Guiz. This was a lot longer than I anticipated ... Basically, it's an AU about what if Sherlock and John met as kids and stuff. There's slash in here and Mystrade in the left-field and yes, i think it's nice.

So enjoy.

Current song: Sherlock's Theme

Current thought: FUCK. i made food and forgot to eat it. Getting on that then.

My Life In Technicolor

"Who's that?"

Mike turns around and then his eyes go wide. "No one. C'mon, John let's-"

"No," John says and shakes his head. "Who is he? I saw you talking to him earlier and now he's all alone." John looks over to the boy who's sitting under a tree watching the rest of the kids on the playground at recess. He's from another class, Mike Stamford's class, but John's never seen him before.

Mike sighs, the seven year old scratching the back of his neck. "That's Sherlock. He's…well he's an odd one. No one really talks to him but me, and he likes it that way. He ignores me a lot. And Molly Hooper, she tries to talk to him, but he ignores her too." Mike shrugs. "Just don't get why you care."

John makes up his mind. "I'm going over there." He starts to walk over.

Mike, taken by surprise, runs behind John. "No, wait. You don't understand. He'll probably just shoot you down, or…I don't know, he does this weird thing where he like, I don't know reads your mind and-"

John chuckles, making his way over to the other little boy. "Don't be silly, Mike."

And then they're there and John is face to face with pale, grey eyes, high cheekbones and messy black curls. The boy, Sherlock, isn't looking at him, still gazing at the other children on the playground.

"Stamford," Sherlock says without looking at them. "I see you've brought a friend this time." He sighs heavily then turns his head to them and stops. "And who might you be?" he says directly to John.

John smiles a bit. "John Watson." He extends a hand and Sherlock gives him a once over without shaking it.

"You're… seven and a half, have an older sister and you live with your grandparents." Sherlock crinkles up his nose and continues, "And you have a dog. English bull-pup?"

John gapes at him. How the hell had he even…? "Blimey, that's amazing. How'd you do that?"

Sherlock looks lost. "R-really?" he says in surprise. "You really think so?"

John nods. "Of course."

Mike grunts and whispers, "Most people find it weird or annoying."

Sherlock shoots him a glare. "Thank you Mike."

At Sherlock's glare, Mike says, "Ok, bye John," and runs back to the swings.

John sits beside Sherlock, surprising the boy even more. "How'd you do that before? How'd you know all of that?"

"Was I right?" Sherlock asks curiously. "About it all?"

John nods. "Yeah. All of it."

Sherlock cracks the first smile John will ever see on his face and says, "That's the first time I've gotten everything right." And then he shrugs. "And I just see it all. It's obvious. You smell like old lady perfume, only would happen if you're around it a lot, and you're not in sports, so you're father figure is older. You're dressed neatly, but you didn't pick out the clothes. The light blue shirt that matches your eyes suggests female elder, but not that much older than you. So, older sister."

"What about my dog?" John asks

Sherlock points to a spot on John's denims. There's a clump of fur. "You've got some of his fur. On your pant leg." He shrugs. "I just see things people ignore."

"Why?" John asks.

"Why what?" Sherlock says back, indignant.

"Why do you see stuff people ignore?" John explains exasperated.

Sherlock looks a bit lost and then says, "I dunno. I think it's because I'm always so bored all the time."

And John, well, he finds that immensely funny. But soon, the bell is ringing, their teachers are calling them and Sherlock and John have to go their separate ways.

"It was nice meeting you," John says truthfully. "Sherlock…Do you have a last name?"

The smaller boy lifts an eyebrow and says, "Holmes. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Harry's eighteen. She can take care of them both. That doesn't mean that John doesn't miss them. It'd been different when Grandpa had died last week of a heart-attack. The fact that Grandma followed two days later is what did him in.

And now he's standing in a cemetery, most of the people already gone, staring at the double headstone with the name WATSON in large print engraved into it. And it hurts. It hurts so badly.

John hears the crunching of dirt and rocks behind him and when he turns to the side, he sees Sherlock, all dressed up in a black suit and tie, staring right where John is staring. John had almost forgotten that Sherlock and his older brother Mycroft had come to the funeral as well. Sherlock had been standing next to him through the whole service.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asks him, without looking over.

