Disclaimer: I own nothing but the general plot and OCs

IMPORTANT AND ONLY WARNING:

This is not going to be an extremely dark story but nor is it all light hearted and fluffy. I have little clue where this is going to go yet and thus can't say for certain what it'll contain.

I will say this: If it can be perceived for a person to do something/have something happen to them it may well be in this story

This may or may not include: Pairings of all genders and ages. Non consensual and dubious consensual content. Violence. Abuse. Character deaths. Angst. Plot holes. discrimination and prejudice. excessive fluffiness and icky romance. Much more.

That's not to say it will definitely have all this in it, however I'm not too interested in skipping or brushing over something because it's uncomfortable if it's relevant to the plot. If it's included I will try to do the topic genuine credit and treat it with the seriousness it deserves as long as it's not a parody/comedy or a character being politically incorrect.

The plot and characters do not necessarily reflect my own views and so if you are horribly offended by what's coming out a characters mouth/mind or their actions, that's fine.

Info you might want to know about this story:

I don't think this is going to be Johnlock but I may change my mind. Also this is only sort of parentlock but also not really.

This doc has been sitting in my files for ages now, and I haven't uploaded it unless I was going to commit to regular updates, but I figured what the hell, I will never get round to updating it unless I upload.

Having said that, expect incredibly sporadic updates. I have a bunch of fics which are in the same state in my files and I will pick up and drop them again as time goes on, or favour one to the exclusion of the others for a while before I take a long break from it.

no beta btw

Finally let me know what works for you, what doesn't, or just what you think in general! As well as anything you'd like to see in the fic going forward.

Chapter 1

Clenching and unclenching his fist every five seconds in an admirable attempt to maintain a calm facade, John Watson debated whether eating was really necessary for the next few days, or whether he could get away with giving shopping up for a bad job and storming out (in a dignified manner of course). He grit his jaw so that he didn't end up snapping out insults in a truly impressive Sherlock style to the woman in front of him and probably being banned for life from the store. Thanks to Sherlock they were already banned from a total of five restaurants and three food stores in London, a number which would have been much larger if John weren't so good at damage control by now. Of course Sherlock's fame often gave him some leeway ever since his reputation became that of an eccentric genius who could come back from the dead.

Just as John was seconds away from giving up, his phone dinged with a text from Sherlock.

Meet me at St. Thomas' Hospital. By the river -SH

almost immediately followed by another text.

Another one. This time alive -SH

John's breath caught in his throat, and he eagerly abandoned the food in order to meet Sherlock.

"There you are John. What took you so long." Sherlock barely glanced at John as he swept into the building, an almost hungry expression on his face, in his haste to hear about the newest development in the case that had everyone both baffled and horrified. Except Sherlock, who was just increasingly short tempered at the dead ends he kept coming across. Every unsolved case was like a blow to his over sized pride and this one in particular was both intriguing and frustrating; a case which should be teeming with fresh evidence and facts to observe that hadn't been tampered with and lost over time.

John huffed, "I was shopping for food, remember."

"Ugh, dull," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. They continued to hurry down the corridors until they met Lestrade who had been waiting for them.

"What do we have," Sherlock demanded, resisting the urge to clap his hands in excitement since he was fairly sure that it would be viewed as 'a bit not good'. Lestrade filled them in as they walked.

"Unlike the other victims, the boy wasn't found in the Farmer's Club building. The new security cameras blacked out for a two and a half minutes at 3.30am like before but this time there was no body when they turned back on. He turned up at 7am at a hospital, after he was found trying to break into the Farmer's Club building. The police got there quickly thinking they might have caught the killer but before they got to question him he passed out. The kid woke up about ten minutes ago but he was still disorientated when I left and I haven't been able to get a word out of him. You don't think... he's the helping the killer do you? It's just a bit too much to be a coincidence that the cameras blacked out again last night and this morning he was trying to break in."

Lestrade glanced at the silent Sherlock with a troubled expression, a serial murder case like this was wearing down the spirit of even the most detached officers on the case, and with no leads on top of that Greg was just praying that Sherlock could give them what they needed to catch the sick bastard doing this. He hesitated, disturbed by what he was about to say, before forging on determinedly.

"That's not all though. All of the victims have been 18 and 19 year olds, without a scratch on them. This kid's young- I'd guess somewhere around 6 or 7. Also he's covered in cuts and bruises. Nothing life threatening mind, all fairly superficial, but it's still different from what we've had so far."

Sherlock peered sharply at the D.I, "does he have the same kind of scars on him that the others do?" Greg nodded, before looking at his notepad.

"It looks like it. He has a jagged scar on his forehead sort of in the shape of an 's', around his neck from being burned by a necklace, and he's had the words 'I must not tell lies' carved into his right hand. Those are the most notable ones."

"Christ," John muttered with a grimace. Sherlock, on the other hand looked excited.

"Interesting. I must not tell lies, and mudblood. Clearly a derogatory term. But she didn't have any viruses or toxins in her blood, and her ancestry showed no leads. Someone is clearly punishing these individuals but whether it's the killers or not has yet to be seen."

Lestrade looked confused, "wait. Killers? There's more than one? And you think this kid's a victim?"

Sherlock made an impatient sound and looked at The D.I as though he were being purposely stupid, "of course there's more than one killer. The two adolescent males both had a mass of over 68 kilograms. And yet were dumped there quickly and effectively with no one any the wiser. Not to mention the fact that the second male was dumped alongside a female at the same time. How do you expect one killer to have done that in under three minutes without being noticed or leaving a trace of themselves behind? This child is clearly both incapable of transporting the bodies, and his attempt at entering the building was messy, leading to his capture. He might be a petty criminal at the wrong place at the wrong time but it's doubtful. Especially considering his scars. For God's sake Lestrade at least attempt to use that pathetically simple brain lest I drown in the sea of ineptitude that is Scotland Yard's finest."

