Quick little author's note before we begin: Idk how tf the foster system works in England. I'm also super American but I'm trying to write this kinda with the vocabulary of someone who lives in Britain (ex. In England French fries are called chips, candy is called sweets & so on). Anyway! So some words Americans might use will be substituted with the British vocabulary for them. It just makes more sense in my head because the characters are using British vocabulary, and if they were saying "chips" but I was writing "French fries" it wouldn't make sense. Sorry if this is confusing lol. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. I hope you enjoy!!
Small TW: There are mentions and depictions of s/h in the following series, as well as some mental disorders (ADHD, Anx!ety, Sch!zophren!a). If this may trigger you I advise you to read with discretion.
Rain flew down in sheets onto the sidewalk outside the windows of 221B Baker Street. John sat comfortably in his armchair in front of the fire reading a novel by Charles Dickens. It was a peaceful day. In fact, it had been a peaceful week — Sherlock hadn't gotten a very large case in a while. After everything that had happened with Moriarty at the indoor pool a couple months back, John and Sherlock both were still a little shaken. Sherlock had gotten a couple smaller cases every now and then to keep him entertained, but he solved them all in at least a day. Sherlock was very bored to say the least. (And of course that presented its own set of dangers.)
John quite liked not having to run around every day. He had grown tired of the mystery and the gunshots and the death. Sherlock, on the other hand, had not. It was what kept him sane. He loved the thrill of the chase. He loved to prove his intelligence. And he absolutely hated feeling restless. Being idol made his body and mind feel as though it were rotting.
The flat was quiet, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional clinking of Sherlock's beakers. He was busying himself with an experiment to pass the time.
John sighed and placed a bookmark in the middle of his chapter. He was beginning to grow a bit restless himself, having been sitting down for a couple of hours. Maybe he'd make a cup of tea.
As John placed his book onto the table beside his chair, he watched raindrops race down the windowpane. They glittered in the dampened sunlight, skittering down one after another until they met the windowsill. Dark clouds blanketed the sky. An occasional roll of thunder shook the earth with its mighty roar, followed by a flash of lightning not long after.
John sighed again. Just as he was about to get up, the doorbell rang.
"Mrs. Hudson will get it." Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.
"Who is it?" John asked pensively.
"Dunno." Sherlock shrugged. He seemed unconcerned, which was a good sign, though something nagged at John. He stood up and made his way towards the door to the flat. Muffled chatter was heard as he approached it. It definitely didn't sound like a threat, but it didn't sound like a friend either.
John stood by the door a moment longer, trying to make out the words being said downstairs. He pressed an ear and a hand to it, though he still couldn't quite hear the conversation. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out. He stepped down the stairs quietly, stopping on the landing in the middle. Near the closed front door was Mrs. Hudson and a strange youth John had never seen before. They both stopped and looked towards John for a moment.
"Oh, hello John." Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I was just about to get you and Sherlock."
John stepped down the stairs and stood with them. He made worried eye contact with Mrs. Hudson that seemed to ask, "What's going on?" She gave the slightest head nod and said,
"This lovely dear got caught in the rain, John, and he'd asked if he could stay here until it lets up. Is that alright with you?" She didn't seem apprehensive at all, giving John a sense of relief.
John turned his gaze to the youth in front of him. The boy looked about 17 years old, maybe 18. He carried a large backpack on his back. His hair and clothes were nearly drenched from the storm and his eyes were pleading and fearful. He looked a bit like a lost dog. He was short, only reaching a little over five feet. His hair was brown and more than a bit messy (John couldn't tell if it was because of the rain, apathy, or both). His eyes were brown to match, wide and filled with a mixture of wonder and fear. They resembled those of a frightened child.
Why would the boy be out in the rain like that? Why didn't he simply call a taxi and go home? Was he out of money? Why didn't he ask for some? John ran through scenarios in his head for an explanation — Disowned? Orphan? Homeless? Runaway? Runaway seemed to be the most plausible option.
Though he was afraid him and Sherlock would get in trouble for housing a runaway, John found himself saying, "Ah- Yes, of course. Here, I have a fire lit upstairs. You can dry off up there if you'd like."
The boy nodded pensively and said, "Yes, sir. T-thank you."
John nodded to Mrs. Hudson and lead the boy upstairs and through the door, though he did not close it behind them. Seeing that the boy's clothes were speckled generously with raindrops, John offered that he change his clothes in the bathroom across the hall (assuming clothes were what was in his backpack). The boy thanked him and disappeared around the corner.
"Who's that?" Sherlock questioned, sitting in the same spot he had been in for the last hour.