John can see his reflection in the shiny headstone though, looking at him. He shakes his head. "Everything's gonna be different now," the ten year old responds.

Sherlock nods. "I know. And…I'm sorry." His voice is low. Sherlock is an awkward kid, but when he does act serious about emotions, he does it quietly.

John bites his lip, doesn't let the tears fall. He rubs his eyes with one fist and says, "Thanks." He let's the hand drop.

And suddenly, his hand isn't empty. There's another one in it, holding his, both of them cold, but generating some kind of magical heat between the two of them. "I don't like seeing you sad, like this," Sherlock says, as if he isn't holding John's hand in a cemetery. He looks to John then, right in the eye. "I don't yet understand it, but I soon will. Then I'll tell you why."

"Why what?" John asks, letting the tear fall anyway.

"Why I don't like to see you sad," Sherlock says with an eye-roll.

And then John is laughing at how absolutely Sherlock that was and he's crying and the hand in his tightens and turns into a hug and it starts to rain, but it's ok, because Sherlock is still there, he hasn't left John.

"This makes absolutely no sense at all," John says frustrated. "No sense. At all."

Sherlock rolls his eyes from where he is at his kitchen table and moves over to John's side. The latter is in denims and an ugly jumper his sister bought him, the former in black pants and a purple button-up.

"What is it now?" the thirteen year old asks his whining friend.

John makes a face and points to his paper. "This….this chemistry stuff doesn't make sense. How the hell did you do this lab-work?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock shoves John over on the bench they're sitting on and looks at his work. He starts to shake his head. "No, no, no. You're doing it wrong. Your maths… you forgot to find the significant figure of this answer here, that's why none of this is making sense. If you have the wrong number of moles, you can't…" Sherlock stops, realizes that John is just staring at him now, open mouthed. "John. Are you listening?

John blushes. He's never realized how… how appealing Sherlock looked when he was explaining something he was passionate about. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Wrong number of moles. Right. How stupid of me." He erases the number, does the rounding in his head and corrects his mistake, but Sherlock is still staring at him. He sometimes forgets that his friend can see through him.

"John… are you alright?" Sherlock asks. John's been acting odd lately. And, for the first time since they were children, Sherlock doesn't know why. "You've been acting strange lately and…well, I don't know why."

John closes his chemistry book. Is he going to tell Sherlock he finds him attractive? No sir, he's not that stupid. This is his best friend. Is he going to tell his best friend his second most valued secret? Yes. If anyone will understand, then Sherlock will.

"You can't laugh at me. Or make fun of me if I tell you," John says.

Sherlock nods and indulges John with a smile, something he doesn't see nearly as much as he wants. "Of course, John."

John takes a deep breath and then whispers, "I'm…I'm gay."

When John looks up at Sherlock, the other boy just raises an eyebrow. "And…? What else? There must be something else." By the look on John's face, Sherlock can see that yes, that was all. "Oh. So?"

John blanches. "Well, some people have problems with that," he says indignantly.

Sherlock actually laughs. "I'd be a hypocrite John."

"You're gay?" John asked incredulously, spirits soaring.

Sherlock grunted. "More like uninterested."

"In?"

"Everything." And there went John's spirits, crashing. Sherlock pointed to John's homework. "Now finish that. Harry's picking you up in an hour and Mycroft will be back in half that time and we still haven't done anything that would warrant my punishment and/or a lecture. Chop-chop."

"I'll kill him," John says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and presses the icepack to his lip again, before taking it away and saying, "No. You won't. You're better than that."

"He punched you in the face, Sherlock," John said heatedly. He swatted the thinner man's hands away and took a look at the cut. "He's a dead man."

"John. Anderson is just a sore loser. He hates me because I'm smarter than him and better than him in every way and I actually say it to his face." He winces when John pokes at the cut.

"Sit the hell down, Holmes," John finally says, exasperated. In the few short years through high school, Sherlock has gotten taller than him. Those grey eyes roll again, but the taller teen sits. "Thank you." John goes back to prodding and tries to stop the blood from gushing everywhere.

