Fill: Till Now I Never Knew - The Third Summer
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom: Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Harry, OC's Ann Watson and Vienne Holmes, glimpse of Moriarty, Moran, and Unnamed OC
Pairings: Eventual Sherlock/John
Genre(s): Fairy Tale, Romance, Kid!Fic, Family, Friendship
Summary: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme, Sherlock and John grow up spending every summer together. Their mothers' attempts to play matchmaker only fuel their mutual resentment and scorn. But then, one summer...
The Third Summer.
“I hate him!” Sherlock bellowed, stomping through his bedroom. “I hate him I hate him I hate him!”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Mycroft sighed from his post in the doorway.
“Of course he meant it! He’s horrible!”
“You didn’t have to make Harry cry.”
“Oh shut up about Harry!”
“It was just a few spiders, Sherlock.”
“It took me months to collect them! Do you know how hard it was to get them to France?”
“I’m sure he’s very sorry.” Mycroft sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“He will be.” Sherlock muttered, clutching the jagged remains of his shattered spider jar.
--------------------------------------------------------
“Get him away from me!” John shouted, pelting full-tilt through the kitchen where his mother and Vienne were sitting, munching on biscuits and sipping tea. “He’s possessed!”
“Who?” Ann demanded, stopping John before he could knock the wind out of her.
“Sherlock! He’s mad! I broke his jar of spiders and now he’s trying to kill me!”
“Jar of--” Vienne sputtered. Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. “SHERLOCK!” She hollared.
“Don’t bring him here!” John cried.
“Sherlock you get in here this minute!”
Sherlock appeared, timid and with eyes downcast, in the doorway. “Yes, mummy?”
“You brought that horrible jar to Vernet?” Vienne demanded.
Sherlock said nothing and stared at the floor.
“Sherlock.” Vienne prompted, her voice menacing.
Sherlock broke. “It was perfectly safe! I was just going to watch them, honest! It would’ve been fine if John wasn’t such a clumsy oaf!”
“You left it on the floor!” John protested.
“I needed direct sunlight!”
“You told Harry one of ‘em would sneak into her bed and bite her to death!”
“She called me a psychopath!”
“You are a psychopath!”
“Johnathan Hamish Watson!” Ann gasped. “You apologise this second!”
John stared up at her in disbelief, but she did not relent. He glared at the furious seven-year-old. “Sorry, Sherlock.” He said miserably. He didn’t mean it, and Sherlock could obviously tell.
Ann and Vienne shared a despairing, hopless look before Vienne stood with a sigh. “I’ll call the exterminator.”
Sherlock made a protesting sound, but fell silent at his mother’s glare.
“Go and find something to do, the pair of you.” Ann said wearily.
The boys hung their heads and trooped out of the kitchen. Once their mothers were out of earshot John said, “I am sorry.”
Sherlock looked at him, confused.
“I’m really, really sorry I have to waste my summers here with you.” And with that he ran off.
---
‘Not long now.’
---
“Oh, Vivi.” Ann moaned into her hands. “I am so, so sorry. I raised him better than that.”
Vienne said nothing, only stared into her tea.
“Vivi?”
“I’ve spoken to Basil.” She said, her voice cracking just a little. “He wants to have Sherlock tested.”
“Oh, Vivi...”
“He’s not sick!” Vienne insisted. “He’s just...”
Ann put her hand over Vienne’s trembling hand. “Sherlock is fine. He’s wonderful. He’s brilliant, Vivi. You just need to give him time to grow into it.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Vienne whispered, her eyes wide and shining with tears. “The other children are scared of him, Annie! My little boy, and they run away from him. He has no friends. What if there’s really something wrong with--”
“Vivi. No.” Ann interrupted. “Sherlock and Mycroft are both incredible boys. Sherlock may be different, he may be special, but there is no part of him at all that’s ‘wrong’.”
