I was experimenting with the Homeless Network and this was, one of, the result(s).
I imagine Timmy to be around 15. I admit that's quite young for him to be on the streets alone, but I like to believe that Sherlock and John care for him quite a lot.
As usual, sorry for any mistakes.
Timmy
"Boys!"
Sherlock pulled his attention away from the violin, whose strings he was plucking, at the sound of the landlady's uncharacteristically panicked shout. He looked towards John for a moment as he raised his eyes from his book and met Sherlock's gaze. The detective and doctor stood, discarding their items and making their way to the top of the stairs, looking down to see Mrs. Hudson fussing over a teenager in the doorway.
"Timmy," John breathed, running down the remaining stairs and to the bleeding, homeless youth in the hallway. "What happened?" He questioned, bending a little to examine the boy's injuries the best that he could in the dim lighting.
"He's been attacked." Sherlock informed him, cocking his head slightly, signalling the pair to follow him up to their flat. The boy was slightly unsteady on his feet as John supported him up the stairs, handing him over to Sherlock as he disappeared into the kitchen. "Who did this, Timmy?" Sherlock questioned, as he lowered him onto the sofa, glancing up when John turned with his first aid kit and a dish of water and kitchen roll.
"A gang," Timmy whispered, avoiding eye contact with either adult. Sherlock settled on the sofa, his arm resting on Timmy's shoulders. John knelt on the floor in front of him, tucking his middle and forefingers under his chin and lifting his head so that he could see the injury under his left eye.
"Did you know any of them?" John questioned as he cleaned a wound beside his lip.
"The leader," Timmy confirmed, his gaze trained on Sherlock's skull on the mantelpiece, "Kellie Wilson. She's homeless. About 18."
"Can't say as I've heard of her." John admitted, his eyes flickering towards Sherlock before he returned to cleaning the wound on Timmy's forehead. "Any dizziness, Tim?"
A head shake in the negative.
"Nausea?"
"No." Timmy's voice was uncharacteristically timid.
"What happened, Timmy? What provoked this attack?" The detective questioned, watching as Timmy continued to stare at the skull.
"I don't know." Timmy shrugged, "I just walked past them."
"A case of wrong place, wrong time?" John suggested, glancing at the detective as he tore off another piece of kitchen roll and submerged it in the water.
"It certainly appears that way, yes. Timmy, are you positive that you didn't do anything to provoke them?" Sherlock inquired.
"I'm positive." Timmy confirmed.
"And you didn't do anything in response?" John questioned, wiping away some blood from his chin.
"I waited until they'd gone. Then I came here." Timmy winced as John gently pressed the tender area beside his nose.
"I'll have Mycroft check the CCTV footage of the area." He said to John. "Meanwhile, I'll go and move some things from my bedroom and make it a little more habitable for you, Timmy."
"For me?" Timmy questioned, furrowing his brow, an expression that evoked pain from the angry bruise on his forehead.
"Yes." Sherlock affirmed. "Not something I'd usually do, I admit. But you're in no fit state to be out in the streets tonight. You can sleep in my bed."
"What about you?" Timmy questioned, quickly glancing towards the detective before returning his eyes to the skull.
"I'll stay in here."
"He probably won't sleep anyway and if he does, he'll be comfortable enough on the sofa." John checked the dressing he'd placed over the injury on the youth's head. "I'll go and run you a bath and I'm sure that I can find some spare clothes of mine you can wear while I clean these up for you." John explained, gesturing to the clothing Timmy was wearing, his tattered clothes were now stained with his blood and there was no way John would allow him to continue wearing them until they had been washed.
As always, feedback is welcome and I'd love to hear what you think.
Thank you for reading.
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