Like a Fairytale

Protecting the Public Image

"How's your ice cream then?" Sherlock asked, not wanting to slip into his thoughts in fear that he would be gazing dreamily.
"Hm?" John asked, looking over.
"I asked how your ice cream was." Sherlock clarified.
"Oh, it's good; I've never had this flavor before." John shrugged. "How's yours?"
"It's good. Worth getting that football I suppose." Sherlock said with a little laugh.
"You still cheated."
"Well you'll have to be more careful with me next time then." Sherlock insisted.
"I guess I will." John agreed with a suspicious glare, only making Sherlock smile shyly. This was the John Watson he knew was in there the whole time, the one without the pressure of society telling him what and what not to do. Now he was smiling and joking with the one person he probably thought he never would be, it was almost like Sherlock had a fairy godmother out there, looking after him and making sure they interact enough.
"Why do you wear a scarf? It's not even that cold out." John pointed out, flicking his spoon in Sherlock's general direction.
"Oh I don't know, it's just something I've always done." Sherlock shrugged.
"Yep, you certainly are different." John decided, as if he hadn't already figured that out.
"Well of course I am, it's part of my charm is it not?" Sherlock pointed out with a sarcastic smile.
"If by charm you mean practically asking people to beat you up, then yes." John agreed.
"I don't ask you to beat me up." Sherlock defended.
"But Anderson is another story." John pointed out.
"He deserves it, I was the only who would actually stand up for out suffering selves." Sherlock agreed.
"You saint." John muttered.
"Why thank you." Sherlock said sarcastically.
"It was an expression." John corrected.
"And yet the angels are singing." Sherlock laughed. John just rolled his eyes, as if Sherlock was the most ridiculous person he had ever known.
"Idiot." John muttered. Sherlock took that as a complement never the less. They finished up their ice cream in comfortable silence, John once again watching the road and Sherlock took the liberty to watch him only out of the corner of his eyes. When they scraped the last bit of ice cream from their foam bowls they got to their feet, Sherlock taking both of their trash to be the gentleman he was, and John just waited by the door as Sherlock wrestle with the trash can, which didn't want to fit both cups at the same time. In the end he let it go, to the obvious annoyance to the old man behind the counter, but left the shop before they could get yelled at.
"So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow then." John decided as he walked down the street, making Sherlock realize just how close they were to his house.
"I guess so, three o'clock right?" Sherlock asked.
"As far as I know yes." John agreed.
"Park?"
"Yep."
"Alright, until then, stay out of trouble." John decided, stopping outside of his house to give Sherlock a little wave before walking up the sidewalk.
"See you." Sherlock agreed. There was no guarantee he's stay out of trouble of course. He walked all the way to his house, stalking up to his room to find Redbeard lazily laying around, like the old dog he was. Sherlock slammed the door behind him and sighed, setting his bag down in the corner and flopping on his bed.
"Well Redbeard, I think we can now be classified as friends, at least when it's only us." Sherlock decided. If Redbeard heard him he didn't make any noise to show it, so Sherlock was left just lying in his bed with a goofy smile on his face. Friends, with John Watson, him. Those words just didn't fit together without his heart pounding ninety miles per hour. Redbeard just groaned, as if he thought he was being stupid, but of course he was being stupid, absolutely pathetic in fact. Sure they might be on first name basis, but John was straight, about as annoyingly straight as you could get, Sherlock had seen how much he and Mary obviously liked each other, but he was willing to be he loved John a lot more, or could love him at least, than Mary. Sherlock spent the rest of the day hiding in his room with his own positive thoughts, Redbeard stayed most of the time except for when he needed to go out, then he would walk down stairs and bark for someone to open the door. It was a strange thought, to let your dog out the door in the city without a second thought, but then again their house was extremely strange, having a front yard and all. Inside you wouldn't guess it was in the city, it was built just like a large house in the country really, it had a backyard and a large tree in the back. Sherlock often used this tree to sneak to and from places in the middle of the night, like if he needed another book or if he was really craving Chinese food. Then, of course, there were the drugs, but since he and John had gotten closer he hadn't given the pile buried in his closet another thought. it wasn't an addiction per say, more like help. Cigarettes were something he could use to cloud his brain from his problems, and the morphine was for extremely bad situations, when he wanted to not feel anything. But Sherlock could flush all of it down the toilet at any given time; it wasn't like he was a crack head hiding under a bridge somewhere. When dinner came he had to go downstairs to rejoin his family, more like a curse really. Sherlock stalked down the steps, scowling around the house just to show his utter dislike for family dinners. Mrs. Hudson was carrying over a big roast beef, obviously just cooked, and Mycroft was carrying two bowls of lima beans and mashed potatoes. Sherlock sat in his chair, already set and ready, without even a glance of hello to his mom or dad, both of who sat on either end of the table. Mrs. Hudson ate sometimes after them, he wasn't sure when and he didn't usually stick around that long, but most of the time they let her eat whatever they were having as well. She wasn't immediate family, but she was close to it. Mycroft then sat in his chair and leaned on his elbows, for which Mrs. Holmes slapped him in the arm for. They had to keep up postures even alone in their home. Once everyone started digging into the food there was silence, but Sherlock wasn't complaining one bit. But, that is, it never stays silent for long.
"So Sherlock how was your day?" Mrs. Holmes asked as she scooped another forkful of mashed potatoes from the pile on her plate.
"Fine."
"You were out for quite a while, where did you go?" Mycroft asked, more like an interrogation than a conversation starter.
"I was tutoring that brainless football player." Sherlock snapped.
"No better I presume?" Mycroft sighed.
"Actually he passed a test I gave him, so that's an improvement." Sherlock muttered, really wanting to get out of this spotlight. His father watched him suspiciously but his mother looked generally interested.
"Well it's always good to see some of the common folk evolve." Mycroft sighed, poking at his roast beef without really eating it. Sherlock nodded, but he wouldn't call John a common folk. He was a common mind of course, but everyone knew John's name, whether they were in school or in the city itself. Unfortunately everyone knew Sherlock as well, but by two names, in school he was Freak and in the city he was 'that Holmes boy'. No one really took a liking to him except Mrs. Hudson and his family, which were kind of default anyway.
"The stocks rose again." Mr. Holmes pointed out. So ended dinner conversation. Once all the dishes were done Sherlock was able to run back up to his room where Redbeard was waiting as usual. This time the dog had an old chew toy in his mouth, pawing at it and trying to bite its head off without much enthusiasm. It's been a while since Sherlock had actually seen Redbeard play with a toy; he was so old he didn't even chase squirrels. He was making quite a racket as well; there was a partially deformed squeaker somewhere in the lump of cotton and fabric.
"Oh be quiet." Sherlock muttered, sitting stiffly on the bed and staring at the closet door. Sherlock sat on his bed with a soft sigh, his face twisted into some type of smile. With one long leg he kicked the closet door open, letting the pictures of John flutter against the wood. Finally he was able to see John daily without having to watch him from afar, John and he were closer than he had ever been able to imagine, this was so bloody good that Sherlock felt like it was fake. It had to all be a dream, he'd wake up and go to school and John would still sit in front of him, he would still kick him and hit him and shut him in lockers. But Sherlock secretly knew that even he couldn't dream up something like this, all of his dreams were short clips of life that never seemed to get anywhere. This was better than a dream in the pure sense that it was real. To prove this to himself Sherlock pinched his wrist, and a small pain shot up his arm. It was real, it was all real, and that very fact made it a dream.