A/N: So since Can't Rewind averages 15k words per chapter I've decided to limit this story's installments to around 2-3k words. That'll hopefully keep me from getting overwhelmed and help this remain my 'relax and don't think about stuff too hard' project. I'm also changing up my headcanon for Sherlock's home life, because using the same backstory every time is boring. Just FYI for anyone who's read my other stuff.
Anyway here we go with how they met - I hope my John characterisation is okay. Thanks for the lovely response to the first chapter, you guys!
It starts with a violin.
A young man stands outside Barts with a sonata and an open case. Busking isn't technically allowed anywhere near the hospital grounds, but it's slow in the early hours and the melody is haunting, so no one has bothered to report a disturbance.
John needs some air - has to get away from the stench of sickness and fear and death. Medicine draws him like a moth to a flame. There's no question in his mind, it's what he wants to do for the rest of his life... but that doesn't mean he's immune to such constant exposure to human suffering. He asks for a break the second he reasonably can and makes his way to the steps outside the hospital. Just to breathe, get his bearings, reorient.
And there was the violinist. Tall, gangly, awkward in that subtle way of late adolescence. He's old enough to have mostly finished growing but not yet comfortable in his own skin; not used to his own height and joints. Every movement just that tiny bit uncertain... except, of course, for the hands. Fingers flying with perfect coordination, bow flashing in the dim morning light. The concerto drifting from the strings of a scrupulously-maintained violin is frankly incredible in its artistry. The boy is a virtuoso - busking for pocket change outside a London teaching hospital.
How strangely the world works, John remembers thinking. When not even genius can save you from the darkness. Perfectly ordinary people become doctors and bankers and kings while true talent stands on the pavement with nothing but a few crumpled pounds and an open violin case.
As the trailing notes of the song's end fade away John stands, digs a tenner out of his wallet and drops it onto the little pile of smaller notes and change.
"That was brilliant," he says, smiling. "Really, you're amazing."
The violinist lowers his instrument and shoots him a questioning look. He seems confused, maybe a bit wary, so John tries a reassuring smile.
"Just... thought I'd let you know I thought it was great," he clarifies with a shrug and a bit of a self-depreciating chuckle. "Sorry, s'pose that did sound a bit weird out of the blue like that."
The boy blinks in response and shifts uncomfortably, fingers plucking at the violin now tucked up against the front of his frayed black jumper.
"It's... no, it was fine," he replies after a moment. His voice is unexpectedly deep. A low baritone which offsets the otherwise juvenile impression of his wild curls and too-thin face.
John smiles again, wide and unassuming, and the teenager very hesitantly returns the gesture.
"Well I've really got to get back to work," John admits. He's been out here far longer than he'd intended - his supervisor's probably having kittens by now. "See you around, I guess?"
The violinist shrugs, a wordless 'maybe', and John flips him a friendly little wave as he makes his way back up the steps and into the hospital.
:::
He's there again the next day, when John takes his morning break. Not playing this time - there's a community support officer just round the corner, John noticed him on his rounds earlier, so the boy probably isn't willing to risk busking. Instead he's sitting cross-legged on a bench near the staircase with a book propped open in his lap. John grins to himself and goes to take a seat next to the young man.
"What're you reading?" he asks pleasantly.
The teenager glances over at him. "Applied chemistry for use in forensic analysis."
He lifts the book slightly, and indeed it's a collection of academic journals in paperback. John blinks and quirks an amused smile.
"Just some light material before breakfast, huh?" He doesn't get a response besides a vague 'hmm', so he decides to go for another question. "What's your name?"
That gets a reaction - specifically a sidelong stare and a confused, wary look. "Why?"
John shrugs. "Just being friendly." He smiles and holds out a hand to shake. "I'm John, by the way."
The teenager wrinkles his nose ever so slightly at the proffered hand but grasps it nonetheless. "Sherlock," he mutters, dropping the grip after barely half a shake and going back to his book.
