John. I am here. Hurry up. –SH
John. –SH
John, do hurry. –SH
Oh for God's sakes. If you don't hurry up, I'll scream bloody murder and fake a PTSD flashback like I did on the Tube that one time. –SH
Fucking hell, Sherlock! I'm in the middle of a very important meeting with my boss. Go wait outside and if you do anything stupid to get attention, I'll ring Mycroft and let him know about your little encounter with the Italian government the other day. –JW
Sherlock glared at his mobile before slipping it into his coat pocket. It wasn't his fault; he hadn't known the man held a high position in the Italian government.
Sherlock was supposed to meet John at the clinic after his shift and then John promised they'd go to the crime scene right after. But Sherlock waited in the reception area of the medical clinic, surrounded by the insufferable and weak. He debated on telling the painfully average girl next to him about her boyfriend having an affair with her sister so he could pass the time, but he felt his brain going numb from the mediocrity of it all, so he stood up swiftly and stalked out of the clinic. He spotted a wooden bench outside, near the entrance, and he claimed it quickly. He sat with his coat pressed against the cold back of the bench, and tucked his knees up to his chest. Despite the warm spring day, Sherlock still wore his long coat and scarf. He slipped his phone out of his pocket again and started to text Lestrade, asking him about the state of the corpse before Fucking Anderson did anything to it. When Lestrade didn't reply to any of his urgent messages, Sherlock kept his phone out anyways and observed the boring Londoners walk behind him from the reflection on the screen.
He pinpointed two dentists, a lesbian, an alcoholic, and a newly pregnant woman (with her brother-in-law's child) in less than ten minutes. Now if only a man with a cocaine addiction would walk by, then his imaginary scorecard would be complete.
"Hullo."
Sherlock did a double take, unsure if someone was addressing him. Small, light voice. Northern. Feminine. Sherlock didn't know anyone whose vocal track was similar to that. He waited a second to hear if a reply came from someone's phone. It didn't. Sherlock turned his head slowly to the moron who sat next to him.
Oh.
It was a little girl, who couldn't be more than nine years old. Sherlock estimated seven. She was missing her upper-left incisor. She wore an orange shirt, blue shorts, and running shoes; bought cheap, two and a half years old. Her brown hair had been braided back, but it was a terrible job—she had a single father. The little girl looked up at him expectantly, her brown eyes matching the scatter of freckles over her cheeks.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing her. Identical scraped knees suggested she wasn't clumsy but perhaps played on a recreational soccer team at the community centre on the weekends, where falling on ones unprotected knees was common. Why was this child talking to him? He didn't need a 'bright eyed, bushy tailed' chatterbox in his presence. After all, he was previously informed he wasn't good with kids.
He tried to think of ways to tell her to bugger off that wouldn't make her cry, but the girl spoke again. "I like your scarf. Blue is my favourite colour."
Blue. She's young, so it must represented a childhood comfort item, possibly a keepsake of someone close to her. Someone who had left the picture. Mother, by the looks of it. Couldn't have been a divorce or a walk out, perhaps the mother was deceased from natural causes.
"Aren't you hot, sir? You've got a thick winter coat on. I'm in my shorts."
Sherlock tucked his knees in closer, defensively. So what if he was cold, despite the first warm day they've had in weeks? "Hasn't your father ever told you not to talk to strangers?" Sherlock replied, trying not to sound too icy.
The little girl blinked. "My dad encourages me to make friends on my own, thank you very much."
Sherlock smirked. Getting her to go out and make friends on her own gave plenty of opportunities for her to get out of the house while her father was busy. Perhaps working. So he was a stay at home dad, then. "It's not wise to talk to strange men who wear winter coats in the spring. Do you know what would happen if you did?"
Sherlock turned around and leaned in closer, as did the little girl. He had her attention. She waited expectantly, poking her tongue absentmindedly through the gap between her teeth.
"Strange men like to chop up little girls and throw them in rivers. I know because I just caught a murderer who did." He sat back defiantly. Now she'd burst into tears and run back home and Sherlock could wait for John in peace.
But the girl stayed. If anything, she sounded even more intrigued. "Really?" she asked in awe.
Sherlock turned around again to face her, surprised at her reaction. "Of course. That's why you can never trust strangers. It's easy to put on a mask and act innocent. For all I know, you could be planning on murdering me right this very second." He said matter-of-factly.
Instead of gasping or crying or screaming accusatively, the little girl laughed. "But if you knew I really was a murderer, why are you still here talking to me?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. This girl was cleverer than he expected. "I know you're not a murderer because you're just a silly little girl who lives alone with her dad who works a steady job at home, and you're both still recently mourning the loss of your recently deceased mother. The worst thing you could possibly do is beat me at is a game of soccer, because you get enough practice every Saturday."
He stopped short of his list of deductions as the girl's back turned rigid. "How do you know that?" she asked cautiously.
Ah, shit. He looked like a downright stalker now. He wished John would hurry the hell up before he got arrested for being a pedophile. Sherlock cleared his throat quickly. "I deduced you." He told her. He pointed to her scraped and bruised knees, with a hint of grass stains that hadn't washed off fully. "I can tell a soccer player from anywhere. You play rather enthusiastically judging by the state of your knees. But you're only young, so you must play at a community centre. Saturdays are the usual days for recreational activities to take place." He paused to triumph over the look of amazement on the child's face. He continued happily.
