The Sandbox

A/N: Just a fluffy story I wanted to write. John and Sherlock meet as children.

When John Watson approached the sandbox, he had no idea that his life was about to change. It would not be a change he would see for years to come, but from the instant he sat in the sand his future became engraved in stone.

Like most children, John was more concerned with his brief reprieve from being cooped up indoors than how his destiny was being formed. He took off his jacket and folded it over the side of the wood box before eagerly digging into the cold sand. His father had read him and Harry a story with castles and dragons, and young John had decided to recreate the images he had seen. With a stick, he traced out the designs to best figure out how to build them.

He was so engrossed with the task that he didn't even notice when another boy in a dark coat came to the sandbox. Tall with a mop of dark hair, the other boy kept his blue eyes firmly planted on John for a good minute before speaking up.

"I'm sorry for your loss." John jumped, knocking over what little progress he had made on the castle's turrets.

"Thank you," he blinked, watching the taller boy take a seat on the other side of the sandbox. He had remembered his manners out of instinct, so it took another moment to realize what the other boy had really said. "How did you know about my gran?"

"I didn't."

"Then why'd you say that?"

The smile on the pale boy's face was dazzling.

"It was obvious."

"What was?" John asked, confused and slightly frustrated with the strange boy.

"You just got back from a funeral. It's clear from your hair."

"My hair?" John asked, putting a hand up to his scalp as if he could hide the offending follicles.

"Your hair has clearly been styled, usually reserved for special occasions. Some boys might always have their hair done but you've clearly run your hand through several times, messing it up either from forgetting or not caring. So, it's not a normal occurrence or one you're fond of."

"What else?" This question seemed to catch the other boy off-guard.

"You want me to…continue?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, your clothes."

"What about them?"

"All black? Pressed? Those shoes are new as well. Your ensemble is meant for an event, not playing. It might have been a school event, but it's unlikely given your demeanor and the fact that it's the weekend. Therefore, you're just back from a funeral."

There was silence in the sandbox.

"That's fantastic."

"Oh." The other boy, for being so verbose, seemed lost for words. To make up for the silence, he began pulling little glass jars out of his coat pockets. Two of the jars were full of sand and had labels with carefully printed names on them.

"I'm John, by the way. John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"It's nice to meet you," John smiled. Sherlock ignored him, scooping some sand up and placing it into an empty jar. He then lined the three jars up along the side of the box and held them up, one by one, into the sunlight. John started working on his sculptures again, but his gaze kept flicking over to the other boy.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm comparing the sand from different sandboxes."

"Why?"

"Because then I can tell where someone has been." Sherlock looked up from the jars and pointed at John's feet. "When you get home, you'll find sand in your shoes. Someone could tell just by looking at it that you were at this park instead of another one."

"That's brilliant."

There was a shout from the far side of the playground. Both boys looked over to the monkey bars, where an older girl was rowing with a slightly older and chubby boy. John groaned. Sherlock grinned.

"Harry's not supposed to get in fights anymore," John grumbled.

"I'm sure Mycroft deserves it," Sherlock said. "In fact, I know it."

"What?"

"He's my brother, and he deserves whatever your sister – good, not a cousin- your sister can give. He brought me here as punishment."

"How is the park punishment?" Sherlock held up the glass jars.

"There are three parks within walking distance of our flat. Two have swings, this one doesn't. The swings are my favorite, and he knows that."

"What's he punishing you for?"

"I called him fat."

"Well, he is a bit on the healthy side." Sherlock chuckled. "Why do you only like the swings?"

"Because I don't have to deal with other children there."

"Oh." John suddenly felt uncomfortable. He'd been pestering someone who'd wanted to be left alone and that was rude. "I'm sorry."

"I don't mean children like you," Sherlock said quickly. "It's just…I don't have friends. I don't want friends."

"John! John, we are leaving!" By the monkey bars, Harry was standing triumphantly over a seated Mycroft. It looked like he was holding his nose in pain. "Now, John!"

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's. He gave a brief nod and then turned back to his jars. John put his jacket back on and started to walk away before a thought struck him.

"If you ever change your mind, I'll be your friend."

"No you won't." But Sherlock had stopped turning the jars over, his eyes frozen on the sand inside.

"Yes I will. And that's a promise." With that, John finally took off after his impatient sister, leaving a silent Sherlock behind him.

Days passed, followed by weeks that became years that turned into decades. For John, it wasn't long before he forgot about the mysterious boy with the dark coat and blue eyes. For Sherlock, he always remembered the boy who promised to be his friend. For a short while he hoped that the boy might return to the playground, if only so that he could question his motives, but the Watson siblings never returned.

Sometimes, he remembered that chance encounter with cynicism. He had never had a friend before or since, why would John have thought different. What had he seen that so many others couldn't? But on rare days, Sherlock remembered the boy with the honest face fondly, as if he had been a friend of twenty years rather than twenty minutes.

So when Mike Stamford brought the recently invalided John Watson into his laboratory, it was no surprise that he briefly considered that it might be the same person from all those years ago. It would make sense that John from the playground would become a military man. It also made sense that his compassion for others would direct him towards a medical career.

He had been very particular in his search for a flatmate. He had turned down a few men already who were looking for lodging within seconds of glancing them over. He needed someone who would not get in the way. Someone who would let him practice violin at two in the morning or run an experiment with the microwave that involved human organs. Someone who would live with him without bothering him or being bothered by him.

But the moment John Watson reentered his life, priorities changed. He wanted a flatmate who could also be a companion. A friend. A friend who wouldn't negatively react to blood on the carpet, but a friend nonetheless.

And even though he couldn't remember making it, John kept his promise.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! (I had to write something happy before the Fall)