Warning: the angst is mostly over :)

Day 3: 23rd November, 2014

The Speedy's is a cafe on the ground floor of the apartment building number 221 owned by Mrs. Hudson. It is where she used to spend most of her time baking things or at scratch cards with Mr. Chaterjee. Sometimes, when Sherlock Holmes deigns to eat, usually Mrs. Hudson made him some kind of breakfast that would not interfere with his violin playing or his general idea of clashing with the sulks he throws across. But mostly, he spends his time at Speedy's, observing people, honing his deductive skills. He believes that the science of deduction is an ongoing process which can never be perfectly mastered, and since he has nothing productive to do on a Sunday, he sits and he observes.

And if anyone opened up his skull, and peeped into the mental processes of Sherlock's brain, they would see that the connections he makes is incredibly, incredibly obvious.

For example: the man who just entered is holding a rattle. That means that he must be a relative of a one year old. Balance of probability says father more than any other male member of the family.

Sherlock cranes his neck to follow that man with his eyes, and looks pleased with his deduction as the man goes and sits with his family, a blonde woman and a blond baby. The baby stares at Sherlock with wide eyes, studying him from across the restaurant.

Sherlock stares back, wanting to know who can give up first. He tries to emulate the baby's thinking in his own mind. What could a one-year-old child think of, Sherlock wonders. Does it even know how to think? It must, otherwise it wouldn't try to stand up on its own, would it?

After a few seconds, the baby looks away and goes back to sucking its thumb. Sherlock is disheartened. He's gleaned nothing from the child. Children are stupid.

Sherlock restructures his thoughts. Adults are stupid. Children can't be stupid because he is a child too. But other children could be stupid, but not children in general.

He looks down at his notebook, fully covered with a properly aligned name sticker. William Holmes, grade four, roll no 17. Sure, his name is William but he introduces himself as Sherlock. He likes how different 'Sherlock' is from 'William'. Anything to be different. Anything for people to look at him with open mouths and awed expressions. He enjoys that.

But there have been some changes over at 221. For example, the skull is no longer there, Sherlock has stopped solving crimes with his blogger, and Mrs. Hudson isn't there in the flat anymore, or anywhere in the world. Otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have to come down for his breakfast ritual.

And now, Sherlock's brother owns the whole 221, believing that if there's anything that can make Sherlock feel at home, it's 221B. That's what the doctors say. And now, Sherlock thinks that he and Mycroft are guests at their Uncle Rudy's crash-in flat for the duration of their surprise sightseeing in London, and their parents would be arriving tomorrow, a tomorrow that never arrives.

"William Holmes, grade four, age nine, roll number seventeen," Sherlock chants to himself studiously. Angelo comes up to him to give him his cup of milk.

"I want coffee!" Sherlock protests angrily like every day, pouting at the whiteness of the milk. Angelo heaves a sigh. They have to keep this charade up. If they don't, Sherlock might come to know that something is up. He is observant enough not to miss that.

"You're too young for coffee. Your mummy told me to get milk for you."

"I don't like milk. It smells. I want to drink coffee like the grownups."

"Oh really?"

Sherlock gives him a death glare, "I am a grownup!"

"You're not a grownup, you look like a grownup. And as far as I remember, you are too young to come down here on your own."

Sherlock meets his eyes stubbornly, "And you're too old to remember correctly."

Angelo hides his fond smile, "Fine, but if tomorrow when your mummy arrives and comes to know that you had coffee, don't come to me crying."

"I do not cry!" Sherlock protests, but accepts the cup of milk anyway. People always do that, think that he's too young for coffee, or in fact anything. Even his mother. But his mother is nice. She's a loving but firm woman. She always ensures that she has her way with her boys.

And Sherlock doesn't always like that. Except when it comes to Mycroft.

Somebody rings the shop bell and Sherlock looks up, at the next subject of his deduction exercise. The man in question is a blond, ashy hair, short stature, blue eyes. Red and green chequered shirt, very horrible. Jacket, burnt sienna. Watch, cheap. Jeans, stain on the left knee, splash of mud on the back. Married, golden wedding band on the ring finger. Limps and leans on his walking stick far too much. Age, thirty five, maybe. Good-looking, Sherlock decides, not to be caught looking at him. One should never make their affections apparent from early on, he had learnt at a very disastrous dance recital.

There is a stiffness and a military-look to him. He looks like that actor in that BBC Christmas movie that Sherlock had decided was extremely unrealistic for a simple substandard primary school nativity.

Sherlock observes him. The man unfolds a newspaper, and Angelo seems to know him. Then he must be a regular here. Or maybe just a friend, not sure. That sort of precision in the deduction process he will be able to do when he grows up, probably.

He watches Angelo give him a small smile and hand him a double jam sandwich and a black coffee. Regular he is. Maybe even diabetic, since he doesn't take it with sugar. But the jam-loaded sandwich?

Or maybe just health conscious.

Or maybe just plain stupid.

