The junior consulting detective

Hi everyone, so I've got a new story for you anyone whose a Sherlock fan. This is about my OC, Alex Holmes, the son of Sherlock and Irene Adler. It's set long after the series 2 ending, so currently Sherlock is out of the picture. For now :)

Hope you like!

Chapter 1

Why are the simple-minded beings I have to share this city with so thick? My facial expressions must have clearly told Mrs. Reed that I was determined to leave on time, but no, the simple-minded woman decided she was going to take her time with letting us leave. I suppose it's my fault, if she knew I wanted to do something then she'd use all her power to make sure it didn't happen, just because I pointed out the obvious of her having an affair with the head teacher.

Sorry, never introduced myself, my name is Alex Holmes. That's right, Holmes, the same name as the famous consulting detective who the world loved at first, before turning on him and labeling him a fraud, causing him to take his own life. Some might say that I might be a relative; others might say it's just a coincident, but it's not.

That man, Sherlock Holmes, was my dad. I never knew him; he jumped off the top of St. Bartholomew's hospital just before I was born. Not that he even knew of me; my mother had never told him. I've had my fair share of funny looks off adults who remember the man, reading the papers. Some might have loved him, then turned their back on him, probably why he can't look me in the eye, which isn't a helpful thing as the other boys in my class pick up on it and label me as some sort of freak, one for the looks I receive, two for the fact that I'm probably ten times smarter than them.

As soon as the disgruntled Mrs. Reed finally allows our class to leave, I'm halfway towards the gates before my fellow classmates can reach for their school bags. Nobody thinks this unusual though, all they think in their boring little minds is that the strange Alex Holmes is off again, god knows doing what.

Nobody knows though, and they can't. I always try and leave school as early as possible just so I can get there on time. If I'm late home, people will wonder why. I hail a cab once I'm on the main street. London is thriving as usual, so thankfully nobody pays me much attention as I climb out of the cab and run up the steps to the entrance of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

I'm not allowed here. If Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John knew what I've been doing these last few weeks then I'd be in for it. Instead of the main entrance, I easily manage to head around the back of the building and begin my daily scale to the top of the roof. Once there, I briefly stop and enjoy the cool wind the darkening sky was emitting. I clamber over the last railing and walk the length of the roof until my black rubber school shoes are poking over the edge of the building, the wind running through my dark hair and batting at my tie and blazer.

I remain standing here, where it all happened for exactly five minutes and twenty seconds, to when I open my eyes and look straight down, relieved to see nobody had spotted me. Once someone had and the police came around and caused a whole havoc, luckily nobody suspected me. Below me right now, the narrow opinionated people who dominate the population stride down over the pavement, over the spot where he fell, as if they were blind to that very fact. They all knew, I could tell.

Once exactly six minutes ticked, I jumped from the platform to the sound my shoes crunching beneath the gravel-coated rooftop. I pick up my discarded school bag and run back down the fire escape, to be absorbed by the dense amount of people claiming the street.

XXXXX

As usual, I am on time as I slam the door to the home of my Uncle Mycroft. Judging by the lack of noise, light and traffic in the halls, he was still at work. Again. Clearly one of the housekeepers would be here to make sure I didn't try anymore of my disastrous experiments, but I was grateful for whoever it was not to come rushing towards me. I run through the lengthy grand entrance hall and up the dark oak stairs onto the first floor, then the second and yank open the door to my own room before slamming it shut. I thrown my school bag on my bed and pull my blazer off, kick away my school shoes and loosen my tie.

Any normal nine year old boy would have a large arrangement of toys, cuddly items and loud coloured mind-numbing objects, so whenever anyone new enters my room, they don't believe for it to be the room of nine year old, not with it's shelves of books, the violin and various pieces of equipment scattered across my desk. The faded beige walls only hold a map of the world and a poster of the periodic table. I leap onto my disarrayed bed, the duvet softening the blow as I open my navy rucksack and yank out my homework.

All the questions are fictionally based and so dull that it only takes me five minutes before I become so bored that I trot to my desk, and dump the homework in a beaker of experimental acid. Yeah, Mrs. Reed isn't becoming any fonder of me anytime soon.

