It was the harvest, and the markets in the city were full to bursting. Or, that's what Sherlock's father had said.
Sherlock, himself, was a ball of anxious, twitching energy where he sat beside Jon in his father's cart, feet dangling over the edge. Their sandals occasionally scraped the dusty roads when they crested hills, or dropped into dips, and Jon would take the opportunity to kick pebbles at Sherlock's shins. His mother turned around to scold them.
"You'll fall out if you don't settle. Jon, hold tight to him."
Jon sighed, but linked his arm through his friend's. They were going into Athens for the day. It had been quite a few months since father had brought him along, though Mycroft got to go much more often because he was older. It wasn't fair.
"Will there be soldiers?" Jon asked again for the fifteenth time. It had been years, but he still hadn't stopped talking about his future profession, much to Sherlock's dismay. Jon had scrubbed his face pink that morning and wore his best tunic. His father had even given him a few coins for the occasion as Jon rarely got to see the city either. They were both terribly excited.
"Probably."
Alcestis turned again sharply. "You're neither of you to run off. Again." She narrowed her eyes as the boys seemed to twitch even more under the weight of her admonishments. She sighed and rubbed at her temples. Beside her, Septimius chuckled.
When they arrived, father settled their cart and agreed to meet them later for the midday meal in the forum as he had business to attend to that morning. Mycroft was to accompany him, and did so with great pomp and flair, waving an imperious hand at the boys who trailed along Alcestis' heels towards the marketplace. What did either of them care for business when all of Athens and her curiosities awaited? Alcestis was quick to grab a handful of cloth near each boy's shoulders.
"Be careful," she urged, but her eyes were likewise scanning the crowds around them with avid interest. First, they would browse the cloth makers, then visit the spice stalls, followed by the butchers. They usually butchered their own meats, but it was always worthwhile to peruse something special. Mycroft's birth celebration was approaching.
Sherlock, despite nearly vibrating with energy every time they travelled to Athens, would usually go oddly quiet. His wide, pale eyes would dart to every surface; a grin hovering on his thick lips. He would open his mouth to exclaim curiously at some thing, or one, before inevitably cutting himself off having worked out the answer to his unasked questions. Jon, meanwhile, touched everything. Asked about everything, and when Sherlock wasn't deep in thought or distraction, would rattle off explanations for him. And if he didn't, Alcestis would.
Jon kept a hand on the pouch of coins his father had given him, and when they passed by a merchant selling armour, swords, daggers and leathers, he froze in place with wide-eyed admiration. There, on display, was a lovely silver dagger, with a beautifully-carved ivory handle, glinting in the midday sun. His fingers bunched together, itching to touch.
"Ah, the young lad has a fine eye," the merchant remarked, picking up the blade, wiping it along his tunic. He held it out to Jon for a closer look. Jon licked his lips and tentatively reached towards it. The man snatched it away with a gleam in his eye. "Ah, ah. It is very sharp."
Jon bristled. "I've held a blade before."
Sherlock edged up close, peering at the unique little dagger with curiosity. Jon clutched covetously at his leather purse.
"It looks to be a fine dagger. Is it a fine price, I wonder?" Alcestis' calm voice asked from behind their shoulders.
"Very fine, very fine. The ivory you see comes from beasts of Āryāvarta, with tusks like trees that can fell a whole village in minutes." Jon and Sherlock crept closer, eyes widening ever further. "The silver is said to come from Alexander's own hoard." Sherlock's breath hitched. "For a blade such as this, I would take no less than twenty drachmas." Jon's chest deflated, even as Sherlock's sense of justice balked. Behind them, his mother scoffed loudly.
"Twenty!"
"Perhaps you have something you'd be willing to trade?"
"Not for twenty and this piece of silver," she laughed, dismissing the blade carelessly. "Come along, boys."
Jon didn't budge. He loosened the strings of his purse and dug around its contents.
"Jon," Alcestis soothed, reaching a delicate hand out to him. "Your father would fairly thrash you." Sherlock had no doubt that was true, but he also recognized that look in his friend's eye. He reached for the purse tied to his own belt.
