Chapter Text

Sherlock: The Case of the Changeling Child

From the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

An interesting case that Sherlock and I encountered after his return and my engagement to Mary concerned a little girl that showed up unexpectedly at the flat I used to share with Sherlock. Why anyone in his right mind would think it was a good idea to leave his child with Sherlock baffled me (and it baffled Sherlock, as well). Unfortunately, my job at the clinic and some parlous circumstances kept me occupied elsewhere, so Sherlock was left alone to deal with the child much of the time. Since I was not there for all that transpired while she was in Sherlock's care, I've had to reconstruct the events from what he told me, with perhaps a little embellishment.

Chapter 1

Sherlock studied the child sitting opposite him at the kitchen table in his flat at 221B Baker Street. Her head barely cleared the top of the table and she slowly brought each spoonful of cereal to her mouth, careful not to spill any. Her curly, yellow hair was long but stuck out at odd angles from her head and was full of tangles. Her green eyes were focused on the bowl before her and the path of the spoon. She had twice glanced up at Sherlock, but quickly averted her eyes when she noticed him looking at her.

Sherlock once more shifted his attention to the note lying on the table before him. It was written in pencil and appeared to have been hurriedly scrawled on a sheet torn from some sort of ledger. The message was simple. "Mr. Holmes-I need to leave my daughter with you for a while. Her name is Chelsea. She won't give you no trouble, but don't make her cry. She's a changeling, but not the bad sort. I'll collect her when I get back. She loves biscuts. R" The little girl had been clutching the wrinkled note in her hand when Sherlock discovered her sitting on the stairs not twenty minutes ago.

Sherlock's morning had started off fairly normal except that the tea and biscuits which Mrs. Hudson usually had waiting for him were not there. He tied the belt on his purple silk dressing gown and opened the door to call for his landlady when he remembered that she was off visiting her sister somewhere for a few days. It was then he noticed a slight movement on the stairs, just below the turn.

"Hello? May I help you?" he asked. He stepped down only two steps when he clearly saw it was a little girl. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide. One hand had a tight grip on the end of dirty cotton rope which trailed down the next three steps and her other hand held the note. A bulging paper bag was beside her. She was wearing blue and white striped leggings and a pink hooded fleece jacket. Under the open jacket she had on a blue t-shirt top with some cartoon character on the front.

He descended to the landing and stood, towering over her. "Who are you?" he asked. "Wait. Stay right there." He stepped over her and hurriedly went down the stairs to the front door of the building. It was locked. He went back up the stairs, stopping just below her and kneeling down. "Well? Who are you and how did you get in here?"

The child did not appear to be afraid, but she did not answer. She sat very still and continued to stare at him.

"What have you got here in your hand?" He took the note from her and read it silently. The penmanship was crude, written with the right hand, probably a man's, and the grammar and spelling spoke to his education level and held clues also to his socio-economic position. The fact that it was on ledger paper might be a clue to his occupation. "Chelsea?"

The little girl only continued to look intently at him.

"I need to make a call." Sherlock stepped over her and went into his flat and grabbed his mobile phone from the desk, calling me as he descended the stairs once more. I was between patients when my mobile rang. "John, I need you to come here immediately."

"It will have to be after noon, Sherlock. I have patients all morning," I replied. Everything was always so urgent with him.

"I really need you to come now. Somebody left something for me this morning and I'm not at all sure what to do with it. And Mrs. Hudson's gone off on holiday."

My office door opened just then and my next patient came through. "Sherlock, I'll see you later. I have patients."

"No, John, don't hang up. It's a child, a girl! I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."

"Sherlock, you mean someone left a little girl at your flat? Why?" I motioned for the patient to sit down.

"I have no idea why," Sherlock replied.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked the girl, who was continuing to stare up at him.

She held up one hand, her fingers spread wide.

"I think she's five years old," Sherlock said to me.

"All right," I said, trying to mentally adjust my patient schedule, so I could take off a few hours. "Listen. I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't do anything to her. Just… just…"

"What would you think I would do to her, John?" Sherlock asked defensively. "I'm not going to hurt her. But I don't know what to do with her."

"She might be hungry," I suggested. "Give her a glass of milk, maybe some cereal. Better check the milk first. Make sure it hasn't gone off."

"Just hurry." Sherlock slipped the phone in the pocket of his robe. "Follow me," he said, crooking his index finger.

The child took hold of the sack in both arms and dutifully climbed the stairs after Sherlock. She stepped into the flat and he closed the door behind her, catching the length of rope. She dropped the sack and tugged frantically to free the rope.

"Wait," Sherlock said, opening the door a few inches so that the rope slid free. The little girl knelt down and gathered the whole length of it in her hands in a loving gesture.

Not sure what to make of her actions, Sherlock left her there on the floor and went into the kitchen. He put the kettle on, popped two pieces of bread in the toaster and then cleared off a spot on the table enough to set a bowl and glass there and a spoon. He pulled a box of Weetabix from the cupboard and poured a little into the bowl. The milk was fresh since he had just bought it the day before so he ignored my suggestion to check it first which came from experience, having shared a flat with him. "Chelsea, would you care for some breakfast?"

Chelsea left the sack by the door but carried the rope with her to the table and climbed into a chair and perched there on her knees.

