"Hey! Mister, hey!"
Sherlock sighed. People.
"Mister!"
He hated people.
"Hey! Sir!"
Especially persistent people.
"Mist- ugh!"
At that he turned, a smile already on his face. The owner of the voice had obviously fallen. He supposed it was worth his time to see that spectacle. Therefore he was completely unsurprised to find a frustrated four-year-old in the leaves behind him.
However, it was a bit of a shock how oddly familiar the boy's face was.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it – the roundness, the point of the nose, the too-dark cobalt eyes...
Irrelevant. What was important was that he was currently watching a child nearing the point of tears, and that would most definitely not bode well for a quiet stroll in the park.
He hurried forward as fast as his limp would allow – damned untrained fencers – and crouched on the ground beside him. Grimacing as his trousers were dirtied, he gripped the child by his elbows and helped him to his feet.
He attempted to soothe the boy. "Um, calm down. Stop crying. You're fine." He sighed, frustrated. "Stop blubbering-" he growled, too low to be heard. It seemed as though the mop of blonde hair may finally be quieting down.
Finally, the dark eyes stopped watering, and the sniffling came to an end. He almost smiled at the welcome change, but was a bit preoccupied with avoiding the dirty hands reaching out to him for a hug.
"Er, no. Thank you? No," he said again, slightly annoyed. This is why he particularly despised children. They mess themselves, cry, then insist on sharing it all with you.
With the squeals quieted, he stood and began on his way once more.
Only to be stopped again by the whimpering voice.
"Wait, mister! I didn't even get to talk t' you!"
With a resigned sigh, he turned again to face the child. The boy saw his chance and rushed forward to leap into a surprised Sherlock's arms. Facing the options of either dropping the child or dealing with a dirtied shirt, he chose the one without the possible law suit. Uttering a grunt, he hoisted the boy into a more comfortable position on his bicep.
Looking around once in the hopes of finding his parents, he sighed again in disappointment. Irresponsible, not to mention entirely too obnoxious.
"Make it quick then. Your parents are probably worried," he warned, inwardly thinking the opposite. Whoever manages to rid themselves of the sniveling whirlwind of tears and grime that comprises young children was smarter than most.
"Nah, my dad's busy talking with mum," he assured him, clutching the thick coat sleeve. Seeming to be reminded of his important news, he brightened. "Yeah! My dad! I had to tell you..." he motioned for the man to move closer. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock complied. "You walk funny like him."
He almost dropped the child. This was the reason for losing five minutes of his precious time? To hear about some brat's father and his limp? "How fascinating. Now, I really must be on my way-"
"Did you get hurt for real? 'Cause when it's her week, mummy always says that he's fakin' it." The boy nodded gravely, as though it were the most important of secrets. "She says that an es-pert told him so once." The scrunched up face he made while trying to pronounce "expert" was almost humorous.
For some reason, the talk of a false limp also struck him as repetitive. Why, though? He didn't remember anyone with a psychosomatic limp, or if he did, he deleted it.
He shrugged the thought away. Unimportant. Though this child's talk of medical expertise and parental feuding was a bit interesting. It could possibly be helpful in future cases involving divorce and disbanded marriages... Besides, he was only going to meet Mycroft. And he had no qualms with making him wait.
"Is that so?" he asked, a bit of mirth in his tone.
The blonde head nodded vigorously. "Mm-hm. Says s'all in his head. So is yours real, Mister?"
He couldn't help it – he smiled at the boy. He passed it off on that vague familiarity. "Yes, it's very real, I assure you." And it was true. He could still feel the dull throb of the gash there, and the sting of the anti-biotic. Why on earth his trainer had thought matching him against a two-year fencer was a good idea was beyond him.
"How did ya get it?"
"Sword fight," he lied, but only slightly. It really wasn't worth his time to explain the difference.
"Amazing." He had to admit, the look of open admiration was sort of endearing. But even that held the tainted feel of déjà vu. His face once again alighting in the appearance of a look that said I-completely-forgot-but-I-have-a-question, the boy asked, "What's your name, Sir?"
He grinned. "Sherlock Holmes."
The boy's jaw dropped. "Nuh-uh! You're fibbing."
It was the man's turn to be puzzled. "Why in the world would you assume that?"
"'Cause your name's not Sherlock. That's my name."
The shock on his face must have been all too evident, seeing as the boy immediately burst into giggles. "You're funny, Mister Sherlock."
The elder was not as amused. His name was a thing he took pride in. It was as unique as his occupation. That another would have it – someone as common as this child – slightly frustrated him.
