Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes (5)
Sherlock was sitting cross-legged in his mother’s beloved flowerbed, well aware that he would be told off later for getting his shorts dirty and ruining the flowers. He didn’t care one bit. He was cross with his mother anyhow. Perhaps having to clean up after him would teach her who the boss was. Well, truthfully, his heart ached a bit at the destruction of the innocent plants, but needs must.
He was playing idly with the muddy stick he’d found on the ground, stabbing the soft soil of the garden repeatedly with a calm demeanour, when he heard footsteps from the house next door approaching him. He looked up to find a boy around his age, standing next to the shoddy white fence that ran between their backyards. He was shuffling on his feet uncomfortably, but his gaze was steadfastly focused on Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over him and noticed his little fist was clenched around something.
He’d never played well with other kids. His mother sometimes set up playdates to encourage his social progress, however he found other children utterly dull. More than once, a playdate ended with Sherlock purposefully making the other child cry by whatever means, so he could get back home and try to convince Mycroft to play with him instead. Needless to say, a twelve-year-old genius generally had no inclination to waste his time entertaining his younger brother.
This time, however, he found himself oddly curious about what the chubby little boy next door wanted. He pushed himself to his feet, not quite sure of what was expected of him. The boy didn’t say anything, and just continued staring at him with a slight smile on his lips. As Sherlock plodded towards the fence, his smile grew. He held out his little fist through the gap between the planks, and Sherlock could now see what his fingers were curled around; a single daisy.
His eyes flicked from the flower, to the boy’s blushing face, and then back at the flower. He wiggled the daisy, as if to say Go on, take it. It’s for you. Sherlock cautiously lifted his hand and plucked the flower from the boy’s grasp.
His gaze fell to the little white petals and the round yellow part which he knew was called a sun disk. Thanks to his mother’s love of flowers, he’d heard a lot about them. What he liked to learn about the most were all the scientific details. However, he also knew the common names for them and what they symbolized. This particular one was a Leucanthemum vulgare, an oxeye daisy. People picked off their petals one after the other, alternately saying He loves me and He loves me not with each petal. He found it an interesting game, but he had no idea for whom he could play. He didn’t know anyone else besides his family, and even if he did, what did he care if they loved him or not?
He wished he’d cared. He wanted a friend. Just one would be enough, he wasn’t greedy. Then he could play all the games that required a second person to participate and have someone to talk with about all the things his parents- and sometimes Mycroft, too- taught him. What good was it to learn something when all he had was himself?
He lifted his head to say something to his neighbour, only to find him running back in the direction of his own house without looking back. He had no idea what had been about to come out of his mouth, yet he still felt a pang of disappointment to see the boy’s retreating back. He sighed. He hadn’t even insulted or hit the boy. Why did he have to leave?
He tucked the little daisy behind his ear, under his long black curls, and stuck his hands into his pockets. Dejected, he made his way back into the house to be yelled at by his mother.
Sherlock Holmes (7)
Sherlock sat on the little red chair he’d pushed next to his window, watching John play with all his silly toys. Even though the distance between their houses was not significant, John still looked so much smaller than he did when Sherlock watched him in the backyard. Yet, he could still follow all his expressions and movements.
He was supposed to do his science homework, and normally, he loved doing it, but whenever John was around, his gaze automatically drifted to the boy, and everything else disappeared from his mind. He’d gotten used to it, so now, there was a chair by the window that faced John’s room. He didn’t particularly like standing around when he didn’t have to, so he’d placed it there for the inevitable moments John would be visible through two layers of glass.
When they were both in their backyards, doing one thing or another, sometimes John would catch him staring. He didn’t mind it in the slightest, but the blonde boy’s face would turn a light shade of pink every time their eyes locked on to one another. Sherlock had also caught him looking a few times, only then the hue on his cheeks would be closer to red than pink.
Now, he was lost in his own world, surrounded by a wide range of toys, making Batman- his favourite- talk to another toy Sherlock didn’t recognize. He didn’t know what the appeal of the superhero was, but he liked seeing the joy in John’s eyes when he was playing with it. He himself preferred swords, and treasure chests, and pretending he was a pirate. And what was so special about the cars that were always carelessly thrown onto the floor? Every time John moved to another part of his room, Sherlock’s heart leapt at the thought of him stepping on one of them and hurting himself.
