An Afternoon Ramble

Chapter 1: Hypothesis

Sherlock and John were out, talking an afternoon walk down Oxford Street, enjoying the busy streets crowded with people, and the unseasonably warm air. John had had only the morning shift at the surgery that day, and when he'd got back for lunch he could tell Sherlock was just beginning to spiral into boredom. It had been three days since the last case, and two weeks since the detective had had anything above a five. He'd been staving off the encroaching black mood with some poisons and bacteria cultures, but John knew that his brain was starting to clamour for something more interesting.

It simply wasn't enough - Sherlock needed another challenge, something worthy of his immense skill, something that would give him that shining burst of adrenalin that lit his soul on fire and sparked fervently in his bright blue eyes. A walk certainly didn't fit the bill, but since John could no more conjure up a brilliant murder mystery than he could pull pigeons out of his sleeve, he hoped that an hour or two's sojourn about the busy London streets would keep Sherlock sufficiently distracted for a little while longer. And hopefully something interesting would come up soon.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed to be enjoying himself, his eyes rapidly flicking over elderly women, gossiping teenagers, confused tourists, and businessmen, taking them all in, analysing every detail without even consciously trying. Being out and about at least gave his brain something to do, and he appreciated the city, its colour, its architecture - its presence. Sherlock loved London as much as John did, and it showed now in the slight smile on his face as they strolled along the pavement. Prodding him into getting out his chair and onto said pavement had taken a few minutes, but it had definitely been worth it, John mused, for the companionable silence they were now enjoying and the pleasant breeze that ruffled their hair.

It really was a lovely day - a few more clouds than sunrays, but they did live in England - and although Sherlock had not given up his coat to the 15 degree weather, he had left it unbuttoned to twirl and flutter about his knees, and his scarf was surprisingly absent as well. John was only wearing his jacket, and with his shorter, slightly stocky build he wondered with some amusement if he might have better cold tolerance than the great detective, and his long-limbed, skinny frame. Of course, Sherlock all but ignored the elements when he was on the trail of a criminal, and plunged immediately into rain or cold or thunderstorms if he thought it would help the case, but today, with no such burning drive dwelling in his heart, he might actually notice the temperature.

The clouds shifted as the wind picked up a little, and bright sunlight suddenly streamed down on the occupants of the pavement, lighting up their blowing hair and sharpening the colours of their clothes. John briefly shut his eyes, enjoying the gentle heat on his face after the last few days of fog and chill. March could be quite unpredictable - although John could predict that this nice weather would likely be gone by the morning, and that rain and a cooler climate would soon prevail for the next few weeks. All the more reason to spend time outside now - John hardly relished the idea of being trapped in his flat with a manic, irritated detective who had nothing to occupy his mind and was therefore slowly being devoured by the demands of his own brain.

Crap telly was useless in that sort of situation, Cluedo had been banned after their second game, and even the joys of playing with toxic chemicals would eventually be unable to reach Sherlock in the dark and smothering depression that would take hold. At times John caught Sherlock contemplating the veins in his arms, and that always set him on edge, but fortunately he had yet to see track marks there, or the wide, gaping pupils that would warn him his friend was high. Mycroft had once quietly told John that he believed the doctor's presence in his brother's life was enough to keep him grounded, to hold him back from even blacker demeanours when his mind had nothing to do. Having someone around to make him tea and argue with him and just breathe the same air in the room, not to mention being ready to go ballistic if Sherlock did indulge, kept his depression in check - and perhaps silently reminded him that he was loved.

John was pleased to think that his mere presence performed such an important service in Sherlock's life.

"God, it's nice out here, isn't it?" John commented, opening his eyes again and running his fingers through his hair.

Sherlock did not reply, and John wasn't terribly surprised - as much as Sherlock could babble away while explaining his deductions and laying out casework, he wasn't exactly a chatterbox when it came to idle conversation. At least, not about simple, terribly obvious things like stating that the weather was nice when that was pretty much the entire reason they were out here. Although John had also suggested that they take lunch when they were out - they hadn't eaten back at the flat before heading out the door - and when the two of them got hungry enough they'd find a nice place to eat and kill another hour before they went walking again.

