My Little Sherlock

Holmes?

  221b Flatt
7:15pm

  I sigh in exhaustion and wipe a hand over my face. I've stayed up all night writing about Holmes and I's latest case. Quite a strange one, this case was. Although, most of them are.

  A man, claiming to have powers of a witch or warlock, murdered 8 people because they were religious. After being figured out and cought by the greatest detective in the world, he supposedly cursed Holmes. Something in Latin, of course, I couldn't understand what he had said. Holmes seemed to have understood what the man had said, but didn't take the time to share it with anyone.

  That all happened, just yesterday. It was a long case but finally, Holmes and I prevailed.

  I stand up from my desk and go to the sitting room. When I enter, I look around for my friend, who had just been asleep on the settee, to find him no longer there. Instead a lump of clothing I recognise as Holmes's. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion.  I take a glance, once more around the room, when I hear a faint sound come from the pile of clothes.

  I whip my head towards the noise and slowly walk over to the source. "Holmes?" As I get closer, the sound is more clear. It's a whimper. What on Earth? Once I reach the pile of clothing, I can also see, it's shaking. I reach a hand out and start to pull away the clothes. As the clothes are slowly removed, I reveal to find a little boy in the  fetal position, crying. I frown at the sight and instinctively reach down for the child.

  When I do, I find that he is completely nude, so I grab Holmes's shirt that had laid over the boy, and gently wrap it around his skinny frame. "Hello there. Are you alright?" I ask as I cradle him in my arms. Of course he's not, john. He looks to be about 5 or six years of age. He's thin and lanky with a thick head of curly, brown hair and pale skin.

  He squirms a bit in my arms, before I am granted a glance from the child. When I see his face, my breath catches. That nose, those chocolate, brown eyes and dark lashes . . . he looks just like . . . I cut myself off of the thought. Don't be silly John, it's just a coincidence. "Are you alright?" I ask again, softly. He looks absolutely exhausted. He stares up at me for a moment, the fear and foreboding that was in his is eyes, now ebbing. He slowly, nods his head and buries his head back into my chest.

  I look up from the child and look around the room. "Holmes?" I call out, trying to find where my friend had gone and if he can shed some light on this situation. I sigh, exasperatedly and take a seat on the settee so the boy feel more stable and safe. I settle him in my lap and gently try to get him to look up at me.

  "Hey, it's alright, dear boy. I assure you, you are safe . . . . what is your name?" He sniffs and looks up at me. "Sherlock, sir." He replies, quietly. I lean closer to see if I heard him correctly. "I'm sorry, what is your name?" I asks, again. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He repeats, nervously. I lean back and just stare at him, tryings to contemplate what he just said. Maybe this is a joke. It's has to be. I'm certain of it. "Holmes. If this is a joke, it's not funny." I state out in the open to get my friend to come out.

  When he doesn't, I look back down at the boy. Well . . . Holmes wouldn't deprive a child of clothes and then leave him or her unattended. He's not like normal people, but he at least has common sense and somewhat is responsible. Not just that, but this boy is practically his twin. He looks just like Holmes, but smaller and younger by at most, 25 years. This child also doesn't seem to be acting. He's truly scared and confused.

  "You are Sherlock Holmes? You have a brother Mycroft and he calls you Sherly?" I ask, just to confirm its not another Sherlock Holmes, which would be VERY, HIGHLY coincidental and unlikely. He nods his head in confirmation. "How do you know that?" He asks, perplexed. "Well . . ." I try to think of what to say, still trying to comprehend what I've just found out. "I met your parents. They told me a lot about you." He thinks for a moment, trying to tell if I'm being honest or not. After a minute he nods his head, satisfied with my answer. Years of lying to Sherlock for his own good has paid off.

  "Where am I? Who are you? Why am I naked?" He spurts out, looking up at me, pleadingly. "You're at 221 Baker Street. My friend and I's Flatt. My name is John Watson I am a doctor . . .  I believe your clothes have . . . " I don't want to scare him, and tell him he was a man and has turned into a little boy, because he obviously doesn't know and is already frightened. "You're clothes have grown." He cocks his and gives me an odd look. "Clothes can't grow." He states, matter of factly . . . Well, he's right. "Well, these ones do." I exclaim, not with much conviction.

  "Doctor, I was wondering if you'd -" I look up to see Mrs. Hudson enter the room, and freeze at seeing the little boy in my lap. "Doctor? Why do you have a child in your lap?" She asks, as she walks over to us and gives the boy a warm smile. "Well . . . I, he . . ." I stutter. "Well, I just found him here." She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "He was just sitting here?" I nod my head.

  Mrs. Hudson kneels down in front of Sherlock. "What's your name, dear?" She asks, soothingly. "Sh-" "Seamus" I cut him off. "His name is Seamus." Sherlock looks at me, confused but doesn't correct me, sensing I have a good reason for lying. Mrs. Hudson doesn't notice. "Well, Seamus. How did you get here?" He bows his head, in thought then looks around the room. "I . . . I don't know." He admits, with a frown. Mrs. Hudson looks at him, sympatheticaly. "Can you tell me where you live?" "Ummm . . . I don't remember the address." He replies, sadly. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll figure it out." She encourages, patting a comforting hand on his leg.

  "Mrs. Hudson. Would you mind bringing us some tea and a snack for him, as well?" "Of course, Doctor." She stands up and smile at Sherlock before leaving the room.