1.) I don't know anything about how foster care systems operate, especially in Great Britain.
2.) I am not an expert on selective mutism. Everything I know comes from observation of a third grade student with the condition and my own research on the internet.
3.) There is just the briefest of mentions about child abuse (nothing graphic, I assure you). If it triggers you, please look past it.
The flat smelled stale and with a slight undertone of cigarettes, unwashed skin, and trash. Sherlock Holmes wrinkled his aristocratic nose against the pungent odour but continued to make his way over the threshold. John and Lestrade were on his heels, both men exhaling sharply through their noses in an effort to get used to the scent of the air. Sherlock heard Lestrade give an order to a few of his sergeants to spread out and search for the Jones'. The two were implicated in the manufacture and sale of illicit drugs, as well as the murder of two men (which is why they were there in the first place). The case was barely a four, but as it happened, Sherlock owed Lestrade a favour.
Sherlock edged down the narrow hallway, centring himself on the last door just as John, Lestrade, and Donovan stood at the ready in front of the other doors lining the hall. At Lestrade's signal, they all moved together, throwing open the doors and barging inside. Sherlock twisted the handle of his door, the excitement building in his veins. He threw open the cheap, wood-panelled door and stepped inside.
The sight that greeted him honestly shocked him, and that was not an easy task considering that Sherlock had seen a great many disturbing things over the course of his life. Inside the room, there were no boiling beakers or cutting boards or any sort of illicit drug paraphernalia. Frank and Celia Jones were nowhere to be found within the space. Instead, there lay seven children upon haphazard piles of mattresses, pillows, and blankets. Sherlock's brain raced to catch up with him. The Jones' must have been a foster family, because these children were clearly not related to one another and neither did they resemble the Jones'.
All seven children were staring up at him with wide eyes and open mouths. He saw the way the two blonde twins in the corner shifted slightly in order to position themselves in front of a younger boy, maybe eight years old. Sherlock held up his hands in a placating gesture and gently crouched down.
"It's going to be alright," he said. "I'm with Scotland Yard and I'm not going to hurt you."
"How do we know that?" Sherlock swivelled his head to face one of the blonde girls. Her lip was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears, but she was sitting regally and proud. Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile.
"Let me show you," he answered. He turned his head towards the open door and called for John and Lestrade. The detective inspector and the doctor came rushing in moments later, startling the children again.
"Jesus," John breathed, taking in the sight of the children before him. The doctor inside of him took over, and he made his way into the room so that he could kneel next to the first child he saw, a boy of perhaps nine years. The boy stared at him with wide green eyes and edged away when John reached forward to him.
"It's okay," John said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a doctor and I just want to check and make sure that you aren't injured." The boy looked around at the blonde twins, checking for affirmation. The twins looked at each other, and then at the three adults in the room. They nodded in tandem, one looking at Sherlock and one looking at the boy in front of John. With that, the children began to inch forward with muted interest.
They were all underweight…thin little scarecrows with big, blinking eyes. Their clothes hung on their frames and were worn and smelled stale. The tears in the fabric were carefully patched by inexpert hands…probably the work of the elder twin girls and the small sewing kit stashed by their mattress. All the children were wary and a little anxious, but when they realised that they had nothing to fear from the people in their room, they became overwhelmed with a desire to be held. Lestrade was currently holding one of the nine year old boys in his lap and asking him questions. John was examining the eight year old girl, who had some angry burn marks on her hands. Donovan had come in and was holding the hand of the eight year old boy, who had his head buried in her stomach and was beginning to weep.
Even Sherlock had found a child. He'd immediately noticed the smallest boy in the farthest corner of the room. He was curled up against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knobby knees, but his eyes were watching all the activity in the room with a sort of passive observation. Sherlock recognised the look and inched forward, picking his way through the mess to go and sit with the boy.
The child was probably seven years old or so. He had chestnut coloured hair that hung in loose curls to his chin. His eyes were bright blue, almost like John's, Sherlock noted. There was a light dusting of freckles across the boy's nose and cheeks and there was a small pink scar over his right eyebrow. Sherlock crouched in front of the child and the boy's bright eyes met Sherlock's and Sherlock felt his gut contract ever so slightly as he recognised the look the boy was giving him.
The child was doing more than watching Sherlock out of fear or anxiety. Surely, there was an undercurrent of anxiety that was coursing through the boy—Sherlock could see that in the slight tremors that shook the boy's frame and the way he hunched his shoulders and leaned further back into the wall. But the boy, despite his apprehension, was also observing Sherlock with a penetrating gaze that he knew was very much like his own. The child ran his eyes up and down Sherlock's frame, memorising and categorising. Sherlock couldn't resist a small smirk of satisfaction at the boy's observances. This is why children were one of the few types of people Sherlock enjoyed. They were so impressionable and given the right sets of circumstances could be moulded into capable adults. This boy would be one of them.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said, settling on his knees in front of the boy. "Can you tell me your name?"
