Chapter Text
“Alright guys, rise and shine,” John cried, and the fourth graders in their bunk beds groaned at him, burrowing deeper into their blankets.
“First one dressed doesn’t have to do their chore tonight,” he offered, smiling, and fourteen kids jumped like demons from their beds, running to the too-small bathroom in the back of B221.
At seventeen-years-old, John had been a counselor at Camp Baker only once before, last year, for the youngest group or the third graders, a few of whom were in his bunk now. And yet, he was one of the most popular staff members. It didn't hurt how much he actually loved his boys, crazy and in this case lazy, as they were.
“Jason’s dressed,” Mike Stamford, his co-counselor, announced from the front door and the boys groaned.
“Better luck next time, guys,” John encouraged, swinging little Carl up onto his back and starting outside. “Now get your buts to breakfast!” They ran outside, the two tall counselors keeping their flock in line, and headed down to the mess hall. Even though he’d spent a whole two months here the year before, John still marveled at how beautiful Camp Baker was, with a huge lake, two basketball courts, activity shacks and a giant dining hall in the center of the camp that separated the boys’ bunks from the girls’.
As the boys sat at their tables, eating noisily, John took a look at their schedule. “We have arts and crafts first, then swim,” he told Mike, who sat at the end of the big wooden table and was trying to keep Harry and Sam from killing each other with plastic forks. “Then riflery and lunch.”
“We haven’t had swim yet,” Mike pointed out, and they were already four days into first half. “Should we take them back first to change?”
“Might be best,” John agreed and then was immediately distracted by Julius, who’d managed to get an angry-looking gash down his leg before the day had even started.
Dressed in swimsuits, cuts properly bandaged, and sunscreen liberally applied, the boys headed out to arts and crafts where they made coffee mugs and then headed down, running and hollering, to the lake.
Camp Baker lake stood at the edge of camp before the area turned to forest. It was huge, nearly twelve feet deep, and on a clear day like today you could see the sky reflected back off the water. The boys ran down to the shack to get lifejackets, already experts on lake time from last year, and John went to sign in with Greg, the head lifeguard, at the shack on the edge of the lake.
Greg wasn’t in the shack, but another lifeguard was. John didn’t recognize him from last year, and he was sure he must be new, because there was no way he’d missed this boy the whole of last summer. He was tall, all hard angles, with skin too pale for that much sun exposure. He had on swim trunks and the red tee-shirt all the lifeguards wore. But it was his hair, midnight-black, curly, and long enough that it hung in his eyes, that caught John’s attention.
“Hi, I’m the counselor for B221,” John said, coming in and the boy looked up. He had the most unusual eyes John had ever seen, grey and unfathomable. “John Watson.”
“Right, yes,” the boy nodded, taking out a sign-up sheet. “Your kids are getting life jackets from another guard now, right?”
“They should be,” John laughed, glancing out of the shack to see Mike helping a boy buckle his vest. “Where’s Greg?”
“He’ll be down soon,” the teen said, getting up. “We’ll get your kids into the water as soon as they’re ready.”
“Great,” John smiled, following the pale life-guard out of the shack. They stood on the shack steps, moving to go down, when John paused.
“I’m sorry, is this your first year?” he asked and the boy turned around, surprised. “It’s just, I’ve never seen you before and I worked here last year.”
“Do you make a point to meet every staff member?” the teen asked, raising one eyebrow.
John smiled. “I try,” he said and the lifeguard gazed at him, face unreadable. Finally, he stuck out a hand.
“Yes, I am new,” he confessed and John shook his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”
At the touch of skin on skin, a strange soft of jolt went through John. He couldn’t explain it, but the sight of the boy’s long, thin fingers getting lost in his own tan ones made his stomach pool with heat.
“Alright boys, let’s get you in the water!” Greg yelled suddenly, running down the hill to the lake, and John released Sherlock’s hand, an unexplained flush creeping up the back of his neck. He blamed it on the sun.
And then Sherlock ran down to the lake, rescue tube under his arms, and John settled on the counselor benches with Mike to watch their kids laugh and push each other off lake toys and John promptly forgot about the electrical current that had run through him at the mere touch of Sherlock. Well, he tried to.
*
“Are you going to the staff party tonight?” Mike asked as they watched their tired kids climb into bunk-beds.
