Archive of Our Own

From the moment Sherlock Holmes had been born it had been clear that he would be destined for misfortune.
Because, while his mother was desperately trying to give birth to him - her face pale from exhaustion and her brow damp and sticky with sweat, the bedroom-windows thrown open wide to let in a fresh breeze and expel some of the stale and heavy air that had accumulated in the room - a crow had suddenly flown inside, had circled the bed and its occupant three times and, the moment the baby saw the light of day for the first time, it had perched itself on top of its waiting cradle.

Sherlock's father had been quick to chase the bird outside again before it had been able to damage the cot or harm the baby but Sherlock's grandmother, being a woman of the country, raised on myth and folklore, had known it for what it actually had been: an omen of ill tidings yet to come.

“The crow is a symbol of sorrow”, she had told Sherlock's father but Sherlock's father, far too occupied with the now loudly wailing newborn child nestled against the breast of his bone-weary wife had idly waved her concerns away. Dismissing them as not much more than old-wives tales and superstition.
And how could they not be?

The baby had been small yet flawless and perfect and, even-though he had only just entered into this world, he had already had a full head of shiny dark curls, their colour an eerily close match to the hue of a crow's wing.
But his mother had looked down dotingly at his puffy face and watery eyes and she had called him 'Sherlock', meaning 'fair of hair'.
And the family had thought themselves to be happy.
At least.....for a little while.

Sherlock had been just a week old when his mother had fallen ill. An unexplainable fever wrecking her too delicate and far too fragile body and mind and when, after a sickbed of just two days, she had died, a crow had briefly flown into the house again, perching itself on the foot of the bed much as it had done on the cradle only a week before.
This time however there was nobody there who noticed it.
The eyes of Sherlock's father and grandmother too wet with tears, Sherlock's own too new and inexperienced yet to notice much of anything, and his mother's dull and glazed over and no longer able to see anything in this realm ever again.

It had just been the beginning of Sherlock's many misfortunes but it had been the one that shaped and affected him the most.
One can't help but wonder if he might have turned into a happier and less melancholy child if he had still had the warmth of a mother's love during the earlier years of his upbringing.
We will never know.
All we know now is what happened after.

Sherlock, in his younger years, was mostly raised by his grandmother. His father unable to shake himself from the heavy cloak of grief and guilt that he had chosen to clothe himself in the moment his wife died.
Sherlock's grandmother had been kind and just and honest but......she also had been very old.

Sherlock had been seven years old when his grandmother died. Sherlock doesn't remember much of her passing or her funeral. The only memory he has is of a single black crow that apparently nobody but him had been able to see, perched on her headstone as her coffin was lowered into the dark and damp abyss of a freshly dug grave.

They had been reduced to a family of two then. Sherlock and his father.
A boy with too much sadness to fit comfortably in the length of his life so far and a father who only saw him as a reminder of what might have been had the odds not been stacked against them.

Sherlock's childhood would not be a happy one.

Sherlock would, however, from that moment on, keep seeing the crow, a bird with feathers made out of the blackest shade of midnight, soft as whispered silk and eerily close to the shade of his own hair, a bird that, apart from Sherlock himself, nobody seemed to be able to see, and, a bird that, on its appearance, would bring ill-times and general misfortune in the wake of its wings.

When he was still young Sherlock had tried to tell others about the bird, had tried to warn them of what it would bring but nobody ever believed him.

And so, all too soon, Sherlock had earned himself a nickname amongst the people of the town: 'Bad Luck Sherlock', because, wherever Sherlock went the crow now went too and something bad was soon to follow. And seeing as nobody else was able to see the crow and nobody believed the little boy when he desperately tried to warn them about it; Sherlock got blamed for all of it.

Sherlock had been a lonely child.
Having learned at a fairly young age that the only way to make sure that other's did not fall victim to his crow of bad omens was to keep it as far away from them as he possibly could.
And so that's what he did.
He spent his days alone and abandoned since his father, still stuck in the murky waters of grief, was not able to spare his son much more than a passing glance, and over time Sherlock slowly learned to resent the people of the town and their seemingly effortless happiness and fortune as he hid away his own heart deep within his chest behind a wall of bitter and sad melancholy so dense that he could barely even feel it beat.

******************************************************

And so Sherlock lived his life. Growing up from a small child, into a teenager into the fragile beginnings of manhood when he reached his eighteenth birthday.
Sherlock did not pay this passage of time any particular mind.
Time moving forward and the changing of things was something that happened to other people, something that others looked forward to, but not him. For Sherlock every day was the same. Every day he spent alone and every day he dreaded the appearance of his crow signaling yet another moment of grief meant to ostracize him even further from those around him and harden the wall around his heart.

So when John Watson, a young man born only one year earlier than Sherlock, returned to the town after a very successful nine year long apprenticeship as a knight in the capitol, Sherlock tried not to notice it.
John Watson, however, turned out to be a hard man to miss.

John was the town's golden boy.
A young man, open and honest, strong and righteous, easy to laugh and easy to talk to, a strong and muscular build, a handsome masculine face with a sharp jawline, short blond hair that shone like golden thread in the sun, and eyes like the bluest sapphires submerged in the clearest lake imaginable.
The winds of fate seemingly ever in his favour John seemed to have been born for luck and good fortune.

John was perfect, in every way imaginable.

John was the absolute opposite of Sherlock.

Sherlock hated him.

And so Sherlock didn't really have an explanation for why he was currently, from a safe distance, watching John play some kind of ball-game with a small group of the town's young men.
John was never short on friends or people who just simply wanted to be around him.
John was always admired wherever he went.

Sherlock had never really understood the rules to this particular game simply because he had never really been allowed to play.
Nobody had ever admired him.

As far as Sherlock could tell there was a lot of shouting and laughing and punching each-other in the shoulder involved in this particular game and they all seemed to be having a lot of fun.
John seemed to be quite good at the game and.....how could he not.
It seemed as if John had just been born for luck.
The complete opposite of Sherlock in every aspect.
Where Sherlock was sullen, aloof and shunned by all, John was open, social and radiant, the center of attention wherever he went.
Sherlock had a pale complexion and thick dark hair where John's skin was a lovely sun-kissed bronze with hair light and soft, framing his head and face like a radiant crown.
Everything John tried his hand at just seemed to work out.
Everything Sherlock tried seemed to end in disaster.
Next to John's splendour and beauty Sherlock felt utterly repulsive and hideous and.....

“Hey, mind if I sit here with you for a moment?”

Sherlock had been so lost in his own thoughts about John that he, ironically, hadn't noticed the game coming to a temporary end and John approaching him before it had been too late but, to be fair, nobody every approached Sherlock so it hadn't really been that strange for him not to have been expecting it.

It's late in the afternoon and the sinking sun frames John's form like liquid and honeyed gold. Sherlock can only keep his eyes on so much loveliness for so long and so, all too soon, he casts them back down to his feet, turning into himself as he shrugs and answers:
“I don't own the ground. You can sit wherever you want.”