"Alright Sherlock just... try to be considerate yeah? The guys working on this case are already touchy about the whole thing. I don't want you saying something and getting them all worked up." Lestrade insisted, his resigned expression showing how he expected his request to be unfulfilled. Sherlock had been particularly barbed with his insults as the case had dragged on with no end in sight.

As they approached a door being guarded by Donavon, Sherlock frowned, "what are you talking about? I'm always considerate," he flashed an unconvincing grin at the D.I and entered the room, followed by a mildly exasperated Dr. Watson.

In the hospital bed John could see that this boy had various bruise and cuts all over him. He was skinny and pale, with black hair that resembled the youngest Holmes' with slightly less curl. It disturbed him at how easy it was to imagine him as a young, battered Sherlock.

The man himself was stood over the boy, his eyes flicking over his face and body, seeing clues and details that no one else would pick up. Whatever he saw both confused and fascinated him. The boy looked up at Sherlock becoming more wary and visibly distressed as the seconds dragged on with the tall intimidating stranger looming over him silently. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's non existent bad side manner and approached the boy, who's eyes immediately flicked over to the doctor the moment he moved.

"Hello," he smiled kindly at the boy, deciding he would deal with this as he would with his more frightened patients, and resolutely ignoring the fact that the child's gaze was more piercing and intrusive than even Sherlock's, "my name's Doctor Watson, but you can call me John. Can you tell me your name young man?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the doctor, "honestly John he's a child, not a total idiot, you needn't talk to him like he'll self destruct any moment."

John suppressed the urge to scowl at Sherlock. For all his grating and highly anti social behaviours, Sherlock was surprisingly good at dealing with most children, providing they weren't in a highly emotional or sensitive state, which John worried was the case with this boy. It was something to do with the way he spoke to them as though they were adults, but with far less disdain, that made them either respectful and a tad intimidated, or eager to prove their worth to him.

When asked, Sherlock had mentioned that children were often far more observant than their adult counterparts, far more open minded and also far more accepting of Sherlock's oddities, which made them on the whole more bearable to deal with provided one could get past their painfully limited vocabulary and predictable questions.

"My name's Harry," the boy replied hesitantly, looking back at Sherlock with a mixture of confusion and amusement, "what's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied succinctly. Sherlock noticed that Harry didn't so much as blink at his odd name, like people (especially children) often did, "what's your surname? We'll need to get in contact with your parents. I'm sure they'll be relieved you're alright."

Harry's eyes shuttered immediately, and he looked steadily back at Sherlock, "my parents are dead, sir."

Sherlock's features flashed with momentary triumph, and John resisted the urge to snap at Sherlock for forcing the kid to admit something he clearly already knew and just wanted confirmed.

"As I suspected. You're also reluctant to divulge your surname, so you don't want to be found. No doubt your Aunt and Uncle are abusive and neglectful, which, compared to the overindulgent attitude they give to your cousin makes you desperate not to go back. Your parents died suddenly and likely violently some time ago when you were young, where you got that scar," Sherlock pointed the scar on his forehead which Harry had been attempting to cover with his fringe, "you knew the other dead victims personally, since you were their charge of sorts.

"You've all been through extremely trying times together and have saved each other's lives, likely more than once, which has formed a close camaraderie between you all. You've known each other for years and belonged to some sort of club or society together, which doesn't strongly involve their parents. You've spent the last two months with them in a stone cell, which you escaped from once and fought against your attackers, leaving you with those bruises and cuts. An admirable attempt, but really, as a child you could have saved yourself the trouble of trying to overpower two adults at the same time."

There was a stunned silence, during which John covered his face in despair. Goddam it Sherlock! He mentally growled. They'd never get near the kid to get more formation from him again. Harry just looked like his brain had shorted out as he stared at Sherlock.

"Well? Did I get it all right? I'm right aren't I."

Harry swallowed, and his eyebrow furrowed slightly as he got himself under control. He eyed Sherlock warily for a moment and something flashed across his face that was too fast for either man to identify, before it was gone. Sherlock watched, captivated as Harry quickly blanked his expression successfully enough that even he couldn't tell what the boy was thinking or feeling.

"They weren't in charge of looking after me. We looked after each other. We were equals," Harry murmured, slightly defensively. Sherlock pursed his lips in irritation ('there's always something.')

John was less concerned about the fact that Sherlock was unsurprisingly correct in his deductions, and more worried about Harry's emotional response at having the fact that he was abused, his parents were dead, and so were his friends blurted out by an unfeeling idiot stranger. But the boy's expression carefully concealed any of his inner feelings to give John a clue.

"Aren't you going to ask how it's done? Everyone else under 14 always asked how it was done," Sherlock pouted, disappointed at Harry's lack of curiosity.

Harry just looked slightly confused for a moment before he gave Sherlock a look. John laughed suddenly, which caused Sherlock to spin around and face him.

"What?" He snapped.

"He's giving you the look that you give me. I never expected the look to be directed at you," John laughed again at the irony of a young child being the one to give Sherlock the look.

"What look?" Sherlock demanded angrily.

"The we-both-know-what's-going-on-here look, when only one person does." Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms defensively.

"I don't understand. He read my mind... right?" The innocently perplexed expression on Harry's face immediately served to endear him to John. Sherlock scoffed as though it was unreasonable for a child his age to leap to that conclusion having had facts he shouldn't know about Harry spouted out with such certainty.

"Of course not, don't be an idiot."

"Sherlock!"

