Chapter Text
John woke up to the unwelcome sound of Mike strolling into his tent.
“Good morning John! Time to get our kids up- oh fucking hell!” Mike cried, crouching in the entrance of the tent.
John groaned, rolling over and burying his face in Sherlock’s chest. He didn’t bother with the perfunctory “This isn’t what it looks like,” because it was exactly what it looked like. Sherlock’s arms curled around him like some sort of octopus, legs tangled, and both still rather naked. At least they’d managed to crawl into the sleeping bag for the most part, or poor Mike might never have recovered.
“Morning Michael, if you would be so kind as to close the tent, John is busy,” Sherlock said, not even opening his eyes as he held John tighter, running one hand through his bed-hair. “Although I must ask how on Earth you knew what John was shouting last night?”
“No, budge Sherlock,” John moaned, blinking his eyes open. “I really do need to wake my kids up. Mike-“
He froze at the traumatized look on Mike’s face, a mix between horrified and offended. “I’ll wait outside then,” the poor counselor squeaked before letting the tent flap fall, not even zippering it.
John turned an angry gaze on Sherlock, weakened by his pillow-crushed face. “Now why have you gone and said something like that?” he pushed, trying to untangle himself.
Sherlock smirked. “You know you’re adorable when you’re sleepy and angry?” he asked, letting John go and the teen did, scrambling up and searching for his pants on the tent floor.
“Shut it,” John grumbled, finding them in a wad by the tent door. “This tent reeks of sex,” he commented, pulling them on and trying to ignore Sherlock behind him, propped up on his elbows and unabashedly ogling John’s arse.
“I know,” Sherlock smiled and John wanted nothing more than to jump back into that sleeping bag and kiss that smug face. “Isn’t it glorious?”
“You’re a right wanker, you know that?” John laughed, pulling on a pair of trousers from yesterday after an investigatory sniff.
“Oh of course not, that’s what I have you for,” Sherlock said back and John grinned, pulling on a shirt.
“Do me a favor and dismantle the tent,” John asked, bending down to kiss the lifeguard. “Preferably after you put on a pair of trousers.”
“You take the fun out of everything,” Sherlock pouted and John just winked as he ducked out of the tent and found Mike waiting a yard away, not meeting his eye.
With an almighty internal sigh, John came over and wrapped his arm around the counselor’s shoulder. “What’s this then?” he pressed. “You saw us kiss in a raft.”
Mike flushed, looked at the ground. “It’s different then…that,” he said awkwardly and John took pity on him.
“We just slept,” he lied and Mike looked up, meeting his gaze.
“Really?” he asked hopefully and John grinned, all feral and toothy.
“No,” he purred and Mike shuddered. “But if it helps, think what you like.” And with that, he strolled away to wake up the B221 boys. With yodeling.
*
John was speechless at how fast the last two days went. He’d expected them to go fast, counselors weren’t allowed to leave their kids on packing day, and he’d spent that glorious Sunday sitting on top of one of the bunk beds yelling down commands. But Sunday night was well and here and the boys sat at their table in the dining hall for end-of-year banquet.
The specialty counselors waited tables, to give the waiters one day’s rest, and John figured it was more than pure luck that Sherlock was assigned his table.
“I want to see you tonight,” he whispered in John’s ear in between serving the burgers and rushing off to get more fries. Banquet was one of the best meals camp served, pure meat and unlimited curly fries.
“I’m not allowed to leave my kids on the last night,” John told him, turning his head slightly, and if his lips brushed the lifeguard’s ear, who was to say it was his fault? “You can come visit us.”
Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’ll try,” he promised, squeezing John’s shoulder, before running off. Mike, John noticed, had pointedly looked the other way when Sherlock came to their table. Biting back a grin, John asked Carl to pass the meat.
Banquet always ended with a great deal of singing and dancing, the boys jumping up on the tables and benches to sing the camp song and dance the ridiculous dances they’d made up to go along with it. John and Mike were the first one’s up, cheering their’ kids off the benches, and making elaborate movements. John caught Sherlock out of the corner of his eye watching him, covering his mouth to keep from laughing, and John winked back, grinning as saucily as he could manage. The boy even blushed.
Awards were given: best at sports, most camp spirit, best bunk, and John’s boys cheered like lunatics when the best bunk of the fourth grade division went to B221. John ran up to accept their prize, fifteen key chains with the award inscribed, and set to handing them out. And then the camp song was sung one more time, followed by two line dances and Gangnam Style, and then it was off to bed.
“Food party!” John yelled as soon as the boys were all piled into B221 and his kids roared. The suitcases had all been put outside and on a truck, and the bunk was near empty except for the massive amounts of snack the boys had never finished and hadn’t had room for in their suitcases.
