He was rather rough, walking quickly yet keeping my wrist clamped between his fingers. And so I had no choice but to break out into a little jog just to keep up with his long legs, arriving at the barn just in time to find Mycroft getting a handful of grain for our old horse, Redbeard. He was a large stallion, with the most unusual coat of red. He was a good, gentle thing, and let John walk right up to him and pat him on the nose. Mycroft fed him the grain, which he happily munched from the feed trough, and John went on petting him. Victor released my hand and drifted over to Mycroft's side, commenting on how Redbeard looked older than when he last saw him. Mycroft responded with the obvious answer of time ages everyone, and Victor thankfully stayed quiet after that. I went up to Redbeard as well, patting him a couple of times while John looked around at the cows who were on the other side of the barn. Billy was the larger of the two, a male cow who had little horns poking out from in front of his ears. Barbra was the smaller one, yet she was a brilliantly colored cow. She was friendlier too, and while Billy stepped away after John approached she instead stepped forward, and allowed John to pat her a couple of times before she too lost interest.
"I wish I had animals." John admitted finally.
"They're nice, but they're a lot of work." I admitted.
"Can you ride Redbeard?" John asked. I nodded, for I had ridden him a couple of times when Mycroft had put the saddle on. Of course my legs weren't long enough yet, so all I did was hold on for dear life and hope he didn't buck me off. Mycroft was a good rider; he was even teaching Redbeard how to jump over obstacles, with the intent of entering him into the county fair. Our father didn't like the idea of that, as Redbeard was too old to be learning new tricks, but in the end I think Mycroft just wanted something to do. I don't think he actually had the intentions of racing him.
"My brother is better, but I can ride him alright." I admitted with a shrug.
"Mycroft, I've never seen you ride." Victor commented, casting his eyes once more upon me.
"Well you've never been over at the right moment, I suppose." Mycroft muttered, not sounding entirely enthusiastic.
"I suppose not." Victor agreed. "You don't reckon I'd be any good at it?"
"No." Mycroft said finally. "I don't think so." John chuckled next to me, and yet I remained quiet, as I wasn't sure what to say to that. Victor's smile faded away, and he clasped Mycroft on the shoulder rather forcefully before moving aside to say hello to the cows. He looked offended, and yet Mycroft looked proud of himself. He looked as though he had no regrets. Once again I asked myself just how close those two really were. For a moment I even pitied Mycroft, for their friendship seemed toxic if nothing else. I wished that he could have found a friend like I had, a friend like John Watson who would be good for him. In the end I wished that Mycroft had never set eyes on Victor Trevor, and that horrible man never slithered into our lives in the first place. Yet at that very moment I had just a mere dislike for him. I could have never imagined that the boy who stood there, petting the cows, would turn into such a vile adult. I could never have imagined that I could harbor such a hatred for someone who now seemed, if anything at all, merely too confident in his own skin. 

That summer was the most joyous summer of my life, up to a point at least. Everyone was in good spirits, as there was no school work to be done and the crops were flourishing under a beautiful, radiant sun. The days were hot and the nights were pleasant, filled with fireflies and stars, both of which were too numerous to count. John and I had developed a meeting place, an apple tree that sat in the middle of the field of crops, almost the half way point between our two farms. Every day at about nine o'clock, when the chores were finished and I was free to play, I would meet John under the tree on a bench that he had dragged out. It was a marvelous tree, with its branches spanning very wide and tall, and with apple blossoms just beginning to grow on the buds. John was always there when I arrived, since he wasn't allowed to help with the farm he seemed to have nothing better to do than wait around for me, and so I would find him reading a book, or practicing writing, or playing in the dirt. His father ended up planting a very impressive batch of corn, the money seemed to have materialized into his hands just in time for the planting season. That summer I never made the connections, my young brain could not realize that money doesn't just appear without a proper sacrifice, or without any crime involved. I was too young to piece it all together, and realize that the local bank robbery might have coincided with Mr. Watson's good fortune. Well of course we were both too young to care about finances and the law anyway, it was only ever the consequences that we noticed, and so far those consequences had not come. It was a careful couple of months, sitting under that apple tree and looking up at the sun, or chasing around the cows in the pasture, or running through the corn which had grown well above our heads. John was becoming increasingly gentle with me; he seemed to have developed a protective instinct after witnessing one day my father's drunken rage. He didn't like it when I ran too fast for too long, he didn't like it when I became out of breath. He would never play a game in which I might get hurt, and always discouraged me from climbing the tree too high, or jumping over the fence when I had the chance of just going around. Any bump or bruise I developed he cared for gently, and when he decided that we had enough horse play for the day he would lay down on the bench and cradle me against him, staring up together at the sun and talking of the future, and of the past. Very minimally we would discuss the present, for it seemed as though to acknowledge how good we had it together would somehow turn the good times bad, and taint our beautiful summer with tragedy. Well it seemed as though our stigma had come true, to a point. For while we never explicitly said anything about our good fortune the mere acknowledgment in our minds must have been enough to put it right again. There was a force above, evidently, that was determined to see us both suffer. There was a force above that deemed us too happy, and decided that it ought to bring chaos reigning down upon us once more. Perhaps it was God, perhaps it was the Devil. Or perhaps it was just the hand of man, moved against our friendship so as to discourage us from becoming more happy than the rest. Men get jealous, very easily, when they see people who fit together so well. It seems as though humanity as a whole does not appreciate those who have it perfect, for they have suffered long enough on behalf of their own discouragement that they have decided no one ought to be happy at all. And so maybe it was God, maybe it was the Devil, who split the two of us apart. But I myself blame the Trevor family, them above the rest of humanity. For it was Mr. Trevor who went to John's house that night, it was the Sherriff himself who had collected Mr. Watson from his bed, and took him to the prison in chains. I was sleeping soundly that night, unaware that the house across the field had been lit up, and yet I was awoken rather abruptly by the sound of footsteps on the stairs right outside of my door. I was a light sleeper back then, despite my activity levels of the day, and as soon as something stirred in my usually silent house I was awake and alert almost immediately. I sat up in bed nervously, looking towards the door through the darkness, the darkness that was so black it seemed impossible for an intruder to be moving about. There was no light under the door when I heard the hinges creak open, and yet as my spine chilled, and as I gave a great tremble of fear, I was met with a little exclamation of despair, one in a voice I so recognized.
