I'm on my toes, and there she goes again.
The final throes of summer time well spent
Oh, there she goes

Backseat Serenade [Acoustic]

(yo there are hints of sexual content in here which youre probably happy about but i just thought id warn you ;))

The first summer. He's nine and bitter because his parents are making him waste his holiday with stupid family friends. He spends most of the days rebuffing the blond boy and his irritating little sister, locking himself in the guest room with an encyclopaedia. He comes out at meal times and when his mother forces him to come and be sociable. He talks to his hosts a couple of times out of courtesy. He talks to their children a couple of times out of necessity. He talks to John once or twice out of curiosity. They leave after a few weeks, his mother apologising her son's behaviour and promising to return next year.

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The second summer. He's eleven and covering up the fact that he's anxious about starting secondary school. He knows he'll be able to keep up with the classes, he's just worried no one will like him. But he doesn't care obviously, he doesn't have friends, he doesn't need friends. He curls his toes as the shop assistant takes his measurements and talks to his parents about growing room. He cringes as he tries on endless blazers, but grins as he catches John's eye. The shorter boy looks even more disgruntled at the fussing going on around him. They both laugh at how ridiculous all this fretting is and both feel a little less scared after they leave.
This time, when they drive home, Sherlock waves shyly out of the back window.

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The third summer. He's thirteen and hates school. Even the prospect of another summer spent entirely at the Watsons' is better than staying in that cramped building with stupid teachers and horrible children. The older boys laugh at his long essays and lack of friends and the fact that he likes peering in shop windows at floral prints and high-waisted shorts. John asks him about school to be polite and he snaps. Later he feels bad and can't work out why. He shouldn't care. He doesn't care. He steps quietly along the hallway before bed and knocks on John's door. He says he's sorry and the blond boy laughs and says it doesn't matter. Then he asks Sherlock why he doesn't want to talk about school. Sherlock tells him everything even though he isn't sure why. He never shares anything with his family, let alone people he never talks to. When he says he doesn't have any friends John shakes his head.
"I'm your friend," he says.
Sherlock laughs cynically, saying "we've never talked..." but he's blushing.
"Starting now." John smiles and that's that.

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The fourth summer. He's fourteen and school is worse than ever. It hurts more because all the summer meals are full of great stories and both families cooing over John in his sports strip. Sherlock skulks around the house avoiding them, feeling déjà vu. He reads his science papers and looks through old clothes catalogues in the library.

Eventually John asks him why he's hiding and he says he doesn't know, which is only half true. John says he knows and that Sherlock's being ridiculous. They spend the rest of the summer glued to each others' sides.

They read in the library, swim in the pond at the end of the garden, lie out in the sun. Sherlock tells John about criminology and forensics and all the interesting crimes he's read about online, he even ropes the shorter boy into helping him reenact some. John tells him about medicines and anatomy. Sherlock asks him if any of these medicines could be used as poisons and he rolls his eyes.

A few days later Harry catches Sherlock going through her wardrobe and shouts. She thinks he's creepy, along with seeming everyone else. He says he likes her blue dress with the bees on it. She slams the door on him. John comes out of his room to see whats going on and looks at him questioningly. Sherlock states at his feet and says "girls clothes are nicer than boys clothes" very quietly. He doesn't expect John to understand; he expects more shouting, or laughing or just confusion. Instead John shrugs, then smiles and pulls Sherlock into his bedroom. He finds an old pair of jeans and hacks at them with the kitchen scissors. He hands the home-altered shorts to Sherlock and tells him "you'd be a pretty girl". Sherlock can't believe his luck, he's blushing again and thinks he might be starting to work out why this time. He doesn't take the shorts off all summer, even though they don't really fit.

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The fifth summer. He's fifteen and it gets off to a bad start. John's going out with a girl called Sarah. She's stupid and boring and not at all amusing. Sherlock knows he only thinks this because he's jealous of her, but that makes him uncomfortable because he's not entirely sure why, and of course he can't be a hundred percent sure it is jealousy, having nothing to compare it to. Sarah comes round for dinner and charms both families, smiling politely and engaging in civil conversations and leaning on John's shoulder. Sherlock shoots her glares over the table.

The happy couple are together solidly for almost three weeks. Sherlock retreats to his familiar haunt in the library and tries to reconstruct crime scenes on his own, which proves very difficult. One night after Sarah leaves, John comes to find him and says he's sorry. He says Sarah's demanding, and that her school starts earlier than his so he has to spend time with her. Sherlock shrugs and says he doesn't care, but he isn't very convincing.

