bluetears07: (Roman-Stat)
[personal profile] bluetears07
Title: Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes
Paring: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock encounters a young boy with no name, an appetite and a bit of a temper.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Fiction.
AN: Just in time for Halloween: A Sherlock crossover with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? What? Not a new idea, I know, but I’m trying it on, with a few alterations. This is a bit of a prelude. (Guess who just finished watching Jekyll?)




Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes




John had turned in early that evening, complaining of exhaustion due to their latest case coinciding with the illness of two work colleagues. Their poorly timed absence left him with a few extra hours tacked on during the busy flu season. Apparently, it had taken everything out of the man to simply shuffle up the stairs of 221B, deposit the two bags of shopping and mutter a few single syllable words to Sherlock before slipping off to his bedroom to collapse.

Three hours later, well after the sun had set, Sherlock breaks from his latest experiment, now successfully in the incubation stage, to retrieve his violin from the couch. Crossing the room, he stumbles upon a rather peculiar sight. A young boy, prepubescent, most likely nine or ten years of age, stands stark naked in the open doorway of his flat. The child is short and slight, hints of malnutrition cling to his ribs and cheekbones. Neglected? Perhaps. Pale skinned, seeming untouched by the summer sun, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. Impossibly, vibrant blue eyes with an unnatural yellow circling round the wide pupil. A pair of hollow eyes that stare unblinkingly at Sherlock.

“Where did you come from?” Sherlock asks, taking an instinctive step toward the doorway, crouching down to get a better look at the child’s face. A floorboard creaks beneath Sherlock’s foot. The boy looks up sharply and those blue eyes fill with a newly born, wild curiosity.

It’s a look Sherlock has seen before.

“Don’t know.” The child shrugs, completely unashamed of his nudity as he peeks inside the flat. His fingers drum anxiously along his thighs as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his bare feet. Those wide eyes quickly survey the interior of his flat, flicking over the large windows and the layout of his furniture before coming back to rest on Sherlock. They skim over his features and there is something oddly familiar about the way the child pouts while thinking.

“Here.” Sherlock straightens up, tossing the boy his own dressing gown. The garment nearly swallows up his small frame, almost comical if not for the strangely predatory glint in his strange eyes. It is unsettling on a face so young and untouched. “What do you want?” The boy does not answer, wriggling into the silk with a pleased grin. He examines the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers and fiddling with the dangling cuffs. Rolling the sleeves back to a more satisfactory length, the boy exposes a pair of thin wrists and pallid forearms. “Where are your parents?” Sherlock is already annoyed by the unscheduled interruption, though mildly intrigued by the boy’s odd presence.

“Don’t know. Don’t think I got any…” He finishes tying the belt, tugging the loops of his childish bow before brushing past Sherlock to further explore the man’s flat. Sherlock stares after him, eyes narrowed but allowing the child to investigate in order to further observe him. Curious fingers pick at a nearby throw pillow, yanking a loose thread until it splits the seam and stuffing pops out. The ruined pillow is dropped instantly, instead his focus shifts to the violin bow propped up against the edge of the couch. “You have any chocolate biscuits?” He asks over his shoulder, picking up the bow and plucking the taut horsehair.

“No,” Sherlock answers automatically, snatching the bow away from the destructive child before it too goes the way of the throw pillow. The boy sniffs the air, pauses, sniffs again and the corners of his mouth curve up into a splitting grin.

“Liar,” the boy drawls with that positively wicked smirk before scurrying into the kitchen.

“Careful!” Sherlock reprimands, following after him while brandishing his violin bow.

The child is already throwing open Sherlock’s cupboards, crawling up onto the counter and knocking over pots and Petri dishes alike in his frantic search. They go crashing loudly to the floor, joined by boxes of pasta and soup cans John just purchased that evening. He lets out a squeal of delight. Finally, he unearths an open package of chocolate biscuits John must have hidden in the very back of the top most cabinet—how he ever got them down from the secret hiding place is something Sherlock refuses to indulge in imagining at the moment.

“Come here.” Nabbing the collar of his own dressing gown, Sherlock drags the child back into the common room. “Sit down.” He shoves the child in to John’s favourite armchair, getting rid of the violin boy in favour of looming over the boy with both hands firmly placed on his hips. “Now, what is your address?” Sherlock has already determined that the boy must live within the city limits, at least according to his accent, but cannot determine anything other than South London.

“I already told you, didn’t I?” The child pulls out a biscuits and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth in one go. “I don’t know,” he repeats slowly, over enunciating each syllable through the mouthful. Sherlock plops down in his own chair opposite and takes the boy’s hands in his own. He examines each pristine fingernail, smooth knuckles, and delicate wrists. There are no scars or cuts or dirt or any hint of nine years of age on the boy’s immaculate hands. Impatient, he starts to squirm away from Sherlock with a low-pitched whine in the back of his throat.

What kind of child has hands like this?

“Impossible,” Sherlock breathes, sliding to the edge of his seat. He reaches out, grasping the boy’s face and tipping his head back and to the sides. There is not a single distinguishing characteristic, no scars, no marks of any kind, only a pair of wide, stunning blue eyes.

The boy looks brand new.

“Hands off, pedo!” He snaps, lashing out at Sherlock with a flash of anger. A small fist nearly connects with Sherlock’s jaw. It is easily evaded as Sherlock leans back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he starts reassessing the situation. The child’s fury quickly dissipates. In the ensuing silence, his eyes flit over to the muted television screen. Shoving two biscuits into his mouth at the same time and munching happily, he points to the television. “Can I watch some telly?” A few crumbs dribble down his front, onto Sherlock’s silk dressing gown.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.” The boy responds correctly with a puzzled look. He continues eating the biscuits, greedily licking the chocolate off his fingers.

“Year?”

“2010.” Correct, again. “What about the telly?” He asks impatiently, gesturing toward the screen.

“What is your name?” Sherlock presses, continuing to ignore the boy’s inane requests.

“I—” A long pause follows and the boy looks as if he is searching every dark recess of his mind for the answer. Suddenly, he flinches, eyes snapping back to Sherlock’s face. “I don’t—” he trails off, voice flat and dull. A fleeting sadness is quickly replaced with annoyance.

“Mother? Father? Siblings? What school do you go to? How old are you?” Sherlock asks in rapid succession, hoping to draw out an answer from the boy—or at least determine if he is faking the loss of memory. But why? To what end?

“Piss off, poofter!” The boy chucks a biscuit at Sherlock’s head before drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping thin arms around them.

“Retrograde amnesia. How trite.” Sherlock concludes with a sour expression of disappointment. It is the only logical explanation; though the child’s ‘newness’ is overall deeply fascinating, his grating personality is something Sherlock would rather not partake of any longer. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to fuss over you while waiting for the police.” Standing, Sherlock wraps his long fingers around the child’s upper arms, hauling him out of John’s chair.

Amongst a string of rather impressively inventive insults and shrieks of molestation, a few pitched so loud that he is sure John is about come storming down the stairs, Sherlock ushers the young boy downstairs to hand him over to a more sympathetic soul for the evening.





In the morning, John slumps into his chair with a cup of tea and a sad looking piece of burnt toast, clearly still exhausted despite sleeping for almost ten hours. Perhaps the boy’s bellowing had kept him awake. Sherlock informs him of the strange child’s appearance and inquires about whether the shouts disturbed his sleep.

John stares at him, he hadn’t heard a thing.
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