself and nice shoes, as he'd been complaining about wanting to dress better.
Nobody had mentioned that he'd still be conformed to the school uniform at
school, and that gelled hair might be against the code. Sherlock didn't care,
he was going to do what he wanted. Along with the shoes and products, Sherlock
also had gotten good, sturdy beakers from Mycroft, which he needed desperately.
Harriet was given a few new dresses, some new shoes, and some dolls, ranging
from traditional "girl" models to the boyish action figures she'd lamented for.
Elizabeth had gotten Victoria some new earrings and bracelets, her favorite
style, while Victoria gave Elizabeth a gorgeous new night dress and as a joke,
a fanny pack meant for holding wine that women could tuck into their bras.
Charles was given boring shirts and books, and seemed to be more interested in
the "surprise gift" Victoria had whispered that she'd give him later.
Uncle Remus had brought chocolate for all the kids and sneaked Mycroft an empty
stainless steel flask with his initials engraved on it, telling him only to cut
loose afterhe'd taken his exams. Remus wasn't much of a drinker, but he saw the
good fun in it after a hard day at uni, and he assumed Mycroft would be the
same. He leaned in over lunch as said to only sneak the best liquors in it,
none of that piss-water stuff.
Charles and Victoria had gotten Remus a new helmet, as well as chrome wheel
covers, for his motorcycle. He promised them it was just a hobby, he wouldn't
turn into a buff biker bloke, but they saw the gleam in his mischievous eyes
when he'd smoothed his slender fingers over the smooth surfaces.
It was a pleasant lunch, and everyone was stuffed and tired of celebrating.
They returned to the Holmes residence to digest and watch a few movies.
Later that evening, Elizabeth bid farewell to the Holmes family and took sleepy
John and Harriet away, telling them that they'd be available any time over the
holidays. Elizabeth kissed Victoria on the cheek and thanked her again, this
time emphasizing more than the party, more than the gift. Victoria understood
her intent and wished her good luck in solving her marital problems.
Sherlock waved John off and waited a solid hour before he absconded to his room
to read John's poem. He sat, cross-legged on his bed, and uncurled the paper.
John lay in his own room, tape settled into his player, when he took a breath
and braced himself to listen. 
Sherlock Holmes read the first stanza as the beginning notes of his composition
swirled about John Watson's room, just down the street. 
The violin's notes began light and simple, just a hesitant little bump of
strings.
Sherlock.The poem started.
It was a sweet,  rhythmic solo, barely there, never abrasive on John's ears.
I often don't understand anything, almost nothing, compared to you.
Sherlock stiffened, John breathed. 
There's times when I can never keep up with your mind, times when I don't even
know how to.
The notes picked up a bit now, another trail of deeper tones underlying the
first. They played together, a perfect pair. It was wonderful, unlike any
violin song John had ever heard.
Somehow though, you've stayed at my side, despite my inability for smarts.
John was smart, he was so smart, Sherlock told him, mentally.
And some people, yeah, some people think you're cold, stubborn - a total arse!
The two notes played together like children in a grassy meadow. They increased
in intensity and frequency, buzzing together and leaping off one another.
But not me. 
Notes fell and slowed, giving way to a sinking seriousness. Now, there was but
a smooth roll of tone.
I think you're the best and wisest person I've ever known. / I think you're
different and wonderful and human, it's always shown.
Sherlock's composition buzzed and surged, like a cat under its owner's touch.
And I've known you longest, so surely I know better than anyone.
The melody picked up again, this time darker, a bit fiercer. It was almost
frightening. It made John think about Sherlock's split lip, somehow.
Sherlock read John's poem with the all the passion and attention he could.
Other people don't get it. They don't see what I see, they don't understand
that we've won.
The darkness surged and enveloped the touch of lightness, cutting off abruptly
and leaving a small thrum of high notes. Like a beating heart, the notes pumped
and held on, until the deep, familiar tone from earlier had come again,
repeating the earlier refrain in the same way. It was sturdy and strong and it
picked up the small, heartbeat note. 
We've won because we're a team. Partners in crime, knights of the kingdom.
Struggling to find that pace again, the notes danced and moved, climbing back
into a comfortable duo, but something was darker, a hollow harmonic.
Nobody has what we have: a brotherhood, a friendship, a total sum.
John's heart beat in time with the notes' partnership as they swirled and
surged, the terrifying melody from before creeping in, present but overcome.
The two melodies had now blended into a steady song, no longer a scatter of
notes and dips. It was repetition, melody, and song. It was beautiful.
Call me cheesy, say I'm mental, / But I think we're good friends. I'm not
lying, I mean it all. 
Sherlock smiled to himself, eyes fuzzy with tears. John was so good at rhyming,
and he didn't even have to be. Not every poem rhymed on an A - A - B - B
scheme, but somehow, it fit him just right. Simple but powerful, smart and to
the point. He was nearing the end of the poem, but he wished it went on longer.
John was almost humming along to the song at this point, it repeated
beautifully. It fit just right, a perfect palette of melody made just for
Sherlock's violin. Made just for John.
I think you already know how much you mean to me, / But I thinkyouought to say
it more, remindme, see?
Sherlock read on. John listened. 
You're my best friend, you're mad, and you're wild / Unlike anyone I've ever
known, you're all I've ever known, and that's just your style. / We're Sherlock
and John, it's all we've ever been, / And I hope, if you agree, we can stay
like this 'til the end. 
The music was slowing, the grand push and pull of melody and rhythm trickling
back into just two simple notes, bounding off the strings and into John's
heart.
Sherlock was overwhelmed with sentiment, as was John. They held on as long as
they could until the last stanza, the last note.
Merry Christmas, Sherlock, and remember that I will always / Be there.
Notes fading, violin straining to lighten the last of the melody, John closed
his eyes and breathed deep. He didn't know what to think other than praise and
overwhelming love for his best friend.
Miming John, Sherlock flopped back onto his bed and hugged his poem to his
chest. It was clumsy and wordy and barely held his thoughts together, but it
was how John saw him, it was John all over, it was perfect, and Sherlock loved
it.
They both fell asleep that night with smiles playing on their young faces, hope
and love blooming in their chests, teasing their dreams, knowing that the proof
of the other's friendship would be there in the morning to experience again.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry for the lag on updating, lovies, I got caught doing college
     prep! Bought lots of clothes, a new bag, a new wallet, and I'm going
     to get a desk lamp and new laptop later today! Twenty days 'til move
     in. Jesus.
     So here's this chapter, it's long and fluffy and romantic, with a
     touch of parental issues.
     Also, writing a poem for John was hard because I had to make it
     shitty for my standards but good for a ten-year-old's. And then
     Sherlock's song is just the history of them, which is gay as hell.
     *sobs* They're so talented and so in love \(^o^)/
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     It was like something about girls had finally been introduced to him.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John beamed at Sherlock as they stood outside of their new secondary school
class on the first day of school. Eleven and antsy with anticipation, the boys
gave each other one last nudge before stepping in with the other children.
Well, pre-teens, they supposed. That’s what their mothers called them, anyway. 
Little did they know that once they left the room Victoria and Elizabeth talked
about them, wondering if now that puberty was just around the corner, they’d
start to figure things out. They decided that it had to happen eventually, as
John and Sherlock were still fairly clueless.
Now, they walked side-by-side into the seventh year room. It definitely spared
no expense in differing itself from primary school classrooms. There was less
art on the walls, and if there was, it was only of the highest quality and
seemed to have been there from students long gone. Larger desks sat in rows,
some dull and adorned with carvings, others looking brand new. The large white
board at the front of the class had the date up in the corner, just like their
other classes. Similarly, a vocabulary word was displayed. On the other side of
the board, the round-faced female teacher pointed to a chart.
“These are your seats,” she said, boys and girls refusing to settle down.
“Please, please find your seats.”
John and Sherlock hustled to the front of the room and checked for their names.
They were seated on completely opposite sides of the class. With a disappointed
huff and a sneaky look, the boys separated and retreated to their sides of the
room.
Their classmates were still bumbling about for a few minutes, swamped with the
excitement of the new year and the daunting realization that maybe it wouldn’t
be that different from sixth year. John and Sherlock sat apart, quietly, until
John found someone to talk to.
A pretty girl with dark, unnaturally maroon hair sat in front of him and turned
her big brown eyes on him and introduced herself. John stuck out his hand
awkwardly and began chatting with her. On his end, it was nice to see a new
face. On hers, John was cute and looked lonely. On Sherlock’s end, something
akin to jealousy bubbled up in his stomach when the girl laughed and tucked a
strand of hair behind her pierced ear. 
Finally, after minutes of scrambling and chatting, Sherlock periodically
glaring at the girl talking to John, the teacher got the students’ attention
and introduced herself.
“My name is Mrs Morrisey, and I’ll be teaching you seventh year English. I
don’t have many rules, but those that I do are basically these three - respect
the space, respect each other, respect yourself. Got it?”
A few classmates, including the girl in front of John, responded verbally.
Sherlock huffed an exasperated breath. He was ready to learn, but he knew there
majority of the day would be introductions and syllabuses. At this rate, he
could just run home and play with Redbeard instead.
The rest of the first day was a blur of newness and the same sodding stuff over
and over again, class rules, seating charts, and expectations for the year. By
the end of the day, John and Sherlock were itching to get back to their books
and sports.
Sherlock was waiting by the front of the school when John caught up with him
after signing up for football. They were about to get going when the girl with
the dark hair appeared again.
“John!” she said, running up to them, light blue skirt fluffing up and flashing
a bit of her tan thigh. 
“Hi, Charice,” John muttered, giving Sherlock a bit of an apologetic look.
“What’s going on?”
“Well, er, like I said this morning, I’m sort of new to this area, and I was
wondering if you could help me get home. Mum said it’s just a bit of a walk,
but she drove me here to drop off my brother at the sitter’s, so I don’t know
where to go.” She fluttered her dark, somewhat clumpy black lashes against her
cheeks and twirled a black-toed shoe on the cement. Sherlock tried not to roll
his eyes at her obvious flirtation.
John, apparently, didn’t mind, and swallowed in the way he often did when
embarrassed and lifted his chin for confidence. “We were about to walk home
just now, so why don’t you come along?”
She leapt with overdramatic excitement, hair sticking in the sheen of gloss on
her lips. She pulled it out mindlessly as she said, “Oh, thank you! I was
afraid I’d get lost here.”
John shifted his pack on his shoulder and chuckled in a forced way that
Sherlock hated. “Yeah, the neighborhoods around here are sort of complicated.
Street names and stuff.”
Digging his hands into his pocket with more strength than he probably should
have, Sherlock sneered inside his head. Complicated neighborhoods? Please. It’s
a simple grid layout. 
Charice giggled and walked ahead of them, swinging her thin, girlish hips.
Sherlock watched as John’s blue eyes followed. Spite boiled in his stomach and
he stayed put.
“I just remembered, I have to catch up on some reading for history. I’ll see
you guys tomorrow,” he said, turning and walking back towards the library. He
winced at the way John shouted after him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Not again! Sherlock! Nevermind…” John sighed, watching Sherlock disappear
around the corner. “I hatewhen he does that. It’s like, I don’t mean to push
him away!”
John suddenly realized Charice was standing there, looking awkward. “Er… Sorry,
I don’t know him.”
They started walking, side by side, as John said, “He’s my best friend. He’s
just weird around people.”
“I didn’t scare him away, did I?”
John shrugged. “Probably.”
The girl beside him furrowed her brows and looked away, uncomfortable. John
didn’t notice or seem to care, he was still upset about Sherlock leaving them.
His mind soon drifted onto other things as Charice began chatting away, down
the road, and ended up walking in front of him. He was slightly interested in
the slight curve of her hips and bum, even as it was hidden by her school
uniform skirt. She turned back to look at him and get his opinion on whatever
it was she was rattling about, and John found himself darting his eyes down to
her barely-there chest. She was interesting to look at, and something in John
seemed to coil and snap upon watching her pout her plump lips and lick them,
but he really had no concern at all for what she was saying. And, when they got
to her house, John leading the way through the street she mentioned, he almost
forgot her name. She hugged him just the same and John was acutely aware of her
small breasts pressing into his chests.
He walked home, head spinning with images of Charice’s bum and Sherlock’s,
although he was much more preoccupied with where Sherlock’s was off to. He
decided to mention it to him the next day, but put aside the actual
confrontation for later.
Of course, that night, he was distracted. He was thinking about girls. 
Now, girls just seemed like something that liked him, since he never
particularly liked them back. He knew what they stood for, that often they were
confused for weak and useless, when they really weren’t (Harry made sure he
knew this), but now there was something more interesting about them. Charice
smelled nice and looked pretty and had nice lips. Well, John thought, Sherlock
smells nice and looks pretty and has nice lips, too. And he is definitely not a
girl.
He didn’t know how to feel about that last conclusion, but he decided that
Sherlock was in his own category. Not to say that he didn’t find other boys in
his class handsome, sometimes even hiding his blush when the cool ones talked
to him, but the way he felt about Sherlock, how everything was interesting and
incredible and fantastic… Well, he was Sherlock. He’d always felt like that. 
Who bloody knows, John said into his potatoes, ignoring how his mum and dad
bickered over who’d spot the next shopping trip. Harriet also seemed
preoccupied, and if John had known any better, he’d have said she’d been
thinking about a boy. She hadn’t.
After dinner, John put himself to bed and thought about Sherlock and Charice,
side by side. Both of them roused a sort of hotness in his stomach at thinking
about their blushing faces and plump lips, but only when John thought of
Sherlock rattling on about something, did he particularly care what he had to
say. Whatever Charice, or any girl, really, had to say didn’t appeal to him.
But with Sherlock, he cared so much, he noticed every little thing, and he
wanted to spend all day with him. John didn’t want to spend all day with
Charice. He just wanted to figure out what that feeling low in his stomach was
when he hugged her.
His dreams brought the answer. 
That night, images of pale and tan skin mixed around in his head. It was a
tangle of natural lips and glossy lips, curly dark hair and straight maroon
hair. In the dream, John definitely felt a sort of interested hotness
surrounding him and whoever he was with. It wasn’t graphic, but it wasn’t
vague, and his cheeks burned when he awoke. Sweating a bit under his knees,
something felt strange and different in his body, upon inspection, John was
grateful for those awkward health videos they showed in sixth year. 
Now, that wasn’t the first or the last time John felt different about things
regarding girls. With Sherlock, as he’d confronted him about disappearing
again, he didn’t feel any different when he looked at him. He always blushed a
bit when Sherlock met his eyes, his stomach always coiled when Sherlock laughed
or touched his arm. All those little signs of the something that neither of
them understood were still all there, they hadn’t gone away. 
It was with girls that John noticed a difference. He found himself mentally
comparing them all to each other, rating their bodies, noting how the older
girls had more chest than the younger ones. He often found himself lusting
after the teenage girls that passed him in the halls or picked up their
siblings after school. It was like something about girls had finally been
introduced to him, although as the year progressed, he didn’t find any of them
interesting enough to have Sherlock-type feelings for.
A few weeks before John’s twelfth birthday, John decided to ask Harry.
She was nine but definitely smart about things and definitely a girl. He didn’t
want to talk to Sherlock about this stuff because he was sort of embarrassed
about it, and truthfully, half the time, John’s head mixed up Sherlock and
girls when his body twitched with interest. And then, afterwards, the feelings
were simple enough to satisfy, but Sherlock still wormed his way into his head.
He definitely didn’t want to mention that part to Sherlock.
“Harriet,” John said at the breakfast table one morning.
“What do you want?” she responded, going for the cereal that John brought
over. 
“You’re a girl.”
She rolled her eyes, “Well noted.” 
“And girls like boys.”
His sister bristled and furrowed her brows as she shook some breakfast into her
bowl. “I guess so.”
“So boys like girls.” 
Harriet poured a bit of milk before responding. “Stop being stupid, of course
boys like bloody girls. You’re eleven, you should know this.” 
John reached for an orange and stopped to say, “Don’t swear. And don’t be
rude.”
“Shut up. Mum’s not here.” She shoveled a spoonful of sweet corn into her mouth
and crunched down, waiting for John to challenge her.
“Fine, okay. I know boys at my school who like girls, yeah, but I don’t know if
they like girls or they like girls. All they talk about is shagging.”
Harry gulped and almost laughed milk out of her nose. “John!”
“What, I’m serious. You know what that is, don’t tell me you don’t.”
She shrugged. “All right. So they talk about shagging, what’s wrong with that?”
“Well like, do boys at your school talk about the other stuff?”
“What other stuff?”
John was getting irritated with both his sister and himself. He didn’t know
what he was trying to ask, or even if Harry had an answer. He just wanted to
confirm that boys his age or younger felt romantic towards girls, not just what
Nathan called “the hots.”
“You know those old movies, when the guy and the girl get all romantic?”
“Mushy.”
“Right, mushy. Do the boys at your school feel mushy about girls?”
Harry looked right at John like he’d asked her the stupidest question in the
world. Of course people felt mushy about girls, she seemed to say. I feel mushy
about girls,she added mentally, hoping John didn’t catch it in her face. “Yes,”
she said, swirling her cereal inconspicuously. “Boys at my school feel mushy
about girls. Some of my boy friends tell me they think about holding hands and
taking the girls on walks and stuff. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, yeah, it is.”
And then it was silent as John stuck his thumb under the orange peel and winced
when it stung his fingernail. He separated the pieces and popped them into his
mouth. Harry just ate her cereal quietly. When he was done with the orange,
John then moved to the counter to make some toast as he said, “Thanks. Sorry, I
was just - “
Harriet swung her feet under her chair and took another spoonful, speaking to
John without looking back up at him. “Shouldn’t you’ve talked to Sherlock about
this?”
“I… er, I don’t know. I don’t want to embarrass him.” John reached for the
breadbox.
Mouth full, Harriet mumbled, “Why, does he not like talking about girls?”
John unwrapped a few slices as he turned back and said, “I don’t know if
Sherlock even likesgirls.” 
===============================================================================
Sherlock didn’t like girls, actually. He didn’t think there was anything wrong
with that, since he didn’t really like anybody. Well, besides John. 
Every time someone asked him if he had a crush on a girl, he just shrugged and
said, “Not really.”
They then followed with, “What does that mean?” 
He’d counter with, “I don’t really like anybody. People are boring.”
That usually shut them up. 
But it wasn’t like Sherlock was clueless about those kinds of things. He heard
what the boys said, the lewd fantasies they played out in the library, comments
like “the tits on that one.” It was stupid and he felt sorry for them. Didn’t
they have anything better to do that gawk over girls? And in such a stupid way,
too. Judging their bodies and such. They’re just bodies, who bloody cares?
Apparently, plenty of people cared. Including John. It was weird, the way he
mentioned it suddenly, since neither of them seemed particularly keen on the
attention girls gave them. Then, one day, John was commenting on a girl’s leg
in their fitness class. Sherlock responded awkwardly and John apologized,
shutting up and never mentioning anything like that again.
He was still the same John, still laughing and talking to Sherlock, but now, he
talked to the other guys more about stuff like girls. 
Sherlock didn’t understand it. Well, that’s not true, he did, but not
personally. He read plenty of books where the masculine lead falls for the
seductive, soft-bodied damsel, and every damn television show and advertisement
featured a man and a woman as a couple. He knew that people fell in love, and
he knew that with love came sex. But to him, it just seemed like a bother. And
girls weren’t really interesting to him. They were often pretty and sometimes,
a few of them were nice to talk to, but their attentions fell flat on Sherlock.
He just simply wasn’t interested.
Which is why it was so weird to see John act interested. Talk to girls, look at
girls, even have lunch surrounded by girls. 
To tell the truth, that sort of pushed them apart that year. John liked girls
now. Sherlock didn’t. It wasn’t a big change, but it was a change, and while
they still walked home and spent time together after school, Sherlock felt
himself being pushed farther and farther away when the girls rushed to John.
It wasn’t weird for long, though, since Sherlock got used to it and stopped
going to John when he saw him around campus. If they had lunch together, fine,
but he wouldn’t cross the school just to get to him, since some brown-eyed doe
always beat him to it.
All feelings, besides those he already had for his best friend, never got in
the way of his studying, so it didn’t matter. He couldn’t sympathize with the
boys who talked in the courtyard, and he never understood what was so great
about an eleven-year-old girl’s legs. John’s legs, on the other hand, were much
more interesting. With football kicking up again, John’s legs were more toned
than ever, and Sherlock sometimes caught himself looking at them when John lay
in his bed, just in shorts and an old t-shirt. 
Something always pinged his heart when John rolled over, comic book in hand,
and laughed. Or when he told Sherlock he was brilliant, blue eyes afire with
admiration.
Maybe that’s what people meant when they said they liked girls. They liked
girls like Sherlock liked John.
But what did that even mean?
 
Chapter End Notes
     John, you trashy homoromantic bisexual, stop objectifying 11 year old
     girls.

     And lmao at Sherlock, the disinterested and unknowing gay grey-
     asexual (don't worry honey, you'll figure it out in a few years,
     remember that male teacher you had a crush on?)

     It seems like 11-12 is young for [dun dun dun] puberty, but when I
     was that age, boys were so fucking gross and horny (cringe at all the
     sexting), so I think it's accurate.

     Also, Harry likes girls and is a total feminist. I love her. When the
     heck are we meeting her?! Get to it, Mofftisson.

