A/N: Just finished Fran Bow the other day and it was delightfully creepy. Had to write something!

It was a hot day-one of London's handful in midsummer-and it was bloody.

In the end, it wasn't all that different from a number of other days etched into John's memory. Apart from the London humidity and background of traffic replacing Kandahar's silent, shimmering dry desert heat.

There was still the blood.

John had learned not to be bothered by it. Most of the time. Had learned, in fact, more easily than most others in his battalion. Hours spent handling cadavers in an underground anatomy lab probably gave him an edge. But cadavers don't bleed, and are not, most of the time, etched with the five-minutes'-prior-living, breathing face of the man you'd lost to in poker last night.

That didn't mean you didn't feel. You felt-and oh, how you felt-hours later, staring into the blank nightmare of the barracks ceiling. You felt, listening to the semi-somnolent whimpers of the squadron's rookies in the darkness. Those who hadn't learned to bear it in silence.

John had learned not to be bothered.

He hadn't known this corpse. Probably. The body was too mangled to tell for sure. It was clever-criminally clever-of the perpetrator to leave the corpse in the middle of the road, a mere hundred feet from a busy London thoroughfare, and flee. The blunt force trauma applied to the skull could easily have been taken as the result of a hit-and-run. And had been, until Lestrade's eye-keen for an aging detective inspector, whatever Sherlock said-had noted piercing wounds in the ribcage just a little too deep and a little too clean to have been caused by the splintered bones punching through it. The stabbing had been cleverly disguised, just not cleverly enough. John had confirmed the diagnosis-as though it were necessary, with Sherlock ghosting around him, practically breathing in the scene. Now the doctor stood aside, catching his own sort of breather. Watching the sun's rays stream unrepentantly through the clearly marked police tape to the dirty asphalt. Lighting up the splashes of scarlet.

John turned away. He wasn't bothered, but there were other things to focus on. He could try to be like Sherlock, he told himself. Take in the details.

There were other splashes of color. A few traffic cones, pushed to the side of the street. Crisp wrappers spilling out of an overfilled trash can on the corner. The deep green of a coffee shop's sign, winking at him from beyond the blur of cars on the main street-

A blur of sunshine yellow, as someone turned the corner.

Three someones, in fact. The burly man and no-nonsense woman in the white blouse were speaking-no, arguing. Hushed voices, but too caught up in the heat of the moment to notice the neon-yellow tape stretched around the squared-off area where Sherlock huddled over the corpse, Lestrade watched grimly, and a couple of sergeants conversed in low voices. Too caught up to notice the fresh blood winking violently up from the pavement.

The little girl walking between them didn't correct them. She was the source, John deduced, of the yellow blur that had caught his eye- a worn, slightly old-fashioned yellow dress that came to her knees, with something of a sailor's look to its design. Her straight brown hair was bobbed around her chin, auburn streaks showing brilliantly in the bright noon sunlight. Her wide, curious blue eyes roamed ceaselessly, hungrily. They stopped roaming when they came to the blood.

John was already moving toward the trio when Lestrade's voice cut the air.

"Hey!"

Even Sherlock looked up. The sharp cry cut through the argument; the two adults looked around for the first time. And stopped dead in their tracks. It wasn't Lestrade's greying hair or authoritative tone that had done it. It was, John surmised, the oozing, freshly mangled corpse lying twenty feet away. Eyes widening in horror, the woman instinctively grabbed for the little girl's hand, pulling her away...but the child, John noticed suddenly, was the only one who appeared unaffected by the scene. Entirely. Not "unbothered" in the way that John was. She was surveying the gore with an interested calm that could have given Sherlock a run for his money-and he, in fact, was staring back at her intently. John knew the expression, knew what it indicated...that in his friend's mind, this little girl was an object of far greater interest than a run-of-the-mill crime scene.

Thankfully, Sherlock remained crouched where he was as the adults babbled a horrified apology, stumbling away. The girl, unresponsive to the tugging on her arm, was lifted bodily and swept away by her muscular father, who staggered, at a half-run, back to the corner of the main street.

