Chapter Text
Sherlock walked briskly past John’s open door on his way down the hall. Today was the day, and so help him John was far too smug about it. Today was hell. Today was doom.
Today was the day John and Sherlock were going to visit a primary school.
It had all started one fateful (horrifying) afternoon in Lestrade’s office after solving a rather boring and remarkably predictable case in which a 20-something stole a car part from his father's auto shop. The office was drab and grey, quite like Lestrade's personality. Sherlock perched on the rigid, straight-backed chair with his leg crossed and what he believed to be a perfectly masked air of annoyance.
"You're acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. Sherlock thought that Lestrade was, in fact, the toddler in this situation and he was the level-headed adult forced to deal with his ridiculous shenanigans. Then again, whenever Sherlock was around Lestrade he felt a little less level-headed and his fingers itched a little more towards the urge to strangle the man. He knew from all his time in detective work that strangling would hardly be the most untraceable of methods, but he could come up with more subtle ideas. Lestrade's droning, condescending voice buzzing in the background of his thoughts helped with the notion.
"...Mr. Holmes?!" Lestrade demanded. Sherlock knew he'd been talking the whole time and even though he could have taken the time to play the words back in his head, he didn't have the interest.
John gave his ankle a little tap with his pointer-finger. Sherlock blinked, his gaze returning to the dark-wood desk in front of him, coffee rings around the edge, built up from years of uncleanliness. He had started staring blankly off into space again. Most of the time it came when he actually wanted to listen, important conversations about whoever had just been murdered or talking with John about whatever it is he so loves to discuss -His blog?- In this instant, he'd been glad for it.
He took in Lestrade's expression. Irritation, impatience, incredulousness. By his guess he'd missed some sort of lecture about all cases being important and Sherlock not judging the ones which weren't the most gruesome or mysterious. Lestrade’s annoyance probably also had to do with the fact that he’d come to him about the case after a few days and he'd solved it in a matter of minutes.
"Mr. Lestrade, it has nothing to do with me thinking I'm better than rudimentary cases as these"—from the look John gave him in the corner of his periphery he knew he wasn't convincing anyone—"but rather that they are a press on my time in which I'm supposed to be tracking down the notorious and quite sinister criminal Moriarity."
"Ah yes, the case you've been working on for…what is it now…three months?" Lestrade offered with forced cheeriness. His eyes were anything but.
John sighed from his seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock clenched his jaw and forced himself to smile, which probably looked much more like a baring of teeth. "That's the one. But the fact of the matter is that it doesn't make it any less important. Meanwhile, some lad fresh out of school stealing the wheels of his father's business for a bit of coin and a dare from his friends is arguably less important." Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock gave him a glare and he seemed to think better of it. "Moriarity could be robbing the top banks of England, he could be out on a killing spree. He could be finding a way to reburn the library of Alexandria, for god's sake. Just because it's a bit perplexing doesn't mean it's any less critical, it’s just the opposite, in fact." Sherlock tried his hardest to restrain himself from insulting the man opposite him.
Sherlock knew the moment that a small smile twisted at the corner of Lestrade's thin mouth like a check-mark in a box for "Sherlock's doom" that something bad was about to happen.
"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said smugly, "What do you think of children?"
- - -
John and Sherlock stand waiting behind the curtain for their cue to go onstage at Ficklewood primary school. Somewhere out in the audience are hundreds of children, from five to ten or so—was that the age of primary school? John didn't entirely remember—and John was very much certain that none of them were ready for Sherlock Holmes. The wing of the stage is dark and secluded, their own little world before the chaos sure to ensue.
"I hate this with every single fibre of my being," whispers Sherlock.
"I know you do," John replies, "But I'll do most of the talking, okay?" He offers his hand and Sherlock takes it, tracing the lines of his palm, a place that had gripped scalpel and rifle in Afghanistan, a place which now bore the invisible trails of blood from comrades saved and lost.
"I hate children," Sherlock continues to complain. "All of them. They're all terrible little germy demons who want something from you that you can never give."
John laughed. "Surely you don't hate all children? You were a child once, after all."
"Never," Sherlock gasps, voice raising slightly, as if to suggest such a thing was treachery. "Well, I was never a child in the traditional sense. I had the smallness and the powerlessness but I always behaved and thought much like an adult. Everyone always told me I was mature for my age, anyway."
John can’t help the small grin spreading over his lips, this wonderful man could be so very precious at times. "I think we've established that that was in part because you didn't have any friends your age and so you mirrored the adults around you."
"That too," he admits. "I can only imagine what you were like as a child. I have some image of you reading medical textbooks while you sip too-sweet tea and nibble stolen biscuits from the kitchen."
John smiles. "It went something like that. Although, I disagree with your assessment that all the tea I drink is 'too sweet'."
"It truly is, though! Two sugars is one thing, darling, but five is an entirely different story. You can barely taste it at that point."
"Oh and I suppose having it be so bitter your life flashes before your eyes is acceptable?"
"It is, actually." Sherlock's tone is quite decisive.
"Sherlock Holmes, I love you, but you are the most hypocritical person I know."
