Full Summary: When six year old Sherlock gets bored, he calls help lines to report his brother for the horrible abuse of putting him in time out and making him eat peas. It's all fun and games until suddenly, a new inspector arrives. Now, instead of scolding him for abusing help lines, he's being told how brave he is to reach out. And now the inspector is telling him his name isn't even Sherlock Moriarty? And that he had been kidnapped when he was three? Surely this is just another 'scare him straight' method. That can't be true. All Sherlock wants is to go home to Jim. And maybe take his new friend/foster brother John with him.

Warnings: This story explores the themes of human trafficking, child abuse, physical abuse (nothing explicit), sexual abuse (discussed as a possibility by concerned investigators; no one is sexually abused within the story), and abduction. Some of this is just off screen or speculation considering the subject of the story does involve an investigation into human trafficking and child abduction. That said, Sherlock's 'brother' is not nice. The things he does to Sherlock are horrible, and definitely a form of child abuse, but not physically violent.

Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Sherlock.

Story

"It said to call this number if someone won't let you leave and they make you do work. So I'm calling this number. My brother won't let me leave my room, AND he makes me do stupid, boring work. You should come arrest him now."

It wasn't the first hotline Sherlock had ever called. It probably wouldn't be the last. He did it whenever his brother annoyed him. His brother had a way of doing that a lot.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before more questions came. They were similar to whenever he called the abuse hotline. That one had been fun, even if the police lady had rudely asked his brother if she shouldn't take Sherlock in for domestic abuse the last time she came without even properly doing her inspection. Though to be fair, it was the fifth time she had been forced to, in her words, waste her time on the little drama queen.

Her partner called him worse things when he thought he couldn't hear them. He didn't know Sherlock could lip-read. Her partner also threatened to arrest him just for wasting police time. He was probably trying for a 'scare him straight' method, but Sherlock wasn't stupid. They weren't going to stick a six year old in prison just because their bosses make them inspect every last call to the hotline, even the ones everyone knows going in aren't serious.

Anyway, they were serious. His brother had put him in time out. That's outrageous. He was six, not two! Well, five at the time of that complaint but even so! And he hated being confined in places, and he hated the stupid, boring busy work his brother gave him.

The abuse hotline wasn't as fun anymore because it seems there had been a memo and no one would talk at length with him when he called. He'd just get a quick, 'we'll send someone over' the moment he gave his name, and then he'd have those two stupid police officers coming over to scold him and take a quick glance about the place. He had hoped this new hotline would be more fun. He'd seen a notice for it outside a public restroom, written in three different languages. It was to help stop human trafficking or something like that.

"He also makes me eat peas," Sherlock continued to explain to this new hotline person. She, on her end, didn't quite seem to understand what dire torture this was. He wondered if she'd actually hang up on him. They weren't supposed to just hang up on people, he was fairly certain, rather like how Donovan and Anderson always came when he called the abuse helplines, or, on occasion, the police themselves. Apparently, they'd been assigned to him. He wondered what they had done that merited that sort of punishment. Or what he had done to merit them.

"And, and, and, he refused to put bubbles in our bath last night!"

There was a longer pause than usual at the other end. For a moment, he thought they actually had hung up, but then he thought the phone should have made a noise, and it was just a heavy silence.

"Does your brother take baths with you?" the voice asked, a strangely tentative note to the question. This hadn't happened when he called hotlines before. Even the really eager to help voices usually, by this point, would be saying something like, 'Listen, kid, this is a serious helpline,' and Sherlock would be saying something like 'I know, I seriously need some help here', and since he stayed on the line and he gave all his contact details there'd usually be a follow-up by Donovan and Anderson. Unless it wasn't an abuse hotline. The homework hotline had, in fact, just hung up on him. The suicide hotline hadn't, but then, he got the feeling the guy on the other end actually enjoyed chatting with a random kid complaining that he was 'dying of boredom' instead of the more usual 'dying of depression'.

Slightly weirded out by the lady's sudden interest in his bathing habits, he cautiously answered with, "No?"

"How old are you, Shirley?"