Mycroft’s mocking voice pulled him out of his reverie.
“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock. Go talk to him, if you want to play with him so much.”
Sherlock turned to see his brother leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on his face. He let out a growl, which only made Mycroft chuckle.
“He isn’t going to bite, you know.”
“I might.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the frame. He turned towards his own room. “Suit yourself.”
When his brother was gone, his body moved in the direction of the sun-haired boy of its own will. He observed his every gesture and imagined himself there, holding the other toy John had in his hand. He didn’t know if that other character was a villain or not, but if there was a fight, he could certainly take on Batman.
After all, he was Captain Redbeard, the fearsome pirate of the seven seas. This game would be nothing in comparison to his dangerous adventures. He could surely win.
Sherlock Holmes (9)
He hated waking up early, but one had to go to school, didn’t they? It was especially soul-draining, because it was the first day of the school year. He had gotten used to getting out of bed at noon and lazing about when he wasn’t doing an experiment or other. He didn’t have anything against classes, but he loved being able to do his own research with no restrictions. He gave one last longing look to his chemistry equipment and violin and made his way down the stairs to be taken to school.
The building was not very far from their house, but he wasn’t allowed to go on his own just yet. His fat brother was going to a public school, which was pretty close to his school. However, he’d made it clear that he had no time to accompany Sherlock a couple of blocks down the street, so he was stuck holding his mother’s hand the whole way there.
He was sitting on the veranda when he saw Mike Stamford passing by. He supposed he’d be rid of his mother next year as well. He followed the boy’s steps with his eyes and drew in a surprised breath when he saw him make a left after their house. Mike rang the doorbell of the Watsons and stood there impatiently with his hands pulling at the straps of his backpack.
A very chipper-looking John opened the door and jumped on his friend.
“Oi! John!” Mike protested.
John laughed and let him go. He closed the door behind himself.
Mike was trying to fix his appearance, when John noticed Sherlock had been watching them. The two boys looked at each other for at least half a minute. Eventually, Mike broke the spell with a question, unaware of what was happening between his friend and the boy next door.
“Ready to go?”
John shook his head slightly, a regretful expression in his eyes, and turned to Mike. “Yup.”
They slowly strode out of the front yard and made their way toward the school he shared with them. John turned back to get one more glimpse of Sherlock, and then was out of sight.
He wished it was him accompanying John to school instead of Mike. Mike was a good person. He had nothing against him. However, he knew if he had someone to walk with him to school, he wouldn’t have to go with his mother anymore. John and he lived right next door to each other, so he was the perfect candidate. Mike went out of his way to pick up John from his house, he knew. In fact, it’d be a favour to him. His route would shorten, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to hold his mother’s hand. Win-win. And if having John with him would be a bonus, he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was roused from his thoughts when his mother shut the door behind her.
“Come on, baby.”
Sherlock gritted his teeth at the endearment and got up off the floor. The only good thing about this was that there was no one around to hear him be called baby. He put his bony hand in his mother’s outstretched one and followed her into another school year.
Sherlock Holmes (13)
Sherlock was standing by his window, frozen at the scene unfolding before his eyes.
John had a girl in his room, and not just in his room, but in his arms. As if that wasn’t enough, their eyes were closed and his mouth was on hers. Sherlock could have dissected the whole endeavour and pointed out that the boy didn’t know what he was doing, that he was trying to imitate what he’d seen in movies before, that it was his first kiss, and he was very nervous. However, he didn’t. He just stood there, horrified and with his stomach churning, because the boy in this scenario wasn’t just any boy. It was John.
He hadn’t expected how much this would’ve hurt, not because he didn’t know how jealousy worked, but because he hadn’t seen this coming at all. He’d known for a while now that his constant preoccupation with his neighbour was about more than social observation or plain curiosity. He watched his every step and listened for his every word. He thought about him almost all the time. When he wasn’t thinking about him consciously, he felt a knot in his chest and knew that the boy was still in the back of his mind somewhere. He was too engrossed in his own feelings to consider John had a life of his own outside of their stupid backyard and little rooms that saw into each other.