For the rest of the early evening, I research all I can about human anatomy and behavior: a new topic I have suddenly become infatuated with. It's nearing seven o'clock when the housekeeper on duty calls me away from my reading for dinner. I pad downstairs in my socks to the dinning room and sit myself at the head of the long table, which is designed for at least eight, but rarely holds more than two if Uncle Mycroft can drag himself away from his work long enough.

I sit in silence as I munch away at a bland plate of leaking lasagna, watching the slow moving hand of the nearest ticking clock, which is situated on the mantle piece of a great fireplace. Once my plate is respectably clean, I leave the plate and glass in the kitchen before charging back upstairs to change. Once my uniform is in the hamper, I changed into my pair of battered trainers, jeans and a grey shirt with the NASA logo, before it was all hidden by my navy duffel coat to protect me against the growing winter chill.

Whenever winter closes in, my curfew is shortened like the limited daytime light, so I really shouldn't be leaving the house, but if I remain trapped any more I'll suffocate. I really want to try out my new knowledge of human behavior, so I walk for ten minutes till I reach the tube station and get the first train to Trafalgar Square.

The most famous place in London is always crawling with tourists, but by this time the Square would be just perfect: Not too many people, but just enough for me to go unnoticed. I arrive at the Square and sit myself on the platform, pull out my hardback jotter and pencil and begin. Many people walk past rather quickly, but when someone went past slow enough for me to study them, I write down a quick description and what I can deduct from their body language, facial expressions and appearance.

I've written roughly seven pages when the last specks of light have been claimed by the darker colours of night. The hustle and bustle of London is still active, with many on a night out, but as the seconds ticked past, more people began to glance at me. I realize it's probably a lot later than I originally intend to stay out. I jump from the platform, bidding the lions' farewell before putting my jotter away, tugging at my duffle coat as I walk down the street back towards the tube.

The walk is a lot longer when time is against you. As I push through the thickening crowds of intoxicated young adults, I notice a stereotypical red phone booth to my right, the unattended phone ringing within its scarlet tower. I turn and glance up towards a high-rise building and see a couple of CCTV camera's pointing directly to me, lenses zooming in. Turning fully around, I look in the distance to the lit up tower of Big Ben and see the 22nd hour of the day has fast approached.

I guess Uncle Mycroft finally decided to drag himself away from his precious government long enough to go home and realized I'm not there. If he is ringing phone booths, he has clearly been searching for me for some time, as my presence isn't noticeable from my usual position on the platform. I know I'm going to be in serious trouble no matter what so maybe I'll postpone to conversation with my now infuriated Uncle. I continue to stare at the ringing phone, knowing too well that Uncle Mycroft is probably watching me through the camera, as he never just lets his lackeys get on with it when I'm concerned.

A young woman (Early thirties, split with her cheating boyfriend and a serious fashion lover at a guess) approached the booth with curiosity, but just as expected, the phone immediately stopped ringing. I take one glance at the puzzled woman before moving on; the back of my neck burning with all the camera's watching me.

Uncle Mycroft has always done what he can to shelter me from the rest of the world, ever since I was mentioned in some tabloid a year after my dad's suicide. I've had a few references in the press (mostly about who my mother could be) but that hasn't happened for at least a year and a half, but Mycroft still likes to shelter me to extreme measures.

I pick up my pace as Big Ben chimes. Uncle Mycroft is going to be worse than ever when I get back home and I don't really feel like facing him just yet, so I take the longest route possible back to the tube station, knowing every step I take is being watched. I pass another two ringing phones but I just ignore them. It's going to make Uncle Mycroft madder but the punishment will be no worse. I can just imagine him yelling at the monitors, telling me to pick up.

I've gotten closer to the station now, but the throng of people has increased and it's making it difficult. I'm probably the only child outside for about five miles so I'm not expected to be here, so it's easy for people to knock into me as I stagger through the streets. A group of highly drunk teenage boys stumble pass and one of them points at me. I don't know if it's because they maybe recognize my dad from the papers and I look like him, or maybe it's because I'm just a child in their eyes, but they all circle around me and push me around whilst drinking heavily from cans.