“Someone’s gotta stay with them,” John said. The camp always held a welcome-to-camp party for its staff at the end of the first week. It was mostly for the specialty counselors though, like the ones who ran sports or lifeguarding. Bunk counselors had a harder time getting away.
“We can take shifts,” Mike suggested. “Tell them a bedtime story and head out. Stay an hour and give me a turn.”
“You’re the greatest Mike,” John smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, before closing the lights and settling on the floor.
The boys were all fourth-graders, yes, and far too old for bedtime stories. But John had found that so far away from home, and often alone for the first time in their lives, the little ones appreciated a voice lulling them off to sleep.
And John adored telling stories. He would never call himself a writer, but he never used a book. All the stories he told were from his mind alone, and the kids drank them up like water. Yet another reason boys fought so hard for John Watson as a counselor.
“Who remembers what the last thing that happened was?” John asked and a chorus of sleepy voices informed him very hurriedly that last night he’d left off with Oliver Cromes, the double-agent spy for MI5, on the edge of a very steep cliff surrounded by Russians.
“Alright,” he said, leaning on his thighs. “So Oliver was fully surrounded. But luckily, none of the assassins knew about the six grenades in his pocket, or about his ability to see underwater.”
Twenty minutes later, the inhabitants of B221 slept like the dead and John crept out of the bunkhouse, promising Mike he’d be back in an hour. He could see the camp fire from the staff party from his porch as they burned by the volleyball court in the middle of the sand.
John ran down, following the music as it got louder and louder, before he found himself surrounded by the rest of the Camp Baker staff. Someone handed him a coke can and he’d taken one sip before he saw someone wave at him across the sand.
“John!” the girl smiled, running over as her brown hair flew out behind her, and John took a minute to stare at her.
“Hey Sarah,” he grinned at the archery counselor. He’d met Sarah the year before, but in a year she’d gotten near gorgeous, in a pair of jean shorts and white tank-top. “How are you?”
“Good, you?” she asked, hugging him. “Heard you’re doing kid coral again.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, offering her his can and she took it gratefully, drinking. That was another wonderful thing about camp. No one gave a flying fig about germs. “They’re great kids.”
“Cause you’re so good with them,” she encouraged and he flushed. He suddenly spotted a pale figure on the other side of the fire and paused. Sarah followed his line of sight and smiled.
“He’s new,” she commented. “I met him at the specialty counselor meeting. He’s a lifeguard, I think. Named Sherly?”
“Sherlock,” John corrected, smirking. “I met him when my kids had swim.”
“He’s a bit odd,” Sarah noted. “Sam said when all the lifeguards were going over lake rules with Greg, he kept correcting him about safety. Funny thing was, he was right every time.”
“He seems nice enough,” John said, shrugging. He never was a fan of the camp gossip that seemed to consume everyone. Without access to TVs or computers, and with limited phone time, it really was the only thing to entertain them.
“I’m gonna go make sure he’s okay,” John said to Sarah, noticing how very alone the teenager was.
Sarah laughed. “You never turn it off, do you? Your little nurturing complex.”
“Nope,” John smiled, running over to where Sherlock sat alone on a log. He sat down and Sherlock startled, as though surprised anyone bothered to sit next to him.
“Are you alright?” John asked, leaning over. “John, remember, counselor-“
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Sherlock snapped and John carefully straightened. “And yes, I’m fine.”
“I’m sure, “ John said carefully. “It’s just, you’re not talking to anybody.”
“I try not to make conversations with dull people,” the teen huffed and John tilted his head.
“Dull?” he checked and Sherlock’s glare could have frozen lava.
“Yes, dull,” he sighed, turning to the collection of teenagers by the large bonfire. “Those two are hooking up, pink shirt hated red shirt because red shirt has the job she wanted, boy with black hair wants to date that redhead by the cooler, but she’d got a boyfriend back home. Dull.”
“I guess you’re kept up on the camp gossip mill,” John joked, unsure of himself.
“Don’t be ridiculous, how can I know whatever nonsensical rumors our fellow counselors spread if I refuse to talk to dull people?” Sherlock questioned, not taking his eyes away from the fire.
John stared at him, confused. “Then how did you know all that?”
