Chapter Text
When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he looked over at Chelsea next to him. She was lying on her back, awake and counting on her fingers. "What are you counting?" Sherlock asked quietly.
I wa thinking about lat night and I began feeling weepy. Sometime when I feel that way, I count and it make it go away so I don't cry."
"What number are you up to?"
"142."
"Do you still feel as if you're going to cry?"
"No, but I thought ad long ad I wa counting, I might ad well keep going."
Sherlock smiled. "Do you think you could stay here in bed and keep counting while I take a shower? And then we'll go to hospital to see your Dad and John."
"OK," Chelsea agreed.
"Maybe you'll get past 239 and set a new record."
Nearly an hour and a half later, Sherlock, holding Chelsea's hand, walked through the door of my hospital room. Mary stood from the chair where she had been sitting and hugged Sherlock. But when she extended her hand to Chelsea after Sherlock had introduced her, the little girl took it, then looked startled and broke contact and stepped behind Sherlock. I had seen her have that same reaction when she first met Molly. Perhaps having been raised by only her father, she was shy around females.
After Sherlock and I exchanged greetings, I told him that I was scheduled to go home that afternoon. Then he became very somber.
"John, what you said last night to me when I elected to stay and see to your injury rather than immediately to pursue Chelsea, do you remember?"
"Of course. I told you that you had to go after her."
"Or else?"
"Or else our friendship was over."
He nodded and turned away.
"Sherlock?"
He turned to face me again. "Decisions like that are difficult for me. I believe …this time, anyway…you helped me to make the right one. If we had arrived on the scene just a few minutes later, I hesitate to think what we might have found." He paused. "Thank you."
I knew how hard those words were for Sherlock to say. He rarely admitted he was wrong about anything.
"But…" he continued.
"But?"
"But," he repeated. "I dislike you holding our friendship hostage to moral decisions."
"There wasn't time for debate, Sherlock. I didn't know how else to convince you quickly."
"Nevertheless, should the situation arise again, and knowing me…and knowing you…I've no doubt that it will, I suggest we have a code word."
"A code word for what?"
"We have adopted other code words for various scenarios. I suggest we have one for when you think I am making a bad decision," explained Sherlock.
"But I always think you're making bad decisions," I said.
"I don't mean the common, ordinary, everyday things we disagree on, like what brand of baked beans to buy. I mean situations that are serious, that involve life and death, good and evil, major moral issues. I don't ever want to hear you again threatening to end our friendship because of something I've done or am about to do. So when you say the code word, it will be a sign for me to stop and…consider. I'm not saying I will always consider in your favor, but it will signal that you believe that I need to perhaps adjust my moral compass, to align it with yours."
I looked at Mary who had been standing there listening to our exchange.
"How about August sunsets?" she suggested.
"What?" Sherlock and I both said at the same time.
"Listen," said Mary. "We're going to be married in two months, so I'm in this, too. I think I need to know these code words you're going on about. So when we hear 'August sunsets,' we all know that there's a grave decision which needs to be considered more carefully by everyone."
Chelsea, still standing behind Sherlock, tugged on his coat. "Are we going to see my Dad?"
"In a minute," said Sherlock.
"Sherlock, that's another thing," I said. "Detective Inspector Lestrade has already been here this morning. He told me what happened last night. That little girl experienced things and saw things last night that no five-year-old should ever see. She probably needs some counseling."
"She's fine," said Sherlock.
Sherlock, August sunsets!" I said.
"John, if you overuse a code word, it loses its impact."
"But he's right," said Mary. "I mean, look at her. I don't think she's fine at all."
Sherlock looked behind him. Chelsea was standing there with eyes closed, fists clenched, as he had seen her do before when she felt the urge to cry. He knelt and whispered something in her ear than picked her up. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. She had been holding Brownie's rope leash and it now trailed down Sherlock's back.
"Did Lestrade tell you that her father is Richard Sherbrooke, not Richard Brook?" Sherlock asked.
"You know him?"
"He was a client of mine while I was still at uni. He…uh…is a creative accountant."
"A what?
"He cooks books for a living. He's very good at it. Or, he was, anyway, when I knew him."
"So, wait a minute. You mean we've…we've been trying to find something that's not there, looking for a link to Moriarty when there is none?"
