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Sherlock Holmes, from an outsider’s perspective, was a normal boy. He came from a wealthy family, he went to a good school, he was learning to dance like a proper gentleman, he liked to read, and went to bed precisely at 7:30 each night after being presented to his father and mother. Sherlock Holmes was ordinary, just like every boy growing up in London in 1910.
Or so it seemed, if you did not observe.
Though he went to a good school, he never wore the uniform properly (ties choked him) and was constantly in trouble for talking back or some other misdemeanor. He learned to dance, but wouldn’t dance with anyone. He loved books, but only the scientific texts his parents had banned. He may have been put to bed at 7:30, but he hardly went to sleep at that hour. Sherlock Holmes was a freak of nature, and his own family didn’t understand him. Even his brother, Mycroft, was better at fitting in than he was. And Mycroft had left him for boring, ordinary mates from Uni. But sometimes, when the stars shone into his room, Sherlock would wedge himself between the curtains and the window pane and look out at the stars and the rooftops of London. Somehow, even if he wasn’t interested in their names or their history, Sherlock appreciated the beauty of the twinkling masses high above the city. They made his issues seem easier to shoulder. Sherlock was a very quiet boy who kept to himself, so when issues arose, he did indeed shoulder them himself.
Sherlock’s life had gone on in such a manner for 13 years, and he didn’t think he was wrong in assuming it would carry on in such a way for many more. Which is why he was taken by surprise when some Higher Power decided that young Sherlock Holmes had had enough peace, quiet, and boredom for one lifetime.
The antitheses of peace, quiet, and boredom was found in a bundle of soot, charcoal, and curses that rolled down his chimney and into his room one evening.
“Hullo!” Sherlock proclaimed, quite taken back by his visitor who was slowly unwinding himself into a boy several years Sherlock’s senior.
“Good evening!” came the cheerful reply, amidst softer curses.
Sherlock pulled his comforter closer about him.
“You’re not a murderer, are you?”
The boy laughed, a delightful, pleasant sound which invited you to join in. “No, no, nothing like that.”
Sherlock watched with interest as the older boy shook himself, his clothes patched and covered in soot. The boy adjusted his hat at a cocky angle, and grinned crookedly at Sherlock.
“Well, if that’s all, sir, I’d best be going. Got a job to do, and all.”
“Wait!” Sherlock called, extending his hand, still trying to decide if he was dreaming or not. “Please, I don’t know your name.”
“I’m called John.” the older boy said, and with that he disappeared up the chimney.
The next night, after his nanny left the room, Sherlock crept out of bed and sat on the floor in front of his fireplace. His curtains were open, so the light from the city and the moon created a little patch on his floor which was lighter than the rest of the room, and he sat there, hoping to see the boy again.
15 minutes later, Sherlock was startled by a tapping at his window. He sprang up, tossing his blanket aside, and turned to face the threat.
A grimy face grinned through the glass, and gestured for Sherlock to open the window.
“Good evening!” the boy called John cheerfully greeted him.
“How did you…”
“Just slipped over the side and climbed down here.” John gestured up the roof, as if it was perfectly natural to be sitting on the ledge of a third storey window.
“Why?” Sherlock found it necessary to prompt when the boy fell silent.
“Well, I heard you got into a spot of trouble because of my accident last night.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I’m used to going to bed without any supper.”
John bit his lip. “Do you mind if I ask which house this is?”
“The… Holmes house?” Sherlock informed him, confused.
A look of understanding passed over John’s face and he looked sober. “I apologize, sir, for causing any problems. If there’s ever a moment when you’re in a pinch, you can bet I’ll be there.”
“Why?” Sherlock asked again.
“Because you took the blame. Us sweeps aren’t supposed to be seen. And you let them think you made a mess of the floors so that I’d keep my job. And that was bloody decent of you.”
“Wasn’t anything.” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes darting over John’s clothing. “You’re 18, you’re left-handed, and you’re estranged from your family, or at least haven’t been home for many years. You’re self-conscious about your age, possibly because you’re afraid you’re wasting your life, more likely because the other sweeps tease you. Your clothes are old, but your shoes are new, so you either found money recently or you have a friend with access to shoes.”
Sherlock stuttered to a stop when he saw the look on the other boy’s face. “And.. and… you said your name is John.” Sherlock waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing.
“That..was.. amazing.”
Sherlock looked up in surprise. “You think so?”
“Of course, it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
“‘Off to bed, young man, without your dinner’.”
Both boys started giggling.
“Can I see?” Sherlock asked, after a minute.
John cocked his head to the side in question.
“Can I see.. up there? Your world?”
John grinned. “Watch your step!” He stood up and held out a hand for Sherlock to take.
Sherlock shimmied out his window, wrapping his dressing gown closer around him. John carefully led him across the ledge, and then pushed him ahead and up the steep incline of the room, until they reached the flattened top. Once satisfied that Sherlock was securely deposited, John jumped up onto one of the rounded chimneys, surveying his new charge. Sherlock looked back, impressed with how comfortable John looked perched high above the city. His silhouette was outlined by stars, which helped add a layer of magic to the already unprecedented adventure this night was turning out to be.
“So, you know my name.” John finally spoke, his chin resting on his hands, which were gripping his chimney brush, which he must have grabbed at some point when
Sherlock wasn’t looking. “What’s yours?” he questioned.
“I’m Sherlock.” Sherlock answered, heedless of the many lectures from his various nannies about not telling strangers his name.
John looked thoughtful. “How did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Know…all that. About me.”
Sherlock brushed his curls out of his eyes and shifted his weight. He should have grabbed his socks. His toes were getting cold.
“I didn’t know. I saw.”
John hopped down, his shoes lightly brushing against the ground. Sherlock almost giggled when he remembered the ground was the roof.
“Come here,” John said, walking past Sherlock. Sherlock followed him quickly, crossing his arms against the chill. John walked ahead of him, his feet barely touching the ground as he leapt over debris or various other obstacles that lay in his way.
“Where are we going?” Sherlock questioned, his cheeks becoming red as he dashed along behind John.
John didn’t answer, just looked back with a delighted grin.
After several minutes of hopping across the rooftops, John helped Sherlock jump over a gap between two houses. Sherlock looked around in amazement.
“You wanted to see my world.” John said, biting his lip as he watched Sherlock’s reaction.
Snuggled up against a brick chimney was a small makeshift house made of crates and scraps of fabric. Because of its position, it was protected from most of the winds that came from being so high up.
“You live here?” Sherlock asked.
“I thought you’d be able to ‘see’ that.” John teased gently. “But here’s the best part.”
He took Sherlock’s hand and led him over to the ledge. Sherlock willingly followed, pressing closer to the older boy as they got nearer to the edge of the roof. John didn’t hold his hand like his nannies did, firmly and grudgingly like they were holding a little snake. John held his hand like it was a promise and a dare.
“Close your eyes.”
Sherlock looked at John in shock.
“Do you trust me?”
It was crazy. It was stupid. They didn’t know each other. They had just met.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
John led him for a few more feet, then said, “Open them.”
Sherlock sucked in a breath of the cold night air. Spread out below them was all of London, her lights gradually being extinguished as the night wore on. As the lights slowly went out, the stars overhead seemed to get closer and brighter, winking in amusement at the two boys holding hands at the edge of a roof.
“My city.” John breathed, just as caught up by the beauty as Sherlock was. Sherlock was unable to form words, but he squeezed John’s hand. John quirked a smile at him.
“Our city.”