Chapter Text
When Sherlock is five and Mycroft is eleven, Mycroft gives his little brother a stuffed bear toy with soft, golden fur and navy bead eyes.
"To keep you company," Mycroft explains, "while I'm at boarding school."
Sherlock pouts angrily, even as he accepts the toy. "I don't want a stupid bear," he exclaims, strangely articulate for his age. "Don't leave, Mycroft." Sherlock's pale eyes are wide under his curly mop of dark hair and his plump bottom lip trembles noticeably.
Mycroft kneels down so he's face to face with his little brother. "I have to, Sherlock. It's school." Mycroft rolls his eyes then. "Though I doubt I'll actually learn anything useful."
"Then don't go!" Sherlock offers, the only logical conclusion.
"Don't be ridiculous. Besides, you'll be going to school in the autumn, too." Mycroft's secondary school starts classes August first instead of in September like his old primary school. Sherlock still has a month of summer left to pass without his older brother. "You can share your adventures with your bear."
Sherlock's small face crumples into a scowl and he crosses his arms defiantly, though keeps his grip on the bear, which dangles from his right fist. "Not the same," he mumbles, eyes downcast.
Mycroft sighs at Sherlock's dramatics and touches his shoulder, re-establishing eye contact when Sherlock looks up. "Do you want to know a secret?"
Sherlock's eyes widen as he nods.
Mycroft leans in slightly, prompting Sherlock to do the same. "That bear," Mycroft begins conspiratorially, "is no ordinary toy. This bear," Mycroft gently takes the plush toy and places it against Sherlock's narrow chest and the younger boy's arms wrap around it automatically, "when you need him most, will come to life."
Sherlock looks at his older brother in awe for a moment before suspicion clouds his eyes. "You're lying."
Myrcoft smiles. "Am I?"
Ice-blue eyes narrow. "That would be magic and there's no such thing. You said so."
"Do I look like I'm lying? What do you observe, Sherlock?"
Sherlock shakes his head, unsure.
Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose you'll just have to wait and see." With that, the eleven-year-old goes back to packing and the five-year-old goes back to sulking in his room.
That night, after Mycroft's gone and Sherlock's been tucked into bed, the bear tucked in next to him, Sherlock studies the tan and beige synthetic fur, dark blue bead-eyes and soft muzzle of his new companion. So far, the plush toy has proven to be none other than an ordinary, boring plush toy.
"You need a name," Sherlock decides, pulling the bear closer. After several moments of contemplation, he whispers into the bear’s ear: "John. Boring, just like you." Sherlock turns his back on the toy then, snuggling deeper under the covers and ignoring the wetness that overflows when he closes his eyes. As he's falling asleep, he thinks he feels something soft and fuzzy, like a miniature paw, nudging him in the back, but he's too tired to turn around and investigate.
"I'm going outside to do some gardening," Mummy says as she's cleaning up the dishes after breakfast. Dad's already left for work so Sherlock knows she's talking to him, but he's still confused. Why should he care?
"You should come get some sun with me," she continues. "Some fresh air."
Sherlock slouches in his seat. "Boring," he mutters.
"You could bring your new bear out with you!" Mummy offers enthusiastically as she places the final dish in the dishwasher.
Sherlock pushes his jaw out stubbornly. "No. John's boring, too."
"John? Did you name him that?"
Slouching lower, Sherlock says nothing.
"John does sound rather plain," Mummy muses as she turns on the dishwasher. "Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t take him outside. I don't think you should get him dirty. In fact, you should stay inside, too. Find a good book to read..."
Sherlock's combative nature rears its head at that. "No!" he exclaims, sitting up straight. "I can go outside whenever I want! And I'll take John, too, if I want to."
Mummy raises her eyebrows at him. "I don't know, Sherlock. Can boring John really handle it?"
"John's not boring, he's mine!" Sherlock slides off his chair and runs to his room to grab the bear off of his bed. When he reaches the door leading to the back garden, Mummy and his shoes are waiting for him.
"Just don't go too far, alright, Sherlock? I'm serious," she says sternly.
"Yes, fine," Sherlock agrees quickly and dashes off, one of John's arms held securely in his little fist.
