Hansel
"Did you say Molly Hooper?" The child nodded. "How do you know Molly Hooper?" No answer, just a blank stare once more. He glanced at his phone. John's name still blazed in black against the green neon of his screen. Still on then.
He picked up the cell, breathed deeply. "John, bring Molly. I know what I said. Bring Molly. I don't know." More silence. The kid was giving him nothing to go on, but he had a suspicion. Just a small one, just a problematic piece of an unsolved puzzle from ages ago.
He studied the child over again, but nothing more stood out. Well-fed at one point, dirty, traumatized. Something about the dead look in his eyes was disturbing. He'd seen very few people look that way, and never any children. It usually accompanied certain death.
When his door knocked again, the child's head jerked to the door. Finally, his expression lit. Something akin to curiosity and anticipation mingled with something even more unrecognizable. A soft whisper from pouted lips slithered through the room. This kid was creepy.
"Sherlock Holmes can save you. Sherlock Holmes can save you." He breathed, closed his eyes. "Molly Hooper is the angel. Molly Hooper is the angel. Molly Hooper is the angel." Not breaking the child's stare, he opened the door.
"Sherlock, I was at—" Molly stopped, face pale.
"Molly Hooper is the angel." No longer whispering, the boy was excited. He ran, wrapped his arms around Molly, and cried. Tears dripped from his face, snot rolled from his nose.
"Molly, is there something you'd like to say?" It was John who finally spoke.
"I… He's the spitting image of…" She had trouble forming the thought.
"Molly, now is not the time to be dull."
"When did he get here?"
"This morning, he just walked into my flat. This is the most he's said since he got here."
"What does he mean?"
"I don't know."
"Deduce, dammit, deduce." He swung around, feet still mid-march. Molly had never demanded anything of him.
"The most I've gotten has been that he escaped from somewhere indoors, well-fed up to a point. Jacket is a few years old, hair has recently been combed. Likely this morning. Trauma more heavily leans towards women, meaning whoever watched over him was probably a woman, older based on the strength of his reaction to Mrs. Hudson. Based on the damage to his vocal chords, I'd wager he's screamed a good bit before, with little done to soothe his throat. Not a caretaker. Just enough to keep him alive, keep him going. He escaped without incident, no bruises, no sign of a struggle."
"Sherlock, none of this has to do with why he's calling me the angel. Why's he calling me an angel?" Too much panic in her voice. It snags his attention, turns him back towards her. He realizes for a moment that the most apparent thing in the room is not actually the most interesting thing in the room.
"You know why he's calling you angel." It's not a question. He knows. He can tell by the fear on her face and the hitch in her voice. "Why?" John, as ever, is confused. He's doing his subtle glances between them with his eyebrows all gathered like this is the most ludicrous display he's seen all year.
"J-Jim used to call me angel. It was weird. We didn't really date, but he called me angel anyway."
If Sherlock Holmes had never experienced true fear, he did now. It wasn't hysterical or gripping as he'd expected. This was cold creep of understanding something he never wanted to understand. The boy clutching at Molly didn't understand the weight of it.
"Jim Moriarty used to call you angel and you never thought to mention it?"
"Why the bloody hell would I ever mention that? Ever?" He wonders if she realizes she's started running her hands through the boy's hair. Wonders if that's just part of her instinct, part of the force of being Molly?
"Because it's significant. Angels means something significant to Moriarty." He paced again. What was this game? What was it this time?
"He's asleep." Everything is calm now. John dozed in his chair, but Molly still stood, hands still pulling through ratted curls.
John jerked awake at a kick to the shins, checked the boy over and found no medical issues. The patient slept soundly through the check-up. Fatigue could be added to his list of symptoms them. Sherlock knew before the day was over the detectives would show up, they'd take the child away for questioning and to some home where he'd be warm and entirely unsafe. So he studied every moment he had with him, trying with every moment to get more information. But there was no more. The dirt could be from anywhere, as far as he could tell now. He'd gathered samples but it did no good at the moment. He would need the lab for the test.
Molly had just begun shifting uncomfortably when someone banged on his door. Two people, Sally and another. The other had done the knocking, and was now getting scolded.
"Sherlock, we've got to take the kid now. Social services is pounding at our door."
"And you're pounding at mine. How circular." He watched the sleeping boy. "His name is Hansel, I'm keeping him."
"He's not a puppy, Sherlock. You can't keep him." He glanced from Molly to the child.
"I can. I know his closest living relative." Sally laughed dryly. She didn't believe him. "No, really, I do. You can take him away to do a DNA test, but you'll find I'm correct anyway."
"Just because you say something doesn't mean it's true. Molly's never had children, Sherlock."
"No. But her mother has. Obviously." Molly paled again.
"Besides her vague and unhelpful comment, Molly Hooper has the same eye shape and color, similar jaw lines. Not enough immediately to say they're related and not just physical coincidence. However, the whorls in their hair go in the same direction, clear hereditary mark." He sat down, leaned forward on his hands, and finished off. "Of course, the biggest indicator is that Molly's sentence would have finished 'Spitting image of Joseph', her brother who lives in America now."
She didn't even ask how he knew there was a brother in America. He was Sherlock Holmes. He knew everything.