AN: Hello all! Just a cutesy little fic for all those fluff-aholics out there! (me included) Please review!
To be Truly Happy
Sherlock-age 9, John- age 15, Sally- age 7, Anderson- age 10,
Sherlock briefly wondered what it felt like to be happy. The bubbling in your chest, can't help but giggle manically, sort of happy. Truly happy. He repressed a sob, burying his face into his knees. He couldn't start crying now. Crying was for babies, and Sherlock Holmes was no baby. Stupid Sally, it was all her fault. It always was.
Sherlock was looking down, hugging his legs to his chest and sitting on the top of the jungle gym. He had been sitting alone for over an hour when he noticed footsteps on the bark chips. He kept his head down; he didn't want to be bothered.
Must be a boy, he thought, listening to him walking. The footfalls weren't dainty enough to be a girl's. He was also older than him. They sounded too heavy to be Sherlock's age or any younger. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Great, he thought, another bully. He pushed his bony knees into his eyes making stars burst into his vision.
Sherlock stiffened when he heard the boy climbing the metal frame he was sitting on. When he felt the shudder of the metal as the boy sat himself down with a grunt next to Sherlock, he stayed still, hoping he would go away. The boy stayed where he was, not moving and not saying anything. After a while, Sherlock accepted the fact that he would have to go find somewhere else to be alone. He unravelled his long arms from around his knees and looked up, letting his eyes adjust to the light. He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the boy's presence.
"Hey, you okay?"
Sherlock looked at him, giving the best scowl he could muster. His red, puffy eyes ruined the effect however.
"I'm fine." Sherlock said rigidly. He stood up and jumped from the metal frame, landing on the ground awkwardly. Sherlock gasped in pain as his ankle crumpled beneath him. Stupid, stupid Sally! He thought furiously. He would make her pay later. It was about time everyone knew about her and Anderson kissing behind the school classrooms. Sherlock stood up shakily and started limping away, though he didn't get very far because he fell over again. Tears finally spilled over his cheeks and into his mouth. They were salty and didn't finish. He sobbed openly; he couldn't stop himself no matter how much he tried.
"Hey, hey, hey!" The boy jumped down and ran to him, "You're obviously not okay. Come here, let me look at your foot" The boy gestured with his hand for him to come closer, and Sherlock sniffed haughtily.
"Do you w'eally think I'm going to be ab'e to come to you?" He sniffled, "Stupid, you just saw me fawl over." Sherlock didn't want to be here with this idiot, but his ankle hurt too much for him to get anywhere. I must have stretched a muscle, he guessed. The boy sighed and scooted closer to him, hands hovering just above his ankle. He looked up questioningly and Sherlock saw his face properly. He looked...welcoming, for lack of a better word, Sherlock thought. He immediately felt a bit better, but he ignored this and watched warily.
Sherlock watched as the boy bent over his ankle and blonde hair flecked with streaks of darker brown fell over his face. Sherlock looked at his tanned hands and paid close attention to what he was doing. He didn't like people touching him, but the boy seemed to know what he was doing, so he let the stranger continue. The boy started murmuring words of kindness to Sherlock, telling him it would be okay, he would get him home soon. Sherlock relaxed in the boy's grip but as the stranger started stroking his ankle, soothing it, he couldn't help himself. The way he touched him was so tender, it completely took him by surprise. Tears streamed down his face, hot against his cheeks and instantly going cold in the frosty air.
All of the repressed emotions inside of him came gushing out at once while his foot was carefully handled by the boy's strong, soft hands. Sherlock had seldom felt a friendly touch and the way he was holding and caressing his foot was too much for him. He had never had a friend, why was the stranger being so kind and gentle? His crying became more intense and he began hiccupping. All the years of being alone when he was hurting had taken their toll on him, made him weary. All the times he had sat alone on his bed, suppressing the urge to cry when Mycroft was horrible to him, or when he was in the kitchen, applying Band-Aids to his cuts after his father had gotten drunk and hit him. None of the maids helped, they just bustled on soundlessly, avoiding his gaze. Sherlock shuffled closer and the boy held him in his arms, rocking gently back and forth whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
"Shh, it's okay. You'll be alright. I'm here to help you now. You're such a brave boy. You're okay."
Sherlock sobbed harder, all of the pent up emotions bubbling to the surface alarmingly fast. He rested his head against the boy's chest and listen to the steady drum of his heartbeat, tears soaking into the fabric. The boy's scratchy jumper was warm against his face, and he snuggled in closer, growing tired. Years of denying himself (and being denied) affection had severely depleted Sherlock's provisions. Slowly, Sherlock's hiccupping subsided and he just lay against the boy, breathing deeply. Sherlock felt him shift, getting comfortable and he sighed contently. He felt so calm and relaxed here with the boy, he would fall asleep if he wasn't careful. Sherlock didn't know why, but he didn't ever want to leave his new friend. Could I call him a friend? He thought. I don't even know his name. Do I, Sherlock Holmes, have a friend?
