They had been mere children, blooming young adults of 12 and 14, when John Watson began working for the Holmes family after school. His parents were dead and he needed to work to keep himself and his sister fed. Not to mention, working for the Holmes' had offered a room in the servants' wing of the enormous manor house. The prospect of a warm bed after a year living in a dirty rotting flat with no heat and an alcoholic sister was like heaven. He sent money to Harry in small portions at a time, hoping she would buy food for herself rather than booze, but then pressed her out of his mind. If she wanted to drink herself to death, it was none of his business.

John's work around the house was varied but light, mostly just garden work with occasional forays in the kitchen to cover for a sick cook. He was rarely ever allowed in the main house, but didn't mind so much as long as he could spend his nights in quiet rather than listening to his sister's nightmares. Plus he was making enough money to have Harry looked after when he joined the army in a few years.

It had been a stroke of pure chance meeting Mycroft, the eldest son of the Holmes family. John had been tending to a wilting sapling in the back garden when a shadow suddenly loomed over him. "You're the new one, aren't you?" the 22-year-old asked loftily. He was very crisply dressed despite the hot weather.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he nodded. "Um, I started two months ago. Can I help you with something?"

Mycroft thought for a moment before taking a half-step nearer. He carried an umbrella with him. "I think I'd like to promote you. Rather than gardening I'd like you to work solely on picking up kitchen shifts." At John's bemused look, he continued, "That will leave you with a lot of spare time. You aren't paid by the hour, but a standard weekly wage. That will not change. You will be spending your spare time looking after my brother. He does tend to get into trouble, and I think a hardworking young man such as yourself will be a good influence on him."

His stomach sank. The last thing he needed was to look after some bratty kid. But he didn't dare refuse for fear of being sacked. Mycroft immediately sent him inside to clean himself up, and was moved to a bedroom across the hall from the younger brother, Sherlock's. Though still considered a small room, it was much larger than his room in the servants' wing.

It took five minutes of firm knocking - but never pounding - on Sherlock's door before the disgruntled boy stuck his tousled his head out. John's first impression was of a pouting sneer surrounded by dark ginger curls and gray eyes. "Little brother, this is John, your new friend," the elder brother announced with a gesture to John, who shrank back from Sherlock's openly hateful stare. "Try not to break him, will you?"

A fizzle of anger passed over John like a shadow. He wasn't a toy.

The door slammed in both of their faces. Mycroft sighed. "He'll come round eventually," he said, and made his leave.

John went back to his new room and sat on the edge of his bed. How long was he supposed to wait for Sherlock to "come round" before they sacked him? He was determined not to be, and so waited until he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open again before jumping off the bed and rushing out to meet him. "Hi," he said breathlessly before realizing that the door had been opened by a clever rigging system. By that time the bucket of ice water had already been emptied over his head.

Fine. That was just fine. Two could play at that game.

Half of John's night was spent putting together a finely-tuned pulley and attaching it to Sherlock's door, using stuffing from the pillow he'd brought with him from the flat as a helpful projectile. It was harmless, really, but a good ice-breaker between them. Only there being something sticky to cover Sherlock with first would be better, but he would take what he could get. He went to sleep nearly vibrating with anticipation for hearing Sherlock's howl of surprise in the morning.

What he instead awoke to, rather that Sherlock's howl, was Mrs. Holmes' terrified scream as she opened her youngest son's door to be pelted from behind by an enormous wad of pillow-stuffing. John froze with terror, watching his door slowly swing open from the delicate rigging, just knowing that he was going to get the sack. There was a long silence, and then:

"Mummy, you ruined it!" whined Sherlock from the depths of his room.

Mrs. Holmes sputtered as white pillow-fluff continued to drift gently toward the floor. Her well-manicured hand froze around the frame of John's door, no doubt about to pull herself in and start in on John. "Ruined what, exactly?" she demanded suspiciously.

"That was intended for Mycroft!"

"Mycroft returned to London last night, Sherlock."

"Did he? Blast!"

"Watch your tongue, young man."

"But Mummy-!"

"No 'but's! You've completely ruined my hair and I have an important meeting to attend in twenty minutes! I thought you were supposed to be playing with the servant boy, not causing me more headaches!"

"But he's dull, Mummy!"

"Tough. John?" Mrs. Holmes stuck her head into John's bedroom.

