"Girlfriend... no, not really my area."

"... Alright. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way..."

"I know it's fine", Sherlock answers, but John sees from his eyes he doesn't believe what he says. Not that it's surprise, the detective seems to know a lot about crimes and solving them, but deducing other person's causes... John smiles gently.

"So you have a boyfriend", he asks once more.

"Yes. Well...technically his my fiancé. But yes, I do have a boyfriend."

John froze for a second. Yes? He looks at Sherlock again and sees that the detective is tense like a bow - what - oh

"Alright then", he said after a second, "So... Tell me about him."

Sherlock turned his gaze back to John, frown still settled firmly on his brows.

"Tell about him?"

John shuffled a bit and shrugged, trying to ignore the spark of heartbreaking hopefulness in Sherlock's voice. He could only assume a history with homophobia. ('Okay, John, getting this right is extra important now, if you still want that flat...')

"You know, the things people usually tell. His name, what's his job... How you met and so on."

Sherlock's face relaxed and his left hand uncurled under the table.

"I suppose it all begun with a picnic..."

The day was bright, as if the gods had decided to make Sherlock miserable. Not that he hated the warmness and all the things what summers were meant to be, but it was difficult to stay still when he silently fought the urge to chase the butterflies around him. He was trying to give a proper sulk about the fact he had been forced to leave his books for this picnic, but then again, he had known the date for weeks.

The mother and son waited under a large tree (Quercus robur, Sherlock pointed out) that the Trevors would arrive; they were a bit late, and Mrs. Holmes noticed her son was getting quite fidgety over the time they stood there. She tried to ask for the reason - was he too hot, should he drink some water - but didn't get any answers (apart from the impatient huffs) and she shrugged. Maybe he was just restless.

Finally they saw a woman and her ten-year-old son, picnic basket swinging between them, jog towards their direction.

"... that our mothers arranged together. They arranged our friendship, actually."

The boy approached Sherlock almost immediately and stuck his warm hand to Sherlock's grassy hand.

"Hi. What's your name?", the brown-haired boy asked after he shook their hands for them.

"Sherlock", said his confused new acquaintance , "my name is Sherlock."

The green-eyed boy beside him seemed excited.

"S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K, right? Sherlock, Sher-lock", he repeated many times, until he stopped. "Yes. I think like your name."

"... Thank you."

"I'm Victor."

John halted his fork as he processed the sentence he just heard. Arranged friendship, was that something people still did? Sherlock noticed but he didn't comment.

"We and our mothers met every Sunday in our nearby park and usually we had a day-long picnic... Our mothers were utterly delighted of the fact we tolerated each other, but Victor and I overachieved as usually. I mean, we became friends, eventually."

Two Sundays later they fed the ducks, side by side, in consensual silence. Suddenly Sherlock had the need to break it and he coughed politely to get Victors attention.

"My mom said that you are different too," he said and glanced at the boy next to him. Victor let a tiny giggle, like he did now and then.

"I guess that's us versus the world from now on," he gave his answer, in all earnest.

Sherlock met his gaze and smiled.

"Yeah, I think I'd like that."

One cab stopped and they ran through the London.