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The Adventure of the Dashboard Box

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Chapter 4: The Frog Prince

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¤ oOo ¤

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he ran down the stairs and burst into the living-room, livid. "Sherlock, he's gone."

"Who?"

"The kid! Simon! You know, your mother's friend's child we were supposed to look after? Oh God..."

He did not even stay to hear what Sherlock had to say on the matter, but dashed out of the room and down the stairs in a frenzy to knock at their landlady's door. Please tell me he came down here because he likes her better than us.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

Soon John heard hurried footsteps and his landlady opened the door with a worried expression.

"John, dear. What is going on?"

"Simon. Is Simon with you?"

She arched an eyebrow, and suddenly her expression became much more severe.

"Of course not. You were in charge of him for the night. What happened?"

"He ran away. Probably. God, I have no idea!" He turned towards the stairs and called, very annoyed: "Sherlock! What are you doing?"

"Most likely looking at the room upstairs," Mrs. Hudson replied, and John was surprised by the coldness of her tone. But he was too preoccupied at the moment to pay it much heed.

They both ran up the stairs and into the boy's bedroom – the one he was supposed to have used, anyway. Sherlock was there indeed, and was presently examining the sheets.

"He only left some hours ago, not last night – very early in the morning, around five I would say. But he didn't slept before that either – he cried on the pillow for some time, hence its messiness, and spent the night in the armchair."

Mrs. Hudson stared, and her gaze hardened.

"He cried on the pillow for some time? And may I ask why?"

Sherlock froze on the spot, then gulped and turned towards their landlady very slowly. John blinked. He had never seen such an expression on the detective's face before. Sherlock looked like a child who knew he'd done something bad but had better things to do than deal with it, and who didn't know how to explain this to the person in front of him who was about to explode.

"Sherlock, how hard would it have been to hold your tongue for one evening, just one silly evening where you could have pretended to be nice for the sake of a little boy who's just lost his father!"

"I didn't–"

"And you," she went on, completely ignoring Sherlock and turning towards the other man, "Dr. Watson, I cannot believe you proved incapable of simply looking after a child for one night. What in the world did you tell him to make him run away?!" she finally asked the both of them.

"Simon said that his brother and his girlfriend were the ones who killed Alexander Holder, his father. We just told him he shouldn't say such things without any proof," Sherlock explained.

"Then it is the manner in which you said it!" she cut in sharply. John had never seen her so angry. In fact, it was the very first time he'd seen her angry at all – and she was furious.

"You couldn't even act like responsible adults for one night! I really expected better from you boys." She shook her head dejectedly, and left the room, grumbling: "And while we're here arguing about it, a little boy is out in the streets all alone. I'll just call the police."

"Don't," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes, I will! Just hope you find him before they do!"

And with those parting words, she was gone. John swallowed with some difficulty; Sherlock sent him a confused look.

"We did mess up badly here," the doctor explained, trying to get some sense of responsibility into the genius' head.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Let's go. We have to find him."

John sighed and followed him, thanking Mrs. Hudson silently for having remembered how ridiculously proud Sherlock was, and how prejudiced against the police.

¤ oOo ¤

Mycroft Holmes knew Detective Inspector Lestrade had been trying to reach him by phone since the previous day, but had only decided to take the call this morning as he drank coffee in his private office at the Diogenes Club, where he was not bound by the absolute silence rule.

"Hello."

"Mycroft? For goodness' sake, I've been calling you since yesterday!"

"And I'm afraid I have been very busy."

"Delivering illegitimate authorisation so your brother could poke his nose about in Harrods with my badge?"

Mycroft straightened in his seat imperceptibly, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

"I don't believe I have any responsibility for his ongoing ability to pick your pockets or your inability to prevent it...which if I am not mistaken has been going on for the past five years."

"I'm not joking, Mycroft, you can't give him such important documents when he uses my name! We're talking about my career, here!"

"Indeed. Let us change the subject."

"Wha– "

"Would you care to attend the Holmes's Christmas party in Surrey?" Mycroft cut off quite cavalierly.

"Beg your pardon?" Lestrade stuttered, dumbfounded.

The elder Holmes clicked his tongue in annoyance, but repeated calmly:

"Would you like to come to Surrey on the twenty-fifth for a Christmas party?"

"That's not what I called you for!"

"Yes, of course. But I may not be able to attend that party myself."

"No. I can't."

"You can't?" The British government could almost be heard arching a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Why do you want me to go?"

"Well, Sherlock has been dragged into it because our dear Dr. Watson was tricked. But I'm sure my brother will try everything he can think of to get out of actually attending the party, so..." he trailed off lazily, leaving Lestrade to finish the sentence himself.

"You want me to baby-sit him? On Christmas? No, that's too much, Mycroft!"

"Why? It's not as though you have anything else planned."

"And how would you know?"

"Unless you've found yourself another wife who hasn't run off with the PE teacher, I'm afraid that is quite an easy deduction."