The food was dumped in the center of the bunk and the boys sat in a crocked circle around it, laughing as they stuffed their faces. John and Mike shot each other equally resigned faces. They knew this much sugar was ensuring their kids would never go to sleep, but it was the last night of camp.
At ten, there was a soft knock at the door and Jordan opened it to find Sherlock on the porch, hands in his pockets.
“John, your boyfriend’s here!” Jordan called out and everyone laughed, Sherlock included.
“I was told there was a party,” the lifeguard said awkwardly, peering in. “May I come in?”
John grinned. “I don’t know boys. This is a food party. And he didn’t bring a snack.”
Sherlock looked at John as though he’d much like to punch him, but the B221 boys were taking up the cheer.
“Yeah, he needs a snack!” “Get a snack!” “Not fair!”
Sherlock spoke above the din. “I don’t have a snack,” he tried and the boys hushed. “But perhaps I could give you something else. Maybe a story?”
The fourth-graders looked surprisingly tempted and John bit back a smirk. “I think,” Jason said, speaking on behalf of the boys, “that he should tell the story, and if we don’t like it, he has to get us a snack.”
There was a general murmur of agreement to that sound plan and Sherlock was allowed to take a seat in the broken circle. He stuck his tongue out at John across the way and John grinned back before Sherlock spoke.
“Boys, have you ever head the story of Carl Powers?”
Thirty minutes later, the boys were staring at Sherlock wide-eyed and hopelessly besotted.
“So they never found out who killed him?” Harry asked, clutching his knees nervously.
“Never,” Sherlock grinned manically, and it rather made the story. “They say he still haunts the swimming pool, searching for the man who killed him.”
Nobody spoke for a long moment before Sam said, “I think he can stay.” There was a chorus of “here, heres,’ and Sherlock was handed a bag of Maltesers. Thus settled, every boy turned to John expectantly.
“Now you have to finish Oliver Cromes,” James demanded and it was John’s turn to flush, smiling softly.
“Quite right. Where was I?” he checked.
“Oliver was being held over a fish tank,” Harry informed him.
“You idiot, it was a shark tank,” Sam shot back.
“Sam, language,” John admonished and Sam hung his head, properly ashamed. “Say you’re sorry.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Sam and Harry kindly accepted, nodding politely.
John spared a glance at Sherlock, who was watching the whole exchange with a loving smile. John rather wanted to ravish the teen right there, but suppressed it painfully. “Right. So Oliver Cromes was being held over a shark tank-“
“Told you,” Sam whispered to Harry and was promptly shushed. Grinning, John went on.
“…and so the Queen awarded Oliver a medal of distinction for his valor and Oliver retired to marry Ingrid and have four children in Bath. The end,” John finished and the boys burst into applause, hooting and hollering as they did. John blushed adorably and then glanced at his watch.
“Smokes, it’s near twelve. You boys ought to be in bed,” John said and the fourth-graders broke into obvious protests. “I know, I know, it’s the last night. But you’re already two hours past bedtime.”
“You can still have torch time after lights out,” Mike eased, an already-drowsy Carl on his lap. “And you can talk to your neighbor as long as you whisper and stay in your bunk-beds.”
That pacified the boys and they trotted neatly off to brush their teeth and crawl into their poorly-made bed, now that all their sheets, save a pillow and blanket, were already packed. John waited until all the boys had gone to bed before announcing: “Torch time in three, two, one,” and flipped off the light as six torched switched on from various bunk beds.
“Goodnight boys,” he said softly, nostalgic, and fifteen sleepy voices chorused goodnight. Tired, he crawled into his bottom bunk and found Sherlock already there, waiting for him.
“You would make a remarkable dad,” Sherlock whispered, taking his hand as he sat up, crossing his legs beneath him. The two boys sat like that, cross-legged on opposite sides of the small bunk bed, fingers entwined between them.
“It’s a lot easier when you don’t have to worry about feeding or schooling them,” John admitted and Sherlock laughed, coming closer to nuzzle John’s face like an overgrown cat, noses bumping.
“I shall miss you like an ache,” he confessed and John kissed him lightly, only a peck. He wouldn’t dream of doing more, not with his kids so close.
“I shall miss you like a wound,” John retorted, squeezing the pale hand in his. “But we don’t have to say goodbye just yet. We still have three hours after the kids leave tomorrow, during cleanup.” Cleanup was the most-dreaded part of camp, cleaning the bunks after the kids had all gone home.
Sherlock winced. “My brother’s picking me up with the busses. I have to be in Windsor by tomorrow afternoon.”
John’s heart broke. “Oh Sherlock,” he whispered, reaching out to wrap the impossible boy in a hug, holding him close. Sherlock folded in like a house of cards, wrapping his long arms around John’s back. “At least I’ll get to meet Mycroft,” he tried to joke but Sherlock only kissed his ear.
