Victor POV: It was a Tuesday, though the summer holiday ensured that Sherlock and Rosie would be doing nothing of any importance. Both were what his parents categorized as 'deadbeats', a category Victor had also fallen into as of late. This type of undesirable teenager had no job over the summer months, and spent their free time lazing around their houses, playing video games or staring at walls until reality felt like a falsification. Thankfully Victor had saved himself from summer employment by inviting John over, though Sherlock and Rosie had no such excuse.
They planned to meet at the rugby fields, as the school was a safe walking distance away and it ensured total privacy. While Victor would have preferred to meet at Rosie's house, the midpoint between the three, her mother had been spiraling into a new stage of dementia after her introduction to the new neighbors. Rosie insisted that this was normal, and that her mother had been suffering delusions ever since her father had died, though it seemed a strange coincidence that the disease could so suddenly progress. They had never spoken of the scene outside of the Watson home, in which Mrs. Watson had spoken of encounters that could not have possibly happened. Perhaps Rosie chalked it all up to delusion. Victor, on the other hand, was too afraid to delve too deeply. He was afraid if he asked, he would get an answer he didn't want. Better to remain ignorant, at least in this moment of time.
As they walked, Victor explained the neighborhood to John. He pointed to the neighbors that he could remember, to the houses that all looked the same save for their small, noticeable, distinguishing marks. The house with the flower beds, the house with the garden. The house with the gnomes, and the one with the flags. There was the one with the stone mailbox, the one with the red shutters...and it continued. Whereas all of these homes were made with a bit more care than an American suburb, it still felt dizzying when faced with neighbors that had the same home as you. Therefore, everyone had their thing. The Trevor's thing was the American flag, stamped into the ground on the insistence of Mr. Trevor. Perhaps it would be replaced with Union Jack, though at the moment none of the Trevors felt sure enough about such a transition. It was harder to relocate your loyalty than it was your family.
"When you meet Rosie, try not to talk about the last name," Victor suggested at last, casting a dark eye towards the Watson house that he deliberately failed to point out. For some reason he didn't want John to look too closely at the home, just in case Mrs. Watson was staring out the curtains with the intention of leaping upon passerby. She could be a menace, especially with those eyes that seemed to see straight through.
"How come?"
"Because you share a first name with her father. Her dead father," Victor admitted with a huff.
"Oh my God. That's going to be weird," John pointed out. "Does she know?"
"Of course she knows. I haven't shut up about you since I've got here. But it's...sensitive, I suppose. I don't think she's altogether comfortable with being introduced to her dad," Victor sighed. John chuckled at his side, kicking the soles of his shoes against the sidewalk to catch a stray pebble.
"Can I make dad jokes anyway?" John pleaded.
"I'll ship you back to America in a cargo box!" Victor warned, turning and jabbing John in the neck while the other boy teetered along the edge of the sidewalk, stumbling in the neighbor's preened lawn as a self-defense tactic.
"Is she cute?" John wondered at last.
"Don't you dare," Victor warned, dropping his eyes into a warning squint. John just grinned, thrusting his hands into his pockets and smirking at the sidewalk.
"I wasn't talking about for me. You're the one going and making friends with a girl," he pointed out.
"I don't know if you haven't noticed, but girls aren't only here to be love interests!"
"I'm just saying...it's a big step for you!" John insisted.
"No, I'm not...that's not what she is to me. She's a friend. A good friend." Victor defended automatically, feeling such a truth spawn powerfully in his heart. For as long as he'd known Rosie, he knew that she would be nothing more than a friend to him. It would just be wrong to purse any romantic relationship, some form of incest that he couldn't quite recognize the significance of.
"What about Sherlock then, hm?" John wondered at last. Victor felt his face burst into flames, and for a moment his stride almost stopped, his feet tripping over themselves as he tried and failed to react to that suggestion like a normal human being. What did John know about Sherlock? What did he think he knew?
"He doesn't like her either," Victor offered, choking out the words so inconvincibly that John didn't even look away. The interrogation progressed.
"Well, you seem to talk very highly of him, that's all. I didn't know if...you know," John shrugged.