So, John didn’t feel his heartbeat in his mouth, speeding up, like he did, whenever their eyes met across the fence. They had been staring at each other for as long as he could remember. What did the boy see in his eyes then, when he looked over? Did he know how Sherlock felt and pitied him, or was he too oblivious to see? Maybe he’d been entertaining himself watching the weirdo next door who couldn’t even put together two words to greet him. Well, it was probably over now. He’d found a new source of amusement for himself.
He felt the mild spring breeze blowing into his black locks that fell to his shoulders through the open window. Do I need them this long anymore? The thought startled him. His mother sometimes attempted to cajole him into cutting it, but he’d never let her. He hadn’t realized why until this moment. Among his fuzzy childhood memories, one jumped out at him.
John sitting on the swing set in his backyard while talking to Harry. Her hair cut short, like a boy’s, and John mocking her.
“You look like a bug, Harry!”
She hadn’t cared and just stuck out her tongue at her brother. It hadn’t stopped him, though.
“Well, at least you don’t look like a witch anymore.”
Harry had narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“It looks like straws! It’s not even black!”
“Your hair isn’t black either!”
John had ignored his sister’s response. “And you don’t even have curls! What’s to grow?”
It was the first time that Sherlock resented his mind for its potency. There was no energy in his limbs to move away from the window, no ability in his eyes to look away, but his mind continued to race and show him things he no longer wished to see.
Just when he felt frustrated tears welling in his eyes, a pair of dark blue orbs met his, and the strength that had left him minutes ago returned with a vengeance.
Sherlock Holmes (16)
It was a nice day to be outside and relax on the lawn chair in the backyard, and Sherlock was taking advantage of that. He was reclining, half-turned towards the neighbouring lot with headphones in his ears. John was seated against the old oak tree in their garden, reading about bees, and Sherlock was enjoying the view. He’d been talking about apiology with his dad a week earlier, and he was sure John had heard the conversation. Now, as was his custom with every scientific topic Sherlock mentioned, he’d gone and bought a book to satisfy his curiosity. They were always inadequate for John, he knew, but he contented himself with them anyway. He couldn’t ask Sherlock, after all.
It was a casual afternoon, like many others they shared before in utter tranquility. Sherlock loved those afternoons more than anything in the world, with the exception of the boy who made them what they were. They were brighter for his presence and now, admiring his beautiful face, Sherlock couldn’t help but be dazzled. What sort of light did he emanate? He didn’t know, but he was glad they didn’t speak. God knows what his voice directed at Sherlock would do to his heart.
Instead of longing for a word casually thrown his way, he’d learnt how to enjoy all the unspoken things John carried in his eyes when he was looking at him. He was always captivated by the dark blue he saw there, but he could feel- he knew- John got lost in his greener ones as well.
What they had was unique, something that no one else had experienced before. John may date a girl every now and then, fall prey to his sexual urges like every boy- almost every boy- their age, but soon enough, they were gone, and he always came back to him. In truth, he never left him. Even when the girls came around to visit, his eyes would always look for Sherlock. They didn’t need words or sex to feel what they felt. It was too good and too pure to be sullied by needless drama and primitive biological functions. It was on a level ordinary people couldn’t even imagine.
He let out a breathy chuckle when he heard the song that started playing on his Walkman. He turned the volume all the way up and closed his eyes, mouthing along the words with the singer.
Vows are spoken to be broken
Feelings are intense, words are trivial
Pleasures remain, so does the pain
Words are meaningless and forgettable
It was almost as if the band had them in mind when writing the song. He did indeed have all he’d ever wanted, like the man said. Only he didn’t need to have John in his arms. He needed him in his mind and there, he always was.
Sherlock Holmes (17)
Who knew he’d be just like the others? Just one touch had done him in. He’d disdained sex for as long as he’d been aware of what it meant for the lack of control it brought with it, but now, he was burning with desire and gagging for it.
