DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. All rights go to the BBC

SUMMARY: John Watson finds a little boy that looks exactly like Sherlock wandering the streets of London. He brings the boy home and the crime-solving duo delves into finding out where this little look alike comes from. The results are shocking. What will the two bachelors do, now that there is a little deducing genius in their midst? WARNING: Cuteness? Is that a warning? There will be mentions of child abuse. It will only be rated T because it won't be too graphic. Angst and light language here and there.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I got this idea when I read a story about the two of them adopting a child. I couldn't really see that happening. I figured that the only way that the two bachelors of 221B would come by a child is if it was practically forced upon them. Sorry, I just can't picture Sherlock being good with kids. John would be. But Sherlock would probably crush their soul! Any way I hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE: A Strangely Familiar Face

His escape, he decided, was the best idea he had ever had. It no longer smelled of disinfectant, there were no more scientists to poking and prodding him. He was free. Free to do whatever he wished. The only problem was his age. No one in the outside world took him seriously. He was far too young, they assumed. They asked a lot of questions too. Questions he didn't know the answer to. What's your name? Where are your parents? How old are you? Where do you live?

What's your name? He wasn't even sure he had a proper name. The people at the lab just referred to him as "the child" or the experiment or SH-115061. He couldn't remember a time before the lab, so he wasn't sure if he had received a name at all. The most probable assumption was that he didn't have one and so this question was impossible to answer.

Where are your parents? He understood the basics of what a parent was and that everyone had them. He had heard many of the scientists at the lab talking about their children and the pains and troubles of parenthood. But he didn't suppose he had any parents. If he did, he had never seen them. Did parents leave their children? How long were people considered parents? Did it vary for each set of parents? So, this question was rendered impossible for him to answer as well.

How old are you? Well that was an interesting question. Why did that matter? Not like he knew exactly. How could one be perfectly certain how old they were? Surly they could remember the date of their own birth. Human memory didn't stretch that far. He knew that he had to be at least five years old. But he couldn't be 100 percent positive. Perhaps, they kept it on file? In any case, he hadn't had the time to go looking for a file on himself while he was making his escape, so he doubted he would ever know.

Where do you live? Well, he lived in the lad previously, but he wasn't sure exactly where it was located, as he hadn't stayed around long enough to check. Besides, when people asked this question, they had a certain tone in their voice that indicated that they would return him to wherever it was that he lived, and he had absolutely no intention of returning to the lab. Ever. And now, he supposed he lived wherever it was that he fell asleep. So, was never a specific place.

The questions weren't the only thing that was difficult for him though. It was the sights and sounds that really put his mind on overload. Everything was a blast of color. He was used to the lab, which was terribly monochromatic in its color scheme. But London was alight with every color under the sun. The luminosity of it all sizzled and danced in his mind, making him turn his head every which way, in order to see as much as possible.

And then there were the sounds. Everything was loud. Even the silence of the night and deserted back alleyways was loud. Horns and sirens and people shouting and chattering filled the air. Rain pattered as it splattered about the streets, bouncing off of brick and glass. It was like mental overload for the little genius' mind. But his escape had still been the best idea he had ever had. Because all of this was exponentially better than the lab, where he was forced to endure tests and procedures. And where he was made to sleep in cage. At least here, I'm free! He thought as he wandered through the streets of the busy London. Very suddenly, he knocked quite forcefully into a short, strong, blonde man, causing the boy to fall gracelessly onto his rear.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" the man cried before taking in the sight of the dirty, vagrant child. "Oh, Christ! You're just a kid!" The man reached down to help him to his feet. The little, lost genius allowed himself to be set aright, but he couldn't hold back the slight flinch. Physical contact was never pleasant in his past experiences. He kept his eyes downcast.

"Are you alright?"