It was a good plan for a pleasant afternoon, and John liked spending quiet time with Sherlock in between cases, where, exciting as the detective work was, John hopefully wouldn't find himself watching Sherlock butt heads with Scotland Yard, or being sent out to interview creepy family members, or standing there while a couple of policemen handed him an ABSO. Sherlock had somehow gotten the thing annulled (probably by bargaining with Mycroft), but nonetheless John hadn't entirely forgiven his flatmate for that incident, and he certainly hadn't forgotten it. Oh, well - no need to go over that again now. John caught sight of a Chinese restaurant with outside tables and wondered if Sherlock would consider it a good place for lunch.

"You hungry yet?" John asked.

Again, Sherlock didn't answer him, and now John sensed that something was not quite right. He turned his head to take a good look at his flatmate and found Sherlock gazing distractedly into the crowd, his eyes focussed on something across the street and a faint line between his eyebrows as he studied it. John glanced over in the direction Sherlock was looking, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever was consuming the detective's attention was obviously something only he could see - some subtle set of details that were invisible to John's eyes. And clearly a sight more important than the no doubt half a dozen adulterers that Sherlock would have picked out in the crowd.

"Sherlock?" John said questioningly, trying to get his attention.

"That boy," Sherlock said abruptly, almost startling John with the suddenness of his reply. "He's not supposed to be with that man."

Sherlock raised a long, pale finger and pointed among the morass of people, some wandering, some hurrying, some waiting for a bus. It took John a few moments to find who Sherlock was pointing at, and when he did spy the couple he didn't notice anything particular to warn him something was off. The man was fairly average looking - about the same height as Sherlock, maybe an inch or two shorter, and wearing a dark blue shirt with a light brown jacket thrown over it against the breeze. He had sandy hair combed sideways and apparently gelled, since it was still lying flat and not blowing about, and a short jaw accompanied by a sloping, concave nose.

At his knees walked a little boy, no more than eight or ten years old, with short cropped light brown hair and a blue and white striped tee shirt. He was skinny, but not excessively so - no more than usual for an active child his age, and his pleasant features would probably someday help him get a number of dates. The boy was holding the man's hand, and hurrying a little to keep up with him, as the man was striding determinedly along the pavement and slipping quickly through the crowd, clearly intent on wherever the two of them were going.

They looked fairly normal.

"What d'you mean he's not supposed to be with him?" John asked. "What makes you say that?"

"I've been watching them for the last couple of minutes," Sherlock said slowly, his eyes still on the pair as they moved hurriedly along. "Ever since the child tried to pick up a piece of paper from the ground."

"A piece of paper? Why should that get your attention?"

"Because I wondered what he was planning to do with it."

John shrugged.

"I dunno, could be anything. Maybe he was going to chuck it in a bin, be a good Samaritan."

"Yes, that would be a reasonable assumption," Sherlock answered back, "Except when do you usually pick up rubbish to toss in a bin?"

John gave him a blank look and Sherlock glanced away from his target of interest long enough to give John an expression that pitied his intelligence in return.

"You pick up rubbish to toss it in a bin when there's a bin about to toss it in," Sherlock explained deliberately, his tone slightly tinged with scathing. "But there are no bins on that street, not ahead of them in any case, and judging by the speed at which they're moving I doubt he intended to turn around and walk back 100 metres. Besides, there are other pieces of trash around - there's a candy bar wrapper there near the kerb, and a Tesco bag stuck against that bush, not to mention some kind of plastic container and an empty package of crisps. He's made no move to pick up any of those, despite the fact that the paper, at least, is biodegradable, and the others are not."

"Sherlock, he's about nine years old. I don't know that he's familiar with the term 'biodegradable.'"

Sherlock shrugged.

"They learn a lot of things in school these days. And if he's interested in cleaning up the planet, he might well understand the concept if not the vocabulary. Anyway, that aside, he's obviously not on a crusade to pick up rubbish since he ignored all the other bits. He was only interested in the paper."

"Okay, so?"

"So then what would he want the paper for? There didn't appear to be anything written on it, so he wasn't curious to read it. It wasn't big enough for him to fold into a paper plane or some other toy - it wasn't even the right shape, because it had been torn down the middle. And one of the corners was soiled where someone had stepped on it. Why would he want something like that?"

"Kids like funny things," John said dubiously. "Sometimes it's hard to tell why they want something. What do you think he wanted it for, then?"

Sherlock watched as the boy his chaperone were forced to stop and wait for a light.

