A/N: Sorry for the lateness. I was off from school but still had a lot to do. After this point the chapters might be coming a bit more spaced apart. I have a few I still need to write up and might focus on those more than going back and editing others before I upload them. So I'm sorry for any future delays of that sort. Besides that, enjoy, and I'll try to have the next one up on time. :)

Every day that week, and for the week following, Sherlock would go outside in the afternoon. He'd trek through the forest until he got to John's house. Then he'd find John and the two boys would play until the blonde was called in for supper.

They played pirates. War. Ran around with Johns football. They raced up and down the road. Talked. Played in the creek when it wasnt too cold. Sword fought with sticks in the forest. Created imaginary scenarios and reacted within them.

Everyday had been nice out, or atleast nice enough for Mrs. Holmes to let her son outside. She didnt care where he went. As long as he was back home, and didnt get hurt. His father was gone most days, in town for work, or even gone for a couple days at a time. Mycroft suspected where Sherlock was going, but didnt say anything. His younger brother was happy.

The one things that still puzzled Sherlock, was why John was called in so early. He figured perhaps the boy helped make supper, but then the things he had said at being called in sounded like it was perhaps already made. This question would come up often in Sherlocks little mind, but he didnt say anything. He just kept it to himself, didnt want to bring it up in fear John would be offended, or not like him anymore. Because they were friends. Real friends. True ones. And that was something Sherlock didnt want to give up, or mess up.

He was once again planning on going outside. It had rained the night before, so Sherlock had on a jacket and was about to put his red rubber boots on when his mother stopped him.

"Where are you going Sherlock?"

"Outside," he answered matter-of-factly. Where else would he be going?

"Alright, but only for a little while. It's very cold?" She allowed him to continue. Sherlock headed over to the door. "Dont go too far, alright, so I can call you in." She told him. The eight-year-old nodded but continued. Maybe he could run to Johns house quickly and still be back in time for his mum not to know he had gone that far. He headed off across the field, his boots squishing in the wet grass. When he got to the forest he looked back for a brief second before continuing. He would make his way to Johns house as quickly as he could, then maybe they could come back towards his house to play. That way he would be able to go inside when his mother called him.

Ten minutes later Sherlock was coming across the creek. Then he went further to the edge of the forest. He looked out over the field, across the road to look for John. It took him a moment, but there. There he was in yet another jumper, juggling his football on his knees in the gravel road a little ways down from his house.

Sherlock only sat there silently for a few minutes, watching John mesmerized. He was really good. But after a bit, Sherlock remembered he couldn't be out long and decided to leave his surrounding forest and trees. He jogged lightly across the field, coming to the gravel road. It was only when he started walking across the path and a little ways towards John, that the boy in the jumper looked up, hearing the eight-year-olds footsteps crunching behind him in the pebble pieces.

John caught the ball on its next return journey down. "Hello," he greeted. Then looking quickly in both directions to his sides, he stepped forwards to Sherlock and pulled him by the arm back across the street. "We should stay over here." he warned, not explaining why. Sherlock didnt understand, but did as John had asked anyways. The older boy had seemed harsh in his tone.

"You're really good," Sherlock told him. "at that," he nodded towards the ball in Johns hands. "football."

"Thanks," John grinned smally, his cheeks blushing a faint rose in in colour. "What, er..." John had to clear his throat sharply. "What can you do with a football? Are you any good?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, Ive never really played much."

"Want to try?" John held the ball out in offer to the eight-year-old.

"Er...no, that's okay," Sherlock didnt want to make a fool of himself as he would surely mess up.

"It's easy really," John encouraged. "Just sort of bounce it on your knee to start," he dropped it onto his knee that was already raised in the air, as example. "then, use your legs to keep doing so," he bounced it between his legs, using his thighs and knees to do so. After a few bounces he let it fall to the ground, then bent down to pick it back up. He held it out to Sherlock once more. "Go ahead,"

Sherlock took the ball hesitantly. He lifted a leg and held the ball over it, looking up at John to see if he was doing it. He received a nod of encouragement. Sherlock let the ball go, letting it bounce on his knee. But it went off at a weird angle, and landed on the ground. He chased after it so it wouldn't roll away, returning to John. He handed he ball back, then looked down at his feet. Well that had made him look like an idiot.

"That's alright, it just takes practice. No one gets it on the first try,"

Sherlock wanted to say, 'I bet you did,' but that was only because he was disappointed he couldn't do it. John would probably not want to be friends now, now that he knew Sherlock couldn't kick a football to save his life.

"We should go in the forest, come on, I want to show you something," John gave him a smile, then kicked his ball lightly over and across the gravel road so it landed in the grass yard in front of the house. He turned back to Sherlock. "Come on," he repeated, grabbing Sherlocks hand and dragging him towards the trees.