Was it because he’d repressed his urges for so long he was now dragging home this lecherous creature by his clammy hand? He was a year his senior at school and had not looked his way once before today. It was obvious he was acting so freely because he was about to set off for university. He had no reason to be afraid that Sherlock would cling to him like a leech, demanding his attention just because they’d have fucked once. He wouldn’t be there to be clung to.
Of course, if he’d known Sherlock had no interest in a relationship with him, he might have tried his luck before, and perhaps Sherlock would have told him to piss off instead of pushing into his hand when the boy put his hand on his crotch. God, he was pathetic. He knew he was. Yet, he had no intention of letting go of the moist hand in his.
When they reached the entrance of the Holmes residence, he felt someone’s gaze on him. The intense pull, a pair of eyes he couldn’t even see was still capable of, only served to increase the resoluteness of his steps. Sherlock owed him nothing. Their relationship was over. He would move on, so why shouldn’t Sherlock? Why couldn’t he taste the pleasures another body could offer too? He’d kept his from Sherlock, fooling him into thinking it didn’t matter, that touching was not necessary when they could just look. Oh, but it was. It was necessary. Sherlock hadn’t known before, but he had. He should have shown him, taught him. They didn’t have to talk, they could’ve just… felt.
So, he kept his hand wrapped around the older boy’s, and his gaze away from the cause of his eternal agony as he made his way into the house. Seconds after he closed the door after them, he heard a loud thud, a grunt, and a crash from outside. His feet paused as his heart sank at what he knew the sounds to be. He felt a chill spread down his spine in the darkness of the lounge, but after a moment, he pushed the pain and the cold away and led the way to his bedroom. He would soon be warm again.
Sherlock Holmes (17)
He sat on the veranda, armed with his empty victory, watching the small Volkswagen John had recently acquired. John’s parents and sister had filled it to the brim with boxes and bags full of the owner’s clothes, books, and various other belongings. His whole life until then was packed away, ready to be transformed into something completely new in a foreign place he didn’t belong.
He belonged here with Sherlock. The only thing that had ever separated them was the bloody fence between their backyards. He had slept all his nights knowing John’s gaze sometimes slipped his way, keeping an eye on him. He’d felt safe, loved, wanted, understood, and like a normal human being just because he was there.
And now, even before he’d left for good, he wasn’t. Sherlock hadn’t caught even a tiny glimpse of him in the past week. The shutters on his window were left open, but he didn’t come to the window. In fact, almost all his room was visible from Sherlock’s vantage point, so he must have been sitting in his closet for seven days. Even in this moment, when he was about to drive off to his grown-up life, leaving him behind completely, he hadn’t left the confines of his house. His family had loaded the car for him. Sherlock sat there the whole time, watching the procession of luggage passing before his eyes. Harry cast him one or two pitying glances, but she remained silent.
Eventually, the whole family came out to stand by the car, saying their goodbyes to a wretched-looking John Watson. Oh, John was leaving him, yes, but he had killed him. Now, perhaps, he could die as well. What was the purpose of his existence if John had bags under his eyes, his right hand was in a cast as he knew it’d be, his other hand shaking with a slight tremor? If his bright light had vanished, not even leaving a glimmer in its wake? Sherlock was his killer and his widower. He’d mourn this loss for as long as he continued to draw breath. He’d wilt, locked in his room, gasping for a gleam of those dark blue eyes fixed on his vicious, unfeeling, cruel ones.
He shivered under the burning August sun, as John didn’t look up to give him one last look that said goodbye. The only light coming from that direction was the rays of the sun reflecting of a single teardrop that was sliding down his cheek. As the car disappeared around the corner, Sherlock made to get up but swayed on his feet. Two white hands grabbed him by his shoulders just in time, keeping him upright.
He turned to find his mother regarding him with sympathy in her eyes, and he let himself fall into her arms. He did nothing to stop the tears falling and sobbed like a little child while she tried to comfort him with a hand on his back, moving up and down in a calming manner. He cried until he was exhausted, then he was tucked into his bed by his mother, something he hadn’t allowed even when he’d been too young to go to school. He didn’t care. It wasn’t him that was lying in that bed anyhow. Sherlock Holmes was now dead, and he didn’t give a fig what happened to the poor sod that now occupied that body.
