Hansel
A peculiar client had entered Baker Street. He was entirely silent, brown eyes unblinking as they watched Sherlock pace around the small living room. Ratty black curls, smudged cheeks, tattered jacket. Gaze distant, shoulders slumped, the kid didn't need to tell him he'd come from a complicated situation. There was enough evidence to scream it to any unobservant fool. Yet, somehow he'd come here, to Sherlock's home. It could not be a coincidence.
"What's your name?" He checked. Not underfed. Jacket was once expensive, several years ago. No response. He circled slowly, turning about the room as he considered. There wasn't much information to go on.
"Where'd you come from? Do you remember anything?" He was uncomfortable using his usual methods on children. They weren't like adults. Far less resilient. "Do you know where you are?"
The boy's voice was gravelly, underused when he said "Sherlock Holmes." So he did know where he was. Now, to answer why and what and who. First…
He picked up his phone, dialed Lestrade's number. It was two rings this time. Good, things were settling back into normal. Until now, Lestrade had answered on a half ring.
"What's it now, I'm busy." Something loud sounded in the background, not a siren but something thumping and beeping. A construction site? Didn't matter.
"There's a child here."
"A child?"
"Young boy." He studied him for a moment. "Between ten and twelve, black hair, brown eyes, average weight. Obvious trauma. No discernable injuries of any importance." The boy's eyes were wide, fear evident as Sherlock spoke on the phone. "A bit gun-shy though. Be cautious."
"On my way." He could hear Sally protesting in the background. She probably thought he was being superfluous again.
He sat on his sofa, gesturing for the child to sit in John's chair. He did not move. Sherlock thrummed his hands together, watching the boy's still, frightened stance. There were hardly any deductions to be made, and any attempts to gather evidence from the child would only likely upset him further. There were likely fibers on the jacket, maybe even hairs. Lestrade would be able to check for any missing children reports. Eventually, a name would pop up. He wasn't allowed access to children's records. Lestrade did draw lines, despite what everyone thought.
What to do until then? The only words the kid said were HIS name. He was just pondering over data retrieval when Mrs. Hudson entered the room, no doubt to tell him about Lestrade's timely arrival. The most peculiar, and terrifying thing happened.
The boy's face turned ashen, his lips quivering before he let out a scream that split the air. His entire demeanor changed. Arms flailing, legs flying, he fell to his backside and slid along the floor until he crashed into Sherlock's bookcase.
"Out, OUT! Mrs. Hudson, get out of here!" He had shoved her through the door, pulled Lestrade in and observed.
The boy calmed the moment Mrs. Hudson was out of the room. Instead of still and unmoving, however, he twitched and tensed. Fear left his face quivering and his hands ringing. His eyes flit from Sherlock to the Detective Inspector. A moment passed before Sherlock moved, slowly enough not to set off another attack. When Lestrade took a step toward him, he backed up again.
"What's happened? What's wrong?"
"I don't know?"
"What'd he say was wrong?"
"Nothing!" The boy was screaming again, lurching towards him, arms outstretched.
"Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Small arms wrapped round his legs. "SherlockHolmesSherlockHolmes." Hyperventilating. He had to calm down, now.
"Leave. Send medical help."
By the time Lestrade sent in the medical help, he had calmed the boy down enough to get his breathing under control. Enough training and experience had forced him to handle as much as he could, but this was beyond his realm of understanding. The child needed comfort and care and a lot of other things. In a repeat of previous encounters, the child exhibited signs of terror as soon as the nurse approached him. Backing away, she held up her hands and tried to shh the cries into silence. Once more, small arms wrapped around his legs.
"He sounds fine. I can't say anything conclusive, but I wouldn't say anything besides shock and trauma is wrong with him. You're going to have to take him to a doctor and get him checked out."
"Fine. Get out of here if you've nothing useful to say." He shoved her out the door as well, fought the kid from his calves and paced about the room. There was nothing else to do with it, he'd have to call John.
He leaned down, eye level with the boy's face and knees. "I'm calling a man right now, he's a doctor. You need to see a doctor." No response. "He's a friend. He's a good man, you understand?" Slowly, one nod, two. Confirmation of comprehension.
"John? There's a child here. No, don't bring Mary. He won't speak to women, absolutely not." He looked back, surprised to see curls bouncing as the boys head shook. "Hold on."
"What? What is it?"
"Molly Hooper."
He dropped the phone. The only two names from his client's mouth. A million points connected their lives. Which one plugged this child into their timelines?