Lestrade had been expecting a boring day at the office. Donovan and Anderson were bickering, and everybody else was tapping at their keyboards, occasionally chatting. He had not been expecting a call from the Chief saying there had been a murder in the middle of the street. So Lestrade sighed, grabbed his coat, and drove to the scene in his police car, already thinking his day was going to be completely rubbish.

Lestrade stood over the body of the woman, frowning. "Anderson, got anything?"

"Not yet," Anderson replied, looking irritated. "Give me a minute."

"You said that five minutes ago," Donovan pointed out.

"How did she die?" Lestrade asked, before a fight could break out again.

"I'd have to ask forensics. But I think she might have been poisoned."

Suddenly, a young voice wafted over them. "Wrong."

Lestrade turned. A young boy, of around age nine, was standing a few metres away, with bright eyes and thick black curls, wrapped in a thick coat. Anderson and Donovan turned to each other, scoffing. Lestrade glared at them both before turning back to the little boy.

"Are you lost?" he asked. "This is a crime scene, you're not meant to be here."

The boy scrunched up his face. "Yes, I know that, Detective Inspector Lestrade. And that's precisely why I am."

Lestrade was shocked for a moment, then angry. "Go home, kid, or you're gonna end up at the station."

The boy completely ignored him and strode up beside Anderson, looking down at the dead woman. "She was stabbed in the back. There's no blood, so it was between two ribs, middle of the spinal cord. Her name is Kelly Jones, she's twenty two, recently got a degree in law, studied at Cambridge and came here looking for a job. However, her brother was a minor drug lord and she accidentally got involved somehow. She found out about a shipment and the brother was forced to dispose of her."

Lestrade stood, frozen, stunned. Anderson was gaping and Donovan stared at the boy, her eyes as round as plates.

"How did you know that, kid?" Lestrade finally asked, in a strangled voice.

The boy sniffed. "I didn't know, I noticed. Honestly, do you people not use your eyes?"

"Who are you?" Lestrade demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes," the boy introduced himself, holding out a hand.

Lestrade nodded, then looked back at the body. "Her brother, you say?"

"Ignore him, Lestrade, he's just some kid," Donovan sneered. "Probably homeless. He's just searching for attention."

Sherlock frowned and then cocked his head at her, looking curious. "Are you sad about your Mum?" he asked simply.

Donovan froze, confused, then began to shake in what seemed to be fear. "How did you...?" she started, eyes huge.

"I was sad when my Mum died," Sherlock told them, in a hollow voice. "You don't need to coop it all up you know. Your Dad will understand."

"He never understands," Donovan whispered.

"He will, he'll listen to you, he's your father and you're his daughter," Sherlock argued.

Lestrade and Anderson turned to each other, bewildered; what was going on? Donovan was now glowering at the nine year old boy, who looked completely innocent.

"How did you find that out, kid?" Donovan demanded, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and shaking him violently. "HOW?"

"Donovan, stop it, he's just a child!" Lestrade protested.

"He's a Freak!" Donovan shrieked in a high-pitched voice. Sherlock flinched. "He's a Freak, look at him!"

"Sherlock, how do you know these things?" Lestrade questioned the boy.

Sherlock whimpered. "I don't know," he said harshly. "I just do. I notice. I see things that others don't. I don't need school. I don't have friends. The woman is right, I am a Freak. My teacher used to say I was a sociopath."

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes."

"Do you care?"

"No."

"Sherlock, are you homeless?" Lestrade asked firmly.

"No," Sherlock answered cautiously. "I'm not homeless. But I have no family."

"SHERLOCK!" a voice shouted.

Sherlock paled considerably. He glanced behind him in fear, where the voice had come from. He turned back towards them, horror in his eyes, before sprinting off without another word. Lestrade watched him go in awe. A nine year old boy had just solved his crime. A nine year old boy genius. A sleek black car swerved around the corner before screeching to a halt in front of them.

A man stepped out, swinging an umbrella, looking irritated. He looked from Lestrade to the body then rolled his eyes. "Detective Inspector, where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Who are you?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"I am Mycroft Holmes, his older brother," the man sneered. "I am his guardian, and my brother is extremely unstable. He needs to be contained."

"Didn't look unstable to me," Lestrade commented.

"Where is he?"

"I'm not sure, he solved my case then ran off."

Mycroft stiffened. "He solved your case?"

"Yeah," Lestrade replied, grinning. "Whoever he is, your younger brother is a complete genius."

Mycroft glared before turning around and striding back towards the car. Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan glanced at each other, all confused.

