Wayne ran along Baker Street, a street that he had known so well yet was unfamiliar with. He hadn’t the faintest idea where Sherlock was, but he had a guess.
He sped up and thought. Think! He had been taught to use his brain for proper thinking ever since he was little. He winced both at how hard he was thinking it hurt and the memory of his childhood. His eyes darted around, as though he could see through walls and people and see Sherlock, or that he might spot the tall man in the sea of people, which clearly wouldn’t happen.
He stared down at his feet. His shoes were old, unlike Sherlock’s, or John’s, or even Rosie’s. His eyes widened. Shoes. Be in Sherlock's shoes. At least try to.
He shut his eyes, pondering the question Where would I go if I were Sherlock?, thinking every possible place he’d go. The bar… no. That junkie’s house or something… no, he’s got Rosie at home now… His eyes shot open. Mycroft. But where exactly is Mycroft? The Diogenes Club or something like that? Or was he somewhere in the government administrative headquarters? Who exactly is Mycroft anyways? What is the Diogenes Club? He racked every inch of his brain.
For some reason he felt he should look for Sherlock. Somewhere inside him he felt there was a connection between them. Something that linked them up. Then again, why had he known so much about Sherlock? He basically have no idea, no memory of his childhood (infant to about ten years old). Why had he known so much about this famous consulting detective? (Wait, where have I got the idea he is a consulting detective anyways? he thought.)
… He’d read it off some websites. Yes, it must be. Something, what was that website called, Science of Deduction… No, he only mentioned tobaccos or something like that… Why would I remember what he wrote? He thought. He was so forgetful that people at school called him Neville Longbottom instead.
Then where could he have known all that? Where’s Sherlock? Wayne’s almost positive he was with Mycroft. Who’s Mycroft?
He snapped back to reality as he saw a pair of polished leather shoes.
“I thought John or Mrs Hudson would have come out and look for you,” the shoes’ owner said. He was a man with tidily cut auburn hair, and wore a crisp suit. He was someone Wayne had never seen before. But he recognised the man at once.
“Now will you please, Mr Ballard, to get in the car and to a place where we can talk in private and in a more comfortable way, in armchairs with some tea and a cozy fireplace, rather than standing on this freezing, noisy street.” He gestured at a black car behind him, and in the backseat sat a woman, typing away on her phone.
Although the man mentioned nothing, Wayne knew perfectly well where they’re going, though he had never been to there or even seen it.
He went over, opened the door of the car, and got in obediently. He would soon understand those memories that never happened, yet imprinted in the deepest parts of his heart.
Word: 536
A/N: i know this thing has been shorter than the others i've written. i'll try to add more and keep the quality and number up. i'll do my best (๑•̀ᄇ•́)و ✧
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Adopted to be a Holmes
Fanfiction"A couple have been murdered. now, i need you two to come and investigate." Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene, and on the swing in the garden, sat a boy wrapped in a shock blanket. He, Wayne Ballard, is the son of the murdered couple. "So...
