Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss
Parallel
Chapter 1
Good Morning
"Harriet, dear, would you mind waking your brother up?"
John blearily opened one eye and shut it slowly as he laid face down on his nice, fluffy pillow with his mouth slightly ajar. He didn't feel like getting up at all. He heard his sister loudly groan somewhere outside his door which was followed by footsteps that increased in volume as they approached the vicinity of his bedroom. He quickly tucked his head under his pillow in a futile effort to shut the noise out.
"John! Mum said to wake up!" Harriet shouted, pounding on the oak door. After making a small fuss, she left quickly, disinterested in discovering whether her dear brother really did wake up or not; after all, he was a big boy. He could take care of himself.
John ignored her and laid in his bed until his mother bounded into his bedroom (after knocking, of course) and demanded that he wash up for breakfast or he'll be late to school. He sat up in his bed and yawned, stretching his torso and arms as he reached upwards; his small, lithe body was heavy with slumber. He had fallen asleep very late again as his excitement had taken over when he was given the latest issue of the comic book he and his mates were obsessing over. John swung his legs over his bed, raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times, then proceeded to get up and get ready for another day of primary school.
The blond plopped down onto the empty seat unoccupied by the members of his family after washing up a bit and reached over to grab the jam, but he was too short to reach it.
"Harry, mind passing the jam?" he asked his sister.
Without looking up, she slid it across the table, ignoring him as she flipped through a magazine, uninterested in the daily life of her dear brother. His fingertips barely grazed the handle of the small pot Mrs. Watson had put the jam in; it was still too far. He let out a frustrated huff, cursed his height, and stood up to walk around the table to get it. As soon as he retrieved the strawberry deliciousness, he spread a bit of it on his toast and munched away as his mother handed him a nice hot cup of tea. Quite content, little John Watson smiled as he ate, ready to start another day of fun. Today was the day his class got a new pet. He was very excited as he had always wanted a pet at home, but his parents had never given him permission no matter how much he had begged and pleaded. It was always the same old excuse: "Pets will ruin the house, dear."
After finishing his breakfast, little John Hamish Watson went back to his room to change into his school clothes. His mother had laid them out while he was eating like she did every morning without fail.
"John, dear," his mother called from the kitchen, "it's a bit chilly today. Don't forget to wear the jumper I set out!"
"Mycroft, dear, wake up your brother, won't you?" Mrs. Holmes asked the young teenage boy who was sitting at the table, drinking tea and having a bit of toast. Mycroft sighed and took one last sip of the hot beverage before standing up and pushing the chair away from him as he headed towards his little brother's room.
"I wish Sherlock was as punctual as I am," the older Holmes muttered under his breath.
Mycroft walked down the dark hallway and stopped in front of the wooden door frame. "Sherlock, are you up?" he inquired as he rapped the door. He waited for a second but heard nothing. "Sherlock, time to wash up," he said. After pausing for a moment with his ear on the exterior of the door, he heard a slight rustling coming from within. Mycroft grabbed the doorknob and twisted, opening it. He raised his brow at the sight in front of him. Sherlock was hunched over in the middle of the floor clad in his blue pajamas, holding a flashlight and reading some book (if Mycroft were to gamble, he'd wager on another book on pirates). The young boy's unruly curly hair hung in front of his face as he sat bent over. "Sherlock!" Mycroft said a bit louder as he cleared his throat..
The younger Holmes didn't move an inch when his brother opened the door, nor when he called him and walked over, towering above his small body. The child's concentration was only shattered as a hand grasped his left arm and hoisted him up. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft who gasped in horror at the severe dark circles present under the child's eyes.
"Sherlock! Did you not go to bed last night?" Mycroft asked as he pulled Sherlock up into a standing position after tripping on several odd trinkets and gadgets littering his floor in order to reach him.
"What do you mean 'last night' Mycroft? It's still night," Sherlock replied without looking up as the teenager gave him a flabbergasted look; the little boy was attempting to read the next sentence as Mycroft was trying very hard not to manhandle him.
