Note: My Mary Morstan is based upon ACD's books and is not related to BBC Mary. Accordingly, she is eight years younger than Sherlock, twelve years younger than John, and the daughter of an army captain stationed in India. Her mother died in 1987. This story takes place in 1989, when Sherlock is 14 years old.

000

She was the one bright spot in an otherwise dismally disappointing day.

He had been wandering about the streets of Westminster, trying his best not to return to school until it was absolutely necessary to prevent his parents finding out he'd absconded. He loved London—the energy and activity of this crossroads of the world were invigorating. But the people were so . . . boring. He was about to give in and head for the train station when he spotted the shining blond head. He watched her progress down Edgware Road with growing interest as she easily deceived every single adult on the street. He smiled.

"Five—no, six years old, but deceptively small for her age—and yet she's cleverer than this lot," Sherlock mused. It always pleased him to come across a native intelligence to match his own. In the fourteen years of his existence, this had been a rare occurrence.

One would think that the sight of a small child alone on the streets of a great city would attract attention and be a cause for concern. However, this particular child was cleverly positioning herself just behind a convenient adult as she made her way along, fooling everyone who might notice her into believing she was accompanied by a responsible person. But as Sherlock watched, she changed "escorts" as frequently as she needed to, when the person she was following turned off in a direction she didn't want to go. Fascinated, Sherlock crossed the busy street to get a closer look. As he did so, her current choice of "parent or guardian" paused before a market to chat with the proprietor, and the little urchin, lingering as if waiting for her mother, swiftly swiped an apple, which disappeared into her pocket. She then wandered off after another woman who was passing by, matching her steps to the stranger's as if she had been trotting behind this person for all of her short life. Sherlock, quite impressed and very curious, followed the halo of blond hair at a discreet distance.

This was just what he needed as an antidote to his frustrating day. In a fit of civic duty, he had played truant from school and had helpfully come to Scotland Yard to point out to them some vital information they had overlooked in the tragic death of young Carl Powers, a competitive swimmer who had drowned earlier that week. Sherlock had been quite specific in pointing out their oversights. But did anyone care? Did anyone even try to understand? Of course not. In their eyes, he was just a kid with a bee in his bonnet, trying to get attention for himself. The one policeman—the one with the French-sounding name-who even bothered to actually listen to Sherlock was a lowly Detective Sergeant; and he had unfortunately only just returned from an extended family leave and so was not assigned to any particular division at the moment. The man had tried to get Sherlock heard by his superiors, but it was too late; Sherlock had already by that point alienated everyone else at the Yard.

He pulled the card this policeman had given him out of his pocket. Lestrade, yes that was the name. "Next time you have anything to bring to the attention of the police, come to me first," Lestrade had kindly advised. "I'm afraid it's just not enough to be right. You have to present things in a certain way if you want to be heard. I can help you with that." Sherlock had scowled but had taken the man's card. Lestrade had seen him-really seen him- for his potential and for his worth, and that was more than most people did. Most people just told Sherlock to "piss off"—as all of Scotland Yard had done today.

It was enough to put him off the entire human race. But now here was this interesting, golden-haired child, striding down the street as if she owned it all, boldly biting her stolen apple, easily outsmarting everyone in sight. It was heartening. It gave him some hope for the future of humanity.

Sherlock trailed behind her as she came to the entrance to Speakers' Corner and darted into Hyde Park. Throwing herself down beneath a tree, she pulled her knees up against her chest and made herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Of course! The child might be clever, but she was still a child, and a tiny one at that. All this trotting along at the speed of every passing adult must have been exhausting to the short-legged girl. Sherlock surmised she must also be thirsty. Approaching the urchin with the caution one uses when approaching a wild animal, he pulled a bottle of water from his rucksack and held it out as an offering.

Looking at him from behind the wild mane of ash-blond hair was the bluest and most ferocious pair of eyes he had ever seen. The determined set of her mouth and the stubborn tilt of her chin marked her as someone not to be trifled with. Sherlock was delighted. He crouched down to be closer to her eye-level, still offering the bottle. She looked down at it warily.

"I see you've not been in this country long," he began without preamble. "A week, perhaps? No, five days! You've lived in India, haven't you, most of your life? Your mother's been dead for a year—no make that two years. Your father is army intelligence-high rank, perhaps a captain? He sent you here to stay with relatives. You don't like them. Are they abusing you, or do you just object to western-style civilization as a general rule?"

As he spoke, she stared at him with ever-widening eyes, straightening her back and tensing her legs as if to spring. He was reminded of a lion—all wild mane and intelligent, piercing gaze, poised for an attack. "Do you know my father?" she ventured at last when he had run out of deductions.

"No. But I've been watching you for some time, and have drawn some conclusions from my observations of your appearance and behaviour."

She looked him over frankly, pursing her lips. "That's creepy," she told him at last.

He considered that for a moment. "Fair enough," he conceded. "But you needn't be afraid of me. I don't mean you any harm."