"I believe an appropriate idiom would be 'barking up the wrong tree'," said Sherlock, "although I'm not entirely convinced. Wait, I'm getting a text." Sherlock shifted Chelsea in his arms in order to reach his mobile. "It's from Molly," he said, surprised. "She's found something."
"What?" I asked.
"Doesn't say. I'll stop by her lab this morning before we leave."
"I don't understand," said Mary. "Why did you think Chelsea's last name was Brook."
"It's because of the way she talks," explained Sherlock. "She can't pronounce her S's and she drops the whole syllable when there's an 'sh.' She calls me 'Lock,' sugar is 'ger'—"
"Sherbet is 'bet'," I added.
"So when we asked her to tell us her last name, she said 'Brook'."
"I think she tried to tell us that day that we were wrong, but we both missed it," I said.
Chelsea raised her head from Sherlock's shoulder. "I told you my name id Chelly Brook."
Sherlock shifted her again. "I know you did." He stepped towards the door. "Let's go see your Dad."
"And you two call yourselves detectives," said Mary.
"He's the detective," I said. "I just tag along. Sherlock, I'll come round when they release me this afternoon."
"No, you won't," interjected Mary. "You're going home to rest. You two can play tomorrow."
Sherlock shot me a look that said he could tell who was going to be in charge in my new family and I sent him back a silent message that I hoped he interpreted as to what he could do with his "looks," but knowing him, it went right over his head.
Sherlock set Chelsea on the floor in the hallway when they reached the door to her father's room. She had been unusually quiet on their walk through the hospital corridors. He knelt down in front of her. "Chelsea, your Dad was badly injured last night, remember?"
The little girl nodded almost imperceptibly.
"He'll have some cuts and bruises on his face and maybe some bandages. But it's only temporary…uhm...that means it's only for a few days or week, and then he'll look just like he always has. And I don't know what other injuries he had, so he might not be feeling too well. OK?
Are you ready to go in?"
She nodded again and took Sherlock's hand as they entered the room.
Richard Sherbrooke was lying in the bed, propped up about thirty degrees. He was watching the telly mounted on the wall opposite him, but he switched it off when he saw them walk in. "Oh, my little girl. Chelsea, come here."
Sherlock picked her up and set her on the edge of his bed. She immediately wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, Dad." She kissed him all over his face.
"Careful, Baby. I hurt in places I didn't even know I had." His left arm was in a cast and he used his right hand to gently pry her off of him. She sat on the bed and held his hand in one of hers. With the other one she caressed his face. One eye was almost swollen shut and the skin around it was discolored and blotched. "Mr. Holmes, I am so grateful for everything, for you taking care of her. I certainly needed to see her today, but I'm not sure if she should be seeing me like this."
"She needed to know you were all right."
"Have you been good for Mr. Holmes?"
Chelsea did not answer but bared her lower teeth so her father could see where one was missing. "Look, Dad. It fell out."
"Oh, I missed you losing your first tooth. Did you save it?"
She shook her head no. "The Tooth Fairy took it and left me five pound." She held up five fingers.
"Five quid for a tooth!" He looked at Sherlock. "My goodness, Mr. Holmes, the Tooth Fairy in your neighborhood must be rather well-heeled."
"Mr. Sherbrooke, your child has been through…much…since you left her unannounced on my doorstep three days ago. And you have much to answer for. But explanations can wait until…you recover somewhat from your injuries. However, I would like to put to rest one subject. Do you know a man by the name of James Moriarty?"
"Moriarty?" Sherbrooke frowned and shook his head no. "He was in the news a couple of years ago, wasn't he? Broke into the Tower and Bank of England or something? But if you are asking if I know him personally, then no."
"Very well, then. Any word on when you are to be released?"
"The Doc came around earlier. Said I'd be here today and overnight, at least. I have a bruised spleen that he wants to keep an eye on, evidently. Can she stay with you until I get out?"
Mr. Sherbrooke, you have put me in a difficult position. I nearly lost her to the authorities last night and I still may yet, today, when I meet with Detective Inspector. Why on Earth would you leave your child with a known sociopath?"
"I didn't. I left her with you. You were the only one I could trust with her…her secret."
"I'm afraid it is no longer a secret. Too many eyes saw her last night."
"Please, Mr. Holmes. She's all I have in the world."
"Have you talked to anyone from Scotland Yard yet?"
I'm afraid I was out of it last night. The nurse said someone was here this morning but I was out of the room for tests. I think she said they're coming back this afternoon, though. Oh, Chelsea, my lamb. Give your old Dad one last kiss. I'll see you real soon, but I need to rest now."
