Title: Collecting Strays- Needing Each Other

Rating: T to be safe

Summary:John is battle-weary, wounded, exhausted, and heartsick. Sherlock is just sick and wounded, period. And Mycroft, bless his little heart, is possessive and nearly big enough to act on it.

A/N: I have taken a few liberties here, and the first thing I will do is name them. For starters, I believe 'Alfie', or Alfred Webber, is the creation of KCS; if there is an 'Alfie' in the books, I haven't met him yet. I've only read a few Sherlock Holmes stories. Now, by a few, I don't mean one or two; I've got a collection of the best of Sherlock Holmes mysteries on my shelf and the complete collection Volume One right beside it. But while I've finished reading the first, I'm only half-way through the Sign of the Four in the second. So suffice to say I've read a huge amount of the shorts and only one and a half of the novels. I've also listened to a few audio books and seen, of course, the new movie, though it's the only Sherlock Holmes movie I've ever sat through. Also, I've absorbed a huge amount of fanfic. So saying, I have not come across this child or if I did, I don't remember him. Therefore, if KCS or any of her friends here want me to nix the irregular from this story, just PM me. ^^

Second issue to be addressed is accents. I don't write them, not in any great amount. So sorry. Use your imaginations, it's better anyway. Haha.

Next up is partly already addressed above; my Holmes knowledge is an ever growing and expanding thing, and I can only hope and pray I've got everyone in character. According to readers of my Trek fiction, I do a good job of characterizing those boys and girls; hopefully I can do the same here. I hope my Watson, Holmes, and Mycroft sound like themselves, along with everyone else.

Final on the menu, I believe is that fact that I am painfully American. Therefore, so is my writing. While I try to keep it sounding....appropriate....I'm not going to try to mimic Doyle's style, use British slang (for the most part) or anything of the like.

Now that that's been addressed; please, do, review and enjoy the following little AU. It will probably be four chapters long, if that. I hope ya'll enjoy it, and don't worry; I haven't stopped my Star Trek fics.

The boy is large for his age, but still not much more then a boy, size aside. No more then fourteen in age, John assumes. Not fat, exactly- was it possible for an urchin to be fat?- but with proper living and care he certainly has the potential to be big and powerful. His hair is black as raven feathers and his eyes are a piercing gray, cold and uninviting as the ocean on a stormy morning. He wears tattered clothing and shoes, and his skin is dark and weathered with outdoor life; but none of that holds Watson's attention.

What held his attention is the blood coating the thick hands.

"You're a doctor, right?" The boy asks. His voice is thickly accented but it's obvious that this child is intelligent from the way he speaks. He's calm, too calm for a child of fourteen, but his hands are shaking, and his breath is far too shallow. "He said you'd come-said we could trust you."

The look in the boy's eyes says he doesn't totally believe this, but it also says he's desperate. And scared.

"You can." John Watson is well known among street rabble. He's a war veteran, at one time a medic and a doctor and possibly could have been a well respected, even well off man, if that was the kind of person he was. But instead he lives in moderate lodgings in a home owned by a woman who is a very dear friend and has allowed him to board there for less then she normally might ask in exchange for his help around the place, and tends not only to well off patrons but instead to those who needed medical aid but couldn't always afford it.

He doesn't know who this 'he' was, but it doesn't really matter; it could have been any one of the children who came to him for aid and comfort. What matters was that a frightened, intelligent, brave teenager is staring at him with too-old eyes and silently begging.

He doesn't usually go to his patients, not these ones, anyhow; typically, they show up at his front door. He's weaker in body then he'd like to be, an old wound at his shoulder and another in his leg leaving him in constant, if dull pain, that when strained too far spiked into cramping, burning agony. As such, he was no longer in the condition to be crawling and running after urchins through their back-ally roadways, and they all know it.

That this boy has shown up without the injured party meant that the child hurt was too badly hurt to move.

"You can," He repeats, grabbing up coat and stick and medical supplies and leaving the door wide open. "May I ask your name?"

Blink, and the boy shuffles back a step, uncertain, skittish as a wolf. It makes John's heart ache, that life should have made one so young so wary.

"Come now," He says, more gently, joining the boy on the step. "You know mine."

"John Watson." Comes the prompt reply. "Ex-military, honorably discharged, medical man, widower, and recently, too, from the lingering discoloration of skin on that hand." The boy looks up, storm-cloud eyes unwavering. "Don't look so surprised, it's only a little of what I can tell about you. It's simple, really, even my brother-" He stops, suddenly, jaw snapping shut. "Even my brother can do it, and he's only seven." He finishes after a moment.

"Your brother. That's who we're going to help?" He asks gently, mind whirring at the sheer force of intelligence and personality lurking in this boy. How did such a child end up on the streets? Clearly educated, even well breed, clever and smart, used to being around adults. "Can I know his name?"

