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Sherlock Holmes was about to turn twelve.
Someday soon, probably. If you asked him when, exactly, he would make the unimportant shift from ‘little boy’ to ‘boy’ in the eyes of London, he couldn’t tell you.
He could tell you any number of other things, though.
The man smoking cheap cigarettes on the corner street that divided the true heart of the slums from the lower class’ housing had a medium-sized dog. There was pet fur stuck to the outside of his jacket pocket.
The bakery he was strolling towards was about to shut down. For the last month, they'd been removing unpopular items from their menu to cut down on cost and time spent making them.
The puppy lying limp next to the rubbish bins Sherlock was searching in didn’t used to be a stray. It had a bald mark circling its neck, likely where a collar had been for years. Whether it was tossed out because of the wheezing indicating its limited time or simply because winter was almost here and its family couldn’t afford to spare a scrap or two of food a day, Sherlock couldn’t tell you.
His hands had long since grown rigid with the November chill and were just as dirty as he pawed through the bakery's unsold scraps. It was a late afternoon Sunday; this was when all the shops that couldn’t sell their week-old goods marked down tossed them out. Perfect for a homeless boy to take without a fight. Some of the alley boys stole, but he knew if he merely observed the actions of others, he wouldn’t be beat to near death for thievery.
That was his only real talent. Observation, analysis, and deduction. The penniless boy only got by by being clever, quick-witted, and, sometimes, a fast enough runner to avoid being snatched up. London did have a bit of a crime problem, but what was he supposed to do? He was eleven.
His hands seized a torn loaf of bread from halfway through the rubbish’s contents, and he nearly tripped over himself trying to pull it out of the large metal bin without alerting the shop owners. They were kind, but not that kind. After shooing some rats away from his treasure, he plopped down on the cold ground, tucked his tattered, stained coat tighter against his chest, and ripped apart a large chunk.
“That doesn’t look appetizing.”
Sherlock had half a mind to yell at the person startling him enough to drop a valuable part of his dinner onto the ground. Staring up at the boy, who was similarly dressed in ratty clothes and filthy shoes, he quickly lost the will to fight.
He wasn’t much older than Sherlock and clearly just as poor, but, God, Sherlock had never seen a boy his age he could accurately describe as beautiful. Not in the slums anyway. Beautiful people were all rich, dressed in jewels, dresses, and suits he’d never see, let alone wear.
But him. He had golden hair, ruby-red eyes, skin so clean it looked like the shine of a diamond, and not a hair astray or caked in dirt. It wasn’t fair. Sherlock was sickeningly thin, cheeks sunk in, constantly covered in grime, and clinging to a stale loaf of unwanted bread like it was about to be stolen by this boy whose smile was so innocent it was suspicious.
“Dinner is dinner.” Sherlock ripped off another chunk and threw it into his mouth. It stunk from being in the rubbish bin, was flavorless yet bitter, and every chew threatened to break his teeth.
The boy leaned down, still smiling at him. “I can get you something tastier to eat tonight, if you help me.”
Sherlock swallowed his bite and stared up at him. He’d been offered something similar by several burly men, the same as some of the other alley boys. Those who accepted would never end up in the papers like the sons of rich men, but Sherlock made sure their things went into good hands after they didn’t come back for them.
“No thanks.” He ripped off another chunk and chewed it slowly. No matter how hungry or bored he was—both of which were always true—if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was.
The boy hummed a short tune, then sat next to him, legs folded under him in a more fancy way than Sherlock always sat. Suddenly, he felt the urge to copy him.
“See the flower shop across the street?” He pointed, and Sherlock tore his eyes away from his dinner to follow. “The owner, Mrs. Roberts, is sick today.” He knew her footsteps by heart because of the cane she hobbled down the cobblestone roads with. “She needs her usual medicine brought to her house, but she can’t make the trip.”
Mrs. Roberts was one of the few nice people in these parts, and everyone knew her lungs were weaker than most. She was stubborn enough to always get her medicine herself, rain or sleet be damned, however.
“She always pays me with money or food.” The corners of the boy’s mouth turned upward in not a kind smile but a cheeky one. It suited him better, for some reason. “If you help me with some of her errands, I know she’ll give you her leftovers like she does me.”
Sherlock ripped off a bigger chunk and started gnawing through it.
Mrs. Roberts was too old to do much more than scold him if he did something wrong, the boy was small enough that Sherlock could fight him off if need be, and, really, he knew these streets like the back of his hand. The medicine shop was barely five minutes walk away, and not much further from the desolate alley he’d made his home not two months ago. He could walk away with a much better dinner—money, if she was feeling generous—and go home satisfied with his haul.
Sherlock wiped the crumbs from his mouth with his thumb, set the loaf on the ground, and stood up. Pros versus cons, it was obvious which was the better choice. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, and the boy stood, too. “Now let's see you back it up.”
