Sherlock found himself seeking John out often, and John allowed it. He even seemed to enjoy the time with Sherlock, crouched behind playground equipment and running in between the other students. It wasn't that John had no other friends either, John was quite popular with the other students. John truthfully liked Sherlock, enjoyed being with fact never seemed to baffle the dark haired boy, especially after he left the solace of recess with John to return to his classroom. Once that brief period of time was over, Sherlock was thrust back into the place where he was a freak and only a freak. He spent the time in his classroom huddled in the back of the room by himself, working quietly on his maths or reading while the rest of his classmates asked questions and talked with boundless energy. His only companion during his time in class was a quiet, mousy girl. She made him uneasy, he wasn't quite sure how to talk to her, but she looked at him like he held the moon and the stars in his hands. He liked that about Molly Hooper, but he didn't dare show that he did. He couldn't, couldn't make friends, couldn't care. The universe had a twisted way of turning the things he cared about into a weapon to be used against him.
His class held so many different types of children, the daft and unintelligent, the sharp and witty, and the loyal. But each group was filled to the brim with different kinds of kids, each with lives and stories and histories that Sherlock wanted to know. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask. So he learned how to see, to observe and collect data from the children like rats in a lab. That's all it was, a way to sate his curiosity, to learn and to know. By the end of the year he could tell in a glance: alcoholic parent, raised by a single mother, orphaned, loved, spoiled, moving away. He could easily pick them apart, but it wasn't enough. He had to be patient, to wait for the skills to grow.
Where did he fit into those default groups? He certainly was witty, his tongue was sharp and biting as he tore down the masks and wall that people hung high to cover their true identities. He sees. He sees the true flesh and bone behind the smiling children that act like they can soar, that they won't get broken on the crashing way down. But was he loyal? Did he dedicate himself to the people he cared about? Was there anything he really cared about? He sighs, running a hand through his unruly curls. He was a child still, he knew that. He supposed he could find where his loyalties would lie when he got older. For right now, it was time for recess.
His shiny black dress shoes beat against the concrete, carrying him to their meeting place. They'd met at the same place for the past two year It was the last day, and the promise of summer hung in the sky like a cloud of thick humidity. The sun was bright, hot, tinging the skin red, drawing the moisture from the skin to fall in beads over the brows of the children as they ran around in droves. Sherlock finds John, all shaggy blonde hair and pale skin. He smiles at Sherlock, waving him over. Sherlock follows where John leads, to the farthest corner of the playground. He smiles as they transition from the pavement to the soft grass, falling into it and lounging in the shade with John. They lay sprawled out on their backs, heads together, talking quietly as Sherlock catalogs every leaf and branch on the sprawling maple above them.
"My sister says she'll take me to the park on Tuesdays if you wanna play" John says with a grin, turning his head to look at his best friend. Sherlock smiles, turning to look at John too.
"I'll have Mycroft take me. Maybe Harry and Myc can be friends too" he smiles. John laughs.
"Harry doesn't really like anyone" he smiles
"Neither does Mycroft" Sherlock argues, and John shrugs
"Maybe they could be friends." he whispers and looks up at the tree, trying to figure out what had interested Sherlock so much. Sherlock points to a broken branch, just above them.
"A squirrel overestimated the strength of the branch" he says with a grin. John giggles, putting his hand over his mouth.
"How d'ya know that?" John asks, squinting at the cracked branch, Sherlock shrugs.
"I've been working on seeing more than most people" he says simply. John turns to look at Sherlock, staring for a bit.
"What?" the dark haired boy asks, and John gives him a toothy smile.
"You're really awesome" the blonde states simply, reaching out and tucking Sherlock's hand in his own.