The man glances at Sherlock and Sherlock looks away. Soon it is the other way round than it had been. Sherlock is still determinedly looking away and the man is still looking at him. What if he's here to kidnap him? Probably not, because even if he's nine, he still looks like an adult. Well, it's alright. There's some advantage out of thyroid malfunction. Sherlock thinks his condition is absurd but interesting, and again, he has no way of knowing the how and the why of it. Perhaps he'll know more tomorrow.

As for kidnapping, he can fight him if he tries. He had once thrown a roundhouse kick to Percy McCluskey's jaw in the playground once, to extreme delight and an extremely boring week of grounding.

He wonders to himself, with an inward smile, what his classmates would think when they would see a fully grown-up William in their class. Percy McCluskey and his gang won't be able to hurt him or make fun of him anymore. His teachers won't be able to say anything if he pointed out their mistakes. That would be such a relief.

And so much fun.

Or maybe his mummy and daddy would let him sit in higher classes instead because he looks almost like a grown up.

As Angelo moves away from this mystery man, Sherlock calls him with a 'psst', "Mr. Angelo!"

Angelo spots Sherlock with his usual small kind smile, "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock points discreetly at the blond man, "Who's that man?"

Angelo turns his head towards him, "Oh, that's just a customer."

"Is he a regular?" Sherlock prods further, careful not to give away his curiosity.

"Uh. . . yes he is."

Sherlock nods, and sits back. So that man is a regular, so he can't have known Sherlock because they were only visiting London. So. Moving on. . .

"He's making me uncomfortable. Can you ask him to look away?"

Angelo looks startled at that, "Sherlock, you can't just ask someone to look away for no reason."

"It bothers me, good enough reason."

"Well. . ." there's a certain wistfulness to Angelo's facial features before they become bland again, "you could tell him that."

And before Sherlock can stop him, Angelo is already hurtling towards that blond man. Sherlock buries his head in his palms. Bloody grownups, and he can say 'bloody'. It is just a word. There's nothing wrong with saying a bad word or a good word. It's the actions which speak louder.

Meanwhile, the blond man is in front of him, watching him, with Angelo at his side. Sherlock doesn't like the glare being imposed on him.

"Suit yourself," Angelo shrugs, "I've got customers to attend to."

Sherlock doesn't meet the stranger's eyes. But even the stranger doesn't meet his. Then, slowly, very slowly, the man settles in the seat in front of him, "Sorry, if I erm. . . made you uncomfortable. My. . . my friend looked just like you."

Sherlock accepts the apology. Even he would be a little bewildered by that, but not to the extent that ordinary people would, "Look—ed? Did he get his face done away by surgery?"

"No," the man huffs out a laugh, ignoring his first implied question, "he, in fact, talked a lot like you."

"Well, I'm not him," Sherlock shrugs, going back to his notebook.

"You could be."

"I'm nine," Sherlock protests unthinkingly to prove himself right, "you can't call a nine-year-old a friend? You'd call him a kid."

"Nine?"

"Thyroid malfunction," Sherlock clears upon realising belatedly that he has given himself away, "quite an advantage for me."

There's a flicker of interest in the stranger's eyes. Or maybe one just shouldn't delude oneself too much.

"Your voice too?" he presses on.

"I'm still. . . researching on that."

Now the stranger looks amused, "Researching? Really?"

Sherlock feels hopeless, "If only there was something that we could use to get information easily without having to search in books."

The stranger smiles, "I'm John."

But Sherlock barely pays him attention and continues with his rant, "Not to worry, my uncle said he'd be taking me—I mean, we'd be going together to the British Library tomorrow, and maybe I'll find out what it is.

John is amused by Sherlock's attempts to talk like an adult.

"But. . . what is that?"

Sherlock points to a man at another table holding a Windows Phone, "What is that?"

John across him looks a little worried. Sherlock is still in 1986. Mobile phones, moreover touch screens, weren't in use back then.

"Playing thing?" he suggests weakly.

But Sherlock pushes back the chair enthusiastically and strides over to the person with the phone. Angelo and John rush after him, but Sherlock is ahead of them.

"Hello," he says, and he looks frankly terrifying, towering with his height and in his childlike innocence. Who knew that nine-year-old Sherlock in a thirty-seven-year old body could be this terrifying without his basic understanding of human conventions in behaviour?

The man looks up, "Yes?"

"Can I see that?"

And before the man can look any more surprised and Sherlock can look any more interested, John snatches the phone out of the man's grip and smashes the thing on the floor. The entire cafe looks around at the noise.

"Hey!" Sherlock and the victim both cry out, looking equally murderous. John's face is red, much like Angelo's. Without any hesitation, he pulls out his wallet, determinedly avoiding every eye in the cafe. There isn't much, just his lottery tickets, a couple hundred, his debit card, his Oyster Card and his IDs. For a minute he contemplates giving the man his debit card and his PIN as a compensation. . . but then Sherlock would probably ask him what a debit card was.

