Story Time: Amongst the Butterflies

[florfina]

Title: Amongst the Butterflies
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,143
Spoilers: Spoiling a child will set them up for defeat and disappointment. Good thing I didn't do it here!
Summary: Amongst the flowers and butterflies, two young boys confess some things they won't understand until it's too late. But during that one day in the park, when it was just Sherlock and John, nothing else mattered but making the other smile. When you find a friend as special as him, you do your best never to forget, no matter what comes up.
Notes/Warnings: I was reading a kid!fic where one of the boys just up and said, 'I love you!' to the other. As soon as I read that, I thought, OH MY GOD, I LOVED THAT. And so I wrote this.
Disclaimer: What do you mean butterflies may or may not be active during November? What do you mean I'm lazy for not doing that simple bit of research? Okay, fine. I know next to nothing about butterflies and the seasons (as I live in Hawaii, where we don't really have seasons), and so I'm hoping you just go along with that detail as I dunno how right/wronge I may possibly be.  There's a bonus at the end!!

The cool November air brushed gently against the cheeks of a small child, seven years of age and none more, as he ran as fast as his feet could carry him across the grass. In his sights was another little boy; green eyes, white-blond hair, wrapped snugly in a scarf knit by his mother. He was busy scratching at an ant trail along the tree when the shrill voice of Sherlock Holmes called to him.

"John! John, I found something!" He called out, breathlessly, as he stopped before his friend.

Young John Watson stood to greet him, the dark-headed boy with unruly hair-- which could do with a trim, Watson thought-- smiling as he grabbed John's wrist with his tiny hands.

"What is it?" He asked, being pulled away.

"I can't tell you, you have to see it for yourself."

"Is it another dead thing? I don't want--"

"No, no, John! It's important, and I need you to come see it."

They were both running at full speed in the direction of a small grassy knoll next to the pond. It was still a little ways off, but John's sudden sprits were making him hot.

"Where are we going? My legs are tired."

"If you'll just keep quiet, you'll find out. But since you asked, we're going to that pond. Where the dead tree is."

"But it smells there!"

"No it doesn't! Besides, there's flowers!"

Flowers! Those were beautiful things, thought John with a smile. Sherlock saw this and was soon grinning from ear-to-ear himself.

Holmes let go of Watson's wrist and jumped ahead, excitement animating his every move. Watson watched as the smaller boy removed his black overcoat, spreading it on the ground before a bushel of purple flowers, and kneeling down upon it. Watson stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"Here it is, John, come look." He patted the space next to him. John kneeled down on his friend's coat, noticing that Sherlock was only half on the cloth himself while John's knees were fully protected from the moistened soil. Together they leaned into the flowers, and gasped.

Very tiny and very delicate, two caterpillars joined munching on a leaf. They were covered in a layer of protective fuzz which was fine enough to catch small water droplets. They were like jewels glistening in the sunlight.

"How did you find these?" John asked, mystified.

"I was looking at the dirt."

His friend turned to him at this. "The dirt?"

"Yes; haven't you realized how much darker it is? I think it's exciting."

Watson laughed at this and turned back to the caterpillars. Sherlock was a bit dismayed at first, but soon forgave him as he saw the expression on his friend's face. He liked that expression; it was like finding something new and fantastic.

"Do you know what they're doing, John?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Umm... well it looks like they're... Oh! They're mating!" He shouted in amusement.

Holmes broke out in a fit of laughter. He also liked doing that. "Of course they're not, John! Caterpillars aren't responsible for reproduction, they're just babies. Anyone should know that!" He looked to Watson now, who returned his stare with a blank one. Holmes frowned, realizing that John didn't know what he was talking about. It made a lot of sense when Mycroft explained it to him earlier.

"Mycroft told me they turn into butterflies, after encasing themselves--"

"I know how butterflies work!" Shouted John, a bit angrier than he had intended too, but really, sometimes Sherlock was just too mean about some things.

