Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/463770.

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Gen
Sherlock (TV)
Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade,
Original Characters, Mrs. Hudson
Time Travel, Bad Davey is a Bit Bad, Grown up Man in an Eight Year
Old Body, Kidfic that's not Kidfic, Accidently Inventing a Super
Genius, Surprise Dimmock, The Holmes' Problem, Is That They Want
Everything to be Clever
Part 1 of Wee Doctor
Published: 2012-07-19 Completed: 2012-08-14 Chapters: 19/19
Words: 57576

Wee Doctor
by americanjedi
Summary

Dr. John Watson is turned into an eight year old child, dealing with Sherlock who doesn't
know him in a world where he was never born. He's a little stressed out, but he's got his
priorities straight. Original characters and London as a war zone, and John's accidentally
inventing a super genius.

Chapter 1
John and Sherlock were chasing after one Dr. Grendel. John wasnt completely sure why, it
involved Sherlock yelling brilliant! a great deal and then insidious and then absolutely perfect
but inelegant. If it was inelegant, John wondered, could it be perfect? He was rather running on
too little rest and tea, begging to be able to sleep for at least four hours, just four, or one, or fifteen
minutes, it had been two days and he had no idea what they were even chasing after. There were a
gaggle of flustered physicists, a few distressed Austrians and a dash of Mycroft with a raised
eyebrow. This was definitely one of those cases where John just needed to run after Sherlock,
shoot things that needed to be shot and then sew everyone up at the end. John had slumped in a
chair outside the office at the lab buildings of what uni he wasnt sure and of whom he didnt even
know while Sherlock flustered around inside.
It wasnt Johns preferred way of doing this, of doing cases. But he was so glad, so happy that
Sherlock was finally, finally shaking off the whole Irene Adler fiasco. It was like sometimes, John
thought, Sherlock thought of people in three categories. The general populous, whos main
purpose was to be loud, stupid and if Sherlock was very lucky, a murder victim. That, although it
was hard to understand at first, was not something personal; the general populace existed as a sort
of crowd of extras. Second were the bit players, people whose names Sherlock actually made an
effort to remember. Anderson, Sally, Molly unfortunately although she spoiled him awfully and
obviously wanted to be his friend, the thousand little businessman who got him the things he
needed and the things he wanted for free. And then the pinnacle, the blessed third category, was
the real people. Mycroft was real, Sherlock childhood hero turned nemesis, likely because that
was the most impressive honour Sherlock could think of bestowing on anyone. Although there
were some rough waters there. John wasnt sure, Sherlock seemed the sort of child to bite people
when he was pleased. Moriarty was real and fascinating, very dangerous that one, the closest thing
Sherlock thought there was to himself. And somehow in the space of less than a quarter of an hour
Irene Adler striped off her clothes, raised an eyebrow and became quite real. And then she was
gone, then alive and ruining Mycrofts clever plane plan then dead again. That was the greatest
shock of all. That real people could die. That people Sherlock cared about could die. John saw
how that frightened Sherlock and made him pull into himself like a wounded animal. As
impossibly fast and hard to understand this case was for John he didnt mind it if it would draw
Sherlocks mind away from the wounds he carried to his vulnerable underbelly.
Well lose him if we wait another second! Sherlock yelled suddenly, leaping back into the hall
with the one of the distressed Austrians peering after him just as John was starting to doze. This
is better than murder! Abduction is so pedestrian! The impossible thing wont work of course
It was at this point that John had completely lost track of the conversation if he had ever had it in
the first place.
It involved a great deal of physics. Both the case and the conversation, and admittedly Johns
interested ran closer to chemistry and biology than physics and whatever else they were babbling
about. He was also fairly sure Sherlock was deleting most of it as soon as it was poured in his
head. John would have said no, would have said he needed his sleep, but when Sherlock called he
felt adrenaline hum up from his heart to his fingertips and suddenly the tiredness was gone.
Besides, who else was going to run after Sherlock, shoot things that needed to be shot and then
sew everyone up? Sherlock shot him a grin and they were clambering through the hall and down
the stairs like over excited schoolboys.
Then there was across the grassy green dislodging snogging students and into a cab, breaking into
a flat (John was there for that one) stealing a planner, back in a cab and out to the middle of
nowhere just in time to miss tea. John Watson was not a fan of missing anything with tea in it.

Oh relax, Sherlock huffed in the cab as if answering the complaint of his own stomach. Well
get you tea enough when the case is over. Youll get to drink that semi-solid abomination Lestrade
insists is coffee.
John smiled his small pleased smile, tucked up tight like an origami frog, Lestrade has a
reputation to maintain as a Yarder. The recognition of his sacrifice made it alright somehow. John
didnt voice a complaint.
Then they were hunched behind an old laboratory in the rain (of course, lucky John had gone for
a jumper instead of just a button up) and Sherlock was vibrating pleasantly like only an excited
Sherlock could. He wants to do what to people? John said, with his hands under his arms to
keep warm. This was one of those squinting nights where his hair was plastered to his head and
there was water just about everywhere. He knew how it was going to end too, with the two of
them hipchecking each other to get to the shower and kettle first. Well mostly the shower.
Sherlock preferred to drink tea John had made so he lurked until John had blinked and then
carried out a stealthy tea steal.
Do keep up John, Sherlock said turning his head, his long hair slicked all over his face.
Havent you been listening?
John couldnt help grinning at him; Sherlock looked a bit like a wet rat. Or a limpet. A little like a
limpet. It was something to do with time and paradoxes and people exploding in conferences for
physicists. It was all slightly incoherent at that point. His brain was focused on keeping Sherlock
alive, a constant worry and keeping himself alive, also important. Everything else was, as
Sherlock said, transport. He floated in his happy little war space, riding high on their friendship. It
must be a friendship, Sherlock was the best friend Johns ever had, for all the in flat experiments
and he was pretty sure Sherlock was rather fond of him too. If nothing else it was a fierce little
codependency. He understood enough, Dr. Grendel had been cut from a team of physicists before
said team one some big award. He was outraged that they so dared to steal his notes. He (believed
he) had a weapon that could bend time and space. He also blew up a scientist as a fancy
conference. Dr. Grendel was also about to get arrested.
John had paid a little attention.
They get a quick grin to each other, John all smile lines and mouth and Sherlock all cheekbones
and eyes, before they were picking the back lock and running in. Later John thought he should
have asked for greater specificity.
Im going to erase you, Dr. Grendel had said after they burst into the room of the bare
laboratory but before Sherlock could press the send button to call Lestrade and before John got his
hand to the small of his back where his Browning lurked warmly. John was exceptional at hiding
his Browning, although Sherlock was somehow always able to find it. John was infinitely grateful
Sherlock hadnt yet accidentally killed himself, as, if he ever knew that service pistols are quite
literally ready to shoot at a moments notice in emergency situations, he had probably deleted it. It
was a miracle he hadnt shot one of his feet off. Dr. Grendel had his funny gun pointed at
Sherlock. John was calculating in his head the amount of time it would take him to get his hand
beneath the back of his jumper and retrieve, aim and shot his gun. He didnt like the way things
were going, not at all. Sherlock didnt believe Dr. Grendels claim, but a gun was a gun. Youll
just stop existing, Dr. Grendel said. It will be like you were never born.
It didnt work with Dr. Connor, Sherlock replied, insultingly calm and Dr. Grendels face
exploded with rage.
It wasnt a conscious thought per se, it was more like a series of flaring realizations. He couldnt

draw his gun in time, that realization was just a matter of muscle memory. After that Johns brain
just moved forward with Sherlockian logic toward his final deduction. First millisecond, he
thought about that first case he had solved with Sherlock and all the cases Sherlock had solved. It
wouldnt be good if Sherlock hadnt solved those cases. Second millisecond, John would never
have survived without Sherlock there, and as much as he didnt want to admit it, he really does
love the danger. Third millisecond, he wasnt that great at much anyway except ruining dates,
having bad dreams and making a cuppa. Which he was actually quite good at doing.
Fourth millisecond, will this block the bullet, yes? Good. Wait, not a bullet Fifth millisecond,
what is that?
Then his rapid thoughts dissolved into pain, hot white pain. It destroyed everything. Burnt
everything in him, like a fire in a barrel. There wasnt London, there wasnt the war, there wasnt
Sherlock, there wasnt John. There was only fire, and a single, last burst inside him, like that
spinning, consuming fire in the barrel had hit a chestnut and there was a memory. John was eight
and holding a sparrow, it was dying in his hands and he thought, (black coat flapping in front of
him, Welcome to London? Laughter. Havent laughed like that for a while, feels so) I want to be a
doctor.
When he opened his eyes again everything hurt a lot and he found that he was not erased at all.
He was instead incredibly sore; every cell of his body was like a pinprick of fire. He was laying
on a rooftop. In those quick first breaths of aftermath he didnt know what had happened, but he
knew that there was danger and that he wanted to be a doctor. He was a doctor. He named all the
bones in the human body and the chambers and arteries of the heart and the systems of the body
one after the other. He knew how to set a broken leg and how to stop internal hemorrhaging. A
relief swept over him so strong that he almost started weeping.
He was on a rooftop, when he rolled over to lift himself up he found that he was a great deal
smaller than he remembered. Also dry, which was an improvement. This was distressing, but not
as distressing as peering above the edge of the roof and seeing Sherlock pant after a cab. Because
John remembered this night. He remembered how easy it was to run without a flack and gear on.
How free. He remembered thinking that Sherlock was absolutely mad. Amazing, but definitely
mad.
He remembered the feel of stairs and iron and gravel and road beneath his feet.
He remembered the taste of the pasta, the richness of the sauce, the burst of spices, the awkward
dinner conversation.
But on this night he remembered so well, Sherlock was alone.
John lay on his back carefully, like he had been shot but didnt know where yet. Like he had been
picked up in a bomb blast and wasnt sure he was still all in one piece. His Browning dug into his
spine now that it didnt fit as intimately as a hand in the small of his back, then he really did start to
cry.
It took a long time for him to remember everything about this night, he was so miserable. Curled
up in a pathetic little ball, weeping his pathetic little eyes out, but he finally did.
He propped himself up on a chair to give him some height. Didnt want it to be too obvious.
His hands didnt shake.
Sherlock was still his best friend.

Power of Deduction:
Crack shot, nerves of steel. Strong moral character. Military man, likely Iraq or Afghanistan,
skilled at infiltration. Possibly special forces. Tall.

Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

Here's the new betaed version of chapter two, with the assistance of the lovely tristhe.

Considering John woke on a rooftop as the eight year old version of himself, he thought he was
dealing pretty well. That first night, the night he suddenly found himself in, he remembered saving
Sherlock. This time the gun kicked, more than he was used to, and almost threw him over the
back of the chair he stood on in the same room where he had stood before. He obviously wasnt
part of Sherlocks life so he headed to Harrys. She didnt know him; he had been expecting the
confusion, an instinct in the back of his head, like feeling a snipers crosshairs.
But he had hoped.
She was sober, in a smart blue-black dress, neat and sharp; ages away from the Harry he had
known all alone in her big fancy house, drinking too much and crying. Their relationship had
eventually devolved to him holding her hair out of her face while she vomited, making her eat
toast and drink ginger ale, occasional phone calls and blog comments. When she hadnt
recognized him he said he was sorry, that he meant to the doorbell for the house a couple down.
She just nodded at him distractedly and closed the door. Maybe Harry hadnt changed that much
after all. If she ever thought better of leaving an eight year old child alone on her doorstep in the
dark he didnt know. He left immediately, trying to think of someplace he could go.
He ended up in a public bathroom staring at himself in the mirror. Big eyes, button nose, face just
losing its baby fat. It was a childs face. He was eight.
He looked like he was still in primary school. He slid his left arm out of his jumper more smoothly
than he had in years and bared his shoulder in the bleak fluorescent light. There was a faint pink
where his scar should be, but not that shiny skinned star he was used to. Oddly enough however
he did have a line of small scars across his ribs like rabbit prints in snow. He picked those up from
an IED in Afghanistan. He didnt know why he had one but not the other. He didnt know why
he had the body of an eight year old and his own adult mind. He didnt know how something like
this could happen in the first place.
John was no Sherlock but it had to have been something about that memory. That last burst before
he disappeared or was erased or whatever it was that was supposed to have happened to him.
Wanting to be a doctor, he remembered that one memory in the pain. He wished he had
remembered something a little older.
London was not a friend to a young boy with no past and no friends. He had known that working
cases and he felt the reality of it now. He thought briefly of Raz and the other boys like him with
their bikes and cans of spray paint. But they were too old to accept a child, and they all had
families to go home to; theyd just leave John alone again afterward. In the end he returned to
Vauxhall Arches where the Golem was hiding and snugged his back into a corner listening to
someones soft mutterings like the flickering of moths wings.
He spent a sprawl of nights huddled in the dark, reading his stolen copy of Grays Anatomy like
an addict with his little flashlight.

Doorknobs, John discovered, were the new bane of his existence. He had spent thirty-some-odd
years being able to see in windows, open the top cabinets in kitchens and most notably, reach for
doorknobs without thinking. Now he was forever reaching for doorknobs straight out in front of
him at waist level, where they had always been before. They werent there anymore, they had all
been shifted to eye-level. It was a constant reminder that everything had changed in his life. And it
kind of made him look like an idiot.
Johns cards didnt work either, he had never existed after all, so he cut them up into little pieces
and threw them into the Thames. It was like spreading his ashes. Highly therapeutic probably. His
phone still worked, so there was probably a Harry and Clara still. Sherlock had been right about
keeping things; if Harry had left Clara again he doubted she would have kept the phone.
He had stopped crying pretty quick and taken up running, wearing a gray hoodie that reminded
him vaguely of his days in training, with a Polaroid camera heavy in his front pocket. Johns nice
clothes, his not-street clothes as he thought of them, were folded up neatly and stored in his
knapsack. His street clothes were jeans, trainers, and his hoodie with his Polaroid, though much of
the time he kept that in his bag so it wouldnt break when he got into fights.
He was his own ambulance, he ran all of London, warming up with a hard, steady jog and then
tearing through alleyways and short cuts and rooftops. He liked to think that his slow
memorization of the impossible twists of Londons street was almost as good as Sherlocks.
Except he knew it wasnt, Sherlock had Google Maps in his head.
Twice he passed Sherlock running in the opposite direction and it had cut like a knife.
As if to emphasize the fact that he didnt exist, neither Sherlock nor any of the Yard, except
Anderson once, ever caught him snapping pictures of Sherlocks crime scenes. He had more cases
than John remembered from working with him. Wasnt sure what that meant.
John wasnt sure of a lot of things.
This case had to do with fish, John wasnt quite sure what, but the koi were extremely beautiful. It
was so striking to see Sherlocks dark coat with the large orange and white fish in his hands as he
looked lost as to where to put it that John stayed for an extra shot, giggling. He would call this one
the mystery of where do I put the fish? Answer obvious: Into DI Lestrades arms while he is
gesturing, Anderson is likely to drop it and the crime scene unit is bustling around too seriously.
Lestrade brings the most impact.
John laughed his eight year old head off and didnt even care.
His phone rang and he pulled it (he left her, or he would have kept it; people are sentimental) out
of his pocket. Speaking, he said, snapping closed the camera case and pushing it into his bag
next to his Journal and Grays.
Sometimes he felt like a little stalker. Maybe he was.
The alley was rattled off so fast that John almost didnt understand it, he tore across the rooftop,
fire escape, down the alley, across the way, third floor, two blocks was the quickest way. It made
his brain kind of exhausted, but he was able to pick up more now, journals agreed the young brain
was more malleable.
Gotta go, bobbies running all over, itsa stabbin, the child said with a half sob. Gotta go,
covered in blood.
The other hung up quickly and John hauled down the alley, across the way, third floor, two

blocks leaving the fire escape clanging behind him. That was the way to go. He slid to his knees
in front of the kid, couldnt be more than fourteen, while looking over his shoulder for any police,
or adults really, at the mouth of the alley. John had learned quickly that unless he wanted to be sat
in a chair and told what to do and where to go, it was a good idea to avoid adults. A blonde child
of indiscriminate sex was curled around the kid sporting matching eyes and ears (at least he
thought matching ears, he had never quite mastered that), holding their hands over the stab in the
kids side.
Doctor, they hissed at him, eyes wide and blown with terror, their hands were filthy but better
than nothing.
Move, he said. This may need surgery.
We got crack, the indiscriminate blonde said.
Dont want it, John said, probing the wound.
Im a girl, the blonde said again.
John paused and gave her a look, he wasnt sure what it looked like, but she ducked her head,
pulling herself into a knot with her bloody hands on her elbows.
Sorry sir, she whispered.
Dont make offers like that. You dont understand what you mean, he ordered in his army
voice. It was wrong, she was just child, looked to be just this side of twelve. She deserved more
time to trust people to be kind to her because they should. She was a child and deserved to be a
child, to rely, not to be used. It was the last thing most street child had of value, their childhood.
Play, and hope, and having their age treated with respect. And he was pretty securely
prepubescent himself, so it was a strange thing to offer anyway. Cracking open his case, he pulled
his supplies out and gloves on, Hold up the light.
Looked like it had missed any important organs, scraping instead along the side of the hip. He had
a time cleaning the wound; he ripped the antiseptic wipes with his teeth and cleaned the jagged
flesh, always looking over his shoulder. The kid cursed in little sobs that John could hardly stand.
Its going to be okay, that was to clean the wound to prevent infection. He held the flesh
together with one hand, blood slipping over the fingertips of his gloves. Im going to sew it
together now.
John was running low on supplies. He would have to go to St. Barts again, see what he could
snag. He had great respect for his alma mater, but she was his most reliable source, other than
trades. An in he could trust to get what he needed.
The stitches were neat and he put the gauze on gently, business like, Im going to check that
again later. Youve lost a lot of blood. Most of the children he treated wouldnt go to a proper
hospital. They had warrants out, or were dodging the system or for a thousand different reasons.
He had stopped fighting them about it.
You need to keep the wound clean; that means youre not to remove the dressing before its
ready. Make sure he rests and takes it slow. Have, John stumbled at the pronoun, your friend
drink some juice, eat something. If you can, go to the hospital.
Didnt you fix me? the kid asked.
Theyll have medicine I dont, and youll be able to have a blood transfusion. Youll heal quicker

and wont be as sick.

The two children looked at each other for a long time and finally the girl shook her head at her
friend. We cant, last time they split us up and she let the rest of her sentence die out in the air
between them. We got no family. Just waiting until Im legal and then well be okay.
Be careful, John said, closing up his first aid kit, pulling off his gloves. Your bodys in a
weakened state. I dont carry pain medicine, its too dangerous, or Id give you some.
Id like some, the kid said in a small voice, holding on really well considering.
Something else a hospital has that I dont, he sighed. Do you know Bad Davey?
The girl nodded, eyes big.
John scribbled the prescription on the back of a ripped bit of poster. Youll want four; one - one every six hours as needed, no more than that. Tell him not to charge you recreational prices, Ill be
checking. It might make you feel a little sleepy and relaxed, but it shouldnt get you loopy. And
its good to have food in your stomach for this anyway to avoid nausea.
She nodded again, taking the slip of paper and staring at it seriously. We dont have a lot of
money. We dont have any money.
He should give it to you. A close and personal relationship with a drug dealer wasnt something
John had ever imagined maintaining. He had changed so much in so few months. He grieved for
so much loss. Everything he had ever done, every single breath he had ever taken didnt mean a
single thing. He had nothing but memories of a world that once existed.
Okay, the girl said nodding.
She was going to nod her head off.
John had never considered himself a bad man, had tried not to be. But if he ever saw the man that
had done this to him John was going to empty three clips into his chest. There was nothing, now,
that he had left, except being a doctor. It was what had saved him so maybe it was enough.
After he got them to agree to take it easy and go see Bad Davey he hitched his bag onto his back.
Nearly everything in it had come as a result of theft, except some of the supplies he had begged or
bought off Bad Davey. Theft was not something John normally supported, but his whole life had
been stolen from him; he was just stealing it back.

Science of Deduction:
Fish will swallow almost anything if it shines convincingly. Smithwaite Pearls discovered.

Chapter 3
No matter what John did, no matter how good he was, as soon as people see him like this, he was
treated like something hes not.
A child.
If he had remembered something when he was older... Maybe a nice almost adult eighteen, fifteen,
ten even. But hes not. And he always looked young anyway. Its not so bad with children, with
adults, everything is you cant. No matter what he said, the reply was always no. It hurts so much.
He felt sometimes like screaming at the sky, (please God let me live) I am not a child!
He was so alone.
He knew that if he revealed too much to adults, how much he knew about medicine then not only
will it be no, it would be him shut up in a glass jar while they talk to him about tests. This he
hadnt experienced yet, he refused to be put into a glass jar. He wasnt going to do intelligence
tests and special schools. He couldnt compete. They would once again assume hes something
hes not, a genius.
There was something a doctor from Canada had told them the first day in the combat hospital.
Dying is your new normal. Adjust. So John adjusted, running around London, carrying his world
on his back.
When John first began to try and be a doctor again, in the beginning, he was captured by Bailey.
Captured may be a little too strong of a word, but thats what it had felt like. He had trespassed on
Baileys gangs territory on accident and they had accused him of spying for Bad Davey, a local
drug pusher who was making quite the name for himself.
John had fought them off swinging and kicking close to drawing his gun. Thats what you feared
in Afghanistan, capture, being turned into some sort of publicity stunt in front of a camera, not
knowing how long youd stay alive. Not that Baileys crew was quite the same as masked men
with AKs. They were just terrified. Bad Davey really had a habit of being bad.
I dont work for Bad Davey! John broke a boys nose with his elbow, blood spilling on his
jumper.
How do we know? Bailey barked at him in a heavy brogue, swinging around an iron pipe.
Because I dont! Im a doctor!
A doctor? Bailey asked. What are you, six?
Im eight! John yelled indignantly, cracking his Greys upside someone elses head. And Im
quite good actually.
Can you do broken bones? Bailey asked him and that was the beginning of Johns new life.
Of course, John said, Although it depends on how clean the break is. If its shattered
Nah, Bailey said motioning off his crew. Clean. Come on. The capture ended as quickly as it
started at Baileys quick agitated movements. We need you. It was just an accident.
He was dragged by the shoulder of his jumper to a back room; dark and smelling faintly of bad

curry where there was a rail thin red head curled around his broken arm in the corner. This John
can do. Ill need something stiff for splints, he said over his shoulder. I dont have anything to
make a cast with either.
Dont, the redhead was crying, curling himself up in an even tighter knot. Everything about him
twitched in parts, like the boy had been electrified.
Johns hands were practiced at being professional, at being gentle and calming. Its alright. Im a
doctor-
But youre so small, the boy interrupted. He would always interrupt.
John gritted his teeth a little at that, I seem to manage just fine. Whats your name? The boy
looked fearfully up at Bailey and then over at him.
R-Rooster.
Rooster, Im going to have to set your arm. Its not going to be very pleasant. But Ill need to or
it wont heal correctly.
Do you have to?
Yes, but it will be okay, once its set and starting to heal it wont hurt so bad. One hand rested
on Roosters shoulder, gentle, grounding him to Johns voice. Youll be okay.
I got the stuff, Bailey charged in.
Itll be okay Rooster, John said gently, in his best army medic voice. Youll be alright.
Phrenic energy drove Rooster, feet twitching, side hitching, creeping fingers, heavy tears. John
tried to calm him; talk to him let his voice wash over the boy, drawing him out of his panic.
How did you break your arm? he asked taking Roosters elbow in one hand and feeling for the
break. It was clean; all he had to do was realign the bone.
Bailey hissed at him, a cross sound between his teeth.
Mike pushed me down some stairs, Rooster barked, the sound of a panicked animal. Twitching
his feet in slow motions like he couldnt stop, pain heavy and panicky.
Johns eyebrows came together, getting things ready, Why did he push you down the stairs
Rooster?
Because Im Bad Daveys little brother, Rooster started, and then screamed as John realigned
his humerus.
It was an accident, Bailey whispered. Mike didnt mean to, but now we have to keep him. If
we let him go Davey will kill us all. I got kids to protect Doctor.
Idiot, John growled at him. You cant push a mans little brother down some stairs.
He needs to go to the hospital to get a proper cast.
He cant, if the Yard finds out than Roosterll be arrested as leverage. Then Daveyll kill us.
Ill talk to him, John said stoutly.
Are you crazy? Bailey yelled at him and then launched into a monologue of what John could
only assume was Gaelic.

only assume was Gaelic.

The worst he can do is kill me, John said. Just tell me where to go.
Bad Davey was not pleased; he threatened to hang John up by his pudgy little toes. Maybe it was
the Browning underneath Daveys chin, but he finally settled down and listened to John.
Davey couldnt let a slight like that go unpunished, he was up and coming, new to the scene and
the drug lords were watching him.
John couldnt allow the deaths of innocent children.
Davey could call his men in and have John killed in half a second.
John doubted Daveys guards could move faster than the bullet could exit the top of Daveys
head.
Davey allowed this and grinned at John, Youve got the eyes mate. Youd do it too to save all
those little brats. Can I offer you a drink? Im sure Ive got water somewhere.
He was utterly unique, he wasnt Baileys crew, he wasnt interested in being part of a gang or
choosing sides. Only in helping people, he made this clear, he wasnt choosing sides. But he
usually slept in the tunnels with Baileys, sometimes curled up next to Rooster who was a whole
different story all together.
John was walking very slowly back from a very long surgery when a couple of ominous looking
men walked up on either side of John to sweep him along with a Mycroft-esque style. They swept
him down a back way and into Bad Daveys building. Bad Davey waves him into his office
shifting around stacks of papers. Doctor, Davey said not looking away from his paperwork and
motioning at the teacup on the edge of his desk. Hope this isnt an inconvenience. When he
finally looked up it is only to find his cigarettes and light up with a blissful sigh. His red hair
flashed back and forth in the light from auburn to burgundy.
They didnt try to carry me again, he said simply while Davey blew smoke rings.
Laughter, harsh and ragged, That was funny that one time. He looked at John out of the corner
of his eye. Tom couldnt walk for three weeks.
John sipped his tea.
Roosts always saying how you follow around that Shamrock-
Sherlock, he corrected.
Cause thats better. So I thought you should know, its been noticed hes been poking around by
new folks in town.
Not my thing, but theyve been poking around asking for something. Creeping stuff, he did that
thing with his eyes that meant bad things. Spray paint all over while Im trying to move merch.
Dont appreciate it. But I thought you should know. Trouble.
The Case of the Blind Banker, John remembered this case.
Daveys face shifted, he became a little pensive, Hows Roost?
Hes doing fine, learning a lot. He lives for memorization.
Moving so his expression was obscured by his business, Davey only replied, Hes a complete

and utter pain.

Hes been sleeping. Close to six hours a night now.
Crushing his cigarette viciously Davey barked out for an escort for John, If I become interested in
something as lame as my brothers sleeping habits, Ill let you know kid, he said, but he wouldnt
look at John in the eye. There was a relief to him that made him vulnerable, and he couldnt afford
to show that to anyone.
The Case of the Blind Banker, John still remembered he thought as he walked. Sherlock carried
the case (the case, of course the case), as he carried every case, but John remembered a few things
that he did help this one. Someone had to take a picture of the code, but Sherlock was working
alone now.
No one paid attention to small children. Usually the bane of his existence right next to doorknobs,
but now Johns counting on it. Slipping away into the dusk, he hoped no one will notice a little
boy in the shadows. Snapping a picture of the Chinese numbers, John looked over his shoulder.
Its just like before, one snap with his phone, but this time he cant hunt for Sherlock to show him
what he found. He didnt know who it was that covered the message with the black paint, he only
saw them from a distance as he ran away. Finding a little alcove to sit in John took a deep and
steadying breath and types Sherlocks number into his phone.
He didnt know why he was so scared. This wasnt a scary thing. This isnt surgery in the back of
a convenience store or car bombs on a street thats far too busy. But somehow he was terrified
anyway. Before he can think about it anymore he sends Sherlock the picture of the numbers. He
was looking at the stars with his fingers keeping warm under his knees when his phone beeped at
him.
There wasnt a reason John should be surprised really, but he was anyway. He could feel his heart
against his breastbone.
Who are you? SH
Of course he would be on Johns message as soon as it hit his phone. What would he say? Your
best friend? Your flatmate? Oh, you dont remember me? Not surprising actually. He was
probably triangulating Johns position by his consonants and vowels. Running was the only thing
he could think of, so he ran back toward town. Toward hiding really. He hadnt gotten too far
when the phone rang again.
Who are you?
No signature this time, John was surprised the first text got one, but then that was Sherlock. He
looked down at the screen and chewed on his lip a little. There was no way he could hold up
against a direct attack of Sherlocks wits.
Wrong question. He tried instead.
Every shadow looked like a crouching form, every bit of gravel hiding something. He wasnt this
jumpy since he first deployed. Shaking himself out he waited for the response.
Whats the right question? SH
Not what John was looking for but it would work.
What do you need?

This way John could hint without blowing his cover too much. There was a long pause and John
was getting nervous when the phone went off again.
What are the symbols? What do they mean? SH
John stared at the phone; that question made no sense, they had already been to that little shop
where that lady had tried to sell him that ugly cat. Well, not them this time, only Sherlock. Of
course Sherlock had figured it out by now. But maybe John was getting confused, it had been a
while, maybe this was before they had gone to the shop and Sherlock had figured the symbols
were numbers, sprawling off about ancient numerical systems and merchants. John must have just
had the timeline backwards.
No harm in telling him early.
Theyre numbers, its a code.
Halfway before composing a farewell text Sherlock blasted him with: Ill find you Moriarty.
SH
The side of Johns mouth quirked up,
Not Moriarty. W
The initial was an afterthought, one he hoped he wouldnt regret. He got twenty seven different
messages over the next ten minutes, and had to turn his phone off so he stopped getting funny
looks and hoped that no one was dying.
He was smiling for the first time in a long time.
Science of Deduction:
Are you there? You already knew before me. How did you know?

Chapter 4
It could ricochet, Sherlock said panting slightly. The whole scene cut out in black shadow and
orange and red light, making everything look mysterious. Shaded like an action film. John stayed
crouched in the dark, crouched down with his gun held up at the ready against his shoulder. It
could hit anyone. Including you. Of course Sherlocks focusing on the crazy death machine and
the cluster of Chinese gangsters, leaving his back unguarded. This time around there was no John
to get bashed over the head and held captive. There were only two swathes of dark, one hiding
Sherlock, the other hiding John while the General swung wildly and talked about making a deal.
John grit his teeth. Everything was going well until this point. The man that had appeared behind
Sherlock was an easy sharp cut target against the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of watching
his back Sherlock was enjoying the presentation of his reveal, the way his voice echoed. Not a bit
good Sherlock. He shifted his feet against the floor of the tunnel, feeling the silent roll of dirt and
gravel under the well-used soles of his feet. He kept his eyes up, moving, there was General Shan,
and the Spider had crept off to the side toward Sherlock, there were five other men running
around, but none of them were a match for the Great Sherlock Holmes. Oh no, certainly not. Not
with their guns and their knifes and their years working as gangsters getting mean and learning
dirty tricks. John stepped into firing stance, feet set, arms straight, finger ready on the trigger.
Youd
Wait.
have
Wait.
to be
Sherlock. Look behivery good.
Too late.
John fired and the man behind Sherlock shouted and dropped while Sherlock jumped about three
inches. Everyone jumped. It all turned out roses of course, the shot was nonlethal. He was pretty
sure. He hadnt meant it to be lethal. The man was a murderer anyway, so, not a nice man.
Stupendous amounts of running and shouting and Sherlock was standing and taking big cautious
steps toward the shadows where John was hiding. Did W send you? One narrow hand is
stretched out toward him. John wanted to reach toward it, grasp the hand in both of his and ask,
dont you know me? No one else wanted me but you. He knew what the answer would be. It
would be no.
Half of Scotland Yard appeared before John can break, with a tall black man John didnt
recognize stormed on scene and directing the flow of constables like a conductor, arresting
everyone, its a madhouse. (Wasnt this the first case they had worked with Dimmock? He was
pretty sure of that, but maybe time had shifted again.) It was a near thing, getting caught, with the
tunnel full of police officers and gangsters, but John was small, and he can be very quiet. As soon
as he broke free he texted Sherlock.
He couldnt help it.

He couldnt help it.

