In August, most of the villagers got tremendously excited by the announcement that Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty would be hosting a whopping picnic in their yard. Somewhere along the years, they had become famously known for their ability to organize fantastic gatherings, and no one doubted the picnic would be no exception. Martha was attending – once again helping out with the food – and so were the Lestrades. It was surprisingly easy to convince Sherlock to attend, but he had been in a splendidly jolly mood for the last weeks. So much so that he probably would've agreed to accompany his aunt to church, despite the fact that it wasn't Christmas, if she had bothered to ask.
The weather was beautiful, and the sun had just begun to set. The wind was blowing hard enough to cool down those who were dancing, but not so much as to chill those who weren't. Gregory had brought his guitar along, and had joined the small group of other villagers who had also brought instruments. It was an attempt to impress his fiancée, who was now dancing with her best friend Molly Hooper; both of them laughing as they twirled around, their long skirts floating around their legs.
The food was delicious; the meat was tender, the corn was sweet, and very soon everyone's stomachs were full, but bottles of wine were still being regularly opened. Those who weren't dancing were chatting happily while watching the sunset, and everyone had turned down Mrs. Turner's offer of more dessert at least twice.
Martha had danced with both their hosts for the evening, and was now being led around the improvised dance floor by her nephew. They swayed gracefully while a slower song was played, and when the musicians switched to a faster tempo, Sherlock didn't let go, much to her surprise and delight. She laughed like a little girl until the music ended, and Sherlock grabbed her shoulders to loudly kiss both her cheeks. Sweat was glistening on his forehead, he was short of breath, and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his slightly flushed neck. Molly was watching from where she was now sitting, quickly whispering into Sarah's ear.
Sherlock slumped down on an empty chair close to where Jonathan Anderson and Sally Donovan were sitting. Had he paid them more than a fleeting glance, he would've noticed the suspicious looks the two kept throwing him. Sherlock wasn't alone for long, though, it only took a few minutes before Molly, encouraged by her best friend, sat beside him.
"It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" she asked.
He eyed her curiously; surprised that someone out of his familiar circle of acquaintances was talking to him.
"It's not too unpleasant," he answered tentatively.
"You looked like you had fun with Mrs. Hudson."
He rolled his eyes, knowing where this conversation was heading, and hoping Molly would get to the point so he could turn her down again. When he didn't respond, she continued.
"I'm having fun too, but unfortunately no man has asked me to dance yet."
Again, Sherlock remained silent, and Molly took this as an indication to continue.
"Would you like to? Dance, I mean. You're quite good."
"I've answered that question before, and my answer hasn't changed. It's still no."
Jonathan and Sally had obviously been paying attention to the scene happening not too far from them, and as Molly turned away from Sherlock to go back to her best friend, Jonathan got up.
"What's wrong Holmes, too much breasts for you?"
"Don't be obscene, Anderson."
Jonathan got closer to Sherlock, aware that people were staring at them; he was obviously enjoying being the center of attention.
"Perhaps you would rather dance with me?"
There wasn't a shred of sincerity in his tone, and when he extended a hand to take Sherlock's, the gesture wasn't tender, but filled with mockery. Sally laughed in the background, and Sherlock jerked away from the man invading his personal space.
"What's wrong? Am I too good looking for you? Would you rather I put on a mask?" Anderson asked, snickering.
As soon as Jonathan said the words, Sherlock knew John and he had been spotted in one of their outings. The only reason the whole village wasn't talking about it yet was most likely because Jonathan had waited for such an occasion in order to make more damage. Sherlock chose to remain silent; anything he would say on the subject would only encourage , he turned away to leave.
"Sodomite!" Anderson cried out after him, and Sherlock froze.
Perhaps Jonathan had forgotten who had organized the picnic, perhaps he didn't care, but Sebastian Moran, who was standing close by and watching the scene, couldn't let that one slip. His moustache was shivering with rage, and when he spoke, his voice filled the air and startled his guests more effectively than if a cannon had been fired.
