028. Children.
Title: Like An Upside-Down Dirty Mop
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Characters: baby!John, baby!Sherlock, baby!Mycroft
Rating: PG
Summary: If John and Sherlock met as kids...
Author's Notes: I seriously don't know where this came from, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. John's about 13, Sherlock's 11, and Mycroft is 19/20. Shh just come.
"Bristol or Cardiff?" A small voice piped up from behind John, and he couldn't help but whip his head around to see a peculiar, lanky boy stand from the bench he had been perched on, walking towards him with an awkward but determined grace. John felt his brow furrow, wondering what the slender boy - dark, curly hair bouncing with his stride, making him look a bit like an upside-down dirty mop - was on about.
"'Scuse me, wot?"
"You're limp had to come from somewhere. Bristol or Cardiff?" The sinewy boy was standing next to John, a good couple of inches over the blonde; who rolled his shoulders to stand up at straight as possible.
"Cardiff. Sorry, how did you -" John felt his body tense, the boy's bright grey eyes seemed to penetrate right through him, like he was reading his mind.
"How do you feel about the violin?" The slender boy asked after a moment of awkward silence that John thought would never end. He was weird, to say the very least, asking all these strange questions; and how had he noticed his limp? None of the other boys seemed to pay any mind.
"...Wot?" John's mind was still trying to figure this kid out, a little more than surprised at the sudden subject change. Shining grey eyes rolled in annoyance, letting a small sigh pass his lips.
"I play it a lot when I'm thinking. If we're gonna be friends you should know the worst about me," A small smile crept up on his face, the edges teased by heavy, dark-brown curls as John simply stared, utterly confused at whatever ruse the boy was trying to pull.
""Wot about Cardiff? How'd you know?"
"I'm also in several martial arts classes, and partial to bartitsu; there'll be plenty of fighting around me," The pale lad stood taller, continuing to ignore John's inquiries, and the word "pompous" seemed to flit through John's mind.
A faint, aggressive shout was heard in the distance, the young boy's grey eye widening before tugging at the cuffs on John's jacket sleeve and pulling him into a light jog. Still in a state of shock, John simply followed, letting the slender, blurred figure lead him through the park and behind a small patch of bushes. The dark-brown mop-top peaked up over the finely trimmed hedges, scanning the background before sinking back on the ground.
"Is that it then?" John's let out a solid breath, panting as he idly rubbed at his leg.
"Is what it?"
"You, chatting me up out of nowhere, taking me for a run around some bushes, assuming I even want to be your friend?"
"Problem?" The boy's pale face was slightly pink from running, looking at John with a half-inquisitive look on his face.
"I don't even know who you are, and you let alone me!" John's hands flailed upward, the dark curls flopped over to one side as the boy tilted his head, piercing grey eyes cutting into whatever fierceness John was trying to attempt and dicing it up before John even knew he was trying.
"Your dad was a teller and an alcoholic, you in the car with him when he slammed into oncoming traffic along the M4 leaving Cardiff. He died that night and you ended up with a nasty gash in your right leg, hence the subtle but not totally unnoticeable limp. Your older brother has fallen into a depression and is highly aggressive around both you and your mother, and he'll probably follow in your father's footsteps and turn to drinking as a way to solve his 'problems' which will no doubt cause more strain within your family." The boy's slender finger curled under John's chin, his jaw having fallen agape as he listened to this mysterious kid tell him his life-story so far. Moving to stand, the boy peered over the hedges once more "Name's Sherlock Holmes."
"That. Was bloody brilliant. How'd you do that?" Sherlock's face contorted in a bemused, almost puzzled look, burning silver eyes locking hard on John's own muddied blue ones.
Sherlock blinked a few times, but was soon going into a whole dissertation, expanding on John's limp and how it was at least partly psychosomatic - he could hide it from his classmates completely but there was a hint of desperate attention so only those who were really paying attention ["Like someone such as myself"] could catch it - and the faint bit of pavement that had lodged in his knee from the accident. He expanded on the bruise on the back of his left calf, how it was from a young man's shoe, specifically his brother's who'd gotten drunk and kicked John attempting to start a fight; the faint scent of alcohol was on his blazer cementing his brother's impending alcoholism. There was also the faintest bruise around John's left eye, leading him to believe that he and his brother didn't get on, and just as Sherlock was about to delve into the model and make of John's father's car just by the nearly invisible scar on his right elbow, a rough hand planted itself on Sherlock's curls, ruffling the mop of hair violently.
"Come now, Sherlock. What has Mummy told you about talking to strangers?" A tall young man stood over the boys, and the word "pompous" flashed before his eyes again, John looking him over with a glare. Sherlock put on a pout, grey eyes darkening as he swatted the man's hand away.
"He's not a stranger, Mycroft."