Sherlock Holmes (18)
Christmas was officially his favourite holiday. If he could, he’d marry this year’s Christmas because it gave him the best present he could imagine. John was here. He was back home.
His gaze had been flicking to John’s old bedroom involuntarily since the man had left. He knew he’d always find it empty, but he couldn’t help it. The motion was ingrained in his soul. He’d have to train himself out of it in time.
This morning, however, he was rewarded with the undoubtably best sight he’d ever seen. John Watson, sleeping in his old bed with a peaceful expression on his perfect, beautiful face. He almost forgot how to breathe. He’d missed him so much, he could feel it in his veins, sense his bones eroding with the power of the yearning that had taken over his body. He watched him sleep for an hour or two, until John’s eyes fluttered open and found his without a second of delay. They stared at each other for God knows how long, only to be interrupted by a young woman throwing John’s bedroom door open with a cheerful grin on her lips. Sherlock’s face had fallen, but soon enough, he cleared his mind and deduced that she was only a friend. She wasn’t sleeping in the same room as John to begin with, and it was also quite obvious from John’s body language that he wasn’t interested.
The whole day had passed like a familiar dream. John’s friend had been off somewhere, so he’d spent all day out in the backyard with a bulky Christmas jumper on his small frame and some sort of a warm beverage in his hand. They were doing nothing but staring at each other in an attempt to make up for the days lost. It was not something they’d ever done this way, where both of them were clearly not busy with anything else, and there was no excuse they could make if someone had confronted them about it. They looked away every once in a while, when everything got too intense, to appreciate a passing bird, or Sherlock’s mum’s snowdrops, but their eyes always drifted back to each other a few minutes later.
In the evening, John had gone in to have dinner with his family, when his guest stepped out to the backyard with a cigarette in her hand. As the lighter illuminated her face, she noticed Sherlock sitting on the other side of the fence, observing her. Her face lit up in recognition.
Sherlock watched her warily as she made her way to stand by the white fence. She had a smile on her face as she waved enthusiastically.
“Hi! You must be Sherlock!”
He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“I’m Molly. John and I go to uni together.”
“O-okay.” He stuttered. He was terrified to his very core. What the hell was this girl doing?
She gave him another warm smile, noticing his trepidation. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
She nodded and immediately changed the subject, clearly aware of how uncomfortable she’d made Sherlock. It was good that she was slightly intelligent, or he may have gone into cardiac arrest at the next mention of John.
“Cor, what a lovely Christmas!” She admired the gardens they were standing in. “I’m so glad John invited me to spend it with his family. I didn’t really fancy going all the way up north to Inverness.”
She gave Sherlock a sideways glance. “Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“Hm. It’s pretty up there, but life isn’t as fast as it is in London.”
Sherlock found himself responding without meaning to. “It’s not like we’re in the middle of the city.”
“I suppose not, but I still prefer it to Inverness. Do you not like being here?”
“I-” He considered for a moment what the answer was. Molly had, unknowingly, asked a very complicated question. “I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“It’s my home.” His gaze slipped behind the girl to the oak tree that John always sat against. “But it’s not what it used to be.”
“I see.”
Sherlock’s head whipped back to her. “Do you?” He enquired sharply.
Molly smiled at him, then beckoned him closer with her finger. Sherlock reluctantly did as he was bid. When he had gone as far as the fence, the girl leaned into his ear and whispered.
“Courage.”
A second later, she had gone back inside, leaving Sherlock supporting himself on the planks. He had no idea what had just happened, but he knew it was something big.
Sherlock Holmes (20)
The litter lying around the place was getting a bit out of hand. Sherlock had never been the tidiest of people, but this was a whole other level. If there was a person that had a reason to enter his room, they’d be lucky to find Sherlock with a search party. However, he was happily left alone by the entire student population and the faculty. Therefore, there was no real incentive to clear the floor of the mass of syringes on it.
