Sherlock hit the landing in front of apartment 221B with a sigh of relief, drawing a heavy hand over his brow. An hour at Scotland Yard, dealing with Anderson's snark while Sherlock tried valiantly to rein in his frustration and just get his hands on the toxicology report and the subsequent lecture from Detective Inspector Lestrade when Sherlock flung accusations of Anderson's affair with Donovan and the reedy underling in the lab with him, within earshot of half of the department.
It hadn't been a very fun afternoon.
In his hands were the case notes that he needed, though, to solve the cold case he was working on for Lestrade. They had an unspoken deal that Sherlock would solve the cold cases in exchange for total access to crime scenes. It made Lestrade feel better about bringing on a 'Consulting Detective' while curbing Sherlock's boredom.
He snapped the flat door firmly behind him, sweeping the scarf and coat off in habitual blindness, focusing instead on the state of the flat. John was in the kitchen, by the sounds of spoons and cups clinking, making tea. Sherlock breathed through his nose, catching the smell of chicken in the oven—strange, that was a bit much for dinner, it wasn't as if it were a holiday, and no one was coming over. There was another stench in the room, older, stirred only by the gust of the opening door.
Soup, Sherlock thought, toeing off his shoes. How odd, is John star—
A slurp sounded behind him.
Sherlock froze, listening. A gulp, the sound of scratchy linen and a tell-tale sniff half a second later. Common cold, cheap, old terrycloth, worn—so, not well off. A spoon clinked against china, followed by another, quieter slurp. Self-conscious, wary, but comfortable. Sherlock expanded his senses to the rest of the flat, putting two and two together.
Still, when he turned around and saw a ragged, dirty little teenager on his couch, he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose.
"John," Sherlock called out, stopping all movement in the kitchen. The boy on the couch froze, shoulders hunching over the bowl. Sherlock stared at the figure, but it didn't turn around.
John was at the doorway in a flash, rubbing his hands on a dishtowel. "Hello Sherlock," he replied evenly, catching his flat-mate's gaze. Sherlock's face contorted into a rough estimation of John what have you done to my couch can you not see that there it flea-ridden blanket on it I hope you realize the full extent of your actions here.
John nodded, his face not as defensive now that Sherlock had decided to express himself quietly. They had worked out a way around Sherlock's frightening ability to make himself a walking target in under five seconds by first resorting to body language, and then words. Normally, things worked out better for them both that way.
Sherlock walked around the couch, flicking his eyes over the figure a few times but turning into the kitchen just as the boy looked up. It was enough.
Dirty, haggard, extremely underweight, torn gloves with cuticles raw and pink. He's come close to frost bite before but learned to save fingers under hot water. Older than I first thought, fifteen, sixteen probably. Looks old enough to be passed off as an adult in some circumstances, but cut his hair back recently and looks his own age. Shoes are old, two sizes too big, not that it matters he's wearing three pairs of socks for warmth, which means he's stealing because at the homeless shelters he would've been given shoes.
Homeless.
Sherlock caught John's eyes head-on, holding on to the back of a chair and glaring at him accusingly. John broke the gaze and checked the chicken. Sherlock's nose twitched at the smell.
"Well now doesn't Doctor Watson—"
"Don't you even want to know his name—"
"has a new pet project to keep his heart—"
"which is ironic, by the way, I thought you'd enjoy—"
"at bay from shredding itself when you walk by all the other ones—"
"making terrible fun of how I just had the biggest soft spot for these things—"
"don't you know rescuing one attracts all the others?"
"but Sherlock, this is different."
Sherlock and John broke off, the former rubbing a hand through his curly hair, the latter planting his hands on the table. Both looked up at the same moment when the floor creaked. The teen framed the doorway, his plaid button-down hanging off his arms, making him look both large and miniscule at the same time.
"I can go, then," the boy shrugged, which was almost lost beneath his clothing. "Thanks for the soup, John."
"No, Hamish," John gestured dismissively at Sherlock, "we weren't talking about you." The boy, Hamish of all things, raised an incredulous eyebrow. His jaw ticked in resentment.
"Don't lie to him, John," Sherlock piped up suddenly, turning to switch on the kettle to make his own tea. He could feel John's eyes burning into his shoulder. "We were talking about you."
The room filled with an awkward silence. John cleared his throat, "Yes, we were, Hamish, but it's no problem having you and, as your Doctor, I'm asking you to stay."
