When We Were Young

It's Only Been Eight Years

John POV: It had been over eight years since John had said a single word to his unfortunate neighbor. Eight years, and they lived right across the street! And yet this wasn't a bad thing, no it wasn't like he was going out of his way to avoid the strange boy who lived next door, who always had his curtains open, permitting John to see straight through his window after the sun had fallen. It was just that they had gone down separate roads, that was all, John went one way and he went the other, there was nothing wrong with it of course. Sure they started out as best friends but in the end they weren't necessarily compatible, for they had nothing in common except their street name. It had been more than eight years since John talked to Sherlock Holmes, and so when his mother announced that they were having the Holmes family over for dinner, well, it came as a bit of a surprise. Sherlock had always been a weird kid, for as long as John had known him (or at least observed him) they had always had a different taste in everything. Sherlock liked classical symphonies while John enjoyed hard rock from the 90's, Sherlock wore button down shirts to school while John just wore his old soccer shirts from when he used to play, the shirts that he had collected from various tournaments and championships. And well, now the most obvious change was their choice in partners...lovers? Accomplices? Well, without the euphemism, Sherlock was gay. And there was nothing wrong with that, no of course John wasn't homophobic and that certainly wasn't the reason he was avoiding Sherlock, it was just another reason that they were different. It was just another reason that John hadn't thought that in his free time he might like to venture down across the street and knock on the door for a cup of tea. So it was awkward, you know? For Sherlock and whatever was left of his family to come over and have some of Mrs. Watson's lasagna, well it was going to be a tense night for all of them. It was no mystery why the falling out had happened so suddenly, in fact John remembered the last word he spoke- or at least didn't speak- to Sherlock Holmes. It started out that there was a whole big happy family living in that large house, it was kept nice, painted, weeded, the whole deal. It was just Sherlock and his brother Mycroft and their two parents, and growing up the Holmes and the Watsons had almost been inseparable. They were the only two families on this stretch of desolate road, and so they always had 'neighborhood' dinners where the one of the two families would host and the others would visit. It had always been so much fun, Harry, John's older sister, had always played wrestling or extreme fighting or whatever it was with Mycroft, beating the scrawny kid to a pulp any chance she got, while Sherlock and John roamed around the backyards playing much more innocent games. They had always been quite compatible as children, Sherlock liked to play pirates, John liked to play soccer in his little net outside, they were the best of friends. And it seemed like they would stay that way, for back then whatever differences they were going to have weren't enough to divide such a friendship, no it had taken much more than maturity to break the two of them apart. And it came as a shock; it came as a police car, spotted driving slowly up the road while John and Sherlock sat on his bed, playing with dinosaurs or something like that. They spotted it through the same window that showed John way too much, and that was the beginning of the downfall of the happy Holmes family. Sherlock had been called to his house, for the car had pulled up in front of his porch. He had been summoned by Mrs. Watson, who walked him very slowly over to his front door while John waited nervously, watching out the window as Sherlock was escorted inside by no other welcoming hands, his mother was absent. No one had told John what had happened until he arrived at the funeral, or maybe they had informed him and he had just forgotten. Nevertheless, it was his first funeral, and it was very odd. He almost expected the form in the casket to sit up and smile, like he always used to do, bring over a bottle of scotch and insist on playing jazz music while they ate. Mr. Holmes had always been such a lively individual, so when John saw him lying in the coffin it was one of the most bizarre memories he harbored. It was a car crash, or at least they said it was, however Mr. Holmes didn't looked at all disfigured when John saw him, and he had always wondered how a man could die from a car crash and still look as though he was sleeping peacefully. Maybe it was just the magic of makeup. John hadn't seen Sherlock at the funeral, there were so many crying people and so many little kids, well that curly head had just gotten in the crowd I suppose, lost in the sea of trouser pants and the hems of dresses, tissues clutched in gloved hands and hands being held in consolation. John remembered it all so vividly, he remembered crying, and yet he didn't even know why. Mr. Holmes hadn't been much too him, just a neighbor, a friend of his parents and the father of one of his friends. Maybe he cried because he knew that was the last day that he could claim his friendship to Sherlock Holmes, and that was the day whatever normality the two families had brought together shattered beneath their feet. The last time John saw Sherlock he was sitting in his bedroom- alone. He was sitting in his desk after the funeral, with his little clip on tie on his shirt and his hair all gelled back so that it stayed out his face without him pushing it back. That window showed him Sherlock Holmes, sitting on his front steps in his finest suit, alone despite the many cars that were lined up along the driveway and the road. John could tell he was crying, for his little head was buried in his hands, propping himself up against his knees and looking more broken than any boy John had ever seen. And he had felt that maybe he should go up to him; comfort him, for he was his best and only friend. John knew that it was his duty to comfort his crying friend...and yet he didn't go. Who knows why he didn't leave his room that night, who knows why he didn't even try? John just sat there at his desk, staring at the boy who thought he was well protected from judgmental eyes, and he watched him crying. John always regretted that moment, until he didn't. Until they parted ways, finally, absolutely. He hadn't talked to Sherlock Holmes for eight years.
