On their sixth birthday, after a year of a dozen tutors and classes ranging from fencing to football the boys were told they could have two parties. It was not something they requested but something Harry and Mrs. Hudson had hoped they would take advantage of none the less. They imagined simple things, a sheet cake with candles and children running around screaming, gorging on pop and ice-cream until they made themselves sick. Mycroft had reservation about the validity of the supposed social usefulness the event presented.

Mycroft was reasonably sure John had only gone with the idea because it would make the women happy and maybe, just a little bit, to appease the friends he had made over the last year. Mycroft made sure not to let those exact words leave his lips in the company of the others. Too harsh, untruthful almost in their blunt manner.

John was sociable, he enjoyed being with people, he could laugh and play and look so absurdly normal kicking a ball and giggling as it veered in the wrong direction, lost in a throng of boys who could scream for pleasure instead of heart stopping fear. He enjoyed it, he was good at it.

Mycroft tried not to imagine how John had been the first time around, tried not to see the present echoing the distant and faded past but it was impossible now in a way it had not been only two weeks before. Now he had seen the images, the proof that John Watson had always been more than meets the eye.

He had seen the faded and ill kept photos, torn and dirtied and scratched.

The first dredges of a buried and forgotten past peeling back after digging into the dark places which had remained hidden for more than two decades.

The first shred of information after three years of searching with the determination of knowing that his child's life depended on it.

He tried not to think of the repaired images of John smiling decades ago, images smiling into the empty darkness in the bottom of a locked drawer. Images of the same smile John used now, the same expression on his face as he ran and screamed and laughed as if he were okay. As if everything was, and always had been, perfectly okay.

His John juxtaposed through time.

Images of a boy running with an almost imperceptible limp.

With poorly healed injuries, untreated and painful and cumulative.

Short for his age, not just small but almost tiny. Malnourished.

Laughing, playing, running.

Because he had to. Because it was normal and normal hides all manner of sins.

With a smile that was just a little too bright. Just a little too perfect, as he waved at the camera, frozen in time for Mycroft to see a lifetime later.

A smile which could have come from today, from next week.

Mycroft never would have known.

He had wanted so badly to believe that this was real.

He wanted to believe that John Watson is so full of grace that he could be the child running around with his mates and still be the boy who understands Sherlock's silent horrors. That it was grace that allowed John this happiness as Sherlock lingered unsure on the sidelines, not shunned but not fitting.

He had never imagined it could be an act. Even if false laughter sometimes led to real laughter.

When Mrs. Hudson said that it might be nice for the boys to play with their friends for their birthday and Harry agreed Mycroft did not ask her if she had known all along. He was not so sentimental yet that he would have missed that.

But maybe Harry was more than first glance as well. Maybe she had been play acting okay for so long she had forgotten it had ever been an act.

John had not wanted to hurt anyone's feelings so when it came down to inviting 'friends' out to the park where a little tent had been set up in case it rained, and there were a few plastic tables smattered with brightly coloured napkins and ugly paper hats he had invited anyone who had wanted to go.

He had asked Sherlock first.

He had pushed close while Auntie Harry was standing at the counter; flirting with the ice-cream girl (they always got the biggest ice-creams in the whole place). It was like being alone, all the adults towering over them as they stood against the plastic counter, lost in their own world with smart phones and arguments and the other children running past without ever really seeing them. Sherlock was warm as their shoulders pressed together, his hand was soft and he held on like he would never let go.

John did not want to leave him on their birthday, not for a second. If they had a party, if there were other kids…

John wanted Sherlock to say no.

He wanted Sherlock to ask him to stay with him. He wanted Sherlock to ask so he could give it to him and they could spend the day together and Auntie Harry and Mycroft and Nana and Grand-mère would be there and when they wanted, whenever they wanted, it would be just them.

Sherlock reached out with his left hand to take the ice cream cone, something purple with chunks of chocolate and red berry. He always chose something different, only shrugging when Harry asked what he wanted. 'New. Anything new.'

He touched it delicately with his tongue, barely tasting it, pulling it back into his mouth to analyze the flavor. His face scrunched as he analyzed and then, suddenly, the look would drop and he would hold out the cone for John to lick.