There's a fete, late in July on the village green. John's playing rugby with friends from school, and Sarah's giggling with a load of other irritating girls. Sherlock stands on the outskirts, crossing his arms over the exposed skin of his stomach where he cropped an old jumper of John's and watching. It isn't long before one of Sarah's friends is on him.
"Why're you wearing girls clothes?" she asks incredulously.
He shrugs and tries to ignore them but he's drawing a crowd. He'd thought summer at John's was the one time he could wear what he wanted; evidently he was wrong. He flinches at their laughter, curling his toes and waiting, waiting for them all to leave. Sarah says something along the lines of "oh, don't mind him, he's just a family friend of John's", and then the blond jogs over.
"What's going on?" he asks, glancing anxiously at his friend.
"Nothing," Sarah laughs easily, "we were just saying to Sherlock we don't really think crop tops are his thing." Sherlock decides that he isn't swayed by jealousy - Sarah isn't a nice person at all.
John looks confused as well as angry, "why would you say that?" he asks.
Sarah laughs again, trying to shake off the awkward moment and move on, but John doesn't let her.
"Seriously," he says, "why would you say that? That's horrible."
Sherlock doesn't remember exactly what he says after that, probably because of his pulse echoing in his ears. He remembers Sarah's shocked face, her friends slinking away, John sounding as though Sarah has hurt him personally. He remembers fingers closing around his arm and being dragged away from the sports field. He remembers the hug behind the candy floss machine, remembers John's breath tickling his ear as he says "you can wear whatever the hell you want to wear. I think you look great".

After that it doesn't take long for things to change. Little things. Unnoticeable things. Holding hands while they lie out under the beech tree in the garden, playing with each others' toes under the dinner table, giggling together in the library with their foreheads touching. It doesn't take long for John to start lending the taller boy more of his jumpers in the evenings, they're too short but neither of them care. They both wrap up in thick knit and drink hot chocolate on the nights when it rains. It isn't long before they're making trips into town again (bypassing Sarah's road), buying leftover body parts from the butchers; endless books on medicine, psychology and crime; more jumpers and more washed denim shorts. They sit in the square with their bags, eating salted pretzels from the stand across the green. John shreds grass, Sherlock makes daisy chains.

It does however, take a long time for John to get it together and kiss him. It's a week before term starts again before he finally does. It's a rainy evening, still warm but rainy. They're both in pyjamas and drinking hot chocolate. Sherlock gets milk above his top lip and John laughs and leans over to wipe it off. He seems to realise what he's doing halfway through and his ears go red, but he still lets his fingernail drag across the taller boy's lower lip. He draws a shuddering breath, then murmurs "sorry" before leaning in. The kiss is gentle and chaste, barely there but still managing to be clumsy. When John pulls back he looks embarrassed. Sherlock looks stunned. Both of them are blushing and twisting their fingers, but it doesn't take long for the smiles to start. Goofy, lopsided grins that say 'we just did that'. Then Sherlock asks "why did you say sorry?"
And John cringes and says "I don't know. I don't really know what I'm doing. It's confusing."
Sherlock nods; it is confusing. Feelings and emotions are horribly confusing, especially when John is involved. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards again and he says "I suppose we'll get better if we practice..."
John rolls his eyes and shakes his head, laughing his easy, breathy laugh, and kisses him again.

They spend the little summer time they have left always in each others' company and almost always in each others' arms.

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The sixth summer. He's sixteen and the holidays are blissfully even longer. Exams are finished and three months of bully free, John filled sunshine stretch out ahead of him. He lies on his back under the shade of the beech and lets the dappled light play over his face with his eyes closed, a heavy book rests on his steadily rising and falling chest. He hears footsteps and smiles. There's a sigh as a familiar weight flops onto the grass next to him. A hand runs swiftly down his arm and comes to rest on his thigh, fingers barely touching, stroking up and down. Sherlock doesn't acknowledge anything, just waits. The fingers start to play with the frayed ends of his shorts; he doesn't even crack a smile. Eventually, he hears a huff and the book is roughly pushed off his chest. The familiar weight is now on top of him, the fingers now in his hair. He smells toast and cinnamon and damp moss, feels the thin cotton and jabbing buttons against his neck. Now he does smile, and opens his eyes.
"Finally," John says and rolls his eyes.
They kiss, gently, slowly. Then deeper, still slow. Then John kisses Sherlock's neck and his back arches a little. Hands slide easily down his front and up under his t-shirt, fingertips tracing patterns onto his stomach.
"I always thought crop tops were your thing." says a quiet voice in his ear and he's caught between embarrassment and arousal. He hopes he's imagining the half-whimper-half-moan that's coming out his mouth. The movements of the fingers are gradually travelling downward, the patterns elongating slightly each time until they reach the waistband of his shorts. His breath is a sharp intake as they make light work of his buttons and fly.
"There's no one here?" he asks anxiously.
John raises his head and shakes it before planting a careful kiss on his boyfriend's neck. "No one." he says, before returning his concentration to Sherlock's shorts. He wraps the fraying strands around his fingers and tugs downwards.