"I'm just trying to help him John. How will he learn to use his brain to its best capacity if no one tells him when he's being stupid. No, I observed the evidence in front of me, and deduced this about you from what I observed."

Harry hesitated, frowning, "I don't understand."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like 'of course you don't' before he straightened his spine.

"Most people wander through life happily blinkered to everything around them and not using their minuscule little brains for anything of importance. Any other witless fool would walk in here and only see a young child who's been a bit bashed about, with a few odd scars that leave concerns about abuse. They would see but they would not observe like I do.

"The clothes you were wearing, hand me downs, male, far too large. Perhaps your family is just poor, but the original clothes were expensive and all from the same shops and the same size, so they were given to you from the same person who clearly didn't appreciate them and ate excessively. That coupled with your malnutrition and the old burn scars on your arm from a hot frying pan when you were far too young to be cooking by the angle of your arms at the time leads me believe it was neglect at the least and abuse at the worst. Not both your birth parents as it was unlikely- though not impossible- they'd treat one child so much better than the other for no reason. You confirmed this when you said they were dead. Close family then, Aunt, Uncle, and male cousin is the most probable.

"You attempted to cover your scar as soon as I mentioned your parents' deaths, so you associate it with their demise, you were there at the time, you saw it happen, but it didn't cause you undue sadness to think about it and the scar is old, so it happened some time ago, when you were too young to remember clearly. As for your friends y-"

The door opened and Lestrade peered in, checking to make sure Sherlock hadn't traumatised the kid.

"I can give you five more minutes Sherlock and then you need to leave."

Sherlock sneered and opened his mouth to obviously make an acerbic comment about the state of the police force, but a warning look from John stopped him. Instead he merely nodded once, looking extremely

put out at having had his monologue interrupted.

"How did you know about the... Society bit?" Harry asked cautiously, clearly impressed. Sherlock puffed himself up a bit.

"Obvious of course. Both you and other victims have handled owls, parchment, and quills on a regular basis. All highly unusual and doesn't correlate to any profession, the fact that you've all done it points to an old tradition. A tradition that belongs to either a club or society, since you've all been raised by different people in different manners I deduced it was one in which none of you rely on your families too much, most likely because they aren't involved in it but possibly because the society works by separating children and parents for long stretches of time."

Harry looked suitably gobsmacked, and nodded his head dumbly, "wow. You're a genius. You're even smarter than Hermione...used to be."

"Hermione?" John ventured. The boy looked downcast, and bit his lip harshly as he swallowed heavily to reign in his tears. Sherlock's expression softened slightly.

"Ah. The girl with bushy hair, and rough skin from paper cuts on her fingers borne from excessively reading books."

Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact. Sherlock sighed, and turned to John for help. They needed to ask him some questions which they couldn't do if he was too upset to talk.

"Harry. We're trying to catch the people who did this. At the moment you're the only one who can help us. Can you try answering our questions?" John gently asked. Harry was silent for a long moment before he took a deep shuddering breath and nodded.

Somehow managing to make the action dramatic, Sherlock sat in the seat next to the bed and leaned forward, eager to have the puzzle finally make sense.

"What does mudblood mean? Why was it carved into Hermione's skin?"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's insensitively excited tone.

Harry took another deep breath to prep himself, "the... Society we belonged to is pretty old. They're also really careful with who they let in. They like to keep it among the old families. Hermione was like... New blood. Some people didn't like that. They wanted her and those like her dead. None of us liked that. We all wanted the new members to be welcome. They're just as good as any of us just because they haven't been brought up knowing about it like everyone else and they don't have 'pure blood'. They called her mudblood because she had 'dirty blood'."

Sherlock looked absolutely beguiled by this information. He wanted to sit there and question Harry about this society for much longer, but time was of the essence and he had a case to solve so he reluctantly put his curiosity on the back burner. But an extremely insular secret society would certainly explain why they couldn't find the victims on any database.

"Were they the ones who carved those words into your hand? For telling so called lies about people like your friend Hermione?"

Sherlock could see Harry was heavily modifying his answers, and he was determined to spend more time around the boy so he could find out more about him. He was intelligent for an eight year old.

"Sort of. I said some stuff about the man who was trying to convince people to get rid of muggleborns -first generation members. People stopped listening to him when I was little, and I was trying to tell people... I was trying to tell them he was going to start making trouble again but they didn't believe me. They were scared, and because they were scared they got angry. They got angry with me and my friends. We were right, and in end people believed us, but by then it was too late."

John grimaced in disgust, sometimes he could see why Sherlock got so fed up with people's stupidity. It was vile to punish a child to that extent to cover up their own fears, and no doubt make them feel like they had some semblance of control. By the look of distaste on Sherlock's face he was of the same mind.

"This society... Racist... Barbaric... Ignorant," he muttered.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over to John briefly and he hummed in agreement, a small amount of amusement at John's indignation on Harry's behalf.

"The people who were responsible for killing your friends, what can you tell me about them."

Harry's face immediately blanked again, he was silent for a long moment and his gaze seemed to see right through the men. Sherlock held perfectly still as Harry's vivid green eyes bore through his own and into his mind. He felt as though his character were being intimately judged.

When Harry finally looked down at his fingers lying on top of the covers, both John and Sherlock let go of a breath neither had realised they were holding.

"The people responsible are dead," he admitted quietly, an edge in his voice that dared them to ask how the killers died.

But neither did. They both understood what Harry wasn't telling them. They glanced at each other and agreed not to question him further down that line.

"How did you find yourself at the building where the police got to you?" John asked softly.

Harry smiled a bitter pained smile. It wasn't an expression John had ever seen on such a young person who was already so world weary.

