"The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then stop."
Mark Twain
It's not often that you find children at Baker Street. It is for this reason that Sherlock Holmes had suddenly found himself face to face with a young boy of eight, standing guiltily in the lobby and obscuring his path to the kitchen which had drawn him from his room. They nearly collided as the detective swung by a sturdy hand round the railing, aiming to leap to Mrs. Hudson's cookery without delay.
But it was not so. Instead of divesting the lady of her newly baked pastries, he found himself standing dumbfounded in front of a frightened boy clutching at his coat, standing wide-eyed and nervous before the hall furniture.
It was some time before he found his words.
"Oh... small child. What are you doing here?" He was finally able to ask.
Timidly, the boy looked up. "I... my mother's here to see Dr. Watson. She's in the room and she asked me to wait here for her..."
There are some moments of awkward silence before Holmes finally decides to return to his original plans. "Ah, I see. Well, I do hope nothing serious is amiss, and that--" He cuts himself off when his eyes catch what the boy was so desperately trying to hide. Pushed against the wall, streaks of dirt splattered all over the carpet and ceramic shards shoved unceremoniously beneath the couch, Holmes sees the fallen vase. Smiling, he cocks his head at the unfortunate art. "Was that you?"
The child blushes and sinks his chin deeper upon his chest. "I didn't mean to break it, I swear! I was only sitting here when I-I... my shoe flew off my foot and hit it and it broke and I tried to clean it up but you saw it anyway!" he pleaded in a voice so wracked with guilt that it flew from his lips at so rapid a pace, that it was hard to understand the poor lad.
With a wave of his hand, Holmes laughed and silenced the stuttering child. "Easy now, my boy! Calm down! It's quite alright, I've always hated that vase and I'm glad you've done me the honor of ridding this house of it. You have my sincere thanks."
The boy looked up, confused, before the realization that he was out of harms reach made him beam with delight that only a child could muster.
"To tell you the truth, sir, I threw my shoe at it!"
"I know." The detective smiled as fear reestablished itself.
"I was... I only wanted to see if I could hit, the... um...the lady--"
"Yes, I've always found nude figures on household furniture a singular thing. Not my taste, to be perfectly frank. Any how, my dear... pray, what is your name?"
"Oh! William! My name's William."
"Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, William." The man extended his hand, which the boy eagerly grasped; his fingers hardly able to wrap around the hand.
"My mum doesn't let me introduce myself as Billy, she says no gentleman is ever called Billy. But that's what my friends call me."
"A gentleman's name is a trivial thing to worry about, it means nothing to the soul." Still holding his hand, Holmes guided young William back to the couch and seated himself beside him; Mrs. Hudson's cakes all but forgotten.
"Sherlock. That's a funny name." he giggled as he regarded the fallen vase with new amusement.
"It's a funny name for a funny man. Tell me, William, what is so funny about it?"
"I never heard it before in my life! Rather odd ring to it, too... like something not really real." He flashed a toothy grin at the man which received a propped brow in return. "One of my mates from school is named Gabriel, we always laugh at him for it because our least favorite professor is also named that, but he doesn't mind." the boy grinned.
Holmes gave him a condescending look, which went by unnoticed, and leaned back against the wall. "I once knew a man who painted his face with purple ink, he would carry a single boot with his stub of a hand and threaten us with scurvy. Alas, he had knocked out all his teeth from trying to gnash the bricks on the corner of a building one day, and yet, for whatever reason, he thought that doing so would imbue him the gift of opera singing." He paused to look at William, who was now laughing at the man Holmes had described. Also adorning a grin, he asked, "What do you think of this man?"
"I think he's a bloody idiot!"
"And do you know what we used to call him?"
"I've no idea, sir! Please tell me!"
"We called him Shakespeare. Do you know why?"
"I do not."
"His name was William."
The younger William clamped his mouth shut and ceased his laughter. "Oy! You make your point, sir...."
"I tend to do that. So, my dear William, what brings you and your mother here to visit Dr. Watson?"
Here, Holmes witnessed the boy's lips purse, all the joy from their banter disappearing behind a face of uncertain fragility. William gave a mirthless smile, which suggested deep, misunderstood emotion. Holmes sat up a bit straighter.
