He had never managed to work out why, but when the bullet slammed into his shoulder, and the world went white and the sound of gunfire and screams of pain and bellowed orders faded into the background, Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, thought back to the young boy with dark, messy curls and a bright blue scarf.
"Mycroft, I can do it myself!" a high, indignant voice had snapped from somewhere behind the bench John had been sitting on. The voice - though unmistakably a child's voice - had a peculiar seriousness to it, as if the owner was trying - and failing - to make it sound older and maturer.
John looked up from where he had been drawing in the dirt with his shoe, and turned his head slightly, trying to find the owner of the voice without being too obvious. He had only been sitting there for five minutes, but he was already bored. His mother had decided to take him and Harry out to London for the day, in order to celebrate Harry's birthday. Their father had been working, and so would meet them at the restaurant later on. John had thought he'd seen relief in his father's eyes when he had told them he'd have to miss the shopping trip, and John found he couldn't blame him. Shopping for things he liked was one thing, but trailing after his mum and sister, who stopped after every second display to discuss whether "This jumper makes my stomach bulge." or "Is this skirt too pink." was torture.
His mother had taken pity on him after an hour of him wandering along behind them, carrying bags and trying to smile politely at the ageing shopkeepers who stopped to comment on his helpfulness. She had finally sighed, and, with a fond smile and a ruffle of his shaggy blonde hair, had told him he could wait outside. Stifling a laugh at the way his face had lit up, she gave him firm instructions to stay outside on the bench where she could keep an eye on him, and gave him the usual "Don't talk to strangers." speech. He had nodded quickly, ignoring his sister's eyes roll from the edge of his vision, and had dashed outside eagerly.
After sitting alone on the bench for five minutes, however, he was debating whether or not he should give up and go back into the shop. At least there he would have something to do. Then he had heard the voice, and had came to the decision that this possible drama would probably be more entertaining than tank tops and necklaces.
An exasperated sounding sigh met the child's statement. "Fine! But if you catch a cold, don't say i didn't warn you." John could see two boys standing on the corner of the street behind and to the right of the bench. They were standing at the edge of the pavement, where the park met the road, and they seemed to be in the middle of a fight.
The older boy, who looked to be Harry's age - around sixteen or seventeen - was tall and pompous looking, with neat, combed hair and a long-suffering air. At the moment, his long face was furrowed slightly with annoyance, and his arms were crossed forebodingly across his chest. The younger boy, who, John was surprised to note, only looked to be a year or so younger than himself, looked completely different. While the other boy looked neat and organized, this boy looked as if he had never even heard of the word 'tidy'. His dark, curly hair stuck up in every direction, falling down past his jaw. He reached up impatiently to swipe at a strand that had dared to fall into his eyes, and John could see ink stains all along the boy's hand. He was tall, like the other boy, but looked lankier, like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. His clothes were at odds with the rest of him. They were expensive looking, and looked as if they fit perfectly. He wore a dark, long coat, that only had half of its buttons done up - the source of the argument, John surmised - and a deep blue scarf that John thought must have cost more than his whole outfit combined. His refined features were currently twisted in frustrated displeasure.
"You can't catch a cold from being cold, Mycroft. Honestly. Use the brain you were given. If you were given one, that is. I do sometimes wonder..."
The older boy's eyes narrowed and John thought he saw his cheeks turn a light shade of pink.
"That's enough, Sherlock. Really. You could at least try to not be so rude."
It was the younger boy's turn to blush.
"I'm not being rude! I'm simply stating a fact! Being cold does not make you catch a cold. It can speed up the process, of course, since people can carry the cold virus without getting the symptoms, and the cold can cause the blood vessels in the nose to restrict, which affects the defence in the nose, and can cause the virus to replicate, but the idea that someone could actually contract a cold from a slightly lower body temperature is ridiculous!" The boy - Sherlock, John supposed - exclaimed, seemingly all in one breath. He glared up at the older boy, as if daring him to refute his words. John had to remind himself to close his mouth. It wasn't so much the fact that the boy was saying things that were not usually said by children his age - though the boy did seem very intelligent - it was more to do with the confidence in the boy's voice, as if he did not doubt himself for a second - indeed, did not even entertain the possibility that what he was saying could be anything other than completely correct.
John was mesmerised.
He knew many adults who didn't have that kind of self-confidence. It was like the boy completely accepted the fact that he was intelligent, and yet didn't feel the need that many children John knew felt to be boastful or proud of it.
"Sherlock!"
