Adopted to be a Holmes

9. Remaining of the Day

They spent the rest of the afternoon quietly.

Wayne, despite his sad tune in the afternoon, was now playing "Down In The Valley" peacefully. Sherlock was in his Mind Palace again. John was typing on his blog.

By five o'clock, they heard a thud, then wailing from the stairs. Wayne sighed at Rosie's attempt to go down the stairs by herself. John got up to soothe his little girl out.

"What's wrong with all that wailing, boys?" Mrs Hudson shouted, worried, as she hurried up to see what's going on. "Oh, dear God, you've left her upstairs?" John nodded as he sighed again. Rosie sniffed.

"The stairs are too steep for a two-year-old to walk, silly," Mrs Hudson shook her head. "I'll give you some books on parenting, you definitely need them."

Then came Wayne with a first-aid box. He simply put it on the floor and went back without another word.

Sherlock kneeled down to stare at Rosie in the eyes. The toddler stopped crying somehow, and stared, hiccuping at Sherlock.

As John calmed Rosie down and Sherlock did his best to deduce how badly hurt was she ("You're the medical man John" he said. "You do deductions in seconds about how was a man shot!" John hissed.) and Mrs Hudson mumbled about making a waffle or two as an 'soothing treat', Wayne watched from far away, at the spot behind Sherlock's chair in front of the bookshelf. When the adults were caring about Rosie, he had somehow receded to this corner.

He hadn't realised how sad and alien he looked in the picture. Standing alone, away from every normal person, who could feel, be happy, sad, smile, cry. Who could feel emotions. So unlike him. Standing alone, looking at these people, isolated. Like he had been in his whole life.

He figured that he would look even weirder if he just stood like this. So he turned around, pretending to look for some books as he went back to his dark, endless circle of thoughts.

He thought about his life before this day happened. He thought of how he used to live. Thinking of this brought him an uneasy feeling. No, he wasn't going to live like that again. Ever, again.

"Boys! Bring the children down here! I've made some cookies!" Mrs Hudson called from downstairs, snapping Wayne out of his thoughts. John brought Rosie downstairs, leaving Sherlock and Wayne alone for the first time. The two stared at each other for a while.

"Sherlock! Are you coming with him?" Mrs Hudson called. Sherlock turned and shouted downwards. "No, not hungry," Sherlock called. Wayne shouted a croaky "No".

Sherlock began pacing in the room, hands behind his back. "So I see, that you have albinism, are not very happy about your life in the past, bought those baggy shirts on purpose, probably wanting to save some money for your family even though you do not like your mother very much, and you feel sorry for your father, are the freak of the school, and that you've tried to run away from home, or more precisely, from life, which I can deduce from that point that you may have depression. Now tell me, did I say anything wrong?" he stopped right in front of the boy. Wayne stared fiercely at Sherlock's blue-green eyes.

"Not a single point," he furrowed his brows in sadness. "I have not been clearly told that I am diagnosed with depression, but no one knows about that anyways. I suppose I do."

"Now, the only question left is, what exactly was your life like?" Sherlock asked, barely a hiss. "You mean what exactly am I and where am I from?" Wayne returned with yet another question. "Sorry, but not even I know it." He smiled sadly.

"Oh, dear God Sherlock, don't you go freaking out children. You've scared enough of your clients," Mrs Hudson gasped from the door.

Wayne smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," he said. "I'm never scared." "Dear God, you've no idea what Sherlock has done to people before," Mrs Hudson said, giving her boy a glance. Sherlock smiled sarcastically.