What normally goes through the head of a seven year old boy? Is it be a whirl of colors and candy? Or would it be something else? Something none of us understand maybe; like all the imagination in the world, or that feeling when you're running and you stretch your arms out like an airplane, and in that instant you really believe you could lift of the ground and fly away, such as only small children can feel.
Whatever the case may be, John Watson was not like the other boys. He sometimes believed he could fly, and he liked candy as much as the next kid, but something made him different.
He found the other children boring. They would be content playing ball, and striking each other with imaginary swords, whilst he would much rather prefer sitting alone. Sometimes he would sit in his room wrapped up in blankets; other times he would find a nice place in the woods, perhaps by a stream that would flow softly as back round noise. And he would think, sometimes for hours on end, and Harry would have to come looking for him and scold him for being late to dinner.
He would create things in his head; the most wonderful, magical places that were all his own. No one knew about them because he didn't tell. They were his secret places, and he had many of them.
He also had a few imaginary friends, but he wasn't as attached to them. If he talked to them out loud Harry or his parents would make fun of him and call him cute. He didn't like to be called cute.
Sometimes it hurt though. No matter how much he wanted to go to these places, he never could. They were in his mind, and even if they were so real he could almost feel them, he would never be able to visit them. It made him cry sometimes. He wanted magic. He didn't want to be a part of this boring world.
John's family was moving today. They had packed up all there things weeks before, and loaded them into the car this morning. They didn't have many things, so it was easy. Then came a long drive for almost two hours, wedged between Harry, who was constantly complaining, and a box full of kitchen utensils.
Their new house was small, and rather creepy looking. John thought it looked like the kind of house things would hide in. That didn't scare him; he rather liked it. Most boys his age would run away, but not John. He'd always been brave.
Earlier that evening they had settled in their new bedrooms. Harry had bragged about getting the bigger one, but he didn't mind that much. His bedroom had a nice, big window above the bed, and a huge closet that he could hide in and think if he wanted to.
After dinner they had all went back to their rooms, and now John lay tucked in his bed, staring at the dark, shadowy ceiling. He was deep in one of his worlds; his favorite one with knights and dragons, when he heard scuffling towards the side of his bed.
He sat up and clicked on his bedside lamp, but nothing was there. He even got up and looked under the bed and in the corners; mother had said the new house might have mice. Finding nothing, he climbed back into bed, and eventually fell asleep.
The same thing happened the next few nights. It made John more and more curious each time. He'd told mother and father; they'd told him that it was just a mouse, and he should ignore it.
There was one night in particular that he was feeling more curious than usual. These scuffling noises never came from the same place; they would move around the room. Sometimes in the corner or by his bed, and other times in the closet. He had never opened the closet before; at least not at night. So this time he jumped up excitedly and threw open the door.
There was a snake-like hiss from the shadows, and John could see two red eyes glowing back at him. A slender arm came up to try and block out the light from the lamp.
With a cry, John slammed the door closed and quickly back tracked to his bed. He sat on the floor breathing heavily for a few minutes before his wits came back to him. What was that thing? It looked like one of the monsters from the picture books his mother used to read him.
Curiosity eventually got the better of him again, and he crept forward slowly. John didn't have any friends in this new town, nor did he have any in his old one. Maybe the monster was different like him. Maybe the monster would be his friend.
He slid the closet door open again, careful not to let it squeak. "H-Hello?" he called timidly, trying not to shake. "I'm sorry I opened the door. You can come out if you want." There was no response.
John climbed back into bed and tried to go to sleep, finding it much tougher than before. Frightened of that thing, but also wanting to know what it was, he fell into an uncomfortable, dreamless sleep, and awoke in the early morning.
He didn't even try to tell his parents or sister what he saw; they wouldn't understand. Mother and father would try to convince him it was a dream, and Harry would just laugh at him.
So he acted like nothing was different or interesting. He went to school and did as he was told, finding the other children as boring as they found him. The teachers seemed to like him well enough, but that was all in the kind of grades he got.
That night he sat down in front of the closet again. He opened the door slowly and started talking in a voice stronger than the one he'd used last night. "I'm sorry I made you mad. I didn't mean to disturb you. Look, I even brought you some candy." He held up the remnants of his Halloween stash, but still no answer came. He sighed and sat the candy by the door before walking away.
He repeated this ritual every night for a little under a week. There was no change, although the candy did disappear. Then on the seventh night something finally happened.
He was sitting cross legged in the same place as always. "Please, please come out. I won't hurt you… as long as you don't hurt me."
He waited for about five minutes, then made to get up, thinking maybe he wouldn't try anymore, but then he heard familiar scuffling noises. He held his breath, waiting to see what would come out.
