Flowers must be sacred.

A young boy of four lay quietly hidden in a field of tall grasses interspersed with acanthus, valerian, and little red and orange flowers whose names he didn't know. As he lay on the cool, dry earth, rustling grasses tickling his nose, flowers smelling sweetly, he listened to the buzz and hum of bees circling above. His older brother was afraid of bees, but young Sherlock thought they were wonderful. Primarily, he thought bees were excellent creatures because bees made honey. Sherlock loved honey. He thought it was nectar. Like the sort that his mother told him the gods ate. Being a rational little boy, though, soon to not be so little anymore, he reasoned that if honey was nectar, and bees ate pollen to make honey, and flowers made pollen, then flowers must be sacred. Probably bees, too.

Sherlock smiled to himself and watched as a fuzzy, banded bee gracefully landed on a pike of lilac coloured acanthus, whose wide, leafy base he was nearly swallowed up by below. The insect buzzed wings that Sherlock couldn't even see because they moved so fast, and flitted from petal to petal. Sherlock held his breath and brought his laced fingers up to his chin in excitement while he watched. This one was gathering pollen to take back to the hives his mother kept near their home, which would somehow turn into honey that Sherlock would soon get to eat. His smile grew.

The boy enjoyed the peaceful solitude of the bees and the flowers for another half hour before his brother's voice called out for him to return home. Sherlock thought about ignoring this and wondered how long it would take for Mycroft to find him. He'd recently gotten very good at hiding. Mycroft had even said so. That sounded quite amusing, and Sherlock probably would've done exactly this if his brother hadn't resorted to admitting that his tutor had arrived early, and that Sherlock needed to come and greet him. At this, Sherlock shot up, heedless of the bees buzzing around him.

"Here I am!" he called eagerly. He didn't even pause to brush the dirt off his clean clothes (his mother would be angry) and ran, galloped, pounded his bare little feet across the ground with a huge smile on his face. He stopped, cheeks red and chest heaving, to smile up at his brother with shining eyes.

"He's here already?!"

"That's what I said was it not?" his brother sighed with a fond expression on his face. He turned a critical eye on the younger boy and rolled them. "Sherlock, you've made an absolute mess of yourself. It will not do to meet your tutor in such a state. You'll have to change."

Sherlock whined and pulled at the folds of brother's own pristine white chiton. "Must I?"

"You must. Come along." His brother turned and led the way back to their estate, with Sherlock trailing at his feet like a besotted mongrel pup. "You're in luck," Mycroft continued. "Your tutor has brought his son along."

Sherlock's steps faltered and he looked up to his older brother. "He has a son?"

Mycroft nodded and stepped around a thistle, taking care to make sure that Sherlock did as well. "Yes. Apparently, the boy's mother is in ill health and he was forced to bring him along. He's about your age. Possibly a year older."

Sherlock thought about this, and jogged to his brother's side. "Will he be staying here, too?"

"Of course. It is an inconvenience, but apparently he wrote father before they left, so as to be prepared."

A heavy feeling settled in Sherlock's stomach as they neared their villa, wondering at this new information. He hadn't planned on a new boy coming to live with them. He bit his lip and frowned. Most of the other children he'd met didn't like Sherlock. Sherlock had only been expecting a tutor to teach him everything there was to know so he would be as smart as Mycroft, and then he would grow up to be a wise and powerful man like father. He would have his own villa like his family's, and would keep bees and flowers just like mother. Would the new boy even like bees?

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the softened eyes of his brother. "He seems friendly. Try to make an effort, and I'm sure you'll get on just fine."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. He then shrugged his brother's hand off because, while it felt warm and safe, he wasn't a baby anymore. He scoffed.

"I hope he isn't stupid." He lifted his chin and affected the air of the high-born as he'd so often seen his brother do.

Mycroft smirked and followed. "He's the son of a well-respected philosopher. The odds are favourable."

Sherlock's new tutor, Philomenes, was a shortish man, with a kind but very wrinkled face, white tufts of hair poked out at his temples, and wore a deep crimson tunic with a golden zone around his waist. His body was tanned, and his sandals were worn but made of excellent quality. The sort his grandfather had worn, Sherlock recalled. His bright blue eyes shone when he stepped forward to introduce himself. Sherlock took a deep breath and likewise stepped forward to take the older man's warm hand in greeting. Behind him, his father, Septimius, mother, Alcestis, and Mycroft smiled.

Philomenes asked Sherlock several questions about what sorts of subjects interested him the most (mathematics, physics, the biological sciences – though, he said he didn't really know much about them yet, but rather suspected they were his favourites. Mycroft had actually snorted before clearing his throat in apology.) Sherlock felt very big discussing such important matters, but his eyes kept straying to the other figure in the room. Behind Philomenes, in a chitonisko that seemed a bit too large for his frame, was a boy about Sherlock's age with closely shorn golden hair, blue eyes like his tutor, and who stood very still, preferring to stay half hidden.