"Idiots," Lestrade mumbled under his breath, with a string of far worse words. The strain in his voice, the anger at dealing unnecessarily with civilians, was the only indication he had given that the scene was anything out of the ordinary. It was the timing, John supposed. The brightness of the day. It had them all a little off-kilter. This sort of thing belonged to dark nights, and London fog. To deserted flats, peeling paint, and discarded cigarette butts. It belonged to the impressiveness of Sherlock's swift step and long, black figure. Not his already pale skin bleached ghost-white in the sunlight.

"Doctor Watson," Lestrade added, breaking off his cursing. "Would you-"

"Of course."

John hadn't needed his title as a reminder. He was already hobbling-hobbling?-John straightened his step-in the direction of the little family. Trauma was actually the one thing he dealt with most often, in his line of work. Lines. He was no psychologist, but as a medical practitioner, and especially as an army doctor, you stepped into the role life handed you. People didn't know how to handle this kind of thing. The most he could do was offer to chat.

The pace kept by the couple was no surprise, John supposed. The broad-shouldered figure of the man and his wife's severe bun and sharp elbows were nearly two blocks away by the time John caught up, breaking into a light run. Then slowing. He had no desire to startle the pair. They had stopped anyway, the woman waving down a cab with restrained urgency. There was no sign of the girl until the large man swung around at John's repeated "Excuse me". She was still tucked tightly in her father's arms, a shock of yellow looking rather put-out by the whole situation. She made no protest, however.

"Sir." John stilled his urge to extend a hand, as the larger man's were still occupied. He dropped his voice to a soothing tone, instead. "I'm with New Scotland Yard. I'd like to apologize for what occurred back there, as well as to ensure that the three of you are all right. May we talk?"

"Burt," the woman said warningly, off to the side. John turned his head sharply, recognizing the tone of authority. If anyone was in charge here…

In charge?

John's conscious brain caught up to what his subconscious had known all along. This was no family. There wasn't a trace of affection in the stiffness between the adults, or the way either had held the little girl's hand. Even the bear-hug by the man he'd taken to be her father was the wrong kind of protective. Both adults moved in an almost clinically efficient way that reminded John forcibly of his day job in the ER. He felt his concern with the situation deepening, particularly for the little girl. The odd behaviors were all suggestive of...something. Something beyond the trauma of the moment.

The angular woman had succeeded in her task with an almost Sherlockian efficiency. A cab was edging out of traffic toward them even as John registered the tight shake of the man's head. He had to think quickly.

"Ma'am," addressing the woman this time. Looking her calmly, directly in the eye. "I am a medical doctor. My concern is genuine-particularly for the child. I would appreciate it if you would give me a few moments' time."

The man's brows had pulled upward and his head turned involuntarily to the woman at the words "medical doctor." He glanced meaningfully downward at the girl in his arms. The black body of the cab had pulled up alongside the curb, the driver letting out a honk...but the woman had not moved. She was regarding John, if not with a warm, then certainly a slightly more open expression. She made her decision with a jerk of her head.

"Get in."

As an afterthought: "Please."

John obeyed, feeling rather like a schoolboy.

The couple followed, with the little girl between them. The woman spat out an address too quickly for John to catch, and the cabbie pulled back into traffic without a word. John turned his scrutiny to the little girl, scanning for signs of shock. To his surprise, she seemed quite all right. No ashen skin. No rapid breathing. No sign of dizziness. Pupils normal. The only emotion she showed-aside from curiousity at the strange man who had entered the cab with them-was an almost imperceptible trace of resignation.

John raised his gaze to her caretakers. With their unspoken permission, he offered his hand to the girl. She responded without hesitation, delicate fingers sliding into his. "Hello, sir."

"Hello," John said quietly, inconspicuously extending a couple of fingers to her thin wrist; an easy feat, has his hand dwarfed hers. The pulse was steady. "What's your name?"

The girl glanced upward at the woman, who gave an imperceptible nod. "I'm Fran. Fran Bow...Dagenhart."

An odd name, John would have thought, if he weren't in the habit of hanging out around people called "Sherlock" and "Mycroft". A memorable name.