"Sherlock! Absolutely not. Both of you now, come along." Alcestis tugged, and Jon all but whimpered with bright eyes that tugged at Sherlock's heart. Twenty drachmas. It was robbery. Perhaps if the blade were gold such a price would be warranted. But then, what good was a golden blade? "We can find something much better than that, I'm sure." Alcestis murmured.
She drug them away, and Sherlock tried not to wince at the expression of utter devastation upon his friend's face. Sherlock resolved to distract him. The second his mother was preoccupied, he'd already made a plan to sneak away. He knew roughly where they were to meet father for their meal at any rate, and though he figured they would get the beating of a lifetime, he'd never get to see anything with her fussing at their backs.
Sherlock surreptitiously took a handful of Jon's tunic in his palm, ready to bolt at the first sign of distraction, and fortunately, a tent full of exotic, brightly coloured silks from the East suitably ensnared his mother's attention. Sherlock tugged, quickly getting he and Jon lost in a mix of bodies going to and fro. Jon gasped in surprise, grabbing Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock grinned, setting off for a dark alley they'd passed not two minutes before. He'd seen where it had wound behind a large building at the last corner they'd past and made for it. They raced over uneven cobbles, ducking and dodging through indignant Athenians, until the entrance to the alley loomed ahead. Sherlock, chest heaving with adrenaline, and panting for air with a smirk on his face, pulled Jon inside but did not stop.
They jumped over piles of rubbish, just barely avoiding a few huddled lumps of what he assumed were some of Athens' many homeless, and rounded the corner to see the sunlit exit on the other side of the stone building it ringed. It emptied into an even busier thoroughfare, and Sherlock was certain there was an interesting looking apothecary's shop he'd seen a ways back, and was itching to take a look.
"We are going to be in so much trouble," Jon breathed beside him, wiping a sweaty brow with his free hand. Sherlock huffed and nodded, but noted Jon's amused expression. Jon liked to pretend he was Sherlock's conscience, but really, he was usually just as excited, if not more so than Sherlock, to do something against the rules when the opportunity presented itself.
They edged to the side of the building, Jon belatedly dropping Sherlock's hand, but stayed close, careful to avoid the flow of traffic. Sherlock couldn't keep the grin off his face, and his eyes scanned the shops lining each side of the street. He spotted the apothecary and tugged Jon's wrist. "This way."
They weaved a trail across the lane, and carefully entered the quieter shop. To their mutual delight, there were rows and rows of jars, pots, and vessels filled with liquids, powders, minerals, and dried herbs. It smelled very strongly of an almost-unpleasant mix of foreign and familiar scents. Fascinating. A woman entered, and Jon and Sherlock kept to an aisle alone, but Sherlock strained his ears to listen to the old man who owned the shop as he answered questions about her ailment. He was describing some kind of poultice that Sherlock had never heard of, and he made a note in his head to look it up later in Philomenes' medical scrolls.
Beside him, he felt Jon stiffen and quietly gasp. He turned to find Jon staring at a small basket filled with dozens of lapis lazuli. He blinked. Jon leaned in closer and ran his fingers over the rough, small, blue stones. It was probably the most expensive thing either of them had seen gathered in one place.
"What are you two doing?" a gruff voice sounded to the left. Both boys jumped guiltily.
"Nothing," Sherlock snapped, standing to his full height. "Admiring your wares." Jon squared his shoulders beside him and put his hands to his side, palms flat.
"Admiring or stealing?" The old man quickly advanced on them, keeping one eye on his basket of lapis, and one eye on their hands.
"We are not thieves," Jon replied, frowning.
"Unless you're intending to buy or enquire, then you'd best be on your way."
Enquire? But there were hundreds of things Sherlock could enquire about! Sherlock opened his mouth, eager to begin firing off questions, when Jon tugged him sharply.
"No, no," he groaned, "we were just leaving."
Sherlock spun around with pleading eyes. "But, Jon! We haven't even seen the other wall yet!"
"Later," he said out of the corner of his mouth, and pulled him back out into the lane.
Sherlock pulled away and glared. "We have at least another hour before we need to meet father."
Jon shrugged and looked in both directions. "Well then, all the more reason to get a move on to the next place." He turned with a wide smile. "Let's find the armoury!"
