"Please tell us about your case, Mr Harvey."
The elderly man was poised to begin, but faltered, eyes darting quizzically between the pair sitting on sofa chairs either side of him. Mr Harvey's gaze finally returned to the infamous detective – the one whose reputation definitely preceded him – and cocked a grey eyebrow in disbelief.
"I heard your methods were a bit strange, Mr Holmes," Mr Harvey said, his weary, wrinkled mouth twitching upwards as he glanced at the tiny figure on the other chair, poised and eager to hear his tale. The old man let out a gruff laugh. "But this certainly is... bizarre."
"I'm not bizarre," the little voice peeped up, her scowl indignant. "I'm good at being a detective," she claimed proudly, but her pretty blue-green eyes sought the reassurance of the world's only consulting detective, better known to her as 'Daddy.'
"Of course you are, angel," Sherlock complimented, smiling at her softly. The detective shot his potential client a dark look, as if any doubt of his child's ability were a crime. "It's in your blood," he added, looking a tad smug.
Bolstered by her father's words, she turned back to Mr Harvey and repeated, "Please tell us about your case," she said politely, readying herself for him to begin his story. Olivia Hooper-Holmes – as she'd confidently introduced herself earlier, offering out her tiny hand to shake – formed an expression of steel concentration, her purple heart-patterned pencil prepped to scrawl on her pink kitten notebook.
"All right," Mr Harvey began, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit, retrieving his wallet. "You see, my late wife, Sylvia, loved jewellery. But she had this matching set of earrings and necklace. An old family heirloom. Worth a pretty penny," he informed the listening pair, rifling through various cards in his wallet to find an old dog eared photograph and handed it over to Sherlock. Mr Harvey smiled fondly at the picture in Sherlock's hands. "Wore them all the time."
"And this jewellery has recently been stolen," Sherlock deduced, giving the photograph back to Mr Harvey. The detective's eyes darted back to his daughter, watching as her small white teeth gnawed at her lip as she tried to quickly jot down Mr Harvey's story, her intense focus greatly reminding him of her mother's expression as she writes her autopsy notes.
"Yes," Mr Harvey confirmed, slipping his wallet back into his pocket. "I kept them in a safe in my office. When I checked this morning, they were gone."
Upon the man's confirmation, Sherlock's eyes fell on his tiny daughter. "Olivia?" he prompted, a question hidden in his gaze.
The child twirled an auburn curl in her finger, her face pinched in thought. "A three?" she offered, sounding hopeful.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He grinned widely.
"I can help?!" Olivia asked excitedly. Though Mr Harvey wasn't, the pair in front of him were well educated on Molly Hooper Holmes' rules – no cases over 5's for their tiny daughter – and no exceptions were to be made. A whole week sleeping on their couch had undeniably ingrained that into Sherlock's mind.
Sherlock nodded, immensely pleased to see his youngest's enthusiasm for the art of deduction. He tried and failed – much to Molly's amusement – to instil this interest in all their children. One out of three wasn't so bad. His sons had other passions and that was more than okay.
Drawing his eyes back to Mr Harvey, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You have an idea who the perpetrator is." Not a question, a statement.
Mr Harvey's lips compressed into a thin line. "How –"
"How did I know that?" Sherlock finished the man's query and sighed. "Well, either you believe the Metropolitan police to be incompetent and unable to help you..." Sherlock trailed off as his daughter fired a glare at him – disgruntled at his derogatory words towards her Uncle Greg and her beloved Sally Donovan – and Sherlock made the wise decision to backtrack. "Or you know who the culprit is, but you want to deal with it yourself, rather than get the authorities involved."
"Yes, that's right," he said honestly, his speech stalling, his sad brown eyes dropping to the floor. When looking up, he found the strength to continue from the patient, kind gaze of the pint-sized seven year old. Sherlock's steely eyes indicated from him to go on. "I have four children, Mr Holmes. Three girls. When my Sylvia passed – they began to argue – about what to do with a lot of her belongings, but the necklace and earrings especially. To end their silly fighting, I told them I auctioned them off for their mother's favourite charity. They were furious... but it put an end the arguments. I had kept the jewellery hidden away in my office, thinking they would be safe there...but one of them must have figured out I'd lied."