"What else do we use paper for?"

"Um, to write on?" John suggested, and was gratified to see a pleased smile turn up the corners of Sherlock's lips.

"Exactly, John - to write on. Perhaps he wanted to write something. But why would he pick up a dirty piece of paper from the streets for such an objective, when surely he could have merely asked his father, if the man is his father - there's some family resemblance in the nose and cheekbones but my instinct would be to say uncle - when he could have asked his father or uncle for something to write on? The man might have an old receipt or something in his wallet, or he could at least get the boy something when they get to where ever they're going. Which of course brings up another question - what does this boy consider so urgent to write down that he can't wait until he reaches his destination to do it, and instead chooses to grab something off the pavement that's not even clean? And why not ask his companion for help to begin with?"

The light changed and the objects of their discussion crossed the street that ran perpendicular to the one they all stood on. They were past Sherlock and John now by about fifty feet, and as they started through the crosswalk, Sherlock, to John's mild surprise, started walking quickly in their direction, still on his side of the street but clearly reluctant to lose sight of them. John hurried after him, throwing a slightly annoyed glance at the Chinese restaurant that was now receding into the background.

"You're still assuming that he wanted to write on the paper," John pointed out as he caught up with Sherlock's swift stride. "There are plenty of other explanations. Maybe he... maybe he wanted to crumple it up into a ball and play catch with himself or something."

"Possible," Sherlock conceded. "But then that still begs the question of why he didn't ask his uncle for something first - although perhaps the idea of playing ball didn't occur to him until he saw the paper, and he didn't want to give up the opportunity of getting it until he knew for sure the uncle actually did have something."

"Maybe he did ask the uncle," John pointed out. "If you weren't watching them until the kid actually went for the paper, you could have easily missed them talking."

Sherlock threw back a slight glare at the suggestion that he could have easily missed something, despite the fact that the streets were full of people and it was, quite simply, true that Sherlock couldn't possibly have been paying attention to everyone.

"Again, it's possible," Sherlock said tightly, ruthlessly quickening his pace as he followed his targets down the street, and forcing John to almost jog to keep up with him. "But it was after I became curious about the child's designs on the paper that I started to pay more attention to them. Look at the body language between the two of them - are they talking now? No. The boy has his head down, looking at the pavement, and occasionally glancing rather skittishly at the passers-by. His uncle is essentially ignoring him, not looking at the boy at all - but he's got a death grip on the child's hand and shows no signs of letting go. Do you think the two of them have been conversing? Do you think that child would dare ask his uncle for some paper to play with? But why not? What is he afraid of? And why the man holding onto him so tightly?"

"Maybe because there are people everywhere, not to mention cars," John argued. "He doesn't want to lose the kid in the crowd, or have him wander into the street and get hit."

"I think you're right that he doesn't want to lose the boy," Sherlock agreed, hurrying across the street that the man and the child had crossed a minute ago. The two of them were still visible up ahead, walking parallel to the detective and doctor and still keeping a fairly quick pace. "But not for the altruistic reasons you just suggested. Look at them, John, really look. I don't at all think that man likes the child. He didn't speak to him before they crossed the street, as most adults do to children - 'all right, the light's green, we can go, stay with me' - he's not speaking to the boy at all. He's setting a fast pace and ignoring the fact that the boy's having trouble keeping up - and yet he insists on keeping the child very close to him, holding onto his hand and jerking him away from other people when they get too near. What's he so afraid of, then? And why is the child frightened of him?"

"Somebody else is moving pretty damn fast, too," John retorted, as did his best to match Sherlock's speed. "And ignoring the person trying to keep up with them." Sherlock glanced back and rolled his eyes, then slowed marginally to John's relief.

"You're not a child," he pointed out in a clipped tone, still moving half again as fast as his normal stride. Well, John had to admit Sherlock was right about that - he might have shorter legs than Sherlock, but he was better off than a ten year old. It was rather mean of the man across the street to move so quickly when accompanied by a little boy.

"Maybe... Maybe they had just a fight or something. Maybe the kid wanted some toy in a shop window and his uncle refused to buy it for him. And now the man's angry and so the boy's a little scared and nervous... You really think the kid looks that afraid?" John asked uncertainly, taking a closer look at the little boy's expression and trying to see as Sherlock did. Now that they were closer to the pair, the kid did seem awfully nervous. His eyes were a bit too wide, and he didn't look at all comfortable with the hand surrounding his. He looked at the sea of people around him as if he wanted to flee into it, away from the man at his side. But that could still be because of a fight...

