An: WOW! I am so sorry this has taken so long. Once again, I'm posting not only because I love all you guys but to quell rumours that I'm dead and all my loving (hah!) family members are grieving for me.
However I must admit that I was lured away by the… lure of another fandom. I'm truly sorry, but if I'm very lucky the Sherlock fandom will welcome me once more with open arms and plenty of Johnlocky goodness. Also there were these weird thing called exams that were chasing me and going to eat me and… *clears throat* anyway, on with the show! This is a chapter for sevenpercent who prompted me ages ago and I forgot about it, so sorry for that. I'm afraid you're probably going to want to shout at me again because I've ended up being very bitter about privilege once again so you must forgive me for that. And we have a new POV in this episode, so that's exciting isn't it?
River (it's still me I just changed my penname)
Looking around at their bomb site of a flat, John wonders just how easy Sherlock has had it all his short life. The man seems completely unaware of the mess that he creates and is often extremely surprised when, after a long night of experimenting on, among other things, his own suit, said suit is not lying at the bottom of his bed, freshly laundered and looking like the day it came out of the packet. Or, John corrects himself mentally, knowing Sherlock, the day he was exclusively measured for it.
Childhood is one of the only things they've never talked about in their… whatever this is. John knows he's the only one who has had free access to the particulars of Sherlock's life, the only one who has ever shared his thoughts, let alone his bed, but somehow conversations about their respective pasts have always stuck rigidly to the rule of 'We do not go past twenty one.' However, based on his experience with Sherlock, and the way that both the Holmes brothers act and speak, John can make an educated guess at what life was life for Sherlock, pre going off the rails.
It has been obvious to John since he met the man that Sherlock comes from money. Serious money. Like Laird of the Manor type money. The cultured voice, expensive clothes and tendency toward eccentricity had all been leading clues. Add to them the seemingly indepletable bank account (when concerned with a case anyway) and very battered Harrow blazer that lay discarded like a tea-towel at the back of Sherlock's cupboard (accidentally found when John moved into Sherlock's room) and John had to wonder exactly how high up Sherlock was in social hierarchy.
Sherlock's life must have been effortless, thought John bitterly. Of course, he knew nothing of Sherlock's primary school, but his secondary schooling had taken place in one of the jewels (showy and expensive) of British education and he had gained entrance to one of the most exclusive universities in the world. Yes, thought John, much as he loved Sherlock, his darling had definitely had it easy.
And considering Sherlock's abysmal attention span and work ethic as a man just shy of thirty seven, what must it have been like when he was seventeen? John imagined that Sherlock had barely lifted a finger to pass his A-levels, reliant on the fact that, in the unlikely event of his genius not seeing him clear (which it obviously would have done), his mother's bank account probably would. Money would have opened all the right doors for Sherlock, especially when backed up by the breeding and title that John suspected both Mycroft and Sherlock must hold. He'd been sure that doorman had the Dorchester had called Sherlock 'My lord' last week.
That's not to say that Sherlock relied on his parent's money to get him through life, it was undoubtedly his mind which had gotten him into Cambridge and, considering the stories Mycroft had told John, Sherlock had actively rejected help, both financial and physical, from his family during what both brothers called 'The indiscreet years'. But somehow John doubted that Sherlock had ever had to work really hard to achieve something. He highly doubted that Sherlock had ever pulled an all-nighter trying to get his coursework done. Or that he'd struggled for days over a single page of the textbook, only to turn the page over and find that the next page was even more complicated. And he'd be prepared to put quite a lot of money on the fact that Sherlock had never work in a bloody Durham chip-shop at three in the morning, waiting for all the drunken students to piss off so he could just go home.
Not that John's ashamed of his, admittedly rather humble, origins. He still loves Northumberland, and to some extent, Durham will always be home. His parents were good people and he and Harry never went hungry or were neglected, but all the same his childhood cannot be compared with Sherlock's.
For one thing, while Sherlock's entry to Cambridge had been effortless, John's entry to Birmingham (and later, Bart's) had been a battle. A long fought for, heart aching, bone wearing slog. He remembered what life was like during his A-levels, holed up in his room doing homework, then running out the door for real work, and when he got home, perhaps an essay or two, in the slim hope that it may earn him another UCAS point or two. Ah, UCAS points. He'd treasured every single one. The golden number that decided for him whether it would be Medical School or Nursing College that he applied for. Just a point or two either way, and his fate would be sealed.
He remembers the tears on results days, having to retake because he was seven per cent short of the A he needed. He doubted Sherlock ever had to go through that.
But for all his bitterness and gurgling resentment, John knows that Sherlock really hasn't had it easy. He can see in the man's eyes and the eyes of his brother. They hold fast to their composure, but John saw Mycroft the night Greg walked out on him, because his cheating wife had told him she wanted another chance and he saw it again, ten days later when Greg came to the hospital and tearfully held Mycroft's hand swearing he'd never leave him ever again. John has seen the same look on Sherlock's face, during an argument or when John seems inexplicably cross with him. It's a look that means 'help me, I'm out of my depth' and his heart melts every time, because he knows why the Holmes boys need the reassurance of the men they love.
He knows the story of the cold, absent mother and heavy handed stepfather. Mycroft told him, Sherlock hasn't but he will when he's ready and John will listen because he loves him more than even Sherlock knows.
Because, although life may have been effortless for both Holmes boys, love… now that's a different story.
John and Sherlock are sat outside Mycroft's room while Greg makes his apologies to Mycroft. It's only in the last hour that Sherlock has allowed himself to be hit by the reality of nearly losing his big brother. John wipes the tears from his face. Love certainly hasn't been effortless for either Holmes.
Sometimes he forgets that.
AN: That turned out a lot more serious than I was expecting and now I really want to find out what happened between Mycroft and Greg! Anyway, now for some apologies. I know that in nineteen seventy-whatever UCAS point didn't exist but as someone who is currently crying over their UCAS form I am in no mood to be sympathetic to the systems of the past. Please review and prompt!