His phone rang, portending a conversation with the only person who had his number, and he dropped the syringe he was holding onto a pile of garbage. He didn’t know why he didn’t just toss the bloody phone out. What could Mycroft want anyway? Hadn’t they spoken just four months ago?
He finally answered the phone to stop the demanding and incessant ringing. It said a lot about his state of mind that he didn’t think to just mute the device instead.
“Yes?”
“Sherlock, where are you?” Mycroft sounded worried, which was ridiculous. What would that prick have to worry about? The oncoming robotic uprising would surely be a joyous occasion for him. He always wanted to rule the world.
“I’m in my room. Where are you?” He giggled. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he’d just made a hilarious joke.
“Sherlock, are you on drugs?”
The alarm in his brother’s voice made him laugh harder.
“Sherlock!” He bellowed.
“Yes, brother dear. As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Get me where? I’m home.” He weakly kicked at an empty can of beer that was right next to his feet. Where had that come from?
“For God’s sake, it’s Christmas. Mum and Dad are wondering why you’re not here yet. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not coming.”
“What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“Just what I said. I’m not coming. I won’t be come.” He giggled again. He was very good with words. Maybe he should have been reading literature instead of chemistry.
Mycroft was clearly running out of patience, but he restrained himself before saying something he would regret. Sherlock could tell he was gritting his teeth as he spoke, which gave him an even bigger rush than heroin did.
“And why is that?”
“Why should I?”
“To see your family, perhaps?”
Sherlock snorted.
“And what about John Watson?”
His body, which had been sprawled out on the couch, jerked up. He sat rigidly on the edge of the cushion. “What about him?”
“You don’t wish to behold your prince?”
He didn’t even register the way Mycroft had worded the question. His breath caught at the implications instead.
“He isn’t there.”
He’d intended it to sound like a fact. However, his voice had gone up at the last word, turning the statement into an enquiry. In truth, even if he’d managed to say it with a straight voice, the response itself gave away too much. Much more than he was willing to admit to his brother when not intoxicated.
“Wrong as seems customary, brother mine. The object of your fascination is in fact sitting on his parents’ veranda, and every ten seconds or so, checking to see if anyone’s coming down the street.”
There was not a peep on either end of the phone line for one minute as the gears in Sherlock’s head attempted to turn. Eventually, he cleared his throat and muttered, “So what if he is?”
Mycroft sighed. “I’d ask if you had a lover’s spat, but in order to do that, you need to be able to speak.”
“Piss off, Mycroft! And don’t bother coming here, unless you’d like to spend time standing around in dorm corridors.”
He hurled his phone towards the wall without hanging up. Mycroft’s muffled voice continued droning on as it fell on the floor in pieces. Sherlock smiled a wry smile at the sight. Well, that was convenient. It wasn’t like he was expecting a call anyway.
Sherlock Holmes (23)
He hadn’t called to let them know he was coming home for Christmas this year. It wasn’t like he was trying to surprise anyone. Well, maybe one person, but he couldn’t have called him anyway.
He’d squandered the recent years of his life on being a slave to several types of drugs, most notably heroin. He was lucky he hadn’t killed himself during his three-year-long stupor. He’d found the drugs an effective way to put John out of his mind, and the euphoria they brought had been a happy bonus. However, the truth was he’d been a child, not able to deal with his problems, escaping from the reality of his world. Most importantly, he realized that what he and John had done only served to make them more angst-ridden as time progressed. They acted as if they were being romantic, and that hurting themselves was something that made them more special, more poetic and beautiful than those in other relationships. However, Sherlock now knew they were only being cowards.
Of course, that didn’t solve any problems. Owning up to a shortcoming didn’t mean he was capable of overcoming it easily. All he could do at the moment was see what damage they had incurred and if anything was salvageable from this wreck.
Mummy gave him a big hug, glad to see him well after all these years. He shook his dad’s hand and ignored Mycroft’s completely unaffected expression as he climbed the stairs to his room to look for any traces of John. His car wasn’t parked out front, but perhaps he’d traveled by some other means.
As soon as he opened his curtains, he felt a presence by the door.
“He isn’t here.”
He spun around to face his brother who, as usual, couldn’t help but interfere. “And what makes you think that’s what I’m looking for?”