Again he frowned, turning back to the little creatures. "They're eating the leaf and turning it into material for a cocoon. That way they'll turn into butterflies and can help the flowers grow." He said more humbly.

There was silence between the two. Holmes was feeling guilty for basically calling his best friend stupid, while Watson was sulking by drawing up his knees and refusing to give the stupid bugs his attention. However, when Holmes mentioned the flowers, he craned his neck to watch the bits of leaf disappear in that odd fashion.

"Is that true?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know, but it makes sense to me."

"How do they help the flowers grow?" He was looking at his friend now, eyes wide in curiosity and yearning to know the truth.

Holmes knew that they collected pollen and distributed it throughout the flowers, causing them to spread and mix amongst themselves, but he thought this a better answer: "Have you seen their works, John? When they finally do become butterflies, they will all gather round in group, flitting their paper-thin wings and forming pedals. They will stay like that until they die, but that's alright because they make the world beautiful."

Watson smiled at this, unraveling his limbs and regaining his spot next to Holmes. "I'm glad," was all he said.

Holmes looked at his friend, a slight blush over his cheeks from the chill, the wind pushing his hair in all directions. John Watson was someone special, Holmes declared, someone who didn't mind listening to all his theories and also didn't mind when said theories proved false. They didn't live together, they didn't go to school together, any yet they somehow managed to always be together. Whether it was a day in the park like today or visiting each other at their houses. Holmes didn't even remember how they met because that was so much less important then how they played and explored and had adventures. He's never called anyone friend before, mostly because he never wanted one. He always thought of himself as the same age as Mycroft and yet he was never allowed to get involved. But that was okay because he had his violin to practice, his theories to test, and his evidence to hide. He liked to read Mycroft's school books, too, but only after he reread all of his-- just incase he missed something important. He liked to stay in his room and read all day if he could, never once wishing to be outside with all the other children.

And then he met John.

He knew this, and thought this, as he looked at his friend now, elbows resting on his knees as he stared intently at the caterpillars nibbling away. They were interesting, but not new. Not to him.

But to John they were magnificent and charming and it was something spectacular Sherlock could teach him. He loved to sit and learn things from his friend because he was smart and John was a good listener.

Holmes' chest swelled as his smile broadened, threatening a laugh. He did so without restraint, in addition to throwing his arms around John's shoulders and holding him tight.

"You're my greatest friend, John," he said into his shoulder.

John hugged him back, squishing his cheek against Sherlock's. "And you're mine,"

"I know, I just wanted to tell you so you'd feel good."

"I do feel good," he whispered, releasing Holmes so he could lay on his back and watch the sky.

Holmes sat where he was for a moment before being pulled down next to Watson. They cuddled close again, Holmes resting his head next to Watson's while Watson wrapped his arms round his coatless-shoulders.

The clouds moved slowly across the sky, some parts faster then others, while some seemed to stay completely still. A bird flew overhead-- a raven, Holmes remarked-- and disappeared behind a tree. A few butterflies flitted across the flowers while the two caterpillars continued to munch their leaf. Watson mused aloud that the butterflies hovering round the flowers must have been left out and unable to turn into pedals. Holmes concurred, saying that they were the ones that whispered to the caterpillars, telling them how to become butterflies and how to later become a flower. So don't feel bad for them, Holmes soothed, they get to spread their knowledge and also they get to admire at everything.

This was a good explanation.

Some many minutes passed before Holmes shifted on his elbow and looked down at his friend. "I love you, John." He said proudly and without hesitation.

Watson blinked slowly, still looking up at the clouds before turning to Holmes. In a small but truthful voice, he said, "I love you too, Sherlock."

The two boys beamed at each other as the words tingled upon their lips. Holmes lowered himself back down again, only this time he threw an arm across Watson's chest and buried his face in the crook of his arm. "Are we in love, then?" He asked quietly.

"Yes," Replied Watson, picking at the cloth of Holmes' collar.

