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I. chocolate biscuits
John is used to waking up in the middle of the night thinking that he’s hearing an intruder, noises which always turn out to be yowling cats or traffic. Having been assured by his psychologist that this sort of hyper-awareness is a not-uncommon coping strategy, accepts it as a current annoyance of his present living circumstances. Along with the Tube strikes, and the premature summer heat wave - at least that’s due to break soon, with the weather forecasters speaking of rain before tomorrow morning.
But if it makes him feel better to amble out of the bedroom into the kitchen at two o'clock in the morning, so be it. If it makes him feel better to bring along his illegal army revolver, well, that’s his business. Psychologists aren’t confessionals, and they don’t need to know everything.
This time, though, the sounds persists and grows a little louder even; someone’s mucking around in the kitchen, John’s positive. With the easy casual air of one who knows there’s no threat and doesn’t much much care if the threat should happen to be there after all, he creeps in with all the stealth he can muster.
To his surprise, there is someone pottering round there, someone who runs for it towards the rear window and has almost made it by the time John tackles him. It takes about fifteen seconds to subdue the intruder, and another ten to figure out how to kick the light switch on while he’s holding them in a very awkward headlock and pointing the gun safely away, but John works it eventually. Easy to guess his adversary was fairly lithe, but he’s unprepared for just how young that is: ten or fifteen years less than John himself, perhaps. Or maybe that’s just the effect of the pose; the kid is clutching his biscuit tin tightly in both arms and looks more than unusually vulnerable even for someone pressed flat against a carpet.
His voice, though, is anything but.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” the teenager says, with a noticeable abstraction that penetrates John’s focus with its dry calm. “If you were going to, you’d have done it already.”
“I could call the police,” John says.
“But you don’t want to. You haven’t even looked at the phone, or shouted for help, or anything, because you think you can do it yourself and you don’t much like the idea of your life being in the hands of other people…again? Yeah, again.” The kid’s gabbling, but his quick bright eyes never leave John’s face, even while they scan the rest of the room. Then they widen. “You’ve shot up your flat, even. Are those revolver bullets in the wall? I was positive you couldn’t get them legally."
John winces. Mrs Hudson had sworn after the Victoria Regina incident that if he ever did anything like that again, she’d throw him out herself with no need for calling in the police. A fate not worth pondering; she’s been the one soul to show some consideration for his otherwise uninteresting, rather tasteless reacclimation to civilian life.
All right. A threat you’re not going to carry through is a bad threat.
"What did you break in here for, anyway? Just to steal my biscuit tin?”
“No! Just the biscuits. I just…I was hungry, that’s all.” He wiggles out a hand out from under John’s knee to rub at his stomach, which is audibly growling (how can anyone possibly still be hungry with the adrenaline from a near-death experience jostling around, John wonders, but the teenager is cool as can be). “Everyone else in this building has left their window open to catch the breeze and yours was the only one first-story flat that was shut, so I picked yours to burgle. It was more of a challenge that way.”
John stares, lowers the gun. “If you’re serious…”
“Usually.”
“Fine. We’re having them with milk. Eating digestives dry is barbaric.”
The chocolate has melted and gone runny in the heat, but considering the problems the two of them are having right now, that’s fairly low on the list.
II. chocolate cake
It was raining by the time they’d finished. John’s not going to kick a teenager out into the rain.
So now it’s next morning, and still raining, and as it’s Saturday he has even less inclination to get up and go anywhere. Instead he warms up some leftovers in the microwave, just some rice and chicken tikka masala that hasn’t gone off yet. The smell draws Sherlock into the kitchen, still wrapped in the flannel blanket he was kipping in on the sofa. They share the food and get through the rest of the story. Like most young people, the teenager suffers the mild delusion of thinking that he’s inherently more interesting than anybody the wrong side of twenty-five could possibly imagine. There might be a point to it in this case, John admits to himself.
They eat. He presses for the details lightly passed over the night before.
“So mother told me that she never wanted to see me again, you see. I’d already packed a rucksack and I’d timed it properly, I caught the next bus out ten minutes later. It’s outside under your rhododendrons. Hope that’s all right.”
He’s not crying. He is very deliberately not crying, not making a bid for sympathy, has in fact been practicing how not to react emotionally when somebody asked for details, John is certain.
