Prompt from starkid-kid on tumblr: Young!Sherlock plays at being a pirate, and he meets young!John. They go on an adventure. If this isn't just about the most vague prompt then I don't know what is, lol. But I trust you can do something with this.

Thank you for the trust. I hope I did well.

Disclaimer/Warnings: I own nothing./Unbetaed, barely Britpicked. Edited May 9, 2012.

Sherlock was the greatest pirate in the seven seas. He'd plundered islands and ports up and down coasts, all while swinging his sword in the perfect swashbuckling way real heroes did. Well-Mycroft swung his umbrella instead, but Sherlock sometimes suspected he had a sword hidden away in there somewhere. His older brother did have many secrets. Not even six-year-old Sherlock's penetrating mind could unlock them.

That upsetting fact didn't matter much now, though. Pirates didn't have to deduct all the time. Pirates could pillage-and plunder-and-

CRASH.

Bother. There went a vase. Real china from the way it broke, created circa 1800 from the print on what used to be the bottom of it, one of Mummy's from the lack of dust and the presence of the rosewater she always wore-oh, bother, bother, bother. Here came Mycroft. Sherlock could try to hide his misdeed, and indeed he did by shielding his sword with his body, but Mycroft was even better at deducing than Sherlock was. Mycroft was eighteen and brilliant. He'd taught Sherlock how to weave all those little details that drove him mad into a coherent whole. Mycroft did it all the time. Mycroft always knew when Sherlock had misbehaved.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Sure enough, Mycroft's voice held that certain edge that meant trouble. Sherlock snapped his gaze up to his brother's face-cake crumbs, milk moustache, oh, he's going to be fat again if he keeps this up-and then looked away just as quickly when Mycroft's eyes hardened. "What do you think you're doing? You know better than to swing your sword inside the house!"

"I'm a pirate!" Sherlock protested weakly.

"You're a naughty boy who's just broken Mummy's favorite vase. Our great-grandfather brought that back from a diplomatic mission to China! Do you understand how valuable that vase was?"

"Real china, antique, a little extra because it's Mummy's...a thousand pounds?"

Mycroft scoffed. "At least fifty thousand! Fifty thousand pounds, Sherlock, and it's Mummy's! You'll have upset Mummy again!"

"I didn't mean to!" Sherlock snapped. "I was bored, Mycroft! I couldn't stop my thoughts from going 'round and 'round! I had to do something!"

"So you broke a vase."

"I was being a pirate!"

Both of them heard the heels clicking on the marble staircase long before Mummy called their names. Sherlock felt a stab of unfamiliar and unwanted fear. Uneven steps-she can't walk straight. Her thoughts are going in circles, too.

"Sherlock, go outside."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he studied Mycroft carefully. Stiff shoulders, pinched expression, dilated pupils, fluttering pulse—in anyone else, Sherlock would have deduced "fear," but this was Mycroft. Mycroft was never afraid! Before Sherlock could puzzle it out, Mycroft's face smoothed over. "Run along and play outside, Sherlock. I'll explain everything to Mummy."

The clicking heels came closer. A missed step—that's a stumble. She tripped—can't pay attention—her mind's letting her down. Sherlock blinked. "Are you sure, Mycroft?"

"Trust me. I'll explain everything. Now do as I say and run along!" Mycroft urged.

By now, Mummy was almost in the room. Sherlock took his chance and ran.

The air outside was cool and damp. Cumulus clouds to the east. It's already rained, then. I won't get wet. A flash of light on water caught Sherlock's eye; a smirk spread over his face before he ran and leapt feet-first into the puddle. Well, not too wet, anyway.

Mycroft often warned Sherlock not to give in to his imagination. There were plenty of things for Sherlock to see that were real. Why should he focus on something that obviously wasn't? Sherlock enjoyed imagining things, though. Instead of deducing what kind of wood it was made of or how old it was or what its sail was made of, when Sherlock conjured up his pirate ship, he simply saw it as a whole. No little details screamed LOOK AT ME!, so for once, Sherlock's mind could relax.

There was his pirate ship, rising up out of the grass—but it wasn't grass anymore, of course. It was the ocean. Sherlock hopped up on the gangplank—rotted log, three types of mold in it, formerly inhabited by a fox—and then dropped onto the deck. "Pull up the anchor, mates!" he roared to his crew. "We're off to see the world!" The crew obeyed with curses and cries, and then they were streaking off along the ocean—running through the tall grass, wet, green, soaking the legs of his trousers, woolen, worth a hundred pounds, bought and fitted six weeks ago, already too short—to find whatever treasure they could.