It was Sherlock's turn to groan, "Later." Sighing back at the shop, he turned towards the heart of the city, with Jon following, and they'd peered into every interesting looking shop, nook, and cranny for the better part of an hour before Sherlock started herding them towards where their family would meet. Assuming father hadn't formed a search party, rather. He cringed. Mother was certainly going to murder them, but swept up as they were in the hustle and bustle of Athens' denizens, he found he hadn't much strength to care.
As expected, the day had proved highly eventful. The sheer amounts of people, of different people, from all walks of life, were enough to keep Sherlock distracted for weeks.
They had just rounded a corner, enticed by the delicious smells of roasted lamb, when they smacked into a gigantic hulk of a man moving in the opposite direction. They stumbled and the man snarled.
"Watch where you're going!"
"Sorry," Jon mumbled, circling past him. Sherlock eyed the man warily, and followed after Jon. The man shuffled off down the cobbled lane, reeking of poor wine and sweat, and some other earthy musk that wasn't any kind of pleasant. He was just about to head for an archway that led to the piazza a few metres up, when the sound of moans and feminine gasps, and Jon's hand on his chest, stopped him in his tracks. Jon's eyes had gone uncharacteristically wide, and his mouth was hanging open while staring down the alley to their left. Sherlock turned and likewise gaped. A prostitute was pressed against a grimy wall, with her legs wrapped around the hips of a man whose tunic was rucked up, exposing his arse. He was panting into her shoulder and she was arching her neck, murmuring gibberish. Her fingers dug into his well-shaped shoulders and Sherlock felt his face heat with embarrassment. So. That's what sex looked like. He wrinkled his nose.
"Are they…."
"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Let's go."
"Wait," Jon pulled again on his tunic. He scrunched his brow and cocked his head. "How is she…" he abruptly blinked and shook his head. "Oh." He looked to the ground and bit his lip in thought. Sherlock shuffled on his feet while the whore's moans grew particularly loud, and the man groaned and shuddered.
"Can we go?" Sherlock snapped. His eyes flicked once more to the man's exposed arse before his dingy tunic slid down, along with her legs. His chest felt warm, and in all honesty, he felt incredibly uneasy.
Jon resolutely turned and nodded once. "I'm hungry. Where are we going?"
Sherlock chuckled, thankful for the change of subject, and gestured toward the archway leading to most of the food stalls in the better part of the forum. "Through there."
They had one more moment more of peace before spotting a frantic Alcestis, who first clutched them to her chest, peppering their faces in kisses, and then smacked them soundly about the ears, berating their childishness.
Sherlock considered the wealth of knowledge gained from their adventure worth the beating.
Later that day as they started to leave for the return journey home, Sherlock's father was fastening the straps to their oxen, when Sherlock heard two men speaking in a language that wasn't Greek. He jumped back down from the cart and wandered towards it. Moments later, two men emerged from an alley with heads shaved so cleanly their crowns gleamed in the fading sun. They wore garments that left their tanned chests bare, and gold belts encircled their waists. Thick, black paint ringed their eyes, and they stopped, startled, to gaze at the boy who was starting at them so unabashedly. The younger of the two quirked a curious grin and spoke something to Sherlock he couldn't understand. He gestured to Sherlock's pale eyes, and bent forward to get a closer look. Sherlock leaned forward, intrigued. He glanced to the texts they held in their arms, to the circlets at their waists, and back to the black eye paint. Why was there paint around their eyes? Why had they shaved their heads? Were they some sort of warrior? No, they had academic materials. Warriors did not read.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked and turned at his father's stern voice. Septimius murmured something in the same tongue as the two men who were still staring at Sherlock in amusement, to which they nodded and replied. Sherlock gazed at his father, surprised.
The men went on their way, and Septimius walked forward, studying his son. "Egyptian," he said.
Sherlock whipped back around to stare after the men who were rounding a corner, out of site. Egpytians! Fascinating! His father's much larger hand settled across his back, urging him towards their cart.
"You can borrow texts when we get home, but first, we must get home. Come."
When he settled back into the cart, Jon shuffled forward, grinning, and whispered, "Egyptians? Of course you would find Egyptians."
Sherlock grinned. Athens was wonderful.
