Always A Watson
Chapter Two
It was the rays of sunshine dancing over his face that caused John to flicker his eyes open the next morning. The bright yellow beams tickled his soft, dewy skin as the light waltzed across him in a merry jig, there was just possibility his mind could carry on in slumber at such a spectacle.
Despite the long hours he had spent in slumber, he opened his eyes feeling just as exhausted as he had when he had closed them. He felt as if he had been asleep for a thousand years, so deep was the sleep he had experienced, and yet still his body felt nothing but fatigue and tiredness. It took him a few moments to remember the previous days events, to remember where he was and what had happened. Why he was in a strange bed and not wrapped in his mothers arms.
He was suddenly quite frightened, feeling vastly intimidated by all that had happened to him. Not even his mother, with her vivid collection of wild stories could have conjured up such a tale, even her imagination did not stretch that far, and yet it had all happened, he had lived and breathed it unfolding before him. This was certainly not the pages of a novel, or the product of the imagination of some flighty female, this was his life. He was not sure what was happening, what was going to occur in his future or what the conclusion of such events would be, like a ship in a stormy sea all he could do was watch himself be carried along by such strange and uncontrollable tides.
Now that he had been plucked from all he had known, now that the change had settled and he had had time to digest all that had happened it left him feeling nothing but fear and regret. He wished he had never left his mothers side, he wished so badly that she was still here with him, he wished and wished and wished, but he knew that nothing would change, he was too old to believe in fairy stories now and he knew people never came back from death. He tried to imagine his mother in heaven, which is where they told him all the good people went, he tried to imagine her with the angels and Jesus, but he could not, instead of that his brain conjured up an image of Mr Bridgely, dumping his mother into the cold, hard ground.
He screwed up his eyes and held his hands over his ears, whimpering to himself as he tried to block out the horrid pictures his brain kept splashing across his vision, his mother in the earth, his mother rotting away, his mother being eaten away by rats and worms. He pictured his mothers face, but it was not his mother, the face was not kind or loving, the mouth wide open as if contorted into a scream, the skin was lifeless and grey, the face had no eyes, instead worms were crawling through the empty sockets. John cried in distress. 'No, please no'
'John?' a small voice whispered beside him. John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock, his friend. Sherlock, with his wild hair and mischievous grey eyes. Sherlock, whose arms were still wrapped so tightly around him. John clung to his friends nightshirt, his small fingers gripping the soft, white fabric tightly.
'What is wrong? Something is wrong, I do not like it.' Sherlock furrowed his brows, obviously confused as to what was happening in front of him, as if he were watching some foreign play he did not like nor understand. John held back the tears, ashamed that he could not stop them, ashamed that he could not think of his mother without them forming. He would not cry in front of Sherlock, he did not want Sherlock to think of him as weak. He needed to stop crying as he was certainly not an infant, he was the Royal Navy who had captured Sherlock the pirate the night before, and the Royal Navy certainly did not cry.
'I'm fine.' John choked out.
Sherlock gave him a queer expression, John could see his brain trying to process the scene playing out in front of him.
'You are sad' Sherlock stated matter of factly, his eyebrows still furrowed. 'I do not like it when you are sad'
John bit his lip, terribly feeling guilty for the lost expression on his friends face.
'My mother died yesterday' he explained quietly. He found he was most unable to say what was troubling him in anything other then a whisper. 'I miss her, terribly'
There was a long pause. John closed his eyes and settled his head in Sherlock's shoulder. It was terribly bony, but to John it made him feel as peace. The heat from Sherlock's soft skin, the smell of him, the softness, his curls tickling him when they brushed up against his nose. 'This could be home' John thought to himself.
'What is it like? Having a mother?' Sherlock whispered.
'You mean you don't know?' John was puzzled. What a strange question to ask. Surely every boy knew what it was like to have a mother?
'No. My mother died to but I do not miss her'
John remembered being in the carriage with Lord Holmes, being pulled along by that big horse. He remembered him telling him about his wife, who had died giving birth to his son. Suddenly John understood.
He thought for a moment, thinking how on earth he could explain a mother. He though very hard, knowing this information was important and he had to get it right.
'Mothers are the most wonderful things in the whole world. They smell nice, and are warm, they hug you and rock you to sleep and tell you stories, and they love you, and they never stop loving you even when they have a cough.'
John stopped, feeling a tear roll down his cheek. His mother was all those things, all those things and he could never get them back, for the first time he realised what he had lost.
He felt Sherlock squeeze him tighter. Holding him in a tight embrace, saying nothing. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the door was being swung open and in walked Annie with a large silver tray.
'Awww don't you two look sweet' she cooed over them, setting down the tray and walking over to the window, undoing the latches to let in the cool, crisp, morning air.
John looked at the tray, containing a large plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, with a smaller plate of bread. His stomach grumbled once again.
'Where is John's tray?' Sherlock asked, pouting, 'I want him to have breakfast with me.' he said insistently.