"It's Sherlock!" he answered, outraged. "And I told you, I'm six."

She wanted to know more about his brother. Did he ever help him wash? That was a stupid question. Of course he did; Sherlock was only six. How old was his brother? Sherlock had no idea. Older than him. Ancient.

"He wanted me to call him Daddy for a bit, because he said it makes more sense because he's way older, but then he didn't like it. He said he felt too old and he said we're brothers instead."

She asked if he could get away on his own to meet with someone and he, getting a bit annoyed now with her inane and repeated questions, shouted.

"No, I told you, he locked me in! I'm not allowed to leave!"

There was a sudden blinding light and his solitude was intruded upon by a dark shape in the doorway. His eyes were too dazzled to make out his brother or his expression, but Sherlock rather doubted the man was smiling.

On the phone, the lady was saying he was very brave and that someone would be coming soon to help him. There was none of the usual 'this is a serious helpline' speech that every line he had ever called gave, from the homework line to the library to the hospital to the abuse lines to even the suicide hotline, and he was fairly certain that guy had actually enjoyed their talk. No one had ever said he was brave and whenever they said someone was coming, it was usually said more as a threat than as a promise of help.

"Thank you, goodbye," he said to the lady, and then he hung up. He blinked his eyes, waiting for the spots to go away. It was far too late to hide the phone, and he didn't bother to try. The figure in the doorway sighed when Sherlock innocently held the phone up towards him. His brother studied him for a long moment, not moving to take the phone.

"I suppose I can expect another visit soon by the good inspectors?"

Sherlock stayed silent, feeling inexplicitly nervous, as though he were waiting to see if a viper would strike or not. That was ridiculous, of course. His brother never hurt him, no matter what Sherlock did. Anyway, Sherlock had been bored, and now he wasn't, and that should be a good thing, right?

The viper didn't strike. Slowly, gently, the phone was plucked from his fingers and then Sherlock himself was picked up with annoying ease. Sherlock was still waiting for a growth spurt that would make such indignities impossible.

"Well then, Oliver Twist," said his brother, "Let's get ready to greet our guests."

It took an hour for the doorbell to ring. That was fairly fast for the inspectors considering Sherlock was not, as they called it, a priority. Once it had taken two whole weeks before they gave a perfunctory five minute visit that involved a quick visual sweep of the house and Anderson looking Sherlock up and down for signs of injury. Sherlock hadn't even had to take his shirt off that time and Donovan never made his brother unlock any of the locked rooms, which had that day included his brother's bedroom, the basement, and Sherlock's time out room.

This visit was nothing like that. Apparently, calling a helpline for human trafficking is different than calling one for abuse.

It started out almost the same. Donovan and Anderson were at the door when Sherlock opened it.

"Hello, Drama," said Donovan, an almost friendly smile on her face, despite her clear exasperation at having to see him yet again. Sherlock always preferred her to Anderson; she didn't approve of him calling helplines but she never talked down to him either or wasted her time scolding him. "It's been a while. You're still six, right? I've gotten good at copying and pasting my reports, and I'd hate to get a detail wrong."

"For God's sake, don't cater to the time waster," Anderson grumbled at his partner, looking far less pleased to be there. "Please tell me I'm allowed to lock him up this time. Surely, ten prank calls warrants a night in a cell."

"You're not allowed to lock up six year olds," Sherlock told him. "However did you manage to get a job in law enforcement, protecting children no less, when you don't know what the laws are? Even I know about that one, and I don't have a badge or anything. And you don't know how to count. This is your eighth visit, not your tenth."

"I suppose you need to see the usual?" Sherlock's brother asked, sounding part apologetic and part bored. "Do I need to get out his records?"

There was a moment of silence. Donovan had an unfamiliar expression. It wasn't exasperation, or annoyance, or even grudging amusement (as she sometimes showed when Sherlock said something particularly clever towards Anderson). Sherlock couldn't get a read on her. He was good at reading facts about people, but not so good with expressions. Anderson was easier. His face held its usual level of unpleasantness and annoyance at being in Sherlock's presence, but there was also amusement. Anderson never looked amused to see him. Something was different.