"I'm sorry, very, very sorry. I'll pay for your loss," John says at once, shielding Sherlock from the wrath, "I'm extremely sorry for this. It's just, well. . ." he laughs nervously, "nerves, I suppose. I have a. . . erm, a tendency. . . to destroy. But don't worry, I'll buy you another phone. A better one. The latest model. Whatever you ask."

The man rises, as does his girlfriend, shaking with anger, "Do you even know what was in that phone? Do you even know what a bloody phone is?!"

"Not really," Sherlock pipes up from behind John nonchalantly.

The girlfriend looks at Sherlock as if he were an alien and makes a disgusted noise. The man, however, reaches around John and grabs Sherlock by the collar of his shirt.

"You were the one who started it, wasn't you, you prick?"

"Show them sweetie! Show them your special moves!" The girlfriend cheers unceremoniously. John throws her a dirty look.

"Now, now," Angelo tries to cool a protesting John, "all of this outside the cafe."

Sherlock looks scared, and points at John, "He's the one who broke—"

"You don't know what a phone is, do you? I'll show you what a phone is," and with that, the man sets to take his anger out on Sherlock with a punch to his face. But before he can hit him, John drags the man away with a shout of "he's a bloody child!" and sends him crashing into a nearby table.

"Now!" Angelo barks at the lot, "No violence in my cafe! Go away!"

A minute later, the man (now somewhat injured), his girlfriend (injured ego), Angelo (injured customer feedback), Sherlock (with a bruise in his cheekbones) and John (almost a broken hand) are all behind 221A, in the alley, for taking Sherlock through the main road would've meant more disaster and exposure to more things which were only there in the 21st century.

"This is ridiculous," the man's bad-tampered hasn't come down a bit while John lets himself be manhandled by him, "you will get me another phone right now!"

"Look just," John screws up his face in the anticipation of a blow, "let me down, and I'll pay you in full, okay? Just let me down."

Meanwhile, Sherlock is still puzzled by the chain of events.

John digs into his wallet, parting with his cab fare without any remorse, "Here's fifty. And my fucking number, in case you need more!" he tosses in a card and looks at the man and his girlfriend with utter distaste. How little they valued things in their lives. Why didn't such disasters happen to people like them?

John catches himself. Nobody deserved what happened to him and Sherlock.

After the couple are out of there, Sherlock also begins to walk away, a bit indignantly, back into Angelo's. Impulsively, John calls out a bit too authoritatively.

"Where're you going?"

Sherlock pauses a bit, glances like he's stolen something, and then rushes away faster. John calms himself down, remembering that Sherlock did not have any obligation to answer his anymore.

"Hey! Where're you going?" he says cautiously, glancing at Angelo. Damn it, he thinks. He really shouldn't have lost control, and now he's only a child, and John really couldn't go around beating everybody who was a threat to Sherlock and he should be calmer and more sensible and approach Sherlock in a non-threatening way. . .

Angelo gives him a look and begins to rush after Sherlock, but John quickly drags him by the sleeve, "Just make sure he's in the cafe, that he doesn't want to go out the main door."

Angelo glances at Sherlock's retreating back, "He usually leaves out the back. . . you know, closer to the flat and all."

"Umm yeah," John exhales, "but he must be upset. . . well, if he was adult-Sherlock, he'd have thrown a temper tantrum about not being given a chance to examine the phone and everything, wouldn't have given a damn about the fighting, but. . . he's wee Sherlock," he sighs and shrugs, "just go after him."

Angelo hurries into the building. John wonders how long it would be until he'd be able to understand and differentiate between wee-Sherlock and his-fiancé-Sherlock.

But when he sneaks into the cafe through the back, he's met by a surprise both pleasant and unpleasant.

Sherlock is sitting still in his corner of the cafe, examining the cover of the broken phone like an precious, long-lost relic. The cafe looks significantly deserted after The Fight.

Sherlock doesn't look the slightest bit disturbed or upset, as John had thought wee-Sherlock would have been, accounting to his sensitive childhood issues. Busy examining the phone cover, too busy to even notice John. Perhaps Mycroft was right, after all. Sherlock was still happy and . . . normal back then.

Upon seeing Angelo calling him towards the restroom, John rushes to him. Angelo looks intensely relieved.

"What happened?"

Relief changes to smugness on Angelo's face, "What d'you think?"

"I—I thought he'd be. . . well, upset that I had broken what he had wanted to examine! Plus the brawl. . ."

"He got what he wanted. So no worries," Angelo says, with a smirk on his face.

"Meaning?"

"He wanted to examine the broken phone. So I gave him the cover and told him that he could examine the rest tomorrow. No date, no machinery on the cover. For all that Sherlock said about us being idiots, not true after all."

John couldn't help but smile. Also couldn't help but think about one thing. How they were all taking advantage of Sherlock's memory loss into fooling him. John didn't know about anyone else, but he sure as hell did not like his best friend, his love, his enigma being made a fool out of by everyone he thought beneath his intelligence.

And he sure as hell did not like being a part of it.

Sensing John's dilemma, Angelo pats his arm, "Come on, John. Nobody likes it. I pray to God every night to forgive me for what I am doing to Sherlock, to you. But. . . there's no other way."

