IT'S A CRIME

The young Littlestons show up at a crime scene to gawk so that Lestrade has to call John to talk reason to them.

"John?"

John had just returned to his surprisingly empty flat and was putting the groceries in the kitchen when the phone rang. He didn't even have his coat off yet, he thought as he answered it, then felt guilty because even through the phone, he could hear the stress in Greg's voice. "What did Sherlock do now?"

"Surprisingly enough, it's not him, mate, but you've got to get down here right away."

John grabbed the milk and practically flung it into the refrigerator, already heading for the door, leaving the rest of the bags on the counter. "Why? What's going on? What happened? It's not Harry, is it?"

"No, nothing like that," Greg said quickly. "But apparently you've got a fan club, and they're mucking up my crime scene."

"Fan club?"

"Just get here."

John stared at the phone in his hand. The last time he had heard Greg sounding so harried had been when Sherlock insisted on questioning every witness to a homicide—which had taken place at a club for transvestites. (It had turned out to be an open-and-shut case, but Sherlock couldn't resist the chance to study so many cross-dressers in one place. Greg had been livid.)

He hailed a cab the minute he got down the stairs—this obviously was not the time to mess with the public transportation system. What had Greg meant by fan club? And—Sherlock was not involved? Remembering what Sherlock always said about not speculating until you had data, he tried not to fret, but the drive still seemed endless.

He had the driver drop him a block away from the crime scene. He could see the familiar tape and flashing lights down the road and decided it would be best to approach discreetly. It didn't seem overly chaotic, he thought, and then wondered when he had become an expert on crime scene activity. There was a reasonable bustle behind the tape, but nobody looked rushed or traumatized. It all looked fairly routine—not something that would bring that note of desperation into Greg's seasoned voice.

There were spectators gathered, as always. The English might be strong advocates of the stiff upper lip school of overlooking disaster like a bachelor uncle looks past the heads of his young nephews at dinner, but human nature still drew them in to witness the disasters. He eyed them as he approached, but there were no more than usual.

John approached the constable at the barrier. "John Watson. Detective Inspector Lestrade called me."

The young man immediately raised the tape. "Oh yes, Dr. Watson. You'd best hurry, he's been asking for you."

John nodded as he ducked under the tape. He was so busy wondering what could have Greg so worked up, he didn't notice the surge in noise from the spectators. Following the constable's instructions, he headed toward the scene. Everything looked calm enough to him. He had just caught a glimpse of a tall, familiar figure in a dark coat when he heard his name. "John, about time. Thanks for coming."

"Greg. What's the trouble? It looks like you've got everything under control." John looked at the dead body crumpled by the alley wall. Everything seemed routine—inasmuch as a murder scene could ever actually be routine.

"Yeah, the murder's not the problem," Greg told him, fingers flexing as if he was restraining himself from running them through his hair—or punching someone. "The problem is with them."

He pointed past John's shoulder. John turned to look and groaned. "What are they doing here?"

"Exactly my question, John. Sherlock swears they didn't come with him, but he seems just a little too pleased to have them here for me to believe him."

"And he hasn't exactly been eager to send them on their way, I'll bet," John said. "Right. I'll see to it."

"Good, because this isn't exactly the cinema over here. We're not here for their entertainment. I'd send them on their way with a bug in their ear but, well …"

"Since they're related to me, you want me to do your dirty work for you," John finished for him with a resigned smile. "Don't worry. I'll do my best. Go back to your boring crime scene."

He got a clap on the shoulder for that (the bad one, worse luck), and he rubbed it absently as he walked to the corner Greg had indicated. "Well, boys, what have you got to say for yourself?"

Charles had the decency to look ashamed, but Chris's face was alight with enthusiasm. "We wanted to see what a crime scene was really like, Uncle John. We want to help."

John leveled his best Army Captain look at the eager teenager, refusing to feel guilty as the youngster's enthusiasm wilted before his eyes. "What makes you think Scotland Yard needs your help?"

"Well," the boy said, defiant, "Sherlock says they need help all the time."

John wanted to close his eyes, but kept his face still. "Sherlock thinks everybody needs his help, boys, whether it's true or not. And he means hishelp, not yours. Neither of you should be anywhere near a crime scene, even as spectators. Do you know what your parents would say, if they knew?"