"John?" I whispered anxiously, squinting through the darkness just enough to make out the shape of my small friend. He closed the door behind him before rushing up and jumping into my bed, throwing his arms around my neck and holding himself there for a moment. I noticed immediately that he was crying, for his cheeks were dripping against my thin shirt, and his body was trembling immensely.
"What's wrong?" I asked him quietly, hugging him back so as to give him some support. And yet it seemed as though even my presence wasn't enough to calm him, for he didn't quiet. He kept on crying, so much so that he was letting sobs escape his lips, muffled against my shoulder, as if he was ashamed to be so verbally distraught.
"My father's going to hang." He wailed finally, shivering terribly as I stared over his shoulder in the darkness, staring now and trying to contemplate what he had just said. His father, the one who brought in the income, the one who tended to the crops. My first and most immediate thought was not one of pity for the man, rather of fear for my friend. What would happen to John, if his father was found guilty and hanged?
"What do you mean? What has he done?" I asked quietly, to which John attempted to quiet himself, sniffling and rubbing his eyes, yet keeping himself wrapped around me as tight as he could manage. We didn't understand the meaning of personal space, a fact which always irritated my brother and seemed to amuse Victor. Mycroft had stopped trying to lecture me about what was wrong with being so close, he seemed to have given up the effort. I didn't understand the words he was using, nor could I contemplate why the punishments were necessary. We were just friends, friends held each other close. Everyone knew that.
"I don't know, but the Sherriff came and took him away, he came and he put cuffs on him." John whispered.
"Perhaps they won't hang him, oh John I'm sure he's innocent." I whispered, trying to rock John back and forth in the most soothing way I could manage. It wasn't working, for he continued to cry.
"I'm not sure that he is, Sherlock. I don't know." John admitted. "But I couldn't stay. I needed you."
"I'm here." I assured stupidly.
"I know you are." John agreed, wiggling closer to my chest so that he could lean his head against my shoulder. "I know."
"Let's forget about it, alright John? Let's just try to go to sleep." I suggested, for I could think of no better alternative than sleep. He would not have to labor under his own thoughts, and I would be able to finish out my night peacefully. I didn't like to think about his father, and so I decided that dreaming would be much more pleasant.
"What am I going to do if he dies?" John whispered fearfully, leaning away finally and looking into my eyes in the darkness. Finally my vision had adjusted, and I was able to use the moonbeams to see his face, so shadowed yet so bright with tears, I was able to see the pain in his eyes like I had never seen it before.
"I don't know." I admitted, for that was the obvious answer.
"Sherlock, I'll starve to death." John whispered. "And my mother, and my sister, we'll all starve."
"I won't let that happen." I promised.
"What can you do about it?" John asked in a trembling little whisper. I sighed heavily, shaking my head yet falling back onto my bed, and dragging him down with me so that we could curl up together like we always did. I kept my arms around his chest, yet he lay facing me so that he could look into my eyes for a moment. He always said he liked my eyes, and the colors they displayed. He said they were proof of God, for nothing could be so beautiful without such divine intervention.
"I can't do much, John. I can't plant crops or make money or do any of that. But I can keep you here, now. And I can keep you here for as long as I need to. Because we're not starving now, and we won't be so long as we lay here. This moment can last for ages, if it has to." I promised.