     And here's some news! For some reason, I thought it'd be a great idea
     to start another fic outside of this one. It's a johnlock AU based
     off Disney's Tangled, and it's called Curled.
     Lord let me sin in 10,000 ways and let them all be johnlock.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     Inside, of course, he was breaking.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Something happened the summer between seventh and eighth year that neither John
or Sherlock thought would ever happen. They’d grown apart. 
At twelve years old, both boys were incredibly moody and sensitive, and they
just lost touch. They stopped accompanying their mothers on their visits to the
other’s house, so it was easy to just let it fade away. They still remembered,
of course, and sometimes they sat up in their rooms, looking at pictures and
gifts and memorabilia, eyes sad and tired. They missed each other terribly,
that much was painfully clear, but neither of them did anything about it. 
Now, how could this have happened? John and Sherlock were utterly inseparable.
There was nothing and nobody that could take them from each other. But that
proved untrue as John found new friends and Sherlock closed himself off once
again. Towards the end of the last school year, they’d passed by in the
hallways like strangers, and as summer came, they did the same on the street.
They only acknowledged each other once when crossing paths. John had been
playing scrap football with his mates as Sherlock head off to the library,
Redbeard trailing behind happily. Redbeard saw John and was about to go to him,
lick his blond eyebrows and funny nose, but Sherlock stepped in front of him
and pushed him along, embarrassed. With Redbeard whining as he padded on ahead,
Sherlock walked along the sidewalk stiffly and, the one time he looked back,
met John’s eyes with a stab of regret.
Neither of them wanted this to happen, and if they could, they’d show up at the
other’s house in the middle of the night and embrace each other tightly. As of
late, however, neither of them really knew what that would actually mean. Was
that just their way, as John and Sherlock, or was it not okay to do that as
twelve-year-old boys?
Their classmates had set up vague rules that seemed to apply to them, and while
John and Sherlock were never one to follow other people’s ideas, something
about the snap in their voices and the joking nature of the male friendships
had pained their sentimental hearts and they were forced to stop… whatever it
was they’d been doing.
Over the summer, Sherlock was even more moody than usual, and now that Mycroft
had been shipped off to university, he had the whole house to sulk. Sometimes
he went into Mycroft’s study to use the telescope he left behind, sometimes
just wanting to sleep in his brother’s room because there was less memory of
John everywhere.
John, too, acted strange, but he masked it under constant activity. He called
up his football mates, teased girls when they came to watch him play, and
otherwise became the bright, incredible guy that Sherlock already knew him to
be. Inside, of course, he was breaking.
Victoria and Elizabeth were concerned, as they should have been. Their sons no
longer spent every waking minute together and had lost the sparkle in their
blue eyes. Worried, Victoria sat Sherlock down early that summer and asked him
where John was. Sherlock shrugged, “Probably at home.” 
“Well, why don’t we go see him? You’ve not seen him in ages.” 
“He doesn’t want to see me.”
“What!? That’s not true, sweetie.”
Sherlock then left the table with a huff, voice cracking a bit, “Yes. It is.”
Victoria tried to get him to open up many times after that, but it was useless.
He’d shut her out just as he had John. Victoria was left to call Elizabeth,
heart heavy. 
Liz answered the phone, voice shaking as if she’d just been crying. “Vic?”
“I think our boys aren’t friends anymore.”
“I know. I’ve just talked to John.”
“What happened?”
Mrs Watson sighed on the other end of the line, a drawn out, shaky breath that
Victoria wished she’d never have to hear. “John says Sherlock’s avoiding him.
And he doesn’t really feel like trying to figure out why, so he’s just letting
him.”
“God, I hate them.” 
“Victoria!”
Tapping her purple nails on the counter, Charles up in his study, Sherlock
hiding somewhere, Victoria let out her own exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, Liz,
but you know what I mean. They’re so clueless. I thought getting older would
make things easier for them to understand.”
It sounded like Elizabeth had coiled the telephone cord around her finger.
“Maybe we should just let it play out. Maybe it’s good for them to be apart.”
“John and Sherlock? Apart? That doesn’t make any sense. Not even for moody
eighth years.”
“I know… I know. But we shouldn’t get involved too much, they have enough to
worry about.”
“All right, let’s not get involved,” Victoria said. “Agree to keep an eye on
them, though? Keep in touch about it?”
“Definitely.” 
The line went silent then, but Mrs Holmes knew Mrs Watson well enough to know
that her breath ought not to be that shaken and small.
Victoria brushed a curl away from her forehead and rested a hand on her cheek.
“Liz. How’s George?”
Something sounded strained in her voice, and a loud thud from somewhere else in
the house made her squeak. “I - I’ll tell you later.” Then she hung up.
===============================================================================
School wasn’t any easier than the summer for John and Sherlock. It was harder.
It should have been easier, easier to just go about their lives, flit about in
different friend groups, distract themselves with schoolwork, but they
couldn’t. They didn’t. It was harder to avoid each other, actually, as they had
a lot of the same classes. It was harder to see the other across a room, across
the campus, and know that any year but this one he’d have been beside him.
Fortunately, school meant Sherlock could let the masses of people, girls and
boys, swallow John up before he even had to look at him.
They had new lessons, new teachers, and new bodies, but the newest thing of all
was his absence. For Sherlock, he had no friends. He had nobody to express his
giddiness at, eyes wide and intelligent, when he’d read a new book. He didn’t
like people, and he didn’t like being touched, but he would have wanted every
opportunity to see John. He’d want his arm around his waist as they walked if
he could.
Then with John, he had lost the one person who really knew him. Now he wasn’t
alone, with all the girls and friends, but he was still lonely. They were all
stupid. They liked what he stood for, what he looked like, and how he gave them
attention. They didn’t care about his interests, his sister, or his parents’
fighting. They didn’t care and they didn’t notice. Sherlock would have.
Sherlock would have definitely noticed. And John would have told him, he’d have
rushed over and let himself cry, ask Sherlock what he’d done wrong. And
Sherlock would comfort him, sleep beside him, knees or bums touching, his
breath warm and small and lovely on the pillow next to him. John hated how that
wouldn’t be the case anymore. He bloody hated it.
It was early Autumn now, and John was sitting with Nathan and Dean and Cindy
for lunch when he spotted Sherlock across the way. He’d know that curly brunet
head anywhere, and now it was draped in a book, lean body sat up against a
tree. John could see his profile and his sharp nose turned into the pages. He
looked beautiful and smart. John looked on and wondered what he was reading,
what he was thinking about.
Cindy nudged him and batted her eyelashes playfully, saying something that John
wasn’t actually interested in. He caught bits of it. Apparently she’d had a
fight with Charice over who got to sit with him at lunch. He just smiled and
nodded. His mind was on Sherlock.
Sherlock was absolutely wonderful. He was smart and heroic and talented and
creative and John knew him for real. He wasn’t “that smart kid,” and he wasn’t
“the kid that got beat up when he was eight.” He was Sherlock, a total madman,
and of late, the one thing John’s heart called to.
Maybe he didn’t really understand it, or let himself understand it, but after
careful observation and his discussion with Harry, he realized that he didn’t
feel about girls the way he felt about Sherlock. Girls were pretty and
interesting and had tits, which were nice, but Sherlock felt different in his
heart. He was so incredible and undeniably fascinating, so much more than a
name. Sometimes he caught Sherlock’s eye during class, and his stomach
tightened. His heart flipped, cheeks burning, before he looked away. When Cindy
or Charice or Delilah looked at him, lust in their eyes, he felt nothing but a
twitch of his groin. And most of the time, not even that.
And even if Sherlock was the most powerful force in his life, an east wind like
Mycroft used to say, John found that sometimes, when Nathan put an arm around
his shoulders protectively, part of him would heat up. Nathan was definitely
attractive, with a large, bright smile and light chestnut hair. He reminded
John of Mr. Embers, who, upon closer inspection, had given John the same flip
of his heart that Sherlock and Nathan did. 
He never brought this up to anyone, of course. Not with the way the guys
treated people “like that.” But John liked girls, in some aspects, so there
really was no need to mention the other stuff. Be it girls or boys or both in
his head when he showered, he’d only ever mention the girls. That seemed to
clear things up with the guys, but definitely not within himself.
John had been staring at Sherlock for a good while now, and only when the
lanky, tall body stood did John snap out of it. He followed Sherlock with his
eyes as he moved across the courtyard and disappeared down a hall. Cindy was
still babbling by the time he came back to earth.
===============================================================================
The library had become Sherlock’s physical safe space. As much as it could be,
anyway, as there were still some whispers and laughs whenever he beeped through
the doors. And he would’ve receded into his mind, if in there it’d been any
better. Usually he’d retreat into his head when he was sad or scared, and there
he found John, smiling beside him. Now whenever he visited what he called his
“mind palace,” John was the same, but his gut twisted and warped what he’d
built up to comfort him. His mind swirled with lies, dark threats, and
eventually, had John spouting insults at him. Insults he’d never said and would
never say, but they sounded so real in Sherlock’s mind. The only thing he could
do to get away from it was read, study, or play the violin. 
Even then, John was everywhere. Pink lips and small smirk and blond hair.
Sherlock never caught a break from it.
But he tried to anyway, and the library seemed a better place to. Sherlock
swept into his space, book under one arm, and went to sit at an empty table. He
opened up his book again and resumed the fantastic world of foxes and hounds
and owls, memory of John fading a bit. Don’t go, he found himself saying.
Sherlock read for a bit, as long as the extended lunch allowed, until he heard
a pssst directed his way. 
Looking up and towards the sound, expecting a rude, unoriginal comment, his
breath caught in his chest when that seemed not to be the case. A friendly-
looking boy with messy black hair and thick-rimmed glasses smiled at him
warmly. Sherlock had never seen him before and quickly deduced that he’d
transferred. Sparing no time, the boy waved him over to his table. Sherlock
rose from his seat nervously and went over, shocked and a bit pink in the face.
“Hello,” the boy purred. He had a lovely accent, and by the dark, beautiful
shade of his skin, Sherlock deduced that he was desi. 
“Hello?”
“Sorry, my name’s Victor. Victor Trevor.” He held a hand out and Sherlock took
it. It was warm and soft and Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken. The boy’s
dark eyes gave Sherlock a once over before he spoke again. “I’m new here. Would
you help me find my classes?”
Sherlock nodded. 
“Thank you,” his accent rolled. “What’s your name?”
“Sherlock.”
“Interesting. What do you want to study, Sherlock?”
Still confused about the natural kindness of the boy, Sherlock swallowed his
embarrassment and tried to find his usual direct persona under the nervousness.
“Criminal investigation. I want to be a detective.”
“Oh, how fascinating!” he smiled again, teeth bright and white against his
lovely skin. A curl flopped over his dark brow. Sherlock wanted to brush it
away. “I like science, myself. Chemistry and biology.”
“Me too.” Sherlock said, eyes searching for any flaw in the boy’s complexion or
presentation. He found none.
Victor Trevor cocked his head, “Then we’ll get along fine.”
===============================================================================
John was getting ready for football practice, tying on his shinguards and
rolling his ankles, when he saw something that made his stomach coil. Sherlock
was walking with someone, attention directed at him, hands flying like he was
explaining something. If John could have seen his eyes, he knew they’d have
glistening with his familiar spark of passion. The boys were light blue
silhouettes in the distance, but John couldn’t bring himself to look away. They
walked through the halls and past the field, standing close. Too close.
He could barely see what the other boy looked like, but he’d know it was
Sherlock anywhere, so the jealousy was all there. The boy was shorter and
darker, with curly hair like Sherlock’s. His hair seemed to fluff up where
Sherlock’s sat atop his head like a mess of curls. John squinted and found that
the stranger had glasses and carried book to his chest. They walked together
and disappeared behind the building, John’s eyes still on them. Seamus called
him out of it, and he quickly tried to remember where he was and what he was
doing.
All throughout practice, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Had
Sherlock really gone and replaced him? He doesn’t want me anymore. 
John was angry and tense, and it threw off his game. He walked home in a rage
and came home to a frazzled mum, shouting into the telephone. He walked into
the kitchen, muddy and sweaty.
“I don’t care, George, it’s going to happen!” his mother spat, unlike her usual
sweetness. 
The kitchen clock ticked on, deathly quiet behind the echo of voices. “Mum?”
“Er, John’s here, I’ll talk to you later. Bye… honey.” She uncoiled the cord
from her wrist and put in the holder, shifting herself in front of the phone
with little subtlety. “Hi, Johnny.”
He set his football bag down at his feet and watched as his mother crossed her
thin ankles and smiled at him with saccharine sweetness. “What’s going on? Was
that Dad?”
“Yes, he’s staying late at work tonight. What do you want for dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.” This was a lie, he was very hungry, but alongside the
grumbling in his stomach, spite boiled in his veins, and he could only think of
that boy walking with Sherlock. He picked up his bag and began retreating into
his room when his mother stopped him.
“John.”
He rolled his head over his shoulder as if it pained him to be held up. Looking
at his mother now, she seemed so tired and old. Still beautiful, but not as
lively and spritely as she had been. Her pretty blonde hair had bits of grey
around her ears and she’d adopted George’s sleepless eyes. Her lips were still
pink and pleasant when she talked, but for some reason, John felt like he
didn’t know her like he used to. She’d been distant lately, just like Sherlock.
Everyone was distant, now. John felt like it was his fault. Everything’s always
my fault.
“Your father and I were thinking it might be nice for you to take up some
extracurricular activities. I know you have football and rugby and friends, but
just a little something.”
John relaxed his shoulders a bit, genuine curiosity mixing with irritation.
“Like what?”
She swirled her toe in the carpet, pink toenail polish glinting in the
unflattering kitchen light. The frogs on her pink pajama bottoms felt out of
place. John couldn’t help but stare at them as she talked. “An instrument,
maybe? It could take your mind off things, you know, come home and practice. I
think it could be good for you.”
“Sherlock plays an instrument.” Sherlock.
“I know, and he seemed to like it. What do you think? The clarinet, maybe? It
might help.”
John looked right at her. He looked right into the eyes that had picked him up
so many times, helped him in so many ways. Now he found they pleaded with him.
Almost disappointed, but more sad than anything. He breathed. He may be moody,
but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what his mum was trying to do. She wanted to
distract him from everything in his life that was going wrong. She hoped that
if he came home and played the clarinet in his room, he wouldn’t be able to
hear her crying or fighting with his father. And the extra practice might take
his mind off Sherlock, who she knew wasn’t in his life anymore. 
He stiffened his shoulders. One of them popped. “Fine. I’ll play the clarinet.
I’ll fit it in somewhere.”
“Weekends?”
“Sure. Weekends.”
“Thanks, honey. I think it’ll be good for you to, er, hone your talents.”
“Right. I’m going to shower now.”
His mum smiled warmly, but her eyes stayed cold. “Okay, sweetheart.”
John nodded curtly and left the kitchen. Things were all going to shit, but
apparently, it’d all be saved by playing the clarinet. 
He snorted. Not bloody likely.
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter makes me really sad. I love our boys, and I know what
     it's like to go from best friends to strangers quickly. It's worse
     when you're so close to having something, too.
     Things gotta get worse before they get better, though, that's all I'm
     sayin'. Brace yourself for these next few years.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Everything fell like lifeless puppets around him, his mind and heart
     all tying up into one.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Hanging around with Victor was nice. It wasn’t like being with John, but then,
Victor wasn’t John, so of course it wasn’t the same. But it was still nice. He
had a good smile, and he always asked Sherlock how he was feeling. Sherlock
missed John, obviously, but as year nine came, he and John still hadn’t spoken.
Most of the time, Sherlock could bear it. He could bear it when girls talked to
John and when boys whisked him away for practice. It was easy to get by when
John, for the most part, was off his mind. He would study a bit, talk to
Victor, and study a bit more. It was simple, easy, and less… exciting.
But Sherlock missed exciting. He missed the fights John would get in when
someone called Sherlock weird, and he missed going on adventures with John and
Redbeard through the marshes behind his house. Now, he only talked to Victor at
school. Afterwards, he’d come home and hide away once again. There was no after
school hang outs, no lounging around, no John dripping off the edge of his bed
like a melting clock. It was quiet. It was fine.
Yes, things were just fine. He knew that many things were changing for his
peers, finding hair and discovering girls and whatnot, but nothing that
interesting really happened to Sherlock. Sure, he’d gotten a bit thicker in his
muscles, and he was still growing like a weed, but otherwise, he was just
floating along. Thirteen and disinterested, mostly.
John, on the other hand, was suffering deeply. He’d worked up a sort of
reputation for himself, as much as he could, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t
want the girls, he didn’t want the status, he didn’t want the girls that came
with it, and he certainly didn’t want people to think they knew him.
All John wanted was Sherlock. He wanted his friend back, his other half. He saw
Victor and Sherlock all the time, all the bloody time, together, smiling. John
felt jealousy and envy and irritation and anger and sadness all bubble up
inside him at once, even if the two other boys just lounged around, reading.
Everything was hard on him. Harry was older now, and a few creeps from her
classes always teased her. To John, she was still the sticky baby that Mycroft
liked to bounce around, but apparently she was much more interesting as an
eleven-year-old. Which was a bit fucked up, John thought. 
And along with Harry, his mother had really drifted away. Her eyes glazed over,
empty and cold, and he rarely saw her smile. When he did, it was pained and
unnatural, and John didn’t like it at all. He knew something was happening. He
wasn’t stupid, and even with the clarinet lessons leaving squeaked notes
ringing through the house, John could still hear the fighting.
His parents were losing it, it was clear. The spark that married couples
supposedly had wasn’t there anymore, if it ever was. More often than not, his
dad slept somewhere else. A friend’s house, or a motel, and if they were lucky,
just the couch. His mother was always sad, passing it off as exhaustion, waving
a shaky hand through the air to lesson the intensity.
Despite his mum’s attempts to keep it light, John could see that everything was
crumbling. He knew it was only a matter of time until everything collapsed, but
he couldn’t be bothered to care. Everything was shitty, moody, and terrible
with him. Every day felt like hell, even if everything went right.
Today was no different. It was October, and Sherlock and Victor had been paired
up on a science project. John hung around with Dean, which was easy enough,
since he was good at labs and such. Not as good as Sherlock, obviously. No one
was.
The classroom buzzed with voices and the ting of graduated cylinders. John was
scowling in the direction of Victor and Sherlock, who were working together
well, pleasant smiles on their faces. Victor poured a solution into their
cylinder as Sherlock, with his big, beautiful eyes, checked for the meniscus,
squatted beside the table.
Dean, doing all of their science project, kept his focus down when a girl
padded over to talk to John. John didn’t know her name. He didn’t care. 
“Hey, Johnny…” she said, saccharine voice almost inaudible under the noise of
the classroom. John’s eyes darted to her momentarily, then back to Sherlock,
then over to Mr. Hart, their science teacher. He wasn’t paying any attention to
any of the students. Naturally, half of them were doing absolutely nothing. 
John raised his head off his forearms and looked at the girl. Her eyebrows
looked funny. “Hey,” he offered solemnly. 
“How’s your… your er, lab going?”
“It’s going,” John said.
That might have been the wrong thing to say because the girl looked like she
didn’t understand. Just the same, she twitched her purple-painted lips and
said, “Do… D’you think you could help me with mine?”
“Probably not,” he grumbled, eyes falling once again on Sherlock and Victor. He
looked back quickly, just in case, and added, “Just kidding.”
John looked at the girl, and it made him sad. Not because she looked worthless,
but because she looked worthy. She obviously had some sort of need to stand
out, based on her lipstick and earrings, and when he tried to place a name to
her face, he recognized her as one of the brightest girls in his class. So why
would she be dumbing herself down for John? He thought it was stupid he didn’t
like. All these capable, smart girls, lusting after him because he’d gained a
bit more muscle and his voice wasn’t as squeaky as the other boys’. It made him
sad, girls like this, because he could only imagine someone like Harry, his
sister, brilliant and outspoken and quick as a whip, pretending like she
couldn’t measure liquids for some bloke.
Apparently, as he was thinking this, the girl had said something and was now
waiting for an answer. “John?”
“Er, sorry. I’m not really too good at this lesson. Why don’t you ask someone
else?” Wow.
She tapped her fingers on the counter, dragged her pointer through a puddle,
and looked over to Dean, who was smirking behind his cylinder at John’s
buffoonery. “What about you, D? Think you can help a girl out?”
“Grace,” he said without looking up, “You and Bri finished this lab ten minutes
ago. Stop playing dumb and leave us alone, will ya?”
Grace took offense and huffed, storming away and leaving John to regard Dean
curiously. Dean wasn’t one for confrontation, only acting forward on the field,
so this was definitely interesting.
“Nice.” John said, half-way between Thank you and How did you pull that off?
Dean shrugged and tapped the side of the glass, stubborn drops slipping down
the side and into the rest of the fluid. He seemed to understand what John
meant and responded, “You’ve so many girls all over you these days. You don’t
seem in the mood for it today.”
John sighed. Something in his neck hurt terribly, and he tried to roll it out.
“I’m not.”
“What’s on your mind, mate?” Dean asked then, wiping his hands on his shirt and
leaning against the counter. 
Eyeing him, John was quite aware of how attractive his friend was. Thick brows
and a good nose, grey eyes and a strong chin. He looked less boyish than the
other guys, and a bit more handsome. He wasn’t old or anything, but along with
Nathan and Seamus, Dean’s athleticism worked for him. 
Swallowing, John started. There was no use in lying about it, not with Dean. “I
think my mum and dad are breaking up. And my sister is getting picked on. And I
- “ really miss Sherlock…“I don’t really know what to do.”
Dean crossed his arms, tilting his head so his jaw stood out a bit in the
yellow classroom light. “That’s rough. Are your parents seeing anybody for it,
like, a therapist?”
“I don’t think so. We don’t have the money. And it might be too late, anyway.”
“And your sister? Does she tell you she’s being teased?”
“No, but I know she is. She snaps when she shouldn’t, and often the things she
was most confident about make her nervous now. Like the way she wears her hair
and stuff. It used to be all colorful with clips and shit, and now it’s sort of
plain. I know it seems like that shouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s just a
little bit of color gone out her, you know?”
Grey eyes held steady. “I get it. Have you talked to her about it, told her
what you want to say?”
“I don’t know what to say, that’s the thing.”
“Tell her you’re worried. That she can come to you any time. That you’re her
big brother, and you’ll protect her if she needs it.” 
John looked at Dean then, sort of at a loss for words. He hadn’t really seen
this side of him, this helpful, friendly, kind bloke. He regarded John
pleasantly, understanding and soft in tone. He never told John his worries were
irrational or pointless, and he looked at John seriously as he spoke. It sort
of shed Dean in a new light for John, really. 
Suddenly aware of his slight, minuscule crush rising, John darted his eyes away
and breathed sharply. “Th-thanks. I’ll try to talk to her. Yeah, I will…
Anyway. How’s the solution coming?”
Catching a glimpse of Dean’s smile then, John’s stomach curled as Dean said,
“It’s coming. Just letting the levels settle now.”
Then it was silent, John stealing a glimpse of his friend as Dean mindlessly
looked around the room. When his eyes came back to settle on John, John looked
away shyly. He found himself looking once again at Sherlock. Sherlock, who was
just now looking at Victor the way he used to look at John. John felt the
corners of his mouth tighten up.
“Are you…” Dean started. “Are you sure there’s nothing else on your mind?”