Annie shook her head sternly 'Lord Holmes's orders Master Sherlock. You father said John is to have his breakfast in the kitchens'
Sherlock pouted once more, grabbing John's hand in his own. 'Well then I will have my breakfast in the kitchens to.' he said defiantly.
'Oh for goodness sake' Annie put her hand on her hips, 'Can you two be apart for more then five minutes?'
John tried to hide his smile, he felt so chuffed that someone like Sherlock could want his company so badly. He wished he could have his breakfast with Sherlock, but he knew his place. He didn't want to do anything that could upset Lord Holmes, he was fearful that if he did he would be taken back to London and never see Sherlock or Harry again.
'It's okay Sherlock, I will have my breakfast and come back as soon as I can' he promised.
Annie helped him out of bed and went into his own room to get dressed.
'You and master Sherlock are getting on well.' Annie smiled as she helped his with his shirt buttons.
'He is my friend' John stated proudly.
Annie smiled. 'I'm glad, he is such a strange boy, he needed someone, I don't think I've ever seen him smile before and now here you are...' she halted halfway. Looking down at the floor and biting her lip. John sensed Annie wanted to say more but she did not say another word on the subject.
'My brother Joseph is your age.' She said quickly. 'He will start working here when he is old enough. You will have to meet him, I think you two would make great friends.
The kitchens were just as John remembered them, frantic and noisy, people rushing everywhere. A constant hive of activity. John sensed that the kitchens were the beating heart of the entire home. They seemed to have so much life and energy. Quite unlike to quiet stillness of upstairs. Being in the kitchens was exactly like being back in the East End, if there was one thing John was struggling to adjust to, it was the quiet.
'Hello Master John' Polly appeared placing a bowl of porridge in front of him 'Sleep well?'
John nodded, thinking back to how Sherlock had curled himself around him, he did sleep very well. He caught Polly's eyes and to his surprise she did not meet his gaze, looking away immediately. She wore a small smile, though John did not think the smile was genuine, it was the same smile his mother used to give him when she told him she was fine, when John knew she was not. She brushed the front of her apron as if she was trying to compose herself and handed him a spoon. On further inspection he noticed her eyes were red and puffy.
He pushed down the porridge so the milk flooded the spoon and slurped, the taste was utterly delicious, it had been so long since he had had milk and the white liquid was thick and creamy. The porridge was still piping hot but he ate ravenously, his appetite insatiable.
As he ate he kept an eye on Polly, she was cutting something up when suddenly she stopped and buried her head in her hands. John kept watching as Annie went up to her and wrapped her arms around the smaller woman's shoulders. John was confused, he didn't understand why Polly was so upset, or why she kept putting her hand flat on her stomach, was it something he had done? Had he upset her somehow? He racked his brains but couldn't think of anything he had done that would have saddened her, maybe it was because he had slept in Sherlock's bed, was she angry at him for doing that? He continued eating his porridge as Annie comforted her. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, his mother had told him many times, but he could not help but listen in on their hushed words.
'What am I going to do?' Polly sniffed, she continued rubbing her tummy with the palm of her hand. John wondered if maybe she had an stomach ache.
'Don't worry' Annie whispered. 'Charlie is a good man, he will do the right thing by you'
John did not know who Charlie was, or what this thing he was being expected to do. He finished his porridge quietly while pondering the unanswered questions.
When he was done he noticed a man entering the room. He was older then the other footmen John had seen hurrying about, slicked black hair which was going grey and the temples. He wore the same stiff white collar and white shirt yet he wore a black waistcoat and jacket rather then blue. There was an air of quiet authority about him. He looked like a man who only spoke when absolutely necessary, yet could command an entire army of men on a single sentence. He had not said a word yet John had sensed the air in the room had changed, it crackled with a strange mixture of fear and respect. Everything suddenly pulled towards the man.
'Morning Jenkins' Patty said cheerfully, breaking the silence. John looked around, everyone had stopped what they were doing and stared at the man. Though when Patty spoke he sensed them relax somewhat.
'Master Watson?' Jenkins spoke in a calm yet slightly menacing tone.
'Yes sir?' John stuttered.
'Lady Harriet wished to speak with you, follow me'
John's heart began to beat quickly, he had been so wrapped up in Sherlock he had completely forgotten about Harry. He followed the man through the hall, out of the kitchens at through the main body of the house. They walked up the stairs, through ornately decorated corridors with portraits and tables filled with vases of flowers. The rich red carpet and perfectly painted walls, the long hallways displayed an absolute tapestry of wealth.
Soon they came to a large door, the man stopped and knocked sharply on the dark wood.
'Come in' John heard his sisters voice call out.
The man opened the door and stepped into the room, John did not follow, instead he stood still, frozen to the carpet in the corridor utterly dumbstruck.
'John Watson is here to see you.'
There was a long pause in which John pondered what he should do, should he walk inside? Did he have to wait for the man to get him?