"Actually," Anderson said, once they had their moment of silence, "It seems eight calls is one too many. Congrats, kid. You've earned yourself a proper medical and a trip downtown. It might not be lockup, but maybe you'll finally learn it's not all fun and games to tattle on big brother for making you eat all your veggies."

Donovan's unreadable expression soured. She didn't like whatever it was that her partner was saying, though Sherlock still didn't understand. This wasn't how these visits went. They were almost soothing in their consistency, and if Anderson was happy about the change, then Sherlock suspected it was a bad development.

"I'm sorry," Donovan said, to Sherlock's brother and not to Sherlock himself. "We're to take him in. There's a new investigator called in, and Sherlock's portfolio has all sorts of red flags, what with the number of our visits. We tried to explain, his social worker explained, but they want new eyes on him. You know it'll blow over, but they want you both to come in. Separate cars."

"Do I get any say in this? It's not really the best timing…" Sherlock's brother said. His hand was suddenly on Sherlock's shoulder, feeling unusually heavy and solid.

A second car drove up behind the first cop car, and a third car beyond that. That last one wasn't a cop car. It was black and sleek.

It turned out, his brother did not get a say.

The look his brother sent his way as he was led to the second car was fairly mild, but somehow sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine all the same. It seemed to promise a future of peas for every meal, weeks in solitude, months of soul numbing boredom.

"I really am sorry about this, Jim," Donovan said as Sherlock's brother was peacefully helped into the car. "I'm sure it will be cleared up in no time."

"Or maybe they'll finally lock the little freak up in an institution for juveniles and we can all get some peace," Anderson muttered, just loud enough for only Sherlock to hear over the sound of the car door being shut.

This was a strange and new development. No one had ever taken his brother away before. Usually Sherlock was interviewed inside the house, and on the very few occasions Sherlock had to go to the station, his brother stayed with him.

"Are you going to do your inspection now?" Sherlock asked in the ensuing silence as the car with his brother drove away. "I can just tell you now I don't have any new bruises, and the maid started using a different soap for the dishes and I don't like it because it's too lemony, but my brother says you can't really taste the smell on the dishes after and won't make her change it back."

Donovan opened her mouth, that strange expression back on her face, but she never answered. The man who came from the third car, who had been hanging back, walked forward and stood right in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stared up at him. He looked tired, and he had gray hair, which makes him an old man, but his face wasn't wrinkly, so maybe he was just stressed. Anyway, he was a grown-up, and all grown-ups are old. His eyes were nice eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Moriarty," the man said to Sherlock, holding out a hand for shaking. "My name is Inspector Greg. I suppose this must be a confusing day for you."

"This isn't how visits go," Sherlock told him sternly. "Donovan is supposed to look at the house and see if it's safe and Anderson is supposed to look at me and see if I'm healthy and they're supposed to look at my records and talk to my brother and then they go away. You aren't supposed to be here."

"You do know your way around the system, don't you?" Inspector Greg asked, and beside him Anderson mumbled, "He should; he's abused it often enough." Inspector Greg's eyes frowned when Anderson said that, but he kept his attention on Sherlock. Sherlock liked that. Then Inspector Greg kept talking. "Things are going to go a bit different today. You see, we need to make extra sure that no one in your house is being hurt, and that means we need to look around when your brother isn't here, and ask questions of everyone that lives or works here. So, you and I are going to go on a little trip to see a nice doctor I know, and he's going to make sure you're healthy and take a few pictures for proof, and then we'll have a little talk about what it's like living with your brother."

Sherlock wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. Being glanced over by Anderson was one thing. Being taken to a doctor was quite another. What if the doctor said it was time for his jabs? Besides, Sherlock hated having his picture taken.

"No, thank you. I'll stay here until my brother comes back."

It turned out, Sherlock didn't have a choice about going away either. All Inspector Greg offered was to allow Donovan or Anderson to go with them. He seemed to think Sherlock would be more comfortable going with someone familiar.

"Donovan can come," Sherlock decided. "Anderson is an idiot."