From the corners of his eyes he can see John smile at him as he lowers himself down to the ground to sit next to Sherlock.
John's smile, solely directed at him, is even more lovely than Sherlock could ever have imagined it to be and under its intense heat he feels the palms of his hands go clammy and so, slightly embarrassed, he hides them between his knees hoping John wont notice.
Hoping John will just realize his mistake and go away.
He should have never told John he could sit here but........then again........refusing John anything he wants seems equally impossible.

John is sitting so close to him.

Why is John sitting so close to him?

“Do you want to join us for our next game?”, John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. Immediately. Resolutely.

From the corners of his eyes he can now see John's handsome features turn themselves into a frown and the sight of it causes the heart hidden so very deeply in his chest to stutter in a strange and unfamiliar way.

“Why not?”, John asks. The melody of his voice made up out of the same honeyed warmth as the sunlight that seems to surround him wherever he goes.

“I don't know the rules”, Sherlock tries, the sound of his own voice shaky and hoarse and altogether inadequate compared to John's.

“Well....I could teach you. It's not that difficult.”

Sherlock gives another shake of his head but before he is able to elaborate on why it really is a bad idea for him to join in, one of the young men John had been playing with beats him to it.

“Oi, John!”, comes a shout from across the field, “come back to the game! That's Bad-Luck-Sherlock! If you sit that close to him his bad luck might even rub off on the likes of you!”

The rest of the men laugh and Sherlock feels himself flush all the way to the tips of his ears, utterly embarrassed. No matter how much he hates John and how lucky and perfect and beautiful and kind and soft-spoken he is, he had secretly also rather liked spending just a couple of moments as the center of John's undivided attention.
Now that John knows who he is he will surely look at Sherlock with disgust, get up, and never speak to him again.
Sherlock braces himself for the cold that will, undoubtedly, swoop over him once John gets up but......it doesn't come.

John still sits close to him, warm and solid, their shoulders and arms only inches away from actually touching. John is still frowning but.....this time his unhappy expression is not aimed at Sherlock but at the young man who had been shouting at him to come back.
“I'll be there in a minute!”, John shouts back before turning to face Sherlock again.
“So your name is Sherlock?”, he asks.

Sherlock's own gaze is firmly stuck to the ground and his own feet again. Now that John is looking at him......he can't look back. It's like looking directly into the sun, he fears he might go blind.
He shrugs. John seems to interpret the gesture as a 'yes' because he continues talking:
“My name's John.....as I suppose you might have already known before my friend over there shouted it at me.”
John lets out a short chuckle, it should have sounded arrogant, after just assuming Sherlock had known who he was all along but......instead the sound of it is reminiscent of water flowing through a brook on a summers day, a soft wind through the grass and delicate bells.
Sherlock hates it. Sherlock can't get enough of it.

“Are you sure you don't want to join us? You can be on my team”, John asks but Sherlock isn't really sure why he would ask him again. Not now that he knows who Sherlock is.

“I'm bad luck”, Sherlock says, having finally found the remnants of his voice somewhere in the dirt between his shuffling and restless feet. He feels like dirt. He feels like disgusting mud and grime next to John.

To his surprise John shrugs.
“So? I don't mind.”

For a moment Sherlock's mouth just opens and closes without making a sound.
“I.....”, he stammers, “I....but......whichever team I'm on....they're bound to lose.”

John gives him another shrug followed by a playful shove with his shoulder. Sherlock's arm feels as if it's on fire where John has touched him. It doesn't feel entirely uncomfortable. It feels kind of nice to just....feel anything at all. After having been lost in unfeeling loneliness for so long.
“I really don't mind”, John repeats himself, “winning's not all it's cracked up to be. Isn't it more important to just enjoy yourself and have a good time?”

Sherlock lifts his face and looks at John then. He tells himself that he's not to blame. That there's probably not a single person on earth who can withstand John's charm.
And.....John is charming. Desperately so.
John is lovely and handsome and.......John's soft mouth curls up in a hopeful smile as he finally catches Sherlock gaze, lips parting on a warm breath and.......

Sherlock realizes to his own horror that he might not hate John as much as he had initially thought......as he had initially been trying to convince himself............John is just so......handsome and perfect and........

Over John's left shoulder Sherlock suddenly catches sight of an all too familiar bird.
Halfway across the field he sees his crow, pecking away at something unseen, still hidden amongst the grass and soil, pale sand coating its claws and dusting and dulling its usually shiny feathers.

“I......”, he stammers. The crow raises its head, one beady eye now looking directly at him, at John, a black oil-slick marble devoid of emotion. “I...I need to go. I have to.....”

With trembling hands and unsteady legs Sherlock manages to get to his feet.
The crow's presence here.....it means......bad things........bad things will happen whenever the crow appears and the crow only appears if Sherlock is there to see it and so.......he has to go......he has to.......take his miserable misfortune far away from the light loveliness of John.

“I'm sorry”, Sherlock says. Because he is. For so many things. More things than he will ever have time for to explain. John, still sitting on the ground, gives him a puzzled look mixed with a hint of concern.
“Sherlock......?”

Sherlock turns around and starts walking, as soon as his legs feel more like his own he starts walking faster and finally he runs.
He has no way to tell if John is still looking at him, he doesn't look back, but somehow he can feel the intense burn of John's bluer than blue eyes on the skin at the back of his neck.
Further and further behind him he can hear some commotion amongst the players as their ball seems to have gotten stuck up a tree.
He doesn't stay long enough to find out if they are able to get it back down again but he can't help but feel responsible for it.

************************************************

A couple of days later Sherlock sits alone in the forest at the outskirts of the town.
He often spends his time here.
It's the place where he is the least likely to run into other people and so, as a result, also the place where he is the least likely to spread his misfortune onto others.
The day is still fairly young, the light of the sun still sharp and bright in its juvenile fierceness as it filters through the branches and leaves of the trees that surround him.
The sound of birds can be heard coming from just about every direction but Sherlock is somewhat relieved to find that none of these sounds resemble the the shrill crowing of a crow.
Of his crow.

He sits on the damp and mossy forest floor with his back resting against the rough trunk of an ancient oak-tree. His knees are drawn up and he has his arm wrapped around them protectively.
Sherlock is thinking.
About the last couple of days.
About how there now seems to be a clear line drawn through his life separating it in a period before John had talked to him and the period that came after.
He tries to tell himself he doesn't like John.
He tries to tell himself that John is too perfect for his own good.
Too nice.
Too kind.
Too handsome.
Too lucky.

Too.......everything.

He sighs.

John, apparently, is even too perfect for Sherlock to hate him.

Why can't he stop thinking about John.....

About John asking him to join him in a stupid ball-game. John not caring if he won or lost, just as long as Sherlock was by his side........Sherlock is sure John hadn't meant it that way but.....still......how absolutely lovely would it be if he actually did.
If he......

But, whatever John had or hadn't meant, it doesn't matter.
Nothing does.
His crow of misfortune had turned up anyway and Sherlock has a sneaking suspicion that the ball getting stuck up a tree had only been the tip of all the misery the crow would have been able to unleash had Sherlock stayed longer.

