Ch. 32
The next morning, Sherlock got up early with Norah. He had to go make an appearance in front of the Palace of Westminster to be recognized for saving the children from the Durham mine and meet their families. He wished he could bring John or Norah for moral support, (and to make sure he didn't say anything offensive to any of the families,) but they both had work, so he would just have to be sure to keep his opinions and deductions to himself today.
Norah had a mug of tea waiting for him on the counter when he had finished showering. He grabbed it, kissed her forehead while she read the newspaper, and retreated to his room to get dressed. She was gone by the time he emerged.
The scene outside of the parliament building was rather overwhelming. The press always flocked to Sherlock like pigeons to crumbs whenever he made any public appearances, so he was met by an army of flashing cameras upon his arrival. He pushed through the sea of photographers and people shoving recording devices in front of his face and sauntered up onto the platform that was set up for the occasion. They were really making a much bigger deal out of this than was necessary.
When he got up on the stage, he was suddenly attacked with a fervent hug by a young lad.
"Hello Franklin," he said. Patting his back. He looked across the platform at the rest of the children and their parents, spotting the little girl still clutching Mister Hopsaot.
A quirky man wearing a tweed jacket then bounded onto the platform and approached the microphone.
"Today," he said, quieting the press. "We commend a national hero for once again, saving the day.
Sherlock stood behind him with his hands clasped behind his back, and had to actively prevent himself from rolling his eyes.
"Sherlock Holmes is not only England's most remarkable detective," the man continued. "He is also an extraordinarily good Samaritan."
Sherlock was trying really hard not to say something offensive or awkward.
"These precious children, the keys to our future-,"
"Oh, give me a break," Sherlock mumbled.
"Sorry Mr. Holmes," the man said, leaning away from the microphone. "What was that?"
"Nothing. I coughed. Continue."
He did so, ignorantly."…The keys to our future, would not be standing here beside their parents and loved ones today if it weren't for the selfless heroics of Mister Sherlock Holmes."
The man beckoned one of the children forth, who handed him a box with a small bow on top of it. "Which is why the families of the children have banded together to present Mr. Holmes with this small token of their immense gratitude."
As Sherlock stepped forward to accept his gift, the families and children began applauding for him. He took the box from the man in the tweed jacket, who stuck out his hand. "C'mon Mr. Holmes let's give the press a nice picture."
Sherlock removed his black gloves and shook the man's hand, the glare of the camera flashes blinding him. He gave them a nice scowl.
And then he had a thought, and looked down at their clasped hands.
And then he gasped.
And then he let go of the man's hand and darted off of the stage, the press beginning to chatter as he ran away.
"Mr. Holmes, what are you doing?" The man called after him.
"Sorry, gotta go! Thanks for the watch!" He flagged down a cab and climbed in, the press running after him with unanswered questions.
The man in the tweed jacket turned to the parents of the children. "How did he know it was a watch?"