"Young man! I will not tolerate such heinous language on my property. You can either apologize or leave."
Sally Donovan got up at once to defend her friend.
"He will not apologize, it's not his fault Sherlock and The Beast are doing things God would be ashamed of. Bestiality is a sin!"
There were whispers among the villagers. Sherlock couldn't hear everything, but even someone without his intellect would have understood they were talking about John and him. Unlike Jonathan Anderson, most people didn't have a problem with the fact that Sherlock and John were both male, but they barely considered John human, and they found it unnatural for him and Sherlock to be sneaking around in forests. If they wanted to build a relationship – and most of them thought Sherlock was peculiar enough to build a relationship with The Beast – they had to do it properly. Which meant taking a chaperon with them and refraining from canoodling when they were out (if not at all).
No one seemed surprised by Jonathan's words. After all, they were saying, Sherlock's parents had both been slaves to their urges. His mother had left with another man despite being married, and his father had abandoned a motherless child to run after her. Sherlock had always been strange, and he had never sought the company of others; it was only natural that he would be drawn to an animal. As for The Beast, he most likely didn't have any impulse control, and was undoubtedly acting upon his instincts.
Martha, like Sherlock, could hear most of what the villagers were saying, and she rushed to her nephew's side, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Come, we're leaving," she told him.
Sherlock was shaking with anger, furious that someone had tried to cheapen the friendship John and he had. He could hear the whispers, feel the curious stares burning holes through his skin, and he could practically see the rumours being created. With one last hateful glare directed at Anderson, he followed his aunt home.
Gregory Lestrade watched the retreating steps of his friend, and he felt a wave of anger rolling through him. Sarah took his hand, feeling how upset he was, but he couldn't stand to watch the scene without intervening. He knew Sherlock better than anyone there, he even knew John better than anyone there. Not personally, but Sherlock had told him enough for him to know the masked man was a very kind and gentle person. Gregory let go of his fiancée's hand, and strode angrily to the middle of the gathered crowd. He studied the villagers' expressions, and what he saw wasn't reassuring; he could feel the scandal boiling under the surface, and their hunger for gossip was palpable. He was disgusted.
"Almost all his life, Sherlock has been tormented by most of you. You called him strange, laughed at his appearance, and judged his parents."
Talking fuelled his anger and his voice was shaking, so he paused for a moment to glare at those who, he knew, had been the most horrible to Sherlock.
"I was wondering why he was so isolated, why he wasn't making any attempt to get closer to people, and why he seemed so indifferent. Now I know. It's because you're not worth it!"
The best among them dropped their heads and averted their eyes. The rest of them pretended to defy Gregory, but couldn't really manage to meet his furious eyes.
"Sherlock will never defend himself, because he doesn't need to. But I will tell you something, and I will tell you only once. The man you call The Beast is Sherlock's friend. Unlike you, he didn't judge him based on his physical appearance. I've been living here for a while now, and I know I won't stop you from spreading rumours and speaking ill about my friend, but I think it's shameful and pathetic."
With these words, Gregory was done, and he stormed out under the villagers' dumbfounded eyes. Sarah, Molly, and the other Lestrades followed him; it was their way of showing their support. None of them knew about the friendship between Sherlock and the youngest Watson, but they knew Jonathan Anderson had hated Sherlock since they had first met, and therefore thought he had limited credibility. Plus, the Lestrades had grown to appreciate the unusual man who was sharing their table almost every Sunday. As for Molly, she was completely smitten with Sherlock, so she was instantly on his side.
Soon after, Sebastian and Jim sent everyone home, but stayed outside to watch the stars while Mrs. Turner cleaned the remnants of the party. Sebastian wrapped one muscled arm around his husband's waist, and pressed a loving kiss to his temple.
"Well, that certainly takes me back," he said.
Jim let out a soft laugh, resting his head on Sebastian's shoulder.
