Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.
Warnings: Mentions of drugs, sex, rock and roll, of substance abuse by under-age adolescences.
The lights were dimmed in preparation for the set. Only in the daylight could you really see the dark corners of this hole-in-the-wall club. The older kids at his secondary school had recommended he check it out over the summer break. Apparently it boasted hosting some of the best bands to come out of Britain (including this act called Blur that was playing tonight). It was the second-best place to go outside of Manchester, but there was no way his family would let him go that far up north for no reason. Being a slightly desperate teenager wanting to socialize with other people his own age and older at rock clubs didn't count as a reason.
Coming tonight was probably the best idea he'd had in a long time, he thought to himself repeatedly as he stared towards the writhing mass of energetic university students pulsating on the dance floor beneath the raised stage. He kept himself apart from their lot only long enough to swing by the bar.
He did manage to convince his parents that a visit to London proper would do him some good. It was easier to lie now that he'd been doing it for so long. It also helped that his mother thought he could do no wrong, and his father didn't care to catch him in his fibbing. Clothes he'd bought the day of (entirely unapproved of by his mother), and a fake ID that was a child's task to make was all he'd had to come up with once he'd gotten out of the apartment this morning.
This place smelled like sex, and drugs of various bouquets. Weed and alcohol mostly, but he'd gotten used to the smell over the year at the new boarding house. It was easy to sneak things in when you knew the right people. Helped that he was loaded and resourceful, too. Tonight he didn't care to partake of anything except a glass or two of scotch on the rocks. The effects of such substances would interfere too much with his people-watching, which was the whole point of coming this evening.
It was a game of his to observe the people around him and dissect their life stories in a matter of minutes. He never talked to them, of course, merely looked at them without their noticing. The really interesting ones or the more complex stories took a little longer, but they were far more rewarding in the end. Sometimes he even fantasized what it'd be like to know them personally, be friends with them, and (if they were attractive enough) what it might be like to sleep with them. He'd already done this with everyone imaginable at his school within the first month of being there. No one had reached the category of him desiring them, however, which was highly disappointing. Clearly the British pool of wealthy youths in his generation weren't the greatest in comely form.
Tonight he hoped to find something to feed his budding teenage fantasies. Sure he could look at who was popular in pop culture these days, but that was so uninteresting. Half the people in the public eye were fake. The other half was so grossly not his type. Mayhap this band sported some fetching lookers, or this varied teeming of people from all over London would produce a valid candidate? He could only hope. The game was afoot at the drop of the hour and his first taste of liquor this evening.
Thirty minutes (and the band not on for another hour) later, something caught his eye. Well, rather, someone by the length of those legs. Glossy leather trousers far too tight to be comfortable, combat boots laced up the top-half of strong ankles, and wavy hair the colour of chocolate. He could only see the back of this possible candidate so the debate on their merit was still up in the air.
" Bugger..." he breathed out, taking a strong swig of scotch to cover his disappointment.
Candidate number one turned out to have a mean face and looked like too much of a bully to be any kind of good kisser. He told himself the night was young and there were other fish in the sea. At least he had the sense to observe first and flirt later (as if it ever came to that). Kept him from making a fool of himself by backing out of a situation with an oaf. The brute probably didn't take 'no' for an answer.
He looked over the tops of the crowd. Grunge and glam clashed a lot in this club, he observed. Some people were far too colourful. Others totally bleak-looking in their dark ripped jeans and t-shirts. He couldn't fathom the construction of some of those hairstyles. He was fine in his button-downed band merch and messy hair. Was there anyone else in this club that wasn't trying so hard to stand out?
"I see you find all their drama just as entertaining as I do," a darkly smooth voice whispered in his ear. He must have jumped a foot out of his seat. Scotch was spilt in the travesty of his embarrassment. Whirling around, he was prepared to glare intimidatingly until the fiend left his sight.