There was another long pause, the man coughed, then look at him, John stared back. The man sighed and walked back to where John was standing.
'Come on then' he instructed John, grabbing him by the shoulder and leading him into the room.
The room itself was huge, twice the size of his own and Sherlock's, in the centre was a giant four poster bed, which swamped Harry making her look even smaller then she was, her tiny body wrapped up in the blankets, her back propped up by a pile of enormous pillows, her fingers clasped round a flowery cup and saucer.
'John!' she squealed happily, beaming at him. John smiled weakly back. She looked ridiculously small in the vast bed, her blonde hair sprayed out on the white pillows. He noticed her damaged wrist was bandaged. John was incredibly curious at the fabric wrapped around her hand. He wanted to study it and know how it was made, he had a sudden urge to know how such things were created. He wished he could have seen the doctor apply the bandage so he would know how to wrap it properly.
'Is that all Lady Harriet?' Jenkins asked, his voice low and deep.
'Not quite, father is taking me to London today, could you please have Brown prepare the coach?'
'Yes my lady.' John watched Jenkins bow his head at his twin sister.
'Thank you Jenkins, you may leave now.'
Jenkins turned at left, John sat himself in a chair nearby, swinging his legs in the open air as his feet could not yet reach the floor.
'Father is taking to London today John, isn't it exciting? He is going to buy me lots of dresses, he promised. And a doll.' Harry beamed again, though she did not gaze upon her brother, instead she focused her attention to the window and what was beyond, her mind far away.
John was confused. Why was Harry calling Lord Holmes father? They already had a father, and why was Harry so excited at going to London? It was as if she had forgotten they had lived there once, a time that felt so long ago. A time that felt it was now contained in a jar, unreachable, untouchable, he remembered his mother again, he felt the tears prick behind his eyes.
'Exciting?' he mused 'Yes I suppose it is' he said meekly not wanting to argue. 'Let Harry live in her dream', he thought to himself, what good would come of quarrelling?
He was suddenly very angry, his sister was not 'Lady Harriet', she was Harry. She was not taken to London to buy dresses, she ran and played and kicked and bit. This strange creature lying in the bed was not his sister at all. He felt as if his sister was gone, had died in the room along with his Mother, replaced by an utter stranger. Someone John did not know, had never met before.
He wished to yell, to shake his sister and make her remember, remember their mother and their father, the one room with the one candle. To remember stealing bread to survive. Yet he could not, he could not do anything but stare at the floor and scowl.
He kicked his legs. Kicking the empty air around the chair. Though his sister did not notice his distress. Sipping from the cup gently. Gracefully. Again John felt annoyed. Harry did not drink gracefully, she gobbled everything up like all poor children did, eating everything as if it was a last meal. No, Harry did not drink gracefully, but it seemed Lady Harriet did.
'Do you know what this is John?' She giggled. 'It is hot chocolate. Isn't it wonderful?'
John, being only a child did not know much, but he new only the obscenely wealthy could afford cocoa. John had never had chocolate, even when father was with them they could not afford it. He had only heard of it, as if it were a myth, something from the stories his mother used to tell.
The door opened once more and in walked Lord Holmes. John was quite frightened, the cold eyes brought nothing but intimidation. He was a tall man, thin, yet he seemed to fill the entire room with his presence.
'Father' Harry giggled.
'Good morning Harriet.' he said gently.
'I've told Jenkins to prepare a coach for us.' She said quickly.
Lord Holmes smiled at her, his gaze softened as he looked at her.
'I've been thinking of the dresses, can I have a pink one? And a blue? Also a doll, remember? You promised me a doll.'
Lord Holmes laughed 'Whatever you wish Harriet.'
He finally looked at John, the small boy feeling pinned by his gaze.
'My son is outside, if you do not speak with him soon I think he will implode.'
John leapt out of the chair. 'Goodbye' he mumbled to his sister, wanting to get out of her room quickly. He was thankful that Sherlock was outside, feeling it provided the perfect excuse to run. He wanted to be back with Sherlock, that strange magnetism he had felt when they had first met pulled at him.
He found his friend pacing outside. His hand crossed behind his back.
'There you are' Sherlock grinned , running up and grabbing his hand. 'I want to show you the house, I can give you a tour if you like, we have grounds to and there is a large tree I wish to show you, I climb it sometimes, I can get to the very top.' he babbled, speaking very, very fast. Sometimes John sensed Sherlock spoke so fast when he was excited because he felt he would somehow lose all the words if he did not get them out quickly enough, as if they would just float away into the air. As if they were tiny butterflies he had to capture and press into a book, or else they would fly away and he would lose them forever.
John thought for a moment and he decided he rather liked the idea of this, to explore. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hand and allowed the taller boy to lead him through the hallway.
'These are fathers rooms' he gestured with his hands at the dark wooden doors next to Harry's. 'I am not allowed inside them.' Sherlock explained as they walked along.
