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[personal profile] bluetears07
Title: Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes (2/6)
Paring: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock encounters a young boy with no name, an appetite and a bit of a temper. This time, however, he and Sherlock seem to understand each other a little better. But young boys grow up quick these days.
Rating: PG-13/R
Disclaimer: Fiction.
AN: It will get a bit darker from here. Music Featured: Shostakovich



Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes
Part Two




It was extremely rare, but on nights when Sherlock was between cases and John was otherwise in disposed (this time thankfully due to exhaustion and not another boring date), he would manage a short nap in the late evening. However, this night, just as he was settling onto the stiff mattress, a stream of haunting music came floating into his bedroom. It was very familiar, Shostakovich, being played flawlessly. At first Sherlock thought the music might have been a recording but the tone quality was too clear. John was dead asleep upstairs and of course he could not play the violin with such precision; apparently he’d had lessons as a kid but had been awful at it.

Cautious, Sherlock slips out of his bedroom to investigate the source of the eerie tune. A single lamp, one Sherlock remembers turning off not five minutes prior, illuminates the far corner of the living room. He round the corner of the kitchen to find the blue-eyed boy perched on the end of his couch. Short, little fingers dance expertly over the stings of Sherlock’s violin. His blond head dips and bobs in time with the music, childishly impassioned. Somehow, the boy looks older, maybe by a year or two—possibly three, judging by his jaw line.

Trick of the low lighting?

The boy abruptly stops playing. Head bent, still pressed to the chinrest, his eyes flick up and lock with Sherlock’s as the man steps into the living room.

“Hiya!” He looks up, his face bright and distressingly cheerful as he drops the violin to his lap.

“Couldn’t find home, I see.” Sherlock folds his arms, examining the tattered remnants of his silk robe now worn over a pair of equally dirty and ill fitted trousers. From the look of him, Sherlock reasons that the child never made it beyond Baker Street last night. The boy is practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of Sherlock’s company, toes wiggling as his dangling legs kick back and forth. Sherlock had forgotten how fickle children can be, blowing hot and cold, one night calling you a paedophile the next breaking into your flat and playing your antique violin.

“I like it better here,” the child responds with a nonchalant shrug that seems incongruent with the happy way he continues to pluck at the violin strings with his blunt nails.

“Unless you have a case for me, you are immaterial,” Sherlock spits back, turning to leave as he reaches out to flick off the light.

“No!” The child smacks the violin bow against the couch cushion. It snaps clean in two. “Do not ignore me,” he yells, his shrill voice echoing in the flat as if unnaturally amplified. Sherlock pauses, turning back around calmly to stare at the boy who just wrecked the bow his father gifted him twenty years ago. The flash of ire dissipates completely once Sherlock redirects his attention back to the boy. Satisfied, the child hops off the arm of the sofa, still clutching the violin and broken bow. “Let’s play a game,” he demands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wanders around the room, searching for some form of entertainment. Sherlock watches silently as the child yanks a few encyclopaedias off one of the lower bookshelves before turning to face him. “I can help with the experiment and dissection.” A grin curls the edges of the boy’s mouth and in the lighting his expression almost looks sinister. Interesting. Arms folded tight across his chest, Sherlock turns toward the kitchen. “I’ve a lot of practice with dead things. It’ll be fun.” The boy calls out, hoping to appeal to the man’s more perverse nature.

“Leave the violin.” Sherlock instructs without looking back.





After an hour of exploratory dissection, Sherlock asks the boy to slice open the third rodent and tell him what different there is between the stomach contents of it and the previous two rats. Oddly enough, Sherlock finds the child’s company rather agreeable—at least he is not squeamish and rather responsive to Sherlock’s various scientific mutterings. He is almost as nice a companion as John, though far more impulsive and bratty. And his eyes are much bluer and his hair much brighter though Sherlock is sure there is a much deeper darkness that haunts the boy’s impossible eyes.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Sherlock asks curiously as the child deftly cracks open the rat’s ribcage.

“Nah,” the child brushes the idea off with a grin as he locates the stomach and extracts it. A look of glee dances around his features as he slices open the organ. “Seen much worse.”

Strange.

“Where?” Sherlock asks immediately, challenging the boy’s claim. He feels a twinge of annoyance that he cannot easily read the child’s history in his appearance. Any other individual and Sherlock would have know within five minutes of setting eyes on him. Children were always harder to read, it had been a long time since he felt that young. It must be the overwhelming ‘newness’ of him that is throwing Sherlock off—it is difficult to deduce what is not there.