"Sherlock? That's an interesting name," John continues. He's probably annoying the hell out of the poor boy at this point but he finds he really can't help it - after the morning's mountain of work, case after case of horrible open gaping wounds and suture techniques, there's nothing he wants more than to have a nice, normal conversation. Preferably about something other than diseases or bloody entrails. "What's the origin? French?"
"No," Sherlock replies, still looking down at the pages. His voice drops into something mocking and sardonic as he elaborates; "It doesn't mean anything. My parents named all their offspring by throwing syllables together at random with no thought to the absurdity of the outcomes."
John chuckles at the palpable sarcasm and leans back into the bench. "Oh come on, can't be that bad."
The young man shoots him a flat look. "My siblings are 'Mycroft' and 'Enola'."
"Alright... those're pretty bad," John admits with a slight wince. Sherlock snorts derisively in agreement.
"Still," John continues, "better than a boring old name like John I guess."
"True, 'John' is an exceedingly boring name," Sherlock concedes, apparently not caring if he's rude. John doesn't mind though - the bluntness is a welcome change from his usual social interactions, where everyone's always bending over backwards trying to be polite.
With another small chuckle John smiles and leans his head back to stare up into the cloudy sky, listening to birds beginning to stir in the late autumn trees. Every so often the young man next to him turns a page. It's tranquil, really. He thinks longingly of his bed at home and tries to remember how long it's been since he slept more than a handful of hours at a time. These days it seems like he's too busy to even breathe.
"You're due back on shift in three minutes," Sherlock mutters, the voice cutting into John's semi-conscious trance. He blinks himself awake and glances down at his watch with a groan.
"Ugh... so I am," he grumbles. "Thanks for reminding me."
Sherlock just shrugs, not looking up. John yawns widely and stands to stretch the kinks out of his back. Going back into the hospital is really the absolute last bloody thing he wants to do right now, but he doesn't exactly have a choice.
As he makes his way toward the stairs, a thought occurs to him.
"Hey," he says, turning around. Sherlock blinks and glances up at him.
"Yes?"
"Are you going to be hanging around here near lunchtime?" John doesn't quite know why he's asking - except that he's sick of watching the stressed, tense faces of his fellow students, the condescending doctors, harried nurses and busy support staff day in day out. This strange, half-starved violinist sitting criss-cross on a public bench like a buddhist monk is an oasis of calm in comparison to the storm that awaits inside the hospital.
Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds longer than is strictly polite, then shrugs. "Probably."
John smiles. "Brilliant."
:::
Sherlock, true to his word, is still sitting on the bench when John is finally dismissed for a meal break. The teenager's shifted to lie across the bench horizontally instead of sitting in his lotus position, book held aloft above his face with one hand while the other arm is folded behind his head as a makeshift pillow.
"You've just been out here reading all morning?" John asks. Sherock 'hmm's and lowers his book slightly to regard him over the pages.
"More interesting than observing surgery techniques," he responds after a second's glance over John's appearance. His gaze lingers questioningly on the two sandwiches in John's hands.
John catches the look and smiles as he walks over. He holds one of the plastic-wrapped bundles out to the younger man. "Hope you like turkey. We just had a shift change so the cafeteria was out of everything else."
Sherlock blinks, evidently confused, and sits up to take the sandwich. He draws his long legs up, folds one under his thigh while the other hangs off the side of the bench, and stares sidelong as John takes a seat in the now-vacated space.
"You... bought me lunch?" he mumbles rather blankly.
John shrugs. "Just cafeteria food," he replies. "Not exactly five-star or anything. Figured I'd pick up an extra since I was there."
Sherlock doesn't seem to know how to respond. That's fine, John's perfectly happy to let him mull it over for as long as he needs to. He's quite aware how strange this all must seem - a respectable medical student going out of his way to spend time with a street kid? Of course the boy's going to be wary. Probably thinks he's some kind of creepy predator or something. But John finds he honestly doesn't care; all he wants is to have a nice meal with some intelligent company. If said intelligent company happens to be a vagabond street busker loitering by the side entrance then so be it.
