John was still looking, transfixed, out of the window when he heard a faint crash coming from a few floors below. His mother was up, and she had out the frying pan. Breakfast. If you could call it that. It was more of a morning family gathering. All of the Watsons would gather at the rickety wooden table to argue, discuss, and joke over their slice of toast. Adults would read the newspaper and all of John's cousins would try to steal each other's slice of warm bread. If you weren't careful, some of the younger ones would have your slice in their mouth before you even knew it went missing. He couldn't blame them; all of them were hungry and if he ever had the opportunity to get more to eat, he would take it. Just not from his family.
With a sigh John closed the window and began to make his way downstairs with his pack so that he could claim his slice of bread. He felt the wooden boards bow beneath his feet as he made his way down the flight of stairs as old as time. Two flights of creaky wooden stairs later, he saw his mother hunched over the stove, the only one up besides one other smelly uncle reading the paper.
"Morning, John. Sleep well?" his mother asked him as if nothing was wrong. As if they hadn't spent half the night hiding underground avoiding bombs. As if people weren't losing their homes or their way of lives. As if there wasn't a war going on or people dying.
"Yes, mother. I slept well." It was a lie, but growing up with all of these people around, John became a very good liar.
"That's good, honey. Were you warm?" John hesitated before answering,
"Yes, I was warm." He knew that his other cousins and elderly relatives could use the extra blankets more than he did.
"Perfect, sweetie. Here is your breakfast." She slid him a plate; on it was a slice of bread, warm from the pan it was just sitting in. They couldn't spare butter for toast, not when it was rationed. As John munched on the edges of his meager breakfast, the rest of the household had begun to wake up. People with bedhead and striped pyjamas alike pulled up a chair to the rickety wooden table and awaited their slice of bread. As everyone began to trickle in, John stood up and moved his plate to the sink. He then hitched up his pack and gathered the courage to ask his mother the question that he had been waiting to ask all morning:
"Mum? Can I go out today? I'm going to go play with a friend." His voice was barely above a whisper, but everyone seemed to hear it. For a moment, all was quiet as uncles stopped shuffling the newsprint and childrens stopped banging plates as they all turned to look at John. The silence didn't last long; it was broken by various interjections of exclamations:
"You have a friend? Unbelievable."
"No way. You probably made him up."
"You're up to something, I'm sure of it. When was the last time you ever mentioned a friend?" John looked to the floor, abashed. He thought he was going to cry when his mother came to the rescue.
"Shush! The lot of you need to learn some manners! I'm rather proud of John. Do you want to have him round for dinner tonight?" John took a shaky breath before answering,
"Yes, mum. I'd like that. Maybe...can we have him over tomorrow night instead? We made a plan to be out all day today."
"Of course, dear. Also, don't you worry about the food; what's one more mouth among all of this?" She gestured to the people gathered about, all of them bedraggled and sleepy and still waiting on their bread. John smiled and said,
"Thanks, mum. I'll be back before dark." She gave him a swift kiss on the forehead and then he was out the door and off into the street.
John arrived at 's mailbox to find Sherlock already there, sitting in the little patch of grass, going through a backpack of his own. John sat next to him and spoke, saying,
"Hello. I hope I didn't keep you waiting." Sherlock straightened up, noticing John for the first time. He smiled and said,
"Not at all." There was a small pause before he said, "Thanks for showing up." Sherlock blushed and quickly went back to searching through his pack. John was confused.
"Why wouldn't I show up?"
"Hasn't it ever happened to you before? People that I thought were my friends would ditch me. I was never good enough for them." There was a bitterness in Sherlock's voice. It had clearly happened several times to this poor boy. John said,
"I know the feeling. I meant what I said last night, though. You're my first friend. I'm going to keep you around." Both of them smiled as their eyes met. Sherlock tied his pack shut, stood up and offered John a hand.
"Good. Let's get going then. I hope you're up for a walk, I'm from a ways away." John took his hand and Sherlock helped him up off the grass. Brushing off his trousers, John said,
"Of course. I told my mum that we'd be out all day." The mention of his mother jogged his memory. "Oh! My mum wants to meet you; can you come for dinner tomorrow night?" Sherlock was delighted at this news.
"Of course! I don't want to take your food though, times are tough as it is." Sherlock paused before asking "Is it really okay?"
"Yeah. Not that I'm one to judge mate, but you could use an extra meal." Everyone was a little lankier from the recent events, but Sherlock was even more so than the average person. The edges of Sherlock's mouth twitched and he glanced down, self-conscious. He spoke, saying,
"Yeah, well. Nothing I can do about that. Are you ready to go?" John hitched up his pack and said, "Of course."
And they were off. Sherlock led the way through streets littered with shrapnel and through alleyways that twisted and turned; he really seemed to know his way about. As the two boys made their way through the back streets of London, they talked and laughed and kicked pebbles down the road. For a moment it had seemed like nothing was wrong; they had momentarily forgotten the worries of war, their patched clothes and their empty bellies. It was all as it should be when they were together. Neither of them had had a proper friend before, and they were drinking up each other's presence like a parched plant in the summertime. They talked about a lot of things on their way, but both of them had fallen in love with The Hobbit and spent a lot of time discussing it.