Philomenes turned and held a hand out to the boy, who stepped forward. His eyes darted from Sherlock's father, to his mother, brother, and finally to him. He offered a shy smile and briefly bowed to Sherlock. Sherlock blinked in surprise. Should he bow, too? He did. Just to be safe. The adults chuckled around them to both boys' consternation.

"Sherlock, I would like you to meet my son, Jon. Jon, this is Sherlock." The boys nodded at each other, and Sherlock attempted a half-smile in return that looked more like a grimace. Jon bit his lip to stop from smiling wider. Sherlock frowned.

"Boys," said Alcestis, and held a hand out towards them. "Come into the kitchen and have some honeycake." Sherlock's eyes widened in excitement, nearly ran to his mother because those were his favourite! He only just stopped himself, though, remembering what Mycroft had said about acting respectable. He carefully measured his steps towards his mother, and when he glanced to see if Jon was following, jumped as the boy was right at his back.

"Hello," Jon said with his shy smile again. Sherlock swallowed and edged closer to his mother.

"Sherlock," she admonished. Sherlock pouted, but replied with his own hello (they'd already done that earlier hadn't they?) and quickly followed his mother away down the hall towards their bright, sunny kitchen and the promise of honeycakes.

They each sat at a low stone table with cups of fresh, cool water, while Alcestis flitted about the pantry. Jon continued to smile at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling self-conscious. He automatically scrubbed at his nose in case he had dirt on it.

Jon shrugged. "Nothing."

Sherlock frowned again. "You smile a lot."

Jon giggled. "Father says smiling is good for the soul."

Sherlock thought about this and decided to remember it in case Philomenes ever asked what Sherlock knew about souls or smiling. "Hmm."

Alcestis set a generous portion of the sweet cake before the boys and ruffled their hair. "Why don't you two talk for a bit and get to know each other while your father and I discuss your courses with Philomenes?"

She swept away leaving them alone, and Jon waited politely for Sherlock to take the first bite. He was a guest in their home after all. Sherlock immediately tucked in now that the adults were away. Jon grinned and did likewise.

They ate quietly, with Jon's curious eyes sliding over every surface in the kitchen, from the open window where herbs his mother grew sat on the sill, to the jars of oils and hanging racks of dried meats, to Sherlock. Sherlock simply watched Jon.

"Will you be going to lessons with me?"

Jon nodded quickly. "Oh, yes. Father says I'm to study with you." Sherlock frowned and considered this. Jon's shoulders slumped. "Is that bad?"

Sherlock blinked and looked up into the wary face of the new boy. "I don't know."

Jon bit his lip and slowly nodded as if confused. Sherlock set down his cake and looked at Jon very seriously. "Do you like bees?"

Jon cocked his head and then looked to his cake. "Bees helped make this didn't they?"

Sherlock nodded.

Jon smiled "Then yes. I do."

The little boy with dark curls felt his chest warm and a big smile stretch his lips. "Good. It will be just fine for you to study with me, then."

"Good!" exclaimed Jon happily, and took a large bite of his cake, smearing honey and oats on his chin. Sherlock huffed at Jon's attempt to wipe it away, which only made more of a mess. Sherlock rolled his eyes but giggled. Perhaps this Jon really wasn't mean like all the others.

Every morning, Sherlock woke for his lessons with Philomenes and Jon. It was quickly apparent that Jon had quite a bit of a head start on young Sherlock because he'd grown up with Philomenes' teachings every day. Sherlock was immediately resentful, but it took no time at all before he caught up to Jon's level. It was also apparent that Sherlock was an excellent pupil who actually far outstripped young Jon intellectually, and Philomenes altered his courses for the differing speeds accordingly. That wasn't to say that Jon wasn't bright, quite the contrary, but Sherlock soaked up information like an eager little sponge, and his thirst for knowledge and constant litanies of 'But why?' and 'How?' and 'Is that all?' became both a source of irritation and fond exasperation for Jon. Each day, Sherlock expected Jon to get angry because of his questions and declare him a swot like the other children had last Spring before Jon came, but he never did. In fact, he seemed to enjoy when Sherlock asked questions because he got to learn more, too.

At midday, the boys were given lunch and free time to play or explore. Usually their free time was something the boys equally looked forward to. Jon was… fun. He laughed freely, he always invited Sherlock to join him, and Sherlock found that he'd made a friend. His very first friend. In no time at all, the boys had bonded and when they weren't doing their numbers, or lines, or drawings, they could be found huddled together over the bodies of captured frogs, or studying tree sap, spying on servants, climbing trees, or playing soldiers. Sherlock, to his parents' delight, blossomed into a much friendlier, open child who smiled more than they had ever seen in his whole, young life. It was true that they had had trepidations about Jon's sudden inclusion into the household, but considering the effect he had on their son, he was welcomed whole-heartedly into the family.

