Hansel

Sherlock didn't move as Sally ushered the young boy back into the room.

"He's related. The results came in today. Now, you're going to have a lot of paperwork to do. We can't just hand him over, especially not since he's been traumatized. You'll have a few visits from a caseworker specifically assigned to Hansel." Sally's mouth quirked to the side, a habit she only enacted when experiencing doubt. "He's got a lot of problems. They are more than willing to give you a chance, but they are going to be testing you extensively. Your… association with Sherlock was mentioned as a point of concern."

His gaze shifted to Molly, who was sitting straight, her entire body an arrow pointing to the boy.

"I assure you, I will not let anything happen to him. Did they send any of the paperwork with you or…?"

"They'll be by with it later. I've given them your address. I don't think the… Sherlock's flat will leave a positive impression."

Sherlock didn't have to look around to know what Sally meant. Vials and beakers and odds and ends of experiments lay about. One look in the fridge and the boy would be sent off. He didn't know why she wanted to help this stranger, beyond the expected sense of familial obligation, but there was more. She faced Sally, and Sherlock noted the tired slump of her shoulders and the newly formed lines around her eyes.

"I'll take care of him, Sally. Don't worry."

The boy in question poked around, picking up papers and dishes and everything within reach. The moment he spotted the skull he made a run for it, Sherlock's arm barely catching the rascal's stomach. A scream shattered the quiet of Baker Street. Not the same terrified scream, but the petulant cry of child throwing a temper tantrum. Sally waved and ducked out, a wary glance at the boy before the door closed.

"Molly, I don't know how to fix this." He gestured at the child. Hansel had thrown himself to the floor, his arms and legs flailing, lungs bursting with a horrible noise.

Molly stepped over, gathered the swinging limbs into a tight embrace and carried him to John's chair. After enough cooing and calming he settled down into her arms, thumb plopped in his mouth and eyes still teary.

"Hey, would you like to see my home?" Her voice was still quiet, but the question carried through the living room.

"Molly, I still have to ask questions. We need to find who sent him here. We need to find out who calls you angel."

"I already told you—"

"We can't be sure it's him until we have data. Never theorize before you have the facts."

"Sherlock, he needs to adjust. He needs to rest."

"He rested yesterday."

"Sherlock." Her tone warned him to back down, to be patient. They didn't have time for patience.

Molly is the angel.

She was in danger. He supposed he was as well, but that seemed a bit less important in light of all that had happened over the course of the last two days. Whoever had gone through the trouble of finding and holding Hansel had been in it for the long game. If it was Moriarty, Sherlock would have to reorganize every bit of information he had on the man. That would shift the dynamic around quite a bit.

"We're going to have to go home Sherlock. Sally's right. I can't let the social worker meet me here. They'd have a fit."

"I'll go with you."

"Sherlock, that won't look any better."

"It will look fine. I will not speak to the social worker unless spoken to and I will be gone before nightfall."

She gave him a strange look, as if he had grown a second head or done a strange dance.

"I need to ask him questions, Molly. I need to know what has happened."

"Only if he's ok with it."

"Let me come with him. If we can test his jacket and do some cross checks on any new information he gives us, we might be able to find who's been holding him."

"What are we going to do if we find them? We don't even know what crimes they've committed. This isn't one of your murder cases, Sherlock. This is more complicated than that."

"He deserves to have his abductor behind bars."

Molly took a deep breath, setting her shoulders back the way she always did when she had something important to say.

"We don't have proof he's been abducted. My mother could have put him up for adoption, or given custody to a friend. There's a number of possibilities."

"Adoption." He narrowed his eyes, looked Hansel over once more. "Molly, let's hurry on to your house. We've got some memories to explore. You still have that large picture book with all those pictures of you and that cat?"

"Sherlock, I've a lot of picture books."

"Well, we'll be having a look at all of them." She didn't question further as she headed out the door. The minute she'd walked through the door Hansel went into a fit, gaining unwanted stares from passersby.

"Sherlock Holmes can save me! Sherlock Holmes can save me!" He wriggled from her grip, scurried back into the house, and clung like an anchor to Sherlock's legs. Molly watched aghast as Sherlock remained rooted to the spot inside his flat.

"Come on, we've got to go to my house." Tired eyes plead with him, but there's nothing he can do with his calves wrapped in child arms.

"Hansel?" The boy looked up. It was highly improbably that this was his real name. He must have heard Sherlock call him that before being carted away somehow. Or maybe Sally had referred to him as such. The name did seem rather fitting for the young one. "Hansel, you've got to go with Molly. She is the angel. She can keep you safe."

"No. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes can save me. Molly Hooper is the angel, Sherlock Holmes can save me." The two sentences were intrinsically connected in the boy's psyche. If he could just find out how the two were connected.

Molly's phone rang. By the biting of her lip, it was the social worker.

"Yes. I know, I'll be ready. Thank you for calling ahead." She hung up the phone, expression waning into desperation. "Sherlock, clean your flat."

"Clean my… What?"