"I didn't have anything else to go off of. I'd escaped them all. They all think I've died and I wanted to keep it that way. I don't care if most of them would thank me for... . I didn't want anything to do with them. But I wanted to find out what happened to my friends. They got taken from their cells and then I just never saw them again. All I had to go off of was that building. I had to start somewhere."

It briefly occurred to Sherlock that the first time the boy had received confirmation of his friends' deaths had been when he'd inadvertently informed him through his deductions. Harry hadn't even shown any grief or realisation. Fascinating. He had also just as good as admitted to killing an indeterminate number people and he showed no outward strain or mental struggle.

Although he had deduced that he and his friends had been through some very turbulent times so perhaps this wasn't the first time he had had to kill someone. In fact Sherlock would be surprised if it was.

"Why did they target you and your friends specifically? You can't have been the only person who disagreed with the discrimination, and you can't have been the only group of friends that included a.. Muggleborn."

He suspected Lestrade would enter any second now, having given them twice the amount of time he said he was going to, and he desperately wanted to observe this child for as long as he could. There was just something utterly compelling about him and Sherlock had the feeling that they had only just scratched the surface on the mystery of this person.

Perhaps if he hacked into any information from his therapist that he would undoubtedly be set up with. He could get hold of the child every few weeks in between cases too to talk to him and get him to open up slowly.

Harry heaved a sigh and looked resigned, "the man who was encouraging the discrimination was responsible for my parents deaths. It weakened him. His support group crumbled. It made me famous and it meant he saw me as the opposition when he started up again. Everyone did."

John felt sorry for child who had clearly been dragged into a very dangerous adult situation and thrown into the deep end, then not only expected to be able to swim but keep everyone else afloat too.

Sherlock on the other hand was looking at Harry's scar and seeing it in a new light, having observed how Harry tried to keep it hidden. It was clearly what was most commonly used to identify him by if he was well known and it was also a symbol of anti-discrimination. No wonder they tried to kill him and any who openly supported him. As long as he lived he would be used to give them hope.

"They saved you for last because you were the most important. You were pressured into to be their hope and you tried to live up to their expectations too despite the fact that they had punished you barbarically for trying at first. They killed your friends because they were a reminder of you and what you fought for. They would be capable of spreading dissent even after you were gone." Sherlock suddenly held a lot more respect for the child who was barely a child in front of him. Not that he made it known of course, he looked as impassive as ever.

"They were punished for sticking up for me," the boy's gentle voice wavered for a moment and the tears that had been building up as Sherlock spoke made their way silently down his face. The boy took a deep shuddering breath and tried to suppress his tears with partial success.

"I told them not to." He face practically pleaded for Sherlock to believe him, and forgive him.

Curious. He had remarkable control over his emotions. He viewed himself to be just as responsible as the killers for the death of his friends. He was the leader amongst them. Of course he had impressive emotional control to be an eight year old leader during what was looking like an underground war amongst adults. Obvious.

"It wasn't your fault," John smiled sadly, "it was their right to choose to fight or stay safe and they chose to stand by your side. I suspect they would have fought with or without you. You were just there to take the fall."

Ah, ever faithful John and his ability to understand sentiment. Sherlock suspected Harry was more likely to be rational rather than emotional now if he hadn't been like it before, but he was clearly vulnerable around the issue of his responsibility for his friends. As an ex-soldier John would be better equipped to handle that.

"Besides, now you don't have to suffer too much guilt about those you left behind to mourn since your closest friends are dead. In fact if you're allowing yourself to become a martyr it would be better that those who knew your flaws and humanity well are dead so its easier for your image to become inhuman and therefore timeless, thus discouraging that particular discrimination more effectively."

John sighed in despair, "not helpful Sherlock."

Harry looked both amused and disturbed, "er... Thanks. I guess."

"Although in my opinion your time would far better be served teaching those fools not to idly stand by and allow children do their battles for them, rather than dying so they can worship your memory in order to avoid looking at their own transgressions."

Harry shook his head, "they're just sheep. They always follow whoever has the loudest voice at the time. Mine wasn't strong enough earlier on when more people would have stood by me."

Sherlock snorted. Typical. Even in a society filled with severely elitist members there are mindless masses blindly following whoever promises the least work.

"Can I ask you some questions now, sir?" Sherlock nodded once.

"Provided of course you make them intelligent questions and not the pathetically asinine queries that most of the populace spew out. And call me Sherlock." Harry's lips twitched in suppressed humour, and Sherlock smirked.

"What's going to happen to me now?" Harry asked, anxiety lurking in the back of his eyes whilst he strove for nonchalance.

"The police will have some questions for you. No doubt you'll act much more innocent and oblivious in order to avoid being forced to give names and addresses and John and I will support you in the claim of self defence in the case of the killers, since you have the injuries to sustain it... And then you'll most likely be taken to a foster home if they can't find any next of kin for you, which I doubt they will since you won't be going back to your abusive aunt and uncle if we find them.

"It's unlikely that you'll be adopted, since you're eight years old and most parents want a baby or toddler that will view them as mothers and fathers. You'll be pushed through the system whilst everyone around you tries to make you act normal," Sherlock sneered the word, "and by the time you reach adulthood, if you haven't managed to get yourself into a lot of trouble which I have no doubt you would, you'd be resentful of everyone and wish you were back to living among the people who happily sacrificed you just so you could be a semblance of your real self, surrounded by people who would allow you to act like the soldier I can tell you are."

The fear that had been lurking in the background came rushing to the front, along with panic and dread. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he should have softened his words or lied. But he decided that if your future prospects were mostly miserable you ought to know about it. However that didn't mean he wanted to have to deal with an eight year old soldier with nothing to lose, barely out of the killing mindset and having a panic attack.