Sherlock followed John along through the woods and John dragged him over the creek, through the bushes, past rocks. At one point the older boy did let go of Sherlock's hand, trusting that the eight-year-old would still follow behind. Sherlock of course would. He was curious as to what it was John was so excited about showing him.

Finally the blond boy stopped and looked back at Sherlock. Then he looked up into the trees so the younger boy could follow his gaze. Sherlock did, looking up at the treetops. Up high, with light from an opening in the trees shining on it, was a small wood platform, nailed to the branches and trunk of the tree so it would stay there. John gave a smile to Sherlock then stepped forwards to the bottom oft the tree trunk, going to the opposite side they were standing on. Sherlock followed. On this side there was a rope hanging down. As his eyes followed the device up, he could see that it was there so you could climb the ten feet or so until a low branch was reachable. John recognized Sherlock's face as one of understanding, and started up the tree. His hands clenched the worn and faded yellow, but not really anymore, rope, while his feet were braced against the tree bark. He started on his way up, soon coming to the branch, then climbing over it, up the others, and settling himself on the platform. He looked down expectantly for Sherlock to follow.

The younger boy stepped forwards and grabbed the rope with two hands. He knew it would support him, that was no worry. But would his arms and legs? He didnt want to make himself seem like a fool once more, so he ignored that doubt in the back of his mind. He pulled himself up, braced his feet flat against the bark, and climbed. Soon, without him even realizing it, or knowing how, he was pulling himself onto the branch. From there it was simple, and he continued, joining John on the platform.

The platform was a single sheet of wood, about three yards square. It could easily fit him and John comfortably, and Sherlock figured a third person could also join as well, with it still supporting their weight. It was placed strategically on the branch so it had support on all sides and the middle, and Sherlock didnt doubt it abilities.

The eight-year-old looked around, loving the thrill of being so high up, with no barriers or railings keeping him contained.

"This is nice," he commented, turning his gaze back to where John sat across from him.

"Yeah," John nodded.

"Did you build it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, my sister and I did, few years back," John told him. "I'll come here often, I guess, cause its the only fun place really,"

"This should be our meeting spot. Well, our second meeting spot. The first can be the creek bed." Sherlock suggested.

"Alright," John beamed at the idea. "Oh, what if we had a code word, for which one to meet at?" He returned his own addition.

"Excellent idea, then we can't be followed," Sherlock replied, half joking.

John nodded. "What should the words be then?" John continued.

The younger boy furrowed his eyebrows in though, setting his elbow on his knee and resting his chin in his palm. "Hm...well...should we just have a single word to represent each place? Or like, a sentence to say...that would be code..." He thought aloud.

John sat there quiet, giving though to it as well. "Maybe a sentence, or a couple word phrase, completely random too, so one guess what it means."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, to meet at the creek bed...we can say..."

"Come along, Pond," John told him.

Sherlock looked confused. "What?"

"Its from a television show." John explained giving a chuckle.

"Okay, alright, that works I guess. And the 'pond' part tells us 'water', so, by the creek. Excellent."

John nodded with a grin, glad Sherlock agreed with his idea. After another silent moment of thinking, the eight-year-old spoke up.

"Now, onto our second meeting place code word, here," as he said the last bit, he patted his hand on the wood boarding as example. "what about...something having to do with Sherwood Forest," He told John.

"Why Sherwood Forest? We're nowhere near that part of England..." John atleast knew enough geography to know that Sherwood Forest was a different wooded area, definitely not here.

"From Robin Hood," Sherlock told him. "They live in Sherwood Forest, supposedly."

"I've heard of that book, but I've never read it." John told him quietly.

"As I've never seen your show," Sherlock returned evenly. John gave him an understanding nod. "Also, the forest part, or 'woods' is another name, tells us here, with the wood platform." Sherlock pointed to the board they were siting on.

"Ooh, that's rather good." John agreed.

"Alright, so to meet here, we'll say, 'Sherwood Forest with the Merry Men', that's what Robin Hood's followers are called. His 'band of merry men'."

John gave a chuckle. "Alright, it's a brilliant idea. So, 'Sherwood Forest with the Merrry Men,' for here, and 'Come Along, Pond,' for meeting at the creek bed." John repeated, in confirmation.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think those will do."

John gave a grin. "Excellent." The two boys continued sitting there quietly, happy with their new codes and meeting spots. Finally the blond one broke the silence.

"Do you think yo can find your way back here? From the creek or your house?" John asked.

"Yes, I recognize some of the landmarks on our way here, so I think so," Sherlock replied, receiving a nod.

"So...what do you want to do now? Now that we've settled this important matter of business." Sherlock chuckled at John's phrasing.

"We could go pirating in the forest again. It would be much easier if we could go on an island, or even go out on a lake, but-" Sherlock suggested.