"We sit at the table." Sherlock indicated for her to put her bottom on the chair which she did without hesitation. He stood there for a moment lost in thought until the whistle of the tea kettle broke his reverie. "I'm sorry. For a moment there I sounded just like my mum. Although she was right. Good manners begin at home."

He fixed himself a cup of tea and buttered the toast and then sat down opposite her at the table, sweeping aside some remnants from his latest experiment. He flattened the note that was left with her and spread it on the table and began to study it for more clues. When he looked up he noticed that the little girl had not yet touched her food. "Tuck in," he said. He watched her as she hesitantly picked up the spoon and tasted the cereal.

She made a face and uttered, "Ger." It was the first word she had spoken.

"What?"

She pointed at the bowl of cereal and repeated, "Ger. Pleach, Man?"

Sherlock considered for a moment how to decipher what she was saying. "Oh. Sugar?"

"Pleach?" she repeated.

He scanned the cluttered tabletop. "I'm sure it's here somewhere. Oh. Here." He took the lid off the sugar bowl and used his own spoon to sprinkle sugar over her cereal then added some to his cup of tea. "Better?"

She flashed a smile at him. It was the first time he had seen her smile. "Thank you," she said, quickly averting her eyes. She resumed eating, very slowly, being careful not to spill anything.

"Someone has taught you some manners, at least. Hardly seems likely that it was the person who wrote this note, though."

Sherlock continued to study the hand-written note while the girl finished most of the cereal and all of the glass of milk. "Well, Chelsea," Sherlock said, after popping the last bite of toast in his mouth and wiping his hands on a paper serviette that he found in one of the piles on the table, "do you have a surname?"

In response, Chelsea pointed towards the doorway off of the kitchen which opened onto the bathroom.

"Oh. Right. I'd guess you'd better go, then."

She slid off the chair and headed towards the lavatory, trailing the white rope behind her. She gathered it inside before closing the door. Less than two minutes later she emerged, part of her t-shirt and jacket stuck inside the back of her tights. "All done, Man."

"Wait. Let's get you straightened out," said Sherlock, adjusting her clothes. "And let's wash your hands." He led her back into the bathroom and held her up by her waist to the sink so she could wash. "You have to let go of the rope for just a minute."

"Brownie," said Chelsea.

"Your rope's name is Brownie? Well, drop Brownie on the floor so you can wash your hands." Sherlock lowered her to the floor when she was finished and handed her a towel. She swiped it once across her hands then gave it back to him and picked up one end of the rope.

"Come in here," said Sherlock. "We need to talk." She followed Sherlock to his desk in the living room. He pulled up a chair next to his and indicated for her to sit there. "First, you do realize," he said seriously, "that your rope is not brown. I'm sure it was white when new and now is a rather dirty gray."

Chelsea screwed up her face.

"Your rope. Why do you call it Brownie when it's not brown?"

"Not the rope, Man" she said in an exaggerated show of exasperation. She pointed at the end which lay on the floor. "Brownie. My invidible dog."

"Your invidi… Oh," said Sherlock, "Brownie is your invisible dog."

"Invidible," Chelsea repeated.

"Then allow me to point out something. How do you know he's brown if he's invisible?"

"He told me," she said matter-of-factly.

"So, Brownie is a talking, invisible dog." Sherlock's lips disappeared into a thin line, as he considered how to interrogate a five-year-old child who carried a rope leash attached to an invisible, brown dog who could talk. "I wonder what is taking John so long to get here," he said aloud. He turned his attention back to Chelsea. "All right. Let's forget about Brownie for just a moment. First of all, you may call me Sherlock. That's my name."

"Lock," said Chelsea.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Lock," she repeated.

"Trouble with pronouncing your S's, I see. Hopefully, you will outgrow that. Or, maybe speech therapy is in your future. OK, I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're Chelsea…?"

"Chelly."

"What comes after Chelsea? I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're Chelsea…?"

"Chelly," she said again.

"Moving on. Your parents? Father's name?"

Chelsea shrugged. "Dad."

"Mother?"

Chelsea looked down at the end of the rope she held and twisted it in her hands. "Went away. Dead."

"It happens, sometimes. So, was it your father who left you here this morning?"

Chelsea nodded, still looking down. "Told me he'd be back. Told me to be good."

"Well, you are being good, I suppose. Do you know your address?"

Still looking down, she shook her head no."

"A phone number maybe."

She shook her head no again and shrugged.

Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"I have a looth tooth," she said.

"I noticed that when you were eating. Here. Let me see."

Chelsea bared her teeth and stuck out her lower jaw. "Thith one." She pointed to one of her bottom, middle teeth."

"It's very loose," said Sherlock. "Won't be long before it pops out."

"Will it hurt?"

"I…uh…don't remember it hurting."

"Good. Do you have any children that I can play with, Lock?"

"Afraid not. Maybe there are some invisible ones around."

Chelsea giggled. "Invidible children. You're funny." She then turned around quickly in her chair. "Maybe there are."

"You will let me know if you see any."

Chelsea turned again and pointed at the couch. "There. A boy named Adam."

"Adam?"

"He has a pony!" Chelsea exclaimed.

"A pony?" asked Sherlock. "Here in the flat? How did a pony get in here?"

"He flew through that window," she explained.

"You tell Adam that he and his pony are welcome here but that he has to clean up any messes that his horse makes."

Chelsea got down from the chair and went over to the couch. Sherlock took out his phone and called me again. Unfortunately, I was in no position to answer this time.