"You're going to be a really good doctor one day," Sherlock says absent-mindedly. They're sitting on a bench in the park after just having met up with Anderson, a prat who can hold a grudge, and his equally rude girlfriend Sally Donovan. Sherlock had insulted him and that had been that; John hadn't been fast enough to stop the thin man from getting at Sherlock and then he hadn't been able to chase him down because he'd wanted to make sure Sherlock was alright.

"Mmm? Oh, thanks. Not even going to ask how you know that's what I want to do, but thanks," John responds, replacing the icepack he had run across the street to the corner store to get.

"I've known you since we were seven and we've barely been out of each other's company since?" Sherlock tries as an explanation. "Really John. Such obvious explanations, right under your nose."

John sighs. "Not everyone can be as brilliant as you, Sherlock." And he means that.

John moves the icepack again, just to get a look at the bruising. He runs his thumb over Sherlock's lip softly and gives a wistful sigh. Such gorgeous lips, now marked because some wanker couldn't hold his temper. The seventeen year old sighed.

When he looks back to Sherlock though, his breath catches in his throat. The other teen's eyes are wide and as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobs precariously. Even his breathing is irregular and that's when John sees that his thumb is rubbing Sherlock's lip gently, back and forth.

"S-sorry," John says. He'd gotten away with himself. He's doing that a lot lately and he knows it's not good. He could give himself away. And it was already so hard hiding his growing feelings from Sherlock anyway.

"Don't be," Sherlock says, his voice hushed. "It felt…nice."

And they're having a moment, John's sure of it, until he hears Dimmock say from across the street, "Hey Watson! Go snog you're boyfriend somewhere less public."

And that's just another prat John will have to punch in the face. This time for painfully reminding him that no, Sherlock is not his boyfriend. And he will never be.

Despite the knowledge that he'd never be interested, John's feelings for Sherlock only grow as the years pass and he realizes that yes, he's holding a torch for his best friend.

He's 21 and in uni when he realizes this and pops his head into the living room of the flat that he and Sherlock share. "You're still asexual, right?" he asks, out of the blue.

Sherlock looks up from the experiment he's buried elbows-deep in and says, "Really John? Now?"

John rolls his eyes. "Just answer the damned question."

Sherlock sighs. "Yes; I maintain my position." And goes back to his experiment.

John rolls his eyes and says, "Of course you do. Dinner in five, and please don't blow anything up before then."

He goes back into the kitchen, finishing the spaghetti and meatballs while simultaneously studying for his final exam of the year at uni. He couldn't wait till break, really, he couldn't. True he'd been doing nothing but sitting around the flat all day and helping their land-lady Mrs. Hudson move things about for the holiday season, but still. It was a break from all the work that came with wanting to get a degree in medicine. He's been entertaining the idea of going into military medicine, especially as the war gets worse.

But he'll think more on that later.

Sherlock walks into the kitchen, something dripping off of the curls that are in his face, and John throws a rag at him, before tugging him in closer by the wrist and cleaning whatever it was off.

"Do I want to know?" he asks the other man, turning to the sink and tossing the rag.

"No," Sherlock says. "You honestly don't." He surprisingly helps John with the plates and they settle themselves in on the small couch that isn't covered in whatever that white crap was.

"What did I say about blowing things up?" John asks half-heartedly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not to?" He digs into his food to avoid further conversation on the subject.

John is used to it, has been used to it since they were tykes, so he just eats his food in peace and pays half attention to the telly as he does. Which is why he's taken completely off guard when he finally hears Sherlock saying, "…and I hope you've packed, because Mycroft hates it when we're late and-"

"Packed? Packed for what?" John asks Sherlock dazedly.

Sherlock gives him a look that says 'don't be ignorant' and says, "We're going home for the holiday."

John makes a face. Harry had fallen to the bottle when he was fifteen. He hadn't seen her since he'd come to university with Sherlock at eighteen. He wasn't going to be seeing her anytime soon. "Uh, you are, I'm not. Harry's not even around."

Sherlock frowns. "I know she's not," he says slowly, "that's why you're coming with me to Mycroft's… John are you alright?"

"I'm going home with you?" John asks, just to be sure.

Sherlock looks caught off guard when it's put like that. "Unless you'd rather not…" he says softly again, and there's the real emotion, sneaking in, Sherlock trying to tamper it down.