"Mom do you really think this is...necessary?" John wondered as he held a large crystalline vase, holding it steady as the water sloshed around in the bottom, his mother cutting and placing more and more white roses into its depths.
"Well of course it's necessary, we haven't seen the Holmes in how long? They need to think that we're...proper." Mrs. Watson insisted, looking a bit stressed out as her diamond earrings shook from the sides of her head.
"I mean no offense to them, but I'm quite sure that we'd be more proper than they are without the roses." John muttered. His mother just tutted at him, grabbing the vase from his hands and shuffling over to the dining room table.
"Oh well, it's just a centerpiece anyway. It looks fine just like that." she decided, even as she turned and arranged it to try to make it look even more visually appealing from the light that shone overhead.
"It looks fine mom; everything looks fine, just stop worrying about it okay?" John insisted, sighing and looking at himself in the reflection of their microwave. His mother was obviously very nervous about seeing the Holmes family after so long, and as much as John shamed her for it he had to admit that he was kind of nervous as well. He knew Sherlock had changed, he just didn't know by how much. Would he suddenly be a cold, distant sociopath who wouldn't look anyone in the eye? Oh even worse...would he flirt with John? No, no that was impossible Sherlock was dating someone, John was sure of it. He would be safe from that, as long as Sherlock remained faithful to that boyfriend of his. It was going to be an uncomfortable evening, and no amount of rose centerpieces was going to change that.
"Well it's only going to be Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock I imagine, Mycroft is off at college if I'm correct." Mrs. Watson mumbled, straightening the silverware as she nervously flitted around the table, trying to make sure everything was perfect.
"Have you seen any of them lately?" John carried, lingering in the kitchen and straightening his collar just for something to do.
"Well of course I have, I see Mrs. Holmes getting the mail. I see Sherlock walking to school. I see him getting home from school." Mrs. Watson shrugged.
"Oh well you're practically best friends with the both of them then." John laughed, leaning up against the fridge before his mother pushed him away once more to check on her towering mass of Jell-O that she had made for desert, a masterpiece that was so fragile she felt the need to check on it every ten seconds that it sat untouched in the fridge.
"Oh stop that John, I'm doing my best here. I feel bad! They must be so lonely, and we haven't been doing our parts to be good neighbors. You're right; I know nothing about them anymore!" Mrs. Watson admitted with a shrug, steadying herself on the marble countertops while they listened to the high heeled footsteps coming from the hallway above.
"That must be Harry." John guessed, rather hoping his sister would come downstairs and give his mother something to whine about other than their neglecting their company for as long as eight years. However the footsteps stopped, and John was stuck once more listening to her ramblings.