Mycroft smirked and didn’t dignify that query with an answer.
“It’s been years, you know.”
“You must have missed your curtains terribly, then, running up to open them first thing. Apologies. Should I leave you two alone?”
Sherlock snorted. “What do you want, Mycroft?”
“Nothing, brother dear. I’m only here to make sure you’re alright.”
“I’m fine.” He perched on the edge of his childhood bed and stared out the window.
Mycroft turned to leave but paused before he’d taken two steps. “Don’t wait up, Sherlock. He won’t come. He hasn’t been back for three years.” Then, he disappeared towards his old room.
That night, Sherlock lied down with his eyes closed, remembering all the good times he had, lounging on the lawn chair, watching the little window across from his, stealing peeks in school corridors. John’s face had always turned his head, whether he meant for it to or not. Eventually, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of the day he’d be dazzled again by John’s incandesce.
Sherlock Holmes (24)
Sherlock was seated on a cushion he’d brought out to the veranda, watching the street, when suddenly, there was a daisy right under his nose. His shrewd eyes flicked down to find a little blonde boy holding out the flower in his tiny fist. A shiver ran down his spine. This was a familiar scene, but he couldn’t quite place the memory.
He accepted the offering and patted the empty spot next to him on the cushion. “Thank you.”
The boy sat down and turned his inquisitive gaze on him again. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Sherlock started at the astute observation coming from a child no more than six years old. “Why do you think that?”
“You’ve been watching the road, and you look sad.”
Sherlock smiled. “Do I?” He turned over the daisy in his hand. “Where did you get this? Daisies don’t grow in the winter.”
“We got flowers from a shop for grandma and grandpa. They let me have one.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Alright, Jack. Do you know how to play He loves me… He loves me not?”
The little boy shook his head.
“You pick a petal,” He pointed to the white parts of the flower. “These are called petals, and pluck it while you say he loves me,” He plucked one as he explained, “and with the next petal, you say he loves me not.” He plucked another, “and so on. You have to think of someone as you play the game. Do you wanna give it a try?”
Jack nodded and took the daisy back in his small hand.
“Who are you thinking of?”
“My mum.”
“Okay, then, you’ll be saying She loves me….She loves me not. Go on.”
Jack timidly plucked a petal and recited the words Sherlock taught him. With the last one, he yelled, “She loves me!!” and pushed the naked flower back in Sherlock’s hand.
He laughed and accepted the stem that was only connected to its sun disk now. “And who is your mother?”
“Harry Watson.” he stated proudly.
“Oh.”
“Do you know her, Mister?”
“Yeah, I do.” He paused for a second to consider his next words. “And how is your uncle John?”
The boy jumped up at the mention of his uncle. “Uncle John will be bringing me lots of presents this year!”
Sherlock felt his hands tremble as he asked, “He’s coming here?”
“Yes!” Jack started running in the direction of the Watson residence. “I have to go now,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t be sad, Mister. Your friend will come!” Then, he was gone.
Sherlock was studying the petal-less flower again, when he remembered what had been nagging at him during his encounter with young Jack. He dashed into the house and up the stairs. He turned his room upside down, looking into every box and drawer and finally, found what he was looking for.
Another daisy, now all dried up of course, but petal-less like the one Jack had just given him. His vague memories came into focus. A small blonde boy handing him a flower that he’d kept in his room for years and eventually, played the game he’d always found interesting, thinking of the only person whose love could matter to him.
He grabbed both flower stems and sprinted downstairs and onto the veranda again. As he watched the street, waiting for the love of his life to appear, all he could think was He loves me.
Sherlock Holmes (24)
John was striding towards him. This was not a dream. John Watson was approaching the fence between their houses with a determined look on his slightly red face. So, this was what panic felt like. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with his legs, where to put his hands, and as he saw John jumping the fence in one swift motion; he lost the ability to decide where to direct his eyes as well. His gaze fell to his lap, as if he was blinded. His whole body was trembling, and there were sweat drops running down his back.
Finally, the sound of footsteps ceased, and there was someone standing right in front of him. He inhaled a quivering breath and…