He stopped just in front of a portrait, John noticed he gazed up picture with a most curious expression in his eyes, a mixture of longing and puzzlement. John flicked his eyes from his friend to the portrait.
'Vera Holmes' was inscribed at the bottom of the frame, inside was a woman, a woman entirely still, completely encased in her painted world, a cheery grin forever inscribed on the oiled canvas. Rosy cheeks, sandy blonde hair, large blue eyes, John thought she was quite beautiful.
'That is my mother' Sherlock explained to a bewildered John. 'I never knew her' he continued quietly.
John was quite amazed that this woman before him was Sherlock's mother. She was so different, the very opposite of his friend. Sherlock dark where she was fair, she was soft where Sherlock was sharp and angular. Chubby cheeks were Sherlock's could cut. There was nothing of this woman in Sherlock, whenever he looked at Sherlock all he could see was the imposing figure of Lord Holmes, he was not sure why but he got the distinct feeling Sherlock resented that.
'They said she died bringing me into this world.'
John could sense Sherlock getting upset and he did not like it. He did not like that his friend looked so distant, so upset and so far away from him. He was nothing like the smiling figure who had played pirates with him.
John squeezed Sherlock's hand, 'Come on, show me something else.'
They carried on walking, Sherlock showed him the hidden hallways and obscure rooms, John squealed with delight when Sherlock showed him a large knight in shining armour, standing upright as if a man was still inside. He looked just like the knights his mother had told him about.
'I call him Arthur, like King Arthur'
John was suddenly back in the one room with the one candle, with his mother curled up in the shabby bed and her telling him about the adventures of the great King Arthur, the weasel Lancelot and Guinevere. Of the famous magician Merlin and all the adventures they had.
'I wish I could be a knight. I would be brave and fight dragons and rescue maidens.' John day dreamed.
'Knights are dull' Sherlock scoffed.
'Why?' John snapped back. He did not know why anyone would not like Knights, they were the most wonderful things. He dreamed of picking up a sword and fighting evil and riding a big white horse, yes, he would make a good knight, King Arthur would have wanted him for his round table.
Sherlock shrugged casually. His posture suddenly appeared rather slouched. 'Because they are on the side of the angels, that's why.'
John was rather unsure what Sherlock meant by this, but he said nothing.
'That is my fathers study, I am not allowed in there either.' Sherlock pointed to yet another room, though John was already quite lost in the maze. Without Sherlock there to guide him he didn't think he would ever find his way.
'And this is the library.'
Sherlock led him to a large room filled with rows upon rows of books. Coloured spines reaching out as far as the eye could see. John had never seen so many in all his life, they seemed to fill every available space.
He suddenly spotted a young man sitting in a large armchair, his nose buried in a large novel. The top of his reddish hair was all he could see, his face remained quite out of sight, obscured by the book he was currently engrossed in. Despite his youth he gave the appearance of a man who had seen too much. Old and worn yet vitally important.
'Good morning Sherlock' he said without moving his head from the page.
John sensed Sherlock quietly seethe.
The young man got up from the chair and strode over to them. Towering over the small boys. He held out his hand to John, who was quite unsure whether or not he was supposed to take it. There were so many social cues and practises that he did not know about, that he was quite bemused by, unable to know what is the proper way, he had never felt so out of place before in his entire life.
'You must be John Watson.'
John took the hand and shook it, the grip was strong and tight.
'Yes I am' he mumbled timidly. Like Lord Holmes and Sherlock the young man seemed to fill a room simply by being there. Imposing and impressive.
'I am Mycroft Holmes' the man said letting John's hand go 'Are you enjoying our humble abode?'
John shuffled on his feet. 'Yes, very much so yes, I am.' he stumbled over the words, just like his father and brother Mycroft seemed to be above everyone and everything. John felt his mouth go dry, all conscious thought just drained away, as did his ability to speak.
He felt Sherlock snatch his hand back, glaring at his older brother angrily.
'Go away Mycroft, John is my friend not yours' Sherlock hissed, squeezing his hand tightly and sticking out his bottom lip. 'Come on John, let's go.'
Mycroft gave them a funny little smile, 'Dear dear Sherlock. where are you manners?' he taunted. Sherlock let out out a snort and turned on his heels, dragging John with him.
'Ignore my brother.' Sherlock said insistently, 'Fat imbecile that he is'
John was quite unsure why there was so much tension between Sherlock and his brother, but he did not ask, letting Sherlock quietly seethe in his own world, he did not feel that he could ask, it seemed so cleat that was territory where he was not welcome.