On the weekends, Sherlock would knock on the door to the little guest house where Philomenes and Jon lived on his family's grounds in the valley, and he and Jon would take off all day to play in the fields, or cause the servants a considerable amount of trouble over the messes they made (usually Sherlock's fault.) One afternoon, Mycroft had promised to take them fishing, and Sherlock showed up with two, very long reed poles, barely able to carry them, and Jon had laughed, taking one from his grip. Jon was a few inches taller than Sherlock anyway.

"Worms?"

Sherlock shook his fluffy head. "Mycroft said we'll get them at the river. Let's go."

They trekked, laughing in the sunshine, to where Mycroft waited at the river's edge, his own line already cast. He gestured to a spot of wet earth several feet off, and the boys lay their poles down and began to dig for their bait. Jon found his first, but wasted it by flinging the slimy creature at Sherlock's face. Sherlock had squealed and retaliated by throwing wet mud at Jon, and soon a mud fight of epic proportions was under way.

"Boys! You're scaring the fish away." Mycroft had snapped.

In reply, Sherlock threw a clod of mud that landed on his big brother's clean tunic. Jon clapped his hands over his mouth to muffle his giggles, and Sherlock smirked triumphantly with smears of mud upon his cheek. It was one of his very favourite days.

As the boys grew, their studies, naturally, became more and more sophisticated. Lessons were longer, playtime grew shorter, and physical games were introduced. Sherlock was six when they were introduced to sport.

"The noble art of wrestling is a Greek tradition that goes back hundreds of years," Philomenes had said one afternoon while marking out a pitch with white stones. "The careful control of the body and its functions, the practical application of tactical planning encourages the mind and primes the soldier for battles he will one day fight. While not everyone is destined to fight bravely in battle," his eyes crinkled fondly at his son, whose chest swelled in excitement, (Sherlock frowned) "the ability to connect by means of the basest form of competition is admirable."

Philomenes dusted off his hands and admired his squared out pitch. "Now boys, today we are going to learn basic moves for grappling and holds. Jon, you come and stand here," he placed the fair-haired boy thusly, "and Sherlock, you come here, yes. Good. Now, first the basics. Lesson One."

And so they went for the entire afternoon, the rules of wrestling, proper stance, what was considered cheating (mainly for Sherlock's benefit, though he always asked 'Why?' afterwards) and then there was the exercise regimen laid out in detail that they were to begin the following day. Sherlock had had his doubts, and said so.

"Conditioning the body and keeping it healthy and agile is just as important as conditioning the mind."

"Well, I'm ready!" Jon shouted, still buzzing with excitement. He growled and tackled Sherlock to the ground, already putting into practise the skills he'd learned earlier by quickly getting Sherlock into a headlock. Sherlock pulled at his arms, squirmed and kicked, but could not get himself free of Jon's strong grip. It also stung his pride a bit at the way Jon laughed at him. He could feel Jon's warm breath across his reddened face while he continued to struggle, but it was no use.

He stilled with a pout. "Let go, Jon!"

Philomenes chuckled. "That's enough, Jon. I've no doubt you'll make a fine athlete."

"Am I going to be a solider, father?" Jon asked, releasing Sherlock with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock brushed his hands over his dark curls to flatten them, and glared at Jon. Jon stuck out his tongue.

Philomenes arched a brow. "Soldiers do not stick out their tongues, young man."

Jon blushed. "Yes, father."

Sherlock smirked, and groaned gratefully when Philomenes called an end to the day's lessons. They traipsed their way back to the villa, where his mother rolled her eyes at the dusty, scraped-kneed pair of boys with filthy tunics, and bundled them off to the large copper tub for a bath.

The boys splashed about, giggling, and at one point Jon tried again to get another headlock on his friend, who was able to get free this time with the help of his slippery body, and crowed in triumph. Sherlock tried to get Jon in a return lock, but failed almost instantly, coming up spluttering after Jon dunked him easily under the water.

"When I'm as big as you, we'll see who's stronger then," he grumbled, tossing a cloth at Jon's face with a wet plop.

"We will see," Jon huffed. "I'm going to be a soldier, and you're going to be a philosopher, so I'll probably always be stronger than you."

Sherlock leaned back against the tub, still for a moment. "Are you really going to be a soldier?"

Jon nodded and lathered soap through his hair.

"But, you'll have to fight in wars."

Jon grinned, then plugged his nose and disappeared under the water in a copious amount of bubbles. Sherlock's frown deepened. People got hurt in wars. People died in battles.