John looked back to Dean, who was glancing between him and Sherlock on the
other side of the room. The look seemed empathetic and genuine, but John was
embarrassed and defensive just the same. “No,” he said firmly, straightening
himself up against the counter. “No, I’ll be fine.”
Dean didn’t seem convinced, but then again, John knew his lies weren’t
convincing.
===============================================================================
After science class, Sherlock and Victor walked the halls together. Victor
babbled on about some science fiction comic he liked, beautiful accent rolling
through every word. Sherlock liked listening to him. He liked how his dark eyes
gleamed when he got excited, and how he used his nimble hands to mimic the
actions. It reminded him of John, but everything did, so that wasn’t
surprising.
What was surprising was when a girl Sherlock had never met popped up just as
Victor disappeared into the bathroom.
“So,” she said, arms folded across a book, smile threatening to become a sneer.
“Are you guys like, a thing?”
Sherlock’s stomach coiled up, heat creeping up his pale neck. He’d thought
about it a lot, actually, but to have someone say it so outright was…
Unwelcome, to say the least. “No? No. We’re not.”
Bodies in the hallway brushed past them, uncaring, unknowing. She moved closer
to him, and he caught a whiff of her strawberry-scented perfume. He wanted
nothing more than to get away from the situation, really, as he could only see
it ending poorly, but something fierce inside him kept him walking straight
ahead. She trailed alongside him, breathing in his space, eyeing him
suspiciously.
“But you are gay, aren’t you?”
That same something fierce suddenly froze up. Fortunately, his tongue remained
quick and he spat out denial, “No. Leave me alone.”
“So you like girls?”
“I said leave me alone.”
A tall twelfth year pushed past them, and Sherlock felt smaller than ever.
The girl pushed on, relentless and rutheless. “If you don’t like girls, then
you must like boys. And you’ve been hanging around Victor quite a lot.”
They exited the hallway and into the open courtyard. Sherlock was glad of it,
because he suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. He took one sweep of fresh
air into his lungs and turned to her quickly, steadying his own shaking hands
by clasping his notebook ’til his knuckles went white. “Stop it. Stop it, leave
me alone!” He shouted at her, eyes afire, throat closing up. He turned away
then and began to storm off.
“What about John Watson, you guys were close for a long time. What happened
there?” She called after him.
Sherlock’s mind was a mess, his heart beat rapidly, and his stomach felt like
he’d swallowed a stone. His veins were icy and hot all at the same time, and he
only heard part of what the girl said, blood rushing to redden his skin. He
didn’t care what she had to say, but he cared that she said John’s name. That
cut through his embarrassed haze easily. John always did, no matter what.
John. John. What did John have to do with this? Everything. He had everything
to do with this. But what is this? Gay. She said gay,Sherlock thought. This has
to do with gay.
People had thrown the term around all over the place, especially these past few
years. They slapped it around like something to be ashamed of, oftentimes
synonymous with git. Sherlock knew what it meant, as he’d often caught snippets
of dialogue from Mycroft, and sometimes, he even went looking. Books proved
useful, sometimes more graphic than he’d like, and it seemed plausible that he
could be it, as he never fancied girls, but the more he thought about it, the
more he felt it may not work for him. It didn’t work for him because he wasn’t
in love with any men. Or boys, he supposed.
But… Wasn’t he?
Was he not in love with John?
Sherlock stopped half-way across the courtyard, breath catching in his throat.
Everything fell like lifeless puppets around him, his mind and heart all tying
up into one. 
He was in love with John.
I’m in love with John. I’m… Of course I am. He’s… He’s John. He’s everything.
Sherlock's heart fluttered wildly in his chest, lips playfully tugging
themselves into a foolish smile. How John made him feel, this giddiness, had
come back in a rush, more powerful than ever. It was almost overwhelming,
really. Breathtaking.
He tried to maintain his composure. Right,he thought, urging himself to think
rationally, despite the assault of messy mind palace excitement. All
right. Okay. So. John. John is… wonderful. My favorite person in the whole
world. He’s been there, always. And I love him. I know I do. I love him, and I
am in love with him. 
After saying it again, Sherlock felt like everything had clicked into place,
even as his surroundings went fuzzy. Everything besides this string of thought
seemed unimportant, and this one thought was sharper than all of it.
All of his questions had been answered, just here and now, by this thought.
And, while he didn’t want to think of anything other than John, his questions
about Victor seemed to answer themselves subconsciously. Victor was charming
and friendly and if Sherlock was indeed gay, of course he’d feel inclined to
spend time with him.
Sherlock didn’t know if he was smiling in place, spinning, or what, but he knew
that he loved John. He knew this, and he could feel his mind buzzing, heart
thrumming. John, of course it’s John. It’s always John. He keeps me right. He’s
the bravest, kindest, wisest person I’ve ever known. He’s charming and silly
and creative and passionate and I love him, God, I love him.
It felt so good to say, and Sherlock let himself say it, chanting it like a
mantra. His mind flashed snippets of life with John, all the times they’d
laughed, flushed, and beamed. Brushing hands over passing off the cereal,
tickle fights, and sleeping together in the same bed, waking up feeling warm
and safe.
Sherlock felt safe with him. Obviously, he was Sherlock’s companion. His best
friend. His one and only, since birth.
Something sharp hit him then, striking and painful like an icy arrow.But he’s
not… We’re not… We’re not friends anymore. He doesn’t like me anymore. We’re
not anything anymore.
All of Sherlock’s previously excited, romantic air fell as quickly as it’d
come. He remembered the current situation and where he stood. The rose-colored
glasses fell away and shattered when they hit the ground, so to speak.
Everything was real once again. Sherlock saw the students and the buildings. He
was back to real life. And in real life… they hadn’t been friends for ages. 
Sherlock’s face fell, and he breathed small little breaths as he went about his
business, pleading his tremulous legs to move. He didn’t let on that anything
was wrong as he moved across the school. 
His heart hurt, when only moments before, he’d finally felt it beating.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Short chapter, but an important one!
     So, guess where I am? In my dorm! It's perfect and cozy with an
     amazing view. I've set up all my posters (including these trashy
     babes) and everything feels right at home. This is my second night
     here, and I'm already feeling accustomed to it. I know I'll fit in
     fic writing between classes and the like, I just know it. Anyway,
     enough about real life.
     A few things about this chapter:
     1) I sort of ship Dean and John. Whatever, they're cute. Fight me.
     2) Victor is the sweetest thing ever. I can just picture him going on
     and on about space travel.
     3) LMAO SHERLOCK U DUMB FUCK, FINALLY! also u gay af
     Also, I know a lot of the "villainous" characters in this fic have
     been nosy, horny girls. And it's not because I hate women, actually,
     I'd sort of prefer a female-dominated world [shrugs] BUT for John and
     Sherlock, girls are quite the obstacle. John likes them, mostly, and
     they like him. Sherlock doesn't like them. And also, 13yo girls are
     really not that great. No 13yo's are, actually.
     And one more thing, the whole "if you don't like girls, then you must
     like boys" is totally aromantic/asexual erasure. Some people don't
     like anyone in those ways, and that's totally fine. But most people
     don't know that/are ignorant, so for that girl to be like "one or the
     other!" is not a reflection of my own personal ideas. I'm ace af,
     after all.
     Okay, enough notes. See you next chapter! :)
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     Traces of golden boys and red dogs played at the corners of his
     restless dreams, and he awoke from them in a sheen of sweat.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The summer before tenth year, when John was fourteen, his mother sat him and
Harry down at the kitchen table. 
“Your father is leaving us,” she said.
Neither John nor Harry were surprised, and they didn’t make any sort of
reaction. They knew it was coming, now it had come, and they had nothing to
say. 
Their mother, whose pretty golden hair went limp and dry with the stress of it
all, looked at each of their faces, sighed, and stood from the table. She left
them without so much as a pat on the head. There was no need for comfort.
George Watson hadn’t been an active part of his family for years, and if the
children were being honest with themselves, they didn’t feel so much as a
sliver of love for him.
School came then, both of them bumbling around in their classes, feeling a bit
more empty than usual.
“How was your summer holiday?” friends would ask them. They’d make some sort of
noncommittal hum or vague statement, pretending summer was fine and not long
enough. In truth, their minds could only replay the dull distraction in their
mother’s eyes, the hollow scrape of baggage against hardwood, and the
resounding silence of knowing their father had gone for good. 
And while it was new for him to have actually left, it wasn’t any different,
really, from the days he stayed in a motel. It was a wonder Mr and Mrs Watson
had played the charade for so long, really. Years of struggling until finally,
like a crumbling building, the foundations of their relationship turned to
dust.
John and Harry continued on. They had a few friends who kept them interested in
things: new classes, teachers, and gossip, but for the most part, the days
dragged on for the Watson children. Harry was a bit more interested in the game
than John, but she was twelve now, and everything goes to shit at twelve. 
Harry was moody, compulsive, and beginning to swell up. The latter had gained
her a bit of attention from the greasy boys in her class, which she clearly
wanted nothing to do with. Instead, she found herself drawn to her close female
friends. She liked being around them, as they made her feel safe and loved.
And, Harry knew this quite well, she truly loved them. She loved a few of them,
one in particular, the way she was supposed to love boys. But nobody’s supposed
to be anything, and this was something Harry struggled to understand. Just the
same, throughout the year, she found herself sneaking kisses from glossy lips
in the gym or nuzzling her nose into perfumed necks behind the tool shed. 
Things weren’t any better for John. They weren’t better at all, actually. He’d
completely lost himself. Any shred of uniqueness that once thrived had been
smothered in the mass of homework, practice, and female attention. His parents’
split didn’t hurt him too much, not really, not in comparison to how his
friend’s parents’ struggles hurt them, but just the same, his father’s
abandonment added to the long list of reasons why everything was shitty.
The worst, of course, was Sherlock. The absence of him, the deep, deep pain of
missing him. John still saw him around school, but he’d been so weird around
John this past year. He’d stare at him from across the hallway and take a bit
longer to look back to Victor. Sometimes he smiled at him in a class, or at
least John thought he did, but the smile fell sadly and he darted his beautiful
eyes away. It was strange, especially how adamantly Sherlock had avoided him
since they broke up. Now, it seemed like he was lingering just around the edge
of John’s life. He had no idea that John wanted him at the heart of it, that it
made him dull and lifeless and incomplete without him in it.
Time went on. John hoped every day would be the day Sherlock would come back,
wrap him up in his new height, and let John kiss that ridiculous stretch of
pale neck.
A few months into school, though John wasn’t really counting, a new girl
transferred to their class. She was slim and pretty, with mousy brown hair and
a plethora of pins on her leather bag. Her name was Sarah, and as she came into
John’s science class, she soon proved herself to be incredibly smart,
especially in regards to the human body.
“I want to go into medicine,” she told John once, as Dean had dragged him over
to introduce himself. 
“Oh, me too.” John said. 
Sarah smiled, Dean raised an eyebrow, and two weeks later, John and Sarah were
dating. 
He didn’t really know how it happened, or even how he was supposed to act. He
flirted with girls all the time, but there were so many of them, and now there
was only one. Dean and Nathan and Seamus told him how to act, with what little
knowledge they had, as they wiped the sweat from the back of their necks during
practice. They told him to call her pretty, but not too much, to kiss her
cheeks and forehead in public, and to make sure he ate lunch with her every
day. They nudged each other when John asked what happened after that. “I’m sure
you’ll figure it out,” they said.
John nodded and followed their instructions, smiling, but empty and pining for
Sherlock. He didn’t feel things for Sarah like he felt for Sherlock or,
truthfully, Dean, and he was quite aware of this. But Sarah was sweet and
pretty and had a bit of tits, and John found it was better just to date her,
try as best as he could to push Sherlock out of his head. With one constant in
his life, a girlfriend, hopefully everything else would fall into place.
He played along as best he could, and it turned out, Sarah was fine. She talked
to him about the things he was interested in, which made a change from the lame
smalltalk other ditzy girls tried on him. Sarah was different, she was
interesting and smart and, John found, incredibly strong. She could hit a ball
out of the ballpark in a scrap game of baseball, or pin him down as they
wrestled. 
This, obviously, let to snogging. Just a bit, about a month in, on John’s bed.
It wasn’t intensely passionate, but it was the first time John had really
kissed someone, and he definitely liked it. It made him warm and horny and
heady, and it wasn’t bad at all.
What was bad was Sherlock’s face when he saw Sarah. John didn’t know what it
meant, or even if he was really seeing it, as it was just a fleeting flash of
something, but every time Sarah kissed his cheek or held his hand, with
Sherlock there to witness, John’s heart sank, time stopped, and he felt
terrible.
For a moment, just once, he caught the traces of pain in Sherlock’s eyes, and
it made him think Sherlock might be missing him. He might want to be friends
again, and if he did, John was sure he’d leave Sarah for Sherlock. Without a
doubt. 
So he had to keep himself from thinking about it. And it was easy to, sort of,
when Sarah let him kiss her and touch her chest and bum.
===============================================================================
A few days into his realization of love for John, Sherlock would wake up
feeling light and content. He understood so much more, not everything, of
course, but more. He knew what the butterflies in his stomach meant, and how
those rare occasions in which his groin would twitch at the thought of John
were just more experimental proof of his love for him. Being in love with John,
at least for those waking moments, felt as easy as slipping into old shoes.
Naturally, he soon remembered how things stood now, and everything was back to
uncomfortable sadness. Those blissful mornings died away, and what was left was
deep, gloomy pining. He had already missed John so much it felt like part of
him died, and it only worsened when he realized how hopelessly in love he was.
And while there was next to nothing in regards of hope for getting back what
they had, at least he could face seeing John. It hurt him, deep in his bones,
but it was better than not seeing him at all. Not seeing him at all would be
worse than death. In fact, Sherlock was sure he’d gladly take death over it. It
was a dramatic, ridiculous thought, but Sherlock just sighed whenever he
thought of it, a ghost of Well, love, on his lips.
Sherlock continued on, though, no matter the pain in his heart. He’d talk to
Victor, do his work, and outsmart his teachers. Summer dragged on, and with a
few visits from Victor for school purposes, Sherlock spent the summer alone in
his room. Sometimes in the backyard, sometimes in the sitting room, and
sometimes on the roof, but mostly in his room. Of course, everywhere he went,
Redbeard went too. He wasn’t alone when Redbeard was there, and it always
helped to have his dog there.
Redbeard had been his constant through most of the pain in his young life. When
he was beaten by Colton, a full six years previous, Redbeard had snuffled his
wet nose into Sherlock’s neck and slept with him when it seemed the only thing
Sherlock could do to numb the physical pain was sleep. And now, as Sherlock
wallowed in his wasted love, he told Redbeard that he should have realized it
sooner, that maybe it would have made things different. Redbeard curled beside
him through it all, whimpering and snuffling and lapping up Sherlock’s salty
tears.
It seemed his dog hurt as much as Sherlock did, as Redbeard loved John just as
much. John was a part of both of their lives, from the day Redbeard came to
him, and his loss broke both of their hearts.
Redbeard padding along behind him as Sherlock readied himself for the first day
of tenth year, Sherlock turned and pet his head, promising that he’d be back
soon. He trudged along his way then, wondering why on earth he couldn’t bring
his dog along to school and have him, oversized and slobbery, in his lap at his
desk. 
He arrived at school and met up with Victor, who chatted about his summer, how
his extended family had come, and how they feasted for multiple days. Sherlock
hummed along happily, relieved to have some familiar comfort back in his life.
That comfort was short-lived, naturally, as he spotted John, handsome as ever,
across the campus.
Sherlock looked at him longingly. He was sure Victor knew, or if he didn’t, had
some inkling about the whole thing. He never said anything, though, so Sherlock
let himself sigh deeply, his shoulders sagging with the weight of a heavy
heart.
This happened often, as he’d catch a glimpse of John milling about with his
friends, or even chewing on the end of his pencil in class. He’d gaze at him,
wishing they could have back what they had before. John sometimes turned
towards him, catching Sherlock looking. His eyes, the eyes Sherlock had looked
into for more than a decade, had the shadows of memory enveloping him, and
Sherlock had to force himself to look away to remain sane.
Sherlock observed, hopelessly, that John was growing more beautiful by the day.
He’d been coming out of his childish looks for a few years now, but recently,
he’d been bulking up a bit in the chest and arms, face sharpening itself into a
handsome, smoldering countenance. Sherlock was smitten. Absolutely, wholly, and
inappropriately attracted to his physical appearance, which only drove his
desperate love deeper.
The boy who Sherlock had spent his childhood with, their history almost
brotherly, was now the direct object of his tremendous affections, and it wore
on him every day.
Late into the fall, a new girl appeared, and with her sudden rise to stardom in
medical sciences, she stole John’s heart away. Sherlock watched it all unfold
from the sidelines, listening with a bitten lip to the whispers in his classes.
His stomach coiled in panic and he had to close his eyes and retreat into a
happy memory, one that included John, to shield himself from the curling
sadness.
The first day he really saw them together, laughing and smiling during lunch,
with his arm around her, and her head on his chest, Sherlock hoped the
courtyard would swallow him whole. It was the same feeling that Colton’s kicks
left in him, but instead of his ribs, this time, it was his heart which held
the bruise.
John’s was never his to lose, and he knew that, but it sure as hell felt like
it now. It was stupid and wrong and unnecessary to be so affected by it, when
years unsaid had passed between them, but the sight of them seared a burn into
him as if he’d caught them in an act of adultery. 
It was easy to deal with watching John flirt with other girls, well, easy
enough, as Sherlock could see his disinterest in them. Sometimes he even
verbally shut them down. There were girls, a lot of girls, and sometimes
Sherlock swore there was something there with Dean. But now there was just one,
just one person John paid the most attention to. She sat there, pleasant in her
school uniform, touching John and kissing him and dating him, staying at his
side always, and as silly as it sounded, Sherlock felt that it ought to have
been him. 
He tore his eyes away as best he could and continued the rest of the day with
his chin held high, if only to keep the tears within his eyes.
However, when he got home that day, image of them together played in loops ’til
it was madness in his head, he let the tears fall. He felt broken and hopeless
and stupid and he rushed into the kitchen and collapsed on the table in a heap.
He half-hoped that Mycroft was surprise visiting, as he really did miss him and
needed him more than ever, but he knew that he was off somewhere, gallivanting
happily as a 22-year-old. Sherlock was alone, completely alone, dripping all
over his sleeves. It was a long while before his mother appeared, silently,
slipping into the kitchen with a small gasp.
Startled, he looked up at her, snotty and wet. Her eyes were wide with worry,
and she asked him what was wrong as softly as she could.
Sherlock wanted to say everything, that everything was wrong, from the way John
smiled at someone else to the way he was reacting now. He felt there was too
much to say, and what he creaked out instead surprised him.
“He likes girls, mummy!” 
He lamented it with strain in his voice, gritting through his teeth as hot
tears fell into the crinkles of his cheeks. It was much too forward and out of
place to say, especially considering how he’d been treating his mother since he
and John split, but she was there, and he was hurting, and he missed her. He
missed everything.
She sat beside him, knowing quite well who he meant. “Oh, honey…” She placed a
hand on his shoulder tenderly. Sherlock let her.
A few seconds of silence settled in, assuring Sherlock that she wouldn’t say
anything else unless he wanted her to. He didn’t know what he wanted, but
apparently, he had more to say, so he let himself sob it out. “He has a
girlfriend. Her name is Sarah.” He hated himself for knowing so much, for
perking his ears and snooping to learn her name.
“Sherlock…”
He went on, voice trembling. “Which means he doesn’t like me. He’s never liked
me, and there is no chance that he’ll ever like me.”
Victoria rubbed circles into his back now, unsure of what to say. “He’s John,
honey, he’ll always like you.”
“Not the way I like him.” 
The confession sounded weird to him, as he’d never admitted it out loud to
anyone but Redbeard. It was heavy and salty in his mouth, or perhaps that was
just his tongue swelling up from how hard he bit it to keep in the screams.
“Oh…” As Sherlock lay his head back onto the table, trembling in sobs, Victoria
understood. Not like she’d evernot understood, but she assumed Sherlock’s
undeniable romantic feelings for John sort of fizzled away as their friendship
had. Apparently, her son was still desperately in love with his ex-best friend,
and it was clear it’d always been. Sherlock may have realized this, even,
considering the intensity with which his shoulders shook now. It was a lasting
pain, pain that no silly schoolboy crush could counter. This was long term
heartbreak. Victoria knew that. Sherlock knew that. 
She rubbed his back as silence rang through the kitchen, save for Sherlock’s
sniffling sobs. She lay her head on his and pulled him into her chest. It’d
been a while since he’d let her, and she took it eagerly. They stayed like that
for a long time, a sad young boy crying quietly in his mother’s arms. He’d been
so distant, but now, against her breast, he was small and tiny and sad. He was
innocent and pure and desperate for love, just like a baby, a Victoria’s heart
ached for him.
After a few minutes, when Sherlock’s sobs had eased a bit, she sighed. She
contemplated humming a melody to him, but that might have been too much, even
for Sherlock. Instead, she spoke gently, lips in her son’s curls. “Sherlock.
There’s something I have to tell you.”
He trembled a bit in her grasp, pulling back tenderly to look at her. He was
snotty and raw, his eyes red rimmed and wet, tears streaking down his cheeks
and collecting in the corners of his nose. She couldn’t bear to look at it, so
she pulled his head back to her breast, entwining her fingers in the curls at
the base of his neck.
“I don’t… Know how to say this, sweetheart…” Victoria breathed, furrowing her
brows. She really didn’t know how to say it, but she had to. A tear of her own
escaped her tired eyes as she said, plainly as she could possibly bear,
“Redbeard died.”
Sherlock bristled in her arms and inched back from her chest, slowly and
calmly. He didn’t say anything.
“He was hit by a car, honey, there was nothing I could do. Your father’s going
to - ”
“No…” It was a tiny, broken sound.
“Honey, please, I’m sorry.”
“No. No." He wouldn’t look at her. He kept his head down as he removed himself
from her arms and stood up on shaky legs. He backed away, folding his arms over
his chest, hunching over a bit like his heart had just caved in on itself.
“Stop it.”
Victoria reached out a hand, “Sherlock, I don’t -“
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, eyes gliding over the kitchen
tiles. 
“I know, honey, but it happened so fast and I - “
“Where’s John?” 
“John’s not - “
Sherlock drew a shaky breath. “John’s not. Redbeard’s not. They’re not, they’re
not, they’re not.” He mumbled incoherent denial for a bit, swaying on the spot
and wringing his hands. Then, like something inside him switched off, he
stopped. He pulled his face up against the low kitchen light. His lip not so
much as quivered, eyes cold and hard, brows strong and defiant. Despite this,
tears still slid from his dead eyes, wet and thick. They dripped from his chin.
Victoria watched as he turned away and left, leaving nothing but teardrops on
the tiles.
Sherlock walked on numb legs up to his room, shut himself in with a slam of the
door, and curled inside his blankets. 
He really cried then. For John, for Redbeard, for the careless, thoughtless
timing of his mother, and for the shadow of a half-lived life that he curled
into now. His stomach hurt and gnawed at his insides as he cried and cried,
sometimes shuddering with dry sobs, other times laying still, tears pooling in
a large stain on his pillow.
This continued all night. He didn’t leave his bed, skipped dinner, and drifted
in and out of thin sleep. Traces of golden boys and red dogs played at the
corners of his restless dreams, and he awoke from them in a sheen of sweat. His
heart broke that night, a deep, clawing ache in his chest that left him empty