"Could you imagine? If I was Bilbo Baggins and all of those dwarfs came in to eat all of my food, I think I would have murdered one of them." Sherlock said this as he picked up a piece of brick that once belonged to one of the crumbling houses they were passing by. "Nevermind that, could you imagine having that much food? A whole pantry full!" Sherlock threw the small piece of brick as far as he could down the road. John waited a moment before answering,
"Going on an adventure sounds like fun though. Going to new places, I mean. I've never been out of London." Sherlock smirked and said,
"We're going to fix that today, mate."
"What, go on an adventure?"
"Well, that too I guess. They're not as much fun as they are made out to be. No, we are going to leave London." John was startled, and his face must have shown it, because Sherlock quickly said,
"Don't worry yourself! We aren't going far, we'll be back home before sunset." John sighed with relief. They walked for another half a kilometer in a friendly silence before John asked,
"Where are we going?" Sherlock readjusted the strap on his pack before saying,
"Sorry, didn't I say? We are going to the…" Sherlock waved his hand in the air as if the word he was searching for was floating around and all he had to do was catch it. "You know, the place with the boats and the ropes and it smells like fish?" John thought for a moment before answering.
"Oh! You mean the wharfs?"
"Yes! That's exactly what I mean."
"You live down there?"
"What? No- there is someone I know down there that is willing to give us a ride. Save us lots of time and legwork." They turned a corner and together they saw all the ships lined up in their neat little rows, all of them waiting to be loaded and unloaded as they sat in the Thames. It would have been a quaint little scene if it didn't reek of week-old fish. Sherlock led the way through the maze of tangled ropes and stacked crates, John doing his best to avoid stepping on one of the tails of the several cats lying about. They didn't walk long before they were greeted by a booming voice.
"Ohhh! Salut, Sherlock, comment ça va?" Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock replied,
"Ça va bien! Et vous?"
"Parfait!" John was bewildered. Sherlock spoke french? Before John could ask any questions, the man, as big and muscled as a bear, stepped off of his boat and grabbed Sherlock in a rib-cracking hug. After the man released Sherlock, Sherlock rubbed his ribs and said,
"Saprisi, c'est mon ami, John." Sherlock gestured towards John and said, "Mon meilleur ami." The man pulled John into a hug at this statement. Once it was over, he put John down, brushed him off and said,
"Bonjour, John. Je m'apelle Saprisi." John was so confused at this point that all he could do was look to Sherlock for some help. Sherlock said,
"Oh, Saprisi, j'oublié. John ne parle pas français." The bear of a man laughed a deep, hearty laugh and said,
"Ce n'est pas un probleme." He looked to John and said, "Let's try this again. Hello, John. My name is Saprisi."
"Hello." Now that the confusion was somewhat over, John could get a good look a this man. He was big. Arms like tree trunks and shoulders as wide as an elephant's, this man could probably wrestle with a whale and still win. His hair was jet black and grew all over his face; his beard was like a small bush. This man had clearly found his calling with the sea; not only was he built like a fisherman, he even looked like a fisherman. He spoke again and his deep, rolling voice reminded John of thunderstorms.
"No need to clam up, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine." He gave John a hearty wink and then continued, "Hey, Sherlock, you need a ride?"
"Yes, Saprisi."
"The usual?"
"Yep."
"Okay, just give me one second. You guys can hop on board." Sherlock motioned for John to follow him. They hopped on Saprisi's vessel, a medium-sized ship that was rigged with an otter trawl. Painted bright red, it was the only fishing vessel around. All of the other ships moored at these wharfs were transporting goods. Sherlock and John dropped their packs on the floor of the cabin as Saprisi untied the last rope from the dock. One last push and they were off.
John had never been on a boat before. He had come by the Thames and watched them pass by several times, but he never got a chance to ride one. His eyes were wide as he looked at all of the equipment and tools scattered on the deck. All of this was new and exciting to him, but it seemed like Sherlock had done all of this before.
"Hey, Sherlock. He's not going to fish in the Thames, is he? There seems to be a lot of other boats about. Wouldn't he catch one of them by mistake?" Sherlock smiled before saying,
"No, he'll wait until we are in the proper ocean. The Thames is dirty anyway, it would be hard to sell fish that smell like they jumped right out of the Thames." They walked to the bow of the boat where they sat down and stuck their legs through the metal railing to dangle freely over the water. They sat in a friendly silence as they watched the other boats and the buildings on the shore pass them by. The silence was broken after a short while by John.
"Thanks for bringing me, this is a lot of fun. I've never been on a boat before." Sherlock seemed surprised by this.
"Really? You've never been on a boat?"
"Yeah. It's pretty cool." Sherlock smiled before he said,
"It's a lot more fun in the summer. Now that it's the dead of winter and it's cold, it gets miserable real quickly, especially when you have to haul nets and get wet and stuff." They sat thinking about this for a moment. John asked,
"Sherlock, how do you know Saprisi? And how do you know french?" The pained expression returned to Sherlock's face and the light dimmed behind his bright blue eyes as he said,
"I'll explain it all when we get there, I promise. Can we just...wait til then?" He asked with such a tenderness, John couldn't refuse him.
"Of course, mate." He would find out soon enough anyway, a little waiting wasn't going to kill him. They sat in silence again, listening to the red boat cut its way through the water as Saprisi steered it through the Thames; each of the passengers lost in their own thoughts.