On Thursdays, if you were to look down Baker Street you would see a young boy, no older than ten, playing an old, three stringed violin. The broken string would be coiled around the scroll of the instrument carefully and the bow would have a slight bend in the middle as if it had been warped with the weather. The body of the violin would be scratched and peeling, it would look sad and uncared for but the way the boy would hold it will show that it wasn't that he wouldn't fix it; it was that he just couldn't afford to.
Behind him would stand a taller boy holding an umbrella which he would hold over the both of them when it rained. He would stop the younger boy from time to time and make him drink something before starting to play again. In the evening, he would count up the money collected in the case, pack away the violin and take his brother, for they could only be brothers, by the hand and lead him away down the street. They would be back again on the next Thursday, and the one after that.
This Thursday however, is not the same.
It is raining and yet the umbrella is not being held over the both of them. Instead it is propped awkwardly over the older brother who is dozing against the metal railings on the edge of the pavement. They had arrived early in the morning and the younger boy had not stopped playing his battered violin since he had tucked his brother under the umbrella.
His hands are raw and chapped from the blistering cold of November rain. His fingertips are bleeding in places but he had only frowned slightly at the cuts and played on. The broken string has become unwound and bounces in time to the jaunty tune being wrung out.
At some point in the day, the older boy had reached out and grabbed at his brother's trouser leg blearily. The music stopped playing and the younger boy looked down at him, dark wet hair falling forward into his eyes.
When he tried to pull himself up using his brother for leverage, he was quickly pushed back down against the railings and pulled against his brother who had sat down with him. The violin rested on the pavement beside them as he fought to cover the both of them with the umbrella. Once satisfied, he picked up the violin and rested in his lap. He plucked absent-mindedly at the strings with one hand and finger combed his brother's hair with the other.
When the rain had eased up a bit, the younger boy snagged the violin case with his foot towards him and started to pack it away. His brother stirred slightly at the loss of contact but was quickly soothed by the return of the hand to his hair and the case was clipped up with one hand, money left uncounted inside.
With the case jammed between his legs and the umbrella in his and, he leaned down to pull his brother up with his free hand. When he got this far though, he realised he would not be able to carry his violin, the umbrella and hold onto his brother's hand. So with a sigh, he put down the umbrella and tucked it under his arm before joining their hands again.
"Come on, Myc."
And on that Thursday afternoon, if you were to look down Baker Street, you would have seen a young boy balancing an umbrella and a violin case under one arm leading an older boy with glassy eyes and a rattle in his chest away down the road.
Doctor John Watson hasn't seen them since.
A/N: De-anoned from the Sherlock kinkmeme for a prompt asking after the Holmes brothers as homeless children