I really shouldn't be writing this when I have other work-in-progress fics to finish. But then again, I have been pretty stressed recently, and I really like this idea that I thought of, so here it is.

Warnings(?): Kid-John, kid-Harriet, adult-Sherlock, adult-Lestrade, etc. No pairings. Child abuse, cursing, murder. You know, the usual.

John first saw the tall, curly-haired man in the dark trench-coat when the man was speaking to Joan McGregor, a homeless woman who liked to give Harry and John sweets when she had them. John had wondered at the time why such a rich-looking man would talk to Joan. He ended up following the Coat Man around all day.

John was a quiet, tiny seven year old boy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and bruises in places you couldn't see. He always wore rain boots, a pair of dirty shorts, a t-shirt, and a jacket with various holes in it. He was a naturally curious child, and he developed a fascination with the way the Coat Man did things. The Coat Man was normally silent and alone, but when he got excited about something, he talked faster than normal people. John learned his name (what an important sounding name, too! Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock) when the Coat Man talked with the Silver-Haired Man about a "triple homicide," whatever that meant. Sherlock was thrilled about it, but Silver-Haired Man just put his head in his hands and groaned when Sherlock mentioned it. John watched from afar as Sherlock started speed talking. Silver-Haired Man whistled in astonishment when Sherlock was done.

"You've been really thorough," he said.

"Of course I have." Sherlock smirked. "Now, you'd better go arrest your killer!" And he pivoted on one foot and strode away in the opposite direction, coat swooshing dramatically behind him.

The real clincher, though, was when John was looking in rubbish bins behind a McDonald's for food (it was his turn that day, Harry looked the day before) and looked up when a pudgy man ran by, and, moments later, Sherlock was running right after him! John left the rubbish bins behind and ran as quietly as he could, a fair distance behind them, wanting to see what would happen. The Pudgy Man, who was holding something dark (a gun?) bumped into a woman on the sidewalk and tumbled backwards. Sherlock caught him by the shoulders, spun him around, and punched him in the face. The Pudgy Man toppled backward onto the pavement with a loud "thunk," and Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and phoned somebody, saying, "He's all yours, Lestrade, I've got him unconscious in front of my flat." The police came shortly afterwards (John made sure to hide extra carefully, Father said that if he ran away from home the coppers would bring him back, and John hadn't run away, it just might seem like it since he wasn't at home like a good boy) and arrested the Pudgy Man. Silver-Haired Man clapped Sherlock on the back, saying "well done," and John immediately began to semi-consciously worship Sherlock.

John followed Sherlock everywhere when Harry or Father didn't make him stay at home. He had memorized the route from his flat to Sherlock's flat in a week, and he knew the signs for when Sherlock was zoning out because he was thinking hard about something. John liked to think of it as a brave knight retreating to his palace to check facts on the dragon before going out to slay it. John could tell when Sherlock was lonely or happy or angry, and John knew what Sherlock ordered at a place called Angelo's every time he went there.

John told Harry about Sherlock once. Harry was John's older sister, a tough, ten year old girl with straight, shoulderlength sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. She took care of John when she could, but she wasn't always home, and she was small for her age.

"There's a tall man with curly, dark hair who solves mysteries, Harry," John murmured excitedly in the small room the two of them shared. "His name is Sherlock. He's very pretty, and he works with the Silver-Haired Man and the police."

Harry clicked her tongue, a flicker of fear crossing her face briefly. "You shouldn't go near the coppers so much, John. Father would get upset."

"Father doesn't know," John replied in a quieter voice than before, but he didn't mention the police again.

After a few moments more of tense waiting (when was Father coming home? Was he coming home at all?), Harriet said, "Tell me a story, John."

John smiled and snuggled up to her. She wrapped her arms around his small, malnourished frame. Harry tried her best to protect him, and John would tell a story. John told stories when one cleaned the other's cuts and bruises in the cramped bathroom, and John told stories when one had a nightmare and woke the other up. He was rather good at it. At least, he and Harry thought so.

"Once upon a time," John began, "there was a knight named Sir Sherlock. He was the bravest, smartest, greatest knight in all the land. King Silver often sent Sir Sherlock on quests to slay dragons. One day, Sir Sherlock was ordered to go slay the Bad Yellow Dragon that kept a prince and a princess in a tower. Sir Sherlock put on his blue cloak and rode off immediately. The princess, who was very smart, fashioned a rope out of bedsheets and started climbing down the tower wall with it. Her brother, the prince, was right behind her. As Sir Sherlock rode up, the dragon noticed that they were escaping, and he tried to swipe at the children with his long claws..." John stopped whispering when he noticed that Harry had nodded off to sleep. He finished the story in his head.