Slowly from the darkness two eyes appeared, glowing completely red with pinpoints of black in the middle. Then, even more slowly, the rest of the face was revealed from the shadows. It looked like a boy his age, maybe a little older, with a mop of jet black, curly hair. His mouth was set in a firm line, and the beginnings of fangs could be seen protruding over the things bottom lip.
John fell back from his knees, looking up in awe at the boy. He couldn't find any words; this looked like something out of his dreams. The thing continued to stare at him, and after a while gave a long, drawn out sigh. "Well? What do you want?"
John shook his head slightly, getting his train of thought back. "Will you come out?" he asked, standing up.
The creature seemed to think for a second. "Turn off your lamp."
John ran across the room and clicked off the light, then watched as the creature emerged completely from the closet. Except for his facial features, he looked like a human boy. He was clothed in a strange, dark, robe-like material, and shoes made of the same thing.
John sat down on his bed, and waited for the thing to do the same. "My name's John. What's yours?" he prompted after the creature did nothing.
The thing seemed to consider everything for a second, and then with a slight tilt of his head lowered himself across from John. "Sherlock."
John smiled. "That's a funny name. I'm seven. How old are you?"
Sherlock stared back at him, unblinking. "I am as ancient as the universe, and as young as the morning sunlight. I will be here until the end of time and beyond."
John looked back, wide-eyed. He finally gave a long 'Oh.' "If you're so old, how come you look little?" he asked, kicking his legs back and forth over the edge of the bed.
Sherlock shrugged, and for a while they were silent. Sherlock observed the other boy from the corner of his eye. "Why aren't you scared?" he demanded, curiosity getting the better of him.
"I was, a little. But you don't seem that mean." Suddenly he jumped up and grabbed Sherlock by the hand, causing him to flinch. "Can I show you to my parents? Their always telling me I need to make friends."
"Friends? I don't have friends." Sherlock said, spitting out the last word as if it were poison.
John smiled, unfazed. "I don't either. Maybe we can be friends." He tugged on Sherlock's hand. "Come on."
Sherlock glared at him for a moment, but then he closed his eyes. His fangs faded away, and his clothes became more normal. When he opened his eyes, his irises had faded to a dark brown. "Fine, I'll meet your mother and father. But that's it."
John led him into the living room where he introduced the other boy to his family. His father glanced up and nodded at Sherlock, and his mother simply said "That's nice, dear." without turning around. Harry glared.
John walked back to his bedroom with Sherlock in tow, a little disheartened. He had hoped his family would be happy, but they seemed to be ignoring him again, just like always.
He turned back to Sherlock, but found that the taller boy was already fading back into the shadows. "I have to go; I'm not supposed to talk to people like you."
"Bye then," John said, but Sherlock had already disappeared.
John thought that Sherlock wouldn't come back, and the thought made him sad. All the boys at school were boring and stupid, and there's no way he would be friends with a girl.
But Sherlock did come back. In the evening while John did his school work, Sherlock would be standing in the shadows observing him. Sometimes he would read over his shoulder, or sometimes just sit near John. They talked every once in a while; John always being the one to start a conversation. It didn't seem to matter though; over time a companionable silence developed between the two of them.
One day, a few months after they had met, John was laying on his bed reading a book, off from school due to snow. Sherlock came from the shadows and laid down beside him, skimming over the book.
"Why do you insist on reading things like that; it's boring. The entire human race is dull."
John shrugged and put the book down. "What do you want to do?"
He asked this question frequently, and Sherlock usually rolled his eyes and stayed silent, but this time was different.
"I want to show you something," he said, and began walking out the door.
"Wait for me!" John yelled, and Sherlock paused by the door impatiently, waiting for John to throw on shoes, a coat, and a scarf.
When he was finished Sherlock led him outside. No one was home but him, so he didn't have to worry about getting in trouble. The snow wasn't too deep, but it weighed down on the trees, making them sway even more in the wind.
They walked into the woods. They had to make their own path, stomping over snow and weeds, and eventually came to a small stream running through the trees. It was only about a foot deep and not very wide, but it seemed to flow for a long ways.
Sherlock bent down beside the stream, and John followed suit, noticing something.
"How come you look normal?" he asked, for Sherlock eyes were brown again.
Sherlock turned to him. "I thought it would make you more comfortable."
John shook his head. "I like it better that way. It makes you different."
"I suppose it does." Sherlock changed back, his fangs slipping out, and his eyes contrasting greatly with the snow.
John watched with great interest. "Are you a demon?"
Sherlock looked appalled. "No. Demons are evil; you don't ever want to meet a demon. My kind are just…mischievous."