"Are you bloody serious? It's morning, time to wash up for school. How am I going to explain the bags under your eyes to mother? She'll be furious. She'll only blame me you know," Mycroft groaned. The curly haired boy merely ignored him and continued his attempt to finish reading the descriptions on the diagram.
"Shut up, Mycroft, you're ruining my concentration," Sherlock lazily commented. The older Holmes let out a big sigh. It was getting harder to make his little brother listen to him. Sometimes he could act like a normal little boy, but most of the time, he was rather unpleasant to strangers and occasionally Mycroft, which was clearly the case that morning.
"That's it, you're not going to school today," Mycroft decided as he lightly tossed Sherlock onto his bed and walked out. "Mum, Sherlock's feeling bit under the weather. I think he should stay home," the little boy heard Mycroft's voice taper off as he continued down the corridor from his room. Sherlock pulled his attention away, turned onto his side with his book in hand, and continued to read Tall Tales and Other Stories from the High Seas.
"John, John!" a little brune-haired boy bounded up to the blond as soon as he set foot in the classroom. "Guess what pet we got, John!" he cried.
John pursed his lips and squinted his eyes a bit and shifted them to the right. "Um.." he began, thinking about the possible list of animals his friend liked. It was impossible he'd get excited over a hamster or a chick and big animals like a cat and dog were out of the question. He wasn't really sure. "I dunno, mate. What is it?" he asked, clutching his small rucksack (backpack) over his thin shoulder.
The boy grabbed John's arm as his rucksack slid to the floor next to his desk and led him away to the corner where the other children were huddled, fawning over the unknown animal.
"Let John see!" his friend called out to the crowd. Some of the children who had stood there for a while backed up enabling their classmate to get a good look. The teacher was nowhere to be found, so the children carried on, encircling the animal and pressing their faces against the steel bars of the cage.
John bent down a bit as he reached the front of the crowd; the other children quickly closed the gap he had left and fought to catch a glimpse. "It's a rabbit!" he exclaimed excitedly. The small white bunny was huddled in the right corner of its cage nibbling on a piece of carrot. "What an excellent idea for a pet! Has it got a name?" he asked, not particularly directing the question to anyone specific.
A girl standing to his right said, "I think its name is Fluffly, or at least it should be!" she giggled.
Suddenly, a loud crash was heard as someone in the back fell. The group's heads turned towards the commotion as John stood up and lightly shoved his way past the other school children. There on the floor laid the quiet lad whom no one ever really spoke to. John looked at him and quickly assessed the state of his injury; he had bumped his head on a corner of a desk when he fell and writhed on the floor clutching his head.
"William, what's wrong?" John asked as he pulled the boy's hands away from the back of his cranium. Blood. The students blanched at the sight, but John, undeterred, patted his pockets for a napkin or anything, but couldn't find one. He just took off his uniform jacket which he was wearing over his white knitted jumper and crumpled it up to the boy's head, trying to avoid any further movement to the boy's body at all costs.
"I s-slipped," William gasped out. John immediately shushed him.
"Don't move, don't move," he said as he held his classmate's head still with his hands. He had read a book somewhere once when he was bored that instructed what to do in case of a head injury emergency.
"Quick, someone get the nurse, now!" John pointed at the dark haired boy, Timothy, who had bounded over to him earlier that morning. "Go!" he ordered. Timothy, who had been standing behind his friend frozen in shock, quickly walked over to the infirmary. The blond held the jacket to the boy's head as William moaned. "Just a bit longer, don't you worry," John consoled the injured boy.
As soon as Timothy reached the doorway of the infirmary, he explained the situation to the nurse who immediately grabbed an ice pack and a clean cloth and ran after him towards the classroom. Upon entering the doorway, she took over from the child, peeled the jacket away from William, and examined the injury. She wrapped the cloth around the ice pack and held it to the boy's head.
"Thank goodness you acted quickly, John. I think he's going to need a couple stitches, and he probably has a concussion," the middle-aged nurse commented. "I think you'd make a fine doctor, someday," she praised him, smiling as John blushed.
