“Woah, bloody hell Wayne, you’re finally back,” sighed John as Wayne entered the door of 221B Baker Street hours after he left. He had been sent a message by someone mysterious with the contact name “Anthea” (Surely I have heard the name somewhere before? he thought), telling him Wayne was safe and he need not to worry. But what caught him unexpectedly when he opened the door was the hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Mycroft? Why are you here?” John muttered.
“And why can’t I?” Mycroft answered indifferently. “Got a nice lad, you and Sherlock. I thought we’d hear the happy annoucements first before we see a boy this old?”
“Wait, no- We’re just looking after him because his parents are murdered!” John blurted, trying to ignore the fact that his ears were burning red.
“Sherly?” said Rosie as she timidly peeked from behind John’s leg.
“Oh, Rosie, you’re awake from your nap?” John said as he picked up his sleepy daughter, a yellowing toy horse in her little palms.
Mycroft chuckled. “Was that-?” He didn’t finish as he bursted into laughter. John smiled a little. “Yes, it’s Sherlock’s. We found it in an old trunk.”
Rosie looked from her dad to Mycroft. “Michael!” the little girl cried. Mycroft sighed as Wayne muffled a snort. “How many times have we said this, Watson? Either call me by Uncle Mycroft or Uncle Mike.”
“My-my!” the girl exclaimed merrily, reaching for “Uncle Mycroft” as the man sighed. Wayne, however, despite his earlier snort, stared at the girl blankly, wearily. John immediately noticed how different the boy looked, how he hunched forward while standing (He always hunches his back while standing anyways, John thought), how his eyelids drooped.
“Why don’t we go inside and have a tea? Mrs Hudson is making a cuppa,” he invited after a moment of concerning the boy, looking paler than ever. Mycroft half-pushed Wayne inside with some strength of his hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and together they went inside.
Wayne practically dragged his feets up the stairs, John noticed, and Mycroft kept on casting concerned glances at the boy, something he would rarely do.
Despite the fact that he was more tired than ever, Wayne didn’t take a seat as the four of them went inside. He picked up his guitar from its bag-case, dug around the bottom of his duffel bag and fished out a piece of black metal. He then placed it at the head of the guitar, sat down and started playing the same notes over and over again, turning the tuning keys each time he heard the sound, watching the piece of metal carefully.
John stared, a bit confused by Wayne’s sudden action. Mycroft glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “He’s tuning his guitar, Watson,” he sighed. On the other hand, Wayne seemed to hear none of this conversation, concentrated on tuning his guitar. John sat in his chair, Rosie on his lap, resting her head on his shoulder as he gestured Mycroft to take the “guest stool”. He stared at Wayne, suddenly showing an unknown side. This boy seemed unfamiliar all of a sudden.
Then softly, he struck up a tune. A simple, yet emotional tune. The sad tune filled up the room. John felt an uncontrollable feeling overwhelming him. He was so concentrated that he didn’t notice Rosie leaving silent tears on his shoulder, totally taken over by the sudden wave of sadness. Wayne however, remained motionless as he continued through the song, and eventually a softly played note indicated the end of the song.
Wayne looked up and stared at Rosie for a moment. He then got up, and put the guitar carefully back into its case, and walked to the kitchen.
While he was away, John cautiously asked Mycroft, “Who have you done?” he hissed with concern. Mycroft simply said, “Not my business, Watson.” John then turned his attention to his daughter, now dozing off, still tears in her eyes. He stood up and went upstairs to his room with Rosie. “She’s definitely needing a good nap,” he muttered.
Wayne came back out with a beaker and a test tube in his hands.
“So, how did they do that?” he asked, staring interestingly at the chemical apparatus he was holding. Mycroft chuckled a bit and got up. “Let me show you,” he said as he walked over. “Oh yeah, you’re always the smart one,” Wayne retorted.
When John got back from putting Rosie to bed, he saw a rather odd scene: Mycroft, who usually didn’t even step foot in the kitchen, was now standing next to the table of glass, speaking something which John wasn’t able to hear, and beside stood Wayne, who was pointing at different apparatus.
Mycroft answered John’s quizzical look. “Well, you see, as he’s going to live with my brother, I may as well train him an assistant and apprentice in chemical.” Wayne still stared at the glasses.
Then Wayne looked up as if he suddenly remembered something. “Are we going back to investigate tomorrow?”
John knew by heart that what the boy was talking about was his old home, where two horrible corpses still laid in the living room.
“Obviously you are. Well, wish you and Sherlock a good afternoon and night.” answered Mycroft as he swung his umbrella and left.
“So where’s Sherlock?” John asked, apparently concerned. “He’ll be here in- let’s see- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-” ad Wayne counted down to zero indifferently, John heard the front door bursting open, and feet climbing up the stairs two, no, three at a time, and into the room Sherlock Holmes threw the door open.
The moment he saw him, John’s worries melted into relief, then anger.
“I THOUGHT SOMETHING, OR SOMEONE, MIGHT HAVE KILLED YOU! CAN’T YOU JUST TEXT ME THAT YOU’RE FINE? EVEN FOR ONCE?” he shouted. Wayne headed upstairs as he was worried that the little girl might be waken up from her father’s shouting.
But Sherlock was absolutely focused on something else that he hadn’t responded to John’s shout of worry and fury. He slammed something onto the table. John reached for it, but Wayne snatched it out of his way.
“It was my birth certificate,” he hissed as he threw a glance over the piece of paper. On it was written-
“Walter Wayne Ballard,” John read. “Your first name’s Walter?”
“I don’t like it because it reminds me too much of Walt Disney,” groaned Wayne as he rolled his eyes.
“And what, Wayne reminds you of Bruce Wayne?” chuckled John.
Wayne blinked. “Who’s that?”
“Batman! The Dark Knight!” said John as he shook his head. “Don’t you read comics?”
The boy shrugged. “I’ve always liked William Shakespeare and Jane Austen more.”
John stared in disbelief. Shakespeare! Jane Austen! Something every child would have loathed!
"We can always have time to talk over this," he chuckled.
Words: 1152
A/N: OH GOD I AM SO HAPPY MY FIRST CHAPTER THAT HAS REACHED MORE THAN 1 THOUSAND WORDS IS DONE! OH GOD I PRACTICALLY SCREAMED IN MY MOTHER'S FACE I'M SO HAPPY ANSKSKWJAJSBSBDB
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Adopted to be a Holmes
Fanfic"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...