"We always have been in love,"

Watson nodded, rolling his shoulder beneath Holmes' weight. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, his friend's dark brown curls tickling his nose. It smelled sweet like the flowers surrounding them. He never knew love was so easy to find; he heard in stories that some people had to go on grand adventures to find love, when all he had to do was look at his friend. Was that normal? Did some people not have it as easy as he? It certainly wasn't hard smiling and laughing with Holmes; from the moment they met in his father's office, he knew he had a friend. Watson was taught that it wasn't polite to wish ill upon people, but had Holmes' mother never gotten that chill they may never have seen each other at all. But he's glad they did. He's glad their parents allowed them this friendship, even though they lived in different parts of town. Maybe I can go to school with him, or he can come to mine, Watson thought. Wouldn't it be grand if Holmes could stay with me at my house for holiday? He'd have to remember to ask.

Holmes was moving against him again, causing Watson to open his eyes. His friend, his lover (the word still brought a smile to his face), was looking at him with soft brown eyes, filled with warmth and affection.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

Watson thought about it.

"What for?"

"Because it's nice... and because I want to."

"My mother kisses me."

"Yes, but she's your mother."

"I love her, too."

"Yes," Holmes paused in thought. "But she never told you about the butterflies."

"No, she didn't," Watson admitted, feeling like some of the butterflies surrounding them had found their way into his chest.

"Can I kiss you?" Holmes asked again after a pause.

"Yes,"

The dark-headed boy smiled and stretched his neck up, resting his cheek against his friends before pushing himself higher and putting his mouth to John's.

They held there for a few moments, and then Holmes whispered, "I don't know how to kiss!"

Watson laughed, deciding that even though Holmes said he didn't know how to, it still felt nice.

Holmes tried his best and kissed him again, lips soft against his own, before the two of them rolled on their sides, faced-to-face.

"You will always be mine, John, won't you?"

"Yes."

"You'll be uniquely mine, just like I'll be yours."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'll always look out for you and care for you because I found you. Kind of like a lizard."

"I like lizards."

"Me too. I like their skin."

Even though the air was cold and the two small boys were lain atop Holmes' coat, neither of them felt the bite of coming winter that afternoon because they were so tightly wrapped in each other's embrace that it would be impossible to feel chilled (even though Holmes was shivering a bit that day). And it was truth, for a while, that life would remain this way. But a couple years later John would hear of his father needing to move out of London. Something or other... what did it matter when John realized it meant not seeing his friend again? He was thirteen when he last saw Sherlock Holmes; old enough to feel the loss while still young enough to rationalize it as completely unfair. But then, what could be done? It wasn't until one decade, one war and an entire lifetime later, that John Watson found himself once again faced-to-face with his old friend in a chemistry lab, looking for someone to go halves with on a nice suite in Baker Street. As soon as he saw his old friend's face, Watson wanted to embrace him, if only... if only Sherlock Holmes had shown some sign of recognition. He didn't seem to recognize Watson at all, in fact. Not until the Jonathan Hope case, not until many other cases which followed, did their friendship rekindle to the near intimacy Watson had remembered. It was so real now that he didn't even need to think about that day by the pond because of all new days he had to exult.

And then Holmes accepted a case, concerning a girl and some mysterious pearls.

"Are you taking those as well, Watson?"

"Of corse I am. They're needed for my medical studies."

Holmes hummed, looking down at the volume he held in his hands. He sunk within his chair, feeling the warm of the fire eating at his boots while Watson stood before the bookshelf, plucking certain volumes and tucking them beneath his arms.

"Oh, look Holmes, I found that newspaper you were searching for."

"Let me see it," he said around the pipe in his mouth, holding out his hand. The moment Watson handed it to him, Holmes had flung the paper into the fire.

The doctor drew his eyebrows. "My dear fellow, is something the matter?" Watson asked, stepping across the room to his trunk.

"'You'll be uniquely mine,'" Holmes responded flatly. "'Just like I'll be yours.'"

"What?"