The boy shook his head, jostling the chestnut curls. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at the boy again. He supposed there was the possibility the boy was mute, or perhaps hard of hearing. He wasn't fully deaf because he reacted to noises in the room, but maybe his hearing wasn't fully intact either. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but he stopped as the boy held up his hand. The child pushed his arm forward and Sherlock took note of a light blue band that was wound around the thin wrist. He leaned closer to examine it.
The band was imprinted with small white lettering that spelled out "Selective Mutism: Break the Silence". Ah. That explained everything. Sherlock was familiar with the phenomenon that was selective mutism, seeing as how he'd experienced a version of the condition in his own youth. Typically, selective mutism was a sort of coping mechanism for children (and some adults) who suffered from moderate to severe social anxiety. Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn't spoken until he was six years old, but it was not a social anxiety that silenced him, but rather a need to gather a sufficient vocabulary before speaking.
Sherlock's focus snapped back to the child as he felt John's presence settle beside him. The child was watching the doctor with a wariness that Sherlock could practically feel. The boy's eyes flicked back to Sherlock and the myriad of silent questions were asked. Sherlock found himself answering.
"It's perfectly okay. John is a doctor and my partner, he won't hurt you." John flashed the boy a winning smile and then turned to Sherlock.
"What's his name, Sherlock?" the doctor asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know, John. Our young friend here is a selective mute." With the boy's silent permission, Sherlock reached forward and lifted the child's arm to show John the blue wristband. John read the words and nodded amiably, settling back on his knees like the detective. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the small notebook he kept to take notes for their work. He handed the book and a pen to the boy, who accepted it slowly. He looked from the book and back up to the doctor, who nodded in encouragement. With that, the boy opened the notepad to a blank page and began to scribble away. When he finished, he held the page up for the detective and the doctor.
'My name is Cecil. I'm seven and a half years old.'
John and Sherlock shared a pleased look before John turned his attention back to the boy—Cecil.
"Hello, Cecil," John said. "My name is John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes."
Cecil nodded and then scribbled something else down on the paper. When he held it up, it read;
'Please…what's going to happen to me?'
Sherlock again felt a curious sensation pulling at the insides of his abdomen. He knew the standard operating procedure for incidences such as this. The children would be processed through a hospital until they had been thoroughly examined (after finding the burn marks on the girl, they'd all need to be checked for other signs of abuse). They'd probably be kept there until they were all back in healthy weight zones and their nutrition was balanced again (they were all lacking in the proper vitamins). Then, they'd be processed back into the foster care system and sent to new families. This was how things worked. But for some reason, the thought of sending Cecil back into the foster care system was not sitting well in Sherlock's mind.
Sherlock shot a look at John that clearly read "We have to do something, John." John schooled his own features to say "I know, Sherlock, but what?" Sherlock nodded towards the door, which prompted the doctor to excuse them and step outside the room. Cecil watched them go before he turned his attention back to the notebook and began doodling. Once outside the room, John stood close to his partner. Sherlock's lips were pursed in thought and his hands were wringing together in something between anticipation and anxiety.
"Sherlock," John said. "What…what do you want to do?" There were times when John questioned Sherlock; his thoughts, his motives, his deductions, his actions. But there were times when Sherlock assumed a particular bright gleam in his eye and a conviction so strong that it rolled off him in waves like a tangible spirit and it was during those times that John only stepped in to ask his partner what he wanted.
Sherlock's lips thinned in thought and his hands worked. "He can't go back to the foster system, John. It's not a good place for children like Cecil…he runs the risk of going to a family like this one again. I can't… I can't let that happen."
Curious. John knew that Sherlock took a particular vexation to cases that involved children in any way, especially if they were the victims. In Sherlock's mind, crimes against children were the most heinous of all. Children were blank slates and could be moulded into bright, competent creatures given the right circumstances and upbringings. Sherlock (and John, for that matter) could never understand why anyone would want to harm the most fragile existences in the species. But what made Cecil so special? Sherlock was taking a deeper interest in the boy…enough for him to brainstorm a solution to a problem that hadn't even existed only half an hour prior.
Sherlock easily read the thoughts on his partner's face. "I understand your curiosity, John. Frankly, I don't know what it is about this boy that is… drawing me to him. But I feel… I feel something deep inside my gut that's telling me not to let this one go back into the system. I can't explain it." Sherlock frowned in his frustration. Feelings… this is why they were so abhorrent. Chemical reactions that you couldn't explain in words…it just wasn't right.