"Sherlock!" John hissed furiously.

"What? Not good?" Sherlock inquired, eyeing Harry cautiously.

"Bit not good yeah," John snapped, trying to refrain from shouting semi-successfully.

Lestrade, who had all been impatiently waiting outside the room trying to distract Donavon from the fact that he had allowed Sherlock access to a child, finally relented when they heard a raised voice and burst inside.

Harry's breathing had increased to the point of hyperventilating and he had his head buried in his hands.

"I suspect he has a fear of foster care and possibly orphanages. I didn't foresee that," Sherlock explained calmly.

"I told you the freak shouldn't be allowed anywhere near kids! Probably traumatised him even more."

"Yes alright! Alright Donavon, thank you but that isn't helping. Sherlock! I told you to be considerate! What did you say to upset him," Lestrade gritted his teeth in frustration.

Sherlock answered distractedly, noting Harry's reaction to what Donavon had said carefully, "I merely informed him that he was going to be placed and grow up in the foster system, with people who would try to crush whatever makes him unique."

All three groaned, "you told him that?! Of course that upset him!" Greg restrained himself from shouting.

"Is that not what's going to happen to him if next of kin can't be found?" He defended himself.

"Well yes but that's not the point. You can't just go around blurting that kind of life altering information out Sherlock," John rubbed his forehead in annoyance.

"Don't expect the freak to be sensitive or, God forbid, compassionate. He's a psychopath. He's completely incapable," Donavon laughed with derision.

Again. Sherlock noticed Harry's reaction to the word freak. It was barely notable the second time, compared to the first that had completely jerked him out of his almost panic attack. For whatever reason, the fact that Sherlock was called freak and no one had anything to say about it made Harry square his jaw and look at Sherlock with a sense of kinship.

"I want to live with Sherlock," came the small, soft, but certain tone from the bed. The adults went silent and stared at Harry, who was staring resolutely back at them.

Donavon bent over silently, "sweety-"

"My name's Harry."

She smiled tensely, "Harry, you don't want to live with him. He's dangerous. He gets people hurt."

John looked indignant on Sherlock's behalf but didn't correct her. Sherlock really wasn't the sort of person you entrusted children to. Harry didn't blink an eye, if anything he looked more determined. Sherlock scoffed.

"That's not going to perturb him in the slightest Donovan, the child has been on the front lines of an underground war for the last year. Danger is what he knows best," Sherlock turned to Harry, "you can't come and live with me. I don't have any room. There's only one spare room and John's using it. I don't have time in my schedule to look after a child, I have important scientific experiments all over the place which you would inevitably get in the way of or sabotage, and I work at odd hours of the night and day which would be ruined by the need to keep you on a normal schedule. No, I can't have you living with me and getting in the way."

Although now that Sherlock was thinking about it, that would be a fantastic way to observe Harry more closely when he was relaxed and less wary- no, that was a bad idea; he wasn't a day care centre. Not even for ex-child soldiers. Hmm that sounded like a good idea for a potential experiment.

Lestrade looked annoyed at Sherlock, but nodded anyway, "it's really not possible for you to live with Sherlock. We need to do this by the book as much as possible and that means after you've told us all you can about... Well after you've been released from the hospital you'll need to go to foster care where they can look after you properly if we can't find your family. Even if we wanted you to go with Sherlock, my superiors would never allow it."

John smiled kindly, but apologetically at Harry, "it is for the best I'm afraid. You need stability in your life if what Sherlock said was true and we could never give you that."

Harry just set his jaw mulishly, "I want to live with Sherlock and John," he insisted strongly.

Sherlock sneered, "even if I wanted you, which I don't, and I had the room, which I don't, and the police would let you, which they won't, my brother would never allow you to come and live with me."

Harry said nothing, but narrowed his eyes minutely at them all. It was a battle of stubbornness between Scotland Yard, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, the British Government and Harry

Lestrade, unlike the other adults in the room, knew just how unreasonable kids could be when they set their minds to it. This one looked like he was getting ready to be particularly unreasonable. Instead of allowing it to escalate into who could be a bigger child, an eight year old or Sherlock Holmes (and it was saying something that he had genuinely no idea what the outcome would be) he decided to nip it in the bud.

"Right, well why don't we all take some time to cool down and come back to this conversation later. Sherlock, John, come outside with me. Donavon keep an eye on the- Keep an eye on Harry. There's no point in talking about him going anywhere until we've got his medical report."

Sherlock and Harry gave an identical terse nod, glaring at each other, before Sherlock swept from the room, his coat tails flapping.

Just as the four hour mark hit, back at 221b Baker Street, during which Sherlock had been brooding on the sofa with hands in the 'thinking position', no doubt still caught up in the puzzle that he had found in Harry, Sherlock's phone rang. He ignored it as it continued to ring.

"John," He commanded. John sighed -'bloody lazy sod'- and exited the kitchen to fetch his own (stolen) phone from Sherlock's pocket to answer it.

"It's Lestrade. The medical report's done. He thought you might want to take a quick peek at it. Apparently it's a bit unusual," was all John managed to utter, before Sherlock was off the sofa like a shot and running downstairs.

"Come on John! We have an eight year to interrogate some more!"

"Sherlock!"

On the way to the cab, Sherlock was steadily ignoring John who was ranting to him about sensitivity and trauma and bla bla. Predictable. Boring.

"Besides, you've already asked all the pertinent questions. The case is as closed as it's going to get now that the killers are dead, even if we don't know their identities or where their bodies are."

"Wrong. Sometimes it astounds me at how little you observe John. I can't fathom how you notice so little around you."

John scowled heavily, "fine," he bit out, "what are you going to ask."