"Wait, what do you mean, he needs to be contained?" Donovan called out, bemused.

"Thank you for your time, Detective Inspector," Mycroft called back, clambering into the car. "And I hope you never see my brother again," his eyes wandered towards Lestrade, cold and unforgiving. "For your sake."

Unlocking his flat door, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, feeling exhausted. Locking his door behind him, he chucked his coat into the corner and collapsed down tiredly onto his sofa. Sighing in relief, he kicked off his shoes and closed his eyes. The kid, Sherlock, had been correct. Kelly Jones had been the victim and her brother had stabbed her in the back, because she had discovered his drug line and was going to report him. Sherlock had probably saved hundreds of peoples lives.

Suddenly, he heard a whimper. Lestrade's eyes flew open and he leaped up in surprise and shock.

It was Sherlock. He was standing in the middle of Lestrade's kitchen, looking ragged and exhausted, his feet bare and bloody, his hands coated in blood. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and his coat was ripped.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was stunned. "How the hell did you get in here? Why the hell are you here?"

"I need your help," Sherlock said in a small, terrified voice. "And in answer to your first question, I climbed through the window."

"Why do you need my help?"

"It's my brother. He won't leave me alone. He wants to send me away. He thinks I'm wrong." Sherlock looked pained but absolutely terrified.

"Sherlock, I hardly know you. I met you for five minutes. Why should I trust you?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Please," Sherlock gasped, and then suddenly he collapsed.

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade rushed forwards and caught the nine year old in his arms, concerned for the young boy. He picked the now unconscious boy up into his arms and heaved him onto the sofa before running to fetch his first aid kit. Blood was pooling over Sherlock's chest, his breathing was shallow and his clothes were soaked with sweat. Lestrade gasped when he discovered that Sherlock had been shot in the shoulder. Grabbing tweezers, he quickly pulled the bullet out and began to clean the wound.

"Les''rade?" Sherlock croaked, his eyelids fluttering.

"God, Sherlock, don't speak, don't speak," Lestrade cried out. "Who did this to you? Who shot you?"

"'m br'ther," Sherlock mumbled, obviously in pain.

That was all that Lestrade got out of him, because the next moment the nine year old boy had passed out again. During the next hour, Lestrade wrapped Sherlock's torso in bandages and dressed the kid in some clean clothes, wiping away blood and sweat and tucking a blanket around the shivering kid.

Three hours had passed when Sherlock finally awoke. He was agitated and tried to jumped up and escape, eyes wide, but Lestrade caught him and forced him back down onto the sofa again as the child cried out in fear and tried to squirm away. The truth was, Lestrade was worried. The kid was obviously special, a genius, and his brother had shot him. He was obviously abused by Mycroft.

"Sherlock, shh, it's okay, calm down," Lestrade whispered. "You're safe here, I promise."

"Where's Mycroft? Is he coming to get me? He's going to send me away to the bad place!" Sherlock shouted, terrified.

"Nobody is going to harm you, Sherlock, not whilst I am here," Lestrade assured him. "Now, I need you to tell me about Mycroft."

"He hurts me. He hurt me since Mum and Dad died."

"When was that?"

"Two months ago."

"Why does he hurt you?"

"Because I'm wrong."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you are not wrong," he told the boy softly. "You are special."

"Special means wrong."

"No, it doesn't. You are brilliant. You are a child genius."

"My brother doesn't think so."

"I think so." Lestrade told him, smiling.

Sherlock hesitated.

Lestrade frowned, then stood up and looked himself down. He turned back to Sherlock. "Alright, kid. You tell me everything you see about me."

Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Tell me everything you see about me. Go on. Do it."

"You want me to prove that I'm a Freak?" Sherlock whispered.

"No, I want you to prove that you're amazing," Lestrade corrected.

Sherlock took a deep breath then let his eyes wander down Lestrade. "I can tell you work twenty-four-seven by the creases in your shirt; your mouth is dry so you haven't eaten since this morning, probably had toast with jam, strawberry jam judging by the stain on your collar; your hair is greasy, you haven't had a shower in two days because of your work. Donovan spilled coffee over your papers this morning, your cuffs show the stains; you live alone in this flat, used to live with your girlfriend but then she cheated on you, you dumped her, she moved out; all of your childhood memories are locked in a photo album that's in the cabinet forth to the left, top shelf. Your fridge is empty, you forgot to go shopping yesterday, hence the scrunched up shopping list in your bin. Your tired, two sleepless nights so far, but whenever you do sleep you have nightmares." The kid sighed. "Last night you had curry for dinner, I can smell it. Your phone is out of charge as well. Your angry because the Chief has given you two cold cases to work on and you're not making progress." The kid looked sad. "Tell me now, am I wrong?"