Sherlock's mind briefly wanders to the possibility of something happening to John and his throat and mouth go dry only to immediately fill up with bile.
He can't go near John.
Not ever again.
Not as long as his crow follows him around. The crow that had been there when his grandmother had died, when their neighbour had fallen down a ladder and had broken his leg, when a stray cart had run over their cat, when.......
He tries to swallow down his mouth full of bile, trying to will all these painful memories down with it, but it doesn't seem to be working.
He was born for misfortune. He should probably just accept his fate. Maybe he should just......

“Hello again.”
the sound of John's voice wraps itself around him almost as warm and comforting as the sun itself and Sherlock lets himself bask in the glow of it for just a moment until reality, inevitably, starts to sink in.
He jerks his head up and, sure enough, John is there, a bundle of firewood that he, apparently, has been gathering held securely in his strong arms.

Sherlock doesn't reply. The inside of his mouth still tastes like ash and sour bile and he makes another attempt to swallow some of it down. John's eyes follow the movement of his throat as he does so.
“What incredible luck that we should run into each other way out here”, John says.

Now Sherlock can't help but smile, just a little bit, but it is a tense and bitter thing.
John couldn't be more wrong.
He isn't fortunate at all.
Has he not learned anything from their previous meeting?
His fingers tense where he has them wrapped around his knees and his nails dig into his own skin almost painfully but it does help him to finally find his voice at least.

“You couldn't be more unlucky if you tried”, he says, just to be contrary but, mostly, just to try and make John understand. Being around Sherlock is never a good idea nor is it lucky. Sherlock has never once been lucky in his entire life.

John frowns, Sherlock decides that, just like last time, he doesn't particularly like that look on John's handsome face.
John then proceeds to put his gathered firewood down on the forest-floor, the pile of sticks retaining the shape of a perfect bundle as he does so, everything John does is perfect after all, and proceeds to sit himself down next to Sherlock.
“You're not bad luck”, John says, “whatever people say about you. Whatever they believe and whatever they want you to believe.....you're not”, and he sounds so convinced, so sure of himself, that Sherlock almost actually believes him too. Almost.

Sherlock lets out a bitter laugh and as the sound of it gets lost amidst the thick foliage overhead and the soft moss beneath his feet it briefly reminds him of the crowing of a bird echoing through the forest.
“How would you know.”.

John leans back against the tree, the sun forming ever changing patterns of light within the dips and valleys of his face as its beams filter through the shifting leaves overhead only to stick to his pale lashes like ambrosia.
“Well”, John says, “I don't feel unlucky when I'm around you.....far from it.”

And that does something to Sherlock's heart. Something warm and yet painful at the same time. It's what happens when a heart that has been rigid and stagnant for so long is suddenly forced to soften and yield.
Sherlock's right hand moves from his knee to his chest before he even realizes what he's doing, his palm rubbing across his aching ribs, but he quickly balls it back up into a fist when he notices John looking at him.
“Easy for you to say”, Sherlock retorts, “you're the luckiest man alive. You probably wouldn't even know what bad luck was if it hit you in the face. I'm definitely bad luck but you just can't see it yet.”

John raises his eyebrows. The look in the hidden blue pools of his eyes curious but also amused.

Sherlock decides to continue talking. Now that he is alone with John, now that he has started talking, he finds it surprisingly difficult to stop. It's a problem he's never had before.
Yet another aspect of his life he files into the category of 'after meeting John'.

“You're the town's golden boy”, Sherlock says and he tries to make it sound like an insult but within that newly formed aching place deep inside of his chest it really doesn't feel like an insult at all, quite the opposite “you're going to be a knight, fighting valiant battles, you'll be famous throughout the land, you'll meet the king, probably marry a wealthy princess, everybody adores you.”

John cocks his head, that same amused curious look on his face. Having it so blatantly directed at him somehow makes Sherlock feel hot all over.
“I might marry a prince”, John says.

Sherlock just huffs as he curls a little bit further in on himself. He feels as if he is being made fun of. He doesn't like being made fun of. Least of all by John.

There is a moment of silence between them only broken by the soft titter of birds and the sound of something scurrying in the underbrush. Eventually it is John who speaks first, the tone of his voice soft and comforting as if he is somehow afraid that, by speaking any louder, he'll scare Sherlock away:
“Is that really how you see me?”

Sherlock just nods because, yes, in a way, that is how he sees John.
“You're perfect”, he says and as soon as the words leave his mouth he wishes he could bite off his tongue and disappear, sink into the soil below and never ever come back up for air again.
Yes, he does think John is perfect, he absolutely does, but he wasn't exactly planning on telling John that to his face. The unexpected melting of his heart has been distracting him. That's pretty much the only excuse he's got.
He feels his face go red as he turns it away from John and tries to hide it behind his still raised knees.
He can't imagine what John must think of him now.
What John must think of someone like him, unwanted, uncharismatic and unflattering, awkwardly complimenting him in such a way.

He doesn't dare look back up and so he has no idea what emotions pass across John's strong and handsome features as another moment of silence lingers between them.

“Mind if I tell you a secret?”
John doesn't sound upset or mad so Sherlock doubts this sudden question is some kind of trap but he's still weary.
He nods as he peeks up from behind his raised legs and from beneath his fringe.
John is so beautiful. More radiant than the sun. The gentle smile he gives Sherlock now something Sherlock is sure will be something he'll revisit in the best of his dreams for years to come.

“I don't want to be a knight”, John simply says.

“You.....what?”
Sherlock doesn't really know how to respond. He had expected John to say a multitude of things but......not that.
How can he not want to be a knight?
Knights get to meet the king, knights are held in the highest regard, knights are honourable and honoured and wealthy and famous and.......

“Sure”, John says, “it sounds amazing and exciting but.....knights go to war, they fight and.....kill.....I don't want to kill anyone. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to.....”

Sherlock can't look away from John. He is mesmerized. There is so much more to John than he initially had thought and with every new bit that gets uncovered he finds that John just shines all the brighter for it.
“You want.....what?”, Sherlock asks. His voice a breathless whisper.

John's fine features contort themselves into something uncomfortable and Sherlock only barely suppresses the urge to reach out and stroke his fingers along the newly formed creases in John's forehead until they disappear and he's relaxed and smiling again.
“Promise you won't laugh”, John says.

“Promise.”
sherlock would promise John just about anything right now. All he needs to do is ask.

John takes a deep breath, lets it out, takes another and slowly releases that one as well. Sherlock watches the gentle rise and fall of his muscular chest as John gathers the courage to talk.
“I want to be a farmer.”

“You......what?”
Again, not what Sherlock had expected him to say.

John laughs. The sound airy and light with an edge of relief now that he apparently has lightened himself of a load he had unknowingly been carrying.
“Well, don't look so surprised! I think I'd really like to live a quiet life, tending to a home and a garden, some animals, making sure things thrive and grow instead of destroying them......it just......it seems nice.”

