One week earlier

Oliver sat in the tree in the corner of the orphanage courtyard, feet dangling from the highest branch. He watched intently, though the regimen of the day rarely changed. The other children played, or laughed, or cried, depending on who got visitors, and who didn't.

Oliver seldom had visitors. He didn't mind, though. Not anymore.

He had used to mind, of course, back when the orphanage was fresh and his mother's death still weighed on him like ten bricks in his belly. That, however, had been years ago.

Oliver was six now. He knew how old he was. He counted.

His birthday had passed quietly a few weeks ago. No one had brought him a gift, or come to visit.

Oliver didn't mind. Oliver had his tree, and a gift of his own.

The other children paid little mind to Oliver, but he liked it that way. From his vantage point in the tree, he could see everyone – the matron, the children, the excited same-sex couples, the heterosexual couples with the bittersweet hope in their eyes.

He had learned the word 'heterosexual' a few days past, and was fairly sure he knew what it meant. He knew that the heterosexual couples were generally more subdued, and looked at you like they liked you, but wanted something else.

The same-sex couples were much more bubbly and excited – it was hateful, Oliver had decided. No one had any right to be so happy around someone who had lost their parents.

Still, they came, and they went, and Oliver watched, each day much like the days that had come before.

Of course, that all stopped when he came.

He was tall, and pale, and a bit mysterious, with the collar of his long black coat flipped up about his neck to protect him from the autumn chill. Oliver immediately knew that he was different from the other prospective parents. He didn't smile – didn't even try really.

Well, in truth, he did smile, but it was a grotesque thing, as if he was only pretending. He ignored the matron, not even bothering to listen to her suggestions – it was Cristoff this week; Cristoff was a good child, a very good boy indeed, she would say. He brushed her off.

The children flocked about him in the courtyard, clamoring to get a better look at this new man. Wanting him to see them. Wanting him to take them home.

Oliver saw the truth of it, though, and the truth of it was that this man was not looking for a child to take home. This man was looking for… something else, though Oliver could not discern what.

The man looked around the courtyard furtively, while Oliver looked at him, both parties searching so intently that a jolt ran through Oliver when their eyes suddenly met. The strange man held his gaze for a few moments before walking purposefully toward him. He stood at the bottom of Oliver's tree, the matron walking quickly to catch up with him.

"Oh, this one isn't- he's not-" the matron said, flustered, as she caught up to him. He put a hand up to silence her. Oliver smirked.

"What's your name?" the man asked Oliver, more gently than he would have expected.

"Oliver, mister," he said, watching the man curiously. It had been some time since anyone had noticed him.

"Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions Oliver?"

Oliver was startled. Was this man actually interested in adopting him?

"Um… sure," he said, before swinging deftly out of his tree. He landed lightly before the man and the matron, the latter of whom looked down at him disapprovingly.

From the ground, the stranger was much taller than he had seemed from the tree. Oliver bent his neck back slightly to get a good look at him. This turned out, however, to be unnecessary, as the man crouched down to kneel in front of him, meeting him on his level.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said the man, not breaking eye contact. "And I need your help."

"Good morning, Oliver," John said brightly. Sunlight filtered in softly through the kitchen window, casting hazy yellow lines across the tabletop. Oliver took a hesitant step into the room, rubbing at his eyelids.

"Mister John?" he asked groggily. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Ah, he's still resting. He was…" John thought for a moment. This was a kid. You couldn't really be truthful with kids, especially when the truth was so… painful. "He was really tired."

Oliver nodded. "But you're taking care of him, right?"

"Of course. Now, how about a spot of breakfast?"

"Yeah." Oliver sat at the table, dangling his legs off the side of the wooden chair. "Do you have coffee?" he asked suddenly.

"Aren't you a little young for coffee?" John replied, startled.

"Nah, I'm six."

John nodded slowly. He was beginning to see what Sherlock had meant about the two of them being similar.

"We don't have any coffee, I'm afraid. Would you like some tea? I'm making some for myself anyway."

Oliver made a face. "Is it bitter?"

John chuckled. "I could put a spot of sugar in it. But if you don't like bitter, you probably wouldn't enjoy coffee."

"Might as well try it though, yeah?"

John turned to the counter and placed bags into two mugs. He rolled his eyes to himself. The kettle was already boiling, so he poured it out evenly among the two mugs, taking a spoon and mashing the teabags around a bit.

When he was finished, he dug through the cabinet, found the sugar, and spooned a little into one cup, which he gave to the boy. "What would you like to eat? Toast? Eggs? Haven't got any beans, but I could probably scrounge some from the landlady if you like."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Eh?" John asked, startled. "Erm, yeah. Who told you that?"