"I don't know, and I'm not sure I would like to," Victor snapped. He felt as if his breath was being sucked from his throat, as if someone had shoved a vacuum cleaner down his windpipe and refused any oxygen to his brain. The world, in all its glory, was beginning to go black.
"Alright then. But you know it's...well it's all fine with me. I don't care if..."
"Thank you, John," Victor snarled, figuring his explanation need not be said, nor did the two ever need to clarify exactly what was being pronounced acceptable.
"Is that really the snip I get for being a good friend?" John defended.
"You're prying," Victor reminded him.
"It's my best friend right to know everything about your life, Victor. Country lines don't change that," John pointed out. Victor seethed, though he continued to walk at an unnaturally fast pace, his long legs spanning nearly a whole slab of pavement as his body intentionally began to try to leave John behind. Oh, curse those soccer practices! Unfortunately John was athletic enough to keep pace at a slow jog.
"Alright, alright, we'll drop it," John decided at last, obviously responding positively to the silent treatment. Thankfully he kept true to his word. It would seem as if these uncomfortable conversations were just as unbearable for the both of them, and it wouldn't seem as if John was going out of his way to make their first day miserable. Instead he changed the conversation, though he was hopeless to change the shade of Victor's face. The boy totted along these familiar sidewalks with a particular spite, dragging his heels across the cement and sneering towards his shoes. It wasn't the fact that John cared, so much as it was the fact that John noticed. If John noticed, did Sherlock? Did Rosie? Did his parents? If John noticed, was Victor forced to notice as well?  

They arrived at the soccer fields after the conversation thankfully changed from awkward small talk to a tour of the school grounds. Victor didn't mind being a little bit late to the meet up, and he toured John around the outside of the building, sometimes dragging over rocks to allow John to peer into the classroom windows to get a better look. John didn't seem too impressed, though the boy didn't seem to offer anything in England a second glance. It was that contrarian nature that he so stubbornly held onto, that sheer pride for something that was never worthy of his loyalty. Without intending to, or perhaps intentionally after all, John wasn't allowing the glory of England to permeate through his thick skin. He wanted America to be better in each and every way, even though it very obviously could never be. This was the perception Victor had, at least for the first couple months of mourning.
John always found something negative to say, and about the school he whined that the desks looked a little too cramped (where would you put your water bottle?) and the chalkboards were far inferior to the whiteboards they used in the States (all that squeaking!). Furthermore, the stained glass windows in the dining hall were bound to 'discolor the food' and make everything look spoiled, and the large stage might get cramped if they tried to fill the seats with the students from the whole school. John had nothing good to say, nothing seemed to have an optimistic streak- that was until he met Sherlock.
As the two began their way to the rugby fields, John spent his time whining about how pathetic the goal posts looked compared to the football ones back home. He kicked his feet through the painted grass (we just got turf fields) and insisted that rugby was just a show of masculinity that the British adopted to make up for their love of tea. Victor ignored him the whole way, deciding it was better to tune out the defensiveness than pretend to cater to it, or even worse, to agree with it. It wasn't necessarily his fault that he was beginning to gain a stripe of pride for his new country, that he was slowly recognizing that not all places on earth were as rotten as they at first seem.
The two figures were noticeable on the bleachers, one drawn out along three rows of seats, blonde hair streaked with additions of red dye. Rosie's large black boots, hot and impractical for this summer weather, were dropping over the last of the bleachers, kicking up and down as she watched the approaching pair. Sherlock was standing, one of his feet kicked up upon the lowermost bench so that he could use his knee to strike a match, a rolled joint sticking from his mouth and blowing foul smoke conspicuously in the air. These days, Victor would label him as an addict.
At first John hesitated, his usually quick pace slackened as he noticed the rather intimidating look of the both of them. Certainly they seemed like nothing but gutter trash to an outside source, though Victor was already beginning to feel a swell of enthusiasm just by seeing their faces. John had been a friend he had been nearly assigned to from birth, he hadn't been necessarily chosen. Sherlock and Rosie, on the other hand, were two diamonds in the rough that he had selected for himself. They weren't just a reflection on his taste; they were a sample size of the tolerable English population, two of the most endearing characters to represent this wasteland of a town. Victor hoped beyond anything that John could see past their intimidating outer shells, these masks the two adored like a porcupine's spikes, using them to keep the enemies away. Victor hoped that John could see the good in them.