"But, Uncle John, it's not like we can see anything. They won't let us anywhere near the body. We're just watching the police. We're not in the way," said Charles.

"It's not like we're babies, after all," added Chris.

"Yet, in many ways you are. Believe me, there is a difference between seeing dead bodies on telly and seeing them in real life. It is NOT the same thing. You are in no way prepared for this and should not be here."

"But how else can we learn?"

"Learn what?" John asked, clinging to his patience.

"About death. How to help." Chris's face was alight again. "It's not our fault that we're young. It doesn't mean we're stupid."

John badly wanted to disagree but Charles was nodding now, just as earnestly. "All our friends play those video games and think it's so cool when they kill people, but we know it's not funny, it's not a game, because of you. You and Sherlock You both know that death isn't a game and we wanted to show our friends that—even if the games are fun, that doesn't make them right."

John took another look at the spectators, only now realizing that a disproportionate number of them were teenage boys, all of whom were looking at him. "You mean to tell me you not only showed up at a crime scene yourselves, but you brought friends? How did you even know about it?"

"Oh, that was Sherlock. He told us that …"

But John had already snapped, "Wait here," and strode off to find his flatmate. It wasn't hard, Sherlock was standing near the corner, watching, and was ready for him when John stormed up to him. "I can explain, John."

"I certainly hope so. What were you thinking, Sherlock?"

"Do you know how much your cousins admire you, John?"

That wasn't the opening he was expecting. He'd expected Sherlock to be defensive, or to spout some deluded theory about family connections, but this threw him off guard. "I … what?"

"They admire you greatly. You're a war hero to begin with, and since they've known you, you've disarmed a man holding a knife to your throat right in front of them and been shot saving my life. They'd be fools not to admire you for that." Sherlock's eyes were serious, but John was having trouble processing this. Compliments from Sherlock?

"Well … okay. Thanks for that. But what does that have to do with them being at a crime scene?"

"Because like any teenage boys, your young cousins are blood-thirsty monsters, John. Their level of hero worship is growing alarmingly fast, and while I admire their taste, I know how foolish teenagers can be. They've been asking more and more questions about what we do, how we solve crimes, and I believe the next step would lead to them trying it on their own."

John glanced at the avid faces behind him. Sherlock might have a point.

He pulled a quick breath through his nose and tried to remember when he was their age and convinced that he knew everything. He reminded himself of all the young men he'd known in Afghanistan—men not much older than these two—who were so convinced they were invincible but never made it home, no matter how hard he tried to save them. He reminded himself that youthful arrogance came with a price that was too easily spent in ignorance.

"So, you brought them along to see that death is serious business?"

"More or less." Sherlock gestured behind him. "It's a pedestrian crime, really, just a mugging gone bad. Very little blood, nothing gruesome, but that's what makes it educational, don't you think?"

"Sherlock." John tried to find the right words. "I'm not saying you're entirely wrong, but this is a crime scene, not an educational experience."

"Why can't it be both?"

John couldn't help the bark of laughter. "Well, for one thing, Greg will never let that happen. And for another," he looked back at the crowd behind the barricade, "That's a whole class trip back there. If it were just Chris and Charles, we might manage something, but … Christ, Sherlock…."

"I confess, I hadn't expected them to bring friends," Sherlock admitted.

"And you haven't explained any of this to Greg?"

"I thought it best coming from you. He never seems to take my suggestions very well."

Another laugh. "That's because you present them as orders, idiot." John drew in another breath and went looking for Greg.

It's lucky for all of them that this is such a boring crime scene, because finding Greg was easy and he was as bored (and therefore not rushed, stressed, or irate) as one could hope for this conversation. "Hey, Greg."

"Got them sorted out, then? I couldn't ask Sherlock because, well, you know how he is."

John rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to look over his shoulder. "Yeah, I do. But, er, here's the thing…."

Greg's easy grin slid off his face. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Probably not, but hear me out?" John waited for Greg's nod and then flung himself into his explanation—crazy teenagers, want to help, stupid enough to get into trouble, never seen real death before, accident waiting to happen—the works. "I know it's crazy, but, well … consider that they've been exposed to the lunacy that is Sherlock Holmes and this could be the vaccine that saves their lives and keeps their parents from killing me."