He stops tracing his fingers over Sherlock's palm and laces their fingers together, smiling mischievously. "And you look like a proper adorable fool in that hat."
"What's wrong with my hat?" John’s smile widens.
"Nothing, nothing at all." It does make focusing a fraction more difficult.
" What ?!"
Before he can answer, a voice onstage welcomes them:
Say hello to Detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, who are here to tell us a bit about detective work.
Sherlock sighs as if this is the greatest pain he's ever endured in his life and lets go of John's hand, walking onstage to the enthusiastic cheering of small children.
John follows close on his heels. All the children are sitting eagerly waiting for him to start– the snotty things. Sherlock plasters on a fake smile after receiving a pointed look from his companion.
"So…detective work," starts Sherlock, unsure. "It's a rather interesting thing. It takes details and critical skills of observation and all sorts of things that children like yourselves wouldn't understand."
John inhals sharply. Good god, Sherlock.
"But I know all about it!" Shouts a child from the audience. "I've read all your cases in the paper and I want to be a detective just like you!" She is quickly reprimanded by her teacher. John can’t help but be reminded a bit of a young Sherlock.
Sherlock's grey eyes flit over to where she is sat, looking the child over once before noting with no small amount of sarcasm, "How ambitious."
John decides now is the time to cut in and save Sherlock from himself. “Yes, hello children. Who among you knows what a detective is?” Several hands wave, one in particular shakes with vigour.
“Yes, you. What is your name?” John points to the rather rambunctious little girl.
“My name is Piper Lewis, sir!” She says excitedly, “A detective is someone who solves crimes and catches bad guys!” She could be no more than eight.
“Very good, Miss Lewis.” John said while sending a pointed look to Sherlock’s bored expression. “And does anyone know how detectives do this?” Again, Piper raises her hand quickly, practically bouncing from her seat.
“Yes.. Miss Lewis?” John says.
Her smile had a certain sunny likeness to the man standing beside John. “Detectives use clues to find out stories about crimes and then they catch the bad guys and put them in jail!” The glint in her eyes does not quit.
“Correct again, Miss Lewis.” John can’t help the small grin that’s found its way to his face.
“Well not quite,” Sherlock finally cuts in, as if he hadn’t been complaining about being here for hours, “You see, children, to find the person who commits a crime, you have to find more than just clues. You have to be able to know people, to understand body language, which of course is one of the most important parts of detective work…” And off Sherlock goes, talking mostly about body language for their remaining hour at the school. While John has heard parts of this speech many times before, he can never help but listen to his beloved companion’s explanations.
- - -
As the classes are filing out of the room, Sherlock tries to beeline for the doors, however, he takes no more than five steps before Piper Lewis stops in front of him.
“Hello Mr. Holmes, sir!,” she says brightly. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you all morning. I'm a huge fan, I read about you in the paper almost every week! I love detective novels too, and I want to be just like you when I grow up! I solved a crime here at school two months ago, do you want to hear about it? Do you like detective novels? Oh yeah, I was wondering if you’re still working on the Moriarty case, he’s a really bad guy, but I’m sure you’ll find him soon. I also read about that in the paper, I-”
“Alright, little sprog, stop talking for one moment and I can answer your questions.” Sherlock most likely didn’t mean to sound rude, but her face falls a bit nonetheless. “Yes, I’m still working on the Moriarty case. Detective novels are rarely accurate in the slightest, and there is a certain eye for detail you need to have to be a detective, something very few people possess.”
“Oh..” she turns and walks away, it turns into a sprint quickly. She must have been about to start crying.
“Sherlock, there was no need to be so mean, she was just a little girl.” John admonishes him.
“What are you talking about John? I was simply answering her questions.” Sherlock says defensively. John gives him a look that he hopes says if Sherlock doesn’t go find her and apologise immediately, he’s sleeping on the couch tonight. Evidently it works, as Sherlock sighs and heads after her. He finds her crying in a small, hidden alcove a few hallways away.
“Hello there.. Poppy, was it?” She looks up, tears streaking her freckled face and making her eyes sparkle a brilliant blue colour.
“Piper,” she sniffs.
“Piper, of course. I would like to apologise for earlier. It has come to my attention that my response was a bit.. rude," Sherlock sighs but continues nonetheless, "I’m sure you could be a detective in the future.”
“Really?” she asks, astonishment written clear on her face.
“Of course.” Sherlock tries a smile.
“Thank you.. You know, you're not as annoying as you seem.” Sherlock scoffs at that.
“Well you’re just as snotty as you seem.” She laughs then. After a moment she gets up and hugs him, her forehead barely reaching his stomach. Sherlock feels quite awkward, he has a strict no touching policy (John is exempt, of course). He decides to stay still so as to not upset her again.
“Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, Piper?”
She hesitates for a moment. “Could you come visit me some time? At Madame Whitworth’s Children's Home?”
“Oh, um.. Well I’m not sure that would be appropriate Piper.”
“Why not? You could take me with you to solve crimes!” He hesitates.
“I’ll think about it.” The smile that blooms on her face could fuel the whole of London.
“Thank you! I’ve got to go back to class, I’ll see you soon!” she bounces off happily, with all the joy returned to her demeanour.
What has Sherlock gotten himself into?