Captain Sherlock and his crew had crossed a considerable distance of the ocean by the time they began to slow the ship. The port city was lost to their view, but another town rose up in the foreground. Sherlock studied it dubiously from behind the ship's wheel. Small village, originally constructed in the eleventh century—no, wait, older than that, those stones look like they're from the Romans—one large church but no large houses. Poor people. Whatever Mycroft calls them…plebeians, right. There's no treasure here.

With a sigh, Sherlock turned back to his crew. "Argh, mateys, there's no treasure to be found here. Let's turn 'er around and head for home—"

"Oi! Stop or I'll shoot!"

The high-pitched yell made Sherlock freeze. He turned his head just slightly to the left to observe a tiny figure dart into view. The smaller boy stopped in front of Sherlock and aimed a toy gun at Sherlock's chest with a huff. "Don't move," he warned.

Already, Sherlock's mind began to click facts into their proper places. The most obvious made him laugh. "I'm not afraid of you," he told the other boy. "That's not a real gun."

The blond boy huffed irritably. "Well, that's not a real sword!"

"What, this? Yes, it is. It's metal and everything. My brother's just blunted the blade."

The smaller boy considered this. "Well, you're not a real pirate."

Sherlock scowled. "You're not a real soldier, either. You're seven years old. You live in that town down there with your parents and your older sister. Your father whittled the gun for you as a birthday present because you've always wanted to be a proper soldier."

As soon as he finished speaking, Sherlock looked away from the other boy. He could just hear Mycroft's scolding voice in his mind. Don't let others know what you've deduced about them unless they ask! It's impolite, and you must always be polite to others, no matter what you think of them. You might insult them otherwise.

When Sherlock snuck a quick glance at the blond boy, though, he didn't look insulted. His mouth was parted and his eyes were wide in an expression that Sherlock's brain quickly categorized as awe. "That was amazing!" the blond boy breathed.

Now Sherlock's mouth fell open. An unfamiliar feeling danced in the pit of his stomach. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. You just…you just read my mind!"

"Actually, I read you," Sherlock corrected. "You're not…insulted? Angry?"

"No! No. That was bloody brilliant! Why? Did you think I would be angry?"

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "Most people tell me to shut up if I try to deduce them."

The other boy blinked. "Deduce?"

"Yes, deduce. You know. Take facts and reason them out?" When the other boy stared at Sherlock bewilderedly, Sherlock groaned and shook his head.

"Never mind. You're too much of an idiot to understand it. Why are you wearing a sieve on your head?"

The blond boy glared at Sherlock. "It's not a sieve! Well, I mean, it actually is a sieve, but I'm pretending it's my army helmet."

For a moment, Sherlock mulled this over. The sieve's rusty. His mummy gave it to him to play with. He was enjoying it until I said something; now he's unsure. Sherlock sighed. "I suppose that isn't any sillier than my invisible pirate ship."

Instantly, the blond boy's eyes lit up. "Oh, are you a pirate? Fantastic!"

With a smirk, Sherlock swept into an elegant bow. "Captain Sherlock Holmes, the bloodiest pirate on the seven seas."

The blond boy snapped into a smart salute. "Captain John Watson of the Royal Army, sir!"

Sherlock's pale gaze flickered over the strange boy—John—thoughtfully. His jumper has holes in the sleeves that haven't been mended, so he hasn't got much money. He really is a plebeian. Mycroft wouldn't approve. When Sherlock's eyes dropped to the gun again, his brow creased. John's father whittled a gun for him, but his hands were shaking when he did it. What does that mean? Sherlock remembered his mummy's stumbles, her ravings, the way her mind went just as wild as Sherlock's and Mycroft had to hold her down until she calmed. Maybe John's father is just like Mummy. Maybe John will understand.

Maybe, Sherlock thought as John stared at him hopefully, he won't be dull after all.

"You know, John, I've been looking for a good first mate. Can you shoot straight?"

Quickly, John leveled his wooden gun at a tree and pretended to shoot. Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Can you steer a ship?"

After a moment's hesitation, John nodded. "I'm a fast learner!"

Sherlock smiled. "Climb aboard, then, matey! We've got a town to plunder and no time to waste!"