“It’s fine, we can get it after breakfast. And this.. you were thrown out just because you were gay, then?” He’s striving to maintain composure about that, but doesn’t really want to; the idea that some people have to be calm about horrors like this, just because there isn’t any particular choice for them to do otherwise, appalls him.
“It’s not a big problem on the global scale, what happened to me,” Sherlock replies, chewing determinedly on a tough lump of chicken. “I mean, proportionately. It’s not as though I didn’t have a fair idea what was going to happen, either, you don’t grow up in a house like that without knowing what you’re in for. I just wish…” - and now the tears are coming; he rubs a few drops roughly away with the back of one thin hand - “I do sort of wish that I’d told Moriarty.”
“Moriarty was…”
“Oh. Not anything. I never even told him, I think he’s in Ireland now. But…you know. Gorgeous, sarcastic, almost as clever as I was, and I just didn’t dare say a thing to him. Not until it was too late. It was the realisation I’d let someone like him slip just because I was too frightened that made me have to take it seriously. That kind of denial's not for me.”
“And that’s when it happened, then.” John studies his plate, not looking up. He doesn’t want to look. Hopeless adolescent longings are one thing; this is something else entirely.
“And that’s when it happened,” Sherlock concurs, in tones that are equal measure pitying and self-pitying. “I’ve let down the Holmes family line, etcetera, etcetera, wouldn’t be here if my illustrious forebearers had behaved so horribly, a lot that I don’t need to bore you with. She suggested therapy, but I thought running off to London was a much better idea. My brother was supposed to be here but he’s gone and got himself killed in the meantime, so I’ve been sleeping rough for a few nights. It was almost two years now and nobody told me.” Sherlock doesn’t look mournful. John supposes that, given the family circumstances, a certain hardness of character is to be expected. God knows he doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t even know how to react to being told; this is stuff for trained social workers, surely, except he doesn’t feel like calling them in yet.
They’ve both finished. Sherlock scrapes at his plate, all but licking every bit of sustenance off its surface.
“Want some chocolate cake?”
“For breakfast?”
“Yeah. I need to finish it off today, it’d be a help.”
It’s a transparent ploy, but it’s easier than talking. Nobody expects you to talk soothingly when you’re a doctor, especially in a warzone. It works, anyway; Sherlock finishes off the chocolate cake in record time. Black frosting darkens his mouth with a curious sensuality.
III. chocolate bar
GCSE results are due in two days. Sherlock’s fretting about it, quietly; he doesn’t dare show up at his school for fear that his mother will find him there. But he needs the results as soon as possible, to know what his next move should be; waiting for the mail isn’t really an option.
John’s been letting him stay on a strictly temporary basis until that nerve-racking rite of passage is over (it’s odd having another toothbrush in the bathroom, though the white noise of someone else’s snoring seems to aid his sleep if anything), and has been racking his brains trying to figure out how to handle this. So far his best idea has been a police escort to ward off trouble. Molly from down in pathology passes along the name of one Gregory Lestrade as a kind-hearted chap, or at least as kind as London detective-inspectors get.
Sherlock’s torn on the issue; he’s understandably wary of anyone hearing about his case, but just as obviously has a weird fascination with the subject. It turns out that the teenager is interested in a police career, which makes John more curious about the whole thieving-from-flats escapade; when confronted, Sherlock admits that he was hoping to get a little experience of the prison system before it had to go on his permanent record.
That’s still a terrible reason for breaking into someone’s house, but John doesn’t know that someone who keeps an eye out for deals on illegal ammunition ought to be moralising about the ways and means of gaining useful life experience.
In any event, they both enjoy the trip to Scotland Yard; Lestrade is gruff but basically good-natured and promises to help them out, bears up under intense questioning about his work and how he does it, and wins Sherlock’s undying gratitude by giving him a look round the building. John stays in the waiting room reading a few medical journals he feels obliged to keep abreast of, but thanks him in a quiet moment afterwards.
“I try to help troubled kids like that, when I can,” Lestrade explains. “My home life wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses at that age either. Good for you for helping out.”
“It was by accident, mostly,” John explains with a shrug. They have mutually agreed to lie about their original meeting, having invented a more plausible and less incriminating cover story, which he can’t remember at present. Dammit. Fortunately, Lestrade’s not asking details, being lost in thought himself.