:::
The next day, Mrs. Lestrade replaced her son in the store so he could walk all the way to Sherlock's house to see how he was doing. Gregory knew that while Sherlock had been in school, he hadn't been the kind of child to trouble himself with what the others had been saying about , Gregory suspected this was different; people weren't only talking about Sherlock, John was also involved. Gregory knew it helped Sherlock process things when he talked aloud, so he was prepared to offer him someone to talk at.
On his way, he stopped in Damase Bay for a quick rest; with his jobs at the sawmill and the store, he wasn't in as good a shape as Sherlock who spent his days running around. Breathing a little heavier than usual, he looked around, and something caught his attention. Towards the east, something was tied to a tree. Something red. He recognized the signal Sherlock had told him all about. Gregory sighed in relief before turning back to head home, glad to know his friend would be attending his meeting with John. Secretly, he thanked God for bringing John Watson into Sherlock's life.
:::
On that day, when he saw Sherlock, John immediately knew something was amiss. Sherlock looked as though his heart had been crushed, and John could almost physically feel the dull anger radiating from him. His hair was utterly out of control, there was something wild in his eyes, and he moved stiffly, like someone carrying a heavy burden. He obviously hadn't slept at all that night, and hadn't bothered changing out of his dress clothes. Yet, if John was surprised by his friend's appearance, he didn't let it show.
They walked along the shore towards Salty Swamp, John leading the way as Sherlock followed silently, looking grim with a defeated slump in his shoulders. Summer was almost over, but there were still small flowers flourishing on dusty stems in between pebbles. A ribbon of seaweed with debris mixed in drew a small, dark frontier halfway across the beach. The sun was pulling hazy smells out of algae and moss, and after its retreat, the sea had dotted the beach with water-filled holes. John knelt beside one of them.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment; he felt so crestfallen and angry he didn't have the heart to do anything. When he finally knelt beside John, he saw what he had been looking at: small snails clutching to a rock face. A few of them were moving terribly slowly while leaving behind a barely visible print, while others were perfectly motionless. In another small hole, miniature fishes were frolicking in warm water, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock and John's presence. But it was the snails that truly caught Sherlock's attention, and he decided to observe them more attentively.
After watching the mollusc's slow process, he decided he wanted to feel the cold, delicately chiselled shell under his fingertips. He leaned closer to pick one of the snails up, and it seemed as if it was tightening its grip on the rock. Sherlock still managed to dislodge it, but the strength of such a small creature that didn't seem more alive than a fragment of stone startled and impressed him.
When he looked up, Sherlock saw John advancing into the sea, so he kicked off his shoes and took his socks off to follow him. He explored the shapes and textures of marine plants with his fingers, just like John was doing. He saw red and pink seaweed, black satiny ribbons, and big supple blades riddled with holes. Some were raising their small arms towards the surface, almost begging to be touched, and other tried to lie down or submerge their roots into the dark depths of the sea. Some felt cold, smooth, and gorged with water, while others were rough and solidly anchored.
They spent two hours exploring the aquatic vegetation. By the time they were done, they were both shivering, and their soaked trousers clung to their legs. As Sherlock looked at his companion, he realized this long exploration had made him calmer. The small part of the water kingdom he had explored throughout the afternoon had managed to reconcile him a little bit with Sainte-Cécile and its townsfolk. John beckoned him over, and when Sherlock approached, he realized he was hiding something in each one of his strong hands.
"Pick one," John said.
Sherlock managed a small ghost of a smile before pointing to the right hand, but he quickly changed his mind and chose the left one instead. John extended and opened the hand his friend had chosen, revealing a pink and peach coloured starfish. In the other hand, he was holding a sea urchin, one of those creatures spiked with small thorns that people usually described as unattractive.
"It's only natural; beautiful for beautiful," John said, and he handed Sherlock the starfish.
Sherlock picked it up and examined it, contouring the starfish with the tip of a finger. He admired its pentagonal symmetry, and caressed its rough surface before finally handing it back to John and looking at the urchin.