"No one," Oliver said. "I heard you say her name when you were talking to Sherlock last night. You said Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. Since that was the only lady's name, I guessed that was probably who you meant." Oliver looked down at his knees. "Sherlock doesn't seem to have a lot of friends."

"Oh," John said. "Um."

"But it's not a bad thing!" Oliver looked up again, rushing to cover his tracks. "I mean. I don't have a lot of friends either. So it's all right."

"I see," John said.

Oliver shook his head vigorously. "See, this is why no one wants me," he moaned quietly. He set his mug down on the table, untouched. "I say stuff they think is mean. I'm not being mean. I'm just saying what I saw."

John was silent for a long moment. He pulled out the chair across from the boy and sat in it.

"Oliver," he began. "Do you have… observations like this very often?"

Oliver nodded, looking uncomfortable. "But I don't mean to."

"Mm," John mused. "I think I understand now."

"Understand what?" Sherlock's voice rang through the kitchen, low and ominous.

"Sherlock!" Oliver squeaked. He scooted out of his chair and ran to the detective. "Are you okay?"

"You should be in bed," John fretted. He joined Oliver at his side.

"I'm fine." Sherlock waved both of them away, walking into the kitchen with a small but noticeable limp. "Drink your tea."

"But you hurt your back," Oliver said. "And you're walking funny."

Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression. "I will be fine, Oliver." He sat at the table. "Has John made you breakfast?"

"I made tea," John said. "Working on toast. Want?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

John glanced at him sympathetically. "All right." He moved back to the counter, grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it into the toaster. "I'll have one for you in just a second, Oliver."

The boy's eyes were locked intently on Sherlock. "I'm not hungry either," he said decisively.

John sighed. "You need to eat, Oliver."

"Sherlock doesn't need to eat so neither do I."

"Sherlock, tell him."

The detective watched the proceedings with mild disinterest. "I don't see why he needs to eat the toast," he decided after a moment.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

The two men locked eyes.

"He's a kid! He needs to eat!" John argued. "I don't care if you miss a meal or two, but you can't just let a kid skip breakfast."

"I skip breakfast all the time and I'm doing fine," Sherlock countered.

John scoffed. "Right. Oliver, eat this toast." The toast popped out of the machine and the doctor set it onto a plate. He handed it to the boy.

"Best do as he says," Sherlock confided in a stage whisper. "Don't want John to get into a mood."

John fumed silently. Oliver giggled but pretended not to. Sherlock, triumphant as always, sat regally back in his chair – and immediately regretted it, as his ravaged collarbones brushed against the wood. He made a face.

"Christ," John said, scurrying to his side. "You okay?" He placed a hand on his arm. The toast, it seemed, had been forgotten.

"Fine," Sherlock hissed, waving him off. He sat up with immaculate posture, careful to keep his back a good distance from the chair.

"You sure?" the doctor murmured.

"Yes, John," the detective huffed.

John studied him for a long moment, taking in his haggard face and sunken eyes. He looked ready to pick a fight, but held himself back, knowing that the kid would be watching their every move. "All right," he said after a long pause. "Is there anything you want to do today, Oliver?"

Sherlock glanced up. "Lestrade will want a statement from him."

"Shit. I mean, um. Shoot. Um."

"It's okay, I've heard people say 'shit' before," Oliver said mildly, grasping the mug of tea in both hands. "Lestrade is the detective inspector, right?"

"Um, yes," John said. "He'll want to know what you saw yesterday. Is that all right?"

Oliver mulled it over. "Yeah, I guess that's all right." A thought crossed his mind. "Wait, is he gonna take me away to another orphanage? Because I won't," he shook his head vigorously, placing the mug down on the table a little too hard. "I won't go. I won't."

"He won't." Sherlock's voice was decisive. "I won't let him."

"I won't," Oliver said again, a little quieter.

"I promise I won't let him." The detective's eyes were locked on the boy. John was startled. He hadn't seen Sherlock look that way at anybody, except maybe him. And what did that say? Jesus. He decided to think about that later.

"Do you want to stay here, Oliver?" John asked softly, holding his own mug in his hands.

Oliver sniffed. He nodded tentatively.

"You can stay here as long as you like."

The boy looked at Sherlock. "Really?"

Sherlock was silent for a long second. "Yes," he finally said.

"Can I stay here forever?"

The detective took in a painful breath and exhaled. "You really want that?"

Oliver said nothing, eyes wide and frightened. The detective considered him for what felt like ages before finally speaking.

"Be careful what you wish for." With that, Sherlock stood and shuffled out of the room. His companions heard the bedroom door creak closed a few seconds after.

"What I think he's trying to say is yes," John offered.