Sherlock always wanted John to know everything he knew.

John offered his cone in reciprocation but Sherlock was already staring at the slowly melting concoction, deducing the most efficient way to eat it before it dripped stickily onto his fingers. Plan of attack established Sherlock licked a melting stripe off the ice-cream and with purple lips and tongue turned back to John, still holding his hand tightly.

He had not said anything yet. Had not asked the question he was not sure he wanted an answer to but that did not matter. Sherlock was pulling him into the jungle of legs and the sea of screaming bodies streaking past them. No one saw them as they climbed up into a far table, watching the chaos pass them by.

"If we spend lunch with-" Sherlock frowned, delicately twirling his ice-cream in his fingers, like magic John thought, with one hand, as if it were nothing. "Everyone." The look of disdain was enough to tell John who everyone included. "And we the evening with-" he made a circular motion with his ice-cream, gesturing to Harry who had just realized they had gone missing, to the air around them as if the people they loved stood around them only invisible to the untrained eye. "us…"

Sherlock's hand tightened on his. John could feel his pulse, the way it picked up, hammering. He could see the flush that was reaching up to claim life on Sherlock's cheeks. Not afraid, he knew Sherlock's fear. This was different… but close. Nervous.

Ice-cream, plain vanilla with swirls and chunks imbedded in it, hidden inside, melted over John's fingers.

He wanted to press his face against Sherlock's chest. He wanted to press his ear so close that he could hear his heartbeat pound until, just because he was there, just because it was Sherlock, the pounding would slow. Because he was there to hear it.

"Will you come away when I ask?" Sherlock was staring at him. Into him. Like the words were nothing but a nicety and he would find his answer buried in his eyes.

Their names were shouted over the din of the room. Searching and exasperated and maybe just a little afraid. Anger flashed over momentary panic as she called out again. Auntie Harry was pushing her way through the crowd, anger melting off of her face and turning into relief and need as she saw them sitting together, safe.

Sherlock's words were quick, his eyes darting to her and then back to John, very wide and very, very blue. "Will you promise to trust me even when you don't want to?"

She was a step away, her hand reaching out for them. She would not let them out of her site again today. She would reach out and touch their hair, hold onto one of their hands and check over and over to make sure the other boy still held on.

He wanted to say of course. He wanted to tell him that he would do anything he asked. Ever. That he would follow him anywhere. That he did not need to ask.

But he didn't.

"Yes." He could feel his own heart now, pounding like Sherlock's.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The boys screamed and yelled and pushed each other and laughed too loudly, like another species Sherlock thought. Like some bizarre creature in the zoo that would peer out from behind the bars at them just as they looked in. John was a spot of calm in the storm of tiny bodies, he laughed and played and ran but he was softer, harder, he was something Sherlock did not have a word for. John smothered a giggle behind his hands and as the laughter faded and died he looked past his companions. He smiled, so quick that the boys he was with missed it but Sherlock didn't, even if they had seen it they would not have understood, to them it would have been nothing but another temporary and fleeting expression.

Sherlock felt his shoulders drop; he had been unaware how tense he had been holding them, how stiff he had been holding his whole body until that moment. He let his legs uncurl from against his chest and laid them flat in front of him on top of the picnic table, a muddy shoe brushing against Lestrade's sleeve.

Sherlock liked Lestrade from the beginning.

He had saved John.

He had caught him when Sherlock was not there and that was enough.

It was a happy coincidence when he turned out to be vaguely interesting as well. All of their tutors seemed to be one mass of frustratingly similar proprieties teetering on the edge of astonishment and horror. It was a nice change of pace after suffering through a day of classes where a single innocuous word or a statement that barely merited saying, let alone repeating, brought on equal looks of horror, fear, and astonishment. John was trying to learn which things not to say, which words made people look at them like that.

Freak.

Freaks.

Sherlock did not try.

He did not care.

Wouldn't let himself care.

So the first time he threw out a word or a phrase that had made his teachers stare, because he was mad, because he did not want to play this stupid game and he wanted a reason to not like the man anymore, and Lestrade only rolled his eyes and told him to get back to it, Sherlock was intrigued.