John gives him a placid smile, "Even this much is asking too much of you, Angelo. I don't know how to thank you."

"No need to thank me. You can, although, tip the blonde waitress over there," he points towards the counter, "thanks to her quick cleanup right after the fight, Sherlock never got his hands on the broken equipment."

It's only after John decides it a safe territory that he goes and sits near a completely occupied Sherlock. It's fascinating, watching him so alive, so busy, so absorbed, and for that one miraculous second, oh God, that fire comes back into those blue eyes, blue like the Bunsen flame, and Holy Mary, it's so beautiful, so ever engaging that for one second, John forgets how insignificant a thing Sherlock is examining.

Makes him go back to those days, days when he shouted at Sherlock and Sherlock ignored him over a specimen under his microscope, and John wonders why the hell he hadn't set everything aside, sat at their kitchen table and just gazed at that man immersed in his work. . .

9th October, 2013

"Get the phone for me," a deep, frankly disturbing cough, "please?"

"I'm busy, John."

John sticks his head out of the restroom after going through a series of violent throw-ups in the toilet bowl. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, his eyes sunken into sockets, lined with black circles, hoping that his look might inspire Sherlock to help him in the worst of times, "I'm sick."

"No point telling me. Should've put it in the voicemail instead."

John feels a fresh wave of nausea wash over him. He bends over until his head feels better than worse, "The phone's just beside you."

Sherlock is quiet for a minute, and then he calls out loudly, "Mrs. Hudson!"

John groans, "Oh dear God, no. . . " and another wave.

"You should thank me," Sherlock goes back to his work, a little put-out, "I solved your little problem."

"Yeah, I did not ask you to call Mrs. Hudson up and fuss all over me, I can take care of myself. I'm a doctor."

"No, I called her up to answer your phone. Since you're so capable of taking care of yourself and won't let me "interfere"."

John could seriously contemplate suicide after murder at this point, "If you really want to help, you. . ." and another disgusting sounding round of puking, ". . . you could start by answering the phone. It's. . . " and another, "getting on my nerves!"

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson comes in jumpily, "It sounds really peaceful in here."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, very subtle," Sherlock gives her a fake smile straining across his cheeks that always communicates need for favour.

"Oh dear, what's happening?"

"John is sick, and he won't let me help him."

"How—" and another round, "—clever! You're the worst boyfriend ever!"

At first Mrs. Hudson looks visibly shaken at the news of the doctor being sick, but instantly giggles like a schoolgirl who thinks she understands everything about the world. She approaches John, "Oh, I did not hear that! John, let me help you—oh, dear God, I think I'll just make you some soup instead. How about you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gives her a pleased smile, "Creamy mushroom and corn, with black pepper, peas and those herbs you bought on Thursday."

Her eyes narrow, "That was supposed to be secret, young man!"

"Were supposed to be but actually aren't."

"I'm the one who's sick!" John protests, upon hearing Mrs. Hudson cheerfully complying with Sherlock's extravagant soup recipes.

"You stay tight, John, I am not your housekeeper!" and then she goes over to Sherlock and pats his arm, "I'll get those herbs, you take good care of John."

Sherlock smiles, "I will."

"And I'm fine with tomato, thanks!" John calls after her, only to end up in a violent coughing fit.

Once she's out, John looks at Sherlock murderously, "I hate you."

"Careful, you might dislodge one of your organs with that coughing."

"That's it. I'm breaking up with you."

Sherlock then looks at him, his eyes now silver and fierce, "Oh please, I'm the only one who knows that you prefer hands over mouth! You'll never break up with me!"

From downstairs, Mrs. Hudson calls out, "I didn't hear anything!"

". . . what material can this be?"

John's shaken back into reality. He blinks at Sherlock. The fire in those eyes is absent. It's not fierce anymore. It's just. . . not.

"Me?"

"Yes, I'm talking to you. Anyone else, and I'd have to shout."

John half-smiles, half-frowns in anxiety. Why would Sherlock want to talk to him? After the fighting and the brawl and the. . .

"I don't know, some kind of plastic, perhaps?"

Sherlock considers it, "Interesting. I have never seen a. . . erm, what did you call this, John?"

John looks at Sherlock for a second time, with incredulity and hope in his eyes, "You. . . remember me?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot. An actual village idiot. But John doesn't care. He grabs Sherlock's hand, and the other looks alarmed, not to mention a bit too flushed. But it doesn't matter. Sherlock remembers him, yes he does. He took his name. Oh God, he's recovering. They're going back to normal, and it's going to be alright now.

"Sherlock, tell me you remember me," John begs, "my name. Say it again! Please!"

Sherlock looks confused, "Erm. . . John?"

John laughs out like a maniac, "Yes, yes! You know my name!"

Now Sherlock makes an annoyed face, "You told me your name was John."

And John deflates. The ray of hope that had shone through for just a tiny, golden moment vanishes again, "Did I?"

"Before your brawl. I have a good memory."