Sherlock glanced at John, "I've upset you. Don't be. You're far more capable of intelligence than most other people. You just have it switched off the vast majority of the time. Now think John. What was unusual about him?"

John quirked his eyebrow, "he looked a lot like you, just with green eyes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "dull. You're noticing the obvious things. Think more about the details. What did you see."

John shifted and sighed exasperatedly, "oh I don't know Sherlock. I'm no good at this. He's a child soldier. He's very mature and smart for an eight year old, or even for an adult actually. He's fairly emotionally closed off."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "I'm not interested in his emotions right now I'm talking about his physical state."

"Er... He looks malnourished."

"Better."

"He's got a bunch of scars."

"Yes! And?"

"And I think a weird symbol drawn on his wrist."

"Exactly!"

"You want to ask him about a drawing?"

"Not a drawing. A tattoo. Two to be precise. One on his left forearm and other on the inside of his right wrist. They clearly mean something and I want to know what."

"I didn't see a tattoo on his forearm."

"That's because it's white and therefore barely visible. It looks more like a faint scar. That and of course I want to know about his and his friend's scars but those will have to be asked when there's more trust between us. People are notoriously touchy when talking about scars for some reason. Especially when they've been tortured."

"Tortured?!"

Sherlock looked at John with disdain, "of course John. What else would you call having words carved into your flesh. I suspect at least one of his other scars have been inflicted by torture too."

"You're not going to ask him about his time being tortured Sherlock!" John demanded angrily.

"Is that not what people do? Talk about their traumatic experiences to help them get over it?" Sherlock asked, only half faking his confusion.

"Yes, but with someone who is capable of empathy and emotional understanding. That is certainly not you. He can talk about it to a therapist to help him."

Sherlock sneered at the idea, "and you think some therapist will be able to empathise with him about being abused growing up, before being shipped off into a secret society filled with racists and bigots who expected him to save them all and tortured him when he tried, then forced him to become a child soldier who obviously killed people and was likely tortured with his friends once again, only to be locked in a cell for months on end, and finally escaping to kill a bit more so he could fake his own death and search for his missing friends who- oh, turned out to be dead all along. He's never going to properly confide in someone completely inept like your therapist John. I suspect we won't find anyone who can empathise with him as much as you and I."

"Sounds like you're advocating for Harry coming to live with us," murmured John with a teasing smile.

Sherlock pursed his lips and reluctantly admitted, "having given the situation some thought I have decided that were Harry to find himself capable of convincing everyone he should live with us, I might not find the situation as disastrous as I had initially thought. He is... competent in suppressing the utter idiocy that plagues most people."

John snorted, "right. You could have just said 'you wouldn't mind it'."

Sherlock merely smirked in reply.

They arrived at the hospital less than twenty minutes later, Sherlock's coat tails flaring out behind as he stormed along the corridors and approached Donavon, who was outside the room.

She sneered at Sherlock, "you can't enter freak."

"Ah, Donavon, it's nice to see you found another use for Anderson's table other than eating off it. I hope you wiped it down before his wife used it again," Sherlock replied with a fake smile, "now if you'll excuse me, someone needs to do everyone's job around here and since I'm the most qualified not to be an utter imbecile I think it had better be me."

John coughed into his fist in an attempt to hide his smile from Donavon. He generally liked to remain impartial when Sherlock and the police were involved since they were doing their best and he really was rude to them, most of them were saints for putting up with him. But Sherlock was right in that compared to him they were all idiots. However, since Sherlock had returned from his fake death John had discovered a new found appreciation and patience for Sherlock's vicious and witty insults aimed at nearly everyone he came across. Well that and he just generally didn't like Donovan.

"What, they're going to let you anywhere near that child again, after last time? You've got to be joking. We all know how well it goes each time you try to talk to a sensitive kid," She smiled nastily. There was a barely noticeable pause in which John could see Sherlock's jaw tighten as he recalled the child's scream that had initially cast suspicion his way and had eventually led to his painful separation from everything he knew in England for years.

"I was invited here by Lestrade. Where is he, since clearly he's the only person on the case who isn't completely brain dead."

Donavon sneered again, opening the door reluctantly before she called in, "the freak's here to talk to the kid."

John noticed Sherlock's back stiffen and his jaw clench angrily, perplexed. He usually hardly even noticed when Donavon called him a freak.

Lestrade gave Donavon a sharp look to reprimand her about her professionalism in front of a child no less. Donavon clenched her jaw and avoided eye contact with everyone sulkily.

John entered the room behind Sherlock, noticing the Doctor holding the boy's medical report and Harry looking uncomfortable with so many people in the room.

"We've tried to ask him a few questions concerning his medical report, but he just refuses to reply. Since you're a doctor and he seemed more at ease with you two we thought he might talk to you," Lestrade muttered to the two.

The doctor nodded and reluctantly handed the report over to John, whilst Sherlock was once again staring at Harry like he was a gripping puzzle. Harry, rather than acting perturbed at the examination was looking back at Sherlock with what could only be described as relief.

Sherlock realised with considerable surprise, that Harry had placed a tentative trust in him, most likely due to Sherlock's obvious status as someone who stood outside of the norm, someone who didn't fit into this society, like Harry, someone who was different. It was a novel experience for someone other than John to feel infinitely more comfortable with Sherlock because of his ability to see the secrets people generally didn't want made known, because he was considered a freak.

"Give us some time to talk," Sherlock replied, still not looking away from the boy. Lestrade glanced dubiously between John and Sherlock.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. You're not exactly known for being... Sensitive, and after last time..."

Sherlock scoffed, "the boy was abused, I wouldn't be surprised if he's heard every insult already from his relatives, on top of everything else. He's more than likely to be untouched by anything I can throw at him."