"We could what now?"

"Pirating, you know, where we go out and pretend to be pirates, like before. Fighting foes, sailing across seas, hunting for treasure, raiding ships and their crew. It would only be imaginary pirating, you know like in 'Tom Sawyer' when Tom and Huck and Joe run away to the island and camp out there for a few days."

"It's like who?" John asked, curious as to what Sherlock was talking about. He had never heard of anyone named Tom Sawyer.

"You know, the book? 'Tom Sawyer'?" Sherlock asked, confused that John didn't know what he was talking about.

John shook his head slowly. "Sorry, I don't know what that is..."

"You've never heard of 'Tom Sawyer'?" the eight-year-old returned, astonished. John shook his head again. "You should read it sometime then. I can let you borrow it. Its really good. About these boys that play around in the forest and go pirating, and even real life treasure hunting." Sherlock explained ecstatically.

"That sounds interesting, maybe I will sometime."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "But also, when they run away to an island to go pirating, they sleep out in the open air, they build a campfire, and sleep out there for days."

"That sounds like it would be fun."

"Yeah, well, when it gets warmer of course, we should go out and do that. Sleep in the forest maybe."

"Alright," John agreed.

"I'll bring my book next time so you can read it,. Sherlock told him.

John nodded with a smile. "I would like that."

The boys finally decided on an activity to do for the remainder of the afternoon. They were in the middle of finding a good tree to climb for a lookout, abandoning their elevated platform long before, when John remembered something and stopped suddenly, looking in the direction towards the creek and his house.

He hesitated, biting his lower lip then turned to Sherlock apologetically.

"I just remembered, my mum wanted me home early. She has work for me to do..." he trailed off. "sorry about that."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing. It wasn't even close to lunch when his mom had wanted him back. They still had a couple hours. "oh, er, alright." he nodded slowly in response. "Will you come back later though?"

"er...not today...no, I don't think so," John took a few seconds to think about it. "I...er...I'll see if I can come out tomorrow. If I'm not out by three, I'm not coming," he told Sherlock, who nodded.

"Sounds like a deal," he nodded as John started taking a few steps towards the edge of the forest and his house.

"Oh, and don't forget to bring your book!" the older boy reminded the Holmes boy before giving a wave and turning completely to run off.

"Sherwood Forest with the Merry Men!" Sherlock shouted after him, simply to try out their new code. John turned back around and gave a thumbs up to say he had gotten the message.

Soon he was gone and Sherlock had watched and heard him go inside his house, even from this distance. Then he waited a few moments before turning back towards his house. He trudged through the woods to get to the other field by his family's edge of the forest.

Sherlock was playing in the field, as if he had been there the whole time. The toes of his red rubber boots were splotched with dew drops from the grass, and a few spots of dark mud from the forest ground, having mixed with the rain the day before. He had picked up a stick in the forest, running around with it and hitting invisible foes. He hoped no one had looked out the window while he was gone, but he could always say he was just inside the tree line. From outside of the forest edge, it was impossible to see inside. The eight-year-old was just about to slash his sword down, slicing it into the imaginary beast in front of him, when his mother appeared at the side of the house.

"Sherlock, come back inside, you've been out too long, and it's much too cold." She called, only loud enough to get his attention.

Sherlock looked up from his playing. "But I'm not cold yet!" He called back.

"I don't care, come inside now, please?" She repeated, waiting until he ran across the field to her before turning to go back inside. Sherlock ran over and dropped his stick to the ground by the back garden of the house. "Now that it's near winter, you can be outside for as long," She told him, placing an arm around his shoulder and leading him back inside. Sherlock frowned. That meant he wouldn't be able to play with John as much. He would have to tell the blond boy that tomorrow when he would see him next.

Sherlock sat down on the floor by the door, sliding his boots off his feet, then adding them to the other shoes that were there. Inside, the house was much warmer, giving heat to his fingers and toes he hadn't noticed were cold while playing across the forest with John. His mother was right, it was getting colder. He didnt like it, he wanted to be able to play with John. He didnt care if he would freeze.

Sherlock walked past the kitchen to head up to his room. He stopped hearing voices from inside. His mother was talking to someone, and the other person he didnt recognize at first, but then he remembered. It was the newer cook. Sherlock had only heard her voice once or twice and hadn't recognized it right away. What was her name? Mary had told him a week or so before. It was...something...Williams perhaps? Mrs. Williams, he thought. He would ask Mycroft later.

The eight-year-old paused halfway up the stairs to try and hear what was being said. It was a very quiet conversation, something about...someone working. But he couldn't understand any more. The voices were muffled and cut off in places, he did catch enough of it.

"As I said before...can stay...if willing to help..."

"Thank you...couldn't leave by...self..."

"...stay in here...and help...don't leave...for anything...Mary can...do the rest."