He just had to know if Sherlock was alright. If everything was fine.
They always talked after cases.
Be. More. Careful. W
Just a graze in a dark tunnel. Your man was very good. SH
John felt the mix between pride and distaste he got every time Sherlock complemented his ability
to shoot. At least he was back to his clever prying statements that were questions without being
questions.
Just be careful.
Youre concerned. Why? SH
That took some thought. But in the end it was ultimately simple. Because you are amazing.
Dont patronize me.
Im not. Youre perfectly extraordinary.
There was a long pause. It lasted two London blocks trailing close behind a family of four.
Looked like he belonged, but he didnt. That was safest at night without having to injure any
would be kidnappers. Or to be more honest, it kept the concerned British public from bending
down and putting a hand on his shoulder while saying, Are you lost dear? Wheres your mum and
dad? One politically correct minded gentleman had asked after his parents instead. Never knew
these days.
Thank you. SH
John smiled at that, not sure if it was in earnest or a ploy, probably a ploy, Sherlock didnt thank
people. Any people. He had thanked John who lived with him and made a regular occupation of
keeping him alive maybe five or six times. It was mostly reserved for shooting people and handing
over phones. He had no idea how to answer that with a measure of intelligence and proper
secrecy, but he got a call from Bad Davey. So he left the conversation off where it was and
walked lighter, splitting off the decoy family to head to Bad Daveys flat.
Well, he liked to think Sherlock was at least a little sincere.
Maybe he was, John did fulfill the shooting criteria.
He was nodded into Bad Daveys bunker office by a girl with a small blue glittery dress, blue
glitter shoes and thick blue glittery eye makeup and a sweet little self-deprecating shrug at her blue
outfit. She tilted the side of her mouth up, texting lazily with one hand before motioning him
through.
Davey looked up at John as he pulled the plastic off a new pack with his teeth, leaning back
looking around for a bin. He plucked the flimsy wrapper out with one hand while shaking out a
cigarette with the other. What are you doing here Elsie?
The girl in blue shot back, Manny wasnt feeling right, she needed to go shake it off.
Youre supposed to be pushing merc.

Ive got an appointment at a spoiled posh-baby party at one.

Who starts a party at one? Davey snarked, plucking his lighter up from the sleek ordered lines of
his desk.
Posh-babies sir, she smiled and let the door to his office drift closed.
You know second hand smoke is a thing, John told Davey, watching him light and hissing
smoke out through his teeth.
Thats what youre worried about killing you. Second hand smoke?
It might start to be a concern the way you go at it.
Davey bared his teeth at him. What are you doing up anyway?
I was helping with a case. With Sherlock.
Davey grunted with irritation, Youre meant to have a bedtime, developing bodies and such.
Mental acuity and all that. He waved his cigarette around in circles making cloudy grey
arabesques.
Ill sleep in tomorrow, John said as Davey turned in his seat to reach the back board and started
banging around with a small kettle over a hot plate. Bad Davey didnt have anything
complimentary to say to that.
Whats got whats his face running around so late then? his hands moved with slick precision,
cream, sugar, kettle, opened the sleek wooden box by the kettle and selected tea bags.
The Black Lotus, the lot that were running around spraying everything, there was a jade pin they
were looking for, killed a couple of people to get to it. Bad Davey kept his head tilted inquiringly
as he turned around, cup and saucer in hand, the tea smelled intoxicatingly like lavender. No plain
black for John. The aggressive planes of Daveys face lifted, slightly, encouraging him to go on.
Johns small hands went to hold the saucer and cup, Davey had excellent taste in china, Tonight
was the big standoff, and of course Sherlock is allergic to back up, he has to show off how clever
he is. Their leader, or one of their leaders, General Shaun was captured, or almost captured at
least. I didnt stay long enough to find out. Then I got your text. John watched Davey take a sip,
slouched back in his seat. You know smoking can destroy your sense of taste.
Oh leave off, he growled if not good naturedly at least not dangerously, setting his cup out of
the way. I dont smoke that much.
John chose not to comment.
After Bad Davey complained for half an hour about being Johns personal chemist he finally
took payment which involved a complicated list of trades and a little cash. John had become
personal physician and familial go between sometime between sticking his gun under Daveys
chin and now. It was nice. Davey knew he wasnt a normal child, he never pretended to be, but
Davey didnt ask any questions. He just accepted the fact that John was different and if the reason
he was different was important he would say so. Once the business portion of their meeting was
over John tried to convince him to send Rooster to school.
This was the way Johns life works now, he was either deposited from event to event, like being
forced to join part in a high risk slide show, or he was running.
He doesnt do school, Davey growls, fetching his cigarette up and sucking down tobacco

smoke like the free world depended on it.

Roost should go to medical school. He can do it. Hell have to work hard, but I know he can do
it, John said earnestly, holding his tea saucer on his knees.
Medical school? he barked. He lifted the cigarette again and inhaled sharply. Its a good thing
Davey was so crazy. He wore his feelings on his sleeve when he looked at people. He was clearly
saying it hurts so much to think about my brother and Ive nearly given up hope and it hurts.
Before he can go to medical school though he needs to go to secondary. With tutoring he can get
up to par, and while the thought of Roost with chemicals is deeply concerning I believe with the
right teacher proper safety procedure can be impressed on him. Once hes in school its just A
levels and then hes in. I can help him, give advice.
Davey crushed his cigarette fiercely and lit another one, Roost is mad. He doesnt do school.
A private school, John said carefully. One that will prepare him.
Johns phone rang, startling him and making him cup and saucer tink together.
You didnt turn your phone off? Davey said darkly. Were meeting here.
Im on call. Youre not my boss Davey, John sighed his face creasing at the message.
Davey vocabulary of obscenity was as varied as it was creative.
What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?
John ignored the text for the time. It was a blocked number but he knew who it was. Think about
it. You have money now. Some of which is mine actually.
Smirking, Davey tapped his fingers on the well folded cash John had pushed across the table
earlier, I thought you dont approve of drug money.
Giving Davey a look, John shoved his phone back in his pocket. He needs to go to medical
school. He needs a purpose, a sense of identity. What will happen if he stays on the street? Just
letting him run free is not a plan thats sustainable for the long term. His brain will get pulled apart.
He needs some structure to apply to his life. Hes chosen medicine, let him keep on that strain.
Hes fourteen.
You of all people should know thats not a good enough dodge. You were already up and
running at fourteen.
Sucking in about half his cigarette in one go, Davey glared at him. Like others in his profession,
John could look at Davey and almost calculate how long it would be until Davey got lung cancer.
Not too many decades if he kept it up.
I have to go Davey, he set his cup and saucer on Daveys desk. Thank you for your assistance
with my patients.
Im not your personal chemist! Davey yelled after him again, but he didnt sound particularly
angry.
He dropped by Scotland Yard to snap a picture of Sherlock speaking awkwardly with Soo Lin
Yao. That was something that made his loss easier. Sherlock was able to keep her alive. No one

noticed him doing it; John was the man no one sees.
A block later his phone went off again: What is your interest in Sherlock Holmes?
Yawning deeply, John thought about ignoring it again, and then he did ignore it again. Highly
gratifying that.
John shut off his phone and staggered back through the tunnels, falling into the abused embrace of
an old oversized armchair. Rooster was missing, hopefully not burning anything. He was out in
about five seconds.

Science of Deduction:
Retrieved, jade hairpin. Other evidence was nearly destroyed by overabundance of the
constabulary. New data extracted.

Chapter 5
John could get money well enough, he didnt have a lot of it, but he never had. He knew about
making do, bargaining for the best deal on medical supplies. He was the Bad Davey and Rooster
family physician and would ask to get paid where he could. Sometimes when John got what he
called a new kid John would do a quick medical, but that wasnt too often. Davey was a bit
jealous of his professional attention. John could make an easy two hundred pounds which was
well below what any other doctor who worked criminals on the side would charge and much
more than hed make normally. And John didnt need too much, supplies for his kit, batteries for
his torch, soap and food. Food was something else entirely from the other things he needed. The
average eight year old required 1400 to 1600 calories and John lived an extremely active lifestyle.
Baileys crew shared food with him sometimes, but he didnt really belong with them. More often
not it was his share shifting quickly from his hands to the mouth of Roost, curled up next to him
like an affectionate freckled cat. So for food, he was creative, and patient.
As different as he was from Baileys crew, like a footnote, Roost was even stranger. He had an
electric warzone of a brain when he and John first met, tumbling between shrinking back from any
touch like a beaten dog and leaping forward in the joy of discovering every single thing. So John
was the one who kept him fed and replaced his clothes when he lost his shirt somewhere in
Whitechapel. John didnt mind it. He woke the day after his late night run and taking shots at
Chinese gangsters with Roosts sharp hip digging into the middle of his back and an arm in its
brace flung stiffly across his shoulder. There was warm breath that smelled of rather sourly of
curry and something else sharp. He wiggled himself more breathing room.
Roost shivered awake like an old dog and blinked crookedly down at him, You had a nightmare
again. You didnt cry this time.
John started to say something, he didnt remember a nightmare. Didnt remember shaking or
crying out. Hated the helplessness of being trapped in his brain without a way to hide it.
Vulnerable in his sleep.
No one heard, Rooster shrugged into Johns face and then yawned morning breath into his hair.
You just needed to get squished. John assumed that was what this sprawl was about.
Roost- he started.
Shut up, Roost complained, hiding his face into the top of Johns. I just got in a few hours ago.
I want to sleep.
Todays Molly Day, John said.
Roost moaned irritably, I dont care. Shut up. He hooked a knee under John and tried to flip
him on the floor. John scrambled free and avoided face planting narrowly, making a face at
Roosts irritated huff. Feeling for his mobile he unlocked it, tempted to let it glow straight in
Roosts face, he had slept in to a decent hour. It was almost the afternoon Molly Day, but could
work with the little bit of morning he had.
That morning was a special morning, well the morning of a special day. John scrounged together
breakfast, stretching in his sweaty dirty clothing. Every once in a while he would look at his texts
pleasantly and smile in between checking small dirty children for chicken pox. He had chicken
pox when he was three and a half, so he was probably okay. Tonight he had to go and meet with
Molly. Somewhere between running and children he would need to take some time to clean up
and look like a normal little boy.

He wasnt a little boy really, and if he was he wouldnt be normal. Following around a consulting
detective, running to danger, holding meetings with drug dealers.
At five oclock he was clean and pressed, his skin itching now he had scrubbed off the protective
layer of dirt.
Before I hit five twenty he dragged his feet shyly at the door of Molly Hoopers office.
Hullo Dr. Hooper, he said softly.
And she smiled her tiny fine smile and said, Johnny! Hows your mum? You must be famished!
The first time he had done this it was an accident, he couldnt find a supplier who would sell him
extra small gloves and he had remembered the size of Mollys pale hands. John was on edge
anyway, theft wasnt his thing really; when he had stumbled upon Molly in the middle of her
paperwork and had just sort of blurted out that he was going on an adventure in the hospital.
Are you really? she had said, blinking at him. Her eyes large and dark and so innocently kind.
Yeah, its boring watching my Dad sleep. Its sad up there.
She had chatted with him very politely and given him a biscuit. A small round peace offering held
gently in her small lady hands. Now she was a spot of normalcy. St Barts was an excellent place
to put something through for the occasional blood test. There werent any security cameras in the
office and only one in the lab, but that one covered the expensive chemicals. Being spotted isnt
an issue then. And every time he did it was also Molly Day, her sweet hands delicate and refined,
perfect for the detail work of an examiner. Her hands shifting as precise and kind and pinpoints.
Her eyes so compassionate as he sat and flushed under her attention. He had always felt a sort of
companionship with Molly, but something had shifted him when he had shrunk. She was just so
very friendly, so very nice.
His infatuation may or may not have anything to do with the quality of the food she provided him.
Hes lucky his eight year old face, apparently, appeared completely guileless or else he might have
been in trouble, Mum wants to try sometimes, but shes so tired. I peel potatoes, he said, puffing
his chest up in infant pride. John wasnt quite sure how eight year olds act, it had been a while,
and he just hoped he could get by with being mature for his age due to family tragedy.
Now there was routine, Molly set the small plastic plate in front of him with chicken parmesan and
a child sized piece of garlic bread before sitting down across from him and settling awkwardly.
Salvia flooded his mouth at the smell, it was like heaven. Like home. Like the way he used to be.
Real and known. He shifted back and forth on his seat. He hadnt had real food in forever.
One and one half weeks.
Beans get old.
Now youll have to tell me what you think, she said very seriously. Its a new recipe.
Its smells brilliant, he wiggled in his seat. Waiting for her to put her food on her plate so he
could start.
A lady needs to have a variety of talents, she said with a great deal of authority.
Youre brilliant Molly, he said, really meaning it. He enjoyed watching her preen a little.
Whether or not Sherlock appreciated it Molly was a skilled professional, she deserved a little

appreciation. A lot of appreciation. Youre very kind. It was true; not many people were start
sporadically feeding random small children. She really was sweet like a little brown fancy mouse,
delicate ears at attention for affection.
She smiled at him, her shoulders lifting with her smile. Go ahead, eat.
John didnt quite inhale it, but it only because of great force of will.
Hows your mother doing Johnny? Molly always took microscopic nibbles of her food.
Every time she asked he was wracked with guilt, but he couldnt just come out and say, actually
Molly Ive been lying to you all this time because Ive been running off with your supply of
surgical gloves. By the way, thank you for feeding me. Considering Im a massive git and all. So
instead he said, The doctors say that the treatment is going okay, but she can get sick really easy
and so she has to stay here for a few more days again.
She reached across and put one hand on his, Itll be okay Johnny, your poor Dad.
John was the most massive git in the whole world.
This must be very hard for him.
John shrugged and snatched up the extra garlic bread as soon as it hit his plate, He does okay, its
just hard for him to get to sleep, and then to explain his bread grabbing, Hes not got a lot of
time to cook. He only knows how to make risotto and stuff he just has to heat up.
Molly giggled, like he made some adorable joke and shifted in her chair. Molly thought everything
he did was adorable. It was a little alarming, but it felt good.
Im sure hes a very good man, she said. Whats he like?
John thought about his father, who beat him, and drank and the resentment he felt as a child. That
Harry always demanded so much from him when his sides hurt and he had a limp from being
kicked and she was scared of the shouting safe in her room. Back when he was stupid and didnt
understand. Instead of saying this, he fabricated, he lost his past anyway. His Dad could be
whoever John wanted him to be.
Hes a very good man, hes smart, and he never yells at me when I make mistakes, he tries hard
to keep us together, as a family. He tries to protect me from things sometimes, the sort of man he
would want as a father. One he might not appreciate at the time, but one he could respect later for
trying to protect his sense of innocent optimism. He didnt believe in lying like this, didnt believe
in lying to women, not to women like Molly who were regularly taken advantage of. But here
hes something different and if he cant get anyone to believe he is a real actual adult, then maybe
here he can pretend that his childhood kind of sucked.
Mollys face shifted slightly, Sometimes, she said gently. People look sad when they think no
ones looking because they want to try and pretend theyre happy for as long as they can.
Im scared sometimes, he told her, vomiting the truth there between them. He couldnt help it
after lying so much to someone who deserved the truth. He wasnt sure how he could do this. For
all the wonders of Molly Day, the lying wasnt so great. Im scared Ill disappear or that
everyones going to leave me.
She reached across to him, You have to believe that your father would never leave you, not if he
had a choice. That he loves you and want you to be happy.

I just want everything to be the way it was before. He looked at Molly with his soldier eyes and
his hard thin mouth.
It will be okay, Molly said, taking a deep breath. It will be fine. Im sure youre an excellent
help for him, she filled his plate again. John was always hungry, it gnawed at him constantly. He
wore it under his clothes. Hes grateful for all the food he can get. But he might be hungry for this
more. Someone telling him its all fine. Have some more, youre a growing boy.
She talked about her autopsies and how her moped didnt work again and how she fancied the
nice man that fixed her computer this morning and bad telly. Molly and John have discourses on
bad telly.
It got to be that time and he yawned exaggeratedly into the back of his hand.
She patted him tenderly on his head with a narrow hand and he wandered off with his stomach
delightfully bloated.
His phone rang as hes sneaking out the back door he still remembered from his days at Barts.
Medical students used it all the time because it was in a blind spot. Speaking, he said softly.
Doctor, theres been an explosion.

Science of Deduction:
Missing gloves, size extra small. The only thing that remains, even if its impossible, must be true.

Chapter 6
Bailey was crying, his face twisted up, Im going to kill him. Military training or not, this was
Johns eight year old body, his eight year old weight and his eight year old height, he wasnt
strong enough to hold Baileys whipcord twist. By getting his arms at angles, he was just able to
cling and twist Bailey close to him. Temporarily John was left standing on his toes before gritting
the thin, thin bottoms of his trainers into the debris powdered tunnel floor. This was not what John
needed, John needed to go scrub off the dust and brick and vaguely organic material that he had
been coated in crawling through collapsed bit of tunnel to get to Baileys crew.
If John was any larger he never would have been able to squeeze through.
John locked his arms tighter around Baileys middle, holding him as tight as he could, Help me
hold him!
Launching from out of nowhere, Rooster lunged forward and took both of them down to the
ground with a crack. That crack was likely something attached to Baileys body, but it couldnt be
too bad because he was still moving a little, murmuring to himself softly in Gaelic. Grunting, John
squeezed him around his waist, It wasnt Davey. Think for a second. He knows Rooster stays
with us. Why would he want to blow up his own brother? It was someone else.
Who? Bailey wept, curled up on the floor. Who?
I dont know, but we have to focus on the injured now. Ill see what I can do.
There was a short pause.
Roost, John said pressed between a weeping Bailey and a panting Rooster, Off, youre
crushing me.
John had done this before, had been in this situation before. There was no reason to stop, no time
either. He had shouted orders and scrubbed himself pink before. He had thrown sheets over
mangled bodies before. If bodies had never been that small, it was just an additional variable, no
time to stop. After ordering Bailey to clear the debris (it would take hours, but it would give him
something to do while he stayed out of Johns way, and hopefully open the door to paramedics)
John pulled his medical supplies (he hardly had any blood in the tiny fridge, how was he to do this
with so little blood?) which never seemed so meager. John would make it work.
He would make it.
Rooster, he ordered, set up the IV. A final adjustment and the respirator started puffing up
Fitzs birdlike chest. John took a deep breath and made his first incision.

Can you get that for me Roost? John said flatly, looking down at himself. He retched once, he
was practically wearing Kit. There was a bucket around here somewhere for that.
Sure, sure, Roost started going through his pockets.
Left, John said.
Roost went to his left pocket and opened the phone. Its Davey.

Let me see.
Come see me. Hows Rooster? Come now. D
John looked down at his phone grimly. He was still covered in blood. He had spent two hours
trying to sew a twelve year olds insides back together. Two hours he couldnt spare. Please send
this text back Roost-
Give me a second, Rooster was keying around his contacts.
Its at the top, John barked, ripping off his surgical robe.
I got it, Roost said. What do I say?
These words please:
D - Hes fine. still cleaning up. Call you after I get som sleep. W
Right. Sent.
Thank you, he scrubbed down his hands and arms down. He was going to have take off Fitzs
arm, there was too much damage. He had wasted too much time on Kit. And they were all stuck
until the debris was cleared anyway. How John longed for the hospital with its sanitation and
equipment and medicine and nurses, nurses everywhere. Bless their beautiful nursy hearts.
His phone went off again.
Rooster held it up for him again.
Are you there? Come see me. How is Roost? D
Read your messages Davey, John growled at the sink. His head was heavy and buzzing,
exhaustion, hunger, grief. Just call him Roost. Hes going to keep texting.
Whos going to help you in surgery? Rooster said in a small voice.
Ill take this one; your brother needs to hear from you.
Whats his number? Rooster started banging on his phone with his thumbs.
You just texted him!
Dont get cross! I dont know his number.
How do you not know that?
I dont have a mobile phone. How do you work this? How do you get to contacts?
John took the phone from him and punched in the number, The next thing youre memorizing is
your brothers phone number, if you can manage the human skeletal structure you can manage
that. He thrust the phone at Rooster. Talk to your brother. Let him know I dont work for him.
Doc, said Bailey in a heavy, tired voice, hes just lost six of his crew, he had probably had as
little sleep as John. There were heavy steps following him, too heavy to be a child. An adult. How
soon his mind turned from one thing to the other. He was so incredibly tired. Roosters eyes went
up and he crowed in delight.

Bailey, Im in surgery here! John yelled, furious.

There was a sound like someone moving forward but Bailey said something low and serious
along the lines of let him work. +
This is meant to be a secured sanitary environment! He twisted his wrist and pulled out the last
bit of shrapnel gently, the light was shifting, Roost, attention. This is not a social hall; you cant
come banging in here every time you need validation for your superior leadership skills. His
voice was barking hard and fast, one hand working, the other hand wicking the blood and then the
needle.. He barked at Bailey behind his surgical mask, but his hands were perfectly even and
steady, head down. It wasnt that hard when there werent bombs going off.
(I said danger)
Every time, every time Im right in the middle of something, you come charging in. Do you have
any idea how many contagions there are on the London streets? Roost, now the second shot,
Rooster picked up the second syringe and prepped it like John had taught him and inserted it into
the IV. Bailey murmured something again, but Johns too mad to recognize anything but the
sound. Nothing more than the handle of a cab, and you could introduce a whole mass of
infectious- Roost, light! John lost his train of thought as the heart rate monitor started beeping out
a more acceptable beat. Brilliant.
Everything would be fine, Mike would be fine. And hed have an impressive scar to show the
ladies. Four awkward, topsy turvy inches of scrawled scar, which on a pre-teen (when had John
used the term pre-teen other than in the formal medical capacity? It felt weird on his brain) was
impressive. But now his heart had steadied
Which was of course when the machine failed, John cursed expressively and when Roosters
thumps to the top of it didnt work John grabbed his thumping stick and started having a row with
it. Im not spending another night with my head on some bloody awful idiots chest because you
cant seem to make up your mind to work for once in your blasted life!
It started humming again and John let out a long sigh, he felt like he was releasing all the air in his
tiny ineffectual body, finished the bandage and turned to Rooster. Cuppa?
Course! Rooster crowed.
John turned, his back to Bailey, slipping off his gloves into themselves before turning. Were
wheeling your boy into observation, feel free to his words dissipated into smoke right there on
his tongue as he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. Staring at John like he
was a new case. And like he was John didnt know; something strange and foreign that had
never existed before.
He insisted, Bailey said suddenly worried, rocking back and forth on his heels.
I rather did, although this wasnt quite what I expected to find, his voice was very deep, John
had half forgotten that, or perhaps thought he had imagined it. That made him sad, that he had half
forgotten the sound of his best friends voice. Sherlock was looking at everything, at the cobbled
heart monitor and the homemade light stand and the make shift surgical bed. Everything. That
was a stupid thing you did.
ey, Bailey barked angrily. You dont know nothing. The Doctor knows more about medicine
then any of those folks in fancy surgeries.

Hmm, said Sherlock. So the medical supplies go down here where you play doctor? he turned
toward John.
Dont go on like that, Baileys anger bloomed in grief-stricken spurts. Never would have
brought you down if I knew you were going to be like that. The Doctor saves more of my people
every day than your useless surgeries ever have and ever will. They dont want us, dont care if
we die or not. The Doctor cares; the Doctor takes care of us.
Sherlock looked with narrowed eyes at John making another short, hmm.
Dont hmm at me! Bailey swung a fist so it knocked against Sherlocks hip. Dont hmm me
after I brought you down here. You think youre so special cause youre clever and got nice
clothes and drop a few quid like youre doing me a favor, his fist knocked against Sherlocks hip
again and Sherlock caught his swinging arm with his long fingers around Baileys wrist.
Dont, his eyes narrowed like a cats.
You dont! There ainta good person! Not in the whole world. We go to surgery, or to the cops,
or to anyone they tell us theyll do whats best for us and catch us up tight. They catch you, if you
trust them they put you in homes and then its lies and the belt and men in the night and worse and
you do your best to stand and take it like a man and you cant- Baileys voice broke on the last
part, and he struggled, voice sloughing into some language that was far from English and
anguished. Let go a me.
Sherlock dropped his wrist, face blankly startled at the sudden outburst; Bailey stumbled with the
release, almost hitting the wall. Almost hitting the floor. His awkward legs overlapping. John,
somewhere in the middle, had stepped toward Bailey as he cried out in a tenor that would start to
crack soon. Looking at him with huge hunted eyes, Bailey let a mournful little sound, the
smoothness and pale, blank ivory of an egg. There aint no good people.
Bailey, John started, blood on him or no, but Bailey bolted out somewhere. Wherever his secret
safe place was.
Rooster put his hand on Johns shoulder and made a sound, they had a short interchange that was
made solely out of expressions. Telling John it would be okay.
No grownups, John whispered. Too late for that now, he hiked up his chin and clamored back
toward the operating table. We need to get him back to recovery. With Roost on one side and
John on the other, a few exchanged looks and hands shifting centimeters.
Roost, one, two, three, they shifted Mike from operating table to the cart and then Rooster
grabbed the IV and shifted it for John, he had a foot on him and didnt let him forget it.
John didnt flinch, even though he was afraid, he didnt know why, but he was, What you
wanted a holiday down to the sewers; am I part of the grand tour now?
Missing medical supplies, Sherlock replied softly, thoughtfully, but underneath it that mind was
moving, moving, moving.
So sorry, John said with the ultimate in nonchalant. Good luck with that.
He hopped off his stand, not bothering with steps. This was not how he had imagined their happy
reunion. Rooster trundled the bed toward postop while John pulled off his surgical cap, combing a
hand through his hair absently.
Mike will be awake in about two hours. He said it softly, his post-op drop. Bailey would be
better then, better after Mike was up. Some of the folks talked about Bailey and Mike, but John

didnt think so. People talked because it made them feel smart. Besides John saw the way Bailey
looked at Mikes sister.
Alright, Sherlock said. Let me see your shoes.
Maybe later, he rocked around on his heel a little, his face going funny before he took off into
the tunnels.
When had walked a ways, caught up with himself, John spun on Sherlock, not giving anything.
Take Mike to the hospital. And someone else too.
No trust in your skill?
Im brilliant, but its filthy down here. Mikes going to catch an infection and itll kill him.
Will it? Sherlock tilted his head.
Dont be an idiot, he pulled off his gown and threw it on the table by the sinks. Sherlock was
staring at him oddly, in something almost like shock. Never did deal well with too much emoting.
I can only do so much and then its up to chance. Hes a child, take him to the hospital.
What about you?
Healthy as a horse, John said deliberately, stubbornly. No need. He marched after Rooster
down the tunnels. Sherlock followed from behind, his long legs eating up the space, circling him.
How long?
All my life, strong constitution, he deliberately misunderstood.
Doesnt look strong, Sherlock was probably analyzing the dirt under his fingernails.
Ive had a long two days, John giggled suddenly and covered his mouth with his little fingers in
horror, like he had let a swear out in front of his mum. Its not funny, he told himself sternly and
then to Sherlock, Someone set off a bomb.
Who? Sherlocks eyes narrowed.
Not a very nice someone, havent had time to stroll around asking people politely if they tried to
blow anyone up recently, John turned into post op and Sherlock almost missed it. He turned just
in time to nearly bowl John over. Rooster was having an argument with Fitz, I need more! Fitz
was whining, holding his arm stub. Sherlock stopped short at that, a boy with his arm blown off
and a thousand stitches holding his skin together.
Ecstasy will only interfere with your medication. And its horrible for your brain, John barked
and got the attention of Fitz. He needed to be unconscious anyway but John didnt have enough
heavy anesthesia. If Fitz hadnt used so much the little morphine John could spare him would have
kept him under much longer.
I need it! he was weeping.
Its psychosomatic! Give him a double dose of phenigrin, John said to Rooster and went over to
the end table where he had been making notes on the latest Medical Journal that he had snagged
from a local doctor that was careless with his serials. Blood pressure?
As could be expected, Roost said back easily. John folded his journals over, stacking them

neatly and dropped them in his knapsack with his Greys. Rooster put his cup in front of him and
collapsed back into the armchair blowing on his own. They could both squeeze into the chair side
by side, if they folded into each other a little. Fitzs voice got softer and softer in the background,
spiking in bursts before wandering off.
Will you do it? John asked Sherlock who was standing, staring at the two boys on their
makeshift beds. He had never seen Sherlock so shocked before, utterly startled. His long fingers
made a tracery in the air before his eyes hit John with a shark like hunger.
Do what? Rooster asked.
Take them to hospital.
Bailey wont like that, was Roosters grand contribution. John knew Bailey wouldnt like it.
John didnt care. Baileys gonna flip.
Turning his head and looking up at Rooster, he looked up to just about everyone now. Hell have
to get over it. They need medicine and blood. I could find out their blood types in half a second
and have plenty of volunteers, but no idea whos sick with what and no way to test it fast
enough.
I wont tell him, he crowed.
Ive got it, he said into his tea, offering to wear the angry blame like a new jumper. He looked
over at Sherlock again who had this little melted look on, like reality has shifted and his face is
being pulled into too many directions.
Will you take them?
How old are you? Sherlock asked.
Dont start that, he gave him a look. This is why I told Bailey no grownups. Youre too young
and all of a sudden there are questions. All the questions mean is you cant do it, sit down and stop
fighting, but I know I can. I just did.
How many? his fingers were steepled now. He moved to sit, long legs arranged with natural
artistry, long feet pointing directly at John like Sherlock wants to lunge forward and snatch him
up. These past few days.
Four that were bad, sip of tea, it was nice to have a chance to rest. The rest were just scrapes
and cuts.
The other two?
Rooster began to get restless, his face going pale and drooping down.
One of them had an aunt that lives in London. I was able to convince her to go there. Fitz doesnt
want to go in because he deals and Mike is terrified of going back into the system. He looked at
Sherlock and he didnt need to say where the fourth one was.
How old are you Doctor? he asked again. Funny, Doctor and not Doc.
Hes eight, Rooster said into his cup; John looked up at Roost in annoyance, but he looked so
forlorn that John couldnt do anything but awkwardly swallow into his tea. And he doesnt look
like a Doc.

Doesnt this bother you? the voice was incredulous and John snapped back.
Always! Every time! he covered his face with one hand breathing steadily. Its my job to save
people, thats what I am. But I cant stop, theres no time to stop and think.
Rooster put an arm around him, crushing him. It wasnt comfortable. He wasnt really a hugger,
but he could use one now. He looked up at Sherlock, because that was still habit and found
himself being observed. It was like Sherlock pulled his skin back, not his real skin, his whateveryone-else-saw skin and observed him down past everything. His eyes kept getting wider and
wider in shock and then narrowing into some sort of high powered laser before they narrowed
again. Thats not right, Sherlock suddenly said, his eyebrows coming together in a dark burst.
Isnt it? John said simply.
You have small feet, Sherlock said. And a military bearing.
Is that all? John asked disappointed, face tightening.
Not enough data, impossibilities, Sherlock muttered. Not impossible, just unlikely.
Alright then, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
You were the one that killed the cabbie, Sherlocks voice was very deep. You work for W.
Have you been following me?
Johns eyes opened, joy blossoming where shock might have been once, How?
And youve escaped from somewhere; recently, someone put a lot of effort into your training.
Military bearing, well ingrained. Its not something you are imitating, its something you are. Your
body is also well muscled for a child of your size. Your medical training makes you even more
valuable, your genius. Your brilliance.
John twitched at that, he mouth moving despite his exhaustion, Im not, Im not a genius.
Youre a seven year old surgeon-
Eight.
I think that qualifies you. And youve had experience; you are natural with it, practiced. You
started early; it usually takes years to become a surgeon with that much skill. To learn to become a
surgeon at all. They must have started you very young, no time to waste. This makes you
valuable, an asset. An investment. But youre here. The fact that you dont want any grownups
hints that you fear detection. Thus you are hiding.
Also the fact that the person who shot the man who would have killed me had very small feet,
small for a man, which is the statistical probability for a hired gun-
John flinched sharply.
Possibly a woman, but I dont think so. There was no tread, youre shoes are nearly worn
through; youre keeping them together with cardboard and duct tape.
He got new ones today, Rooster said helpfully.
Did he really? Sherlock said. How did that come about?
Thats enough Rooster, John said. I bought them with money I saved, like anyone else.

Its worth anything, John whispered into Roosters shoulder. To be a doctor.

Hes protecting you. Whoever had you before; hes been protecting you from them, thats what
hes holding over you.
He shook his head no against Rooster who was getting uncomfortable. John could tell by his
elbow.
Hes employing an eight year old gun.
Its not like that! John said, yelled, bit out, growled, shaking.
You killed a man. Im guessing not your first. And you have a gun. Someone had to provide it.
The man thats hiding you.
I didnt know what else to do! I had to do something to keep you safe! I ran and ran and I was
almost too late and you were going to do it. And then youd be dead!
Sherlock stared at him with an odd expression on his face.
He wasnt a very nice man, John whispered.
How long have you gone without sleep? Sherlock said detached.
About 48 hours, he said softly.

