Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
A/N: Thanks for reading as ever!
Chapter VIII
Detective Inspector Lestrade sighed as he looked around the crime scene. Yet another poor innocent boy turned victim by their serial killer. Greg could barely contain his frustration. Yet another body and he still felt they were no closer to catching the killer than when the first boy was discovered. The connection that Sherlock had made between the victims was far from a victory. Plus, the state of the young detective while working on this case was a story of its own.
Currently Sherlock was crouching down next to the victim as he spouted out his deductions with the usual speed, but there was no trace of the excitement which tended to accompany them on other cases. The young detective was looking far worse for wear than Greg could ever remember him. And that was saying something, considering that the detective inspector had seen him at his worst in a drug induced state, as a recovering junkie or after he almost died after he was shot a few months back. Another thing that bothered him was that Sherlock had once again shown up at the crime scene without John's company. True, the doctor and his wife probably currently had their hands full with the baby, but if his talk with John when they shared a pint in order to celebrate William Watson's birth suggested anything, the sudden distance between Sherlock and the Watsons was far more Sherlock's doing than the new additions to the family. Greg was half tempted to subject 221B to another of his drugs busts, just to make sure that Sherlock had not once again decided to pick up his old habit. The person who discouraged him from staging one was none other than Molly Hooper.
By some strange workings of the universe, Molly seemed to be the one person who could find her way to Sherlock at the moment. In some ways, he'd even dare to say that she had somewhat replaced John in some of his old duties. Be it as it were, Molly seemed to be convinced that whatever it was that had gotten into the detective; it had nothing to do with drugs. She also made a good point saying that what Sherlock needed now was people whom he could trust and he would repay them by trusting them as well. To be trusted and depended upon as a friend by Sherlock Holmes was a feat to achieve and Greg had no reason to take any kind of action that would endanger the fragile relationship Greg felt he had to rebuild after he was not able to believe in Sherlock the last time around with Moriarty.
Sherlock for one was trying to force down the bile that had been forming in his throat ever since he first set his eyes upon the latest victim. The dark curls, icy blue eyes, skin the palest shade of white. There was no mistaking the similarity between the little boy and his younger self. Threatening baby William was not good enough for the evil bastard; he had to find other ways of taunting him.
As he crouched down to the body, he spouted out a series of deductions to a very distracted Lestrade.
He shot him an angry glare: "What's the point of calling me in if you're just going to ignore whatever I have to say?"
Lestrade shook his head and mumbled and apology: "Anything important?"
"Not really," Sherlock could not hide the disappointment in his voice as he noticed that the boy was clutching something in one of his hands.
"What's this then?"
"Some kind of message from the killer, we assume. I told the boys to wait for getting it until you arrive."
But Sherlock wasn't listening to Lestrade as he was already recovering a folded sheet of paper and some kind of leaf from the boy's hand.
"Quercus robur."
"What?"
"English oak...the leaf," Sherlock muttered as he unfolded the piece of paper.
"What is it?"
"A message."
"A message for whom?"
"Me," was the barely audible response from Sherlock as he showed the paper, a recent article about Sherlock's involvement with the case, into Lestrade's hands.
Genius detective struggles to save our children
"Why would he send you a message?"
But Sherlock was already halfway gone.
"Sherlock, explain!" Lestrade called after him.
Sherlock turned on his feet and replied: "I will...there's something I need to get first."
"Sherlock!" his mother could not stifle her surprise when she found her son standing at their front door.
It was highly unusual for him to pay a visit unless his brother dragged him along. Her boy came in without as much as a hello.
"Oh dear God, you look terrible."
"Where's dad?"
"In the living room."
Sherlock tried making his way there, but his mother grabbed him by his coat.
"Sherlock, are you alright? You're working on this case with the dead boys, aren't you? I don't think you should...after what happened...," she trailed off.
Sherlock could not bear looking into her tear stained face as he whispered: "Mother, Mycroft's already tried to mother me in this...so please, just leave me alone."
The words escaped his mouth with more force than intended, but if it made his mother stay away, it was well worth it.
He found his father engrossed in a book.
"Dad," he addressed him.
"Son," he answered no surprise visible in his face.
"Do you still have it?"
"Have what?"
"The file."
"What file?"
"The one from when I was...young."
"I feared that was why you came."
Sherlock kept silent.
"So you think this is him?"
Sherlock played with the leaf in his hand: "I'm certain it's him."
"Go away, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted as he heard someone enter his flat.
A much younger voice responded from the door: "I'm not Mrs. Hudson and I could use your assistance."
"Go away, Mary!" was the only answer she got as she made her way to the kitchen carrying the baby.
"You wouldn't believe how much weight he has gained since we left the hospital. I swear he's heavier by the day. As you'd know if you bothered to find out how your own godson was doing."
There was no answer whatsoever from Sherlock.
"So, what's this about, Sherlock?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh come on, you know it very well. You've been avoiding all three of us since William was born. It can't be that you think that William will somehow replace you, because we made it very clear that he would not and I saw your face when you held him in your arms. You love him and don't even try to deny it. I understand that you don't want John in on that case, because you don't want him to find out... But that's no reason for not coming round for a cuppa, is it? So what's the matter?"
"Nothing, " Sherlock persisted.
"You know I can tell when you're fibbing, Sherlock."
When she got no reaction from Sherlock she made her way back to the living room to try to discover the root of her friend's behaviour. Immediately upon arrival she was drawn to the materials from Sherlock's investigation. Her attention was drawn to a new series of photos, apparently from the latest murder. The first picture was of a sheet of paper torn from the newspaper, a piece about the case involving Sherlock. The next one was of a little boy, hauntingly similar to...
"Oh my God...it's him," she whispered.
Hi, there, speaking to you, people reading this. You know, I'd love to hear what you think about this story, right? :)