Sherlock helped her off the bed and, after he and Richard Sherbrook exchanged mobile numbers, Sherlock and Chelsea left the room.
"Can we go home now, Lock?" asked Chelsea as they made their way to Molly's lab.
"We have one more person to see here and then we have to go to New Scotland Yard, although I really do not want to go there."
Chelsea was quiet as they took the stairs down to Molly's lab. It was uncharacteristic of her since she had hardly stopped chattering since they had walked to the park on that first day. Sherlock began to wonder if she, perhaps, did need to talk to a counselor or someone. His own mood brightened when they entered the lab and he saw Molly. "Molly! What news do you have?"
"I think I have found something."
"So you said in your text. What exactly have you found?"
"Well, I don't know exactly. In fact, I didn't find it. Andy in Radiology found it. I mean, it's his job to read these types of scans, and he owed me a favor, so I had him look at them."
"Molly, can you be a little more succinct. This Andy found something in Chelsea's scans from the other night?"
"Look, here." Molly pointed at something on the computer screen. "Here in her skull at the coronal suture where the frontal bone and parietal bone together. See that tiny spot right there? It's less than 2mm and it's actually embedded in the bone. But that's not all. Here." She called up another slide. "This is her left scapula, her shoulder blade. Along the ridge of the bone, the spine, right here. An identical spot. Also within the bone."
"Tumors?" Sherlock looked over at Chelsea who was sitting on the floor, talking to Brownie, her imaginary dog.
"Not according to Andy. He thinks it was something implanted in her. And for the bone to have enveloped it, it had to have been done when she was very young, maybe even in utero."
"But for what purpose? What are they?"
"I have no idea. Nor does Andy. And I don't even think they can be removed surgically at this point." Molly looked at Sherlock for a moment as he stared at the image on the screen. "Sherlock, that night she left here. When John came back after her clothes, he told me what happened when you found her—about the blood on her back and her screams of pain. It sounded horrible."
Do you think these…these spots are related to that?"
"I don't know," Molly said.
"It happened again last night," said Sherlock. "According to what she told me, it happens whenever she cries."
"What would cause that?" asked Molly.
"You're the pathologist. I'm a detective."
"Maybe…maybe the spots have nothing do with the other. Maybe it's mental," suggested Molly.
Sherlock looked away from the screen and directed his attention toward Molly.
"Maybe," continued Molly, "maybe she experienced some great trauma in her life—her short life—and it manifests itself in this way. Maybe she needs a psychiatrist."
They both watched Chelsea for a few moments. The little girl was oblivious to their stares as she appeared to be putting Brownie through different tricks and rewarding him with invisible treats.
"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock finally said. "If you—or Andy—find anything else, keep me informed. I know you can be trusted to be…discrete about all this. Do you think Andy will keep it to himself?"
Molly smiled. "Oh, yeah."
"Come on, Chelsea, we have to go." Sherlock held out one hand and Chelsea got up and grabbed it. "Tell Molly goodbye."
The child instead buried her head in Sherlock's coat and walked that way out the door with him. She did not speak until they were once more walking down a corridor. "Lock, my Dad lied," she suddenly announced.
"You picked up on that, too, did you?" Sherlock said. "What do you think he was lying about?"
"That Moriarty man."
"He said he didn't know him."
"What he taid wa not what he wa thinking."
"What was he thinking?"
"He hate him."
"You father hates Moriarty?"
"Yech."
"Why?"
Chelsea shrugged.
"Did you lie when you said you didn't know Moriarty?"
Chelsea stopped and pulled her hand out of Sherlock's and put both her hands on her hips. "I don't lie!"
"No, I don't think you do." He held out his hand. "Come on."
She took his hand again and they continued walking. "Lock, do we have to come here again?"
"Well, yes, if you want to see your Dad if he stays here for a couple of days."
"I don't like it here. There id pain and people are tad here. It make me tad, too."
"Is that why you are so quiet today?"
She did not reply.
"We don't have to come back here, if you don't want to. I have an idea. Why don't we stop for some ice cream before we go to Scotland Yard?"
She shrugged. "Ok, I guech."