Sherlock laid on his bed, bored out of his mind. Mycroft had already left to school as did his father to work. His mother had come in earlier and insisted he eat some breakfast; it was clearly visible that her son was not ill, but she had not questioned whether Sherlock was actually sick as she had learned that the boy was a bit...different than others. She knew her eldest son had a reason to tell her that Sherlock should miss school that day, and as much as she disapproved, she didn't push it. She felt like her youngest was disconnected from the family. Mycroft was the only one he would ever really speak to and her eccentric husband, Arthur, was never really around as his job occupied most of his time so Mrs. Holmes felt as if she were the only normal person in the household, and very alone.
The dark haired child stared up at the ceiling with his piercing iridescent gaze with his hands clutched behind his head as an additional pillow. He didn't feel like eating. Or reading. Or doing anything really. He was tired, but his mind was fully alert; he couldn't describe the strange feeling. It was almost as if his mind was itching, clawing at itself, but nothing he could do would stop it. There was never anything worth putting effort into as his interests never resided within the things normal children liked. Lately they were beginning to learn a bit about science at school. He found it absolutely fascinating while the other children groaned whenever his teacher announced it was time to change subjects to science. Sherlock became so enamoured, he ventured to the school's library to read up about the different branches of the subject. He wished the librarian would allow him to check out books about anatomy, but she told him that those types of books were for 'when he was older', whatever that meant.
He loathed school. It was boring and trivial. Oh, the things they taught! Absolutely ridiculous. He did not care for the solar system. After all, what good would it do to know the order of the planets? He did, however, enjoy the lessons on literature. His knowledge on fine literature was ever expanding, just like his voracious appetite for the knowledge of science. School was a cage; they told you what you needed to know and cluttered your mind with useless information. He liked being home. When he was home, he could do whatever he pleased; he could role play as a mighty pirate. They were fascinating people, always searching for treasure and unknown worlds. His desire for the answer, the truth was what drove his mind to the brink of obsession any time he was faced with an obstacle or challenge of some sort, just like a true pirate. He had begun to realize his talent for arriving to impeccably rational conclusions, just like Mycroft. Of course, he was only an amateur at he was only eight years old, but in due time, he knew he could harness his sharp mind to do great things.
Sherlock shifted his leg and caught a glimpse of the black skull and crossbone pattern on his favorite blue pajamas. Death. Ah, now that was a subject worth thinking about. Death was, and would always be, something that would never frighten him. Life, was complicated. Death was simple. In life, there were many paths to be taken. In death, there was one. Mycroft had told him about the jobs of the Detective Inspectors when they had come across a crime scene that was blocked off with yellow tape a couple years ago. It seemed a bit fascinating, but the aspect of doing paperwork and having to work under someone was absolutely trite. The way his brother described it made them seem like they were professional puzzle solvers. Oh, that sounded glorious. Sherlock lived for puzzles, riddles, and challenges. He had a book of sudoku puzzles and riddles somewhere in his room for times he felt antsy stashed away amongst the ever increasing collection of scientific books and literature novels. His mother occasionally came in to chastise him about cleaning them up, but Sherlock did not like people touching his things. To please her, he had designated a spot where he was allowed to splay his things everywhere. Sherlock was no fool; life was give and take.
The dark-haired boy got up to wash up, but as soon as he returned to his room, he got back in bed. There was nothing to do. Boring. Boring. Bored. He stared at the ceiling again and continued to lie in silence until his body fell asleep.
John became the classroom hero that day. His teacher, Mrs. Wilson was absolutely horrified at the sight when she walked in moments after the nurse had reached their room. She was pregnant, so she frequently sought the bathroom and this morning was no exception. However, she heard panicking children when she was washing her hands and quickly exited, following the sound of the commotion to her own classroom.
The nurse had explained the situation and as soon as William's parents had been contacted and he was taken to receive professional medical care, the class had settled down. They began to tell John words of admiration; he was a true hero in their eyes. They were still children but they acknowledged and agreed that he definitely acted beyond their years. As a reward, John was allowed to be the first to take care of the bunny they had ultimately named 'Fluffy'.
When William was ushered away, John turned to his friend, Timothy. "Thanks, mate."
Timothy shook his head. "No, John, if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have done a thing," he said.
