Chapter Text
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It was the prickling one gets from the fine hairs on the back of their neck standing up, when they know they are being watched, which was what pulled Sherlock Holmes from his sleep. For a few brief seconds he laid still, giving no outward indication that he was awake, as he took in as much information as he could with his eyes closed.
The person was on the other side of the bed, by the door, crouched low. The light, yet slightly accelerated breathing indicated that of lungs belonging to a healthy person of a smaller stature. The amount of light that could be gaged from behind closed eye lids and the amount of noise coming from the street outside his window indicated early morning. No later than 715, yet no earlier than 645. The faint scent was not overly familiar - exhaust, dirt and something artificially sweet…bubblegum? The fact that the bed didn’t feel any different and was not moving indicated that the intruder, clearly not his landlady, was standing, (or crouching if the direction of the faint breathing was anything to go by), next to the bed and not actually on it. That was a bonus he supposed.
After deciding that he could not glean any more information from laying there, pretending to be asleep, Sherlock Holmes slowly opened his eyes and the sight that met him was so unexpected that with a small, yet undignified cry he jolted back and tumbled off of the mattress and onto the floor on the opposite side of the bed as the small child that was currently staring at him.
Cautiously, Sherlock pushed up from the ground and mimicked the small persons pose of only showing the top half of his face over the side of the mattress, all though, to be fair to the child it is possible that that was as far as its body could stretch.
Across from him was a boy. A small, blonde boy, with wide navy blue eyes. His messy curls were sticking up every which way, there was dirt smeared on his face and what looked like dried snot stretched from his left nostril and up across his cheek. He appeared to be four, maybe five years old, but Sherlock couldn’t be certain as he really didn’t have much to do with children at all. Tear tracks on his cheeks indicated that he had been crying and, judging by the dark marks under his eyes, hadn’t slept recently.
Obviously this boy was not where he was supposed to be and in some form of distress. Logical conclusion: Lost.
Now Sherlock had to find out where he should be so he could promptly return him and get rid of the unfamiliar feeling of uncertainty that was spiralling up his spine. It was time to get some answers, and in order to do that, he was going to have to ask some questions.
“Who are you?” Was the first thing Sherlock asked. A fair question he thought, since the last thing he expected to see, upon waking up, when he fell asleep last night was a small child of whom he had never laid eyes on before.
“William” Was the timid reply as small fingers crept up over the edge of the mattress and gripped tightly onto the sheet. Sherlock noticed the scrapes on his small fist and the dirt under his nails.
“How did you get in here?” Another fair question, Sherlock believed, since he was fairly certain that a child of such a young age was not skilled enough to be able to navigate a key in a lock, let alone be able to pick one, and he knows for certain that the downstairs door last night had been locked when he went to bed.
“The door wath open.” Sherlock cringed at the lisp, pushing back unwanted memories of unsupervised school yards and unintelligent bullies and instead focused on what the boy had said. The door was open. What door? His door, likely - he never shut it, let alone locked it unless he wanted to keep his landlady out - or the main door, which was more than unlikely as Mrs Hudson was constantly harping on about the amount of crime lingering around these days and was for some reason convinced that the black door adorning the front of their building, staying shut when not in use, was in someway a deterrent against those ‘thugs and hooligans that had no respect for people or their property’. The more important point, though, was why this young person had decided to waltz in through the door, regardless of which one it was, unannounced, unsupervised or uninvited. The most expedient way to get the answer, Sherlock decided, was to just ask. Sherlock raised his head a bit further above the mattress and with a frown and pursed lips he asked “Do you often just wander into random homes and stare at sleeping strangers. Surely your parents have told you the danger of engaging with people of whom you are not familiar.”
“My daddy told me to run” the little boy said softly, and although Sherlock could still only see the top half of the child’s face he just knew that his bottom lip was trembling. “He thaid to go and find thomeone and to call the polith.”
At this Sherlocks interest perked up and he raised his body so that he was resting his elbows on the mattress and leaning towards the small boy on the other side of the bed, his frown now a look of intrigue. A potential case, and possibly one with promise.
“And where is your daddy now?”
“In the car with the bad men. He got me out and told me to run tho fatht and tho far. He thaid not to thtop running until I found help.”
Sherlock tried to ignore the way moisture seemed to be collecting in the boys eyes and the way that his voice wobbled while relaying his answer. Instead he decided to get more information about the man who had, by the sounds of it, been abducted. “And, who is your father?” he asked and then watched as the small face in front of him screwed up, obviously trying to ward of the tears that were threatening to fall and failing.
Through determined sobs, William managed to get out, “Hith name ith Doctor John Watthon and he ith a thoilder.”