How is he? –MH
John looked from his phone to the child in question. After the doctor had retrieved the precariously perched skull Sherlock had claimed a section of the rug as his own. He now lay spread on his stomach fiercely filling scrap paper with a scavenged pen while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with Boswell and the detective's grinning but forgotten "friend." Anthea [John had long since given up on learning her real name] had dropped by earlier with a box of clothes and left without even a nod, leaving John to wonder how often similar instances happen in her work life for the woman to act with such nonchalance. With less of a fight then he had expected Sherlock changed into the more appropriate attire he currently wore after rummaging through the selection and snatching up a long sleeved blue shirt and jeans.
He's good, properly dressed and speaking to the skull. It's all very Sherlock-y, well the speaking to the skull anyway. Dressing is always a little more hit or miss. Have you learned anything?
A short time elapsed before the doctor's phone chimed again.
We have tracked down some of Phillips' associates, they were unwilling to cooperate at first, but I have convinced them that their assistance is for the best of all involved. –MH
Unfortunately their information seems rather unserviceable. –MH
John leaned back in his chair as the weight of the statement settled into his mind. 'Never texts when he can talk,' the internal baritone quipped.
Everything okay? He typed out quickly.
I have it under control. I just wanted to check on my brother to be sure there were not any noticeable changes, and inform you cleaners will be showing up within the hour. –MH
John looked around the biohazard he and Sherlock called a flat. There were innumerous ways a curious child could meet their demise in the small area, as already illustrated by the bookshelf and harpoon incident. His eyes fell back onto Sherlock who, while still lying on the floor had begun to kick his feet and twiddle with his vacant hand.
Sherlock is looking a bit antsy. I think we'll get out for a bit. It will probably be easier for the cleaners.
After the text was sent the doctor hesitated, but drew a breath and began typing once more.
Sherlock said some things earlier about his childhood, not good things. I was hoping you could fill in some gaps for me.
John waited a beat, and then another before his phone chimed with an incoming message.
I was worried something like this may happen. Of course Doctor Watson, but some other time. I am very tied up at the moment. –MH
Fine, but we will talk about this.
I do not doubt it Doctor. Good day. –MH
Taking the farewell as the end of the conversation John stood up from his chair with an exasperated sigh, no one knew how to dodge questions better than a Holmes. He rolled his neck to and fro relaxing as his spine popped in relief at the movement. Opening his eyes the doctor looked down to see curious gray irises staring back at him, smiling a little as an idea formed in his head John addressed his flat mate, "Fancy a trip to the park?"
A second search of the clothing box was rewarded with the find of a jumper and shoes in Sherlock's current size; it seemed Sherlock was a similar size to what he was the first time around, as his old clothes from storage and thus far fit like a glove. The mini detective easily slipped on the pull over and slipped on his shoes, then suddenly froze.
"Laces," the child murmured under his breath. He began to tangle the offending attachments around one another. Small fingers clumsily working the rope as a small pink tongue slipped between the lips of a very serious face.
John leaned against the wall watching his best friend concentrate on the task at hand. Taking into account that the child was already remarkably observant and could read it was somewhat comforting to watch the small boy struggle with something that his age peers would struggle with as well.
A frustrated huff emphasized with a stomp of the offending shoes drew the doctor back from his musings and into the flat. Sherlock was glaring indignantly at the articles, bottom lip sticking out at the beginning of a pout.
"Hey now, it's okay," John chuckled going to the boy and kneeling down to tie the shoes, "lots of people have trouble with laces. We can work on it later." Finishing his task John looked up at the child who gave him a watery smile in response. With both now ready to go John picked up the small bag he had packed and began to open the door when he was struck by the memory of the corpse awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs.
"Bloody hell," John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose. How had he forgotten about the dead man who had caused this entire mess? More importantly: when had dead bodies become so normal that they easily slipped his mind? Opening his eyes his saw Sherlock looking up at him expectantly, his flat mate, the one he was used to would have jumped for joy over the idea of a body so close and easy to experiment on, but before him stood a child; a child who had been frightened by the sight of the growing pool of blood and gray pallor of the unnaturally bent broken body. Everything that happened to Sherlock now would override his real childhood experiences, would change who he was and who he will be when restored to his correct age. A bad experience with a body could completely change Sherlock's desire to investigate murder scenes. No, he would not let something so important to the man be taken away from his best friend, not if he had anything to say about it. Shutting the door again he turned at the child who was now bouncing on the balls of his feet in a very recognizable way for many adults.
"Sherlock, do you need to use the loo?"
He was answered with a vehement nod.
"Then… why don't you go?"
"'Cause I don't know where it is," the boy exhaled quickly continuing his agitated dance.