"Who does he come home with every day? That boy who sits out on their porch and...and smokes." Mrs. Watson said in a whisper, as though the habit of smoking cigarettes was something that could never be spoken of in her house. Well of course the answer to Mrs. Holmes' question was obvious; Sherlock got a ride home with Victor Trevor, that boy with the most beat up black car, shorter than both of the boys and dented in most all angles of the worn metal. Victor was a sort of notorious bad boy about the school, mostly because he dropped out of school when he was sixteen to do nothing much except lounge around in cut off tee shirts and gel his hair back. Back then he had been every girl's daydream, for he was tall, handsome, and he had a smile and a leather jacket, he was the king of cool in those days. Of course he had broken most everyone's heart when he finally took Sherlock as his boyfriend, creating an almost inseparable bond between the two of them. John only knew most of this from the gossip he heard at school, however they really didn't know the half of it, for John had a front row seat to everything they got up to simply by staring through his window right into Sherlock's bedroom...Needless to say he's seen things he wished he could forget, however it was rather odd, for he could never bring himself to shut his own blinds. It was like a car crash, in a sense. He knew he shouldn't watch and he knew that he would regret watching with every fiber of his very being, but then again he always caught himself while he was doing homework, tapping his pencil against the windowsill and watching as Sherlock and Victor, well...
"Oh you don't know him?" John muttered nervously, feeling his face get quite flushed as he realized that he was probably going to have to break the news of Sherlock's sexuality to his mother.
"No well, not really. I could recognize him, if that's what you're asking." Mrs. Watson mumbled, going to wipe down her counters once more despite their shining in the light above.
"That's Victor Trevor, he's Sherlock's boyfriend." John admitted in a rather small voice, making Mrs. Watson blink for a moment as she ran one of her little dish cloths underneath the sink.
"Boyfriend? As in...?" Mrs. Watson exclaimed, looking quite shocked however she was obviously trying her best to contain her surprise.
"Well ya, ya." John agreed.
"Oh." She murmured, dropping the dish towel in disinterest and going towards the stairwell to call down the remainder of the family. Obviously the mere mention of Sherlock's sexuality was enough to drive her away, a fact that John decided to make use of in the future.
"Harry, where are you? Come on down, we've got five minutes until they arrive!" Mrs. Watson called.
"Must I wear these horrible heels? They're loud, and they make my feet hurt!" Harry whined from above, making John smile in satisfaction. Oh it always brought joy to his heart to learn that his sister was in some sort of discomfort.
"Well of course you have to wear them, they're beautiful and they make you look very professional." Mrs. Watson insisted. "Come down honey, and bring your father with you!"
"He says that the shoes look painful too." Harry insisted, the clacking of her heels against the wood announcing her descent down the stairs.
"Well maybe he should wear them instead." Mrs. Watson suggested with a teasing smile, knowing that there wouldn't be much debate after that.
"I take it back Harry." Mr. Watson called from down the hallway, to which Harry just groaned once more.
"Five minutes people, five..." Mrs. Watson was interrupted as the doorbell rang, and suddenly everyone froze. That was the shortest five minutes that any of them had ever experienced.
"They're here!" John called quite obviously as everyone hustled around and made themselves presentable. Mrs. Watson rushed to the door while Mr. Watson and Harry scrambled down the stairs, putting the finishing touches on their outfits and lighting the last of the cinnamon scented candles, all which burned very cheerfully in the sitting room. John's stomach twisted nervously, and he decided that maybe the best place for him to be now was the kitchen, far away from the door he heard opening and the greetings he heard being exchanged... It was all those nauseating formalities the women liked to throw around, commenting on their dresses, their hair, their overall appearance, and whatever sort of appetizer they had brought. Apparently it was lemonade, for John heard Mrs. Watson gushing about how delicious it looked. It was obvious that Sherlock was there as well, for there were moments when some silence would overtake the two chattering women and his deep voice would take over, muttering a response or two before shrinking back into silence. There was something about his voice that made John very uncomfortable, for when they were children his voice had been very high pitched and feminine. Now it was deep, startlingly deep in fact, and something that he had barely ever heard.
