Can you find my killer?
Chapter One: A Detective is born
The seven year old gasped as he sat up in bed, as if waking from a nightmare. His hair, a dark brown, was in all directions from turning in the rather large, but comfy looking bed.
The boy wrapped his blankets tighter around his, as the room started to get colder. The windows had already begun to frost over and anyone watching would see the boy's breath come out in white puffs of smoke.
Either forgetting or not noticing the cold, the boy quickly threw off his blankets. He thrust his wrists close to his face, trying to see the small numbers of his watch. The room was dark, except for that one available light. The small night light plugged in by his end table. His mother was rather skeptical about him actually needing one, but he managed to convince her.
His little watch read 3am exactly.
Yes, as always, they were right on time.
"Can you find my killer?"
There at the end of his bed sat a woman. Her skin was pale; he could even call it white. He could barely see the blood stains, he was suddenly very thankful that he could not smell it. The boy couldn't see any injury, not in this light. Her lips were blue, but caked with blood, as if she threw it up. Internal injury, then.
After all, there had to be some kind of injury or they would not be here. Visiting him.
And they did visit. Every night, Ever since he could remember. He didn't dare delete those visits.
This did not happen to any normal people. At least that's what he observed. But thankfully the little boy, Sherlock Holmes was no normal person. He did not scream in fright, or run to tell Mummy or even his brother Mycroft when these things happened. When these people visited him. Sometimes before their death, sometimes after.
But always asking the same thing.
"Can you find my killer?"
They would give him their name, and in some special cases they would stay to talk.
Sherlock would meet several people. Children, adults and in odd cases, the elderly. The other children couldn't understand that Sherlock wasn't able to help them. They faded away crying. The adults would just smile down at him softly. They faded away disappointed but understanding. But the elderly would sit and talk. About their families, their jobs, their hobbies, all the things they would miss. Not that Sherlock would tell anyone but he felt rather lonely when there people faded off with a content smile.
Sherlock always though he would have these people, ghosts, visit him every night for the rest of his life. And he would never be able to do anything to help.
As a pirate shouldn't he be fighting people with swords and taking over ships, not helping ghosts who would fade away anyway. But help he wanted to do.
Finally on that fateful night, Sherlock met an old detective. That was all it took. He could finally help these people.
Sherlock still childlike mind, no matter how many times he said he could think like an adult, though that even though he wanted to be a pirate. Pirates don't find killers, Detectives do!