"What's your name?" he said, his voice still slightly shaky. He gripped the jumper even tighter to him, if that were possible.
"I'm John Watson. What's yours?" John asked softly. He looked down into the mass of ebony curls resting against his chest. John's heart broke to see such a young child crying so bitterly and with so much emotion. It just wasn't right.
"I'm Sher'ock." He said. Sherlock mentally cursed his lisp. His linguistics teacher had tutored him to fix it, but it always came back. John chuckled (An unfortunate name to have with a lisp, he thought) and inhaled deeply. He leant back against the metal frame of the jungle gym and placed his hands gently on Sherlock's head.
Sherlock stiffened as he felt the hand on him, but as the fingers started weaving through his hair and massaging his scalp, his eyes drooped and he sighed appreciatively. Sherlock wriggled down further and laid his head in the older boys lap, facing up to the cloudy sky. After a few minutes John said,
"So, do you want to tell me what happened to your foot?" Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds and answered with his own query.
"Are you willing to hit girls?" John's hand stopped their ministrations on Sherlock's head and he immediately wanted him to continue again. John didn't know what to say; of course he didn't hit girls! But why did Sherlock want him to? After careful consideration he said,
"Did someone hurt you Sherlock? Was it a girl?" An indignant look flashed across Sherlock's face, quickly replaced by a shy, almost coy one.
"Yeah…Um, do you know, Sa'wy Donovan?" John gave a harsh laugh.
"Oh, yeah. I know little Sally." Sherlock sat up.
"rea'wy? How?"
"Well let's just say I've had a few run-ins with her and her friend Anderson and leave it at that." Sherlock lay back down again and neither of them spoke for some time. They both watched the sun set, transforming the before grey sky into beautiful soft shades of pink and orange, with lilac dotted against the clouds sparsely. Sherlock had never felt so comfortable with someone. He snuggled in closer. With his eyes still gazing into the sky, John said,
"It's getting late Sherlock; you should probably go home soon"
"No. I don' wanna." was Sherlock's firm response.
"Why not?" John chuckled.
"It's a'ways cold there. I'm so warm here wi'f you."
"Come on Sherlock, your parents will worry about you" John stood up and helped the dark haired boy to his feet. Testing his sore ankle and finding it okay to walk on, Sherlock mumbled a reply John barely heard.
"No they won't."
Sherlock's parents never cared about where he was. As long as he was present for his school, violin lessons and boring dinner functions with guests at the manor, they didn't care about him at all. John put an arm around his shoulder and they walked out of the park together.
With the warming sun now below the horizon, the air quickly became cold and Sherlock retracted his neck deeper into his thin dress shirt. As Sherlock led them both through the streets to his house, he began shivering, warm breathe ghosting out of his mouth and swirling into the dark blue sky. John noticed the sound of the (far too skinny) boy's teeth chattering and he stopped walking, letting go of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock looked up and turned pink as he watched John take off his jumper, his shirt rucking up slightly and revealing a tanned stomach.
You're not supposed to undress in public! He thought, shocked. Anyone could see! (Not that it ever bothered him when he paraded around the manor happily without his trousers on) Sherlock stammered refusals when John unceremoniously shoved the jumper over Sherlock's head, turning his head into a fuzz ball of dark curls. John laughed at the murderous look Sherlock gave him and he straightened the jumper on Sherlock's bony shoulders. Sherlock looked down at himself, stunned into silence. The sleeves were far too long, the bottom was halfway down his thighs and the opening at the neck showed a jutting collar bone. He had never worn someone else's clothing before; he hadn't even shared Mummy's blanket as they sat together on the couch when Sherlock was a toddler. But…Sherlock wondered why he hadn't done it sooner.
The jumper was so deliciously warm and perfectly scratchy against his skin, he felt like melting into a puddle of cosiness right there on the footpath. He smiled widely and looked up at John, trying to convey the bliss he felt at that moment, wrapped in the warm embrace of his friend's jumper. John might as well have been hugging him; it was so gentle and warm. John's eyes were sparkling and they continued walking down the dimly lit road together, sharing details about each other's lives (John's mostly).
John quickly realized that Sherlock was devilishly smart after he deduced that his sister Harry had taken up the bottle due to a dysfunctional family and realization of her sexual orientation. He had been upset, but forgave him when Sherlock- reluctantly- apologized. Sherlock talked animatedly about his various experiments (all strangely centred around centipedes for some reason).