John looks at him for a moment, before taking him by the chin and tilting his face up until their eyes meet. "No. I just need to pack a bag."

Sherlock's smile is worth it.

"John," Mycroft greets him.

And why would Mycroft remember him? John doesn't know, just nods and says, "Mycroft."

"I trust you've been watching my brother then?" he asks nicely.

John frowns. "Uh…as best as I can…"

"Good, good. Mummy wanted to be sure Sherlock's being gay wasn't a total dead-end. I told her his boyfriend was a good chap. Good to know I was right."

John freezes right there and he feels Sherlock tense beside him, about to launch an attack at Mycroft, and then he gets an idea and goes, "Yes, you are right. Now, can we put our things down or…?"

Sherlock's about to protest, that they're not dating, that Mycroft's ridiculous, but John elbows him in the gut and he shuts up, winded. When they finally reach the room they will be sharing (with only one bed, mind you) Sherlock explodes.

"We are not dating," he says harshly.

"I know," John says calmly.

"Mycroft is disgusting," Sherlock crows.

"Yes," John says calmly.

"I hate everyone here," Sherlock says a bit brokenly.

"So do I," John says.

Sherlock stares at him, tears in his eyes and then he just hugs John and mutters into his shirt, "Ok, everyone but you. Why did you lie to him, anyway?"

Sherlock's still clinging to him when he responds, "Thought he'd leave us alone if he thought we wanted to shag each other's brains out the minute we got into the room." He chuckles when Sherlock goes still and then leans back to look at him.

"You're crude," Sherlock says. "But right, consequentially."

"That's why you love me," John says, letting go and going over to unpack.

"Yes," Sherlock says, but he sounds odd, uncertain, like he's just had an epiphany. "Yes it is."

The rest of their stay is spent ignoring the various Holmes family members that come to stay for the holiday and wandering around the Holmes Manor's lands and inside of the house. It's changed since they were children, isn't as pristine as it used to be, but its nice.

Neither of them can complain though once they get back to 221b Baker Street. They literally toss their bags into their respective rooms then meet up in the living room for an A Bit of Fry and Laurie marathon.

"Let's never do that again," Sherlock says against John's shoulder where he's slumped.

John chuckles. "I'm reminding you of this when we go next year."

Sherlock just mumbles something incoherent and John smiles, because there might just be a next year, even if they're relationship is still…friendly and not romantic the way John wants it.

There is no next year.

John goes off into the military, using his medical skills, and he's gone for a while.

The day he leaves, Sherlock is there, seeing him off since there's no one else to. The taller man is looking at him oddly, staring right through him it seems and John's not sure if Sherlock is going to kiss him or punch him in the nose.

He does neither.

"Don't die?" Sherlock asks, a small smile on his face.

John gives a chuckle. "I'm going in as a medic, for god's sake."

"You'll still be in the line of fire," Sherlock says. "You'll still fight."

John shrugs. "I'll be fine." When he sees the unsure look on Sherlock's face, he amends it by saying, "Ok, look. Let's make a deal, aye?"

"What sort of deal?"

John swallows and says, "I won't die if you won't get a new flat mate while I'm gone." The thought of Sherlock sharing their living space with someone else? Maybe… falling for someone else before John's had his chance? It's not worth thinking about.

Sherlock laughs though. "See I knew something was bothering you. If that's what was it, then don't worry John. I couldn't fathom having someone else around."

And John really is relieved. So he smiles at Sherlock, waves his last goodbye and is thankful that he has a picture of the man in his breast-pocket for when things get rough.

"Is that who's waiting for you back home?" Murray asks as John once again takes out his photo of Sherlock and strokes the worn paper of his face.

He'd just lost a man. Guts and blood had been everywhere and not even he could have done anything about it. So he sighs and gently kisses the photo before replacing it. He hikes up his rifle and turns to Murray.

"Damn I hope so," he responds, and throws himself back into the fray.

John comes back on a four week leave half a year later. When he walks into the flat, it's almost the same as how he left it. It's also quiet. Sherlock doesn't seem to be home. Good. He'd wanted it to be a surprise anyway.