"That doesn't make any sense." John commented, and yet I could see a smile trying to make its way onto his face. He tried to fight it, and yet eventually he allowed a quick little smile, before leaning forward and planting a kiss onto my forehead. I felt my face heat up in humiliation, for he had never kissed me before, and I was quite unsure what it meant. The only thing I could think of was how angry Mycroft would be if he saw us now. Then again, fear was only a small sliver of my full spectrum of emotions right then. Most all of it was love, love in a form that I could not recognize just then. I had thought it was mere appreciation, something as petty as excitement for being cherished. I had never allowed it into my mind that of course it was more. I had never even contemplated how I would soon long for his lips.
"Try to get some sleep. That always makes me feel better." I recommended. John nodded, letting his head sink into the pillow, trying to steady his shaking limbs and wipe the tears from his face. He didn't look ashamed, yet he looked as though he was somehow trying to relax. Obviously it would be hard for him to stifle out his tears, and yet slowly he was allowing his sadness to melt away into the moment. He was able to take a breath, recollect himself, and remember that the world was still going to turn. No matter what happened, life went on. Every breath we took was just proof that our lives didn't end when we thought they would, every heartbeat just reminded us that no matter what the circumstances, we were still alive. I didn't know how to tell him that without sounding too philosophical, and so instead I just held him closer, and allowed him to sleep in my arms. Looking back I should've run, we should've run together. I had no idea that the events which would unfold after his father's hanging would be so grave. I had no idea that this was just the first of many dominos to fall in succession of the other, destroying not just our peace, but our friendship as well. 

My mother walked John home the next day, she was the one who had woken me up and thus had been the one to discover the runaway asleep in my bed. Well of course she couldn't let him stay, not when she had just received word that our neighboring farm was home to a criminal, and as soon as she had finished cooking breakfast she took my friend by the hand and marched him through the fields and to his own house. Well of course he knew the way there, I could only assume that she was nosey enough to want to hand delver him, so as to get a look around the house or perhaps a glimpse at the state of the family. Not much happened where I grew up, and a robbery and arrest was probably the most exciting thing that could happen to our little town. It was the first major crime in my immediate recollection, that entirely owing to the fact that I was merely five years old, and yet of course the first one that I witnessed was the one which had the greatest impact on my childhood. Looking back I should have cherished that moment, the last that I saw of John Watson that morning. Looking back, I should've walked him home myself, hand in hand, one last time in the youthful bliss of childhood. And yet I sat on my chair at breakfast, poking around at the scrambled eggs without eating a bite. Mycroft was equally disturbed, and yet he found a way to shovel down his breakfast anyway. He was staring at me with that frown which was so characteristic of him, that frown he wore when he was most concerned for me.
"So you had a visitor last night?" Mycroft presumed.
"Yes." I nodded, already sensing the familiar lecture coming on. Mycroft nodded, sitting back in his chair and pushing away his now empty plate.
"His father was convicted of stealing, he robbed the bank." Mycroft pointed out.
"Yes, John told me. He's afraid." I agreed.
"He should be afraid. His father is destined for the gallows." Mycroft insisted. I frowned, letting my head hang in regret. It seemed as though Mycroft wanted to get me upset, for whatever reason that seemed to be his main goal at the moment.
"I know." I whispered again.
"William, I know that it might be hard for you to contemplate at the moment, yet your friend may not be the same after this. He may not be as carefree, this will certainly leave a mark upon him that you cannot see, but it is there all the same. Do tread carefully with him, and don't ever bring up his father, or death, or anything else that might make him upset." Mycroft warned, to which I nodded stiffly.
"Yes I know." I agreed quietly. "I don't want to make him upset. He was crying last night."
"You're a good friend for consoling him." Mycroft assured. I nodded, noting the hint of pride that was evident in my brother's voice.
"Would you do that for Victor?" I asked finally, looking up to him so as to make another comparison between our two friendships. Mycroft's brow furrowed, and for a moment he was quiet. For a moment his black eyes clouded over, and he stared blankly at the table cloth before him while his fingers tapped anxiously on his knee.
"William, Victor and I are at that age now where we cannot be so close. Lest we be destined for the same fate as poor Mr. Watson." He murmured. My shoulders sagged in disappointment, for I hated to hear Mycroft speak of things as if they were so unethical.
"Why do they punish boys who love other boys?" I asked quietly. Mycroft dropped his head again, in some sort of state of mourning.
"Because, William, God himself has forbidden it." Mycroft whispered. "And you will be right to heed his word, as you grow, mind yourself. Mind your friend."
"That's not fair." I whispered quietly. "That's not fair that God should hate love."
"Speak no more of it, William. You're not old enough to understand love anyways." Mycroft insisted with a snap.
"I'm old enough to know! I'm old enough to know that there are people worthy of my love, and those who aren't! And John's worthy, I do love him! No matter what you say, or anyone else!" I exclaimed, and with that I jumped from my chair and ran to my room, feeling the tears falling down my face as I went. Mycroft stayed at the table, resting his face in his hands and wondering now what he was supposed to do. He was afraid, he admitted to me later. He was so afraid that I was destined to grow up destined for the gallows, with my large heart and my strong soul. He was afraid that I would grow up with a tendency to love men, with an inconsistency against nature. He was afraid that I would grow up to be just like him.