Without looking to see with John would follow, Sherlock sprinted down the hill to the tiny town. Behind him, John whooped and broke into a run. "I'm a pirate! Sherlock, do you know the pirate song?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I know the pirate song. Obviously. Who doesn't know the pirate song?"

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!"

"We pillage, plunder, we rifle and loot."

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho!"

Sherlock's legs did something funny as he reached the bottom of the hill. Was he skipping? Quickly, Sherlock stopped the movement. John nearly barreled into him from behind. "What's wrong, Captain Sherlock?"

Sherlock's mind focused on a sudden movement to his side. A sign swinging in the wind: a sweet-shop, well cared for, visited quite often from the scuff marks on the door. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Be quiet, John," he ordered. "Tell me what you see over there."

John squinted in the direction Sherlock pointed. "That's the sweet shop."

"Yes…and what's in the sweet shop?"

John hesitated. "Sweets?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be dull, John! We're pirates, remember? Pirates!"

Immediately, John's eyes widened. "Treasure!"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "Exactly. Come along, John. We have a shop to pillage."

It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John wasn't following him. He turned to see the blond boy biting his lip uncertainly. "What?"

"Pillage?"

"Yes, John, pillage." When John still looked doubtful, Sherlock rifled through his mental dictionary to the correct page and recited: "Pillage. Verb. To rob a place using violence, especially during wartime. Synonyms: plunder - loot - sack - rob - maraud - ransack – despoil. Is that better?"

"But that's stealing."

With a groan, Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Oh, you're so dull! Yes, stealing, fine, call it whatever you want! It means the same thing, John. That's what pirates do! We just said it in the pirate song, remember?"

"But that's just a song. We're just playing at pirates, Sherlock! Stealing's wrong."

John's mouth formed a stubborn line. Sherlock studied him uneasily. "You're angry with me," he muttered. "Why?"

This time, John threw his hands in the air. "Because stealing's wrong! You can't just take stuff because you want that! You can't just hurt people because you want something! It's wrong! It's bad! Doesn't your mummy teach you anything?"

Sherlock's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "No, she doesn't," he growled. "My mummy can't get her mind to stop moving long enough to think properly, and neither can I, and Mycroft says I'm going to go mad like her if I don't learn to deduce!" All the words came out in a tumble. Sherlock barely heard them. The nice, logical part of his mind said Grey pavement, fifty years old, too expensive to replace, sweets shop owner sweeps every day, door is solid oak, floor is maple while this bizarre, irrational new space in his head screamed John is angry, John is upset, why's he upset?

Logic, logic, Mycroft uses logic to make people like him. How can I?

Maple floor. Running. Step up to the shop could trip someone.

Brilliant.

Wham!

As soon as Sherlock's knees slammed into the wooden floor, he cried out in what anyone else would hear as surprise. He hadn't cried properly in years, but he knew how to force the tears to build up until they trickled down his face. His right knee was bleeding, Sherlock noted through the blur of saltwater. Good. Most people couldn't stand blood, especially not adults.

Sure enough, the woman behind the counter gave a little gasp. Sherlock blinked once before he threw in his greatest weapon: "Mummy!"

"Oh, shush, sweetheart, it's all right! You poor dear. What happened? Were you running too fast coming into my shop?"

"Sherlock!"

The high-pitched gasp surprised Sherlock enough that he almost forgot to keep crying. In a second, John was crouched beside him with a steadying arm on his shoulder. "Hey, it's okay, Sherlock. I'll fix your knee for you." The boy dug a grubby hand in his pocket before he produced a handkerchief—white, brand-new, another birthday present, monogrammed. His mummy cross-stitches. What does that 'H' stand for? Herbert, Henry—and gently wrapped it around Sherlock's scraped knee. "Is that better?" John asked anxiously.

Sherlock nodded with a sniffle. "Uh-huh."

"Good. It'll be okay," John assured him.

Sherlock bobbed his head in assent again. "I know," he said more steadily.

"Oh, you poor dear," the woman behind the counter fretted again. She came around to kneel in front of Sherlock slowly. Her wedding ring's dirtier on the outside than the inside. Why's that? I'll have to ask Mycroft. "Are you all right?"

Oh, Sherlock could use this to his advantage. He pitched his voice slightly higher and sniffled again. "My knee hurts."

The sweets shop owner smiled. "Well, I know just the thing to make it feel better. What's your favorite sweet, dear?"

