Tumblr Prompt: 4
AUTHOR: bloodism
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC
RATING: G
PAIRING: -
WORD COUNT: 1269
SOURCE OF PROMPT: http://sharelock.tumblr.com
Prompt: What if Sherlock had to interact with a kid on a case? Which one would be the more childish? [asked by: http://city-of-ideas.tumblr.com// ]
Policeman buzzed about the entrance of the primary school, escorting children from the premises with comforting arms. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he strode towards the building, his body stiffening at the mere sight of the school. John - as perceptive as he could ever be - noticed this action and smiled up at him.
“Afraid of a little general knowledge?” John quipped, his voice terse despite the joke. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t reply. It was best to let John feel like he was the smart one once in a while.
Lestrade approached them from the back of a police van, face creased and etched with worry. Why he even bothered to become a detective with so much sympathy to spare, I’ll never know…
“Victim?” Sherlock dove straight in, scanning his surroundings as though it would produce the answer. Lestrade sighed and jerked his head into the direction of the school, indicating for them to walk.
“Alan Groves, thirty-five years old, male, dropped dead while talking to student. No sign of external wounds, but there is a pool of sick by his head, which leads us to believe he was poisoned.” He pulled open a door and Sherlock strolled inside, nose instinctively wrinkling again. He could almost smell the horrid, boring childhood he had once lived through.
“Were there any witnesses?” John questioned. Sherlock’s scoff replaced Lestrade’s answer.
“’Dropped dead while talking to a student.’ Honestly John, can’t you at least try and pay attention?” Sherlock ignored the glare that was piercing the side of his face and looked at Lestrade. “The witness?”
A strange expression carved itself into the wrinkles on Lestrade’s face and he frowned, slowing as they came to a door.
“Well…”
“I bet the poor kid is in shock,” John muttered. The detective inspector’s reaction was surprising - he looked almost hesitant as he stared at Sherlock.
“Actually-“
The door beside them opened and Donovan appeared, flustered and breathless.
“Sir, he won’t step away from the body. I’ve tried-“
“-It’s fine, just… leave.” Lestrade waved a hand, dismissing the Sergeant. She left - but not before throwing daggers at Sherlock - and the men walked in.
Sherlock’s’ eyes moved quickly, absorbing, analysing, taking in whatever they could. Man, dead, in the corner of the classroom. Face down, sprawled across the floor (must have had a seizure), the bloody puddle of vomit by his head. And beside the body - eyes as bright, absorbed and analytical as his - was a boy.
“Oh, dear God.” John whispered. Sherlock’s lips twitched.
“Didn’t your mummy ever teach you not to play with dead bodies?” He remarked, peeling his gloves off as he walked towards him. The boy looked up, his face blank.
“No. Why would she teach me that? It’s not like they’re dangerous.” To prove a point, the boy leant forwards and poked the dead man in the face. John sucked in a breath hand looked away, mumbling something like ‘kids these days…”
Sherlock gritted his teeth, irritated at not only the quick retort, but also the carelessness the dark-haired boy had towards the crime scene. He stormed forwards and crouched down, opposite the body and the boy.
“With your fingerprint on that man’s face, the police can blame you for the murder,” he hissed in a dark tone, hoping it would frighten the boy. He just looked at Sherlock vacantly.
“But he’s already dead. And besides, I’m only eight.”
Sherlock rolled his lips inwards in an attempt to bite back the tirade of responses he had. He looked over his shoulder at Lestrade.
“I didn’t think your standards could drop any lower, but I guess I was wrong - for once. Even letting children onto a crime scene-“
“-He’s a witness, Sherlock. And he’s said he won’t tell us anything if we don’t let him stay here.”
“Hello? I am here, you know.” The boy waved his hand close to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock pulled his face back to avoid being hit with his palm.
“Of course, how can we forget?” He glared hard at the boy, whose face remained passive.
“Are you a policeman? You don’t look like a policeman.” The boy tilted his head sideways, clearly more interested in Sherlock now, rather than the body in front of them. Sherlock exhaled through his nose and calmed himself. Well, it’s a start…
“No, I’m not-“
“-then you shouldn’t be here either.” He spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone.
Sherlock clenched his fists so tight the knuckles turned white. With clamped teeth, he turned to look at John. John’s amusement at his frustration was not appreciated.
“John, can you do something about this?”
The doctor shrugged and placed his hands behind his back.
“Relax. I think you’re doing great.”
Sherlock, tense and exasperated, turned back to the crime scene. Pretending the child didn’t exist was probably the best way to go about things. He scanned the body, observing the positioning of the body. Spasms were quite violent, must have been a potent poison. If he’s a teacher, there’s multiple ways of the poison getting into his system. So, middle-aged man, what kind of-
“Staring at him won’t make him come back alive.”
Sherlock closed his eyes and sunk his head low, regulating his breathing. He lifted his head sharply and glared, once again, at the boy.
“Then why are you still here?”
The boy shrugged and narrowed his blue-grey eyes at Sherlock. “Why are you still here?”
The room was quiet, atmosphere heavy, as the two glared at each other. Sherlock was aware of the boy’s hand, rising slowly across the body’s still form.
“Don’t,” Sherlock ordered. The boy lowered his hand.
“I said don’t,” Sherlock’s hand lurched out and he grasped the boy’s thin wrist. The boy grasped his in retaliation. Sherlock grabbed the boy’s other wrist.
Soon, they were alternating the hold that they had on eithers other’s wrists, neither of them backing down. It almost looked like they were playing some sort of game.
“Right.” John came forward and tore the two apart. They fell from their crouching positions to the floor, knees up to their chins and childish glares unnervingly still in motion.
“Sherlock!” John nudged the detective in the side of his ribs with his foot. Sherlock flinched in response and broke eye contact, seeming to remember where he was. He clambered to his feet.
“Lestrade, go and arrest the frail-looking old woman that’s standing just outside this room. I think you’ll find she’s the mother of the woman this man was sleeping with,” he cleared his throat and pulled his gloves back on, too disorientated to notice Lestrade’s confused expression. The boy was silent behind them.
“Let’s go, John.” His voice sounded almost choked. John cast him a speculative glance, but said nothing. As they reached the door of the classroom, Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder at the boy.
He was smiling impishly at Sherlock and Sherlock smirked back, nodding once in understanding. John noticed the shift in his mood after he had left the classroom.
“What was his name again?” Sherlock asked, his attempt at faking disinterest not at all successful, as John’s smile made clear.
“Holmes, I think. Jake Holmes. A relative?” John blinked innocently, but it was clearly a jab at him. It went over Sherlock’s head, though.
Ha, he thought, remembering the little exchange he had had with the boy. Oh, it wouldn’t surprise him if he was. That boy was an echo of what he had been in his childhood.
Sherlock sighed. It was shame, though…
Sherlock Holmes was a much cooler name.