"Do you want anything from the house, before we go? Perhaps a toy?"

"I'm six!" Sherlock informed him. He might not have quite reached that growth spurt he hoped for but he was still too big to be taken for a baby.

"Toys aren't just for babies," Inspector Greg answered. Sherlock stared at him suspiciously, in case he was being made fun of. Anderson did that sometimes, calling him names like toddler or rugrat, or once saying he knew four year olds who were taller. Donovan called him names too, Drama being her favorite, but he minded it less from her. He didn't know why. Perhaps it was because her names were more silly than mean.

"I've been in his bedroom," Donovan said to the inspector. "It's all science experiments and books."

In the end, he took his apiology book and a backpack full of clothes to the black car. There was a seat in the back just for Sherlock, because Inspector Greg said it was safer for little kids to travel that way. It looked suspiciously like a baby seat to Sherlock and he didn't want to ride in it. Perhaps he just didn't want to get in the car.

He kept expecting his brother to come back or for Anderson to pop out and say it was all a trick and now will Sherlock never ever call a helpline again? But Anderson was already gone and strangers were inside his house and Inspector Greg and Donovan wanted him in the car seat with his book and his bag of clothes.

It wasn't boring. Sherlock was beginning to think he brother was actually right; there are worse things than being bored.

"Come on, Drama," said Donovan, while Sherlock deliberated over the merits of throwing himself on the ground and screaming until they all went away and left him alone. "My seven year old niece still uses a car seat. It's nothing to get worked up over. It's to do with height and weight, not age. And it makes it easier to see out of the window."

Sherlock frowned. That was just a tricky way of calling him short.

In the end, Sherlock didn't start screaming. He sat on the ground and glared at them all, daring them to manhandle him into that car seat.

No one grabbed him. No one took away the car seat. Donovan rolled her eyes and leaned against the car. Inspector Greg sat down on the ground next to him.

"You're still a stranger," Sherlock grumbled at him, when the inspector failed to say anything at all, either to cajole him or to scold him back up and into the car. "I'm not supposed to go in cars with strangers."

"A good rule," Inspector Greg agreed. "It's been a tough day for you, huh."

"You aren't following any of the rules," Sherlock answered.

"What if I promised you ice cream?" Inspector Greg asked.

"That's even worse than strangers telling you to get in the car. Then it's a stranger offering sweets."

Inspector Greg started laughing and Sherlock turned his head to look at him, startled. He was used to men like Anderson, who got annoyed with him, or his brother, who alternatively ignored him or hovered. If Anderson had wanted him in the car seat, he'd have just grabbed him and fought to get the straps on, muttering about how annoying and useless Sherlock was. If his brother wanted him in the car seat, he'd tell him to sit in it and then tell him what would happen if he didn't. Sherlock would have fought Anderson. He probably wouldn't have fought his brother, unless he was really stuck inside his own head, and then he'd probably regret it later when his brother followed through with his punishment.

Not being harassed or threatened was strange. Someone laughing at what he said was new. Sherlock studied him for signs that Inspector Greg was making fun of him. People laughing usually meant they thought Sherlock was being stupid.

"Sorry," Inspector Greg said. "It's just, you're very old for your age."

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer. He couldn't find anything in Inspector Greg's face that he'd find in Anderson. Just amusement and sadness and something that was harder to touch on. Kindness? This man was confusing.

It soon became clear that Inspector Greg was perfectly content to just sit there next to him. A part of Sherlock wanted to stay for hours, just to see if Inspector Greg would wait. Another part of him really and truly just wanted to go back into the house and lock out all the police people and for his brother to come home and tell him he had another stupid project for Sherlock to do. The largest part of him was starting to find sitting still tedious, especially when he didn't get a proper reaction for his rebellion.

"What flavor of ice cream," he asked at last.

He held out until he was promised a proper sundae with real ice cream and whipped cream and chocolate sauce, none of that soft serve fake goop.

His brother never gave him ice cream. Perhaps this inspector wouldn't be so bad.

He just really hoped the doctor didn't give him jabs.