If anything Lestrade looked even less convinced. Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. He didn't need John to subtly scold him to know he needed to give some ridiculous false platitude to appease the D.I.

"Fine. I'll be... nice," he bit the word out as though it were distasteful. Lestrade gave him a doubtful look but turned to leave with the doctor who looked equally as doubtful.

"If I come back in and you've made him cry, I won't ask for your help for two weeks," he replied as he left the room.

There was a long pause before John realised Sherlock was peering at him purposefully.

"I'm not leaving you in a room alone with him."

Sherlock said nothing, but narrowed his eyes minutely at the doctor. It was a battle of stubbornness between the two that John inevitably lost. John clenched his hands, thinking furiously about idiot best friends who thought it was a good idea to interrogate an eight year old without anyone there to tell him when he went too far.

"Three minutes," he warned, before he left Sherlock and Harry alone. Sherlock barely noticed since he and the boy who looked like he could be Sherlock's son were staring at each other again.

Finally Sherlock spoke, in a softer tone than he usually used.

"You got called freak enough that you began to identify with that word as your name. Who called you freak?" It wasn't the most important question to ask, but despite popular opinion, Sherlock did know how to be considerate and he was well aware he wouldn't get anywhere without slowly making Harry warm up to him again.

The boy gazed at him steadily for a long while and the detective wondered if this was how exposed people felt whilst he deduced them.

Eventually he opened his mouth, "my aunt and uncle. And then the others too."

Sherlock pondered if 'the others' meant those who called Harry a liar, or those who saw Harry as the enemy. He dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

"Do you believe them?"

Harry shrugged, "I guess. I don't think it's a bad thing mostly. I just don't like the word."

Sherlock hummed, "it would be prudent to hide a weakness like that. Even a small one can be exploited." Harry nodded once solemnly.

"Will you take me to see their bodies when I'm out?" Harry asked tentatively, "I just want to see them one last time. To confirm that they're really gone."

He considered the request. It would certainly make Harry trust him more and bring him closer to the child so he would be less wary around him. Plus he would end up visit the morgue anyway some point soon so he might as well bring the boy along.

"As long as I won't end up having to be a shoulder to cry on, and provided you answer my questions about your medical report honestly."

Harry took a moment to think about it. Good, he wasn't just going to blindly accept someone's words at face value then.

"Deal."

At that moment John walked back in eyeing Harry carefully for any sign of upset, fear or anger. The usual emotions after exposure to the man.

"I've had a look at his medical report," John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"And?" John pointed to four things that stood out as abnormal to John, and Sherlock's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"What?" Harry asked concerned.

John cleared his throat and turned to him, "well there are a few issues. You're malnourished, which can be fixed over time but it will probably stunt your growth a little in the end. You're low in iron and you're still dehydrated. Also you'll need to eat the right foods and take some supplements to help your bones. These are all as a result of your difficult up bringing..."

Sherlock huffed at the wording and muttered some choice words under his breath.

"He wants to know how you got around 100 grams of sand lying at the bottom of your stomach," Sherlock stated, much to John's annoyance.

Harry's eyes bugged, "100 grams? Are you sure?"

"That's what it says in the report," John replied. Harry scratched his head in confusion, giving John a look at the barely noticeable tattoo on his forearm, but he couldn't make out the shape.

"Huh. I don't remember swallowing that much," Harry murmured absently.

"Why on earth did you swallow that much sand?" John raised an eyebrow at the boy.

"It was contained. Initially. And it was hidden in my mouth. It was important for my escape attempt alright," he added defensively at seeing the men's twin expressions, "but the container sort of ripped when I was knocked down, and in the struggle I swallowed the sand."

John looked sceptical and opened his mouth to question further before Sherlock interrupted, "a perfectly reasonable explanation. But what really matters is how long the sand has been there since it isn't showing any sign of passing through naturally."

Harry thought for a moment, "about... ten days before I managed to actually escape I think."

A funny expression crossed his face for a moment before it was gone again. John was too worried to notice.

"That's probably going to have to be removed by the hospital then as soon as possible." He made a mental note to talk to the doctor when he handed the report back.

"You also seem to have a small chip of something stuck in the bone of your right arm, which correlates with a scar I've noticed there. A round, curved and tapered object entered through your arm and just out the other side."

Harry shifted in his bed and avoided eye contact, "is that so?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "yes. It is. And it needs to be removed."

Harry's eyes widened in panic, "No! No, I'm fine. It's not necessary really."

"It's fantastic that you've rediscovered your medical degree and have the experience to override myself and the hospital in this matter. Really it is. I will of course take your learned and professional view of the situation into account. In the mean time, you're having that object removed from your arm," Sherlock smiled sarcastically. Harry gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.

"I refuse," he ground out.

"That's wonderful. Do you hear that John? He thinks, as a minor, he has a say in it. How sweet."

"Sherlock," John warned quietly, mindful of Harry's increasing temper. He had a feeling if it exploded they wouldn't just be dealing with a childish tantrum.

Sherlock ignored John, too irritated at what he perceived to be Harry's naive stupidity showing through to observe the risk.

"Luckily we don't need your cooperation. It's easy enough for us to drag you kicking and screaming into the operation room, render you unconscious against your will and remove the chip all with your refusal."

Sherlock looked back at Harry and faltered. His eyes had darkened, the anger removed entirely from his face. He looked cold, grim, determined. Sherlock imagined that was what the people he killed saw. It was frankly disturbing to see on his young face. When he spoke his voice was cool and detached.

