HERO
Hero (n): (1) A man distinguished by exceptional courage, nobility, fortitude, etc. (2) A man who is idolized for possessing superior qualities in any field.
"He's distraught. There's no way we can convince him to tell us what happened."
Sherlock sighed, and leaned against the door frame, "Have you tried just asking him, rather than trying to coax him with sugar-coated comforts?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm.
"You try then." Sally huffed, thoroughly sick of the man before her, "You don't just ask a kid to do things like that."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Why don't you tell him why we want to know?"
Sally glared at him, "Because he's just a kid! It's traumatic!"
Sherlock straightened, pushing himself of the door frame and turning to her. Sally stood angrily, arms firmly folded.
"What's his name?" Sherlock asked.
Sally frowned, "Can't you work that out?" she said sarcastically.
Sherlock's eyes shot daggers, and he strode into the room before she could make a protest. This would take all day if he didn't get the boy to talk. The time for waiting patiently for him to stop crying was over. The time to tell him why he should talk had come.
The young boy was crouched on a swivel chair, knees up in front of his chest, eyes pouring tears. Lestrade looked up from where he was talking softly to him, and stood suddenly, slightly shocked at Sherlock's intentions.
"Sherlock-?"
Sherlock ignored him, and squatted down in front of the small figure. The boy stared back at him with large brown eyes. He was shaking slightly, but then, that was only to be expected. Sherlock kept a steady gaze on him.
The boy stared at this new man. The others, who had talked to him, they had been sympathetic and kind. He liked them, but not enough to relive the horror of his father's murder. He, being so young, did not understand the reason behind the questions. Sherlock had guessed this much from his expressions, and so decided to try a different approach.
"What's your name?" he said in a normal voice.
The boy sniffed, but did not reply. Sherlock put a hand on his knee, "I can help you, just tell me your name." There was a small amount of sympathy in that voice, but it was more substantial than the crooning of the other officers.
"Jeb… Jebadiah. Jebadiah Cartwright." The boy whispered. His death grip on his knees relaxed ever so slightly. He had told the other officers his name, many times over. But this man looked cleverer, and… stronger. Perhaps he understood more.
"Jebadiah, alright," Sherlock sat down with his back to the desk, "You know what happened to your father, yes?"
Jeb tightened his grip and began to cry, nodding violently. Sherlock rose slightly, and looked him in the eye. Blue on brown.
"Someone did that. A bad man did that."
Jeb nodded, "A bad man - yeah." He echoed, choking a little on the syllables.
"He's a very bad man, Jeb - and he's still out there. He's free. He could be anywhere."
Jebadiah looked around, slightly fearfully. The words of the man brought on visions. His imagination began to run overtime - who could stop him? The bad man who had killed his dad… What if he came after Jeb? What if-
"No, no, he can't get here," Sherlock said reassuringly, shattering the visions, "But he can get to other places, other people."
The little boy's eyes were transfixed on him now. Sherlock could see this thought growing in the boy's mind.
"But if we can't stop him, he could do it again. He could do what he did to your father, to someone else."
Jeb's eyes widened, and he shook his head slightly, "But… you can find him, right? You're the police, aren't you?" he squeaked.
"Yes, we are," Sherlock said, "but we don't know anything about him, Jeb. We don't know enough. And if we don't find out more, there could be other little children, like you, whose parents get killed. You don't want that, do you?"
Jebadiah shook his head frantically, "But I don't want to remember him," he whimpered, "You want me to tell you about him, I don't want to!" It was imperative that this man, this strange and clever man, should understand. Jeb hated to remember, it scared him to remember. Why did he have to remember?
Sherlock raised himself a little higher, "Listen to me. I can catch him. I can find him, and he can pay for what he did to your dad." Jeb raised his head at that, and cocked it to one side, "But only if you tell me. You're a smart boy, Jeb. Just tell me what you remember. You only have to tell me once. Then we can find him, and catch him."
Jebadiah nodded shakily. Sherlock smiled encouragingly at him. His phone was already in his hand to record what the child said.
The boy was having trouble speaking though. His body was shaking violently, physical fear as it were. Sherlock was at a loss. He put his hand on the boy's leg, hoping that physical contact would help calm him - you could never tell with children…
Jeb glanced down, and slipped his smaller hand around the detective's larger thumb. Sherlock smiled, thankful that the contact hand made some effect.
With the nice, clever man holding his hand, Jeb felt a bit better.
"Now… what did he look like?" Sherlock asked, squeezing his hand lightly.
"Well…" Jeb took a deep shaky breath and began, "He was tall, really tall-"
"As tall as me?" Sherlock prompted. Jeb frowned a little, "Yeah, I guess so. But he was bigger, wider than you."
Sherlock nodded, and then kept silent, obviously waiting for Jeb to continue.
"His skin was all crackly. Red, and crackly."
Sherlock frowned slightly, and glanced at Lestrade, who was taking quick notes.
"Like scars?" he said, and Jeb looked confused. Sherlock shuffled around a little, and raised his left pant leg, without letting go of the child's hand. There was a large burn scar there, and Jeb's eyes widened.
"Like that?" Sherlock asked, and Jeb nodded.
"Burn scars. Possibility," Sherlock said briefly to Lestrade, who was already jotting it down.
