Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC Sherlock empire/franchise/fandom and am making no money off of this.
A/N: I'm apparently a sucker for the idea of them taking care of each other for literally their entire lives.
All it takes is one moment; one small alteration to the universe that changes everything. For 5-year-old Sherlock Holmes and 8-year-old John Watson, that moment comes unexpectedly one August afternoon.
John is excited to see the moving trucks arrive. The house next door has been empty for awhile, and from the look of one of the cars, the new family includes two children. There are only a few kids on their street with a wide variety of ages, with his own 12-year-old sister Harriet being the third oldest.
John's parents insist that they all go out and offer to help the new family move in, or at least introduce themselves. As they're walking over John is looking carefully for the head of dark curls he glimpsed before, but is disappointed that he doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight.
Sherlock's parents appear to be very friendly and readily welcome the help once they have been sure to make it abundantly clear that the Watson's shouldn't feel obligated in the slightest. They introduce their eldest son, 13-year-old Mycroft, and apologize to John that their son William seems to have disappeared for the moment, but assure him that he's probably just hiding.
With permission, John begins to search for the other boy and finally finds him sitting between two bushes on the side of the house that faces the Watson residence.
"Hi, I'm John Watson," he greets with a smile and a small wave.
The other boy glances up from the book in his hands, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," he smiles shyly.
"Sherlock?" John's smile widens as Sherlock's falls.
"I know it sounds silly. Plenty of kids have made fun of me for it," he says sadly.
"Oh!" John looks shocked, "I wasn't making fun of you; I like it."
"Really?"
"Yeah, it's really cool; I wish my middle name sounded cooler so I could go by that instead of boring John."
"What's yours?"
"Hamish," he says and they both cringe slightly.
"Well, William is also very common," he points out.
"Yeah, that's why I'm going to call you Sherlock instead."
"But that's not my name."
"Yes it is, plus it suits you more. Do you mind if I sit and read with you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock scoots forward out of the bushes so John will have room to sit next to him by way of answering.
They finish that book and then three more after it until everyone else is done moving things in to the house and they are forced to separate.
Sherlock refuses to be referred to as William by anyone after that.
Their bedroom windows line up, like it's fate - like they were meant to never be further than 20 feet apart for most of their lives.
John is the first to suggest that they connect two cans by a string and use them to talk to each other quietly so they won't get in trouble with their parents anymore. They have a tendency to stay up late talking, and speaking loudly across the void is apparently bothersome. Even at the age of five Sherlock knows that this probably isn't going to work the way that John thinks it will, but he sees how sad John looks when he thinks Sherlock can't see him, and he wants him to be happy.
The third time John attempts to contact him via tin-can-string-phone, Sherlock throws something at his head that lands with a thud at his feet.
"Sherlock!" John shouts, offended, forgetting that they use this magic phone of his so they won't get yelled at for talking loudly late at night.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and loudly whispers, "Will you just pick it up?"
John bends to pick up the object and nearly screams when he hears Sherlock's voice coming from the box in his hand. He's heard about walkie talkies, but he's never used one before.
They spend most nights talking to each other about everything and nothing, and often times will get so caught up in their conversation that they forget to sleep. Sometimes John is distracting Sherlock's brain because it tends to move too fast for him to sleep, and sometimes Sherlock is distracting John from his parents' fighting downstairs. But just about every night they fall asleep cradling the plastic gently in their fists, as though it was the other's hand.
When Sherlock is 6 and John is 9, Sherlock's grandmother dies. It isn't exactly unexpected due to her age, but she meant a lot to the younger boy.
John keeps trying to get him to talk about it, but Sherlock keeps insisting that he's fine. No, he doesn't need to cry. No, he doesn't need a hug. No, he doesn't need John's extra cookie (though he eats it anyway).
One week after she passed, Sherlock returns to his room after dinner and immediately goes to his desk to check on his bee. His grandmother loved bees and told him everything he knows about them, but it's not nearly enough for his curious brain. So when, a few weeks ago, the opportunity arose for him to trap one and study it himself, he couldn't pass it up.
In the time it took him to eat dinner, the bee has stopped moving. As he looks at it closer, he sees that its dead carcass is now on its back with wings fully extended beautifully. "Peaceful" is the only word he can think of to describe the deceased bee, and yet it fills him with such a feeling of anguish that he nearly throws up.
Without really thinking, Sherlock grabs the sturdy board that he keeps next to his window at all times (John has a matching one in his own room; a method born of desperation when walkie talkies aren't enough of an escape) and positions it across the gap. It's plenty wide for him to feel safe when crossing from one second-floor room to the other, but at the moment he hardly notices anything anyway.
"Sherlock?" John asks when he sees him, frozen at his desk where he's been working on his homework.