Power of Deduction:
An excellent doctor. His stitches are apparently of the highest level of professional, as well as his
technique. Verified by personal observation and by other doctors. When questioned, defensive.
Bearing, military

Chapter 7
John woke up suddenly. His training, sharpened by his reintroduction to urban warfare via Bailey
and his crew, held him still as a mouse, his hand flexing up around his gun. Trying to listen, keep
the element of surprise. As soon as he realized who it was with their long fingers mapping out the
calloused curve of his foot, it was rather a moot point. He peered over his shoulder to look at
Sherlock, gone still and looking at him. It was like moment on a nature documentary when the
wildlife realized someone was watching them. Or the moment a child was caught with their hand
in the cookie jar.
You get points for taking my sock off without me noticing, he was on edge, hand tight until he
remembered that he had agreed to go home with Sherlock last night in a fit of stupid exhaustion.
Not to stupid. It was peculiar to wake up to a man holding his foot.
Youre musculature is well established, but your callouses are new.
If John wasnt still so muggy with sleep he would be alarmed by the burning in Sherlocks eyes.
Like he was fully capable of lifting each layer of skin and set his cardiovascular system, muscle
groups out for analysis, open his ribs up like the doors of a cupboard and look at his insides. There
was a bit of strange comfort in that, as bittersweet as it was. For all Sherlock observed wacky time
travel adventures wasnt something you could deduce from the way someone cuffed their trousers.
John peered back over his shoulder to where Sherlock was holding one of his small feet. Even
without looking he could feel the warm smooth pads of Sherlocks fingers pressing along his foot.
Just when the pause had started to go too long John shook it loose, How splendid for my feet,
can I have them back?
Would you really have shot me? Sherlocks head tilted.
John gave him a look of shock, the thought that he could shoot Sherlock, Sherlock, after all this
time. After everything he had been through.
Something of that must have shown on his face because Sherlocks face changed, dropped a little.
Give me a little more credit than that, John said awkwardly. If this was before when they had
met at St Barts he would have sighed at Sherlock and made him tea, or forced him to eat some
lasagna.
Im sorry to have disparaged you, Sherlock scanned his face again.
John sighed and scrubbed at his face with one hand. No youre not. You just want me in a good
mood so you can pick me apart for data.
Of course, Sherlock shrugged that off as obvious.
You went through my things! epiphany struck John hard, splaying him back on the sofa. Of
course, back when everything was normal, Sherlock would regularly look through his web
history. Johns foot turned and slipped out of Sherlocks grip. That quick escaping scramble made
Sherlocks face light up again.
Not all of it. How did you know? Sherlock seemed prepared to receive and analyze some
complex series of deductions. John was sorry to disappoint him.
Because you had to do something before you started in on my feet. And because apparently
youre horrendously nosy, Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something but John cut

youre horrendously nosy, Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something but John cut
Sherlock off before his lips could even think of opening. Those are my private things Sherlock!
They belong to me! You cant just go through them without asking.
How else am I supposed to learn about you? he looked honestly curious.
Ask Sherlock, ask and Ill tell you everything I can. He tried to put particular emphasis on this,
as if it might suddenly pop through Sherlocks thick skull.
I dont want you to tell me everything you can, I want to know everything. He looked like it too,
his fierce personality twisted toward John. He nearly looked furious.
We cant always get what we like, life is full of disappointments.
Look at your little face! Sherlock exclaimed and spun around the room so his suit coat flared
around him, clapping with glee. Oh just look at your little face.
John sighed, watching his once and possibly future flat mate spin about like a whirling dervish. He
was always a little slow when it came to Sherlock, always a little bit behind, he didnt need to be
laying down for their first real conversation. He threw his legs around so he could sit up.
John if you were any more military Oh, youre splendid. Youre wonderful!
Thanks I guess, he yawned into the back of his hand.
Your journals were ultimately uninformative, Sherlock continued thinking aloud, it was so
much like before, when John was his talking skull it cut into his heart a little, except that your
notes were astounding. But then you are a genius. And like any great investment you were treated
well.
Im not a- he cut off mid-sentence as what Sherlock said set in. Investment?
Of course, Im not sure how they did it. But its obvious the care they took in you. Your
musculature is well developed for a child your age but- his mobile went off. John pushed himself
up on his palms to try and peer at the screen.
Is that a case?
Ive got something more interesting going on right now.
So youre just going to stay home all day and stare at me?
Id hardly call observation staring, Sherlock sniffed pulling up in his offended cat pose.
Scrubbing his face again, John leaned forward, I am not an experiment Sherlock. I am not some
game for you to play. Or puzzle for you to figure out. Im a real person.
Of course you are John, you are the best puzzle.
There had to be a way to pull this in, to regain some level of control. Not full control. John wasnt
sure he wanted to be in complete control. That was the joy of him and Sherlock, that there was
trust. Sherlock twisted, folded, intricate mindscape picking up and rifling through observations at
the speed of light and John following after him with a fun and bandage just in case. It was what
John needed, to be needed, to be trusted. But he didnt finally make contact with Sherlock so he
could be put under the proverbial glass jar. Were you Sherlock, when you were eight; were you
the prize of some child psychologists collection?

Sherlocks face went still and dropped. This wasnt just Sherlock cautious; this was Sherlock on
his guard, What did he tell you about me?
John squeezed his hands together between his knees, That I could trust you, he tried to let
Sherlock see how earnest he was, how much he believed it. Not the lie he regularly pulled off
with Molly. Just John, an adult albeit unconventionally speaking to another adult, albeit
unconventional. That you would keep me safe.
He knelt in front of John his arms moving to bracket him to the sofa. John had seen this before,
had seen Sherlock leaning in, eyes narrowed, stripping someones body language apart in
interrogation. In the past he had always had some pity for the focus of that mighty attention. But
he was so worn in now, so past pinched efforts at maintaining his minds modesty he just looked
back seriously. Why is he trusting me with you? Why me out of all the people in London, all the
cozy little families. Why not even with him?
I dont mind being a mystery sometimes, John said very carefully, wanting to make himself
exceptionally clear, as long as I get to be a person too. As much as he longed for that particular
attention particular to Sherlock Holmes, it wasnt worse subverting his own personality.
Im not going coddle you; I have no interest in coddling. Or sentiment. Sherlock leaned back far
enough to get his chin up, arms still caging John in. His face fierce and imperious.
John laughed as the tension faded out of him, I dont need to be coddled.
And Im not interested in crowding the flat up with a lot of rubbish; Im not buying you toys and
things. Or cleaning up you messes or tucking you in. And Im not a very good cook, although I
suppose you will have to be watched for that. And I work on very important experiments so
Why are you giggling?
Clutching his stomach John giggled and giggled, and the high childish pitch of it didnt even
bother him, really, because this was brilliant. Sorry, Im sorry. Its just, you do realize not
yesterday I was stitching up children who had been blown up and before that living on the street
and before that in the military? I dont think I need to be tucked in or have my hand held. I would
actually rather you didnt try it.
No hand holding? Sherlock said, resting back on the balls of his feet. He regarded John now
with a turned head, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.
Not a child Sherlock. Johns smile wasnt so big now, but it still rested there at the bottom of his
face, like a contented cat, or a warm afghan.
Biology begs to differ, but I understand the sentiment, Sherlocks mobile went off again. He
pointedly ignored it in favour of John watching.
Shouldnt you get that? John nodded toward the mobile in question. It could be important.
Sherlocks eyes flickered over and back, Just Lestrade with a case.
You love cases, John tried to go wide-eyed with doubtful effect. This was Sherlock after all,
king of the sham. It just got him a puff of critical amusement.
Sherlock eyes narrowed, And you want to come with me, therell be violence and blood
Things youve already seen. You really are a peculiar child; I hope you appreciate how hard it is
for me not to overpower you to rifle through your pockets.
John grinned at him, Duly noted.

Whats so different between the children last night and the potential dead body on the other end
of that call? You were upset last night.
John looked away, not wanting this analyzed quite so sharply. Last night there were children
who were my responsibility to care for. To fix. If they died it would be my fault for not doing
enough. If theres someone murdered, thats not my fault, but I might be able to help you find who
did it. Help you bring them some justice. You probably think its stupid, he knew Sherlock
thought it was stupid as well as a dozen other less complimentary things. I think thats important;
to have someone know the truth about you, about your death, even to just acknowledge the
mystery of it. People are important. And chasing people who arent very nice is also kind of fun.
This cause a minor underground shift in Sherlocks face, but he thankfully made no comment
about what he surely thought was a sickening idealization. Do you know what W wants? What
does he expect to get from all this?
John shrugged, what did he want? To be known? To be recognized? No, not quite, it touched, but
didnt quite get it. To be useful. Thats what he wanted, to do something that was really honestly
useful. Thats what everyone wanted. Only what everyone else wants.
Relief, the special kind that Sherlock got when something ceased to bang against his brain pan,
made his eyes widen a little and his head tilt back a little before he performed that quick little nod.
His ohh face, only the ohh was in his head with the rest of his deduction, Alright then, lets go.

Science of Deduction:
No one wants to be bored do they? What would you like to play?
COMMENT DELETED BY ADMINISTRATOR
Reply: STOP MEDDLING MYCROFT
COMMENT DELETED BY ADMINISTRATOR
Reply: When you are capable of making wise choices.
THREAD DELETED BY ADMINISTRATOR

Chapter 8
Sliding into next to Sherlock in the taxi, John could hardly contain himself. He sat on his hands,
pressing his knees close together. It was like it had been before. Not much, just a little. Just
enough.
You look pleased, Sherlock said between giving the address to the driver and sending a text.
John awkwardly tried to rise up and see everything out the window, he hadnt been in a car for a
while and it made his stomach a little stroppy. His dad wasnt allowed to drive and his mum never
wanted to. He didnt really start driving until he was driving his own car. John worked hard for
that car. He turned his head to look at Sherlock eyebrows lifted in his little grin. His journals were
filled with his notes and long distance polaroids, to get to actually participate again would be
wonderful, Well yeah, itll be like before, only Ill actually get to hear what youre saying.
What? Sherlock stilled.
Johns eyebrows came together and it was an odd expression, childrens faces were always new
and elastic, each expression exploding onto a new canvas. Childrens lives usually lack the time to
carve a practiced look into the way they tilt their heads or lick their lips. It was an expression with
decades of practice behind it, the sort that made adults laugh at how adorable a child was when
they appear accidentally grown up. It was a hint but was disregarded immediately like everything
else a sane person observed about John because it made no sense. Hes head tilted, his shoulder up
around his ears, a little stretching gesture like one made by a kitten. It was clear to whoever looked
that John was comfortable in his body, that he knew it well, that he lived in it the same way he
lived in his shoes. You said you looked at my journals.
Medical journals, Sherlock said and he stopped mid-text to look at John, eyes snapping back
and forth like he could read words, paragraphs, written all over Johns skin, and maybe he was.
What else?
John was suddenly embarrassed and pulled into a defensive posture making himself even more
impossibly small.
Theres no point in nondisclosure John. What are you afraid of?
John looked back at him.
You dont need to be concerned about my interest waning, Sherlock hadnt been this way
before, he was gentled somewhat. And my temper is quite precise. I have no interest in
disciplining you. I wont act out in anger. There is absolutely nothing to fear from me. You can
tell me whatever you want. I want you to.
I know.
There was a sketchbook in your bag, with papers in it, he punched his thigh with one fist. Why
didnt I check?
If you had asked me before going through my things I would have shown you. Something more
to be said for asking permission.
What was it?
John blushed, uncomfortable, feeling a little ridiculous, I followed you on your cases and took

pictures and notes. Since right after the Study in Pink.

Study in Pink?
Pink lady, pink phone, pink case, John repeated with only a vague sense of deja vu. I thought
it was clever, he said weakly.
But you werent there, not in the room, not in the house, not in my flat. Someone would have
seen you.
I wasnt, because it was the truth, he didnt exist in this place (universe? Timeline? Right tragic
horror?) until Sherlock had been chasing a cab. I saw the last bit from the rooftop. No one ever
looks up.
Sherlock didnt seem to know what to say. He looks utterly and completely stunned. John had just
utterly shattered his world view and he needed the time to resort and realign. It made John curl up
as tight as a nautilus and turn to look out the window. Over these few months John had become
aware that acting as one of the few combat pediatricians and stalking the worlds only consulting
detectives probably wasnt a great way to come across as a little odd. He just thought.
John, Sherlock said. I think I want to peel you open and see whats underneath; if it were
possible I would pick you apart bit by bit. You are simply impossible, you are too much. And W,
W is perfect. No one ever looks up?
Reflected in the window pane was Johns little face blinking and shifting from solemnity to shock.
Really?
The cabbie was giving them some very concerned looks.
Dont be concerned, Sherlock waved him off before turning back to John. Have you been
reporting to W then? No, Im sure he has his own ways. Have to to stay so far ahead. Information
shifts in the wrong direction. Does he watch me? He smiled to himself, fingertips pressing to the
cats curl of his mouth. He looked utterly thrilled bone to his bones at the prospect, John didnt
know why, he regularly groused royally about Mycroft pulling Big Brother on them. But how?
He must be good, very, very good. Questions can wait, weve arrived.
John had spent enough time as Sherlocks skull, listening to his internal monologue was calming.
Sherlock head was elsewhere, marching toward the crime scene with a concerned cabbie loitering
behind. Sighing John jogged up and pulled Sherlock up short by quick jerks on his coat, stuffing
his hand into Sherlocks pocket. The cabbie Sherlock, he pulled up Sherlocks wallet and
jogged back to pay the cabbie.
When he got back Sherlock was waiting for him, hands in pockets, What a lovely assistant you
are. Were you wanting to assist at the crime scene too?
If you want, I am a doctor, he held up the wallet to be shoved back into the pocket of Sherlocks
greatcoat.
It should be alright, theres no body on this one. Sherlock turned, shoulders slanted in a familiar
come with me, you temporarily have my exceedingly valuable attention, so please do take
advantage. It wasnt meant to be conceited. Sherlocks attention really was valuable.
Ive seen bodies before.
But wont it, he made a vague gesture through the air. Sentiment popping up again. All those
idiot feelings.

Its sad. But it wont scare me, John looked all the way up, was Sherlock always that bloody
tall? You know Ive seen dead bodies before anyway. We just went over this last night. By the
way, thank you for taking those two to hospital last night. I really appreciate-
Freak! shouted a voice and Sally was there interrupting him. Sherlock looked slightly irritated,
but let it go. John didnt know this Sally, even though he did. He should have no reason to know
anything about her. Although in hindsight her body language screamed aggressive ambition. He
should have no reason to know that Sally and Anderson had an affair. In this world, the world that
was nearly without John, after Sally finally broke it off with Anderson she didnt approach John
because he was kind and she was drunk, at the Yard pub night. He never had to say no because
even though she was fit and she had a way about her, he couldnt quite forgive her for how she
treated Sherlock. It would sit like betrayal in his gut all the way down. Not counting all the other
thousand things he knew about her. He didnt know about this Sallys life, or he shouldnt, the
way that work mates did. And since he couldnt, or he shouldnt, he kept his mouth shut and
stayed close to Sherlock. Freak! Is that a kid?
I see your powers of observation are not as dismal as I had previously feared.
Where did you get a kid?
I didnt kidnap him, Sherlock snapped at her, every centimeter the offended cat.
Who would let you watch their kid?
John bristled, Im perfectly safe with Sherlock. Even with his limited experience he knows
enough not to let me get hit by a bus or starve to death, Sherlock would probably forget about
eating, he usually did while on a case, but he was good at ordering food, and if he had to John
could feed himself. He had managed it for thirty some odd years. Theres no reason why
Sherlock shouldnt watch me.
Hes a psychopath! Sally snapped. She wasnt quite looking at him, more looking down
through him.
John suspected Sherlock simply had Aspergers and a bad physiatrist, but thats not what Sherlock
seemed to want to believe, Hes a high functioning sociopath if that.
Sherlock went still and looked down at John who smiled up at him, trying to show him how much
he was on his side. How determined John was going to be in this.
I know hes very exciting, Sally said crouching down to get closer to Johns eyelevel. But this
isnt like on the telly. Crime scenes are scary. I can call your parents for you if you like.
Im a doctor, bodies dont scare me.
Yeah, Sally said in the universal voice of adults humouring children. He never really liked her
that much anyway. Okay but-
Im smarter than I look. Besides I doubt there is much room for deep life altering psychological
trauma, no body on the scene. If there were the forensics van would be here, no pst ambulance
crush of whispering neighbors so likely no assault took place either, and then the victim died in
hospital. Which theyd have to for Lestrade to come here. Its just a couple of PCs, not even
yellow tape. So the crime probably didnt even technically take place here its just something like
a theft, or what else? What else would have a crime scene to disturb? Or blackmail.
Hes like a mini-Sherlock, Donovan said with some horror.

Only cuter, moving on. Adequate John. Sound logic, his fingertips touched against Johns thin
coat and lifted his hand in a quick effortless gesture when the muscle of Johns shoulder and back,
so unused to guiding touches, stiffened. John flushed, embarrassed at his tensing, resentful at
being treated like a child, anxious not to show any more embarrassment and knowing it only made
it worse. Sherlock obviously didnt care, because of course he observed, but he decided to ignore
it. There was tightness around his mouth though, an extraneous observational sweep. But you
missed a few things, if there had been a theft the house would have still been a crime scene.
Yellow tape, good observation. But only partially right, Lestrade only covers serious crimes, but
although this was the place the police have come to, its not the actual scene of the crime. So a
serious crime, but one with something delivered. You deduced that, Sherlock looked all the way
down at him, speaking in that rapid fire way he got when he was pinning things together into a
whole picture.
So someone sent something to the lady of the house that has to do with a kidnapping or murder.
It could be either; someone sent her a box with ears in it. Two to be precise, he flashed John a
picture of the ears that Lestrade must have taken originally. John pulled a face. What?
Well, ears.
Sherlock looked down at his phone screen, What about them?
Well, they used to belong to someone. It seems an oddly mean thing to do.
Well, its certainly telling of the murderer, can you tell me what it says about him? There was
something slightly professorial in the way Sherlock asked him.
That hes oddly mean? John shrugged.
Sherlock! What the blo- Lestrades eyes darted to John and he cut off mid curse. What are you
doing?
The Freaks stolen a kid, Donovan shouted, and hes weird too.
You cant take a kid onto a crime scene Sherlock, Lestrade looked about a second from crossing
his arms at them, like they were misbehaving children.
Hes smarter than the average child. And hes acclimated to violence.
What? he started. Not this much, not this sort even if he was thats not something you want to
expose him to. The worlds awful enough without ruining him early.
Im right here, Im not a child, and Im a doctor, John interposed before he could be talked over
too loudly.
Youre a doctor? there was the sort of disbelieving surprise he always got from adults, which
alright, he could understand. But it made the whole ordeal no less frustrating
Im a quick study, John put in as explanation for his degree. Escaped experiment seemed to be
Sherlocks current theory, which was really no less improbable than ran foul of a mad scientist.
John would really rather not add to the confusion. Im very good too.
Sure you are, did he put you up to this? Lestrade was a good man, but he wasnt the man that
John drank pints with. That he complained about Sherlock with. Who quietly stressed about the
fact his wife lived in Dorset with their daughter because the reason she was in Dorset was that she
claimed to love him but not the loneliness of a cops wife. Added distance, a whole county of it,

he wasnt sure was the thing that would keep his wife in his bed. John wasnt supposed to know
about Greg, or be a friend or know any of those things. At least he liked Greg better than
Donovan.
No sir, he tried playing the respect card, But I can prove it. You could ask me how to do an
appendectomy, or how to run an IV or treating a bullet wound. Im good at bullet wounds, its
trickier when theyre abdominal. No one likes a perforated bowel.
Lestrade gave him a funny look.
Youre not even going to let me prove myself are you? John scowled at him.
This isnt a playground.
I never said it was! maybe this was a bad idea; John twisted his face away, as if he could hide
from the shame of being made useless. A parcel isnt going to frighten me Detective Inspector,
no matter whats in it. He turned his head to look up at him, up at the inspector with his marriage
worries and his daughter in Dorset and his trust in Sherlock. Dead bodies will not frighten me. It
will be sad and it will be terrible, but it will not be scary or scar me, I am a professional, trained to
be a professional. I can deal with a little sorrow, its better to see and to know and to bring justice
than to let- he stopped a bare second, had to, and only could hope it didnt show.
The victim pass away, slip through and be forgotten, like they mean nothing, like they are
nothing. Because thats not true. People are special, theyre important and they deserve to exist,
they deserve to be seen. Everyone goes through life and walks by thousands of different people on
the street, each individual and irreplaceable orbiting and shifting and affecting the world, leaving
tie lines everywhere but no one looks. No one sees it and so theyre gone and its like they never
were. I look, Ive seen, and so does Sherlock, Sherlock sees everything, and so because of that.
Because youre a good man and you know inside that someone needs to, someone has to pull
back everything and see what the world is what it all means. Because you need him, youre
desperate. I dont even have to do anything or touch anything, Ill only speak when spoken to,
you can make me stand with my back to the corner if you want. But Im staying with Sherlock. So
you are going to let me in. You are going to let both of us in and were going to solve this crime
and you can tell yourself and your superiors anything that will make you feel satisfied that youre
a good boy and heel when told. But you will not treat me like Im a child and I dont know what
things are about. Because Im not, Im a doctor. And so Detective Inspector may we come in?
I- said Lestrade with wide eyes. They kept tracking back and forth seeing the war and death and
the sort of bullheaded determination that would walk up to the gates of hell and kick them down.
Um. He scrubbed his face hard with one hand. That meant surrender, John knew that much,
Im getting fired for this, I know it. Come on then. Try not to make yourself a nuisance.
That was, Sherlock said very carefully, not looking at John. Very eloquent.
Yeah, John shoved his hands in his pockets; small face pulled into a fierce little scowl, I should
write a blog.

THIS DOCUMENT IS CONFIDENTIAL GOVERNMENT PROPERTY BREAKING

OF THE SEAL MAY RESULT IN IMMEDIATE DISMISSAL AND/OR LIFE
IMPRISONMENT

Mycroft,
I did the search myself and told no one as requested; I also followed the other perimeters you set
out. This is everything, absolutely everything. There might be a few issues with the CIA and
French, but I routed through Jones. Just fair warning.
Search Results:
Zero facial recognition prior to 7th February
Notable list of associates below.

Chapter 9
Sherlock, Lestrade said in, what John imagined, was the same voice the DI used with his
children. What is this really? Shouldnt he be in school?
John was taking the time that Sherlock and Lestrade were spending looking around the
townhouse. It was like so many of the townhouses in London, like 221B, flavoured with broad
Victorian strokes and neat post-War furnishings, Ive already had school.
Its ten in the morning, I dont think its let out yet, Lestrade raised his eyebrow at him. John
bristled a little, he understood appearances could be deceiving, but he wasnt a child.
I mean Ive already had school. I dont need any more.
John is a special case, Sherlock said in a quiet sort of way he had only heard once or twice
before, and never in connection to himself. Lestrade caught something in the tone as well, his face
shifted, the careful, tired expression of an old copper who has seen too much and carries memories
of it in their pockets. Coppers had their own vocabularies of euphemisms and it was clear what
Lestrade assumed. That John had been abused, that he was in some sort of altered emotional state
because of it. Generally speaking John was far too straight forward to be concerned with trying to
manipulate people, it never quite sat right. But if Lestrade thought he was emotionally vulnerable,
he might be able to use that to stay with Sherlock.
Lestrade shifted so that John was between himself and Sherlock with Lestrade standing between
the two of them and the door. It was a subtle shift, half of a step, bringing him no closer to John,
but taking a definite defensive stance that put John a little on edge. Should he be here at all
then?
Yes, Sherlock said fiercely. He belongs with me, he was given to me.
Sherlock-
I wanted to come, John said in immediate support. I said I wanted to come, I do.
Lestrade sighed, scrubbing his face, What if there was a dead body?
Weve already established there isnt one, Sherlock snapped.
Sherlock be nice, John said automatically and the two men turned and blinked down at him,
What?
Nothing, Lestrade grinned down at John. I like you already. Ms. Cushing is through here.
They were motioned into a neat little parlor with a discrete plasma television and a shiny canary
yellow laptop but nothing else that looked like it had been made after the eighties. It was the soft
cozy sort of furnishings John associated with English grandmothers everywhere and felt himself
relax into it. Sherlock made a sweep past an overstuffed tan armchair (to match the earth toned
wallpaper and the neat coffee table, he probably knew the type of wood too) with a quick scan
across the paperbacks stacked on it and then up to the knick knacks and framed photographs on
the mantle.
John focused on Ms. Cushing who looked the sort of sensible woman raised in a mend and make
do household although she couldnt be more than sixty. She looked extremely shaken, drinking
tea in steady sips.

Hello Ms. Cushing. When did you receive the package?

I already talked to the Yard about this, she said a little shakily.
Yes, but Id like you to answer the question, his head snapped toward Ms. Cushing and John
could almost see her flinch under that gaze.
This morning, she said. Special delivery. Is it alright for him to be here? she looked to John.
Im with Sherlock, John said politely before motioning to the sofa. May I?
Oh yes, go right ahead. Youre looking a little peaked dear; youve got a growing body, you
need to keep it fed. John had heard heard a variation of the same from various older women of
his acquaintance for his entire life so it went down smooth.
Im alright, he said, relaxing and smiling his best charming smile.
Look at you, Ms. Cushing smiled at John. Charming man, you must put all the ladies a flutter.
I try, he grinned and Ms. Cushing her, fears forgotten, laughed.
You are the dearest wee thing, John saw Sherlocks body shift out of the corner of his eye with
that head tilt he got when two bits of information pieced together in a way he liked. Im sure Ive
got some sticky buns in the kitchen.
She looked at Sherlock who promptly began shamming; raising his eyebrows at John, and okay,
before when John was taller he did take part in the shamming. He just stood and watched with a
slightly stunned expression on his face like anyone could buy Sherlock, or maybe that Sherlock
was so good at it. But he could do undercover, If you want one John its alright.
They followed Ms. Cushing down the narrow hall and into the kitchen.
You figured something out, John grinned up at him, because actually, he did get hungry faster
in this smaller body although he couldnt attest to a teenage boys legendary appetite (he didnt
want to think about going through puberty again).
Why are you grinning like that? Sherlock said down at him, hands stuffed in his coat pockets.
Because I get two sticky buns. Sure enough Ms. Cushing didnt just bring John a bun on a
bright blue plate, but Sherlock as well. He started to say something about not eating on cases, John
could tell, but John kicked him under the table.
May I have a fork please? was Sherlocks compromise.
I know this is difficult for you, John said before Sherlock could upset the woman working under
the thin veneer of hospitality. But we need to ask some questions. That was usually his blanket
statement working with Sherlock; please dont shoot the genius.
It must be nice to work with such a smart young man, she smiled at Sherlock.
Oh, he replied with that funny little smile of his, You couldnt begin to imagine how smart.
But about the box.
Yes, her fingers went up to adjust her glasses. I like to think of myself as a sensible woman,
but that package upset me.
Sherlock snuck some bun onto Johns plate lightening quick, The police think it was your

Sherlock snuck some bun onto Johns plate lightening quick, The police think it was your
boarders.
Yes.
But you dont, his head tilted as John ate army style, bent over his food like he might have to
defend it or get it in before he has to leave it. Why? Sherlock fiddled with his fork and the bun
for a while and then, when Ms. Cushing was distracted by the missile guidance system that was
the Holmsian gaze, snuck a good portion of it onto Johns plate with a speed that was a little
unbelievable. John obligingly stuck it in his mouth.
They were good boys, despite the trouble I had with them in the end, up at all hours, she looked
away, but John was watching Sherlock. I wouldnt think theyd do something like this.
Appearances can be deceiving, but you know for sure, dont you? Which is curious. Not to
stereotype, but a lady of a certain age is usually expected to hold certain beliefs concerning certain
people. Three men from the Middle East, who youve turned out of your house, pursuing medical
degrees no less and youre sent two ears in a box and you dont suspect them. Youre willing to
trust the police, who are at their usual ineptitude, but still you tread hesitantly. What will the papers
say? Sherlock had leaned forward dangerously far until John had to rescue the rest of Sherlocks
bun by pushing it onto his own plate. A great sacrifice, but hed struggle through.
Come John, Ive gathered enough data here, onto the box, he stood in a rush and started striding
off.
Um, John smiled hesitantly, Thank you for the buns.
By the time he followed, cheek stuffed full of sticky bun, Sherlock was harassing Lestrade and a
constable set on guard duty over the neat little package.
No, Lestrade was saying, I dont know why I bother, because you never listen to me anyway,
but no.
Hes not going to learn if he doesnt get firsthand experience.
He doesnt need firsthand experience, hes a little boy.
Hes extremely intelligent and he had been entrusted to my tutelage. Im not going to waste time
teaching him how to find kittens up trees.
So, John said. There were children being blown to bits behind his eyelids. He needed to do this.
He smiled pleasantly at those assembled. Ears in a box. Shouldnt I have gloves?
Yes, Sherlock leveled a glare at Lestrade and pulled out a pair of gloves, size extra small out of
his pocket.
In a moment of peculiar kindness Sherlock paused, If its too much for you John, you can tell me
and we can stop for a while.
Itll be fine, he assured him. John watched Sherlock scan the box, the packing tape, and then
sniff the box. He opened it carefully and pulled the ears out one at a time to turn them over in his
hand. John watched him and tried to observe as much as he could in the meantime.
John, I would like to hear your analysis. Hold out your hand. Do you think that the Yards
conclusions are correct?
Lestrade threw his arms up in the air but John kept his expression clinical as he looked at the ear

placed carefully in his outstretched hand. Well, John said. These arent from medical students.
Arent they? Lestrade said carefully.
He held one ear, as respectfully as he could, considering, the smooth curve facing up. It was so
tragic, the round curve of it. So vulnerable and strange looking turned the wrong way. Look at
how it was cut, not with a scalpel, its too messy and theres a lot of tissue trauma.
Clever John, Sherlock smiled John couldnt help smiling back.
Youre sure? Lestrade was bent over John holding up the ear in the cup of his palm.
He looked up at him, Ive cut a lot of people with scalpels. It doesnt look like that.
What? Lestrades eyes got huge.
I am a doctor.
Very good, Sherlock spoke over the top of Lestrades shocked expression, crouching down
next to John, eyes moving rapidly over his face. Why else?
Staring at the ear with all his might he tried to think of anything. Markings? No. What else?
A large hand pressed against his back, John.
Sherlock, Lestrades voice came overtop as a warning, Sherlock, hes just a kid
John leaned back in Sherlocks hand without realizing, letting him take his weight.
Shut up Lestrade. He can do it.
Hes a-
Shut up Lestrade, hes capable.
Its something obvious, John muttered, eyes tightly closed. Its always something everyone
sees, but they miss it.
Very good, the hand was grounding against his back, helping him focus. Five points of support
circling a shoulder blade.
Lifting the ear, John sniffed and smiled, No formaldehyde. The first cadaver I ever worked on I
threw up because of the smell and got into trouble, but this just smells like an ear.
Acceptable work John, Sherlock grinned at him and John felt his mouth split open in a big
crooked smile. Sherlock had never told John he did an excellent job before. He reached over
Johns shoulder and pulled out the second ear and flipped it over to show a small back smudge of
a tattoo on the smooth back. Do you know what this is?
A tattoo?
A gang tattoo. Were going to have one last talk with Ms. Cushing and then Lestrade will run the
tattoo for us. The good news is the three medical students are innocent.
We dont have to wait for Lestrade, John smiled at him. I know someone.
Handy.