John settles back in his chair after a sidelong glance at Angelo, "Oh, sorry."

"No matter what you say," Sherlock politely extracts his hand from John's grip, "I'm not that friend of yours."

John, having forgotten his chat-up line, looks at him confusedly, "What?"

Sherlock looks at him through narrowed eyes, "You need to check your brain with a doctor, Mr. John."

Talk about memory loss, John thinks.

After Sherlock's finished with looking at John suspiciously, he goes back to his initial query, "You said this was a phone, yes?"

John's still dazed with the excitement, answers tiredly, "Oh yes, phone."

As Sherlock sits examining the glossy back cover and deciphering the meaning of 5.0 MP, John thinks, wonders. Takes a deep breath and goes through all that he had hastily taught himself before coming to the cafe: Sherlock was a child, he hated being treated like a child, but he must treat him with patiently and tenderly. And he must not make a fool of himself. Must think through everything before speaking. Must exercise more caution with wee-Sherlock than with his-fiancé-Sherlock.

Sherlock looks so engrossed in his "research" that John can't help but feel guilty for breaking the phone: not for the man's sake, but for Sherlock's.

"Um. . . Sherlock?"

Fox-like silver eyes look at him. John takes another deep breath.

Close your eyes, he's not your fiancé anymore. He's a kid. Stop thinking that he's. . .

"I'm—" he hesitates, "well, first, I'm sorry for breaking the phone. I didn't know you wanted it so badly—"

"That's no excuse," Sherlock says loftily, and John is a little surprised at the abrupt change in his demeanour. Sherlock hadn't been very offended at the beginning. But thinking that he deserved it, John continues.

"I know, I know—"

"How do you know my name?" Sherlock now looks genuinely suspicious, and John had to remind himself that whatever he had turned into, he was still, in a way, the future only consulting detective in the world.

John gives a faux-innocent smile, "What?"

"I never told you my name."

"Um. . . Angelo told me! Yes, Angelo told me."

Sherlock seems to turn sour, "That idiot."

John laughs childishly, "Yeah, such an idiot, such an idiot—!"

He stops upon seeing Sherlock's impassive face.

"Okay, okay," John puts his hands up, "look, all I was saying is that I'm sorry for breaking the phone when you wanted it so much."

"Yes, bad. Very bad."

John doesn't look up, "I shouldn't have—"

"You shouldn't have."

But when he does look up, Sherlock is smiling. Sherlock realises this one second too late and tries to make his expression sterner, but it falters under John's slightly pissed gaze. It's much easier to dominate Sherlock now, John thinks with a pang, as Sherlock gives away easily under the scrutiny of John's faux-suspicious face. John isn't sure if he's ever going to get used to manipulating Sherlock so easily.

He slaps himself on the hand, "Why can't I control my expressions?!"

"You'll learn when you grow up."

Sherlock looks at him sharply, "Just because I slipped up about me being nine doesn't mean. . ." he takes a deep breath before continuing and John has to wonder whether this absurd condition had also taken away Sherlock's ability to launch into a monologue, "doesn't mean—does not mean that I already don't look like an adult."

John can only imagine what his-fiancé-Sherlock would've thought of a statement like that. Maybe something like don't state the obvious, wee-Sherlock.

With a silent swear under his breath, Sherlock returns to his investigation, which, as it turns out, is getting boring. John can see disinterest starting to flicker in Sherlock's face, only much slower than it used to be.

"So. . ."

Sherlock blatantly ignores him. John decides to press on. Takes a look at his hand, wanting to touch him, and shakes himself inwardly. He has to stop trying to think that Sherlock would ever reciprocate.

"You were enjoying my apology, weren't you?"

The tiny glimmer of that devious smile that Sherlock tries so hard to control is too much for John to resist. However, he keeps his distance.

"I thought, well. . . that you were upset."

Sherlock now turns to him, genuinely confused, "Upset?"

"I did beat up a man in front of you. Shouldn't have done that."

Sherlock looks away, fiddling with the mobile cover. His wrinkles, a small white in his hair are obvious to John, and it's just not right, it shouldn't exist, the ability of the brain to undergo such drastic changes, and especially of Sherlock Holmes' brain, should not exist, just should not be. It's plain wrong to see Sherlock so. . . gullible.

He shrugs, a glance at John so chaste, and yet so shrewd, "It was cool."

Now it's John's turn to look at Sherlock with incredulity, "Oh, well. . . you really shouldn't say that."

Sherlock turns sour at once, "Why? Because I'm a child?" and then he looks down, all pouting and muttering, "I wish I never told you that. You keep pointing it out."

John looks at him for several moments, trying to come up with an appropriate response. Sherlock seems really interested in him, but not in the way John was used to, or rather used to be used to. Then, he just puts his hands up and says, "Well, even I shouldn't say such things. Not just you."

"Well you shouldn't have done that either," and Sherlock's enjoying this again. John smiles kindly at him.

"I could let you have more parts to examine."

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Yes, that's right. More parts to examine before tomorrow."