"It's good to meet you, Fran. My name is John. How old are you?"

"Eleven. I had my birthday on a-" with a sudden twitch and another glance at the woman, Fran fell silent.

"I love birthdays," said John, smiling, mind racing. He's been told that children liked his face. ("You look like a dad," a little boy had told him once.) "Mine's in a month. I'm going to have chocolate cake. Want to guess how old I'll be?"

The girl giggled, for the first time a typical child. "Twenty? Twenty-two?"

John laughed, genuine this time. "Not me. I'm old."

"Twenty is old!"

Even the woman wore the shadow of a smile now.

"Nope. I'll tell you. But adults like to keep their age secret from other adults." John glanced at the others with a faux expression of horror. "Can it be our secret?"

Fran giggled again. "Adults are funny!" Her eyes rounded soberly. "Yes. I won't tell."

John leaned across the woman and whispered in Fran's ear, "Forty-two."

"Wow!"

John assumed a stern express and brought a finger to his lips. "You promised not to tell!"

"I won't tell!" Fran thought for a moment. "Not even Mr. Midnight."

"Who is Mr. Midnight?"

"He's my cat. They let me see him...most of the time. He's my best friend." Fran giggled suddenly. "It's called 'pet therapy'. Isn't that a funny name for a best friend?"

John straightened. Things started to click. "It is."

"Do you like cats, Mr. John?" The girl bubbled enthusiasm. The woman was smiling again, openly now. The man, sitting at the opposite window, merely snorted gruffly. It wasn't an unfriendly sound.

"Yes," John replied, not entirely honestly. "But I like dogs better. Cats make me sneeze!"

"They make Mr. Burt sneeze too. Just a little. He doesn't like Mr. Midnight! You can walk dogs. I wanted to walk Mr. Midnight, but they wouldn't let me."

John grimaced in sympathy. "That's probably smart...he might get scared of the cars and run away. You wouldn't want that!"

"He wouldn't. He'd stay by me." The girl thought. "Probably. He likes the garden better though. And I wouldn't want him to get squished! That's what Nurse Jones said."

John paused, looking up at the nurse, who met his eyes and nodded again.

"It's scary and sad when pets get hurt. Or...or people."

Fran clutched her nurse. "I know. Like my parents." John felt a dull thud in his chest. "Or…"

"Back there?" John asked softly.

Fran's eyes widened. "You could see him, too?"

The cab had stopped before John had a chance to process this. A tall white structure, of the sort John knew all too well, loomed outside the window. The sign above the door was, by now, no real surprise.

The nurse was gathering Fran onto her lap in the first gesture of outright affection either of the adults had shown.

"Yes, Fran," she said gently. "He was real."

The bobbed head tilted upward, shocked. "You told me they weren't real!"

"Not most of the time. But sad things happen in real life too."

Fran looked stricken. "Like my parents?"

Nurse Jones hugged her tight. "Yes. But usually it's an accident. That man back there got hit by a car. Maybe he didn't look when he was crossing the street."

Fran shivered. "That makes me sad. The other ones do, too."

"It's okay to be sad," John said, watching her. Nurse Jones nodded.

"Do you want to see Doctor Liefsson today?"

"No. I want Mr. Midnight."

"Okay, then," said the nurse lightly. "Let's go play with Mr. Midnight."

Burt had paid the driver and circled around to John's door, and the three of them emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Fran followed the nurse contentedly toward the double doors, tiny hand still clasped in hers. John turned toward Burt, whom he now recognized as a hospital orderly-or, more likely given his bulk, a security guard. But why would a little girl, even a very ill one, merit such measures? He tore his brain from such ponderings.

"I'd like to speak to her doctor and debrief him on the situation, if that is agreeable to you."

Burt nodded. "Doctor…"

"Watson."

"Watson. This is a private medical institution, as I'm sure you are aware. We take our patients' privacy very seriously." He spoke the stock line intelligently. "As you have come into...unexpected contact with one of our patients, I'm sure our director will request that you sign a confidentiality agreement. And furnish your own credentials. Out of concern for Fran's welfare, Nurse Jones was willing to take you at your word, however…"

John cut him off. "Of course. And while we are speaking frankly, since it seems clear you are responsible for her safety while in public..."

