Warning: Depictions of dead children.
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Little Bobby was eventually found near the edge of town, a good five miles from his home. The last time he was saw alive, he was riding his bike down the dirt hills next to his primary school. It was a well known area, plenty of other kids played there.
It was public. It was safe.
Sherlock smelled the new death wafting in the wind. Fresh and young and filled with so much pain. Not even he could resist tasting the remnants of the murder right out of the air, the last screams and final thoughts.
There was no doubt in anybody's mind this was murder; the stab wounds were as clear as day. As soon as the news of Bobby's sudden death got around, the whole town was whitewash with fear. Children had died in the town before; just last summer young Annie was stung to death by hornets, forcing the parents to remind their kids to keep out of the surrounding forest. However, this was first in the town's history of a child being murdered.
And nobody knew who did it. No fingerprints, no murder weapon, no motive the police could see. The attack was too violent to be random, yet the family had no history of wrong doings to illicit such a horror against them.
John's parents, like any other concerned adult, took to the murder very seriously. They began neighborhood watches, walked their children to and from school every day, and began to suspect any stranger that drove down their street.
But because Bobby's unfortunate ending had occurred on the other side of town, Mr. and Mrs. Watson thought they were relatively safe and had not forbidden John or Harry from playing in their own backyard unsupervised.
John knew something was wrong. He heard something happened to a kid- a good ten miles from his house- and now everybody was upset. His parents refused to tell him what had happened, what had made them so nervous. Instead, they told John to beware of strangers and not to go wandering around in places he did not know. He was forbidden to stay outside after dark and was warned to keep away from the forest.
That didn't stop John from jumping his fence the moment he was allowed outside.
John never really cared much for the woods, not since the poison oak incident two years ago. Now that he had a totally cool friend who lived there, he loved the woods.
The moment John was far enough into the tree line, he immediately scanned the surrounding areas. If he took too long to find his friend, he would be tapped on his shoulder, or tickled on his side by a long finger protruding from somewhere.
That was one of the many unique things about Sherlock, John found. His fingers could literally go up any water pipe, pop out at any faucet. Despite he was almost as tall as a house, he could fit himself in the tiniest of places. John sometimes found him hiding in the medicine cabinet or in between the spaces of his bookshelves.
It was so wonderful and magical, it was like beings friends with a wizard.
Still... that was not to say John didn't notice a few queer details.
Like the nightmares.
John was not prone to nightmares. He sometimes dreamt he was lost or couldn't speak, though those dreams were not particuarly frightening. At worst, John woke up frustrated and restless.
When he dreamed about Sherlock, he woke up crying.
He could never remember what he dreamt about, no matter how hard he'd try. All he could do was dry his tears and wait for his heart to stop beating so fast. He just knew Sherlock was involved somehow.
It was silly to think so ill of someone so cool. Sherlock has been nothing but awesome towards him and John wasn't about to end a friendship over something silly and trivial like a dream.
Today's game: tag.
John loved this game. The ducking and weaving through the woods, jumping over fallen logs and running through bushes. From behind he could hear a loud whistling of Sherlock's long hands coming after him.
Just his hands, as it seems he was incapable of actual running. John didn't mind, this was more challenging, and he squealed happily as he ducked underneath one finger, swiping low to catch him.
John has never been in this far into the woods. In the past he would worry, unsure if he could find his way back. Nowadays he could rely on Sherlock to show him the way and often threw his sense of direction into the wind and ran where he pleased.
He really should've watch where he was going.
Just as John took a sharp turn to avoid a finger, he tripped, took a tumble over a fallen dead tree and went right over the edge of a small cliff.
Rather, a very steep hill. He rolled down, banging his knees and elbows on every stupid branch he passed by. By the time he skidded to a stop, the knees of his trousers were ripped open, his shirt was torn, and he was bleeding from dozens of little cuts.
John closed his eyes painfully, determined not to cry. "Ow... Ow, ow ow... Sherlock," he sniffled, quickly wiping his face. "Sherlock, you there?" He opened his eyes.
In front of him, propped up against a tree, was a dead little girl.
John cried out, scrambling backwards. His feet dug into the loose earth, unsuccessfully pushing himself nowhere. "Sherlock!" he yelled out. "SHERLOCK!"
The girl looked to be no older than John. She was sitting against the tree like she decided to rest there, with her hands delicately placed on her lap. Her head was twisted to one side, revealing the deep cut across her throat. Her cute little green dress was soaked through with blood.
John surged to his feet, climbing the hill as fast as he could. He slipped and slid, found his footing and kept climbing. "Sherlock! Sherlock!"