Vienne pressed her lips together and wiped the moisture from her eyelashes. “Thank you, Annie.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sherlock closed his eyes and let the bow drag across the violin strings, the final note swirling up into the air like smoke. He smiled. He’d been working on that song for weeks, and he’d finally managed to play the whole thing through without any mistakes. It still didn’t sound like his instructor’s playing yet, but he was getting there.
There was a hushed sound from the doorway, and Sherlock looked up to see John shifting awkwardly just outside of his bedroom.
“What were you playing?” John asked.
“Nothing.” Sherlock said quickly, returning the violin and bow to their case. “I was just practicing.”
“It sounded pretty good.” John said.
“Yes, it did.”
John sighed. “Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?”
“Because you’re only here so you can look like the good guy, not because you actually want to be friends.”
“Please.” John scoffed. “As though you would want a friend.”
Sherlock shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never had one.”
John fell silent at that. He lingered a moment longer, searching for something, anything to say. Finally, he gave it up for a bad job and turned away and left.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“And bah bah bah bah.” Mycroft half sang, guiding Harry through a subdued spin before dipping her so that her long blonde hair brushed the hardwood floor below.
Harry shrieked a giggle. The position was awkward, truthfully. Mycroft was fully seven years her senior and he towered over her, but they were both grinning without reservation. Ann and Vienne applauded from their seats on the piano bench. Sherlock and John moped against opposite walls of the room.
“Again! Again!” Harry cried. Mycroft laughed.
“Not just now, Monster. My arms hurt.” He’d been teaching Harry to waltz for the better part of two hours.
“Can you dance, Sherlock?” Ann asked. Sherlock jumped, then looked down at the floor, his face a thundercloud.
“He can.” Vienne said, without enthusiasm. “He just refuses.”
“Dancing is boring.” Sherlock said. “I wish I could un-learn it.”
“Even when you’re dancing with me, mon petit?” Vienne asked, widening her eyes in a way Sherlock never could guard against.
Sherlock blushed and toed the floor with his shoe. “Non, maman.”
“Go on, then Sherlock.” Ann prompted, and Sherlock didn’t look up in time to see the sly look that she shot to Vienne. “Show us what you’ve got.”
Sherlock looked around the room in a panic. Harry was grinning at him from her seat beside Mycroft, and made to get up but Vienne stopped her.
“Non, non Harry.” She said. “You rest or you’ll get all cramped up. John, why don’t you dance with Sherlock?”
John’s eyes shot wide, and he and Sherlock shared a look of horror and disbelief. “You must be joking, Aunti Vivi!” He protested. “I’m a boy!”
“So?” Vienne asked. She played up her French accent, making the s sound like a z. “Sherlock and Mycroft have practiced together many times.” She softened her features and offered, “Don’t worry, you can even lead. Sherlock knows how to follow.”
If ever there were a less believable sentence in the English language, John had never heard it. He glared at Sherlock accusingly, as though it were all his fault. Sherlock matched him, expression for expression.
“Oh, please!” Ann supplied, her face beseaching. “Please, for me John?”
John sighed and stepped toward Sherlock, who reluctantly did the same. They met midway, and Mycroft started the music with blatant smugness on his face. Harry beamed at the room and swung her feet in front of her chair.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” John muttered.
“I can. My mother can make anyone do anything.” Sherlock muttered back.
John groaned. “All right, how am I supposed to do this?”
Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. He grabbed one of John’s hands and placed it on his own waist, then held John’s other hand in his own while placing his free hand on John’s shoulder. They both blushed furiously and refused to look up from their feet.
“Just do what Mycroft did.” Sherlock suggested, but John had only seen a smooth whirl of feet and his sister’s hair fanning out as Mycroft whirled her about.
“Uh...I don’t think I can do that.” He said.
Sherlock sighed. “Fine! Just, where I move backward, you move forward.”
That didn’t sound so difficult. John nodded and zeroed in on Sherlock’s shoes.
What followed was possibly the clumsiest, most restrained and uncomfortable waltz in the history of ballroom dancing. John had no clue how to lead, Sherlock was loathe to follow, and by the end of the song John had trod on Sherlock’s toes enough times to reduce them to five nubby bruises.