and terribly sad.
It had broken for John, knowing that there was not even one shred of hope left
for them, for the life they might have had. It broke for Redbeard, who was
happy and healthy and loving, and who would never be at his side again. It
broke for the two things he loved most in all this world, the two things that
he’d never be with ever again.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I'm not sorry at all~
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     Thinking of what they’d once had, John went on.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Eleventh year had come, and everyone Sherlock and John’s age were antsy to grow
out of childhood. At fifteen, everything was sex and mood swings and
exhaustion. All of the ridiculousness of the past few years had reached a
boiling point, and every confusing thought or feeling was now buzzing out of
control. Luckily, this was the last year of secondary school. Soon they’d be in
college and working through their sixth forms, hoping to finally be at peace in
university.
They weren’t there yet, though, and things were still happening. Things were
starting and ending and breaking and mending, and everyone was struggling.
Sherlock, however, was not. He was through with struggling. He was through with
wild emotions, through with crying for lost boys. He’d had enough of that over
the last few years. So now, as he tried to act (and look) older, with a sharp
face and a sneer for the overly cheerful, he cast it all away. It was useless,
all of it, and it didn’t help anything.
He’d spy, leaning up against a wall with with judgmental eyes, moody and
brooding, on all the lonely people. He’d see the boys and girls cry over their
girlfriends and boyfriends; the sniveling faces of friends who broke up, made
up, and broke up again; and the haughty air in which top students pretended
they weren’t hopelessly spiraling downwards with the use of recreational drugs.
Sure, maybe all of this, this after school special, could have waited a few
more years, at least until uni. The kids of Wisbech were never ones for
waiting, though. Everything was rushing, changing, quick. It had to be when
stuck in such a disaster town.
And Sherlock had to leave it, he had to. He’d seen it all, been to all the
stores and carnivals, seen all the landscapes, and walked the streets at night.
He was tired of it and God, so ready to leave. He was ready to leave all the
sorry memories behind… Memories of his lost boy.
That didn’t mean he’d take down the pictures in his bedroom, though.
So he sat now, early November, in his room, suddenly very tired of it all. He
felt empty and quite rightly so, as there was no brick-colored body curled into
him, black wet nose pressing into his jaw. He was without comfort, without a
companion, and without any desire to try to fix things.
Still, he cast his eyes at each of the pictures and mementos around the room.
The smiling faces of he and John decorated his walls, as well as medals and
science awards and certificates of completion. On the shelves sat the taller,
heavier things like snow globes from holidays and platinum record displays.
Collecting dust now, these trinkets seemed much smaller than they were when
he’d gotten them. 
The trophy John had given him from his first football game was much shorter
than it’d seemed that day, when John had wrapped an arm ‘round Sherlock’s
middle and said, “This is for you, Sherlock, you made this possible!” Sherlock
had only blushed in response, unable to thank him properly. John, who tended to
romanticize things a bit, was right, he had made it possible. He’d deduced a
weak spot in the offensive line and planned out a path for John and the team’s
sweeper to pass through based on the assumed patterns of the opposing players.
They followed his plan and scored easily. With that confidence, they scored
again and again, winning their sectionals. 
Sherlock thought John might’ve kissed him that day, the way he looked only at
him, eyes going all funny, as his team cheered around them. He didn’t, though.
Of course he didn’t. Sherlock hadn’t known then why he was so disappointed that
he hadn’t, but he knew now. Sherlock closed his eyes now, lost to the memory. 
They’d only been nine, but he’d loved John just as fiercely then as he did now.
Yes, Sherlock still loved John. It wasn’t even a question. He always would,
even after he moved away and packed the photos of them and Redbeard into a
dusty box. Even after he’d meet some bloke he liked second-best, even after he
couldn’t really remember the color of John’s football jersey or the way his
laugh went husky after a long while. Even after it all, he’d still love him. He
knew he would.
And that hurt so bloody much. He may have sworn off emotion and any sort of
codependent relationship, he may have drifted apart from Victor and his
parents, but Sherlock would never, never forget John. Even if it hurt like
Hell.
He lay in his room that Sunday afternoon, allowing himself to feel all that he
suppressed during the week. He stared at his ceiling until his eyes closed from
exhaustion. He might’ve cried. He didn’t really remember, though.
===============================================================================
John had never been so nervous. He wasn’t this nervous when he was about to
score the winning shot in the county championships, he wasn’t this nervous when
he told his sister he liked boys, and he wasn’t this nervous when breaking up
with Sarah. This was something else entirely.
This was Sherlock.
John paced around his room early on a Sunday morning and ran over why he
decided to do this. It’d been after his dad left and after he was getting
pretty serious with Sarah when he realized nothing was making him happy. He was
jealous of Sherlock and Victor, and while Sarah was nice to kiss, he never once
got the image of perfect cupid’s bow lips out his head as he kissed her. And
even if heavy petting satisfied him for a while, he realized it wasn’t great if
he wasn’t really into whoever’s bum he groped. At fifteen, sex often was the
only important thing, but as John realized, he didn’t want sex with Sarah. He
just wanted to be friends with Sherlock again, or just… be with him. He was
still working out the details. 
So he broke up with her five and a half months after their first date. He sat
her on her bed and took her hand, unsure how to start. He did it, though.
Ungracefully, mind you. She cried, and he felt horrible. He didn’t know how to
comfort her, so he just ignored her sniffling and urged her not to tell anyone
that they’d broken up. Not for his own reputation, since he didn’t give a damn
about that, but because everything was actually pretty normal for a bit. They
could still sit together at lunch, if Sarah wanted, but John just couldn’t be
with her anymore. She didn’t understand and just kept crying.
He wasn’t gentle in the slightest and actually failed miserably at consoling
her, since they just ended up snogging one last time, but when they pulled back
and Sarah took her hand from John’s thigh, eyes puffy and red, she asked if
there was another girl.
John looked into her face, a face he had actually sought comfort in, even if it
wasn’t all sharp lines and startling eyes like Sherlock’s. She was kind, and
John liked her, so he decided he owed her the truth. “Sort of,” he’d said.
He then explained to her, as vaguely as he could, that over the past few
months, he’d realized that he really missed his childhood best friend. More
than anyone else in his life, even. More than his dad and his friends who
transferred schools, more than his favorite rockstars who’d dropped out of the
scene. John told Sarah that it hurt him so much that they weren’t friends
anymore, more than anything had ever hurt. He said he was pretty confused about
it, but since he trusted her and actually didn’t give a damn if the secret got
out, he told her he thought it might have been something akin to a crush.
She blanched and gaped at him, but after John’s bedroom clock ticked through
seven seconds, she sighed. “Okay,” she said. “I understand. I won’t tell.”
John believed her, and they broke up while still acting like they were dating.
It wasn’t too hard, and it wasn’t a big sneaky thing, they just didn’t change
their routine. Eventually, people got bored of them and they could drift apart
at the end of the year. Dean asked John if they’d broken up, and John shrugged.
“Guess so.”
Sarah had found a new boy by the time eleventh year had started. John,
naturally, was still deeply pining.
But he’d had enough of pining. He wanted to act. And, truly, he didn’t even
know why he and Sherlock weren’t friends anymore. John honestly could not
remember. He couldn’t remember the day they just up and decided not to be
together anymore, either. It was a slow decline of seeing each other, talking
to each other. It was stupid.
So here he was, urging himself to do it. Just go to Sherlock’s house, knock on
the door, and beg for him back. 
That wouldn’t be so hard, right?
===============================================================================
John turned around six times on his walk to Sherlock’s house. He panicked,
second-guessed himself, and found any reason not to follow through. Then he
remembered Sherlock’s eyes, or his lips, or his laugh, or the way he draped off
his bed, upside-down. John thought of ghost stories and fantasy worlds and
football games. He thought of Redbeard and Victoria and Mycroft, how, for so
long, he’d been a part of Sherlock’s family.
Then he’d swivel again and walk a few more paces until the panic returned.
He went on nonetheless. While nervous and timid, he distracted himself as much
as he could by observing the houses and yards and people milling about. He saw
golden pups play on lawns and little old ladies peep out of windows. On a
Sunday morning, the road was pretty quiet, unassuming. Nobody in these houses
knew that John was attempting to change the course of his life. If they saw him
out of their windows, they’d just see a scrappy teen with a black shirt, faded
jeans, and a worn rugby jacket shuffling up the road, stopping and glancing
back every now and then.
John stopped again, hands in his pockets, and looked up. Eyes on the sky, he
noted how the sky went a bit grey as it neared the horizon. It blanketed the
town and neighborhood in a silver haze, few clouds dark and grey as they passed
the sun.
It wasn’t a bad town, really, and this particular stretch of road was very
pleasant, homely, even. It was just so… them. So many memories of the two of
them running up and down the sidewalk to and from school, scraping their knees
by riding wooden skateboards down the hill of Sherlock’s house, playing scrap
football as the sky went pink and orange. John looked back at his own sad
little house at the end of the block and imagined his mother, skinny and pretty
and happy, leaning in the doorway.
“It’s getting late, boys,” she’d say. “Come on inside.”
“Oh, mum, can’t we stay out a bit longer? It’s not even dark yet!” Little John
would plead, little Sherlock nudging into him and stealing the ball from his
feet.
A smile that he hadn’t seen in so long would grace his mother’s face, and as
little Harriet appeared behind her mother’s hip, shy and watching the boys
play, Mrs Watson would say, “Oh, all right. Just come in before it gets cold.
And watch out for cars.” 
Before she’d even finished her last sentence, John was chasing Sherlock and
taking the ball from him.
He remembered, John did, all of that. He remembered so much from their life
together, mostly because that’s all it ever was - their life. Together. From
birth, through childhood, to now. It was all he was, everything he was made of.
Regarding it now, his chest ached. All of that innocent friendship had just…
burned out as they grew up. 
Maybe that’s the natural course of things? Losing old friends?John thought. No.
No, not with us. There’s no reason we can’t still be friends. We promised
forever.
John squeezed his eyes to release the doubt and turned back towards his
destination. Thinking of what they’d once had, John went on. 
He had to get it back, or, if he couldn’t, he had to remind Sherlock of what
used to be good. 
John scuffed his feet over the pavement as he walked, staring at his shoes as
he neared the driveway of the Holmes estate. Swallowing and allowing himself a
large sigh, he slicked his fingers through his golden hair and pushed on, up,
up the long driveway, stomach coiling as the grand manor loomed ahead.
Everything was tingling nerves and butterflies in his stomach when he reached
the door. Stalling himself a bit, John glanced around the front of the house,
at the vase-shaped cement pots with vines and greenery creeping over them, at
the little pathway that led to the back area, and the delicate curve of the
golden doorknob. He glanced up to Sherlock’s window, high in the house and
foggy from various flecks of crystallized chemical solutions. The light wasn’t
on, as it was day, but John could feel him in there. Urging himself to look
away, he noticed that Victoria and Charles weren’t home, as their cars were
gone. He was grateful for that, sort of. He wouldn’t know how to explain his
sudden appearance. Hi, remember me? I’m a ghost from your son’s past. I’m here
to win him back.
Speaking of ghosts, the house, which John had always found magnificent, felt
more like a haunted mansion as he looked upon it now. Haunted with good
memories, memories of silliness and drowsy movie nights. Those memories might
have been worse, actually, than painful ones.
All the same, it was a distant life, and John wished to God that it could be
his again. 
Standing on the steps for a long while, he breathed as quietly as he could and
winced at the way it trembled in his lungs. Maybe there was still a chance for
him to run back to his house and curl under the blankets and sleep - pretend
none of this had happened.
But it did, it certainly did. Everything had happened. Sherlock had happened. 
John pressed his lips together and reached out a fist. He knocked with his
knuckles and bit his lip. 
Nervous was an understatement.
===============================================================================
The knock roused Sherlock from his half-asleep state. He felt as if he’d almost
imagined it, and after a tense moment, it came again. Sherlock sat up in bed,
feeling a bit lightheaded and drunk from reminiscing. He pulled himself back to
the present and listened curiously for another knock, but none came. He then
padded out of his room on bare feet and down the stairs, trailing a hand down
the bannister, eyes a bit blurry, legs a bit heavy.
He didn’t want to get up, and thus wished his parents were home. They’d have
answered it, they’d have been able to deal with the salesman. Sherlock wasn’t
really in the mood to entertain a smiling person with a box of sweets or Jesus
pamphlets. He’d rather tell them to fuck off. He knew he shouldn’t, though, so
as he went through the halls, he straightened his t-shirt and fluffed his
curls. He wiped the grime from his eyes and looked at his toes as he reached
for the doorknob. 
Pulling the door open with a whoosh of air, Sherlock met the eyes of the person
on the other side. His breath hitched.
===============================================================================
John’s breath caught at the sight of Sherlock. His heart flipped. Sherlock
looked messy and untucked, dressed in a small white t-shirt with the faded name
and picture of their favorite band and grey sweatpants that hung low on his
hips. His eyes were just as bright as ever under the strong brow and mess of
dark curls, but as this was the first time in many, many years that John had
seen him so close, he couldn’t help but note how soft and approachable he
looked. He was beautiful, God, completely and undeniably beautiful.
He looked older, so much older, and a bit worn down. His cheeks still flushed
pink, though, and his lips were still as pretty and plump as ever. 
John let himself stare, especially as Sherlock stared back. They just stood on
either side of the doorway, Sherlock’s hand still on the doorknob, John’s hands
tucked into his pockets. Nobody spoke for a long, long time. John was fairly
certain that Sherlock would snap out of it at any moment and close the door on
him. He didn’t. He just stared on, lips falling open gently as if he was so
close to saying something.
Knowing Sherlock, he wouldn’t, not when he had that dopey look on his face, so
John had to pull it together and speak first. He cleared his throat. Everything
felt hot. “Hi,” he squeaked.
Sherlock didn’t respond, but his lips twitched like he wanted to.
“Sherlock,” John heard himself say. 
Again, nothing.
“Sherlock, please.”
“John.”
Finally.
“Sherlock.”
“What are you doing here.”
It wasn’t a question, Hell, it wasn’t even a statement. It was a string of
words, sounds. It was like Sherlock held a knife to his throat, eyes pinning
him in place. They had John’s stomach tightening, knees threatening to give
out. He held on just the same.
“I… I need to talk to you.”
“Why.”
“Because… I…” John was suddenly very interested in the design of the wooden
door. He looked at the carvings, the glass patterns, and then back to the
ridiculous teenager standing before him. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes
never left John’s face, even as John glanced behind him and into the house. He
missed the house. He missed Sherlock. “I miss you.”
John hadn’t meant to say that, at least not right away, but it seemed to be the
right thing to snap Sherlock out of his trance. Something passed across
Sherlock’s face and he shook it away, eyes suddenly darting frantically around
the place, panicking. It reminded John of a spooked horse.
“Where’s Sarah?” Sherlock said then, locking his legs tight and raising his
chin.
“What?”
“Where is Sarah?”
“Why on earth would she be here, Sherlock?”
“She’s your -“
John cut him off, “Not anymore.”
Sherlock bristled. He didn’t say anything.
John tried not to be irritated with Sherlock, but the last thing he wanted to
do was talk about Sarah. He wanted to talk about them, remind Sherlock of all
they’d been through, all they could have had these past three years. What he
really wanted to do, though, was wrap his arms around Sherlock and breathe him
in. Kiss his neck, touch his waist, feel him hum against him. He didn’t act on
that desire, though. He stood awkwardly in the doorway and clenched his fists,
which had somehow escaped his pockets.  
“Look,” John said, “I don’t know what happened.”
“We’re not friends anymore, John.” Sherlock reminded him, stinging.
John grit his teeth, nearly wincing. “Yeah, okay, we’re not. But I don’t know
why.”
“We’re just not.” Sherlock shrugged. John hated how nonchalant he was being
about it. God, from wanting to kiss him to wanting to punch him. I’m a
mess,John thought. He then realized that he’d just admitted to wanting to kiss
him. Or, had he already admitted that before? God, just… Think about that
later, John.
He pressed on. He was never good at this sort of stuff, but damn, he was going
to try. “Okay. We’re not. I get that. But I… I want to be. And… And I don’t
know why you avoid me. Or, why we avoided each other. I just don’t know.”
Another quiet moment passed. Sherlock seemed to have the answer, but he wasn’t
saying it. Instead, he took his hand off the doorknob and leaned in the frame,
crossing his arms. Then he whispered, “Me neither.”
John’s heart leapt. “Then why the fuck did we let it happen?”
“People change, John.”
“What does that even mean!?”
Sherlock shrugged again. “We grew up.”
“No, we didn’t. You just left me.” You left me.
Sherlock straightened up in the doorway. His eyes were hard and no longer the
color of the sky. They were more the color of a raging ocean. John thought
Sherlock would drown him in them. Frankly, he’d let him. “You left me.”
“No.”
“Yes. For other people.”
“No, no, I didn’t want that.”
“Sarah.”
“What about her?”
“You… didn’t need me. You had her.”
That was the closest Sherlock had come to showing any sort of emotion, and with
the crack of his voice and the cast of his eyes at his feet, John saw
everything. Well, almost everything. He took it, then, this new flood of
information, and knew that his own honesty had to go further. If anything was
going to change, he’d have to open up just a bit more. They couldn’t go in
circles anymore.
“Sherlock… Sarah could never replace you. Never.” No one could. “…No one
could.”
Sherlock raised his eyes and met John’s. There was something there, and fuck,
it was incredible. It was also so, so sad. John couldn’t really handle it.
“Really?” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, ‘course. I didn’t even like her that much.” John have a half-hearted
chuckle.
They were back to… whatever nonchalance hid the weight of it. A certain kind of
distance, perhaps. 
“Then why did you date her?” 
“It would be weirder if I hadn’t.” They all expected me to. I didn’t really
want to. I only wanted you.John said this to himself as he steadied a hand on
the doorframe. He looked at his knuckles, the smooth skin of the back of his
hand. Silly, how they still stood here, John on the porch, Sherlock in the
house. John didn’t care, really. They were here. They were talking.
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence.
“Yeah, I didn’t either. But it’s over now and… and I want to be friends again.
Can we be friends again?”
John thought Sherlock would wait for ages to respond to this, but he surprised
him. Immediately, he moved out of the doorway and gestured inside. “Welcome
back, John.”
===============================================================================
The events of that Sunday replayed in Sherlock’s head as soon as John left. He
said he had some paper to write or something, so he didn’t stay over, but not
before Sherlock’s parents could come home and welcome him back, invite him to
stay for dinner. They didn’t ask where he’d gone, they only told him they were
glad to see him. They were good like that. Charles told Sherlock he liked John,
he was a good boy, and Victoria beamed at Sherlock as soon as he walked John
out the door.
He flushed and waved her off before going back up to his room. He flopped into
bed, mentally exhausted but buzzing with excitement. He lay in the same
position as he’d been in that morning, but everything was different.
After John had come in, they didn’t speak about the time he was gone. The time
in which they weren’t together. It went back to normal, albeit, a bit more
tense, but still normal. Sherlock made John tea, and they sat on the couch.
They ate leftover Halloween candy and talked about their plans for next year.
As the afternoon wore on, they settled in for a movie, knees brushing on the
couch. They could feel the other glance over, every now and again, and it had
them in a state of nervous, semi-arousal all through the film. After that,
Sherlock brought them up to his room (after cleaning up and dusting off
pictures, of course) and sat John on the bed. He then told him about Redbeard
and how he wished he would have called him the moment it happened. John said he
wished he’d called him, too. 
When Sherlock’s parents came home, John had dinner with them and told them
about sports and school. He was a paragon of a boy you’d take home to your
parents, pleasant and gentle and smart. He went on about rugby and football and
his positions, about his projects at school and his continuous interest in
medicine and the military. Naturally, the topic of John’s parents came up. It
was awkward when Charles asked, and Victoria nudged him under the table, but
John was unfazed. He calmly expressed how his father didn’t want anything to do
with them and that really, it was better for all of them. He then told them
that his mother was doing better since the split and that his little sister
wasn’t so little anymore. Victoria and Charles responded with an anecdote about
Mycroft, where he was and who he’d met through his internships. John listened
politely, even expressing that he sort of missed Sherlock’s older brother.
After dinner, John and Sherlock sat in the den, drowsy off good food and never
sparing a moment to feel familiar again. Sherlock and John couldn’t even
remember what they talked about, they just remembered that it felt natural.
Like slipping into an old worn coat or coming back to a tradition that had been
abandoned. It was easy and comfortable and undeniably wonderful. When John had
to leave, Sherlock walked him outside. They struggled not to hug and ended up
shaking hands. They laughed about it and admitted it was awkward, but parted
ways just the same. They went back to their own rooms, John walking down the
street in the dark, Sherlock climbing the stairs. Both of their hearts
thrumming. 
John didn’t get his paper done. His head was in no place for schoolwork.
They both lay in their own beds now, smiling stupidly. Life was good again.
Sure, a bit more confusing, and there were some things, especially for John,
that had to be worked out, but it was back to Sherlock and John. John and
Sherlock. It was back to the duo that holed away in the corner of their pre-
school classroom and refused to play with the other children.
John thought about Sherlock until he fell asleep. It took a while for him to,
and when he did, he awoke soon after. He’d dreamt of Sherlock, quite vividly,
and startled awake, riled and steamy in the middle of the night. He’d dreamt of
sweatpants and Sherlock’s bum and the strip of skin that showed when he reached
for the tin above the fridge. And, while he certainly had felt some sort of
this when he was with Sarah, this was unlike anything he’d felt yet. It was
powerful and confusing and erotic and romantic. He ended up staying awake the
rest of the night, even after he took care of the persistent problem the dream
had left him with. He thought of Sherlock all night, all memory of him, all of
him.
By morning, he had figured it out. He’d always loved Sherlock, of course. Now,
however, he’d found that he wasin lovewith Sherlock. Everything fit into place
then, all the pining and tension and the ridiculous need to be his friend
again. It wasn’t just that he missed Sherlock as a friend, he missed Sherlock
because he was Sherlockand he was in lovewith Sherlock.
It was quite a lot to take in, surely, but John had never felt so relieved.
And, after the initial admission, it was actually relatively easy to
understand. Maybe he’d known all along, no, he definitelyknew all along. He
just hadn’t allowed himself to say it. But he had, and it was fine. He was with
Sherlock again. He was with the boy he was in love with again.
John rose with the sun, showered, wanked again, and braced himself to see
Sherlock. They’d agreed to walk to school together for the first time in years.
John, with Sherlock in his thoughts and a green apple in hand, rushed out the
door as the morning neared their meeting time, happiest he’d been in a long
time. He was happy and hopeful and finally aware.
Sherlock, on the other hand, had been aware of his feelings for John for a few
years, and after a few hours of excited tittering about being with him again,
slept easy.
He dreamt of John, knowing that this time, the dream could continue into the
day. It wouldn’t be a nightmare anymore.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry this took a while to come, friends, some emotional shit
     happened and I was in no place to write this shitpot of a chapter.
     But AH! WHAT A CHAPTER! Fuck, I've been dreaming about this scene
     since I started this fic. John showing up at his door, literally
     begging for him back as if they'd broken up (hadn't they?)