Sherlock led him outside into the grounds. His heart leapt for joy as he left the stuffiness of the house. The gardens wide and open to him, green and lush under the spring sun, the rich green bathing under the bright sunlight. John felt the warm, crisp air swim through his lungs. So different to the heavy polluted air that he was used to. 'Such a wonderful place this is' John thought to himself, he had rarely felt grass beneath his feet before, nor soft soil. He was used to bricks and motor, to roads and stone. John did not think there was anything more satisfying then walking in an English country garden, and such a large one at that. To see such colourful flowers, neatly trimmed hedges and tall trees that reached up to the sky. To hear the birds sing their pretty chorus. It made him feel so very peaceful, the world of man had brought him nothing but pain, yet this was nature, this was how things were meant to be. It filled and soothed his soul in a way buildings and smoke never could.
'The stables are over there' Sherlock nodded his head to a small collection of barns. 'I will take you riding one day'
John tried to imagine himself on top of a horse, however he could not, the concept seemed so utterly remote and foreign to him. Orphans from London most certainly did not ride horses, that was left to rich country folk, folk like Sherlock and Lord Holmes. Once more he felt a twang in his heart, he felt so utterly lost and out of place here. Harry may have transformed herself into Lady Harriet so completely and without fuss, yet he could not, he was just John Watson. He was five years old and lived with his mother and sister in a shabby room just off George's street. He did not belong here.
'Come on. I want to show you that tree I was telling you about' Sherlock pulled at his hand as he had done so many times that day. They walked along the long green grass of Sherringford Hall, the sunlight beating down on them. John felt the soft soil underneath his feet and briefly though about running away. He could go back to London, scavenge for food and steal bread where he belonged, maybe he could even find Mr Bridgely and ask to live in that one shabby room. He could survive, he had enough wits to survive. If his mother were still alive he would still be there now, fighting to live another day. That was his world, not this, not a world were breakfast was delivered on a tray and Knights were stood in corridors.
Yet, as soon as he thought of it there was something in his heart screaming no, something telling him that he must not, under any circumstances leave. He found, in his limited capacity as a boy of five would find, that this was something most confusing, something he had never felt before, and yet, strangely, he rather had. It was the same feeling he had felt when Sherlock had asked him to play. He realised that his heart would not allow it, that he was now tied to Sherlock and nothing inside of him wanted to let that go. It was rather like the sensation he had felt when lying in his mothers arms, that this was home, that this was where he should be, and how on earth could he ever leave?
It was peculiar, he thought, most odd in fact, at how quickly he had found himself tied to this strange yet utterly remarkable boy. After all he had only known him for a very short time. This time yesterday the name 'Sherlock Holmes' had never entered him consciousness, had never passed his lips or sung in his ears. Now he was suddenly everything to John, a instant connection he both savoured yet feared. He was afraid, very afraid, at how his happiness was so tied up in someone else, for how would he survive if he lost what felt like the other part of himself? How would he cope with that sudden sick pang of loss he had felt when he contemplated leaving? Sure he had only felt it for a few moments, there few mere seconds the thought was inside his head, but it was long enough to know it was something he never wanted to feel again.
Though what if Sherlock ended up just like his mother? What if he to started coughing terribly? He had already lost so much, if he could lose his mother then wasn't it inevitable he would lose Sherlock to? What if he lost Sherlock and had to bury him into the ground for the worms and rats to eat away? He dispelled these thoughts immediately. 'No' he said sternly to himself 'We mustn't think of these things, we mustn't'.
Sherlock was fun, and exciting, and dangerous and he was John's only friend. His true friend. His darling friend. He was special, special because he had asked a shooting star for him and now he had appeared as if by magic. 'The star would be upset' John thought if he were to ungrateful for his gift. It would take Sherlock away. Maybe Lord Holmes would find out how utterly ungrateful and selfish he was and put him on one of those large ships bound for Tasmania?
Sherlock seemed quite unaware of his friends anguish as they strolled along the grounds, hand in hand. He began to tell John of the types of birds they saw, the types of trees and how you could tell what they were by the shape of their leaves. How when autumn came their leaves turned brown and by winter they were entirely bare. John listened avidly, glad to have something to distract his mind from the worry that seemed to never leave it.
'Here it is' Sherlock squealed 'This is my tree, I climb it a lot, no one else does so it is mine. Though, I suppose we can share.'
John blushed, he could not quite believe Sherlock would want to share something so important, and something that belonged to him. Harry never shared anything.
The tree was tall, John could not quite see the top, it looked so solid and strong, so ancient, as if here since the dawn of time. Never moving, constantly there reaching up towards the sky. Large branches curling this way and that.
'Wow, it is awfully tall isn't it?' John gaped, shielding his eyes from the gaze of the sun as he tried to see the very tip.
'Come on' Sherlock instructed, grabbing hold of a branch and hauling himself up, John watched in a mixture of admiration and pure envy at how easily Sherlock managed this, he looked like a cat, climbing with utter elegance into the branches.
'Hurry up John!' Sherlock said insistently. John tried to reach the branch, yet due to his size he had to stand on the tips of his toes. He could just about curl his fingers around the branch, then with all his might he scrambled up, kicking his feet out and trying in vein to find his footing. He was envious of his taller friend who has managed this with such precision, when he felt clumsy and awkward. When he finally found himself inside the lower branches of the tree he stood still for a few moments catching his breath.
