Food for Thought
After the people at Regent's Park became too boring, Sherlock took Archie on a walking tour of central London, using his scarf to blindfold the boy at different sites, and teaching him to use all of his senses. The detective recorded the sounds of different streets, so Archie could identify them later. They smelled the plants in the parks and the River Thames from different bridges, memorizing London as only Sherlock could.
"Sherlock?" Archie asked finally, "can we get some food, please?"
Sherlock frowned. "What time is it?"
"Er—half one?"
Peering at his phone to confirm, the detective blinked in surprise. "Ah, sorry, Archie. I don't really eat at normal hours," he explained, sheepish. "I know just the place, though; follow me."
They walked a few more blocks until the familiar door of Angelo's popped into view. Heavenly smells wafted into the street, and Archie's stomach rumbled in anticipation.
Sherlock pushed open the door, and the tinkling bell brought them to the owner's attention.
"Sherlock!" he cried joyously, startling the nearest waitress. "Where have you been, boy?"
Without waiting for a reply, he rushed over to Sherlock's table and plucked the 'Reserved' sign off.
"Have a seat, lads. Who's this young fellow?" Angelo asked, inspecting Archie and then Sherlock. "You sly dog, I'd no idea you had a son!"
Archie blinked up at him from his seat. "I'm Archie. Sherlock's not my dad, he's a friend," he said sincerely.
The restauranteur rallied quickly. "Ah, and you couldn't ask for a better one," he told the boy. Leaning in, he whispered, "This man got me off a murder charge."
The boy's eyes went wide. "Really?"
Angelo nodded. "My wife was desperate, so she called Sherlock and he took my case. He gave the police all the proof they needed that it wasn't me that killed those men. Anything you want," he said, pointing to the menu, "on the house, boy. Are you on a case, Sherlock?" the man asked, knowing that Sherlock didn't eat while working.
"No," the detective answered. "I'm recovering from a gunshot to the chest, Angelo. Lestrade is not giving me cases yet."
The Italian cursed under his breath, saw Archie, and apologized immediately, making him giggle.
"No wonder you're skinnier than usual," he said finally, poking at Sherlock's arm. "Hospital food will sap the strength right outta you. I'll make your favorite, don't you worry. Wine?"
"Coffee," Sherlock supplied. "Bla—"
"Black, two sugars. I know," Angelo finished. "And you, Archie?"
"I'll have a Coke," Archie said shyly. "And the chicken parmigiana."
"Coming right up," the man promised, and left for the kitchen.
Once Angelo had gone, there was a silence as Sherlock looked at his phone, and Archie looked at Sherlock, his bright brown eyes curious.
"How did you solve his case?" he asked finally.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the boy's genuine interest. "I could tell that Angelo wasn't being entirely honest, so I did some digging. As it turned out, he was guilty of a crime, but a lesser crime in a different part of the city. I found enough evidence to put him there at the time of the murders, and by so doing, gave him a rock-solid alibi."
"What was the evidence?"
"There was a bootprint left at the crime scene—man's work boot, size nine. I looked at the residue it left behind and found particulates in the dirt that are specific to the riverbank around Wandsworth Park. Angelo hadn't been anywhere near there, and an analysis of his size ten shoes proved he'd been in the East End. I also found the tools he'd used to break into five cars, as well as a few things he had stolen from each of the vehicles."
Archie looked at his hero with new respect. "Wow."
The detective smiled. "Neat, isn't it? Then Lestrade called me to find the real murderer, which I did in about nine hours."
They passed the next few minutes comfortably, chatting about other cases over a basket of fresh garlic bread. Unlike most of Sherlock's adult acquaintances, Archie knew how to ask the right questions, making him a delightful audience.
As the detective explained the intricacies of catching a jewel thief using his vast knowledge of tobacco ash, Angelo's oldest server Tony arrived with their piping hot meals. Archie's stomach growled loudly enough to startle the lady seated behind Sherlock.
"Enjoy, gentlemen," Tony said brightly, then left them to it.
For a while there was silence, except for the clatter of forks against Angelo's plates. Worn down by his injury, Sherlock gave in to his body's need for food and ate with genuine enjoyment. Archie had him beat when it came to enthusiasm, though. He practically inhaled his chicken and pasta, eating steadily and then mopping up the extra sauce with bits of garlic bread.
"Impressive," the detective said wryly, admiring the boy's empty plate. "You've won over Mrs. Hudson and Angelo in one day, Archie."
His brow furrowed. "By eating food?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered, poking at his food with a wry grin. "There's something about us skinny fellows that screams 'feed me!' to every restaurant owner and little old lady, haven't you noticed? Eat a bit and they'll be your friends for life."
"Oi! There's a good lad!" Angelo cried, appearing as Archie cleaned the last bit of sauce off his plate. "You could learn something from young Archie, Sherlock," he added, clapping the poor detective on the back. The force of the impact made him wince.
"Angelo, if I wanted a scolding I could always ring my mother," Sherlock said dryly, although the other two saw the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Yes, but she's not here," Angelo replied, equally dry. "Archie, would you like some tiramisu or cannoli to take home?"
Archie considered the offer for a moment. "Thanks, but no. I dunno if I can eat any more."
The ex-car thief laughed. "Well, come back and visit us soon, eh? I'll make you my special layer cake."
"Okay," the boy agreed, grinning at his new friend.