The Holmes property is grand and slightly isolated, backing onto what seems like a forest to Sherlock and surrounded on all sides by trees and diverse plants. Private and mysterious, it offers much to the imagination of young children, Mycroft and Sherlock included. In fact, with their keen eyes and sharp minds, the Holmes brothers created entire worlds during their play, imaginations running wild with the winding branches and reaching shadows, the colourful flowers and buzzing bees. Now, Sherlock heads straight for his tree, the one ten steps past the rose bush and with the skull-shaped whirl on the trunk. At the beginning of summer, Mycroft scratched an X over the whirl with Dad's penknife to make it look more like a skull with crossbones. Mycroft's tree is the one next to Sherlock's, the one with the mushrooms that Mycroft likes to study growing around the bottom. (Sherlock's tree is cooler, because when Sherlock climbs it, he can pretend it's his pirate ship).
When Sherlock reaches his tree, he dumps John on the ground and grabs the lowest branch to pull himself up with practiced ease. He used to need help, but he's stronger now and is able to slip his foot into the little wedge near the base to push himself onto the second lowest branch. From there it's easy to climb to his lookout perch, where, if he stands in just the right spot, he can see through the leaves of the surrounding trees to his house. Sherlock grins triumphantly, but there's no one for him to brag to. Looking down, the stuffed bear looks rather lonely on the ground, tipped over so its head is near a patch of dirt. Sherlock sighs and sits in the vee of two branches and watches an ant crawl over the ridges of the bark. Ants can lift over one thousand times their own weight, he'd say if Mycroft were here. Turning his head at a loud buzzing, Sherlock scratches his nose as he observes a fat bee bumbling between the leaves to his right. A bee's wings beat around two hundred times per second, he'd say if Mycroft were here. Sighing again, Sherlock looks back at John.
"Fine," he says in exasperation, drawing out the word. "You can play Pirates with me, but I'm the captain, alright?"
Gripping a branch with each hand, Sherlock eases himself onto a lower branch. Getting down is always more complicated than getting up. Turning, he reaches for the second lowest branch with his right foot. It bends a bit with his weight, but once he's stable, he reaches for the lowest branch with his left foot. Suddenly, the limb he's gripping with his right hand snaps. Sherlock gasps as he loses his balance and his left foot slips. With the sudden jerk, the already flimsy branch under his right foot bends more and Sherlock flails as he feels himself beginning to fall. His right hand makes contact with a tree limb and he grabs it reflexively, hissing when he feels something sharp pierce the skin of his palm. He grabs the limb with his other hand, pulls himself to a more stable branch and sits there, breathing hard. It feels like his heart is going to explode out of his chest and his hand is stinging.
He presses his lips together to hold back a whimper when he sees the twig sticking out of his palm. He scowls as tears fill his eyes - he's too old to cry! But when he tries to pull out the twig, he flinches and can't stop his whimper of pain. It's in deep. Deeper even than the splinter he'd gotten from the old plank of wood he and Mycroft found that one time. And he needed tweezers for that!
Sherlock is distracted from his wound by the sound of a strange moaning cry. Looking down, he's shocked to see what looks like a puppy scratching at the base of the tree. The puppy has golden fur and a stub of a tail and when it looks up at Sherlock, he can see that its eyes are a deep navy blue. Sherlock looks on the ground for his stuffed bear, but can't find him anywhere. Looking back at the puppy, Sherlock can't help but see the similarities.
"John?" he asks in disbelief. At his voice, the puppy moans again. It gets a good grip in the bark then and it starts a slow climb up the trunk. Sherlock takes in the sharp claws on its front and hind paws. "Dogs don't climb," he muses.
When the puppy reaches the branch on which Sherlock is seated, it plops itself down next to him. Sherlock notices the five claws per paw instead of four, the rounded ears and the deep, blue eyes. "John," he says again, not a question this time. Mycroft was right! he thinks. The bear, his bear, not at all boring or plain, tries to nuzzle at Sherlock's stinging hand. Cautious of teeth, Sherlock pulls away, but freezes when John makes a strange snorting sound. It's not a growl, but is undeniably threatening. John nuzzles insistently at his sore hand, prompting the boy to show the cub his wound. Slowly, Sherlock flips his hand to show the protruding twig. John huffs at it and Sherlock jerks when he feels a rough tongue swipe at it. He hisses in pain but goes still again when John nips at his fingers, his sharp canines pressing gently into the boy's flesh. When Sherlock doesn't pull away again, John proceeds to lick and nibble at the twig and after a brief, painful moment, the cub pulls it free. Sherlock sighs in relief even as he sniffles against tears.