*****
On the cab ride to meet with Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock sought to draw Chelsea out of the reticent mood that she was in today. He had hoped the ice cream might do it, but she had eaten her share quietly. Normally he would have welcomed this respite from her usual questions and comments, but I had planted the idea in his mind that the events of the previous night had traumatized her and that she needed counseling. Molly had added fuel to my suggestion with her comment that perhaps Chelsea had some sort of psychological disorder that manifested itself in her bleeding episodes. And then there were those two mysterious spots that showed up on her scans.
But when he looked at her now, sitting quietly on the seat next to him, her head down and her fingers twisting Brownie's rope on her lap, he could not help but see her current dark mood as a mirror of his own. Did others see him like this when he was a child or even now? Did/do they see him as someone who was/is damaged, who needed/needs professional help if he were to be normal?
"Chelsea," Sherlock said, at last breaking the silence, "do you remember back at the hospital when we were talking about lying?" She did not respond, but he continued. "Sometimes people lie to protect themselves but sometimes they do it to protect someone else, someone they love, and it's not always such a bad thing. In a few minutes, we have to meet with Detective Inspector Lestrade. You probably don't remember him from last night but he saw you…saw the blood… and—"
"I remember him. He didn't want you to take me."
Sherlock was surprised that she knew that because she had been crying and screaming, albeit with tape over her mouth, at the time. "That's right. And you told me that your Dad said no one was ever to see that. Well, Lestrade saw it and he's going to want some answers and—"
"Id he going to take me away…away from my Dad? Dad said that's what would happen if anyone found out." She looked up at him and her lower lip was quivering.
He could not risk another crying episode here in the cab so close to Scotland Yard. He put his arm around her and drew her close. "Not if I can help it." He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "But we're going to have to work together on this… and we're going to have to lie."
She pulled away and looked at him incredulously, her mouth open.
"Remember how Robin Hood disguised himself? That was lying, wasn't it?" The pair had continued reading the Robin Hood book over the past two days. Sherlock tried to think of another example of a hero lying. "And in the Star Wars movie we watched, when Obi…what's his name?"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi," Chelsea answered.
"Oh, yeah, when Obi-Wan Kenobi says 'these aren't the droids you're looking for,' but they were the droids, weren't they? Or how about when you told John there were caterpillars and spiders in the biscuits?"
"But I wa kidding."
"Kidding, lying, there's not really much difference, is there? So we have to lie to Detective Inspector Lestrade," he continued, "but it's for a good reason. We have to protect you. We have to make sure that they don't take you away from your Dad…or me." Sherlock winced even as he said the words. He could almost hear me yell "August Sunsets" from my hospital room. He knew I would never approve of telling a five-year-old to lie to the police.
He pulled her close again so he could whisper and not be overheard by the cab driver. "Here's what we're going to do."
*****
Sherlock walked into Detective Inspector Lestrade's office at the New Scotland Yard carrying Chelsea on his back. He bent down and helped her to slide off. "Detective Inspector, I would like you to meet Chelsea Sherbrooke. There wasn't time for proper introductions last night. Chelsea, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Chelsea was all smiles as she politely extended her hand. "I'm very pleached to meet you, Detective Inpector. Thank you for rechcuing my Dad."
Lestrade was flummoxed but he took her hand and shook it. The little girl standing before him in her purple tights and matching top and pink, unzipped sweatshirt bore little resemblance to the bloody, wild, screaming child he saw the night before.
"And don't you have something else to tell Detective Inspector?" prompted Sherlock.
She bowed her head just a little. "I'm very chorry for the way I acted last night. I wa cared and my Dad…my Dad wa hurt really bad." She looked up and her face brightened. "But he better today. Lock took me to hochpital to che him."
Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Lock?"
"As you might have noticed," explained Sherlock, "she has trouble with her S's. So she calls me Lock…and has…ever since she learned to talk."
Chelsea took Sherlock's hand and he squeezed hers. "Lock's my fairy godmother…no… fairy… god…father?" She looked up, unsure, at Sherlock.
"Just Godfather," said Sherlock, with a reassuring wink. "Her father and I were pals at university."
"Yeah, right," Lestrade said sarcastically. "I've known you for a few years and never knew you to be pals with anyone, except maybe John Watson. And who in their right mind would have you for a godfather to their child? If I had kids I wouldn't let you within 100 yards of mine."
Sherlock was unfazed by Lestrade's remarks. "Nevertheless, when her father sensed some upcoming troubles recently, he asked me to watch after her for a few days. Her mother is dead and there's no other family. You haven't had a chance to talk to him yet, have you?"