“He seems bright enough,” comes an eventual comment. “I can pass his name along, make sure a foster family with patience gets him.”
“They’d never stand him. There’s chemistry experiments. He’s insomniac and sarcastic, he plays screechy melodies at four in the morning.” It’s a little difficult explaining what, exactly, marks off Sherlock from being different from other teenagers when put as blandly as that. Maybe he isn’t, and John just hasn’t spent enough time around other young people lately to make a guess on the subject. "On the violin," he adds, wondering if that will make it sound more or less plausible.
God. This whole thing would be making him feel prematurely old, if keeping up with Sherlock didn’t require the nerves and speed of a twenty-year old. It’s lucky he’s kept as fit as during his army days.
“Hmm. Maybe an independent flat? Social services might be able to help out.”
“Yeah. We’re in London, not Birmingham. Someone his age is never going to make enough to stay in housing, not in an economy like this.”
Lestrade shrugs. “London isn’t the end-all, be all. He might be happier in Birmingham, you never know.”
John has his own opinions about that and Sherlock’s independent streak, but keeps them to himself. No point telling off this rather well-meaning man.
When the day comes, though, Sherlock’s second-guesses himself and asks if he can just go in and collect the results alone (not entirely to the surprise of his companions). He does so without incident. It’s practically anti-climatic.
Sherlock’s done well, especially in chemistry, with results good enough that there’ll be no problem with uni. But he’ll have to stay in school for a few years yet, of course.
Mrs Holmes never appeared. If she’d come, if she’d decided to bite the bullet and reconcile with her son, now would have been the ideal opportunity, but it’s slipped past…and now, with nothing worth remaining home for, Sherlock plays nervously with the envelopes in the back seat and talks about how determined he is to stay in London. In the absence of any more appropriate deciding authority, John’s determined to make sure that happens. This is not what he’s cut out for, but someone has to do it.
In the meantime: chocolate. The Green & Black bar he slips into the boy’s pocket isn’t much, but it’s something. This is a good day. It needs a little celebration.
Luckily, it turns out that Sherlock really, really likes sea salt flavour.
Iv. chocolate ice cream
Sherlock’s eating habits are odd.
John has been observing that he won’t eat at all in front of other people, and he’ll only eat moderately even when the two of them are alone in the flat. But if he goes off and leaves Sherlock alone in the flat the refrigerator will be ransacked by the time he returns, denudated of food and drink. The older man likes cooking and consequently finds this behaviour an irritant - it’s nice being able to see other people appreciate your craft - but if that’s what it takes to make sure the boy gets some food, it’ll have to do. Eventually, he hopes, Sherlock will feel more comfortable. In the meantime John just makes certain to keep the kitchen stocked and make sure he’s out fairly often.
Maybe that’s part of it, letting the boy feel secure in his present accommodation. There’s a kind of logic there.
The treatment works; within six weeks he can see that Sherlock’s thin frame is filling out comfortably, and one day he finds the boy fussing angrily with the belt loop on his trousers, a set of slim black jeans that have quite a remarkable effect on his arse.
“This was my favourite pair,” Sherlock says, holding his breath and yanking tightly. “And I know they didn’t shrink, I left them on the clothesline to dry instead of using the dryer.”
“Growth spurt?” John suggests, to spare feelings. “Late puberty. You’re not too old for it yet.”
“I didn’t think you were a paediatrician.”
“I don’t have to be to know a basic thing like that. We could go out to the shops today, pick you up a few things before school begins. I’ve been meaning to pick up some new shirts myself.” It’s not quite a lie. John’s never met a man who couldn’t do with a few more comfortable dress shirts, that holy grail of department stores. Though he has no especial hopes of finding any such today.
So they head out down Baker Street, wander into the Marks and Spencers and then out onto Oxford Street. Sherlock’s careful with the money; he’s clearly uncomfortable not just relying on his own resources, even though he hasn’t any money of his own after a few weeks in the capital (not that either of them have very much, but that’s a delicate subject he’s determined not to bring up unless absolutely necessary). Even after John patiently explains that a rucksack of clothing isn’t enough to be getting on with on a long-term basis, if only because it’s more efficient to run a full washing machine than a half-empty one.
Socks. Shirts. Less tightly-fitting trousers. They are accepted with a certain glumness of spirit and an almost Calvinist rejection of pleasure, with Sherlock seemingly intent only on the practical aspects of the purchases.