Far too soon in Sherlock's opinion, they reached the grand Holmes Manor and John whistled in appreciation.
"Whoa, I've always wondered who lived here! So you're a Holmes then? Fancy." Sherlock nodded, the warm jumper doing nothing to stop the icy feeling in his heart. He didn't want to go home, he didn't want John to leave him, he didn't want to have to avoid the punches of his most certainly drunk father, emotionless mother and uncaring brother and crawl into a cold, empty bed for the night….He didn't want to be alone.
"Can you come by tomo'wow?" Sherlock blurted out before he could reign in his emotions. Sherlock saw surprise flit over John's face for a fraction of a second, replaced by a thoughtful one. Sherlock's heart thudded as his friend thought over his proposal. John saw the vulnerability in the younger one's face and his concern sky rocketed. What on earth has happened in that house that could make this strong-willed, independent kid so...needy?
"Yeah, I'm sure my mum would let me. Where do you want to meet?" John asked nonchalantly. Sherlock felt like jumping with glee, but he only grinned broadly and said,
"Why not by the jungle gym? How abou' two o'cwock?" He stuck up two fingers, "Then you can tell me more about your fami'wy!" John couldn't help but snicker at the look of pure elation smeared all over Sherlock's face (his lisp was pretty darn cute too). John bent down and smoothed Sherlock's fluffy, dark hair and was grunted in surprise as thin arms constricted John's chest.
"Haha, ok-aaayy Sherlock, time to let go of me!" He huffed, losing his breathe. Sherlock released him and looked up at him with happy smile. John was awe struck at the way the moon was reflected in his blue-green eyes, pupils blown wide in the dark. It was truly stunning.
"Well, uh, I guess I'll see you tomorrow at two then." John shoved his hands into his trouser pocket and turned to walk away when a bony hand gripped his arm.
"Don't you want your jumper back?" Sherlock grabbed at the fabric, stretching it slightly. John smiled so sweetly, Sherlock couldn't help but grin back at him.
"Nah, you keep it Sherlock, I'll get it back tomorrow. Just don't get any centipede bits on it, my mum'd kill me" John waved a hand dismissively, and kept walking along the road. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's retreating back.
"I woooon't John!" he droned, his childish mannerisms leaking through his grown up facade. John smiled to himself and kept walking.
Sherlock looked down at the jumper wrapping around him lovingly and pulled it up to his nose, breathing deeply, memorizing it. It smelt like floral washing powder, toast and...Something that was so very, very John. Sherlock smiled into the knitting and turned to go inside. His stomach clenched tightly as he saw the ornate grandfather clock in the hallway, ticking with heavy thunks. It was past ten o'clock. If he was careful, he could avoid his parents in the sitting room drinking together and scoot up to his bedroom without anyone asking him about why he was late home. Mycroft was probably in the study, reading his government books. How boring, Sherlock thought.
He dashed up the stairs lightly and into his bedroom, shutting the door gently with a soft click. He leant against the door and surveyed his bedroom, eyes sweeping over the various experiments, textbooks and questionable substances that covered every surface. Exactly the way he left it, he concluded thankfully. Mycroft had developed an annoying habit of chucking out his experiments and said questionable substances.
He toed off his shoes and carefully trod around the beakers and trays with hundreds of centipedes on them. When he reached his bed he jumped on, not bothering with getting undressed. He wanted to be as close to John's jumper as possible at all times. He breathed deeply again, inhaling the now familiar scent. It smelt wonderful and so relaxing. He reckoned his brain was making the mental connections between John's scent and being comforted, which was what was happening when he first smelt the jumper.
Sherlock wriggled into his bed, careful not to make too much noise. He felt deliciously warm with his arms and legs tucked up inside John's jumper. His long, gangly legs were assuredly stretching it, but he doubted John would mind. He roughly pushed his (still fuzzy) hair out of his eyes. He thought fondly of the feeling of John's fingers raking through his curls and he shivered. It had felt so nice, he thought, I'll have to get him to do it again tomorrow.
Sherlock Holmes had a friend. He couldn't get over that fact. He was wearing his clothes, smelling his scent, thinking about what would happen tomorrow when they met up again. Warmth pooled in his stomach, making him smile and slide further into the now warm sheets. The warmth in his stomach spread to his chest and he felt his heart beat faster (odd, he thought). The warmth trickled down his legs and arms, collecting in his fingers and toes, leaving him relaxed, sleepy and utterly satisfied.
Oh, he thought as he drifted off, toasty and content, So this is what it feels like to be Truly Happy.
AN: Hope you liked it! Don't forget to leave a review and if you think this could be continued I would be very happy to have a serious think about it :)