Chapter Text
"Oh, for gods sake! Who let the kid in here?!" Lestrade's gruff voice echoed through the crime scene, his frustration palpable. The inspector looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the young interloper. "You again!"
Sherlock didn't bother to hide his smugness. "You know you can't keep me out, Lestrade. Besides, I've told you before, I'm not just a 'kid'. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Detective."
"Kid, you should be in PE right now, not walking round a builders yard," Lestrade barked, his hand reaching for his cuffs.
Sherlock's eyes lit up with a mischievous glimmer. "Ah, but Inspector, I assure you, I'm not here for the scenery. I've deduced something rather intriguing about your current case." He stepped aside, revealing a clue that no one else had noticed - a scrap of fabric snagged on a piece of discarded scaffolding.
Lestrade's hand hovered over the cuffs but hesitated. "Fine. What's so important about that bit of cloth?"
Sherlock held it up with a pair of tweezers he'd produced from his pocket. "It's from Mr. Hudson's jacket. And it wasn't discarded. It was placed here deliberately."
Lestrade's expression shifted from irritation to curiosity. "How can you be so certain?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the answer were elementary. "The fabric's weave, the lack of dirt and the faint scent of Mrs. Hudson's fabric softener. It's clear it hasn't been here long." He paused dramatically. "And it smells faintly of... starch."
"...ok, I'll believe you, but you're going to sit in the cruiser and drink some juice and stay put," Lestrade said gruffly, his 'papa-bear' instincts kicking in. He took the fabric scrap and nodded to one of his officers to bag it. "And once this is over I'm going to take you home, and we're going to have a serious talk about ditching school."
Sherlock's smugness didn't falter. "I don't go to school. I left home, remember?"
"Nothing an adoption can't fix," Lestrade threatened, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. He knew Sherlock's home life was less than ideal, but he also knew that the streets weren't any safer for a teenage genius with a penchant for crime scenes.
Sherlock scoffed, his eyes never leaving the fabric. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me, kid," Lestrade said with a stern look that didn't quite hide his worry. He knew Sherlock was more than capable of taking care of himself, but the thought of the teenager navigating London's underbelly alone was enough to make his stomach churn. He glanced at the fabric again, then back at Sherlock. "Alright, I'll bite. What's your theory?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Mr. Hudson isn't just a serial adulterer; he's a meticulous killer, covering his tracks with a precision that suggests he's been at this for quite some time."
"A serious allegation, what's your evidence?" Lestrade said, his curiosity piqued despite his annoyance.
Sherlock rattled off a string of dates and places. "Each time Mr. Hudson sets up a rendezvous with a new 'lady friend', he selects them from online dating profiles that indicate they live outside the city. He meticulously plans their visits, ensuring they coincide with his business trips. Each of these women has a distinct taste for rare and exotic teas, which he uses to deliver a precise and deadly concoction of poisons. The symptoms mimic a heart attack, so they're often misdiagnosed."
Lestrade stared at the teen in disbelief. "And how the hell did you figure that out?"
Sherlock shrugged, his youthful arrogance on full display. "It's elementary, really. The pattern of his online activity, the sudden influx of rare tea orders to his office, and the fact that each of the missing persons files had a suspiciously similar MO. Plus, the lack of fingerprints and DNA at the scenes - Mr. Hudson is quite thorough in his clean-up, but he's not infallible."
Lestrade rubbed his forehead, trying to process the information. "Alright, but how do we prove it?"
"Mrs Hudson will happily give you access to his computer. She hates him," Sherlock said, his voice low and intense. "You'll find the emails, the purchase history, and the dates of his 'accidental' meetings with these unfortunate souls. And if you look closely at the teacups at Baker Street, you might find residue of the poisons he's been using."
Lestrade sighed, resigning himself to the idea that this wasn't going to be a simple case of a runaway teen. "Alright, come on. You're not staying here." He marched Sherlock out of the crime scene, ignoring the curious glances from his colleagues.
Once in the privacy of the police cruiser, Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Look, I need you to be serious. If you've really found something, we need to work together on this."
Sherlock nodded solemnly, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of the chase. "Mr. Hudson is clever, but not as clever as he believes. His downfall is his consistency. Each victim's profile had the same specific taste in tea, which he used as a signature in his murderous rituals. It's like he's playing a game of Clue, but with real lives and without the board."
"...buckle up, and drink your juice," Lestrade instructed, pushing a carton of orange juice into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock eyed it with distaste but did as he was told.
As they drove towards Baker Street, Lestrade's mind was racing with the implications of Sherlock's theory. He couldn't help but admire the teen's deductive skills, even as he worried about the danger he was placing himself in. "Why did Mrs. Hudson tell you all this?"