John Lestrade said very carefully. Would you mind going and chatting with Ms. Cushing for a
little while? I need to talk to Sherlock.
Standing up in a rush behind John, Sherlock curled his hand around Johns shoulder. Sherlock
had been doing that a lot, but it didnt grate like it did with others. It was a little attention seeking
gesture, a move to mark their partnership. John set his jaw tight.
Ill be right in John, Sherlock said, up a kilometer above his head.
Okay, John paused. Should I ask Ms. Cushing any questions?
No, just chat, keep her calm and relaxed.
Mouth pulled into a tight line, Lestrade stared Sherlock down.
Alright, John went through the back door slowly, watching Lestrade waiting to have his big
important conversation. He closed it tight behind him before getting down on his hands and knees
and crawling underneath a window facing out under the garden. He eased it up a little with the
very tips of his fingers so he could listen in. They werent going to put him in some home with a
bunch of kids where hed have to go to school and hed know everything and theyd think he was
a genius and make he take all sorts of classes, but his mind would never get any bigger than it was
now. Never any smarter. And hed never get to see Sherlock again.
Where was he, before he was given to you? came Lestrades voice softly through the window.
Why does it matter? Sherlock sounded just this side of irate.
Because that was not a normal reaction. Normal children dont act that way. They act like they
like gross things like ears, but in reality theyre frightened of body parts.
I cant tell you Lestrade, but it wasnt a good place. There was a pause, What? You think that I
have no conception of a healthy environment for a child, especially a child with Johns brilliance.
He said hes a doctor.
Surgeon actually, and very good.
You know thats impossible dont you?
And yet its true, Ive seen his work. John had a peculiar childhood. But he was given to me. Im
taking care of him now.
Sherlock, there was the exasperated voice of the father again. Children arent like books or
phone numbers. They arent just given to people.
Trusted to me then, hes mine now, Sherlock descended to something nearly vicious. If you try
to tell him there is anything wrong or bad or freakish about him you will have to meet with my
disapproval. He is a kind child, and very sensitive to the opinions of those he respects, which for
some strange reason seems to include you.
He-
Of course he does, dont you pay attention to anything? His shoulders and the tilt of his head,
sometimes I worry about your incompetence. I cant tell you anything more, youd not to know
about it more likely than not.

Your lifestyle isnt the safest Sherlock, and you cant remember to feed yourself, can you
remember to make sure John eats, that he gets enough sleep? What if you forget him at a crime
scene? Did you remember to cook him breakfast this morning?
John ate breakfast, Sherlock said defensively.
Because Ms. Cushing fed them sticky buns. Lestrades point would be valid if John couldnt take
care of himself. Which John could, he really could.
And if I forget? Hell fed himself, or remind me. He had to take care of himself.
Lestrade left out a soft frustrated sound of capitulation, Just be careful.
Sensing the end of the conversation John scrambled away and hurried back toward the parlor in
search of Ms. Cushing.

Search: how often do children eat eight years

347, 000, 000 Results
Search: how often do children eat eight years hours
105,000,000 Results
Search: how often do children eat eight years scientific study
146,000,000 Results
Molly, how often do children eat? SH
Hi Sherlock! Weve got some new corpses in.

Molly

Answer the question. The internet provides insufficient data. SH

The whole internet?

- Molly

The answer three times a day is inadequate, the only thing else I could find were
experiments with marshmallows. SH
Every four to five hours. And snacks in the afternoon.

Molly

Despite your emoting youve temporarily more useful than Google. SH

Youre welcome. ;) - Molly

Chapter 10
Ms. Cushing, Sherlock started and then looked over John, something shifted in his face and
John knew Sherlock had observed in something and now he knew John had been listening in.
How long have you been working for the government?
What? she said.
What? said Lestrade.
More of a consultant I gather, sensitive historical documents, that sort of thing Id imagine.
Nothing as delicate as espionage, but nothing that would be volunteered to the public.
Yes, she said. Because Sherlock wasnt always right, but he was nearly always right. Mostly
things to do with the IRA and organized crime.
Because you learned Gaelic from your grandparents, of course.
How did you-? Ms. Cushing got so far as to ask before being steamrolled.
Which was why you were alarmed when you were sent your sisters ear, Lestrades head
snapped over toward Sherlock. But its not a threat because there was no note, no direction. You
thought you recognized your sisters ear, which is why youre carrying a gun, but you werent
sure, and you didnt recognize the tattoo at all. Ineffective method as far as threats go. But why?
Maybe the note was lost, John tried.
Of course the note wasnt lost John, I expect better than that in the future, he snapped back, the
way he got when things werent making sense for him. In this timeline the two of them had never
met, but in his own he had learned to let that sort of criticism roll right off his back. Lestrade
looked a little put off by it though. He had to stay calm and unaffected though, if he was going to
sell his place at Sherlocks side. Oh. Of course. Brilliant John.
Your sisters name?
S-Samantha.
John, its time for us to talk to your contact now. Having finished whatever deductions he
deemed necessary he spun out of the room in a flurry of great coat.
Thank you for your time Ms. Cushing, John said politely and scrambled out after him. His eyes
scanned passively with a soldiers ease, taking in the street, the people on it, and any CCTV
cameras in a quick messy sweep. He was allowed a little paranoia. What was that Sherlock?
What? Sherlock was watching him again, always watching. If it wasnt such a relief to be seen
it would be troubling. Invasive.
Snapping at her like that.
That got him a peculiar look before Sherlocks face slipped into careful composition again.
Always so careful. People reveal more when theyre shocked, theyre reactions are more honest.
Not always, John gave him a bit of a look, which was ruined a little by the way he had to lean
his neck back at an absurd angle. Were going to want a taxi. Youre probably the one to call it.

Mouth quirking a little Sherlock lifted his hand and his magical taxi summoning power kicked in,
John had never seen anyone call a taxi quicker. The door opened and Sherlock waved him in first,
which was hardly what John was used to, keeping one hand on his small shoulder as he eased in
after him. Address is your half.
541 Morris Street, he said and saw Sherlocks head lower as he mapped out the streets location
in his head.
What really? the cabbie said sounding surprised. It wasnt a bad part of town strictly speaking,
Davey was very particular, but the area there abouts was slightly dubious.
Yes please, he tried his best to sound exceptionally polite. Licking his bottom lip absently, he
tried to think of the best way to say this. There was no way that wouldnt offend him really, but
the thing was, Davey would shoot him if he thought Sherlock was undermining him in front of his
men. John seemed to have acquired some temporary bullet proof pass from Daveys men by minor
acts of violence. Dislocating a mans knee, pistol whipping a man who had tried to come up
behind him and lift him up, punching hard, like a soldier, even with his small fists. Even more
because of Daveys debt to John, the thing the two of them didnt talk about. That Rooster was
probably quite smart, and if nothing else very good at memorization, it just didnt do him any good
because he couldnt focus on anything. Because it all came tumbling in in fits and tremors and ran
him right out of his mind.
John had focused him, got him to eat, to sleep, to sit still. Bad Davey would not forget, even if he
and John would never really talk about it, John bringing Roost in to speak to his brother, quiet and
still except for fingers reddened from being unable to keep from tapping one after the other on the
arm of the sofa. He would never forget his mad little brother taking his pale battle scarred hand in
his narrow nicked ones and naming off the bones of the fingers, listing phalanges (distal, middle,
proximal) and speaking in complete, steady, settled sentences as he tapped over the metacarpals
and tapped the trapezium. This protected John, although it was unspoken, a subtle accord that let
him come and go and trace black lines of sutures up the skin of Daveys men as needed. Although
strictly speaking, by the very strictest terms John was the family doctor of Roost and Davey. All
other patients were only given the honour of his examination based on trust and good behavior.
John wasnt sure how far that accord reached. If it stretched to cover Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Yes John? Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, too high up for John to see.
Youre going to have to be polite. Really, really polite. I mean it. This is one of those cases
where youre going to have to be nice, John thought about it for a second. Actually it might be
better for me to go in by myself.
If you believe me to be physical danger, why do you think Id let you go by yourself?
Let me? Sherlock, I can take care of myself.
Granted, but Im meant to watch your back now. Youre not going in alone.
He likes me though, and I know how to deal with him.
What is he like? that got more attention.
Borderline sociopathic. He doesnt tolerate disrespect, not from anyone.

So hes like me then?

John laughed, not his pleased little giggle, something much older. A soldiers laugh. Something
that had seen death. It was not a childs laugh and it made the cabbie look back at John in his
mirror and Sherlocks mouth tightened. No, not like you Sherlock. But will you try at least to be
polite?
I will attempt, he said flatly and stared at his mobile again.
That didnt go quite as well as john had hoped, but then Sherlock had only known him for a day,
not even that really. Beep, beep, beep. went Sherlocks phone in the tense silence of the cab.
His name is Bad Davey, John said.
Cute, beep, beep went Sherlocks phone. Whats his real name?
John looked at him full force, even if Sherlock was ignoring him he had to get the idea of this
across. Thats his name. He does drugs, weapons. No kidnapping, no blackmail, but he makes
some of the smaller gangs give him cuts of their profit.
And they let him.
He looked away from Sherlock, out the window, into the street, He can be persuasive.
You dont like it, Sherlock said.
No, his voice was small. I dont like it at all.
Strong sense of morality and overblown sense of responsibility, which is why, even though
youre a child-
Not a child, John said automatically.
And given to me by W you feel responsibility for my well being and always take the defensive
position. Take efforts to soften my blows. Those are admirable qualities John, but you confuse the
order of responsibility. If nothing else I have guardianship. In the eyes of the law, apparently, and
of W, your safety is on my shoulders. Im supposed to be nice to you. He spat out nice like he
couldnt stand the taste of it on his tongue
I dont think youve ever been nice, John muttered.
Sherlock made an annoyed huff, then shifted to look at John from the corner of his eye, He told
you that, didnt he? How extensive is his file on me?
Why does it matter?
You are such an irritation! Sherlock suddenly spat out not taking notice the taxi had stopped.
Hey, the cabbie said. You cant talk to kids like that, theyre sensitive.
John is not sensitive, Sherlock snarled, stabbing one angry finger against the partition glass. He
is a soldier and the most impossible puzzle with whom Ive ever come in contact, especially since
he wont tell me a single word. Not a single thing about anything and he doesnt make any sense.
I can take care of him! I gave him my sticky bun even! Youre just a stupid cabbie!
John stared at him with wide eyes.

Sherlock grabbed him by the coat collar to facilitate a hasty exit from the cab. He was all
arrogance and flustered annoyance, How much?
John watched Sherlock pay the cabbie with his high cheekbones looking ready to cut and his pale
face seeming to burn with white and blue fire. The cabbie quailed, not bothering about change. He
pulled tight into himself, against the window and hid behind the windbreak Sherlock provided
even as lean as he was.
When I was little, John said as Sherlock angrily stuffed his wallet back in his pocket, I thought
plaid was a color.
Sherlock looked down at him, eyes still burning fierce, his eyes burning.
Plaid was my favorite colour when I was little until I learned that it wasnt really a colour.
Those pale eyes just looked at him and he had to turn away a little. Plaid? Which pattern?
I dont know. It was just an old blanket.
What happened to it?
John looked up at him briefly and then had to look away; Sherlock was looking at him too hard. I
dont know.
Youre body language is indicative of trying to hide something. Of shame. Why are you
ashamed?
He tensed into a little sandy coloured brick, shoulders up around his ears. Im not.
Your denial is only solidifying my observations. Did you steal it?
John could feel his shoulders tightened further he couldnt seem to help it, No!
You formed an emotional attachment to it, Sherlock sighed out. And that wasnt allowed, it
was a show of weakness, as was your ignorance about colours. It was taken from you. No doubt
they kept with regulation; it causes feelings of solidarity, unity. Of submission. It was an unusual
item. It was noticed when you tried to comfort yourself with it.
John looked at his feet, he was meant to look after Harry anyway, couldnt spare baby things. But
yes, his Dad had got drunk one night and took the blanket away from him. It wasnt that big of a
deal really. Besides, John never talked about his Dad, about how much his Dad drank, until he
died, and how Harry had picked up after him to try and make up for the loss. John didnt like
talking about his childhood at all.
How old were you? Four, five? Younger?
Baby things are for babies. I wasnt a baby anymore, John said simply still looking at his feet.
Of course, a soldier cant show weakness. They didnt breed you for weakness, Sherlocks
voice was utterly cold, so alien John couldnt help flinching away. He wasnt used to a Sherlock
that cold. Not that hard, not over some stupid little fact that was meant to please Sherlock, make
them friends again.
Are you happy now? John bit out, feeling small and awful. John wasnt like this, he wasnt
trembling and small. He wasnt weak like this, not standing where anyone and everyone could see
him. Except he was, this was John after the war. John with his legs cut off at the knee practically.

Limping along, old and shaking, useless as a surgeon with his intermittent tremor. Utterly broken
and angry, but also scared and paranoid that everyone could see it written across his face how
useless and how so very alone he was. Sherlock found him and saved him before, but this wasnt
the same Sherlock. This was a Sherlock who had seen hints of him. Thought he was two people
that were interesting instead of one that wasnt. That he was a conglomeration of some allknowing genius and his child doctor sent to amuse Sherlock. What was he to do if Sherlock found
out the truth and didnt want him anymore?
No, Sherlock nearly hissed. He didnt even sound human. His hand touched Johns shoulder
suddenly, reaching down and curling his fingers around the tense muscles there. John never
realized Sherlocks fingers were so long or his hand span so wide. His hand swallowed up a good
portion of Johns upper back. I am not happy. I am however even fonder of W. Stay close to me
please. You were going to introduce me to your associate. Chin up.

Alarm Set: 8:00, 12:00. 16:00, 20:00

Chapter 11
Sherlock kept his hand on Johns shoulder as they climbed the neat steps to the lobby of the flats.
His long fingers kept a slow rhythm on Johns shoulder, curling and keeping. John recognized the
security officer as one of Daveys men. The officers uniform was ill fitting on purpose and he
looked deceptively bored. Face pulled into petulant bovine laxness as he chewed on what must
have been a truly fantastic wad of gum. John had scuffled with him before; he was deceptively
quick and knew how to throw his weight around. If John remembered right he had hit him in the
neck with his kit on a medical run. He watched them, watched Sherlocks hand on Johns
shoulder. Looking around there were others he recognized as Bad Daveys men. And there were
an awful lot of them for the way the lobby usually looked. He felt Sherlocks hand tighten through
his coat. He looked up at Sherlock from where he was tucked in and watched Sherlock scan
across the room. A familiar young woman of maybe twenty, in a yellow jumper was chatting with
a young man who had the raggedy look of a past addict about him, mostly because of his long
scraggly hair in a ponytail down his back. An older woman was snoozing in an arm chair half
hidden by a potted plant, and her with it. John had seen her on deliveries once or twice.
The young lady in her yellow jumper broke away to come smile at John, Hello little man.
You have a MAC-10 under your jumper, Sherlock said, but its very well hidden, youre
young to be a thug arent you?
Not a thug, she smiled at Sherlock once the first few seconds of shock wore off. John
recognised her as the girl in the sparkly blue dress outside Daveys door. She turned back to John
dismissively, Is this man giving you some trouble?
No, John said and reached up to squeeze Sherlocks long fingers with his small hand once. He
could feel the smallest startle at that, like a minute electric shock. This is Sherlock Holmes, hes a
consulting detective. We need to ask bad Davey about a case.
Her face dropped its adolescent sweetness and she straightened one hand her hip and her face as
stern and steady as any battle hardened officer. No one told you then?
John tensed, I havent been with Bailey. What could have happened, its still early yet, isnt it?
Nearly elevensies, the girl said. Come on then. Hell be wanting you.
Is he alright? John asked, his eyebrows came together in concern. He stepped quickly behind
her, Sherlock long legs eating up the ground next to him. Davey looked like he took stupid risks,
but he generally took the time to pause, think twice, plan for danger. He wore nice suits and had
nice teacups, but at the end of the day he was a street king, unsubtly razor toothed, ruthless and
half wild right below his skin. The lovely things were just the uniform of a more successful fox.
Hes had worse, she said leading them through one door, and then another and into a long hall.
If youre not a thug than youre- Sherlock started, always wanting to know the answer.
A delivery girl, she interrupted, looking at him sharply. I do deliveries.
He waved that off with his free hand, I have better things to do than worry about something as
paltry as prostitution.
Im not a prostitute, the not anymore was left unspoken. She didnt snap it, didnt sound
offended, but her voice was firm, it brooked no argument. I deliver. Its reputable work, decent

offended, but her voice was firm, it brooked no argument. I deliver. Its reputable work, decent
pay. Ive got kids to support.
John startled at that, she looked so young, too young to have children, too young to have to live
that kind of life. He heard about things like that, children doing work they shouldnt have to do.
She looked so very young; he knew that looks could be deceiving, but his heart clenched at it.
There was nothing he could say that would make it better, make the past change. Just like there
was nothing he could say for the rest of the kids who ended up on the street for one reason or the
other. Nothing could be done but offer what kindness he could. She led them through a crowded
corridor, down some stairs and into Bad Daveys offices down in what had been basement storage
space, or maybe a cellar or a dye room, when the flats were a factory.
The first thing John noticed, other than the men all toting submachine guns through every inch of
everywhere, was Davey lounging on a settee. His pale face was spattered in blood, his hair in a
wild, burning disarray of orange and burgundy against a throw pillow. There was a lot of blood.
A lot of blood to someone who knew how much blood was in a human body. It flicked across
him like the heavy tails of comets. John made a small move toward him, an instinctive shift, but
the hand on his shoulder was firm.
You dont look so good Davey, John said gently. The doctor in him set him back on his heels
and demanded immediate eval. Reading how much blood loss in the paleness of Daveys skin,
lining up freckles too faint to be seen normally. The way his face pinched at the corners like a
serviette starched and folded too tightly. Davey took a long smooth drag from his cigarette,
grinning despite being laid out like some victim of a massacre. He pulled forward again and
Sherlock let him go.
Daveys fine blue suit was sitting heavy and wrong. It looked too stiff; as John drew closer he
could smell the blood on it. On Daveys white linen shirt bearing unforgiving flares of red and
brown. There were four dark stars across his chest that stared out in sharp toothed cheekiness
where four bullets had been terminated against Daveys bulletproof vest. Who me? Ta.
He tilted his head at John, ignoring Sherlock for now and raised his cigarette slowly toward his
mouth. There was something wrong with Bad Davey. Something different in him. As if
something was missing from him inside and he had grown something in the hole where it had
been. Usually he could hide it; usually he just came across as sarcastic and aggressive. But not
today. His skin was exceptionally pale today for all of his grinning like a mad man; he closed his
grin around the cigarette to suck down heroically. His finger, his knuckles, the back of his hand
had ghost marks of red as if they had been scrubbed at absently, but had been deemed ultimately
unimportant. The skin over his knuckles was tight, a little swollen and pink. The doctor in John
turned immediately to checking the raised hand, holding its cigarette for breaks or sprains. His
hands, sure and practiced tested, analyzed and dismissed in favour of worse injuries. Swept across
the bullets lodged in Daveys vest, across his arms, dismissing the bit cuts and came to stop at a
soaked spot high at the side of his hip. He tried to pay attention to the patient and not to Sherlocks
reaction to Davey, to the part of Johns life where he was just surviving.
What happened to you? he reached for a kit that wasnt there, realized his lack and moved to
look around for someone to motion to. Sherlocks hand tightened the space between them. One of
Daveys men stepped close, but Davey tsked, once, sharp and quick and the man stepped away.
Sherlock stood in close to John, letting the curl of his coat rest in a line across Johns back.
Daveys eyes narrowed at that, breathing out a cloud of smoke, making his face faint and discreet.
Something he was not naturally. He revealed the long stretch of his teeth, twisting his neck,
playful as a serpent. I need to help him Sherlock, he said with his hand pressed hard against
Daveys hip.
Most of it isnt his own blood, Sherlock said coolly. What did you use then? Tire iron?

Fireplace poker? he pronunciation was long and precise, almost spitting out each syllable with
the refined intonation of distaste cultivated by the higher classes.
No, Daveys eyes narrowed. A really big wrench. If they didnt want me to hit them with it,
they shouldnt have left it lying around.
When someone finally got him a medkit John attacked it, running procedure in his mind. They had
some bandaging over it and he didnt want to pull anything off and get blood flowing again.
Sherlocks fingers caught on his head.
Please Sherlock. Im a doctor.
Sherlocks fingers pressed.
Please. Give me space to do this.
Sweet, Davey sighed with smoke in his teeth. Does it surprise you that the good doctor is
helping me?
John felt Sherlock tense.
Good people are such funny little creatures.
What happened? he snapped before Sherlock could open his mouth and get anything out that
would set Davey off. This was a play for dominance John had no interest in.
Greeks is what happened. After the Tongs got their legs kicked out from under them, I- he
waggled the hand holding the cigarette.
Brought their lost sheep into your fold? Did your part to maintain their property while they were
away? Had pointed negotiations? Sherlock said. He scanned the men crowding around and the
way they cautiously watched Davey even as pale and clammy as he was.
Bad Davey laughed hard before he had to stop and press a calming hand to his hip. I like your
boy Johnny, hes right clever. All those euphemisms. Didnt do any of those things, his smile
was sweet and secret. His eyes dimpled up with it, cheery and knowing, watching. John felt sick.
Davey surely kept some of them, but the rest he surely murdered hard enough to leave a message.
Vasquez has hired a whole battalion of them to trouble me while I go about my business, he
hissed through his teeth in irritation as John pulled down the fabric of his trousers far enough to
get at the wad of gauze. He gestured with his cigarette, the air around his head pale and soft with
smoke. Davey grinning in the midst of it, his grin wide and mad, half the white of his left eye
drowned in blood. Tried to shoot me, ha! Been wearing a vest since I was twelve and he thinks
to shoot me through the heart. Aint got one, do I Johnny? he chucked John gently on the chin.
Dont touch him, Sherlock barked in a dead voice from beside John. John craned his head up to
stare at him; he hadnt heard Sherlock sound like that since after the pool, a thousand impossible
years ago.
The bad got in Davey again and his teeth bared, smoke sliding between them, Dont start
Davey, John interrupted with his gloved fingers at the wound. It looked like it just missed his hip
bone, and didnt ricochet up into his belly, or else Davey would have been in much worse shape.
John would have had to send him to hospital anyway; he just didnt have the equipment for that
kind of surgery. Pulling of the gauze, a rush job, fetching some antiseptic one handed and reached
his hand around to the other side of Daveys hip with the other. Clean through then.
Davey subdued and snuggled back down into the sofa, he hissed again, looking up at the ceiling

and pressed his hand to his belly, Vasquez. I cant believe him. I ought to burn his house down
with those hideous kids of his inside.
Jerking back from Davey, John snapped at him, Dont say things like that! Dont do things like
that either.
Dont get cross at me Johnny.
How am I not supposed to get cross when you say things like that?
A small cloud of smoke drifted out of Daveys mouth, I wont say them then.
John kept his head down, stitching up the neat, dark hole.
I wont say it, he took another long drag. It hurts to get shot. I should get something stronger.
He tied a neat knot.
I wont do it either I promise, he smiled at John, sweat standing up all over his face. Youll get
cross and chastise me and make me sad. Will you give me something stronger John?
Im busy, roll over I need to stitch the other side. I need both hands.
Ill hold then, dont want to trouble you. Someone bring me a bloody ashtray! Youre all nearly
useless! And someone help the doctor.
A man moved up smoothly, ashtray in hand and Davey crushed his cigarette out viciously. He
cursed in a long staccato burst, each like vicious stabs to the gut before breathing in and reaching
for John again.
Dont touch him, Sherlock said very softly.
Fine, fine.
We need your help with something Davey, John said to the back of his hip.
He spat out a curse that made John tense and flinch as he pulled the stitch through. Yeah, yeah.
Whatever you want.
Flicking out his phone, Sherlock shoved it at Daveys face, Have you seen this tattoo before?
Where was it?
Done, John said, taping on gauze.
Back of right ear, Sherlock sounded cold and hard. Not at all like the Sherlock he knew. Even
when he had been working the Great Game when he had sounded unfeeling and intrigued.
Hissing, he twisted his head, John, do you need these men alive? For whatever your detective
friend is doing?
I prefer it if you didnt kill anyone, John said in his best officer voice.
You need them?
Yeah.
Davey sighed, Im not above a gift for a friend. They call themselves Matos; theyre well-

established but scattered, run around like kids half the time. Theyve been crawling up my back
lately; the Greeks have been setting everyone off. Were an international city, but someone
bringing in outside labour with the economy the way it is. Its just not right. People need work.
They dont know how we run things, its a mess. Its getting everyone to bounce off each other.
Ill have my men go soft on them for the next week. Theyre going rough on importing right now
so theyll be on the docks. They act like men, but theyre mostly over armed children. Violence
wont work with them, but you can talk them down easy.
Thanks Bad Davey.
You do for me John. I take care of the people who do for me.
Its my job, John ducked his head.
You need money? Davey asked suddenly.
No, Im good.
Something else you need? You need more drugs, you need bullets? Ive got some more codeine
in.
No, Im alright. I have everything I need, John said firmly and Davey laughed. Let me wrap
your wrist.
I take care of him now, Sherlock said suddenly. Im in charge of him now.
You? Bad Davey raised an eyebrow at him while John rolled an ace bandage up and around,
quick, quick, ready to be gone now.
Yes. Me.
We need to go finish up this case, John said quickly.
John, Davey watched him knot off and tuck in the loose in before wrapping his hand around the
back of his neck and pulling him close enough for it to count as an embrace without getting any
blood on him. You let me know if hes mean to you, yeah? You be good.
Ill try, he didnt try to struggle against the hold; there was no point to it. And Davey had so few
people he cared about it, it seemed not quite right not to let him show what little affection he had.
He always kept on the right side of it, Davey wasnt overly affectionate anyways. John had a
feeling this was more of a show of dominance, I was here first. You dont get to say no to me
here.
Kelsey will get payment to you tomorrow so you wont have to bother with it, he released John
and suddenly Sherlock was there with a hand on his shoulder, tucking him in tight.
Thanks, John said, because he wasnt sure what else to say. Take care.
A man showed up at their shoulder to escort them up, his suit, not hardly as expensive as
Sherlocks, or Bad Daveys, but still sharp enough to be a statement of importance. John reached
up to pat the hand on his shoulder once, absently, alarmed at Sherlocks alarm.
You should probably know, Sherlock said, looking over his shoulder for that last final shot,
you have teeth in your hair.
NSY Database Search: Bad Davey

Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Have a bonus chapter, because I really like this chapter, and I really like Sundays.
Enjoy lovelies!

Sherlock moved like a storm cloud next to John, his coat snapped and rolled against Johns back.
Above him Sherlocks face flashed blue-white like lightening and his expression like thunder.
What was he thinking? he growled. John had to jog to keep up with his long angry stride
Who?
W. Obvious. What was he thinking?
Sherlock, John said keeping pace, he wasnt sure hed be able to keep this up if Sherlock kept
this pace. It stung a little; he wouldnt be running with Sherlock again anytime soon. Hed have to
wait until the time came to deal with that problem. Sherlock what are you talking about?
How could he allow you to form a- a whatever that was with a man like Bad Davey?
What are you talking about? Why shouldnt I help him? that was actually a bit of a stupid
question. There were lots of potential reasons, but Bad Davey was not a resource he could refuse.
Not with Roost, and Baileys kids and the costs of survival. Sherlock stopped abruptly, right in the
middle of everything, people walking to and fro, clutching their bags and giving them dirty looks
as they eddied around the prominent island that was Sherlock at high string.
Im sure his fondness for you...
John cut him off with a laugh, I know exactly what Bad Davey is. Hes a very bad man. Dont
think just because I get a little affection I forget the type of man Im dealing with.
Youre aware hes a murderer.
John looked awkwardly around, aware of where they were standing , his eyes tried to flick past
Sherlock.
Ignore the camera, look at me.
Blinking, John turned his head up, Its more complicated than that with him.
Youre making excuses for him? Sherlock was staring down at John, flaying him alive.
Of course not.
Im trying to establish the borders of your conventional morality.
Right and wrong isnt something that has to do with convention. Its right and wrong. It either is
or it isnt, John stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and gave Sherlock back a fierce stare his
own. Davey could be so much worse than he was. John didnt want to talk about this where
anyone could hear. Didnt want to stand in the middle of the pavement where everyone was

looking at them. He shifted uncomfortably, looking around absently, or trying to before Sherlock
made a slight shift that alerted John to his trying to look at the CCTV camera across the street.
Bad Davey isnt arbitrary; he doesnt take people off the street and shoot them or act any crueler
than is strictly necessary. He works a bad business and is bad to suit it.
You dont approve.
Maybe it was that he was craning his neck up, or the creeping sensation that everyone was
looking at him. Watching him, thinking all sorts of things. Watching and judging the small boy
arguing while no one listened. Would they try to take him away, if they thought Sherlock wasnt
taking care of him? Of course I dont approve, he snapped.
But you help him anyway,
We should probably move, Sherlock could stare all he wanted at John; he was more concerned
about someone plowing into one of them.
Why do you help him?
Were in the middle of everything
Why give him your assistance? Sherlock pressed.
Because its the right thing to do, John barked back, rubbing at his neck. Sherlock was too tall
by half. Hes bad, but hes not evil. Not a monster. I told you its more complicated than the coke
or blood splatter patterns.
Sherlock suddenly popped his collar and shifted his weight, shoulders shifting Byronic, Alright
then. Ill call a cab.
Johns eyes narrowed, What was that?
Sherlock blinked down at him, only half paying attention, What?
That, what you just did. All cool and pleased with yourself. What were you doing? What were
you looking for? he clamoured close to Sherlock, trying to keep out of the main flow. Were you
experimenting?
That got him a blink as Sherlock raised one gloved hand in the air to call a cab. As if he didnt
know leaning up in the air like that made him look all dramatic and archetypal.
Im not that stupid Sherlock, John sighed at him. A powerful sigh, Sherlocks face shifted into
something wide eyed and blank, hand half lowered as he stared down at John. A cab pulled up
just as Sherlock opened his mouth, he apparently changed his mind and just lunged into the taxi,
John leapt in after him and had to take a moment to figure out how to get the door closed without
falling out in the process, listening to Sherlock say absently, Baker Street. Limited arm span had
its disadvantages.
Once he was in and buckled he turned his head to find Sherlock staring at him again.
What?
John, you are nowhere near stupid. Did someone say you were? there was a curious lilt to his
voice then, to go with the inquisitive dip to his chin the way his finger tap with a musicians
supreme precision against the arm rest, as if it were the neck of his violin. The way he lifted his
shoulders, burrowing back into his flared lapels and the easy knot of his scarf. John had learned

Sherlock pretty well in the year and some they had lived together, at least he like to think so. He
knew the furrow between Sherlocks eyebrows and the lift of his shoulders well.
Maybe that wasnt the best way to say it, I know Im not stupid per se. But Im no genius; I had
to work very hard to learn what I did. School wasnt easy for me, it was difficult, I had to study, I
still do. There were others who did much better than I did, he was filled with the perverse desire
for Sherlock to see him as boring and ordinary. He could think of something to make up for his
normalcy but he didnt know if he could deal with his disappointment.
Why? Because you had your plaid blanket and your play? Softness, lack of discipline. Because
they told you you were disappointing, that you had to work harder to please them, Sherlock said
harshly.
John flinched back wide eyed in his seat. If he could see his own face, how heartbreaking the
expression on a face so naturally designed for laughter and for smiles. If he could see himself he
would have been a bit awed by Sherlocks self-control, staying on his side of the seat. That he
didnt lift John up and press him to his heart as cold as it might have been. For no other reason
than to claim proximity to such exquisite, real humanity
John sat small as a love knot on the cab seat, pulled into himself. Fists trembling between his small
knees. Bit not good Sherlock, he breathed out.
I. Am. Not. Kind, Sherlock ground out. I told you that.
John sat quietly.
I have no compassion.
That wasnt true. John knew that wasnt true.
I will disappoint you. I have told you this.
He tilted his head at John.
Are you sorry for me now?
No, John said. Youre still you. Its important to accept all of someone. People arent like
buffets, you cant just take what you want and leave the rest. You have to learn to forgive and
make do. Thats just he struggled for the word.
Good, Sherlock said. Its not like talking to a child. Talking to you. Even I can recognize that.
Not a child, he needed to walk this off. Stop the cab, he called out.
The cabbie looked back and gave him a conflicted look.
Why are we stopping the cab? Sherlock asked suddenly, and then hid a series of orders as
questions. Didnt you hear him. He said stop the cab.
John leapt out onto the pavement, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning toward 221B
with military precision like the needle of a compass. He kept his head down and kept moving, he
didnt look up when Sherlocks long shadow feel over him again. He stayed silent until finally he
had to speak, What were you doing when you thought you were so clever?
There was a brief silence before Sherlock spoke, An experiment. To test paranoia. Reactions to
crowds.

I told you not to do that.