"Oh? Do you even know his name? Or have you simply 'deduced' his life without bothering to ask?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow in John's direction, a faint sneer crossing his features before settling back into that righteous persona he seemed to hold himself in. Sherlock stood with a huff, offering his hand to John to assist him up.
"His name's John, and he's my friend," John wondered for a brief moment how Sherlock had figured out his name, but suddenly felt that silly butterfly-feeling in his stomach as the mop-topped boy referred to them as friends again. The way Sherlock had explained everything was pure brilliance, the smallest of observations revealing more about John than he'd ever thought a stranger could do, and it was utterly amazing. Mycroft's eye returned to John, who flinched under his gaze before the young man looked back at Sherlock, who was rolling his eyes up at him.
"Then say goodbye to your 'friend,' it's time for tea," Mycroft turned back towards the sidewalk, Sherlock and John following a good ten paces behind him.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock whispered to John, those grey eyes searching through John's features as if her were cataloging each divet on his face.
"Harry is aggressive. Think's it's my fault dad's dead. Beats on me, our mum, girlfriends every now and then. Harry, however, is short for Harriet." Sherlock's eyes widened again, his nose scrunching up with a frustrated grunt, and John found it hard not to laugh.
"Your sister! Shoot, so close!" Sherlock caught John's eye again, and soon they were both in a soft fit of giggles.
"If you're done acting like schoolgirls, Sherlock, we'll be leaving. Good afternoon, John," Mycroft cut in as the three of them returned to the cement path. Sherlock shot the young man a glare before returning his attention back to John, a soft smirk on his lips.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" Sherlock's voice remained low, and John felt the smirk pass onto his own face.
"I can be if you like."
"Good. Three-P.M. sharp," Sherlock's smile grew momentarily before he whipped around to follow the young man, who John assumed to be his brother. The both walked with a similar gait, holding themselves highly as their coats flopped behind them like great capes.
It was odd how easily John had been able to talk to Sherlock. After the accident, his close friends had been very delicate about the matter as if they were walking on egg-shells. It had been a hard time, and his missed his father dearly, but somehow he felt a strange, emotional detachment to the whole situation. His therapist had thought it from the stress of the situation, as if he were trying to suppress it from his conscious completely; but around Sherlock it was almost like talking about the weather, just another fact in his life. It wasn't painful, like many of the other times he's tried talking about it with his mother, and all of a sudden that same stomach-knotting giddiness filled his gut again. Maybe he and Sherlock could be good friends after all...
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Characters: baby!John, baby!Sherlock, baby!Mycroft
Rating: PG
Summary: If John and Sherlock met as kids...
Author's Notes: I seriously don't know where this came from, but I hope you enjoy it all the same. John's about 13, Sherlock's 11, and Mycroft is 19/20. Shh just come.
"Bristol or Cardiff?" A small voice piped up from behind John, and he couldn't help but whip his head around to see a peculiar, lanky boy stand from the bench he had been perched on, walking towards him with an awkward but determined grace. John felt his brow furrow, wondering what the slender boy - dark, curly hair bouncing with his stride, making him look a bit like an upside-down dirty mop - was on about.
"'Scuse me, wot?"
"You're limp had to come from somewhere. Bristol or Cardiff?" The sinewy boy was standing next to John, a good couple of inches over the blonde; who rolled his shoulders to stand up at straight as possible.
"Cardiff. Sorry, how did you -" John felt his body tense, the boy's bright grey eyes seemed to penetrate right through him, like he was reading his mind.
"How do you feel about the violin?" The slender boy asked after a moment of awkward silence that John thought would never end. He was weird, to say the very least, asking all these strange questions; and how had he noticed his limp? None of the other boys seemed to pay any mind.
"...Wot?" John's mind was still trying to figure this kid out, a little more than surprised at the sudden subject change. Shining grey eyes rolled in annoyance, letting a small sigh pass his lips.
"I play it a lot when I'm thinking. If we're gonna be friends you should know the worst about me," A small smile crept up on his face, the edges teased by heavy, dark-brown curls as John simply stared, utterly confused at whatever ruse the boy was trying to pull.
""Wot about Cardiff? How'd you know?"
"I'm also in several martial arts classes, and partial to bartitsu; there'll be plenty of fighting around me," The pale lad stood taller, continuing to ignore John's inquiries, and the word "pompous" seemed to flit through John's mind.
A faint, aggressive shout was heard in the distance, the young boy's grey eye widening before tugging at the cuffs on John's jacket sleeve and pulling him into a light jog. Still in a state of shock, John simply followed, letting the slender, blurred figure lead him through the park and behind a small patch of bushes. The dark-brown mop-top peaked up over the finely trimmed hedges, scanning the background before sinking back on the ground.
"Is that it then?" John's let out a solid breath, panting as he idly rubbed at his leg.
"Is what it?"