"You know what? Fuck off. Your brother's got a new personal nanny now, so just call John – unless he's also told you to piss off. I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe you should just follow his advice."

And with these words, Lestrade hung up ragingly on a rather disconcerted Mycroft.

¤ oOo ¤

Have you found him? JW

I answered that question for the sixteenth time seven minutes ago, John, and I told you I would text you once I had found him. What can you deduce from that? SH

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. Could no one leave him alone for one second? He was trying to think, here. He'd already sent John over to where the football game was to take place, just in case. They'd been going through the whole area with a fine-tooth comb and still hadn't found anything. Sherlock had been forced to call Mummy and ask her to find out discreetly which were the places Simon liked to go to the most, without in fact telling his mother of his running away. It had taken a while, since she was busy at the undertaker's, and it had proved useless.

His phone vibrated again and he rolled his eyes.

I think he's probably lost. He must have no idea where he is or anything. We'll never find him. JW

Thank you for your input, John, Sherlock started typing back. Then he froze, remembering vaguely having said such a thing to Anderson once, and he felt rather disgusted with the idea of doing the same thing with John. He deleted the text, and started again. I know where to find him. SH

Indeed, his eyes had just lighted on a McDonald's not too far from the playing field. Not many places open at five or six in the morning. And while the brat also seemed to have quite an appetite, nobody would suspect that he would go to someplace as working-class.

So Sherlock went in, scanning the ground floor but already walking lightly up the steps, quite certain that he would find the child sitting by a window in some ridiculous attempt at keeping watch on the street to see them coming in. Or policemen, perhaps. The brat might expect them! Sherlock didn't. Mrs Hudson had just been making an idle threat. He hoped.

In any case, I've found him first, he gloated to himself with a smirk.

"Hello, Simon."

"Yikes!" the poor boy exclaimed, jumping on his seat. "Where did you come from?!"

"Downstairs."

"I didn't see you coming in."

"You weren't really looking."

They glared at each other heatedly, like two little boys about to scrap into a brawl, but Sherlock broke eye contact abruptly and sat opposite the youngest Holder.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

"Oh sure. You were just scared because I had run away and you would've had to tell my mother. And yours," he added with an impish smile.

Sherlock actually chuckled at the snide remark, and smirked.

"Don't be ridiculous. I knew I would find you. Your mother doesn't even know you were gone."

Something broke in the gaze of the child, and Sherlock intensified his own, refusing to look away.

"I've been thinking about what you said concerning the involvement of your brother Robert and his girlfriend Hatty Doran."

Simon fell silent, hanging on the consulting detective's words, his eyes wide and clear, shining with doubt and expectation.

"I think you're right."

The little boy's face lit up and he was almost beaming – but his eyes were filled with tears.

"They are involved. But they did not murder him."

Simon looked up at Sherlock in confusion, tilting his head to the side, frowning.

"What?"

"They did not murder him. In fact, they didn't do anything to him at all."

Simon blinked, clearly displeased with the direction of their discussion.

"Then what did they do?"

Sherlock smiled excitedly and jumped back to his feet.

"Well, now that's the whole mystery, isn't it?"

He winked. Completely caught up, Simon stood up as well and followed him.

"But you know!"

"Maybe. I'll need your help, though."

Simon furrowed his brow.

"To do what?"

The detective gave a crooked smile.

"To expose the person who truly murdered your father."

¤ oOo ¤

"You said you would text me!" John whispered in irritation, reproach in his voice, as they sat in the row next to the Holders to watch the game. They had been invited, and John had been quite surprised to hear Sherlock accept gracefully.

"I did text you that I knew where to find him!" Sherlock retorted just as quietly. John gave him a sullen look, but Sherlock turned to Mrs. Holder instead.

"So," she said, "you said Alexander did not buy anything after all, the day he..."

She swallowed, obviously trying to relieve the tightness in her throat. Arthur put his hand on hers. Robert was sitting, his eyes fixed to his mobile phone, not paying attention at all to his surroundings.

"He didn't," Sherlock confirmed gravely, and John couldn't help but marvel at how smoothly he managed to lie. "We checked with the CCTV, but it seems he hadn't even gone to Harrods."

"But why would he have lied to me?" Gilda murmured, disturbed.

"Perhaps he didn't. He might really have intended to go."

The football game in front of them obviously bored Sherlock to death, but at least he was watching it, unlike Robert who kept texting the whole time, regardless of the chiding or pleading comments from his mother.

"Please, Robbie, it's your brother..."

"And she's my girlfriend!"

"You're seeing her tonight, for Christ's sake!" she scolded him in a whisper.

"I don't know. We're having a fight," Robert grumbled, apparently quite piqued.

Mrs. Holder rolled her eyes, shook her head, and looked at Arthur for support. He smiled leniently, and shrugged.

"They just switched the ball," Sherlock suddenly said.

"What?" John asked.