And it does seem nice. When Sherlock closes his eyes he can almost see it. See John.....like that.

John continues talking: “I just see myself tending to rows of flowers, a patch of vegetables, dirt stuck in the creases of my fingers and underneath my nails instead of blood. A place to call home and the same bed to retire to every night with the same......”

Sherlock's eyes fly open.

Within his minds eye he had seen.......himself.....in John's perfect fantasy.
There had been an inviting empty shape in John's description of his perfect daydream just wide enough for him to insert himself into.
He had seen John coming home to him.
To him.
John embracing him, eating supper with him as they both talk about their day.
And after the day had run its course and there had been nothing left to do.....
John retiring to bed with him......

Sherlock coughs as the inside of his chest grows tight and aching all over again.
“That sounds lovely”, he says, because it truly does, “it sounds like a good and honest life......it sounds nice....but ...does your father know that that's what you want to do?”

As the fantasy leaves him, disappearing in the underbrush and darker nooks and hollows of the forest, John's features darken too.
“ No....he.....I haven't found a way to tell him yet.....I mean.......he's put a lot of money in my apprenticeship and......it's what he's been expecting from me pretty much since I was born. It's what everyone is expecting from me......so.....”

“Oh”, Sherlock says. He doesn't know what else to say. He feels bad for John while at the same time he feels a sort of odd connection between the two of them, both stuck in a place in life where neither of them really wants to be only because of their own respective fortunes.
Sherlock, destined to be alone and hopeless till the end of his days due to his own ill-fated one and John......John always being expected to shoot for the absolute stars because of his luck and good fortune.
If John were to try for anything but the very best.....it would be seen as a failure while for Sherlock.....that would pretty much count as a succes.

Sherlock desperately wants to comfort John but he doesn't know how.
He's never had to comfort anyone before.
In the past he's always just.....made himself scarce, he had run away, hopefully taking his bad luck and the crow that had caused it all with him.
He can't do that now. For once he is not the cause of John's misfortune. Ironically the cause of John's current misery is........John's own good luck.
It's making Sherlock's head spin. It's making the inside of his chest ache even more than before. He can practically feel the beat of his heart echo through within the palm of his hand and so he just places his hand on John's leg and hopes John will be able to feel it too.......that he will be able to understand.
And maybe John does understand because, after a moment, he places his own hand on top of Sherlock's, intertwining their fingers, John's digits warm and sturdy and tanned and.....perfect, and Sherlock's heart beats even faster when John's hand gently squeezes Sherlock's own in silent gratitude.

They sit like that for a while, their arms and legs pressed together, their hands holding on to each other.
It's nice. Nicer than anything Sherlock has ever experienced before.
It's.......new.
And as the sun rises higher and higher above them, it's light deepening and the shadows it casts lengthening, Sherlock comes to the realization that he doesn't actually hate John. Not at all.

*********************************************

After that day they seek out each other's company more often.
John seemingly able to somehow find Sherlock no matter where he is.
But their absolute favourite place to just sit and talk is still the clearing in the woods where John had confessed to Sherlock that he actually doesn't want to become a knight at all.

They grow close. Sherlock would even go so far as to call what they have 'friendship'.
Every time he is together with John and John looks at him and smiles at him he feels his heart soften just a little bit more, the thick walls he had so carefully constructed around it crumbling under the softness of John's touch and attention.

There is one afternoon where a sudden gust of wind blows an errant curl across Sherlock's face and John reaches out and tenderly tucks it back behind his ear.
“I like your curls”, John had said, “they're so wild and unruly. It's like they have a mind of their own sometimes. They suit you.”
And at his words the wall around Sherlock's heart had cracked so suddenly and violently that he had been sure John had been able to hear its collapse.
But John hadn't.
He had just kept on looking at Sherlock with that same smile he never seemed to smile at anyone else, the tips of his fingers still in their position behind Sherlock's ear. A caress so soft that it barely had been there at all.
And Sherlock had known then.
He didn't hate John. Not at all. Not in the slightest.
Quite the opposite in fact.
He was in love with John.
Had fallen in love with John.
Over the weeks they had gotten to know each other his traitorous heart had chosen to come back to life and open itself up just long enough for John to find himself a way inside and make himself at home.

Sherlock had sighed then and John had softly laughed as the tips of his fingers had traced a path along Sherlock's neck and chest only to come to rest back in John's own lap and Sherlock had immediately missed them fiercely.

But not every meeting had been like this.
Sherlock had still been himself after all.

Bad-Luck-Sherlock.

The boy saddled with a crow that brings misfortune and misery wherever he goes.
And, although the crow did not show up nearly as much as it used to ever since he had started to hang out with John, it still did make an appearance from time to time.
And whenever it did Sherlock would cut their meetings short. He would get up, make a quick apology and get himself and his crow as far away from John as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving John behind confused and probably also a little bit hurt.

It couldn't be helped.
He would rather have John dislike him than have John get hurt because of him.
And so, on another sunny afternoon, when John is still in the middle of explaining to Sherlock what kind of crops he would plant on his farm and in at what time of year they would grow the best, Sherlock suddenly leaps to his feet, mutters something about having forgotten that he needs to help his father out with......something.......and runs away, the beating of a crow's wings joining him in just a couple of second. And as he glances over his shoulder he heaves a sigh of relief as he sees that John has been kept safe and he's being followed by a familiar dark bird that only he can see with wings the same colour as his curls.

*****************************************

Sherlock and John are lying on their backs in an abandoned garden.
The garden belongs to an old shack of a house. Nobody has lived here for years. The last resident had been an old man who had left no heirs when he died. The house itself is removed from the town proper quite a bit, by all accounts the old man had been a bit of a recluse.
Sherlock doesn't know if that's actually true or not, he had never met the old man, he had never gotten to know him, just like pretty much anyone else in the town before he had gotten to know John.
Sherlock had spent his life always trying his very best to stay away from other people as much as possible. It had been to keep them safe. To keep his crow of sorrow from spreading its misfortune around to others.
Maybe it had been a way to keep himself safe too.
He doesn't know.

He also doesn't know why John is different, what changed, what made Sherlock change his own rules and very set ways just......just to be with John.
Sherlock turns his head to the side, the tall grass underneath his face tickles his nose and he swipes at it with his hand. John lies next to him with his eyes closed, a serene smile curving the corners of his mouth, his skin warm and sun-bronzed as his fair hair fans around his head like the most precious and expensive silk.
John is gorgeous.
John is amazing.
John is.....

Sherlock is so in love with him.

But he knows he can never act on it. He can't risk it. He can't risk John's safety.
The fact that he already has a hard time staying away from John is bad enough.
The more time he spends with John.......he looks around frantically, almost expecting his crow to sit perched on top of John's chest, ready to peck through his flesh and muscle and ribs until it reaches his very heart itself but......his crow is not here.
They are still blessedly alone and Sherlock gets to look at John for just a little bit longer.
And....who is he kidding anyway. John will never return his feelings. They are just so......different.

