ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Roots (Part One)

Finally, Mycroft had decided to be useful and give his little brother real information.

Sherlock couldn't help the way his lips parted as his eyes landed on the picture in the file he held in his hands.

He looks incredible, even more so than before.

He got promoted to Captain.

He changed his haircut. It suits him.

He looks confident. It suits him.

That uniform suits him. Military life suits him.

Sherlock rose from his chair, tossing the file on a nearby side table. He finished what was left of his tea and reached for his coat, ignoring the butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach as he shrugged the familiar belstaff coat on.

"Mrs. Hudson, don't wait up on dinner," he called from the staircase, pulling the door open and stepping out into the cool London air.

Captain John Watson.

John. Just John.

"Taxi!"

***

"It's not that big of a deal," said John, plucking a stray blade of grass from feeble roots. "No one really needs me round here, anyway."

Sherlock shot him a half-hearted glare from his position, lounging with his back cradled by a freshly mowed lawn.

"Almost no one," he corrected, returning his gaze to a wisp of a cloud, a piece of cotton against a blue canvas like one of John's drawings.

"Yeah," John murmured distractedly, his gaze lingering nowhere in particular.

The silence was peaceful as it slowly enveloped the two friends in a cocoon of solitude, with only the occasional chirp from a sparrow to break it.

"John," said Sherlock, his heart suddenly beating very fast.

"Yeah? What's wrong?" John's eyes grew slightly as he took in Sherlock's expression.

Fear.

"You could die, you know that?" Sherlock's voice was steady.

"I could." John held his gaze, even though it felt like it was burning a hole straight through his skull. It felt like looking straight into the sun.

Sherlock's voice had an immeasurable weight to its tone as he spoke.

"Don't."

***

Sherlock had never had anything against railway stations, but now he felt an uncontainable hatred towards every train that crossed his line of sight. He tried not to glare at everything, but John would notice anyway.

"Thanks, Mum," Sherlock heard John say goodbye to his mother after giving her a hug and telling her not to cry, and that he'd be back before she knew it.

Sherlock's tumultuous train of thought was thrown off track by two orbs that graced his best dreams and haunted him in his worst nightmares. They were alone now, Mrs. Watson and Harriet had already left.

John shouldered his bag uncomfortably, looking into Sherlock's eyes with a hesitant, shaky smile.

Maybe he was looking for reassurance, acceptance, kindness from the boy he'd grown to adore. Maybe he was looking for a reason to roll his bags right back home and relax with Sherlock on the lawn, popsicles in their hands and nothing to worry about.