But what a sight he turned around to. Stormy grey eyes smiled at him beneath a riot of long black locks. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, relaxed appearance, and a definite air of confidence seen unmatched by anyone he'd ever caught sight of before. He felt the great need to throw something at this obnoxiously attractive person before him. How dare this asshole frighten him like that?
"I find their underlying lack of self-assurance mildly pathetic, yes. As well as their overwhelming desire to fit in much too drivel for my tastes," he intoned coldly, signalling the barkeep for another drink. He tried to look occupied as to deter conversation betwixt him and this interrupter.
"Ah, but you are here as well as I am, so does that not include ourselves in your assessment?" the interrupter pointed out, nursing his own beer and sitting quite comfortably on the barstool just beside his own. Built shoulders bunched and tensed beneath thin shirt material as the man shifted the position of his elbows on the polish wood counter.
It made his mouth go dry uncomfortably. He was glad for the liquid courage burning down his throat in one long swallow before he spoke up again,
"I did not come here to throw my desperation upon the masses. And if you're here to do it on the individual you might as well turn your attentions elsewhere for I won't be a part of it," he finished sharply, turning entirely away from the cocky, fit bastard burning that aura into his every sense.
A laugh like the warmth of a hearth flooded his ears. It made the tips of his ears heat at the pleasure of it. He felt like the butt of some great joke, but knew not what to do to thwart the feeling or thwart the person making him feel thusly.
"You are quite entertaining. I'd like to keep your company a bit longer if I could. I would pay money to hear your opinions..." the voice said with no malice at all.
He thought surely this was a joke being made at his expense, and turned swiftly around the spinning stool to catch this man's expression. But his expression was open, and honest, and it held no meanness about the eyes or lips. Was this man truly interested in what he had to say?
"I can tell you are not from here," he said trying one last time to drive the elder youth from his presence.
"Not from here? Well I'm not actually from this area I live a little further towards--"
"No, I mean from Britain itself," he cut the man off. The slight lilt of the man's cadence had sat wrong with him in this distinctly English club,
"You're French, are you not? Of course you are, but not full. Your features and colouring suggest you are most likely half and come from the countryside. Close enough to Paris that your tone can take on a more Parisian accent if you tried to fit in. More often it rolls more smoothly as if you were to speak as you would with your family. Your father is a Frenchman, but your mother is English. You moved here roughly five years ago due to their work," he continued his own mental assessment out loud He rolled the rocks glass with his wrist, pointedly not looking at the shocked expression he knew would be slowly stretching over the interrupter's face.
"You have tried very successfully to fit in with the other half of your cultural background, but it has been hard to lose the accent that you never noticed when your mother made you speak English with her. Until you do you will not be considered by many a real part of the country you heard about growing up, and sometimes visited in your childhood. But only people like me who can hear the difference will notice this now, and point out your separation from the city that you are so passionately trying to be a part of..." and stopped himself from going on.
He took a deep, long breath as he let the chilled scotch make his traitorous tongue tingle. Swallowing, he thought the inevitable outraged outburst might not be as terrible he expected it would be. At least there was a fair chance this chap wouldn't burst into tears over his assessments like so many girls had in primary school.
It was a solid sixty seconds before he gained the courage to turn his gaze back onto his uninvited evening companion. An inexplicable expression was plastered on the man's features. He couldn't tell if this was bad news or good. He chose silence as his great ally, and a neutral look on his part to maintain his cool.
No matter what, he mustn't let the inevitable fallout from this ruin his night. He was merely candidate number two. There were others. There were three hundred people in this club by rough estimate. One out of three hundred couldn't be the only fruitful observation of the night. And it wasn't his fault the idiot had come onto him, the awkward youth uncomfortable with conversation, but on this fool who startled him out of a half-glass of scotch.
"You have to be the most interesting person I've ever met..." the man said in an almost reverent tone, shocking him for the second time this night. An incredulous expression washed over his face before he could help it.
That same glorious laugh rumbled out of the man's chest once more, "No really, you are fascinating! I've not met anyone in a long time who could figure out what was wrong with the way I spoke. And yes, I'm still working on it on an almost daily basis, thanks for noticing. Care for a fag?"
