Fill: Till Now I Never Knew - The Sixth 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 Sixth Summer
The sixth summer was the summer everything changed..
Sherlock’s father was swamped with work and the family was unable to make their yearly journey to Vernet, so instead the Watsons would be joining them at the Sussex House, which lacked a stately name so far as John knew.
And while he would have preferred to stay in Islington, John was immensely chuffed that his best mate Mike would be able to join them this year, so he wouldn’t be alone with Mycroft and Harry’s simpering adoration and Sherlock’s scorn.
The sixth summer was also the year both John and Harry crashed headlong into puberty, and John was alternately confused by his own body trying to drive him barking mad, and horrified by the downright nightmare-inducing new additions his and Harry’s shared bathroom. He was almost looking forward to when they’d have numerous toilets to choose from at the big house.
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“Figured it out then, have you?” Mycroft smirked. “About time. I was beginning to think you’d never get there.”
Sherlock flopped onto the setee bonelessly and groaned. “I’m doomed, aren’t I?”
“You and John both, I think.”
“They’ll never stop.” He sighed.
“Not so long as you all draw breath.” Mycroft chuckled. “No, I’m afraid mummy got a taste for matchmaking when she found a husband for the Turkish ambassador’s secretary. She’s addicted now.”
“Then there’s nothing else for it. I shall have to kill him.”
Mycroft scoffed. “You couldn’t even kill that toad you wanted to dissect.”
Sherlock frowned. “It kept looking at me!”
“It wouldn’t have been able to do that once it was dead.”
Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed. “It was pointless to kill it when there are perfectly sound dead toads on the side of the road every week.”
Mycroft smiled. “And it’s answers like that which will excite the doctors once father convinces mother to have you tested.”
Sherlock looked up at his brother with wide, hopeful eyes.
Then Mycroft pretended to frown in fierce contemplation. “Although, you might wish to leave out the part where you nursed it back to health and spent your entire allowance for the month building it a terrarium.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------
“Bloody hell, is he always like that?” Mike asked, watching Sherlock stalk off across the garden to the house.
“Every. Sodding. Minute.” John grumbled. At thirteen, the boys delighted in swearing at every possible opportunity.
“He didn’t half lay into you.” Mike teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone called a ‘repugnant blemish on the evolutionary process’ before. How old is he?”
“Ten. He’s a right nightmare.”
“His brother seems an okay chap. Bit quiet.”
“Mycroft is the creepiest sod you’ll ever meet. Just give it time. He sort of...watches you. And then you find yourself doing things, things you had no intention of doing, and you don’t realise until after that he wanted you to do them. Would you believe I waxed his bleeding car last summer?”
“You what?!” Mike exploded with laughter.
“I did! And God help you if you do anything to upset Harry. You so much as make her lip quiver and it’s like your own personal apocalypse. And he never yells. Not even when he and Sherlock are having a row, which is always. He just gets really quiet and really calm, and then things start going wrong for you every time you turn around.” He shook his head. “I tell you, Mike, there aren’t words for how twisted this whole thing is.”
“I dunno.” Mike said with a shrug. “Seems exciting to me.”
John let out a sigh and leaned against a nearby tree. “I’m glad you’re here, mate.”
---
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Sebastian.’
‘Any good with that knife?’’
---
“Come on now, kids. Sherlock! Sherlock, stand closer to John, will you? I can’t get you all in frame standing so far apart.” Ann called over her camera.
Sherlock looked at John, who kept his eyes resolutely forward. A grudging shuffle, a few mumbled curses, and Sherlock and John were shoulder-to-shoulder. John gritted his teeth and placed a defiant arm around Mike’s shoulders, leaning away from Sherlock as much as he could.
Ann sighed, but she snapped the photograph anyway.
---
“Come on, Mike, faster!” John called, pumping his legs for all he was worth.
“Are you...sure...he’s...coming?” Mike panted.
“Mike! We nicked his microscope. He’d chase us to Hell and back for it!”