John had never seen her face before. She was almost frighteningly lovely, especially when angry. Swallowing dryly, he replied, "Yes, ma'am?"

"You will be sharing a bedroom with my son from now on. Perhaps you can teach him a thing or two about responsibility for one's actions," the instructed, and then stormed off.

For several moments, John hardly dared rise from his bed, he was so stricken with fear and relief. He'd just nearly been sacked until, for some reason he couldn't explain, Sherlock had come to his rescue.

The boy in question stuck his rumpled head in the door, eyes still drooping with sleep. "Come with me," he demanded loftily. "Don't bother changing out of your pajamas. You don't have enough clothes to replace something you ruin, and pajamas don't matter. Hurry up!" He swept away down the corridor, leaving John stunned in his bed.

"Aren't we eating breakfast?" he called after Sherlock.

"Breakfast is boring!"

For another long moment, John hesitated. Then Sherlock called, "It could be dangerous!" and he scrambled for the door, barely pulling on his trainers before running after the younger boy. They spent the morning venturing through the thin woods behind the manor house in search of animal remains for Sherlock to ogle. John wondered what he'd meant by dangerous until they heard the barking of stray dogs that had gone feral a few years ago, and they had to hide up a tree for an hour to avoid them.

Once they'd managed to throw down enough sticks and acorns to scare the dogs away, Sherlock led the way back to the house for lunch. He'd been right; John's pajamas were ruined, but he was breathless and smiling more than he had since before his parents died. They crowded around one of the small tables in the kitchen rather than taking up space in the dining room and ate cold chicken sandwiches with a sack of what Sherlock suspected to be beaver skulls sitting at their feet.

It seemed almost indecent for John to be so happy. Weren't orphans supposed to be taciturn, stoic martyrs? Maybe John was defective, but he thought his parents would like to see him having fun. Even if that fun was hiding in trees from feral dogs.

The next few weeks of summer were spent in mostly the same fashion, though John did wear his clothes outside from then on. Mrs. Holmes seemed pleased with her younger son's progress - or at least the fact that he was staying out of her hair while she planned an important family party. "I don't really know what it's about," Sherlock explained that night as they lie awake, poring over a book about hive culture under a sloppily-constructed blanket fort. "I think it must be Father's birthday, but it seems pointless to have a party now he's dead."

"How long has he been dead?" John asked quietly.

After a moment's thought, Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure. He must have died before or soon after I was born, because I don't remember him at all. Mycroft does, but he gets tetchy when I pry."

"Anyone would get tetchy if you ask prying questions about their dead father."

"Would you get tetchy if I asked about yourdead parents?"

"Yes, I would," John said, and rolled over to face the other wall.

Sherlock sighed. "I wasn't goingto," he said. "I was just wondering."

He counted to ten and rolled back over.

One day spent in the intense sunlight, for once spent idly laying beside the pond rather than dashing about the woods like lunatics. The air was heavy and thickly fragrant, bees humming around their heads. John was relaxed, blissfully so. His worries were far away, despite the fact that the summer was winding down and Sherlock would be returning to boarding school soon. Despite his haughty and sometimes outright condescending attitude, Sherlock was a surprisingly good friend and eccentrically kind. John didn't think about that, nor the fact that soon he would be 15 and leaving school to work in the city.

"You ought to be an army doctor when you grow up," muttered Sherlock.

When John looked across at him, it was to see the red-haired boy's eyes firmly shut against the sun and his hands folded under his head. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, since you insist on being in the army, the doctors don't die as often as ordinary soldiers."

John's throat grew tight, but he didn't reply. He didn't know how.

"Will you come back and see me at school sometimes?"

"Of course I will, if that's what you want. We can even call each other."

"Hm. Good."

He tried to imagine that his stomach wasn't squirming. Then Mrs. Holmes stuck her head out the window and shouted that some boy from school was on the phone for Sherlock. John's young companion sighed and rolled upright to answer it, leaving him in the grass until he was given work to do. By the time John returned to his and Sherlock's room that night, the younger boy was in a disastrously volatile mood over some little boyfriend of his, who had been the one to call.

