The first night was difficult for the two evacuees. Harry and John had been given their own rooms for the first time in their lives, and they weren't sure if they liked this arrangement; John clambered that night into Harry's bed, because he couldn't sleep without her in the same room. He promised, though, that he would sleep in his own bed the next day. After all, he was fourteen, and furthermore had a remarkable ability to adapt to change.
The next day was a fine and clear one, which naturally Sherlock and Mycroft didn't notice at first, because they were both holed up in their rooms reading. They hadn't the least idea what John and Harry might be up to, and didn't much care. Therefore they were both of them immensely annoyed when their mother shouted to them up the stairs:
'Sherlock! Mycroft! It's a nice day; do you want to take the Watsons for a walk?'
'No,' they both shouted back.
'Oh, don't be difficult,' Mrs Holmes scolded them. 'John just told me he wanted to go outside, explore a bit. Take them down to the pool. They'll like that. And Redbeard needs a walk too.'
"The pool" was just down the river, and was a place where the river widened and curved lazily around a beach, so that it seemed more like a lake. Mycroft and Sherlock had both liked to sit down there and read as young children, or to paddle or play pirates or whatever. Nowadays they much preferred their bedrooms.
The Holmes brothers sighed, and, grabbing their coats, came reluctantly downstairs. John and Harry were already there, dressed in spare waterproofs and comfortable shoes; Harry, they noticed, who had yesterday worn a dress that didn't much suit her, was today wearing a pair of trousers that Sherlock noticed were his. Mycroft picked up Redbeard's lead and fitted it to the dog's collar.
'Come back for lunch, won't you?' Mrs Holmes said; they nodded and set off.
The path down to the river ran through a small patch of woodland; Mycroft and Sherlock walked briskly among the trees, but the Watsons lingered behind, dawdling, looking up at the sun-spangled canopy as if they hadn't seen trees before.
'Oh, of course,' murmured Sherlock, 'they've never left London, have they?'
Mycroft just raised one eyebrow and told them to hurry up.
They arrived at last at the little river beach, and John and Harry immediately raced down the bank to dip their toes in the clear water. Now the Holmeses lagged behind: the pool no longer held anything new or exciting for them.
Harry squealed as her toes touched the water, which was unexpectedly cold considering that the day was as hot as if it was the middle of summer, rather than the edge of autumn. John grinned at her brief weakness, for he had scarcely reacted to the temperature of the water, finding it quite relaxing to feel it swirling over his feet.
Sherlock threw himself on the sand and watched the water swirl by, thinking deeply. Mycroft clambered up to a low branch on a nearby tree and did likewise, pulling out his political science book, which he had brought with him, wondering when the Watsons would get bored of the river. Seeing as they had never paddled in a river before, it could be some time.
John emerged first, and padded up the beach to where Sherlock was still deep in thought; he spoke the Holmes boy's name, but he did not respond.
'Sherlock,' he said again. 'Sherlock, do you have the towel?'
Sherlock started somewhat violently, and stared at him for more than a moment before extracting a tea-towel from his rucksack. He had been forced to bring it for the purpose of drying feet. John thanked him and sat beside him, running the towel over his feet and between his toes, trying to get the sand off, but instead just abrading his skin a bit, because sand is stubborn like that.
'Have you finished paddling?' asked Sherlock, only a little desperately.
'Yes,' replied John. 'But I quite wanted to explore the woods, if that's all right.'
Sherlock glared at him. It wasn't all right, but if he didn't let John explore a bit he would be told off. 'If you must,' he shrugged.
'You seemed quite happy sitting there thinking,' John ventured, not unkindly.
'I was building my mind palace. You disturbed me,' Sherlock said then. 'I can't think properly here. The river is too loud.'
John fell silent and listened, but could scarcely hear the flow of the river, nor any other noise save for the occasional birdsong. He supposed that Sherlock's hearing must have been more acute than his. Then he said: 'Mind palace?'
'You wouldn't understand,' Sherlock said dismissively.
'Does Mycroft have one too?' John asked then, indicating the older boy, who had closed his book and his eyes, and looked almost as if he had gone to sleep up the tree.
'I imagine so,' shrugged Sherlock. 'It's not as good as mine though.'
John laughed, and, as he had finished drying his feet, handed the towel back to Sherlock and thrust his feet into his shoes, and then disappeared into the woods. A moment later Harry came and quickly dried her feet, before following him, shouting out to him and laughing purely, almost childishly. They had dissolved into some sort of game of tig, from the sound of it.
Sherlock leaned back on the sand again, and shot a glance over to Mycroft, who was still lost in his daydream. Did Mycroft have a mind palace? He supposed he must have. It was Mycroft who had suggested the idea to him, though Sherlock had invented the term mind palace. Was it as impressive as his? He didn't like to think so. He didn't like to think that Mycroft was better at anything than he was, though he knew in his heart that that wasn't true.
His eyes fell again on John, who was scrambling through a nearby clearing with Harry hot on his trail. They looked so happy, so childish, so innocent. Like siblings were meant to be.
Sherlock sighed and told himself that he mustn't feel envious. He called to Redbeard, who was splashing around in the river still, and dried off the dog, before snuggling up to him a little. It was bizarre. Sometimes he thought that he didn't need friends, and yet he didn't know where he would be without the old dog. He liked to think that he could manage on his own, but even Mycroft was indispensable sometimes.
A thought occurred to him, and, hesitantly, he called out to Mycroft.
'My,' he said, using a nickname that had been buried for months, years now. 'My, do you want to play pirates?'
'You're too old for pirates,' Mycroft said without opening his eyes.
Sherlock furrowed his brow and didn't reply. The excited shrieks of John and Harry came to him from deeper in the woods. He wanted to join in, but he felt silly for wanting that. He wanted to be normal, but he didn't think he was capable of it.
'Got you!' Harry yelled, who from the sounds of it had pounced on John. Both of the Watsons laughed loudly.
Sherlock was about to go to them when he looked at his watch, and with a slight pang of regret realised that they needed to be heading back.
'John, Harry, it's lunchtime,' he yelled, and bit his lip as he realised how much he had wanted at that moment to ask them to play pirates with him.