"You, chatting me up out of nowhere, taking me for a run around some bushes, assuming I even want to be your friend?"
"Problem?" The boy's pale face was slightly pink from running, looking at John with a half-inquisitive look on his face.
"I don't even know who you are, and you let alone me!" John's hands flailed upward, the dark curls flopped over to one side as the boy tilted his head, piercing grey eyes cutting into whatever fierceness John was trying to attempt and dicing it up before John even knew he was trying.
"Your dad was a teller and an alcoholic, you in the car with him when he slammed into oncoming traffic along the M4 leaving Cardiff. He died that night and you ended up with a nasty gash in your right leg, hence the subtle but not totally unnoticeable limp. Your older brother has fallen into a depression and is highly aggressive around both you and your mother, and he'll probably follow in your father's footsteps and turn to drinking as a way to solve his 'problems' which will no doubt cause more strain within your family." The boy's slender finger curled under John's chin, his jaw having fallen agape as he listened to this mysterious kid tell him his life-story so far. Moving to stand, the boy peered over the hedges once more "Name's Sherlock Holmes."
"That. Was bloody brilliant. How'd you do that?" Sherlock's face contorted in a bemused, almost puzzled look, burning silver eyes locking hard on John's own muddied blue ones.
Sherlock blinked a few times, but was soon going into a whole dissertation, expanding on John's limp and how it was at least partly psychosomatic - he could hide it from his classmates completely but there was a hint of desperate attention so only those who were really paying attention ["Like someone such as myself"] could catch it - and the faint bit of pavement that had lodged in his knee from the accident. He expanded on the bruise on the back of his left calf, how it was from a young man's shoe, specifically his brother's who'd gotten drunk and kicked John attempting to start a fight; the faint scent of alcohol was on his blazer cementing his brother's impending alcoholism. There was also the faintest bruise around John's left eye, leading him to believe that he and his brother didn't get on, and just as Sherlock was about to delve into the model and make of John's father's car just by the nearly invisible scar on his right elbow, a rough hand planted itself on Sherlock's curls, ruffling the mop of hair violently.
"Come now, Sherlock. What has Mummy told you about talking to strangers?" A tall young man stood over the boys, and the word "pompous" flashed before his eyes again, John looking him over with a glare. Sherlock put on a pout, grey eyes darkening as he swatted the man's hand away.
"He's not a stranger, Mycroft."
"Oh? Do you even know his name? Or have you simply 'deduced' his life without bothering to ask?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow in John's direction, a faint sneer crossing his features before settling back into that righteous persona he seemed to hold himself in. Sherlock stood with a huff, offering his hand to John to assist him up.
"His name's John, and he's my friend," John wondered for a brief moment how Sherlock had figured out his name, but suddenly felt that silly butterfly-feeling in his stomach as the mop-topped boy referred to them as friends again. The way Sherlock had explained everything was pure brilliance, the smallest of observations revealing more about John than he'd ever thought a stranger could do, and it was utterly amazing. Mycroft's eye returned to John, who flinched under his gaze before the young man looked back at Sherlock, who was rolling his eyes up at him.
"Then say goodbye to your 'friend,' it's time for tea," Mycroft turned back towards the sidewalk, Sherlock and John following a good ten paces behind him.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock whispered to John, those grey eyes searching through John's features as if her were cataloging each divet on his face.
"Harry is aggressive. Think's it's my fault dad's dead. Beats on me, our mum, girlfriends every now and then. Harry, however, is short for Harriet." Sherlock's eyes widened again, his nose scrunching up with a frustrated grunt, and John found it hard not to laugh.
"Your sister! Shoot, so close!" Sherlock caught John's eye again, and soon they were both in a soft fit of giggles.
"If you're done acting like schoolgirls, Sherlock, we'll be leaving. Good afternoon, John," Mycroft cut in as the three of them returned to the cement path. Sherlock shot the young man a glare before returning his attention back to John, a soft smirk on his lips.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" Sherlock's voice remained low, and John felt the smirk pass onto his own face.
"I can be if you like."
"Good. Three-P.M. sharp," Sherlock's smile grew momentarily before he whipped around to follow the young man, who John assumed to be his brother. The both walked with a similar gait, holding themselves highly as their coats flopped behind them like great capes.
It was odd how easily John had been able to talk to Sherlock. After the accident, his close friends had been very delicate about the matter as if they were walking on egg-shells. It had been a hard time, and his missed his father dearly, but somehow he felt a strange, emotional detachment to the whole situation. His therapist had thought it from the stress of the situation, as if he were trying to suppress it from his conscious completely; but around Sherlock it was almost like talking about the weather, just another fact in his life. It wasn't painful, like many of the other times he's tried talking about it with his mother, and all of a sudden that same stomach-knotting giddiness filled his gut again. Maybe he and Sherlock could be good friends after all...