Sherlock was quiet. John knew he wasnt sorry for it, Sherlock was never sorry for anything he
did that he shouldnt have, just sorry to be in trouble. But he knew that in time Sherlock might
care after him, that they might become like friends.
I dont want to have a row with you. Weve only been around each other a day. I dont want a
row.
Sherlock continued silently.
I told you not to, John said very quietly.
Sherlocks pale hand came down, turned John a little toward him while they walked, I cant find
anything about W. I cant find him. I cant figure him out, his actions are odd, they dont match
any motive I can pin on him. With that amount of skill, with those resources, and that intelligence,
once he had you why would he ever see fit to give you to someone like me? Whats the trick? The
reason?
John looked up his eyes fervent, honest, vulnerable in the way only a soldier who stands himself
and runs into enemy fire to drag back the wounded could be, Because youre Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock stopped still where he was and stared at him wide eyed, breathing softly through an open
mouth. Whats that supposed to mean? What did he tell you that it meant?
That youre brilliant and annoying and that you play violin at all hours and are married to your
work. Youre just you, Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world, he
smiled a little at that last part but it faded back away.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, like he was being particularly difficult.
Youre clever, just be patient. You can observe why. Just dont he sighed to himself a little.
Dont experiment on me.
I wont, Sherlock said.
John gave him a steady look and nodded brusquely, turning on his heel and marching in that
stocky little soldiers stride of his.
I wont. I didnt antagonize Bad Davey.
Thank you for that.
He is an irritating person. He just assumes everyone owes him everything.
People generally do, one way or the other, John shrugged shoulders still tight.
John, when I say I wont experiment again, Sherlock said. I wont. Not like that.
I appreciate it, he said drily.
I also John. You are extraordinary in all meanings of the word. You will say nothing contrary
to that again. Your intelligence is acceptable. No other commentary is necessary. John turned to
look at him, up at his face, set blank and calm and then back down again, about eye level with
Sherlocks hands. His fingers bent tight and white as bone in a fist.

John looked up at Sherlock again, Alright Sherlock. I wont.

That got a nod, all business again, We will get some things from the flat and we will end the
case.
John was glad the half-row thing they had started was over. He never liked it when they got
crossways of each other. He had called for the cab to stop with the idea that he could walk back to
Baker Street and have time to cool himself down. He was aware he had a temper, and that it had
got him in trouble when he was younger, and had resolved not to let it again. But further along the
way there was someone else, much concerned with the issue of the young Doctor John Watson
and his benefactor, the elusive W. Someone who was very clever indeed. A man for whom a vast
intelligence had garnered him favours, connections, power. A man whose intelligence had made
him very unassumingly arrogant, the way that kings were. He made and broke men with his mind
and a few refined moves across the field of play.
This man, this intelligence in the truest and more archaic sense of the word, this Mycroft Holmes
was sitting, working his tremendous brain on the W problem. This was to say, he was not yet
alarmed. Mycroft did not believe in becoming alarmed unless he had to, he had suffered stress,
exhaustion, irritation and was a few times upset, but professionally he had not been alarmed for
nearly five years. He had discovered a few things that were potentially alarming. First, that Dr.
John Watson, child did not appear to exist in any database, nor his face. Second, that W had a
means of communicating which he could not track, at least not in ways that would raise any flags.
This might simply be because W refused to respond to his calls, or his texts, making it more
difficult to track him down. There was also the child who could not be who he was, the story that
was too outrageous to be true. Mycroft knew his brother, the romantic wearing the cynics clothes.
For all his cold hearted hissing about The Work Sherlock wanted there to be mystery, adventure.
Someone who went blithely about by an initial, who promised secrecy, special favour, someone
who was like a character in one of those awful old books Sherlock liked to eat up with a spoon
before he became disenchanted and turned to cocaine instead.
That didnt mean that whoever this W was wasnt a potential threat if he was let to go unattended.
All Mycroft needed was a clear look at the boy and he would find the chinks in Ws armour as he
did in everyone elses. He flipped facts around and around in his mind like crisp face cards,
revealing the summary of his observations. He was aware that his brother and young John had
exited their taxi and were currently coming down the street toward 221B. He was seated in his
own car observing the CCTV feed of the two of them waiting for one of his employees, a
specially chosen small and compact man excellent at appearing nonthreatening, to go and fetch
them. Whenever he appeared anywhere he always had three agents sat his disposal in case
something went wrong. Even now there was Charles who was the nonthreatening agent, a second
man in a green pea coat across the street drinking coffee and his own dear assistant and body
guard Anthea transformed in plainclothes to stand guard as a fervently texting Londoner. He could
see the bowed curve of her face in the CCTV feed as she typed, posture perfectly shifted to slip
attention as Sherlock and Dr. Watson closer into the net.
On the feed, his brother was the most visible out of the pair; tall, dark head bent downward, face
quietly electrified his barely strained excitement visible even on the camera across the road. And
then beside him, hiding behind Londons lunch crowd was the boy a golden head dogging by
Sherlocks side. Young John. (If John hadnt wanted to be seen, he would have been nearly
invisible to the CCTV because of his height alone. Size apparently had its advantages.) Then there
was a break in the crowd and there was a clear view of the two of them together. After that the
information moved quite quickly, observed, processed and turned into some strange, something
very alarming.
Highly skilled medical professional. said the first card set in front of him in his mind. It had been

already turned up when a short trip was made to the hospital to examine some adolescent boys
who had been in an explosion. Likely from semtex. Wouldnt take much. The card was marked
with a hesitant question mark though, he had no reason to doubt Sherlock analysis and when
interviewed the homeless young man (previous abuse - physical not sexual, one sister close to the
same age, mildly lactose intolerant, advanced sense of right and wrong paired with a beleaguered
cynicism, possible signs of PTSD, afraid of dogs, excellent immune system, never taken drugs)
named Michael Wiggins this morning, who spoke quietly and hesitantly. He had showed an
expected close knit loyalty, more than willing to answer some questions about Dr. Watson, but
refusing to answer others. He was a very tired young man, like a soldier, and underneath that a
frightened little boy. There was nothing to gain from pushing him any further once Mycroft had
gained all the information he could.
The second said, trained in surveillance. The child tilted his head up and checked the placement of
the CCTV cameras. He followed Sherlock by rooftop and looked at the people around him
without being obvious about it. It was only noticeable in the way the childs head tilted then, not
in the way that childrens heads usually do, like they have blinders and are trying to see everything
at once by swiveling their head all over the place. But in slow increments so it wouldnt be
obvious what he was doing. Scanning the crowd, a mind effortlessly supplied with its own
observations.
The third card in his mind showed the way the boy moved, so like a soldier. Easy, something a
blind man could observe, but a pivotal point in Sherlocks ridiculous romantic conspiracy theory.
Even from a distance Mycroft saw the way the little boy walked, back straight, legs loping like a
puppys. Marching a soldiers march, but that could be trained into him or be as simple as
mimicry. That wasnt the alarming part. The alarming part was when, while Sherlock was still
looking down at John, John looked forward and he saw Anthea. And because the dog fears the
hand that beats it. John stopped stock still; made a few quick moments as if not sure if he should
run. His shoulders lifted finally and then the child pulled in tight and to the other side of Sherlock.
This strong immediate reaction to a woman who looked like nothing more than someone stopped
to have an irritated text off with someone, no different than anyone else, except noticeably and
unavoidably beautiful, meant one of two things. Either that John had been trained to identify
operatives or that he had been shown how to identify his assistant. Mycroft didnt know which
was worse, if worse was the word. Then of course Sherlock saw and recognized her with a jerk,
the way he saw. And then the way that Sherlock stepped close to the child, set his long fingers
possessively over small curve of his shoulder. The little black coat with the patches. Mycroft had
never seen his brother anything like protective about anything, since he was fourteen and Mycroft
had given him a copy of first edition of Fields Tritogenea. That was when he flipped over the last
card of all bearing a simple, terrible W.
Mycrofts mind stuttered once before all other detritus was pushed off his desk into convenient
drawers to clear space for analysis. He discarded the card flipping visualization for something far
more organic, quicker, lightening in a jar. He flipped through possibilities, names, maps. His
theories that he was in charge, that he had control, that he had eyes behind the world shifted aside
at the implication that his assumption that things cannot possibly go on without him knowing
about it was wrong. The lightning fast and frightening (if he was honest, which he had to be a
healthy dose of fear unrevealed was good for someone in power. Only previously his fears had
been limited to blowing up a country or losing control and beating the Russian ambassador to
death with his umbrella) and broke down all his expectations with sharp singed sweeps.
Mycroft did not know the greatest secrets of Britain because one of Britains great secrets was
standing there on the pavement after being acquired, or more likely engineered given the intellect
and capacity for learning, raised up, trained, rescued by a mysterious figure who had
outmaneuvered the men who had kept a secret from Mycroft himself, continued to evade them,

had acquired Mycrofts personal emergency number known only by memory by five people in the
entire world and apparently had his eye on the minute movements of the associates of a brilliant
criminal mind. It was a big thought. A big dangerous thought. When he got back he was going to
have to open a docket on him, and he had nothing. That would have to change. The placing of
John could be a brilliant opening move. Monarchs once sent their children to be trained in foreign
courts. It was impossible, unbelievable, but it had to be, as strange as it seemed. This was the only
thing that tied all the strings together, the only thing that really made any sense with all the
evidence.
But if that was the case, why Sherlock?
And why now?
And who was for the opening move for?

I would like to speak to you about your opening move. MH

Chapter 13
While Mycroft was concerned that there was some group in the government not being regulated as
tightly as they should, the rest of the party shifted around Johns improbability. John, the
improbable child himself, stuck close to Sherlocks side while Anthea blinked at him in shock.
What does he want? Sherlock snapped.
Antheas face creased with the same resigned impatience John had seen on Mycrofts face enough
to recognize, He wants to discuss your new living situation.
You can tell him I can quite do without his interference, I have everything under control. John
watched all of them narrowly, too cautious to take the first move. When Anthea looked at John
assessing - Sherlock stood straighter, taller, towering over John and wrapping his fingers over
Johns shoulder in a blatantly possessive gesture.
He believes you could quite do with his assistance in this matter.
Sherlock flinched angrily and curved tighter over John, drawing him close, like some possessive
bird of prey.
What? John said, still shaken by the appearance of the woman that wasnt Anthea.
John was given to me. Mycroft knows that John was given to me. He wasnt delivered into
Mycrofts corpulent hands, such being the case he can piss off.
Just then a black car pulled up, Sherlock scowled at it and pressed Johns head to side of his thigh,
John being too short to be pressed against his hip. John allowed it quietly, he had been
manhandled enough when he was a decent size, sent to go through pockets and had his coat
shoved on him enough that fingers looping over the shell of his ear wasnt that troubling. The
window opened to reveal the beneficent smile of Mycroft Holmes, Hello Doctor Watson.
Hes not for you, Sherlock spat out. John could admit the possessiveness was reassuring.
Youre showing yourself rather badly Sherlock Dear. I am aware, Mycroft drawled, his eyes
shifted leisurely from Sherlock to John, to whom he smiled in a perfectly conspiratorial nature.
Im here to meet Dr. Watson himself. But then you know my face already, dont you John?
John stiffened at being manhandled even tighter against Sherlocks side, but didnt try and pull
away. He was too worried about being tucked into the car and then tucked away into the shadows
never to be seen again.
If you dont mind, Id like to talk to you for a while; Ill return you at the end of our chat I assure
you.
Im not to get into the car with you, John said, relying on vagary, he could tell Mycroft counted
it as a not quite true statement. He had on that smooth analytical face that meant his giant brain
was processing. John was once again controlling the focuses of the terrible Holmes brothers. It
was impossible to shift the focus away entirely, beyond the ability of anyone most likely, but it
could be diverted enough off center to have a little corner to hide something of himself. He
implied he had been given instruction instead of just playing it as his own common sense.
I assure you no harm will come to you, Mycroft smiled something softer than his normal
convincing sort of smile, trying less to intimidate, like a shift from being evil overlord to kindly

headmaster. He could imagine him thinking clinically, A boy like John had no positive paternal
influence, (as much as a mind like Mycrofts could think clinically, made as it was from bespoke
political stitching, literary scrawls of Victorian ironwork and the gleaming Swan Lake blue of
mobile LCD lights), he would not respond to the sort of kind and beleaguered direction that
Sherlock got from Lestrade. Not, especially, if he had been forewarned. Maybe he was giving
himself too much credit.
Im not to get into the car with you, John repeated, tucking his chin down. He tensed into a little
brick and saw Mycrofts face shift from a faint sideways hatred to what almost looked like a
strange admiration for Johns repetition and his bull-headedness. Theres no way to reason with
blind bull-headedness. No reason could fight it. John knew it and so did Mycroft, if you believed
Sherlock, Mycroft knew everything.
Why were you told not to speak to me? he tried as a way to pry John open. Reaching cautiously
for the cracks in the little clay soldier.
Ill talk to you at 221B, John sidestepped.
Mycroft, still shaken by his revelation, got ahead of himself and made an unforgivable error.
With Sherlock present then? he asked with that sweet little headmasters smile.
Hed probably prefer it, Johns eyes flipped up at Sherlock who was trying valiantly to stare
Mycroft to death. He knew Mycroft would see in that moment John would have agreed to a
private interview within the bounds of 221B, that he hadnt been clever enough to think of 221B
in any way but perfectly safe. But now that Sherlock had heard it would take an impossible
situation to get him alone.
Dont try to steal this from me Mycroft. Youre not everyones favourite.
Do try to pretend to be normal Sherlock, at least around the child, Mycroft smiled so sweetly as
to cause a stomach ache before he sighed at his brother. Hes not a toy for your amusement. Hes
not to do tricks for you. He has dreams and fears and his own mind to decide what he wants to do.
I think all that time living alone has proven that. Consider how you act brother dear.
John snapped to attention, his fingertips rested in cool points against the back of Sherlocks hand,
Theres nothing wrong with Sherlock, hes fine.
Im certainly not his favourite, Mycroft smiled in a way that said quite clearly, not yet, and I
dont really need to be, do I? But something had shifted in his gaze, considering.
Just then Sherlocks phone started beeping, like some sort of inanimate moderator. Well, will you
look at that? Sherlock grinned in that manic way of his when he was pretending normalcy. Its
time for Johns lunch. Must dash. The hand that had been holding Johns head close shifted over
to the small hand that had shifted over to rest against his fingers in support and held it in his own.
John looked up at Sherlock with a disgruntled expression he could feel on his face; he didnt want
his hand held. He didnt need his hand held. But it was clear it wasnt for his sake. Sherlock was
nervous and John could hear in the back of his mind, the most dangerous man youll ever meet.
He let Sherlock hold his hand.
Once they were far enough long strides from Mycrofts black car for Sherlocks comfort he
squeezed his long fingers tighter around Johns in an act of reassurance that he would never admit
to, If someone tries to grab you, you should scream. Mycroft wont be willing to risk drugging
you. At least I dont think so. At least he wont risk upsetting W.

Mycroft wont, John said.

Dont underestimate him. You have his full interest now.
I wont, for all he worries about you hes a Grade A creeper. Maybe because he worries about
you.
Someone else might try to abduct you. You are substantially slower than me. What if someone
else tried to take you away? Maybe I should carry you, Sherlock said absently to himself.
John nearly jerked his hand out of Sherlocks narrow grip, NO!
Sherlock blinked down at him, his face slipping into that alarmed lost expression that was always
so out of place on Sherlock that John couldnt fall into full-fledged temper. But it certainly didnt
encourage its usual compassion. The idea of being carried was such a betrayal, so unnecessary to
be invasive, offensive. John wasnt some blundering, inept infant that needed to be carried about
like he was useless. Weak little impractical body and too much of an idiot not to wander into
traffic.
He wasnt.
He wasnt.
He wasnt. He wasnt. He wasnt.
John youre trembling.
Dont, John said fiercely, quickly, face pointedly down to the ground. Sherlock stared helplessly
down at the top of Johns head feeling an aching, bruised failure under his ribs where he couldnt
get to it to rub the pain away. He gripped Johns calloused hand, helpless to avoid reading a life of
military service with every flex of his fingers, what it meant hovering in foggy word cluttered
clouds over Johns head. Finally John spoke, I dont like to be carried. Im not a child and I dont
need to be carried. I dont want you to-
I wont, Sherlock said gently. The gentleness was unexpected and stilled John. Dont be upset
John.
Initial rage calmed away, Johns fingers flexed sharply, I dont need you to carry me, I can take
care of myself.
I know. Youre quite capable as a soldier.
John was quiet, and it irritated Sherlock, John could feel the pent up impatience as if Sherlocks
fingers were violin strings. What do you eat?
What do I eat? John blinked, half surprised out of his mood.
Do try and keep up, what sort of consumable forms of nutrition do you put in your mouth for
digestion?
John used his free hand to punch Sherlocks hip.
Violent! Sherlock complained, but he was smiling smugly.
I like tea; I can do with beans and toast. I doubt you have much else in your cupboards.
Arent you young for tea?

Arent you young for tea?

John gave him a look, Im British. They walked past the fence with the bins and stood before
the door at Baker Street.
Oh, look, Sherlock said, were here at 221B.
John looked up (and up and up) at Sherlock, Yes we are.
Sherlock looked down at him with an expression John couldnt parse by half before finally
releasing his hand to unlock the door, Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock yelled out with impunity
immediately upon entering. I have a child now!
There was a pause as Sherlock trampled up the stairs. Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson called after him,
immerging as a startled John finally decided to ascend the stairs. Oh, hello there dear. Let me
have a look at you.
John froze for a moment, startled at being abandoned and came back down the stairs again. There
was nothing to fear from Mrs. Hudson, maybe Sherlock was hoping she would feed John for him.
He settled into parade rest and tried to smile politely up at her.
Oh, hello little man, whats your name? she asked pleasantly, pretty much exactly as she talked
to him when he had been full grown.
John Watson, Mrs. Hudson.
You are dear. she ruffled his hair gently, clucked a few times and patted his cheek. It was hard
not to duck his head at bashfully at her gentle fussing. It felt like home again, that floral scent and
the smell of her laundry soap, the soft easy weight of her as she looped her arm over his shoulder
and she leaned her side against his. Mother soft and mother good, like sandwiches and silk.
Where did Sherlock find you?
John flustered gently in the soft warmth of her hold, the way she was soft in the way that only
women of a certain age were soft. There was a comfort in her smell, her warmth, the way she
didnt speak down to him. Women were different for him now that he was prepubescent, he had
always liked women, but there was something different now, something warm. It was for a case.
Kind of.
You must be hungry dear, a growing boy like you. Look at how small you are! she smiled
down at him with her soft hands on his shoulders. Well get you fed up in no time.
John! Where are- Sherlock called from the top of the stairs before taking a few loud steps down.
Oh. Mrs. Hudson, there was a very strange look on Sherlocks face. He had gone all blank and
still.
I was just meeting the little man here, she squeezed him gently and the kindness, the softness
was too much. He didnt know why and he didnt know why and he could feel himself blush and
that made him blush harder and he was pressing his face into her side and he didnt know why.
Oh dear, whats wrong? Youre trembling.
Its alright Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock said from above, hes just not used to being touched.
Mrs. Hudson patted his head gently, letting him go. She may have been about to say something
but Sherlock spoke again quickly, Upstairs John.
John ran up gratefully, taking the stairs two at a time, keeping his head down. He threw himself
onto the sofa, stuffing his face to the crease, feeling humiliated at his own inexplicable reaction,

even more embarrassed by his throwing himself onto the sofa like an angsty teenager. Like a
child. He could feel Sherlock staring at him as he lay there with his face pressed to the back of the
sofa. After a second of that painful should I, shouldnt I Sherlock pulled the door behind him
leaving John alone on one side and Sherlock with Mrs. Hudsons questions on the other.
He strained his ears to hear a muffled, That poor boy was he-
Then the soft stumbling, low rumble of Sherlocks voice answering her.
John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and got up to go into the kitchen where Sherlock and
fetched down a can of beans and opened it, the smell of toasting bread floating up from his abused
toaster. Half the work done then. John searched until he could find a serviceable saucepan and
dragged over a chair to get the beans heated up. Sherlock, finished giving Johns whole sordid
made up story came into the kitchen and stared blank faced at John. It was a china plate of an
expression and gave him nothing to grab purchase on.
Whats the next step for the case? John said; face calm trying not to give anything away.
Sherlocks relief that they were going to be British and not discuss anything was something
slightly beyond palpable. Do you need help?
No, I can cook, someday Ill make you my tortellini, he said, stirring the beans.
You can make tortellini? Sherlock said.
And chicken noodle soup, scones too, and a few other things, John smiled slowly, and it was
quick to go, but he felt more himself.
Chicken noodle soup?
I thought you didnt like repetition Sherlock, John tilted his head winningly.
There are moments when shock breeds necessity.
John snorted and Sherlock smiled, You cant be a doctor without knowing how to make chicken
noodle soup. He climbed onto the counter on his knees to fetch down a couple plates. I do
alright with fish if its not too fancy, and then he and Sherlock were talking as John put down the
toast and poured on the beans. Somehow they ended up sitting on the sofa in the sitting room
while John told an edited version of how he first made his first batch of chicken noodle soup
under the watchful eye of Mike Stamford. It had been for his girlfriend at the time. He should have
stuck with something from Tescos but he had been trying to be romantic.
Its pretty basic really, he said, shoveling in food with his fisted fork. Youd think I could
figure it out on my own. I had the chicken in front of me and I was so used to performing
autopsies, John paused, realizing what he said, but Sherlock waved him off amiably. So when I
started in on the chicken I soon realized that you cant open the chest cavity of a piece of chicken
breast. So the person who was helping me, just laughed and chopped it up for me.
Why did they laugh? Sherlock had been giving his beans and toast a minimum of interest
during the whole affair, nothing new in that.
John tilted his head, thinking, So I wouldnt feel bad about it I guess. They werent really
laughing at me, I had just done something funny. Funny peculiar, not funny haha, he clarified.
Sherlock had always had a little trouble connecting to the feelings of most people; he tried to think
of a way to explain. Its just a way to show that he wasnt upset with my mistake, or disappointed
or whatever. I didnt really need help with anything else of course; Im fairly good with a knife.

I would imagine, Sherlock said. Are you finished?

John looked down at his plate; he had managed to sop up the sauce so the plate glistened with a
pseudo-cleanliness. I guess.
Good, well go then, he stood from the table, leaving half his lunch behind.
What? Go where?
To the docks, we have a case to finish.
Elsie. Almost done with Scott. Eyes out for tall git and tiny doctor. If not out of Matos by
eleven call cops. Bedtime is bedtime. Davey

Chapter 14
John followed Sherlock down the stairs, trying not to step on the hem of his coat. So, he tried,
as Sherlock held the door open for him, whats the plan?
We need to find Ms. Cushings missing sister.
Ms. Cushings sister is missing?
Yes, but not the one youre thinking of.
I didnt think Ms. Cushing had any missing sisters at all.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, Really?
No, John stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Pay attention next time, his head turned toward the street, his eyes scanning the street like some
hunter, his hand hovering at his side, waiting, waiting, until it was up like a shot and a taxi
dropped out of traffic right at their feet. John wondered if Sherlock did experiments on the perfect
timing for calling a cab. It was the sort of thing that Sherlock would do. Im going to start
periodically expecting you to make observations about people we meet. You are new at training
yourself in this way and there is the matter of time, so only two observations necessary, Sherlock
said shepherding him through the open car door before folding himself in neatly behind. He bent
peering out the window.
I- they had talked about John saying he couldnt do things. And John could, hed have to think
about, have to stare at everyone most likely, but he could do it. Fine.
Sherlock, who had started to get that stroppy pinched look about his face, nodded once and told
the cabbie the address while he held up his mobile for John to see the webpage of M T & S
Shipping Company. Its a cover operation of course. Theyve been covering the smuggling part
of their operation by this fictitious company, theyre likely using false bottoms in their crates. Once
we do a little examination well be able to find the murder weapon and-
For the murder of Ms. Cushings missing sister?
Who else? You really havent been paying any attention at all.
Wait, John said. If Ms. Cushings missing sister has been murdered are we looking for Ms.
Cushings missing sister or her murdered one?
It can, Sherlock said superiorly, be both. And as the quality which most marks her is her
missingness that is the way we shall identify her.
If you insist.
Sherlock gave him a withering look that he took with exactly a grain of salt, smiling beatifically up
at Sherlock in reply. There was a short period of radio silence in which Sherlock stared stroppily
out the window and John absently checked the rooftops for snipers until Sherlock got bored of
that and turned back to John again.
Tell me what you remember of this morning, what are my deductions based on?

What? John turned and blinked at him.

Dont be slow. What observations were my deductions based on? His fingertips came together
again like he was praying. Saint of deduction, Sherlock would hate that. Too sentimental. He
wasnt going to take a dodge with this one, he was staring John down, picking him apart with his
eyes.
John took a few deep slow breathes.
Imagine the room John. What was I observing?
John closed his eyes, he imagined the morning, Sherlock holding onto his feet. Later than that,
there was a case and John wanted to go, but that was early, he needed to go later. He walked into
the parlour. Theres a plasma TV, its new and nice, and everything is brown, but nice brown,
friendly not boring-
Sentiment John.
John opened one eye at him pointedly.
And you were looking at the sofa I think-
Armchair John.
Weve just about- the cabbie started on the other side of Johns closed eyes and the glass
partition.
Shut up, Sherlock snapped at him. And then, No, no, I said shut up.
John thought of telling Sherlock not to snap so coldly, not to be so alienating. That he couldnt
afford that, he was too strange and too glorious in his own way. It made people feel too awkward
and too exposed, people want to pretend theyre safe in their own skin. Even he minded and
Sherlock was his best friend. He had to accept it though, sometimes, because that was just
Sherlock. And John was John and Sherlock had accepted that about him before and he could
again, but he needed to observe. He pressed his fists to his thighs, And theres a laptop thats
really bright so its not for work. Otherwise it would be black or gray. Nice things for her house,
new for her age. So she knows a lot about new technology. Shes very British, she was dealing
with her stress with tea and taciturn. You looked at the coffee table, there were books there. Old
ones, not like really old, just read a lot. She has herself in them. And then you looked at the
fireplace mantle, the pictures there. That must be where you got the sisters from. The pictures on
the mantle, John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock.
After a long pause Sherlock finally said, Thats it?
John gave him an annoyed look, Yes thats all.
Am I allowed to talk now? the cabbie said, they looked at him, an Asian with thick glossy hair
and the tiptoes of a Northern accent chasing the tail ends of his sentences.
Yes, fine if you must, Sherlock waved at him loftily.
John rolled his eyes.
Manners are boring, Sherlock huffed at him and flustered out of the cab. He had apparently
deduced, their being parked for a while and the warehouses out the window were a sign that they
had reached the docks and the fenced in complex of warehouses they were going to search, they

had arrived. And this meant he got to dart from the car at his convenience and start down the
pavement.
Oi! the cabbie shouted.
Just a mo, John said and darted out, running up to Sherlocks side and digging into his pocket
for his wallet.
Hurry up then, Sherlock said impatiently, fiddling with his scarf while John paid the cab and
returned to stuff Sherlocks wallet back into his pocket.
Its possible Im enabling your bad manners.
Dont be ridiculous, he said loftily, watching the cab pull away out of the corner of his eye and
John with the other as he neatly tugged his gloves on tight. I was much worse before. Im trying
to set a good example as the adult. He tried to keep his face straight but ended up, twitching his
lips up at the edges. A pleased little snort-laugh snuck out of John and Sherlock grinned at him. It
wasnt quite giggling at crime scenes, but it made John happy. Happy to have been discovered,
and happy to be back with Sherlock; it was like normal but shorter.
So what do we do now? John grinned up at him.
We find the maintenance gate and pick the lock.
Wont we be caught on camera?
His smile turned predatory, Thats the gate they bring the customers for their illegal cargo, the last
thing they want is a camera. And if there is it likely wont be a live feed, too much of a chance.
What if you cant pick the lock? John said, smiling sideways.
I can pick the lock, Sherlock puffed up until he realised John was teasing him; John needed that,
the moment when the two of them connected. He deflated in a burst of confusion at being teased
before his face smoothed out in the way people had when they werent quite sure if they were
being laughed at or with. He spoke cautiously, although he sounded like he was considering it,
You could probably fit through the bars of the fence.
Id like to keep my ears on thanks.
There! Sherlock pointed up ahead, speeding up and taking long quick steps and looking neatly
both ways before kneeling at the padlock. Moving to Sherlocks side, John turned so his back was
to the gate, looking up and down the side street. An easy back to back that they had practiced a
million times before, well they hadnt, but they had used to when John was himself.
Done, he tapped John once on the shoulder and held the gate open for him as they slipped
through. Look for a building thats had some use recently. The Matos are on edge, have you seen
the debris on the gate? Theres been very little use of it.
Fine, John said back quickly. Lets not just stand here.
They ran through the concrete spaces, wide enough for a lory and a little space for people on their
feet. The warehouses, somewhere between four and six on the small side of medium, looked
newer. They were in good repair and had that busyness about them that John associated with
people who spent a lot of time waiting for things to happen, a bucket of sand for smokers in the
corner, a leaning trolley, a hose in a pile. He wondered what Sherlock saw, if he would see a
million little details of things that John could not begin to observe. John went triple time to keep up

with Sherlock moving quickly past the warehouses. There! The only building thats had anyone
in or out today or yesterday. The rest of the roads are as smooth as if theyve been swept. He
pointed, posing like an action hero. Once John was close he pointed at the details of the door. That
it was dry, not wet from the rain and fog like the others, the tire tracks, mud (he muttered he could
use a sample but that was extraneous right now. Sherlock was the only person he knew, except
perhaps for Mycroft, who would use the word extraneous when muttering) the way the case
around the button that controlled the door was still up.
Brilliant, John breathed.
You know you say that out loud. It wasnt quite a question, that statement, but it dipped it teased
its toes at the edge of the pool of curiosity.
Sorry, John said automatically before familiarity stopped him, Ill-
No, Sherlock said, on some universal script, its fine. And John was so grateful, so
incredibly grateful he pressed his lips together tight and really looked at Sherlock Holmes,
Consulting Detective (Worlds Only). He thought for a moment that there might be some universal
script, like a line with a few knots he could catch himself from falling. That there might be a
thousand different worlds but in all of them John Watson might get a chance to meet Sherlock
Holmes and get to be asked, do you know you do that out loud?.
He shook himself, like a puppy that had just stumbled out of the bath, unaware of the
transformations, like the shift of the sun through a canopy, which crossed his face. A series of
expressions which would have set the ecclesiastical artists of the past clamouring to paint a flurry
of tow headed angels rapturously pained at the sins of the world or some other deep religious
agony. John was only aware of the sudden pinched perplexity in Sherlocks face, as if John had
suddenly become the embodiment of everything he didnt understand (or as John thought, never
quite had a chance to learn how to understand) about all the puny, creeping humans in the world.
What?
Nothing, Sherlock said quickly, spinning on his heel. Nothing. This way, hurry up.
Well, there was one thing for certain; John was going to grow up again quick on his feet.
Once they had found and entered the side door ( There, childs play John. Dont be a prat
Sherlock. ) they stopped and stared at the rows of shipping containers.
Oh, Sherlock said against a wall of stacked corrugated metal. Dull.
After using the highly scientific methods, of Looking Around and Finding the Front Door Again
Sherlock pointed at the muddy tire tracks. There was nothing much by the front door other that a
control panel, a desk with an office chair and a work top with a smattering of industrial twine and
delineating stacks of wrenches, hammers and electrical tape. And a calendar with a baby corgi in a
cunning cap, but John had decided to accept that and move on. He stopped here, well likely,
statistically. He dragged them from the car, but to where.
Whipping his head around, John blinked at Sherlock, Them?
Of course.
You could have said.
I will not reward your inattention. You would have known if you had been listening, he said,
examining the tire track, crouched down with his magnifying glass.