"Is that weed?" was the first and most pressing question on John's mind. He spoke it to Victor, though the pair had drawn so close to the bleachers that the question floated for anyone to take, including the two that had yet to be introduced.
"Never seen it before?" Sherlock taunted, blowing a plume of thick smoke in John's direction, as if trying to insist he get a good sniff. John winced, though he stood planted on the grass where he stood. His eyes, usually dulled with boredom at the relics of England, were widened with interest.
"I've seen it, I've smoked it. I'm just wondering what makes you special enough to smoke it out in public, especially on school grounds," John defended, adding a particular snap into his voice as a ploy of imitation. Rosie cocked her head to one side, as if she was trying to gauge if John and all his attitude was worth her efforts.
"Be nice, all of you," Victor interjected, batting John on the shoulder in an attempt to shut him up. Sherlock rose to his full height, straining his spine in order to widen the near foot of space that separated the top of his head from John's. Though Victor could tell John wasn't here for a fight. His voice, however snarky, wasn't asking for a rebuttal. He was curious, his eyes said it all. He was amazed.
"Victor, for being such a cherub you really do attract the worst sorts," Sherlock sighed, tapping out the ashes on his finger before retreating towards the bleachers and draping himself over the metal benches. Victor, to his embarrassment, turned a particular shade of crimson.
"Guys, this is John," he managed, gesturing to where John stood rather defiant on the edge of the field. "John, this is Rosie and Sherlock."
"We've heard a lot about you," Rosie offered, trying to follow the introduction up with something fairly conversational. Sherlock merely stretched longer, somehow spanning the length of four benches and stretching his elbows back to support himself, demonstrating how each of the buttons strained when trying to hold the fabric of his shirt together across his thin chest. Victor bit down on his lip and averted his eyes. It was difficult to make introductions when he could see how the skin of Sherlock's chest was somehow paler than his shallow face, the patches of skin so radiant that they reflected the light of the sun.
"Are you the one with my last name?" John wondered.
"No, you're the one with mine," Rosie reminded him, jabbing at her chest before straightening up on the bleachers to gain a more conversational angle.
"I didn't know Watson was such a common name," John admitted.
"I'm not sure it has to be common. We're from different countries, after all, and you're the first one I've met," Rosie shrugged. John nodded his agreement, though he was staring at Rosie with a particularly beguiled look. His brown eyes seemed to be crossed, trying to make out every detail of the face he was met with. Victor was relieved to see that this look wasn't the one typical of his flirtation; it was instead the glance he'd give to a complicated math problem. Rosie didn't make sense to him, evidentially.
"I feel like I've seen you somewhere before," John admitted at last, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his stubby fingers across his bicep. Rosie usually would have a snarky thing to say in response to that, for it really was the lead up to a perfect comeback. Had she been approached with the question from a stranger on the street, 'your mother's bedroom' was probably the most possible response. Though with John, surprisingly, she was silent.
"I don't think we've met," was all she could offer.
"You don't think we're actually related, do you?" John decided at last. "I mean, I don't know about my family history, but maybe my father's...mother's...aunt...was from England?"
"Perhaps," Rosie agreed with a slight nod. Sherlock sighed his dissatisfaction with this conversation, as if he couldn't be bothered with the family reunion. Though other than that, he was quiet. This entire affair seemed perfectly odd. As if both Victor and Sherlock allowed themselves to take the seats of an audience member to something much more momentous than a simple introduction of friends from different sides of the ocean.
"I'll have to ask my mother," John muttered.
"Ha! You could ask mine instead. That is, if you'd like to hear more about the aliens. Or the ghosts. Or what as it? Perhaps reptilians today. She's had so many different things to say it's hard to keep track," Rosie chuckled.
"That's not very funny, Rosie. Your mother's severely sick," Sherlock pointed out, jumping to an unlikely defense of batty old Mrs. Watson.
"Bedlam," Rosie agreed with a sigh.
"What's her name?" John wondered.