As the years wore on, their academic interests split. Sherlock had taken to thoroughly studying physics and biology, and practised his newfound knowledge every day after lessons with experiments on animals, and contraptions he built to test angles and trajectories. He was quickly gaining a reputation for being particularly intelligent, and for all his occasional moodiness, excelled at reading people and deducing their activities. To most, it was unnerving. Jon thought it brilliant. When Jon could persuade him to leave his room, or the barn where he did his more, ah, explosive experiments, they were likely to be found testing other theories of questionable intent. As a result, Sherlock often ended up wounded, so Jon always made sure to be with him. It was probably then to be expected that Jon swiftly took an interest in medicine.
"Because, someone needs to make sure Sherlock gets patched up when falls out of trees," Jon had replied to his father's curiosity in his new field of interest. Philomenes smiled softly at his son and ran a hand across his sun-whitened locks.
Likewise, Jon kept up his studies in weaponry and the soldierly arts, because, among other things, Sherlock got into trouble. Though, to be fair, so did Jon. And Sherlock was almost always making someone angry, but usually not on purpose. It just happened. Jon got in trouble because he simply enjoyed the things most people had an instinct to avoid.
Where one's strengths lacked, the other was strong. Sometimes literally. For example, there was a boy whose family's land bordered Septimius', and he loathed Sherlock with a passion. It happened one afternoon after a group lesson with a visiting scholar, that Sherlock had once told the boy, Androcles, that he had a brain the size of a rat. Androcles had hit him in the mouth, splitting his lip open. Retaliation was swift, and Jon had immediately tackled him, biting at his ear until the older boy started crying. They had both gotten yelled at, and as punishment, were denied their midday breaks for a whole week. Though, Jon got to assist while his father dabbed at Sherlock's lip with an ointment he helped to prepare. This prompted an entire two months' worth of lessons about herbs and medicines. Both thought that attacking Androcles hadn't turned out to be such a bad idea at all, in the end.
As far as other friendships and acquaintances went, the only real exposure to their peers growing up came from the occasional festival or travelling scholar. If the latter, neighbouring families would group their sons for lessons to take advantage, which, for the most part, the children enjoyed. Of course, that meant that their appointed nemesis, Androcles, was in usually in attendance, but there were other children whose company Jon at least liked. Sherlock considered it an exercise in studying dull people's habits and reactions. Jon rolled his eyes frequently.
One week, there was a man, a mathematician from the Pythagorean order near Croton, who was invited to lecture, and Sherlock had been so eager to meet him that he'd dragged a protesting Jon from bed early, every morning, while he was visiting. A few of the other boys were excited to have the foreigner teaching them as well, but most simply suffered through lectures over numbers and mathematical philosophies at the behest of their elders. Jon included.
During the midday break, the boys would usually practise sparring and indulge in general horsing around, enjoying the break in their usual schedules, though Sherlock and the littlest ones abstained. On the third day of Sherlock ignoring them in favour of asking more questions of their temporary tutor, Androcles' older cousin, Alcaeus, cornered Sherlock, taunting him about being the odd one out. Sherlock's typical reaction when being teased was to casually mouth off some obvious defect in the offender's personality, which had always brought him trouble, and Alcaeus, like his cousin, responded with his fists. The first blow to his jaw actually stunned him with its intensity, and Sherlock quickly found himself on his back, blinking through spots in his eyes, as pain bloomed bright and deep in his skull. He shook his head, but before he could get his bearings, the massive older boy had flung himself down onto Sherlock's chest and grabbed two fistfuls of hair to pound his head into the ground.
Sherlock kicked at any and every inch of Alcaeus he could, irritated at having been caught off guard, and clawed at the boys arms while his brain rattled back and forth. Then, almost as soon as it started, Alcaeus stopped with a yelp because a very furious Jon was slamming the boy onto the ground. Jon's fists were pounding into Alcaeus' face, and the boy cried out in shock.
Sherlock sat up and watched in amazement as Jon scrabbled back and forth, trying to gain the upper hand with his speed and dexterity. Grass and earth stuck to the blood trickling down Jon's cheek from a gash on his brow, but when Alcaeus wrapped his thick fingers about Jon's neck, Sherlock finally propelled into action, reaching for a nearby fallen branch. He swung hard and cracked the wooden limb over the other boy's back and shoulder, sending him flying. Jon sat up, gasping, eyes leaking and red from lack of air, and goggled at the boy who had choked him. It was incredibly low-handed. Sherlock stared down at the cretin with pure hatred, and reached out a hand to help Jon up.