John is outgoing, has a lot of friends, John is good at everything he does, he seems to have been born for luck and good fortune, and, on top of all of that, he's the most beautiful man Sherlock has ever seen.

Sherlock.....well.....Sherlock is the absolute opposite of all of those things.
He has all of one friend - that friend being John - and even that friendship is fairly new.
On top of that Sherlock probably is the most hated person in the entire town and he doesn't really excel at anything because of it, he brings bad luck wherever he goes thanks to his miserable crow and....well......where John's features are soft and light, Sherlock's appearance can only be described as sharp and dark and, therefore, unattractive.
There's nothing very appealing about him really.
He's not even sure why John keeps choosing to spend time with him.
Maybe it's out of pity.......
Surely it's not just out of pity.......
Surely it's not........

“What are you suddenly so gloomy about?”

John has opened his eyes and is now giving sherlock a slightly worried look. Sherlock takes a moment to search the blue depths of his eyes for a hint of pity but when he doesn't seem to be able to find any he lets out a small sigh of relief.
“Nothing”, he replies, “I was just......nothing.”

John gently nudges him with his foot and delicious sparks of electricity shoot through Sherlock's skin and veins at the contact.
“I really hope this isn't about that ridiculous notion that you're bad luck again.”

Sherlock can't help but laugh just a little bit.
It absolutely had been.
How does John already seem to know him so well?

But Sherlock knows he's bad luck.
He's been bringing bad luck wherever he goes for years but for some reason he's been having a hard time convincing John of that fact so, for the time being, he has just sort of.....given up on trying to convince John of the actual truth.

Besides, every now and then, when they are together like this, he finds John's delusion a pretty nice place to spend some time in.

At the sound of Sherlock's honest laughter the worried look on John's face disappears and he nudges Sherlock again, this time with his knee.
“I've been meaning to ask you, are you going to the midsummer dance tomorrow?”

And whatever warmth and ease Sherlock might have started to feel disappears in an instant.
The midsummer dance.
A festival held every year at the hight of summer that lasts all of one night where the entire town comes together to eat and drink and play games and dance and just......have a good time.
Sherlock has never gone.
He can't.
If his crow were to show up with that many people gathered together.......it could become a downright catastrophe and, besides, he doubts anybody really wants him there anyway.

“No”, he says, his voice just a little bit unsteady, “no....I....I never go.”

John is no longer lying flat on his back, he has hoisted himself slightly upright, leaning on his elbow, as he looks down at Sherlock, the look of worry he had worn before now absolutely back.
“Why not?”

Sherlock tries to shrug but he is somewhat hindered by the grassy soil beneath his back.
“I don't know.”

“Well....if you don't know then you really don't have a reason not to come. I say we go together tomorrow.”

And now Sherlock is slightly panicking.
He can't go.
He's never gone.
If he goes he'll put people in danger.
But John wants him to go.
He's never said no to John before.
He.....
“I can't go”, he says. Explaining nothing.

“Sherlock......Why not?”

“I just.....I can't......alright?”

John is now sitting upright in the grass next to Sherlock, the look he wears on his perfect features transformed from worried to just a bit sad and Sherlock hates that he is the one that put it there. That he is the one who made John sad.
“Sherlock?”, John says again, “what's wrong? I mean...... is this about you believing you're bad luck? You know I don't believe that right? There's......there's nothing bad about you. You shouldn't listen to what anyone else says. If we go together I can tell them not to talk to you like that and then we'll be fine. You'll have fun, you'll see.”

And maybe it's because his heart has already become so soft and fragile over the weeks he has known John but upon hearing the misplaced optimism and hope in John's words it just cracks and breaks and through the newly formed tears all kinds of emotions come streaming out.
There's anger and sadness and hopelessness and most of these sentiments are directed at Sherlock himself. At himself but also at......
“It's because of my crow”, Sherlock blurts out.

John blinks a couple of times in rapid succession, clearly taken aback by Sherlock's strange answer.
“Excuse me....but.......did you say......your crow?”

Sherlock hoists himself up into a sitting position too now. This is not a conversation he wants to have laying down in the grass with possibly ants crawling up his sleeves. He half expects to see his crow perched somewhere nearby when he finally manages to right himself, as if the mere mention of it has somehow been able to summon it, but the field around them still appears surprisingly empty.

“I have this....this crow”, Sherlock says, trying to find a way – any way really – that will make John understand and will not make it sound as if he has gone completely insane, “it's been with me for as long as I can remember and.......well.....it's not always with me....what I mean to say is that it......just.....sort of appears and, when it does, bad things happen. It brings bad luck. John.....I bring bad luck...because of it. Whatever people have been saying about me, whatever rumours you've heard, I can guarantee you that they are all true. The crow appeared when I was born and a week later my mother died, I saw it sitting next to my grandma and she was gone within days, it landed on our neighbours ladder as he was cleaning out his gutters and the ladder somehow slid out from under him and he fell and broke his leg........do you need me to go on? I have many, many more examples. I bring bad luck wherever I go. I shouldn't be around people and I should be around you least of all but........I........I can't go to the dance, John. Do you understand.......please say you understand....I.......”

He has more to say, more examples to give, so many more, but Sherlock finds he has run out of steam. His heart is empty and his mouth has gone dry and he just hopes that John will believe him and not call him insane.
He hopes..... and somewhere hidden deep within his chest....... within the last small part of his heart that he hasn't poured out at John's feet yet, lives the selfish hope that John will still want to keep on spending time with him.

The world around them is eerily quiet as Sherlock waits for John to react.
“But”, John says, “how can you be so sure that all of those things wouldn't have happened anyway? Despite of you and your crow being there?”

John's questions are.......not what Sherlock had expected him to ask and not something he's ever even considered.
He knows the crow is an ill omen. He just knows it.
And so that's exactly what he tells John.
“I'm absolutely sure. I feel it. I know it.”

“Well”, John replies, “that just doesn't make sense”, and for a moment Sherlock feels whatever is left of his heart shatter into a million pieces. John does not believe him, John thinks he's lying, John thinks......

“Crows don't bring bad luck”, John says, “they bring you good luck or....at least....mine do.”

And it is in that moment that Sherlock's racing mind grinds to a halt because.....what is it exactly that John has just said?
“Wait”, he says, “what do you mean when you say 'mine do'?”

Right then John manages to look a little bit sheepish at least, an expression that, Sherlock realizes both to his delight and utter chagrin, still manages to make him look handsome.
“Well”, John says, “I......erm......I have these crows......that follow me too....they have been from the day I was born.....crows that only I can see, just like you, although, maybe not just like you because mine have brought me nothing but good luck.”

“What?”, Sherlock asks, rather ineloquently but he quickly recovers just a bit: “but.... where did yours come from?”, because now he absolutely needs to get to the bottom of this. If what John is telling him is true, if he has a crow following him too and it is not an omen of bad things to come then......Sherlock isn't entirely sure what that would mean for him but, just for the moment, he allows himself to be just a little bit hopeful at least.