     Anyway, college is still happening but so is my love for this fic, so
     don't worry. It will be complete and it will be good.

     But you should know that I'm also in love with this fic, my Tangled/
     Sherlock crossover, and I would so love if you (a fan of both Tangled
     and Sherlock, perhaps) read this johnlock beaut.

     Okay, that's enough notes. Please leave a comment, tell me what you
     think, or message me on tumblr! I'm hungry for interaction, always.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Summary
     It was a comfortable life, the best they’d ever known.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
This last year, Sherlock decided, had been better than all of the previous
years in which he and John were friends. They were out of secondary school, out
of Wisbech Academy, and finally in college. Even just a different school, a few
towns over, had changed so much. Everything was better, so,so much better. 
People cared less about the minuscule problems that plagued them in eleventh
year, and most of the students had grown up just enough to leave Sherlock
alone. And, as he and John were together again, everything was good. They went
out together, on the town, and every corner of Wisbech and its surrounding
towns that had previously been uninteresting, suddenly burst with new magic
when John stood beside Sherlock, quizzing him about the history of it.
Their families, now rid of the lethargic, abusive existence of George Watson,
reconnected. Victoria and Elizabeth fell back in step, just like Sherlock and
John, and Harry found she had much in common with Sherlock’s dad. It was clear
that she missed Mycroft, the Holmes she adored most, but as he was busy with
adult things, off trailing threats around England, she settled for the quiet
but devoted father.
And while the families connected in a peaceful, steady hum, John and Sherlock
went back to electric celebration.
Holidays and birthdays brought a new excitement, and as Sherlock and John were
both now sixteen, they finally felt that they were allowed to do things. On
Sherlock’s sixteenth birthday, mates from school took him out to a
rollerskating rink and then sneaked a few beers and cigarettes to him around
the back, beside the dumpsters. Smoke curled from their lips as they swallowed
down the bitter alcohol, but the woozy state of mind was welcome and they felt
rebellious and cool. Sherlock found he liked smoking quite a bit, and he took
every drag deep into his lungs. John didn’t like smoking as much as drinking,
and Sherlock found the pink glow in his cheeks as he got tipsy to be quite
interesting. They laughed and shared stories and dipped back inside the rink
when they heard sirens. Sherlock liked it, he really did, and he ended the
night with smoking one last cigarette from his birthday pack on the deck behind
his house, feeling high as sated as John slept in his room, in his bed.
It was nice to have Greg, Molly, Dean, Nathan, and Seamus there at his
birthday, and other celebrations, too (as John had properly introduced them to
Sherlock a few weeks after appearing at his door), but it always John who
mattered most. Obviously. 
Sherlock had never been so in love. This made sense, considering it was always
John, from the moment their mothers set them together, but still. It was like
unlike anything he’d felt for him before. It was sizzling and new and often
scary, but his affections still retained that sweet, friendly familiarity of
all things John. 
Now that they were older, not the pudgy-faced pre-schoolers hiding in the
beanbags, they were a bit more mature about things. True, they were only
sixteen, but the difference between two ten-year-old friends and sixteen-year-
old friends was prominent. At ten, they knew how much they meant to each other,
and they were more comfortable with saying so, but now… The weight of it was
much more real. They finally understood what it meant to be lifelong friends,
and how crucial the other was to their overall wellbeing. And, they now knew
what it was like to lose each other. It was something they mutually agreed to
never let happen again.
Of course, as they were only sixteen, some things still went unsaid. Sherlock
hadn’t told John that he was in love with him, and John, unbeknownst to
Sherlock, hadn’t told Sherlock the same. 
However, the romantic (and suddenly, sexual) tension between them was
paramount. When they walked, their elbows brushed, sometimes turning into a
playful nudge, and Sherlock would catch the smirk on John’s face. When John
introduced Sherlock to his friends, he put his hand at the small of his back, a
calming presence urging him forward as he said, “This is my Sherlock, I mean,
my best friend, Sherlock.” They both blushed as Dean quirked a brow knowingly. 
They spent every moment they could together - in class, at home. They teamed up
on projects and, with John’s common sense of how to work the system, and
Sherlock’s endless intelligence, they always scored the highest marks.
Afterwards, they’d come home (home meaning either of their houses), and relax
into a steady, domestic lifestyle. Sometimes they’d watch music videos on
telly, Sherlock’s feet in John’s lap, and sometimes Sherlock would spend the
afternoon experimenting, John sweeping into the kitchen for a snack and placing
a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, leaning over and saying “Whassat?” 
It was a comfortable life, the best they’d ever known. And, greedy as they
were, they never let the meaning of it slip through their fingers.
At every opportunity they had, Sherlock and John would call each other his best
friend. There was too many years between them in which they hadn’t said that,
and they adored being able to talk so freely. They told the girls from other
towns who asked them out that they were busy that night, going to see a movie
“with my best friend.” When the teachers asked them why they always chose each
other as partners, they’d say, “We’re best friends.” Best friend, in their
eyes, was the highest thing they could be, more meaningful than when the other
kids said it to each other. 
Higher than that, though, which they never used in public, was something akin
to “My John,” or “My Sherlock.” It was possessive and truly gross, but it fit
everything they were to each other, everything the two of them meant.
Actually, as their first year of college continued, the line between best
friends and something more blurred deeper than it ever had. Along with the
possessiveness came a new attraction, which could easily be described as
physical reaction, both romantic and sexual.
Sherlock was now aware, painfully, of his own physical attraction to John,
something that hadn’t really existed inside him for anyone else. He’d
researched the symptoms here and there, but none of it really made sense for
him personally. Before, he often thought the desire to touch a loved one was
exaggerated - the flexing hands when pulled apart, the feverish touch of skin
on bare skin. It seemed tedious and dramatic. 
Then, when John happened, it all made sense. He’d use Sherlock’s shower after a
sleepover, come out in just a towel over his hips, droplets of water rolling
down the muscles in his arms and torso, and Sherlock would react just as the
textbook had predicted. Butterflies, a creeping blush, and a spiraling arousal
in his low stomach and groin. Strange, and definitely new, but Sherlock had
always been one for new information, and after a few weeks of experimentation,
he figured it out. He learned how to calm himself when around John and how to
satisfy himself when alone. After a while, all the electricity balanced out
into a steady, familiar attraction. Naturally, there were moments in which it
sparked, mostly catching John undressing in the locker rooms or stretching out
on the couch, strong arms pulled taut under his head, but overall, his
attraction was bearable. It had to be, as he spent every moment with him, and
couldn’t very well abscond to wank the moment John groaned after dying in a
video game.
He’d felt something like this before for John, but there was always the nagging
threat that the feelings weren’t reciprocated. The girls, the jokes, his
standing as a popular kid: it all kept John away from potential… gayness. Or,
something like that.
But now, now Sherlock felt there was slight chance that perhaps John thought of
him the same, romantically and sexually. As he understood the evidence of
attraction, he could see John’s pupils dilate when they talked, or the blush in
his cheeks when darted his eyes away from Sherlock’s appearance in living room,
in his favorite low-riding sweats and tight shirt. It was a glimmer of hope,
and Sherlock took it hungrily.
John, too, felt the newfound sexual tension between them. As he was a sexual
being by nature, he was partly ashamed of his lewd thoughts about Sherlock.
Sherlock had never seemed to be one for any of that, and he wasn’t even sure
how he’d take it if he deduced his naughty thoughts. John assumed he’d probably
be horrified at how John was so eager to ruin something as pure as their
brother-like friendship. But, in all honesty, that didn’t keep him from
touching himself late at night, sometimes even seconds after talking to
Sherlock on the phone. His voice, now tipping deep and gravelly from puberty,
had him hot and bothered, and his attraction was nearly insatiable. Everything
in regards to Sherlock had him swollen in the groin and blushing. The smell of
him, the sight of him in a small shirt and shorts, the flawless canvas of his
pale skin, and the way he’d sometimes lean his head on John’s shoulder, breath
warm on his neck, when watching a movie. John would feel bad about it,
actually, thinking so sexually of his best friend, if he hadn’t discovered his
own romantic attraction to him. He knew he didn’tjustwant to see a blush
creeping up Sherlock’s neck, moaning beneath him as John rolled into him (he’d
done his research, too), but that he also wanted to pull him into his arms
afterwards and talk about their future together.
It was absolutely ridiculous, and John knew it, but he wouldn’t have it any
other way.
The attraction between them, platonic or otherwise, may have just started
revealing itself to them, but it had been painfully obvious to everyone who saw
them together. Many of the professors in college assumed they were dating,
which only a few really had problems with. They never said anything, though,
considering judging their students’ personal lives wouldn’t be in their best
interest as professors. Their classmates, too, who were less interested in
other people’s drama than previous years, still whispered about them when they
walked by, smiling at each other. 
And, most smug of all, were Victoria and Elizabeth. They beamed at their sons
when they hurried into the kitchen for dinner, when they curled up on the couch
to watch telly, or when they retreated back up to Sherlock’s room to do…
whatever it was they did. Which, at this point, could be anything, and Victoria
and Elizabeth wouldn’t mind in the slightest. They whispered about them, sure
that soon, something would happen, if it hadn’t already. The struggles and the
sadness of their previous lives were no more - all that remained was John and
Sherlock, Sherlock and John. Together, together, finally. 
===============================================================================
At the end of March, on John’s seventeenth birthday,  he invited his mates (and
Sherlock, of course) out to a concert in the next town over. All the boys stood
‘round in the concert hall, teasing John about his goals for the next year,
before the opening band came out. They were good, enthusiastic and talented,
blaring music from their speakers, but John and his friends were eager for the
main act. After half an hour of opener, the band finally arrived, handsome and
regal in the stage lights. Sherlock and John stared up from the floor at their
idols, at their swaying hips and hearty vocals. The five men onstage towered
over the five boys in the pit, both in talent and power, but the fans gave as
much as heart as the performers, and the concert was a huge success. 
There was no denying that Sherlock, John, and Dean were all a bit infatuated
with the performance. Nathan and Seamus liked it well enough, but they weren’t
as giddy and blushy as the other boys were. 
After the show, they clambered onto the train as it barely ticked past
midnight, talking loudly and rudely, as teenage boys do, all the way back to
Wisbech. John’s mates walked with John and Sherlock through the dark, sleeping
town until they stopped off at their own streets. Sherlock and John were left
then to walk back to their own neighborhood, arms brushing.
Perhaps it was the smoke around them at the concert, or just the magic of the
birthday night, but John and Sherlock felt more clingy with each other. They
ended up linking arms as they walked up the street towards John’s house.
When they stumbled inside, Victoria and Elizabeth were still up, drinking tea
and whispering about something. They stopped immediately as the boys appeared
in the kitchen, unlinking their arms moments too late. 
“How was the concert?” Elizabeth asked as Victoria snickered at Sherlock’s
dopey face, loving on John with soft eyes. 
“Good. Loud. Still good. Band was great.”
Elizabeth smiled. “That’s good. Are you boys going to stay up?”
John shook his head.
“No?” 
“No, we’re pretty tired.”
Elizabeth swirled the teabag in her mug. “Okay. Do you want something to eat?”
“No,” John said, glancing at Sherlock for his opinion. Sherlock said nothing,
meaning no, he wasn’t hungry. He used to not eat as much, but recently, John
found he had a surprisingly insatiable appetite.
“Not staying up, not hungry… Then you ought to get to bed. Get washed up and
we’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“Okay,” John and Sherlock chimed.
They moved to kiss their mothers goodnight, and Elizabeth and Victoria tried to
ignore the smell of smoke and sweat on them. 
John and Sherlock swayed through the kitchen, headed for John’s room, when
Victoria called after them. 
“Happy birthday, John.”
“Thanks,” he turned back and smiled at her. There was no doubt in her mind that
she loved him like a son, and she couldn’t think of anyone more suited for her
own.
They left the kitchen, and Elizabeth and Victoria shared a knowing look. At
this point, it was just a matter of time.
===============================================================================
John showered in his parent’s bedroom as Sherlock showered in the main
bathroom. It was quick, as they were both eager to get back together to talk
about the concert, but it was necessary. They were sweaty and smelly and
itching with the feeling of other people. Showering in warm water and lathering
up heavily, they rinsed away the grime of the concert while the memory
remained. They brushed their teeth and combed their hair, secretly primping
themselves to look handsome for the other.
So, clean and (mostly) dry, they dressed and met back in John’s room. Sherlock
was clad in his silk pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt (that might have been
John’s, truth be told), while John sported just his checkered pants and a
sleeping shirt.
John was sat in bed, remote to his dad’s old television in hand, when Sherlock
crawled up on the bed beside him, under the blankets. 
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” John said back, clicking the television to mute. Some old movie played,
tones of silver and blue dancing in the dark room. It caught the color in
Sherlock’s eyes, and John found himself smiling at him as he shifted deeper
into the sheets.
“You have a good birthday?” Sherlock asked, laying his damp curls on John’s
pillow.
John shuffled down next to him, so that they were both lying on their sides,
hands tucked up their heads. “Fantastic. They were so good.”
“They really were.”
It was silent, just the light breathing of the two boys in John’s bedroom.
Then Sherlock said, “It was nice to see the guys again.”
“Yeah. I mean, we see them every day.”
“You know what I mean.”
He did. “I do.”
The scene on the television changed to something orange and Sherlock’s blue
eyes tinted green. John held his breath. His lips looked so nice in that small,
sleepy smile, and he was clean and smelled wonderful. It was fair to say that
the excitement of the concert had mellowed into a hum of contentment, though
the distinct arousal leftover from watching the band was still all there.
Seeing Sherlock there, so close to him, did little to help that arousal ease.
“What are we gonna do for your seventeenth?” John husked, his breath warm on
his wrist.
“Don’t know. Maybe we could take a trip, go to London.”
John closed his eyes and smiled. “London.”
Sherlock did the same, sighing. “London.”
Silence settled in again, just the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s foot and the
ruffle of John’s head into his pillow. 
They waited for a while in the dark, saying nothing, dreaming of London, as the
television flickered soundless scenes around them. The comfort of being near,
as well as the exhaustion from the concert, had John and Sherlock slipping into
a thin sleep. However, they were still hyper-aware of one another, so when John
nudged Sherlock’s knee with his, Sherlock startled back awake.
“Pssst,” he whispered. “Don’t fall asleep.”
Sherlock groaned, “Why not?”
John didn’t respond immediately. He only watched Sherlock breathe lightly, eyes
closed, just a foot away from him. Because, John said to himself, his lips
pulled taut to keep the words in, because I want to keep this memory with you.
If we fall asleep, it’ll all go into the dark, and we won’t remember. We won’t
be in this… This moment. This thing. After the concert, tired, maybe a bit
high. It won’t be the same if we fall asleep. So don’t fall asleep just yet,
love. 
He swallowed the thought down. Sherlock made a small impatient sound, as if
waiting for an answer.
And because… Sherlock… Because your eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen, and I can’t have them on me when you’re sleeping.
It was silly, and John knew it, but he didn’t care. It helped to string his
feelings together in words, almost like poetry, even in his head. It reminded
him of the letters and poems he’d give Sherlock as a boy. As well as the song
Sherlock wrote for him.
Maybe they’d always been like this. On this level of something else, stuck in a
moment like this. They just rarely had the chance to appreciate it.
“John?”
Sherlock’s small voice cut through John’s philosophical pondering. He wanted an
answer, apparently. He was tired and trying not to fall asleep, so he needed an
actual, vocal response.
“Because…” John started. “Because… tickle fight!” 
He moved quickly, pulling his numb hands from under his head and bringing them
to Sherlock’s stomach, under the blankets. He wiggled his fingers against the
soft material of Sherlock’s (his?) shirt, and Sherlock curled in instinctively,
flexing his abdomen and squeaking. John tickled him harder, moving his hands to
Sherlock’s sides, under his armpits, and even around the backs of his thighs.
Sherlock, all the while, wriggled and laughed and squealed. He bucked so much
that he kicked all the blankets off them, crumpling up under his twitchy legs.
John moved to sit up to get a better angle, teasing Sherlock’s underarms as
Sherlock writhed beneath him. Sherlock tried to tickle him back, but he only
managed to bonk John in different places, his shoulders, his cheek, his head.
He reached for him, under the arms, but John was ready for it, clamping his
arms down against his sides and pinning Sherlock under him.
Sherlock laughed and laughed, pleading for him to stop, but John knew that if
Sherlock truly wanted him to stop, he’d make him. So John continued, a bit wild
in his tickling, smiling and teasing, looking down at Sherlock heatedly. “Yeah?
You want me to stop?” he grumbled.
“Stop, stop!” Sherlock laughed, tears at the corners of his eyes.
“Make me.”
Then Sherlock was pushing up, using his incredible strength to grab John by the
waist and push him over. They rolled in the bed ’til Sherlock was sat atop
John’s hips, straddling him and pinning his arms by his head. John’s stomach
coiled and flipped and fluttered as it happened, and, a bit confused and
breathless, he looked up at Sherlock. 
His gaze was dark and teasing as he sat on him, smile smug and proud, pink
blush on his high cheeks. The television played an advertisement behind him,
but all John could see was the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes and the twitch of his
plump lips. 
It was so much all at once that John found himself completely and totally
aroused. Hard and eager, he could feel the swell of his cock in his pants,
straining against the fabric.
Either Sherlock didn’t realize this or hadn’t, because he was still smiling
playfully down at John when John pried his wrists from Sherlock’s hands and
moved to grip his hips. 
The smallest gasp escaped Sherlock, and his mouth fell open.
John licked his lips, circling his thumbs into the bones of Sherlock’s hips at
the stretch of bare skin just above his the hem of his pajamas. 
Sherlock, with that hint, furrowed his brows and looked down at John’s groin.
Something passed across his face that made his lids fall heavily over his
beautiful eyes, and he tipped his head back. 
John’s heart beat furiously, nerves vibrating under his skin, cock twitching in
anticipation. 
Then Sherlock began rolling his hips, just little gyrations against John, his
hands moving to John’s shoulders. 
Heady in arousal, John canted his hips up to meet the movement, eyes sliding
closed at the feeling of the hardness between Sherlock’s thighs rubbing against
his own. He could feel that Sherlock, too, was straining in his silk bottoms,
the thin material doing little to hide the solid thickness of his erection.
Sherlock kept grinding, deeper in each rotation, as John gripped his hips and
thrusted up lightly.
Their eyes were closed, mostly, since every time John opened them to check if
it was all real, he found Sherlock biting his lip, blushing a deep crimson. A
spark of heat shot through him that was so intense, he feared he’d lose himself
completely, so he had to look away.
Grinding and frotting together, the only sound in the room came from the two of
them, a shuffle of fabric and heavy breathing. The television glowed, still on
mute. 
Sherlock ground harder as John caught the sounds of his own heavy breathing. He
was overwhelmed by lust and couldn’t really figure out what was happening, but
it felt incredible.
John’s best friend, the love of his life, leaned forward a bit, dipping his
groin deeper into John’s so the friction was more direct. The hardness of their
cocks rubbed together through the thin material of their pajamas, the friction
so bloody perfect that it soon became less precise, just needy little humps
against each other. Then, after a few thrusts on John’s end, and a few more
hearty grinds on Sherlock’s, Sherlock threw his head back, lips falling open in
a silent cry.
He shuddered, hips spasming, legs trembling, as he came. John, who’d opened his
eyes when he felt Sherlock tense above him, watched as a sweet ecstasy passed
across Sherlock’s red face, plump mouth going wide as his brows furrowed. 
Sherlock’s face during an orgasm was, without a doubt, the most beautifully
erotic thing that John had been witness to in all his seventeen years. And, as
he dropped his lusty gaze lower, the sight of a damp spot forming at the front
of Sherlock’s thin pajamas, pulled tight by his erection, had John thrusting up
a few times before his own orgasm spasmed through him.
Trembling, he locked the muscles in his arse and thighs and made a damp spot of
his own against the checkered pattern of his pants.
Breathing together, shaking and blushing, it was almost half a minute before
they floated down from the heavens.
Sherlock rolled off John’s lap and onto his side of the bed. He reached for the
blankets he’d kicked away, and pulled them up to his shoulder, curling away
from John. John reached for the remote and clicked off the television, rolling
back onto his own side, shuffling under the blanket.
In the darkness now, Sherlock and John lay back to back in the same bed, a
chasm between them. 
It was completely silent now, as their breath had gone inaudible in
nervousness. 
They struggled to sleep.
===============================================================================
A week of awkward silence followed John’s birthday. They could barely look at
each other without remembering waking up in the same bed with crusty stains on
the fronts of their pajamas. They’d shuffled around each other that morning,
changing on opposite sides of the room. When they made it down to the kitchen,
Sherlock disappeared out the door quickly without so much as a goodbye. They
didn’t eat the breakfast Elizabeth had made them.
At school, it was relatively easy to avoid each other, as Sherlock retreated to
the library and John stuck with Nathan and Dean and Seamus. They asked where
Sherlock was, and Molly asked Sherlock where John was, but both just shrugged.
The week spent apart wasn’t like the years in which they thought the other was
mad at him. This was awkward space, sure that the moment they’d get together,
they’d have to face what had happened. Neither of them were ready to face it.
So, the week continued on, filled to the brim with nervous glances and
overthought. Sherlock stayed up, replaying the scene, remembering the coiling,
deep, heady arousal that coursed through him. No amount of wanking could match
it, as he had no choice but to rid himself of the immediate erection he got
every time he thought about it. Which was, unfortunately, every second of the
day. 
John was no better. He was distracted in class, rubbing his thighs together
under the desk, eager to rush to the bathroom to rub one out. While he
certainly felt awkward and confused about what had happened, there was only
pure arousal left in him every time he thought of it. Sherlock’s needy little
breaths, the bones rolling under his grip, the damp spot in the light blue silk
of his pajamas…
God, John was burning.But what could hedoabout it?
It was a Friday, just after school, when John tried to do something about it. 
Sherlock was talking to Molly, who’d found a boyfriend named Tom, or something,
when John approached him. With Molly there, he felt more confident, sure he
wouldn’t say anything embarrassing. He nudged the back of Sherlock’s knee with
his toe, and Sherlock turned on him. 
Startled, he went pink and darted his eyes from John to Molly as if they had
planned this. John held his gaze on him, steady as he could, to assure him that
they hadn’t planned anything, he just wanted to talk.
“Hey,” John said, the first actual word he’d spoken to Sherlock since “Make
me.”
“Hello…” It seemed like Sherlock was desperately trying not to add a question
mark to the end of it.
“You wanna catch the bus?” John asked, butterflies erupting under the press of
his books to his stomach.
Sherlock took a moment, glancing between Molly and John. Molly nodded, urging
him on. He turned back to John, holding his chin up like he often did when he
needed more strength.
He pressed his lips together. “Okay.”
Then he left Molly, which was well enough, as Tom suddenly appeared, grinning
wide like a plastic figurine. 
Sherlock and John walked together, silently, to the bus stop. They liked taking
the bus back home, as it was a nice change from the walk back from their old
school, but neither of them liked the publicity of it.
Luckily, publicity was just what they needed in that moment, so as they waited
at the bus stop with the other students, some professors, and some old people,
John cleared his throat.
===============================================================================
“So, I was thinking, if we went to London, we have to go on the London Eye.”
Sherlock tried not to sigh in relief. John had turned back the clock to just
the moment before it happened, thank God.He leaned back against the wood of the
bus schedule, willing himself not to spiral into arousal even at the thought of
“it.”
“Yes, definitely,” he replied. “We could see a play, too.”
He tried to play along with the thread of Everything is fine, nothing
happened. 
“Oh, you and your plays,” John joked, nudging him. Sherlock’s heart sung. They
were so close to being normal again, Sherlock had to press on, he had to fall
back into the flirty cadence they danced in.
“Don’t play that game, John Watson. I’ve heard you singing Les Misérablesin the
shower.”
John rolled his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder, nudging his nose into the soft
skin of his neck like his sometimes did. It had Sherlock shivering with heat,
but the familiar comfort of it grounded him. “You listen to me in the shower?”
“It’s difficult not to,” Sherlock said to the blond head now nipping at the
collar of his shirt with his teeth. Sherlock breathed hard out his nose,
stomach clenching, the ghost of John’s warm breath just barely brushing the
skin where his neck met his shoulder. “You’re rather loud.” But it’s
okay,Sherlock thought to himself, urging his own jittery nerves to calm down,
You’ve a lovely singing voice.
John pulled his head off Sherlock’s shoulder, yanking the fabric between his
teeth as he went. “Fine, whatever. I like musicals, so what? Les Mis is a
classic.”
Sherlock just rolled his eyes, settling them back on John’s flirty grin just as
the bus pulled up. John knocked his shoulder with his as a sign of It’s all
fine before stepping towards the bus.
Sherlock, relieved, willed himself to agree. Everything would be fine.
Well, fine enough. Truth be told, they’d probably blush a lot more, if that
were even possible.
 