"We'll need to organise a meeting with them all, Mr Harvey," Sherlock told him. "Perhaps invite them to your office today and then we can discern which one of your children is a thief," he said, his words earning him another reproachful look from his daughter that was so akin to her mother it was terrifying. "Possibly a thief," he corrected, lips twitching apologetically.
The deep, sad lines of their client's face did not fade. Olivia hopped off the couch from her perched position, her black and pink polka dot socks coming into Mr Harvey's view just before she laid her little hand on his. "It'll be okay," she said gently, imitating her own mother's method of making her feel better. Well, normally that would accompanied by a tight hug, but Olivia could hardly embrace a complete stranger, as her mother had also taught her about the importance of personal space.
"Thank you, dear," Mr Harvey said appreciatively, patting the child's hand, smiling at her when she returned to her chair to display her efforts had been partially successful.
"Right then," Sherlock said, springing from his chair. "Call the meeting for later this afternoon. Olivia and I will be along to the office shortly so we can examine the crime-scene before they arrive," the consulting detective instructed.
Mr Harvey was a silent for a moment, stunned by this whole baffling experience.
Even the room around him was a perculiar personifaction of Sherlock Holmes himself- a union of the bizarre and the normality of family life. The mantelpiece held several picture frames, all happy, smiling faces, but a skull sat proudly in the middle, a yellow smiley face drawn on its frontal bone in what looked suspiciously like crayon. The unusual stag head that decorated the wall to the right of Mr Harvey had a Tottenham scarf hung from its antlers. Sat at the left of Sherlock's leather chair laid a vintage violin case, which two plastic swords lay atop of. A knitting basket rested on the coffee table, hiding an array of juggling balls in a sea of wool.
The vibrancy of life and family and glorious fun was so evident in this room.
"Mr Harvey," Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The detective's brow furrowed. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," Mr Harvey rushed to assure. He rose from his wooden seat. "I'll phone them immediately and organise the meeting. Thank you, Mr Holmes, for agreeing to help me," he said, shaking the dark haired man's hand in gratitude. Bending down as far as his stiff knees would allow him, he offered his hand out to the other 'detective' that was on his case. "And thank you to you too, Olivia Hooper Holmes," Mr Harvey said affectionately, evoking a shy smile from the girl as she accepted his handshake.
"You're welcome," she said, her adorable nose scrunching.
"You'll need the address of my office before I go," Mr Harvey realised, reaching back into his pocket to get his wallet again.
"No need. You've already told us."
Mr Harvey couldn't resist the impulse to ask, "How?"
"When you were searching for the picture of your wife, you pulled out several cards. One of which was a loyalty card for specialised coffee house. Most go to coffee shops near their work. This particular coffee chain only has two shops in Central London, therefore – "
"You also pulled out your business card with the loyalty card," Olivia interrupted, her voice a shade louder than it had been previously. "It has your office address on it," the seven year old stated, smirking at her father.
"Well, I suppose that would be a quicker way," Sherlock said, his tone tinged with the loss of the opportunity to show off his deductive skills. Pride soon overwhelmed his grouchiness. "Good spot," he praised, his blue eyes full of undisguised adoration. "Go get ready, angel. We've got a case to solve."
Olivia's smile grew larger at her father's accolade. "Okay!" she said brightly, dashing off upstairs, her reddish curls bouncing.
"Unbelievable," Mr Harvey breathed out.
"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice filled with fatherly pride. His expression was softened by the adornment of a smile of a man who could hardly believe his own luck; to be landed with a life so full, so rich, so bright. His family - Molly and their children- would always be his great achievement and the source of all wonder in his blessed existence. The little girl upstairs - packing her bag with all the essentials that a London detective could possibly need – was his devoted apprentice, his angel, his mini partner in solving crime.