He walked through the town, all of the kids racing off in their cool slick cars, rooves down with girls on their arms, it was disgusting. Thankfully though, they were too busy making sure their army hats didn't fly off to pay attention to Sherlock as he waddled down the street. Sherlock was just starting to consider putting the load down and take a little break when someone walked out of a little news stand too quickly, too absorbed in their recently purchased newspaper to bother to look where they were going, and ran right into him, sending the books tumbling out of his hands and making Sherlock fall to the ground.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" the stranger exclaimed, rushing over to collect the fallen books. Sherlock groaned, scrambling to his feet and messaging where the back of his head where it had hit the sidewalk.
"It's fine." He sighed, but of course it wasn't. Not to Sherlock's surprise the man who hadn't been paying attention was dressed in an army uniform, trying to run into incoming traffic to get one of the books that had scattered into the road.
"Oh, just leave it; I'll pay for it later." Sherlock sighed, not wanting this stranger, however clumsy he was, to get hit by a car. But there he went, scrambling into the road as soon as there was a gap in the stream of traffic, snatching the book from the road and running back onto the sidewalk before he could get hit by an oncoming bus.
"So sorry about that, truly." He insisted, placing the book on top of the stack he had rebuilt.
"It's..." Sherlock's sentence seemed to been cut off when the stranger went to hand him the top couple of books, when he got a good first look at him. He seemed to be older than Sherlock by a year or two, dressed in a uniform and looking truly radiant. His eyes were startling crystal blue, and there were random strands of brown hair falling out from underneath his hat, outlining his perfectly symmetrical face. "...fine." Sherlock breathed. The stranger smiled at him, his pearly white teeth perfectly straight, and his smile seemed to radiate sunshine.
"I recognize you, don't I? From school?" the boy asked, handing a now awestricken Sherlock two of the books.
"I, um, I don't know. I've never seen you before." Sherlock admitted, thinking that if he had seen someone like this wandering around school he would've remembered.
"What's your name?" the man asked. Sherlock's brain didn't seem to be working properly, as if this mysterious boy had put some sort of stutter spell on him.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He blurted out, his cheeks glowing horribly as he realized that might have been the wrong thing to say. But the boy just laughed.
"Well, I'm Victor Edward Trevor, nice to meet you. I would shake hands, but I see at the moment we're both occupied." Victor smiled. Sherlock saw with surprise that Victor was carrying three of his books, but wasn't making any moves to put them back on Sherlock's pile.
"I can take those, if, if you want." Sherlock muttered, feeling really intimidated by this Victor fellow.
"Oh, of course not, you've got quite a load going. So, where are you headed William Sherlock Scott Holmes?" he asked.
"No I can't make you do that, it's fine." Sherlock assured.
"I insist." Victor said firmly.
"Well, okay then. I was just going back to my house." Sherlock muttered.
"Where might that be?" Victor asked.
"Over on Apple Street." Sherlock said, craning his neck as if he were looking to see it. In reality he just wanted to look somewhere else than in that face, it made him extremely uncomfortable for some reason.
"Well, you seem pretty stationary at the moment, so allow me to take the first step." Victor decided turning and starting the walk to Sherlock's house.
"You really don't have to do this; I don't want to trouble you or anything." Sherlock stammered, scampering after Victor like a dog on a leash.
"It's a soldier's duty to help those in need." He insisted.
"But I'm not necessarily in need." Sherlock defended.
"Well there's nothing else going on, is there?" Victor laughed.
"I suppose not." Sherlock sighed.
"So, how was your first day of school? I'm going to guess Twelfth grade?" Victor decided.
"Eleventh." Sherlock corrected.
"Eleventh, hm. I guess that makes sense, since I would've known if you were in my class." Victor decided.
"You're in twelfth?" Sherlock asked with amazement. He looked a lot older than that, even if he had mentioned school before.
"Unfortunately." Victor sighed.
"You're almost done; don't say that like it's a bad thing!" Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, no of course it's not terrible, it's just a bit degrading, knowing that our brave soldiers are on the battle field and I'm stuck in a classroom." Victor sighed.
"Well, you'll get your chance, I'm sure." Sherlock insisted.
"I finished top of my rank in basic training, and my dad is a General in the military, so they're giving me special privileges. I get deployed in March." Victor said excitedly.
"That's exciting." Sherlock muttered.
"Are you planning on going?" Victor asked.
"No, my brother did though." Sherlock sighed.
"Is your father in the military?" he asked.
"No." Sherlock muttered, not wanting to go into detail. It was a bit of a harsh topic around their house.