The music came to a merciful end and they stopped on a mutual glare. The second they broke contact, both boys backed away to their opposing walls like clockwork figures in a novelty timepiece.
“Well...” Said Vienne. “That was...um...”
“A good start!” Ann chimed in, an encouraging smile pasted on her face. “You’ll just have to practice, John. I’m sure soon you’ll be able to hold your own.”
“Dancing is rubbish.” John scowled.
“Is not!” Harry chided. “I’ll show you!” And she stood up from her chair, strode over to Sherlock and grabbed his hand. Without so much as a “by your leave” she dragged him forcefully into the middle of the room, positioned his hands the way Mycroft had shown her, and clicked her fingers.
“As my lady commands.” Mycroft said with an artificially deepened voice and a gracious nod. He smirked and started the song again.
“Do I have to do this again?” Sherlock demanded of his mother.
Vienne shrugged.
“Come on, Shock!” Harry pestered, and Sherlock glared at her. “Are you scared you’ll be worse than John?” She tilted her head at her brother, and Sherlock’s already seething expression darkened.
“Very well, then.” He said, and his voice was very calm and cold. He listened to the music for a bit, found the beat he was looking for, and he began to dance.
It wasn’t like when Mycroft had danced with Harry. There was no awkward height difference now, and Harry was getting more comfortable with the steps. And Sherlock didn’t hold back.
They spun and twisted and whirled, and Harry’s hair was a golden fan around her head. Sherlock spun her and guided her and, essentially, turned her into a flickering golden vision, showcasing her with deft, confident motions. At the conclusion of the song, Sherlock guided her into an effortless dip, and she stared up at him, breathing hard.
John was ten years old. There was time, still, before his body and his mind would understand and facilitate things he was not yet ready to embrace. So when his heart lurched painfully inside of his chest at the sight of seven-year-old Sherlock dominating the simplified waltz, he managed to misinterpret the signal completely.
“Oi! Be careful, you idiot! You nearly cracked her skull open!”
---
‘Yes. It is almost time.’
---
The Sixth Summer
Fandom: Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Harry, OC's Ann Watson and Vienne Holmes, glimpse of Moriarty, Moran, and Unnamed OC
Pairings: Eventual Sherlock/John
Genre(s): Fairy Tale, Romance, Kid!Fic, Family, Friendship
Summary: Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme, Sherlock and John grow up spending every summer together. Their mothers' attempts to play matchmaker only fuel their mutual resentment and scorn. But then, one summer...
The Third Summer.
“I hate him!” Sherlock bellowed, stomping through his bedroom. “I hate him I hate him I hate him!”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Mycroft sighed from his post in the doorway.
“Of course he meant it! He’s horrible!”
“You didn’t have to make Harry cry.”
“Oh shut up about Harry!”
“It was just a few spiders, Sherlock.”
“It took me months to collect them! Do you know how hard it was to get them to France?”
“I’m sure he’s very sorry.” Mycroft sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“He will be.” Sherlock muttered, clutching the jagged remains of his shattered spider jar.
--------------------------------------------------------
“Get him away from me!” John shouted, pelting full-tilt through the kitchen where his mother and Vienne were sitting, munching on biscuits and sipping tea. “He’s possessed!”
“Who?” Ann demanded, stopping John before he could knock the wind out of her.
“Sherlock! He’s mad! I broke his jar of spiders and now he’s trying to kill me!”
“Jar of--” Vienne sputtered. Her eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together. “SHERLOCK!” She hollared.
“Don’t bring him here!” John cried.
“Sherlock you get in here this minute!”
Sherlock appeared, timid and with eyes downcast, in the doorway. “Yes, mummy?”
“You brought that horrible jar to Vernet?” Vienne demanded.
Sherlock said nothing and stared at the floor.
“Sherlock.” Vienne prompted, her voice menacing.
Sherlock broke. “It was perfectly safe! I was just going to watch them, honest! It would’ve been fine if John wasn’t such a clumsy oaf!”
“You left it on the floor!” John protested.
“I needed direct sunlight!”