It had only been another week before he took his ID badge.

Sherlock had not intended to keep it, he just wanted to look at, but the man could have lost it anywhere and his games would be much more authentic with the real equipment.

Sherlock always made John be the good guy but John never seemed to mind. Sherlock would concoct a robbery or a murder or a forgery, sometimes they were reenactments of stories they had read, or history books they had finished, and sometimes they were unique and new and John would follow him through the rooms, chasing clues, jumping into the 'caves' and 'hideouts' and 'traps' they had made from closets and seat cushions and one memorable time, with the skull and a dress.

Sometimes John won, pulling out his badge and arresting him or trying to keep a stern face on as he gave chase, his act dissolving as he tackled Sherlock into a hug rather than to subdue him.

And sometimes Sherlock won. Even if he had been really bad. Even if his crime was something awful.

"Because." John had said when they had curled up together at the bottom of a 'trap' of a clothes hamper and their legs tangled and the yellow light of the room was filtering down on them in shadowed holes. "Sometimes, the bad guys win."

Sherlock had asked Lestrade, never 'Mr. Lestrade' like the other boys called him, or 'Greg' like he told Nana to do, and it had never even merited an eye roll or a sigh so he must feel that his name sounds wrong any other way too, about being an Inspector a few times but had gathered little useful information that way so had moved on to other topics.

But this was different.

This time he had a reason.

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade." Sherlock replied as if it had been a greeting. He made sure to open his eyes wider and keep a carefully blank expression when the older man turned his body to look at him. He was safe in the knowledge that he would not get into too much trouble, not on his birthday, but looking the part never hurt.

"Foot Sherlock." Lestrade said with an almost silent sigh and a rather pointed look at where Sherlock was leaving a perfect Sherlock sized footprint in dark mud on the Detective Inspectors jacket.

Sherlock took his foot away and smiled cheekily at the detective, shifting the offending appendage to dangle off the side of the table harmlessly, and, assured that he had gathered the man's attention, shifted closer, both legs dangling off the table, kicking softly, unconsciously to a rhythm of his own creation.

"Do you have a gun?"

The words were a familiar ritual.

"Yes."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

Together they watched the group of boys in a moment of companionable silence, the sound of children playing a comfortable if not soft background noise, the rustle of Nana fussing around with plates forks that matched the arrangement of vibrantly coloured frosting. Somewhere in the mass of boys John laughed, not loudly or in a way that might call attention to him, but a sound Sherlock could pick out at the expense of all others.

"Can I see your badge?"

One mostly dark eyebrow rose but he did not take his eyes from the boys, watching somewhere in the middle distance as if he had found a point of interest no one else was keen enough to find.

"Are you going to nick it again?"

Sherlock froze, his foot caught mid-swing. Lestrade's face did not change, still staring ahead, his eyes did not flicker to Sherlock but to John who was laughing again softly in the mess of boys.

And then he saw it. The hint of a smile. The amusement on the mans face, the edges of his eyes betraying him.

Shocked. Amazed. Sherlock laughed, feet swinging again freed from their temporary prison locked in time, his cheeks burning with the force of his smile. He laughed until he ached, the sound of it strange and buoyant.

This was a birthday present. To be caught, found out and surprised by it. Lestrade had given up his mask, he was laughing too, but softly, as if he wanted to hear the sound of his joy rather than add his own to it. It made the DI look younger, he was trying to look rueful as he reached into his jacket to extract the badge but his eyes still gleamed in a way that few people ever achieve after spending so long faking it.

"Yes." Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to hold it in his chest but it came out as a soft stream of helpless laughter which faded into something warm and heavy when he caught John's eyes, the blond standing motionless in a crowd of boys, watching him, waiting to hear the sound again. "Eventually."

Lestrade rolled his eyes helplessly and resolvedly tossed the badge into Sherlock's lap.

"At least I know you are not having me on." He waved his hand once dismissively at the badge as if it had always been a lost cause and turned back to the crowd, hiding his fondness. "Happy Birthday."

