oil & water
It is not out of the ordinary to return to Baker Street to find strange and unusual things in every nook and cranny, however, this was perhaps the first time I have returned home to find a little boy perched uncertainly on the table.
He was perhaps five years of age with wild black hair and the greenest eyes I have ever seen. His clothes were worn and, I believe, overlarge. I could not, however, tell for certain any more details about him as he was draped in Holmes’ overcoat. Besides, there was something curious about him that made my attention slip away. Oil and water.
"Holmes, why is there a child in our flat." It came out as more of a statement than a question and I immediately attempted to marshall my thoughts into a state in which they could receive the look that Holmes was giving me at the current moment which implied that it was perfectly obvious. I wanted to say, "Holmes, would you kindly explain what a child is doing on the table in our flat and exactly how it got there?" but I knew that it would be futile.
Instead, I turned to the boy, "What is your name, young man?"
Predictably, Holmes answered for him, "He doesn’t know his name. He is on the older side of six. I found him in Little Whingeing, Surrey. He was freezing up in a tree. Does that answer your questions?"
I stuttered for a moment before regaining my composure. "It was good of you to rescue him but did you really need to kidnap him? His family must be worried sick." It was only then that Holmes’ words caught up to me and I felt compelled to continue my questioning. "What do you mean he doesn’t know his name?"
"Just that; he doesn’t know his name. His family won’t be worried in the slightest, if I tried to return him it would just be disastrous." I looked at the child again. Really looked this time. I did not have to be a detective to realize the issue. He was too small, obviously not well cared for, and scrunched into himself. There was a part of me, the part that was not socially acceptable, that agreed with Holmes’ logic even when it was generally viewed as ridiculous, that dragged a bemused Holmes along on adventures instead of the other way around, the part of me that had rebelled since the moment I was born, that fiercely agreed with Holmes. So, when I opened my mouth, it was that part of me that asked, "So, where will he sleep?"
I had meant to clear it with the boy as well but Holmes spun to him before I could, "Yes? What were you about to say?"
The child froze, panic scrawled across his features, subconsciously preparing to run, "You won't send me back?" he whispered.
"Do you want to go back?" Holmes shot back. The child’s eyes went wide with the weight of the decision placed on his shoulders.
If he chose to return I could do little more than contact the proper authorities and leave it in their capable hands.
I recall thinking, in a somewhat discombobulated fashion, that that would be best. They knew what they were doing after all. I remember feeling dazed. As soon as I realized this I understood that I had been since I first set eyes upon the boy. Almost as if something didn't want him to be noticed. It sent a feeling of uneasy urgency to think of something else through me and I refocused with all my stubbornness on the situation at hand, determined not to let my mind slip.
Holmes continued staring at the child, "Do you want to go back?" he asked again.
The child scrunched into himself, "I…don’t know?" Holmes pulled up a chair, offering the boy a place to sit. The child considered it a moment before hopping down and perching uncomfortably on the wicker seat.
"In that case," continued Holmes, "you may sleep here for tonight and we will sort this all out in the morning. We only have two beds but the couch should serve."