Jon came back up, rubbing his eyes. "I'll be fierce like Achilles!" He jabbed his arm as if wielding a blade and swung it at Sherlock. "Or maybe Ajax." He then brought his fists down to splash an imaginary hammer at the water, slopping some over the side.

Sherlock grabbed his wrists to stop his violent slashing. "But, what if you get hurt?"

Jon blinked and pursed his lips. "Well," he reasoned, "I'll just have to be faster than everyone else so I don't."

Sherlock shoved his arms away and wriggled in the tub, his hands patting along the bottom to feel for the lye soap Jon had dropped. "You can't be faster than arrows, Jon."

Jon shrugged. "Father says death in battle can be glorious. Heroes who die in battle are rewarded by the gods in the afterlife."

Sherlock felt a prickling at the back of his eyes, and fiercely scrubbed at his dripping curls with soaped up fingers. He swallowed thickly at the image of his friend dying in battle, with blood splattered over his face, his eyes open and unseeing like the dead calf they had found last month that wolves had attacked.

He didn't ever want his friend to die.

That night, they lay in Sherlock's bed, freshly scrubbed, fed, and played with tiny bronze soldiers, lining them up like Philomenes had shown them last week in an organised battalion of warriors. Jon made enthusiastic noises and took great pleasure in knocking over Sherlock's row of hoplites, declaring himself King. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said it was his house, so he got to be King. Jon narrowed his eyes and crouched down on his heels, preparing to spring. Sherlock scrambled up onto his knees, bracing himself.

"The strongest shall be King, then." Jon cried out and sprang an attack against Sherlock, who yelped and struggled underneath his friend. He grunted and fisted Jon's sleeping shirt, twisting to flip him and actually succeeded. He was so shocked that he threw his arms in the air, declaring himself the champion, before Jon took advantage and flipped him back over, pinning him with his hands on his wrists.

"'Never let pride override sense,' Sherlock," Jon quoted at him.

Sherlock pouted.

Eventually, they fell asleep in Sherlock's bed with their toy soldiers scattered in the sheets, and moonlight falling across their faces.

The next morning, they did not have lessons, so they got to sleep in before the morning meal. Sleepy-eyed, and rumpled, the boys shuffled to the dining room, where Alcestis kissed the tops of their heads, and sat down plates of eggs, brown breads and honey. Every time she kissed Jon, he would blush and look up at her with complete adoration. Sherlock wondered if Jon's mother had ever given him kisses.

Afterwards, they were shooed outside to enjoy the weather, and Sherlock asked a question he'd always wanted the answer to.

"How come you never see your mother?" Sherlock asked whilst lying on his back, stretched out in the grass with his friend beside him. He was also observing the different kinds of clouds in the sky. He wanted to know why they changed around.

Jon scratched his nose and sighed.

"Jon?" Sherlock turned his head to peer at his friend. Jon's mouth pulled down in a sad line.

"Father says she's not well. He says she can't have visitors right now."

Sherlock stared at his friend with his wide, pale blue eyes. He tried to imagine how he would feel if father told him he couldn't see mother. It would be awful. Sherlock stretched out a summer-tanned hand towards his friend and looped his fingers in Jon's. "I'm sorry."

Jon squeezed back.

Months later, when word was eventually sent that Jon's mother had grown worse, Philomenes took Jon away for three weeks. Sherlock had been miserably bored and lonely. He asked his mother about death, and then felt even more miserable because Jon was probably sad.

When Philomenes and Jon returned, each bore twin expressions of strain and grief. Philomenes had new lines around his eyes, while Jon's eyes were red and glassy. Alcestis had immediately gone to Jon and wrapped him in her arms, murmuring quietly, and led him away towards the kitchen. Septimius walked with Philomenes to his and Jon's little house and stayed with him until dark.

That night, Jon cried on Sherlock's shoulders until he fell asleep, huddled up against his chest, fists clenching Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's heart ached for his friend, and he decided that he never wanted Jon to be sad again. Sherlock did like his mother and wrapped his smaller arms around Jon's shoulders and squeezed. He stayed awake all night just in case Jon needed him.

A/N: Right, so, I came *this* close to going with the Greek spelling of Serlok, and Mycroft was almost called Mydon. If these were shorter stories I would've kept that. But considering I have plans to make this into three books, it's a bit irritating to keep remembering. Oddly enough, I have no problems with typing Jon. Probably because it sounds the same. While 'Serlok' is pleasing, there is something very satisfying in saying the word, "Sherlock." I couldn't bear to take that away from John.

Also, please note that this work is unbeta'd, and while I've done a significant amount of research, if you're more knowledgeable than me and see that I've committed a grave error somewhere, please feel free to let me know.

Guys. This is going to be a long story. I hope you will stick with me and enjoy it.