“You...are...mental, mate.”
“Maybe.” Said John, gripping the lowest branch of the tree he’d picked that morning and pulling himself up. He could just see and edge of the marmite-filled bucket hidden amongst the foliage. “But isn’t it fun?”
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Sherlock’s hair was still wet from his third shower. He’d thrown out the clothes he’d been wearing that day. He reckoned the smell of marmite would never really wash out, and he resolved to continue his trend of never touching the stuff.
No matter, though. Clothes were easily replaced. Microscopes, however, had to be begged from reluctant parents unless one was willing to endure waiting for a suitible holiday or birthday. Sherlock wasn’t.
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t patient, however. Oh no. He could be patient. For instance he could very patiently remove every bristle from John’s toothbrush. He could also very patiently fill the toes of John’s favourite trainers with week-old custard. He was even remarkably patient when it came to unravelling John’s warmest jumper and using the resulting yarn to make a perfect replica of a garden spider’s web between the walls of John’s bedroom.
Oh yes, when he put his mind to it, Sherlock had limitless patience.
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“Fair cop.” John said. “You got me. I can’t get to my bed, I’ll never wear those trainers again, and I honestly don’t think my mum knows which one of us to decapitate for the jumper thing. I’d avoid her for the forseeable future if I were you.”
Sherlock barely glanced at him. He hated how John could just take his attacks in stride. Even now he was leaning casually against Sherlock’s bedroom doorframe, his face placid and nonthreatening.
“You knew I’d get back at you.”
John nodded. “Yes. I did know that. Mind you, I didn’t know how hard you’d strike back, but I think that’s what impresses me the most.”
Sherlock eyed him, warily. “So...you’re not going to try to get even?”
John blinked. “Even? Mate, we are even. You do remember the thing with the marmite, don’t you? Oh, and thank you for leaving Mike out of your revenge scheme. He really was an innocent bystander.”
“No he wasn’t. But I know you were the brains behind it. And I use the term as loosely as possible.” He sighed and pushed his chair away from his desk. “Thank you for not breaking the microscope.” He said quietly.
John smiled. It was one of his sunny, genuine smiles that made the girls in town giggle into their ice creams. Sherlock hated it. It always made something happen in his chest, like millipedes walking behind his flesh.
“I’m irritating.” John said. “Not evil.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, just looked at John and, meaningfully, at the hallway visible through the open door. John rolled his eyes and turned to go, then halted. He tilted his head like a curious puppy and peered at something which had caught his eye.
“Bloody hell...” He breathed. Sherlock followed his gaze, and to his horror he saw what John was looking at.
He lurched out of his chair and rushed to snatch the necklace off it’s hook on the wall, but John got there first and lifted it gently into the air. He held it by the chain, his free hand hovering just below the pendant as though to cach it should it slither from his grip.
“It is.” John whispered, looking stunned.
“It’s nothing!” Sherlock snapped, wanting badly to grab it from John’s hands but terrified of snapping the chain by accident. “It’s just this thing. I’ve had it since I was a baby. My mother says it was the first gift anybody dared to give me when they weren’t sure I’d survive.” He was babbling. He hated babbling. But John had to understand, had to know why the necklace was off limits, why it was precious.
“It was?” John asked. He sounded surprised and, to Sherlock’s astonishment, he was blushing. “Christ I--I didn’t know that. I mean I couldn’t have. Shit, I can’t believe this is really it. You kept it.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded. He wasn’t used to not knowing what was going on around him, and he wasn’t keen on the experience. “What could you know about--”
“I gave this to you, you dolt.” John said, grinning. “It was my gift. I gave you this necklace.”
Sherlock stared at him, frozen in place, and his heart gave a painful series of rapid-fire beats. He felt something prickle behind his eyes, and he dug his fingernails into his palms to help force it back. “You’re lying.”
