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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
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After her father absently directed them to Michael's room before rushing back to his wife, they climbed the narrow set of stairs in relative silence. She could hear Jen half-sobbing, half-talking to the police officer in the living room downstairs, and was secretly glad she hadn't been forced to meet her yet. The woman was nice, but well… Step-mothers not that much older than first-marriage children. Awkward.
At the door decorated with a big red-paint 'M', left ajar, Joan gestured silently for Sherlock to go first. The consulting detective swept in with a small nod, taking in the slightly crowded but surprisingly tidy room. It was full of red and yellow, banners, posters, pictures, mainly of sportsmen and diverse machinery, and a model of a helicopter hanging from the ceiling. The original bluish wallpaper peaked in some spots. The large window had some stickers stuck to the glass, some older than other judging by scratch marks - helicopters again, tanks and sport cars. The bed was neatly made, with an acceptable attempt at hospital corners. The desk was covered by stacks of school books and fantasy novels. Joan could just picture her little brother in here, bright, bordering on hyper-active, and curious. She skimmed over book titles, while Sherlock sprawled on the floor to take a good look under the bed.
A triumphant and slightly muffled 'aha' was followed by the sound of something ripped off. "Sherlock?"
The consulting detective shot up from under the bed, a paper-craft envelop in hands, with pieces of duct-tape hanging from it. "It had been tapped under the bed" he explained smugly before carefully prying it open. He peeked inside, with Joan silently waiting for his conclusions. Newspaper articles and pamphlets were pulled out gingerly, along with slightly yellowed letters.
"That's my hand-writing" Joan recognized. "I sent him these letters during my deployment."
Pamphlets were all about the Royal Army and officer training, the kind distributed on information days in schools, and news articles related to current military operations abroad. "Well, John, I'd say you set an example for your brother" Sherlock commented.
Feeling her ears burn, she skimmed through the leaflet describing the officer training. "Doesn't tell us where he is now." There was a pregnant pause. "Does it?" she glanced at her flatmate questioningly.
"In a way, it does. Look around, what do you see?"
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am blind compared to you."
That earned her a fleeting pleased smile, but didn't discourage the man from insisting: "But what do you see?"
Sigh. "I see a boy's room. He likes boxing, planes and tanks. He knows our father doesn't really approve of the army business."
"He's a schoolboy, right?"
"Well, yes, he's twelve."
"Where is his bag?"
Oh. OH. Somehow, missing things are more telling, huh. "You think he ran away?" she inquired, looking over the room with a new perspective.
"I know it. The missing bag, the mess in his closet, the map" – there was a detailed country map pinned over the bed indeed, littered small red and blue dots added by hand – "not only did he ran away, he ran with a purpose."
"Army?" she sighed heavily.
"It appears so, yes." She sighed again. "Disappointed?"
"No, god no. But he's not the one who'll get yelled at. Should have clarified that he can't enroll before eighteen. Any idea where he would be right now?"
"I'm not a medium, John" Sherlock retorted coldly. Before breaking into a small grin. "But I can estimate his location with an adequate level of accuracy."
She smiled weakly at him. "Great. We'll borrow dad's car, then. I'm driving."
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After vague explanations to the distraught parents and harried constables ("We'll check the neighborhood"), Sherlock found himself sinking into the passenger sit of a blue Peugeot, cursing the curiosity that pushed him to accept this predicament in the first place. Because the way Joan Watson was steering the wheel, he started to doubt he'll ever see the end of the day. He didn't even know this car model could go that fast, or turn that sharply.
"Where now?" the crazy driver asked, looking much more relaxed than in the family house.
"Left" he croaked, clutching at his seat. Tires squeaked indignantly.
Somehow, they made it to a train station about forty kilometers away in a record time, and in one piece. Sherlock scrambled out of the much abused car, breathing heavily. "Where did you learn to drive, John?" he managed in a rather level voice.
"There were slow days in Afghanistan too" she smiled easily. Sherlock made a mental note to never ever let her drive again. Not with him in the vehicle.
The station was crowded - people leaving for work, teenagers on a school trip, idle wealthy going for a shopping trip in central London. It was also the nearest hub where an inspired twelve-years-old could catch a train to Sandhurst. Or at least a train that would bring him close enough. Joan was anxiously scanning the crowd, steady at his side, and trusting in his conclusions. It was a refreshing feeling.
There was a rather high-pitched yelp at their right, and while it went mostly unnoticed by the public, he could clearly see a small figure dart towards ticket counters. He taped Joan's shoulder briefly before heading after it. A blond boy, clutching a stuffed red schoolbag, was leaning against the wall, trying to appear inconspicuous and glancing fearfully around the corner. Judging by the half-amused, half-resigned snort from Watson, they had found the missing brother. It was disappointingly easy.
He let Joan take the lead again. Michael had seen them watching him, and was now stuck in place, wide-eyed. Joan walked slowly to him, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Nice trip, kid?"
The boy gulped. "I wanted to do like you."
"You can't enroll before eighteen, you know?" she informed him matter-of-factly.
It seemed to dishearten the aspiring soldier, whose shoulders visibly sagged. "Dad is angry, right?"
"More like worried. You could have left a note."
"I was going to send a letter."
"Good enough, I suppose." She grabbed his bag and swung it over her right shoulder. "You've come prepared at least" she smiled, feeling boots poking through the denim material. "Come, I want you to meet a friend of mine." Michael looked up at Sherlock, intimidated by the coat and the cold glare. "This is Sherlock, a friend who helped me find you. Sherlock, this is Michael, my little brother."
Filing away the 'friend' part of the presentation for later inspection, Sherlock responded to the tentative handshake the boy offered. He considered briefly the merits of keeping his opinions to himself, but that was rarely even a question. "I give you points for going that far on your first try, but next time, save for a cab. More difficult to track down."
Joan glared at him mockingly: "Sherlock, please don't encourage my brother to run away again. Now, let's get you home."
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Disclaimer 2: John's driving had been inspired by "Never Again or why Sherlock always drives" by grannysknitting.