"He has so much potential going to waste!" Sherlock fumed, pacing from one end of the room to the other. "He's a bloody genius, almost cleverer than me but messier, too obsessive and calculating. When Carl Powers died last year we were looking into it together, but Jim lost his focus and started going in on other things. He's a wizard at maths and history, too. But then he got it in his head that we were going to run away together and move to London, even though I've already told him I didn't want to go. Now today he calls me, wondering if I'm ready to go yet! I'm not going to drop my entire life to gad around London with him! It'd be completely miserable!"

John sat back against the side of his bed. He hadn't known Sherlock was gay.

"Stop," Sherlock snapped. "Don't look at me like that. We've shared a room for over a month and I haven't molested you, have I? Nothing's changed."

He nodded. "I know."

"Good."

John went to sleep that night, not quite relieved, but wondering. Sherlock was clever, that much was painfully obvious, but was he clever enough to see the odd, tentative thoughts and budding curiosity John had been feeling toward him? Would John get the sack if he did? It was totally wrong, they were way too young, but...maybe someday.

The day of the party came and John was sent to work in the kitchen for the evening, covering for one of the girls who'd come down with a terrible case of it's-the-weekend-I-have-a-date-fuck-you-Mrs-Holmes. He spent the day keeping Sherlock busy away from the preparations, showered off the algae, then ran to the servants' quarters to help where he could. Occasionally in the corridors he could hear Mrs. Holmes berating her son.

"Sherlock, I said not to wear the purple, it looks far too mature for you and clashes with your hair. The blue one, if you will, please."

"Mummy, can't I-?"

"No! You are not going to bother John while he's working; you can see him after the party."

"But the party's-"

"Sherlock, you are going to the party. Your brother's bringing some very important people from work, too. You ought to meet them, and then maybe you'll have an internship when you leave university too, hm? Now go change your shirt, I want you looking smart tonight. And for goodness' sake, love, wear a tie."

He chuckled to himself and stepped aside for one of the girls to get past.

Much of John's experience of the party was spent getting shouted at in the kitchen, listening to the music drifting from the ballroom - the house was so massively huge it had its own bloody ballroom - while he made tiny sandwiches for pretentious rich people. He didn't even get to bring the food out and see how swanky everything looked, but every so often he managed to sneak away and peek through the sliding wall panels until the head cook would find him and drag him back by the collar. That little trick was just one of many advantages of living in the servants' quarters. Perhaps he would show Sherlock later.

Only a few hours in did John catch a glimpse of Sherlock - all he'd ever seen before was Mrs. Holmes sitting regally at the head table - in the most unlikely of situations. He was leaning against the right-hand wall, near a window with his brother and, most surprising of all, laughing. John didn't think he'd ever seen the youngest Holmes looking so at ease. Even as he thought it, Sherlock snatched a teacake from a passing tray and palmed it across the gap to his brother with a murmured remark. Mycroft stuck it in his mouth and grinned cheekily with crumbs bursting from between his teeth; for the first time, he looked like a 22-year-old rather than a crotchety politician. As John watched the brothers laughed, then sobered slightly as Mycroft pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. They talked about it for a few moments before Mycroft then forcibly pulled out the key for winding the watch, the part attached to the chain. He passed it to his brother who, with a puzzled frown, put it around his neck.

"Hey, what are you doing out here?" the cook barked, gripping John by the collar and dragging him away from the gap. "You're meant to be in the kitchen!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going!" groused John, trying to brush the man off.

An hour later, as John was exhaustively putting cherries on top of a pudding larger than his entire upper body, the cheery music from the party hushed. Curious, John accompanied the cart of pudding out into the ballroom and found a scrawny dark-haired boy being dragged out by two security guards. "I swear to God, Sherlock, I'll get you for this! I SWEAR I WILL!"

From behind his brother's back, Sherlock peered out at the boy who must be Jim with a maelstrom of fear and hate.

"I'm going to kill you, Sherlock! I'M GOING TO KILL ALL OF YOU!" Jim screamed just before the ballroom doors slammed shut.

The party remained subdued and skittish until Mrs. Holmes quickly got up from her place at the front of the room. "I'm terribly sorry about the interruption. You know how strong-willed little boys can be, I'm sure it's all just a big misunderstanding. Please, everyone, keep dancing! I think I see dessert coming, too!" Mrs. Holmes waved him along, and John hurried to the food table with his cart of pudding.