Alcaeus recovered to clumsily launched himself at the pair, but Jon was ready, and landed a blow to his left temple, sending the other boy once more to the ground, moaning and holding his head.
Jon stood over him, dripping blood, and spat. "Don't you ever touch him again."
Sherlock's heart thudded loudly and he swallowed at the raw intensity poring off of Jon in waves. He tugged on his arm and pulled him away in case the idiot said something further to provoke Jon.
Behind them, the other boys stood around gaping in shock, and backed away when Sherlock led him to a nearby creek to wash up.
To Jon's credit, none of them ever troubled Sherlock again.
When they were nine and ten, Jon burst into Sherlock's room, positively breathless, eyes alight, and cheeks red. He smelled of sweat and dusty roads, and collapsed onto Sherlock's down-filled bed with the ease of familiarity born of years' repetition. Sherlock pushed away from his desk and raised his brows in inquiry. In his hands, he held a magnification glass, and twirled it impatiently.
Jon held up his hand to stall him while he caught his breath. He'd gotten to go out into the city earlier with his father, and Sherlock had had to stay home because he'd ruined his mother's favourite silk peplos. Sherlock had needed to test differing fabrics to see how they affected drag on objects dropped from various heights. The garment may have gotten ruined in the process.
"You'll never guess," Jon wheezed, laughing from the bed, "what I heard," he paused, "and saw," he screeched, "in the Agora today."
Sherlock turned his chair around and leaned forward. "Go on." He was dying for something of interest to distract him.
Jon sat up with a very serious expression on his face. "Someone has offered for Mycroft."
Sherlock sat motionless and blinked.
Jon's eyes widened and he flapped his hands. "Offered. As a mentor!" Jon promptly fell over laughing again, clutching at his sides.
Sherlock's jaw fell open. "No," he breathed. He looked to the floor, and then back to Jon who was streaming tears of mirth. "Who?! Who on earth would be interested in him?"
Jon wiped his cheeks and lay on his side shaking with chuckles. "Some wealthy politician. Um," Jon screwed his eyes up in thought, "something that sounded like 'ceb… rion' maybe," he shrugged. "Someone old."
Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He knew he should be somewhat pleased for his brother, who, at sixteen was nearing an age when he would no longer be eligible for paiderastia, but at the same time, the idea was somewhat repulsive. He shuddered.
"I will never be chosen," he said solemnly and crossed to sit next to Jon on his bed. Jon rolled over and peered up at his friend.
"Of course you will. Everyone probably wants one of Septimius' sons." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And besides, you're so beautiful," Jon sing-songed in a girlish voice. Sherlock and Jon's other neighbours had a daughter, Milo, who absolutely fawned over Sherlock and told him at every opportunity how beautiful she thought him.
Sherlock smacked him on the arm and lay down beside him so that their heads were inches apart. "Well, I won't be taken by anyone. It doesn't interest me."
Jon rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. "You really don't want an erastes? How are you going to meet people? And learn, you know, Athenian codes and laws and all that?"
Sherlock sniffed. "I can very well learn that on my own." Jon snorted. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grinned. "Besides, Mycroft will learn everything worth knowing and we can just ask him."
He and Jon erupted into giggles. Jon leaned his head into Sherlock's shoulder and slowly quieted.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed, trying not to think too much about the sort of things Mycroft would have to do now with his new mentor. Especially since the man was a stranger. And old. He shuddered again.
"When you say you'll never be taken, do you mean, by anyone ever, or by a mentor?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and stared into the shiny gold of Jon's hair below his chin. He inhaled and thought for a bit. "Well, I don't want to be with any stranger, unless they only teach me what I want to know academically."
Jon nodded. "But," he paused. "What about, um, love?" The boy kept his voice easy but Sherlock noted the way he had suddenly gone very still.
"Love." Sherlock parroted.
Jon shrugged. "Yeah. Doesn't everyone want to be loved?"
Sherlock huffed and rubbed his chin over Jon's hair. "I'm loved. Mother loves me."
Jon groaned.
"You love me. Don't you?"
Jon snorted. "Yes, because I'm a lunatic."
