"Anything?"

Sherlock peered over for the twentieth time that hour at the computer that John had perched on his laptop.

"Since two minutes ago? No."

Sherlock sighed. "It's been a week."

"A week?" John said. "You can't be serious."

He threw his hands up in outrage. "The Barter case. Last Tuesday."

John pointed his finger at his flatmate. "You were out with Lestrade all day yesterday. What do you call that?"

Sherlock picked at an errant thread on the couch cushion. "That doesn't count. That wasn't mine."

"Yours?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I suppose you help."

"Bloody hell I help," John muttered under his breath.

The harsh cold of winter had descended on the flat and John had bundled his legs under a small army of blankets while Sherlock strolled around in his threadbare dressing gown. He couldn't understand the man. Nothing seemed to penetrate that thick skin of his.

"Why don't you call Molly?" John asked.

Sherlock snapped his neck around like John had just asked him to fly to the moon. "Pardon?"

"What, is that so ridiculous?"

"Molly?" he said with a chuckle. "What would she provide?"

John wanted to the strangle the man to get him to stop talking for five minutes. "She deals with all the dead people. You like that kind of thing, huh? Maybe you can help her out."

"Help her out...that's funny John. You're quite clever."

"I try," John said with a smirk.

Sherlock's head did perk up for a moment. "However, there is that experiment I wanted to try on the coagulation of blood on the tongue. Perhaps she has fresh cadavers…"

John grimaced at most of the words coming from Sherlock's mouth. "You two are made for each other. Leave me out of it."

"You're a doctor. Surely you can't be squeamish."

John lay his laptop on the seat next to him. "I just don't like talking about cadavers over my evening tea. I feel that's not an outrageous request."

He walked to the window and let his fingers trace over the snowflakes that had plastered themselves to the glass. They stayed pristine as his nail glided over the intricate designs. "It's snowing," John said with an air of wonder.

Sherlock turned his head. "You're aware I can see out the window as well."

John sighed. "I love the snow. I might go for a stroll a little later. You should come with."

"And risk hypothermia? I think not."

"Hypothermia? You think we're going to camp outside in our swimsuits? Wear a jacket for goodness sakes."

"I'm quite all right," Sherlock said as he grabbed John's laptop and placed it in front of him.

"Oh I don't think so," John said as he rushed from his perch.

"What? I'm just getting the number of St. Bart's."

"Like hell you are," John said.

"So touchy," Sherlock said as he got up from his seat.

"Touchy?" John said with a laugh. "That's one way to put it."

Just as he placed his computer on the desk, the doorbell rang just the way the website described for a potential client. Sherlock's face beamed with excitement. "Well go answer it!"

"Me?" John said.

"You want me to answer it in this?" he said, gesturing to his attire.

"Good point," John said.

Sherlock ran back towards his room to change and John strode down the stairs to answer the door.

The knob was cold to the touch. He wrapped the edge of his sweater around his hand and opened the door. Standing in front of his was a boy, no more than twelve, with his arms held tight against his chest. He shivered as he rubbed his bare arms.

He looked well, not an obvious homeless child but he could never be too sure with whom Sherlock surrounded himself with. He wore a button-down shirt, a pale blue that seemed to signify more of a school uniform and less of a fashion choice of the child. His hair was wet from melted snow and his cheeks were pink.

"Can I come in?" he said through chattering teeth.

John gestured inside. "Of course."

The boy took a few steps into the flat and John shut the door behind him. "You must be freezing."

He nodded. "I forgot my blazer at school. They locked up already so I couldn't go back."

"I see," John said. He pointed towards the stairwell. "Follow me. We'll get you something warm to drink."

John could see Sherlock's head peeking around the doorframe as they walked up the stairs. "Right this way," John said, gesturing inside the flat.

Sherlock had changed into his usual black suit and fixed his hair. However the moment he caught wind of the boy his entire demeanor changed. "Oh," he said in disappointment as the boy walked in.

John put a hand on the boy's back and showed him to the kitchen. "I'm going to make him some tea. You want some?"