"Don't want to cause trouble in paradise." The boy's lackluster response made Sherlock's lips twitch, he could practically hear John bristle at the statement.
"We're not-"
"Hamish, you'll find there's always a spot of trouble around here. Really, you are the least of it."
John fell silent, flabbergasted. Sherlock turned around, tea in hand, and sipped innocently, watching both John and Hamish between seconds. The boy had fixed a steely gaze at the ground, jaw forward and stiff. Waiting to be sent out, Sherlock thought, feeling a twinge of empathy. Back into the cold. As oblivious as John might make him out to be, Sherlock was quite aware how bitter the winter was, how near to Christmas, and how harsh London law was on the homeless juvenile.
"I don't know what you were thinking John," Sherlock drawled, downing the last of the tea and picking up the discarded case files. He waved them in his flat-mate's direction. "I never eat on a case! Good luck devouring that entire beast you stuck in our oven, because I won't be helping."
With that he swept across the flat to do some research on the night Mosely Truant supposedly committed suicide inside his home, with the help of a discarded, loaded gun and a bottle of bleach.
There was some slight murmuring from the other room, but Sherlock was lost in the case, and for the next few hours was blind to it all.
At ten o'clock that night, he did some back-tracking, shuffled through the Yard's files on wanted criminals, and came up with the murderer. He texted Lestrade, emailed him the evidence, and sat back to take a well-deserved break. Solving cold cases left him feeling the warm and fuzzy let-down from the usual adrenaline high he finished active cases with, making for what John referred to as, "Sherlock silence," in other words, hours of peace from the Detective.
He stretched in the hard chair, cracking his back and feeling his suit pull against his shoulders uncomfortably. Rolling an arm back, he stood and surveyed the living room. John was reading in the arm-chair, lamplight all that was left to illuminate the flat. Hamish was sitting upright on the couch, trying very hard not to fall asleep.
He was dressed in some of John's old pajamas, his hair damp and skin clean, so at some point in his comatose state the boy had made it into their joint shower. Sherlock shook his head slightly, heading to his bedroom to change. He wasn't even close to tired yet, and his hands itched to play the violin, but sadly the instrument was down at a shop, getting a peg replaced because it kept slipping. He snatched a book instead, decided to mimic John, and headed out in his robe to sprawl until sleep claimed him.
He took the opposite end of the couch, ignoring Hamish's sidelong glance. A part of Sherlock dearly wanted to ask John the ins and outs of why this homeless teen was gracing their living room with his unremarkable display of stubbornness, but he thought maybe it would be impolite to disturb the peace with that kind of questioning. No doubt John wouldn't even deem him with a reply unless Hamish was in another room.
Sherlock opened the novel and started reading, losing himself in fantasy. He was usually a pretty picky reader, no mystery novels graced his bookshelves, or many classics. He's bitten his way through the masters like all of the other school boys, but that didn't mean he had to like it. That said, he usually spent hours in bookshops, hunting for just the right novel to bring home.
This was a good pick, suggested to him by a girl he had interviewed for a case awhile back, who had said he reminded her of one of its characters. He was about a quarter of the way in when a small snore attracted his attention.
John's book was placed to the side immediately. They both watched Hamish's chest rise and fall, his head tipped at a severely awkward angle. He had fallen asleep sitting up. Sherlock took the chance to observe him as he would a dead body. He scooted a bit closer and carefully began to analyze the boy's face as he slept, deducing more of his past.
Facial structure symmetrical and cohesive—indicating attractive parents, probably middle class. Earlobe is pierced, but the ring was ripped out in a fight a year and a half ago, just on the streets then. Nose has been broken once, when he was young, eight or nine. Facial scarring suggests cuts from a ring, the same one, large, a man's class ring. American father, probably. The ring must be too big and gaudy to possibly be English.
"He's been at the corner by the surgery for a long time," John whispered. Sherlock nodded to show he was listening and moved the collar of the shirt to take a look at the kid's bone structure. Broken twice, he cataloged.
"He never asked for much, mostly because I just gave him whatever change I had, sometimes if I saw him, I'd get him lunch as well. I always wondered why someone hadn't come along to take him away."
"He's good at hiding," Sherlock answered.
"How do you know that?"
"Obvious."