"I don't rightly no, sir. She keeps me up at night with all her coughing, and sometimes I get scared that she might choke."
Oh, dear. "I see. Is there anything else?" He asks quietly.
William nods. "She's as white as a doll, which it weird, but it makes her eyes really pretty." He smiles at this knowledge, thinking that it is at least something. "I love my mum," William continues. "Her hair is lovely when she goes outside. Why do ladies wear such big hats, mister Holmes? It hides away all their lovely hair."
"I... I don't know," he responds.
"Me neither. I get to see her hair all the time, though. She never needs the hat 'cause she has me to go out and buy her the things we need. Sometimes, if I'm good, she'll even give me extra to buy some candies." he paused. "D'ya know? I always thought that maybe there was a bad man who she'd see on the way to the market, so that's why she needed me to protect her and get the things for her. But I've never seen him, so maybe I scared him off!"
"Do you know what she has, William?" Holmes asks, ignoring the straying topic.
The boy simply shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. I think a cold maybe, she says she'll be better soon."
They both turn at the sound as a door opens up above them, revealing a sickly looking woman and a tired doctor.
"Mum!" William shoots out of his chair and races toward her.
"William, have you behaved yourself?" She asked in a weary voice.
"I did, I was talking to mister Holmes here, he told me a funny story." The boy was practically jumping out of his shoes in excitement. The mother laughed, encouraging her son's enthusiasm for sharing with her.
"Did he now? You'll have to tell me about it in the cab."
Holmes watched their happy reunion, observing how the boy's arms hung loosely around his mother's to-small waist as her frail hands lovingly toiled his hair. It was painful to watch, knowing it was in possibly irrevocable danger. He looked away, catching Watson's eye. The doctor shook his head.
Holmes had started in his direction as Watson stepped around the mother and son, meeting Holmes half way; the eagerness to understand wordlessly spoken to him.
Holmes turned the doctor and himself away from eye and ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Well Watson, what is your diagnosis?"
"What else can it be?" he whispers back. "She's lost an incredible amount of weight which her body could hardly stand losing, already being of small build, and is stricken with fever and plagued with chest pains. I take it you've taken notice of her soiled kerchief?"
Holmes nodded, glancing over his shoulder briefly. "Tuberculosis, then."
"In it's final stages, I'm afraid. Honestly, I don't see how she's still standing."
"Dear me, that is dreadful."
He already knew that, Watson knows. Holmes wore an indifferent expression, though Watson had already surmised exactly what was on his mind. "She tells me that arrangements have already been made. The boy has relatives out in Sussex, they will care for him when she-"
"When he is robbed of his mother." Holmes interrupts. The doctor nudges his hand briefly before stepping away to express a few last concerns and recommendations with his client while walking her to the door.
With Watson aiding the lady, and William once again distracted by the fallen vase, Holmes finds himself with a sudden impulse.
Quickening his step, he catches William by the shoulder and, kneeling down to his level, brings the child into a gentle embrace. It's met with warm welcome as the lad happily returns the gesture.
"Why don't you read your mother a story when you get home, eh?" He suggest with a smile, holding the boy at arms length.
"I never thought of doing that before. You think she'll like it?"
"Oh yes, mothers love to hear stories just as much as they love telling them. Also, you might show her your favorite toy. I think she'd be deeply interested to hear about all the adventures it's been on with you."
He beamed at the detective. "I know just the one! I can tell her about that time Polly and I found the little river by our house! I think there might be pirates at the end, but she'd be scared to see them."
"Nonsense. She'd have you holding her hand all the way to the end, where ever that may be."
William nodded at him before being called away by the waiting mother, grasping her hand and matching his stride with hers as they walked out the door. And if Watson was correct, which Holmes was, for once, loath to admit he nearly always was, they'd be walking out together for the last time.
Had I been able to achieve what I felt when the idea first popped in my head, this may have replaced #4 as my favorite. However, I dunno where I went wrong with it, not like I think it's bad or anything, but I just didn't achieve the emotion like I had intended.
Anyway, yes. I also noticed that instead of centering the fic around the quote, like I should be doing, it kinda sorta got addressed and moved along unceremoniously... :D
Mark Twain, you have my apologies.