"I also know about your father because someone male attempted to braid your hair but did a crap job of it. There is also a lack of female maternal figure in your life because he has no one to consult about your clothing choices, either. A man would warily dress his daughter without realizing that orange and blue don't match, whereas a woman would co-ordinate cute little outfits beforehand."
He watched the girl's wide eyes falter a little and soften. Sherlock spoke again softly. "I know your mother died because now you look sad and forlorn. But it's alright. My mother died, too. I know how it feels."
The girl stood up straighter again. She was brave, this one. "I'm sorry your mother died, mister."
"You don't have to be sorry," he snapped, and busied himself with adjusting his scarf. "You didn't kill her. Cancer did. But that's irrelevant. We were talking about your life story, I recall."
The kid shuffled on the bench and sat cross-legged, facing Sherlock. "You deduced everything about me. That's pretty neat, mister. How do you do it?" her eyes lit up again. "Teach me! Teach me how!"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up. She was awfully amusing. "It's not a skill; it's an art that takes years of research and practice. And lots of dedication."
The girl looked at him thoughtfully. "Then can I try deducing you?" she asked.
"Go right ahead. Just observe as much as you can about me and make something of the information." Sherlock replied.
The little girl smiled triumphantly and proceeded to study him. Less than a minute later she remarked blatantly, "Someone loves you."
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in response. "What? What do you mean?" No one loved Sherlock Holmes. He was informed plenty of times that he was an arse who didn't have a heart to reciprocate any feelings.
"Three of your fingers on your left hand are bandaged." She said, in the same proud and wise tone Sherlock had used earlier.
"Yes, that's painfully obvious. But how do the two connect?" he asked.
"It's bloody difficult to bandage your own fingers, especially your left ones. So someone took the time to help you put them on." She said simply, picking at a scab on her knee non-chalantly.
Sherlock blinked. John had patched up his hands up a few days ago after aforementioned Italian government worker had run a blade over his knuckles in attempt to get Sherlock to rid his grip of an important briefcase. But John always helped him put on bandages. This was nothing new.
Thinking back, Sherlock remembered how they sat in the darkened flat, in the very early hours of the morning, the adrenaline of their recent adventure slowly wearing off. John had sat with him and carefully applied the small plasters on his fingers before he went to bed. Yes, John had sat closer to him than necessary, and yes, John's warm hands felt nice against Sherlock's skin, but that didn't mean they loved each other.
Did it?
"How do you know I'm not left handed, then?" Sherlock asked.
The little girl frowned. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that," she answered, but gave him a sly smile. "But I guess that means I'm not wrong?"
Sherlock shifted in his seat. He wasn't sure. "Does bandaging one's fingers correlate directly to romantic feelings for their friend?" Sherlock asked, more to himself than to his bench mate.
The little girl scrunched her nose. "I dunno what that means, but I'll say yes."
That simple remark had left Sherlock's thoughts brewing. John always bandaged him when he got hurt. Was that because John loved him? Or were his nurturing instincts and doctoring abilities coming through? And why the hell was he fussing over the simple words of a silly little girl?
Because she was just a silly little girl. She didn't know much better. She was young and innocent and knew love when she saw it, without having anyone's thoughts taint her pure interpretation of love.
Sherlock looked over at the puzzling little girl next to him. He had a dozen more questions to ask, but at that very moment an unhappy and tired looking John Watson came out of the clinic, scanning the area for his friend. Sherlock waved to him to get his attention.
"See, that's my—" Sherlock turned to the little girl, but the only thing he saw was a flash of two lopsided braids running away from the corner of his eye. He furrowed his eyebrows.
John walked over and joined him on the bench, rubbing his tired eyes. "Sorry that took so long, Sherlock. My boss needed to yell at me for various reasons. We can go to the crime scene now, if you want."
Sherlock looked over at John. It was his John, the same old John as it ever was. The one who coaxed him to eat and bandaged his fingers in the wee hours of the morning. The one who loved and cared for Sherlock when no one else did.
John looked at him expectantly for an answer, and Sherlock stared back. He swallowed quickly.
"You look tired, John." He remarked. "Why don't we go home and have an early night in? I can get take away for us."
John stared, mouth agape. "That's extremely out of character, but…." a knowing smile slowly formed on his face, reaching up to his eyes. "I'd like that. It's exactly what I need after a shit day like today."
John smiled warmly at him and Sherlock smiled back. The two stood up and hailed a taxi to Baker Street, where out of the corner of Sherlock's eye he could see something orange and blue peeking out from behind a bush.
Maybe it was the brushes of limbs when they were in the cab, or the knowing looks shared as they waited in line at the restaurant. Or maybe it was the tangle of legs and take out containers as they settled on the couch together and watched crap telly. It could have even been the look of awe hidden in John's eyes as he cracked the mystery of another lame crime show, or the laugh and playful nudge when Sherlock swiped a chicken ball from John's plate. But as midnight approached and they reluctantly pulled themselves away and went to their separate bedrooms to sleep, he caught John's warm smile before he went upstairs; the one he had always used, yet seemed so new, as if Sherlock were finally seeing it in a new light. The unusually light feeling in his stomach proved he finally understood what that odd little girl had said to him earlier.
Someone loves you.