John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face even as he smiled fondly, "I bound up his hand a while back. Said he got in a fist-fight. It looked like more than that, but I didn't say anything, and since then he's been friendlier with me. Well. As friendly as he can manage to be."
"Why did you bring him home, John?" Sherlock sat back, finished with his deduction. He draped one arm over the back of the sofa and propped his feet up on the table. John crossed his arms, face softening to his typical John's feeling sentimental look.
"He was alone on the corner this morning."
The Doctor paused, long enough to attract the full-extent of Sherlock's dark stare. "Is that unusual?"
"He'd been gone for about a week," John shrugged, "just disappeared. I thought he went home, or got taken in. But then this afternoon, I got off work, and he was there, out in the sleet, in nothing but what you saw him in before. I thought he was going to freeze to death, and apparently he did too, because he came to me asking to use the sink inside to warm his fingers up. He thought he was getting frostbite."
"So you took him home."
"Yes," John got defensive. "What else should I have done, Sherlock?"
The detective sighed and leaned his head back. "Where is he from?"
"I didn't ask." John rested his chin on his hand. "He told me he was orphaned though. He volunteered quite a bit of information. Apparently he used to go to a boarding school, but when his parents...left him, he's been stranded in London, trying to find work."
"Difficult for an uneducated homeless boy," Sherlock mused.
"Yes, well, he's actually pretty smart. Hasn't been on his own for longer than a year or two, I think."
The flat fell silent, disturbed only by Hamish's quiet snores. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, thinking about what it was like for a young teen on the streets of London. What would he have to do when he didn't have a job? Most of the homeless network Sherlock knew were clustered in protective groups, but it didn't sound like Hamish was with one of those.
The facts were obvious. Prostitution, drug trafficking, gang affiliation were about the only three things to keep a teen alive in London. Of the three, Sherlock found the first to be the most likely, given his facial features and demeanor, but Sherlock found he didn't want to believe the facts, for once. Not this quiet, solemn teen in his flat. Not a boy named Hamish.
The teen mumbled in his sleep, rolling his shoulders and losing all traction he had on the couch, sliding down directly onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock's eyes snapped wide, staring at the dark-haired teen leaning against his shoulder. Hamish's skin felt hot, his breath sounded wet and labored coming out from his mouth. Chest cold, Sherlock thought absently.
John was up and in front of them momentarily. Sherlock turned his wide gaze upon the Doctor, silently thanking that he had come to rescue Sherlock from this indignity.
"Well don't just leave him like that Sherlock," John hissed, placing a pillow on Sherlock's lap and swiftly moving Hamish's head to it.
"What—John!" Sherlock whispered fervently, watching with horror as John draped a blanket over their sleeping guest. "John, what are you doing!"
"I'm helping him sleep," John hissed back, turning his blue eyes on Sherlock in a way that said the detective had no choice in the matter. "You'll be up late, yeah? Just...don't wake him when you go to bed."
"What—but, John! John, I sleep on the couch."
John stood, lips twitching in amusement, "Then you better move him to your bed. Just. Don't. Wake. Him."
John and Sherlock glared at each other for a moment, before the detective sighed in defeat. He picked his book back up, "Turn the light on, would you?"
The Doctor flicked the lamp beside the couch and then went to turn his off. "Well, I'm turning in. Behave, Sherlock."
The detective waved a hand, "It's as if you believe me to be a savage. I'll let him alone."
John hummed, not convinced, and went upstairs. Sherlock sighed heavily in the incurring silence, wondering how he had gotten to this stage of what he was sure Mycroft would call "whipped" in just three years of living with John Watson, that he was letting a little homeless boy with John's middle name sleep in his lap.
No wonder they think we're a couple, Sherlock thought as he vainly tried to refocus on the book. We're practically adopting.
Late in the night, when the book was picking up and Hamish stirred in his sleep, fighting off bad memories, Sherlock laid long fingers in his hair and gently soothed the monsters away. Hamish wouldn't know, and Sherlock would never admit it, but he kept his hand there for some time through the night. It was perhaps the first moment that solidified Hamish as a fixture in 221B's life. It was not the last time they would end up like that.
A.N- So I've been feeling parentlock-y recently, so I finally wrote something. It was intended to be a Christmas-y one-shot, but now it looks like it will be a multi-chapter fic. I don't know when I'll next update. If you like it, you should tune in and tell me, it incites me to write for you.
Sherlock belongs to BBC, not me.