Holmes caught his eye and held their gaze for a stinted moment. The air between them buzzed in silence before the detective dropped his attention back to his volume.

"I mean that I'll always look out for you, and care for you, because I found you." His voice was heavier now, trembling slightly round the edges. Then, barely audible, he added, "Kind of like a lizard."

Again the palpable silence filled the room, deafening the two men where they purchased. Finally, Watson responded, "I like lizards."

Holmes inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could hear Watson placing the books on the mantle and taking his rightful seat across from him in front of the fire. Neither said anything, but instead were pelted with the memories of that day.

"I thought you had forgotten," Watson whispered softly, looking down at his hands.

Eyes still closed, Holmes said, "I never forgot that day. I never forgot you, my dear Watson."

"But--"

"I didn't want to see my John as the broken man which stood before me that afternoon. You were so thin, so tired..." he cracked an eye now, searching Watson's face for reaction. "And here we are, living the very essence of what those moments meant."

Watson looked up at Holmes, whose eyes were framed in moisture and his voice sounding feeble yet strong at the same time. He found he had no response to what Holmes had said.

Smoke from the burning paper cleared away completely now, bathing the shadows in light. The doctor was staring sadly at his companion who had long since abandoned his book and pipe.

"Do you really love her, Watson?" he asked, heart beating furiously in his chest.

Watson frowned, his eyes falling to Holmes' boots before meeting his knowing eyes. "I do, Holmes. I love her very much."

Holmes nodded, splaying his fingertips together and slowly closing his hands. "I shall be happy for you, then. But don't forget your childhood, Watson, please, never forget--" his voice broke off, shoulders shuddering as he suppressed a groan. It was so unlike him, Watson thought.

"I won't forget, Holmes."

He nodded again, rolling his head against the back of the chair. "I'll be looking out for you all the same, my dear fellow. Though you leave to get married, I will keep true to what I said on that day." A pause. "I still love you, Watson."

There was no trace of desire in his voice, no incriminating thoughts or advances; nothing meant to offend.

Watson slid quietly from his chair and kneeled before Holmes', taking his hand between his own. "I know you do, old boy."

Holmes squeezed his hand, pulling Watson into the chair and holding him as the world quietly settled around them. Watson was a comforting weight over his lap and against his chest, this friend's warm breath caressing his skin while his feathery eyelashes brushed against his ear. Though Watson was no longer the white-haired boy of his youth, the well remembered eyes dimmed by all he'd seen when they were worlds apart, Holmes could still find the child-like glimmer of curiosity and amazement lingering in his countenance. They both knew a love of sorts had always existed between them but never did Holmes expect to feel that excited smoldering of his heart like he did while watching the butterflies so long ago. The sun casting gentle shadows across their faces, the pond water lapping against the shore while the insects made noises which could only be described as charming. To hold someone in your arms that you cared for so much, like they did, proved so impossible yet real that the cold air meant nothing next to the warmth shared between their bodies. He remembered telling John he loved him, knowing exactly what it meant. He also remembered the first and last time their lips ever touched in the manner which has forever ghosted him in his mind. Holmes wanted nothing more then to feel that brush of warmth against his mouth; just once more. He cupped Watson's face, drawing closer and closer until their lips were almost touching. In a warm affectionate voice, he asked, "Can I kiss you?"

Watson smiled but shook his head. Holmes laughed, but his eyes were sad as he drew his friend into another tender embrace. "Journeys end in lovers' meetings. A shame it had to end at all, especially with this."

"It's amazing how often you're able to recite that line, Holmes."

"It's because it says so much."

Watson chuckled, his face buried between Holmes' neck and shoulder, his hand cradling his skull. Knowing that this wasn't really the end, he put his lips to Holmes' ear and gently whispered, "I love you, too, Holmes. We can still be in love together."

"We can still be lovers." Holmes smiled as the word pushed from his mouth, knowing that it meant something different between he and Watson.

It has always been different.

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I ALSO THOUGHT YOU'D ENJOY THIS.  I KNOW I DO.