Sherlock poked him in the side with a bony finger. "Then who else do I need to love me? They'll just get in my way."
Jon sighed but nestled closer to his friend. "You're impossible, Sherlock."
"True. But at least I'm interesting."
"That's one word." Jon giggled again and huffed into his friend's chest. "Mycroft is going to have to… you know."
Sherlock groaned and pretended to wretch. "Revolting."
Jon cackled. "Yeah, but he's still learning how."
"Jon!" Sherlock squawked. "Are you curious about… that?"
Jon ducked his head to hide a blush. "No."
Sherlock cocked a brow.
"Well, maybe. It's something people do." Jon grimaced. "Gods, you don't think father is going to teach us about that one day do you? Ugh."
Sherlock laughed and settled back against his friend, comfortable and warm. His mother often called he and Jon puppies they way they huddled and flopped over onto each other. "Well. We can probably ask Mycroft that now, too."
This set them both off into an enormous fit of giggles that inevitably ended with a round of wrestling that, of course, Jon won.
Alcestis quietly swept into her son's room while he finished pinning his finest gold fibula into place at his shoulder. She smiled softly at him and brushed his fringe aside. He patted it back into place with a scowl. She laughed.
"You will be on your best behaviour tonight, won't you? We're counting on the evening's success for Mycroft."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother."
"Please no unnecessary questions, and don't badger the poor man."
"Mother, I am perfectly aware that I'm to be silent all throughout dinner."
She arched a brow. " Jon has strict orders to haul you away at his discretion."
Sherlock grinned. They were having guests over for dinner. A peer of father's from the forum, Hektor, and his grown son were dining with them. The son, a young man of twenty by the name of Cebriones. The long and the short of it was Mycroft was anxious to begin a life of political study in preparation for his future career, and father's friend was well-placed and his son was quietly searching for an erômenos. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.
At the table, Jon was seated beside him, and it was very obvious he was trying hard not to smile. Sherlock bit back his own grin and flicked Jon's leg under the table. Mycroft's sharp eyes narrowed at them from across the table.
Septimius, Hektor, and Philomenes spoke about dull things like politics and trade, while Mycroft and Cebriones made softer, polite conversation to the side. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed his asparagus around on his plate, wondering if he'd be expected to play his lyre after supper. Jon ate happily beside him, but otherwise made no move to speak, just as he and Sherlock had been requested. It was all terribly dull. Sherlock was bored. He elbowed Jon with a raised brow, to which Jon vehemently shook his head. Pity.
Sherlock cleared his throat when there was a natural pause in the conversation; Jon sighed beside him. He addressed Cebriones. "Mycroft says you were one of the youngest in your class to complete officer training." Sherlock smiled blandly across the table, Jon stared at his chicken, Mycroft glared, and everyone else calmly awaited Cebriones' response.
The young man with light brown curls smiled politely and inclined his chin. "Mycroft is kind to speak so well of me. I did indeed finish a bit earlier than my peers." He cast a rakish grin to Mycroft, who, Sherlock knew, pretended to be coy and ducked his head. It was disgusting, really. Sherlock scoffed.
Cebriones continued. "Do you plan to enter the military before politics, Sherlock?"
"Absolutely not. I have no interest in either."
Philomenes, perhaps feeling a need to defend his student, interjected. "Sherlock is a brilliant mind, suited more to philosophy."
Cebriones' oily smile stretched his lips. "Ah yes, a much more passive indulgence. It is the safer course, to be sure."
Mycroft smirked. "Our Jon here, however, is fully committed to one day serving. He's had aspirations since practically infancy."
At that, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his insufferable brother, while Jon sat up straighter in his seat. Cebriones focused his gaze to the boy who'd yet to speak. "An admiral goal. What are your strengths?"
Jon blushed but met the man's eyes. "Swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat."
"Jon is being modest," Mycroft added with a grin. "He's a very skilled strategist. Quite knowledgeable in military history, with an additional growing background in medicine. He will be a formidable candidate in no time."
Fury slowly bubbled hot in Sherlock's gut with Mycroft's every word, but Jon fairly glowed under the perceived praise. He flashed a nervous glance to Sherlock and quickly added, "I've not ruled out the medicinal arts as a primary discipline yet."