John suddenly did feel like a bit of an idiot, Two ears, of course. I found where he tried to cut the
ears off, the bodies must have been fresh.
That had Sherlock up in a shot and over to the work table, examining the stain at the side. While
Sherlock muttered and inexplicable took a snip of the twine and slipped it into an evidence bag
John turned to keep look out again. Shouldnt we be quieter?
No ones here John, Sherlock said. You heard what Bad Davey said. Too dangerous for them
now, and theyll be trying to find out who murdered a member of their gang. He made a
frustrated noise, It would be impossible to cut the ear off a body here, he couldnt hold the weight
up and cut at the same time, he must have stashed the body in one of the containers and worked
there.
John let out a sigh.
Dont worry John, its not half one yet.
It was some time much past half one when John looked up from where he was examining a crate
and stared pointedly at the back of Sherlocks dark head. Sherlock, usually when people say its
been hours they mean it figuratively, but it has literally been hours of looking at these things. I
dont know what Im even looking at anymore. Its like apple picking!
Apple picking?
Its to do with a poem, John called over. How do I know I wont miss something entirely and
all this time will have been wasted?
Because Ive just found it, Sherlock crouched over the lock, of a container, balancing his packet
of lock picks on one knee before selecting a couple. John was far enough away, watching
Sherlock work with mild irritation, that he was able to see the shadow thrown across the side of
the crate like something from a Bond film. It was the basic garden variety thug, a man with
enough height and width to have faith in his own physical ability, but not strong enough to whip
himself into a higher position.
The thug had a leather jacket he probably thought made him look cool and a lead pipe that John
didnt approve of. If a murderously convincing cabbie didnt get dibs on the detectives life a low
time thug wouldnt either. Sherlock! John hissed.
Sherlock, busy picking the lock, was surprised and only had time enough to throw himself against
the floor, his arms going out to brace himself as he pressed against the shipping crate, his legs
flying out from under him. The pipe struck the crate a glancing blow, thrumming and rasping
against the metal. Sherlock was at all the wrong angles, body twisted so he was lying half way
between his side and back his limbs bent and stretched out at awkward angles so his center of
gravity was too far away to do him any good.
John ran as the thug recovered enough to bring his arm back to take a second swing and Sherlock
scrambled. He watched the thug and Sherlock gritting his teeth and struggling to get his legs under
him. He drew back his arm, watching how far back his extension went too far and hed lose his
momentum. With a huff he discharged his small fist into the bend of the thugs knee, the move
was technically behind the back, but as Sherlocks life was possibly at stake and John wasnt yet
four feet he forgave himself. Everything moved rather quickly at that point. Hed had a chance to
haul out his gun from under layers of clothing, one trainer toe sliding forward in a hushed half
inch on the concrete and slammed the butt against the mans knee cap.
He went down with a startled gasped off yawp his arms flying upward, his mouth open in a wide

circle of soundlessly resonating breath. It was a little like the sound, John thought, a wind tunnel
might make. He raised the butt of his gun to knock the man out when Sherlock swung a brick
house of a punch into the mans jaw and knocked him out and over, cold on the floor.
You okay? John panted, not really winded, but pulled and stretched the way that he was when
he had adrenaline in his system.
Fine, Sherlock said, shaking out his knuckles, that was an unfortunate turn of events.
I thought you said there was no one here.
Stevey? someone shouted down the aisle of crates. Was that you? Whats going on?
Sherlock burst to his feet, grabbing Johns hand in a grip that swallowed him to the wrist,
Quickly John, I saw an unlocked crate a few aisles back, we need to get inside.

Liberation of goods interrupted, Matos have returned. Git not located. Elsie
Dont worry love, Ive got them. BD

Chapter 15
Sherlock dragged John to the unlocked crate, mouth pressed into a thin line. John turned his
shoulder against Sherlocks hip, guarding his back with his gun lifted up at his shoulder height.
His fingers didnt fit as tight and sure around the grip as they used to, but it was sure enough to
keep them safe. There was a soft snick of the metal post at the door, Sherlocks soft curse at the
noise it made and the crate door was open. John was batted inside the crate with Sherlock in
behind him, and there was another snick and a scramble in the total darkness to snick the inner
latch closed behind them.
It was very, very, very dark. It made John let out a little gasp. There was the hushed sound of
leather gloves against metal and expensive shoes sliding carefully against metal and then fingers
like antennae across Johns shoulders as he put away his gun behind his layers. The sort of dark
that made you think you werent alone. He had a panic stricken moment when he thought
something was in there with them, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him.
On the other side of the door, muffled so that no consonant or vowel, or any combination, could
possibly be distinguished was the high aggressive notes of people speaking and yelling. They
were searching for Sherlock and John, not knowing of course it was them Sherlock and John,
and there was an immediate hindbrain panic. He needed to be able to see, to hear, to know what
was going on. He held a breath like he had been taught when he was in Afghanistan, when he
couldnt move him arm from pain and he felt so frantically, maddeningly helpless and hissed all
his anxiety out through his teeth.
Did they put you in the dark? Sherlock whispered, his voice as low as ether in the blackness.
When John knew he had deduced there was fear here and thought it was because of the dark,
because children were afraid of the dark. But children werent really afraid of the dark, John
thought, not as it stood. Their subconscious, or hindbrain, or universal mind was reminding them
they were small and helpless and there were predators out there, something primal and blurred redblack-brown with teeth and cunning and werent mummy and daddy too far away? He had a fear
like that, the soldiers fear that he might never get home, and if he did everything had changed.
Someone had moved the cinnamon from where it was before and his favourite waiter had two
kids now and moved to Manchester and his filthy rich sister, who struggled with interpersonal
relationships and alcoholism changed the wallpaper in the guest room which was nothing really,
nothing, nothing, nothing, but it almost gave him a panic attack.
Yes, they put him in the dark.
But that wasnt the problem.
What time is it? John asked.
About five, Sherlock said back, low and soft. Lestrade will be eating one of his awful curries
for dinner and starting his paper work. Its the best time to harass him for cold cases. He just wants
me to shut up and go away.
Im fine, John said.
Are you fine in the way you want me to shut up about it or fine in the way that you are fine?
there was a small sliding river of silence. John could see it in his head, dark and picturesque in the
darkness. The Americans called each other good brother sometimes.
Are you good, Good Brother?

There was something old about it that John couldnt recognize, like stories his Scottish grandfather
had told him. This is Brother, Good Brother, and Good Good Brother. The third is the goodest of
them all.
The second one, where Im really fine. Dont be scared Sherlock, he whispered. Im not about
to have a meltdown. Im just coming down from the fight. And that he couldnt quite shake the
feeling he was being observed.
The fingers shifted around him, Lets find the wall and sit down. We may have to wait a while.
They sat together in the dark of the shipping container, listening to the sounds of muffled bursts
running about and shouting. They couldnt hear anything but the bursts of sound, so for a long
while in the beginning they sat on edge waiting for the Matos to go away, like children thinking of
cheating at hide and seek. Are they there, are they there, are they there? Eventually they relaxed
and just leaned against the metal. It was getting cold, and it was very dark. John tucked his knees
up against his chest; he was getting it under his skin now, the cold. He couldnt judge anymore
how long he could sit in the cold before he started getting into trouble. It would be a while, but not
as long as it would be if he had more body mass.
This, Sherlock said softly, but no longer bothering to outright whisper, he still managed to make
it light and fleeting as a feather, is exceptionally dull.
Being murdered by fifty people at once will be too much, even for you, John whispered back.
You sound odd, Sherlocks voice was rabbit soft in dark, whisper light. There was an edge to
this, an out of body experience feel, being so small in the dark with a disembodied voice.
Im fine.
There was the faint sound of movement, the sound of heavy material shifting then long fingers
coming closer. They rested in gentle points on his shoulder, skittering across the thin fabric of his
coat, sliding for a second on the patch to the end of his sleeve, the hairsbreadth of jumper cuff and
the bit of wrist before Johns hands, clamped between his thighs.
Where are your gloves? Youll freeze, John said tightly.
I dont suppose the insanity of what you said has occurred to you.
Im fine.
Sherlock huffed a little as if to say John was an idiot, one of many and why did Sherlock have to
be thusly burdened. It was such a familiar little sound it made John grin and then, because that
wasnt enough, that made him huff out a little laugh of his own.
You are a doctor John; you know enough about the risks of the cold, and your body mass is
much smaller than mine. And you dont have a proper coat.
The last was said softer, more subdued. John turned his face toward that deep voice in the dark,
trying to decipher the meaning of that tone, and struck his chin against the side of Sherlocks jaw.
They both startled black in the dark, blind as cave newts, and blinked as if that would help. There
was a second hand on Johns shoulder and the hush of Sherlocks hand against the leather patch
there and then leather clad fingerprints spanning his shoulder to the side of his neck. John
wondered if clothes have always been like this, if they have always made the sound of breathing
as they shuffled against him and against everything else. If only they had a light. Hed use his
mobile, but that was a card he still wanted to hold to his chest.

Sherlock, he began, it was a priming sort of Sherlock for the purpose of getting Sherlocks
attention, getting him to listen before even trying to get him to listen.
Ive already thought about that, Sherlock said, his deductive powers now, apparently, no longer
needing even sight anymore.
Wha How?
Obvious John. First you turned your head toward me, second you bumped into me, third youve
turned your body toward me. You desire to see me but have no torch, so a phone, next, logically
youll think of my mobile. If I were able to use it I already would have, being trapped in the dark,
in a cold metal crate is not how I prefer to use my time. I would have called Lestrade at the very
least. As useless as he is; he is excellent at bringing in the cavalry. But when I fell over I hit the
side of the crate and the battery disengaged, I dont know where it is.
He worries, John said simply and quietly. And that was amazing.
They ignored a shouting in the distance. A sudden burst of bullets.
That does not bode well at all.
Oh really?
You know it was. Too bad about the battery though. Dont be so hard on sentiment, he doesnt
just help you because he enjoys your company, or rather he does.
Come under my coat, youll be less likely to freeze to death.
After a quite mental debate, an irritated noise and a shiver John let himself get tucked in close into
a warm, warm cave made by the thick fabric of Sherlock coat and the heat of his body.
There were a few irritated shufflings until John finally, obediently tucked his head under
Sherlocks arm. He didnt like being held in tight like this. Like a child. But it was very cold and
very dark in the crate. If he were bigger, his real size, he wouldnt mind it, he would probably be
the one reaching over first to be sure Sherlock was warm.
Lestrade was on scene when you ODed, wasnt he?
That had the effect of making Sherlock go stiff like John had jabbed him with a life wire.
Did W tell you that? That I ODed? he hissed.
No, I figured it out myself. Obvious. Do you honestly not see what you do after you put on a
patch? Same place, you always put the first one as close to the bend of your elbow as you think
you can without being obvious and you hold and fold your elbow up. Im a doctor, I cant count
the number of times Ive drawn blood, I know the move. The gasp of an addict. And the drugs
busts were a hint too. Although if I had met you without seeing it I can promise you I would
assume no one would be able to find anything beyond the strictly recreational.
Sherlock was quiet for a while, still tense.
Its fine. Its not like you do it anymore. In reply to the definite tone of Sherlocks silence John
said, Im better with people than things.
John closed his eyes, it seemed better to be in the dark that way. He had started to lose a concept
of time and space, other than the hot line of Sherlock side in layers of Dolce and the hot line of his

arm over and around Johns shoulder. He couldnt see his hand in front of his face, or the white of
Sherlocks shirt (which was downright blinding in direct sunlight, he had set several Yarders to
wincing once, although that may have been overplayed) with his cheek practically up against it.
Against the fog of silence in the shipping crate there was the sound of gunfire outside. John
remembered the size of the warehouses in his mind and the cement and how even though England
wasnt that big and London wasnt that big and a complex of dockside warehouses wasnt that
big, but no one was coming apparently. No one heard and was coming. He dozed for a while, he
wasnt sure how long, long enough for Sherlock to get bored and accidentally on purpose nudge
him. He knew Sherlock remembered why John had fallen into a doze as soon as John stared
awake a little and felt a little bad for it, so he felt no need to say anything.
Im sorry, Sherlock said, not an apology for jabbing John with his elbow, but tightening his arm
which was the apology for the jabbing. After some thought it may not have been wise to have
brought you with me.
I said I was fine.
Its too dangerous.
Im not a child, John curled tighter under Sherlocks coat.
Youre eight.
Im capable.
Youre small and light. Youre strong for a child and quick; you also have the benefit of being a
slight and unexpected target. And you do have advanced military training which gives you more
skill than many of the men youll face. At least most of the men out there. You have the element
of surprise; youre a sudden and unexpected threat. But that doesnt make you bigger, or stronger.
Anyone, anyone could capture you again, could kill you, do anything to you.
Did you not see me save you just now? You may not have noticed me stopping a man from
killing you.
What if there were two, or three, or even four?
This is the third time Ive saved your life, John said sharply. If there were four I would have
fought four. Or if I was in trouble you call for you to help me, which I couldnt do if you sent me
away.
Sherlock jerked, I never said anything about sending you away. Did someone say something
about you leaving?
I dont want to leave, John said softly. I want to stay with you and solve crimes and make sure
you remember to eat sometimes. You need a flat mate; you said you needed a flat mate.
Sherlocks arms tightened around John, he would have shrugged him off, but he needed Sherlock
to cling to him like John was his favourite teddy bear. John, I- Pointless sentiment will only
distract you, if you are to learn anything from me, learn that. It will only distract you from making
correct deductions; you must learn to be at the top of your abilities. I am not sending you away
and have no desire to do so. Remove the thought from your mind, it will only distract you from
more important matters.
John let out a pleased little breath. Alright I will.
A little light went on in the darkness, it was blinding at first, like a shot of pure white shooting up

at an odd angle. Once Johns eyes adjusted he saw it was the screen of some sort of mp3 player
held at an angle by someone with an exceptionally expensive dress shirt. He would have thought
Mycroft but the arm was too hungrily angular.
As sweet as this is, Bad Davey said. Im bored of listening to the Beatles, some people can
listen all day long, but theyre not my style.
What, said Sherlock.
I can, Bad Davey said, shifting the screen light so it lit up his face, the edges of the red in his
hair, the hint of freckling under one eye and against his nose. He looked both completely
conversational and completely pleased with himself. Recognize their skill as a songwriting unit
and as performers, but Im more a White Stripes sort of bloke. Hey there, he said to John,
climbing off of what was apparently a stool, set in a shipping crate. This was a little beyond Johns
grasp, he wasnt quite sure he wasnt hallucinating. Let him loose Lanky I want to see him.
Sherlock growled at Bad Davey before he seemed to remember himself.
Come see me Johnny, Bad Davey nodded at him.
John looked up at Sherlock who was scowling at Bad Davey, I think I should stay with Sherlock
right now.
Come see me.
You were being a bit of a creeper sitting in the dark like that, John said firmly.
Youre going to live with him them? Youre going to sleep in his house?
Yes Davey.
What am I going to do with that fool child? Bad Davey was up and pacing angrily, cursing
decoratively and slapping his hand against his thigh. He was always worrying after Roost, Davey
was. What do you expect me to do with that horrid little idiot?
I dont know.
Im not going to mind him, Im not his minder. That was a lie.
Theres always school. And I will come visit him. Its only been a day.
Youre living him with him now, Bad Davey asked again, gentler this time.
Yeah.
Fine, fine, whatever. Youre still on call to me, he looked at John pointedly, his screen light
weakly illuminating them.
Yeah I am.
Good then, he looked away, face rapidly swallowed by shadow. You too should get ready to
go then. Get out of this crate at least. Hide the kid.
Sherlock stood and started to step in close to Bad Davey.
Oh youre clever arent you? But you stepped into my territory and started to meddle in my
things so do not for a second think you can step up and threaten me. You dont get to do that.

Ive met dangerous men, Sherlock bite off each word. You just arent frightening.
You dont get to play with kids like that, Bad Davey stood up full height, wrist twisted to light
their faces. Johnny isnt a toy.
I dont play. They stood nearly nose to nose, almost an inch to each other. Narrow eyed, trying
to stare each other down before having to hook horns.
I will give you ten pounds of coke to drop him.
There was a deep gash of silence in the shipping crate and John stared at the two of them horrified
and wide eyed. The air trembled in horror, the suddenness of the wound stealing his words.
Of money?
Of weight, Bad Davey snapped back.
And why would you want to just hand over that much product?
It would, Bad Davey took a step closer, his eyes gone low, make your life so much easier.
I. Am. Clean, Sherlock said fiercely. John is mine. You can borrow him when I dont need
him. He was given to me. You could cut me his weight in cocaine and I wouldnt touch it.
Thats a lie. I know the trade. The longing, the creep in your skin, the electricity in your brain,
the way it makes you sharp and hot and quiet all at once, he leaned close like he was either going
to breathe on Sherlocks cheek or whisper in his ear. Doesnt your brain go so fast all the time?
Ripping through everything and everyone in seconds, doesnt it just want you want to peel your
skin right off? No one understands, do they, what its like to have your brain go four hundred and
your body only half that. Can make you want to crack your skull open to let it all out. And all this
stress, all these expectations all at once, you just need a chance to lay it all out straight so you can
focus, like lines on a mirror.
He tilted his head slightly, still talking, still breathing his poison into Sherlocks ear, Everyone
wanting you to feel their petty little feelings, fit into their boxes and wear their pretty little labels.
But I can see you. In the dark. I can see you bright and sparkling as laboratory equipment. Its
better to step away from their grabby hands then. Easy to understand then. Just the little push to
take the edge off. Its enough to make one hungry, he sighed. And paused. Are you hungry
Sherlock Holmes? Clever Sherlock Holmes. One of the greatest minds of our generation Bad
Daveys voice was tenuous as a thread, his eyes in shadow, most of his face blocked off by the
darkness in the crate. Only the bottoms of his cheeks and his mouth were really visible, dropping
into a soft little frown. As if he had gone a little dead.
Sherlock was trembling slightly, ramrod straight. He was like a live wire. John wished more than
almost anything that he could see Sherlocks face.
That he could talk.
I, Sherlock swallowed with a full body jerk. He sounded very nearly anguished. Am. Clean.
Good, I wouldnt have given it to you anyway. Did a little research. You fell in with a posh and
irritating lot, poor taste that, but you were young. Can be forgiven. Put an order out to be informed
of who sells to you. Youd have to go to Cumbria, Bad Davey snorted and waltzed a few steps
away before Sherlock drew back once arm and struck Bad Davey hard across the face. If he had
been a lesser hand Sherlock would have struck him to the ground.

Dont ever speak to me like that in front of John again. Its not your business what I did, or what
I do now or what I will do. My relationship with John is none of your business at all.
Thats why he likes you then, Bad Davey sounded equal parts bemused and irritated, grinning
in the darkness as if to say you seem to believe it is none of my business, but on that point you are
mistaken. He touched the place on his face with his pale fingers with a gentle appreciation. His
mouth was bright and full of teeth. All things must be equalized. Ill get back for that.
Are you done? Sherlock said.
Yeah, the light went against the door and Davey clanked the latch and threw the door open.
Blinding them. Your Yard friends will be here soon. Actually here at this crate I should say,
theyre already here in the building. Come see me Johnny? Before I go?
Were not speaking for a while Davey, bit not good, John stared blearily at the point in which
he hoped Davey was standing. Bit not good.
I could let him wander around with you without giving him a good look over in a warehouse
Babe. Thats just what family does. Well be good again later.
He waltzed away, swinging his ear buds round in a circle a few times.
Bad Davey is probably the sharpest man youll ever meet, John said quickly to Sherlock. He
had a feeling saying, I know you would never would only set off a gigantic row. Hell cut at you
wherever he can, he wants you to think he can get in your brain, that he knows how you think.
Just shake him off.
John, Sherlock spun on his heel to look down at him. Do not make the mistake of thinking that
I am limited by petty, distracting emotional upheavals. I am a sociopath. Bad Davey was right in
that we should leave here, and that you should probably stay out of sight.
I can hitch a ride with one of the transports and meet you back at the Yard, John shrugged. He
was still a little shaken by Daveys voice. By Sherlocks. He could give some space.
Do that, Sherlock turned and waltzed toward the sound of commotion and what was clearly
people yelling their rights at other people and other people yelling back curses.
John nodded his head resolutely a couple times to himself and went to find a ride he could sneak
onto.
Probably noticed. Call came in to check out warehouse. Involved in Sherlocks case.
Lestrade
Im aware, but thank you for your expediency. Let me know if assistance needed. MH

Chapter 16
John rode over in a curiously empty evidence van considering the crime scene was a warehouse.
He held onto a couple of packing straps and had flashbacks of riding in a Humvee. He arrived at
the back and was able to avoid detection until he stumbled in the wrong door and landed into a
tidy little beige office space he had never seen before. But he didnt need to be Sherlock Holmes
though to catch the implication of the four stabled cleaning carts against one wall and the
toolboxes on two of the four small desks that closer resembled worktables that this was janitorial.
There were two men, one older, sandy hair thinning with big round glasses and a set of coveralls
(another hit in case he missed the others) making impatient noises at another man.
The second man waved his arms expressively, taking up the whole room, Westmorland says he
understands what its like, hes taking my late shift so I can go be home with Annie. He looked
young, kind of chubby the way some people always did and the sleeves of his coveralls were tied
lopsided around his waist as if he burst out of them. He made another expressive gesture as if he
were the conductor of some invisible orchestra. He said he talked to you about-
Hey! the older man said before John could pull out. Kid. This is a restricted area, what are you
doing back here?
John wasnt sure they would know who Sherlock was, or if they did that hed want them to know
he was associated. People in charge of cleaning things up tended to have strong feelings for
Sherlock Holmes. Im looking for someone, I got turned around.
Come on Boss, you know hes right good at it, hes like a cleaning machine, like one of those
OCD people, the young man said, he was making motions John supposed were supposed to be
like a cleaning machine. Its not like anyone will care, or notice. Cleaning people are invisible
people.
You, the older man pointed to the other janitor, quit whinging and go on home to your stupid
baby. You, he pointed at John, scowling, get out of here New Scotland Yard is not a
playground.
Yes sir, John said quickly, spooked enough to keep his head down and run toward the sound of
the bullpen. He made it in time to see Sherlocks face pull nervously for a moment before his eyes
caught on Johns short frame and his face went smooth and smug again. He must be about to do
his big reveal.
John jogged in between the sergeants and constables in time to hear Lestrade say, And some of
this doesnt make sense, there were a tonne of guns, but the Matos dont trade in weapons, they
fence and smuggle. Its the Darwins who deal with weapons, although if they were elbowing in
on the Darwins market that would explain why they were so jumpy. There is very little real
cargo. The only explanation was they knew we were coming.
Impossible, Sherlock said quickly, there hadnt been enough vehicle activity. They would have
moved the guns if they thought the Darwins were coming. And if they knew the Yard was going
to burst in like that why not move the all the illegal goods?
What happened? John asked eagerly at Sherlocks side.
John? Lestrade stopped and stared at him, on the other side of Sherlocks coat. What are you
doing here?

Nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you Inspector, Sherlock cut in with an imperious wave of
his hand.
What happened? John repeated when Sherlock didnt seem in a hurry to answer him.
When the Yard completed their raid they captured the leaders of the Matos gang and confiscated
a great deal less than the expected illegal goods. Apparently a great many of the shipping crates
were completely empty. But that makes no sense, if they knew there was going to be a raid why
leave some of the most incriminating evidence? And why would the leaders be there and not
somewhere where they would be safe and undetected?
Maybe they wanted to make sure whatever had been left behind got wherever it was supposed to
go safely. Like they didnt trust anyone else with it? John offered.
That makes sense, Lestrade said, leading them to his office.
That makes no sense, Sherlock snapped back, face pulled into a familiar twist of contempt that
only had John rolling his eyes. Some of the recovered goods seem to belong to a rival gang and
many of the gangs leaders were neatly collected for easy capture. They werent acting like they
knew the Yard, or anyone was coming at all, he went still, eyes wide and moving back and forth
as though reading from the page of an invisible book. Someone knew the Yard was coming.
Only- Sherlocks eyes went wide, the way he did when all the pieces came together, his mouth
forming a lopsided O. Already here in the building. Of course, stupid. And clever. In a very
simple childrens mystery sort of way, Sherlock said dismissively, but there was an undercurrent
of admiration.
What? Lestrades ears seemed to perk up, he curled back on his heel, his eyebrows raising, as
he led them toward his office.
Nothing, Sherlock said flatly in a tone that John had some to recognize as up to something.
Sherlock, what? Lestrade pressed.
Oh, whos to say why idiots do the things that they do? he replied airily, stepping through the
door Lestrade held open for them. The important thing is the case. You found the two bodies?
Ms. Cushings missing sister? John asked.
And the other one. Whoever he was, Sherlock waved him away with disinterest.
Yes, dusted for prints though, nothing to find. Everyone there wears gloves for safety.
Youve worked it out though, the murder? John asked excitedly.
Oh, this morning, Sherlock waved that off again, but not so imperiously, something had
bothered him a little, and he hadnt quite shaken it off yet. It was obvious.
After a short pause John rolled his eyes again and said shortly, Well then, why dont you share
with the rest of the class?
Sherlocks sigh was truly legendary, Ms. Cushing has twin sisters; or rather she had, completely
identical. They had the same haircut, wore similar clothes, maintained similar bodyweights. One
died last year of lung cancer. The other has very recently been murdered. Unlike their sister, who
decided to work for Queen and Country, they discovered how to use their similarity to their
advantage working with smugglers. They continued this way for years until the chronic smoking
of one of the sisters caused her to become ill and they retired. They thought it best considering

their associations, and that there had been so much reorganization they decided to keep their
sudden weakness secret, Sherlock leaned back on his heels smirking.
One sister however had developed some association with a member of the Matos, likely romantic
but I wont know without looking at the body, Sherlock stared pointedly at Lestrade.
Its likely, John piped in to avoid the minor row Sherlock appeared to be preparing himself for,
statistically speaking. Theres less pressure to behave and theres the removal of the possibility of
accidentally getting pregnant, lots of older people pull more, um, vigorously than they did in their
younger years.
Sherlock and Lestrade stared down at him with a shock that set John to shuffling back a step.
It really is like there are two of you, Lestrade whistled. John didnt like them looming over him,
staring at him, like he hadnt any sense.
I read an article on STIs in people over the age of 60 just the other day, John said
uncomfortably. He looked up at them, craning his neck tensely and wished he hadnt said
anything.
Was it in one of the journals you brought over? Sherlock stepped in before John could stumble
along any more.
Yeah, he stood a little steadier on his feet.
Ill have to look it over, Sherlock sniffed, You see, this is what you lack Lestrade, an inquiring
mind. This why John is invaluable to my investigations. Her romantic interest in a member of the
Matos gang mistaken for commercial negotiations a member of the first killed her and the man
assumed to be her informant. Their ears were then delivered to Ms. Cushing, whom the killer
assumed was the other, now deceased twin, likely as a threat to keep silent. Case solved. We will
be going home now. The increased information processing in Johns age group requires a greater
amount of REM sleep.
The door to Lestrades office swung open as Donovan poked her head in. John used to like
Donovan; he understood a little what it was like to be a competent professional told how to do
your job. She was capable, she had trained and now she was being insulted by a posh git with too
much sense of his own importance. But he had also held back because Donovan seemed
stubbornly obsessed, paranoid that Sherlock would turn on them with a razor blade smile like Jack
the Ripper and slit London coldly open just to watch it bleed out clinically. Now she twisted his
stomach with anxiety at the latent threat she offered. Was this, John wondered as her face turned
toward him, what Sherlock was afraid of? Normal everyday people who stubbornly refused all
wisdom like a brick wall and blindly crushed you should you step out of line. John stood at parade
rest, hands gently clasped behind his back, and firmly returned her gaze.
Whats he doing here? she nodded toward John, looked at Lestrade and spoke at Sherlock. She
was talented that way.
Assisting, Sherlock said calmly. It was his calm Real Person voice. His real calm voice was
deeper and had a sort of lull to it like he was talking himself up and down hills. He would also
hum to himself sometimes, between sentences, as if he was tasting the word, or tasting the thought
of it, or even, knowing Sherlock, identifying the chemicals in his brain. This was the voice he
used because he knew he was different and was trying to keep people from noticing.
He was at the crime scene? Donovan said in a voice that sounded nearly comically incredulous,
John was surprised her eyes didnt go huge and her mouth drip to her chin. Where there were

violent criminals and guns?

Sherlock absently touched Johns fingertips, he wasnt sure what that meant, but he knew to be
quiet. Lestrade, Sherlock said in a bored drawl. Did you happen to notice John with me at the
warehouse? Even you would have noticed him I think. He rather stands out.
No, I didnt see him until we got here, Lestrade said between Sherlock and Sally. I havent
seen him since this morning. Sherlock isnt stupid. Hes not going to bring John in front of a
bunch of criminals and parade him around.
So hes just letting a kid wander around Scotland Yard, around London, unsupervised while he
runs around playing with dead people, she let herself into the office, using the file folder in one
hand as a pointing finger.
Sally, Lestrade said rolling his shoulders at her.
Sir. Hes not normal, Donovan said angrily, waving her pointing file folder she strode closer,
standing nearly side by side with Lestrade. Demanding his attention. We all know its only a
matter of time before he gets bored and starts plotting murders of his own. And youre trusting him
with a child. Youre letting him shape the mind of some innocent person. You know hes not
right. That he doesnt care about who people feel or how they think. You think when that kid gets
scared, or sick, or hurt hes going to care more than just the inconvenience of it? Hes not
watching John, hes not tending to him. Hes just ignoring him while he boasts about his own
cleverness! Do you honestly think nothing should be done while that freak drags the innocent
child into the midst of gunfire and thugs who do who knows what?
Sherlock was near shaking with rage, his face ghost white and his eyes burning silver like some
chemical fire. I would not- he hissed.
Oh dont start Freak, Donovan tossed her soft curly hair, everyone knows- she started and
John ignored the rest of what she said because John hated her, he hated her face and her twisting
lips and her curly hair and way of moving, like she knew she was beautiful and she expected
everyone to know it too and that she was smart and that everyone should know it too and that she
thought she was good and wanted everyone toOne soft arm reached out and snagged him back against a warm thigh, short electric purple nails
flexed gently at the angry burn in his heart making him relax in surprise and look up at a pretty,
fresh face of a lady with a loose handful of hobnobs. Sorry John, said the lady, the girl really.
She was the girl from before. The girl with the yellow jumper who worked for Bad Davey, Elsie,
All I could find were a couple of biscuits. She had on a comfortable looking peacoat with a few
small fingers of a childs knitted glove sticking out of one pocket. Im sorry I dont want to
interrupt anything important or police-y but John only picked at his tea and his supper so when he
said he was hungry I wanted to get something for him.
She smiled at Lestrade hesitantly, in the way that girls who were pretending to be grownups
smiled at other grownups in a way that was meant to say why dont we pretend nothing is wrong
for the children? John had been so focused at Sally and Sherlock puffing up like offended cats
that he had missed the sound of Lestrades office door opening. It sounds like theres grown up
stuff going on here, she said, her hand still over Johns heart, in a voice that would have done a
childrens promgramme proud. She turned to Sherlock and John had to admit that she was
possibly better than Sherlock at shamming, And I thought I should come and fetch him so you
can deal with matters. Now that John has seen that youre safe and sound, why dont I take him
back home Mr. Holmes? I know you were pretty strict about bedtime, but he was just not wanting
to sleep.

John took the biscuits with a smile; he was rather hungry after all. His eyes caught for a moment
on a couple of funny lines of drawn figures, little stick figures with waving arms, on the inside of
her wrist before he was distracted by her slightly worried gum chewing.
Lestrade and Donovan, frozen mid-rant, stood staring shocked at her.
I want to stay with Sherlock, John said after a second fully satisfying bite, he wasnt completely
sure what she was about, but he was getting a good idea.
Im sorry youre? Lestrade asked.
Oh, she brushed the biscuit crumbs on her hand off on her thigh, Elsie. Im a childcare
professional. Mr. Holmes employed me to watch John for him while he was off all his fancy crime
solving stuff although Im sure that he wouldnt mind paying for the taxi and the extra hours I had
to watch John, she gave Sherlock the look of a shrewd business woman. John leaned his head
back against the softness of her thigh and smiled peaceably at Sherlock.
Of course, Sherlock said stiffly. I trust he behaved himself for you.
Oh, hes a doll, she ruffled Johns hair gently, John suddenly found himself blushing, the heat of
it curling up his face in a palpable wave. He shoved another biscuit in his mouth and decided
silence really was the better part of valour. Her hand shifted up so it rested soft and warm on his
shoulder.
Donovan, Lestrade said sternly, why do you go take a walk and cool down. Well talk
tomorrow.
I-
Now Donovan, he said sharply. Donovan moved quickly out of the room, stoically pretending
that everyone in the room except Elsie werent watching her exit.
Now thats been settled is there anything else I have to do before I can go home and finally put
John to bed? Sherlock said stiffly, there was a fierce edge to his voice, the shot of steel in his
epically straight back and set shoulders, the lift of his chin, the look in his eye like some cherubim
with a flaming sword ready to do battle. Do battle for him, John realized, Sherlock was willing to
do battle for John. He was the picture of a lord when lords were actually dangerous and
occasionally lopped someones head off.
He wiggled loose from Elsie and went to bump his shoulder against Sherlocks leg. I want
Sherlock to take me home Elsie.
If you really want to John
Well be fine. We take care of each other.
Alright then Ill just head home, she politely, but pointedly looked at Sherlock. There was a bit
of a lull in the office and Lestrade looked between Elsie and Sherlock. Elsie cleared her throat.
What? Sherlock snapped.
Ill just head home then Mr. Holmes.
Do you need my permission?
No, she said very carefully. Its just after watching dear sweet John all afternoon and into the

evening and paying a taxi on the way to New Scotland Yard I was wondering if there was
anything you wanted to do or say.
Good evening and good bye your service has been appreciated.
Elsie very calmly, very professionally put her hands on her waist, Mr. Holmes, my most sincerest
apologies for the misunderstanding, you see, I am a professional who offers a professional service
marked by competitive rates and an understanding of unique living arrangements. Now I have
greatly enjoyed spending an evening with your fine gentlemen, dear that he is and wouldnt mind
meeting him again due to his kind and companionable disposition. But, Mr. Holmes, I am a
businesswoman and as such would prefer to maintain, as vulgar as you may consider it, the
commercial viability of my labours and as such would request that you be so kind as to pay me.
When she named her price Sherlock glowered at her, You extortionist. John is incredibly well
behaved.
You cant talk to a lady like that Sherlock, John piped up, biscuits demolished. Besides, Bad
Davey sending her over was practically lifesaving. Ignoring the fact it was technically extortion.
That got him a few surprised looks; he stepped sideways into parade rest. Just because he was
small didnt mean he was deaf.
Its not polite.
Mutinous, Sherlock sniffed handing over the money. Elsie snagged it and slipped in her shirt in
a move that was too quick to be immodest.
Thats actually a fairly decent rate Sherlock, Lestrade said.
Thank you sir and sir, she said to Sherlock and John before pivoting to Lestrade, and sir;
please do keep me in mind for any of your other childcare needs. She turned on her heel and
strolled out of Lestrades office.
That was tedious, Sherlock muttered, still very much on edge.
That was necessary, John said gently.
Id think the importance of finishing the case would supersede matters of niceties.
Who decides matters of importance? John shot back.
I do for a start! Its my case!
No you dont Sherlock, Lestrade cut in, as much as I enjoy watching you have it out with a six
year old-
Im eight!
-its the Yards case.
Im the one who solve it for the dense lot of you. Ill save you my opinion of the ignominy it
would cause you to detail the stupidity which I must suffer as a result of the assistance which I
offer, Sherlock snapped, razor sharp whip cracks which could curl back and bite down to the
bone. He could gut someone at fifty paces with the lash of his tongue. I will say simply that Id
think Id be the most important part of this proceeding in as much as I solved the case while you
all blundered around harassing Middle Easterners.