Without a word, Sherlock moves to John's bedroom door and closes it softly before he moves to John's bed. He lies down on his back, head towards John so that he appears upside down when he finally locks eyes with him. John's eyes that, though upside down, clearly portray concern.
"The bee died," Sherlock tells him calmly, conversationally.
"What bee?" John asks in honest confusion.
"From my experiment," he responds with an aggravated sigh. He has told John about the bee multiple times; how could he forget? John never forgets, "it was flying around before dinner, but when I came back not even half an hour later, it was dead."
"Sherlock..." His loss for words is clearly evident in the way he says the name.
"It reminded me of my grandma. It made me sick," Sherlock yawns and turns on to his side so he can no longer look the other boy in the eyes, "so I came here."
"You usually tell your mom when you're sick."
"Not that type of sick," he sighs again, as though John is being purposefully obtuse, "emotionally sick," he elaborates.
John shakes his head in confusion, "I don't know how to help emotionally sick."
"Yes you do; you always make me feel better. It's safe here with you."
John doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't even try. Instead he allows Sherlock to relish in just being near him while he continues to work on his homework. It's about 20 minutes later when Sherlock speaks up again, breaking the comfortable silence.
"I didn't know enough," he whispers, still not facing the desk, "I couldn't save either of them because I didn't know enough."
His voice breaks at the end - the tears that he's been holding back for a week finally being allowed to spring forth - and John's heart breaks with it.
John immediately drops his pencil and goes to Sherlock on the bed. He's never seen him cry - he's actually secretly thought that the younger boy could possibly be an A.I. prototype like they make movies about - and doesn't know what to do, so he listens to his instinct. He lays down and wraps Sherlock in his arms, like his mom will do to him every so often, and repeats "Shhh" and "It's okay" over and over.
They fall asleep like this, and it's the first time they spend the night in each other's arms.
When Sherlock is 7 and John is 10, John invites him to his birthday party.
It's a sleepover with a few of his friends from his class that Sherlock doesn't know. They all complain about having a "little kid" at the party, but John just tells them to shut up and go home if they've got such a problem with it. No one does.
They spend so much time making snide comments to Sherlock that John insists that the younger boy takes the couch while the rest of them sleep on the floor. John then places himself nearest to the couch as a buffer. Their hands reach out to each other in the night, seeking reassurance that the other is safe and protected.
Sherlock only has one friend in his own grade - a girl named Molly - and he doesn't have the slightest desire to have her near him during his birthday. Instead he invites just John, who allows him to choose everything they do that day and agrees to participate no matter what it is.
Sherlock has never felt so accepted in his entire life as he does on that afternoon.
When Sherlock is 8 and John is 11, John's sister demands to be addressed as "Harry" and tells their parents that she's a lesbian.
At first, Sherlock doesn't know what this means and John has to explain it. Sherlock doesn't understand why it's apparently so wrong to love someone of your own gender, but he sees the astoundingly deep sadness in John's eyes at the thought.
John, for his part, can't understand why his parents are so shocked that one of their children prefers their own gender, because surely they can see how long John has been in love with Sherlock.
But as much as he is sure of that love, he's equally sure he couldn't stand to lose the love of his parents, so he resolves to tamp it down and forget about it. To really give another try at liking girls instead.
"It's not wrong," Sherlock whispers to John.
"What's not?" He asks sadly.
"That we love each other. It's not wrong," not for the first time, John wonders if Sherlock is psychic, because he has this uncanny ability to read many of his thoughts.
"I don't..." he tries to protest, his fresh resolution still at the forefront of his mind.
"Yes you do, and I love you, too. Marry me, John."
"What?"
"When two people love each other, they get married. They can't tell us it's wrong if we love each other enough to get married," he asserts.
"You're only 8-years-old," is his first argument.
Sherlock shakes his head, "I could live for 200 years and not find anyone else I want to marry more than you."
"Boys don't marry other boys, Sherlock," is argument number two.
"I don't want to marry you because you're a boy; I want to marry you because you're you. You're my John. I'm happy when you're happy, and right now you're making us both sad worrying about this. So let's not worry: marry me."
John is silent for long minutes before he apologizes with a shake of his head, "I can't," he pleads to Sherlock with his eyes to understand, "My family wouldn't love me anymore."
"I'd be your family," he says it so simply, like it could really be that easy.
"I'm not ready," he says with gentle finality.
Sherlock looks at him like John sees other students look at maths problems: like he's trying to figure him out. Whatever he sees, he nods once and says resolutely, "I'll wait."
When Sherlock is 9 and John is 12, John's parents decide to get a divorce. They try to say it has nothing to do with having a lesbian for a daughter, but that's when all of the real problems started. They were never the same family after it happened.