"Well, the one can go hand and hand with the other and are valuable skills nevertheless," Cebriones said with a winning smile. His eyes tracked over Jon slowly, and then flicked to Sherlock with a knowing, smug glint that set his teeth on edge. Sherlock met his gaze.
"Perhaps when Jon is older he can call on you for reference?" Septimious offered, reaching for his glass of wine. Philomenes turned with interest as well, and Cebriones nodded.
"Of course. I should be very interested to follow Jon, and Sherlock's, careers quite closely. Especially since Mycroft seems like such a promising rising talent, I can only expect his younger relations to be equally gifted and capable."
Mycroft genuinely flushed, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a soft groan. Jon jabbed him in the side.
Supper passed in much the same fashion as it began, and Sherlock wished something interesting like an earthquake might swallow them up so that he could leave, taking Jon with him. When they were finally excused, he grabbed Jon's wrist and all but ran from their serving room to the courtyard.
"What are you doing?" Jon hissed, pulling himself free, and looking back to the house. "We should be in there socialising. Your mother wishes it, and I know our fathers do."
Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his curls. "With Mycroft and that idiot? No, we're well shot of them. He's a power-hungry sycophant and Mycroft is only well-served in that he can manipulate him given his station. We, however, should have nothing to do with him."
Jon blinked, frowned. "Cebriones? He seemed perfectly nice enou—"
Sherlock barked a harsh laugh and shook his head. "He was baiting me and winding Mycroft up." He muttered, "As Mycroft was doing to me."
Jon crossed his arms. "You can't just accept that they were paying a compliment or being nice? Must everything have another layer with you?"
Sherlock bit his tongue and stared at the ground. Mycroft knew very well how Sherlock felt about Jon's continued military aspirations, just as Sherlock knew very well that Cebriones so-called interest in Jon, or Sherlock, wasn't professional in the least. "I, would prefer to be with you instead. They're going to keep talking about tedious things and I'm bored to tears, Jon." He looked up with a grin. "Let's go swim."
Jon stared. "It's dark out."
Sherlock shrugged. "Since when do you turn down an adventure?"
Jon chuckled, but when his father briefly appeared at the doorway with a stern glance, he gestured to Sherlock and they went back inside. Though, Sherlock moaned about it the entire time.
Springs turned into harvests, and the golden days of childhood passed as amicably as could be hoped for, with each day bringing more knowledge, sometimes scars, and often smiles. Mycroft moved out of the family home, and then one winter, Philomenes grew very ill. Pneumonia, Jon said. Septimius sent for a physician, and Jon stayed by his side, aided by Alcestis and Sherlock. Every fluid-filled cough made Jon's lips thin and the lines on his brow deepen while he dabbed a cloth over his father's fevered flesh. Alcestis sang quietly, murmuring prayers to Aceso and Apollo. Jon slept at his father's side, and Sherlock slept at Jon's feet.
When the beloved, old man passed away during Jon's thirteenth year, he and Sherlock wept. Septimius honoured his friend and son's tutor with a large banquet and had a pyre constructed per tradition. Sherlock, as ever, never left Jon's side, and he worried every minute what would become of him. Jon hadn't inherited anything of value, but being an only son, any and all of Philomenes' titles and property were passed to him, of which there wasn't much. He had sold what little land he owned when his wife had passed years back.
Directly after the cremation ceremony, while guests lamented and lay wreaths, Sherlock flew to his father's study and implored him to take Jon into the family. Sherlock would call him brother if need be. He would give up his bed for Jon and sleep on the floor, which prompted his father to raise his hands for silence. He moved across the room to calm his youngest.
"I've no intention of turning Jon away, and there's no reason for anyone to sleep on floors," he said with a small smile.
Sherlock exhaled and visibly relaxed. "So, he can stay? With us?"
"Jon will stay to complete his studies with you until he decides what profession he intends to pursue. It was his father's wish, should your mother and I be agreeable, which, we of course are."
Sherlock nodded, fighting back the urge to smile, or possibly cry. Septimius rested a heavy palm on his son's shoulder. "Are your fears allayed?"
Sherlock nodded, avoiding his father's eyes.
Septimius smiled. "Good. Go now and comfort your friend."