John shook his head. “No, I’m not. I was too little to remember it now, but my Uncle George used to tell me about it all the time. Especially after a couple of lagers. I got it as a gift for my mum, but I ended up giving it to you.” He tilted his head back, deep in thought. “Let me see...what did I say...something like, ‘swans are beautiful to look at, but underneath they’re surprisingly strong.’ Something like that anyway.” He held up the necklace, looking from the pendant to Sherlock and back again. He smirked. “One out of two isn’t bad, eh, Sherlock?” And then he carefully pressed the necklace into one of Sherlock’s hands, and he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock stared at the necklace in his hand. The swan sillhouette glinted up at him, silent and unhelpful. He was torn. Part of him wanted to hurl it out the window, to lose it somewhere on the grounds, never to be seen again. And part of him wanted to clutch it tight, feel the metal warm against his skin, and keep tightening his grip until the pendant left impressions on his palm.
Dammit, it was his. It was the very first thing that had ever been his. His mother had told him, time and again, how this gift had allowed her, for the first time, to allow herself to believe he’d live to see the world outside the hospital. The day he’d gotten it was the day he became a real person, rather than a tragedy waiting to happen.
And now here was John, ruining everything. Sherlock clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together. Well, so what? Who cared if John ruddy Watson had been the one to give him his first gift? It didn’t matter. The swan was his, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Grimly, he unfastened the clasp on the chain and brought the two ends around his neck. It took some fumbling, but the dexterity gained from years of violin lessons came through and he managed to thread the tiny metal bar through the tiny metal loop. The pendant rested solidly against his shirt, and he brought a finger up to trace the edge of it.
The swan was his. Nothing else mattered. It was his.
With his hand on the doorknob, he froze. One out of two isn’t bad. One out of two. John had said that swans were both beautiful and strong, and that one out of two of those things applied to Sherlock.
One out of two isn’t bad.
But which one?
---
‘Tell me, Seb, what do you know about that boy?’
‘What, the little guy?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Not much. Why do you want to know about him?’
---
“Promise me you’ll be here next summer!” Harry whimpered into Mycroft’s stomach.
Mycroft laughed. “I promise, Monster! I’m only going to university, not dropping off the face fo the Earth!”
“What if you meet some girl and run off to get married and I never see you again?”
John rolled his eyes, but neither of them noticed.
“Oh, Monster. As if I’d marry anyone without getting your approval first. Rest assured if I do meet someone, I’ll bring her with me next summer to meet you all.”
Harry buried her face deeper into Mycroft’s belly and wrapper her arms tighter around his waist. “Okay, Mye. I’ll hold you to that.”
“And you can tell me all about Bridget, right?”
Harry blushed and pulled away, kicking at the ground with the toe of her shoe. “If there’s anything to tell.”
“Oh, come now. Pretty girl like you? How could she resist?”
Harry blushed deeper and John had to look away. Honestly they could rot your teeth, the pair of them.
Vienne appeared then, her eyes already shiny with unshed tears. Sherlock was behind her, scowling at the ground. John leaned against the car and watched Mike wrestle with his suitcase while Vienne and Ann embraced and cried into each other’s shoulders. He let his eyes roam at random and caught sight of Sherlock, at which point he very nearly slid from the car onto his arse.
Sherlock was wearing the necklace. The white gold of the chain glinted against his pale skin, and the pendant shone against the dark grey of his shirt. John gaped, and something pinched in the space between his pecs.
“You...you’re...”
Sherlock glared up at him. “It’s mine. I can wear it if I like.”
“Yeah...sure. Of course.” Oddly, it didn’t look strange or girly on him. It looked...right. Like it fit. “Knock yourself out.”
Sherlock shook his head in disdain, and John busied himself with helping Mike load his things into the boot. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was blushing.
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“Did you notice, Annie?” Vienne whispered, concealing her words in theatrical sniffles against Ann’s blouse.
“Of course I noticed. What do you think it means?”
Vienne smiled against Ann’s shoulder. “It means there’s hope for them yet.”