John uses the sturdy wooden plank to cross over to Sherlock's room the night he gets the news. He crawls under the covers and curls himself on top of Sherlock's chest without a word.
"What happened?" Sherlock asks as his arms naturally wrap around John in a hug.
"They're getting a divorce. They don't love each other anymore."
"They haven't loved each other for a long time."
"That isn't actually helping, you arse," John grumbles as he stabs Sherlock in the ribs with his finger angrily.
Sherlock yelps as he jumps, then apologizes sincerely, "I'm sorry."
They lay in silence for a long time, John's left hand playing with Sherlock's shirt while Sherlock's hands travel in soothing circles on John's arm and back.
"Ask me again," John demands suddenly, breaking the moment. He doesn't elaborate, but he's 95% certain that Sherlock will know exactly what he means anyway.
Sherlock's sudden inhale lets John know that he knows precisely what he's referring to.
"It's likely that they'll make you move away," Sherlock reasons instead.
"If you're my family they can't make me. Ask me again."
"I don't believe in divorce; in giving up. No problem is unsolvable."
"You'd be stuck with me forever," John agrees, "Ask me again."
"You said we're too young..." Sherlock starts but trails off as John lifts his head to look down at him seriously.
"Sherlock, please," he begs, "if you still love me, ask me again."
Without hesitation Sherlock asks, "Will you marry me?"
John smiles and leans down to press his lips to Sherlock's for the very first time. It's gentle and chaste, not a trace of heat in it, but it feels right and absolutely perfect.
John pulls back and answers, "Yes."
"Really?" Sherlock asks, a bit surprised even with how things led to this moment.
"Yes," John's smile widens, "but only once you get us some rings."
Sherlock knows exactly where to get them, but for now he simply pulls the older boy back in to his arms where they fall asleep peacefully.
Just two days later John's parents announce that they'll be selling the house. Dad will move in to an apartment, and mom in to a smaller house. They have their eyes on two places already that look promising.
John tells them with proud authority that he's going to marry Sherlock, which means they'll have no right to take him away from here.
They spend the next hour belittling John for wanting to marry Sherlock and insisting they knew they should have been limiting their involvement with each other. Once they get their fill with those taunts, however, they switch to laughing about how John thinks that marriage would stop them from taking him with them; he's only 12 after all.
John alternates between anger that they aren't taking him seriously and being pleased that they're finally laughing together again. The dichotomy makes him want to vomit.
Another two days later, John and Sherlock return home to find moving vans out front, and John's house completely empty.
John latches on to Sherlock's arm and looks at him with frightened eyes. It's too sudden; why didn't they mention anything? How can this be happening so soon?
Sherlock turns to him with calm resolve and whispers, "Wait," before jetting off in to his own house.
"John, be a good lad and help us get the last few items in to the cars," John's dad calls.
"We're moving now?"
"Things worked out a lot quicker than we thought they would in regards to the two new properties, but we have to settle within the next few days," he explains while partially distracted.
"John!" Sherlock calls to him, a bit out of breath. He gestures for John to join him between their houses, underneath their bedroom windows by the bushes where they first met.
John walks over and joins him, "We're leaving in just a few minutes," he says hopelessly. No time for them to get married so he won't have to.
Sherlock pulls out two gold rings - honest to God wedding bands thanks to the little kleptomaniac genius - on gold chains.
"They're too big to wear on our fingers yet, but we'll grow in to them," Sherlock explains of the chains.
John shakes his head, "My parents can't see this; they'll take it away from me and I couldn't stand if that happened."
Sherlock unlatches the chain and secures it once it's around John's neck. He pulls back the collar of John's shirt just enough to slide the ring below it. It falls directly over his heart, like it's fate. John does the same for Sherlock's ring.
"I don't even know where I'm going," John admits sadly, holding Sherlock's right hand in his left.
"Well I'll still be here; when you know, write to me so I can have the address."
"John, we have to go!" his mom yells to them, glaring at them from afar.
"I don't want to leave you," tears finally spring to his eyes unbidden.
"Then don't," Sherlock pleads, tears in his own eyes.
"John, now!" She stresses, beginning to walk towards them.
"Wait for me," John whispers urgently, already beginning to move towards his mother while still holding his hand.
"I'll wait," he promises just as their hands separate.
Both feel the loss in their very core.
Two weeks later the first letter arrives at the Holmes residence, but Sherlock was sent away to boarding school a week prior.
His parents never give him the letters, and John never receives a single reply.
When Sherlock is 22 and John is 25, their lives are different.
Sherlock, mostly to disassociate with his brother who practically is the British Government, unofficially changes his name to "Sherlock Watson". He has no friends to explain the change to and overall no one notices. Just like they don't notice the gold band on his left ring finger to dissuade any potential suitors. As if he really needs a ring to do that.