Utters of "Wow, John saved William's life!" echoed throughout the room, but John merely explained that he wasn't in any mortal danger, so that wasn't necessarily true. The crowd didn't buy it, and from then on, he was seen in a new light. No longer was he John H. Watson, the nice, polite blond boy. He was John H. Watson, the only brave child who knew what to do when someone was hurt, and in their books, that was definitely a reason to admire him. The rest of the day went on as normally as it could be, except for the looks of awe and whispers as word traveled around to the other kids at his school. Recess, particularly, was strange when hoards of children asked for him to relive the tale that had happened that morning.
"C'mon chap, give us a good ol' tale, will ya?" a large ginger-haired kid asked as many children surrounded them, hoping for a good story.
John raised his hands, almost in a defensive maneuver.
"Sorry, guys, but this is not something I'd like to go around talking about," he sheepishly smiled. He didn't think he did anything 'brave'. What he did was not brave, but was what a decent human being would do. Anyone could have, and certainly (if they had known what to do) would have done the same thing.
Timothy, who had seen the commotion from the other side of the playground, walked over and was bombarded with questions as he drew near the crowd.
"Alright, alright. I'll tell you lot if you'll just settle down and leave John alone," he stated. All their attention was shifted to the dark-haired lad as he recounted the tale of the courageous hero of Wilson's class who selflessly fought Death himself and snatched their dear WIlliam from the brink of its grip. John rolled his eyes as the crowd 'oohed' and 'ahhed' and walked away, choosing to join a group of boys in a small game of rugby.
As soon as John came home, he asked his mother if he could bring the rabbit home for the weekend to which she immediately absolutely refused to.
"Please, mother? Please?" John begged Mrs. Watson who merely shook her head.
"John, dear, why on earth would I agree to let you bring the rabbit home when I've told you numerous times that your father and I absolutely do not want any animals to run around the house?" his mother had asked. She dismissed him and continued to check her email as he sulked away and saw that John's teacher had sent her something. "What is this all about?" she said as she clicked on her inbox and opened the mail.
John sighed and retreated to his room. With a bit of effort due to his short nature, he climbed onto his bed and sprawled across it face down. He supposed taking care of Fluffy at school was okay too; he just wanted a nice friend to play with at home. I mean, yeah, he had plenty of mates at school and by any standard of measurement was considered a bit popular, but he felt very alone at times. He couldn't imagine why he felt the way he did, but he only hoped that one day, he would be able to find that one friend he could call his best mate.
Harriet, who had heard the conversation, popped her head in his doorframe.
"Oy, Johnny," he heard her call.
"What do you want, Harry," his muffled voice responded.
"I heard something today." John didn't answer her.
"Just wanted to say I'm proud of you," she stated before walking away. After a few moments, he heard another voice say his name.
"John," his mother called from the den, "it's just one weekend, right?" she asked as her smiled into the bedspread.
Sherlock had fallen asleep for few hours after he managed to get out of bed and wash up, but he had awoken to his grumbling stomach. He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes as his book fell to the floor and turned towards his nightstand where his mother had left food earlier that morning. By now, it was terribly cold and a bit inedible, indicating that she had not entered the room to check up on him since. Sherlock ate it anyway. He took his time consuming the dampened toast and ice cold tea, not caring what he ate as long as his stomach was satiated. He got up just as he heard the muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. He heard his mother welcome her eldest son home from wherever he was and asked him to do something. After a short conversation with their mother, Mycroft walked past his younger brother's room and doubled back, opening the door and popping his head into view.
"Sherlock, get dressed. Mum told me to take you to buy a new jumper since it's been getting a bit chilly lately," he ordered. Sherlock groaned.
"I don't want to, Mycroft. Can't you just...go buy one? Or buy it online and send for it?"
Mycroft gave him a stern look. "No, Sherlock. Hurry up, I have work to do," he said. The older Holmes walked to his room, set his things down, and came right back. Ah. Just as he had suspected. His little brother hadn't moved at all. Mycroft rummaged around Sherlock's drawers and pulled out black trousers, a blue shirt, and black braces (suspenders).
"Dress. Now," he ordered.
"Whatever for? Can't I just throw on a jumper and go like this?" Sherlock asked, uninterested as he gestured towards his cotton pajamas. The skulls seemed to sneer, almost as if they were mocking the older Holmes.