"I categorically refuse to submit myself to the operation. That chip of bone has been there for some time now and it will continue to be there for years to come, if not the rest of my life. That fact I absolutely promise. If you attempt to have me subdued and forced into the procedure I will be out of this hospital immediately and none of you will ever find me again. Whoever gets hurt in the attempt to restrain me will not be on my conscience."

Sherlock found himself, for once, speechless. Both he and John nodded silently. John didn't think he'd ever been intimidated by someone so young and frail before. Often when Harry talked he came across as solemn but innocent. Smart but with an edge of naivety to him. Emotionally mature but still carrying the optimism of youth. It was easy to forget he had also killed an unknown number of people and would probably have few qualms about doing so again if he perceived it to be necessary.

And that was what was frightening. Neither Sherlock nor John knew yet how easily Harry might perceive it as necessary.

Sherlock on the other hand, was digesting the information that Harry had inadvertently shared; he had been stabbed with a piece of bone. A fang or claw going by the shape it would have had to be from entry and exit scars. But he couldn't think of a single animal that had a fang or claw that size and shape. Unless it had been artificially altered from a larger bone. But what was the point? It was an inefficient shape for a hand held weapon. This would need further study at a later date.

"There is of course the oddity that is the rest of the bones in that arm," Sherlock added after a suitable pause during which both men rapidly got over and ignored that they had been successfully threatened by a child.

"The rest of the bones?" Harry asked, genuinely confused this time.

John decided to take over before Sherlock pushed the kid to add in some death threats next, "whilst the bones in the rest of your body have suffered from your diet growing up, the ones in your right arm are absolutely fine. It's as thought a you who live under perfect conditions gave them to you. It stops at the shoulder. Is there a condition... Or any reason you can think of that explains that? It's just a bit, well, strange."

Harry was utterly perplexed for about five seconds as he thought, before realisation hit him. He couldn't very well tell them that he had had all of the bones in that arm completely regrown by the help of a potion when he was 12 could he? They'd think he was either mad or a liar. He carefully kept his expression on perplexed before he finally shrugged, appearing baffled.

"I've never had an X-ray before so I didn't know they were any different," he thought he'd successfully gotten away with it, and technically wasn't a lie, until he saw Sherlock's look of suspicion. But the man didn't call him out and so John moved on, satisfied with the answer.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing dangerous, but if you ever become concerned over pain, stiffness or anything else unusual in that arm make sure you tell someone."

Sherlock huffed impatiently, "while this has been enlightening, what's really important is the unknown compound in you blood."

Harry's features tightened minutely, "what do you mean?"

John checked the report carefully, "we're not too sure, but at first glance it looks to be an extremely deadly and undiscovered poison, which is bound to what appears to be a neutralising agent."

Harry frowned, "what?"

John tried to reword it, "you have a mystery deadly poison and its antidote floating around in your bloodstream. Instead of having been removed from your body over time it seems to just... be there. I'm not sure if it's had any adverse or even positive effects on you since I don't know what either of them are. Could you give us a clue?"

Harry shifted in his bed again, "oh that. I got bit by a snake a few years ago. I'd never seen it's type before or since. At the time, I was given the antidote by someone who knew what they were doing and the situation was a little intense so I didn't ask what it was. It worked, obviously."

"Could you direct me toward the person who gave you antidote if at all possible?" John sighed, not expecting him to be able to.

Harry smile apologetically, "He didn't speak English. And also he left just over a year ago and no one knows where he went and no one's seen him since, sorry." Again, technically Harry hadn't lied. He just hadn't told the whole truth either.

"I want a sample of your blood to study it further," Sherlock demanded imperiously.

"Sure," Harry agreed with a shrug before John could reprimand his flat mate, "on the condition I get to come and stay with you instead of going to foster care."

Sherlock's lips tightened in annoyance. He didn't want something that could prove an excellent distraction hanging off of something as unsure as the boy's living arrangements. He'd have to pull in a few favours that he'd been planning to save for a rainy day.

"The topic is still in discussion. But I will do my best to arrange for it. Even if I have to ask Mycroft," he added the last bit with a deep grimace that seemed almost pained.

John whistled in surprised, "you know he means business when he offers to go to his big brother for help."

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, he glared at Harry, "if you come and live with me you had better not complain when I play the violin or don't pay attention to you all the time, or perform my experiments."

Harry just smiled innocently in reply.

"You'll be out of here in a few days. In the mean time make sure you eat and drink well," John suggested kindly, and Harry nodded in response.

Sherlock walked to the door with a grumpy expression, before he spun round to the bed, "what's the significance of your tattoos? What do they mean."

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise for a moment, before he grinned impishly, "if you can find out successfully what they mean before I leave here I'll answer any ten questions you have for me honestly to fullest capacity I can."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a mixture of grudging respect, excitement at the challenge, and annoyance at being denied, "fine," he snapped, wrenching the door open and storming out.

John just chuckled and shook is head in wonderment. The boy had probably just cured Sherlock of his boredom for the next three days with just a few sentences. He couldn't wait to see what he could do with some planning, time and more knowledge of Sherlock's character.

"See you soon Harry."

"Bye John," he called out chirpily, clearly a bit smug at his achievement.

"This is either going to be highly amusing or a complete nightmare," John muttered to himself as he left.

"John! I need your laptop!"

What do you think? I hope I portrayed Sherlock well enough. He did have answers to how he found out about all the things he deduced from Harry which weren't explained but the chapter got way too long going through it all.

Also one thing that occasionally bugs me a little is the fact that in all the stories of Harry Potter and orphanages being mentioned, no sign is given to acknowledge the fact that there are no longer any orphanages in England. There are places kids stay in between foster homes which are like orphanages, but generally the system tries to get orphans to foster parents.

So I gave lots of little clues and few solid answers. Would would you guess happened to Harry to put him in that situation?