“But don’t you want anything else?” John presses. Dammit, if he’s going to be laying out this kind of money, it might as well be for items that his ward actually wants.
“Not really. No. Clothing’s not really my thing anyway.”
“Something. We’re not going until you find something you honestly like.”
“I don’t want to be imposing on you, all right? You’re doing too much for me already.” He sounds uninterested enough, but that keen reserved expression softens into a very childish hopefulness for a moment. John catches sight of what’s attracted Sherlock’s attention; it’s an new shop that sells dashing, dapper coats.
Coats? All right. If that’s what it takes.
He drags the teenager inside, and there’s no trouble after that; John watches with mild amusement as Sherlock softly oohs and ahs over the trenchcoats, fondling overcoats with the air of someone who’s been trained into valuing quality well over quality. He flirts with the idea of black leather, tries on a flowing black cloak with a red silk lining. Then they find the Belstaff. It’s a joy just to watch, seeing Sherlock bury his face in the soft tweed, holding the material close before wrapping it around himself with infinite delicacy, staring eagerly at his reflection in the three-way mirror. It does suit him.
It also costs an astronomical sum. One thousand, three hundred and fifty pounds, not including VAT.
But John can see how well-suited the fit is for Sherlock, how much self-confidence it lends the awkward teenager; the outfit seems almost a theatrical costume, so sudden is the change it inspires. Hitherto he’s been thinking of the boy as a victim, someone in need of protection and care, someone who’ll eventually need to be turned over to more capable hands. It dawns on him now that this isn’t the case; Sherlock’s sturdy, self-reliant, and will get through regardless. He just needs a little support, that’s all. Support and a lot of good meals.
“This would be gorgeous…” Sherlock murmurs. "But I can’t see it.“
"I’d think about it, if you honestly wanted it. Clean socks aren’t very exciting, I know.”
“Right, but this isn’t a I’m-helping-out a stray child for a few days while I help them with social services sort of coat, this is the kind of purchase when you’re making a statement to the world. An important coat. A committment sort of coat.” He doesn’t need to look back at John; they can see each other in the mirrors perfectly well.
“So take care of it.” John gently removes it from the boy’s back, enjoying the weight of the fabric; it’s an unfamiliar style, to him of the army surplus jacket, but it’s good quality and warranted to wear. “You can’t wear it out of the shop until I’ve paid for it, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of it. In fact, I’ll demonstrate. You can take me out for ice cream while I’m wearing it.”
It’s a challenge. Sherlock’s testing him, experimentally pushing the limits, to see whether this new relationship will let him down like the old. John doesn’t allow himself to be baited. He simply pays for the coat and finds the closest ice cream stall, and pays for two cones.
And Sherlock lives up to his promise. Not a fleck of sweet, rich chocolate ice cream, dappled with hundreds and thousands, goes anywhere near that gorgeous new blue coat.
v. hot chocolate
“You’ve let yourself go, little brother.”
Sherlock harrumps but folds his arms protectively over his chest, and John is mildly startled to see that his weight has crept up even more lately.
Okay. So he’s let a teenager in his care get a little chubby. That’s not a crime.
Not a helpful thought just now. John strives to subdue his temper - that won’t do, not for handing Sherlock over to his missing-and-now-suddenly-restored family member, who is suave, slender, and supercilious in his manner. He’s been told an improbable tale about the man having fallen off a roof, bounced, and vanished for two years, and the only thing that’s helping him maintain any perspective on this very peculiar tale is that Sherlock clearly doesn’t believe a word of it either, except about the pretending to have been dead part.
Meantime, he’s been missing what Mycroft’s been saying: “-get rid of all that puppy fat soon enough, if you wanted. I’m going to be rather occupied in London, but the main estate in Sussex will do for you, won’t it?”
“I…,” Sherlock begins, and doesn’t continue. He’s frightened. John wants very much to reach out and take one of those pale violinist hands in his grasp, but doesn’t. Whatever happens now must be Sherlock’s choice without question.
It’s an opportunity for freedom, in a way. He could have his flat back. Go back to his casual bachelor ways, not having to think twice about inviting a date over or how much milk there is in the fridge.
As if he’d ever want to, but…he won’t stand in the boy’s way. Mycroft Holmes is well-heeled and can offer many more advantages than his own struggling position as occasional locum and ex-army doctor. He’s still seeing a psychologist, for god’s sake.
