Chapter Text
Sherlock was bored.
That’s how most of these things start isn’t it? With Sherlock being bored and doing something stupid.
This particular something stupid took the form of a teenage Sherlock walking across the high rocks near to his family's estate, explicitly because Mycroft had told him not to go through the forest by himself. Idiot; he was 17, nearer to an adult than a child.
What could possibly be of interest in the forest anyway? They were in the middle of Suffolk for God’s sake. It wouldn’t be as boring if there was anything in the woods instead of the useless badgers, squirrels and assorted birds. Bears, now there was an animal worth observing. But, alas, he was stuck with a milder variation of wildlife.
Also sheep. Lots and lots of sheep. Why his family had decided to live near a farm was beyond him but there it was and no amount of sulking would shift Mummy’s position and so there they were likely to remain. God, he hated sheep. Sherlock had lived under the impression that they were the embodiment of stupidity until he’d purposefully said so to one when he was 9. It then proceeded to chase him up into a tree and Mycroft had to come and fetch him down, a fact he hadn’t let Sherlock forget. After the incident, he’d always kept as far away from the farm as possible, hence another reason why the woods were preferable to anywhere else in the grounds.
After a few moments clambering, he was balanced precariously on one of the highest boulders, looking down at the rolling, green countryside.
Calm. Peaceful. Not a person for miles.
Hateful, Hateful, Hateful.
Luckily, he was only being imprisoned here for as long as it took Mycroft and Mummy to get annoyed and send him back to boarding school for the new term.
Then he would be free again and it would be brilliant, skiving classes and running through London. His beautiful, brilliant city. His kingdom. But first he had to get out of here and to do that, he had to piss off Mycroft without him realising that he was being pissed off on purpose.
“Excuse me but will you get down from there!”
Sherlock whirled round. Interesting. The person was hidden behind the trees but the voice rang clearly to where he was stood.
“Why should I?”
The person sighed. “Because you could get hurt up there, you great idiot.” It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. Must everyone treat him as a child?
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
“Well you look like a child to me,” the frankly irritating voice replied. Fine. Fine! He’d get down off the stupid rocks and go speak to the unknown person face to face.
He scrambled down, perfectly balanced off the first few rocks. However, there was a slight puddle that wasn’t full factored in and well-
“Ow,” Sherlock shouted, looking at the cut on his right forearm. It wasn’t bad but it still stung and it was bleeding. He sighed and decided he was going to have to sacrifice his scarf.
“Oh my gods, are you okay?” Just like that, a man was in front of him, the holder of the voice. He was only slightly taller than Sherlock, with ruffled silvering hair (despite his apparent youth, he was about Mycroft’s age by Sherlock’s assessment) and warm brown eyes. He was also wearing a green tunic and tan ¾ lengths. He also appeared to have glittering, paper thin wings behind him, in a dark shade of green, like an evergreen tree.
“Hello? Please tell me you didn’t hit your head, oh please. I’ve really got some important stuff to do and I can’t deal with a concussion as well.”
"I’m not sure. You look..." Sherlock trailed off.
"Yes?" The winged man looked warily.
"Well, you look almost like an oversized fairy. You have wings," Sherlock waved a hand in explanation. Maybe he did hit his head. He hoped the damage wasn’t permanent. Or maybe it would prove an interesting psychological study.
"Fairy, huh? Is that what your lot are calling us now?" The man/ fairy/ unknown entity asked, looking annoyed.
Sherlock frowned. Clearly this creature was not as unfamiliar to him as he was to it.
"What else have you been called?" he asked.
"Oh, they change every week or so. Imp, Pixie, Sprite, Gnome! Can you believe it? What about this," he gestured to himself, "screams garden dwelling mud scraper with fewer manners than a bothered badger? Even been called a Hobbit once. That's one of your lots creations isn't it?"
Sherlock had to confess he had never heard of a 'Hobbit' before but no one else was to know that, especially this entity, so he nodded and then asked, rather exasperated, "Well what are you then?"
"I am not a what! I am a who I will have you know. My name is Greg Lestrade, Defender of the realm. Who or what are you?"
Sherlock drew himself up to his full, (nearly) domineering height. "Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective." He was fairly sure that it was only a matter of time; if only the Yard took him more seriously.