'Up here John' he heard Sherlock yell.
'Coming' John shouted back. He then followed Sherlock's path. Twisting up and over the branches till he had caught up. He felt like an explorer going out on a grand adventure. He found his friend sitting quite content right near the top branches. Holding his arm around the trunk of the tree and his leads dangling quite dangerously. John copied his friends position, though he felt himself grip just that little bit tighter.
'My, you can see everything up here.' John exclaimed in wonder.
He could see well beyond Sherringford Hall, to the trees and hills beyond. He gazed at the front of the house. The large black coach and horse that had brought him here was stood still, right by the front entrance. He saw his sister skipping down the steps, her hand grasped inside Lord Holmes palm. Her hair was done up in tight ringlets, with a blue ribbon running through the golden curls. Again John was struck by how she did not seem like Harry at all, she was not his sister, she was a doll. He watched Lord Holmes escort her into the cab and then they set off. He felt his heart pang for reasons he was quite unsure of.
'You know Jenkins told me once of a story about a tree, King Charles the Second was hiding from Cromwell, they were looking for him forever but could never find him. Turns out he was hiding in an old oak tree'
'Is that true?' John asked. Sherlock shrugged.
'Must be'
John wondered what it must have been like to hide in a tree, he supposed they must make good hiding spots. You could see far and wide, but entirely hidden by the leaves and branches.
'He was awfully luckily it wasn't winter' Sherlock continued 'or else they would have found him straight away.'
John laughed, still unsure if the story was true or not, it seemed so utterly absurd, a king hiding in a tree?
'John look' Sherlock whispered, interrupting John from his thoughts.
'What?' John replied having not quite heard him, immediately Sherlock put a long finger to his lips in order to silence him, he pointed down to the ground. Two figures were stood beneath them, a little way away next to some smaller trees, shadowed from the sun by the branches. Away from the glare of the occupants of the house John realised no one but them would have seen them.
'That's Polly.' John whispered as quietly as he could 'She is my friend.' He recognised her immediately, however he did not recognise the man with her. He had not seen the auburn haired gentlemen before.
'What do you think they are talking about' Sherlock asked. John felt his heart flutter, Sherlock was asking him a question, him, no one else. Sherlock wanted to know what he thought, he felt deliriously happy, he tried to hide his blush by making his voice low and stern.
'Perhaps they want to climb the tree?' Yes he thought, that was a good guess, after all why would someone stand at the bottom of a tree if not to climb it?
Sherlock pouted as soon as the words left John's lips. 'Well they can't climb this tree' he huffed 'This is our tree, no one else is allowed to climb it.'
Again John felt his heart flutter, 'our tree' whereas before Sherlock said it was 'my tree'.
A tree, he owned a tree, with his best friend. Having a tree and a best friend, why, that was better then all the train sets in the world.
Suddenly the male figure leaned dangerously close to Polly, John was quite unsure why, then he saw his lips encase hers.
'What an earth are they doing?' Sherlock asked clearly bemused by the action 'Why is he trying to eat her head?'
'No' John giggled. 'They are kissing' John knew what kissing was, his mother had kissed him plenty of times, though never like that, she always gave him small pecks on the cheeks or lips, this was long, and lingering.
'Really?' Sherlock made a face of someone who had seen something so utterly new and was not sure what to make of it.
'Has anyone ever kissed you before?' John asked.
'No they have not' Sherlock said quite suddenly 'Not father or the maids, though I suppose my mother may have kissed me if she had lived long enough. Maybe she did, they never told me.' he said sadly.
John felt very glad he remembered mother, and that he remembered mother loving and kissing him and holding him in her arms. John could not imagine not knowing what his mother smelled like, what she looked like beyond one picture. Then he realised Sherlock would not miss this, that his mother was a total stranger to him. He was unsure why this made him feel so sad. Both their mothers were dead, so why did John feel so lucky? It seemed such a dangerous notion to think, that in a world where the only things that truly mattered were wealth and class, that he, John Watson, an orphaned boy from the capitals underclass, could be better off then the son of a Lord, through such a simple act of knowing a mothers love.
'You know, when I was having my breakfast she seemed really upset over something, I'm not sure what, but she was crying awfully hard.' John mused.
'Well then.' Sherlock concluded 'This is what adults must do to cheer each other up, so they are not upset any more.'
'Yes, they must' John thought Sherlock was quite right, whenever he was upset his mother had kissed him.
Sherlock and John continued to watch the two figures below them, eventually they moved away, Polly going back towards the house and the stranger walking towards another part of the garden. They climbed down, John careful not to get any splinters in his hands, he jumped down from the bottom branch and once more his feet felt solid ground.
'You know what Sherlock, I think that is the highest I have ever been in my life.'
Sherlock smiled 'Yes, nothing is as tall as our tree, it is the tallest tree in the entire world.'
