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Check out Love-Sherlock-Holmes on deviantART. Request by Ammlott for Share the Sherlock Love week. Art is at (Remove spaces)

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John went back to London in the fall. He joined the football team and stated playing rugby with the neighborhood boys.

His thin layers of fat and soft muscle grew toned and he became the prized forward. People said a team would pick him when he grew older. School wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. He worked as hard as he could to make sure his mother couldn't have any reason to call off the trip the next summer.

Sherlock greeted his father as he usually did.

"Hello, Father."

"Hello, Sherlock." The tall man knelt. "Tell me, did you make any new friends?"

Sherlock nodded. "I met a boy named John Watson. He was really nice." His father laughed and told him about a girl named Rose and her boyfriend, Mick, and adventures that weren't real.

Sherlock laughed, but didn't let go of the blonde bear.

The following summer, John's mum told him they hadn't the money. John didn't complain. Sherlock would be there, always.

He kept playing hoping that he would be good enough to make forward his first year of secondary. He took less time out of his schedule for school and more time for rugby. He was undeniably good at both.

At the end of that summer, his mother announced they were going to move. They couldn't afford to keep the house. John just bit his tongue and packed the black bear and photos along with his things.

That school year was the year the team won the championships. That was the year he made more friends. That school year he got his first kiss.

John called it his first because Sherlock didn't count.

Eventually, he forgot about the bear and the photo.

He forgot the promise.

Sherlock went back year after year. He wanted to talk to John about how things had changed. He looked forward to showing John exactly how tall he had grown, how strong he was.

John was never there. He busied himself learning how to defend himself. The boys at school beat him up. He had bruises and cuts from when they threw him onto the pavement. Mycroft was no help over at Oxford. Sherlock learned to stand alone.

He grabbed the broom he used to fence with and practiced. Many a vase was sacrificed in his practices. Emma eventually shooed him out and told him to practice in the back yard.

He still held onto the bear.

John grew to be a handsome young man. His blond hair was soft and lush. His eyes always glimmered with a secret joke. His unassuming manners and comfy habits made him a favorite. Everyone loved John Watson.

Harry came out of the when she left for college. Harry had gotten into a community college and was going to work her way through. When Harry was a junior, she brought home her girlfriend. John and his mum met the infamous Clara.

Not long after, John learned with a jolt his mum had cancer. She had a pretty bad version of leukemia. John and Harry were both tested. Neither came up as a possible donor. John went through every option until the end.

When his mother died, he promised himself he would be a doctor.

He would be a bloody good one.

When he was old enough, he broke his promise.

He enlisted.

Sherlock waited every summer until it was time for him to go to Uni. All he ever saw was John's maiden aunt coming and going. The tree John climbed to meet him was cut. He tried not to cry. He did catch wind of the Carl Powers case. But that was years ago. Since then, he had called in anonymously from different pay phones with Mycroft's CCTV camera help.

One night, he decided to make a change. He'd trained himself in the method of Loki. He could do it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and clasped his hands around the plush jumper-wearing bear. In his mind palace, he found John's room. It was a big room filled with sand. There was a map of London half washed away. A pile of swords from varying eras were piled in a corner. The walls and ceiling were the blue of John's eyes. Tacked across were the grey clouds of arguments and the rainbows of resolutions. There was a wardrobe of laughter. Inside the light piece of furniture were jumpers made of jokes and pranks.

Sherlock eyed the bed. It was a replica of his bed in Nantucket. But, this time it was made of John's favorite books and games. He ran his hands over the sheets. They were made of unsent letters. The ones he had written over the years but never had an address to send them too. The pillow was the soft comfort of John's praise.

Sherlock glanced at the ceiling. The whole room was lit with the power of John's promise. Over the years, the light had faded. Now, in near darkness, Sherlock wandered to the shelf and put down the bear. He set it next to the pictures of John's facial expressions and the shells that sounded like his laughs.

He ran his hands over the bear one more time before leaving.

He closed the door and deleted the room.

When he awoke the next morning, Sherlock felt the sudden gap of loneliness. There was a soft toy in his hands. He didn't' recognize it. Sherlock tossed it aside and took a shaky breath. He felt like he was missing something. His life wouldn't be complete without it.

That fall semester he discovered cocaine. It made him forget the emptiness.

He never once thought what John would think.

John went through the training and learned to use a gun. When, his hands first touched the trigger, he had pulled instinctively.

That day he put five bullets through the center of a target.

His fellow trainees clapped him on the shoulder cheered him or asked him if he had gang connections. His commander gave him a nod on the way out.

John didn't notice any of it. All he felt was the touch of a ghost on his cheek.

Sherlock kicked the habit. He did it for work. All his life revolved around was work. It filled the emptiness. It took away the hollow feeling he had. Instead he threw himself into Lestrade's world. He took risks. He did whatever he could to find puzzles. It was all because, in that moment, when he realized what the puzzle maker was getting at, his mind blanked.

That was the moment he forgot that he was so empty inside.

John got shot. It was close, Murray said. Just a centimeter over and he would have been a dead man.

The significance wasn't lost on him.

John went back to London. He went back to normalcy.

When he saw videos of soldiers racing through gun fire and escaping the mass destruction of bombs, he wished he was there with them.

He never told anyone on his blog.

Sherlock chose one to move out. He went through flat after flat and flat mate after flat mate trying to find one who would put up with him.