Sherlock looks excited. Also looks like he's trying his best not to give himself away, "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm sorry."

Sherlock then smiles shyly to himself, "You did a good thing, actually."

"Meaning?"

"If you didn't break the phone," and he says 'the phone' like it's a historical landmark, "I wouldn't have had a chance to examine it, even if broken. That man didn't look like he wouldn't part with it."

John chuckles, "Oh really?"

Sherlock then decides something and leans closer to him, "I could also tell that he really wasn't into his girlfriend."

John decides to test him, "How do you know that it was his girlfriend? She could've been anyone."

Sherlock makes a face at him, "She called him 'sweetie'. You really should get your brain checked."

John tries to push him further, "He seemed posh. He wouldn't bring his girlfriend into a simple cafe like this, would he?"

This throws Sherlock off-track. John watches Sherlock think through, fascinated.

"Maybe they made a stop, because they were really hungry."

"They had just the coffee. Not very hungry."

Sherlock looks at him with a bit of wonder and a lot of perplexity, and John thinks that maybe now he's much better than Sherlock at the latter's strongest point: deduction. And then he turns irritated.

"You're—stop looking at me, you're distracting me!"

"Come on, Sherlock," John pushes him further, "I know you're better than excuses."

"That's what my brother says, and I don't like it!"

John gives him a look, and Sherlock looks like he's giving the little problem one last shot: what the couple were really doing in the cafe.

"Maybe," Sherlock starts slowly, "they ran into each other nearby and the woman picked the location. But they're. . . not sailing good, because the man looked at his phone more than the woman, so the man couldn't care any less."

"That could be it."

"The woman chose a location where she could pay for herself should the man walk out on her."

Holy cow, John thinks. He never expected Sherlock to have such a deep insight at such a young age.

"So effectively, you've prevented a breakup."

Now it's John's turn to be thrown off-track, "What?"

"Well, if they were about to break up, you obviously diverted their thoughts away to where the man could show off his manliness and the woman turned to nurturing her man's wounds. . ." he takes a recharge pause before continuing, "That is the traditional male-female role in the society, that's what I've read."

John looks at him disbelievingly. Did his-fiancé-Sherlock actually know these things? "You're nine."

Sherlock is smug, "I'm clever."

"That was. . . well, amazing."

"My brother does it better. But I'll be better than him when I grow up."

John chuckles and gets up, "I'll keep my end of the promise." Feeling ecstatic about his progress for the day, he goes to Angelo with a hitch in his step, gets his prize after much persuading, and gives to Sherlock the SD card to examine. Just watches the man-child, literal man-child now, with longing wringing tight in his gut. Can't help but think how big a part sex was of their relationship, and can't help but think how impossible that is now. It's only been a couple of days and he can't stand the thought of even kissing him.

But Sherlock looks blissful, and John can't help but think how different this Sherlock is, and yet so same. As far as John can remember, as a child he'd never go near strangers who fought on the road, or anywhere for that matter. Sherlock seems far liberal in that matter.

"I'm bored now," Sherlock exclaims out of the blue, "I'm going back."

Alarm seizes John, "Back where?"

"To my place. And," after a moment of deliberation, he adds, "I am an adult. So you don't ask me where I go."

John puts his hands up, "Sorry. I was just going to head out, and well. . ."

"Out? Out where?"

"I thought you weren't supposed to ask adults where they were going," John smiles.

Sherlock's lips curl, "You asked me, I answered you. Now it's your turn."

John laughs, "Okay. . . I'm well. . . out for a walk."

Sherlock thinks, like really thinks, like a kid doing a math problem. His eyes narrow, and he beckons John over. John approaches him. There's no scent in the man, nothing like it previously used to be, of sweat and musk and sometimes, fresh earth. Distinctively masculine. Now, just a whiff of toothpaste, and the odour of coca presumably from a chocolate cake he must've helped himself to in the morning, as it was their "Uncle Rudy's birthday". Sherlock scans him carefully, pokes him in the arm, and compares their heights, at which point John begins to feel really uncomfortable.

"What're you doing?"

Sherlock responds by casually hitting John on the arm.

"Look, if I hadn't known that you were a child, I'd have broken every bone in your body!"

"Shhh!" and another blow, more powerful, and John succumbs.

"Ow!"

"Sorry," Sherlock says instinctively, but then clears his throat, as if taking back his unintended apology, "Good. I can overpower you any time you try and kidnap me."

John frowns, "What the—why would I kidnap you?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, as if John is too stupid for a grownup to not have figured it out at that instant, "Well," he folds his arms behind his back, looking down at John with so much hope and innocence that it's almost dizzying, "I'd like you to take me out."

The wording from when Sherlock asked himself out on a date with John is same, making John feel weaker.

"Out—out where?" He proceeds carefully. As much as he'd love to, he really can't take Sherlock, can't risk him finding out that he's no longer in 1986. And he really doesn't want to find out what Sherlock would do if that happened.

"Anywhere. And then you bring me back—I mean we walk back here."