The guard's jaw clenched, but he didn't dispute point. Or the rebuke. "I will...rectify my inattention. And see that Nurse Jones does the same."

John nodded, appreciating his candor. "The situation was unforeseeable. Nonetheless."

"Lesson learned, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you."

Two secretaries, four state-of-the-art locks, and three written privacy agreements later, John was ushered into a carpeted, shelf-lined director's office, dominated by a large cherrywood desk. Settling into a straight-backed chair, he couldn't help voicing his shock.

"Miss Adams, don't you deal with children?"

The nursing assistant Burt had handed him off to shrugged. "We deal with very unusual children, Dr. Watson."

John thought of the laughing girl in the car. The sign above the door: Kensington Children's Psychiatric Institution. And the sober half-whisper: "You could see him too?" He nodded, slightly shaken.

"Surely you are accustomed to that?"

John glanced up, surprised, and the red-haired assistant winked, fingers dancing in typewriter motions. She reads the blog.

"Oh…" John laughed in surprise. "Well, I mostly deal with unusual adults."

"Doctor Watson!"

The tall girl nodded and took her leave as a slight, dark-haired woman came bustling in. John stood and offered his hand, which she grasped briefly before waving him back into his seat.

"Doctor Liefsson," she said, indicating the placard John hadn't noticed. "Nurse Jones has informed me, in brief terms, of the situation. I appreciate your stepping in."

"Of course, Doctor," said John, frowning at the namecard. Fran's psychiatrist-the hospital director? Most administrators, in his experience, were overglorified bureaucrats.

Liefsson followed both his gaze and his train of thought. "You can imagine that I am a busy woman. I work closely only with certain of our more...unusual cases."

That word again. John couldn't determine whether it dictated political correctness, or the opposite. He smiled disarmingly.

"That is convenient for my purposes. I had hoped to speak with someone who works directly with Fran. Without compromising police confidentiality, I must inform you that the scene upon which they stumbled was...not pretty."

The dark head nodded, eyes fixed on him.

"My secretary has verified your medical credentials to full satisfaction. I understand you work with New Scotland Yard?"

"Yes, in an...unofficial capacity, yes."

Dr. Liefsson frowned. "I was not aware that was a possibility."

"I work as part of an...elite investigative team."

"With Sherlock Holmes." Liefsson stated it baldly.

John tried to conceal his shock. "Have you had dealings with Sherlock?"

"Indirectly. Many of our patients are...unstable and antisocial. One or two of our clientele came to us as a result of your colleague's unique talents." One corner of her mouth pulled downward. "Despite his unstated distaste for my profession."

John could only imagine. Sherlock appreciated the unusual, and that came with a certain amount of resentment that it had to be locked up. ("One of these days all the interesting people will be gone, John, and then I'll have to start breaking them out of prison!") It wasn't quite enough distaste to preclude his enjoyment of chasing them, however.

It was too early in John's acquaintance with Dr. Liefsson to start making apologies for Sherlock.

"However unofficial my work with Scotland Yard, my duty to address suffering remains quite real, Doctor."

She nodded. "I can appreciate that. Will you describe the scene for me, please?"

John did.

"And did you mark how Fran reacted?"

"She seemed entirely unbothered. Almost..."

Dr. Liefsson waited.

"...curious."

She nodded, appearing unsurprised. "And later?"

"She became upset only when she learned that what she'd seen was real." John could not hide how disturbed this made him. "Dr. Liefsson…"

"Patient confidentiality," she reminded him gently.

John nodded numbly.

"Fran has been through a quantity and degree of trauma that more than justifies her reaction, Dr. Watson," assured the other doctor. John looked into her black eyes and wondered why every word made him feel worse. "I will speak with her about it today. You are fond of her?"

"Yes," John said, surprising himself.

"She is a very likeable little girl." Liefsson was watching him sympathetically. "Have you anything more to share?"

"No. Only…"

"If Fran herself agrees, you may say goodbye."