I can feel my face burning as I struggle in the grip of the drunken boys and know that if Uncle Mycroft is indeed watching this then I'll probably never be allowed to leave the house again. I run as fast as I can, ignoring the jeers and laughter from the group as I rush down the steps to the tube station. I don't stop till I'm sitting on the train seat, breathing heavily, ignoring the strange looks I'm getting.

XXXXX

The front door hand only just clicked shut when Mycroft descended in rage. The man grabbed my wrist and dragged me fiercely through the entrance hall and into the large study just down the hall. I normally love this room with its old features and many leather bound books lining the walls, but right now I fear it. The second the door was shut, Mycroft rounded on me and stared straight into my eyes.

'Do you have any idea what I've been going through Alex? We couldn't find you anywhere, whilst you've been out there trying to be just like your father!' I never asked how Uncle Mycroft got this idea – it's a trait of a Holmes to know the truth upon one look at a person. Mycroft ranted and raved for next good of half an hour.

After it seemed my Uncle had ran out of breath to yell at me, he became the same concerned Uncle as usual and asked if the boys had hurt me in any way. Since the whole thing was on CCTV, he could find those boys and have them arrested within the hour, but all I think I gained is a bruise on my shoulder from one's grip. Mycroft weakly rubs his eyes before hugging my shoulders awkwardly and tell me to go up stairs.

I run the steps two at a time and find the housekeeper had run me a bath, which I sit in for half an hour before toweling dry and pulling on my pajamas. I climb straight into bed and tunnel beneath my duvet and dream, but after two hours, I awaken and desire a glass of water so I move away my smothering duvet and creep across my dark room until I lightly pull my door open, allowing my face to be lightly bathed in the soft glow of the hallway lamp. I walk barefoot downstairs, heading towards the kitchen when I hear Uncle Mycroft's voice drift through the crack beneath the door towards the main sitting area where he sits in an armchair besides the fireplace as he normally reads.

At first I think he is talking to me, but I hear some other voices and believed him to have colleges over, that is until I hear the voice of Uncle John and another who I think is a man named Lestrade who is in the police and an old family friend or something. Mycroft wouldn't be happy if he found me out of bed so I don't announce myself to Uncle John and Lestrade, just listening to the conversation with keen interest, or eavesdropping as others will say.

'I did promise his mother, John, that I'd look after him. She only came out after Sherlock died.' Mycroft was saying. I shift a little closer to the door.

'I know that, Mycroft, but this isn't what we expected either. Once he finds out then…who knows.'

The Lestrade spoke up. 'I just want to know how, I mean, everyone saw it, even you John.'

'I'm not sure myself, but we must think about how Alex would react to this.' Uncle Mycroft said, just from the tone of his voice I can imagine all three men's facial expressions. 'At first nothing then everything all at once. He's just like Sherlock himself – he won't like it and he won't accept it.'

Mycroft sighed and I hear the older man shuffle about the room. I realize that if I stay here much longer I've got a great risk of being found out and getting into more trouble. Just as feet approach the door, I slide back down the carpeted hallway to the marble floored entrance hall and up the great staircase and up to my bedroom on the second floor. I close the door with a silent click and dash over to my bedside table where I flick my lamp on.

I jump over my bed and bend down to retrieve the box. I used to look at the contents all the time, but lately I've filled the void with standing on the roof of St. Bartholomew's. I slide the box across the carpet in front of me and I sit down, back resting against my bedframe and back to the door. I lift the lid off and shuffle through the newspaper articles and odd photographs until I rind the cover page.

The photo was outside the hospital with a body being wheeled away on a stretcher. There was blood on the ground and I could faintly see Uncle John in the background of people. I've stared at this picture so many times that I don't see the image anymore, just the pixels. I re-read the article on the cover before shifting through the entire box contents, every article, every photo, and every note until all the information was once again pressed inside my skull. I don't know when, but I must have drifted off, but somehow ended up in bed. Maybe Mycroft found me, but all I remember is every single word and every single pixel.

What do you think? Worth continuing? Let me know thanks.