“Hmmm, haven’t heard of one of those before. I should probably bring you in, get that cut looked at,” Lestrade speculated.
“What?”
But he didn’t get an answer and Lestrade was already striding towards the woods. Well, it certainly beat standing around all day and this new thing, for want of a better definition, was the most interesting occurrence since last term's dissection module.
“What does a Consulting Detective do exactly?” The unexpected question broke the silence. Sherlock had been trying to deduce the person in front of him (rather difficult not knowing the species, though not impossible) and, more importantly, where they were going (they were headed North East, away from the house, which in Sherlock’s opinion was perfectly fine). Sherlock suspected that he was being mocked but Lestrade actually looked curious.
“Well when the people are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” He braced himself for the derisive or incredulous looks but the ‘hmm’ that followed was more speculative.
“So what do they consult you on?”
Sherlock was slightly taken aback but answered, still cautiously, “Problems and Puzzles are what I prefer. Murder cases are my favourite.” See what he made of that.
“You’re like a defender then?” At Sherlock’s confused expression, Lestrade amended, “I think you call them Police? Is that right?”
“In a way. But the police are often idiots. They won’t let me consult properly.”
“Hey, don’t insult them. That’s like calling me an idiot.” Sherlock made a noise that must have sounded like an affirmative. He felt the hit round the head was unnecessary.
The silence returned but it was less tense than before. There wasn’t a discernible path that he could see but Lestrade seemed to be calm. He suspected that there was another way for these people to find their way around the forest, possibly heightened senses, to an animal like level, though whether this was sight or smell Sherlock couldn’t tell. However, he didn’t rule out familiarity with the path and surrounding area as a possible cause. He usually preferred to work out the problem himself but without the necessary data it was useless. Finally conceding that he would have to ask Lestrade, he was just about to turn to him when something else caught his eye. Through the trees, there were sounds like a city, bustling away and a light pattern that suggested a clearing. But Sherlock wasn’t focusing on that.
What he was focusing on was the figure illuminated directly in front of them.
He had cropped blonde hair and was a head smaller than Lestrade. He held a similar stance, suggesting the same ‘defender’ background but was holding a woven bag that looked suspiciously similar to a medical kit from the symbol on the front. His skin was tanned, probably from the amount of time spent in the sun and his ears had a pointed edge that, looking at Lestrade, seemed to be a common feature. His wings, still paper thin, were a deep blue, like the ocean in early evening. Whereas Lestrade looked more Mycroft’s age, John appeared to be only a few years older than Sherlock himself, though he didn’t know whether that counted for anything (these creatures may have an alternate aging process and to theorise without fact was always dangerous). He was dressed in the same tunic and trouser combination as Lestrade but was wearing what seemed to be a knitted jumper over the top.
But this was all peripheral. It was his eyes. Eyes that were captivating and mysterious, a deep blue to match his wings. Although they seemed to assess, it was not in the deconstructing way that Sherlock's often did. More as if he was looking through the outward pretence and into the soul, as if he could see and knew you. Deeply. Intimately. Sherlock had never felt more exposed than he did in that moment, as if he was 7 instead of 17. When they locked eyes, that first cursory gaze, he knew he had never seen anyone so interesting, so beautiful, so enthralling than in that moment.
This was dangerous. His brother’s words; ‘a dangerous disadvantage’.
Sherlock had never been afraid of a little danger.
“John! Didn’t expect to find you out here,” Lestrade’s happy shout broke off Sherlock’s inner monologue.
“You were gone for a while; we were beginning to get worried. But I see that your problem is distinctly larger than anticipated.” John’s voice was warm and comforting (like tea Sherlock's brain supplied, illogically) and the grin he sent Sherlock’s way was positively heart stopping. Oh God, he was going soft of all things. If Mycroft ever heard of this (which he most emphatically wasn’t going to) he would never hear the end of this.
“And that is where you are wrong my friend,” Lestrade pointed to Sherlock, “this idiot's gone and got himself injured. Names Sherlock. Think you could help out?”
Sherlock scowled but Lestrade wasn’t looking. Idiot indeed.
“Well technically it wasn’t my fault. If someone hadn’t been sneaking around, then I wouldn’t have fallen over in the first place.”