This earned him a scornful look. "I'm not afraid of anybody," this young lioness declared stoutly. He sincerely believed her.

"I just meant, it's safe to drink the water. You may observe that the seal hasn't been broken," he assured her, offering the bottle again.

She reached out and snatched the bottle from him and twisted off the lid. "Thanks," she said, and drank deeply, obviously very thirsty.

"So, was I right? You're staying in England with relatives?" Sherlock pursued.

Some of the ferocity left her eyes as she looked at him, apparently deeming him trustworthy. "Yeah," she nodded. "My dad's cousin and her family."

"Do they hurt you?" he asked softly, trying to determine her reason for exchanging an apparently comfortable, upper-middle-class home for the harsh streets of an unforgiving city.

She sighed and shook her head. "They don't hit me or anything. They just got so many rules. No climbing. No running. No sliding down the bannisters. Can't go anywhere but school and home. It's so boring."

He nodded solemnly. He could certainly relate. But at this child's age, he had been living in the country and had had a great deal of freedom and many things to explore and investigate. What sort of outlet did London living offer such an inquisitive young mind? Many, of course, but all required adult supervision. How tediously frustrating for a free-spirited six-year-old.

"You're used to having the run of whatever army base you lived on. Everyone would know you were the captain's daughter and look out for your safety. Here, no one knows you and you have no such freedom," Sherlock said understandingly. "I would feel the same in your place."

Hesitantly, she moved closer to him. "How'd you know all that stuff? About my mum and dad and India and all?"

He smiled. "Your clothes. Your tan. The way you hold yourself. Your longing look into the Indian restaurant you passed earlier."

She smiled back, dimples deepening. "You're different. You're . . . ." She struggled for the word.

"Brilliant? Fascinating? Amazing?" Sherlock suggested.

"Not boring," she concluded, giggling.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, understanding the compliment. And then he added without any sense of irony, "You should know, however, that not everyone you meet in this city will be as . . . kind . . . as I am."

The urchin raised her eyebrows. "What d'ya mean?"

Sherlock sighed. How to put this delicately? She was highly intelligent for her age, but she was, after all, only six years old. "Let us just say that, for your own benefit, I recommend that you return to your cousin's house before nightfall."

Drawing back, the girl scowled at him. He was losing her confidence now. "I don't need them. I don't need anybody!" she informed him sternly, waving a tiny right index finger in his face, fierce blue eyes blazing. "You go away! I don't need you, either!"

He backed off cautiously, holding up his hands. "Oh, I believe you! I can well picture you successfully foraging for food and finding ingenious places to sleep rough. But you must admit, most people here are far larger and stronger than you are; and no one here knows or cares who your father is. On the army bases, everyone looked out for you because of your parents. Here, you have no such protection."

She frowned but appeared to be considering his words carefully. "This is a big place," she conceded. "Could I go live on a military base?"

He shook his head. "The nearest one is a long way from here. You'd need money for a train. And once you arrived, they'd only send you back to your cousin's. You should consider that the adults in this country will be concerned with keeping you wherever your father sends you."

She looked sceptically at him, pondering. "You're larger than me, and you're not trying to hurt me," she observed.

This was a poser. He had no desire to squelch her natural self-confidence. And yet, she was in very real danger as long as she remained alone on the streets. He considered his answer carefully, but finally decided she deserved the truth, ugly though it was. It seemed to him that tender lies meant to avoid offending her childish sensibilities would be even uglier in the end.

"As I said, not everyone is as kind as I am. There are people in this city, unfortunately, who would hurt you without giving it a second thought. There are some who would sell you as a sex slave, and others who would use you for their own dubious pleasure. There are many criminals in this cold world who would think nothing of harming a child, I'm afraid."

She looked down at her hands, deep in thought. "I don't remember how to get back," she admitted at last. "I don't remember the address."

He smiled in relief. "That's all right. I have a . . . a friend who is a policeman. I'll take you to him, and he can help you get home safely. He can explain things to your cousin, so perhaps you won't get into too much trouble for running away," he added.

Taking her in a taxi back to Scotland Yard nearly wiped out his reserve of cash, but he felt it was worth it. There was something about this little girl—he could see potential in her, and he used the time he had with her to teach her the game of deductions in hopes that her natural cleverness would grow with practice. Lestrade gladly took charge of the child, and Sherlock used the credit card he'd stolen from Mycroft to get more cash from the nearest ATM. His brother wouldn't mind funding his train ride back to school, he was sure.

Mycroft. It was his brother who had taught him the important maxim: "caring is not an advantage." Yes, it would be tempting to try to keep tabs on that so very interesting child, to see what she became. But Sherlock had not even learned her name, and so it was quite easy to delete her from his mind palace. He did not need to clutter his brain with sentiments about lost children.

And so, when he met Mary Morstan again, twenty years later, he did not know he was not meeting her for the first time.