It only takes an hour, and by then, John's already cooked them dinner and cleaned up most of the flat, tossed his bag into his room. He scratches at the scab that's formed on his bicep from the stab would he'd gotten a few weeks back, and waits for Sherlock to put the pieces together as he hears the front door open. The words coming out of the man's mouth as he walks into the kitchen are not what John had anticipated.

"Mrs. Hudson! You didn't need to break into the flat again, I'm fine. I'm not killing myself over missing him anymore, so you can quit…your…JOHN?"

Sherlock looks white as a sheet, his eyes wide as John waves. He's aware that he's only in his camo-print pants and a white beater, his tags around his neck, but he doesn't feel exposed. He expects Sherlock to deduce what he's been up to, but the man only drops his bag and wraps his arms around John for a moment before saying, "You made dinner," as if John has never left.

John laughs. "Yes. I did. Hello to you too, Sherlock. Glad someone missed me."

"Of course I missed you, I've been stuck alone in this blasted house by myself. If it wasn't for Lestrade I'd've killed myself already," Sherlock huffs.

But John's heart breaks. "Lestrade? Who's that?" Oh God, Sherlock's boyfriend or girlfriend (it sounds like a last name) and John is just the flat mate now, the best friend and-

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft's new squeeze. He's a D.I., said he'd get me a case to work on so I wouldn't annoy the hell out of my brother while they were trying to have sex."

John immediately feels relieved. "God, what did I miss?" he asks as they sit down to eat and watch telly.

Sherlock fills him in. And it's like he's never left.

When John leaves the second time, Sherlock goes with him again.

"Write this time?" John asks.

Sherlock nods. "I promise."

John gets a letter from Sherlock every Wednesday and he answers back the same day to make sure the other man gets it. He keeps every single one and it's just more ammunition for Murray and the lads to tease him, but he doesn't mind.

Until, that is, Orwell steals a letter one day and reads it to the whole platoon.

"John," he starts.

-It's boring over here. Mycroft and Greg (that's Lestrade's real name, by the way) are actually getting serious. Mrs. Hudson's gone in for another hip replacement and Molly at the morgue won't leave me be. Can't she see I'm not interested in her at all? She's so dull compared to you. Everyone's dull compared to you. Can't you just come back and leave the war to fight itself?

I found a skull. I'm keeping it. It's my replacement for you.

Would it be incredibly tacky if I said I missed you?

Solved a murder and a kidnapping this week. Dull. Almost got shot at. Boring. So I shot at the wall, but don't worry; the wall had it coming. Also, your sister came by looking for you. I told her where you were and she gave me a dog. I think its Gladstone, but he's old. Can I kill him? Or at least experiment on him?

The flat's too quiet without you. I hate it here. I hate it. When are you coming back?

I do miss you, you know.

~SH

Orwell quietly hands the letter back, and everyone leaves the room. John just sighs. That had been one of the saddest letters he'd received from Sherlock. It would be months before he got back. Months. And he has to pull some extra time with the rank switch that's happened. He's moving his way up in the military world.

So he starts back on his letter to Sherlock.

Dear Sherlock, he starts.

-Please don't kill my dog. I won't be very happy if you do. If you see Harry again, tell her I said help, but to leave you alone. Send my regards to Mycroft and his beau. Tell Mrs. Hudson get well for me. Try cleaning the flat, you might not be so bored with what you find.

And I miss you too…

When John comes back again, this time, Sherlock knows. He's waiting for him and attacks him in a hug and says, "We are going to do things this entire leave of yours and you are going to spend all four weeks with me."

John nods. "Alright. Alright. What do you have in mind?"

Sherlock looks at him as they walk into the flat and he says, "Fancy a late night and a lie-in for a start?"

John chuckles. "Perfect."

It's not perfect.

When John does fall asleep that night on the couch beside Sherlock, he has the worst nightmare in his memory. He wakes up screaming, still seeing thick blood on his hands, the air still Afghan-hot, bullets whizzing around his head.

The only thing that yanks him out of it his Sherlock's arms wrapping around him and soothing him, the man whispering incoherent words to calm him. He falls back asleep like that.

When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock still has his arms around him, and he's staring down at him. "Bad dream?" he asks casually.

John nods, then blushes as he realizes just where he is. "Sorry," he mumbles.