Chapter End Notes
     HAPPY HALLOWEEN! IN THE SPIRIT OF DEMONS AND THEIR LUSTY FIRES OF
     HELL, TAKE THIS SIN!
     Oh my god, oh my GOD, I'M FUCKING BURNING!
     So, this chapter is literally the chapter that made me want to write
     this whole fic. All that pre-school shit, that ten-year-old shit, I
     mean, it's cute and all, but this is the thing that everything has
     been leading up to. Can you say sexual tension to the extreme!?
     Also, please tell me if you're suffering because out of everything
     that just happened on the bed... they never even kissed... That was
     intentional, and I'm charring in an inferno I created.
     P.S. I keep surprising myself, in every fic I write, just how gay
     it'll get. Like, I keep thinking I can't get any gayer. But I'm
     wrong, God, I prove myself wrong.
     Anyway, leave a comment or send_me_an_ask if you liked it! <3
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     Indeed, the tension of that night was present, but with it, a new
     physicality blossomed between them.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Just as the year before, college continued to treat them well. Sherlock was
still friends with John’s other mates, John still spent every second of the day
with Sherlock no matter who else came ‘round, and they were happy. They had
plenty of time to pad around together, brushing shoulders and smiling stupidly
at each other. They’d always done this, of course, but now they were absolutely
sure that it was just the nature of them. Their friendship had seemed to cross
over into something it hadn’t ever been: completely fearless. Well, almost.
While they let themselves fall freely, feel things they’d never let themselves
feel before, the memory of John’s birthday burned between them. An ever-present
heat, it flared up when they were in pajamas, but it was never spoken of. They
pretended it didn’t happen, and if they ever spoke of John’s seventeenth, they
retold it without including sharing a bed. John told friends of the band they
saw, the songs they played. He never told them that every night since, he
dreamed of Sherlock’s blushing face as an orgasm sparked through him.
Indeed, the tension of that night was present, but with it, a new physicality
blossomed between them. Comfortable now, they touched each other more than they
ever had, and even as their skin tingled, it was a familiar contact. Warm skin,
solid chests, the rise and fall of a stomach, thin bones of a wrist. They had
explored each other’s bodies in the dark cove of John’s bedroom, and now, in
the foggy haze of day, they couldn’t keep themselves from doing the same,
however innocent it seemed. So, with a new appreciation of each other’s
physiques, everything was normal. Mostly. It was new and a lot more sure, but
the boys were still just as flirty and playful as they’d ever been.
Of course, that confident physicality may have been territory specifically
reserved for romantic partners, but then, was that not what they were?
Sherlock would be poking at an experiment, or even just making tea in the
kitchen, and John could sneak up behind him and lightly kick his bum, when
before, he’d only put a hand on his shoulder. While John was brushing his teeth
in the morning after a sleepover (cautiously not in the same bed anymore, of
course, they must draw the line somewhere), Sherlock would come in and ruffle
up his hair just after he’d style it. And they still went around town together,
buying little presents for each other and paying local artists to paint their
portraits. They’d then put these paintings up with the old photos and stand in
Sherlock’s room and look at the walls, see how their faces grew from chubby,
round, and young, into the chiseled and handsome features they were now. Some
nights, they’d just stay in and watch a movie and cuddle. Nobody really knew
when it started happening, the cuddling, but neither of them minded. Sherlock
would curl up next to John, throw his legs over his lap, and rest his head on
his chest. He’d critique the movie, just as he had when they sat on other sides
of the couch, but now, John would smooth a hand down his side and pat his hip,
shushing him. It was absolutely ridiculous, actually, how it just went unspoken
that this was the new nature of their relationship. Much of John and Sherlock’s
relationship was unspoken, though. They just sort of followed the pull between
them, doing what felt right. And, as they were both seventeen, what felt right
was endless physical contact.
Now, outside of Sherlock and John’s newfound serenity, their families were
doing well. Harry was just as she ever was, albeit, a bit more sharp ‘round the
edges, but it was all fine. That was the way with the Watsons, anyway. It was a
miracle John had gone so soft and pleasant in the last few years, due in
entirety from his reconnection with Sherlock. And, their friendship seemed to
bring new peace between Victoria and Elizabeth, as they continued on as if
nothing had ever split them. The families were happy, and comfort almost seemed
too good to be true after all that the both the Watsons and the Holmeses had
endured.
Naturally, they still had moments of anger. John would forget to do the dishes
and Elizabeth would be reminded of George, the delicate wound he’d left tearing
open with a snarky remark. She’d apologize, of course, and John would finish
his chores without another word. Sometimes, too, Harry would come home smelling
a little bit too much like beer, and John would have to tell her that she was
too young to be getting into it. She’d just roll her eyes at him and huff off
into her room. Other times, a pretty girl would follow her into the house,
nodding at John before disappearing.
Over on Sherlock’s end of the street, Mycroft would come home for holiday and
tell Sherlock that he was in over his head with John. He’d talk of how
important his job was to him, and that if Sherlock was anywhere near his level
of importance, he wouldn’t be flirting around with a neighborhood goldfish.
Strangely, though, it was the night before Mycroft left again in which he went
soft, turned to Sherlock and John on the couch and told Sherlock that he would
always be there for him. It was out of place and weird, but something was
solemn in his voice and Sherlock nearly hated that he’d been so rude to him. He
confessed this to John after his big brother had left, and John just patted his
knee and gave him an understanding smile.
As ever, John and Sherlock weren’t without their disagreements. It wasn’t
anything big, not really, just little tiffs here and there. Sherlock would shut
down John’s requests for movies or deduce one of their friends’ crushes. Often,
Sherlock would just say something a little too pretentious in class and John
would have to set aside his own irritation to ward off their classmates’ sneer
of “smart-arse.” It bothered John that people were still so rude to him, and
even as he and Sherlock were so close, Sherlock still questioned why. John
would just sigh, place a hand on Sherlock’s waist, and squeeze him. Sometimes
he even kept his hands on Sherlock’s waist and hips while speaking to him, and
most times, Sherlock nudged back, draping himself against John, arms over his
shoulders. They spoke low and inaudible into each other’s ears, pressed
together.
“I don’t like people being mean to you, you know that,” John had said, feeling
perfectly at ease with Sherlock slumped against him. They fit.
“Do I?” Sherlock hummed back.
“Yes. Remember Colton?”
Sherlock would then go frigid, and John would rub circles into his waist with
his thumb soothingly. “Obviously.”
“Right. Nothing’s changed since then, Sherlock. I’ll be angry at anyone who
hurts you.”
“They don’t hurt me, John.”
“Still, they mean to.”
Sherlock had sighed against him, and John finally took his hands off his body
and pulled away. Sherlock’s top lip twitched at the loss of contact, but John
had to look into his eyes to tell him this.
“You’re smart,” John continued, “God, you’re the smartest thing I’ve ever seen,
and they shouldn’t use that against you.”
“Hm.”
“But you can meet them halfway, Sherlock. Maybe try not to say anything too…”
“Accurate?”
“I was going to say proud. Be proud of yourself, Sherlock, like I’m proud of
you, but don’t give them any more reason to taunt you than they already have.”
Sherlock’s eyes were a steady teal as he looked at John, considering. Then, to
signal that he understood, he wordlessly rubbed John’s bicep with his index
finger. John glanced at the feather-light touch before smiling softly and
nodding back towards the café they were headed towards. It was a cloudy day,
and a light mist covered the town, making them feel fresh and alive. They’d
gotten some tea and sat at a table like any two friendly blokes. Though,
perhaps not all friendly blokes played footsie under the table.
Conversations like that were scattered here and there. It seemed Sherlock
needed more confirmation that John was there for him than John did. John knew
that it would always be the two of them, and he told him that. “There’s always
two of us, Sherlock.”
Sherlock would smile, eyes a little bit crinkly, before resting his chin on
John’s head. John just reached up to ruffle his curls, push him off, call him
and affection name, and leave his hand at the small of his back a little too
firmly, a little too present.
But Sherlock didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. If he could, he’d be touched by
and touch John every second of the day, feeling his warmth, his weight, his
solidity. And they were affection enough at home and out in town, but school
was different. So, as college went on, he tested the waters, wondering how far
he could go. He never reached to hold John’s hand in the halls, as people
might’ve talked (people did little else), but he would hold onto the strap of
his backpack as they wove through the swarm of students. Sometimes, when John
stopped in a classroom doorway to ask his professor something, Sherlock would
be behind him, pressed right up against him, one arm slung over his shoulder,
the other pushed flat against the other side of the doorway. If John took too
long, he’d flop his face down onto John’s head and sigh impatiently, breathing
in the smell of his shampoo, the smell of him. The professor would stumble over
her answer and pause to look at Sherlock, but John just blinked, waiting,
showing no reaction to the tall, lanky teenager draped around him.
Other times, they’d be sitting in the courtyard up against a tree, John resting
his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, a book in his lap, their touching legs twisted
and locked together. Every now and then, John would nudge his face into
Sherlock’s neck and whisper a joke or comment against his skin.
===============================================================================
During one of these particular courtyard snuggles, a group of three girls came
up to them. Neither of the boys recognized them as anyone but a few bland faces
in their economy class, and as they looked up at them, they did little to
correct their position. Actually, Sherlock just pressed back against John’s
chest, as he was sitting between his spread legs, John’s arms wrapped ‘round
his waist.
“We have a question,” the leader of the pack said, tucking a white-blonde
strand of hair behind her pierced ear. Sherlock thought the ring in her
cartilage was the color of John’s eyes in the dark, while the pink flower jewel
in her lobe was like John’s mouth. It was the only thing he could focus on,
actually, as she spoke. John shifted behind him, squeezing his thighs against
his sides protectively.
“Yes?” John said.
Sherlock could feel the sound in his chest, a deep, masculine vibration. He
went warm at the sensation, warmer than he already was with John curled around
him.
“There’s a bet going around,” she said, glancing back at her two minions, “And
I really don’t want to lose twenty pounds. So if you could just tell us the
truth, that’d be grand.”
“The truth about what?” Sherlock asked, eyes flicking between the platinum
blonde and her ginger and brunette companions.
“Don’t be stupid, the truth about both of you.”
John leaned forward and moved his arms to fall over Sherlock’s shoulders
protectively, wrapping snug around his clavicle. “About us?” he hummed.
Again, Sherlock could feel John’s voice inside him.
The stranger rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her small breasts.
“Yeah. That you’re dating?”
Sherlock went red-hot and burned even hotter when John tightened his arms and
legs around him, pulling him back into him. He could feel his groin on his
tailbone. It felt nice.
“I see,” John said coolly.
“Is it true? Of course it is. You’re together, just say it.”
Now, Sherlock was certain that most of his classmates had gotten over rumors
like this. Then again, he couldn’t very well blame them for their sudden surge
of interest. It only took one glance at him and John to mistake them for a
couple. They weren’t, though. Sherlock knew that. They were -
“Just friends,” John growled. “We’re just friends.”
Sherlock’s heart sank, but fluttered just as John moved his arms off his
shoulders and back around his waist, hugging him tightly. John was acting
strange, he usually wasn’t so affectionate in front of other people. Perhaps
he’s showing off for them?
He didn’t have time to really wonder, though, because what the snide girl said
in response snapped his attention to her cat-eyes and long, thin nose.
“I don’t believe you,” she spat.
John was quick. “Fine, don’t.”
It seemed the blonde was about to retort, but John’s response seemed to
register. Sherlock deduced that she was both stubborn and confused. She thought
them a couple, but John was telling her no. His actions, though, had the girl
(and Sherlock) thinking otherwise.
He spoke again before she could, “We’re just really good friends. Bestfriends.”
Now it was Sherlock’s time to confuse them. He leaned into John, dipping his
head back and onto his shoulder. He closed his eyes pulled a sunny, close-
lipped smile as he lolled his head and nudged it up against John’s ear. When he
peeked back at the trio, the blonde had furrowed her brows. She let her glossy
pink lips fall open, but this time, Sherlock cut her off.
“Goodbye,” he said.
She sought council in her two friends, who only shrugged and grimaced before
flicking her gaze back to inspect John and Sherlock once more. Sherlock felt
John give her a possessive, challenging glare. She got the message and turned
away, shuffling her friends back through the courtyard, not even so much at
glancing at the couple beneath the tree as she left.
John laughed, his chuckle vibrating into Sherlock’s chest.
Sherlock cuddled back against him closer, pulling his arms tighter across his
body. “That was strange,” he said.
“Mm.” And then John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s neck, just a soft, warm,
slightly damp compression against his skin. Sherlock couldn’t help but shift
against him and let out the smallest, breathiest moan. John laughed at it and
nuzzled his face into his shoulder.
Sherlock relaxed back into him, into the arms of his John, his best friend.
They continued to sit, tangled up in each other, under the tree in the
courtyard, catching every student’s eye with their undeniable affection.
It was two days later when everything finally, officially, changed.
===============================================================================
John and Sherlock were sitting just off campus grounds at a mosaic-tiled bench
when it happened. John had been thinking about bringing it up for a while, but
the events of the days before brought the confidence he needed to really try.
In the day between the encounter with the pushy blonde and as they sat now,
they’d napped together at Sherlock’s house, John curled around him in bed,
completely disregarding their rule of no bedsharing. When they awoke, Sherlock
rolled over and nestled into John’s arms. With no reason not to, John wrapped
him up and held him close until Sherlock’s mum found them and called them down
to dinner.
Now, in public, John fiddled with the material of his trousers nervously. They
sat face-to-face, straddling the bench so there was nothing but open space
between them. Sherlock watched him curiously, beautiful with his thick brow
furrowed, pink, plump lips and high cheekbones and sea glass eyes. He was
wearing one of John’s old green scarves and the color made his dark curls more
gorgeous against the England fog than ever. Or, that could just be that
Sherlock was more attractive every day. He was pretty and delicate and
masculine and tall and gorgeous and fit and familiar and spectacularly new all
at once. He was innocently angelic in the same moment he was dangerously hot.
Frankly, it drove John insane. And he had to do something about it, he just had
to.
So he took a chance, right there, in the open.
“Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
“John?”
He didn’t look in his eyes as he said it, only scuffed his heels against the
leg of the bench and fiddled with his hands. He had no reason to be nervous,
not with how things had been going, and yet he was. He wanted to tell Sherlock
everything, all the time, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to overwhelm him. But
he had to at least say something. He had to.
“Look, I know what happened on my birthday was-“ Sherlock inhaled sharply, like
he didn’t want to talk about it, but John pressed on all the same, “was weird.
For us, both of us. And I’m… relieved that it didn’t ruin… what we have. But I
have to tell you.” John took a deep breath, willing himself to look in
Sherlock’s eyes. They were open, wondering, pleading, curious, hesitant. It was
so vulnerable, so cautious. John wanted to wrap him up in a hug and convey what
he felt through that, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock would get it. He needed to
say it, even if he wasn’t ever any good at this sort of stuff. “I have to tell
you.”
“John?” Sherlock said again.
John breathed strength into his lungs, replaying the heavyweight words he
wanted to say in his head so as not to say them aloud. I have to tell you that
I’m in love with you, I’m so goddamn in love with you, I’ve always been, and I
want to be with you,really be with you.
John started. “I… I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to make you
uncomfortable. I just… couldn’t help it. And I know, Iknow, that’s not an
excuse. But it’s what happened. You were there, in the bed with me, and I just…
God, this is bad.” He chuckled nervously.
Sherlock was silent.
“Sherlock?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“What you mean. What couldn’t you help?”
“God, Sherlock, don’t make me -“ but John looked at Sherlock, just looked right
in his eyes. He was truly confused; he wasn’t getting it. John licked his lips.
“I couldn’t keep myself from… touching you… like that. You were so… and I…
Fuck, you’re you, and I have impulses, and I just-“
“Impulses.”
“Jesus, Sherlock, I’m just. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”
Sherlock was calm. A bit pink in the face, but mostly calm. “Nothing’s ruined.”
“Well, fine. I’m glad. I really didn’t mean to make it like that because
clearly it’s not.”
“Make it like what?”
“I… Uh, well I didn’t want to push those… feelings… onto you.”
“Feelings?”
John was almost impatient with him, almost. He deserved the truth, though. He
deserved patience and honesty. So, even as John’s eyes darted all ‘round the
place, at the trees to his right and the town behind Sherlock and the school to
his left, he finally settled them on Sherlock’s face and reached forward. He
put a hand on his thigh, just to calm him, to assure him that he wasn’t going
to say anything bad. Well, he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t think it bad.
He looked right in Sherlock’s eyes, willing himself to seem as honest as
possible. “I have feelings for you, Sherlock.”
Again, Sherlock was silent.
“I like you,” he pressed.
“Of course you like me, we’re friends.”
John huffed half a laugh, not at Sherlock, just out of nerves. He could feel
himself flushing deeply, hot and red. “Yeah, yes, we are. But I like you more
than a friend. I think I always have, actually.”
John’s hand was still on Sherlock’s thigh as he watched his brows furrow and
his eyes flick over invisible evidence before him. He seemed to be figuring it
out. John held his breath, he didn’t think it’d be this hard to explain.
Then, after a stretch of silence, Sherlock said, “…Like you liked Sarah?”
God, his voice was so small. He was so fragile here, so different than the
long, heavy body John now craved desperately. He was like porcelain who didn’t
understand that John wasn’t trying to break him. John was gentle, he always
was, but something just wasn’t registering. He had to make it clear.
“Yes, like Sarah. But more, God, so much more. I don’t even think I really
liked Sarah, but I know I like you. I like you more than anyone in the whole
world, Sherlock. I like you so much. And, er… in thatway.”
John begged himself to stop talking, but he couldn’t. He just wanted to tell
him, tell him and tell him and never stop telling him how he utterly a fool for
him he was.
Finally, Sherlock breathed in sharply and raised his proud nose high into the
air. He looked at John from under his lids, and John retracted his hand in fear
that Sherlock would shut him down. He couldn’t be sure, anyway.
Instead, Sherlock surprised him. “I feel the same, John.”
“You do?”
“Obviously.”
John dropped his head between his shoulders in a huff, and he could feel the
weight pull at the base of his spine. When he looked back up, he smoothed a
hand through his styled hair and said, “It wasn’t obvious to me.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The friends fell silent and looked at each other for a long time. John wanted
to ask him so many things, but all that came out was after a moment was, “Are
you sure?”
And then Sherlock smiled. He went all crinkly and soft, his lips pulling flat
into his cheeks. He nodded. “Yes, John. I’m sure. I like you in… that way.”
Sherlock glanced down nervously as he rubbed his knuckles. John watched him as
his perfect mouth formed the words, “Like a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend!?” John didn’t know why he was surprised, but his heart was
hammering wildly in his chest and the mention of the word made it spark
fiercely. The term sounded so funny in Sherlock’s voice, but even funnier in
John’s, as he went a bit squeaky in surprise.
“Yes. A boyfriend.”
“Hm. Boyfriend.”
The word felt strange yet comfortable as they passed it back and forth, but it
was what they passed in their eyes that really held the weight of them. They
stared at each other a little longer, sounds of people from the school floating
over to them on the autumn breeze. Swatches of color passed around them, but
neither of them noticed. All they saw in each other was their life together,
their struggles, the time they weren’t friends at all, how much that hurt. They
saw playing with Redbeard and smoking out by the bins. They remembered
classrooms and beanbags and books and professors, playgrounds and parks. They
saw Christmas and Valentine’s and birthdays, their parents watching them
wrestle from the doorway. They saw all that they could have been so long ago,
something that could have soothed their worried hearts. All of this went
unspoken, of course, but it was there. They could feel it, like a current
between them, a shared past. It was almost otherworldly, really.
Sherlock’s curls fluffed around his face, and John felt the hair on his arms
prickle under his coat. Yet he was warm, he was so warm, humming with a warmth
that he’d always felt around Sherlock, but now it glowed pink-orange inside
him, fierce and confident. He harnessed it to finally break the silence.
“So… would you maybe… want to be… boyfriends?”
As he said it, the worlds between them settled, and they were back in their
second year of college, sitting together under the grey haze.
Sherlock took a moment to pull himself out of the current before he blinked and
smirked. “We are boys,” his rumbling voice pitching deep like it often went
when he spoke only for John. “And we are friends.”
“True, yes, both true.”
“And everyone seems to think we are already.”
“Again, true.”
Sherlock looked towards the school, pausing for a moment. John admired his
profile, his prominent nose and strong jaw, his green knit scarf that hid the
tight column of his neck that John had pressed a hopeful, experimental kiss to.
When Sherlock turned back, his pupils were dilated, deep black circles in the
center of a ring of light blue topaz. Just as sparkling, just as brilliant. But
love, too, was there. And John matched it, letting himself love on Sherlock so
hard he could feel it in his eyes.
“I think it could work,” Sherlock finally said.
John nodded slowly, still beaming. “Good.”
And then they were staring again, knees nearly touching, wind kissing their
cheeks chilly. John roamed his eyes all over Sherlock’s face, his stomach warm,
his own bottom lip unable to escape the pull of his tongue and teeth as he eyed
Sherlock’s mouth.
“John,” Sherlock said.
“Hm.”
“You look funny.”
“Yeah?”
“You look like you want to kiss me.”
John huffed, just a rush air out his nose as his smile pulled tighter. “Yeah,
well, that’s ‘cause I do.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together, the pink of his tongue darting out, just
for a moment, before he pulled it back in. John had never seen him do that
before. It had him quite hot and bothered, actually.
“It could be acceptable.”
“Acceptable?”
“Please kiss me, John.”
John didn’t need to be told a third time. He scooted forward on the bench,
hands going to Sherlock’s waist, pulling him so Sherlock’s knees went all wonky
and knobby up on John’s thighs. With his hands sound and solid on Sherlock’s
body, John moved up and into his space. Sherlock made a little gasp when John
pressed his lips to the stretch of neck he could see above his scarf, right
under his jaw. Sherlock turned his face down just as John moved up, meeting his
lips perfectly.
It was soft and tender and wonderful, the one thing they’d been missing in all
their years. They’d conquered fantasy lands, listened to the same albums ’til
they wore out, slept in the same bed countless times, went to school together,
and even ground against each other into orgasm, but they had never, not once,
really kissed.
And here they were, sitting together, wrapped up against the cold, Sherlock’s
hands on John’s thighs, John pulling Sherlock by the waist into him. Their
mouths were warm and damp, and their lips fit together flawlessly. It was
innocent, just a hearty smooch, until Sherlock squirmed under John’s hands and
made another desperate sound. John pulled back, pink in the face, eyes heavy in
lust, stuttering out “Sher-?” before Sherlock pressed back in and kissed him
again.
This time, Sherlock moved his arms around John’s back and wove his fingers up
into his hair, arching his back and spreading his thighs to press himself down
into the bench. John felt him buckle under his touch, and he couldn’t help but
roam his hands all over him, down his thighs and up his sides, finally settling
one on his hip while the other gripped the back of his neck, fingers in the
soft curl at the base of his neck. Sherlock opened his mouth against John’s, so
desperate for more that John could feel it. He pushed back with his tongue,
brushing Sherlock’s gently. Sherlock hummed a guttural moan, and John matched
it. Soon, John was groaning a bit, tonguing him deeply, rolling himself inside
Sherlock’s mouth and tasting him. Sherlock learned quickly, and he licked back.
John sparked with heat and arousal, and it had him pulling back to nip at
Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His fingers sneaked up into
Sherlock’s curls as he did so, and in the wild snog, he accidentally tugged on
them. Sherlock gasped and tipped his head back into John’s hands, leaving John
to mouth his jaw. He moved his other trembling hand to the front of Sherlock’s
scarf and tugged it loose, allowing him access to Sherlock’s delicate neck. He
mouthed it hungrily, sucking the skin and kissing back up under his jaw and
even to his ear, utterly wrecked in how much he wanted him. Sherlock let him
nibble his ear for a bit before he turned back to find John’s mouth.
They squirmed and kissed and groped each other, Sherlock grabbing at any bit of
John he could find - his biceps, his waist, his hips, his bum. Every touch
became less innocent as they went, and while John couldn’t think of anything
but the the feel of Sherlock, the taste of Sherlock, and Sherlock himself, deep
in the back of his mind, he knew that if they weren’t careful, they’d be
caught. So he pulled back, lips tingling, groin swollen and tight in his
trousers.
He looked at a blissed-out Sherlock, his lips swollen and wet, his cheeks
flushed, eyes heavy and dreamy. John spotted a red mark on his neck, wet with
his saliva. He didn’t really remember doing that, honestly.
He moved a hand to Sherlock’s cheek and cupped his face, sweeping his thumb
over his cheekbone. He leant back in to press one final, soft, innocent kiss on
Sherlock’s parted lips before he called to him.
“Hey,” he whispered.
Sherlock slowly blinked open his eyes, looking throughly wrecked. “Hey.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“Thank you, I was just snogged into oblivion by the most perfect boy in the
world. Blame him.”
“All right now,” John flushed, smoothing his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, “Don’t
get sappy on me.”
Sherlock gave a lopsided smile before he breathed a happy sigh and let his head
fall against John’s shoulder. John pulled him in, holding him. Sherlock turned
his face and pressed his nose into John’s neck.
John tensed, “Oi, your nose is cold.”
“Sorry,” Sherlock slurred, with no attempt to remove his nose from its place
beneath John’s ear.
John just pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curly head and held him closer, laying
his chin on his shoulder so they fit, just two little shadowy figures on a
colorful bench outside their college. John breathed in the cold air, the feel,
smell, and taste of Sherlock wrapping him in a daze not unlike a blissful high.
They stayed like that a while, just holding each other. When they finally
untangled, they kissed a bit more, as it was hard to stop. Reluctantly, they
stood on trembling legs. They then laced fingers and walked, hand in hand, to
the bus stop, eager to get home and pick up where they left off.
Seventeen years. Seventeen years of friendship, family, love. Seventeen years
of wondering, wishing, waiting. Seventeen years.
And yet, it was only the beginning.
Chapter End Notes
     Hey look, they're finally boyfriends.