Sherlock, John cut in, looking for all the world like an irritated army captain in miniature.
Leave it. They cant take me away; you know that, theyre not allowed to take me.
That was not strictly speaking true, but it would likely distract Sherlock from displacing his anger
my eviscerating Lestrade, with the mythology of W.
Johns sessions with a psychiatrist had been useful for a few things.
Several expressions flashed over Sherlocks face in a manner that made John concerned he was
either going to tip over or have some sort of fit before a look of quickly damped down fascination
and the sort of hunger he got when he was truly curious. It is getting late. Give me a few minutes
and well go.
He reached out to John slightly; his hand hovering with something that was likely meant to be a
pat but was more like a brief nudge at Johns shoulder before stuffing his hands into his pockets.
Do you know where the back hall is John? By evidence?
Yeah.
Wait there, you shouldnt be bothered, he turned back to Lestrade, cold and back in place.
Bye DI Lestrade, John held up one hand in farewell.
Later, Lestrade nodded back uncomfortably.
John wove through the bent heads of Yarders, witnesses, criminals and hangers on to wander into
the back hall, being sure to avoid all sight of Donovan. He hunched back against the wall of the
hallway, looking at the blank colored wall and the light of the exit sign on one side of the hallway.
The lonely industrial sort of door, the Berber of the carpeting, he tried to observe the wear pattern
in the carpet, tried to take guesses, but wasnt sure how he was doing. He saw someone coming
down the hall, head down in thought. A familiar painfully boyish face, that same pug nose, stocky
frame, serious expression as if stoicism would prove his ability.
Hey Dimmock, John said without thinking and then winced a little. It was something he could
explain away though, working with Lestrade. Dimmock utterly surprised him by spinning on the
heel of his cheap trainers and blinked wide eyed and shocked. His round boyish face had gone
wane and there was a faint streak of white tinged auburn flaring back at his left temple. He
dropped to his knees in front of John and grabbed Johns shoulders nearly tight enough to bruise.
How do you know my name? How do you know my name? his eyes roved wild over Johns
face. John snapped his arms up and around, knocking Dimmock loose. There was the faint smell
about him that John associated with Harry when she was tottering at the edge of the wagon. Now
that John got a look at him, Dimmock wasnt dressed in his slightly oversized suit, as if he was a
kid dressed up as a DI.
Well, its your name isnt it? John knocked him in the chest with his elbow, just in time for his
eyes to catch on the laminated ID card CUSTODIAL Timothy Westmoreland pinned to the collar
of his thin jacket.
Did Grendel send you? Dimmock growled.
Grendel? Johns face clouded with confusion, then fell into a twist of anger. Grendel. The
man who had done this to him. The man who all those months ago had shot him with his strange
gun like something out of a bad science fiction movie and burned Johns life away. No, of course
not. He did this to me.

Who are you? Who were you?

For one a whole lot taller. Im John Watson, Dr. Watson, do you remember the Blind Banker?
That Chinese smuggling case? My girlfriend almost got shot with a crossbow.
Dimmocks face clouded in confusion, I dont know a John Watson. I never met you on the
Chinese case. That was just Sherlock.
No, I was there, John gripped the sleeves of Dimmocks jacket. I was, I was there and we
solved it. We met again the next week when I went to the Yards pub night. Lestrade had been
gone trying to fix things with his wife. He was pretending it was getting better but I think we all
knew he was pretending, you stopped him from ordering the vodka.
His eyes were huge, staring at John, You must have been before me then. You went before me.
You know me! You know who I am. I cant, he was speaking quietly, covering his face with
both hands then scrubbing over his eyes and then covering his mouth as if he couldnt find any
words to speak in any vocabulary and had to cover his mouth to make up for it. He hunched over
his knees, shivering slightly and looking slightly shell shocked. Collecting himself fiercely, he
straightened up and much as he could all crouched over. Im not alone then. Were not alone. I
dont have to do this by myself anymore.
Sherlock waltzed around the corner just then, his eyes narrowed viciously when he saw Dimmock
crouched in front of John, but still too far away to really hear anything. Trying to think fast John
forced a smile, Thats him now, the man that takes care of me.
Can I help you with something? Sherlock said narrowly at Dimmock.
Dimmock stood carefully, stuffing his hands in his pockets, No, just making sure he wasnt lost.
You cant be too careful with kids these days. Might not want to let him wander around like that.
Never know who might be around.
Sherlocks eyes snapped up and down from Dimmocks short, neat hair to the canvas of his
trainers and before John could say anything Sherlock snapped, Like an alcoholic with a failed
marriage? I dont need your advice; I can take care of him.
John sucked a quick breath in through his nose, his head snapped up to look at Dimmock who
rocked forward on his toes and then back on his heels. There was something so angry about him
suddenly, a long and dangerous anger that had been set to season, set and turned into a weapon,
Dimmock nodded once at Sherlock, A good trick.
Its not a trick, Sherlock reared back his head like some dark headed, offended peacock.
My marriage didnt fail.
In denial?
Sherlock, stop, John said quickly.
No, Dimmock said simply. Good evening, he said before turning on his heel and heading out
toward the door at the end of the hall. If it were any other time, any other person Sherlock might
have pressed for it, but as it was he subsided and turned his considerable focus on John.
Bit not good, John snapped at Sherlock, trying not to stare at Dimmocks retreating back.
Trying not to think of all the ways that Dimmocks marriage could end without failing if his life
had been stolen the way Johns was. Why was he going by Westmoreland? Why was he a

custodian? How had he run afoul of Grendel too?

And then he thought like a bolt of lightning. Dimmock was just like him.
There was someone like him.

Why me? Why did you pick me for John? SH

Chapter 17
Sherlock had always liked to look out windows of cars when he was little, didnt like to be
trapped inside a car with all the information buzzing around peoples skin. He liked to look at the
lights; he couldnt help the flashes of information on the way that someone limped or the state of
the cars windows or the state of the awning on some little shop. But they were on the other side
of the glass. Now he was older he stared at the back of the cabbies head and thought unless the
inside of the cab got too loud for him.
He looked up experimentally toward Londons skyline, he remembered Ws advice filtered
through John, no one ever looks up. There was nothing, just the occasional workaholic with the lit
window. But there wasnt enough data. Almost as useless as fiction. He had enjoyed Conrad,
Conrad gave him something to work with, and Joyce as well although Sherlock would admit to
the occasional low degree of nausea. All the other narrators told their stories as if their senses were
dull. Blundering stupidly from place to place without seeing or noticing anything, paring down
everything to only what the author wanted the reader to see. How useless was that? It was obvious
what would happen if a limited number of end games were presented. Life wasnt like that. And
dragging on and on about he did this and she did that and all these feelings. People didnt only see
other people who would later be important in their lives. They saw people they would never see
again and they saw there was a man in the crowd with a horrible haircut and a woman on the
obvious edge of a mental break and faces so stubbornly vacant that it made them want to crawl
away out of their skin.
Or maybe that was just him.
He liked this lull before the city was too loud again. Before his head was too loud again. It was a
soggy, dreamy time when everything was quiet and manageable. Normally he would go
someplace and refuel, but he was serious about knowing that John needed sleep. He was fairly
sure that there was food in the flat, more beans or something. He could eat that well enough. And
there was a need for quiet, for the violin, for consideration.
W was real. Sherlock had not imagined the texts and had not imagined the impossibility of John
with his connections to street kings who were cleverer (barely) than they looked, a crack shot and
a way of speaking that was incredibly adult. Sherlock wasnt sure if it was a matter of Johns
innate genius or the result of some process those who made John had put him through. It was
curious, it was obvious, W had to have known that John stepping as he was into the limelight
would draw immediate attention from those in power (Mycroft) to John and by connection those
who made him. John was the proof of their secret, eventually they would be forced to reveal
themselves or lose any control. W had to know revealing John would put his own secret at risk as
well. Whatever puzzles he had been playing at, no one had noticed, but forcing the organization
that made John into the light would pull W to it closer as well.
There were little things imprinted in John that Sherlock was sorting through, Johns respect and
regard for women. Military training left women notoriously low on the ground, the natural
maternal instinct may have also posed a security risk, conclusion: John had very little contact with
women as a young child, there he gained his regard. However, as proven by the plaid incident
they (They?) didnt encourage sentimentality, conclusion: courtesy, the idea of a lady was taught
by W. Secondary conclusion: W held women in high regard, and defined and used phraseology
connected with being a lady. Nontraditional application pointed to a morality that aligned
femininity with positive physicality and nurturing over more traditional views of class, wealth and
relative promiscuity. He wasnt sure what he could do with his deduction that W was more likely
to open a door for a woman, or speak kindly to her than the general population, and that was

where the rub lay. The man was so much of a shadow that all the little threads could lead to
nothing. He was only considering W a man because of statistics, a rescuing woman figure could
instill John with the same romanticism and explain the same sort of respect for the absent mother
figure, using the affection of Mrs. Hudson and Elsie as a substitute for the absent touch of the
gentle touch of W.
But still, W was throwing John to the wolves a bit, putting him at the mercy of the world. He had
been looking at this from the direction that W cared about John, it was clear this was meant as a bit
of a teaching experience, but would a kind parent thrust their child out without any supervision?
But then John had proven he could take care of himself. But didnt most responsible adults feel the
need to assure their dependents safety? But W was extremely intelligent and therefore less liable
to give into human frailties. Too many buts. It could go either way. Sherlock struck his fist against
his thigh in irritation, until he felt an ache there, like an itch in his skin. There was no way of
knowing. He was only left sitting in a cab, wading through night traffic with a present to prove the
impossibility of Ws reach blinking slowly next to him.
Sherlock looked up and the windows, curious and irritated and intrigued. Did W think he wasnt
clever enough to see? To observe? Sherlock could look up; he could look up all bloody night
long.
There was in one window lit in silhouette two women leaning against the glass. They were both
professional (profile, pencil skirt) and one was loosely holding something like a candle stick in one
hand. They stood like facing bookends and Sherlock watched them, head turning to see them for
as long as he could before the angle changed and he could see nothing.
He had looked up.
He had seen a secret thing.
He didnt know what it meant but it was likely no one in the whole of London had seen that little
tableau but him.
He felt suddenly a sting through his soul as if he had been cut through by some cool wind, but
instead of blowing out the other end it circled and drifted and dissipated somewhere inside him.
He had seen a secret thing. Not because he had observed when everyone else had only seen, but
because he saw where no one was looking. He closed his eyes for a moment and slipped inside
Ws room in the mind palace, sitting primed and nearly empty - waiting for someone to move in,
and added a small round window, about the size of a dinner plate. W sees where others dont
look, he thought and knew this was incredibly important. W knows secrets that no one thinks of
looking for.
Sherlock was jolted out of his mind palace by a thunk against his arm. It felt like a thunk. Very
thunky. He blinked in disorientation before he realized John had fallen asleep and had collapsed
sideways against him. Johns hair still had some of its baby softness and fluffed around the edges
against his coat, his eyelids, loose and palely lashed had fallen so he had lost that tense
watchfulness that would give him crows feet by the time he was forty. He would have them
perhaps sooner, Sherlock thought in a sort of daze, John was quick to smile if you came at him
the right way. Quick to school his face again seriously, but pleased to giggle in a high bright
flurry of sound. Sherlock had never been this close to a child before that he was trusted with. He
had seen people touch babies feet and hands and face hypnotically as if they couldnt help it. He
had never had that urge before, he still didnt. Although John awakened the scientist in him.
He would like to take off his gloves and feel if Johns eyelids were soft, and compare the skin of
his forehead and back of his neck with that on his shoulders and arms. He would like to see Johns
knees, very telling in a young boy, as well as elbows. If he could see John bare chested to get a

proper look at his musculature. It was obvious that John was exceptionally fit for a boy of his age;
he was extremely solid and hard under his baby fat, where Sherlock had been led to believe most
children were soft. John made a soft snuffling sound and the side of his face gently slid a few
millimeters down the side of his arm. An exhausted sleep then, John had not meant to fall asleep,
Sherlock was sure that if he moved very much John would be awake again and embarrassed.
Even with the short amount of time he had spent with John, Sherlock had seen that the child had a
great deal of concern about duty. His duty whatever he had been told or has formed in his own
mind seems mainly to care for Sherlock. To tend for Sherlocks safety as if he were not more than
twice Johns size and about four times his experience. He checked his mobile again. No reply
from W. He looked down at John who had settled himself and was now breathing peacefully
through his nose.
Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Because he saw people, not just on the telly, and
when they had a child they were responsible for they felt softness. Even strange children, they
reached out and said, Oh how sweet? How old are you? Youll grow up to be handsome.
They had done it to Sherlock, he hadnt been sure if he wanted to grow up to be handsome, what
the profit of it would be. When Mycroft had explained in that superior, eye-rolling way he had
between ages fifteen and one-half and sixteen and three-quarters, that it was so people would want
him. People could want themselves, he had never wanted them to want him, touching and
grabbing and asking questions. Cooing over his curly hair and not the fact that he had sat down
and memorized the periodic table with no help, he remembered it was very frustrating. Even
though Mycroft had seemed to know in his superior bored way that he had between the ages of
fourteen even and fifteen and one-seventh when Sherlock didnt know how to pronounce
something. Even though Sherlock was only practicing in his mind so that Mycroft wouldnt know
and be bored and superior at him. And so that Father might be proud for once.
He was often frustrated with lots of people, but somehow always ended up pinching Mycroft.
Mainly because Mycroft wouldnt tell on him and foreign dignitaries usually would. Looking at
John did not make Sherlock want to coo or say that John was sweet, it made him curious and
annoyed that his jeans were dirty and he smelled slightly of rust and old armchair.
Tonight was further proof that when people saw children they touched and reached out. Like Elsie
who had put her arm around John, but Sherlock did not want to particularly reach out and put his
arm around John. He did not feel warm, or fuzzy or gladdened. He lacked the urge to hold and
cosset. Sherlock was comforted that John was here, asleep against his coat instead of in a tunnel or
with Bad Davey, or hurt. It was comfortable for John to be nearby should Sherlock need to show
him something or question him. Having John convenient and visible was simply a superior option.
That everyone but W seemed determined to separate the two of them made him irritated, it was
stupid. It was obvious that Sherlock was brilliant and had sufficient means to support a child and
that John was smart enough to take care of himself.
John made a soft sound and Sherlock shifted slightly so that his head was better supported.
Just about every idiot in England had about fifty children a piece and let them rot themselves into
likeminded idiocy. One couldnt do that with a mind like Johns.
Were here, the cabbie said softly, pulling up gently. For once Sherlock was grateful for
something a little slower than strict efficiency. However, now that they had arrived Sherlock was
at a loss. He was not completely sure what he should do. Obviously he had to get John from the
inside of the cab to the inside of 221B. Lifting one hand, he rested it on Johns shoulder before
pausing. John had been up very late last night and he had a very busy day. No dinner. He had
likely burnt far more than his caloric intake. He must be very tired.
Sherlock pulled his hand back. John would not like to be carried.

He had reacted violently when Sherlock had suggested it. Instead of steady and polite he had
become panicky and angry. If he was unaware he being carried it wouldnt matter, Sherlock
decided. The negative mental associations could not be activated should John lack consciousness.
Are you-? the cabbie started, but Sherlock hushed him. Slowly, he bent over John to lift him
before realizing he wasnt quite sure how it was going to work. Where was he meant to but his
hands to lift him? There was a soft amused sound from the cabbie and Sherlock shot him a dirty
look. First time with your son, the cabbie said. Probably it was meant to be a question, but it
hadnt been said as a question.
Hmm, Sherlock said noncommittally and disengaged Johns seat belt, pinning him gently in
place with one shoulder. He was having second thoughts about whether it really was alright to
carry around John even if he didnt know it, but Johns head dropped heavily into the juncture of
his neck and shoulder. After that it was simply a matter of lifting Johns arm over his shoulder and
carrying hefting him into something like a firemans carry with Johns chest resting against the flat
of his shoulder. John made a faint sort of sound and reached for his absent gun weakly, almost
stirring, but fell back immediately into an exhausted slumber.
He almost forgot to pay the cabbie, and would have let it go, but wasnt sure the cabbies
sympathy would extend to not yelling after him for his fare. John breathed hotly against
Sherlocks neck and Sherlock shifted him slightly lower so that his own solid, warm weight would
keep him pinned to Sherlocks front. It was pleasant, John was warm against his front and his
breath was hot and even, the arm slung over his shoulder curled and caught around his neck.
Sherlock moved very carefully, quietly. He unlocked the door and stepped through lightly,
keeping the amount of jostling and jiggling to a minimum. It was a bit like a game, like trying to
tread from lily pad to lily pad without tipping into a pond.
Once he had hovered to the top of the stairs, he stood indecisive.
It was cold in the flat tonight, he hadnt turned on the heat for the benefit of an experiment, but in
their absence, without a kettle burning or moving around, the flat took a still chill. And John was
very warm laid across his chest and his fingers tapping restlessly against Sherlocks scarf in his
sleep. And Sherlock liked games. Even quiet games.
Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and opened the cupboards softly, ears hypersensitive to the
woody sound like the rustle of a bird wing. Not wanting to wake John up. He found a can of
peaches, and in a different one, the digestives with chocolate on one side. Those were from
Mycroft, he had snuck food into the flat again. He must have spoken to Mummy on Sunday then.
He would have his people sneak in sometimes and leave enough food for Sherlock to huntergather when he couldnt be bothered to leave his flat. They werent hobnobs, but they had
chocolate on them so Sherlock took them down from the cupboard. He was thoughtful tonight, in
a moment of stillness after his case. He thought about Bad Davey breathing drily against his face,
smelling of rosemary, the accruements of violence and wool. Gun oil, blood, fired guns and a light
tinge of hand soap, the hint of bay leaf. The mental calculation for ten pounds of cocaine and its
implications. He thinks of Elsie with her purple nails and her expert misdirection sent to ensure
Sherlock and John stayed together. A move considering both Elsie background in prostitution and
her value to Davey (considering the wear pattern on her shoes and the movements of her wrists)
which was the opposite of offering up a ridiculous amount of cocaine. When Davey said he would
get Sherlock back he had thought he meant for Sherlock punching him, but it seemed he was
referring to the dubious offer of drugs.
No, John breathed softly, a little puff of breath breaking against Sherlocks scarf and brushing
against his hairline. No. Hill. Or perhaps will, or kill, or still, something that ended in -ill. He left
off precision opening the Digestives with a scalpel to make a note on a spare bit of paper with the

time, date, time asleep and what John muttered. Once he had done that he noticed he hadnt
finished his observations on his experiment on clothing dye on human tissue. He only had one
hand as the other was bracing John against him, but it would only take a few minutes, but then the
results were closer than he expected on two of the samples. Then he really was hungry for the
Digestives, from Mycroft or not.
Then Sherlock happened to look up at the kitchen clock and became frightened, his arm curled
around Johns ribs, one hand spanning Johns stocky, strong side. He had been sitting in the
kitchen with John slung against him like he needed some comfort, as though he was weak and
affected. As if John had some power over him. He was sitting in the kitchen boiling hot and
sweating in his Belstaff and scarf so as not to wake a child that had stolen one arm and was
putting one of his legs to sleep. There was inexplicably a power in John, Sherlock realized, which
held some power over him. Some ability to control Sherlock, make him soft and sentimental.
Stepping quickly to the sofa, Sherlock laid John down on the cushions and stepped away
hurriedly. What if W was watching him? What if this was how W would try to control him? Silent
watching W. There was not enough data. Only strange actions, carrying around a child for half the
night. Giving into sentimentality.
John was too perfect. Too convenient. So small and suitable.
John stirred slightly and curled himself into a knot on the sofa while Sherlock backed away. He
needed to think. He needed to analyze the data.
Maybe John was his own defense, if he could get Sherlock to forget he was carrying him, if he
could prevent Mycroft from outright lifting him off the streets. If he had the eyes of the British
government on him, W didnt need to watch John to keep him safe. He had the best nannies in the
world.

Tell your pet git to mind the docks. Matos are cross. Love from Roost. BD
And when I say love from Roost I mean come and get him to keep his brace on and stop
bothering me or Ill toss him in the Thames. BD

Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

I'm so sorry, I've missed two days. I'll post both chapters to finish off Wee Doctor
today and start the next in the series, Small Families tomorrow. Thank you for all
your comments!

John woke up hot and groggy, still in his shoes and coat. He must have fallen right to sleep; he
didnt remember even coming up the steps. He wiggled out of his coat and top jumper, folded
them both and then realized his bag was missing. There was a moment of fluttering panic, his kit
and his Greys were in there before he remembered that Sherlock was Sherlock. Still, he wanted a
wash. He reached for his back waistband and checked first his gun, and then his mobile. It was a
stupid place for it, but he didnt have a lot of hiding places on a body this small.
Sherlock! he shouted at the hall to Sherlocks room. Put my clothes out in the hall! He needed
a better place for his mobile. He ran up the stairs, to the empty room upstairs, his old room. The
room was as bare as he had first found it. The old sturdy bedframe, the plain wood wardrobe to
make up for the lack of a useable closet space, the blocky beside table and the small square
window, all unchanged; not a scratch or mar to be seen as made by one John Watson. There was a
space between the mattress and the heavy bedframe that he had hid his gun in when he was an
adult, he could hide his mobile there now. Well, not now, Sherlock would likely rip his room apart
at the seams, he could hide his mobile there later. He turned on his phone and then sat on it to
muffle the sound of it starting up. Jumping nervously at the sound of a door opening and closing
downstairs.
After nothing happened he rolled to the side to get a look at his messages. Two from Davey that
made him frown a little, then smile. Davey would do no such thing and Rooster needed to keep
his brace on his arm if he wanted the break to heal properly. Knowing Rooster he had probably
set upon the Velcro and having discovered a loose edge had begun to pick at it with his usual
abandon.
Today, or maybe tomorrow. JW John sent back.
He was reading a text from Sherlock when his phone buzzed in answer.
Today. Bailey is in right fits after you had his crew sent off to hospital.
John scowled at his phone before texting, Rather they live, I need to check up anyway.
Dont care, Im busy. Want this managed, I dont run a daycare for idiot children. John
laughed, Bad Davey didnt mean that by half, John had heard much worse. But it wasnt a good
place for Rooster to be with Daveys associates in and out.
Ill take care of it.
Be a love and delete all these messages after this one.
John frowned down in a little puzzlement at his screen; the only time that would matter was if

someone found his mobile. He wasnt planning on letting that happening though. Was Bad Davey
worrying about him now too? Really worrying, not just the bluffing he usually pulled off? John
knew what he was doing and bristled at the idea Bad Davey might think him incompetent, but did
as he asked anyway. Typing through with grumbling obedience, John deleted the conversation
from both sides, and then to be safe, all of his conversations with Bad Davey.
After that he read Sherlocks text, it ran on the theme from both Mycroft and Sherlock. Granted, if
picking someone to tend a child, Sherlock wouldnt necessarily be first choice. But Sherlock
wasnt alone, and John wasnt a child. He couldnt keep answering the same question.
Youre what he needs. -W he typed up with a little bit of irritation. He set the text to delayed for
fifteen minutes when hed be downstairs and less suspect to having sent the text himself, set his
mobile to silent and slid it back into his back waist band. When he came down the stairs again
there was no one around, all his clothes had been put outside Sherlocks door. He had lost any
embarrassment about other men seeing his underwear somewhere between rooming with Mike
Stamford at uni and the Army. Mike threw some truly wicked parties. He just crouched there and
sorted through until he found some clothes that didnt smell too badly and sorted the rest to be
washed. It was unique and adventurous to be back at 221B and to do things as simple as take a
bath or wash his clothes in a washing machine. There was a foreign wonder at the expediency of
it.
What were you doing upstairs? Sherlock called through the door.
Im not living on your sofa; for one thing you spend most of your life swooning on it.
There was a highly affronted silence from Sherlocks room. John could picture his face, the way
he pulled himself up to monumental heights like an outraged peacock, he giggled into his sleeve.
Try not to tear up too much of my stuff.
Itll be fine, Sherlock said, but John was suspicious of his tone.
I mean it Sherlock. Be careful with my Greys, its important to me.
John was too short for a shower so he filled a bath, very hot and scrubbed himself pink and
glowing then cleaned out the ring. Even his cleanest pair of clothes itched on his freshly clean,
smooth skin. When he came out he pulled on socks and boots and pulled his clothes into a plastic
shopping bag and took them all downstairs to scrub at and throw into the washing machine.
While they washed he went upstairs and fried himself an egg. The milk had gone bad so he went
down stairs to borrow a glass. He read the paper and began to laboriously write the Adventure of
the Iron Crate in his journal. At ten Sherlock emerged from his room, bare feet pattering across the
carpeting. He came in to the kitchen to look at him and told John to make him toast, Johns bag
slung over one arm. He watched John push over a chair and climb up it to reach the toaster; he
seemed to be taking a peculiar pleasure in watching John do something as simple as make toast.
Watching John be self-sufficient and self-contained.
How did they teach you medicine? Sherlock asked, setting Johns bag on the floor and sliding it
regretfully forward with his foot like he was in a ransom drop.
Repetition, John said, watching the toaster. Study. Lectures, Hands on practice. Stuff youd
find in any normal medical school.
How do you know about normal medical school?
John gave him a look, I had a normal sort of medical school education. And I watch telly.

You watched telly? Sherlock blinked in shock.

What? John gave him his what-are-you-on-about look.
There is some debate about the advisability of children watched telly. Considering your
tremendous potential, I was surprised that- Sherlock seemed to be struggling with saying the next
part.
How strange that making toast, in the kitchen, with Sherlock (like something out of a Cluedo
game, he snorted gently to himself) was something new and special. A little like Christmas. Had
that feeling of barely suppressed magic bubbling up at the corners like laughter, Surprised that I
lived the life of the masses?
Dont bunch yourself with that lot, Sherlocks face twisted in contempt.
The masses are fine Sherlock, theyre generally lovely in fact.
You obviously havent met them, he said in his lifted superior way.
I lived with them, the parts of them that no one wants anyway. Some would say the worst.
You wouldnt, Sherlock said.
No, John caught the toast as it POPed and put it on a plate. Poured tea into a cup and poured in
sugar. Evil is impossible to miss when you see its real face. Bad Davey can cut and poison and
sell to his hearts content, but if you strip it all away hes just a man, a little too wild and clever
who loves his brother.
Youre too sentimental, Sherlock complained.
John climbed nimbly off the chair wondering to himself if all children were this flexible, when did
people stop being able to bend like this? Im glad you didnt trade me for cocaine, he quickly
amended. Not that Im yours to trade.
I wouldnt, Sherlock said irritable and yanked the plate of toast out of Johns hand.
John laughed, a little pleased huffing sound reminiscent of some small amenable creature tucked
into itself pleasantly. He really was self-sufficient, he had always had to be, someone had to feed
Harry. Sherlock was observing his self-sufficiency over the edge of his teacup with annoyed
curiosity. It was curious to John that his climbing on chairs and cooking breakfast should be so
curious or strange. I told you I could take care of himself, he said as he started cutting his egg
with the side of his fork so the yolk ran out thick and gold. Except last night apparently, I must
have really been tired, I dont even remember climbing the stairs.
Sherlock just grunted and ate his toast ferociously, John laughed again, pleased.
Thank you for making sure I didnt tumble down the stairs anyway. Oh, and speaking of our
ginger friend-
Your ginger friend, Sherlock corrected. I have only met untrustworthy gingers.
I need to go see Bad Davey today, he continued as if uninterrupted.
Why? Sherlock complained.
I need to visit him, his brother too. And Bailey. It wasnt that long ago someone tried to blow my

friends up, I want to visit them.

Im more interesting, this was apparently all the argument Sherlock thought was necessary. John
gave him a look, left it at that and fetched his bag from under the table. I want to teach you things
today.
Sherlock was trying, he was going to try, Johns heart felt big and spongy with happiness.
Ill be back by one. At the latest. I promise, he nodded pleasantly, calm and British.
Sherlock snorted and ignored him other than to yell down to him from the top of the stairs, Dont
forget a key, Im not letting you in if you forget it.
John grinned to himself, Sherlock sounded like Bad Davey
Bad Davey, once John had entered his faux-flats and wandered down the labyrinth to Daveys
little underground office cave, was pleased when he arrived. He smiled in that smirky way of his,
rolling a shot gun shell back and forth under his long fingers, chin propped up on his other fist,
reading something. Finally. Fratricide.
Nah, John slurred at him and Davey rolled his eyes and slapped the book closed. It was, John
discovered as soon as he sat up at Daveys desk, a dentistry textbook. The office had changed a
little bit, the two tall lamps behind Davey had been replaced, and all the little bits of stationary and
pencil holders had been shifted around slightly. The cushions on his in office sofa were also
missing, but John knew why. Davey was still looking too pale, his skin too flat, and there was a
plaster just peeking out of the pristine white of the rolled up sleeve of his dress shirt. His braces, a
pair of deep ruddy brown cut lines, razor straight across his chest, his jacket curiously missing; he
looked like any posh businessman if you didnt look at his face. Have you been resting? Im sure
youre aware that what people are supposed to do after getting shot is rest. He distantly
remembered having a similar conversation with Sherlock once.
Guess Im not people, Davey sniffed. Got a transfusion to fill me up again. No problem.
Davey, John pinched the bridge of his nose. You were shot, in your hip.
And I have other things to worry about, Davey snapped back at him. But he stayed in his seat,
didnt surge up and loom over John as he did sometimes when he got his back up.
Are you even on pain medicine? I could prescribe you something that wont cloud your head up
if you want.
Dont worry Johnny, youre always worrying. You ever been shot?
Yes, John said watching the way Daveys head tilted at him in appreciative surprise. And
theres risk of infection and tearing the tissue. That will not be so fun for you, I promise. I saw a
man rip his wound open because he wouldnt stay down.
Fine, fine, Davey said, looking more tired than he had before. He slapped the textbook in front
of him irritably. You be sure that bleeding heart of yours doesnt bleed out.
Im fine Davey, he sighed irritably.
Thats what I said, and look at all the trouble you gave me, youre lucky I dont care about you
or we might row.
Is that a book on dentistry? John raised an eyebrow, or at least attempted to do so.

