Meet You Again

Chapter Four

John walked a bit oddly. His pace was steady, shoulders held with the type of confidence a man of much taller stature might hold, chin held firmly up despite his warm smile. And his feet were spaced apart evenly, though he walked, making him waddled just slightly.

Sherlock found it strangely endearing.

John also had horrible fashion sense. And Sherlock was very sure to point this certain fact out to the blond barista. (That jumper? Really? That’s horrid.) He only received a snort from the shorter boy. (I find them quite comfortable. Not everyone likes expensive button downs with ridiculous coats.)

Sherlock had sneered to hide his amusement at the jab, taking longer strides just to watch John struggle to keep up.

***

John called him a genius.

-------

  “Tell me about that man?” Victor whispered into his ear, hand sneaking up under the hem of his button down.

Sherlock swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “I...veteran. Bullet wound in his….left leg.” he started, shying away from the brush of fingers against the exposed skin of his waist. “Widowed for about four to six years. Lives alone…” curious fingers found his abdomen and he couldn’t help the little jerk his body made, nor the noise of surprise that escaped his lips, wanting nothing more than to continue speaking and avoid the task of ‘snogging’ for just a bit longer.

Victor gave a deep chuckle, breath warm against the shell of his ear. “You are brilliant.”

There wasn’t much talk after that.

-------

   The pond’s bank is damp, just slightly, and the grass is much shorter and coarser than he remembers but he’s not paying much attention to that.

John sits much differently than he walks.

Short legs are tucked firmly against his chest, chin resting on top of his small knees, making him appear much more… innocent than he actually is and so much younger than Sherlock himself. His jumper engulfs him and his eyes are wide and open and trusting that Sherlock almost starts to feel guilty for thinking about this boy the way he does.

Almost.

“You are bloody brilliant! I mean, you have to know that, right?” he asked, features warm and inviting.

“You are the first to think so.” Sherlock found himself saying, words bitter against his tongue. John doesn’t need to know this.

The smile fell, blond brows furrowing and his forehead creasing and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss away each wrinkle. “What? Really?”

“Yes, really.” he scowled instead, looking across the pond. “Most aren’t particularly fond of having all their secrets and such brought to the surface. Leads to a bad image apparently.”

He could feel John staring at him, the sympathy  rolling off of him like waves.  And he felt so vulnerable in that moment, so exposed.

Not again.

“It’s getting late.” he said sharply, standing up and dusting off stray grass on his trousers and coat. “Should probably head home.”

John still sat, staring up at him with those wide eyes and he looked so much younger, laugh lines smoothed and cheeks aglow with pink, lips chapped and parted (Sherlock found the urge to dip down and claim those lips, claim everything about the man harder to resist.) “Already? It’s barely sunset and I...wanted to show you something.”

Sherlock frowned, brows furrowing. “Show me...something?”

The boy smiled and the whole world was alight with fire.

***

John walked ahead of him, a skip to his step, so obviously excited that it made Sherlock anxious.

What’s going on? Why can’t I tell? Why won’t he tell me? The questions rang in his ears, made him light headed, made his heart pound, made his palms grow sweaty.

What is John Watson doing to me?

They walked for quite a bit, the sun setting beside them, disappearing below the horizon and taking it’s warm glow with it.

“Where are we going?” he asked, or whined, he wasn’t sure. And when John didn’t respond, he grew frustrated. Or maybe a bit more fascinated. He couldn’t quite tell.

John looked over his shoulder and smiled again, smiled that smile and it all went away in a flash of warm light and Sherlock was left speechless, words caught in his throat as their footsteps echoed throughout the night. “You’ll see.” John spoke, finally, eyes twinkling.

***

John was surprisingly graceful when he wanted to be.

He sat on the highest branch, smiling down at Sherlock with a look of glee. “Come on, before you miss it.”

Sherlock found himself glowering fondly (was that possible?), grabbing the first branch in reach and hefting himself up. (His journey up was decidedly less graceful).

John was laughing softly the entire time, helping him with the last couple branches (maybe you should get rid of that coat?) Sherlock thanked him, flushing brightly. (No, unless you get rid of that horrid jumper.) They sat comfortably side by side, John’s warmth just barely seething through, his coat and brushing his skin and Sherlock bit his lip, cheeks red and heart hammering wildly in his chest, trying his best to ignore the too good jolt it sent up his spine and settling deep in his stomach like a heavy and very welcomed heated weight.

“Why the bloody hell are we up here?” he asked to drown out the thudding of rushing blood in his ears, so glad that the dark covered his pink face.

John glanced at him, smile still the brightest thing even in the night, then pointed up towards the sky. “For that.” Sherlock followed his stubby finger, blinking in confusion.

“For the moon? For something we see every day of our lives?” he wrinkled his nose, eyes narrowed in disbelief and boredom.

“Yeah. It’s full tonight. It’s always beautiful full. Especially if you pay attention real well to everything around it.” John let out a feather light sigh and Sherlock found himself turning into a gooey puddle of sentiment and emotions and everything in between beside him.

He turned to face the moon again, wondering why John saw beauty to it, because it was just a floating massive rock orbiting around the Earth all the time, but then he caught a glimpse of John’s face illuminated but the moon’s glow (really just reflecting the sun’s constant shine) and found himself, once again, at loss for words.

John.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

The blond boy shrugged, another smile, but so different in every way, toying with his lips.

What is this feeling?

***

 ((A/N: So, basically, Sherlock is a pining mess so far and John may (or may not be) completely oblvious.

  And, no, this will not be in John's POV at anytime. It's all Sherlock and his mushy gushy feelings. Sorry.

   Hope you all enjoy!))