Sir Sherlock slayed the dragon, rescued the children, and brought them back to the palace to live happily ever after.

"The end," John whispered, and then the sound of a slammed door startled him and jolted Harriet awake.

Father was home.

The siblings sat in terrified silence, listening to the heavy footsteps of their parent clomping around. Was he drunk? No, not tonight. He'd be stumbling more and yelling already if he was drunk. They heard him sit down in a chair heavily and sigh. Bad day at work, then?

Not good. Not good at all.

"Johnny!" He yelled suddenly. "Get over here."

Harry grabbed his arm as he stood up. "Don't," she whispered fearfully. "I'll go."

"No," he whispered back, "it's okay. He probably just wants a drink."

After a moment, Harry let him go, looking sad and afraid.

"I said get over here!" Father yelled again, and John hurried out of the bedroom and to the kitchen.

"Yes, sir?" He said in a quavery voice. Father, sitting in the Squeaky-Leg Chair, was not as tall as Sherlock, but he was thickly built, and he could make you hurt if he wanted to. His blue eyes were cold and hard and mean, and his bulbous nose had nostrils that were quite fond of flaring when he was angry. He worked as a bouncer at something called a "strip club." Father said it was very important.

"Did you not hear me the first time I called for you?" Father asked in a low voice.

Uh-oh. John gulped. There was no good way out of this one. If he said that he hadn't heard Father, he'd get in trouble for not paying attention. If he said that yes, he had heard, then he'd get in trouble for not obeying the first time. If he said that Harry stopped him from coming, then Harry would get in trouble. He stayed silent, hoping Father would just let it slide today.

He didn't.

"I asked you a question, boy!" Father growled.

"Y-yes, sir, I heard you."

"Why didn't you come the first time I called you, then?"

John licked his split lip, searching desperately through his mind for an answer. Why couldn't he be as smart as Sherlock? Sherlock would know what to say. Or better yet, Sherlock would punch Father in the face, just like the Pudgy Man, and Father would never hurt Harry or John again.

Apparently John was quiet for too long, because he was snapped out his thoughts when Father backhanded him across the face. John stumbled back, putting a hand to his cheek in surprise. He bit his lip again to halt the tears in their tracks. Crying would just make it worse.

"That'll teach you not to listen," Father muttered, and he shoved John roughly aside and walked to the fridge. John clenched the hand that wasn't holding his face and composed himself. "Johnny," Father said as he pulled out a bottle of beer, "be a good little boy and make Father a sandwich. I've got taxes to pay." He walked past John and sat back down at the table. "You and Harriet should be grateful, you know. Not everybody has a parent who works hard and keeps a roof over their heads."

"Yes, sir," John said, and he went to go make his father a sandwich. The peanut butter and jelly were easy to get, since they were in the fridge, and the butter knife was easily taken from a drawer. The plates were in a cabinet, so John got the rickety stool and climbed into the countertop to get a plate down. He picked the cleanest one there, and then he walked carefully on the counter top over to where the fridge was. Since he was so high up, he could reach the bread basket with no problem. John carefully got off of the countertop and then made the sandwich. He put the jelly and peanut butter back in the fridge, put the knife on the stacks of dirty dishwater in the sink, and started taking the plate over to Father.

If he could just place the food in front of Father quietly, he could slip away back to his and Harry's room, and they could go to bed. John just had to cross this floor-

John's toe struck a broken floorboard and he fell to the ground in a sprawl, sending the sandwich flying and shattering the plate. A few shards cut his skin. Father swore and stood up, his chair screeching against the floor as it was shoved back, his temper exploding as all the anger from his bad day focused itself on the easy target: John.

"Damnit!" He yelled, and his boot stomped down hard on John's back. John cried out and curled in on himself instinctively, arms covering his head and knees blocking his stomach. Father kicked John's shin. Jog's legs jerked away from his stomach on a reflex, and Father took the opportunity to get him in the stomach.

The world went grey as the breath rushed out of John. He would've thrown up if there was anything to throw up in his stomach. As it was, he only retched a little.

"Clean this up, faggot," Father growled, and John immediately started scooping up the shards in trembling hands. Blood ran down his fingertips and dripped onto the floor every time he reached for a new shard, because each piece cut him a little bit. He stood up and put the shards in the small trash container beneath the sink, and Father soon had him back on the floor again.