"And he walked all funny, like his leg was kinda wrong." Jeb continued.
"He limped." Sherlock murmured to himself, and then asked "What'd he sound like?"
Jebadiah shrugged. "His voice was deep, and kinda rough. He shouted a lot. Said a lot of things about pots and ice." The confusion was obvious in his little voice.
Greg gave a grunt of confusion.
"Slang, inspector," Sherlock said with his 'isn't it obvious?' voice, "Pot and ice. Drugs." The consulting detective turned back to Jeb and rolled his eyes, gesturing at Lestrade and saying conspiratorially, "they're all idiots."
Jeb giggled uncertainly. The man was clever and funny, and perhaps he could catch the bad man. It'd make the world safe again, Jeb thought.
He took a deep breath, and continued.
The interview went on for another ten minutes, after which Sherlock had a fairly accurate mental picture of Jeb's father's attacker, and the murder itself. It corresponded almost exactly to his earlier deductions, and he felt a stab of satisfaction at the conformation. Jeb still hadn't let go of his hand.
"That's great Jeb," he said, beginning to stand, "That's all we need to know."
Jeb tugged on his arm, and looked up at him.
"Are you gonna catch him?" he asked in a small, worried voice. Sherlock smiled.
"Now we are. Don't worry, he won't get away from me."
Jeb beamed. Sherlock stared at him, disconcerted at this sudden display of happiness.
"What's your name?" Jeb asked him.
Sherlock frowned slightly, "My names Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."
Jeb slid off the chair and wrapped little his arms around the detective's legs.
"I wanna be like you, Sherlock." He said happily, burying his face in the stiff pant legs, "I wanna stop bad men too. I wanna be a hero."
Sherlock's eyes bulged in shock.
"Uh-" he glanced around helplessly, noting's John's slightly amused look and Sally's unreadable expression, "Jeba-"
He reached down and gently pulled the boy from his legs.
"I have to go, okay? I'm going to go and-"
"Catch the bad man?" Jebadiah said with sparkling eyes, "Catch the bad man who hurt daddy?"
Sherlock nodded, "Yes. You go over here, with Sally. She'll look after you."
Jeb followed him nervously, and Sherlock transferred his hand to Donovan's.
"Yes, you come with me, okay honey?" Sally said with a smile, ruffling Jeb's mousy hair.
Jeb nodded and followed Sally out of the door. Donovan shot Sherlock a disbelieving look, which the detective ignored.
"Bye Sherlock!" Jebadiah called, waving enthusiastically through the window.
Sherlock gave him a little wave as the child disappeared out of view.
"That was very weird." John said. He looked as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.
"Oh shut it." Sherlock huffed, "It worked." John was looking almost impressed at his tact, which probably wasn't a good thing.
"You've got yourself a fan, Sherlock!" Greg said in amusement.
Two months later.
Jeb pursed his lips and inspected himself once more in the mirror. His dad was dead, and he didn't have a mum, so he was living with his aunt. She was nice, but not as nice as his dad had been. He sniffed a little, as he always did when he thought about his dad. The bad man had been caught, and he wouldn't do it to anyone else. But that didn't change the fact that he had done it to Jeb's dad. His dad was dead, and that could never be changed. But it was okay now. He didn't cry anymore, well, not often. He felt like crying now, but he didn't.
Today was a special day.
His aunty called up to him, "Jebby? You ready to go yet?"
Jeb frowned. He had told her not to call him Jebby, it was a little kids name. He didn't think he was a little kid any more, he had seen things that... Well, he doubted he could ever be a carefree child any more after that.
Today his new school were having a big end of year day. Last year they had all come dressed as their favourite book characters. Jeb had seen some people when he was on his way to his own school, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, Harry Potter, Gandalf the Grey (and now and then, the White)… Now he lived closer, so he went there too, and he could dress up at the end of the year. But today, well, today…
Today they had to dress up as their hero. And he hadn't even had to think about who he'd be. He'd been planning it for weeks.
He smoothed down the long coat (the coat that dragged on the floor as he walked) and picked at the crisp shirt (the one that made his neck itch). He had gotten his aunt to curl his hair, and he put on the scarf he had bought the week before. The pants were the ones that kept slipping down, and had to be held up with a belt, which he didn't like, but it didn't matter. He didn't care.
Today he was Sherlock Holmes, and nothing could stop him.
Nineteen years later
Seargent Jebadiah Cartwright grinned down at his tracking dog. His fellow police officers glanced around at each other, waiting for the signal. Jeb rubbed a hand over the fur between his four-legged friend's ears.
"Easy, boy. Not just yet."
The dog sat back on his haunches, and Jeb fingered his gun.
"Good boy, Sherlock. Good boy." He whispered, as the dog hardly flinched at the tremendous bang as a dark figure burst out of the house in front of him.
Sherlock wagged his tail at his name, and Jeb yelled the instruction. He could have sworn the dog nodded, before tearing off after the running figure. He had always been a smart dog.
"Go Sherlock!" Jeb yelled despite himself, sprinting along behind as the dog leapt at the fleeing figure, "Get him!"
He could always rely on Sherlock to get them in the end.
Jeb grinned. That was the way it was supposed to be.
.
.
A/N: Quick shout out, thumbs up and hi-five to New Zealand, who have just legalized gay marriage. *Fist pump*