"Well he should consider joining, I'd be happy to lead him in the right direction." Victor decided. "My mother is away as well, she's a battlefield nurse, so it's just the housekeeper and I."
"Where do you live?" Sherlock asked in awe, thinking along the lines that this mysterious boy was extremely rich.
"Not far from here, the white house with the pillars, we'll pass it soon enough." Victor shrugged. Sherlock couldn't help but gape, if someone deserved the nicest and fanciest house in this neighborhood, it certainly should be Victor. His mother simply loved that white house, it was her dream to live there, but they could never move, not from the apples at least. They walked in a very awkward silence, Sherlock knowing that he should really start up another conversation, but couldn't for the life of him think of something to say. He wasn't a very social person to begin with, and in the presence of such a boy it seemed even more difficult to sound remotely interesting.
"There's my house." Victor said proudly as they walked past the white house. It truly was a master piece, with white marble pillars on the porch and engravings of angels and saints and all of that in the white woodwork above the door.
"It's beautiful." Sherlock agreed.
"I'm glad you think so." Victor said, beaming a smile down at him. Sherlock wasn't used to people being taller than him, usually he was the one that towered over top of everyone, but Victor had a good inch or two, which made him feel even less superior. This boy seemed to have it all really; looks, charm, money, and he still made an effort to make sure Sherlock was in good hands, even if he didn't need help.
"So you're on Apple Street, are you the one that grows the apples?" he asked.
"My family does, yes." Sherlock agreed.
"Delicious, they're in the market right?" Victor asked.
"Not any more, not with the war. We ship everything to the soldiers." Sherlock muttered.
"Oh, that's a shame. I never really thought of who grew those apples, but they make the most delicious pies." Victor decided. Sherlock couldn't help but feel flattered, even if he wasn't directly involved with the apple growing process. Of course he helped the workers pick them and on chore day he helped trim some branches, but it was mostly his dad, before the war broke out of course.
"Do you bake?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep the conversation going, even though it was a very weak question. Victor laughed though, as if he found Sherlock's cluelessness funny.
"No, I simply don't have the time anymore. My housekeeper does though, Mrs. Turner, wonderful cook. She's my mother when my mother is out." Victor shrugged.
"Must be a bit lonely though, in such a big house, with only two people?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, lonely at times, but we're mostly busy." Victor shrugged.
"You're lucky though, my house is a zoo anymore. My grandmother moved in, and she's a handful." Sherlock sighed.
"Oh, well that's a shame. Did your grandfather go to war?" Victor asked. It always seemed to come back to this, didn't it?
"No, he died." Sherlock muttered.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that." Victor insisted.
"It's fine, honestly. It was a while ago, I didn't really know him." Sherlock assured, and Victor breathed a little sigh of relief. They were now walking along the fields, the apple trees not far away in the distance. Sherlock could see his house poking up in the horizon, but he didn't want this to end. This Victor boy was the most interesting person he had met in a while, and it was nice to have someone to actually talk to. When they finally got to the house, Victor finally handed him back the books, opening the door for him even though Sherlock could've managed.
"You're good from here?" Victor asked.
"Yes, thank you Mr. Trevor." Sherlock muttered.
"That's my father. Please, call me Victor." Victor insisted.
"Oh, um, okay Victor. Well, thank you again." Sherlock muttered, not really knowing what to do now.
"I'll be on my way, have a nice night William." Victor deiced, and with that he started off down the sidewalk. Sherlock was too in awe to really correct him, so he walked inside and shut the door.
"I'm home!" he announced, dumping the books onto the coffee table and walking into the kitchen.
"Oh, hello Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes said happily, stirring something in a large pot. Grandma Holmes was sitting at the table, playing solitaire and sipping coffee out of a large straw. She really was the eighth wonder of the world.
"How was your day?" she croaked, not really seeming to care.
"It was fine, average I suppose." Sherlock sighed.
"Well, it was the first day. How do you like your teachers, and your classes?" Mrs. Holmes asked.
"They're pretty okay, nothing special really." Sherlock sighed, peeking over the pot to see what was inside.
"Vegetable soup, thought something warm would be nice." Mrs. Holmes shrugged.
"It's not cold out." Sherlock defended.
"Well, it's getting colder. You should really be wearing a coat." His grandma insisted from the table.
"It's not cold out!" Sherlock defended. "Where's dad?"