"I doubt it was just a fight," Sherlock said, answering both John's previous idea and his current thoughts. "For one thing - look at what the boy's wearing."

"What he's wearing?"

John looked again at the kid's clothes, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing. The blue and white striped tee shirt, a pair of slightly faded jeans. Trainers that looked like they got regular wear, and white cuffed socks peeping out above the high tops of the shoes. That was all. Everything seemed to fit him well enough, so surely that couldn't be what his friend was complaining about. The clothes weren't dirty or torn or damaged in any way. John shook his head, giving Sherlock a look that indicated he didn't understand what was there. What was problem Sherlock saw that John didn't?

"His jacket," Sherlock said finally, raising a hand to point again. ...Jacket?

"He's not wearing a jacket," John answered, puzzled.

"Exactly. He's not wearing a jacket, or even a jumper. It's a nice day John, but I'm not even hot in my Belstaff, and both you and our boy's lovely uncle are wearing jackets against the wind. But the child's in a tee shirt, and a fairly thin one at that. Don't you imagine that he's a bit cold?"

"Oh."

John felt rather stupid for not seeing it sooner. It wasn't as if the kid was shivering, and with how fast he was walking he was probably keeping fairly warm, but why didn't he have a jacket to protect him from the wind? Clouds had rolled back over the sun, and without the sunshine the temperature wasn't quite as pleasant. The clothes he and his uncle were wearing were reasonably new, and the uncle himself had a jacket keep him warm, so it wasn't as if they couldn't afford something for the child. Why then, were they out here without having made sure the boy was properly clothed first?

"Maybe he lost it?" John suggested slowly. "Maybe they went into a restaurant and he took it off because it was warm, and then left it on the seat by mistake?"

"They why haven't they gone back to get it?" Sherlock questioned.

"Maybe that's where they're going," John pointed out. "Why they're hurrying, to go back and get it because the kid's cold. And that might be why the uncle's mad, because the kid left it behind and now they have to go back and get it."

"John, how long do you think it would have taken them to notice if the boy had left his jacket behind? If the uncle didn't notice immediately, the child certainly would almost as soon as they stepped outside and he felt the chill. And even if it did take some time to notice, they've been walking down the street for five minutes now, at a fairly rapid pace. They haven't got back to the place yet?" Sherlock's tone was riddled with quiet incredulity. "And you say the uncle is angry - but you based that assumption on the idea that they had a fight. Look at the man's face. Does he seem angry to you?"

John had been mostly looking at the child - now he switched his attention to the man. No, the bloke didn't really look angry. If anything, he looked a bit nervous too, and more determined than anything, as if where ever they were going, he'd get them there, come hell or high water.

"No," he admitted.

"So do you really think the boy left his jacket behind accidentally? Doesn't it make more sense to say that he simply wasn't wearing one to begin with? What does all that tell us?"

"You think he's being abused," John said slowly, the pieces of Sherlock's observations beginning to fall into place. The lack of affection between the two parties, the fear the boy had for his caretaker, the way the man ignored the boy's struggles to keep up and kept such a tight hold on the child's hand, and of course, the missing jacket... There were other explanations for the separate behaviours, but put together they began to form a rather unpleasant picture. John frowned, scrutinising the pair again as they walked down the street, hoping to find something to contradict the sad conclusion...

"I think he's a kidnapping victim," Sherlock corrected.

Wait, what?

"A what?" John demanded, turning quickly from his study of the boy and uncle to stare at Sherlock in shock. The detective still had his eyes on them pensively, somehow managing to navigate through the crowd of people without paying any particular attention to where he was going. "Kidnapping victim?" John spluttered. "Where are you getting that? I mean, sure, the kid's afraid of the man, but - "

"It's how they're walking," Sherlock interrupted. "Or rather, how the man is walking - and how he's looking about from time to time." Sherlock spared John another glance and gestured at the uncle. "He's walking quickly, hurriedly, determined to get where he's going, but he's also holding back a bit - he could be going faster if he chose to be, but he's not. It's because he doesn't want to be noticed. If he goes too quickly, people will notice him, and wonder what precisely he's hurrying to or from."

