1

Mycroft sighed. 'Are you sure you are going to keep him, Sherlock?'

He looked at the child sleeping on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock's cold, thin fingers brushed his blond hair gently, and he looked sad and and desperate. 'I must, Mycroft,' he said in a low voice, carefully not to wake the boy up,'He's got no one. I can't send him anywhere. He needs to be cared for.'

'But you don't even know how to raise a child, Sherlock. Just give him to me, I'll deal with this. I promise I'll get the best caring for him.'

'I can't, Mycroft. I can't. Leave him to another.'

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Mycroft nodded. 'Fine, Sherlock. I know you wouldn't let him go.'

2

Sherlock found this boy accidentally last week.

He was coming back to Baker Street after getting slightly drunk in the pub where he and John celebrated John's stag night, on his way he met a little boy sitting on the dirty street. He had blond hair, and a pair of eyes which Sherlock couldn't tell their colour. He thought they were pink.

He froze, for he thought John was back, in this special form. A child that needed help. A child that had no one waiting for Sherlock to save him and guide him. He was shocked by his thoughts. What was he thinking about? He never believed in these things. John was dead. He saw him lying on the ground, covered in blood. He was dead, and no matter how much Sherlock missed him, he could never see him again. Although he knew it wasn't real, he still had some hope. I was drunk, he thought with a bitter smile, and what could I have expected? I could talk to him and pretend John is back, just for a while, when I am drunk. When I wake up I will be all alone again, and no harm would be done.

And so he went near the boy. He was sitting silently at the edge of the pavement, with his head lowering to his knees, and his arms wrapped around his knees. His face was covered with mud and dirt, his eyes were red from crying or rubbing by hands.

He noticed Sherlock walking towards him, but he didn't raise his head. 'What are you doing here?' Sherlock asked. When he was near enough to the boy he noticed he was biting his lips to fighting back tears. This made him a bit sympathetic because this was exactly how he acted right after John's funeral.

He patted the boy on the shoulders. 'Hey, young fellow,' he said in his drunk voice, 'you don't look well. What had happened to you?'

The boy finally turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock was greatly shocked the moment his eyes met the boy's eyes. They were John's eyes. He could never tell their colour. Sometimes they were too dark to be recognised, and sometimes they were light, and now he thought they were pink In the dim light. That was just imagination, he told himself.

The boy spoke, but he did not answer Sherlock's question. 'What made you ask, sir? You don't seem to know me.'

'You... Made me think of one of my friends. Or my friend, for I've only got one friend, and that's him.'

The boy frowned for he saw the pain in Sherlock's eyes. 'And then what? I guess you lost him.' He said.

'I did,' Sherlock admitted,'and it was my fault.'

'Oh, people always say that when they know they are not to blame. They'd get over it in the end.'

'I don't think I can. I've got no one now.'

The boy was silent again. Sherlock noticed and regretted saying that to this boy, because this boy seemed to be the one that needed caring more than he did. So he sighed and tried to be friendly. 'I can see you are unwell,' he said, he knew it was awkward but he wasn't very good at comforting others, 'Why don't you talk to me? Like... I'm a stranger, so you don't have to worry. Tell me whatever you need to tell, I'll just listen.'

The boy didn't seem to be convinced. 'I don't even know you,' he repeated.

'Fine,' Sherlock gave up,'then you should know me, if it is so important to you. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and my address is 221B Baker Street.' It was not suitable to tell your address to someone you don't really know, but Sherlock did, he did it for he was thinking about John.

'Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.' The boy said.

'Well, since you've known my name, I think it better to let me know yours, too, what do you think?'

The boy thought for a moment, and licked his lips. 'John Watson,' he said, and that was how Sherlock knew everything wasn't over, and for that he cried in front of all the people staring curiously at his unusual act.