"And pray tell, what would happen if you were to catch a cold?" Mycroft said as he leaned down and started unbuttoning his little brother's shirt. Sherlock frowned and tugged himself away. He gave up resisting and changed his clothes while Mycroft tidied his room up a bit.
"No! Don't touch that!" Sherlock reached a hand out and startled Mycroft as he bent down to pick up what looked like petri dishes with something weird growing in them. "It's an experiment," he explained.
Mycroft stared at it. "Sherlock, where did you get these petri dishes? Actually, when did you become interested in science?" he asked. He heard no reply. Mycroft sighed. "When you're done, put them back in the school's equipment storage," he told him, assuming that was the only rational place he could have gotten them from.
"I merely borrowed them, brother. Don't get your knickers in a twist," Sherlock muttered as he struggled to button up the shirt Mycroft had laid out.
Mycroft made Sherlock hold his right hand and held a black umbrella over their heads with his left as they walked down the street. It was a rainy day, but that didn't deter the people from venturing outside. If he had let Sherlock walk as he pleased, he surely would have wandered off somewhere and gotten lost in the crowd, so he forced the boy to hold his hand. He continued to eye several stores, attempting to find one that sold children's clothes. His dear mother had neglected to tell him where she usually shopped at. They were about to walk past a music store when a man exited the shop and the bell atop the door tinkled as it was pushed outwards. A sweet melody flowed out behind him and unto the streets. Sherlock stopped, forcing Mycroft to come to a halt when he felt a small tug on his right arm.
"Mycroft, hurry. In here!" Sherlock pulled his brother's hand and entered the store, letting go once they entered. The hood of his yellow raincoat fell off his head as he ran towards the sound coming from somewhere within the music was encompassing Sherlock, caressing his mind and gently soothing it. The feeling was so strange, but in a good way. The dark-haired boy followed the music all the way to the back of the store as his brother clumsily followed, halting for a moment at the entrance to shake off the excess rain water from the umbrella; a man was standing in the corner playing some sort of instrument. The melody was wonderful. The sound, oh the sound was absolutely amazing. "Mycroft, what is that?" Sherlock asked when the teen caught up to him.
"Sherlock, I almost lost you," the older boy said, clearly annoyed. He looked at what the younger Holmes was pointing at. "Oh, that's a violin. A wooden instrument played with a bow made out of horse hair," he explained.
Sherlock stared, fascinated by the notes coming from the instrument.
"Right then, come along now. I think I spotted a nice store over by the corner of the street. We need to be home quickly before we're late for dinner and mother throws a fit..." Mycroft rambled on as he ushered the child who stood directly in front the man, unbeknownst to him, who continued to play the violin with his eyes closed. Sherlock ignored Mycroft's words and threw one last glance over his shoulder as the teen grabbed Sherlock's left hand and began to walk away.
Author's Note:
Hello, hello!
I have written a sort of experimental prequel oneshot called "Freak" (solely about Sherlock though) that you are more than welcome to read, but don't have to.
Have you guys noticed the subtle inside jokes and canon references? haha
Mycroft Holmes was smarter than Sherlock in the original series; he just didn't like doing the legwork to explain his conclusions.
Wilson : that's definitely a House MD reference (it is based on Sherlock Holmes, if you can't tell or don't know)
I've also added quirks I've picked up from the BBC version's actors. Martin purses his lips sometimes when John thinks. haha Cute.
Also, in canon, Watson played rugby, so I just had to put that detail in there.
Mr. Holmes' first name is Arthur in my story. Care to guess why?
You probably caught it. :)
Anyway, I've decided to approach this in a 'slice of life' kind of way, switching between the two, showing their lives unfolding.
If you dislike that, feel free to make suggestions.
I also can't decide if I should write ahead or post as I write.
Also, if this is ridiculously long, please say so. Lol
It's a little over 4k words; I don't really have a feel for how long or short things on because, simply, I haven't really written much of anything on here.
The rating may be subject to change because we all know how Sherlock can be.
Thank you for reading! And stay tuned for more chapters!