“I'm not entirely sure where they came from”, John replies, “ one moment they weren't there and the next.....they were. But I've had them for as long as I can remember.”

“Just like me.”

“Yeah, just like you and, Sherlock, not once have they brought me anything bad.”

Sherlock thinks John's words over for a moment as John looks at him almost beseechingly. As if he hopes for Sherlock to say or do something specific now that they've both shared their deepest secrets with each other only......there's something here that's off, something that doesn't quite fit, something.........and then it clicks.

Crows, John had said and them, plural.
Where Sherlock only has the one crow, John, apparently, has more and so Sherlock asks him:
“Wait.....how many crows do you have?”

John shrugs.
“Just the two.”

Two. John has two crows. Maybe.....maybe that's the answer to the difference in both their predicaments. Maybe.....

“They're right over there at the moment”, John says, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought, as he points to a spot on the grass somewhere over his right shoulder.
At first Sherlock doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. Just the grass and the wildflowers and bushes and trees that had sprouted up haphazardly, taking over the fertile terrain, years ago as soon as there had been no-one left to tend the gardens. But then, suddenly, a flash of shimmering ink as feathers ruffle and.........there......the all too familiar shape of a crow outlined against the bright colours of the local flora, becoming more and more solid the longer Sherlock looks. And right next to it.....another one.
Two birds eerily similar to the one Sherlock has become so used to seeing over the past eighteen years of his life but still......different.......just slightly, just enough.

And just as Sherlock is trying to come to terms with what he's just learned, with what he's seeing right now, with the fact that he might not be as alone as he had always thought, a sudden movement in the far corner of his vision grabs his attention.
This is a shape he does know, all too well, and his blood runs cold. Just a couple of feet away, curiously eying John's crows with its cold and unfeeling black bead of an eye sits his own crow.
As far as Sherlock knows, the sight of his own crow still means that bad things are about to happen.
He only wavers for a second as the ominous bird flaps its wings and hops over to the other two who appear to not have noticed it yet as they peck away at the many insects that live in the undergrowth and soil.

Shakily Sherlock gets to his feet.
He needs to get away. He needs to get his crow away. Away from here. From John and his two birds that, apparently, bring him nothing but happiness and good things. He needs to.....

First Sherlock starts walking, his steps shaky and unsteady, but as soon as he becomes more sure of his own two feet he starts to run.
Away.
Back home.
Behind him, getting fainter and fainter the more distance he puts between them, between John and himself, between John and danger, he can faintly hear John call out to him.
“Sherlock! Wait! Sherlock!”

But Sherlock is too fast. Too frantic. Too frightened. And he is already gone. John's desperate pleas swept away by the wind and his own racing breath.

*********************************************************

Sherlock can't sleep.
His mind is much too full. Racing thoughts that seem to have no direction and make his head spin every time they crash into each other.

John has a crow too.

No.

John has crows. Plural. John has two crows. And, whatever they are to John, it is something vastly different than what Sherlock's crow is to him.
Sherlock can't help but wonder what that difference is and why that difference is even exists in the first place.
Whether it is purely the number of crows that decides whether you live a happy and good life out in the sun or a lonely and miserable one surrounded by nothing but dark shadows and self hatred.
He doesn't know.
He wants to know.

He worries desperately that the bad luck of his one crow will somehow corrupt the good luck of John's two. That, by being around John, by being close to him, he is tainting him somehow. He doesn't want that. He wants to keep John as he is now. Handsome and lovely and.......happy.

He needs more information.

He needs to figure out where to find the information he needs.

And then the convoluted mess his mind has become takes him somewhere else.
To a memory.
One of the last memories of his grandmother that he has.
An overheard conversation between her and his father when Sherlock had still been a very young boy.
They had been arguing.
The sound of their voices just loud enough to rouse a sleeping child from sleep and curiously draw him towards the source of it.

“The crow is a bad omen”, his grandmother had said, “its appearance is seen as a sign of oncoming sorrow and death. The fact that the boy has mentioned one several times by now.....unprompted......it doesn't sit well with me, Reynard.....I've had a bad feeling about this ever since that one landed on his cradle the night he was born. It's not natural, it's not. There are greater forces at work here and I think they might mean us harm. They might mean him harm. He's still so very young....”

Sherlock had crept a little closer then. The soles of his bare feet tingling as he shuffled them along the cold stones of the hallway. At that age he had still been trying to convince people of the existence of this crow that only he could see. He had stopped soon after.
After.......
After his grandmother died. She had been the last person to believe him.

“Old wives tales, nothing more”, his father had replied as he had refused to take her words seriously, he had refused to listen to another word she had to say. He had shouted at her then. Sherlock doesn't remember what exactly he had said because, right at that moment, his crow had chosen to appear right by his feet and young Sherlock, combined with the tension of his father and grandmother arguing, had been so startled that he had immediately turned around and had run back to his bed in order to hide underneath the covers for the rest of the night.

His grandmother had died not soon after that.

But she had known more.
More than she had ever been able to tell Sherlock when she was still alive.
But she did leave things behind. Belongings. Books.
His grandmother had been an avid reader.
Sherlock's father had not been and so, after she had died, he had taken all of her meager belongings, had stuffed them in a big box, and had left that box somewhere in the back of a closet to gather dust and be forgotten until the end of time.
And, for a while, Sherlock had forgotten about it too.
But now he remembers.
And, maybe, somewhere within that box, he will find the answers he's been looking for all of his life.

*************************************************

Sherlock's hands shake, his clammy fingers leaving prints on the opened pages of the almanac. His grandmother's almanac.

'The Counting of Crows' the page he currently has it opened to reads.

He has to blink a couple of times to keep his eyesight from going blurry.
He's found it....or.....at least he's found something.
Way down at the bottom of the box, underneath piles of cookbooks and pages upon pages of knitting-patterns, an old and weathered almanac had been hiding with page upon page of information about the meaning of the trajectories of the stars, the shapes of the clouds, the flight pattern of bees and......the counting of crows.

Sherlock only reads the first two lines before the book slides from his suddenly limp and useless hands.
It's enough.
It's more than enough.
It's all he needs.

“One for sorrow,
Two for mirth.”

The book reads.
He is not crazy and neither is John.
It is the number of crows that matters.
One for bad luck......and two for good luck.

He......he needs to tell John what he's found and.....after that.......John can draw his own conclusions. He can make his own decisions. About whether he still wants to spend so much time with Sherlock knowing that Sherlock's luck is what it is and will probably never change into anything better.

But, at the moment, it is still the middle of the night and tomorrow.......Sherlock doesn't really know where John goes or what he does during the day.....it's always been John who'd seek him out, who'd find him, never the other way around.
Sherlock always being far too afraid that, by seeking John out, he would also be knowingly bringing his bad luck to John's doorstep.
It had always been the better option to just let John find him instead and pretend it hadn't exactly been what he'd been hoping would happen from the moment he had woken up.

So he can't go to John.

But he does know where John will be tomorrow night.

John had asked him to come after all.

The midsummer dance.