16th August, 2013

"Well, since you are going to, as they say, "beat around the bush", yes, I'd like you to take me out. And, no, this dinner doesn't count as a date. I expect you to make your preparations."

John chokes on his pasta, "What?"

He had been meaning to ask Sherlock out properly over their dinner, but even after sleeping with him, John hadn't been able to gather the courage. He knew by experience that starting a relationship with sex never ended well. He just wanted to properly date Sherlock, as ridiculous as that sounded, before having sex again, and obviously before Sherlock settled for 'boyfriend'.

"Although I believe that you really don't need to date me, we do need to compromise in a relationship."

John chokes for a second time, "Relationship?"

Sherlock looks thrown off-track, and John has to remind himself that he has an ego that is more fragile than most, "I—oh. . ."

"No, it's—"

"I didn't realise."

The silence hangs awkwardly around them. John takes another mouthful before talking again, "Look, I'm just saying that. . . I. . . want. . . to. . . slow. . . things. . . down. . . a bit."

"Slow—?"

"And don't you dare say that slow is boring," John interrupts before Sherlock can speak any further, "because I swear that if you ever call this relationship "boring", I swear I'll have your guts for garters."

Sherlock looks at him for a long, disconcerting amount of time, before smirking to himself, "Garters are sexy."

John grits his teeth, "And if you ever try and distract me like that. . ."

"You'll break up with me."

"Um. . . no. I'll withhold sex for a month."

Sherlock chuckles, "Talk about slow."

They're in a bus, going nowhere. John has no choice, no, he really doesn't, except to take Sherlock out. He's told Angelo, assured him that he'd not take Sherlock anywhere far, and to hold the fort in case Mycroft comes around earlier than usual.

Sherlock looks like he's never been out in the street. He's constantly asking questions, about everything he sees, and everything he touches and comes across. It comes as a surprise to John, how open and trusting wee-Sherlock is. As far as John remembers, he never approached strangers when he was nine. He was always distrustful, except for those who looked like they really needed help.

But then, John couldn't help but think that even though memory had forced John out of Sherlock's mind, there was possibly still a place for him in his heart. That there perhaps was still an unconscious familiarity based out of the good times and the bad times they had spent together.

As medically untrue as the doctors had declared it, when John had asked them whether Sherlock still had any chance of remembering out of what they had for each other.

"I've never seen a phone."

"Well um, they're sort of new."

"That's why there are not in our town yet," Sherlock nods, "They're new, so they're in London first. New things come to London first."

"That's right."

"What do they do?"

"They. . . I don't know. I just saw them in ads."

"Ads? On the television?"

"Uh. . . yeah."

"You have a television too?"

"Yeah, I do."

"We have only eleven in our town. Mummy says it's very costly."

"You like watching television?"

Sherlock nods, "Seeing things is more believable than reading about them. I like the television."

John smiles, "You like reading a lot too, don't you?"

"Not when I'm told to. I don't really like books."

John's eyes widen in surprise. He had never really expected wee-Sherlock to not like books. He had always thought of him as a boy who loved knowledge and anything that gave him knowledge, and he had always imagined a younger Sherlock to have his head buried, soaking up information.

Or at least, he had always imagined wee-Sherlock as a complete nerd. But then, now that he thought of it, he could not remember Sherlock ever reading, except for a case or a treatise on law, British or otherwise.

"You don't like books?"

"They're so inconvenient. They're written by people, and I have to trust their knowledge and agree with their understanding. And they're heavy to carry around."

John nods. That explanation makes sense, or at least sounds like Sherlock would agree with it.

"I don't trust science books, at least. But my teachers, they don't like hearing about that."

"Nobody does."

Sherlock looks at him suspiciously, "You don't mind. Do you?"

John watches him for a long time, thinking of an answer that won't blow Sherlock off, and then decides to go with, "Well, how would I know? I'm not a teacher, am I?"

Sherlock goes back to childishly swing his legs back and forth, even though his legs are too long for his feet continue to sweep across the floor of the bus. John tries not to think of it. Thankfully, they don't come across any dates or anything, and whenever Sherlock sees something that never existed in 1986, John can easily brush it off as something that already exists in London. And Sherlock easily believes him.

And John can't help but think that Sherlock, as a child, must have been ridiculously easy to kidnap.

"London is very different."

"It is."

"I like London."

"Hmm."

"What do you do?"

"Me? I'm a doctor."

That lightens Sherlock's face back up, "So you would know about my condition, wouldn't you?"

Oh, crap! "No, I wouldn't know of that. I do something else."

"What?"

"I'm a trauma surgeon."

"You. . . surgery on traumatised people?"

John tries not to think what his-fiancé-Sherlock would've thought of wee-Sherlock for saying such a thing, "No, I treat bad injuries. Like, really bad."

"Just because I am nine doesn't mean you have to baby-talk me. I'm capable of understanding jargon."

"Okay. You get shot, I take the bullet out of you and stitch you back up. You get impaled, we call the plastics and anthro and we get you back. Accidents, cut-off legs, emergencies. . ."