“You told Harry one of ‘em would sneak into her bed and bite her to death!”
“She called me a psychopath!”
“You are a psychopath!”
“Johnathan Hamish Watson!” Ann gasped. “You apologise this second!”
John stared up at her in disbelief, but she did not relent. He glared at the furious seven-year-old. “Sorry, Sherlock.” He said miserably. He didn’t mean it, and Sherlock could obviously tell.
Ann and Vienne shared a despairing, hopless look before Vienne stood with a sigh. “I’ll call the exterminator.”
Sherlock made a protesting sound, but fell silent at his mother’s glare.
“Go and find something to do, the pair of you.” Ann said wearily.
The boys hung their heads and trooped out of the kitchen. Once their mothers were out of earshot John said, “I am sorry.”
Sherlock looked at him, confused.
“I’m really, really sorry I have to waste my summers here with you.” And with that he ran off.
---
‘Not long now.’
---
“Oh, Vivi.” Ann moaned into her hands. “I am so, so sorry. I raised him better than that.”
Vienne said nothing, only stared into her tea.
“Vivi?”
“I’ve spoken to Basil.” She said, her voice cracking just a little. “He wants to have Sherlock tested.”
“Oh, Vivi...”
“He’s not sick!” Vienne insisted. “He’s just...”
Ann put her hand over Vienne’s trembling hand. “Sherlock is fine. He’s wonderful. He’s brilliant, Vivi. You just need to give him time to grow into it.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Vienne whispered, her eyes wide and shining with tears. “The other children are scared of him, Annie! My little boy, and they run away from him. He has no friends. What if there’s really something wrong with--”
“Vivi. No.” Ann interrupted. “Sherlock and Mycroft are both incredible boys. Sherlock may be different, he may be special, but there is no part of him at all that’s ‘wrong’.”
Vienne pressed her lips together and wiped the moisture from her eyelashes. “Thank you, Annie.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sherlock closed his eyes and let the bow drag across the violin strings, the final note swirling up into the air like smoke. He smiled. He’d been working on that song for weeks, and he’d finally managed to play the whole thing through without any mistakes. It still didn’t sound like his instructor’s playing yet, but he was getting there.
There was a hushed sound from the doorway, and Sherlock looked up to see John shifting awkwardly just outside of his bedroom.
“What were you playing?” John asked.
“Nothing.” Sherlock said quickly, returning the violin and bow to their case. “I was just practicing.”
“It sounded pretty good.” John said.
“Yes, it did.”
John sighed. “Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?”
“Because you’re only here so you can look like the good guy, not because you actually want to be friends.”
“Please.” John scoffed. “As though you would want a friend.”
Sherlock shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never had one.”
John fell silent at that. He lingered a moment longer, searching for something, anything to say. Finally, he gave it up for a bad job and turned away and left.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“And bah bah bah bah.” Mycroft half sang, guiding Harry through a subdued spin before dipping her so that her long blonde hair brushed the hardwood floor below.
Harry shrieked a giggle. The position was awkward, truthfully. Mycroft was fully seven years her senior and he towered over her, but they were both grinning without reservation. Ann and Vienne applauded from their seats on the piano bench. Sherlock and John moped against opposite walls of the room.
“Again! Again!” Harry cried. Mycroft laughed.
“Not just now, Monster. My arms hurt.” He’d been teaching Harry to waltz for the better part of two hours.
“Can you dance, Sherlock?” Ann asked. Sherlock jumped, then looked down at the floor, his face a thundercloud.
“He can.” Vienne said, without enthusiasm. “He just refuses.”
“Dancing is boring.” Sherlock said. “I wish I could un-learn it.”
“Even when you’re dancing with me, mon petit?” Vienne asked, widening her eyes in a way Sherlock never could guard against.
Sherlock blushed and toed the floor with his shoe. “Non, maman.”
“Go on, then Sherlock.” Ann prompted, and Sherlock didn’t look up in time to see the sly look that she shot to Vienne. “Show us what you’ve got.”