"No, I'm going over to Barts again this afternoon," said Lestrade. "What sort of trouble was all that about last night? I didn't get much from those three we arrested. One's in serious condition and the other two aren't talking."
"I really can't say, but I'm certain they were just hired thugs for someone."
"You can't say or won't say?"
"I really have no idea," said Sherlock.
"And why don't I believe you," Lestrade answered. "But what about this little girl? She seems perfectly fine this morning, but I can't get that image out of my mind of her covered in blood and screaming."
"The blood wasn't hers," said Sherlock. "It wasn't even human blood. Although I've no doubt had we'd been even a minute delayed, her blood would have been spilled." He squeezed Chelsea's hand. "Tell him about the blood, Chelsea."
"Those bad men put it on me. They were trying to make my Dad think they had hurt me and make him tell them tumthing. But he wouldn't tell them." Chelsea squeezed Sherlock's hand when she finished talking.
"So what was he supposed to tell them that was so important that they would harm his daughter?" asked Lestrade.
Chelsea shrugged.
Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "How did you know it wasn't her blood?"
"Really, Lestrade. It was obvious. But that's why I knew there was no reason for her to be seen by the paramedics. She just needed to be taken away from that awful scene. There were two men and her father on the floor covered in blood, there were cops all over. It was no place for a five-year old."
Lestrade was quiet for a moment, thinking. He again turned his attention to Chelsea. "So what have you and …your Godfather been doing while you've been staying with him?"
Chelsea squirmed and looked up at Sherlock, who said, "It's OK. What have we done the past few days?"
"Well," said Chelsea, "we went to the park and played on the twings."
"On the what?" asked Lestrade.
"The swings," interpreted Sherlock. "She played on the swings. I watched."
"And we made oatmeal bitcutch," she continued. "They were good."
"You?" asked Lestrade, looking at Sherlock. "You baked biscuits?"
"But we didn't put any bug in them," said Chelsea. "I was jut kidding John when I told him we did."
"What do you mean bugs in the biscuits?"
"She said there were no bugs, Lestrade," said Sherlock. "What else have we done, Chelsea? The Detective Inspector believes that I couldn't possibly know how to take care of you."
"Oh, but he doech," said Chelsea. "He read to me and he teach me how to be a Jedi."
Lestrade looked askance at Sherlock at that last remark. "And does he feed you? I mean apart from biscuits with or without bugs?"
"Of course he feed me, tilly," said Chelsea.
"Don't call the Detective Inspector 'silly'," said Sherlock, "even if he is being silly with all these unnecessary questions."
"Chorry," apologized Chelsea.
"And where do you sleep?" asked Lestrade.
Sherlock squeezed her hand again and she looked up at him and frowned. "Lock make me leep on the floor and I don't like it."
"Well I wouldn't like it, either," said Lestrade. "Sherlock, you know how this is so incredibly wrong. You…in charge of a five-year-old girl. I mean you are a brilliant detective, but you're not…not…"
"She has survived four days in my care, so, perhaps, in this case, I am…" Sherlock said. "Her father expects to be released from hospital tomorrow or soon, at least, and my nanny duties will be finished and I can resume being a brilliant detective."
"Lock." Chelsea tugged on his sleeve with her other hand. "I have to go to the toilet."
"Right. Lestrade, are we finished here?"
"For now. But, Sherlock, all of this is just so out of your realm. Are you sure you're doing OK with her? I mean, we can call Child Protective Services. You don't have to take care of her."
"Lestrade, she's fine. I'm fine."
"Ok. Go. I'll check with you later."
Sherlock left with Chelsea and waited until they were in a hallway away from Lestrade's office before he stopped and knelt down to talk to her. "You were magnificent," he said and held up his palm and she gave him a high five.
"He believed the lie?" she asked.
"I don't know if he believed our lies one hundred percent, but you were brilliant. What a clever girl you are! And we convinced him enough to let me keep you. But, now, you know," he said and put his hand under her chin, " that lying is almost always bad. And we did it today only to protect you. Right?"
"I know. Lock, I really have to go bad."
"Oh. Right. Let's find the toilet." Sherlock was already texting Richard Sherbrooke the details of the story he had fabricated for Lestrade so that Sherbrooke could corroborate the tale when Lestrade spoke with him later that day. Sherlock could only hope that the man was half as good a liar as his daughter.