“You’ll wish you hadn’t,” he predicted and then sat back. For a minute they merely studied each other in the darkness, soaking each other in. John thought that if he tried hard enough, he could graph the slope of Sherlock’s cheekbones, keeping it his mind like a piece of logic to remember the lifeguard by. And then he lay down, gesturing for Sherlock to lie down with him, face to face, so their ankles could cross and their fingers could move between them, tracing patterns on flesh.
“I know you can’t sleep here,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s offered index as it pressed against his mouth. “But stay a little while, yes?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back in the darkness. “Of course.”
They spoke of nothing, of John’s favorite ice-cream flavor and Sherlock’s first violin lesson and John’s fear for Harriet and Sherlock’s favorite composer. They spoke of their favorite parts of London and their favorite places to go on holiday and their favorite parent. And somewhere in the middle, John must have fallen asleep because he woke at four a.m. to feel Sherlock slipping out of his arms.
“Don’t go,” John whimpered softly and Sherlock kissed his forehead.
“See you soon,” he promised and he left the bunk, letting the wooden door close gently behind him as John fell back involuntarily into sleep.
Leaving day was always miserable. John stood by the busses, making sure his campers got to their busses safely, while simultaneously hugging them tight and telling them how special they were.
He was hugging Jordan outside the bus bound for Norfolk, telling him what a wonderfully creative soul he had, when there was a soft tap on his back. Sherlock stood there, hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.
“My brother’s here,” he said gently and John glanced behind him to where a sleek black car sat. By the car lounged a tall, ginger-haired man, who was far skinner than John had expected, watching them avidly.
Jordan let of John with a squeeze and clambered onto the bus. John couldn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eye, he had a feeling that if he did he might burst into tears.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, read his mind and swept him up into a bone-crushing hug. He smelled like rainwater and smoke and woods and dirt and that same vivid Sherlock smell that John had smelt in the tent and he never wanted to let him go. He had the unexpected premonition that their lives would be full of these hugs, desperate hugs on the cusps of goodbyes, and he held the boy tighter.
“If convenient, come visit me in Windsor,” Sherlock whispered, breath soft on his ear, and they let go gently, relinquishing each other until only their hands were irrevocably intertwined. “If inconvenient, come anyway,” he finished and John laughed.
“I’m so happy I met you,” John confessed and Sherlock squeezing their hands.
“I honestly never believed I would meet someone like you,” Sherlock confessed in turn and they might have stood there forever had Sherlock’s brother not come over and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Sherlock, we really must go,” he said plainly and Sherlock let go of John’s hands, as if every molecule of separation hurt him.
“You must be the boyfriend,” Mycroft said suddenly and John snapped up, meeting his eyes. Sherlock was flushing and John could imagine the scene well, Sherlock yelling he had to see his boyfriend and this posh boy’s eyebrows leaving his forehead altogether.
“John Watson,” John introduced because he was polite and he wasn’t sure what else to do, sticking out his hand.
“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said, shaking his hand firmly, and then looking John up and down. “I expect we shall meet again.”
“Oh, most definitely,” John said and Sherlock smiled at him, near watery. Mycroft put his hand back on Sherlock’s shoulder, steering him to the car, before Sherlock broke away and launched himself at John.
It was the messiest kiss John had ever been a part of, uncoordinated and unskilled, and he treasured it, bringing his hands up to cradle Sherlock’s skull and deepen the kiss, branding himself on the inside of Sherlock’s cheek.
Mycroft coughed behind them but Sherlock only tilted his head, improving the angle tremendously, and John went boneless. Sherlock’s fingers clutched the back of his shirt desperately, holding him impossibly closer, and John whimpered into Sherlock’s open mouth
“Sherlock Sherrinford Holmes, take your tongue out of that boy’s mouth and get in the car!” Mycroft demanded and the boys had to break apart as John burst out laughing.
“Best do as he says, love,” John laughed into Sherlock’s shoulder, turning red, and Sherlock chuckled into his hair.
“If we ignore him, maybe he’ll go away,” Sherlock suggested and Mycroft’s indignant “I will do no such thing,” sent them back into peals of laughter.
But they had to let go and Harry was tugging at John’s jeans and with a soft wave, Sherlock in his black car sped away.
“Write to me!” Sherlock yelled out of the open window and John yelled back an “Obviously,” that made the genius smile. And then the car disappeared and Sherlock was no more than a summer memory, etched into photographs and letters.
“Do yourself a favor Harry,” John advised as he hugged the little boy into his chest. “Fall in love with someone sane.”
“Yes John,” Harry grinned cheekily and John thought it might all be alright.