Sherlock pouted on the couch.

"Don't mind him," John said to the boy. "He's in a mood."

The boy smiled back.

The boy's name was Bradley Sinclair. He was a year seven at a private school a few miles from the flat. He sat on John's chair and let his feet swing under him as Sherlock paced around the living room. John attempted to continue the small talk until Sherlock finally got it together enough to ask why the boy had come in the first place.

"Do you play any sports?" John asked.

"A little football, but I'm not very-"

Sherlock spun on his heels and turned to Bradley. "Enough. I can't take another minute of this drabble. Why did you come here?"

John sat up in his seat. He felt protective of the boy. "Oh, well," Bradley said as his voice waivered nervously, "I think my father did something bad."

Sherlock gestured to Bradley all well keeping eye contact with John. "Something bad? Well let's get the police on the phone right away."

"Sherlock, please, hear him out."

Bradley looked over at John as he talked. "I was looking through his study because I couldn't find my phone. He'd taken it because he thought I was playing on it too much and I wanted it back. So when he was at work I snuck inside his office and looked through his things to find it."

Sherlock's pacing slowed as the story seemed to peak his interest.

"And then I found all of these pictures. They were terrible pictures. So terrible…"

The boy's face fell as he talked and John looked to Sherlock to make sure he laid off the poor kid.

"What kind of pictures?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Bloody. They were people all bloody and on the ground. They looked dead."

Sherlock looked over at John in surprise. "Dead?"

Bradley nodded. "I think so."

"How long ago was this?" John asked.

Bradley played with the fringe of the blanket John had given him. "Yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Sherlock said.

"Yes," he said. "I was so scared all day at school that he'd see that I looked through his papers and found the pictures so I ran out of the class so fast that I forgot my blazer and I walked all the way here. My friends at school look at your website sometimes and I remember that you aren't the police. You won't call him, right?"

He looked up at Sherlock with such fear and John saw his friend's face change immediately. There was something he'd never seen on Sherlock's face before.

Sympathy.

"No," he said, shaking off the emotion, "of course not."

John leaned towards Bradley. "Do you think your father hurt those people?"

Bradley nodded.

"Why? What makes you think that?" John asked.

Bradley's gaze stayed fixed on the blanket but his lower lip betrayed him. It quivered just enough to show something was wrong. John sat, confused, waiting for an answer. Something was going on in that house, but what?

Sherlock didn't need the missing piece. He walked towards Bradley and knelt down in front of him. "You know he can hurt people. Is that true?"

Bradley nodded again.

That was all he needed. Sherlock stepped away from the boy and walked to the window. "John, the boy's father is an attorney. Very powerful one."

"Yeah," Bradley said. "How'd you know that?"

Sherlock gestured with his hand towards his invisible audience outside. "Nice clothes, private school, new shoes for the winter. Last name Sinclair...recently read about his case against the Brookshire Pharmacies. Couldn't be a coincidence. Mark Sinclair, correct?"

"Yeah," the boy said amazed. "Wow."

John smiled. It wasn't everyday Sherlock got a new fan.

Sherlock gestured towards the door. "You should go," he said.

Bradley held the blanket tight in his hands. "Go?"

Sherlock looked over at him with a trained expression. "You were dismissed from school two hours ago. You already said you don't attend after school activities. Any extra time will arise suspicion."

Bradley's face contorted in fear. "I can't go back."

"You must," Sherlock said. "Or you will be in danger."

"Danger?" Bradley squealed.

"Sherlock…" John chided.

"What?" Sherlock said in complete ignorance.

John put a hand on Bradley's shoulder. "What he means is that this needs to be a bit of a secret until we have time to get more information. If your father thinks that you're talking to detectives then he might start hiding things."

Bradley nodded, a bit reassured.

"That's not what I meant at all," Sherlock said.

John put a hand up to stop Sherlock's doomsday tirade. "Yes it is."

Sherlock pouted and went back to the window.

"Can I come back tomorrow?" Bradley asked.

John looked to Sherlock who nodded ever so slightly.

"Yes," John said. "Please do."