****************************************************

The midsummer dance is held on a large field at the edge of the town. There are several bonfires that blaze high, musicians providing a festive atmosphere – not all of them in tune- , people are dancing, people are drinking, eating and talking, several shopkeepers have set up stalls and large groups of people shuffle by to see if there is anything worth buying.

Sherlock hovers at the edge of the festivities, not sure where to go or how to act, it's been a very long time since he's been around so many people and he feels a tingle of anxiety travel from his back all the way to the skin of his neck making him shiver in the process.

How will he ever find John here.

This was a mistake.

He should not have come here.

There are far too many people here.

What if his crow chooses to appear.

What if the entire evening ends in ruin and disaster because of him.

He's being utterly selfish.

And only because he can't seem to be able to wait a moment longer to see John and talk to him.

But....

What if.....

“Hello again.”

Sherlock takes a deep and shuddering breath, his lungs finally able to fill themselves again now that John is here.
“John......how did you.......how did you find me?”

John's smile is crooked and bears just a hint of mischief that only gets emphasized by the flicker of the bonfire flames that spring up in the dark of the night around them and once more Sherlock shivers as his skin tingles but this time for an entirely different reason.

John cocks his head, gesturing to something behind him, but whatever he's trying to show Sherlock it gets hopelessly lost in the dark.
“How I always find you”, he says, “I just followed my crows. I told you, they always bring me good luck. They always lead me to you.”

Somewhere just behind John, amidst the revelry of party-goers, for a moment Sherlock thinks he can hear the flapping of wings but its gone almost as soon as he hears it.
So that's how John has always been able to find him, even on those occasions where Sherlock had been hiding himself away deep within the forest.
John's crows.....they've led John to Sherlock every single time but......if John's crows are birds of luck then.......why would they do that? Why would they have led him to someone as unlucky as Sherlock?
Sherlock desperately wants to ask John but, tonight, there are too many people around and the longer he stays here the more he is putting all of them at risk.
He'll have to save some of his questions for another time.......if there is even ever going to be another time.
He shakes his head, trying to clear his messy thoughts just a bit.
There are other things he needs to tell John first, things he specifically came here for to tell him.....

“Your crows....”, Sherlock says, and then: “our crows.....I've found something out about them! That's why I'm here. I needed to tell you.......”

John frowns slightly but in the depths of his eyes a light still burns, small but still fierce and bright as stars in the sky that surround them.
“And here I thought you were here because you simply wanted to spend more time with me”, John says as the fires in his eyes blaze just a little bit higher.

“No...I”, Sherlock begins only to change that midway into: “yes, but.....I......”
Because, yes, that is why he's here too. Because he can never seem to be able to stay away from John. To him John is like a magnet, a bright sun that pulls him into his orbit, into his warmth, no matter how much Sherlock tries to fight it. Ever so slowly, day by day, moment by moment, John has been able to breathe life into his cold and silent heart again and now that he knows what that's like......he is loath to let it go.
But maybe he has to.
Because John has a choice in all of this too.
And maybe once John knows......

“The number matters”, Sherlock says and.....when exactly had John moved so close to him? And when exactly had he moved his hand to the small of Sherlock's back?
Sherlock doesn't know.
He finds he doesn't really care.
John's hand fits against his skin perfectly. As if it's meant to be there. As if it's always been there. Warm and solid and sure and.......

John looks confused.
“Number? What number?”

Sherlock shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. There are so many noises here. So many sights and sounds and smells and......nothing here is familiar. Nothing makes sense. Nothing......

“Hey”, John says, the fingers of his other hand now gently stroking along the skin of Sherlock's cheek. A gesture that reminds Sherlock with desperate longing of an afternoon spent in a clearing in the forest where it had been just the two of them. Where John's soft touch had sent the first flutters of life into his chest and heart, creating cracks and tearing them open further and further until Sherlock had felt completely exposed and laid bare under John's hands.
“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“It's the number of crows”, Sherlock finally manages to say, pulling himself reluctantly back from his blissful daydreams and back to the chaos of the here and now where everything might fall apart in a second.
“One is for sorrow and two are for mirth”, he continues, “that's why I've been so unlucky all my life and you......have not. I've found the answer in my grandmother's almanac.”

John smiles softly, his hands still serving as anchors on Sherlock's skin that keep him from flying off into the night-sky along with the ashes and embers from the fires around him.
“You've found the answer”, he says, an edge of awe and wonder to his voice, “you're always so clever. So......if that is what it is then...... well....then.......maybe I can give you one of my crows. Or persuade both to hang out with you for a while. Maybe that will help you feel less unlucky. How's that sound?”

Sherlock's eyes grow wide in shock.
“You can't do that!”

“Why not?”

John does not appear to think any of this is a big deal while Sherlock finds he is slowly starting to panic. Maybe John just doesn't see the gravity of the situation yet or what consequences might follow after his well intended actions.
“Because......because....”, Sherlock says, “what if you weren't able to get them back again. What if, by just giving them away to me, you ended up with bad luck instead. John......I can't......that can't happen!”

John just lets out a soft laugh that ghosts over the skin of Sherlock's cheek and makes him think of summer wine - sweet, warm and intoxicating.
They are standing close now. Sherlock has no idea when that had happened. John's right arm is wrapped around his waist, holding him in place, while his left hand softly, almost reverently strokes through Sherlock's hair where it curls above his ear.

“I wouldn't mind”, John says and when Sherlock keeps staring up at him in disbelief he adds: “Sherlock, I've already found you. What more luck could I possibly need?”

Sherlock is so confused.
John....he can't possibly mean what Sherlock thinks he means, what he hopes he means.

“I....I don't understand”, Sherlock says, because he really doesn't. He's never felt like this before. This warm and wanted and.......happy. Maybe John has already given him one of his crows without realizing it because he's pretty sure he's never felt this lucky before in his entire life either.

Instead of giving him an answer John slides his right arm out from behind Sherlock's back and instead takes Sherlock's hand in his own, looking down at their entwined fingers as he does so.
“I really like you”, he just says, “you're.....you're sweet and funny and smart and so, so beautiful and not like anyone I've ever met before”.

Sherlock still doesn't understand.
The way John is describing him.....that absolutely doesn't sound like him at all and.....
How can anyone like him......let alone someone as perfect as John......

“I....”, Sherlock says, “You can't.....I mean.....I'm bad luck......”

But the more he says it - the more he hears himself say it - the more the words seem to lose any meaning or power they had once held.

John just squeezes their joined hands.
“I don't mind.”

And now Sherlock has almost completely run out of words. His heart has become this wild thing that throws itself uncontrollably against the inside of the cage of his ribs, desperate to free itself and lay itself down in the grass at John's feet.
Finally he manages: “so....what do you want to do now?”

The soft smile that had been on John's lips widens and turns itself into something hungry and heated and Sherlock flushes at the sight of it.
“Right now?”, John says, “I'd really like to kiss you.”