“Well if someone hadn’t been climbing where they weren’t allowed-“
“Alright ladies, settle down,” John mediated. “Come on, we’d better get you somewhere with better supplies before I start poking around.”
Sherlock trailed John and Lestrade, who were chatting casually, John about his morning as a ‘healer’ (which Sherlock assumed was like a medical professional, so technically his deduction still held, if you ignore the semantics) and Lestrade about his day before their unexpected meeting.
He garnered some odd looks and whispers from the inhabitants as he walked through what he would term a village; wooden huts with tiny windows and decorated with wildflowers that looked like something directly from those fairytales his father had once attempted to read him before learning that mysteries were more his style. The unexpected memory startled him for a moment. He hadn’t thought of his father in years, not since he’d-.
John and Lestrade disappeared into one of the buildings and Sherlock followed, finding himself in a simple but strangely comfy living room. A few chairs, a bookshelf, a sparse fireplace and an archway leading to a larger kitchen.
“Take a seat,” John indicated to a sofa at the far edge and walked through the arch.
Sherlock went and perched but Lestrade hung back in the doorway. “John, I’ve got to go. Sally will kill me if I don’t drop in. I’ll see you later alright?”
There was a muffled “Okay,” from the kitchen and Lestrade turned to Sherlock.
“It was nice meeting you but a piece of advice? Stick to the paths next time.” With that he walked out the door and Sherlock was left alone. Alone with John.
He suddenly found it difficult to breathe, his pulse was quickening, his palms felt unusually sweaty and oh. John was stood in front of him, with a sweet smile. All the oxygen had clearly left the room, left the atmosphere.
Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care.
"So let's have a look at you,” he said, holding his hand out, waiting. Sherlock stared at him for a minute, captivated by the face that was suddenly on level with his. John raised an eyebrow, faint amusement on his face. Sherlock jolted and with a quick “Oh, sorry,” put his arm out for the doctor’s inspection. His mind then short circuited again with the reminder that he hadn’t said sorry to anyone in 4 years.
‘You sure you didn’t hit your head? Lestrade said it was just your arm but you kind of zoned out a little there,” John chuckled while he began to look at Sherlock’s arm.
“Er, no. No it was just some rocks I scraped against.”
“Must have been some pretty dangerous rocks, judging by these. What were you doing?”
Sherlock contemplated the question.
On the one hand, he didn’t care what other people thought of him, as everyone was too boring and dull to understand anything he did and his thought process behind doing said things.
On the other, he really, really wanted John to like him.
“Er nothing. Well I was doing things, obviously but most people don’t understand the importance you see and I was just trying to prove to Mycroft because he’s an idiot-” Sherlock was saved from his rambling as John did something so surprising that even Sherlock was rendered speechless. Very, very carefully, John lifted the damaged arm up to his face, so close that Sherlock was certain he was going to kiss it. He stopped a breath away and slowly blew onto his arm, his eyes closing, as in concentration.
His breath was cool and caused Sherlock’s arm to tingle slightly. It also happened to be ice blue. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think, could only stay still and wait. The ice air wrapped around the injured section of his arm, seemed to almost buzz in the quiet of the living room. Then it disappeared, as if it had never existed at all and Sherlock was left with nothing but a tiny mark to indicate where the cut had been.
John's inescapable eyes were suddenly turned on him again, a satisfied smile lighting them. Sherlock merely gaped as he tried to explain, rationally, what had just happened. John laughed at his expression and squeezed his hand gently where it was still placed around Sherlock’s arm.
“See, almost as good as new. Used to be able to make that totally clear but not since-” He trailed off shrugging and the light that glimmered in his eyes faded slightly.
“Well I think it’s very impressive,” Sherlock said quickly, finding his voice again. “You must let me investigate your biology at some point.” He didn’t realise what he had said before it was too late. The instigation of another possible meeting was too much for many human counterparts, never mind a species that may be highly suspicious of any contact whatsoever. All for an investigation as well, as if he hadn’t alienated him enough.
His mind began plotting the quickest exit. The door would maintain an air of normalcy but the window was looking quite good at this point. As long as he vaulted the window box correctly and the grass was as springy as it appeared then minimal injury could be sustained and he may even make it home before he decided to cringe in embarrassment. In fact-
“I’d be happy to show you. Not enough people appreciate it I think.”
What?