The Ninth 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 Sixth Summer
The sixth summer was the summer everything changed..
Sherlock’s father was swamped with work and the family was unable to make their yearly journey to Vernet, so instead the Watsons would be joining them at the Sussex House, which lacked a stately name so far as John knew.
And while he would have preferred to stay in Islington, John was immensely chuffed that his best mate Mike would be able to join them this year, so he wouldn’t be alone with Mycroft and Harry’s simpering adoration and Sherlock’s scorn.
The sixth summer was also the year both John and Harry crashed headlong into puberty, and John was alternately confused by his own body trying to drive him barking mad, and horrified by the downright nightmare-inducing new additions his and Harry’s shared bathroom. He was almost looking forward to when they’d have numerous toilets to choose from at the big house.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Figured it out then, have you?” Mycroft smirked. “About time. I was beginning to think you’d never get there.”
Sherlock flopped onto the setee bonelessly and groaned. “I’m doomed, aren’t I?”
“You and John both, I think.”
“They’ll never stop.” He sighed.
“Not so long as you all draw breath.” Mycroft chuckled. “No, I’m afraid mummy got a taste for matchmaking when she found a husband for the Turkish ambassador’s secretary. She’s addicted now.”
“Then there’s nothing else for it. I shall have to kill him.”
Mycroft scoffed. “You couldn’t even kill that toad you wanted to dissect.”
Sherlock frowned. “It kept looking at me!”
“It wouldn’t have been able to do that once it was dead.”
Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed. “It was pointless to kill it when there are perfectly sound dead toads on the side of the road every week.”
Mycroft smiled. “And it’s answers like that which will excite the doctors once father convinces mother to have you tested.”
Sherlock looked up at his brother with wide, hopeful eyes.
Then Mycroft pretended to frown in fierce contemplation. “Although, you might wish to leave out the part where you nursed it back to health and spent your entire allowance for the month building it a terrarium.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------
“Bloody hell, is he always like that?” Mike asked, watching Sherlock stalk off across the garden to the house.
“Every. Sodding. Minute.” John grumbled. At thirteen, the boys delighted in swearing at every possible opportunity.
“He didn’t half lay into you.” Mike teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone called a ‘repugnant blemish on the evolutionary process’ before. How old is he?”
“Ten. He’s a right nightmare.”
“His brother seems an okay chap. Bit quiet.”
“Mycroft is the creepiest sod you’ll ever meet. Just give it time. He sort of...watches you. And then you find yourself doing things, things you had no intention of doing, and you don’t realise until after that he wanted you to do them. Would you believe I waxed his bleeding car last summer?”
“You what?!” Mike exploded with laughter.
“I did! And God help you if you do anything to upset Harry. You so much as make her lip quiver and it’s like your own personal apocalypse. And he never yells. Not even when he and Sherlock are having a row, which is always. He just gets really quiet and really calm, and then things start going wrong for you every time you turn around.” He shook his head. “I tell you, Mike, there aren’t words for how twisted this whole thing is.”
“I dunno.” Mike said with a shrug. “Seems exciting to me.”
John let out a sigh and leaned against a nearby tree. “I’m glad you’re here, mate.”
---
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Sebastian.’
‘Any good with that knife?’’
---
“Come on now, kids. Sherlock! Sherlock, stand closer to John, will you? I can’t get you all in frame standing so far apart.” Ann called over her camera.
Sherlock looked at John, who kept his eyes resolutely forward. A grudging shuffle, a few mumbled curses, and Sherlock and John were shoulder-to-shoulder. John gritted his teeth and placed a defiant arm around Mike’s shoulders, leaning away from Sherlock as much as he could.
Ann sighed, but she snapped the photograph anyway.
---
“Come on, Mike, faster!” John called, pumping his legs for all he was worth.
“Are you...sure...he’s...coming?” Mike panted.
“Mike! We nicked his microscope. He’d chase us to Hell and back for it!”