The boy studies the red and swollen puncture wound and feels something warm and fuzzy pushing against his side. John is head-butting him insistently, trying to get Sherlock to move.
"I don't want to go," the boy disagrees. "We can still play Pirates."
But John keeps pushing, making little grunting noises until Sherlock sighs. "Fine, I'll tell Mummy and then we'll come back out."
The climb down is more difficult now, as Sherlock can only use the fingers of his right hand in order to avoid rubbing his injury against the rough bark, but he's not a baby, so he manages without crying and without making any noise. John climbs down more slowly until Sherlock loses patience and simply grabs the cub to place him on the ground. John's fur is coarser like this, realistic instead of synthetic. Sherlock runs back to his house and the cub follows, scrambling through underbrush to keep up.
"Mummy!" Sherlock calls as he approaches.
She stands up at her son's call, wiping dirt from her trousers. "Sherlock, back already?"
"Mummy, I got a twig stuck in my hand, but I got it out and John is making me tell you," Sherlock blurted.
"Oh, love, let me take a look." She takes her son's small hand and peers at the slowly weeping puncture wound. "You got this out all by yourself? That's very brave of you."
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Well, John helped, actually," he admits.
"Did he now? Well then John's very brave, too. How did your toy help?" she asks, leading Sherlock into the house.
"John's not a toy," Sherlock protests. "He's -" he cuts off as he looks back at where his bear is lying on the ground, limbs asprawl and boneless, like a puppet with its strings cut. "But -"
"Let's get this washed and bandaged, hm?"
Once his wound is washed, treated and bandaged, Sherlock runs back into the yard to grab his stuffed bear. "John!" he whispers fiercely into his ear, hoping to bring him back to life.
Sherlock returns to his tree to play Pirates, talking to John and tugging him along, but nothing he does brings the cub back to life. After half an hour, Sherlock gets bored and trudges back home, the toy dangling from his fist. No matter how good the boy’s imagination, it’s not as good as the real thing.
For the next several days, Sherlock tries various experiments to bring John back to life. He tries enticing the cub with food, stroking his fur, talking to him, throwing him into the air, tickling him and, as a last resort, poking him in the side until Sherlock worries John can feel it even if he isn't reacting, so the boy stops.
It's the third day when Sherlock sits at the base of his tree and sulks, John lying in the dirt next to him. Let him get dirty, Sherlock thinks. He's no fun anyway. Sherlock doesn't even want to play Pirates - with the branch broken, he can't reach his lookout spot and he can't climb nearly as high. He scowls. He's going to have to find a new tree now, too.
"Stupid Mycroft," he mutters, because blaming his older brother for things is practically automatic. It's Mycroft's fault that Sherlock's alone with only his stupid bear for company.
In the corner of his eye, John stirs. Sherlock whirls, watching with excitement as his bear seems to become more firm, a spine straightening his back, blood giving him warmth and life brightening his eyes. John huffs as he shakes himself and sits at Sherlock's side.
"John!" the boy exclaims angrily. "What took you so long?"
The cub simply tilts his head and blinks.
"It's been terribly dull without you," Sherlock admits. "I tried to wake you up, but nothing worked."
John turns away from him and starts digging his claws into the tree bark.
Sherlock furrows his brow in irritation. "There's no point. That tree's boring now. We need to find a new one."
John plops back down and jumps into the boy's lap, making bawling noises and pushing him playfully. Sherlock laughs despite himself when the cub places his paws on Sherlock's shoulders and nudges the boy's face with his furry forehead.
"Yes, alright, you can help me."
John jumps off of the boy and stumbles away, endearingly clumsy, and Sherlock quickly gets up to follow. As they search, Sherlock tells John what to look for, the perfect height, branch arrangement and leaf amount for a Pirate tree. When they finally find one that is satisfactory, Sherlock despairs the lack of a penknife.
"It needs a mark," the boy explains. "To show that it's ours."