     Oh my god, it's been ages. I'm sorry, I was finishing up my first
     semester of college and finals and holiday blues and dkfhdfhgdjfhg it
     doesn't matter, I'm here now.

     How was everyone's death over the special? Funny how we were right
     about everything, yeah? Hope you got the references to it in this
     chapter ;)

     Anyway, here's this. Remember, if you're dying, imagine how dead I
     am, I had to write this garbage. Plus, I've known how these two babs
     were gonna get together since Chapter 1 (Though, truth be told, many
     of the chapters were a bit gayer than I expected them to be. Such as
     this one, they're so goddamn touchy omg keep it together).

     If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment or send me an ask
     on tumblr! And if you like this gay fluff, check out my johnlock/
     Tangled crossover, Curled.

     Oh, and one last thing - there's one chapter left. Here's a pretty
     obvious spoiler: They gon' fuck.

     Have a good one! And thanks for your patience! <3
***** Epilogue *****
Chapter Summary
     John loved to take him there, use his lips or tongue or fingers to
     clear Sherlock’s thoughts, replace the crossing sparks and lines of
     his overactive mind with the cloudy, lavender hum of an orgasm.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
University. Finally, after more than a dozen years of school, John and Sherlock
had made it to university. They’d gone together, of course, and even signed up
to be roommates. How could they not? They were together, officially, and they
were never going to leave each other again. At least, they hoped not. They
wanted to go through life side by side, just as they always had. And while they
wouldn’t take all the same courses, as Sherlock was looking into science and
John leaned more towards medicine, they knew they’d always be together. From
now until the end.
Before the end could come, of course, they had to live all the years between.
And they were happy to - blissfully, stupidly happy. They were committed to
each other. John and Sherlock were in a relationship, just as they always had
been, and they had no plans to break it off. It might have been foolish to be
so devoted so soon, but they’d lived their entire lives together. It wouldn’t
make sense to slow down now. Because now, they’d finally arrived.
John and Sherlock were both eighteen and experiencing the world anew. Truly
away from home now, they lived on their own. Their university was a handful of
hours away from the Fens, a completely new world, and John and Sherlock were
grateful. They loved their parents and siblings and missed them, but this was a
necessary change. It was a new life, a new step. Mycroft and Harriet would
survive without having them to tease.
While many of their classmates from Wisbech Academy joined them in continuing
onto university, the campus was large and the familiar faces of acquaintances
blended into crowds of strangers. But it was fine, as John and Sherlock’s
friends, Dean and Seamus and Nathan, had stuck with them. Dean and Seamus took
up a room together, and Nathan found some bloke named Barry and struggled to
conform to his “no girls in the dorm” policy. And of course, Greg Lestrade and
Molly Hooper came, too. Sherlock and Greg got on well, and while Molly had
stopped fawning over him long ago, he still got the occasional stare, and he
had to remind her that he was with John now.
He was with John. As he always had been, since the start. The two of them,
always. Now, of course, it was different.
While their parents hadn’t so much as flinched when they came home one day,
hand in hand, between them, they knew it was different. Their parents may have
been expecting it, John’s mother even telling him so over breakfast one
morning, but John and Sherlock could never have prepared for how different it
really was.
Some things were the same, of course they were. They still fought like
brothers, they still wrestled over what to watch, where to go at night. They
still teased, argued with, and danced around each other. They still shoved each
other out of the way in the bathroom, still borrowed each other’s clothes
without asking, and touched whenever and however they could. Now, though, they
kissed.
God, they kissed all the time. So much, actually, that one time the dean of the
university caught them in the hallway, tongue-tied and handsy. They knew her,
Mrs Hudson was her name, as they often were caught playing pranks.
When she came upon them, lip-locked and oblivious, she pried them apart and
dragged them by the ears to her office, eerily calm as she went. Standing
before her large wooden desk, this time Sherlock and John were pink in the face
and guilty of more than just filling Anderson’s shoes with guck. This time
they’d been “disturbing the other students” with their “overly enthusiastic
affections.” And, while the university, by the dean’s orders, didn’t prohibit
same sex couples, public displays of affection were snuffed out as soon as they
flared up. And Sherlock and John had definitely flared, red-hot and lost in
each other’s wet mouths.
So, looking between them with a hint of mirth in her worn eyes, Mrs Hudson had
spoken to them.
“Boys,” she said. “I’m not going to punish you.”
John and Sherlock let out a relieved breath, but sucked it back in as she
continued.
“But I’m not going to let you get off easy, either. Especially because I know
you’ve been caught before, pranking other students, even going so far as
standing up in the courtyard to call out which students have… ‘known’ each
other.” She waited a moment for dramatic effect, and the boys shifted
awkwardly. “Now, our policy is that all students are allowed freedom of self-
expression, including but not limited to romantic endeavors. Of course, this
doesn’t mean you can make the hallway your own personal bedroom. I assume you
have rooms of your own. In fact,” she shuffled through the papers before her,
“You’re roommates. That’s the best set up there is, isn’t it?”
The boys, lightly blushing before, now went beet red. Not only was the dean
less than subtle in her implications, she had fooled all the students with her
pleasant and welcoming face. Whenever a student was caught, however, she
exhibited the incredible power she had over them, stern and unrelenting.
Luckily, seeing as John and Sherlock had been in this exact office no less than
nine times, they couldn’t be fooled by her maroon blouses and twinkling eyes
any longer. They knew she could wreck their entire lives with one word.
Strangely, she didn’t.
“You two remind me of my sister’s boys. They were always getting into trouble
growing up, but they were two of the smartest boys I’ve ever known. They had
incredible talent, perseverance, and drive. They pulled it together,
thankfully, and now are doing quite well for themselves. One of them is in
politics, actually.”
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John saw it out of the corner of his eye and
smirked.
“Right, well, not for everyone, I suppose.” She clasped her hands, dark
polished nails standing out against her pale hands. “I have things to get to,
boys, and frankly I don’t know why they even send you to me. This isn’t what
I’m paid for.” Mrs Hudson stared them down, looking between them, building up
the silence once more. Then, “I’m sure you get the point. No more snogging in
public, please, and especially not in the hallways. Save it for the
dormitories.”
John and Sherlock nodded quickly, eager to leave, but the dean held them there
a little longer, raising her chin.
“One final thing. I see promise in you two, more than either of you can see.
That streak of wit, that sharpness. Those are fantastic qualities. I only hope
you use them well, and not on something that’ll send you here again.
Understood?”
They nodded again, John even squeaking out a “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Now get out of here, you’ve taken up too much time as it is.” She then
waved them off, and they hustled out her office and past the secretary, who
gave them a quizzical look as they broke through the heavy wooden doors and
back onto campus.
Silently, they walked together back to their dorm. It was only when they were
inside did they laugh, asking each other if, in fact, the dean of their
university had let them go with nothing but some advice and a warning to get a
room. Luckily, they had one, and after a few more moments of giggles, they
finished what they started in the hallway.
Now, with a passion such as theirs, it was hard to keep their hands off each
other. That’s how they ended up groping each other’s arses in the hallway,
anyway. Sherlock had never felt anything like what he felt for John, and John
had never felt anything as intense as he did for Sherlock. It was touch and be
touched, all the time, and it was hard to stop. Even as they weren’t new to
each other, they were new to this, and they took it slowly as they could.
That first day, almost a year before, they’d gone home and continued to kiss
and kiss. They rolled around in the sheets, kissing sloppily, working
themselves up… but that was it. They eventually calmed down, a bit nervous, and
settled in to watch a movie, cuddling and kissing intermediately. The days
following were the same, just working themselves up more and more. Actually, it
wasn’t until about three weeks in that anything like what had happened on
John’s birthday came to them. Under the sheets, they frotted together,
helplessly rubbing themselves together to orgasm, but even that was almost
overwhelming. There was just so much there that they wanted, so much desire and
tension that they’d built up over the years, and now that they were finally
outlet to chase it in full, it was just… hard.
Well, of course it was hard. They both were.
Still, they went about it fairly timidly. Neither of them had done anything
past grinding and snogging, and even as John used to grope Sarah, they’d never
done much. Sarah wasn’t Sherlock - obviously, nobody was - so comparing the
experiences was useless. It was all new, and while it was familiar and easy to
let feelings guide them, neither John nor Sherlock wanted to be overwhelmed,
wanted to mess anything up, or truth be told, get physically hurt.
So they went along as best they could, keeping it open. John always told
Sherlock he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, and Sherlock was
comfortable telling John when he needed to slow down. They snogged often,
Sherlock’s slender, pale neck going blotchy and red from John’s needy mouth,
John’s ears getting their fair share of blood as he blushed from head to toe.
They’d mark each other up, mess each other’s hair, and make it almost
impossible to sit calmly when one of them wore an open collar or tight
trousers. Sometimes, even, John’s chest and back would burn red from Sherlock’s
fingernails raking through his skin as John’s firm hand closed around his cock
and tugged him into the stars. Sherlock would return the favor, happy to, never
once feeling like he owed John anything. It was comfortable, consensual, and
wonderful. They knew each other’s bodies, knew what kind of release was needed
when, and what touches made the other go wild. Neither John nor Sherlock were
ever upset when one or both of them wasn’t in the mood (though they usually
were). They’d touched each other everywhere, with hands and mouths, and they’d
found a groove. Sherlock liked to please John, and he was always willing to
wrap his perfect pink mouth around his cock, John’s hand in his hair. And, less
delicately, sometimes he liked to sit on John’s face. John liked this too, and
while they struggled to figure out what exactly they were supposed to do, they
spent plenty of time watching pornography together and figuring it out. John’s
tongue, God bless it, eventually found its way around Sherlock’s groin and
arse, and getting him off that way was like magic.
Too, they frotted and ground together. Sometimes it was quick and breathless,
just rolling together, fully clothed, before class. Others, it was naked and
wet, squeezing their hard cocks together, coming all over their stomachs and
chests. On occasion, even, Sherlock pressed his thighs together and John fucked
him through his legs. And when they really got worked up, they’d slick up and
finger each other until they were damp with sweat and shivering with pleasure.
And, as needy as they were, they found that using their hands, fingers, and
mouths kept them satisfied and happy for nearly an entire year. By the end of
it, they’d done everything but penetrative anal sex.
But they did talk about it, of course they did. They talked about everything.
There was very little they didn’t mention, except for John’s birthday and those
three blasted words that almost didn’t even need to be said. When they talked
about sex, they came to the agreement that they’d want to try everything,
always. Sherlock had studied the culture of sex, and now that he was a part of
it, he realized that he was more likely to be on what was called “the receiving
end.” He didn’t have a problem with this, not at all, and in fact, the thought
of John doing things to him that other men did to each other in the videos they
found had him going mad. But he wasn’t alone in it, as John wanted it, too.
Often he’d waste entire class periods thinking about Sherlock fucking him into
the mattress, using his ridiculous hands to grip his waist and pound into him,.
The fact that it would more than likely become a reality had him blushing, and
one time, the girl in the seat beside him had even asked if he had a fever. He
only shook his head, said he was fine, and went back to imagining sex with
Sherlock, this time riding him from the top, using his football-trained thighs
to press him into the bed, hands wandering up his blushing chest as he bounced
in his lap. It was safe to say that he often didn’t take down notes on these
days, and Sherlock had to persuade him with a blowjob or two to get his grades
back up.
Indeed, John and Sherlock wanted to try everything. As they got closer and
closer to the last tier, they agreed that they’d be subject to switch. However
they felt, whatever way made sense for them in that moment, would happen. There
was so much more to explore, so many positions, and neither of them wanted to
limit any of it to just one of them.
So, as time went on, they fell into a comfortable zone of “any day now.” Any
day now, one of them would ask for permission to take the plunge, so to speak.
And they were ready. They knew what it meant for them, how it was more than
sex. It was the one of the last first things they could do together before
marriage and raising a family, which neither of them really thought much of.
Still, this was important to them, to their relationship. Sherlock and John
knew that sex wasn’t for everyone, and that some people didn’t want it or need
it - they understood that. Sherlock knew that quite well, actually. Before his
feelings for John turned sexual, he would have been completely fine never
having sex with anyone. He didn’t feel a need to, anyway. So they knew that it
wasn’t necessary, they would have been just as valid without it. They wanted it
all the same, though. Dear God above, they wanted it so much!
They slept in the same bed every night, even as their dorm came with two, and
with the warm solidity of that perfect body in his arms, it was hard not to
want everything.
Luckily, about halfway into their first year at university, everything
happened.
===============================================================================
It was a Friday, late afternoon, after class, when John and Sherlock felt
ready. They didn’t really say much, they didn’t confirm that this was the
moment, they just knew. The weather was right - grey and drizzling, casting the
small dorm in a dark silver glow - and they felt right, too. They’d both had
pretty relaxing classes, just taking notes, no big exams. They felt comfortable
and pliant and happy, exactly what’s needed when braving another step.
Sherlock was already home, sat at his desk and studying the leaves of his
potted plants when John came back.
In their dorm, there were two identical beds, two personal desks, two dressers
beneath the beds, two shelves, and two closets at either side of the door. The
walls were painted with posters of bands and Sherlock’s periodic table, and the
shelves housed photographs and trinkets taken from home. Their personal desks
were messy with papers and school supplies, dirty clothes flung over the chairs
and shoved in bunches into corners. Between the two beds sat a large, clear
window overlooking the campus. Beneath it - a huge and beautiful mahogany work
desk. Sherlock, while he had his own desk provided by the school, had bought it
specifically for the dorm and demanded John to help him move it in. While they
shared everything, John knew that this particular desk was Sherlock’s alone,
and he usually left him alone as he sat at it. He’d sit on his bed, every now
and then looking over at his boyfriend as he sat hunched, experimenting,
studying, or composing at his massive desk.
The desk was Sherlock’s mind: messy and brilliant and chaotic and orderly all
at once. It was home to many ongoing experiments, as well as his textbooks and
his beloved potted plants. It’s glossy mahogany surface had seen plenty of late
nights and strange substances, including but not limited to semen. Sometimes
John couldn’t help but press Sherlock against the desk with his body and let
Sherlock blow off steam by fucking himself into his hand, coming hard all over
himself and John as John mouthed his neck. Once, actually, Sherlock had been in
a strop, and John was tense from football. They agreed to relieve the tension
by hoisting Sherlock up onto the desk on all fours, John behind him, eating him
out as he touched himself. It only lasted a few moments, as the stress of the
day had them keyed up and restless, and once Sherlock came, the desk was
painted with sticky wet spots that were soon wiped away (though the memory
remained).
Most of the time, though, it was a workspace. It was now, on this Friday, as
Sherlock sat in the low, worn wood and leather chair, tracing a fingertip
gently down a leaf of his favorite plant when John opened the door.
He dropped his bag into the collective mess in the corner and went to Sherlock.
He draped his arms over his shoulders and kissed his head. Sherlock leaned back
into his chest, tilted his face up, and asked silently for a kiss on the lips.
John gave him one, nice and sweet, before dropping his head to his shoulder and
nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck.
“How was your day?” he asked, hands wandering down Sherlock’s chest and into
his waistband, just to rest his palms on the protrusion of Sherlock’s hipbones.
Sherlock hummed into the touch.
“Tedious, but otherwise acceptable. And you?”
“Better now.” John turned his face and kissed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock cocked
his head to give him more surface to cover, which he took happily, peppering
kisses up and down the soft skin and all the way to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Got
any plans tonight?” he said, breath warm and damp against Sherlock’s shirt.
Sherlock turned as best he could to look at him, and John popped forward to
kiss the high part of his cheek, chilly tip of his nose nudging the crease of
Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock smiled at it, both of them adoring every single one of
the kisses they were now allowed. He hummed, “Mm, no, don’t think so.”
“Good.”
And then John was taking him by the forearm and dragging him towards the more
comfortable of the two beds, falling back into the messy sheets and blankets
and pulling Sherlock atop him. Sherlock squirmed for a while before he went
limp, falling heavy against John’s body and soaking up his warmth. John traced
his hands down his sides and back, studying the body he’d come to know so well
over the last decade or so. And now, John found, Sherlock’s body was even
better.
Once they’d gotten together, Sherlock had started eating and going out more.
What had been bony before went soft from the rich foods they ate, just a thin
layer of fat over his abdomen, his hips, the inside of his thighs, and his
perfect bum. Sherlock had also gained muscle from playing scrap football with
John, rushing from class to class, sometimes even joining John in the gym. His
back had grown more solid, stronger, better for carrying books, better for
fooling around, better to grip when Sherlock rolled atop John, grinding into
him. His legs were strong, too, long and capable. And while it seemed
impossible that he’d get any taller, he had. He was still lean, but now, not as
skeletal. He looked like a tall, healthy, fit, handsome boy. John was into it
so, somuch.
And, from what Sherlock had told him, John matched if not exceeded Sherlock’s
appeal. Sherlock told him all the time that he was so handsome, so fit, so
gorgeous. It was easier to believe it, especially as Sherlock’s eyes were
honest and beautiful every time he praised him. So, now that he could, John
would sometimes toot his own horn. He’d tease Sherlock, nip his ear and tell
him he’s lucky for having such a handsome boyfriend, that everyone is so
jealous that he was the only one for him.
Sherlock never disagreed.
John felt it was true, at least in part. He’d taken up football again, and
playing on the school team was more intense than anything he’d seen before.
Occasionally, he went to the gym to train with weights, and it had him bulking
up and trimming down in all the right places. He was sturdy and fit, with
sculpted shoulders and a cut abdomen, but he wasn’t without his own bit of
pudge. Their university offered a wide, complete selection of meals, and John
took every opportunity he could to sneak cakes and crisps back to their dorm.
So he was healthy, healthy as ever, but not without some softness. And Sherlock
liked it, he liked to lay his head on John’s stomach and pet his fingers
through the sparse hair on his navel and groin. Sherlock liked it, so John did,
too.
In this moment, though, John was thinking only of Sherlock’s body atop his.
John’s face was buried in his neck, his hands going down the curve of his back
and to the loops of his trousers. His dark trousers and white dress shirt were
so much more flattering than the blue school uniforms or worn t-shirts he’d
wear (though John loved to see him in one of his old t-shirts with nothing else
on but socks. There was something about the softness of it that had him
tackling Sherlock where he stood and sucking him off right there, his socked
feet going over his shoulders). Dressed up, though, Sherlock looked so much
more adult, so handsome and ready. It was absolutely dreadful coming home to
see him bent over a book, a pencil stuck behind his ear, white shirt pushed up
his forearms, curls overgrown and messy. Sometimes he even wore glasses, just
for fun. John went wild when he did.
He was wild now, spurred on by the heat of Sherlock’s body and the warmth of
their dorm, as the air outside their building was crisp and cool. He moved his
hands to Sherlock’s bum, pulling him against him and massaging it until
Sherlock stirred. He twitched against him and moved to find John’s mouth, soon
propping himself up on his elbows to kiss him deeply. Sherlock spread his
thighs a bit, bending his knees to crouch above John as he kissed him.
Sherlock had gotten so good at kissing, it was almost surreal. He knew just how
to dip his tongue into John’s mouth, how to nip at his lower lip, how to make
him mad with the taste of him. Everything about Sherlock was maddening,
actually, especially the fact that he was currently still wearing clothes.
John began pulling his white shirt out of his trousers, reveling in the warm,
smooth skin of his back. Sherlock shifted to help him swoop around and tug it
out his front, and just as John began fumbling with the buttons, Sherlock
swiveled himself down and ground into him. John groaned, sure that Sherlock was
as eager as him by the sudden hardness between his legs. He continued to kiss
him, all down his jaw and neck, as he messily unbuttoned his shirt. Finally the
halves came apart, and John could trail his hands around both sides of his
torso and grip his waist, feeling the bones of his hips working as he gyrated
against him. Sherlock, apparently, didn’t want to be the only one exposed, so
he pushed John back against the bed, his lips leaving his neck with an obscene
pop. He pulled his arms off his waist and, quickly as he could, stripped him of
his soft, navy t-shirt. Then he wiggled out of the halves of his own shirt and
tossed it away.
Bare now, they immediately pressed their skin together, nearly groaning in
pleasure at the familiar contact. Back to kissing, John let his hands wander
again, this time slipping beneath the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and cupping
the bare skin of his bum. Sherlock breathed harder and rocked into John as he
pulled him in, and after a bit of helpless squirming and frotting, John kissed
down his shoulder and murmured his name against his skin. Sherlock, in
response, trailed his tongue along the underside of John’s jaw as he worked to
unbutton his trousers.
There really was no point in wasting time, in dancing around staying dressed.
They knew what they wanted, and while they were never completely sure how far
they’d go, this time they felt it. It was going to be great, and it wouldn’t be
if they didn’t get naked as soon as possible.
So, knowing how to get it started, Sherlock unzipped John’s fly and slipped his
hand down below his pants. John canted his hips up at the feel of Sherlock’s
hand against his cock, and after a moment of breathless focus, he regained