"Worthless little shit," Father muttered, kicking him once more. "Get out of my sight. Out!" He roared, and John scrambled away, wheezing and clutching his stomach with bleeding hands. When he got to his bedroom he closed the door quietly. Harriet saw him and tears spilled from her eyes.

"Idiot!" She scolded in a tearful whisper. "I told you I should've gone."

"I tripped on the floorboards," John explained weakly, and Harry wrapped him in a big hug. Then she felt a spot on her back grow wet when John hugged her back. She pulled away and seized his wrist. Harry gasped at the sight of his cut palms and fingers.

Before John could say a word, she had gone to the bathroom to find the roll of bandages she had stolen from a store last Tuesday.

Harry started wrapping up his hands with the bandages, so John started another story, his voice very hushed. He didn't want Father to hear. Father hated stories. Harry said he hated them so much because Mummy used to tell her stories, but John didn't remember. The only things John knew of Mummy were things that Harriet told him since Mummy died giving birth to John.

John told one of Harriet's favorites. "Once upon a time, a warrior princess with a large sword went out to slay a goblin king..."

John was always frustrated when Sherlock went with the Silver-Haired man behind the yellow tape. John was not allowed to speak to the police, so he never snuck under the yellow tape to see what Sherlock was doing. He always waited for him several yards from the tape. Sometimes it took minutes for Sherlock to come back. Sometimes it took hours. If it started to get dark, though, John would stop waiting and head home, because Father got mad if he wasn't home by 10PM, and John didn't have a watch.

Sherlock had gone behind the yellow tape today and hadn't come back for a half hour. The sun was starting to go down. John stood up and brushed some of the dust off of his old shorts. He stalled a little bit by glancing at the yellow tape again and again and adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. No sign of Sherlock. Oh well. Maybe he'd get to see him tomorrow.

John was very good at memorizing directions, so he only got lost once on the way from the yellow tape area to Sherlock's flat. From there, getting home was so easy, he could do it blind. Even though Sherlock didn't come out today, John was in a great mood. He had found a box of used crayons while waiting for Sherlock, and he couldn't wait to get home and share them with Harriet. John hummed a little tune as he walked down an alley. He noticed a kitten sitting on a rubbish bin and stopped to pet it. "What a cutie you are," he crooned, and the kitten purred and rubbed up against his hand. It was black with green eyes, and really fluffy. He wished he could keep it, but Father wouldn't like that.

He got home shortly after that. John opened the door slowly, peeking his head in, looking for his sister. "Harry?" He whispered. He heard a creaking sound in the bedroom. Harry, probably. He tiptoed through the flat and moved the bedroom door a little, peering through the crack. "Harry?" He whispered again. She jerked from where she was sitting crosslegged on the blanket on the floor and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"John," she gasped, sniffling. John saw that she was developing a black eye, and he let out a wordless cry and ran to her.

"What happened?" He murmured in a sad little voice.

"I was just in the wrong place, wrong time, that's all." She shook her head, wiping her tears with her sleeve. "Now, John," she began, voice becoming serious, "he'll probably be drunk tonight. Stay in your room, alright? If he calls for you, I'll go."

John decided to change the subject. Harriet looked really upset, and he hated that. "I found some crayons, Harry, look." He flashed the box in front of her face. "Have we got any paper left?"

Harry blinked in surprise, wide blue eyes framed with long black lashes and hints of tears. Her surprise turned to glee. "You wonderful little hedgehog!" She exclaimed, though her voice was hushed. She ruffled his hair and got up to fetch a notebook. John beamed at her as she tore out two sheets of paper and handed one to John. John lay on the floor on his stomach and Harriet bent over her paper crisscross applesauce style. John drew his best seven-year-old's representation of Sherlock, practically a stick figure with curly dark hair, grey eyes, a long coat, and a blue scarf. Sherlock was hitting the Pudgy Man. Harry drew a rather good drawing of a celebrity she saw on the cover of a magazine at Tesco's. She wasn't wearing much, though. John commented on this. Harry scowled. "Shut up, you," she muttered, so John shut up.

They drew for a while, John wasn't sure how long. It was dark out, though, and if he peeked out of the bedroom window, he could see the moon hanging bright in the sky, like an uncracked, recently washed dinner plate. Father still wasn't home, which was good, and not particularly unusual if he was getting drunk. John secretly hoped that Father stayed the night away from home, even though that kind of thinking meant he was a Bad Son.