Sherlock ran his fingers over the badge and quickly pocketed it before Nana could catch him. There was a trace of dust clinging to the edges, lingering the creases of the metal, as if it were not only a few months old but had been waiting, already made, waiting for years to be used. It was interesting, bizarre and unpredictable the way the man himself was. Had it been another day he would have needed to know why, to know how, to make sense of this mystery. But today was their birthday. Today Sherlock had a promise that John would come away with him, that even when he did not want to, even when it hurt, John would trust him.

Sherlock watched and waited until John turned back to his game, brown eyes reluctantly leaving him, turning back to the screaming children. Sherlock nudged his muddy trainer into Lestrades sleeve, drawing fond eyes back to him, eyes that grew worried and aged as they took in the seriousness in his own countenance. Words of reprimand died on his lips when the questions that had not yet been asked drifted between them as if thought could become palpable and Sherlock had found one of the few people who could see it for what it was.

Looking up into the hard face of the detective inspector the sounds of the party seemed to fade, their lives, their easy laughter not only unreachable but unfathomable. There is a gravity in Lestrades eyes that remind him of Johns. Eyes that have seen too much. Know too much and still love too well.

The feeling rose in his throat like he might be sick as a cold sweat broke out on his skin, the kind that burns and turns the basic part of your mind to fear. He took a deep breath to drive it back, holding it in his body and letting it out hot and sick.

He couldn't do it.

You don't speak of the things that happen in the darkness, not even when they burn, not even when you are afraid that you might never wake up.

Not even when the injuries chase you from one world to the next. You can not talk about him.

You can never tell anyone.

Not Mycroft who is safe and loves you or Nana who understands more than anyone else.

Not John.

He could stop. He could swallow the bile rising in his throat and shake his head and forget this ever happened and Lestrade would never know.

But John was waiting for him.

John who had not slept in weeks.

John who wakes up screaming.

John who would cry for hours in his arms until the first rays of sunlight bled orange through the blanket that covered them and the tears had all dried out because he was too afraid to go back to sleep.

John who would not tell him why he woke up with a sob in his throat, silently choking him.

John who would hold him tight and whisper 'please' in a voice that made Sherlock want to cry.

Sherlock forced the thoughts away viciously, ruthlessly destroying them as if they had never existed at all. Thoughts ripped from his mind.

'Don't cry.'

'Don't let anyone know.'

Sherlock looked into Lestrade, into the eyes that looked too much like Johns. He could survive this. Lestrade with his gun. With his badge. With knowledge in his eyes that deserved no words.

He had saved John once and now he would do it again.

The smoky smooth voice that haunted his own dreams made him want to stop, to be silent and invisible.

'You can't tell anyone, they won't understand.'

Fingertips bruising skin, gripping hard enough to make blood pool, hard enough to make him smother a cry. Real men don't cry.

'And if you do I will have to make them understand wont I? Make you both understand.'

A voice like sadness and disappointment, a voice that said without words. 'If only you were better…'

'And it will be all your fault.'

And if they couldn't survive this?

'You don't want that do you?'

If men could really reach out of dreams and hurt them? If dark promises could be made true?

Lestrade would fight, he was a Detective Inspector, he would survive.

And Sherlock?

If he was not brave enough, smart enough, strong enough? If this the man in his dreams kept his promise and made sure Sherlock would never tell again, if this time he could not come survive?

The others would take care of John. He would not be alone.

He would never have to be alone.

John is loved.

Nana tells them stories when night falls and Mycroft is still lost in paperwork and countries they have never seen. She sits on the edge of their bed and her hand is warm as she places it on the small of their backs and rubs small circles in a fond way that makes Sherlock wonder what her children had been like. If they needed this comfort from her the way they do. She tells them stories of knights and kings and gods and men and safe in bed with old cloth tangling in your fingers like an old friend and John curled close enough to feel he can almost see the knights when he closes his eyes. Dragons who breathe fire and men who have nothing to fear but the monsters that dwell in the deep dark places of the earth.

Men die for war and land and power and a million trivial nothing things.

It would not be so bad really. To die for love.

Sherlock's favorites are always the men who died for love.

"I need your help."