So I was at work (in a library), and saw Shylock. This is what popped into my head.
Still decided if I should write more or not.
H
Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat, life ruiners extraordinaire. I am making no profit from this work, and am just creating it for yours and my enjoyment
I almost missed him.
If it wasn't for the sneeze, I would have walked right past the boy with the too small face and mop of dark curly hair.
He was sitting in the small space between two shrubs, clutching what looked like a bird's wing and a magnifying glass. Couldn't have been more than ten, probably even nine. His uniform, the blue of the upscale day schools around this neighborhood, had some dirt, and what horrifyingly might have been blood, on the cuffs of his shirt and trousers, but it didn't seem to bother the boy much. At the time, I had no idea why a nine year old would look the way he did, and be holding a bird's wing and magnifying glass in a shrub. I'm not sure it was an idea many had.
We locked eyes for a long moment. His weren't quite the colour of sea foam, but not entirely like the blue of the sky at midday either. I could barely see them underneath the long curly locks of hair. My own was cut short, blonde. Bland. But I was thirteen at the time. I didn't much care about my hair. His stare could have held me for hours. Days. It seemed wiser than it should have been; though, do stares seem wise? I could almost feel him sorting me out.
"Hi. I'm John." I said, extending a hand. My own arm was covered in the green shirt of my school's uniform, considerably less fancy than the one clothing the boy in front of me.
He held his stare.
"Do you have a name?" I asked, keeping my arm extended. It was rare to see a nine year old in the park who wasn't running around with his mates screaming his head off or playing army. It was sort of... refreshing. Being stuck here while Harry met some friends wasn't my idea of an afternoon, but maybe this kid could keep me company.
The boy held his stare, dropped the magnifying glass, and grabbed my hand (thankfully it was the magnifying glass. I don't know if I could handle the hand with the bird).
"Sherlock."
His voice was so small, as if someone was physically restraining it back. The moment he uttered the 'Sh,' his eyes dropped to our hands. He tried to pull his away, I could see his whole body putting effort into it, but he was so thin he had no sort of strength. I clasped his hand tighter, until he stopped pulling.
"What are you doing, all alone in this park? You could get hurt, you know." I finally released his hand when I was sure he wouldn't dash.
"I'm..." He started to speak, but clamped his mouth shut as if he realized he was going to say a curse. He stared at the bird's wing in his other hand, and quickly set it down on the ground, carefully. "I'm..." He swiveled his gaze around, looking for something he couldn't find. "Experimenting." The word was almost a whisper, I barely caught it. Everything about this kid was small and quiet.
"Please tell me you just found that wing?" I suppose something showed on my face because his eyes went wide and flashed silver, cheeks flushing.
"No, I just found it! I didn't do anything to the bird! I promise!" That wasn't the reaction I was expecting. For someone so quiet before, his voice raised, and got a little shrill. He was determined to prove he didn't hurt this bird. Makes me think about what sort of home he comes from.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. I believe you. Just making sure. What sort of experiment are you running?" The fact that I asked seemed to calm him down, even surprise him.
"Oh, nothing too fancy. Just testing the decomposition rate of birds wings with varying amounts of feathers. It'll be another week or so before I get any sort of real results." The words were a blur, he was in his element now. What he said next then made my eyes go wide. "Rugby or Football?"
"I'm sorry?" How...?
"Rugby, or football? I would say Rugby, based on the bruises on your shins and the scrape on your cheek. You don't seem like you would be that aggressive on a football pitch." There was now a deviant smile on his face. I guess whatever I did with asking him about his experiment did away with all the shyness.
"Er, Rugby. Been playing since I was your age. Just joined the school team. How did...?"
"I know? I didn't. I just looked at you. Any idiot should-" He clamped a hand to his mouth, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Sorry..." His voice was small again, compact. He seemed to almost shrink at the word.
"No, it's fine. Really. I think that's cool how you did that. Can you do that with anything?" I flopped down at the base of a tree, the shrubs to my left. Sherlock sat down where he was standing.
"I'm getting there. Mycroft is helping me. I can usually tell where someone works and how many children or pets they have." His voice was low, but the corner of his mouth turned up at the end of the sentence. He grasped the fallen magnifying glass and began spinning it in his hand.
"What is Mycroft?" The name was too strange to be a person.
But Sherlock's face seemed to cloud, and his eyes dropped to his hands once more.
"He's my brother. He's here, somewhere."
"Hm, shouldn't we go find him? I bet he's probably worried." I realized I never really found out what he was doing here all alone. "You don't want him worrying, do you?"
"Yes. I do. I hate Mycroft." Again, his mouth clamped shut. "I mean..."
"Sometimes I hate my sister Harry. She can be rather annoying, too. But I still wouldn't want her to worry too much." Sherlock said nothing. "Well here, if you don't want to find him, at least let me stick around so I know you're alright. We can find him later."
The grin returned. "If you wish." But I cold hear the deviousness in his voice. "Do you want to go on an adventure with me?"
.