Chapter Text
Scotland Yard was not unused to Sherlock Holmes striding in at a moment’s notice. Within minutes of his arrival, his coat would be taken by a detective, his gloves by yet another and he would have been seen down to the interrogation rooms where his least favorite person, Lestrade, would be waiting.
But today was different. Today Holmes walked not down to the basement but to a side office. Lestrade ran up to meet him and Holmes shot the ever-suffering man a withering look.
“Took you long enough,” he said, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “Where’s the boy?”
“Inside,” Lestrade began but Holmes cut him off.
“Why is he upstairs?”
“We’re full downstairs. Besides, he won’t be here long. He’s an easy hanging. You don’t even need to talk to him, we found the maps in his pockets when we searched him. There’s no way he’s not Nimble Fingers,” Lestrade explained.
“I’d like to,” Holmes said simply. “I’ll be out shortly,” he added and then headed into the office.
The room was small with a narrow window and a large desk center stage. Behind piles of paper sat a young boy. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen with a sallow face and thin fingers crossed neatly in front of him. Behind him stood an officer watching his every move.
“That’s enough Davis, you may leave us,” Holmes ordered. The officer didn’t question him but quietly left the room.
Holmes sat down across from the boy and slowly studied him. All of his mahogany-colored hair hid under a cap, save for some fringe that peeked out. His clothes were common and lightly caked in dirt. He kept his eyes downcast and didn’t say a word. After a moment Holmes spoke.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked, shattering the silence.
The boy looked up but kept silent.
“It’s clear you didn’t need the money,” Holmes elaborated. “So why’d you steal the jewels?”
“Wha’ makes ya so sure I dinnit need ‘a money?” the boy asked softly.
“Well for starters your clothes don’t have a single hole in them. It’s beyond obvious you doctored them yourself. As for your hair it’s been recently washed, and not out on the streets I’m certain. Most obviously is that in all the robberies you committed before you returned the jewels,” Holmes said.
“Who sa’d I did tho’s?” the boy asked, smiling just a touch.
“I did,” Holmes said. “They had your style printed all over them. Now, before you hang, explain your motives.”
The boy showed no visible reaction to the news of his hanging. He simply looked Holmes in the eye and then, in a great show of emotion, smiled widely.
“I was bored,” he said simply, crossing and uncrossing his fingers.
“I expected as much,” Holmes nodded. “It’s a shame really, to see talent such as yours squandered. You could have made an amazing detective. But instead you became a thief, how odd.”
For the first time the boy looked upset. “I’m not a thief!” he protested.
“You stole one of the most expensive diamonds London ke-“
“I know what I did but I was going to return it!” he said, dropping the fake accent and adopting a more cultured British accent.
“Ah, just as I suspected. You are affluent,” Holmes smiled.
The boy continued as though Holmes had not spoken. “Look, I’ll tell you where the jewels are, just don’t let them call me a thief.”
“I’ve already deduced where the jewels are, so your help would be rather unnecessary,” Holmes said. “Although your pre-hanging remorse is touching.”
“I don’t care if I hang,” the boy said vehemently. “I just don’t want to hang a thief.”
Holmes leaned back and looked at the boy. “You don’t care you’re going to die?”
“I am already dead,” the boy said softly.
Holmes laughed. “Come now, let’s not be melodramatic. I’m sure if you tell me your father we can let him know and get you out of this mess.”
“Beg pardon?” the boy asked, looking up.
“Well it’s clear you come from a well-to-do family. I have no doubt they could pull some strings as it were and get you out,” Holmes explained.
The boy said nothing.
“Oh now we’ve gone silent?” Holmes asked, arching one eyebrow. “It will take me only a second to figure out who you are. I’ve already narrowed it down to six families, based solely on your skin color. If I could just get a better look at your hair-“ he started, getting up.
“No don’t!” the boy started, raising his hands.
“Care to tell me who you are?” Holmes asked, pausing.
“I-“ the boy stopped.
“It’s the last piece in the puzzle really, the one thing I haven’t figured out,” Holmes mused as the boy turned whiter and whiter. “I get why and I even get how but I cannot figure out who. Now if I can just get that cap off-“
“Please don’t-“ the boy began to beg but in an instant Holmes had yanked off the old and ragged cap and out tumbled a cascade of deep brown hair.
Holmes stared a minute at the child sitting before him. Now that the sallow, pale face was haphazardly framed in a soft cushion of hair it was easy to see how those eyebrows- so dashingly male- could soften to become feminine, those eyelashes a woman would kill for could become demure, those oddly round lips could fit with a bit of rouge.
“Oh,” Holmes said after a long minute of utter silence. “Well this does complicate things.”
The girl was silent, staring back wide-eyed.
“That does explain a lot however,” Holmes mused, sitting back down as the girl continued to stare shell-shocked. “I had wondered about the scent and the hair but I’d never assumed you were female. An obvious blunder on my part but I hadn’t expected to be looking for a ten-year-old girl.”
“Twelve,” the girl said softly.
“Really, you’re twelve?” Holmes asked, shocked. “And you’re so underdeveloped?” he questioned, waving at her boyishly flat chest.
The girl turned crimson. “I’m Molly Marple,” she whispered.
“Marple?” Holmes asked. “As in Lord Dr. Marple’s daughter?”
“His youngest of four,” she finished.
Holmes looked at her again. “Let me understand. You, a twelve-year-old girl, got it into your head in some capacity to begin stealing and then returning priceless jewels, even though you are not poor by any means, because you were bored?”
“Yes,” the girl said simply. There was a beat of silence and then-
“221B Baker Street,” Homes said.
“What?” Molly asked, utterly confused.
“221B Baker Street. There, I’ve said it twice, there’s no forgetting it,” Holmes said. “It’s my address. I’ll expect you every Monday afternoon at four staring this week. Do I make myself clear?”
“I just-“ she started.
“Or would you rather hang?” he asked and she shut up. He looked at her with an almost kind of softness for a minute. “If you must know, I’m bored too,” he explained quietly. “You seem like quite a project. Now, you see that window?”
“Yes I-“
“Can you fit through it?”
“I might be-“ she started but then Holmes cut her off.
“Good,” he smiled. “you have five minutes. Consider this your first exam.” And then he fell on the floor and began screaming.
“Lestrade, the suspect is escaping!” he yelled.
By the time the police burst in the room was empty, save for Holmes. They sent out a search party but it was as though the sixteen-year-old boy had vanished. The jewels were found the next day and all settled.
Until Monday morning that is, when 221B Baker Street received an odd knock.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door and there stood a well-dressed little girl in a green dress. “Can I help you?” began Mrs. Hudson but Holmes appeared behind her.
“You’re late,” he said simply. “Come inside. Mrs. Hudson bring up tea for two in an hour. Come on now,” he instructed the girl and she followed him inside, leaving a confused Mrs.
Hudson to close the door and offer up a small prayer.
“I do hope John is having a nice honeymoon,” she thought and went off to make tea.