It hadn’t taken much time at all to help the kindly older woman with retrieving her medicine, though it took a bit more to help her with her various tasks and chores that she asked them to do as well. They were such strong boys, after all, and should be proper gentlemen and help an old lady. The boy had given her a kind, innocent smile and agreed. Sherlock let him do the talking. He wasn’t very good at being polite.
From watering her flowers—all of which were well tended to and blossoming despite the chill threatening to frost them over if she wasn’t careful—to hauling her rubbish from the second floor to the first, then out to the bins, she was very particular about how they did it, and she had her eyes on them the entire time.
Thievery among the elderly was common, despite Scotland Yard’s best efforts.
Once their last tasks were complete, however, she put on a bright smile, ruffled Sherlock’s mangy hair, and finally gave them their rewards: a slice of mincemeat pie and a pound for both of them. The boy thanked her, tucked his money in a small, brown bag, then took the small plate and went back outdoors. Sherlock followed suit, and knew better than to question why she told them to leave the plates outside when they were done instead of letting them eat at her table with their filthy clothes and hands.
She was kind, but not that kind.
Sherlock didn’t trust this boy enough to take him to his home, but he did end up following him back to where he’d left his unfinished dinner. With a heavy, warm plate in his hands, he all but kicked the hard loaf to the wall on his way to sit down.
The boy, despite being the same as Sherlock was, presumably—a homeless alley boy barely scraping by—still sat in a more sophisticated way, legs neatly tucked underneath him. He ate slowly, like he wasn’t fighting for every bite or expecting Scotland Yard to shove him off for defacing a citizen's property with his presence. Sherlock just tore into his meal with a ravenous fever. With the spices, meat, and a sensory explosion that was the crisp fruit, Sherlock was in heaven.
After the silence in which they ate and the moments after wherein Sherlock licked his fingers clean, the boy remained seated, seemingly content to watch the setting sun.
Sherlock watched him, still amazed by how pretty his eyes were and how silky smooth his hair was.
“Thanks,” he said, and for some reason he averted his eyes when the boy turned to face him. “For showing me that.” The boy hummed in question and tilted his head. “That I could do the same.” He knew these people, and he could tell what they were thinking to some extent. If he did something with that, he wouldn’t have to eat out of the bin. He gestured down at their empty plates and laughed a little. “This is a lot better than bread.”
The boy’s sudden laughter brightened up his face in the perfect way. “I’m well aware of the dangers of eating leftovers. This is my solution.” His smile lessened just slightly. “London needs help. I use my skills for good, but that’s all I can really do.”
Sherlock sighed up to the orange-red sky quickly turning purple-grey. He’d been thinking the same thing for most of his life, but from what he’d seen in the papers, the whole world needed help.
“For now,” he mused. One day, Sherlock would grow up, grow out of his boredom, and change London in even the smallest of ways. How, he didn’t know, but he’d get there. “I like to add ‘for now’ to bleak things like that. Helps it not get you down so much, you know?”
“I…” The boy nodded slowly, and looked like he hadn't ever thought of it. “I like that. Yes, ‘for now’ I can’t do much.”
“But one day?” Sherlock’s mouth crooked up in a small smile. “You’ll do some real good.” Then, because why the hell not, “Both of us.”
If he used his deduction and observation for good and not just for staying out of trouble, maybe he could help. Sherlock stood up, and when he offered his hand, the boy took it and did the same. “What’s your name?”
“William." Sherlock couldn’t help but think it was a pretty name. Maybe something like ‘Liam’ would suit him better, though. Liam was a pretty name, too.
“Sherlock,” he said in turn.
“I hope we meet again, Sherlock.” William smiled, and he returned it toothily.
“Me too.” He didn’t used to believe in fate, but maybe if he prayed hard enough, they’d meet again once the world changed. “Let’s do some good, even if we don’t.”
Once he could worry about what was best for London instead of where his next meal was coming from, well, he’d figure it all out then. One day, probably.
William was twenty-four. His brothers were twenty-three and twenty-seven and had their own tasks aboard the Noatic, the same as Moran and Fred. William had been deep in thought while walking down one of the boat’s many rooms before he came upon an interesting sight.
It had only taken a single sentence.
“It’s a hell of a spiral staircase, huh?”
William was thrown back decades in an instant. To the biting cold of November chills and thin jackets. To cobblestone roads and mincemeat pie eaten by hand.
He had reminded him of Louis that day, scarfing down a stale loaf next to an unwanted dog. Louis had William to hold on chilly days with empty stomachs. This boy was alone and starved; his skin was stuck tight against his bones. He reminded William of his brother, and that was all the reason he needed to share that day’s food and the money meant for his sick brother’s medicine with the eleven-year-old eating stale bread.
His grin was just as toothy, just as confident, as it was when he was homeless, though he had put on much more height and muscle. When changing London was all but a lofty dream, Sherlock had still clung to it, and William had let the boy’s optimism sink deep into his soul.
Sherlock was twenty-four, lithe, confident, and charming.
William remembered their promise.
Like they had never parted, he smiled. “What makes you think I’m a mathematician?”
This wouldn’t alter his plans. It won’t. It can’t.
For now.