himself as best he could and returned the sentiment. He undid Sherlock’s
trousers just the same and matched his movements, working his hand down and
against the soft, warm skin. John used his other hand to shove Sherlock’s
trousers a bit lower, pulling his cock out and into the hot air between their
bodies. Just as Sherlock mirrored him, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s
cock and began to tug on him.
John would never, not ever, get over the feeling of Sherlock’s cock in his
hand. It was perfect, solid and real and hot, but also so strange. The most
intimate, human part of such a fascinating, wonderful creature was here in his
hand, and just by squeezing it, Sherlock would shiver and make this amazingly
human, breathless sound. So John did it again and again, tugging and squeezing
him, matching Sherlock’s touches, until the innocent pink blush on both their
faces deepened into a hearty crimson. As they went, John could feel the strain
in Sherlock’s muscles from holding out, and after stroking him once more, he
released him and sat up. Sherlock slowed his own touches and shifted in John’s
lap as John pressed his closed mouth against his collarbone. He swiped his
tongue across the bone and gripped Sherlock’s hips again, squeezing the muscle
and bone so hard Sherlock gasped. When he did, he tipped his head back, and
John surged forward and caught his neck under his tongue, suckling all over the
skin, nipping it with his teeth. By the time he was working back down the other
side to Sherlock’s shoulder, he was helplessly rocking against him, groin
seeking friction but finding none.
Encouraged by his needy whines, John pushed on Sherlock’s hips and moved,
flipping them over in smooth twist. Atop him now, they situated themselves into
the mess of pillows and blankets, their hands pulling and touching and raking
across any skin they could find as they kissed again. They kissed and kissed,
wet and messy, John working himself in between Sherlock’s legs with a swivel of
his strong spine. He lined up against his body, cocks pressed together between
their stomachs. Like they’d done so many times before, they began to grind
together, filling the small space with breathy gasps and the slight squeak of a
rocking dormitory bed.
To John, the feeling of Sherlock’s body beneath his, squirming and solid and
warm and hard and damp, was the best in the world. He was so real, so
responsive, so open. And, even as John had known him his entire life, knowing
him this way was another thing entirely. It was comfortable and familiar and
new all at once, and with every tremble, every gasp, John blessed his life over
once more.
Here and now, Sherlock let John work him, roll against him, bring him surging
up in pleasure and careening back down, keeping the pace, keeping the balance.
Sherlock had confessed in a fit of heat that he craved having John atop him,
absolutely adored having John use his steady hands and powerful hips to press
their bodies together, hold himself up while simultaneously lifting Sherlock to
the heavens. In turn, John loved to take him there, use his lips or tongue or
fingers to clear Sherlock’s thoughts, replace the crossing sparks and lines of
his overactive mind with the cloudy, lavender hum of an orgasm.
However, he didn’t want to get there yet. He wanted to make this last, for both
of them. So John slowed his rolling hips to a stop, Sherlock still whimpering
and spasming beneath him in needy thrusts. John shushed him, first with a
finger to his lips and then a kiss, holding his restless hips in two warm
hands. He pressed him into the bed, calming him with his weight, before
shuffled and went down, trailing kisses from Sherlock’s clavicle to his
stomach. John ghosted a hot, damp breath over Sherlock’s exposed cock, flushed
and sticky, hands still at his hips. Without warning, he closed his mouth over
the head and sucked up, pulling a breathless cry from Sherlock’s chest with a
swivel of his head. Then he went down, sliding the entire length of Sherlock
into his mouth, nudging a bit into his throat.
No matter how many times he’d sucked Sherlock off, the taste and feel of him
wrecking him every time. He was thick and warm, twitching a bit against John’s
tongue, salty and sweet all at once. John sucked him deep into his mouth,
hollowing his cheeks, as he held him steady with his hands. He closed his eyes
and lost himself in the movement, honed in only on the job before him. He
didn’t hear Sherlock’s increasingly noisy whimpers, nor did notice that
Sherlock was meeting his mouth with his hips, causing the small bed to sag. All
he knew was that Sherlock was wet and hard and lovely, and John loved it.
He continued to suck Sherlock off for a few more minutes, reveling in the
pleasure it gave both of them, but he slowed to a stop and pulled off when he
felt Sherlock tense beneath him. He raised his head from between Sherlock’s
legs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked down at him.
Sherlock was a mess. His forehead was damp with sweat, a few errant curls stuck
to the creases by his eyes. Said eyes were closed, just faint lids and a swoop
of black lashes. His high cheeks were flushed pink, and his lips were swollen
from being chewed and kissed. Sometimes, when he was really worked up, his
chest went a bit red. It was reddened now, a lovely rose sheen creeping across
the pale expanse of his pectorals and up his neck. There were marks on his
abdomen, red lines in all directions, that must have formed when Sherlock
struggled to find grip on his own body. His dark trousers had been pushed low
on his hips and his hard, wet cock jut up between his open fly and towards his
bellybutton. He was so disheveled, so beautiful, and so angelic that John just
stared at him for a moment, grossly dragging his eyes from Sherlock’s cock to
his face and back again.
As always, Sherlock would have none of this hesitation, even if John was
looking down at him like he’d never seen something so beautiful. So, as John
watched stupidly, he sat up in a sort of half-hearted pounce and pushed John by
the chest onto his back.
John let himself fall against the bed as Sherlock leaned over him, pressing
kisses all against his neck and jaw and face. John was about to say something
about how eager Sherlock was, but as his boyfriend traveled lower on his chest,
the quip drowned itself in a lustful groan. Sherlock was determined, and he
knew what he was doing. His tongue was sure as it swirled around John’s navel,
lavishing the spot where John had been connected to his mother in the same
moment Sherlock had been with his, bringing both of them into the world only a
few months apart. And, outside of that, John just had a sensitive bellybutton.
Balling the sheets and blankets in his fists as Sherlock snuffled lower, John
glanced down to find Sherlock pressing his face into the thatch of dark blond
hair at the base of his cock. Faintly, John could feel and hear Sherlock make a
happy little sound, and his groin sparked in heat.
A few weeks after they started exploring each other with their mouths, Sherlock
had also confessed to liking the smell of John, how over the years it’d just
gotten better and better. John, incredibly aroused at the thought of Sherlock
being attracted to the smell of him, expressed that he felt the same.
Sometimes, after a long day of studying, Sherlock would have skipped a shower,
and he’d adapt this sort of musky, personal scent. It made John’s head light
and his groin heavy. And now, John’s scent seemed to have the same effect on
Sherlock as he buried his sharp nose into John’s soft hair. John lifted a hand
from the bedsheets and into Sherlock’s curls, petting his hair affectionately.
At the touch, Sherlock raised his face and blinked up at John, still blushing,
his eyes a bit blurry in lust. John struggled to give Sherlock his best smile,
and Sherlock’s pink lips twitched in response. Then, quickly and smoothly, they
were kissing along John’s cock and wrapping around the head, sucking him
against his tongue.
John let his head fall back as Sherlock went to work, hollowing his sharp
cheeks and sliding his flat tongue against the underside. He puckered his lips
and moved his head, letting the softness of his mouth slide along John’s shaft,
his tongue cradling it as he went.
Between them, Sherlock was better at sucking John’s cock, as he seemed to
really like to do it. John did, too, but he always got a bit sloppy the more
excited he got. Sherlock was precise, tasting and pleasuring John as if his
mouth was made for it. Sherlock closed his eyes and worked his jaw, his hands
wandering up John’s bare torso to lay flat on his abdomen. As he kept the pace
steady, his fingertips tracing circles in John’s skin, John worked himself up.
It was a few minutes of blissful, wonderful pleasure, but Sherlock was too
good. John was breathing hard and thrusting up against Sherlock’s mouth by the
time Sherlock popped off and sat up. Without saying anything else, he leaned
forward. John threw an arm over his blushing face to compose himself, and
listened as Sherlock fumbled on the shelf above the bed.
John went hot in excitement. He knew what Sherlock was fishing for. While the
shelf above the bed housed everything from movies to tissues, tucked away in
one of the corners was a little metal crate full of condoms and lubricant. He
didn’t know what to expect when Sherlock leaned back over him and pressed a
warm, soft kiss to his forehead, but he was excited nonetheless.
Sherlock would never hurt him or do anything he didn’t want, just as he never
would with Sherlock. And, in this moment, on this hazy afternoon day, there was
nothing that John didn’t want. He wanted it all.
As usual, Sherlock gave him what he wanted but better, a twist of something
new, something different and lovely and wonderful.
Sherlock stripped John of his trousers and pants quickly and threw them on the
dorm room floor. He swiped his hands up John’s bare thighs and eased him with a
kiss on both hipbones. Then he was back at his cock, leaning down between his
legs and licking a tantalizing circle around the blushing head. After a moment
of teasing, Sherlock sunk him back into his mouth and made lewd, sloppy noises
as he fumbled with something in his hands. John leaned back into the bed and
closed his eyes, as it was the most he could do with such a perfect, glorious
mouth around his cock. Soon, something even better came to him, as he felt
Sherlock shift his thighs up to spread his arse and roll a slick finger against
his rim, just between his cheeks. John arched his back at the touch, but
Sherlock kept steady.
The sensation was familiar and unusual, as Sherlock hadn’t touched him this way
in a long time. Moreover, the stimulation from both his cock and his arse had
him caught between a mix of spiking hot pleasure and a steady, low burn. The
fire’s hum only increased when Sherlock slipped his finger inside him, just an
inch or two, still rolling in a small, massage-like movement.
“Oh, Sh-Sherlock,” John stuttered, spreading his thighs just as Sherlock
squeezed more lube directly onto his finger, pushing inside smoothly, deeply.
His mouth still on John’s cock, he worked the slickness around his insides. He
spread his fingers, stretching John open just so it had him tilting off the bed
in pleasure. And then, with Sherlock’s tongue rolling around the head, he began
to pulse his fingers, touching John in the way that had his hot body flushing
even hotter.
There were stars in John’s eyes, and every nerve danced under his warm skin.
His stomach fluttered and clenched as Sherlock swiveled his head, and he was
faintly aware he was making incredibly loud moans and groans. The poor students
next door probably just turned their music up louder, as they were irritatingly
used to it.
John held on as Sherlock brought him close, so close, but slowed just as he
nearly came undone. He played him expertly, long, thin fingers, perfect for the
delicacy of a violin just as perfect for bringing John to the the edge and
back. And heavenly, too, was Sherlock’s mouth: warm, tender, and wet, sucking
on John’s sensitive cock like there was nothing he’d rather be doing.
The small dorm was then filled with the electric tension of John holding out,
his hands in Sherlock’s curls, his thighs spreading as far as the strong
tendons would allow. As Sherlock continued, John swept his legs up over his
shoulders and pulled him down, causing Sherlock to take him even deeper into
his mouth. For a moment, John was almost worried, but Sherlock was a champ. His
throat relaxed and he took John down, down into the dark, wet heat. His fingers
never stilled as he went, and after another few moments of sparking pleasure,
John called out.
“Sherlock, God fuck -“
Sherlock took the sign. With one final swivel of his head and a twist of his
fingers, Sherlock pulled his mouth off. His lips were shiny, and a string of
saliva dripped between the fat flesh of his bottom lip and the sticky slit at
the head of John’s cock. Seeing it, John had to look away, as it was too much.
He felt Sherlock pull his fingers out, and his rim twitched around the cold
emptiness.
Sherlock untangled himself from John’s legs as John calmed himself, counting
time with the rise and fall of his own heavy breathing. He kept his eyes
closed, reluctantly wishing away the remnants of Sherlock’s mouth and fingers.
When he opened them, Sherlock was shifting on the bed, causing the lame
mattress to surge and squeak. John peeked with heavily-lidded eyes as Sherlock
shuffled out of his pants and trousers, his abdomen crunching as he kicked them
to the floor. Then, turning back and creeping his hands up John’s thighs,
Sherlock leaned over him once more. Fortunately, John was not alone in his
arousal, as he could feel the heat on Sherlock’s skin, the tension of
restraint, the salty smell of eager sweat. Sherlock, clearly not finished with
him, pressed his lips to John’s cheek, then the tip of his nose, and then
finally, his mouth. His lips were a bit sticky, but the kiss was sure, and it
calmed John’s racing heart in its sweet comfort.
They kissed for a while, letting the buzzing attraction between them simmer
into a steady hum. With a moment to spare, John let his hands find all their
favorite spots on Sherlock’s body - the curve of his back, the dip of his
waist, the space between his shoulder and neck - everywhere, everywhere.
Once both John and Sherlock were back in a comfortable, soft space, pink in the
face and brimming with affection, Sherlock sat up over John’s lap. John raised
himself on his elbows and looked at him, at his long torso, bashful cheeks, and
messy curls. He’d be content just looking at Sherlock like this forever, just
touching and kissing him for eternity. But Sherlock was still determined, and
he surprised John by reaching behind him and bringing forward a silver square.
John held his breath as Sherlock’s thin fingers opened the package and gently
retrieved the condom. They’d used them before, as they were good for quick
clean-up, but this time, they both knew it was different. John knew it was
different when Sherlock kissed him slow, he knew it was different when he
suddenly went bashful as he was usually so comfortable, and he knew it was
different as Sherlock took John’s cock in hand and rolled the soft, thin latex
over it. He settled the rim at the base of John’s cock and stroked his hand
down and up it once to secure it. John hissed through his teeth. Sherlock
pressed his lips together.
===============================================================================
Looking down at John, his handsome face, the rise and fall of his broad chest,
the muscles in his abdomen, and the thick, hard cock in his hand sprouting from
two V-cut hips and tufts of dark blond hair, Sherlock was sure. He’d only
seldom been so sure in his life, sure of what he wanted, here and now. He
wanted to ride him.
To think that this was the same boy who’d curled up in the beanbag with him in
pre-school, the boy he’d watched race ‘round the football field from the
sidelines, the boy who galloped down a long flight of stairs in socks on
Christmas morning… This was his lifelong friend, his near-brother, and the love
of his life. And here Sherlock was, about to sit on his cock.
Fitting, really. There was nobody else in the world Sherlock would think to be
with in this way. Only John. So, when he reached around himself for the
lubricant, there was no hesitation. He was confident as he uncapped it and
squeezed some into his hands, and while he was blushing as he did so, there was
no uncertainty at all as he slicked down John’s cock. And, though John’s blue
eyes bore deep, burning holes into his body, he had never felt sexier. He felt
fit and hot and adored as he lubed up his fingers and reached between his legs,
wetting his rim and massaging himself to comfort.
By the time he was slick and wide and willing, John had grown a bit restless.
He could see the tension in his muscles, the restraint in his bitten lip. John
would never be impatient with him, especially not today, but even so. After a
handful of years of repressing sexual desires, and even more spent desperately
pining, by the time Sherlock spread his thighs on either side of John’s hips
and pulled his cock up to meet his rim, there was little holding both of them
back. Sherlock bore down as the head breached, and he sunk down, slowly, inch
by inch, John’s hands holding his hips in place.
Had John and Sherlock had more patience, John probably would have loosened
Sherlock up with his mouth, licking and sucking him ’til he was wide and needy.
Now, however, there seemed to be not enough time. All the years of holding
back, months of waiting, had finally caught up with them, and there was nothing
either of them needed more but to be completely and totally fucked. And
Sherlock was ready.
It took a moment for him to settle, as John was heavy and thick and unusually
filling, but the slightly burning stretch was the best he’d ever felt, and
John’s thumbs rubbed smooth circles into his hip bones as he waited. Once the
searing heat had passed, only a pleasant fullness remained, and Sherlock nearly
welled up at how good it was.
He tried not to, but there was a bit of dampness on his lashes all the same. He
blinked it away and looked down at John, who was watching him like he’d never
seen something so beautiful. And Sherlock, for all he’d endured, had never felt
as lovely as he did now. He felt masculine and sexy and powerful and gorgeous,
and it was a feeling he never wanted to live without again. And he knew he
wouldn’t. John would always look at him like that, he always would.
So, with this in mind, Sherlock finally began to roll his hips. It was slow and
easy, just a gentle pull and push, John sinking in and Sherlock raising up. It
went on like that, Sherlock just testing the waters, for just a moment. It was
silent but comfortable, and John’s steady breath kept in time with the push of
Sherlock’s hips.
It was only when John spoke did the gentle barrier break.
“R-remember when we first did something like this?” John said, a husk on his
breath that seemed to confess he’d not stopped thinking of it since the moment
it happened.
Sherlock pushed his hips harder, something sparking low in his stomach and
unfurling into a simmering heat. They’d not really spoken of it ever, even
though they’d recreated it countless times.
“On my birthday,” John continued, almost demanding a verbal response. His
ferocity was enticing, to say the least.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock rocked harder, John’s fingernails digging into his hips.
“Yes, I remember.”
“You were so hot, so fucking hot.”
Sherlock’s stomach flipped as he said it, and he let out a plaintive groan.
John, seemingly proud of the reaction, tried for more by raising his hips off
the bed and pushing up into Sherlock, hard. Sherlock surged forward and loomed
over John, so close he could feel his breath on his collarbones.
“John!”
John didn’t often talk dirty, (he rarely talked at all as his mouth was usually
busy), but when he did… God have mercy on Sherlock’s soul.
“I wanted you so bad. You were so hot. I’d never seen you like that. Breathing
so hard, so into it.”
Sherlock begged him to keep talking as John’s hands traveled to find the fat of
his bum, pulling his cheeks apart as he thrust up between them. They found a
rhythm, Sherlock pressing back and matching John’s driving hips. They went
harder and harder, the slick, wet heat catching up with them. The pleasant
fullness turned desperate, and Sherlock’s insides felt like they were doused in
flames, warm and licking at all the sweet spots inside him. “J-John, please…”
John’s voice was going gruff, and it husked right in Sherlock’s neck, followed
by a swipe of tongue and a few nips of teeth. 
“Why’d it take us so long, Sherlock?”
“I d-don’t know…”
“Fuck, to think we could’ve had this.”
On the last syllable, John pulled Sherlock’s bum hard and fucked up into it,
grinding in a swivel, burying himself deep. Sherlock let out a horny yelp,
curving his back so John’s thick, hard cock pushed into that perfect spot
inside him that they’d both found with their fingers so many times. But now, it
was intense, a blunt, heavy pleasure that made Sherlock’s limbs go weak.
Sloppily, they moved their faces together to kiss, muffling the last of John’s
talk with wet, swollen tongues.
They rocked together, the small dorm bed croaking with the weight of two
restless bodies. John pulled on Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock sucked on John’s
tongue; John planted his feet and pushed hard into Sherlock, Sherlock rolled
back onto his cock. It was a steady momentum, occasionally ruined by a husky
moan or growl causing one of them to lose control, rock harder, throw the
rhythm. They fucked like they’d been shagging all their lives.
Contrary to popular belief, both John and Sherlock understood something about
sex that most people didn’t. It wasn’t a battle, but it wasn’t necessarily a
game, either. It was an agreement, an unspoken assurance of balance: give and
take, please and be pleased. It was security and discovery, a comfortable,
familiar experiment.
And as they rode it out, they felt they knew the solution. That, perhaps, their
story was the best there ever was, something almost everyone wanted. It took
one mention of it to send them both careening over the edge.
“I love you,” John said.
Then they were coming, spasming together, rocking through their orgasms until
John had spent himself completely inside the condom, and Sherlock had coated
their stomachs. They slowed to a stop, still twitching with aftershocks, still
catching the remnants of strangled moans in their throats. They paused, tension
in their limbs keeping them suspended, just for a moment. Finally, with John
still inside him, Sherlock slumped forward. He let his head fall on John’s
chest, right where it belonged.
The dorm went quiet and still as they breathed, trailing along the breeze as
they came down from an incredible high.
After a moment, John spoke again, lips in Sherlock’s curls. “I’m so in love
with you.”
Wits restored, Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s skin. His voice was low
and rough, but his tease was light. “You always have been, haven’t you?”
Sherlock couldn’t see John’s smile, but he felt it, just as sure as he felt
John’s warm hand on his back, his softening cock inside him. He was right, and
he knew it. John had been in love with him from the start. He knew that now,
finally. He wasn’t alone in knowing, though, as John stroked his fingers down
the curve of his back as if to say, And so have you, yeah?
Sherlock kissed John’s chest, just the smallest peck of lips against whatever
skin they could reach. Yeah.
They felt at peace like that, entwined on a dormitory bed, the silver clouds
going dark and dousing their space in a blanket of grey.
As it had been for the past eighteen years, something went unspoken between
them. Something that now, should it have had a voice, might have looked down at
the two boys and said, “O, cherish this sweet love, young ones. It will forever
be your first and only.”
Chapter End Notes
     HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! TAKE THE UNI GAYS!
     Oh my god, oh my god... this is the last chapter... this is like...
     seven months in the making... and here we are. Finished.
     First of all, thank you to everyone who stuck through from the
     beginning! I know I was slow with updates there for a while, but
     first semester got crazy. Hopefully, here and now in second semester,
     things will calm down a bit. And thank you to all the new readers who
     get to binge this all at once! Remember that this is eighteen years
     for John and Sherlock, even if it might be just one night for you ;)
     There are so many things I want to say about this fic, and if you
     want to indulge me, please please please communicate with me on
     tumblr. I'd love to talk about it with you.
     But I will say, just for now, that this fic has been a process, and
     planning and writing it really helped me understand both the dynamic
     of John and Sherlock's characters as well as their relationship. I
     hope it gives you some insight, too.
     That's all, my lovelies.
     Remember, if you liked this fic, check out the rest of my works and
     the other diamond of my heart, my Tangled fic, Curled!
     Have a good one! :)
     - crimsonwinter
End Notes
     ❤︎ The End ❤︎
     Thanks for reading, babes, and be sure to check out my other works or
     follow my tumblr :)
  Works inspired by this one
      what_happens_when_boys_are_not_there. by Icanwritesee
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