But Sherlock grabs him by the chin and forces him to look up, saying, "Don't you ever apologize for something you can't help."

John wants to cry, but he doesn't, so instead he just lies his head back down on Sherlock's chest and closes his eyes.

They stay like that for the rest of the morning.

When John's leave is over, he realizes that he's only spent time with Sherlock and he doesn't mind. No one else to spend time with.

Sherlock sees him off again and says, a bit uncertain, "So…how much longer?"

How much longer will John be in the service, is what he's asking and John just shrugs. "Dunno. Might make me a career out of this." He gives a hollow laugh. "When I find out, you'll be the first one to know, eh?"

Sherlock nods. He looks like he wants to do something with his hands, but he just says, "Well then."

"See you later, Holmes," John says, shaking his head and smiling.

"Laters," Sherlock says with a grin.

John doesn't mean to get shot. But how to you stop a bullet that's flying at you so fast you can barely see it? He doesn't mean to lose so much blood, he doesn't mean to go into cardiac arrest, he doesn't mean to have to get shipped out and to the nearest hospital for emergency surgery.

He doesn't mean for any of this to happen. But it still does.

When John comes to, he's in pain, in a strange place, his mouth tastes like dirty socks…

And Sherlock is sitting rigidly in an arm chair beside him, staring out into space. He has bags under his eyes and for the first time in a long time, John sees he's wearing denims and a university sweater over a thermal. There are sneakers on his feet.

When John finally stirs, the first word out of his mouth is, "Sherlock?"

Those grey eyes are on him with rapt attention in record time. They are wide and terrified and full of worry.

"John," Sherlock almost gasps. He swallows hard and a hand riffles through John's hair slowly, gently, perfectly. "They thought- and you never returned my letter- called Mycroft- they said…they said…" He coughs and his hand strokes down to John's face. Sherlock let's out a deep breath and then says, "You promised me you wouldn't die. We had a deal."

John laughs, and it's weak and soft and it hurts, but he laughs because he can. "Not dead yet."

"You were," Sherlock says coldly.

John doesn't know what to say to that. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Sherlock stands up so fast that his chair goes flying into a wall. "You're not supposed to be sorry!" he almost yells, both hands flying up into the air. "You were supposed to be careful, you were supposed to stay safe. I thought I'd lost you when they called me down, I didn't know what to do with myself for the first twenty-four hours I was here. It was terrible. It was a nightmare. John, my John, almost dead on a metal slab. And for what? A fucked up war that no one has a reason for fighting anymore?"

Sherlock collapsed in his seat. "I thought I'd run out of time."

John can't process everything that Sherlock said. It's too confusing. "Run out of time to do what?"

"This," Sherlock says, and leans over, sealing his mouth over John's.

It's wonderful and sets his heart on edge, but John can't do much with it, seeing as he's in a hospital bed. When Sherlock pulls back, his face stays near John's and he says, "All that time together and it took you almost dying for me to realize how I felt about you. Is it too late to say I love you?"

John laughs and angles his head for another kiss before saying, "God no. I love you too."

221b Baker Street is silent when they get back. For all of five minutes.

A man with silver hair bursts into their flat and says, "Sherlock? Where the hell is- Sherlock, there you are. There's some really weird shite happening down at the Gardens."

John looks to Sherlock, then to the man. "Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell are you?" the man says back, standing up straighter.

Sherlock gets between them, rolls his eyes. "John, this is the idiot who married my brother. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." He turns to Lestrade. "Detective, this is my partner in all respects and purposes, Captain John Watson." John had been promoted to Captain before he was honorably discharged a few weeks ago.

"You married Mycroft?" John asks.

Lestrade shrugs. "Yeah. You're dating Sherlock then?"

John nods. "Seems so." He gives Sherlock a grin.

"What'd you do in the military?" Lestrade asks suddenly interested.

"He was a medic, a doctor," Sherlock responds. "Why?"

Greg smiles grimly. "Come along if you like. We might be needing you too." And with that he left.

Sherlock looks to John, who smiles in return. "Shall we?"

"Oh God yes," John responds, let's."

HEY. HEY GUIZ.

YOU LIKE IT?

Review please.