Sherlock nearly hugged his father in relief, but instead nodded, turned, and sought out Jon, not that he'd needed to be told. His light blue eyes tracked amongst the faces of guests milling quietly throughout their home, but didn't find the one he was looking for. He walked through the kitchen and out the back door, grabbing his himation from the hook, moving towards the ponds separating his mother's hives, retired for the winter, from the house. When he spotted a familiar silhouette leaning back against an ancient willow, poking a stick into the nearly-frozen surface of the water, something in Sherlock's chest tightened. He watched the way the glow of a weak sun shimmered on thin ice that illuminated Jon's face, and Sherlock thought that even though Jon was heart-broken, he was beautiful, too.
Slowly, he approached and eased himself down to sit at Jon's side on the hard earth. Jon leaned into him and discreetly wiped a tear from his cheek.
Sherlock's right arm came up to lay across Jon's shoulder and draw him in closer, and he settled the heavy woollen himation over them both. They sat quietly while Jon tortured the pond with his branch and himself with his thoughts.
"I spoke with father," Sherlock whispered, unsure why he felt a need to be quiet. As if their normal speaking voices might somehow disrupt something monumentally important.
Jon grunted and stiffened at his side.
"He says you're to stay and complete your studies. Here."
Jon stopped poking his stick. Sherlock swallowed, suddenly anxious.
"Are you… is that, that's good, though."
Jon sniffled. "I'm to be a burden on your family."
Sherlock frowned harder and flicked Jon's shoulder affectionately. "Don't be daft. You're practically their third son."
Jon coughed around a sob. "They're third, orphaned son?"
Sherlock's lips thinned. "You're only as orphaned as you feel. And," Sherlock paused around his suddenly thick tongue for a moment before forging on, "and you'll always have me. Can't be helped."
Jon laughed and leaned his wet face into Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock pretended to ignore Jon's soft sobs. "I'm afraid you're doomed to my friendship, Jon. And how unfortunate that mother and father like you so. Whatever shall you do?"
Jon laughed again, his warm breath rolling against Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock smiled. "If you want us, rather."
Jon wrapped one arm around Sherlock's chest and pulled him in a crushing hug. "I do." He sniffed again and added quietly, "I don't know how I'll ever repay their kindness."
Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, Jon. You keep me out of their hair, I'm sure that's payment enough."
Jon looked up with reddened eyes. "It's not a chore, though. It's fun keeping you out of danger." He flashed a crooked grin and then lowered his head back to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock had finally grown taller than Jon, but had only been so for a few months now.
Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sounds of the willow's bare branches rustling, the occasional rise of voices filtering out of their home, and the distant, hollow hum of the world lull them into a quiet repose until well after dark.
Later, when Sherlock was pulling back the covers, teeth chattering in the cold, there was a tentative knock, before the sound of heavy fabrics brushed along the threshold of his room, followed by the quiet pattering of bare feet against the stone floor. Sherlock looked into the ghostly pale face of his friend in the moonlight.
"It's um," Jon looked away and shuffled on his feet. "I can't."
Sherlock nodded and tugged on Jon's wrist before raising the bedclothes for them both to slide under. "Come on, then. It's freezing."
Jon exhaled gratefully, and stuck his icy feet under Sherlock's calves, who yelped in response. "Could you not have covered those with something? They're like ice."
Jon rolled into his side and slid a palm over Sherlock's stomach to clasp at his side. "Shut up."
Sherlock sniffed, but allowed himself to be manhandled because Jon was otherwise very warm, and it really was freezing cold in his chambers. He snuggled further into the warmth burrowing into his side and felt a ridiculous urge to grin into the darkness.
"G'night," Jon said against his chest.
"Goodnight," Sherlock whispered.
As Jon lay beside him, Sherlock listened to his breath until it even out into an exhausted sleep. That was the second time he'd come to him after the loss of a parent and Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat. So many sad things had happened to his friend, and it wasn't fair. Jon was the best person he'd ever known, and always gave so much to others. How was it that he, who regularly sent offerings to the gods, especially Apollo, whom everyone praised and liked, how was it that he was plagued with sorrow? Sherlock frowned into the dark.
Jon shifted in his sleep, and Sherlock snuggled his face down into his soft hair, promising he would always be there for his friend. He was Sherlock's to care for now.
