Thank you to my friend Squatchlock for beta-ing and heroic support!

Warning for images of child neglect

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's a kid!"

John couldn't keep the shock out of his voice as he stared into the corner of the dingy room − the locked door of which Sherlock had just put his shoulder through.

"What?" asked Sherlock, taken by surprise.

John deliberately dropped his voice, "There's child in the corner of the room, Sherlock."

When he'd first noticed something John had thought perhaps it was an animal, a stray of some sort sheltering in the deserted building, but had almost immediately realized it wasn't. Now, he took an involuntary step toward the small cowering figure, instinctively wanting to comfort and protect. But the child was terrified, covering its head and trying to make itself a small as possible, so he stopped, knowing any movement on either of their part would only terrify it further.

He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, it was too young or too small, he wasn't sure which, and very dirty.

Sherlock stood still, staring into the corner with an expression that indicated he was thinking rapidly. He had been scanning the room for possible exits when he'd heard John's exclamation and turned.

He now gathered his thoughts and said abruptly, "John, do something, we've got to get out of here."

He then resumed his assessment of their surroundings, his coat whirling in dark circles around his long legs as he moved around the room.

John correctly interpreted this direction to mean that he should manage the child while Sherlock continued to look for an escape route for them, so, as Sherlock left the room to continue his search John took tentative step toward the corner, crouched low and said in a coaxing tone, "Hello, don't be afraid, we want to help you…you need help, right?"

Nothing. If possible the form shrank even more.

"You know what?" he said, trying again, "I'm a doctor and you probably know that doctors help people, right? If you look at me you'll see."

There was a small sound from the child which John took as an indication of progress so he continued gently, "I'm not coming any closer, you'll have to look up if you want to see me."

He was trying to keep the anxiety he felt out of his voice. He knew they didn't have much time before the gang members that he and Sherlock had startled away from the warehouse could return with reinforcements.

As the child's head rose, John realized that he or she had been watching them all along from under one thin arm; wanting to see if and when an attack might come thought John, his heart twisting painfully.

A boy. About 4 years of age John judged.

"Hello," he said again softly, "I'm Dr. Watson." He thought it best to stay with the authority figure approach.

"What is your name?"

The boy didn't look away, he stared at John with no expression on his small face. "Chicken shit," he then said obediently in a small voice.

John winced and had to hide the sudden fierce rage flooding his chest upon hearing that someone would refer to a child in such a way.

He said, "That isn't your real name, is it?"

The boy was silent.

"Well, boys aren't chickens, so I'd like to call you something else. How about a real boy's name? Like Benjamin maybe." It was the first name he could think of, he certainly wasn't going to call the child anything derogatory, even for expediency's sake.

The name seemed to intrigue the boy for he nodded slowly.

John smiled, "Okay, Benjamin, I'd like to help you leave this place, can I do that?"

To John's concern, the boy shrank back into the corner again and whispered, "You won't tell Joe?"

"No, I won't," John promised firmly. But if Joe is the child's caregiver and I have a chance to meet him, I will be telling him a few things while he contemplates the barrel of my service pistol between his eyes, he thought.

At that moment with another whirl of his overcoat Sherlock returned to the room. He stated briefly, "Four men dead in the north hall. Shot."

He'd entered quietly enough, remembering he shouldn't scare the child, but too quickly.

John's quiet voice sounded a warning, "Sherlock."

Sherlock heeded at once, stopping where he stood but at that moment, to both of their surprise the child said in a clearer voice than John had heard so far, "He's not Sherlock, he's Batman."

For a moment there was a startled silence from both men and then…of course! The coat, thought John. He glanced at Sherlock again and saw a look of confusion on his face that would have amused him if it had been under any other circumstance.

Seizing the moment with sudden inspiration, John turned back to the child, "Yes, I just call him Sherlock sometimes, you're right, we should call him Batman. He's here to help you."

At that, the boy scrambled to his feet and made straight for Sherlock who was still standing motionless in the centre of the room.

John made a silent plea to Sherlock to understand and play along… but with no luck. Being Sherlock, he was, unfortunately, deaf to silent pleas of any sort and so did nothing.

The boy stopped short just before he reached Sherlock, suddenly not as sure of himself as he had been a moment earlier.

Before John could speak again, Benjamin's small face crumpled and he sobbed, "They were right; Batman doesn't like chickens, so he doesn't like me!"

Dear God, thought John, as silent tears started to slide down the child's face.

"No, no that's not it at all," he said hastily, "He's just planning what to do next to save us, he's thinking. He does like you…"

John stared at Sherlock as hard as he could, willing him to grasp what the child needed. Then to his amazement, Sherlock did. He lowered into a crouch in front of the boy, the coat draping on either side of his tall frame − just like the bat-cape acknowledged some absent part of John's brain.

The boy stopped crying and looked in wonder at the tall figure reaching to pick him up. Sherlock grasped the child carefully if a little awkwardly but Benjamin settled against him easily, reaching his own thin arms up and around Sherlock's long neck.

Benjamin then looked at John and said, "Alright, I'm ready to go."

John looked quickly at Sherlock's face, suddenly wondering how he was going to manage an unknown, filthy child clinging to his neatly pressed blue silk shirt − the bat-shirt, mused that corner of John's brain which seemed to be taking on a will of its own. Strangers, dirt and children; as far as anyone knew Sherlock disliked all three in equal measure, thought John.

But now Sherlock was returning his look over the child's head with an expression that said, "What?... Shut up! Really John, sometimes I think you don't know me at all."

But aloud all he said was, "Hurry John, there's a door at the end of the hall that looks like it leads to the river and we have to get out of here, now."

With that he turned, strode out the doorway and down the hall with his small bundle clinging to his neck, leaving a surprised John to follow.

Will wonders never cease, thought a bemused John.

The door at the end of the hall, unseen at first glance as it was almost hidden by demolition rubble, did indeed open onto a path by the river so they were able to leave the building unseen. There was no sign of the gang members who had been there just a short time earlier stock-taking a large weapons shipment bound for God-knows-where, but John guessed by the rapid pace Sherlock was setting that he felt they were still in some danger.