'Idiot,' for once John could not disagree as the rumble reverberated through his brain. Sherlock had not recognized the flat, of course he would not know where the toilet was. Ushering the brunet into the room in question the doctor took the respite to solve the question of getting Sherlock out of the flat without causing him serious psychological trauma. Knowing his time was short, John opted for the quick fix of pulling the deceased scientist to the side of the stair case while throwing about various sheets to hide the carnage. John chuckled to himself grimly, just another day on Baker Street. His task complete, John ascended the stairs to gather his ward. When the doctor poked his head in the door he found Sherlock sitting on the couch swinging his feet.
"All ready now?" John chimed.
"Uh huh," Sherlock agreed, leaping off of the couch to join the blonde who was busy picking up the sack. John quickly checked inside the bag, making sure he had everything they would need for a day out, so absorbed was he in his task that the doctor jumped when something small and warm wound its way around a few of the fingers on his unoccupied hand. To John's surprise he found his hand joined with a much smaller and pale one belonging to Sherlock. While the solider had accepted the fact that his best friend was now a child he was then unexpectedly struck by how tiny he had truly become. John had vivid memories of Sherlock's hands enveloping multiple volumes and tomes at once with ease while he worked tirelessly on a case, but now those same appendages hardly wrapped around his middle and index finger. The thought pulled up a startling emotional weight to his gut, an odd mixture of sadness and commitment settled inside his being: bittersweet. That was the closest label he could find for the sensation.
"John?"
The doctor shook his head only to find an inquisitive chubby face gazing up at him. "Right," John nodded his head affirming to Sherlock and himself that he was back in the here and now, "let's get going, yeah?" He adjusted the sling on the bag, throwing in over his shoulder and then folded his hand around Sherlock's giving it an encouraging squeeze eliciting an excited grin from the curly haired boy. John reached forward with his other hand and opened the door. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought to himself.
XXX
"But John, ducks don't have bread in their natural hab'tat." Sherlock looked up to his elder friend with large eyes, "it might hurt 'um."
"It's okay Sherlock; people have been feeding these ducks bread for years," to prove his point John ripped off a piece of the slightly stale loaf and tossed it into the water, causing the water fowl to swarm. "So for them it is part of their natural habitat, see?"
Hoping to calm his friend's fears over the wellbeing of the animals John offered the bread to the child to examine for himself. The item in question was turned and examined with serious scrutiny before Sherlock carefully pulled off a pinch of crust and tossed it into the water. Upon impact the ducks attack causing Sherlock to giggle with surprised delight, his hands jumping to his face in a sign of glee. John watched it all with a smile, chuckling at his flat mate's obvious joy.
After that display Sherlock seemed to come to the conclusion that the bread would not cause harm to the feathered beings and continued to pull off small pieces of the leavened food to scatter to his awaiting audience, relaxing into John's side where they sat on the grass. The contact still surprised the doctor, but he was beginning to think of it as a child looking for a physical connection to a caregiver instead of an aspect of their friendship. He had seen Sherlock with his mother after all, the elder woman seemed to be a very tactile person, and while the adult Sherlock may find the constant touching irksome, it seemed from his albeit short experience in his younger days the detective might have enjoyed such things, with this is mind he wrapped his arm around the small body. It was a cool autumn day, but the sun had made an unexpected appearance and shown through the deciduous branches, just beginning to let go of their leaves. The two stayed that way until the bread disappeared and the ducks lost interest and left in search of more nutrition.
All was peace and calm for a short time until John suddenly noticed the vacancy under his arm.
"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet, spinning in the hopes of finding the tiny detective in the surrounding area. He did not. "Sherlock?" He called again swinging his head to the left and the right. John stopped to listen for a response only to notice how quiet the park was, had it been that quiet before? No, focus. Sherlock, where had he gone? John felt his heart begin to race as he scanned the area. Should he stay where he was and hope Sherlock had only wandered off and planned to return, or go off to look for him? "Sherlock!" The doctor bellowed, but the only sound his ears received was the loud pumping of his own throbbing pulse. Panic. Sheer panic.
John could feel the adrenaline begin to hum through his veins. Find Sherlock, he had to find Sherlock. Scanning the area the doctor decided to investigate a nearby grove of trees first. With this verdict made the blonde quickly began to scale the small hill, whipping out his phone to call in reinforcements.
Sherlock is missing we're in the park. I don't know what happe-
Something collided with the doctor's mass. The text was never finished, nor was it sent.
Next chapter will have my first ever fight scene. In the past I have done everything in my power to have physical action take place off the page as I find fights difficult to write and harder still to read, but the novel I am working on has fight scenes so I need to practice.
What do you guys think? I already know where the story is going, but if you have theories I would love to hear them.
Thanks for reading and have phenomenal week.
Nikola