"He's out on the porch." Mrs. Holmes muttered, her arm getting a bit stiffer and her voice more forced. Sherlock made a mental note to avoid the porch. His father was a drinker, which wasn't really a problem until the war started. Sure he was extra cranky at times, but he had never been violent before the draft started coming around. When Mr. Holmes had tried to sign up, they denied him, claiming that they couldn't enroll alcoholics, to keep a clean force of men. After that, the drinking only got worse, and his temper got even shorter, and he got more violent under the influence. He had become livid at the government and every sign of the military, and refused to help collect the apples to help ship them over to the soldiers. That's why they needed even more help on the orchard.
"We got a letter from Mycroft in the mail, thought you might be interested to hear from him." Mrs. Holmes said.
"Not really." Sherlock sighed, not caring one bit about what his hero brother was doing over in Germany. Ever since he was deployed, his mother looked at him as a saint, her 'little warrior' defending his nation.
"Got any homework?" his grandma asked.
"No." Sherlock sighed.
"Then your teachers are slacking. When I was in school we got homework every day, first day, last day, and every day in between." His grandma croaked.
"That's nice." Sherlock sighed, taking an apple from the fruit bowl and walking up to his room, carrying up his pile of books and dumping them on his bed. He made sure the door was closed shut before he peered out the window, trying to catch one final glance of Victor as he walked home, but he was too late. The fields were empty of any people, Victor or otherwise. Sherlock pulled the curtain shut, not wanting any of the neighbors to think he was spying on them or something, and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath as if he had been holding it in this whole time. He didn't know what to think about Victor, he had been so kind to him, even though Sherlock obviously didn't require any help. Maybe he just felt guilty about having crashed into him before, yes, that must have been it. He would make a brilliant soldier, Sherlock was sure of that. He was fascinated that he hadn't noticed Victor in the hallways, all of these years and someone so distinct, someone so noticeable in a crowd, hadn't caught his eye once. But this was all stupid, it's not like they would be friends or anything, Victor was just making up for his mistakes, maybe wanting to snitch a couple of apples on his way out to have his housekeeper make him a pie. People like that, people that could have anything, they didn't go around helping nerds with their books or making friends with the bullied, there was always something in return. So Sherlock sighed, sitting against his head board and trying to read something on Modern Psychology, but the words kept spinning around on the pages and it was impossible to concentrate. Thankfully though, dinner was announced and he was able to put the book down, scrambling downstairs to the dinner table. The whole family was there, Mr. Holmes at the head of the table, looking annoyed and drunk as usual, as if this whole dinner thing was too much of an inconvenience for him. Grandma Holmes was trying to fold her napkin like a swan, but she wasn't too good at it and just had a ball of fabric in her hands. Mrs. Holmes was ladling out soup into four bowls, steaming vegetable soup that looked delicious. Sherlock sat at his place, the one award person sitting across from no one, and took his bowl of soup thankfully. There was a loaf of French bread in the middle of the table, all sliced up and prepared, but no one was taking it yet, so he held back. If he took a piece that might just be the piece his father wanted, and then there would be this huge fit and Mrs. Holmes would start crying and Mr. Holmes would go ballistic. So Sherlock just spooned soup into his mouth, really warming him up on this warm day.
"So, how was your first day?" Mrs. Holmes asked, even though she had already asked. Maybe it was just to get Mr. Holmes involved in the conversation.
"It was fine." Sherlock sighed. The school day was average, the real excitement happened after hours, but for some reason he didn't want to mention Victor to his family. Probably because they'll ask about him a lot, and Sherlock would have to admit that he hadn't talked to the boy again. He shouldn't get them all excited with the hope that he had made an actual friend.
"Mycroft wrote today, the letter is in the kitchen, if you'd like to read it dear." Mrs. Holmes said. Mr. Holmes grunted, but obviously he didn't want to hear about how wonderful the military was or how many lives his son had saved. It could've been him out there, if it hadn't been for the stupid drinking. Sherlock didn't pity him, obviously. There were some diseases that you just couldn't help, but alcoholism was something that he had brought onto himself and then made the whole family pay for his ridiculous habits. Sherlock didn't pity him at all. So he just sat there eating his soup, loving the way it warmed him up even though, as he pointed out many times, it wasn't even cold out. When dinner was over, Sherlock disappeared back into his room, where no mother could come pester him, no father could come yell at him, and no grandmother could come and tell him about how good he had it. But right now, he didn't feel like he had it good at all. The only thing that Sherlock really thought was good, or promising at least, was Victor. Even though he knew there was no way on Earth someone that flawless and rich could ever want to be his friend, Sherlock liked the idea of just having someone to question friendship with. He was never good with people, never connected with any of them, and he certainly had never had a friend. So when Victor poses even the slightest chance of companion ship, even after all of Sherlock's nervous stuttering and awkward conversations, he had to have a little spark of hope.