Title: Fingerprints & Blood Spatter
Author: Cat
Rating: Gen
Disclaimer: The world of Sherlock Holmes was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and BBC-sponsored fanboys Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss created 'Sherlock' (and let Steve Thompson to play in their sandbox.) I am making no money whatsoever from this.
Minor Series 3 spoilers.
Beta by Kizzia - thanks again!
Lord, you send these things to try us, Mrs Doyle thought as she entered the kitchen.
Talcum powder covered the floor, the work surfaces and the cupboards. In the middle of all the mess, sat cross-legged on the floor, was her employers' youngest child; also covered in talcum powder and in the process of covering the biscuit tin with sticky tape.
Mrs Doyle had been the family housekeeper for about ten years now and for the past seven, Sherlock Holmes had been keeping her on the toes. Bless the little rascal.
"Sherlock! What are you doing?"
"Gathering evidence..." Sherlock answered, in his usual precocious manner, while starting to remove the sticky tape from the biscuit tin, and sticking it to a piece of black paper.
"How is this mess 'gathering evidence', young man?" She asked in a resigned tone.
"Mycroft ate all the Wagon Wheels," he said without looking up from his task, "Trying to prove it."
"He couldn't have!" Mrs Doyle exclaimed, "I only got that packet new yesterday."
Sherlock opened the biscuit tin to reveal nothing but an empty Wagon Wheels wrapper.
She stifled a sigh, wondering why she was surprised. Mycroft had only come home from school for the mid-term break the day before and she'd already had to restock the fridge.
"Doesn't explain why the kitchen is covered in talcum powder, Sherlock."
"Fingerprints, Mrs Doyle! Fingerprints!" Sherlock was now studying his handiwork with his most prized possession - the magnifying glass he had saved up his pocket money for. She hadn't seen him without it once these past six months.
Much of Sherlock's childhood had been marked by his various obsessions. He would completely fixate on an idea for months on end before moving on to the next thing to take his fancy.
Mrs Doyle had memories of buried treasure in the laundry room and the dining table being used as a pirate ship, before Sherlock's bedroom was filled with books about insects and bugs in glass specimen cases.
Crime was the latest obsession.
Sherlock would read the papers after school before even touching his homework, carefully cutting out crime reports and gluing them into his scrapbook.
He devoured sensationalist tomes with titles like 'The World's Greatest Serial Killers' that were certainly not appropriate for a eight-year-old to be reading - but there was no chance he was going to be sticking to 'The BFG' like his concerned teacher had tried to suggest.
He would chatter happily to her for hours on end about Crippen, Burke and Hare, or how the Yorkshire Ripper had only been caught because a policeman had the bright idea to go back and have a look and found where he had dumped his hammer.
And, to be honest, she was happy to let him. Anything that sparked the boy's interest, that channelled his seemingly boundless energy, was a good thing as far as she was concerned.
The Holmes were good employers and she was happy with her job but she had to admit that she had a little soft spot for young Sherlock.
Mycroft was away at school for most of the year, and the times he was at home, he rarely emerged from his room, except to raid the fridge. Mr Holmes had a demanding job and a nightmare commute – both factors that meant she rarely saw him. She found him to be kind but reserved, especially when compared to his energetic wife. Mrs Holmes was witty, busy and genuine but Mrs Doyle was constantly aware that this woman was her employer – there was always that formality.
There was no such distance with Sherlock. He would arrive home from school most days and run straight into the kitchen, with a new fact or observation, or playing a new tune on his violin, performing for his willing audience of one. He never attempted to hide his excitement.
Unfortunately the flip side of that meant she was also the one who usually had to deal with his often-violent temper tantrums when he would pull apart his bedroom, kicking the walls. Or try and coax him out of one of his sulks where he wouldn't speak to anyone, less get out of his pyjamas.
As much as a handful he was, Mrs Doyle quite liked that Sherlock showed his emotions, his passions. His brother never revealed anything he didn't want you to see.
Sherlock, as intelligent and observant as he was, was still very much a child, despite the fact that he was losing that innocence by the day, as he learnt more and more of the world and the people in it. However, he still had a wide-eyed wonder, and he wasn't afraid to show it.
