A/N: Hey guys, so sorry. It has been a while. I've had a lot to do the last few weeks, and my mindset has not really been in one for concentrating on writing/revising, let alone my school work. This chapter is a bit short, sorry, though I did manage to make it longer from first time I wrote it. Anyways, enjoy, and I'll be working on revising chapter fourteen as soon as I can.
Sherlock didnt go outside the next day, even though he had promised John he would. They had even used their new secret code, but the eight-year-old didnt care about that anymore. After the kitchen event, Mary never talked to him about it. She assumed he understood and trusted him to listen her. But he didn't understand.
This whole time he hadn't known John's connection to his family. And now he couldn't go back out there to play with the blond boy. Sherlock had messed up. He had chosen the wrong person for a friend, he had been an idiot and not payed attention to the clues pointing him away from that direction. Mr. Richards would be rather disappointed if he had known, Sherlock skipping over the details and facts of it all, something they had focused on in lessons.
And even if everything had been alright, if Sherlock was allowed to play with John, The eight-year-old had ignored John's friendly gesture, ignored his one true and probably only friend, forever. John wouldn't want him to come back anyways.
Sherlock was still confused by one thing through. Had John known? Surely he must have. He must have known who his mother had worked for. Who else would have moved in nearby, at the same time as the Holmes'? John had to have known that Sherlock was the son of his mums employer. And yet, he had still agreed to play with and become friends with Sherlock. The eight-year-old didnt get it. Why had John played if he knew? Regardless, he had been hesitant the first time they met, if Sherlock could recall. But still, the blond stayed.
Sherlock let the next few days pass without going outside. He stayed in his room, distracted himself with Mr. Richard's lessons, even finding them more intriguing now that he was more focused on them. No one asked why the boy didn't go outside. His parents didn't know about the event, Mary hadn't told them. But the maid had kept Sherlock away from the kitchen after that for sure. As the next few days went by, and the weekend approached, Sherlock found John fading from his mind. It wasnt in priority now. He couldn't go back, for fear of having to face his friend and explain why he had ignored him as such. And why he had now been gone for days. Could Sherlock even be called a friend anymore?
As his adventures with John were pushed to the back of his mind, Sherlock had a newfound energy towards his lessons. Mr. Richards explained more about observation, had the boys practice on him and each other. Had them think up different scenarios and come up with things that might be observed from that. Sherlock begun to find the teachings rather interesting, a bit easier to understand.
But even though the eight-year-old now enjoyed the topics of his lessons, he was glad when Friday came and he got out early from them. He was going to spend the afternoon in his room. Perhaps drawing again. But now he had a new mindset. Those pirates he had dreamed about, Mycroft was right. They were stupid. Now he wanted to learn about actual things. Spend his time with somthing useful. Perhaps he would take up science, Mycroft had always tried to teach the boy things from his textbook. Maybe now he would pay more attention. He might go back to his violin playing he had learned a few years ago. Maybe he would borrow one of Mycrofts books, or one of his fathers. Everyone was right. He needed to grow up, and he was going to take this opportunity of leaving his and Johns friendship behind, to do so.
Sherlock was up in his room at his desk. His father wasnt home. His mother was somewhere downstairs, and Mycroft as well. Everywhere was silent. The eight-year-old had a blank paper in front of him, pencil in hand. But he hadn't drawn anything, the white staring back at him, almost taunting him and pressuring him to put his writing utensil down and create something. The boy had intended to leave behind his childish drawings of pirates and islands and imaginary things, clearing his desk of those, sticking them in the bottom drawer of his desk, where they would be alone and forgotten. But just sitting there, Sherlock couldn't think of what else to draw. He wasnt very good anyways. He couldn't draw people, or nature. Buildings weren't too hard, but stupid, he didnt know what he would make out of them. So far, he had no idea what to do, nothing came to mind. Earlier he had tried just doodling, but ended up wrinkling the paper into a crumpled ball and tossing it aside.
He didnt draw. He didnt move. He didnt talk. So his mind wandered. And the only thing it could wander to, was John. John, and Sherlocks friendship with the boy who always wore jumpers. The boy who was brilliant at football. Who lived across the forest. Who he had invented secret code words with. Who had a tree fort. Who he couldn't be friends with because his mum worked for the Holmes. But Sherlock hated it. For once he had had a friend. A true friend who enjoyed playing with him. Who lived nearby. And now that he thought about it, Sherlock realized no one had known about their friendship. His parents didnt know. Mary didnt know. Perhaps Johns mum might suspect it, but the blond boy had never said anything about it to Sherlock.