"So you're a monster?"
Sherlock smiled one of his rare smiles, his eyes lighting up to a brighter red, and his lips pulling up over his sharp teeth. "Yes, John. I'm the monster that hides under your bed; the one that makes you quake in the middle of the night. That nightmare you had that you can't remember? That's me, brushing around in your mind at night, weaving new fears to haunt your days. That ringing you hear in the silence? That's me, scratching on the veil that separates our worlds. All that you fear and all that you ever will fear; it all comes back to me, John."
John giggled. "For someone who says humans are dull, you sure mess with them a lot."
Sherlock smiled again. "Well of course. It's fun to make them jump. Besides, my world is so boring. I want something different." He glanced at John. "I suppose not all humans are that bad. You can be interesting if you try."
John giggled again. "Aren't you cold?" he asked suddenly. The other boy was wearing nothing but his thin robes.
Sherlock scoffed. "I don't get cold. Now will you please stop asking questions so I can show you what I mean to?"
John remained silent, but he still didn't want his friend to be cold. He took off his blue scarf and wrapped it around Sherlock's neck, ignoring the grumbles.
Sherlock was bent over the stream, seeming to concentrate hard, his hair ruffling in the wind. John silently watched him, snow falling softly around them.
After a few moments, He noticed that the stream was changing. Mist seemed to be coming out of it in ribbons. It wasn't like normal mist; it seemed to wrap around them, dancing in the air. It seemed to pick at their clothes, one playfully tickling John's nose until he sneezed. This made Sherlock laugh a little.
"What are they?" John asked in awe as yet more of them came from the water until they were all around him. He reached out to touch them, but it dissolved on contact.
"They're water spirits," Sherlock said. "They're very impish."
John recoiled a little. "They're dead people?"
"No, they were never people. They're living water," Sherlock said simply, also watching the mist.
John didn't know how long they stayed like that, watching in silence as the vapor performed a strange kind of dance around them and above their heads. Eventually he heard his mother's car pull into the driveway and knew that if he wasn't back soon he would be in trouble. He jumped up and said bye to Sherlock, shooting off through the trees.
He managed to slip in unnoticed, and his mom didn't see him until he was half way up the stairs.
"John Hamish Watson," she called after him. "Where is your scarf? If you lost it already…"
He winced, realizing he had left it with Sherlock. Oh well, he had other ones. "Sorry mom," he said before rushing up the stairs.
Sherlock still visited every night. When school let out for the summer they stayed up for most of the night. John taught him how to play some card games, which he called dull, but still insisted on playing. Sometimes they snuck into the living room and watched the television while everyone was sleeping. Sherlock particularly liked cartoons, though he wouldn't admit it.
They grew up along side each other, for Sherlock grew too. When John asked him why this was, since he'd already said he was thousands of years old, (he'd even seen dinosaurs) he shrugged. "You're probably rubbing off on me. I don't even want to think about that."
Sherlock was there if he was upset or sick, and though he didn't really know what to say, just being there helped. He was there when John started middle school, when he first started showing an interest in girls, ("Stupid creatures; they don't care about anything but clothes. I don't understand them") and he was still there when John graduated with a high school diploma.
They both appeared to be young men of about eighteen now. John was in his room putting on his robes for the graduation ceremony, and Sherlock was sitting his bed.
"I don't understand the point of this. Why can't they just give you the piece of paper and be done with it?" Sherlock said, speaking in the low baritone he had developed. He was throwing John's hat up and down in the air, looking as scary as ever, though not to John.
His eyes had faded to a icy blue, apparently because he'd been spending too much time with humans, but his pupils had become slightly reptile-like. There were small horns growing from the top of his head, and his fangs were as sharp as ever. He had also shot up in height, now towering over John.
"I don't know. Sentiment, I guess."
Sherlock scoffed. "It's all about sentiment, isn't it? Every little thing."
John took the hat and beat him with it playfully. "Yes, because that's just the way we humans are. Stupid, slobbering Neanderthals that care about each other."
"Ow! Stop it, stop it!" Sherlock said, trying to fend off John, but only succeeding in falling off the bed. They both knew he had the strength to send John through the wall, he just chose not to use it.
John laughed as he sprawled on the floor, but quickly looked away when he realized his eyes were roaming over Sherlock's body again. He caught himself doing that much to often, just as he liked listening to him talk in his low voice just a little too much. He chose to ignore it. That, and the fact that he hadn't had a steady girlfriend in almost a year. They just weren't interesting.
John went to the ceremony, and Sherlock stayed home, or where ever it was he went. But he could have sworn when they called his name there was a tall stranger watching from the shadows.