"Go to sleep, John," Harry said, stroking his hair. John blinked. When had he lay down? He blinked up at Harry sleepily. "Sshh," she murmured, "go back to sleep."

John closed his eyes, his tired body betraying him to slumber. He didn't notice Harry start packing a bag. He didn't notice Harry put their remaining belongings in the duffel she had taken from the rubbish and taped up with duct tape just the other day. He was too far in sleep.

Harriet wasn't going to let Father hurt John and her anymore. No way. No. John was only seven, for god's sake, drawing pictures with crayons and telling stories. This wasn't right, no matter what Father said. Nope. She and John were going to run away tonight. Harry had a plan. They'd live off of the food they found or stole, like they did now. Fast food places had bathrooms. There were lots of homeless people already who lived in sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. They could do that, too. She just had to get John out of the flat before Father got home.

Harry exhaled as she put the crayons and the paper in the duffel. She had already put the spare jackets and underwear in the bag, along with one of their three blankets. Everything was in order, except...

Maybe she should get some food from the kitchen. Just to tide them over for a couple days. John could sleep a little longer while she got the food. Harry stood up with the duffel bag and tiptoed out of the room, hesitating before she closed the door. Harry watched John's tiny chest rise and fall as he slept on the floor. The bandages on his hands were soaked in dried blood. She'd have to change them soon. She took a deep breath and closed the door, tiptoeing away, the duffel bag clutched tight to her chest.

She got to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Peanut butter, jelly, some old carrots, beer- They didn't need the beer. Harry stuffed the foods in the bag.

BAM

The door slammed open. Heavy footsteps approached the kitchen. Harry froze like a deer in the headlights. "Harriet," her Father yelled, "I need something to ea- Harriet!" He stood shocked, in the doorway of the kitchen. Harry stared at him with wide eyes, one hand still clutching the bag of carrots. The duffel fell to the floor from her limp fingers.

"It's-" She swallowed, tiny body shaking. "It's not what it looks like."

"You were gonna leave," Father said accusingly, "You were packing up to leave me! After all I've done for you two. I clothe you, give you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me."

Harriet wanted to scream at him that he hadn't done anything for them, anything at all, but she was too scared.

He stumbled blearily towards her blue eyes narrowing. "You'll pay for this, you and your stupid brother." His eyes widened. "It was his idea, wasn't it!"

No. No, John had no idea. Harriet knew he'd go after John first- She had to act. Now.

Harriet ran forward and kicked him in the shin, then dashed past towards the bedroom. She heard him behind her, she hadn't stalled him for long. She reached the door to the bedroom. Thinking fast, she locked the door.

Harriet could have gone in there with John and locked it behind her. She had the time. If she had, though, Father would've broken down the door and hurt them both. If she stayed outside the room as a distraction, John would have time to escape. She just hoped he had the sense to leave through the bedroom window.

John woke up when he heard Harry scream.

He looked up from the floor, instantly aware of everything around him. Harry was not in the room. The crayons and papers were gone, the door was closed, a blanket had been draped over him. It was dark in the room, no lights, the window was closed, the moon was lower in the sky now. He stood up and ran to the door. He heard the horrible, awful sound of beating on flesh, and Harry's cries of pain.

John grasped the doorknob and twisted, trying to pull open the door. Tears filled his eyes. "Harry!" He yelled, tugging at the door with his bony arms, with as much might as he could.

"You little bitch, trying to leave!" Father yelled, and the sound of bone cracking reverberated through John's ears. Harry shrieked, and John started to sob.

"Harry!" John yelled. His tiny fists hit the wooden door. He couldn't get out. It was locked, and Harry was getting hurt. His hands bled, wounds from the plate shards open. He continued to hit the door anyway.

snap, snap, snap. More broken bones. Harry shrieked. A loud thud, and Father cursed. "Bitch!" John heard him slap Harry, then a boot cracking a rib.

He couldn't listen anymore. No, no no. He'd had enough. John slid down and curled up into a ball, covering his ears with his hands. "Harry," he cried, "Harry." He tried not to listen to the beatings and the crying and the yelling. "Somebody help," he whispered through clenched teeth. He was too small to break down the door, he was too small to fight off Father, he was too small to do anything.

And then it was quiet.

John took his hands from his ears in surprise and fear. Why was it quiet? Was that good or bad?

"Oh, no," Father said in a sad, drunken slur. "I killed you. And you looked so much like your mummy, too."