"He's got the kid with him, and the kid can't go that fast, at least not very well..." John protested.

"Yes, which would only make him more obvious to passers-by," Sherlock said firmly. "He obviously doesn't care about the comfort of the child, and he could make the boy keep up with him if he wanted to go faster, but people would see him hurrying madly, and ignoring the boy struggling at his heels. He'd be notable. People would remember him. And that's precisely what he doesn't want."

"And that makes you think kidnapping," John said incredulously. "If he's kidnapped that boy, then why would he be walking down one of the busiest streets in London in the first place?"

"Because it's one of the busiest streets in London. He can hide in plain sight. So many CCTV cameras, but so many people to obscure him from them. And then look at how he's glancing around him. Look at him, John," Sherlock urged. "He's nervous of the people, he's making sure they're not paying attention to him, making sure they don't recognise him. I've seen that sort of behaviour over and over among criminals. He's trying to use the crowd as cover, but at the same time he's afraid of it. He wants to get where he's going as fast as possible, but he also doesn't want people to remember him, so he's forced to go more slowly. And he keeps the child right next to him, always holding onto him, pulling him closer if people walk by too near. He doesn't want the boy to get away."

With how quickly Sherlock had been walking, they had nearly caught up to the pair, and were now practically parallel to them across the street, providing the best view so far of the suspicious man and child. The man certainly was looking about at the people, and seemed to be nervous of them, and as John watched a group of teenage girls passed, giggling, and almost brushing into the little boy, distracted by their laughter. The uncle hauled the child quickly to one side, nearly bumping into himself in his fervor, while the boy glanced over his shoulder at the group of girls, looking as if he wanted to call out to them but was too afraid. John glanced at the scene, shaking his head, half-convinced by Sherlock's tirade and yet still unwilling to jump suddenly from probable child abuse to kidnapping.

"And then there's the paper," Sherlock added.

Paper? What - oh. Back to the paper again, the first thing that attracted Sherlock's attention to the child. John had nearly forgotten about it with everything else Sherlock had been saying.

"What about the paper?" John asked.

"Why would the boy want it?" Sherlock reiterated. "What possible reason would he have for picking up a torn, dirty piece of paper off the pavement - not to throw away, and likely not to play with if we consider the uncle's probable reaction to that sort of thing. He doesn't like the child, and doesn't want attention drawn to the pair, so he probably wouldn't be pleased at the concept of the boy throwing a paper ball about. Plus, he's not likely to let go of the boy's hand, leaving him with only one hand available to toss and catch. So that brings us back to the idea that the boy planned to write something."

"You think he wanted to write a note asking for help?" John concluded.

Sherlock nodded.

"I think it's a distinct possibility. He wouldn't ask his kidnapper for paper, of course - not only is he too afraid to make any request, something like that would immediately arouse suspicion. I don't know if the boy has a writing utensil, but he might have been able to hide one on him - most schoolchildren have easy access to pencils and the like, and he might have had one when he was taken away. If not, he might be hoping to find one on the pavement like the paper. But you've seen the way he keeps looking at people, wishing they could help him. He's too frightened to simply start shouting for help - I'm sure his uncle was suitably threatening - but he realises that if he could pass along a note, he might be able to alert someone to his plight."

"Didn't his uncle notice him trying to get the paper in the first place?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. He noticed the boy paused, but I don't think he realised why. Probably assumed the boy tripped. He glared at him, moved them faster, and the child didn't have time to grab the paper as they hurried off."

Sherlock stared at the man intently from behind a young couple walking a dog, and the first time John detected a hint of distaste and anger in his manner, beyond the mere analytical side he'd been displaying so far. John watched the man pull the boy past a couple of telephone booths, and boy's eyes lingering on the red structures as they moved past.

"But it's still conjecture," John said slowly, although by now he really was beginning to believe it. "We have to be careful how we act."

"Of course, John," Sherlock agreed. "It's a theory. So come on."

He picked up speed again, this time taking them past the boy and uncle, and taking John by surprise. Surely if Sherlock thought the boy had been kidnapped, he wasn't abandoning the child to his fate?

"Where are we going?" John asked. "You're not just leaving, are you?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Of course not. I'm going to test the theory and find out if it's true. Hurry up. We'll cross at the next light."

To Be Continued

I seem to using chapter titles for the first time... Fun.