Things went on as normal. A few days later Sherlock asked him what the point of a high school diploma was. "How is a piece of paper supposed to help you?"
"It shows that you finished high school and know everything you're supposed to. It also helps you get into a college and study your field."
Sherlock cocked his head to side. "What are you planning to be anyway?"
John drew himself to his full height. "I'm going to study medicine. I want to be an army doctor."
Sherlock looked sharply at him. "You what?" he hissed.
John faltered. "I want to be a medic in the army. Heal soldiers after battle and what not."
Sherlock rose and stalked towards him, eyes narrowed to slits. "You want to join the army?" he hissed in John's face. "You want to be shipped off to who knows where and shoot at people?"
John drew away. He had never seen Sherlock this upset. "No, I said I want to heal people. I won't do any actual fighting, not unless I have to."
"You are not. Joining. The army." Sherlock said menacingly.
John began to get angry. "I will if I bloody well want to. Look Sherlock, this is what I want and you can't stop me."
Sherlock grabbed him by the collar. "Fine. But I am not coming with you just to watch you get shot at."
"No one said you had to! Just leave!" John yelled back at him.
Sherlock let go of his collar and backed away into the shadows with a growl, leaving John to fume on his own.
He didn't come back.
Not once.
John went through medical school and training. Then he was sent to Afghanistan. He didn't see Sherlock through any of it.
Not in his last days at home. Not at university. Not during the lonely nights at the training camp. And definitely not during the horrible, terrifying nights in Afghanistan.
The bullet pierced through his shoulder with blinding pain. He fell to the ground,
clutching it, in a thicket of trees. No one would ever find him there, and no way was he going to be able to move.
The blood gushed through his fingers, making it impossible for him to see much of the wound. He tried in vain to dig the bullet out, screaming in pain.
"Please, God. Let me live," he whispered, closing his eyes, knowing it was hopeless.
He wanted to see Sherlock.
He could have laughed at himself, if it weren't for the pain. In his last dying moments he wanted to see the monster in his closet. He wanted to say he was sorry, to say Sherlock was right and he never should have enlisted. He wanted to voice the feelings he knew he had, but chose to ignore; the ones he had become more painfully aware of after Sherlock had left.
His eyes closed.
"John!"
And then they snapped open.
There was Sherlock, crouching over him.
"John! John, listen to me! Stay with me okay, I can fix this." He put his hands over John's wounds, ignoring the blood.
"Sher…Sherlock…how…" he croaked, but Sherlock silenced him. There was something in the taller man's eyes that John had never seen before.
Fear.
He was afraid for John. He was afraid John would die, and he was doing everything he could to save him.
Now he was hunched over the wound, chanting something that made it glow faintly blue.
Then John blacked out.
He woke up in the hospital at camp. The other doctors were tending to him. Eventually one of them came up.
"Though you were done for, soldier." he said. "We found you away in some trees. Strange; we couldn't find a wound. Lots of blood loss though."
John just nodded his head.
He was discharged, and moved to London. He rented a flat from a sweet landlady; Mrs. Hudson.
There was no certainty that he hadn't dreamed it all. Sherlock had never come back after they fought; why would he have been there to save him? Still, the doctor said they couldn't find a wound, and he knew there had definitely been one.
There was no real explanation.
He walked with a limp now, one that his therapist said was psychosomatic. She was obviously right since his leg was fine. He didn't even tell her about Sherlock for fear he'd get sent to a mental institution.
He wanted to see Sherlock.
Saying hello to Mrs. Hudson, he opened the door to his flat, and went to make a cup of tea, then turned on the telly to watch his favorite show. About half way through he noticed a familiar pair of eyes peering at him from the shadows.
"Sherlock," he breathed, dropping his tea and standing up.
"Hello John," Sherlock said, stepping out of the darkness.
If it was possible he had grown even taller, and his face had become more mature, with high cheekbones, and the same curly hair. He wore a long coat and black pants. John noticed that Sherlock had the same blue scarf around his neck from all those years ago.
John barely thought before running to Sherlock and wrapping him in his arms, leaving the cane behind.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." he muttered incoherently into Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock hugged him back, running his hands through John's hair.
Finally John pulled away, but still didn't let go. "Thank you."
Sherlock smiled, leaning toward John. "You should have listened to me."
John smiled back for a moment. "Don't leave again. Stay here with me."
"Of course; you're mine. Forever." Sherlock said before leaning down to kiss him.
"Oh God, yes." John breathed into Sherlock's mouth, before kissing him back, not even caring that the fangs got in the way.
A/N: There is a sequel to this called 'Dream Weaver' if you're interested :)