"It can't be that bad." Stamford was a professor at the college Sherlock spent his free hours at. It had occurred to both of them that Sherlock wasn't supposed to touch the equipment. A large donation to Bart's from the Holmes's account took care of that.

Molly came in and out, running errands. Sherlock ignored her simpering.

"Who would want me for a flat mate?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

Stamford just furrowed his brows and went off for lunch.

John walked through the park trying not to walk to fast. His limp was psychosomatic, but he still didn't want to aggravate his leg.

"John! John Watson!" John turned to see a familiar boyish face. They had coffee and talked for a bit. They eventually got to the matter of his living situation.

"Who'd want me for a flat mate?" Mike chuckled and John knew he was going in for a penny.

They caught a cab back to Bart's and Mike introduced him to the man. John's first impression of him was grace. He had some fluidity to him that looked like the sinuous muscle of a panther. His dark violet shirt was tight on his chest. It seemed like it was old, but he had never bothered to buy another. John could imagine a coltish adolescent. The shirt would have been perfect then but the man was more muscular than his past self. The colt had become a stallion.

There was an odd conversation and the man made to leave.

John stopped him asking, "Is that all?"

"Is what all?" The man seemed amused. His interest was piqued by the little soldier.

"We just met and we're looking for a flat? We don't know the first thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." John tried to reign in his frustration. Frustration never got anyone anywhere they wanted to be.

The man took a breath. "I know you are an army doctor recently invalidated form Afghanistan. You have a brother, but you won't go to him for help. Probably, because he is a drinker, more likely, because he just walked out on his wife. Your therapist also thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite right I'm afraid. Is that all? Good."

John stared on in awe. The man had gotten all of that, practically his life's story in a moment. It was disconcerting and comforting, a rare and strange amalgamation.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."

Sherlock winked with a click of the tongue. He was gone.

John was just a little entranced. Just a little.

John finally finished unpacking. He and Sherlock had decided to retire to the country. Sherlock and his bees were thriving and leaving John to do the brunt of the work.

John carefully unpacked a box appropriately called "Sherlock's stuff". John sliced through the packaging tape and opened the box. Inside he saw a bear. It was blonde and wore a striped jumper. The striped were faded and it looked a little worse for the wear. John couldn't find it in his heart to call it dingy. He thought a better term was well loved.

John could imagine a young Sherlock clinging onto it and Mycroft would be a stern seventeen year old. He and Harry would have hated each other. John could see a family vacation and a lot of make believe.

And it seemed more like reality than fiction.

John recalled he had a similar box in the foyer and went off to find it. When he did, the top was slit and the contents outturned with a clatter. He dug through desperately searching for something that said he wasn't insane or that this was a big dream. John found a black bear and a photo.

He recognized himself in the striped jumper. He looked so very surprised. Next to him was a thin coltish boy kissing his cheek.

"Sherlock," he breathed. The dark curls were still there but the features had the round, untried exuberance of youth.

John sat there on the floor of the foyer. He remembered all the days they spent. They made a map of London on the beach, and the games. He even remembered Sherlock's first kiss. It had been his too.

And he felt guilt. He had promised to return. He promised they would have been together again. Back then, he knew Sherlock had taken it as seriously as a proposal. Now, he felt grieved. How much damage had he inflicted, if Sherlock hadn't been willing to acknowledge him? Had Sherlock been so angry that he deleted the information?

A set of chapped lips pressed against his cheek.

"John. What are you looking at?" Sherlock gazed at the photo and a sudden shock overcame him.

"Is that us?" John nodded.

"Do you remember that summer?" Sherlock thought for a second.

"No, I don't suppose I do. But, I remember that I felt lonely after I deleted a memory." He looked stricken. "I deleted a summer with you."

John shook his head. "It's my fault. I left you alone." Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I left you too. But, we both came back." John nodded taking Sherlock's hand.

"I just wonder, what it would have been like if we hadn't forgotten. I would have had a life time with you." Sherlock rubbed John's face.

"You would have died of high blood pressure."

John chuckled. "I suppose I would." He admired the person in front of him with new appreciation. There were some grey touches on Sherlock's temples. His hair was still a dark coal. His face remained unlined for the most part. There were wrinkles around his eyes from laughing. He still looked handsome in that alien way. If he looked carefully, John could still see the remains of the little boy he forgot. But, the man before him had aged with him. They had grown old like any couple bickering and teasing.

Sherlock grinned. "How about we make good on that promise?"

"Oh, god, yes."

That summer John aired out the Holmes' house in Nantucket. It hadn't been until a then that he realized Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street had been the housekeeper of the Nantucket summer home. Sherlock had confirmed as much.

John wandered into the room where Sherlock used to sleep. It was smaller than he recalled. But, it stil held the warmth of fun and games. He remembered jumping across boats made of stacked chairs. Then there was the fortress of pillows Sherlock made when he pretended to be a dragon. John laughed at how silly they had been, but how innocent and kind they were too.

Warm arms wrapped around him, jolting him out of a reverie.

"I think we're going to visit often," Sherlock purred.

John gazed out the window and into the street. He could see two children playing in the yard. One was dark haired. The other was a golden blonde. The blond was older but the dark haired one was pushy. They adored each other to no end.

John smiled. "Yeah."

Check out Love-Sherlock-Holmes on deviantART. Request by Ammlott. Enjoy!

www . himitsutsubasa . deviantart art / we - ll - meet - again - someday - 313173992