The older boy's face had flushed completely by this point. This time, John thought, it was in anger. "Just- just wait out here, all right? I'm going in to see mummy. Stay here, and don't cause trouble!" With that, the older boy - Mycroft, John reminded himself - strode forward towards the door to an expensive clothes shop that John's mother had passed earlier, casting a slightly guilty look between the price tags in the window and Harry's hopeful look, before hurrying them forwards towards the shop they were now in. Mycroft took a moment to compose himself at the door, before grasping the handle and swinging it open, slipping inside without a backwards glance.
John slumped forward slightly at the sudden end to his entertainment, but kept his gaze fixed on the younger boy, who was now, John noticed, clenching his fists against his side and casting angry looks towards the shop that had swallowed the other boy. The boy looked around himself at his surroundings, scanning the area for, John assumed, something that would interest him. When the other boy's eyes met John's, he quickly broke the eye contact and, turning slightly, unceremoniously plopped himself down on the pavement, long legs folding under him.
John sat, staring at him for a moment, before mentally shaking himself. With sudden determination, he stood abruptly, and walked slowly towards the other boy. He tried to look casual as he sauntered towards the sitting figure, but when he was a metre or so away, he lifted his head to see stormy grey eyes regarding him with wariness. John stood for a moment, at a loss for what to do next. He hadn't really thought this plan through. All he had thought was that he wanted to witness the boy's confidence and brilliant some more. After another moment of staring at each other silently, John gathered his courage and sat down next to the boy, leaving one metre between them.
The boy's gaze turned from wary to incredulous when John stuck out his hand, smiled as friendly as he could, and said, "John Watson. Nice to meet you."
The noises around John returned slowly, as if he was emerging from being trapped in deep water. He was aware of a steady, beeping noise, and quiet chatter, hearing words he thought he ought to recognise. Along with the sound, he became aware of a strange feeling in his left shoulder. He tried to recall what had happened to cause the feeling, and he attempted to fight through his foggy mind to retrieve the memories. He thought he remembered the sun, bearing down on him, and a sharp noise. Then there was pain. John pushed at the memories, but all he could come up with was a pair of eyes; dark with mistrust; light with hope. He felt himself slipping back into a dream of the day he had first seen those eyes, and this time, John gave up on trying to focus.
The boy stared at him for a moment in bewilderment, before blinking and stretching an elegant hand forward to shake John's in an awkward, quick touch.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes." the boy said, hand quickly dropping down to rest in its previous position in his lap. He turned to gaze ahead of him, looking as if he was trying to appear dignified.
John grinned at the display, and leaned back slightly. "Was that your brother? He seemed quite angry." After he spoke, he wondered if, perhaps, mentioning the older boy was not the best idea. Sherlock stiffened slightly, his fists in his lap curling once more into fists. He shot an angry glare at the shop Mycroft had disappeared into, and spoke in a bitter, annoyed voice.
"That was Mycroft. He thinks I'm rude, just because i don't mind telling people what i notice about them. It's not like the people don't know about themselves. I'm just pointing things out." He huffed slightly, his arms crossed loosely, in a parody, that John would never mention, of his brother minutes ago.
"Things that you... notice about people?" John asked, curiously.
"Yes." The boy replied, succinctly.
John looked at him expectantly, but it seemed he would need further prompting.
"What kind of things do you notice about people?" He asked, gazing at the other boy with honest interest.
Sherlock sighed, glancing back at him with a completely unconcealed annoyed expression on his face. "Just... things. There's so much you can tell about a person in the details of the way they walk, how they're dressed, what kinds of stains they have on their shoes. So much that other people are oblivious to. Other people are idiots." The boy spoke quickly, uttering the last sentence simply, as innocent as if he was commenting on the weather.
John looked at him, his eyebrows lifted slightly. "Really? You can tell things about people from that?" He paused, tilting his head slightly and fixing Sherlock with his most curious look yet. "What about me? What can you tell about me?"
Sherlock let out a full sigh, turning himself with an overly-dramatic eye roll to face John completely. If he wasn't so curious, John might have laughed.
Sherlock's eyes flickered down John quickly, taking in his appearance. He was studying him as if he was a not-very-interesting school book he was being forced to read. When he looked back up, his eyes shifted to the left of John's face, and he opened his mouth. "You're here waiting for your mother and sister to finish shopping for your sister's birthday." Sherlock replied, speaking in a tone that clearly showed how obvious he thought the statement was.
John stared at the boy across from him for a long moment with wide-eyed surprise and confusion.
"How..." He said at last, sounding bewildered.
