DISCLAIMER: I still don't own the Sherlock series! I am just a crazy fan girl! :)

AUTHIR'S NOTE: I know, I know! It has been far too long since I updated this! Sorry! I've got a lot of thing to upload as well so I hope that you all will bare with me while I desperately try to type all of these stories up! Anyway! I hope you like the new chapter! R&R si vous plait! I LOVE the feedback!

Chapter Two: What Child is This?

Sherlock looked the small child over once again. He supposed the little boy did resemble him, but what did that mean? It's not like the boy was his son. Was that what John thought? That the vigrant child before them was his son?

"What are you implying, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. "That I have a child? Me?"

John seemed to shake himself back to reality. "Right, of course not. Impossible," he said, as though he was just remembering who Sherlock was and how the eccentric man lived his life. It would be impossible for the detective to have a son. It would mean that the man would have had to be intimate with someone and that was completely absurd. If one thing was certain, it was that Sherlock Holmes was asexual.

"It is odd that he resembles myself so completely though," Sherlock muttered, his expression turning pensive. "We should check his DNA. I'll also need to know where he came from."

"Well, good luck with that," John told him. "I can't get him to speak."

" Really?" Sherlock stood suddenly and crossed to the mystery child in long strides, a frustrated scowl on his face. "Who are you?" he demanded of the boy loudly when his face was just inches from the boy's. The child flinched back.

"Sherlock!" John protested, pulling the little one away from his narcotic flat mate. "Stop it! He's just a kid."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to John's. "Not good?" he asked quietly.

" A bit not good, yeah," John told him, temper cooling as he realized that Sherlock simple did not know the proper procedure for this type of thing.

The detective pulled back and said a quick, "Sorry," to the boy, who was gazing at him in a wary fashion. Then, Sherlock's expression went distant again as he thought of a solution. Something seemed to click and he looked back at John. "I'll need his clothing and shoes, then, in order to see where he's been. If we're lucky we will be able to pinpoint where he's from by the chemical traces on his clothing." He then pulled out his phone and began dialing away.

John looked down at the the child that was still standing at his hand and looking up at him expectantly. The boy was thin, like he hadn't eaten in a long while. He had dark circles under his eyes indicating that he hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks. The boy was dirty, but not so dirty that one would think he had lived on the streets all of his life. So was he a runaway? But if that was the case, where did he run away from and why? John knew from his studies at Bart's that a child of this age did not run away and stay away, unless there was a good reason. John was brought out of his thoughts as Sherlock began talking into his phone.

"Mycroft," Sherlock's tone was clipped, but urgent. "I need you to get over to my flat right away. No, no, no one is injured. Just come." He hung up with his brother and started heading back over to his microscope.

"So, then what?" John asked.

"Sorry?" Sherlock answered, confused.

"So, we find out where he's from, and then what?" John asked. "We can't send him back." The doctor subconsciously gripped the little one's hand a little tighter.

"Why ever not?" Sherlock replied.

"Because!" John insisted. "It's clear that whoever had him before was not kind to him!"

"Obviously," Sherlock stated. "It is clear by the state of his clothing, lack of speech, and the obvious signs of malnutrition. But what concern is that of ours?"

"It's our concern because we're human, Sherlock!" John cried. "It's in our nature to take care of those who can't take care of themselves!"

"Ah," Sherlock replied, exasperated. "So it's sentiment. Dull."

"Yes, Sherlock," John explained, irritation creeping into his tone with every word. "I'm a doctor! It is my job to help those who need my help! Sorry that we all can't rid ourselves of emotion like the Great Sherlock Holmes!" With that he turned and led the, extremely confused at this point, little boy out into the sitting room. He settled the child on the couch and left to make the boy some warm milk, as promised, and a quick bite to eat.

He walked back into the kitchen and ignored the detective sitting at the microscope as the man watched him intently. He warmed some milk in a mug and set about making some toast with jam.

"You're upset with me," Sherlock said quietly behind him.

"Figure that out all on your own, did you?" John gritted out. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

"I didn't mean to upset you," the detective informed him. "You know I don't understand this sort of thing. The science of it, certainly. But when it comes to emotions... sentiment... I don't understand. I'm sorry, John."

At this the doctor sighed. "I know you don't understand sentiment, Sherlock. But do try to keep in mind that we're dealing with a child here. A living, breathing, emotion- feeling child, Sherlock. So, try to imagine how it must feel in his place. Please, just try that for me, okay?"

At the detective's hesitant nod, John brought the milk and jam out to the dark haired boy on the couch. His short legs were dangling off of the ground and the child was kicking them absentmindedly as he looked around the room. He really is quite adorable.

John smiled warmly as the boy's eyes landed on him. "Here you go," he said as he walked further into the room. I've brought you the warm milk I promised you. And some toast as well. You look hungry."

The child snatched the plate out of the doctor's hand the moment it was presented and immediately began devouring the toast with gusto. He looked more like a starved dog than a little boy, and John felt his heart break for this mysterious child. He set the milk on the coffee table and sat down in the chair next to ravenous mini-Sherlock. When the boy was finished with his "meal," he eyed the mug of milk before looking up at John questioningly, almost asking permission.

"It's all yours," the doctor told him gently.

The boys questioning gaze turned suspicious. It would be easy for this man to have drugged his drink. Or his food for that matter. But it was too late to worry about the food. Besides, it would be easier to drug the drink. John had been nice to him so far, but he wasn't about to put his trust in someone, especially an adult, quite so blindly.