It was even more infuriating to hear the boy's apparent father call out their name across the park, and to have them both turn.
The child giggled once more. "Me, not you. That's my dad."
Holmes nodded. Of course. He was surprised – with how engrossed he'd been in his thoughts, he'd forgotten that this boy was technically missing. He glanced up in the direction the voice had come from.
Sure enough, an older man, likely approaching his fifties, was hobbling toward them with the aid of a sleek silver cane. He had sandy hair that was mainly threaded through with gray. His haircut seemed remnant of military service, but the clothing and evident family suggested that he'd been discharged for some time.
The pale man bent to set the boy on the ground to go to his father, but he clutched resolutely at the long coat, instead opting to bounce in place at his feet.
He saw the face turn up briefly to observe before it disappeared once again beneath the locks. He kept his eyes trained on the grass as he proceeded. Definitely old military respect habits. Just as expected.
And, when the man came to a halt before them, it seemed his limp had disappeared. Definitely psychosomatic. No surprise.
And when he lifted that haggard face to look at his child's rescuer, the identical cobalt eyes widened in shock at meeting equally-stunned gray ones.
They stood there for a moment, the young boy trapped between them in their confusion, neither daring to look away for fear that the image would dissolve.
Sherlock was the first to snap out of it. He thought he'd gotten over his delusions years ago. He had believed that he'd finally managed to delete John Watson after all of the extensive therapy Mycroft had made him endure.
Apparently not, considering his illusion stood before him once more. A bit older and more tired, but definitely the same man.
He patted the young boy on the head once more and turned, prepared to leave and continue with his day.
And was stopped dead when the illusion breathed one word. "Sherlock?"
That was new. The others had never uttered a sound. They usually just stared at him blankly with dead eyes. Interesting. Maybe this new strength was brought on by the child's similarities.
"Yes, daddy?" he heard the answer given.
The father did not respond. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, shoving him around to face the man once again. The expression had not changed, save for the slight hint of hysteria in the dark gaze.
That touch was far too real. You couldn't imagine a grip like that, the pressure of what he knew to be calloused pads digging into his bony shoulder.
How strange. He hadn't thought that his delusions could provoke any senses excluding sight.
And now that the thought entered, with it came a fourth sense. It was slightly musky scent, yet clean, and most definitely John.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. Relapses were definitely adding insult to a literal injury. He so did not need this right now.
And yet he couldn't break his gaze from those dark blue eyes. They bored into his, locking into and sharing his disbelief, his frustration, his sorrow.
"God, it's not you. It can't be you. You're dead. I saw you. I felt your..."
And all at once, Sherlock's world was spinning. He needed to leave, to be anywhere but here. He needed to go home (the one that would never be the home that 221B Baker Street had once been), curl up on a sofa that was not truly his, and be silent and still until Mycroft made him get up and, for God's sake, Sherlock, just eat something.
But still the hand was firm on his shoulder, rooting him in place. And just as quickly as it arrived, its pressure left and was renewed in a much less pleasant place.
His nose felt like it had exploded, and stars swam before his eyes. He staggered back and, hindered by a bum leg, landed promptly on his arse.
Meanwhile, an all-too-real John Watson was clutching his fist in what appeared to be pained disbelief, and his son stood, terrified, between the two.
"Jesus," he muttered, examining the knuckles. Then seeming to remember why they hurt, he looked to Sherlock in a panic, suddenly horrified. "You're... alive? Oh, God, no. You were dead, and Moriarty was dead, too, and I..." He broke out into a grin as suddenly as his blow had been delivered. "And I just gave you what I've know you've fuckin' deserved for the past eight years!" He burst into hearty laughter, doubled over and clutching frantically at his sides.
The bleeding man watched him in stunned silence for a moment before beginning to chuckle himself. And then he wasn't just chuckling, he was guffawing, and John wasn't just doubled over, he was on the ground beside Sherlock, gripping his friend's wrist in an attempt not to roll away. And they were noisy, and boisterous, and the loudest in the park, and neither cared that people were staring, or that the little boy still waited in scared confusion beside them, or that Sherlock's veins were evidently perfectly content with emptying themselves onto the green grass beneath them. All that mattered was that they were here, goddammit, and that John had given his best friend a punch to the face, and that the holes that had been festering inside them for seven years suddenly began to throw out bare threads in the hope of being mended.
All that mattered was that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been reunited.
Author's Note: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Not me.
Not sure of whether to continue with this. Thoughts are much appreciated!