Tumbling-hair
picker of buttercups
violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
also picking flowers
-e.e. cummings
A breeze blows over the wide, open plain, throwing forward the mass of dark curls around her head and bending back the heads of her collection of flowers clutched tightly in her round fingers.
She sees a purple flower that makes her eyes widen, and giggles as she tugs it free from the nourishment of the soft ground. More for her bouquet to bring to Mummy.
She runs, the colourful bunch held out carefully in front of her.
Her hands are full, so she wanders back to the fence which separates her backyard from the field of tempting treasures—she's forgotten all about her mother telling her to stay inside the fence, the draw of the neighboring land too strong for the mere child of four—and places her spoils in a grassy section just beside one of the many wooden posts.
Then her chubby little legs are off again, back to her task of exploring and gathering. She skips through the tall, yellow grass, watching her favorite shoes jumping below her.
She looks up just in time to stop from hitting him—the little boy. He is her height, with cropped ash-blond hair, but maybe a year or two older. His jumper is striped and she decides she likes it.
His eyes are curious, but nervous, too, and almost apologetic. She does not recognize this, thinking he looks sad to have almost been run into.
"Oops," she whispers, while his hands bunch together behind his back—a nervous habit of his.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs.
She tilts her head and smiles at him. "You do not scare me," she states.
His worry fades and he smiles back at her. "Okay."
"Want to pick flowers?" she asks her new friend.
"Yes," he grins.
She giggles and sprints away from him, meaning for him to follow.
He does, but not nearly as fast as she.
"Faster!" she shouts, full of adolescent glee.
They run and they play, they pick flowers, and run some more while holding hands and with the grass running against their legs.
"Irene Adler!" her mother calls from a distance beyond the fence. "Irene, where are you?"
"That's my mummy," she says. "I have to go home."
The boy takes her hand and squeezes. "Come and play tomorrow?"
She smiles. "Yes."
She slides under the fence and goes to her hiding place, gathering her collection in her arms and careful not to drop or crush any of her prizes.
"My name's Irene," she calls back. "What's yours?"
"John," the boy says. "John Watson."
She smiles. Irene likes his name. "See you tomorrow, John Watson."
A/N: Secret ship, John/Irene. This was too perfect, I couldn't resist. Review, please!