Dr. John Watson enlists as an Army Doctor for a change of pace. He's so tired of pretending to be things he's not: carefree, romantic, straight. He's never thought of being with a man who isn't Sherlock, even after all these years, but the women are beginning to bore him. On the same chain as his dog tags sits a gold wedding band.
The rings serves as a reminder to both of them of a time when someone loved them enough to want to spend the rest of their life with the other.
When Sherlock is 29 and John is 32, fate finally brings them back together.
John is limping along the London streets when the familiar voice of Mike Stamford, a college friend, catches his attention. They exchange the customary pleasantries until a flatshare is mentioned. For the life of him, John can't think of a single person who would be willing to put up with his PTSD and surely demeanor. But apparently Mike does.
They walk in to a lab at St. Bart's to find a mop of dark curly hair bent over a microscope. The image sends a familiar jolt of hope through John, but he's become extremely efficient at ignoring this particular feeling. It's never him, is it? It likely never will be.
The stranger with the pleasing baritone asks to use Mike's cell phone, who claims not to have one. John can't see the harm in offering to help; it's what he does after all, isn't it: help people?
"Here, use mine," he says as he holds it out with his left hand.
Sherlock looks over at John for the first time, seeming to notice just that moment that he's been standing there. He walks over to him as he says, "Oh. Thank you."
Sherlock's eyes fall on the gold band on the left ring finger of the stranger, and he quickly analyzes him as his right hand grabs the other end of the phone. John feels that familiar pull again as he watches this man's face form an expression that he always saw on his classmates when they were trying to solve a maths problem.
"It's an old friend of mine: John Watson," Mike cuts in, noticing the moment, "John, this is Sherlock Watson. Not related, are you?" He laughs as he realizes the possible connection.
Both men's eyes are wide with realization, weighed down by the enormity of this moment.
"Uh, no. Not as such," John mutters to Mike, breaking eye contact as Sherlock takes full possession of the phone.
"I hate to run off, but I've got a class starting in a few minutes. Will you two be alright?"
"Yes, thank you, Mike," John continues to speak for the two of them as Sherlock appears to be transfixed by his cell phone.
When the door closes, leaving them alone together, John speaks up again, "So...Sherlock Watson?" He can't help but tease.
Sherlock tsks and rolls his eyes as he hands John his phone back. John catches a glimpse of the gold band on his left ring finger as the light catches it, "You did agree to marry me," he says pompously, as if that answers everything.
"Yes, but then you didn't respond to any of my letters."
"You didn't send me any letters."
"I did too!" John becomes curiously indignant.
Sherlock retreats in to his mind palace, trying to remember the time of his life 20 years ago that he's spent so long trying to forget. And then it clicks.
"My parents never gave me your letters while I was away at boarding school."
"They sent you to boarding school when I left?"
"To keep me busy, most likely."
They lapse in to silence as they each take in the other's differences. Neither is at all disappointed by who the other has become, but there's something about John...
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asks suddenly.
"Sorry?" John frowns.
"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" He begrudgingly repeats calmly.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?"
Sherlock explains how he knew, though really John should know better than to doubt his mind reader.
"But there's something...your limp is psychosomatic, but you did get shot," he appears to be piecing a puzzle together, and John doesn't want to help him. He loves observing what his brilliant childhood friend has grown in to and what he's capable of now.
Sherlock steps forward, his right hand coming up slowly to lightly rest on the front of John's left shoulder. Instinctively, John tries to move the shoulder away but Sherlock won't let him.
"You could have died," he whispers, eyes finally meeting John's again with a tinge of fear.
Before he can even think about the words, John responds along with a shake of his head, "It brought me back to you."
Sherlock looks so incredibly vulnerable in that moment as his hand falls back to his side, "John, I..."
"Ask me again," John demands boldly, an edge of challenge mixing with his delight.
Sherlock swallows, "It's been 20 years."
"And I've never forgotten you. Ask me again."
"We've both changed so much."
"I can already tell you're still my Sherlock underneath it all. Ask me again," he smirks.
"We..." he starts, but John closes the distance between them, startling him in to silence.
"Have wasted too much time already. If you still love me, ask me again."
Without hesitation, Sherlock does, "Will you marry me?"
John reaches up to kiss him for only the second time in their lives, and it feels like coming home and belonging.
"Oh God, yes," he breathes once they part.
A/N: This is a bit different than my other stories, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on it (even if it's simply in the form of kudos).
I took a few liberties with the handing of the phone in the last scene. From what I could tell from pictures, Pilot!John uses his left to hand it and SiP!John uses his right. Clearly for the effect to be right here, he needed to offer it with his left. So I hope that didn't throw you out of the story.
All feedback (even (constructive) criticism) is welcome! I truly hope you enjoyed it!