And like that the two of them spent the rest of the evening smoking cigarettes and drinking their respective poisons. The band played, they watched, and spent most of the time after talking about everything from pop culture to politics. They had widely varying opinions on a great number of things, but compromise and the random agreement on a subject showed how much they really had in common.
By the end of the night when it was far past when he needed to be back at the apartments, it had become the best night of his life.
"So I'll see you around maybe?" the man said as they stood in the brisk chill of the night lights on the street outside the emptying club.
"Maybe..." a melancholic tone overcame any positivity he felt. He really didn't know when he'd see this man again. School was starting in a week and only another day left in London after this.
The man must have caught onto the vibe of this train of thought because a small smile stretched across his handsome face, "Cheer up. There will always be other nights. I'll find you again in a crowd, easy," he said softly, knocking shoulders with the shorter boy.
"And how would you go about doing that?" he asked, glancing at that terribly masculine face. He was honestly curious, and only slightly hopeful of what the answer was.
"Your wonderful red hair. Not many people have this colour naturally around here. It's quite distinctive. I think I'll remember it all my life as your's. Who knows, maybe we go to the same college? I'll just rugby tackle you to the ground the next I see you and we'll go from there."
He blushed scarlet at the complement. It was so frank he felt almost bashful for hearing such a thing, let alone the comment be directed at himself. He fiddled with his hands and entirely missed the knowing grin flitting across the man's face as they lined their feet up with the curb.
He felt awful suddenly for lying to this wonderful person. It'd be another year before he graduated from his private preparatory school and went straight to university (he was smart enough to do it). And once he graduated it wouldn't be any school in London he'd end up going to. His parents had Ivy League in mind. Maybe even abroad for a time to see the world outside of Britain. The chances of seeing this man again were dwindling before him, and he had no idea what to do about it. The noose of his parents expectations was, once again, starting to strangle him.
"Maybe we will, then, see each other around. I at least know you go to this club. Maybe will catch each other at another show?" he said, wishing to the heavens there was a chance.
"I'm sure we will. Anyway, that's my ride with the rest of those fools across the street," the man pointed out to a group of students flagging down a rather large taxi,
"They seem to be flailing for my attention. How graceful..." the man snorted, but then flailed his own arm in reply. He stepped off the curb and onto the street away from the auburn haired boy who was trying very hard to keep the sadness from his eyes.
The urge to touch those broad shoulders was fighting for dominance in his impulses, but he was far too controlled to ever allow such a thing. It was better to sever this as cleanly as possible. Already the feel of them elbow to elbow was singed into his fondest memories. No, it was better to let it be and hope for the brightest future for this imported Frenchman. He was preparing the way he'd look as they waved goodbye across the street from each other, when the man once again was as unexpected as his first appearance.
He'd made three solid steps out onto the busy road, but had turned back to retrace his steps. Before the boy could ask the man what the matter was, firm lips descended on his own and calloused fingers threaded through his bright hair.
The very air fled his lungs in one fell swoop. The boy who had never been kissed, in one touch between two lips, tasted heaven for the first time. The taste of euphoria was his for all eternity in the memory of that closeness. It only lasted for a second or two, and the man really did make his way across the street after. He was (of course) cajoled and wolf whistled by his mates as they shoved him in the taxi to go back to wherever whence they came.
The boy was too stunned to do much else but wave back when the man shoved his head and hand out the window in a final farewell. When he finally did make it back to his family's apartments the only thing he could think of was that kiss. It wasn't until morning that he realized he had never been asked his name.
In turn, he had never asked for the name of the grey-eyed Frenchman. Most would have been devastated by this situation, but he, who was unlike anyone else in the world, only felt it was proper that one's first real kiss be shrouded in so much mystery.
AN: A gift for all those who were patient with me. I beg thee for your forgiveness. Hopefully you enjoyed the first memory I share with you from Mycroft's past.
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