".....Sherlock." Comes the whispered reply. "His name is Sherlock. I'm Mycroft."

Sherlock and Mycroft. Well, if that isn't evidence enough that he's dealing with an unusual situation he doesn't know what is.

"What's happened to Sherlock?" He asks gently, and gets a stare that would put some adults to shame. He blinks at the intensity of that stare; despite the blood and filth, there is something of a cat in Mycroft's eyes. Something haughty, arrogant, and aloof; utter disdain in the way he tilts his head and sniffs. This was not anything like what John is used to seeing in any child, let alone one on the streets.

"Don't talk to me like I'm simple." He snaps, "And don't patronize me. I'm not one of your little band of urchins."

Well, excuse me, your highness. He's torn between annoyance and amusement, and lifts a brow at the child.

"Apologies." He replies stiffly, eying the miniature adult walking at his side. "What's the problem, then?" He couldn't help but let his lips twitch a bit as Mycroft sniffed in approval at the more adult tone.

Then the boy at his side sobers, and lowered his head, and dark brows drew together in a quiet, much subdued expression of concern.

"He's been shot." He says simply, and John closes his eyes at the pang that shoots through his chest. He wishes he could be more shocked at the fact that a seven year old boy had been shot; but after all he'd seen and been through it's only a dull, throbbing ache. "He's insatiably curious, and tends to put himself in situations he shouldn't be in. I'm not sure of the circumstances; I could tell you where and when it happened, but I was more concerned with tending to my brother then going and investigating the place he was hurt." A pause.

By this time, they've gotten themselves in a back street, and are traversing along refuse and abandoned homes; it was at one of these empty places of residence that Mycroft stopped. He pushed open the door, which swung in to nearly falling off it's hinges, and they both paused. It's a dusty, dingy place, with broken furniture and fabric draped over odd, lurking shapes in nearly every corner; drapes half-covered one or two windows, tablecloths others.

"He's upstairs." Mycroft tells Watson, as they pause. He then turns, giving him a skeptical look. "You can make it up stairs, I assume? I saw at least seventeen in your flat."

Cheeky little bugger, this one, John thinks, torn yet again between annoyance and amusement. "I'm not a complete invalid, no." He drawls. It might be painful, but pain had long since become an old companion, and he'd adjusted. Besides, there aren't many stairs, and most of them are broken; at least twice Mycroft has to hop, and Watson near follow suit. His longer stride was all that helped.

"How did you get him up here?" He asks, slightly out of breath by the top, after they'd both narrowly missed tumbling down when a step broke under John's weight. The boy turns, slate eyes quietly amused and one eyebrow arched.

"He's only seven, I said." He reminds. "And tiny. Sherlock's always been a bird when it comes to food, even before. And while I'm sure he's going to get height on him- our entire family is-was-" He pauses, pain flashing through his eyes but gone before John can even really see it, "-tall-he hasn't gotten hardly above my knees yet."

Not hard to believe. This Mycroft boy is, as noted, tall and broad; easily topping the height of most other fourteen year old boys. He'd probably be well over six feet as an adult, John muses, as he is lead down the hall.

They come to yet another door, and this time, Mycroft raps gently before pushing it open. There, huddled in the semi-dark of the room, on a small cot on the floor, is the lad who can only be Sherlock. John recognizes one of the other of his boys- a lean, slender redhead named Alfie who lives with his grandmother- sitting next to it, mopping the curled figure's forehead.

"Doctor!" Alfie chirps, looking up. "I didn't know if Myke'd listened to me 'r not when I told 'im to fetch you."

"No, I just left my brother all alone to go on an adventure." Mycroft snarks in reply. Alfie gives him a wounded look.

"Wasn't alone! I've been takin' real good care of 'im, haven't I?" His voice softens a bit as he leans in to the huddled figure.

"He has." Comes the tired, whispered reply. The voice is deep for a child's, and, like Mycroft's, there is a very adult note in it. It's aching, and soft, and when he takes a step into the room Mycroft moves so protectively towards the little figure on the bed that for a moment John thinks he might bite.

"Easy, it's alright." He says, lifting his hands. "I can't help him if you don't let me near him." Mature and adult or not, this is still just a teenage boy, scared and alone, with a badly hurt younger brother.

"The doc's alright, Myke." Alife pushes upright, takes Mycroft's sleeve in his grip. "You c'n trust 'im, I promise."

John moves around the two boys, dropping painfully to his knees and gently pulling back the ragged, dirty blankets. There, in the bundle of it all, is the boy, his tiny patient. And Mycroft is right; he is small. Thin, nearly too much so, with a mess of black hair like his brother's and the same storm cloud eyes, he reminds John of nothing so much as a wounded bird. The badly bandaged hole in his shoulder is soaked through with blood, and is helplessly dirty; thoughts of infection and disease swarm through Watson's mind.