Sherlock shrugged it off. So someone else was in the kitchen as well, maybe. It didnt make any difference to him. The youngest Holmes rushed up the rest of the stairs to his room. He walked slowly past Mycrofts room, knowing his footsteps down the hall would somehow annoy his older brother. He could even feel the glare of wrath his brother would produce through the wooden door as he went by. But then he was in the safety of his own room and all was well.

Hours later, Sherlock entered the kitchen. He was trying to find Mary, to ask her about lunch, and when it would be. But that's not what he found, and he hadn't expected to find what he did.

Upon entering, Sherlock saw Mrs. Stephenson as usual at the sink, filling a pot with steaming water. Mrs. Williams, as Sherlock was calling her for now until he knew differently and asked Mycroft, was cutting up an onion on a wood board. Mary was just coming in from the dining room, having set the table, he assumed.

But there was one more, standing off to the side. Each cook wore an apron, and this one had a small one fitting to his body. And beneath it, a soft cream jumper, and right above, a crop of fair hair. Sherlock had spent enough time in the forest to know that hair. He wouldn't miss it anywhere.

The kitchen seemed to freeze upon seeing Sherlock, and that's when the little boy turned around. He nearly dropped the tomato from his hands when he recognized the curly haired boy in the doorway.

John was in the Holmes' kitchen. John, his friend from the forest, was in his family's kitchen.

Sherlock stood there, wide eyed, staring at John. John oppositely, gave a warm smile, and a light wave. Sherlock didnt return it. He was too scared to. What was John doing at his house, let alone in his kitchen? Did his parents know? Did they know of their friendship? Ah, but of course. Then it all made sense. And Sherlock remembered the newer cooks name. What was it, Watson? Hadn't John mentioned that as his last name before. And Sherlock had failed to make the connection. Didnt Mary say, the first time Mrs. Watson had appeared in their kitchen, that she lived nearby, with a family of her own she need to support? How had Sherlock not realized? It all made sense too, now, why John always had to leave early. Mrs. Watson always came to the Holmes' house in the early evening. That meant John and his sister would need to fed before then. And their father too, perhaps he came home late and couldnt make something for his children. And Mycroft knew, obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have told Sherlock not to go back in the forest. He knew John was the son of their cook. And knew Sherlock would get in trouble if his parents knew he was playing with a boy who's mother worked for them.

That's why Sherlock didnt return the wave. He didnt want anyone to know that he and John knew each other. John in turn, wondering why Sherlock simply stood there staring, tilted is head slightly in confusion. That was in fact Sherlock, his friend from the forest. But why wouldn't the younger boy say hello?

Mary came over quickly from the dining room doors, panic written across her face as she noticed the two boys spying each other. Of course she didnt know of their friendship, but it was bad enough for them to see each other now. Mrs. Holmes would not approve of it, and she could risk getting fired if Mr. Holmes found out.

"Sherlock..." She said quietly.

Sherlock looked up at Mary as she placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him to turn around.

"Come along, come."

Sherlock took a few steps backwards, but still watched John from over her shoulder. Mary turned him around and ushered him out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him. That's when Sherlock's gaze went back up to Mary's, now that the door was obstructing his view.

"Mary-" he started, but didnt now how he was going to finish it. "I-"

"Sshh, Sherlock, your mother mustn't know," Mary returned in a whisper. "You mustn't tell her you were in the kitchen, yeah?"

"But- the boy-, Sherlock protested in equal whispers.

"I know, that's Mrs. Watsons son, your mother said he could help out, but didnt want you two to meet. God knows what would happen if your father knew you were associated with another boy of that level."

"But, he's just a boy." Sherlock returned. "Does he live nearby?"

"Sherlock, you mustn't ask questions, and you can not search for answers." Mary scolded. "Now go upstairs and pretend none of this happened. And don't, for whatever reason, try looking for that boy, or approach him. He is not of suitable class for you or your parents." Mary pushed him lightly by the shoulders to usher him upstairs. "Go, Sherlock, now." she hissed quietly, putting a finger to her lips to tell him to remain quiet as well. Sherlock had started up the stairs, but was still baffled by it all. He stood, halfway up, watching Mary at the kitchen door. He wanted to get another glimpse, to make sure it really was John. But of course it was. He had waved and smiled. And Sherlock hadn't done anything back. He had betrayed his friendship, by staring silently. But he had kept their secret of friendship safe, unless of course Johns mother had seen her sons kind gesture. Then she would surely know of their friendship in the forest.

Mary waved a hand at Sherlock telling him to hurry on up the stairs. She only turned away once Sherlock had done so, the eight-year-old running up the steps and going quickly to his room. He shut the door behind him and hurried to his bed, climbing up into it, and pulling the covers over his head.

What had he done?