"He beats her," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, taking a sip of the juice. "And she's tired of it. She wants him out of her life, but fears what he'll do if she leaves. She wanted someone to talk to, and the homeless kid in the alley behind the house was a better listener than anyone she's known."
Lestrade's jaw tightened at the revelation. "We'll get a warrant for his computer and search the house," he said, his voice hard. "If he's hurt her, he'll answer for it."
"This is why you're the best Yarder," Sherlock said, his voice filled with a rare note of admiration. "You actually listen."
Lestrade grunted, his focus on the road. "It's my job to listen, especially when a kid who's supposed to be playing video games is dropping truth bombs about a high-profile suspect."
Sherlock smirked. "It's also your job to protect, and you do it quite well." He took another sip of the juice, his thoughts racing with the thrill of the impending confrontation. "But, just so you know, he's got an offshore account in the Cayman Islands and a stash of fake passports. He'll run if he gets a whiff of your suspicion."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
"I picked the locks when Mrs Hudson was at Bingo last week and got into his private accounts," Sherlock said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And I found evidence of his transactions with various shady characters who can provide such things. He's been planning this for a while, getting ready to leave his old life behind."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," Lestrade exclaimed, trying not to swerve the car. "What have I told you about breaking and entering?"
"Nothing. It's not come up in the two weeks I've known you," Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin.
Lestrade shot him a sideways glance. "Well, let me make it clear. No more breaking and entering, understand?"
"But you wouldn't have your breakthrough if I hadn't!" Sherlock protested, his eyes wide with indignation.
"Don't think I'm not considering that," Lestrade said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "But next time, you call me. You don't go snooping around a murderer's house alone."
"It's not a murderer’s house! It's Mrs Hudson's house!" Sherlock protested, his cheeks flushing with the sting of Lestrade's accusation. "He barely ever stays there!"
"It's still breaking the law!" Lestrade snapped, his frustration rising. "You're smarter than this, Sherlock. You know better!"
"Smarter than the idiot who uses the same password for every account anyway," Sherlock muttered under his breath, but Lestrade heard him.
"I heard that, brat," Lestrade growled, his eyes never leaving the road. "And for the record, I don't use the same password everywhere."
Sherlock's smirk grew wider. "Then how do you explain your email password being 'L4str4de1'?"
Lestrade's face turned a shade of red that could only be described as 'threatening'. "How did you... never mind. That's not the point!"
Sherlock leaned back in the seat, his smugness unmarred by Lestrade's outburst. "The point is, Mr. Hudson is going to run. And when he does, Mrs. Hudson will be in danger. He intends her to be his last victim in this country, and you better not let him hurt her," Sherlock glared at Lestrade, his voice cold and hard.
"I'm not planning on it," Lestrade said through gritted teeth. "But I'm also not planning on letting you get in the way of my investigation again. You're not even supposed to be here."
"Without me, your 'investigation' would still be a wild goose chase," Sherlock pointed out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Lestrade's grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he didn't take the bait. "That might - might, mind you - be true, but you're still a twelve year old kid, and you will not be tackling the serial killer," he said firmly, glancing at Sherlock.
"I'm fourteen!" Sherlock corrected him, his voice rising with indignation.
"You look twelve," Lestrade quipped, his eyes back on the road. "And act like it sometimes, too."
Sherlock huffed, his cheeks reddening. "I assure you, my detective skills are far beyond my years."
"But your body's still small and squishy, so you will stay put in the cruiser where its safe," Lestrade said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement. As much as he despised being sidelined, he knew Lestrade had a point. The inspector pulled over in front of 221 Baker Street, the address where Mrs. Hudson lived with her secret. Lestrade turned to Sherlock, his expression a mix of exasperation and something almost like affection. "Stay. Juice. Drink," he ordered, pointing to the juice carton in Sherlock's hand.
With a dramatic sigh, Sherlock nodded. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with defeat. He took a long sip of the juice, watching as Lestrade marched up the stairs to the Baker Street flat. He knew the inspector was only looking out for him, but it was infuriating to be treated like a child when he had a mind capable of solving the most complex of puzzles.
Mrs. Hudson answered the door, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Lestrade. "Is everything alright, Inspector?" she asked, her voice quivering.
Lestrade nodded, his expression serious. "I need to talk, Mrs. Hudson. May I come in?"
"...is that Sherlock in your car?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice cracking as she spotted the young detective in the back seat of the cruiser.
Lestrade nodded curtly. "He's helping me with my inquiries," he said, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. He stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him. Sherlock watched from the cruiser, his eyes sharp and his mind racing. He knew the next few minutes would be crucial.