“I mean, not today, I’ve still got to go to the surgery and cover for a mate who’s on holiday leave but another time definitely.”
What?
“But only if you wanted to of course. I mean there are books and stuff but I just thought-” John looked uncertain and had removed his hand from its comforting position on Sherlock’s arm. This was, of course unacceptable.
“No, I’m sure I will find your teaching,” brilliant, fantastic, and illuminating, “agreeable.” Sherlock almost grimaced at his own words. Whoever had instilled the irritating formal way of speaking (coughMycroftcough) was going to pay dearly. Luckily John laughed at his awkward phrasing.
“I look forward to it then and I hope do hope you find it, ‘agreeable’, as you say,” he smiled before stopping, licking his lips and then taking a deep breath to continue. “You’re very intriguing Sherlock.”
Sherlock felt his skin flush and internally cursed his pale complexion. Outwardly, he arched an eyebrow and cautiously said, “What do you mean by that?”
But John, infuriating, intriguing John merely smiled a secret little smirk. “That is for me to know, and for you, if you’re lucky, to find out.” Sherlock felt himself smile in return, both content with a silent conversation of facial gestures. But Sherlock knew he couldn’t stay there forever, much as he’d like to. John seemed to sense his growing reluctance and finally said “You going to run?”
“I’m afraid so. Family,” he left as he really didn’t want to go into that conversation but John seemed to understand anyway.
“Hang on; I’ll go get you something for that arm. Sometimes it can twinge a little,” John said, before standing and disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock moved towards the door, taking the slowest pace he could and, deciding to act on impulse, lounged against the door in a way that made most of the females at his school (when he actually went) swarm around him and his mother say “Sherlock! Posture!”
This appeared to have the desired effect as when John returned, he momentarily stopped and stared. Sherlock smirked and John shook himself, handing over a bottle.
“That’ll help. You know. If it hurts. At all. Which it shouldn’t. But just in case.”
Sherlock reshuffled his priorities; a stammering John was his new favourite thing.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, making sure his voice was pitched slightly lower than normal. He noticed it often had the same effect as the sophisticated sprawl, often good for getting what he wanted. John visibly gaped for a moment before snapping his mouth shut and straightening up.
Sherlock saw the next few moments in slow motion.
He saw John move forward until he was standing directly in front of him. He saw and felt John's hand curling around the nape of his neck. He saw the slight hesitance in those captivating eyes.
Soft lips brushed against his in a chaste kiss.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It was beautiful and perfect and felt like it contained the universe and where the bloody hell was he going?
John was looking at him with concern, his hands falling until they were only light on his waist. “Sherlock? Oh gods, are you okay?”
What was he talking about? Why was he even talking? Surely he could tell there were better things he could be doing with that mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask did I? I feel like an idiot, I-”
John was (thankfully) cut off from his rambling by Sherlock grabbing his face and pulling him closer again. They locked lips, more heated this time, a slight hint of tongues, one set of hands running through dark curls, another clutching onto a jumper. Sherlock began slowly backing John up against the wall when- Buzz, Buzz. Buzz, Buzz.
John’s head slumped onto Sherlock’s shoulder as they broke off the kiss.
“What, what is that?” Sherlock said, coughing slightly at his gravelly voice.
“A call, for me. There must be some emergency somewhere, I’ll have to go check it out,” John said reluctantly, snuggling into to crook of Sherlock’s neck.
“You’ll have to go then,” Sherlock said, not moving an inch. The noise John made was unintelligible, a mix between an ‘ugh’ and a ‘fffffff’.
“I’ll come back later. You still have to show me that magic of yours you know,” he whispered into John’s ear, nipping it slightly.
Another noise.
“That is true,” John agreed as Sherlock moved away. “Actually, here,” he continued, grabbing a pen, “Call me. You know, when you’re free from your adventuring.” He scrawled a number onto Sherlock’s uninjured arm. They smiled at each other for another few heartbeats, before the incessant buzzing became a problem.
“You sure you can get home okay?” John asked.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you John. For everything.”
***
Later Sherlock would stretch out onto his bed, still tracing the number (although he’d written it out on a piece of paper he couldn’t bring himself to wash it off) and feeling a tingle on his lips, as if they had been newly kissed. He would call John tomorrow...tomorrow...