"She wouldn't be related to you, she's a Watson by marriage of course," Rosie pointed out. John shuffled his feet in the grass, ducking his eyes as his fists clenched by his side. Victor raised an eyebrow, trying to determine if John was going to be physically sick or not.
"What's her name?" he repeated again, this time in such a strained octave that it sounded more like a whimper. Rosie drew herself to her feet, descending off of the bleachers and planting her platform soles into the grass. She didn't seem much taller than John, in fact the two stood almost within the same inch of height. The same shade of hair. The same eyes, staring powerfully across the grass.
"Mary," Rosie admitted at last. John's eyes shut tightly. Victor almost lunged forward, recognizing the signs that his friend might pass out. He'd seen this before, once when a soccer game had gotten above one hundred degrees. He knew the signs of stress on John's body, the way it wobbled across the field, the way his eyes were shut to block out the dancing flashes of light. Though before Victor could steady his friend, John returned to himself. He steadied, and opened his eyes to meet the girl's glance once more.
"I might've guessed that," John admitted at last, pursing his lips and nodding his head as if this was a sad realization. "That...that sounds correct."
"What, you've been doing genealogy?" Rosie countered.
"I'm not sure," John muttered, a perfectly helpless answer if there'd ever been one. Rosie nodded, though even she couldn't pretend to understand what that was supposed to mean.
"Well this is all very touching," Sherlock whined. "John likes your mother's name."
"I think you should meet her," Rosie decided at last, an almost aggressive offer that sounded much more like a demand. Victor remembered the last time Mrs. Watson had been introduced to her daughter's friends, when she began to make up stories of their connections from the past. Was John's arrival going to tip her over the edge? Was his familiar name going to shock back memories from an unwanted backstory, causing her body to react inversely again? Would the sight of John's face cause all of her hair to fall out, or her knees to break?
"I think so too," John agreed quietly. Sherlock bit down on his joint, exhaling through his nose to signal that he was done with this. He dragged his heels across the metal bleachers, drawing both John and Rosie back to attention. Back to give him attention, as he wanted all along.
"Well then, John Watson. What do you think?" he wondered at last.
"Think about what?" John countered immediately, his voice hesitating as he dared not make assumptions too quickly. Sherlock chuckled, rising once more to his feet and tossing the marijuana away, allowing the thing to smoke for a moment in the stamped earth underneath the bleachers.
"About the weather," Sherlock mocked, hopping down at last before pushing his hand against John's shoulder, forcing the boy to recoil before stepping closer still. "About England, you fool." Sherlock corrected at last, taking John's step of proximity as a challenge and drawing ever nearer. Victor swallowed hard, remembering that exact breaking of barriers inside of that abysmal house. His time spent with a Sherlock who wasn't really Sherlock. His time spent grinded up against a ghost who learned to mimic. His time spent catching an infectious admiration, even if it wasn't properly associated with the boy who stood beside him.
"I think I have yet to see the best parts," John admitted after a moment of hesitation, as if he was actually beginning to use his brain before he spoke. Victor crossed his arms, watching as Sherlock's eyes flashed excitedly. John's jaw set, his teeth clamped down in determination. For a moment their eyes never left, for a moment Sherlock was more still than Victor had ever seen. In fact, it would seem as though the two had stopped completely. Stopped dead. It was only then that Victor noticed Sherlock's hand, reached out and touched against the side of John's shirt. Pushing through the rippling fabric, the fingers undoubtedly making contact against the edge of his chest. A pinprick of contact, paralyzing them both to the point where neither seemed to be breathing at all. Neither blinked. Neither moved. It might have been seconds before John finally drew a breath, perhaps even minutes. Perhaps hours. Victor felt just as paralyzed as his friends, and Rosie seemed to be speechless on the show of control.
Suddenly John's mouth gaped open, inhaling a breath of fresh English air and throwing himself backwards across the grass, lunging so far back that his feet couldn't keep up with the sudden burst of inertia. The boy toppled over, his knees buckling as his toes caught against the edge of the grass, his back hitting the dirt hard as he let out a quick squeal of discomfort.
Sherlock stood equally afraid, though he was less mobile about his amazement. Instead, he stood for a moment, trembling from head to toe, before turning his gaze upon Victor, a ferocity in his eyes that seemed to demand an explanation.