It was past two before the party died down, but Sherlock was already in his room when John was relieved of his duties. Sore and exhausted, he crawled into bed but rolled onto his side so he was facing Sherlock's side of the room. "How are you?" he asked quietly. Sherlock stared at him with eyes wide open, magnified by his enormous auburn curls. They were getting darker as he grew up like a beanpole. He'd grown nearly as tall as John in just the course of the summer, a full three inches that left him in agony some days.

"Jim came by."

"I know, I was in with the pudding."

Sherlock averted his eyes. "I think he's gone insane. His family has a long history of mental illness, you know. And they're very rich too, with all these resources at their hands. I think if Jim wanted to kill me, he probably could."

"But he's only twelve."

"Age hardly matters when you have money and any number of muscled idiots at your disposal."

Before he could say something stupid, John sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Do you want to build another fort and read comics?" he offered.

After a few minutes' thought Sherlock nodded and crawled out of bed with his sheets in hand. John grinned at him and dug out the torch and stack of comics from under his mattress. John fell asleep at four in the morning with his hand curled around Sherlock's, the younger boy a warm weight pressed against his side. They woke up in the morning with ink from the comics on their cheeks.

John's school resumed a week before Sherlock's, and so the boys started to see much less of each other as John spent his days learning and working while Sherlock busied himself on the grounds. On the last day of Sherlock's summer holiday John was set in the kitchen again to help prepare his last dinner at home. Mycroft was along as well for his last visit before going to France, making a proper family to-do of it. The young politician smiled broadly at John as he peered out through the sliding wall panel, in an uncommonly good mood.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, did you invite someone over?" he heard Mrs. Holmes snap when the doorbell rang.

"No, Mummy," replied Sherlock, puzzled.

Mrs. Holmes called for one of the maids to get the door and send away whoever it was before returning to conversation with her sons. The sound of the maid screaming followed by a gunshot echoed through the house. Instantly the family were on their feet, fast enough to knock their chairs to the floor. "Hurry, boys," she said as footsteps pounded down the corridor toward them. John threw open the wall panel and waved his arms, not wanting to shout and attract attention as his heart pounded in his ears.

They didn't see, and ran out through the other room toward the parlor. John dove back into the servants' passage and rushed toward the bedrooms, where they would likely take refuge or try to get out through a difference door. Mrs. Holmes' was on the first floor, so it was more probable for them to hide there until the coast was clear. As John followed their path he could hear the gunman - or men - thumping after him.

He ran as quickly as his legs could carry him to the panel in the parlor and swung it open with a muffled shout. Sherlock spun on his heel, ginger curls flying, and pulled back against his mother and brother to redirect them to the hidden corridor. Sherlock and Mycroft had just got inside when someone started trying to kick in the parlor door. Their mother shoved them the rest of the way in and forced the wall panel shut with a grim look.

"Mu-!" Sherlock cried before Mycroft put a hand over his mouth.

The parlor door broke open and the gun discharged with little fanfare. John grabbed Sherlock and Mycroft's arms. "I can get you out through the servants' quarters," he told them, gripping them tight and running. He felt like he was going to fall apart at the seams with terror, feeling with every second that the gunman would come upon them and mow them all down.

"Wait, I left my chain!"

"Sherlock, this is hardly the time for sentiment!" snarled Mycroft, rubbing the bite mark on his hand. "Mummy is dead and whoever's out there intends to kill us too! Now hurry up!"

Sherlock kicked and squirmed until John let him go, then bolted up ahead to vanish through another sliding panel. The two elders shot after and caught up in his bedroom just as he was digging the long silver chain from between two books. John pulled open the fireplace as the footsteps thundered nearer, then ushered them in as quickly as he could, but already knew he wouldn't be able to to get after them without giving away that they were in the walls.

"John! John, no, John!" screamed Sherlock, eyes wide as Mycroft held him back and John pushed the fireplace shut.

At least five gunmen flooded into the bedroom. "Where are they?" one of them demanded.

"I don't know," John said dumbly. The butt of the gun flew down onto his temple, and the world went black.

John was sent back to his sister. There was no one left at Holmes Manor for him to work for anymore. Mrs. Holmes was nothing but a drying red smear on the parlor wall. Mycroft and Sherlock managed to get out of the house alive, but somewhere between Sussex and the train station Sherlock had been lost in the chaos. His body - and the gunmen - were never found.