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It was a bright, spring day, the sun a particular marvel. Sherlock, newly fifteen, had decided to spend his block of free time between classes to finish reading his borrowed compendium of slow acting poisons. He found a place in the courtyard, and sat in the dappling shade of a towering oak tree. The grass was mildly damp under his skin, a faint breeze tousling his hair, and time passed pleasantly by. He finished a chapter and a half before the interruption.
Sherlock heard before he saw the group of his classmates. They were loud, jarringly so, as they chattered to each other with booming voices. To his chagrin, they seated themselves close to him on the grass. There was still a certain distance between him and them that told him clearly enough he was not part of the group, but there was also not enough distance for him to ignore their presence.
“Say,” one of them, Atkins, said. Atkins was a blonde turnip of a boy, and he seemed to have been crying last night because he received a nasty letter from a relative - was it an aunt? A cousin? “Any girls you fancy? I’ve been keeping an eye on Ratliff’s sister myself.”
Kingston looked like someone had tied a leg of ham particularly brutally with the string, his muscles bulging from the seams of his clothes. “Well it has to be Jenkins, hasn’t it? She’s got those big blue eyes and her -” He made an obscene gesture with his hands which got the entire group snickering.
Susan Jenkins thinks you’re an insufferable twit, and I think she’s right on the money, Sherlock thought viciously. He flipped a page in his book. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and the interlopers seemed to have settled down in the grass for good. Sherlock could leave and find a better spot to read, but that would seem like a defeat. A defeat of what, he wasn’t quite sure yet.
“What about you, Holmes?” Fernsby called out to him. “If you could choose your ideal bird, what would she be like?”
He blinked, surprised at both his inclusion and the question. It was not as though he had not thought about it before. He would want someone intelligent, of course. Someone whose mind could keep up with his, someone who was a good conversationalist, who didn’t mind violin music and a little mess, someone who… But the face under the wedding veil had always been blank. “I doubt there is a woman out there who can keep up with me.”
“What are you, an invert?”
Kingston sniggered and said, “Then I pity the man that ends up with him. Imagine having to listen to him drone on and on about deductions every time they go to bed!”
Loud laughter went up amongst the boys. They were rolling on the grass now, one of them accidentally smacking the other with a wayward arm, everyone dying of the thought of Sherlock with - with -
Sherlock slammed his book shut, his ears burning. The boys continued to jeer as he stood up and left. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. They can be loud and crude all they want over the softer emotions, but Holmes knew that there was only cold logic in store for him, and he was not about to waste time pursuing… romantic liaisons when there was a world to learn and deduce from.
He is, was, and will be alone. There was contentment to be found in that.
Dinner at the Mikotoba household was generally quiet affairs. The five of them, Yuujin, his mother, his father, his two younger sisters, at the dining table, chopsticks extending and withdrawing as they reached for grilled eel or sliced cucumbers. But last week had been Yuujin’s fifteenth birthday and now a strange conversation was taking place, one that made him shift uncomfortably on his cushion. His sisters gave each other wicked grins when their parents were not looking.
He had known, of course, that eventually a match would be made. Some of his older classmates had already attended omiai events, but the idea of it applying to himself made his stomach twist something fierce. He kept his head lowered and tried to disappear into himself.
“The Takahashis have three daughters who might be of the right age,” his mother said. “Proper girls, all of them.”
“Yes, we ought to keep them in mind,” his father agreed. “The Suzukis?”
His mother made a noise of derision. “One of the Suzukis - side branch but still a Suzuki nonetheless - ran away with a foreigner. I am surprised his mother did not die of shame.”
Yuujin chewed on his rice and said nothing.
His mother must have thought the grimace on his face meant something else, because she gave him a sympathetic look. “We will find the right one for you, of course. Someone with a solid family background. Someone who will be a good wife to a doctor when you eventually take over your father’s clinic.”
He would be lying if he said he never thought about his future partner before. He would like someone kind of course - that was the most important thing. He would like someone he could talk with. People often mistook his silence for apathy, his listening for indifference. He would like someone to laugh with, to have fun with, someone he would enjoy spending the rest of his life with. He wanted… Yuujin’s face heated up and he shoved more eel into his mouth. These were not proper thoughts to be having. Besides, nothing of what he wanted were yamato nadeshiko traits, which only showed how out of his depth he was.
His parents continued to converse with each other. They did not glance at him again or ask for his opinion.
Yuujin’s life spun out in front of him, a bolt of fabric laid out, predetermined, its patterns chosen by someone else. His duty was to his parents, then later the wife they would choose for him, then to his children. There would be no surprises, no adventure, no choice of his own.
He was - he could learn to find contentment in that.
They stumbled into 221B wheezing from laughter. Holmes had an arm slung around Mikotoba’s shoulder, and Mikotoba’s arm was around Holmes’ waist. Mikotoba’s chest hurt and his breath came in sharp gasps, but then he caught Holmes’ gaze, and he doubled over laughing again.
“Mi - Mi - Mi -” The fact that Holmes could not even say Mikotoba’s full name should not be as funny as it was. Finally, disentangling from him, Holmes took in a wobbly breath and managed out, “Mikoto -” before dissolving into giggles.
Tonight’s case had been a roaring success. They were bruised, a little battered, Mikotoba really ought to look at the cuts on Holmes’ hand later and his own forehead sported a nasty gash. They had faced six assailants, and yet when the two of them fought together, back to back, each covering the other’s weakness, neither had faltered.
Holmes made a gangly flail with his arms. “Your toss, dear fellow!”
Oh - oh no, Mikotoba could not laugh anymore, he was going to split apart at this point. “That is not - not even close - I cannot -” He tried to imitate his partner’s boxing, that vicious, glorious right hook, but his attempt was just as poor as Holmes’ was of him. “Your punches -”
Holmes had to hold onto the kitchen table at that point, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth, eyes watering.
The settee and armchairs were waiting for them, but they both collapsed next to each other on the carpet, limbs perhaps a little closer than they would have usually allowed themselves. Slowly, their giddiness trickled out of them, but not without a few broken snickers and, once, staring into each other’s eyes, Holmes had chortled so hard he snorted, and both of them started laughing all over again.
Holmes’ cheeks were pink from joy, his usually carefully combed back hair ruffled at the edges, and his brilliant eyes were shining with glee. He was sparkling, and there was nothing Mikotoba liked to see more.
“I wish I could spend the rest of my life with you like this,” Holmes said. He had said it casually, meaninglessly, the kind of babble that came from an adrenaline high, where words were simply said and discarded as one rushed into the next thought.
And maybe Holmes would have moved onto his next thought. But Mikotoba’s face must have betrayed something, because Holmes’ careless smile had frozen in its place, and his lips parted. Nothing came out.
Mikotoba should have been afraid. Should have been terrified of the depth of his own echoing emotions. But here, now, he was given his choice, and he knew what he wanted.
“There are many things I am not good at,” Mikotoba said gently. He reached over and took Holmes’ hand in his. “But if you are willing, then please. Let me accompany you.”
