John Watson walked down the street to school alongside his sister, both their heads drenched because of the light rain sprinkling down on them lightly. John had his hands inside his pockets and looked down at his feet to avoid rain getting in his eyes, though he was not having much success; his hair was growing a bit long for his taste, and tiny streams of water slid down the collected strands of hair and sprinkled right into his eyes, so he was constantly trying to swipe his hair away from his face. Now, he scoffed irritatedly and withdrew a hand from his pocket to yet again wipe his hair from his forehead, and looked over at his sister.
"Harriet," John said indignantly and stopped walking to look at Harriet open-mouthed.
Harriet grinned at him sideways, but continued to light the cigarette she had gotten from her school bag with a borrowed lighter. She lit the cigarette, and started to puff, smoke curling around her face and obscuring her gentle features that looked so much like her brother's. Then she looked at him skeptically, tossing her wet blond hair behind her shoulder and continuing to walk.
John followed her reluctantly, though hung back a bit. "You shouldn't smoke," John told her scaldingly, taking on a passive aggressive tone he nearly always used when talking to Harriet.
She snorted. "Thanks, mother."
John rolled his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets, speeding up to take stride with her. "Really, Harry. Do you really want all that tar in your lungs?"
Now it was Harriet who rolled her light blue eyes and rested her steely gaze onto John's face lazily, as if John were stupid. "Oh, come off it. It's not a big deal, John. Keep to yourself and everything will be fine," she told him huffily, inhaling slowly while she curled her hand around the cigarette to protect it from the sudden gust of wind that threatened to snuff it out.
Now John snorted. "Right."
Harriet threw him a glare that was enough to make lesser people cringe.
John stuck his tongue out at her, and she reciprocated just as they turned a corner and John bumped into a tall figure. John's forehead bumped the figure's chin sharply and the figure's feet stomped all over John's. John backed up, rubbing his forehead sorely and looking up confusedly at who he had just ran into.
It was a boy around John's age; he was tall and extremely skinny, but his thinness had a certain elegance about it, and he wore a long black coat that complimented his skin and stature nicely, paired with a blue scarf tied around his neck; his skin was a pale alabaster, his face thin and angular, with defined cheekbones that looked sharp; and the boy had a full head of thick, black curls that nearly hung in his alert ice blue eyes.
"Well, hello," drawled Harriet slowly, abandoning her cigarette as it was chucked discreetly to the side, and her eyes raked the black haired boy's graceful profile while John and the boy just stared at each other, for some reason both unable to speak. The boy looked surprised and confused as he stared at John with his perceptive blue eyes; John's eyes just stared back, wide and round, and he looked a bit uncomfortable and sheepish.
"Hello," answered the boy, and after a seemingly meaningful stare at John, flicked his eyes from John to Harriet, who grinned at the boy unabashedly; the boy's timbre was deep and his voice nearly rumbled in his chest when he spoke.
"Now, what's your name?" she asked him boldly and looked at him expectantly.
The boy's eyes flicked from John and back to Harriet again. After a moment of looking at her, the boy smiled slightly in an almost piteous, mocking way. "I'm sorry, but I'm not you're type," he told her abruptly and smiled again. His posture and tone of voice struck John: he sounded as though he held himself exceptionally above other people, almost superior-like.
"If you know what I mean," he added and winked.
Harriet scowled slightly, but had a sly smirk playing on the corners of her lips. "You're right. You're not," she told him reluctantly. "How'd you know?"
He shrugged. "I saw."
Harriet pursed her lips and looked at him skeptically. "Hm. Well, there's no denying that you're beautiful."
The boy inclined his head towards her. "So I've been told." His eyes, yet again, flickered over to John and was, for a moment, silent.
Harriet interrupted the boy and John's study of each other and said, "So what is your name? You never told me."
"Sherlock," he told her. "Sherlock Holmes."
She grinned at him and offered her hand for him to shake. "Harriet Watson. This is my brother, John," she said, gesturing to her brother.
"Harriet!" called a soprano voice suddenly, and from across the street came a girl with brilliant red hair running across the walk in the street, waving her arm.
"Clara!" shouted Harriet and waved back, handshake forgotten. "Listen, that's Clara, my girlfriend: you're right, you're most certainly not my type." She laughed. "I've got to dash; we're skipping first hour. I'll see you at home, John! Tell Mum I'm going shopping after school!" she called over her shoulder as she sprinted towards Clara, laughing.
John was pulled out from his reverie when his name was called, and waved at Harriet's figure as she walked away, hand in hand with Clara.
"Your sister is extremely annoying," said Sherlock bluntly as he also looked after Harriet and Clara, squinting out into the downpour.
John, stunned, laughed and shook his head as water was sprayed everywhere. "I could have told you that."
Sherlock chuckled deeply and smiled at John as John wasn't looking, a slight fondness twinkling in his softened ice blue eyes.
John stood there for a moment in silence thoughtfully, but then remembered he was with someone he didn't particularly know. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I keeping you from school or somewhere?" he asked politely, peeking up at Sherlock's face.
Sherlock shrugged again. "Nothing that I could heartlessly abandon, really," he said casually and slid his hands into his coat pockets.
"Right," John said slowly, not quite sure what to say.
The two boys stood together for a minute in an awkward silence that neither one of them knew how to break. Awkwardness hung in the already heavy air around them like a tangible thing one could touch, and John shuffled his feet uneasily while Sherlock simply looked as though he had no place to go in a hurry.
Both Sherlock and John spoke at once.
"Do you want to get a coffee--"
"Well, I should probably go--"
They both cut off awkwardly, and then Sherlock smiled at John amusedly, and they both burst into a fit of laughter.
"God, this is awkward," John sighed, grinning.
Sherlock smiled slyly and chuckled. "It's cold, so I'm going to go get coffee. Want to come?" Sherlock asked John and looked at him inquisitively, gesturing down the street to a coffee shop.
Feeling a bit bold and sort of rebellious, like he was in need of a kind of adventure, John smiled and nodded. "Yeah, coffee sounds great."
And the two boys, one darkness and elegance, the other warmth and determination, started to walk down the street, talking of annoying sisters and great coffee places.
Inspiration: Without A Word, 1901, Skinny Love, People Help the People by Birdy