John trots over to the tree and rises on his hind legs to place his front paws on the bark. With his sharp claws, he scratches the hard rind, making a clear X of intersecting scratches. He then proceeds to pull himself up the tree and Sherlock laughs at how perfect it is before gripping a branch and pulling himself up too.
They play Pirates until John apparently gets hungry, when he ignores Captain Sherlock's orders and begins licking insects out of the tree's crevices instead. When the boy realizes what the cub is doing, he watches in amazement as John catches a scurrying beetle with his tongue and proceeds to crunch it with his molars.
When they get bored of playing in the tree, they carefully climb down. As they walk home, John is distracted by a white butterfly and chases after it. Sherlock, attempting to show off, tries to grab it when it's too high for John to reach and ends up tripping instead. John jumps on top of him which incites a fierce wrestling match until Sherlock's mother calls him for dinner. Laughing and dirty, Sherlock carries John home, picking leaves and twigs out of his fur as he goes.
After dinner, Sherlock sneaks a piece of chicken to John before he's forced to take a bath. That night, Sherlock sleeps with John's warmth snuggled into his side.
The next morning, John's a toy again and Sherlock fights back tears of frustration. Mycroft said that the bear would come to life when Sherlock needs him most, but as far as Sherlock’s concerned, he needs John all the time. He doesn’t understand why John can’t just be alive permanently.
Sherlock reads, and studies bears instead of bees, and goes to the supermarket with his Dad where he makes a woman cry when he asks her why she wears a wig when it's clearly so uncomfortable, and everywhere he goes he brings John. He keeps hoping that something will trigger the cub to twitch into life again, become the companion Sherlock needs.
Sherlock's sitting in the shade of a tree one day as Mummy sits on a bench with some lady and talks. They came here so Sherlock would play on the play-structure with the other kids while the adults had a 'chat', but everyone was incredibly dumb and kept trying to pet John like he was a dog. So Sherlock took John to sit in the shade and glare at anyone that tried to approach. As they sit there, a huge black dog suddenly comes charging in their direction, a boy older than Sherlock chasing after it. A jolt of fear shoots through Sherlock when he sees the sharp teeth of the snarling beast, and next to him, John jerks into awareness.
The cub stands up and takes a defensive position in front of Sherlock, a high, angry snort issuing from his throat. The dog stops short and growls, baring its teeth and lowering into an aggressive crouch. John makes a huffing sound and keeps his ground. Sherlock should back up, put distance between him and the dog, but the dog's owner is still far away and Sherlock doesn't want to leave John.
The dog lunges, grabbing the small cub in its jaws and shaking his head from side to side. John makes a distressed bawling sound (like the cub stuck in a tree that Sherlock saw on the television documentary the other day) before going silent.
"No! Stop!" Sherlock shrieks.
The dog's owner reaches them then, the older boy grabbing the beast's collar and jerking it back roughly, yelling at it to sit. When the boy gives another sharp command, the dog finally releases John and backs off, going docile under its master's hand.
Sherlock grabs John as Mummy runs up to him.
"Sherlock! Are you alright?" she demands, but he ignores her, looking over John. "What's your name?" she demands of the older boy still holding his dog. "And where are your parents?"
"I-I'm Victor," the boy stammers. "I was just taking Bolt for a walk and he just ran off all of a sudden..."
"What's your phone number? I'd like to speak with your parents."
John is limp under Sherlock's hands, turned back into a doll out of self-defense most likely. Sherlock gasps when he sees the tear in the cub's seams, the front left leg almost completely torn off, stuffing leaking out of the gaping hole.
"Mummy!" he sobs, getting her attention and showing her the damage.
She crouches next to him and runs her hands over his face. "You're alright, aren't you, Sherlock? The dog didn't touch you?"
Sherlock shakes his head roughly, tears streaming down his face. "It bit John! Look, it broke his leg!"
Mummy's eyes flick over the toy then, appraising the ripped seams. Her mouth twists in sympathy and she runs her fingers through her son's hair. "Don't worry, Hun. We'll sew him up at home and he'll be as good as new," she reassures him. "Come, we'll go now. Linda and I can talk more later."