Lestrade was speechless. Utterly speechless. He stared, silently. "That was incredible."

"No it wasn't," Sherlock said bitterly. "It was freakish."

"No, it was amazing," Lestrade insisted. "What do people say when you do that?"

"Most people just say 'piss off, kid' or 'send the freak to the lab'," Sherlock said emotionally. "But I'm used to it now."

"And your brother...?"

"He's just the same. He hated me from the moment I was born. He hunts me down each night. He's practically the head of the government, he can do as he likes. He drugs me, tries to send me away."

"He drugs you!?" Lestrade asked, alarmed.

"It makes me ill, I can't think straight, it hurts," Sherlock said, lying on the sofa, staring upwards. "It clogs my brain. I can't live without my brain. I would rather die than take those drugs."

Lestrade sighed and gazed at the floor, finally saying, "You can stay here for a while, kid."

"Thank you."

Lestrade nodded then motioned to Sherlock's shoulder. "Does it hurt?"

Sherlock turned to look at the bandage, frowning. "No. I don't think I even noticed."

"How could you not notice you'd been shot?!"

"I was too preoccupied with running away," Sherlock replied coolly.

Lestrade took some biscuits out of his cupboard and tried to coax Sherlock to eat a few, despite the boy's protests. Sherlock then refused to take any sleeping pills, so Lestrade slipped them into a mug of hot chocolate and Sherlock drank it, not knowing what was in it. The nine year old was soon blinking groggily, shaking his head, trying to fight the drug.

"You drugged me!" Sherlock accused.

"You have to sleep," Lestrade replied with a smile.

As Sherlock tried to fight the drug, Lestrade changed for bed. It was late, almost midnight by then. He turned the lights off and tucked Sherlock in, making sure he was comfortable before returning to his bedroom.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Detective Inspector."

The next morning was chaotic. Lestrade was running around, dragging on clothes as he prepared for work. Sherlock watched him. He stared at Lestrade the whole morning, even when the DI was scoffing down breakfast.

"Sorry, kid, I've got to get to work," Lestrade said, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his briefcase.

Sherlock frowned, then after a moment asked hopefully, "Can I come with you?"

"Well, I suppose I can't leave you here on your own, can I? You're only nine."

"So can I come?" Sherlock looked excited.

Lestrade sighed. "Fine!"

Lestrade allowed Sherlock to sit in the front of his police car as he drove to the Yard. There was something about the kid that made him trust him. Sherlock became nervous when they entered the building together, looking around for CCTV, but Lestrade reassured him that it was all be fine, that Mycroft could not find him there. As Lestrade entered his office, he noticed that Anderson and Donovan were staring at him in disbelief as Sherlock trailed in behind him.

"What's the Freak doing here?" Donovan accused.

Sherlock openly flinched at the word and retreated behind Lestrade, who was now glaring at her.

"Leave him alone. He's just a kid," DI Dimmock sighed.

"Where's your big brother, Freak?" Anderson sneered. "Maybe I should call him to get you a babysitter."

Sherlock shook, terrified, gripping onto Lestrade's hand.

"Leave him alone!" Lestrade growled. "If you two harass him any more you'll find yourselves without jobs! And if you two dare call Mycroft Holmes, I'll shoot you! You want to know why Sherlock is here? Yes, well, his brother shot him. So you can piss off!" Lestrade turned back to Sherlock, his expression softening. "Come on, Sherlock, you can sit in my office."

Lestrade led the nine year old into his office and gave Sherlock a chair and his laptop to play on. Anderson and Donovan glared through the office window at the boy, but didn't say anything. Lestrade began to type up his evaluation for a case, when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to find Sherlock gazing up at him with big eyes.

"I'm bored," the boy whined.

"Play on the laptop," Lestrade said.

"Does that mean I can hack into all of London's CCTV cameras?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

Lestrade snatched the laptop away. "Okay, no laptop. What do you want to do?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Have you got any cold cases?"

"Yes, a file full, do you want to have a look at them?" Lestrade asked, turning around and standing up.

"Yes please," Sherlock agreed shyly.

"Sally, please can you fetch the cold case file?" Lestrade called.

"What do you want that for?" Donovan shouted back.

"Sherlock's going to take a look at them!"

Silence, and then the file slipped under the door. Sherlock picked it up excitedly and ran over to the corner, where he began sorting them into piles and spreading out the pictures on the floor. Lestrade watched, smiling, as the young boy began reading the articles, looking delighted.