John watched as the rumpled little boy looked at the boy in hesitant suspicion. The child must have been drugged in the past, or been given something harmful enough to make him wary of an unknown drink. "It's okay," John told him, causing round green eyes to flash up to meet his. "I haven't done anything to it." When the child did not seem to be reassured by this, John asked. "Would you like me to take a drink first and show you?"

The boy nodded and John tipped the mug back and sighed as the warm fluid hit his throat. "There, see?" he said handing back the cup. "There's nothing wrong with it."

With his fears disproved, the little Sherlock replica began gulping down the drink with every bit of fervor in which he had attacked the toast. When the cup was drained, he drew a deep breath and smacked his lips. That had been delicious. He never knew that food could taste like that. Everything he had ever eaten was always bland and boring tasting. He wondered what else this nice soldier – or doctor. He had said he was a doctor – could teach him. He looked up at the man expectantly. What do I do now?

John looked down at the child that was now staring at him as if he hung the stars. "Well, it's a little early for dinner, but I'll be making chicken. Until then, we can get you cleaned up. Would you like that?"

The child nodded shyly. He was not particularly looking forward to being "cleaned up," as it was not usually a pleasant experience. But the dirt covering his body was beginning to itch in the most uncomfortable places.

"Wait!" Sherlock called from the doorway. "Before you clean him, I need the DNA samples. You can give his clothes once he's shed them as well."

"Um, okay," John said to him. "What exactly do you need?"

"Two hair samples and a mouth swab. A urine sample would be nice, but not necessarily crucial."

"Okay," John said again, this time turning to the little boy on the couch. "Do you think I could have two of your hairs? And that you could let Sherlock swab your mouth? It will only take a second and it won't hurt a bit."

The child merely nodded as if it was the most normal request in the world. Of course, to him, it was normal. He handed over a couple of curly hairs, plucked straight from his scalp, before opening his mouth and waiting patiently for the swipe of cotton. So, this Sherlock man was a scientist of some sort. He didn't seem to overly concerned with poking and prodding him, though, so the little boy decided that he was probably not like the scientists he was used to.

Once the DNA collected, the nice soldier/doctor, John, led him up the stair and into a strange room with a bunch of porcelain objects. One looked like the wash basin he was used to at the lab, only it was much smaller and higher off of the ground. Another looked somewhat like a chair, except for the fact that it had a hole in place of the seat, that led to what looked like a bowl full of water. Finally, John led him to a set of blue curtains, only to pull them back to reveal what looked to be a large bowl, built into the ground. John leaned over the giant bowl and turned at a couple of knobs, causing water to come crashing from a metal faucet. He had a feeling that this was going to be a lot different form the hose and sponge cleaning he was accustomed to. When water had been dispersed nearly to the top, John turned to him again.

"Ready?" he asked, confused that the child hadn't come further into the bathroom yet. The mini-Sherlock just eyed the bathtub in confusion. Surely, he's had a bath before. "It's okay," John soothed. "It's just water. It won't hurt you, I promise."

The filthy child shuffled forward, hesitantly, eyes never leaving the tub. John reached down and ran his hand back and forth through the water gently.

"It's nice and warm," John told him. "Do you want to feel?" He was silently thanking any and all deities for his training as a doctor, or this would have been even more difficult.

The little boy dipped his hand into the warm water and his eyes snapped up in surprise. The water wasn't freezing cold! It was pleasantly warm! He offered John a small, shy smile. It was returned warmly by his nice soldier.

"You want to get in, so you can get cleaned up?"

The boy nodded and began to get in, clothes and all.

"Wait!" John cried, causing the child to flinch and pull back from the water, as if he had been burned. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shout. It's just that you have to take your clothes off first."

Well, that was new. Why did he need to take his clothes off? They were dirty too. At the lab, he was usually sent through a shower in his clothes and then sent into a sanitizing station. The only time he had to take off his clothes was after a physical, when he was going to get the hose and sponge treatment, but John wasn't holding a hose or a sponge. Perhaps, the outside world did things a bit differently? So, he nodded in understanding and shed his clothes quickly. He stood before John, completely naked and wondering what to do next.

"Okay," John said, his doctor persona taking full control now. "Climb on in." The boy complied.

"Do you need help cleaning yourself?" The child was only very small after all, John supposed.

The boy shook his head and quickly dipped himself in the water and began to stand up, assuming he was now clean.

"Mmm... no," John said quietly, so as not to frighten the child. "Here, sit back down and I'll help you." In no time, John had the migrant child squeaky clean and wrapped in a warm fluffy towel.

"Have you ever had a bath like that before?" John asked him as he led the boy toward his bedroom to find him something to wear, since Sherlock would be analyzing the rags he had been wearing. The child responded by shaking his head in the negative. This worried John to no other. Where had this boy been living, if he had never had a proper bath?

Once in his bedroom, he pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of draw-string shorts. In a jiffy, the boy was clad in the too large clothing and he and John re-entered the living room. The man sat the child on the couch and turned on the telly to a child appropriate program, watching as the child's face lit up in wonder at the glowing screen.

"Okay," John said. "You stay here and watch this for a bit while I make dinner." He was halfway to the kitchen when Mycroft arrived. Th government official took one look and the child on the couch and his eyes widened in surprise.

"I see why this was urgent," he said. "He's the spitting image."

"Indeed," Sherlock said from the kitchen in a bored tone. "Mycroft, here are his hair samples. I need you to find out everything you can about his DNA."

"Mmm," Mycroft responded, his eyes never leaving the boy on the couch. "In the mean time, keep him here. We may need to come back and question him."

"Obviously," Sherlock responded. "Just find out who he is."

A/N: There you go, y'all! I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review! I live off of them! :3