“I think I’d rather stay with John, if you don’t mind.”
“Unexpected,” Mycroft says, his eyebrows lifting. “Care to explain? Not emotionally, in nice rational terms we can all understand.”
Sherlock starts limping through an explanation, telling about how he’d been taken in when he had nowhere else to go, blah blah and so forth, and John wills him to keep talking while he thinks this through. Mycroft’s preparing a trap for him at the end, John can see; admit that he likes Sherlock and his interest will doubtless be made to sound purient, announce himself to be doing it just out of concern and Mycroft will be happy to take the concern off his hands. He can’t go up against governmental authority off his own bat with much hope of success.
“And anyway it won’t work. In a couple of months I’m of age, and then you can’t stop me.”
“Can’t is a very large word, Sherlock. I suggest you not use it around me unless you’re positive of what you’re saying.” That had been quite the wrong tack, John knows. Mycroft doesn’t look like he’s ever been told no in his life.
Sherlock gulps. “Yes, sir.”
“Better. Now, have you even thought to ask for John’s opinion yet?”
“He doesn’t need to,” John says stoutly. “He’s welcome to stay with me for as long as he likes, whenever he likes. I’d look after him.”
“It would save me a fair amount of trouble,” Myrcoft muses, and John realises that he’d stopped breathing only because he seems to have started again abruptly. “You’re positive you don’t want me to talk mother around?”
Sherlock shudders. “No. I think she’s the only person in the world who’d be less enthusiastic about that than I am.”
“I’m sure I could manage it, but…if you don’t care, it’s not worth the effort.” Mycroft yawns. “Well. If you’re convinced, I’ll give you an allowance. Come by at Christmas so I can bore your keeper with embarrassing tales of your childhood.”
“He’s not my keeper. Don’t make me bring up the pudding incident.”
“No."
"Pudding."
"Call truce, Sherlock. A lawyer will get in touch, John Watson. Rest assured you need not worry about a thing; my brother’s a better judge of character than he lets on.”
“Right,” John says, nodding, and muttering meaningless thank yous. They’ve almost reached the door, when - "Oh, one more thing?“
"Yes?”
“You’ve not done half bad for yourself, considering.”
And finally they escape from Whitehall into the open air. Which is unexpectedly brisk; they slip into a caffy to warm up. John orders hot drinks to sooth their nerves. Sherlock, who can’t stand coffee without mounds of sugar in it, asks for hot chocolate.
“For a moment there I was worried he was going to have me go on a diet,” Sherlock says, spooning the whipped cream off the top and eating it neat. “Can’t stand the idea. I’m hungry enough all the time as it is.”
“You’re still not that heavy for your height and peer group. Think of it as catching up.”
“If you say so. You wouldn’t have…”
“Yes?”
“For a bit there I thought you wanted me to go with him.”
“It might be a good idea. With the sort of plans you have -” plans for being a freelance, footloose detective, the only kind in the world - “being around the right sort of people might be good for you. Help your career along, that sort of thing.” He has an affection for Sherlock that’s strong enough to be unselfish.
“I know, I know, but…Lestrade does all right, you know? And he’s a detective.”
“Lestrade doesn’t have quite the sort of career I thought you had in mind.” And now it is difficult not to smile; Sherlock’s initial ideas of what detection is like seemed to revolve around excitingly high-speed chases, beautiful secret agents, and cleverness in lieu of grunt work. It is, John suspects, a highly romanticised view that’s slowly breaking down as he learns more about how Scotland Yard actually functions. Not that that’s changed Sherlock’s fascination with mysteries.
“Well. If it comes up, I won’t mind. But right now, I just want to be able to take care of myself after uni. I could take a couple of years in the police force and do something else after, maybe.”
“Talk to him about an internship or something, if the Met does that. I think he’d be interested in taking you on.”
“Maybe not. I’d have to be unofficial.”
“Unofficial consulting detective Holmes. It doesn’t have a bad ring to it.”
They talk for a long time, hashing out details and plans for Sherlock’s future. The boy’s going to go places, John is positive. Someone this clever will find a niche eventually.
And as for now?
Well, for now there’s autumnal winds and hot chocolate.
Not all is well with the world, but just now, he’ll settle for this.