After two hours, Sherlock was tugging at his sleeve again.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm bored again," Sherlock admitted.

"What about the cold cases?"

"I solved them."

Lestrade stopped, turning, looking shocked. "What? All of them?"

"Yes, they were very easy," Sherlock said, but not in a smug or arrogant voice. The boy simply looked innocent and quite modest, like he was telling the truth.

Lestrade sat, frozen in shock, feeling like he was a statue, feeling like he was going to pass out in disbelief. "Dimmock?" he called in a strangled voice.

"Greg, is anything wrong?" Dimmock asked, sticking his head around the door.

"Sherlock just solved all the cold cases."

Dimmock blinked. "What?"

"Sherlock, this nine year old boy, just solved all of the cold cases," Lestrade told him in a strained tone, "In less than two hours."

Dimmock was stunned.

"Is that wrong?" Sherlock asked worriedly. "Is that bad? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"Sherlock, you are a genius," Lestrade said.

"Lestrade, we've been through this -"

"No, you really are," Dimmock agreed, stepping into the office. "You are a genius."

"What's going on?" Donovan asked, concerned.

"Sherlock solved the cold cases," Dimmock explained. "In less than two hours."

Donovan sneered. "Told you he's a Freak."

"I don't understand!" Sherlock wailed. "They're only cold cases!"

"Yes, Sherlock, and that's what they're supposed to be!" Lestrade told the boy, looking awed. "They're meant to be COLD."

"Meaning nobody can solve them," Dimmock supplied.

Lestrade then paused before asking carefully, "Sherlock, do you know how to use a gun?"

"Why would I?" Sherlock cried out, scared.

"Calm down, Sherlock, it's just a question," Dimmock said gently.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade repeated cautiously.

The boy hesitated, then said firmly, "Give me a gun."

Dimmock glanced up at Lestrade then vanished for a second from the office. Seconds later he appeared once again, and he was holding a shot gun carefully in his hands, along with a magazine. Sherlock gazed at them both with fascinating concentration them took them both in his hand. Dimmock picked up a target attached to a thick block of wood that they used for training and set it down on the floor against a wall. Sherlock glared at the target, calculating in his head.

"Sherlock, maybe -" Lestrade began, but it was too late.

Sherlock had already slot the magazine into the gun, unleashed the safety and pulled the trigger. The bullet shot through the air and sliced straight into the very centre of the target. Bullseye. The officers outside were leaping up in shock and fear, but Dimmock gave them the signal and they settled down again, though they looked worried. Sherlock stared in disbelief at the target and then at the gun in his hand, relatched the safety then chucked the gun into the corner of the room, panting and looking horrifed.

"How did you know how to do that?" Dimmock asked, awed.

"I - I didn't - I don't know," Sherlock whimpered, backing up, away from the gun, looking frightened.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, exclaiming, "Christ, Sherlock, you're a walking weapon!"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, looking scared.

"He means your really clever," Dimmock said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "And really smart. And that you are very, very special."

"Stop talking to me like I'm a child," Sherlock snapped.

"You are a child," Dimmock said, grinning.

Sherlock ignored that. "Why am I clever?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed.

"Does Mycroft hate me because I'm a walking weapon?"

Something clicked. Slowly, Lestrade asked, "Sherlock, you said your brother works for the government."

"Yes, he does," Sherlock replied, frowning. "He practically IS the government - What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything, Sherlock," Lestrade laughed, realisation dawning upon him. "Mycroft wants to use you!"

"Use me?" Sherlock was obviously baffled.

"Yes, Sherlock, you're a genius! He wants to use you as a weapon!" Dimmock gasped, catching on fast.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes, Sherlock, that is a very bad thing," Lestrade said, kneeling down beside the young boy.

"How will he use me?"

"He could do experiments on you," Dimmock said, grimacing. "He could train you up."

"As what?"

"As an assassin, Sherlock," Lestrade said, looking dismal but furious at the same time. "He could train you to be a killer."

"A killer? I don't want to kill anybody," Sherlock squeaked, petrified.

Lestrade breathed in deeply then gently pulled the nine year old boy into a hug. Sherlock stiffened for a moment then relaxed and embraced Lestrade back. He started sobbing and soon was crying over Lestrade's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. Mycroft will not find you," Lestrade promised.

"I don't want to be a weapon," Sherlock whispered. "I want to stay with you."

Lestrade froze in shock, the gently took the nine year old boy's trembling hands. "And you can," Lestrade said, his voice fierce with emotion. "I'm going to save you Sherlock. And I'm going to do what ever it takes to keep you safe."