John's surprise must have shown on his face, because she explained, with a small smile, "I do not attempt to isolate my patients, Dr. Watson. They are not to blame for their own instabilities. We offer them as full a life as possible, without compromising care or safety."

"Whose safety?" asked John without thinking.

Dr. Liefsson's eyes flashed. "Whoever's becomes relevant."

Fran's quarters, John noted with satisfaction, comprised as non-clinical an environment as was possible under the circumstances. The firmly locked second-floor window overlooked a pleasant courtyard and garden encircled by the building itself. The bed, although unmistakably a wheeled hospital one, was covered in a fluffy flowered duvet such as any little girls' bedroom might sport. A sturdy little easel on one side of the room held paper and thick crayons. The nurse sat behind a small desk in the corner. A soft beanbag chair sat beside it, as though Fran often occupied it and actually enjoyed the woman's company. Fanciful drawings of flying creatures, a skeletal man, and-for some reason-vegetables, papered the walls. By far the most common theme, however, was the cats. Crayon drawings of black cats were taped above the bed, beside the door, over the small wardrobe, dancing across the walls. If she had had a mirror, John felt sure it would have been crowded with them. He glanced at the easel again; the black crayon was worn to a nub.

The focus of all this artistic attention was prancing about the center of the room, chasing after a toy rat that Fran batted laughingly across the floor. Even as he fought the urge to sneeze, John had to admit the little animal was graceful. And cute, with its tiny pink nose and enormous yellow eyes. The cat was the first to note John's entrance; it came to a halt, tail twitching. Fran followed its gaze and her eyes lit up.

"Mr. John! Come meet Mr. Midnight!"

John's hand was seized and he felt himself dragged bodily across the room.

"Kneel down, please," Fran instructed, tapping lightly on his shoulder. John complied, and the cat approached suspiciously.

"Mr. Midnight, John," said Fran formally. "John-Mr. Midnight."

The cat bowed its head and sniffed John's hand, delicately, before giving him an approving stare. Fran was delighted.

"He says you're good! He says he likes you. He's good at that."

"Liking people?"

"Liking the right people," Fran corrected. "He liked Itward, even when I was still a little scared of him. And he didn't like Dr. Oswald at all. That's why he ran away in the woods."

"Oh," said John, a little disconcerted as the cat brushed firmly against his side. "Who's Ed…"

Over Fran's shoulder, the nurse was shaking her head.

"Itward's not real...for you," Fran informed him. "He went back to Itharsta with Palontras. But he should be back soon. He said I could maybe even visit sometime. As long as I bring Mr. Midnight! I saw you with the smashed man. Are you part of the police?"

John smiled. "Only sometimes. I help catch bad guys."

For some reason Fran looked nervous.

"Only the really bad ones," said John reassuringly. "Someone's got to keep everyone safe, right? Mostly I'm a doctor."

Fran relaxed. "Oh," she said thoughtfully. "I think you're like Palontras. Palontras is a doctor too."

Catching Nurse Jones' eye, John attempted to steer the conversation back to saner grounds. "And what does Mr. Midnight like to do?"

"He likes to chase mice and eat bugs, only he doesn't do that anymore, 'cause of all the nice ones we met in Itharsta. And he tells funny stor-"

Fran broke off suddenly. For the first time, her merry blue eyes glazed over, unfocused. John was by her side in an instant. "Fran?"

The nurse had looked up sharply, but hadn't moved. John seized Fran's arm.

"Fran?"

"MEOW!"

Mr. Midnight came out of nowhere, flinging himself at Fran. John moved to intervene, but the cat showed him his teeth, briefly, before resuming a desperate batting at Fran's chest. Without claws, John realized. And it was working. Fran was shaking her head, blinking, slowly coming to. Pleased, the cat put its paws on her shoulder and rubbed against her face, purring. John shook his head too. He'd heard of seizure dogs, and pets for anxiety therapy, but...wow.

The worse wasn't over, though. Fran's expression had crumpled and she was clutching the cat to her chest, rocking back and forth, oblivious to the short black hairs rubbing onto her yellow dress. If she were another child, John realized, she'd be sobbing.