“Don’t know.” The boy shrugs, seemingly unconcerned with his lack of a proper memory. “But I have,” the boy assures him admittedly and it is clear the child believes what he is saying. With a glance up at Sherlock, the haunting blue eyes narrow as he struggles to remember something illusive. “It’s a bit fuzzy, like I was only half awake at the time.” Latex covered fingers covered in entrails and bits of half digested and unidentifiable meat, the boy stares through Sherlock.

“Perhaps your memory is returning.” Sherlock theorises, sewing the first two rats back up with two different metal disks inside. “That is if you do indeed have amnesia,” he adds, eyeing the child sceptically.

“Don’t think it’s that, Sherlock.” The disquieting smile returns to his young face, aging him by a few years—and this must be what people see when Sherlock’s face lights up upon news of a serial killer roaming the streets of London. “I think I’m something new,” he adds proudly, blue eyes wide and full of so much life. And isn’t that true. After all, Sherlock is sure he has never seen anything like the child ever before. The boy looks back down at the rodent, smearing its stomach contents between his gloved fingers. “Unlike the others, this one was poisoned.” He bends to sniff the bile. “Ricin.”

“Correct.”





Much like the previous morning, John stumbles into the kitchen bleary eyed and clearly still exhausted despite the appearance of a full night’s rest. Ceramic teacups rattle around as he pulls one out to pour himself a cup. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when he checks the time. Sherlock glances over his shoulder in time to watch John’s forehead connect with the fridge as he slumps against it. Sherlock notices several fresh blisters on the man’s fingertips—very strange. He files the information away in his mind to dwell on later, turning back to his chirping mobile.

“Won’t be back until late tonight,” John informs him, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

“I’m sure I’ll manage. I have years of practice,” Sherlock replies, voice flat and patronising.

After a few deep, calming breaths from the general vicinity of their fridge, John forces himself to snap to life. He starts whirling around the kitchen, slurping tea and buttering toast at the same time and he racks and hand through his dishevelled hair. Sherlock continues tapping out a text to Lestrade, inquiring about any recent missing persons under the age of twelve. John dangles a second piece of toast in front of Sherlock’s face, completely blocking out his mobile. Begrudgingly, Sherlock accepts the food in order to appease the other man.

“Just don’t burn the place down, yeah?” John says with a hollow laugh, reaching out to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. The hand hovers in the air before eventually falling away, avoiding contact with the other man.

“I’ll text if anything should come up,” he calls after John’s retreating back.





Double homicide. Soho. Don’t wait up. SH.





After examining the crime scene and tracking down a few leads, Lestrade forces Sherlock to take a cab back to 221B. It is almost one in the morning and Sherlock feels wired. He bounds out of the taxi, ready to spend the rest of the night researching various poisons and bacteria, comparing notes from previous cases, potentially rousing John from his sleep to bounce ideas off his medical mind. Halfway to the door a voice cuts through the relatively quiet night air.

“Sherlock!” Sherlock turns to see a young man, late teens, most likely legal and clearly well pissed, stumbling out of the alley across the street from his flat. An exhibitionist, judging by the girl stumbling after him rearranging her flimsy skirt and the fact he is still struggling to button up his trousers. He manages to cross the street without falling flat on his face and calls out to Sherlock again, slurring his name until it is hardly recognisable.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow as he fishes his keys out of his coat pocket. Bright blue eyes stare up at him, slightly glazed from copious alcohol and a post orgasmic haze.

Impossible blue eyes, rimmed with yellow.

“Sherlock,” the young man moans his name, eyes screwing shut as a wild grin spreads across his lips. He starts pawing at Sherlock, tripping over his own feet as he struggles to wrap his arms around the taller man. A look of confusion crosses the teen’s face as he stares up at Sherlock. “Come on, mate, don’t you want to play?” Teeth sink into the soft cartilage of his earlobe and the young man’s hands are everywhere, unnaturally quick despite his level of intoxication. “I do,” he purrs into Sherlock’s ear.

“No.” Sherlock attempts to shove him off but is met with surprisingly strong resistance. The teen does not budge an inch nor show any sign that he even registered Sherlock’s refusal. He swiftly pries open Sherlock’s coat and starts tugging at the dark purple fabric hiding beneath. Cold fingertips brush against his abdomen and Sherlock’s back collides with the door.

“Where’s my twenty quid, bender?” The woman, a prostitute, heroin addict for five to seven years, mid-thirties, bellows across the street.

“Shhhhush,” the young man whirls around, pressing his finger to his lips and glaring at the woman. “Wasn’t even worth a fiver!” There is real, unchecked rage in his voice and the woman flinches at the sound. While the drunk is distracted, Sherlock easily extracts himself from the man’s loose grip and slips away.

Sherlock flings the door closed behind him but the image of those familiar blue eyes gives him a momentary pause before dashing up the stairs to discuss the incident with John.

Unfortunately, John is not home yet.

Neither is the child.
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