“You...are...mental, mate.”
“Maybe.” Said John, gripping the lowest branch of the tree he’d picked that morning and pulling himself up. He could just see and edge of the marmite-filled bucket hidden amongst the foliage. “But isn’t it fun?”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sherlock’s hair was still wet from his third shower. He’d thrown out the clothes he’d been wearing that day. He reckoned the smell of marmite would never really wash out, and he resolved to continue his trend of never touching the stuff.
No matter, though. Clothes were easily replaced. Microscopes, however, had to be begged from reluctant parents unless one was willing to endure waiting for a suitible holiday or birthday. Sherlock wasn’t.
That wasn’t to say he wasn’t patient, however. Oh no. He could be patient. For instance he could very patiently remove every bristle from John’s toothbrush. He could also very patiently fill the toes of John’s favourite trainers with week-old custard. He was even remarkably patient when it came to unravelling John’s warmest jumper and using the resulting yarn to make a perfect replica of a garden spider’s web between the walls of John’s bedroom.
Oh yes, when he put his mind to it, Sherlock had limitless patience.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Fair cop.” John said. “You got me. I can’t get to my bed, I’ll never wear those trainers again, and I honestly don’t think my mum knows which one of us to decapitate for the jumper thing. I’d avoid her for the forseeable future if I were you.”
Sherlock barely glanced at him. He hated how John could just take his attacks in stride. Even now he was leaning casually against Sherlock’s bedroom doorframe, his face placid and nonthreatening.
“You knew I’d get back at you.”
John nodded. “Yes. I did know that. Mind you, I didn’t know how hard you’d strike back, but I think that’s what impresses me the most.”
Sherlock eyed him, warily. “So...you’re not going to try to get even?”
John blinked. “Even? Mate, we are even. You do remember the thing with the marmite, don’t you? Oh, and thank you for leaving Mike out of your revenge scheme. He really was an innocent bystander.”
“No he wasn’t. But I know you were the brains behind it. And I use the term as loosely as possible.” He sighed and pushed his chair away from his desk. “Thank you for not breaking the microscope.” He said quietly.
John smiled. It was one of his sunny, genuine smiles that made the girls in town giggle into their ice creams. Sherlock hated it. It always made something happen in his chest, like millipedes walking behind his flesh.
“I’m irritating.” John said. “Not evil.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, just looked at John and, meaningfully, at the hallway visible through the open door. John rolled his eyes and turned to go, then halted. He tilted his head like a curious puppy and peered at something which had caught his eye.
“Bloody hell...” He breathed. Sherlock followed his gaze, and to his horror he saw what John was looking at.
He lurched out of his chair and rushed to snatch the necklace off it’s hook on the wall, but John got there first and lifted it gently into the air. He held it by the chain, his free hand hovering just below the pendant as though to cach it should it slither from his grip.
“It is.” John whispered, looking stunned.
“It’s nothing!” Sherlock snapped, wanting badly to grab it from John’s hands but terrified of snapping the chain by accident. “It’s just this thing. I’ve had it since I was a baby. My mother says it was the first gift anybody dared to give me when they weren’t sure I’d survive.” He was babbling. He hated babbling. But John had to understand, had to know why the necklace was off limits, why it was precious.
“It was?” John asked. He sounded surprised and, to Sherlock’s astonishment, he was blushing. “Christ I--I didn’t know that. I mean I couldn’t have. Shit, I can’t believe this is really it. You kept it.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded. He wasn’t used to not knowing what was going on around him, and he wasn’t keen on the experience. “What could you know about--”
“I gave this to you, you dolt.” John said, grinning. “It was my gift. I gave you this necklace.”
Sherlock stared at him, frozen in place, and his heart gave a painful series of rapid-fire beats. He felt something prickle behind his eyes, and he dug his fingernails into his palms to help force it back. “You’re lying.”