Sherlock nearly snickered. He turned it into another sniff just in time. "Lemon drops."

"All right, then. Here's a lemon drop, love—and a nice big chocolate bar for you, John Hamish Watson. Aren't you a brave boy, taking care of your friend?"

John blushed under the praise, but Sherlock didn't pay attention to it. He forgot to act hurt as he whirled on John and spluttered, "Hamish? Your middle name's Hamish?"

"Shut up," John mumbled. "'S not as bad as Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped back around a mouthful of lemon drop. John grinned and then jumped when the shop lady gasped.

"Sherlock….Holmes, you said? Holmes from the great big manor on the hill?"

Slowly, John's mouth fell open, revealing half-chewed chocolate and several missing teeth. Sherlock made an impatient noise. "What, John?"

With a shiver, John swallowed. "You're rich. That's why you have a real sword and nice shoes and why you talk so posh."

"I do not talk posh!"

Even as he said it, Sherlock knew it was a lie. He didn't want to "talk posh" if it upset John so much, though. I don't care if he's a plebeian. I don't care if he's ordinary. He's John!

A sudden sound outside the shop made Sherlock jump. He glanced up in time to be whisked off his feet by Mycroft. "Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing here? Mummy's already upset. You'll just have upset her more. Look at your new trousers! Look at your shoes!"

"You told me to run along!" Sherlock snapped. "You told me you would explain everything!" More cake crumbs and a bruise…bruise on his face…oh, Mummy really is upset!

When Sherlock's face fell, Mycroft sighed and set him on his feet again. "We'll discuss this properly at home, Sherlock. Now, thank the woman and the boy, and let's go."

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered. As he turned to follow Mycroft, he caught a glimpse of John's expression: wide eyes—stunned, eyebrows tucked together—hurt, biting his lip—uncertain. Uncertain about what? Why's he upset?

"Bye," John whispered.

Then Sherlock understood.

He ran as fast as he could back to the shop, even though Mycroft was yelling at him to never, ever run with a sword, Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of John, who took a quick step backward and looked up at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock stood there, panting, for a long moment before he caught enough breath to speak. "I enjoyed pretending with you, John Hamish Watson."

John blinked. "Yeah, I, um, I enjoyed pretending with you, too, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock studied the smaller boy's face again carefully. When he reached down to scratch his itching knee, his finger's found the soft fabric of John's handkerchief. Instantly, Sherlock's mind brought up the moment John had put it there and analyzed the scene. "I'll fix it for you…it'll be okay." Steady hands, steadier voice, almost completely confident except for the worry in his eyes. Sherlock's stomach fluttered. He ran that alarming sensation through his catalogue of emotions to find the closest match.

When all the facts clicked into place, Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. "Obvious," he whispered.

John frowned. "What?"

A ghost of a smile danced on Sherlock's lips. "Take my sword, Captain Watson, as a remembrance of our first adventure and my…" Caring? Fondness? Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft for the proper word. His brother frowned but mouthed a phrase at Sherlock, who repeated it to John. "…my great affection for you."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously. "Take your sword?" Sherlock continued to proffer it to John hilt-first. John gazed at it in awe before he took it and weighed it reverently. After a bit, he tore his gaze from it and straightened his shoulders. "Then you take my gun, Sherlock. I wouldn't want my friend to get blown apart by other pirates just because he doesn't have a sword!"

Sherlock's smile broadened as he tucked the wooden weapon into his pocket. "Of course. Friend. That's the word I wanted, Mycroft. Friend!"

"Yes, I know. Come along." Mycroft laid a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him away from John. Sherlock twisted his head to watch John wave good-bye for as long as he could.

Halfway up the hill to their home—manner: noun, a way of doing…no, wait, manor: noun, an estate in land to which is incident the right to hold a court termed court baron—Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock," he began.

Sherlock looked up at his older brother curiously. "Yes, Mycroft?" he asked.

For the first time in Sherlock's memory, Mycroft hesitated. When he finally spoke, a weight in his words made his voice reluctant. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Make acquaintances and use them well, but do not grow too close to them. Affection is weakness."

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock agreed. He made sure to store his brother's words for another day. After all, Mycroft had never been wrong before. He was brilliant.

As they finished the walk up to their home, though, Sherlock's hand wrapped around the toy gun in his pocket.

When John found it lying around their flat thirty-odd years later, Sherlock only smiled.