AN: Hello! My first attempt at an AU so bear with me; the story will chart the First World War and the years before and after it, so obviously it's going to deal with some not-nice stuff (the rating may go up depending on how that pans out). I can't promise regular updates, I'm afraid, but I won't ever abandon this. I wanted to get this up before the new series, and I hope you all have a very merry Christmas.
The friendship that had sprung up between the two boys had come as a bit of a surprise to everyone. It was hardly fitting for the heir to the local estate to spend so much of his time off with one of the village boys. Nevertheless, the fact remained that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were inseparable whenever Sherlock was home from school, and had been so ever since they first met. It was a strange day indeed if one was spotted without the other during the holidays.
Sherlock had been eight when he was packed off to boarding school for the first time. Stood alone on the station platform and swamped by an oversized coat, he had been desperately trying to look as if he wasn't crying when an older boy had smiled at him from across the tracks.
"Cheer up!" he'd called. "Might never happen!"
Forgetting in his surprise to cry, Sherlock had blinked in confusion. A working class boy talking to him was unheard of. A train pulled into the station, and Sherlock lost sight of the boy: he tried in vain to peer through the windows and across to the other platform, but he couldn't see, even when he raised himself up on his tiptoes. Disappointed, he sank back down and the lump in his throat returned. Before any traitorous tears could fall, however, there came a voice in his ear.
"You off to school then?"
It was the boy. Sherlock jumped as he spoke and nodded slowly.
"Shame. I don't have to go back to school for another few weeks, and then I'll be off again after that 'cause I've got to help with the harvest."
Feeling a little lost, Sherlock nodded again. This boy was acting like they knew each other. His eyes scanned the station for his nanny, who was accompanying him on the train and had gone to buy a newspaper.
"You'll be fine."
Sherlock turned to look at the boy again.]
"You can write home lots so you can't get homesick. I'll even write to you if you want. I'm John. John Watson."
Sherlock looked at the hand offered to him before taking it a little uncertainly.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Hol-"
"Holmes, I know. My brother works up at the Big House."
Sherlock's eyes flickered over him. "You're worried about him."
John frowned. "How did you know that?"
Sherlock smirked, all thoughts of tears long forgotten.
"By your watch and your shirtsleeves and your shoelaces."
John's frown deepened. "How?" he demanded.
Smirk widening, Sherlock took a deep breath. "I can see your watch is a family heirloom from the initials engraved on it – H. W., so father or brother then. Your father is dead, I assume, so it has passed to you. Clearly you were given it on your 10th birthday – you're clearly not eighteen, so that's the only significant age it could be – a little unusual for the younger child to receive an heirloom, so your mother doesn't trust your brother with it. He had it previously though; you can see the pawnbroker's number scratched on the lid. Your mother doesn't trust him not to attempt to sell it again, so clearly you're worried about his finances, most likely caused by the gambling fuelled by alcoholism, which is obvious. There are scratch marks around the keyhole where his hand slipped when he went to wind it. You'll never see a drunkard's watch without those markings.
"Your shirt is clearly second-hand too, passed down from your old brother. It reminds you of him, so the sleeves are frayed where you've been fiddling with them absent-mindedly. You're worried."
There came a pause. "And the shoelaces?" John said faintly. Over the boy's shoulder, Sherlock spotted his nanny approaching and spoke still faster.
"It's probable that you were taught to tie your shoelaces by your brother, but they're knotted messily today whereas the rest of your appearance is neat, so you were preoccupied when tying them. The action of tying the laces reminded you of him and so you weren't fully concentrating. Ergo, you're worried about your older brother."
"Master Holmes?"
Nanny approached, frowning in disapproval. A formidable woman, she dressed only in black and reminded anyone who saw her of a rake. An ill-tempered, thin-lipped, pasty-faced rake. "What are you talking to that boy for? Come away at once, or we'll miss our train!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made to follow her. A hand shot out and grabbed his arm.
"That...was amazing!"
Sherlock blinked at John, surprised once more.
"What?" He looked around. Nanny was reprimanding a porter for whistling. She'd be busy for some time. He could risk continuing the conversation. "Really?"
"How could it not be? That was extraordinary!"
Sherlock had to smile at that, and at the grin on John's face.
"Write to me," John insisted. "Just address it to the village post office and I'll pick it up from there."
"Alright," Sherlock said, attempting nonchalance. A friend. How novel.
"Brilliant!"
"Master Holmes!"
John jumped at the noise and relinquished his grip on Sherlock.
"Here." He pulled an apple out of his pocket and thrust it into Sherlock's hand. "Something to eat on the train." He grinned at him once more, waved, and then ran off as Nanny bore down on them like a charging rhino.
"Come along this instant! Never have I seen such rudeness; your brother was never like this..."
Sherlock tuned out her shrill voice as they boarded the train, and for the rest of the journey. He put the apple in his pocket, not wanting her to confiscate the only relic he had of the boy at the station. He wrote to him the very first week of school, opening a flood of correspondence between the two.
Now, seven years later, the two were as close as ever. The long hot summer of 1914 had been spent roaming the countryside, Sherlock escaping from the stuffy manor whenever he could to meet John. Described by many as 'ideal picnic weather', Sherlock had instead spent much time avoiding his mother and her friends on the endless picnics they seemed to go on. Mycroft was hardly ever home, which was good. Whilst Sherlock could easily sidestep his mother, outmanoeuvring his brother was a little trickier. He was glad that he was being kept busy at the foreign office. Some crisis, as always. When he was lying with John in the dappled shade in the woods next to a stream, Whitehall and all its nonsense seemed an eternity away.
"They say there's going to be a war," Sherlock remarked idly one day. Despite the fact they were both far too old for such things (John was 17 and Sherlock 15), both were floating on their backs in the river. Clothes were strewn about the bank as they'd been discarded when the two boys had stripped and run whooping into the water. Refreshing was the word, Sherlock thought lazily, watching a solitary cloud drift across the otherwise clear sky.
"I heard that too. They keep talking about it in the village."
"Mycroft mentioned it the last time he was here," Sherlock replied. "He described the whole of Europe as a powder keg. All it needs is one spark and then...boom."
They were quiet for a while. The only sound was the wind in the trees on the bank.
John turned in the water to float upright, treading water and watching Sherlock.
"D'you reckon you'd go and fight? If there was a war?"
Sherlock considered this. "No. I'm too young. And so you are you," he added, eyes narrowing a little.
"Yeah. Suppose." John sounded deflated.
Sherlock too turned to float upright, looking shrewdly at John. They were quiet again, each lost in their own thoughts.
"Come on," Sherlock said suddenly. "We can go and see if the experiment's ready."
He stood abruptly and waded to the bank. After a moment, John followed. He always did. Sherlock always found these moments a little awkward – he had to get out before John now and avoided looking at him while they were dressing. A few weeks earlier his body had betrayed him. He'd had to quickly cover up before John noticed, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. A final reminder that the two were growing up. That these idyllic summers would soon be over: they would both be men, and John would remain in the village while Sherlock was exiled to Whitehall. Shaking his head to banish such thoughts, Sherlock finished buttoning his shirt and risked looking at John. He was, thankfully, clothed, but his shirt clung to his wet body, every line and crevice defined. He smiled at him. Sherlock felt his heart flutter and cursed internally. He needed to quash these ridiculous feelings. John must never know. He'd hate him forever if he did.
"Come on," he said after a moment. "Let's go."