"There are two different sets of fingerprints on this tin apart from my own…" Sherlock explained "Yours and Mycroft's."
"How do you know that?" Mrs Doyle asked. She shouldn't be encouraging him but she was interested in what he had to say.
"I took sample prints of everyone in the house from the door handles."
Mrs Doyle laughed. That explained the mess a few months back.
"You washed the tin yesterday before refilling it." Sherlock went on. "I didn't eat the Wagon Wheels, and you couldn't have."
"Are you sure it wasn't me, Sherlock?" Mrs Doyle teased.
"Definitely not, Mrs Doyle." Sherlock said with certainty. "You're allergic to chocolate."
"That's true. I am."
"So, by process of elimin…elimination, it had to be Mycroft." Sherlock concluded, with the same air of easy confidence he would have solved a maths problem on the blackboard.
"Very good!" Again, Mrs Doyle knew she shouldn't be encouraging him but that such detective work deserved a little praise.
"I'm going to tell him! I found him out!" Sherlock went to get up but Mrs Doyle stopped him.
If Sherlock burst into Mycroft's room to annoy him about this, or anything, it was going to end up in an almighty row. Mycroft, fourteen-years-old and eyes already fixed on his future, had little time for his annoying younger brother. It took Sherlock a long time to adjust to the fact that the brother he used to follow around everywhere was now either actively ignoring him or teasing him mercilessly. Mrs Holmes had no patience for her sons fighting so acting as peacekeeper had become just another one of Mrs Doyle's duties.
"No, Sherlock - if you want to be a proper detective, you have to write up your evidence in a report." Mrs Doyle said. "Why don't you go and clean up, then write it for me?"
Sherlock didn't look convinced.
"While I bake some ginger cake?"
Sherlock considered it. "Alright!"
He bounced up from the floor and ran off to his bedroom, leaving a trail of white footprints in his wake.
Mrs Doyle couldn't help but laugh as she pulled the hoover out of the cleaning cupboard. Fingerprints - whatever next?
An hour later, the kitchen was clear of most of the signs of Sherlock's foray into forensic science and filled with the smell of baking. Sherlock was sat at the table with his felt-tip pens, glue and craft paper a tiny smile on his face. Mrs Doyle's expression mirrored it; she was glad that she had her ways and giving Sherlock a task, something he could get engrossed in, meant she could get on with her work.
Sherlock was concentrating so hard that he didn't notice his mother arrive home until she bent over to kiss him on the cheek.
"Hello, Mummy." He said.
"Hello, Sherlock - I hope you're not getting in Mrs Doyle's way."
"No, Mummy."
"What are you working on, dear?" Mrs Holmes strained to look at the papers.
"Crime scene report."
"I really wish you had a less morbid hobby."
"It's not a hobby." Sherlock's protest was barely audible.
"He's been investigating for me, Mrs Holmes." Mrs Doyle said, with a sly wink at Sherlock. The look of hurt on his face disappeared and he grinned back at her before continuing to diligently colour in his diagram.
"Where's your brother?"
"In his room." He reached for another felt-tip.
"Studying hard as usual then. Sherlock, don't slouch over the table."
Sherlock didn't correct his posture, but his mother was no longer paying attention to him.
"There will be only the boys and myself for dinner tonight." Mrs Holmes instructed her housekeeper.
"Shall I put some food aside for Mr Holmes?" Mrs Doyle asked.
"He's working late tonight, so it will a takeaway at the office. God knows what time he'll get home at."
Mrs Doyle nodded. This was a regular occurrence. Sherlock had been desperately upset a fortnight before when his father had been forced to miss his violin solo in a school concert because of work. Both she and his mother were there, and Mr Holmes had watched the video with pride, but it wasn't the same.
"Can you work overtime on Saturday morning? " Mrs Holmes asked, " The committee are coming over for a meeting and I'd like some canapés?"
"Of course, no problem."
"Daddy's taking me out on Saturday!" Sherlock interrupted.
"Is he?" Mrs Doyle said.
"We're going to pick a dog!" Sherlock continued excitedly.