"You are a reliable source of information," Sherlock sounds very pleased, and as a big ego boost to John, very, very impressed.

"I suppose I am."

"So, tell me about. . ."

And John has a hunch that he might have inadvertently turned their little date into a study session.

"Don't you have a problem with talking to strangers?"

"Talking to strangers pisses my mummy—" a clear of throat, "my mother off. So I do it."

John's vaguely amused by Sherlock correcting himself on 'mummy', "Saying "piss" too pisses your mother off too, don't you think?"

Sherlock smirks, "Exactly."

"And it wasn't my fault! Percy McCluskey thinks Darwin is a fraud. I said Darwin was brilliant. But he says that Darwin is a liar and that we didn't come from monkeys. And I said that we did not, in fact, come from monkeys, we have a common ancestor."

"So, he punched you."

"And I kicked back at him," Sherlock sounds proud of himself, "and he wet himself!"

"The ladies at the Mass told my mummy that I was a bad boy and needed to be sent away. She cried so hard that I just tried to show her what a good boy I really was."

John nods, understanding, and just a bit sad. He had, after all, expected bullying in Sherlock's early life, "So you tried to. . ."

"I wanted to build a nuclear reactor so that I could provide free electricity to the whole town. I was sick of being called the bad boy, and that I was possessed by the Devil himself."

John touches him on the arm. Sherlock looks so sad for a moment.

"Of course, they said that it had to be shut down a month ago. And the talks began again."

After a long, melancholy moment, John asks again, "I'm sorry, what did you say your age was again?"

"Nine. You really need a brain scan. There might be a tumour in the section that controls the memory."

"We should head back."

Sherlock looks startled, "Why? I'm having fun."

They're sitting at the Trafalgar Square. John can actually see one of Sherlock's homeless network people looking at the two of them. Sherlock quietly finishes his ice-cream while looking up at John.

"Your Uncle Rudy will be getting back. They'll miss you, and they'd worry when they hear that you went out with a stranger."

"You're not a stranger," Sherlock shrugs.

John gives him a rueful smile. Even though Sherlock's voice is the same deep baritone, John thinks he's starting to hear the slow, innocent voice of the child in his soul.

After a long moment, Sherlock speaks, almost inaudibly, "Do you want to know why those rumours started?"

"What rumours?"

"That I had the Devil inside me."

John blinks, "How?"

Sherlock looks down at the ground. This one really got to him, perhaps, John thinks. Finally, after it looks like Sherlock has gathered enough courage, he looks up at John.

"I had a friend. His name was Henry. He was the only one who'd sit in the class with me. He doesn't have a leg, so he could not play, and I never liked playing with boys and girls. We'd share lunch during recess. He was my best friend."

John frowns, "Was?"

"I. . . uh, I liked him very much and. . ."

And it dawns on John.

". . . I tried to kiss him. It got very ugly. He hit me with one of his crutches, and then his big brother came and. . . I said I was sorry and. . ."

John looks back at Sherlock. Sherlock is looking at him for approval, he realises.

"Well. . . you should've at least given him a heads up. Girl or boy, nobody likes to be—"

"Is it wrong to kiss a boy?"

John looks him in the eye, "Do you believe it is?"

"You tell me first."

"No."

Sherlock nods, and looks deep in thought, "What did you mean by a heads-up?"

It's uncomfortable territory for John now, "Well, something like, I'm going to kiss you now. You know, just prepare 'em for it."

"Ok. I'm going to kiss you now."

John's heart skips a beat at the easy way Sherlock says it, "What?"

Sherlock detracts himself from his sudden way, "The way you act around me is the same way I acted around Henry."

John chuckles disbelievingly, "Let's get you back."

"Don't you want to kiss me? John?"

John looks at Sherlock, feeling the old longing, the craving claw its way up his gut. It's his kiss for the day, and by God, he wants it. For a second, his deprived subconscious even deludes him into thinking that his Sherlock is calling from within, as if a true love's kiss could break the curse upon them.

Agony overwhelms him and he wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck tightly. And for the first time, in three months, John cries. And it doesn't feel any better.

"I do," his voice cracks, just a bit, and he covers it up with a clear of his throat, "but you're just. . . nine."

"You won't be a paedophile," an unsure hand pats his back.

After a minute or couple, he lets go and wipes his tears off. Sherlock looks away.

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow," he says with an air of finality.

John clenches his fists, enough for his nails to draw blood, "You will. Every day."

"And I will kiss you one day."

John looks at him. Wondering if he's stronger or weaker since Day 1 for having denied himself the kiss.

"Let's get you back home."

Nuclear reactor thing: Oh yes, it's familiar from Sheldon in BBT.

Darwin: I don't intend to offend any Christian who doesn't believe in Darwin's 'survival of the fittest' theory. But you've gotta admit, Sherlock would love Darwin and will also long for the opportunity to go on a ship and explore the Galapagos Island.

Yeah I know, it's going a bit of kid!lock too. . . but what can I do? That's part of the story!