Chapter Text
It was foggy. Sherlock remembered that much. Maybe it was smoke, or fog. Did it matter? Yes. Details. Sherlock’s brain relied on details as it did on air. It was a foggy morning. He remembered the way the snow had drifted down between them. He remembered the joy he had felt on a snowy Christmas morning. He remembered Charlie’s scream. The way his body has crumbled. The way his eyes had lit up when he saw Sherlock and he remembered the way the lights had faded. The way the driver of the car had desperately clambered out of the vehicle and ran to the child. He remembered the stammered apologies. The quiet swearing. He remembered his tears. Charlie’s tears. He remembered the pain of throwing himself onto the road. The fog. His own desperation. The emotion of losing a friend ripping through his flesh. Devastation so intense that not even his parents could release his fingers from Charlie’s body.
It had been a terrifying moment for him. To hold someone in his arms again. And not have him move. He didn’t do anything dramatic like scream his anguish. Shake the unresponsive body in a fit of emotion. No. He was Sherlock Holmes. And logic was his friend.
He had placed John Watson on the ground. Supported his neck and checked for breathing. His fingers traced John’s neck and relief filled him as he found a pulse. It was extremely weak but to Sherlock a pulse was a pulse. And he had sat there. Patiently waiting and counting the pathetic heart beats until the sirens of an ambulance came upon them. And that day, the only word that described Sherlock Holmes was loyal. Loyal and still.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And when he woke up in hospital three days later, Sherlock was still there by his side.
There was a tense silent moment. Both boys unsure whether or not to drop the game and acknowledge the identity of the other.
“Long term rugby player; arm broken 3 times, twice from sports one from falling off your bike. You’re constantly worrying about your older sibling, so much so that you hardly get sleep. Skin tone indicates you spend time outside but not so much so that it eliminates studying.
Strong, brave. Your weakness is that you don’t think about your actions. You rush head first into situations, relying on your reflexes and quick thinking to come at just the right time. A likely result from all the contact sport you’ve done.
You love a mystery. The thrill of finding out something and gathering information. You like going out with a mission and the accomplishment that comes with it.
You’re John Watson. The meat head who likes to write poetry. The person who ran in front of a car to help someone you’ve never even talked too before. ”
Sherlock’s deep voice echoed around the small room and John stared at him. His dark curls were all messed up from sitting so long and he had such an intense look that John couldn’t help chuckling.
He laughed and laughed until it was as if his stomach was begging him to stop.
“That was, that was quite amazing”
Sherlock stared at him.
“That's not what people normally say”
“What do people normally say?”
“Piss off”
The two boys grinned at each other. It was going to be the start of a wonderful friendship.