But John was nodding. "It's fine, Sherlock, I feel the same way." John paused and thought for a moment before turning back to the detective. "Why don't we ask Lestrade if we can temporarily assume custody of him? They'd need to be in the hospital for a few days anyway, getting their nutrition levelled out and their injuries taken care of. We can take him in and I can look after his medical needs. In the meantime, we can have Mycroft look for an adoptive family for him. He's got all the resources and we can make sure that Cecil doesn't end up with a family like the Jones' again. Would that be acceptable?" If you were going to have the British government for an elder brother, you might as well take advantage of it.
Sherlock's face split into a wide grin. "That's a wonderful solution, John!" he crowed. The detective bent to kiss John's cheek and then went dashing off, presumably to find Lestrade and the other authorities to tell him what he intended to do for Cecil. John rubbed his cheek fondly and felt a slight blush rise. He shook his head in affection and walked back into the room to sit with Cecil. The boy watched his approach with a neutral expression, but John thought he recognised the gleam in the boy's eyes. He'd seen it so many times in the eyes of a certain consulting detective.
"You're going to come home with Sherlock and me, alright?" John asked. "You can stay with us for a while."
Cecil jotted a question on the notebook he still held. "Will I stay forever?" The boy betrayed no emotion on his face, but John thought he could see the faintest glimmer of hope underneath. It broke his heart into jagged little pieces.
"I'm afraid not," John said. "But Sherlock's brother is going to find you a family." At Cecil's recoil in fear, John laid a gentle, steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and looked into his eyes.
"It'll be different, Cecil," John promised. "It will be a nice family and they will adopt you and raise you like their own. It will be different." Of course, there was no way he could predict that… but John knew that if they ever discovered that another family was misusing the child, there would be hell to pay.
John sat with Cecil and continued to ask him some non-invasive questions while they waited for Sherlock and Lestrade. John watched the medics carefully lead the children out of the flat one by one. At one point, one of the blonde twins (John thought her name was Tabitha) had come over to crouch next to Cecil. She'd tapped the small boy on the shoulder twice and Cecil had responded by reaching forward and tapping her shoulder three times. John figured that it was some sort of non-verbal code established between the children. Are you okay? Yes, I'm fine. Tabitha had nodded at Cecil and then got up and retreated out of the room with her twin, both of them clutching at the hands of Sally Donovan. John's heart swelled as he felt Cecil very gently lean to the side so that his head was resting on John's arm. It felt so incredibly natural and it filled John with a certain amount of awe.
After a while, the consulting detective and the detective inspector filed into the almost empty room. The two men joined John and Cecil by kneeling down directly in front of them. Cecil shrank into John's side, but Sherlock noticed and held up a placating hand towards the boy.
"Cecil," Sherlock said, "this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's okay, he just needs to ask you a few questions." Lestrade smiled at the young boy and waved a hand in greeting. Cecil eyed Lestrade for a few moments before he sat up and nodded at the man. Greg asked Cecil a few questions, most of which he'd already answered for Sherlock and John, so he merely pointed to his answers on the notebook. After Lestrade had finished, he fixed the boy with a firm look.
"Cecil, these two men want to take you home with them for a few days." Lestrade fixed Sherlock and John each with a look that was mingled pride and warning. "Is that going to be okay with you? If you don't want to go with them, you certainly don't have to. But they are good men and they will take care of you until we can find you a place to live. We will only do this is if it's okay with you." All three men were fixated on the child and awaiting his answer.
Cecil nodded without hesitation and the doctor and the detective shared a small smile. With the boy's acceptance, Lestrade granted the two men temporary custody of the boy. The three men stood and were joined by Cecil after a moment. The boy was a thin little scarecrow, all knees and elbows. He stood at his full height, which only brought him up to about mid-thigh on Sherlock. Sherlock glanced down at the boy and then offered him a hand. Cecil surprised him by opening up both his arms in the universal gesture for "pick me up". And so Sherlock very gently swooped the boy up into his arms, Cecil locking his skinny legs around Sherlock's hips and nestling his head into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock held the boy to him and flashed a look that was shocked satisfaction at John. John smiled back at his partner.
While the consulting detective took Cecil from the flat, John stayed behind to gather up the small piles of Cecil's belongings that were tucked around his mattress in the corner. There were a few sets of worn clothing, a couple of dog-eared books, and a stuffed bear that was missing one of its button eyes. John placed all of the belongings in a large, unused evidence bag and then exited the room, eager to leave the flat and forget all the human misery he'd witnessed today. It could have been so much worse, he thought, but even so…no child deserved to live like this. As John stepped out into the street, he noticed Sherlock standing on the other side of the tape, a sleek black car purring on the corner behind him. The doctor joined his partner and they slid inside Mycroft's car. Cecil was already fast asleep, curled up on the creamy leather seats.
John and Sherlock stared at the small child and then at each other as the car pulled away from the crime scene and back towards Baker Street. Just what had they gotten themselves into?
Ta-da! Look for more updates soon, and if anything strikes your fancy as being less-than-factual, please let me know! Thank you!