Later they come back up the hill and sit on a blanket looking at the stars. It feels like one of those existential moments in a bad indie film, that they're nothing compared to the multitude of stars above them. But both of them take comfort in science, like to know that they're insignificant. John laughs at Sherlock's lack of knowledge and points out constellations. Then he gets bored and starts threading buttercups into Sherlock's curls.

The sixth summer is glorious: the hottest it's been since he started coming to stay here. There's even more swimming and lying in the garden and climbing trees - or more specifically, tying your boyfriend's leg to a branch so he can pretend to be a corpse. The boys are as inseparable as always, except as well as all the experiments and books and picnics, they also find time for curling up together, cuddling, kissing, touching.

On the last night they all have dinner together in the garden. Beforehand, Harry pulls Sherlock into her room. She says she's sorry for being judgmental and gives him a box full of old clothes. The blue dress with the bees is in it. He smiles and hugs her and runs to the bathroom. It doesn't fit that well and the zip is a little forced but Harry says it suits him better than her and he feels a little less nervous.

John's already outside when he comes downstairs and he spends about a minute hiding behind a curtain, twisting his fingers nervously into the hem of the dress. Harry rolls her eyes and shoves him through the French windows. He stumbles onto the patio and flushes as John looks up at him. Five seconds later and hands are easing his own off the now crumpled hem. John kisses his wrist and tells him he looks beautiful. After dinner the blond leads him upstairs and tells him again and again, even when he isn't wearing the dress anymore. Sherlock decides this is the best summer, but that also means the end is the worst.

He leaves with his family the day before school starts again. He's back in jeans and a hoody, knowing that people from his year will see the car. He gets a hug from harry and a kiss from John but he still feels lacking when he eventually gets into the back seat. He has Harry's box and books from the Watsons' library next to him and they shift as the at pulls away from he house. He waves from the window, hating every second.

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The first Christmas. He's sixteen and thrilled that he doesn't have to wait another year to see John again. Christmas at the Watsons' is far better than at home; they have fairy lights and tinsel, holly and mistletoe, a roaring fire and a proper tree. It even snows a little on Christmas eve, they wake up to two inches and a whole lot of frost making the bare branches of the beech glisten.

The two families both huddle up in the sitting room, piling on fleeces and blankets and pillows, drinking hot chocolate and ripping wrapping paper and laughing. John gives him the parts of encyclopaedia Britannica he's missing and a scarf; Harry gives him her old winter coat, it's speckled grey and the bottom flares out like a skirt. He says he loves it but that he's growing a lot faster than she is and won't be able to fit in her old things anymore. She laughs and says he'll be out of presents then because she's broke. He gives John a horrific new jumper (which he loves), and Harry the miniature perfume bottles he used when he learnt to identify different brands.

Before dinner they go out in the snow. A couple of Harry's friends ambush the boys and pelt them with tiny snowballs. They retaliate and before long it's a full out war and there's only half as much snow left on the ground, strips of green and brown show through the white. They try to sledge down the hill in the garden without much success, it's mostly frosty, muddy grass by this point in the afternoon and both boys end up having to bail off their tray so try don't go skidding into the pond. They use what snow is left to make a rather pathetic snowman and tie Sherlock's scarf around it. Harry grabs it when he's not looking and shoves it down the back of his coat. He squeals and chucks a handful of dirty snow in her face. By the time they're called back in for dinner they're freezing cold, rosy cheeked and have snow sticking to their clothes, hair and eyelashes.

After dinner they play board games and eat mints. Everyone laughs when Sherlock gets frustrated at Cluedo. Harry paints his nails and when they're dry John leads him off into the spare bedroom - where there's mistletoe on the light fixture - and gives him another Christmas present.

The first Christmas is perfect and they even make plans for Easter before they leave. Sherlock is the happiest he's ever been.

blame demisexualsherlock on tumblr for this, her adorable headcanons kept me up all night writing this :P apologies for the dots on the side and the fact that i deleted and re-uploaded this, fanfiction .net is a bitch for formatting atm :/ please review xx