"Now Sherlock, why don't you go put this in the kitchen, you know where it is? And Mrs. Holmes I'll take your coat, thank you." Mrs. Watson was saying, and suddenly John was overcome with some sort of flight or flight reaction. Now of course neither of these two options were any good in this social situation, for he couldn't be caught running away and he certainly couldn't punch Sherlock over just for walking into his kitchen. No he had to remain, he had to face it, and he had to be strong. Besides, it was just Sherlock, how much could really have changed? John made himself look busy as he straightened the towel hanging on the oven, a towel displaying all sorts of spring flowers and whatnot, in the mood of the changing seasons. However chilly it was outside it was getting to be that time of the year again when the trees began to bud and the flowers began to bloom, and soon they would open up their pool and have all of John's friends over, it would be wonderful. Of course that was soon, and this was now, and no amount of spring flowers would pull him out of the moment.  Sherlock's figure appeared in the doorway and John looked up instinctively, smiling rather nervously and feeling just a little bit short of breath. Sherlock looked beautiful, and not of course in a gay way, more of an observation. John had never really looked at him, at least not since they went their separate ways, and now looking at him as he stood there, his pale skin illuminating under his dark curls, his face so chiseled and his eyes so intimidating... 

"Hi." John stammered, the only word he could think to say after seeing this boy for the first time in what felt like eternity. Sherlock smiled rather awkwardly, his lips thinning into an awkward line as he held up a rather dusty looking pitcher of very artificial looking lemonade.
"Hi." Sherlock agreed. John leaned heavily against the counter, almost like he was trying to occupy himself by pushing on his stomach with the corner of the marble, trying to give himself every excuse not to look over at the boy who waited so awkwardly in the doorway. Obviously they were both trying to figure out what to say, for the awkwardness was almost tangible and the time they had last spoken to each other was quickly catching up. They were both remembering, undoubtedly, the times they used to spend together and the fun they used to have. It was almost odd, looking now on this timid boy and his nervous hands clutching that pitcher, and remembering him as a small little seven year old, wrapping his face in a bandana and holding John at plastic sword point.
"Where should I put this?" asked that deep voice, to which John nodded, rushing over rather quickly and holding out his hands acceptingly.
"I'll take it, put it on the counter." John assured, to which Sherlock nodded, handing over the pitcher for John to take one step and set it down on the marble. That was a job that might have been very easily accomplishable for Sherlock; however in the moment it seemed preposterous to burden a guest with a task so daunting as setting the lemonade down on the counter. Thankfully the moment was interrupted by Harry, who was announced much earlier than she appeared with her clacking heels against the wooden floor boards, making her groan and complain about her aching feet and ever growing blisters.
"Ah, well if it isn't Sherlock Holmes!" Harry announced with a smile. Sherlock turned in surprised, almost wincing at her sudden entry as though he was expecting her to lash out. Well, he was only half right, for Harry punched him in the arm but not that hard, and of course that was how she greeted everyone these days so Sherlock shouldn't take it so seriously. He winced, muttering a little hello while messaging his arm nervously.
"Harry you really shouldn't punch people." John murmured, looking on his sister and trying to contain his laughter, for her skinny jeans and band tee shirts had been replaced with a rather horrible looking blue dress with a purple sash, evidently Mrs. Watson had picked from the most horrid rack at the mall.
"And what are you going to do about it?" Harry questioned, marching right over to her brother and punching him even harder in the shoulder, to which he winced and ducked away.
"It's just rude. I'm not going to do anything about it." John defended in a bit of a desperate voice, not liking to look so weak in front of Sherlock, especially when he had taken the punch as though he was already quite tolerate to such a pain.

"Ya that's what I thought." Harry agreed with a grin. She turned back to Sherlock, who was standing rather awkwardly in near the counter, his hands hidden in the pockets of his little black jacket, his eyes watching politely with that almost mesmerizing gleam in them. John pursed his lips apprehensively, for he really shouldn't be noticing these things.