“I didn’t know, I observed,” Sherlock said briskly, and John had no idea what to make of that. With an almighty sigh, as though John had asked him to wash the dishes or mop the dining hall, Sherlock turned his gaze on the teen. His grey eyes swept up the boy’s body once, twice and then settled on John’s face, grey locked on ocean blue.
“You love the kids, but even if you hated them you’d work here, you need the money. Single mother, father left, no- died. Have one sibling, younger or they’d be working here too. But not much younger, father’s death was not recent. I’d say two years,” he said and John’s face told him everything he needed.
“Yes, two, but then why couldn’t they work here as a junior counselor? Involved in something, drugs unlikely but perhaps drinking. Boy then, more likely. So younger brother, heavy drinker. Just like father.”
John stared at him, mouth slightly agape, and Sherlock braced himself for the blow he knew was coming. Generally it was verbal, but John looked like a hitter. But instead of a blunt impact against his face, all his got was a puff of air as John exhaled.
“Brilliant,” he breathed and Sherlock looked up.
“Excuse me?” Sherlock checked, but John could not stop staring at him.
“You are brilliant. How did you do that?” he asked moving closer, and Sherlock could feel heat radiating off of him, hotter than the fire.
“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock confessed.
“What do people usually say?” John asked, taking the bait.
“Piss off,” Sherlock said and John burst into laughter. Sherlock looked confused at the sudden noise and then relaxed as he realized John wasn’t laughing at him.
“I wasn’t sure you had a brother at all,” Sherlock offered and John quieted. “That was the leap, but a good one. Your face was my conformation and I moved from there.”
“And how’d you know about my dad?” John pressed, pushing back unpleasant memories.
“Your shaving strokes are uneven,” Sherlock said and John’s eyes widened. “You can see, especially in the firelight, it’s faint but they’re across instead of against the grain. No one ever taught you to shave, you taught yourself. Ergo, dead father who passed a while ago, long before you started needing to shave.”
“And how’d you know about Harry’s drinking?” John pushed.
Sherlock smiled at the name. “This camp employed nearly everyone. And it’s clear your mother would want you both working, I can spot second-hand clothes from a mile away. Don’t be self-conscious, most people can’t. The only people this camp doesn’t hire are kids with drugs or alcohol problems. And, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem rich enough for drug problems. So drinking it is.”
“Brilliant,” John repeated, marveling at the teen.
“You do realize you’re saying that out loud?” Sherlock said uncomfortably and John flushed.
“Oh sorry,” he excused, looking down.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock said quickly and John smiled shyly to himself. He checked his watch and jumped up, shocked.
“I’m so sorry, I promised my co-counselor a turn and I gotta go back and stay with our kids,” he excused and Sherlock stood.
“No problem,” he smiled hesitantly. “I’ll walk you back. I’m tired at any rate.”
John waved goodbye to Sarah and the two teens wandered up the hill and down the gravel road that ran through camp. As the music faded behind them, the sounds of the night settled in. It was a comfortable silence, but Sherlock broke it anyway, turning to John.
“So, did I get anything wrong?’ he asked, smiling.
“My dad died eight years ago,” John confessed, and he knew instinctively the smile that stayed on Sherlock’s face wasn’t insensitivity but just giddiness at being right. “And Harry does have a bit of a drinking problem.”
“Better than I expected,” Sherlock crowed but John cut him off.
“Harry is short for Harriet,” he said and Sherlock stopped dead. John thought he may have shocked the teen into silence but he was hardly so lucky.
“Harry is your sister,” Sherlock hissed and John nearly laughed out loud at the face he made, a cross between disgusted and annoyed, wrinkly nose included.
“This is me,” John prompted at they passed by B221.
“There’s always something,” Sherlock ranted, flinging his hands up in defeat, and John laughed.
“Don’t worry, you were still brilliant,” he promised and Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of awe and joy. “Well, goodnight then.”
“Goodnight,” Sherlock echoed, still staring at him, and John felt the same goose bumps line his skin at the thought of those brilliant eyes on him.
“See you at swim,” John offered and Sherlock grinned, real and vivid, and it made John’s heart freeze. What on earth is happening to me? If he wasn’t a bloke, I’d think I was-
“I’ll count the minutes,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically, but John understood him all the same. And then John opened the door and walked into the pitch-black cabin, leaving the taller teen alone on the gravel road.