Only Mucroft knew. Well, sort of knew. He hadn't mentioned it to Sherlock anymore since that first time Sherlock told him. He hadn't told the younger boy to stop going outside. Did he even know Sherlock had continued to play with John and go out into the forest even after the older Holmes boy's warning?
So it was fine then. Sherlock playing with John. Other than the fact that Sherlock had betrayed their friendship by ignoring the blond. But maybe he could explain. He could go back out there and try to tell John why he hadn't waved 'hi' back when John did. Yes, Sherlock would go back outside. He would go back to the forest. To the creek, or maybe the tree fort as he had told John to do so. He would continue their friendship, even if he shouldn't. He would try to, even if John didn't want to anymore.
It was decided. Sherlock went back downstairs to look for his mother. He found her in the parlor.
"Mum?" He asked quietly from the doorway. She looked up from where she sat in the chair. Sherlock continued with his question, now that he'd grabbed hold offer attention. "Can I go outside? It's not that cold or anything." he reasoned.
"I don't see why not. Just stay close by alright? I don't want you out on your own for long. And please be back in an hour or two." Mrs. Holmes requested.
Sherlock's lips formed into a grin before replying. "Okay, thanks," he ran off to go back upstairs. He had to get his book like he promised John he would bring. Maybe that would make it up to the older boy after Sherlock had ignored him.
Sherlock found his book, put on a coat (it wasnt that cold, but it was still cold enough), and his shoes. Then he was ready. Sticking the book in his jacket so his mum wouldnt see it as he passed, he left the house and trekked across the field. As he was entering the forest he turned back to glance at the road. He wondered how long down the gravel path it was to Johns house. Maybe sometime he would take that route instead of going through the woods. It would be easier not to get lost. Maybe John knew. He would ask. If the blond still wanted to be friends that is. That was the question still floating around Sherlocks head.
Sherlock found his way to the creek. When he got there, he was alone. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he figured John would be out by now if he was coming. Perhaps he was at the tree fort.
So Sherlock turned and made his way there.
Sure enough, as he got closer, he could see a small figure hunched over ontop of the platform. A little blond head peeking up from the wood.
Sherlock stood below, hesitated. There was still time to back out. John hadn't seen him yet. No. He had to. He was going to say hello.
"John?" The eight-year-old called up to him, softly, maybe too quiet to be heard. No. The blond heard him just fine. The figure moved to the edge of the board, leaning over it.
"Sherlock?" John replied just as quietly. "You came!" He exclaimed excitedly. Quickly John shuffled over to the rope, then slid down it to the ground, coming over to where Sherlock was, standing to meet him. "Where've you been, mate?"
"I...er.." Sherlock started, glancing away towards the ground. He had been startled a bit by John's enthusiasm before remembering the blond was surely mad at him.
"It's been days. What have you been up to?" John continued, sounding worried.
"I'm sorry, about the other day. In the kitchen...I-" Sherlock suddenly blurted. He might as well get it over with. "I didnt know your mum... and well, I didnt want to get in trouble, I- technically I'm not supposed to be friends with you, but my parents don't know that, and I didnt want them to know so I ignored you and then I felt bad about it and didnt think you would want to be friends anymore so I didnt come back again." He finished all in one breath. "But then I got bored and decided I might give it a chance you'd be here. And still want to be friends." He added, looking down at his feet, kicking lightly at a stone.
"Sherlock, course I want to be friends. That's why I played with you in the first place. I knew about my mum working for you family too. That didnt change anything." John told him, clapping a gentle hand on the younger boys shoulder.
Sherlock looked up slowly and gave him a smile. "I brought the book," he said quietly, opening his jacket, holding it out for John, who took it.
"Brilliant, thanks." the older boy smiled genuinely. "I'll read it and learn all about Tom and those people. Then we can go on our own adventure."
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "We can maybe sneak out at night and sleep outside." he suggested.
"That would be excellent, I agree."
It had been easy.
After that the boys went back to their friendship as if it had been uninterrupted. An hour or so later, Sherlock returned home to his house, leaving the book with John. The older boy had said he would try and read it all that night and get it back to him tomorrow. He had left with a simple, "Come along, Pond," which Sherlock agreed to with a smile, recognizing their code made up from the week before.
The eight-year-old returned home in high spirits. He was surprised John had forgiven him so easily. But also relieved. He hadn't wanted to lose his one friendship he had right now. And it seemed safe too. Sherlocks parents didnt know. Perhaps Johns mother knew, but the boy hadn't said anything, so Sherlock figured it was fine. Maybe someday he would tell his parents about it, and then they would be fine with the whole thing. If not, he would find a way to convince them otherwise.