"Hello." He greets softly, reaching out to brush aside a strand of coal hair. "Sherlock."

Those eyes scan and study him levelly. "He shouldn't have called you-"

"I very much beg to differ. I'm going to check you for fever, so I'll need you to stay quiet."

"Can you do that, Sherlock?" Mycroft has knelt on the other side, and his tone is gentle but ribbing. The boy's gray eyes flash with spirit, for only just one moment, and he rolls his head back around to his brother.

"He's got an infection." Comes the reply a few minutes later. "The bullet, at least, went cleanly through, and as far as I can tell hit nothing vital." He pushes a hand through his hair. Alfie is watching, in the corner, and young Sherlock is curled happily like a cat in John's lap, practically purring. He's found the child to be incredibly hungry for gentle touch, but skittish of any touch. After the wound had been tended to, the exhausted, hurting boy had allowed Watson to draw him into his lap, though, and is more then half asleep there now. Mycroft watches from a protective distance.

"So, as long as the infection is tended to properly, he'll heal?"

A low, harsh breath. "Alfie, lad, shouldn't you be headed home?"

Alfie's green eyes flash up to him, "But what about Sherlock?"

"Sherlock will be fine, Alfred." Mycroft said quietly from his corner. "You've done a marvelous job."

"Poor thing is exhausted, but he'll live." John adds, as Alfie begins to gather his things. So long as he gets out of here, and has some real food and care, he doesn't add. "I'll take care of the rest, Alfie. Go home. You can come by tomorrow and check on him, if you wish."

"Come by?" Mycroft's eyebrow arches, and he tips his head at John like a bird, pushing up to his feet, half-crouched. He knows, John knows he does, and there is something of a way animal in his gaze.

"Yes. Come by my flat, where I'm taking both of you."

"No." The word is instant, and flat, and everything about the boy just goes cold as ice. "We're not going anywhere, least of all with you."

"He's got an infection." John snaps back, as the boy in his arms moans. "He can't stay here."

"....Myke, when I said you c'n trust 'im-"

"Alfie." John turns, giving the boy a significant look. "Your grandmother will be concerned. How long have you been here?"

"Since Myke went t' get you, Doctor." Alfie admits, with a little blush.

"So a few hours, at the least. Go on home, and come by tomorrow."

"I said, we're not-"

"And I said you are." He snaps, more strongly. "I'm not- I can't- let you both stay here, not with him hurting like this. Not as a doctor, and not as a person."

The teen shuffles back a step, his eyes staying very level on John, hands clenching and unclenching.

"Mycroft," John says gently, "you told me there were a dozen things that you could tell about me just by looking. Look at me now, and tell me if I'm going to hurt you. Either of you. If I could ever hurt you."

Mycroft's steely eyes flick over his face, the boy's breathing fast and shallow. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." John gathers the now-sleeping younger brother gently in the cradle of his arms, holding the far-too-small seven year old out to his brother. "I'm a doctor, Mycroft, it goes against everything in me to cause harm to others."

"You were also a solider." John flinches at the pointed reminder. "Being a doctor doesn't mean anything. There are doctors who are just as evil as anyone else."

"I'm capable of doing harm. That doesn't mean I enjoy it." John says, very softly. "Think about Alfie, and the other boys. Would they trust me, if I was someone harmful?"

"....I shouldn't have called them your urchins." Comes the soft reply. "That was cruel of me. They've been nothing but kind. And I suppose Sherlock and I are as much urchins, now, as they." He takes the boy, cradles him gently and strokes his hair. Sherlock makes a gentle snuffling sound and nuzzles closer to his brother's chest. John's face softens, and he wants nothing so badly as to reach out and embrace both boys, but something tells him not to.

"Yes, it was cruel." John says, very softly. "True, but unkind. And neither of you are anything of the kind, I assure you." He says gently, using his cane to lever himself to his feet. It's an effort, after kneeling for so long, and he's not looking forward to the walk home. "You haven't answered me."

".....They do seem to have the utmost faith in you." There it is again, the sign of a well-breed boy thrust into his circumstances by a twist of fate rather then birth.

"They have a reason to." He extends a hand. "Come on, lad. You've got to be exhausted, protecting and tending to him like you've been. You need food, and rest, and I'm sure you'd like a bath and to at least get those cloths cleaned?" He added, eyebrows arched. If this is, indeed, a well-born child thrust into the life of a street urchin, then he would probably feel....filthy. The look in those gray eyes confirmed it, and Mycroft pushed himself carefully to his feet, brother held gently to his chest.

And this is how Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes came to stay with John Watson.

Learning to live with each other was, in many ways, quite another matter.