"Fran?"

With a wail, Fran launched herself at him and buried her face in his chest. It was a few minutes before she calmed down, a startled John rocking her gently back and forth.

"Shh...it's all right…"

"Noooo…" she moaned.

"It's okay…"

"I DIDN'T!"

The shriek shocked John, though at this point nothing should have. Fran clutched him harder, burying her face in his jumper.

"Mr. Midnight knows I didn't...it wasn't me…"

"I know you didn't," John said reassuringly. Fran released neither he, nor Mr. Midnight, for several minutes, during which John endured the tickling in his nose and did his best not to sneeze. The cat mewed apologetically.

The fit ended as suddenly as it had begun. Fran sat back.

"Mr. Midnight hates that," she said conversationally. "I do too."

"I'll bet you do," said John gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I just don't like all the things they tell me. Nurse," Fran turned to the corner, "Why are you upset? Is it the smashed man? The one you saw too?"

The nurse, John realized suddenly, still hadn't moved. She was tapping away urgently on her laptop. Apparently Fran's episodes were frequent enough that the nurse trusted the therapy cat to calm her down, although still worrisome enough to communicate immediately with the doctors. Nurse Jones paused in her typing.

"Yes, Fran," she said softly. "The smashed man did upset me."

"Oh," said Fran, thoughtfully. "It upset me too, the first time I took the bad medicine. Your kamala is bigger than usual. It's talking to you, but you shouldn't listen."

The nurse paled. Fran turned to John.

"You just have a little kamala," she told him confidentially. It sits right...here."

John went cold. The small fingers had pinpointed his bullet wound, beneath his jumper.

"It talks about lots of bad things, Mr. John. Did you take the red pills too?"

"No…" said John quietly. "No, I didn't."

"It says lots of people are dead. Mostly it says your best friend is dead, but I know he isn't. I can tell when they're lying. Do you have a cat, too? Why does it think he's dead?"

John couldn't tear his eyes from the innocently curious, upturned face.

"Don't worry," he said quietly. "My best friend isn't a cat, and he's alive. He likes to act like a cat, sometimes...he likes to lie around like Mr. Midnight. And chase people around."

Fran ignored John's attempts to steer the conversation. "Why do you think he's dead?"

John was horrified. "I don't!"

"Your kamala does. Your kamala doesn't say that unless you think it, at least a little."

A weight was settling itself deep in John's stomach. He'd had another nightmare last night. About Bart's. And Sherlock. It had been so many years, with everything in between...with Mary in between...and still. Moriarty's legacy had never ceased to haunt him.

"He…" John's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat hastily. "He's okay. He likes to play pretend."

Fran surveyed him gravely. "That's not a nice game. Remor likes to play that with me, but I told him to go away. I'm not scared of him."

John smiled wanly. "I told Sherlock not to play anymore."

"That's good. Mr. Midnight only likes to play bat the rat, don't you, kitty?" She smiled down at the cat, still sprawled on her lap. Mr. Midnight mewed contentedly.

The door opened and John recognized the petite figure of Dr. Liefsson.

"I think I should go now, Fran," he told her. "I only came to say goodbye."

"Okay," said Fran. "When are you coming back?"

John raised his eyes to meet Dr. Liefsson's surprised glance. "I don't know if I can, Fran. We'll see."

"Oh," said the little girl, eyes downcast. "Thank you for coming."

"You have fun with Mr. Midnight!" said John, in a tone of forced lightness. "And I think your doctor is here to see you. You tell her about what you saw, okay? She'll help you feel better."

"Mr. Midnight helps me feel better," said Fran miserably, eyeing the doctor. "No medicine?"

"No medicine," confirmed Dr. Liefsson. "Just wanted to come say hi."

"Okay," said Fran. "Mr. John is saying goodbye. Do you know Mr. John?"

"A little."

"Mr. Midnight says he's good, so it's okay to talk to him," Fran told her. "Goodbye, Mr. John. I hope you catch the bad murderer."

John was through the door before these words hit him, and his chest turned to ice.

"What?!"

But the door was already closing behind Dr. Liefsson.