Sherlock looked around the room in a panic. Harry was grinning at him from her seat beside Mycroft, and made to get up but Vienne stopped her.
“Non, non Harry.” She said. “You rest or you’ll get all cramped up. John, why don’t you dance with Sherlock?”
John’s eyes shot wide, and he and Sherlock shared a look of horror and disbelief. “You must be joking, Aunti Vivi!” He protested. “I’m a boy!”
“So?” Vienne asked. She played up her French accent, making the s sound like a z. “Sherlock and Mycroft have practiced together many times.” She softened her features and offered, “Don’t worry, you can even lead. Sherlock knows how to follow.”
If ever there were a less believable sentence in the English language, John had never heard it. He glared at Sherlock accusingly, as though it were all his fault. Sherlock matched him, expression for expression.
“Oh, please!” Ann supplied, her face beseaching. “Please, for me John?”
John sighed and stepped toward Sherlock, who reluctantly did the same. They met midway, and Mycroft started the music with blatant smugness on his face. Harry beamed at the room and swung her feet in front of her chair.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” John muttered.
“I can. My mother can make anyone do anything.” Sherlock muttered back.
John groaned. “All right, how am I supposed to do this?”
Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. He grabbed one of John’s hands and placed it on his own waist, then held John’s other hand in his own while placing his free hand on John’s shoulder. They both blushed furiously and refused to look up from their feet.
“Just do what Mycroft did.” Sherlock suggested, but John had only seen a smooth whirl of feet and his sister’s hair fanning out as Mycroft whirled her about.
“Uh...I don’t think I can do that.” He said.
Sherlock sighed. “Fine! Just, where I move backward, you move forward.”
That didn’t sound so difficult. John nodded and zeroed in on Sherlock’s shoes.
What followed was possibly the clumsiest, most restrained and uncomfortable waltz in the history of ballroom dancing. John had no clue how to lead, Sherlock was loathe to follow, and by the end of the song John had trod on Sherlock’s toes enough times to reduce them to five nubby bruises.
The music came to a merciful end and they stopped on a mutual glare. The second they broke contact, both boys backed away to their opposing walls like clockwork figures in a novelty timepiece.
“Well...” Said Vienne. “That was...um...”
“A good start!” Ann chimed in, an encouraging smile pasted on her face. “You’ll just have to practice, John. I’m sure soon you’ll be able to hold your own.”
“Dancing is rubbish.” John scowled.
“Is not!” Harry chided. “I’ll show you!” And she stood up from her chair, strode over to Sherlock and grabbed his hand. Without so much as a “by your leave” she dragged him forcefully into the middle of the room, positioned his hands the way Mycroft had shown her, and clicked her fingers.
“As my lady commands.” Mycroft said with an artificially deepened voice and a gracious nod. He smirked and started the song again.
“Do I have to do this again?” Sherlock demanded of his mother.
Vienne shrugged.
“Come on, Shock!” Harry pestered, and Sherlock glared at her. “Are you scared you’ll be worse than John?” She tilted her head at her brother, and Sherlock’s already seething expression darkened.
“Very well, then.” He said, and his voice was very calm and cold. He listened to the music for a bit, found the beat he was looking for, and he began to dance.
It wasn’t like when Mycroft had danced with Harry. There was no awkward height difference now, and Harry was getting more comfortable with the steps. And Sherlock didn’t hold back.
They spun and twisted and whirled, and Harry’s hair was a golden fan around her head. Sherlock spun her and guided her and, essentially, turned her into a flickering golden vision, showcasing her with deft, confident motions. At the conclusion of the song, Sherlock guided her into an effortless dip, and she stared up at him, breathing hard.
John was ten years old. There was time, still, before his body and his mind would understand and facilitate things he was not yet ready to embrace. So when his heart lurched painfully inside of his chest at the sight of seven-year-old Sherlock dominating the simplified waltz, he managed to misinterpret the signal completely.
“Oi! Be careful, you idiot! You nearly cracked her skull open!”
---
‘Yes. It is almost time.’
---
The Sixth Summer