Most of all though what he really wants is to spend time with someone he doesn't have to worry about impressing. Everyone in the hospital is part of a massive, neverending gossip mill. Each conversation with his colleagues carries the possibility of causing a blemish on social standing, every tiny slip-up noted and recorded by the sharp ears and cutthroat competitiveness of fellow students. Here though, with Sherlock, it's different. He can sit and eat his sandwich and not think about work or his studies or keeping up appearances. Refreshing doesn't even begin to describe it.
Silence stretches for a few moments, slightly awkward... yet still somehow companionable.
Eventually, John decides he should at least make some effort to have a conversation. "So how old are you?" he questions. "If you don't mind my asking."
Sherlock glances over from where he'd been working on picking the clingfilm off his sandwich without tearing it.
"How old do you think I am?" he asks in reply, eyes narrowing slightly in interest. He goes back to his sandwich, finally gets a corner of the bread free and takes a careful bite of the turkey-and-lettuce concoction.
John takes another bite of his own sandwich and makes a thoughtful noise. "I'm not really sure," he admits. "Definitely still a teenager though. Maybe... seventeen?"
Sherlock frowns, either at the taste of the cheap lunch meat or John's guess. Possibly both.
"That's a reasonable estimation," he concedes. The bland, half-sarcastic tone makes it obvious he's being intentionally obtuse.
John twists his mouth in slight consternation. "Does that mean I'm right?"
Sherlock smirks and takes another bite. "No."
"If you don't want to tell me you can just say so, you know," John quips, rolling his eyes. It's not like he had any burning desire to know or anything - he'd just been making conversation.
"Where would be the fun in that?"
The lighthearted tone from the otherwise-sombre youth takes John off-guard, and he glances over to see Sherlock watching him with an amused expression. John smiles and shakes his head.
"Well then what's your guess for me?" he asks teasingly.
The response is immediate. "Twenty three years, eight months and seven days."
John blinks. "That's... uh. Wow, okay. That's a really good guess."
Sherlock sighs in apparent annoyance. "Your date of birth is printed on your employee badge," he points out flatly. "Which is hanging out of your pocket."
John looks down and, indeed, his badge has managed to work itself partially free of the trouser pocket he'd shoved it into on his way out of the cafeteria. His birthday is clearly printed on the laminated surface just under his photograph... but the writing is tiny. It's not something he'd have seen without specifically looking for it.
"You spotted that just now?" he says in surprise.
Sherlock suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Yes," he half-mumbles. "It was just... I noticed when I looked over. Sorry."
"Sorry? What for?" John exclaims, looking up. "I'd have never even thought to look for something like that! Brilliant, really."
Sherlock's staring at him again. "Brilliant?"
"Yeah," John asserts. "You just pick up details like that? Without even trying? That's pretty extraordinary."
"That's... not what most people say." Sherlock's expression seems to have caught somewhere between befuddled and pleased. His gaze flits away as he fiddles idly with the clingfilm on his sandwich.
"What do most people say?" John asks, frowning.
Sherlock quirks a wry smile. "'Piss off.'"
John laughs. Sherlock's smile widens into something more genuine. And for just a moment, everything fades away. They're just two friends sitting on a public bench with sandwiches.
For that brief instant John forgets that he's due back on shift in ten minutes, forgets about the blood and the bones and the stench of sick that awaits his return to work. This is why he came back out here - why he bought two sandwiches instead of one and chose to eat on an uncomfortable bench out in the cool autumn air rather than stay in the cafeteria. Because this strange teenager with the violin and the mop of tangled black curls reminds him there's a world outside the confines of Barts. Reminds him that beyond the anguished families and slowly-dying patients there's concertos and made-up names and real gratitude for something so simple as a stranger buying you lunch.
Silence fills the space between them once more. After a moment, John finally speaks again.
"Will you be here again tomorrow?"
Sherlock blinks and turns his head to regard him curiously. "Would you like me to be?"
John smiles as he finishes the last of his meal, rolls the clingfilm up into a ball and tosses it into the bin nearby.
"Yes," he answers. "I really would."