They walk home, Sherlock holding John carefully in his lap, holding the rip closed so the cub doesn't lose more stuffing. Mummy takes him when they go inside and Sherlock watches attentively as she puts John back together with needle and thread. Sherlock bites his lip, hoping desperately that John can't feel it. Afterwards, Sherlock takes John into his room and strokes the cub gently, sniffling every now and then and hating Victor and his stupid dog. Under Sherlock's hands, the cub begins to stir. When he tries to move his left foreleg, his moan of pain nearly sounds human.
"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, combing the fur on his back with his fingers. "That stupid dog bit you, but Mummy sewed you up." He checks the stitches - Mummy did a good job. The stitches are tight and neat and stay in even with John's material changed to flesh. They must hurt though, because when John shifts, he makes another distressed moaning sound. Sherlock's lips twist unhappily. He doesn't like hearing that noise. He's not sure how to make pain go away, but he remembers an image from a veterinarian book of a cat with its leg bandaged. "Stay here," Sherlock orders and runs out of the room.
In the kitchen, he grabs a pair of scissors and takes them to the bathroom. He grabs a white towel and cuts off a thin strip. With the material in hand, he returns to his room and kneels on the ground next to where John lies on his bed.
"This might hurt," Sherlock warns, "but it should help."
Carefully, Sherlock places the bear cub on his side and gently wraps the towel around John's shoulder, stitches and part of his leg, fastening the material with tape. It doesn't stop the pain, but this way the cub can't move the injured limb as much. John nuzzles Sherlock gratefully.
"Don’t ever leave me," the boy whispers to the cub that night, when he thinks the bear is asleep.
At midnight, when both of them are deeply asleep, the cub briefly changes into a human and then back again. In the morning, Sherlock has to refasten the bandage and neither know how it came undone in the first place.
"Sherlock! What did you do to my towel?" comes Mummy's angry voice as John turns back into a toy and Sherlock's making his bed. She comes into her son's room and sees the stuffed bear with a strip of white cloth around its leg. "Did you destroy my towel to bandage your toy, Sherlock?"
Mummy is not pleased, but neither is Sherlock. "He's not a toy!"
Dad appears behind Mummy's shoulder. He sighs. "Sherlock, you can't cut up the towels, alright? Not even for an experiment."
"It wasn't an experiment!" Sherlock protests. "I was helping John."
"John doesn't need help," Mummy says, exasperated. "He's full of stuffing, not blood."
Sherlock isn't so sure, but when he tries to argue, his father interrupts. "Just don't do it again, okay, Sherlock?"
"Come to breakfast," Mummy orders, and Sherlock stomps out of his room, hugging John to his chest.
“Your mother and I have decided that you’ll be going on a play-date,” Dad says as Sherlock stabs his scrambled eggs with a fork. “The Moriartys have just moved into the neighbourhood and they have a son your age.”
“They’re having other children over too, Sherlock,” Mummy adds. “You’ll meet some of the kids you’ll be going to school with.”
“They’ll be stupid,” he mumbles into his plate.
“What was that?” asks Mummy.
“Other kids are boring,” he says instead, remembering that he’s not supposed to say ‘stupid’. Which is stupid.
Dad sighs. He does that a lot when Sherlock is being ‘difficult’. “Just give them a chance, son. Mycroft’s gone now, so you’ll need to make new friends.”
“John is my friend.”
“John is a toy. You’ll grow out of him eventually. And he’s to stay home today,” Mummy tells him.
Sherlock looks up in outrage. “I shan’t go if John can’t come with me.”
Dad shakes his head, his lips twitching in what Sherlock thinks is amusement, but he doesn’t know what’s funny. “Shan’t,” he repeats. “What five-year-old knows the word ‘shan’t’?”
“Sherlock, John’s just for when you’re alone. You can’t bring him everywhere.”
Sherlock frowns and grips John tightly.
“Oh, let him bring the toy. As long as he socializes, there’s no harm in. Not at this age, anyway.”
“William!” Mummy protests.
But in the end, Sherlock puts up enough of a fuss that Mummy gives in, and it’s with John in his arms that Sherlock meets James.
The parents introduce all the children (James, who just moved, Molly, a timid girl, and Gregory, another boy Sherlock’s age) and then the four of them are led into a toy room and left to their own devices.
At first, Sherlock is intrigued by James. The boy is small for his age, and has intelligent eyes as dark as his jet black hair. Sherlock is interested by James’s collection of bugs, impaled in neat rows on white cardboard.