John shook his head. “No, I’m not. I was too little to remember it now, but my Uncle George used to tell me about it all the time. Especially after a couple of lagers. I got it as a gift for my mum, but I ended up giving it to you.” He tilted his head back, deep in thought. “Let me see...what did I say...something like, ‘swans are beautiful to look at, but underneath they’re surprisingly strong.’ Something like that anyway.” He held up the necklace, looking from the pendant to Sherlock and back again. He smirked. “One out of two isn’t bad, eh, Sherlock?” And then he carefully pressed the necklace into one of Sherlock’s hands, and he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock stared at the necklace in his hand. The swan sillhouette glinted up at him, silent and unhelpful. He was torn. Part of him wanted to hurl it out the window, to lose it somewhere on the grounds, never to be seen again. And part of him wanted to clutch it tight, feel the metal warm against his skin, and keep tightening his grip until the pendant left impressions on his palm.
Dammit, it was his. It was the very first thing that had ever been his. His mother had told him, time and again, how this gift had allowed her, for the first time, to allow herself to believe he’d live to see the world outside the hospital. The day he’d gotten it was the day he became a real person, rather than a tragedy waiting to happen.
And now here was John, ruining everything. Sherlock clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together. Well, so what? Who cared if John ruddy Watson had been the one to give him his first gift? It didn’t matter. The swan was his, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Grimly, he unfastened the clasp on the chain and brought the two ends around his neck. It took some fumbling, but the dexterity gained from years of violin lessons came through and he managed to thread the tiny metal bar through the tiny metal loop. The pendant rested solidly against his shirt, and he brought a finger up to trace the edge of it.
The swan was his. Nothing else mattered. It was his.
With his hand on the doorknob, he froze. One out of two isn’t bad. One out of two. John had said that swans were both beautiful and strong, and that one out of two of those things applied to Sherlock.
One out of two isn’t bad.
But which one?
---
‘Tell me, Seb, what do you know about that boy?’
‘What, the little guy?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Not much. Why do you want to know about him?’
---
“Promise me you’ll be here next summer!” Harry whimpered into Mycroft’s stomach.
Mycroft laughed. “I promise, Monster! I’m only going to university, not dropping off the face fo the Earth!”
“What if you meet some girl and run off to get married and I never see you again?”
John rolled his eyes, but neither of them noticed.
“Oh, Monster. As if I’d marry anyone without getting your approval first. Rest assured if I do meet someone, I’ll bring her with me next summer to meet you all.”
Harry buried her face deeper into Mycroft’s belly and wrapper her arms tighter around his waist. “Okay, Mye. I’ll hold you to that.”
“And you can tell me all about Bridget, right?”
Harry blushed and pulled away, kicking at the ground with the toe of her shoe. “If there’s anything to tell.”
“Oh, come now. Pretty girl like you? How could she resist?”
Harry blushed deeper and John had to look away. Honestly they could rot your teeth, the pair of them.
Vienne appeared then, her eyes already shiny with unshed tears. Sherlock was behind her, scowling at the ground. John leaned against the car and watched Mike wrestle with his suitcase while Vienne and Ann embraced and cried into each other’s shoulders. He let his eyes roam at random and caught sight of Sherlock, at which point he very nearly slid from the car onto his arse.
Sherlock was wearing the necklace. The white gold of the chain glinted against his pale skin, and the pendant shone against the dark grey of his shirt. John gaped, and something pinched in the space between his pecs.
“You...you’re...”
Sherlock glared up at him. “It’s mine. I can wear it if I like.”
“Yeah...sure. Of course.” Oddly, it didn’t look strange or girly on him. It looked...right. Like it fit. “Knock yourself out.”
Sherlock shook his head in disdain, and John busied himself with helping Mike load his things into the boot. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he was blushing.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Did you notice, Annie?” Vienne whispered, concealing her words in theatrical sniffles against Ann’s blouse.
“Of course I noticed. What do you think it means?”
Vienne smiled against Ann’s shoulder. “It means there’s hope for them yet.”
The Ninth Summer