"Right, best be off—lots to do," Sherlock said quickly, slipping some money under the salt shaker before Angelo could stop him. "Come along, Archie. Angelo, lunch was delicious as always."
Torn between pride at the praise and offense at the money, Angelo huffed, shook his head, and waved as the two curly-headed figures left the restaurant. Then, he picked up the ₤20 note and got back to work.
After all their walking, Archie was knackered and Sherlock not far behind. The detective steered his charge back to Baker Street, where a cheerful Mrs. Hudson hummed along to the radio as she scrubbed her kitchen floor.
"Hello, dears," she called out as she spotted them. "Where've you been, then?"
"We just had lunch," Archie replied, "and we walked around for ages."
"Well, that's better than making things explode upstairs," the landlady mused, "but William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you wear down your body before you recover, again, I will kill you myself, do you hear?"
The diminutive woman looked rather threatening as she waved her cleaning rag in the tall detective's face.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock answered, more warmly than he usually did. "We'll be upstairs all afternoon."
"I'll be watching," she warned, before giving Archie a smile. "Have fun, dear."
"I will," the boy replied, following Sherlock upstairs.
While Archie excused himself to use the bathroom, Sherlock set up his apprentice's next lesson. It had not been difficult for a former curious, experiment-friendly child to pick an activity for another curious child. Little Sherlock, aided by his genius brother and mother, had used and abused telescopes, chemistry sets, ants in the garden, and any scientifically interesting specimen that crossed his path. Adult Sherlock was much the same.
The boy returned as Sherlock placed the last test tube on the kitchen table.
"What's this?" Archie asked eagerly.
"I thought we could have some fun with an experiment," Sherlock replied, grinning. "Let's say Scotland Yard call me tonight to help with a case. They found a dead body, and next to it is a broken glass bottle of a mysterious white powder. It may be the murder weapon, and it may not. Come here," he ordered, slipping on some safety goggles and doing the same for Archie. His had an elastic strap that tightened, although they were still too large for the boy.
On the table he had several test tubes with white powder, and other compounds in beakers and tubes nearby, labeled in spiky handwriting.
"We'll run a series of tests, and see if we can identify the mysterious white powder."
Eagerly, Archie sat next to Sherlock.
"The first test is to see how the compound reacts with water. Take that pencil," he said, "and write down what happens when I add water to tube number one."
"What kind of stuff could happen?" Archie asked.
"Well, it depends on the compound," Sherlock explained. "It might dissolve completely, or partially. It could generate an exothermic reaction, which would make it really hot. It could change color, or do nothing, and just stay at the bottom of the test tube."
Archie watched carefully as Sherlock added a few drops of sterilized water to the first test tube. The white substance dissolved quickly, leaving a clear liquid. Archie wrote that down, and then Sherlock took his hand and held it close, but not touching, the test tube.
"Wow!" said Archie, surprised by the heat.
"Now we can rule out simple aspirin," Sherlock said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smirking.
Archie watched his excited babysitter with amusement. "Cool. What's next?"
"Let's try some ethanol," the detective suggested, picking up the second tube.
Before he squeezed the pipette, he called out "Go away, Mycroft."
Before Archie could ask who Mycroft was, the man appeared dramatically in the sitting room, dressed in a suit and carrying an umbrella.
"You've become quite rude in your convalescence, brother mine," he drawled, "although now that I think of it, you were always that rude."
"I'm busy here," Sherlock insisted, putting drop by drop of ethanol into his test tube with exaggerated movements. "Archie, watch the reaction again."
Archie did so. This time there was no heat, and the white powder did not dissolve completely. He wrote that down.
"Ah, your apprentice," Mycroft said lazily. "Young Archie, was it?"
The boy in question looked up. "You know about me?"
"Mycroft knows everything, like the nosy big brother he is," Sherlock told him.
It didn't take a genius to see his hero didn't like his older brother. Still, as a smart young boy, Archie didn't see the point in antagonizing the other man.
"Are you a detective too?"
He ignored Sherlock's derisive snort.
Mycroft smiled slightly, but shook his head. "I work for Her Majesty's government," he answered. "I leave the crime-solving to my brother."
"How generous of you," Sherlock replied mockingly. "Now will you go away?"
"But I just arrived," the older Holmes brother answered, making himself comfortable on Sherlock's green armchair. "I've come all this way to check on my injured little brother, so I'll be staying a while. Carry on with your experiment; don't mind me."
Sherlock and Archie continued their task, ignoring the presence of Mycroft Holmes. He watched as they identified the powder as sodium hydroxide, then started over with a new compound (caffeine, obviously). Not until the fourth compound did Archie show signs of boredom, and he only gave up when Sherlock had run out of litmus paper and acetone.
"Myc, Myc, I know what it is! It's bicarbonate of soda!" said a curly-haired boy excitedly. "Am I right?"
"Well done, Sherlock!" their mother said, beaming with pride.
"You should have figured it out ages ago," Mycroft muttered. "You're so stupid, Sherlock."
"I am not!" pouted his little brother.
"Mycroft, don't be ridiculous! He's a bright little boy for his age," Margaret Holmes scolded.
It was impossible to see little Archie and not remember Sherlock at the same age. Mycroft was fascinated to watch his brother's patient instructions to the boy, when he was not patient with anyone, save perhaps John Watson. An uncomfortable nostalgic feeling tickled his brain.
Without the bother of saying goodbye—he knew how Sherlock would respond to that—Mycroft left his brother's flat. Little Archie Campbell was in surprisingly good hands.