Well, that was a new question. Was he alright? Did the man mean physically? Overall? He supposed he was fine, aside from the pain in his feet from walking hundreds of miles to the city, the hunger that was nagging constantly at his empty stomach, and the chill he felt from his lack outer clothing and the holes in the rags hanging from his form. What did this man mean? He took in everything he could about the man in front of him. He had a strong build and he held himself like the guards at the lab. Was he a soldier? He didn't seem like a soldier. His hands had been gentle and caring, and he had a soft tone to his voice. Not like the harsh demanding tones of the men that guarded his cage at the lab.

"Did I hurt you?" the man asked with genuine concern in his voice.

The little boy shook his head, making his dark, springy curls bounce about his face. Who was this nice soldier? He turned his eyes up to the man's face. Maybe there were some clues there. They made eye contact and the expression on the man's face turned to that of puzzled confusion.

"You look just like..." He started. "Who are your parents? Do you know?"

The boy cocked his head to the side before shrugging. It was a little different from the question he was usually asked, but he still didn't know the answer.

"Can you talk?" the man questioned, causing the forlorn child to look away from him and back to the ground. The child did know how to speak, but bad things usually happened when he spoke, so he tried to refrain as much as possible.

"Well," the man said as he reached back to scratch at the back of his blonde head. "It looks like it's going to rain. Why don't you come with me to my flat until it passes? Would you like that?"

The child figured it would be much better than getting rained on, so he nodded. Again the man looked slightly confused, before offering down his hand. The boy eyed it curiously. What was he supposed to do? He looked up at the nice soldier questioningly. The man smile warmly and reached down to take the smaller hand within his own larger, calloused one. The little boy decided he like that feeling very much. Together, they walked down the busy street.

SH... SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH...SH

John Watson was utterly confused by the small child, of no more than six years old, he had found on the street of the city. The boy was an exact replica of his flat-mate. Did Sherlock Holmes have a son? It didn't seem likely. In fact, it seemed slightly comical. But what other explanation could there be? He hadn't been completely convinced that the little boy had been a relation of Sherlock's, until the little one had flicked his round eyes up toward him. They were the exact same, eerie pale green as his fellow flat-mate's. This was much more than a coincidence.

Then, there was how the little boy held himself: quiet, cautious, and insecure. But yet, he still had a childlike trusting spirit, as he had agreed to come home with him, a complete stranger. Wouldn't the child know about Stranger Danger at all? Perhaps not. It was hard to know what the little Sherlock knew because the boy did not speak.

"My name is John, by the way," he told the child, who was gripping his hand lightly. "Do you know your name?"

The child shook his head. Amnesia? Orphan? John couldn't be sure.

"Okay, well, my flat is just 'round the corner, there. On Baker Street. So, not much further. We'll get there and I'll make you some warm milk, okay?"

The boy cocked his head slightly, but nodded anyway.

"Don't mind my flat-mate. He's a bit on the strange side. But he's harmless, I promise."

They got to the flat and John opened the door and led the migrant child inside. He's a bit dirty. John thought as he took in the rumpled curls and dirt smudges on his cherubic face. The little boy's eyes were alight, though, as he took in everything around him as John showed him upstairs and into the kitchen. There, one Sherlock Holmes, was sitting at the table staring into a microscope.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Busy," the detective muttered.

"Sherlock," John tried again, a bit more forcefully.

"Busy!" Sherlock snapped.

"We have company."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. They fell on the little boy before him. "Why did you bring a little boy here, John? Isn't that what someone like you would consider irresponsible?"

"Do you notice anything about him?" John asked. "Anything odd?"

The little boy was confused now. What was odd? Should he be taller? Shorter? He had to force himself to not to squirm as the dark haired man in the kitchen studied him carefully.

"He is a bit filthy," Sherlock stated. "But that's not really odd considering he's been sleeping on the streets of London."

"No, Sherlock," John sighed. "He looks like you. Exactly like you."

A/N : Hey guys let me know if you like and if I should continue! Feedback is welcomed! Thanks for reading! R&R please! :3