And how can Sherlock say no to that?
He silently nods as John uses their joined hands to pull him closer and as John's lips land on Sherlock's own he can't help but panic for just a moment because, well, he's never kissed anyone before, nobody has ever wanted to kiss him before, he doesn't know what he's doing, what if he's doing it wrong, what if John doesn't like what he's doing, what.........

But then John's mouth starts to move against his and all thoughts and doubts he might have had fly away like smoke and fireflies into the dark night sky.
The movements of it – of kissing - the sweet slide of lips, coming surprisingly natural to him as long as he has John's lead to follow.
John tastes like perfection, like summer sun and laying side by side in a field of grass and wildflowers and.....finally not feeling so utterly lost and alone anymore.
Kissing John makes him feel as if, finally, he has found a place where he belongs.
One of John's hands slides through his hair, twisting Sherlock's curls around his strong yet
gentle fingers and Sherlock moans.

“I love your hair”, John says. The words a soft whisper of a promise left against Sherlock's lips.

I love you, Sherlock thinks, I love everything about you.

But this might not be the moment to tell John that. He'll tell him later when it's just the two of them, because, although kissing John had made him momentarily forget everything and everyone else in the world, there are still a lot of people around and a fair number of them have just seen John kiss him.....have seen him kiss John back and........

Apparently sensing his rising unease John stops kissing him and leans back just a little bit but he doesn't let go of Sherlock's hand. Something Sherlock is secretly very grateful for. He feels that, right now, he needs to maintain some form of physical contact with John, something to to remind him that this – all of this – is real. That he isn't dreaming.

“Do you want to get out of here?”, John asks.

All Sherlock can give as a reply is a short nod. With his deft lips and tongue John seems to have stolen all his words from him. It's alright. He doesn't need them back right now. He'll show John what he wants to say in another way but......later........there are too many people here, too much that can go wrong still......should his crow make an appearance.......he is still bad luck after all........nothing has changed although...........right now he feels as if everything has.

Still holding on to Sherlock's hand John turns around and starts to walk.
And Sherlock follows him. He lets John lead him through droves and droves of people that all just seem to effortlessly part for them as soon as John gets near, clearing them a straight path to wherever John is taking him.
As John walks ahead of him Sherlock tries to see if there are any signs of his own crow but, so far, the evening still remains bright and festive.

John eventually leads him to a small field next to a tranquilly babbling brook far enough away from the festivities so that Sherlock doesn't have to worry about his crow and its ever present misfortune ruining the entire night for the entire town should it choose to appear.

The night is clear and calm and there are countless stars overhead and as Sherlock takes a moment to catch his breath and fill his lungs with cool night air John suddenly asks him:
“Do you like it?”

“Ehm....like what?”, Sherlock says, slightly confused.

John smiles and gestures at the field around them and as Sherlock has a closer look at his surroundings he suddenly recognizes where they are.

John has brought them to the abandoned field and ruined house where they had, just recently, spent the afternoon just lazing about and enjoying each other's company.

“Ehm...”, Sherlock repeats, “we've been here before.....”

John now takes both his hands in his.
“I know but.....that was before I bought it.”

“You.....what?”

John's smile is crooked but honest. He nods.
“Earlier today I finally told my father that I'm not going to be a knight. That's his dream but....it was never mine”, John pauses for a moment to gently squeeze Sherlock's hands where he holds on to them, “I have come to realize that.....I have different dreams now. So....with the money I already earned as a knight's apprentice I bought this land and.....I'll turn it into a farm but.....it might be a lot of work and....maybe....I could use a bit of help with that.”
Another gentle squeeze of Sherlock's fingers follows.

The look John gives him is so hopeful, so honest, so......everything.
Surely he can't mean.....Sherlock has never been lucky in his life.....surely it's not suddenly going to start now.

“But I'm bad luck”, he replies.

John just laughs.
“No you're not. Every moment I got to spend with you I've felt like the luckiest man alive.”

“Well....that's because you are.”

John sighs and rolls his eyes but the look he gives Sherlock is still desperately fond and so full of love that Sherlock almost just kisses him again.

“What I'm trying to say”, John continues, “is that life is just too short to live it according to what other people expect you to be. People expect me to be a hero and a knight and to live this grand and adventurous life but......that's not what I want. I want to live a quiet and simple life growing crops and flowers and.......I'd really like to do it together with this really pretty boy with lovely curls the colour of crow's wings and these amazing lips I've been wanting to kiss from the moment I saw him and......Sherlock......maybe you are bad luck and maybe you're not but.......for now......let's just simply see where our luck takes us. Alright?”

Sherlock does kiss him then. His arms wrapped around John's neck, holding on to him, wanting to keep him, never letting go again.

“Is that a yes?”, John manages to say in between kisses, his own arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock just kisses him some more.

*****************************************************

Rebuilding the house and removing all the weeds and unwanted plants from the field around it is hard work but eventually, in time, together, they manage it.
During their first week of work Sherlock had been living in a constant state of fear.
Fear that his crow would show up again, would cause John to fall from a ladder, get crushed by a tree he had been felling or just have the entire house collapse right on top of him and in the process destroying all of Sherlock's newfound and still desperately delicate and fragile hopes and dreams with it but......none of that ever happened.

His crow did show up but.......nothing overtly bad ever seemed to follow on its tail anymore.
For nights on end Sherlock had lain awake wondering and contemplating on the reason for this sudden, but not unwelcome, change in his luck until on the fifth night he finally realized that, whenever his crow showed up these days, it never showed up alone anymore.
Ever since he had agreed to move in with John, whenever his crow chose to show itself, it had, without fail, always been accompanied by John's own crows, bringing the total number of birds from a lonely one to a pleasant group of three.

So, on that fifth night, Sherlock had, after carefully extracting himself from within the hold of John's arms, crept out of bed and had gone down to the basement where a box was stored with the few things he had brought with him from his father's home.
At the bottom of the box he finds an old and dusty book.
The last time he read it he never completely finished reading the poem.
Maybe he should have.
But he had never expected to have to need to know what came after the first two lines.
Apparently now he does.
Sherlock flips the pages of his grandmother's almanac until he reaches the page he's looking for.

'The Counting of Crows', the title at the top of the wrinkled and yellowed paper reads.

When Sherlock reaches the third line of the poem that's written out underneath it he can't help but smile as something incredibly soft and warm ignites inside of his chest, connecting him to John, urging him to just go back upstairs and let himself be wrapped up again in John's strong and sure and safe arms.

And so that's exactly what he does.

John mumbles something in his sleep as Sherlock gets back into bed. The words too low and soft to actually make out but Sherlock is pretty sure he knows what John is trying to say to him anyway.
“I love you too”, Sherlock says as he leaves a gentle kiss on the skin of John's chest, just over the place where John's precious heart beats inside of it, “I love you”, Sherlock repeats, “and I'm so very lucky to have you.”

The End.

"The Counting of Crows:
One for sadness,
Two for mirth;
Three for marriage,
Four for birth;
Five for laughing,
Six for crying:
Seven for sickness,
Eight for dying;
Nine for silver,
Ten for gold;
Eleven a secret that will never be told."