"It looks like a marine porcupine. If you let me choose, I pick this one."
John looked moved when he smiled at Sherlock, and he handed him the urchin instead. He recovered the starfish and stroked it several times with his index finger before looking up at his friend and asking whether he wanted to talk about what was bothering him. Sherlock nodded, but suggested they got out of the water first.
They did, and John sat in the sand with his back resting against the biggest tree trunk he could find in the vicinity of the beach. On any other day, Sherlock would've sat beside him, pressing their sides together to share some very much needed warmth. However, Anderson and Donovan's words still echoed viciously in his mind, and he decided to sit down beside John's knee instead, facing but not touching him. Something about their position felt horribly wrong, but neither moved.
John extended a hand, offering comfort as he had been offered during their previous meetings, but Sherlock shook his head. He hated himself for doing so, but not as much as he hated himself for letting a snivelling rat fearing imbecile get to him. He craved the offered contact so much he felt something pulling at his insides. A dozen times, he was on the verge of grabbing John's hand, but an awfully annoying voice in his head held him back. A voice not unlike Jonathan Anderson's, and suddenly Sherlock hated himself even more, but the words sodomite and bestiality were hard ones to forget.
John shot him a confused look, but he didn't say anything as he let his hand fall onto his lap. He listened intently while Sherlock told him everything that had happened the night before, and every word that had been said about the two of them. He felt his skin growing unpleasantly warm in the process, but he didn't want to leave anything out; it was essential for John to know exactly what they were dealing with. He couldn't stop looking around nervously, remembering that Anderson and Donovan had spied on them during their last meeting, but despite the fact that he couldn't detect anyone else's presence, Sherlock couldn't fully relax.
"I know we're not doing anything wrong; people spend time together all the time, all over the village. I just hate that they know, and I hate that the subject will be discussed at length by people who have nothing to do with us," Sherlock concluded.
"They'll talk about it for a while, but as soon as something better happens you'll be left alone," John said, trying to be comforting with words since he couldn't be with touch.
"That's not what I care about."
"What's bothering you, then?"
It was easy for John to believe Sherlock when he said he didn't care about the villagers spreading rumours about him; he had already been feeding the discussions before his birth because of his unusual family. However, the physical distance he had put between them spoke volumes; something had to be wrong.
"It's you," Sherlock said, and the movement of the mask told him John had raised an eyebrow.
"No, it's not you, but now they'll talk about you even more. It was bad enough when they were merely calling you The Beast, but now they're comparing you—"
He was interrupted by giggles. John must've lost his mind, he was actually giggling. When Sherlock looked at him with wide and curious eyes, the giggles turned into genuine laughter, and Sherlock didn't know what to say. He just stared at his friend with his mouth agape, an unasked question on his lips.
"Sherlock, are you worried about my reputation?" John asked between fits of uncontrollable laughter.
Sherlock thought about it, and came to the conclusion that yes, he was. Suddenly it all seemed absurd, and he started laughing too. At first, it was tentative and awkward, but very soon his whole body was shaking with mirth. With every jump of his shoulders, he could feel the hatred, disgust, worry, and every other bad feeling that had lodged itself in his stomach melt and disappear.
"Is it why you're sitting all the way over there?" John asked, still laughing.
Sherlock nodded, and John patted the ground beside him. He didn't need to repeat the invitation twice; Sherlock crawled until he was pressed against his friend's right side, the tree trunk large enough for both their backs to be supported comfortably. He squirmed until he was at ease, and almost sighed with relief, once again wondering what it was about John that made him so calm.
"You do know you're an idiot, right? A tall, incredible, curly idiot," John said as Sherlock settled beside him.
"I'm not curly," was the only response Sherlock came up with.
He shifted down until he could lay his head on John's shoulder, and if Anderson or Donovan had decided to wander on that beach, they would've run back to the village with tales of hands held, words whispered, and dark curls stroked.