Greg just stared at him and John held his breath. He knew this was insane. He knew the parents would never approve—and heaven help him when they found out—but if this helped those stupid kids from being actually, criminally, fatally stupid, it was worth it, wasn't it?

Finally, Greg said, "I'm not, absolutely not, letting those kids onto the scene to see a dead body. It's not happening. Do you know how many ways I could get my ass sued for something like that? It's just not going to happen."

He glanced past John's shoulder and said, "But what I will do … and heaven help me … is let those kids on the scene after everything else is done. When the body's gone, when we're done collecting evidence, when there's basically nothing left to see, you and Sherlock can play tour guide and point out all the stupid things that poor bastard did and how none of it was his fault for getting in the way of a mugging. Meanwhile, those kids can stand to the side and watch us work. They can see the body being carted to the ambulance, and if Constable Harris feels so inclined, he can explain to them what we're doing. But they're not getting past that barricade, do you hear me?"

"Seems more than generous to me," John told him. "I'm particularly fond of the part where this is likely to save my neck, too, when the parents find out."

"Afraid of angry parents? And you a soldier," Greg said, teasing.

"An enemy with a gun, a madman with a bomb—those I can handle. Hysterical parents? Totally another story," John said with a grin. "How about a crime scene photo? Nothing gory, just a visual aid to go with the lecture for the class?"

It went as Greg suggested. The boys were grouped to one side of the crime tape while Sherlock explained how careless the victim had been and all the mistakes the killer had made. John tried to temper the rising enthusiasm (because the teenagers naturally all thought they were much smarter than the killer) by pointing out how abrupt and vicious the violence was, how the victim hadn't done anything truly wrong other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was hard, of course, to impress on invincible teenagers with their raging testosterone that it wasn't good to put yourself in danger, even for the greater good. It was particularly hard because, going by that argument, John and Sherlock didn't have a leg to stand on. "You do it all the time!"

"We do," said John quickly, before Sherlock could open his mouth. "And we're damn lucky. We've both been nearly killed more times than I like to think and it's only through luck that we're not actually dead."

"But, you were in the army, Uncle John. And Sherlock is brilliant. It can't all be luck!" Christ protested.

"No," Sherlock agreed with him, "A lot of it was skill and training. You can't rely on luck, but you can never assume that the criminals will always be stupider than you, or that they don't sometimes have good luck, too."

John pulled his mouth shut with an effort. Was Sherlock admitting to a weakness, there? Or, no, he was just admitting to everyone else's weakness. This little life lesson was his idea, after all, and John had to admit he was doing his best to sell it. "Every officer here knows that they could be killed on the job," John told the boys. "We all do. We're smart, we're trained, we take every precaution, but all it takes is one mistake and any of us could be dead. If you truly want to help, do it right—become a policeman or a fireman, or join the army—but don't put yourself in danger without training, without backup. Not ever unless you truly have no choice.

John looked back at the crime scene, where the activity was coming to a close. "We see dead bodies every day. People who did nothing wrong. Or people who were trying to do the right thing—like Officer Adams last month. He died trying to save a woman from a mugging, and even though he was smart and prepared, the mugger got lucky and Adams died. He was only 23, which isn't really that much older than you lot."

The boys' enthusiasm had muted now and John pointed out what some of the other officers were doing, and why it was important. He pointed out the photographer and the constables keeping people away, keeping them safe. And when the coroner wheeled the body out on its covered gurney, the boys frankly stared.

Except, this time, it wasn't ghoulish, it wasn't eager. It was respectful.

Sherlock gave the tour of the crime scene when the Met was done. By then, there was nothing much to see, but he explained how the blind alley had worked in favor of the killer, how the victim had only needed to make one mistake to be caught, but had in fact made several. John could see the boys thinking that they would have made some of the same decisions, and was thankful for the sober faces when they were done.

All the boys thanked them when they left, and Chris made a point to tell John, "I'm going to be a detective when I grow up, so I can do what you and Sherlock and the police do. Because, you're right—you have to be smart, and I am smart. Even I can see how important it is to not to do this alone. That's why you two have each other, right?"

"Right," said John after a moment. "Now, go catch up, and try not to tell your mother anything that's going to get me killed, all right?"

He watched him run off and then turned to Sherlock. "You think it helped?"

"Of course it did, John. We're the cool relatives, remember?"

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