“I got them all while they were still alive,” the boy boasts, grinning hugely.
“That’s mean,” Molly says, and then bites her lip when James looks at her.
“They’re bugs. They don’t feel anything.”
“I don’t know, I once squished a spider but didn’t kill it and its legs kept twitching,” Gregory put in.
“Actually, when its leg comes off, the muscles keep twitching to distract predators, allowing the spider to escape,” Sherlock explains.
“Ew,” mutters Molly.
“Cool,” says Gregory.
James doesn’t say anything, but he smiles at Sherlock as though he is impressed. It is clear that James is not dumb like other kids.
However, when James tricks Molly into giving him her last graham cracker, and later provokes Gregory by telling him Molly took his toy car when really James had, Sherlock finds he doesn’t like the new boy as much. Yes, he’s smart, but he’s manipulative and cruel, as well. After Molly, tear stains on her face, and Gregory, still missing his car, are picked up by their parents, Sherlock knows James is evil when he takes John.
“Give him back, James,” Sherlock demands angrily.
“Why do you have this bear, Sherly?” James asks, smiling. “You’re so smart, we can be great friends, you and I. You don’t need a stupid toy.”
“He’s not a toy!” Sherlock protests.
Frowning, James turns John around in his hands, carefully observing the cub. “He sure looks like a toy to me.” He unwraps the towel bandage.
“Don’t!”
“Oh, he’s even stitched up. You really care for your pet toy, don’t you, Sherly?” James smiles again and tugs on John’s stitched up leg and laughs when Sherlock lunges for him. Quickly, James runs up the stairs, Sherlock racing after him, and throws John into his room before closing the door and standing in front of it, blocking Sherlock.
“Stop it! John!”
“John can’t hear you, he’s a toy.” James rolls his eyes. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”
Sherlock pushes him when suddenly the door opens on its own. Both boys stare in shock as a naked boy is revealed, legs unsteady and eyes wide. His hair is a disheveled blond, his left shoulder has a red line running through it and his eyes are the rich blue of the sky just before nightfall.
“Sherlock,” the boy gasps, and stumbles.
Sherlock reaches for him automatically, and the boy hisses when Sherlock grips his injured shoulder too tightly.
“John?” Sherlock inquires, disbelieving. “How – what?” John is shivering so Sherlock looks around for something to cover him with. He notices that James has disappeared. “Come on, John, let’s get you dressed and we’ll leave before he comes back.”
Quickly, Sherlock ruffles through James’s things and hands John some shorts and a t-shirt that look about his size. Once John has pulled them on, Sherlock takes his hands and leads him down the stairs, John getting steadier with each step. They reach the bottom and run out the door and down the gravel street. Sherlock keeps throwing John sidelong glances as they walk home, taking in the strange similarities between bear and human. John’s hair clearly matches his fur and his eyes are the same, but other things are familiar too: his ears stick out just a bit, his limbs are stocky, his tummy just a bit pudgy and his skin is the same golden colour as the cub’s muzzle.
“What?” John asks at last, noticing Sherlock’s furtive glances.
“You’re human!”
“I know, it’s weird,” John agrees calmly.
Sherlock laughs. Mummy said John was brave and here’s the proof. “Come on,” Sherlock urges, taking his hand again and running the last little ways to his home. When they enter through the front door, they nearly collide with Mummy, who is preparing to leave.
“Sherlock! What are you doing here, I was about to pick you up! And who’s this?”
Sherlock beams up at her. “This is John,” he states, pushing the blond boy forward a bit.
“Oh? Did you meet at James’s? Where are your parents, John?” Mummy asks, kneeling down in front of the boys.
“No, Mummy. My John,” Sherlocks corrects. When she looks at him blankly he sighs in exasperation. “Bear John!”
John smiles at her widely. “Sherlock brought me to life,” he explains.
Mummy looks at them fondly. “Oh, you boys have such good imaginations.”
“It’s not – ”
“John, what’s your phone number so I can call your parents?”
John looks at her in confusion. “I don’t have a phone number.”
“Oh, well what are your parents’ names?”
John shakes his head. “Don’t have any.”
Mummy is frowning now. “I told you, he’s my bear,” Sherlock says.