Sherlock then decided to show him the woods that were adjacent to the grounds. Again telling John everything he knew, he showed him sets where badgers lived, and streams, and something called a frog which John had never seen before. At first he was quite scared of the loud noise the frog made, but when Sherlock told him it was harmless he found himself transfixed by the green creature. He had never seen something move in such a way, using its hind legs to launch itself into the air.
'You know frogs come from tadpoles, which are these tiny things that only have a head and a tail, I will have to show you them sometime.'
John wondered if there was anything Sherlock didn't know.
'The stream gets a bit deeper along here. Want to bathe?' Sherlock asked insistently 'It is quite warm so the water should be quite pleasant.'
'I don't know how to swim.' John admitted.
'I will teach you.'
They undressed by the bank of the stream and Sherlock squeezed his hand, telling him where the water was shallow enough so he could stand without his head being immersed. Now they were naked John began to notice how different Sherlock's body was to his own, Sherlock was slim, yet unlike John his bones did not stick out, his skin was pale, much paler then his own, where his skin was tanned Sherlock's was porcelain white, like moonlight. His legs were much longer then John's, John looked down at himself, his frame stocky and compact, and then towards Sherlock, who was so thin and tall.
When they were deep enough that the water came to their waists Sherlock kicked off. He taught John how to kick his legs and tread water so he did not sink, he taught John the different strokes and soon John was swimming right along side him. John enjoyed the feeling of the cool water against his bare skin. He was also proud he had picked up swimming so quickly, he did not want to bore his friend with his inadequacies, yet strangely he had felt Sherlock rather enjoyed telling him new things. He remembered how his eyes lit up when he showed John the badger set, how it was made and what it was for. John was glad to have such a willing teacher. After they swam they went back to where the water was less deep and play fought. Wrestling each other, dunking each other and splashing. Soon they tired and climbed back onto the bank. Letting the sun dry their wet skin. They chatted aimlessly. Sherlock pointing out the clouds and the different shapes they made as the pristine white swirled around the bright blue.
'Do you think that looks like a rabbit?' John pointed up at the large white object floating in the sky.
'No John' Sherlock scoffed mockingly 'it is a cumulus cloud, it is not a rabbit.' though his tone was gentle, so John knew he meant no harm.
When they dressed Sherlock then taught him all these games to play, Sherlock pretended to be an explorer and John a savage, they played hide and seek and blind man's bluff and all sorts of games. They also wrestled, John finding Sherlock surprisingly strong.
He was unsure how many hours he has spent exploring the woods with his friend, yet soon it was dusk, as they headed back towards Sherringford Hall, once more hand in hand, John realised he didn't want things to end. He wished he could stay in the woods, he did not want to go back to the claustrophobia of the house.
'Sherlock, I think this is the best day I have ever had.'
'Me to' Sherlock beamed back.
John doubted that anyone in the whole of England, not even Queen Victoria, had had a better day then he had.
'Goodness look at the state of you two' Annie exclaimed as they walked through one of the many side doors.
'We were playing in the woods' John giggled 'Sherlock showed me a badger set, and something called a frog.'
'Yes' Sherlock laughed back 'And I taught John how to swim' he said proudly.
'I think you both need a good scrub in the sink, you two are filthy' Annie tried to chastise, but John saw the grin she was trying to hide.
She led them through the kitchens, once again a flurry of activity.
'Goodness what war have you two been fighting' Patty exclaimed good naturedly, plucking a twig out of Sherlock's curls.
'Playing in the woods apparently.' Annie informed the older woman, again trying not to laugh.
Patty sighed 'Well, boys will be boys.' she smiled 'get them cleaned up, and once your done get Sherlock dressed for dinner, Lord Holmes will be back soon.'
'Will John be joining us?' Sherlock asked.
'No Master Sherlock, John will be having his in the kitchens.'
'But why?' Sherlock wailed. 'Harriet and Mycroft are so dull, I want John there'
'John knows his place. Now to the sink, both of you.' Patty pointed a chubby finger to the hallway, Annie leading them both away towards the sink, the same sink John thought he was going to be drowned in the day before. Though it did not seem quite so intimidating this time. John giggled as he watched Sherlock pout as soap was scrubbed into his face. They splashed each other as they were scrubbed down in the warm soapy water.
After John had finished his meal with the usual relish Annie insisted he dress for bed.
'I'm not tired.' John argued while exhaling a large yawn.
'Oh really' Annie laughed good naturedly.
She led John by the hand to his room. Helping him undress into this night shirt and get into bed.
'Night night Master John.' she smiled at him, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
'Annie?'
'Yes John?'
'You're my friend aren't you?'
'Yes' she laughed 'of course I am.'
'And so is Polly?'
'Yes, goodness what's brought this on?'
'Sherlock said I was his only friend, I was wondering if it was possible to have more then one friend.'