A dog. Mrs Doyle could just imagine the trouble the young boy would now get into once he had a dog in tow. It really was never boring in the Holmes household.
"I need to make some phone calls." Mrs Holmes bent over to plant another kiss on her younger son's cheek. "Behave yourself, Sherlock."
Mrs Doyle placed a slice of ginger cake and a glass of milk beside Sherlock as his mother clattered out of the door.
"Let's see your crime report then." She said, taking the seat next to him at the kitchen table.
Sherlock beamed at her as she looked though the brightly coloured pages, before taking a large bite of his ginger cake.
"Oh my...! What on earth?" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, closing the bathroom door. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock didn't react at all. He remained hunched over his microscope, oblivious to everything except the slide under the lens.
That was until Mrs Hudson slammed her cleaning bucket on the kitchen table beside him.
"Explain the state of that bathroom!" She demanded as Sherlock looked at her in shock. "Blood! All over my tiles!"
"I am experimenting with blood splatter patterns." Sherlock said, as if it was a perfect sensible explanation.
"With whose blood, might I ask?" She asked, gasping as she looked down and noticed the makeshift tourniquet and fresh bloodstains on the sleeve of Sherlock's crisp white shirt. "You didn't!"
"The blood needs to be fresh to ensure accuracy." Sherlock protested.
Mrs Hudson tutted at her tenant. "What am I going to do with you?"
Sherlock ignored her fussing and went back to his microscope. She went about her normal cleaning routine around him, with the usual huff of disgust when she opened the fridge.
The doorbell rang and, as Sherlock showed no sign of going to answer it, Mrs Hudson went instead, leaning heavily on her good hip. It was the postwoman with the usual mix of bills and junk mail, and one handwritten letter.
When she returned upstairs, Sherlock had moved from the kitchen table to his favourite chair, where he sat - knees to chest and his feet digging into the leather - deep in thought.
She was torn between thinking that he looked like some kind of saint with his long fingers steepled in mediation and yelling at him to keep his feet off the furniture.
Mrs Hudson automatically sorted the post, putting the junk mail straight into the bin and John's post on the arm of his chair. The handwritten letter had caught her attention again. Pale blue airmail envelope, brightly coloured stamps, the address written in a clear cursive style very much like her own.
"Australia? A bit far away for a client?" She pondered out loud.
"Not a client." Sherlock suddenly said, getting up from his seat. He took the post from Mrs Hudson's hand and speared the bills into the mantelpiece, causing her to wince.
He then settled back into his chair, a rare genuine smile on his face as he opened the envelope, careful not to tear it.
"A friend?" Mrs Hudson was curious. Sherlock let so few people close to him.
"Mrs Doyle. She was our housekeeper when I was growing up." Sherlock unfolded the light blue paper. "She moved to Australia when she retired."
"And you've still kept in touch?"
"She insists on following my career. She adores that infernal blog of John's." Sherlock showed his usual hint of distain at this.
Mrs Hudson chuckled as she went back to her cleaning. Every now and again she stole a glance at Sherlock, watching the tension fade from his shoulders and neck as he read on, mouth quirking at various points. She enjoyed the rare sight of his harsh, prickly shell slipping to reveal that boyish core she was so fond of.
Mrs Hudson had a feeling that she would get on with Mrs Doyle if they ever met. Not to mention that the woman would have some fantastic tales of Sherlock as a child. She could imagine just how much mischief he would have got himself into. Mainly because of the huge number of scrapes he managed to have despite apparently being a grown up.
"There's scones in the oven if you're eating today."
Sherlock didn't respond but she decided to bring him some anyway - he usually ate her scones if they were placed within arms reach.
When she brought them up a little later he was still in his chair, letter dangling from long fingers as he stared out of the window.
"Scones," she said as she put them on the chair arm. "Eat them while they're still warm."
Sherlock looked up at her and grinned disarmingly as he grabbed one and bit into it with a muffled grunt of approval and she decided to capitalise on his sudden, and somewhat unusual, compliance.
"And then, Sherlock Holmes, you can clean that blood from my bathroom tiles!"