Mummy looks at them sternly. “Now, John, this is serious. Can you please tell me something about your parents? Or your address maybe?”
“I live here,” John says simply.
Mummy sighs. “Sherlock, will you please take John to your room for a bit?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, simply turns and walks into the kitchen.
Shrugging, John runs up the stairs and to Sherlock’s room without being led, the other boy following behind him. John jumps on the bed and smiles up at Sherlock, who stands there staring at him.
“You said I made you human. How?”
John blushes and looks away. “You asked me to never leave you. If I stay a bear, I will have to leave you sometimes. I am anything you need, and when you needed me at James’s, it just sort of happened…” John shrugs.
Sherlock purses his lips. “That doesn’t make much sense.”
“I guess it’s magic,” John beams, bright as the sun, and Sherlock can’t help but be drawn to him. John exudes happiness and warmth, and sitting there on the bed, he looks as cuddly as he did as a bear.
Sherlock sits on the bed next to John and the smaller boy cuddles into Sherlock’s side automatically.
“Just so you know, I love you, too,” John whispers shyly.
Sherlock swallows uncomfortably even as a strange warmth fills his chest. “John, do you remember when you were a bear?”
“Of course. We played Pirates!”
“What about when you were… a toy?”
John looks quizzical, thinking hard. “I remember you speaking to me, sometimes. When you needed me most, then I remember things. Like James being mean.” He makes a face. “And the dog.”
Sherlock flinches. “Does your shoulder still hurt?”
“A bit. Mummy fixed me pretty well.”
Downstairs, the doorbell rings and the boys can hear Mummy answering the door.
“Hello, officer… Yes, he’s upstairs.”
Sherlock frowns and gets up. He opens his bedroom door to see a police officer walking up the stairs.
“Hello, Sherlock,” the officer says. “How are you?”
Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. “Fine,” he mumbles. “Why are you here?”
The officer smiles at him. “I’m here to see John. Could I speak with him please?”
Mummy is standing behind the officer and John comes to stand behind Sherlock. Mummy beckons to her son, but Sherlock frowns and stays where he is in front of John. Seeing Sherlock’s defensiveness, the officer kneels and looks at John over Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Are you John?”
John nods, but says nothing.
“And who are your parents, John?”
John shakes his head.
“You don’t know?”
“Don’t have any.”
Sherlock knows how odd this sounds and as they’re talking, he watches another lady walk up the stairs. She’s not wearing a police uniform, but she has a badge, and on it are the name Cindy and the letters FRG.
“What about your guardian, then? Any other family that takes care of you?”
“Sherlock takes care of me.”
Cindy steps up next to Mummy and murmurs to her: “Hi, I’m Cindy from Family Rights Group.”
Sherlock takes a step back, panicked. “John’s mine,” he says. “He’s my friend, he belongs to me.”
Mummy frowns at him. “We don’t own our friends, Sherlock. We just want to know who John’s family is.”
“He doesn’t have one! I’m his family.” He takes another step back and bumps into John, who grabs his hand.
“Alright, calm down, son,” the officer says. “John, how ‘bout you come out with me and we’ll have a little chat in private.”
Sherlock pushes John back. “No, don’t go,” Sherlock hisses at him. “They want to take you away.”
“What?” John looks at him with wide eyes.
“Sherlock,” Mummy says sharply. “You come stand with me this instant.”
Sherlock shakes his head, looking at her with wide eyes.
“Maybe he just wants to talk,” John whispers to him.
“This is ridiculous.” Mummy steps forward and grips Sherlock’s arm, tugging him from the room.
“No, Mummy!”
Sherlock thrashes and sees John try to follow him, only to be blocked by the officer. John tries to push past the man, but when he struggles the officer restrains him.
“John!” Sherlock shouts. “Change back! Bear!”
John just shakes his head, eyes wide with panic.
Cindy goes to help the officer, blocking Sherlock’s view, as Mummy drags her son into Mycroft’s room, closing the door in his face. Sherlock tries the door, but the handle won’t budge. He hears John grunting and voices trying to soothe him, growing quieter as they go downstairs. After a minute, the front door bangs shut and Mycroft’s door opens, revealing Mummy’s sad face.
After that Sherlock doesn’t see John for several months.