As the conversation grew muffled, Sherlock's curiosity grew stronger. He had to know what was happening. With a silent vow to be more careful next time, he unbuckled his seatbelt and slipped out of the car, the door clicking shut almost inaudibly. He approached the building, his gaze fixed on the window of 221A, where Mr. Hudson's shadowy figure moved with a surprising agility for a man his age.
Through the crack in the curtains, he saw Mr. Hudson's hand wrap around the grip of a gun. His heart racing, Sherlock knew he couldn't just sit there sipping juice while the man who had hurt Mrs. Hudson and countless other women was about to add to his body count. He had to act.
With the stealth of a cat burglar, Sherlock slipped out of the car, his eyes never leaving the window. He scaled the building like it was a playground climbing frame, his youthful agility and desperation driving him forward. He had to get to Mrs. Hudson before it was too late.
Peering through the crack in the curtains, he saw Mr. Hudson pacing back and forth, the gun glinting in his hand as he listened to Lestrade's questions. His eyes were wild, his mind clearly unravelling as he realized his perfect crimes were about to come to light.
Mrs. Hudson sat at the kitchen table, her face a mask of fear and resignation, as if she'd known this day would come. Sherlock's chest tightened at the sight of her. He'd come to care for her, this kind woman who'd taken him in when no one else would. He couldn't let her become another of Hudson's victims.
Mr. Hudson's heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway as he made his way to the stairs, the gun still gripped firmly in his hand. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of his young accuser. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock was right behind him, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to think quickly.
As Mr. Hudson reached the top of the stairs, his hand trembled with rage. He pointed the gun at Lestrade, who was standing in the living room, oblivious to the weapon pointed at him. Sherlock knew he had to act. He took a deep breath and shouted, "Lestrade!" The sound echoed through the flat, a piercing cry that made Mr. Hudson's head whip around.
In that split second of distraction, Sherlock launched himself from the shadows, tackling Mr. Hudson's leg. The man's balance faltered, and he stumbled backward, the gun flying out of his hand. It clattered to the floor, spinning like a top before coming to a halt a few feet away from them.
"You meddling brat!" Mr. Hudson roared in anger, his fist connecting with Sherlock's cheek with a sickening crack. The force of the blow sent the teenager sprawling across the floor, his head spinning from the pain.
Lestrade's eyes went red with fury at the sight, his 'papa-bear' instincts flaring to life like a wildfire. He'd seen enough. With a bellow that seemed to shake the very foundations of Baker Street, he lunged at Mr. Hudson, his own hands balled into fists. The burly inspector was a whirlwind of rage and protection, every bit of his bulk and strength thrown into the fray.
Mr. Hudson had been so focused on Sherlock that he never saw Lestrade coming. The inspector's fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering back, his teeth rattling in his skull. The older man's eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed to the floor. Sherlock's head was still spinning from the punch, but he couldn't help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction at the sight of his tormentor laid low.
"You have the right to remain silent, but I hope you don't," Lestrade growled as he handcuffed the killer. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And I will make damn sure it will. You're not going anywhere, Hudson. Not until you've paid for what you've done to these women," he spat, his voice a mix of disgust and anger.
Mrs. Hudson looked on, tears streaming down her face. The years of fear and pain she'd suffered under Mr. Hudson's tyranny were written in every line of her expression. She reached out to Sherlock, who was still on the floor, his cheek bruising where the man had hit him. "Oh, dear God, Sherlock," she sobbed, her voice trembling with relief.
Lestrade didn't spare Mr. Hudson another glance as he rushed to Sherlock's side, his own hands shaking with the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. "You okay, kid?" he asked, his voice gruff with concern.
Sherlock sat up, rubbing his bruised cheek. "I've had worse," he said, trying to shake off the pain. But the wobble in his voice betrayed his bravado. Lestrade's eyes softened, his protective instincts taking over.
"Let me see," Lestrade said, gently taking Sherlock's chin and turning his face to inspect the damage. His thumb brushed against the swelling and Sherlock winced. "You're going to have quite the shiner," Lestrade said, his voice a mix of tenderness and annoyance. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"Saving Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock murmured, his eyes never leaving the defeated form of Mr. Hudson, who was now being dragged out of the flat by the other officers. "And you."
Lestrade's expression softened, the fiery rage of moments ago replaced by a gentle concern that made his rough features almost... tender. He helped Sherlock to his feet, his hands firm but gentle as he checked the teen over for injuries. "You're a brave kid," he said gruffly, "But you're also a fool. You could've been killed."
