MY LITTLE SOLDIER
Some things are easy and some things are hard. How they got together is a bit of both.
CHAPTER 1:
Along time ago and very far away was a little boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. He loved his mother and father and his, somewhat annoying, older sister. He liked to run around with sticks pretending they were guns. "Pew, Pew" he would say aiming his little stick gun at a tree, in his mind it was an enemy soldier.
The long grass brushed against his shins as he ran through the little patch of forest near the path close to his home, tripping over a stump and dirtying up his knees with brown and green smudges. Birds scattered up from the branches, squawking loudly. Lizards, bugs, mice and one very large white rabbit scurried off deep into the woods. He hadn't thought he had made much noise, but to a boy of seven not much noise is actually quite a lot.
He stood up not caring to brush away the dirt and twigs, and began running off after the rabbit, forgetting all about the imaginary battle but still clutching his stick gun. Deeper and deeper he went into the woods bounding through bushes that seem to reach out and grab at his clothes. Eventually he lost all sight of the path, completely focused on the rabbit ahead. He began to tire and had to stop and bend over, holding his knees to try and catch his breath. Once he had caught his breath he searched the undergrowth for any signs of the rabbit; a tuft of its tail or the tips of white ears. He saw nothing.
Turning around to head back to the long forgotten battle and enemy soldiers, he realized that he did not know which way to go; he could see no traces of the path that his mother had plainly told him to stay on. He didn't panic. He was almost a man, as his father liked to say, and men did not panic, they did not cry, they figured out what needed to be done and they did it. He looked and saw bushes with branches that were broken and bent towards him and grass that had been smashed down by heavy feet. He thought, "This is where I ran from. I'll go that way." He followed his makeshift trail for some time until the bushes thin and grass turned to dirt, he could no longer see any broken branches that he might have pushed through. He chewed his bottom lip wondering if it would be wise to continue straight. Could he perhaps have turned at some point and did not remember?
Standing there deep in thought, he did not hear the first twig break or the rustle of leaves. The second time it happened he did hear but only because it was much closer and therefore also much louder. Without thinking about how he was not actually holding a gun but just a plain stick he turned abruptly around and pointed his stick gun at the person who had snuck up on him.
It was just a boy! A boy with a curly mass of brown hair, slanted grey eyes, and sharp cheek bones, sitting in a very thin tree on a very thin branch starring down at him with ethereal eyes. The boy looked even younger than him and probably should not be climbing up such tall trees. He looked down and narrowed his eyes slightly and asked, "What do you think that stick will do, John?"
John's blue eyes widened in surprise, "How do you know my name?" John kept the stick pointed up and towards this strange kid, just in case.
"I am Sherlock." He said, easily climbing his way down, landing lightly on his feet and twirling around to face John. Twigs and leaves stuck out haphazardly in Sherlock's hair, his purple shirt was tattered and extremely dirty, his feet bare except for the large amount of mud that was caked on the sides and in between his toes. "I do hate to repeat myself but since you have not answered, and I believe it is due to you being shocked that I knew your name, I will assume you did not hear me properly. So I ask again, what do you think that stick will do, John?"
John glared at him, "And I ask again, how do you know my name?"
Sherlock sighed in true frustration, "I know a lot of things."
"You don't talk like other kids."
"Well I am not like other kids."
John looked Sherlock up and down, "How old are you anyway?"
Sherlock crossed his arms and stood straight, "I am five! Thank you very much."
John looked away, lowered his stick and tossed it to the ground, "Nothing. I didn't think it would do anything."
Sherlock is surprised that John actually answered his question; most people would still be demanding how he knew them and why he was watching them in the first place. John looked towards Sherlock and asked, "So what do you know about me, then? Since you know so much."
Sherlock took a breath, knowing that after this John would probably punch him and run off. Best to do it now so he will be left in peace (was it peace?) again. "I know that you are John Watson (who just turned seven) and that you live in the little cottage just west of town. I know that your father was in the war but is disgraced since he ran away during a very bloody battle. Your mother hates him for shaming your family, subjecting all of you to the torments from the townspeople and you all now live in poverty. The only way any bills are being paid is that she is sleeping with the landlord, the baker, and the butcher. Your father knows this and doesn't care. You and your sister get along pretty well for siblings that are close in age but of the opposite gender. You, John, want to become a soldier yourself so you can lift the shame off your family and provide a better life for them as well. You are kind to all animals and people, even the ones in town who spit at you and THEY don't deserve your kindness." He stopped then, closing his eyes, waiting for the blows to come.
"That was amazing!"
Sherlock's eyes shot open, unbelieving. He just revealed things that John didn't even know and probably didn't want to know. But he had not punched Sherlock; he had said it was amazing.
John stuck out his left hand towards Sherlock, "Do you want to be friends?"
Sherlock started at that question. No one had ever wanted to be his friend. He slid his left hand into John's and wrapped his fingers around the warmth radiating off of John's skin.
Smiling brightly John tugs Sherlock closer. "Okay brainy, how do we get back to the path. I hate to say this but I'm lost."
Sherlock smiled brightly back at John, "That is easy, my dear Watson. Follow me. But it could be dangerous." His eyes showed a flash of mischief. He tugged John through a set of trees, both laughing loudly enough to scare all the woodland creatures in the process.