Annie paused for a few moments 'You can have as many friends as you like Master John. Doesn't mean you love Sherlock any less. '
He smiled 'Thank you Annie.' he whispered, then turned on his side and closed his eyes.
He awoke to the sensation of someone pulling at his shoulder.
'John' the dark figure whispered, 'John!' it hissed again. John opened his bleary eyes, the candlelight the figure was holding hurt his eyes and he adjusted to the bright light.
'Sherlock what is it? What is wrong.'
'Want to make a fort?'
John laughed, had Sherlock really woken him up in the dark of night to make a fort?
'Yes, let's'
He got out of bed and helped Sherlock pull up the two armchairs by his bed. They draped the bed linen over the chairs and climbed inside. Sherlock put the candle beside him and the warm orange glow engulfed them.
'How was dinner?' John asked his friend, letting the curiosity get the better of him. He wanted to know what happened when they were separated. He wanted to know why Lord Holmes would not want him there.
'Dull, you were not there, Harriet kept going on about the dresses she has now.' he huffed.
'I wish I could be there with you' John whispered as if confessing a great secret.
'Me to' Sherlock sighed 'its so lonely without you.'
John blushed. Watching the orange light play on the linen 'Don't you think this is spooky?' he asked his friend.
Sherlock took the candle, and then placed his fingers in front of the candle, John watched avidly at the shadows his friends fingers made on the sheet.
'A butterfly' he squealed happily.
'Mycroft taught me how to do that, he taught me so much once.' Sherlock said sadly, he wanted to press him, but again he did not pry.
'John?' Sherlock said suddenly after a long pause.
'Yes Sherlock?' John jumped up, straightening his back, eager to please.
'Do you hate me?'
'What? Of course I don't! Why would you ask such a thing.
His friend did not turn his head to meet with John's distressed cry, he continued to look at the shadows he was making on the white cloth.
'Because everyone does. Mycroft.' there was a long pause in which John wondered if Sherlock was about to cry, he did not, he wiped his eye and sniffed 'he taught me everything, all about the trees and the badger sets, then one day he stopped. I think that father told him that I killed mother, and that is why he hates me.'
John was stunned, he hated seeing his friend in such bleak turmoil, and once again, just like with his mother, he felt so utterly helpless.
'I don't hate you Sherlock, you are my best friend and for that reason I love you.'
Sherlock gave him a weak smile. 'I am glad someone loves me.' he wrapped his arms around his knees and brought them up to his chest, resting his chin on the kneecap.
'I wish so badly that I had not killed her, so then Mycroft would have no reason to hate me and he would still play.'
John racked his brains, he knew, as a best friend, that it was his duty to do something, he also knew he was a man, and therefore he had to do what adults did to comfort their friends. A brief idea came to him. Sherlock was upset, and he had seen what adults did when they saw a loved one who was upset.
'Sherlock?'
'Yes' came the feeble reply, Sherlock was lost in his own tiny world, John was unsure if he even realised he was still there, though John was undeterred, he would be a good friend.
'Sit up straight.' Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at him but John gave him a stern look and he complied. 'Close your eyes' he instructed, then when he saw Sherlock follow his request, closing his eyes and shutting off his view of the world, John leaned forward, placing his small, delicate mouth over Sherlock's, just like he saw Polly and the stranger doing that morning. This is what grown ups to to cheer each other up, and John was a grown up, so this is what he should do.
The first clear thought John felt, after adjusting to the fuzzy feeling that caused him to lose all sense of himself, was just how warm Sherlock's lips were, he thought they would be cold, like marble, and yet they felt so soft against him. The second thought was that this was wonderful, a wave of happiness seemed to flow right through him. It seemed such a simple yet strange act, to place ones lips against another's, and yet, well, John could not quite explain it. He did not know why feeling John against him felt so good, only that it did, and he savoured such intimacy and such a warm, delicate touch.
They stayed still, for only a few moments, cast like a statue in their present embrace. It was John who pulled away first.
'You taste like soap' he giggled.
Sherlock looked quite bemused, as if someone who had seen the sunlight for the first time. Confused and yet breathtakingly transfixed.
'John.' he said suddenly.
'Yes Sherlock?' He asked innocently.
'Can you do that again?'
John titled his head to the side 'Are you still upset?' he whispered, was Sherlock still sad? Had his plan failed?
Sherlock did not reply, instead Sherlock leaned forward and caught John's lips in his own. It was still and chaste. Nothing like the kiss he had seen that morning, which contained so much passion and movement, yet John did not feel that it was wrong, or that there was something he was doing incorrectly. He began to wish he could spend all day like this, kissing Sherlock and having him so close. His head swam pleasantly. The warm glow of the candlelight, the shelter of the blanket from what was beyond, it made his body fill with a unique kind of happiness he had not felt before.
'I do not feel sad any more John.' Sherlock grinned.
'I am glad Sherlock' John replied cheerfully 'So very glad.'
End Of Chapter Two