Mrs. Hudson hovered nearby, her own hands fluttering around Sherlock like a worried mother bird. "Oh, you poor dear," she cooed, dabbing at the blood seeping from his split lip with a tissue. "Let me get you some ice."
Lestrade hovered, his own concern etched into his face as he watched Mrs. Hudson fuss over Sherlock. "You're sure you're okay?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
Sherlock nodded, his eyes still a bit dazed from the blow. "I'm fine," he mumbled around the ice pack Mrs. Hudson had brought him. "Just a bruise."
"Fine, my ass," Lestrade said, his arms folded over his chest as he stared down at the stubborn teenager. "You're coming with me. We need to get that checked out."
"It's just a bruise," Sherlock protested, his voice muffled by the ice pack.
"You're not fine," Lestrade insisted, his voice a mix of worry and irritation. "You need medical attention."
But Sherlock was adamant. "I don't need a doctor," he said, his voice stubborn despite the pain etched on his face.
"....Inspector?" Mrs Hudson's voice broke the tension. "I am a former nurse, let me take a proper look at Sherlock."
Lestrade hesitated, his protective instincts warring with his practicality. "Alright," he relented, stepping back slightly.
Mrs. Hudson guided Sherlock to the couch, her eyes never leaving the bruise on his cheek. She tended to him with gentle hands, her movements precise from years of nursing experience. Sherlock winced as the coldness of the ice pack met his skin, but he didn't protest further. He knew Lestrade wouldn't give up that easily.
The inspector hovered over them, his arms still crossed, his eyes flicking between Sherlock's injuries and the door, as if expecting trouble to walk through it at any moment. "Where do you live, kid? You can't be out here on the streets all night," he said, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation.
Sherlock shrugged, his eyes slipping shut as Mrs. Hudson continued to fuss over him. "I've got a place," he mumbled.
"...that feels like a lie," Lestrade said, his voice gruff as he watched Sherlock's eyelids droop.
"It's not," Sherlock insisted, his voice weak. "I have a place. I just don't want to go there."
"If you have a place why do you look like you haven't washed your hair in weeks? And why are your trousers too short?" Lestrade said, his brow furrowed with suspicion as he took in Sherlock's disheveled appearance.
"I told you, I've been busy," Sherlock retorted, his eyes still closed as he enjoyed the cool relief of the ice pack. "I'll go when I'm ready."
"He's been sleeping in the alley out back for the last month," Mrs Hudson said, her voice low and filled with pity. "Poor dear's been like a feral cat, slipping in and out when he needs to, but mostly keeping to himself."
Lestrade's eyes widened with horror. "You're not serious?" He looked back down at Sherlock, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. "You can't stay there. It's not safe."
"I'm not going home." Sherlock's glowered, opening his eyes to glare at the inspector as he folded his arms, the very picture of stubborness.
Lestrade's jaw tightened. "Look, I know you're not exactly keen on the whole 'normal' thing, but you can't keep living like this. It's not safe."
"I don't need your pity, Lestrade," Sherlock said, his voice sharp as a knife. "I can take care of myself."
"It's not pity, Sherlock, it's concern," Lestrade replied, his voice tight with frustration. "You're a kid. You shouldn't be out here on your own, especially not after what happened tonight."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a kid, Inspector," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm a consulting detective. And I've been managing quite well on my own, thank you very much."
"You're fourteen! You should be in school, playing football with friends, not running round London sneaking into crime scenes and jumping onto serial killers!" Lestrade's voice was gruff, but the underlying concern was unmistakable.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, the ice pack falling to his lap with a wet thump. "I've told you, I left home," he said, his voice cold. "I don't need to go back."
"You can't live on the streets, Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice was firm, his eyes searching the teen's bruised face for any sign of surrender. "You're coming with me. I'll sort something out."
"No! I'm not going!" Sherlock's voice was a mix of anger and fear as he pushed Lestrade away, his eyes flashing with determination. "I'm not going anywhere with you, especially not to a hospital or a shelter. I don't need your help."
Lestrade sighed heavily, his hands dropping to his sides. "Sherlock, you can't keep living like this. It's not right. You're a smart kid, you've got potential," he said, his voice a gentle coax.
"I'm not a kid," Sherlock spat, his eyes flashing with anger. "I've been taking care of myself for years. I don't need to be babysat."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed, his jaw set in a firm line. "You're not going anywhere until I know you're safe," he said, his voice a low rumble.
"He can stay here," Mrs Hudson's suggestion seemed to drain all the tension from the room. The copper and the kid looked at her with almost matching baffled expressions. She smiled and grunted slightly as she stood up. "I've got the room and, now that Henry's gone, I can rent out 221C and 221B. He can stay in C, it's smaller than the others but more than enough for a teenager, and a much better option than sleeping rough or forcing him back to a home he clearly doesn't want to go to."
Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who was glaring at him, then back to Mrs Hudson, his expression torn. "It's not that simple," he began.
"Of course it is. Tell me, Ispector," Mrs Hudson said with a firmness that belied her frail frame. "You've gotten to know Sherlock pretty well recently right?" Lestrade nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Now, if you forced him to go back to his home, or put him in the system with a foster family or something, do you think he wouldn't run away at the first opportunity and be back on the streets within a month?"
Lestrade sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. He knew she was right. "But Mrs. Hudson, you don't know what he's been through, or what kind of danger he might bring into your home."
"He saved me from my husband, and made sure Henry would face justice. Even if I didn't trust him, I owe him," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice firm. "Besides, if he's living here, I can keep an eye on him."
Lestrade hesitated, his mind racing through the possible consequences of allowing Sherlock to stay. Finally, with a resigned nod, he agreed. "But on one condition," he said, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "You don't go gallivanting off on your own again. You stay put, you stay safe, and you let me know if you stumble onto anything... and I mean anything."
"You're such a mother hen," Sherlock complained, his voice still muffled by the ice pack. But there was a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that told Lestrade he'd won this round.
"I'll take that as a yes," Lestrade said, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. He looked back at Mrs. Hudson, his expression one of gratitude. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll keep in touch to make sure he doesn't cause too much trouble."
"Trouble?" Sherlock scoffed, but the smirk remained. "I am a model of decorum."
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, patting his arm gently. "I'm sure you'll be a perfect house guest, dear," she said with a knowing smile.
With a final nod, Lestrade turned to go, his mind already racing with the paperwork he'd have to deal with. Before he reached the door, Sherlock called out, "Inspector."
Lestrade paused, his hand on the knob. "What is it?" he asked, his voice gruff.
Sherlock looked up at him, the smirk fading. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "For not making me go home."
"...drink your juice," Lestrade said gruffly, his gaze lingering on Sherlock's bruised cheek before turning to leave. As the door clicked shut, Sherlock felt a strange sense of relief. He had a place to stay, a new ally in Mrs. Hudson, and a surprising sense of belonging.
A week later, Lestrade found himself at the scene of a robbery, his eyes scanning the chaos for any sign which would lead him to the criminal. Donovan, the sharp-tongued detective sergeant, smirked as she approached him. "Your kid's here," she said, her tone a mix of amusement and annoyance.
"What?" Lestrade's head snapped up at the sound of Donovan's voice. The sight of her smug grin only added to his irritation. "What do you mean 'my kid's here'?"
Donovan rolled her eyes, gesturing over her shoulder with a nod. "The little squirt with the magnifying glass," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Looks like he's found something."
Lestrade's eyes followed her gaze, his curiosity morphing into irritation as he spotted Sherlock hunched over something on the floor, his nose practically touching the ground.
"Oh for -SHERLOCK!" Lestrade bellowed, pushing past the milling officers to reach the boy. Sherlock looked up, his eyes unfocused and lost in thought, before they snapped into sharpness when he caught the inspector's gaze. "What the hell are you - get off my crime scene you brat!"
"Inspector," Sherlock said calmly, his smirk never wavering as he pointed at a tiny scrap of fabric caught on a shard of broken glass. "This is your crime scene. This," he held up the fabric, "is evidence."
"You promised me you'd stay put!" Lestrade's voice echoed through the room, his cheeks reddening with a mix of exasperation and relief.
"I made no such verbal contract," Sherlock retorted, his smirk widening as he held up the minuscule fabric. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not let your criminals go uncaught due to your overprotective tendencies." He unfolded the scrap of fabric, revealing a tiny, almost imperceptible thread of a distinctive blue hue. "This," he said, his voice brimming with excitement, "belongs to the perpetrator. It's a rare blend of polyester and silk. The kind that can only be found on a very particular brand of gloves. Gloves that leave no fingerprints and are favored by a particular gang operating in this area."
"...fine," Lestrade deflated and knelt down next to the kid. "Show me what you've found, explain it, then I'm taking you back to Baker Street...and having a word with Mrs Hudson."
Sherlock's smirk grew as he began to detail his discovery. "You see, Inspector, the fabric is a unique blend of polyester and silk, a composition that is quite uncommon in the realm of street thuggery," he said, holding up the scrap. "This particular shade of blue is used by a gang known for their meticulousness and evasiveness. They leave no fingerprints and are notorious for their swift, silent operations…"