Davey rolled his eyes, Roost discovered the human head and now he wants to learn about teeth.
Roost, he called out with the air of someone about to do a trick that might be darkly amusing, I
dont actually have all day to wait on you.
The door to Daveys small in office closet slowly opened; only lacking a dramatic creak. Like any
child caught reading past their allotted time, Rooster was curled up in the dark, Daveys coat
curled around his light shoulders, and a torch raised to help him read a thick floppy book that bore
a colorful cut away of a brain perfectly haloed in torch light.
All he wants is medical texts, Davey told John in a voice that implied he was near to violence.
But his mouth was turned up slightly at the corner, and his eyes were trying very hard not to be
amused before going hard and irritated again.
Rooster blinked rapidly at them. Uncurling, pulling Daveys jacket tight around himself, Rooster
scurried in steps like syncopation to wrap his long thin arms around Johns shoulders in greeting.
Hey, John grinned at him. You alright?
Yeah, Bailey wont talk to anybody; hes speaking in tongues and disappearing. A guy who
works girls in Whitechapel wants Mikes sister to come work for him, but I said Mike wont like
that, but shes scared. Hes a scary guy.
John didnt like that, didnt like that at all. She was too young to start being intimidated like that.
No one would ever be old enough for it.
Mike would do something, but hes in hospital. You should see him, Rooster tapped fervently
against Johns shoulder. I bet he stole a Rolex from a doctor already. Davey wont let me go.
Wont let me leave. Go see and tell me if he stole a Rolex yet.
Okay, John said peaceably. I will.
I dont like that someone is pressuring her either, John said darkly.
Dont go into a strop, Davey said, leaning back in his big leather chair, rolling the shell across
his desk in between his two hands. I had one of my people call the baby police.
Baby police, John raised an eyebrow.
The police for babies, Rooster grinned, the two brothers sharing a quick look of conspiracy.
Then having quickly pressed his soft forehead to Johns head in the easy, affectionate way he had,
he walked around the desk to sit on the arm of Daveys chair. Steps that were light and electric,
vibrating against the new expensive looking carpet on the floor of Daveys office, his fingers
trembling like dragonfly wings in exploratory lines against the fine cut of Daveys lapel.
Thank you, John nodded, formal and noble as a little comfortable knight.
I didnt have to leave my nice comfortable chair youll be pleased to know. Cant get comfortable
any way, might as well be uncomfortable sitting up instead of on my back. Dont have the time to
deal with Baileys therapy anyway. Not my business, he sprawled back lazily in his chair,
shifting to get his hip in a position where it wouldnt it wouldnt have pressure on it. John knew he
likely wouldnt have bothered if not for Roosts safety and Johns dark, pinched look. Bailey was
convenient, but he wasnt Daveys the way that Roost and John were his. This was, in Daveys
own way a gift of favour.
I still do appreciate it, the effort.

Mm, Davey smiled slightly, a brush of a lifted corner of his mouth. Arent you here to do
something?
Of course, John took one last sip of tea and lifted up his kit up. This would probably be better
at a facility with equipment.
No, it really wouldnt, Bad Davey said, leaning back while Rooster rested his head on his
shoulder, fingers running one after the other in triple time against Daveys sternum. When I get
stupid rich Im going to have an examine room built for him to bang around in. No safer doctor
likely unless he decides to go straight, he reached up absently, just the once and scratched at
Roosts hair before lowering his hand to his lap. Ill have them built careful like though. No
matter how scary you are, how tight the records, supply companies still have names and locations.
The last thing you want are people knocking at your door when all your ribs have been snapped.
Someone who didnt know Davey, looking at his arrogant nonchalance at the fretful vying for
attention from his brother, or observing his sprawling swagger might misinterpret his pointed
disregard of his little brother was a mark of apathetic distaste. But no one touched Bad Davey
unless he wanted them to, and there were a series of subtle tilts and slants in his sprawl that were
welcoming, even a little affectionate in the way he was open to Roost. Encouraging his soft
mutterings, the cataloguing of his muscles under Roosters fingertips, for the quiet it was in his
brothers brain.
Rooster needed categories, diagrams, anatomy text books to be able to face the world without
trying to scrape his brain out in self-defense, vibrating at so high a frequency that he had regularly
almost ripped himself apart. And Rooster wanted to understand his brother who was sharp edged
and strange, incomprehensible and brassy.
No, John said, listening to Roost murmur splenius capitis. You wouldnt want that. I hear you
havent been wearing your brace Rooster, John said. He gently stepped up to them, pulling
Roosters arm straight. A quick tease around the edges of the industrial strength Velcro that kept
on Roosters medical brace to keep his broken arm healing nice and tight, showed the looseness
from constantly picking at it.
Rooster slipped his fingers sadly between Daveys, his face pulled into a long melancholy shape.
His impossibly cheerful face trying to perform something like a frown.
Get off, Bad Davey said and shook his hand off once, gently.
I want to.
John ignored them, the way Rooster sprawled against his brothers side, clinging, the way that
Davey allowed it so very gently. It was clear that Rooster would have been a difficult child. A
horrendously, nearly poisonously difficult child full of lightening and frantic, grabbing nearmadness and Bad Davey standing all alone with a thousand toothy faces staring down at the two
children.
Off, Davey shook his hand as his he were shaking water off, ignoring the soft wounded sound
Roost made. I said, mind me.
Rooster finally let him go and settled for circling around Daveys shoulder again.
You mustnt pick at your brace Rooster, John told him.
It hangs on things, Rooster said and stared at John, will you not live with me anymore?
I live with Sherlock now, John said gently, resting his hand on the heavy brace, nearly up to

Roosters bird light shoulder. Ill come to visit, like I have today, your yearly check-up is in a
couple weeks. You need to keep the brace on so your arm will heal.
I cant move my arm, he whinged.
Kind of the point.
Roost groaned and pressed his face to Davey shoulder.
I know I know, horrible news. And while were on the topic of horrible news he looked
pointedly at Davey.
What? Davey snapped.
I need to check your dressing, John crossed his arms, steadfast.
Im not taking my trousers off.
You wont have to, John wheedled, all you have to do is kind of push them down on the side.
Ill tell you what I tell all of my patients. Im a doctor; its nothing I havent seen before.
Bad Davey gave him a narrowed, peculiar look, That would be a lot less disturbing if you
werent eight.
It would be a lot less disturbing if I wasnt a doctor. John said, giving him back a softer version
of his best army captain face, or what had become his Sherlock-you-(should)-know-better face. I
could go through the tragic steps which result from infected flesh going neurotic if youd like, or
you could let me get a look at your hip.
Bad Davey took a quick swing at him with his fist, but it was halfhearted and only served to
highlight how relatively young he could be sometimes. When he wasnt filing suitcases with
cocaine or using found weapons to revise his rivals faces. John dodged it easily, a quick twitch
backward from the waist, a simple flex of his abdomen.
Let me watch, Rooster said, the featherbrushing of his hummingbird fingertips was electric
against Daveys geometric braces. Theyll like me better at school if I already know how to do
things like this.
Are you going to school then? John smiled at him. Waiting on Daveys peculiar modesty as
trousers were loosened and pushed down his hip, held precisely in place with one hand, revealing
no more than necessary.
Davey says I can go, hes going to send me to school and then Im going to uni. I want to go to
uni a lot. The people there are very smart and they know a lot. Theyre going to teach me lots of
things. In his enthusiasm to see the neatly stitched wound leaned all his weight on Daveys thigh,
the thigh attached to the hip where Davey was shot. Davey lurched a little, hissed, and shoved
over Roost away from the sharp lines of his desk so he stumbled and nearly fell on the floor.
Roost made a hurt, high sound at that and then John was in the middle of it getting them settled
down and peaceable again. Close to it at least, Davey could never say sorry for anything and
Roost, who was so used to thinking his brother was as nearly to perfect as one could get, was
struggling with the compromise of belief and reality. In the end he delivered the crack of his
knuckle to Daveys shin and a pinch to Roosters shoulder and got one settled with a fresh
bandage in his big chair and the other curled up on the cushionless sofa with his brothers coat
pulled up around his ears.
Try not to kill each other before I visit again, John groused, snapping his kit closed with more

snap than usual.

Davey just grunted at him, settling in his chair and looking pale and drawn and angry and fretful.
Get him his book, he ordered listlessly, swinging one hand weakly. There was a faint line of
sweat on his forehead, likely from the pain.
Because John was something a friend to them, because he understood a little, he stomped over to
Daveys desk and grabbed it up. Davey leaned over him for a moment like the drooping limb of a
willow tree and pressed what might have been a kiss to Johns hairline. It was over too quick for
John to narrow his eyes at it, to tighten up and ask what he was about.
Get out, Davey said, waving his hand with a negligent apathy for politeness and human feeling
that would put Sherlock at his worst to shame. Im tired of looking at you now.
John carried the textbook to Roost, who looked up at John with big, forlorn, startled eyes and held
the book to his chest like a lovey. John smoothed his hair down gently, feeling obscurely
comforted and beleagueredly affectionate in a way he hadnt since he first decided to invest his
free time in the proper care and feeding of a Holmes.
John said nothing about the strange knife edge Roost and Davey lived on. The necessities that
ruled their relationship; the way the safety that Davey, who was all crisp, edges and lazy lounging
lines, dangerous without meaning to be, tried to enforce on his little brother. John tried to maintain
a general air of avoiding a serious discussion of feelings (the sort that in the past led him to
awkwardly patting the shoulder of his weeping girlfriends). A smaller one than the sentiment force
fields of the Holmes brothers kept up at almost all times so they couldnt even say caring without
adding something derogatory to the end of it. Now was not the time to ask Davey with his hard
angry face if he was alright, if he wasnt wounded somewhere inside traced in the way he looked
at the wall opposite to his brother, his eyes slipping and nails dragging across leather because of
pain. If they were to talk about wounds at all it would be some place quiet and secret as the desert
to give the wound the sacredness it deserved.
He looked at Davey, china white and fighting life with fury and Rooster curled up and electric and
felt helpless as only a doctor or a parent could.
The visit to Mike went better.
Mike was slow and sleepy, reading an old battered romance novel with a swooning medieval
maiden who had somehow acquired purple eye shadow and neon pink lipstick. Dont worry, he
slurred at Johns raised eyebrow. His head dipping heavy as a millstone, every word was fighting
its way out, Dont worry, its not smutty. Chapter ends before the good stuff starts.
Too bad, you could probably use the pointers, John teased, although Mike only seemed to be a
couple of pages in. His hand pressed the book open on the fluffy white duvet heavily, too
medicated for precision.
Ha, Mike said and promptly fell asleep sitting up, his chin drifting forward to rest on his chest.
John took the time to read over Mikes chart, fairly reasonable stuff; he rustled around his bag until
he came up with his notebook and added the dates of Mikes vaccines and boosters. John had
expected Mike to be barely conscious. Mike wasnt a complainer, but he had just been through a
traumatic injury, it was general practice to keep patients as under as was safe first day out..
Everything else seemed in order The chart had just been put away and John had crawled up in his
chair to wait and see if Mike would be up soon when the nurse came in wearing scrubs with sheep
on them and a sock puppet through her belt. Pediatric nurses had much more freedom of dress,
what the sock puppet was for he couldnt guess. She had more of a natural looking tan than most

nurses, never mind most Londoners, managed and dyed white blonde hair. Her smile was large
and sincere in a way that was immediately engaging.
ey then, the nurse said cheerfully, sizing John up. Whos this then?
John, John said, shifting uncomfortably, I just wanted to come and check on him.
Good on ya mate, she smiled and gave Mike the general look over. Mr. Wiggins, she said to
Mike, easing him back against his hospital pillow fort. Mr. Wiggins, time for me to check your
battle scar.
Mike jerked awake groggily and smiled up at the nurse, her emergence seemed boost Mikes
energy somewhat, Adair, my mate. Shes an Aussie John, from Australia and stuff, he turned
his head sleepily toward John and blinked at him.
John looked at the nurses board and saw the name Thompson there. Youre not on the board,
he said.
Adair blinked over at John, Smart then. Her face tilted slightly to the side in something
approving and a little sad. Stay smart. Kids like you should stay smart. Wiggs and I bonded last
night, we has an understanding, ehh?
Mike blinked sleepily at them and faded off.
And Thompson is running a little late and my shift is over so I said Id come and fix him up real
quick. Hes a good kid. Its a good thing hes got friends like you to check up on him. You got a
friend? To take care of you I mean. John didnt take any offense at it, and instead of becoming
more anxious he relaxed. These were the basic sort of questions medical professionals were
trained to ask danger children.
Yeah, I got plenty of friends, he cleared his throat. How did you end up in London? John
asked politely, watching Adair pull on her gloves.
Well, my familys all in the civil service, number crunchers and I decided to escape to England
for a lucrative career in pediatrics before I could be trapped in a prison of accountancy. How you
feeling Wiggs? She was kind and no nonsense, her face soft and tired from the side as she pulled
down Mikes gown to reveal the bandaging, his chest narrow, the bones only just hidden. Mike
had fallen asleep again, barely stirring as she laid the gauze and tape and wipe packet out on the
duvet. Adair gave him a serious, staring look. You might want to look away; sometime wounds
like this are scary.
John noticed the clock and did a little mental calculation. Time to go then to get back in time for
lunch or Sherlock would be put out. Ive seen worse, he said absently, he reached out and
squeezed Mike leg companionably. Ill see you later Mike, Ive got to get home.
He hurried out the door before Adair could ask any more questions.

Gregson Have you been into the cold cases on my desk you nosy git? Lestrade
I love you too you paranoid woman. It was your poncy pet more likely than not.
Ta. Nevermind then. He must have just forgotten to gloat. Ill just file them away.
Lestrade.

Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

That's the end of Wee Doctor, next in the series tomorrow!

Sherlock didnt quite hide his surprise when John returned and John pretended studiously not to
notice. He recovered quickly, sniffing in his usual nearly affectionate disdain, You were nearly
late for lunch.
John ducked his head down, smiling, Will you be eating something?
I ate this morning.
Are you on a case then? John asked.
Oh, that would be bliss, Sherlock threw himself backward onto the sofa. No, the criminal
masses are being exceptionally dull.
It probably wouldnt last, for now Sherlocks ennui was exactly what John needed. That pleasant
curl of familiarity.
Their life continued in the vein that John was used to before; exciting, cases, running about
London and everything that he loved (and secretly loved) about 221B. The strains of melancholy
music at three in the morning that tapered away his nightmares on the infrequent nights they shook
him awake, Sherlock shouting at some truly awful telly, being useful for Sherlock in a way that no
one else was allowed to be. Playing Sherlocks sounding board, making him tea, harassing him to
eat enough and get some sleep. Some things had changed of course, he expected that. Sherlock
was more liable to do the shopping and other than becoming periodically distracted by a
discussion of explosives and produce (John had said absolutely not in the flat, too much mess, and
so negotiations were put off until a time Sherlock could find some place to blow up eggplant) he
did the shopping rather well. Except for when he had something else on his mind and would
delete the shopping list as soon as John had told it to him and just follow John around, pushing the
trolley while John steered with his fingers interwoven in the mesh.
Periodically he would point at someone and say, John observe and deduce, as if John were
some sort of detecting breed of dog. But then he wasnt sure how much time Sherlock had spent
around children so he might do, consider them a kind of pleasingly malleable puppy. John was
also required to keep his own journal for the experiments Sherlock had decided were part of his
education. This wasnt something he had enjoyed with Sherlock before. Mostly because he had
been the one having to clean things up and shoulder things aside to fit himself at the breakfast
table. Now they would sit side by side at the kitchen table in goggles and lab aprons, and
occasionally wander St Barts-ward and do chemical tests, dissections and soil analysis. There was
something thrilling about occasionally blowing something up, as much as John must also play the
devils advocate and say no blowing up feet in the flat. Like all the fun parts of primary and
secondary school science class. The best part of all was when Sherlock would lean toward him
and whisper, Youre really supposed to write a report on this, but you dont have to. Just dont
tell Mycroft.
Sometimes John would do a report anyway, because he knew how to write articles for medical

journals, he just did it again in miniature. It was the least he could do to retain the life he was
living. The last thing he wanted was to be sent off to school. Mycroft had a short campaign for just
that purpose with whatever Mycroftian plot he was hatching. John had protested fervently for a
variety of good reasons, he wasnt a child, he already knew everything, Sherlock needed him. He
had more, but in an unusual move of maturity Sherlock sent him upstairs. Being sent upstairs like
a hysterical child would have upset John normally, but he knew the planes of expression in the
lines of Sherlocks posture. He would fight for John to stay.
Sherlock had agreed John shouldnt go to school, and had dumped the glossy full color pictures
booklets for the exclusive public schools that Mycroft brought into the fire. Mycroft and Sherlock
had two or three conversations that seemed to consist of Mycroft giving long meandering treatise
on the importance of education while the mind was still young and malleable, and about
socialization. Sherlocks counterargument was essentially saying, mine, mine, mine, stop taking
my toys but what really meant, I know I can do this, just trust me enough to do this, I know I can if
youll just let me. John knew that sentiment, he lived that sentiment, and he didnt want to leave
Sherlock to go stay with children far away from 221B, far away from home, even if the children
were exceptionally smart and even if he could come home on the weekends.
Really Sherlock? Mycroft finally said.
There was a soft moment of silence like the soft slide of Sherlocks fingers down his violin strings.
John is remarkably self-aware, showing the capacity of independent thought and decision making
greater than that of several of the students wandering around St Barts. He is incredibly intelligent
for all that hes been deeply trained to appear almost ordinary and he has been extensively trained
in maths, sciences as well as English and the various social sciences. He has made the decision
that would like me to carry out what education he needs, which is hardly any. And even if I were
to consent to let you send him to some beautified version of the institution that valiantly tried for
years to convince him that he was small and unimportant and that he was ineffectual and not that
terribly clever its not what he needs. He needs to be here with me, with someone who
understands, with someone who actually cares about him as a person and not some resource for
the British Government.
Youre making me into a -
Im not Father! Sherlock shouted suddenly, John, eavesdropping against the banister nearly
jumped and gave himself away. And Im not saying that you are either. But considering Johns
past, it is better for him to stay here, in the same place, with me.
There was a loaded British Government sized silence; Mycrofts silence was capable of containing
enough subtext to arrange a minor trade agreement. How long did it take you to compose and
memorize that nice bit of language?
I dont know what youre talking about, all those sweets have finally gone too your head, John
could hear the sniff in those words which meant in Sherlockian, quite a while.
Hmm, Mycroft hummed; there was a thread of almost amusement in that hum as well as about a
million other things John couldnt parse. I think John may belong here after all. Do try and keep
him safe and alive. I suppose he had sense enough when you forget him, or forget to buy
groceries, or scar him emotionally or drown him a little in second hand smoke to go seek comfort
in the arms of that little mismatched gang of street urchins.
High strung silence jaggedly ruptured from below with all the disquiet of violin strings vibrating
on the edge of snapping back to hit someone in the eye. That was on the very border of
acceptable. Mycroft was desperate then to get John out of the flat.

Get John away from Sherlock.

It was strange and disquieting and even Sherlocks superior experience in Mycroft-parsing didnt
seem to be able to locate the source of his not fear. Mycroft wasnt afraid of anything. Not
except maybe losing Sherlock who was smart enough to get himself into trouble he couldnt get
back out of again. Other than that, well, Mycroft was afraid of nothing.
Oh, go interrogate a dictator, Sherlock replied and then there was a clamour and clink from the
kitchen of dishes against pans as if Sherlock had an interest in cleaning anything other than flasks
and beakers.
He worried Mycroft might eventually crack Sherlocks resolve if he kept pressing. There had been
a strong emphasis on emotional development and when Sherlock had said he has me Mycroft let
loose a few seconds of silence so powerful operas could be written about it. That silence could
inspire a movie trilogy. Dirty, filthy warfare that silence.
Sherlock, for all his sociopath posturing, was resistant to just about any argument except that his
very nature made harming someone unavoidable.
Sherlock had been too well-trained into believing he was too much to belong with people for
long. It wasnt true, but he had been very well-trained. John understood caring was no advantage
when it only made it worse when someone threw your personality, your brilliance, your mental
artistry, all the things that people should admire, back in your face.
Mycroft was the one he really had to convince.
Mycroft fled, diplomatically, the domesticity, hovering for a moment at the doorway to adjust his
suit coat. John looked down at the immaculate lines of his shoulders and the careful arrangement
of his posture, the dark auburn of his nearly thinning hair. Mycroft looked up suddenly at John,
even though John had thought he was being completely quiet and even though he was holding his
breath, looking straight into Johns eyes.
John tried to see if something of Mycrofts real feelings were hiding somewhere on his face. But
reading Mycroft was an insane thing to hope for. Knowing some of the things Sherlock got into as
a child to expand his skillset, he could picture Mycroft practicing looking inscrutable while on fire
hanging upside down over a tiger pit. The eldest Holmes had always unsettled him, a soldier liked
to know what was real.
I know you worry constantly, he said, he wanted to go downstairs and offer some sort of moral
support to Sherlock but couldnt pass go with Mycroft there analyzing his hair follicles. And that
you probably have a head full of the thousand different ways someone like him who never wants
to accept or admit that hes in fact mortal can get himself hurt. But Im not one of those ways.
Sherlock is my friend and Im sticking with him.
You are very young, he managed to sound both unruffled, unimpressed and possibly, secretly,
contemptuous all at the same time. He adjusted his cufflink with a beautiful movement.
Im old enough.
Mycroft looked at him.
Sherlock can do this.
Mycroft finally broke his gaze and stepped down the stairs as unaffected as a summer morning.
John half stumbled down the stairs to get to Sherlock, curled around his raised knees. Sherlock
looked at him seriously, blankly, for a moment. It was like getting caught by some alien creature in

an unexpected place, those eyes with so much going on behind them. He checked Sherlocks
number of patches to cover the shock of it and made him tea and toast.
Sherlock said nothing from his strop huddle.
Did, John tried, Mycroft appear to have gained a couple of pounds?
Sherlocks mouth twitched at the corner.
Try to eat your toast, even transport needs fuel.
Its Friday, Sherlock finally broke. You have to go see Roost. Youve been reminding me.
Yeah, John agreed. But I can stay here a while. If youd like me to stay for a while I can.
I have told you before, Sherlock waved that off. I dont do sentiment. I dont need coddling. It
is both inefficient and ineffectual.
I know. But I like to ask anyway, just in case you magically decide one day that you want to
practice some sentimentality of your own.
Sherlock snorted as if John had told a very good joke, John smiled indulgently back at him.
Try to eat your toast.
Hmm, Sherlock said and went back to thinking.
John felt a little bad for misleading Sherlock. He wasnt really if one thought about it. He was
going to go see Roost, but only because there was a way out of Daveys lair that CCTV couldnt
cover and he had finally found a way to set up a time to meet with Dimmock via strategically
placed notes. But if Sherlock was in a mood like this, he wouldnt want to talk with John for a
while anyway. He slung his bag over his shoulder, the hard edges of his medical kit touching his
shoulder blades and the base of his back. With Mycrofts push to have Sherlock send him away,
off to some posh school he sort of wanted someone to set up a backup plan with. His hand curled
around the CCTV free directions written neatly on the back of a receipt for dim sum. He couldnt
check it until he got out of sight of Mycrofts eyes about town; he wanted to at least give the
illusion he actually was going to meet with Roost. John followed the directions to a side door of a
block of flats very similar to the one John lived in when he got back from the war. He was fine,
climbing up the side stairs until he got to a beige door. Dimmocks door. This was madness, this
was genuine madness. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to ask? What if
Dimmock had too many questions?
He looked down at his hands, holding them one way, and then the other. They were perfectly
steady. John took a deep breath. He could stand here panicking all morning, or he could knock.
He had invaded Afghanistan, he could knock on a door.
Dimmock answered the door dressed in plaid pajama pants that hung over the top of his feet and a
thin, well-worn jumper. He looked impossibly young, huge eyed and anxious. John supposed
there was some comfort in the fact Dimmock looked as jumbled as he felt. I sorry, if I realized
you were coming this early I would have put on some real clothes.
Its fine.
I just wasnt-

Dimmock, its all fine.

Dimmock took a soft breath and nodded once. You should come in.
He moved aside, watching John hesitantly step in and look around curiously. The flat was small. It
consisted of a bed with bright blue linens, a stocky square bedside table, two overstuffed
armchairs and in the kitchen a table that had enormous legs. They were like a stack of big wooden
onions. It was obviously all second hand and jumble sale buys. The only decoration on the matte
beige of the walls was a single square painting of a chicken, it was very pretty, black and white
speckled. It was a lone sentinel against the beigeness of the flat.
I havent had visitors Dimmock startled and then cut himself off, fled to the kitchen. How
old are you really?
Thirty-four, John said, snooping at the bedside table. There was a shelf for books under the
drawer filled with neat stacks of paperbacks. A few of them were in Russian, a couple in French
one was a Farsi-English dictionary. You?
Fifty-seven, Dimmock said, his voice had the sound of a death bell to it. Can you have
coffee?
That set John back. Fifty-seven. That was horrendous. A whole life gone. John thought he had
lost. No, he said quickly, coming back to himself. No, Im not really tall when Im an adult, I
dont want to make it worse.
There is a faint huff of what could be laughter followed by the familiar sound of water running, of
a coffee pots hollow hooo at being filled. The click of the pot into place and the hiss and bubble
as it heated. Dimmock didnt look at him as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. His back
tightened and pulled in waves, it was like the men who had served one too many tours, pushing
on and on with the whole world and every cast iron pain of it dragging behind him.
I was coming up on twenty-five years of marriage, he finally said, staring at the coffee pot.
Lizzie, she told me to be careful. My eldest, Nells, she was coming down from uni that weekend
and so my wife wanted me to be careful.
John didnt know what he was supposed to say to that, what was anyone supposed to say to the
erasure of twenty-five years of marriage.
I didnt tell, I couldnt tell any- Dimmock started to take quick, sharp breathes, like a wounded
animal. No one would have believed me, they would have locked me away He knees
buckled and he caught himself on the counter with his elbows and forearms, an uneven scramble.
Every time I worked a case where there was someone widowed, I just- I just- He shouldnt be
allowed to do that. He shouldnt be allowed to do things like that.
John didnt feel like he knew Dimmock well enough to try and comfort the broken line of his back
and Dimmock didnt know him at all.
Thank you, Dimmock said very softly. Thank you for knowing my name. You have no idea
what its like to lose everything and no one knows your name.
I do, John said in his gentle, you might not lose that leg voice. A little, I didnt have a family,
or a wife, or even a girlfriend. I just had a flatmate, a sister that doesnt like my company, and
some friends that Id go to the pub with sometimes. And it hurt me, to have everything burned
away. To have it shoved in my face how little the world changes without me in it. But I cant
imagine what it would be like for you. He stopped and didnt say anything for a while. I know

you dont remember me, but I knew you and Im sorry you had to go through that, through this.
Im sorry you have to experience this abominable thing.
There was only the sound of the coffee maker and Dimmocks sharpedged animal breathes.
Finally Dimmock stood straight and pressed his fingertips to the counter. What were you? he
finally asked, a soft half-drunk sound.
A doctor, a broken down soldier and a surgeon who couldnt be trusted to cut anyone open. I
blogged and helped to solve mysteries, but I didnt do anything other than that. The only thing I
was good at was following geniuses around, shooting at things and making tea.
Tea is important. You must have been kind before, Dimmock said, finally looking at him. If
nothing else, you must have been kind. Youre kind now. Most people only want to deal with
other peoples problems if theyre getting paid to do it.
Its my problem too, John creased his eyebrows at him.
So youre a good man, he shrugged.
It was quiet then in the little flat with its sentinel chicken. Dimmock stared at the coffee maker in a
familiarly strained face while he collected himself, lost the pained, pinched tightness around his
mouth. John gave him privacy, sitting in one of the armchairs and reading through the notations
Sherlock had made in his journal all in red, but mostly in the margins. Finally there was the sound
of mugs and the opening of the refrigerator door.
Milk? Dimmock asked, sounding far more himself. Collected and not in that anxious way men
got when they were about to cry in front of someone, I dont have much else.
Milk is fine, John looked up and Dimmock nodded back over the partition dividing the
kitchenette from the rest of the room.
Youve some books in Russian, John said, trying to help break through the silence.
Helps with diction, speaking like a native; or something like.
That surprised John. Why do you have to speak Russian like a native?
Grendel is hiding out in Russia right now; Im trying to seem as native as I can. Its not an easy
language to learn.
I can imagine.
Dimmock laughed faintly, Sorry, he shook his head and crossed to hand John a Worlds Best
Granny mug, another jumble sale buy it looked like. Its a little strange to talk to someone who
looks so young like this.
Im not- John started.
I know, Dimmock interrupted him, and promptly slouched down in his own chair. Believe me
I know. But its still a little strange. Stranger to have someone to talk to about this. When Grendel
sent me back in time he did more than just erase my marriage, he killed my wife. Dimmock
turned his head away and kept talking as if he were afraid John might say something about it. I
dont want to go over it right now. But I decided that was going to stop him. Keep him from doing
this to anyone else. Im a police officer, I made it to commissioner, he peeked just once over at
John before his eyes darted away and his fingers danced anxiously over his mug. And Grendels
a criminal. So Ive set out to catch him.

Youre going to kill him, John said.

Dimmocks hand flexed.
I suppose you have dibs on him, Im not going to argue.
Dimmocks mouth tipped, mean and determined at the edge, Good. Ive been using some of my
old contacts, people from cases I worked on, to try and roust him out. He set up shop in Spain for
a little while, I had him rousted, I know enough about the future members of Interpol to chase him
across Europe. Now Grendel is trying to get equipment from some ex-government members or
current Im not sure; hes currently hiding out in Russia anyway so hes doing something. Trying
to root me out, Dimmock shifted in his chair. There was a solemn little endurance in his voice.
He sounded very old and very tired. I dont know what to do now. Its only a matter of time
before he finds me. I dont have the resources. No matter how ahead I am technologically, its just
a matter of time before he finds me.
It sounds like youve been living a Bond film, John said, Dimmock had talked about marriage,
about children. John felt a twisting sickness in his belly at the thought of it. There was nothing else
he could think to say to that. I want to help you. Its only right.
Soldier you said, Dimmock smiled faintly.
I might be able to help you, John said. I have a phone. It was my sisters, she gave it to me
when I pensioned out. When Grendel got me I still had it on me. I think because theres two of
them no one can track the signal.
How can you be sure? he looked awake now, less like he was pushing past pain and more like
he might have, back when he was commissioner. Hungry and sharp and ready.
John told him about Sherlock, how Sherlock had saved his life and the first night as his flatmate,
before he had even moved in they were flatmates, when he had saved Sherlocks life back. And
then about his brother the British government and being kidnapped to an abandoned warehouse
and having that life and the cases taken away. How he wanted it back. How he went back and
shot the cabbie and then followed Sherlock and then again, the Blind Banker when he sent the
text to Sherlock and signed it W. For Watson of course, he explained sheepishly. How Sherlock
had found him and what he and his brother had assumed that John was some sort of government
experiment and W was some super genius. And how Mycroft had tried that morning to get
Sherlock to send him away.
He wont though, he promised, John said.
But it worried you.
John shrugged, sipped his milk.
We can use that, Dimmock tapped one finger against the side of his mug, I need to get Grendel
off my back and it wouldnt hurt to pull Mycrofts attention away from you. If hes got the
position and power you mentioned then we can use him too.
That made Johns stomach clench, No, hes brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Can tell how your
grandmother died by the state of your shoes brilliant. Ive only stayed ahead of him because I
know him a little, as much as I could. I know Sherlock more like and just make made guesses at
the rest. Hell eat you alive. And lets be honest, if someone finds out about Grendels whatever it
is-

Im going with ray gun, Dimmock half-shrugged, a nearly sassy sort raise of his eyebrows and
tilt of his shoulders.
What people would do to get it.
I agree, Dimmock put his mug down beside him. Likewise I want you to understand what
were up against with Grendel. Dimmock hunched over his knees, clenching his hands together
in a knot. He was suddenly pale and drawn and terribly old again. When I get close to him, when
I try to stop him, he punishes me. Any trouble I give him. He, he burnt down a school after I got
two of his men arrested and his little workshop set down. There were, he closed his eyes.
Children died.
When I got back from the war, John said gently, my therapist wanted me to talk about
everything, say everything, but I couldnt. I was afraid that after I had told her those horrible hard
things I fought through that shed just look at me with that passive understanding face and take
notes. Like she wouldnt care. I could tell her about the feeling of holding a man together with my
bare hands and she wouldnt be shocked and she wouldnt be horrified and it would be like it
didnt matter at all. The worst part is saying it and not knowing if it will be taken seriously. So Im
not going to ask you about what youve been through. But if you want to talk Ill listen.
Dimmocks hands tightened and his eyes squeezed closed so that his eyebrow almost touched his
cheek.
Were fighting him together now, you and I. Were in this together now, shoulder to shoulder.
Were going to stop him, catch him and put a bullet in his head.

Sorry Ill be a little late today, will you say I spent these past few hours with Roost? W
Hurry up. He keeps moping at me. BD

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