Sherlock sighed noisily again, and spoke as he looked around himself, sounding almost bored. "You're sitting outside a female clothes shop, and you're wearing traditionally male clothes, so the clothes aren't for you. Most likely a mother or a sister. The clothes you're currently wearing don't look very expensive and look as if they've been worn a fair amount, which means you come from a fairly low-income family that can't afford to spend a lot of money on clothes. But you're sitting outside a fairly decently-priced shop, so your family must be spending a fair amount of money on clothes today. This seems to be an uncommon occurrence, so - special occasion. If it was for your mother, she'd most likely want you with her, or you'd feel it would be too unkind to leave her on a special day just because you were bored. So, probably a sister who wouldn't mind you not being there. The shop is mainly targeted at teenagers, and since they're usually too young for anniversaries, it's most likely a birthday. I know it's just your mother, because If your father was here, you wouldn't be sitting here alone. Most parents would feel uncomfortable leaving a child alone outside a shop if they could help it. So, like i said, you're waiting for your mother and sister to finish shopping for your sister's birthday." The boy finished simply, turning again to face the other direction.
John sat with his mouth open. How could he have done that? He had looked at John for less than a minute and had worked all that out.
That... that was... that was-
"Amazing!" John exclaimed, his voice clouded with awe.
Sherlock's head snapped round to stare at him with a startled look in his eyes.
"What? What?" The other boy said quickly, his eyebrows drawing together slightly in a faint frown.
"That was amazing!" John said, leaning forward and grinning at the astounded boy sitting in front of him. "You managed to work all that out on your own? Just from looking at me for a minute? Wow! Are you going to be a detective when you grow up?" John asked sincerely.
Sherlock looked at him with a puzzled expression. "A detective? Don't be ridiculous, John." He looked at him completely seriously. "I'm going to be a pirate." He said simply.
John couldn't help it - he laughed.
He leaned forward, clutching his sides as his laughter burst out of him, rocking his small body slightly as he tried to reign it back in.
Like a shot, Sherlock had jumped up and turned around, his coat tail flapping behind him as he made to walk away from John.
Not laughing now, John leapt up and raced after the boy.
"Hey - hey, Sherlock! Wait!" He called after the retreating figure. He caught up to him quickly, and put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. Sherlock turned around, his face almost as red as his brother's had been earlier, and John felt his stomach drop uncomfortably at the look on his face. "Hey, Sherlock, I'm really sorry." He spoke softly. "I wasn't laughing at you, i promise. I just... you just surprised me with what you - noticed, and then you said you wanted to be a pirate, and i just... " His voice trailed off uncertainly, his own face growing pink as he waited for Sherlock to push him away. The other boy regarded him coolly for a few moments, before he nodded jerkily, and , without further ado, fell back into a heap on the pavement. He sat as he had sat before, as if the last minute had never happened. John hurriedly sat next to him, and turned to face him.
There was a moment of almost comfortable silence, in which Sherlock looked around him disinterestedly, casting the occasional quick glance at his companion, and where John sat and wondered what to say next. Finally, John looked up shyly, and offered a tentative smile. "I meant it, by the way. That really was amazing. You must have lots of friends."
Sherlock looked at him once more with bewilderment. "Friends?" He asked, sounding surprised. "I don't have friends." He said it simply, as if it too was something obvious that John should have noticed.
"You... you don't have friends? But, why not? I mean, you ... what you can do, it's - well - brilliant. Why wouldn't you have friends?" John looked at the boy earnestly, and watched as the other boy swallowed and looked down, looking uncomfortable for the first time since John had noticed him.
"They think, uh, the other children... they think that I'm a... freak. No one's ever said that it was brilliant, before." The other boy spoke quietly, frowning slightly. He looked around him, not meeting John's eyes.
John sat forward, a frown of his own on his face.
"Really? But... that's ridiculous!" He exclaimed. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as he continued. "It's their loss." He said firmly. Sherlock didn't reply. He was looking stubbornly in the opposite direction from John's indignant anger. John, however, was not discouraged. He took a deep breath, and once again gathered his courage. "I... We could..." He cleared his throat, and started again, his voice stronger than before. "I could be your friend, if you want."
Once again, Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his. His eyes burned as he stared intensely at John. "If you don't want to be my friend - I mean, that'd be okay, I'd understand - but I would be your friend, if you'd let me." John finished, feeling awkward and suddenly slightly uncomfortable.
He worried, for a moment, that the other boy might reject his offer, might refuse, might laugh at him, but, before he could work himself into a panic, he heard a voice, sounding much younger and more unsure than the one he was getting used to.
"But... why would you want to be my friend?" Sherlock asked, honest curiousity and a slight fear in his eyes, as if he thought John might be making fun of him.
John cocked his head to the side, puzzled. "Why wouldn't i want to be your friend?" He asked.
When Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, John cut him off, guessing what he was going to say.
"No, you're not a freak. Why would being smart make you a freak? And anyway," John continued."Your - gift - isn't all of you. You're interesting without the gift, too. And you forgave me when i was rude to you. Those're good qualities for a friend." John said importantly.
Sherlock looked up at him in wonder and confusion. "You... really want to be my friend?" He asked in a small voice.
"If you'll let me." John replied, looking at the boy hopefully.
Sherlock stared at him for a few moments longer, then slowly nodded his head.
John felt a huge grin break across his face, and felt a warmth in his chest when he saw the other boy's lips twitch up into what slowly became a grin to match his. They stared at each other for a few moments, still grinning manically, before the moment was shattered with a curt clearing of the throat.
Both of the boys head's snapped sharply around to find the source of the noise, and John saw Sherlock stiffen as he took in the sight of Mycroft Holmes standing two metres behind them, wearing a new suit and a puzzled expression.
"Sherlock." The older boy said, slowly. "It's time to go, now. Say goodbye to your... friend." He said, casting a final curious look at the two boys, before turning on his heel and heading back to the stand by the door of the shop. He stood as casually as possible, trying to pretend that he wasn't watching the two boys with burning curiosity.
"Well," Started Sherlock, straightening up into a standing position with one fluid movement.
John quickly copied him.
They stood, looking at each other for a few silent moments. "I have to go now. I ... it was nice to meet you." Sherlock murmured, sticking his hand out, and turning his face away quickly. John reached out, and their hands clasped for a moment. A quick shake up and down, and Sherlock let go, his hand falling back to his side.
"Goodbye, then, Sherlock Holmes." John said, his voice suddenly sounding rather small. "It... I'm glad we got to be friends." He said, in a hurry. He looked up to find the other boy giving him a look that John couldn't make sense of. He looked a mix of sad and happy and hopeful.
John decided then that he would never forget this boy he had befriended.
As he watched the boy leave, his brother and a middle aged woman John supposed must be his mother walking in front of him, he felt the sudden urge to say something.
Anything.
Before he could change his mind, he opened his mouth.
"Sherlock!" He called.
The boy and his family turned, a surprised look on the faces of his mother and brother and a rather shy look on Sherlock's. John stood for a moment, then called out, clearly and loudly.
"You're going to make a brilliant pirate!"
The other boy's face erupted into a grin, and his high, happy laugh sounded loudly from across the street. John laughed back, raising his hand in a wave. Sherlock raised his hand in reply, holding it in the air for a moment longer, before spinning on his heel and turning the corner, his confused family right behind him.
Mike walked him in with a half excited, half nervous look on his face. John was slightly worried at what that meant he was going to find.
Mike hadn't said much about this potential flatmate. He had been cryptic, and now John was worried he was going to introduce him to someone dangerous. He had already been shot this year, thanks. He didn't need another limp.
He walked up the stairs leading to the labs with trepidation. He tried to tell himself that he was being unfair. For all he knew, it would be a perfectly normal, sane, non-homicidal, person behind those doors. He couldn't be biased about the person before he'd even met them, he told himself, sternly. Even if they were annoying, he was a soldier, for God's sake. He could put up with annoying if it meant getting a cheaper flat.
Bracing himself as they reached the lab doors, and not at all comforted by Mike's good-luck smile, he pushed open the doors.
For a moment, he thought he was back in the hospital, hallucinating about the dark haired boy he'd met when he was ten. Then, common sense caught up with him, and he started forward, ignoring the feeling churning in his stomach.
Mike watched with a bemused expression on his face as his old friend froze in the doorway for a moment, staring at Sherlock Holmes with what looked like amazement.
He started when John moved forwards, walking deliberately towards the man he had, to Mike's knowledge, never met.
Mike felt his mouth fall open when he noticed something about John's legs.
Or, should he say, the lack of something.
His limp was gone.
Closing his mouth, he looked at his friend.
John was standing a metre away from Holmes, looking at him with an expectant expression, when the other man looked up.
If Mike had thought John's reaction to meeting Holmes was strange, he decided Holmes' reaction was stranger.
He stared a John for a moment, a bewildered look on his face.
Then, Sherlock Holmes dropped his beaker.
As it shattered on the counter, it seemed to shake both men out of their stupors.
John looked up at the other man, and said, wryly, "Hello, Sherlock."
Mike coughed, trying to clear his head. "I, uh, take it you two know each other, then?"
He asked, looking between the two men.
"Yes." Sherlock spoke quietly, still staring at John with a slightly shocked expression.
"Yes," He repeated, a smile breaking out at the corners of his mouth.
"We're friends."