"The ball. It was lost in the crowd, and they couldn't find it, so they've replaced it. Are you even watching?"

In fact, Robert had been watching his phone; Gilda had been watching her son; Arthur had been watching Gilda; John had been watching Sherlock; and so the detective had been the only one to watch the game, even though he wasn't part of the family.

"Oh, it happens all the time."

"But the ball is golden."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance "It's a golden ball. Isn't it strange?"

They all looked back at the field, and saw that indeed, the ball appeared to be golden.

"It is a bit weird, I reckon," said Arthur, "but who cares? A ball is a ball."

"...Right. A ball is a ball," Sherlock echoed sarcastically. John nudged him in reminder to be on his best behaviour.

They continued watching the game for several more minutes, all of them but Robert actually paying attention. A sudden croaking sound under their seats made them jump. Well, made Gilda, John and Arthur jump. Sherlock just arched an eyebrow, and Robert showed no sign of having heard anything.

"What was that?"

"A croak."

"Why, thank you, John," Sherlock commented sarcastically before plunging under the seat.

"Sherlock! What are you... Aaaah!" Mrs. Holder cried out as Sherlock emerged, holding by the leg... a frog.

"What is this?"

"A frog, John. You know, one of those batrachians–"

"I meant, what is it doing here?" John rephrased, becoming quite irked with his partner's raillery.

"Take it away!" Gilda shrieked.

And to avoid a scene, Sherlock complied quite readily, taking John with him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. What was it doing here?" the doctor insisted while Sherlock was observing the frog outside the stadium.

"Let's go back and find out where they got that golden ball," Sherlock replied, seemingly oblivious to his friend's question. John sighed, but followed.

It turned out no one really knew where that ball had come from – but all the other spare ones had vanished, and so they'd been glad enough to find this one that no one questioned its provenance.

"But what about the frog?" John persisted. "Whoever put it under our seats must have been behind us."

"Most likely. But he was gone already when I looked. No one there appeared guilty of the deed in any way."

"How can you guess that?"

"It's not guessing!"

"Right, shot in the dark, but a lucky one."

Sherlock clicked his tongue irritatingly – very much like his brother, but he would've been mortified to know that.

"No, John. But it doesn't matter."

"I don't get it."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment (he would never answer 'me neither' to such a remark anyway), then asked:

"A frog and a golden ball... Isn't there a fairy tale that involves both?"

John blinked.

"A fairy tale?"

"Yes, John. Short stories supposedly for children, usually with–"

"Stop it! Stop this, already! You keep talking to me like I'm an idiot, and perhaps I am, but there's no need to rub it in my face all the time!"

Sherlock was speechless at the outburst. What was John on about? His lost look must have annoyed the doctor even more, for he turned away and added:

"Oh, forget it."

Sherlock remained quiet, his gaze cast down as sheepishly as possible. His "kicked puppy" expression must not have been too badly done, for John resisted only a minute before sighing:

"'The Frog Prince'."

This caught Sherlock's attention. His eyes snapped up at his partner.

"The fairy tale. It's called 'The Frog Prince'," John went on. "I think it's a princess who plays by a pond with a golden ball, but the ball falls into the pond and she cries because she cannot get it back. So an ugly frog pops up and offers to get it for her, but then the price is that the princess has to kiss it. Or keep it with her at all times or something, I can't remember. I think her father scolds her and so she has to take care of the frog because he helped her, but she hates it, and ends up throwing it against a wall in rage. And then the frog turns into a prince, they marry and have many children and blah, blah, blah... The usual stuff."

Sherlock looked at the frog sceptically.

"She throws it against a wall?"

"Yes. But please don't actually do that."

"Too barbarous?" Sherlock teased.

John shrugged.

"Pointless and messy. Do you expect it to turn into a prince?"

"Oh no, I have you for that."

The ex-soldier's eyes widened in shock.

"You have me as a prince?"

"I have you to play Prince Charming," Sherlock developed with a sweet, sweet smile.

Damn him, John thought.

"You have to talk to Robert."

"And play Prince Charming with him?"

"Don't be daft. Just be nice to him and learn why he quarrelled with Hatty. You're a doctor, you're used to dealing with teenagers."

"I think you're confusing me with a teacher, there."

The consulting detective smirked.

"Just go and talk to him after the game."

"Really, Sherlock. Why me?"

"Because you're better with these kinds of things."

"Sorry, say that again?"

"You're better wi–"

"No, stop there. Again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You won't hear it again."

"Oh well."

They exchanged an amused smile before worry replaced the jest on John's face.

"But Sherlock, what in the world does this mean?"

Sherlock's expression darkened noticeably, and he looked away.

"It means the murderer received some helpful advice from someone, someone who is now having his fun."

John frowned in confusion, then felt his blood turn cold as realization dawned on him.

"You can't possibly mean..."

Sherlock nodded.

"He's come out to play again," he murmured. His eyes glinted. "Moriarty."

TBC

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