"Not sure." John answered, "I think he's-"
"A runaway or something, yes John, I gathered that. But who is he?"
John shrugged. "I don't know."
A moment later, the boy emerged from the bathroom. He wore jeans and a green jumper with a black t-shirt underneath. John smiled politely at him.
The boy had obviously noticed Sherlock when he first walked into the flat, but neither of them had said a word to each other.
John, seeing how the boy was confused by Sherlock (who had been dissecting an eyeball), said, "This is Sherlock. Say hello, Sherlock." John had learned that if he didn't tell Sherlock to greet people, Sherlock wouldn't say a word at all.
"Hello." Sherlock said, finally looking up from his microscope. "And you are?"
"Oh! Um, Benjamin, sir."
"Pleased to meet you." He went back to his experiment. A brief moment passed, the rhythmic ticking of a small kitchen wall clock being the only sound echoing through the flat. Suddenly, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. "It's quite lively up there, isn't it?"
"...Sorry?" Ben asked. He couldn't exactly tell if Sherlock was talking to him or not.
"Here." Sherlock reached up a hand and tapped his temple lightly.
Ben was slightly taken aback. "What... What do you mean?"
"Well it's rather obvious, now, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at John expectantly.
"Sherlock..." John began. Sherlock sighed hurriedly and rolled his eyes. He turned back towards Benjamin and looked him up and down.
"Social anxiety, ADHD... Quiet, depressed, listens to too much music... hmm, you know a bit about psychology, do you?"
"Sherlock!" John scolded. Sherlock turned back to his microscope for a moment. He prodded the bits of eyeball he'd put on the microscope slide.
Benjamin stood awkwardly. He was extremely confused. "I didn't say anything about... any of that."
Sherlock looked back towards him. "Well, obviously you didn't. Do try and keep up, darling."
"How- How did you know all that?" Ben couldn't fathom how someone could know all that about him, as if they had read his mind.
Then he realized. "Wait, you're-"
"Sherlock Holmes, love."
Strangely, Benjamin wanted to see what else he deduced. He'd heard talk of a crime-fighting genius named Sherlock Holmes, though he never thought he'd ever come in contact with him. He was incredibly intelligent, solving some of the most complex cases in a matter of days (or so he heard). For some odd reason, Ben wanted to see if he really was as impressive as people said.
"Shall I go on?" Sherlock offered, getting a sense of Ben's intrigue. Before Ben could start, John interjected.
"Absolutely not, Sherlock! Honestly, why do you feel the need to scare everyone?" He said, huffing. Sherlock only looked at Ben, as if pleading for him to say yes.
"N-no, it's fine, sir. You can if you'd like."
John gave Sherlock a warning look, his mouth scrunched and his arms crossed. Sherlock ignored him.
"Hmmm let's start with your rather anxious disposition, shall we?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He paused only for a second, looking as if he was reading. "When you first walked in your eyes darted around subconsciously to find every exit available. You're fidgeting uncomfortably with yours hands, picking at your nails which have been bitten raw. You also seem to pull out strands of hair on a semi-regular basis. Your shoulders are 'turtled' so very slightly and you can't keep eye contact for more than five seconds. Your shoes are facing each other, indicating you either do ballet or don't feel comfortable with either me or John. You have an ever-so-slight stammer: though it seems to be natural it's also more pronounced when uncomfortable. You speak in short, simple sentences and you do not speak unless spoken to. These all are rather solid signs of a variation of social anxiety." He spoke very quickly, his tongue seemed to go as fast as his thoughts. Ben found it slightly difficult to keep up with what he was saying.
"Incredible..." He breathed. Sherlock smiled for a split-second at the remark."What else is there?" Benjamin asked. Sherlock took a second and then began again.
"Your leg bounces unless you're focusing on something, indicating some kind of hyperactivity in neuron communication. You also seem to bite your lip and the way you're tapping your knuckles with your fingers is rather erratic; stemming from your hyperactive symptoms of ADHD. Undiagnosed, obviously. I'd say the ADHD and anxiety go hand-in-hand, hm? Adolescents diagnosed with ADHD are more likely to develop anxiety, given that many symptoms of ADHD and anxiety already overlap.
"Anyway! Despite the erratic rhythm, the movements of your fingers are very precise. Most likely because they have been trained to be over time. You play a string instrument — Not guitar, your fingers would have to have calluses if you played guitar. And your hands are much too small. Ukulele, then. Nylon strings are much kinder on skin." He sighed. Ben couldn't tell if it was dejected or frustrated. "There really is a lot going on here, isn't there?" He mumbled to himself. "Let's see, what else...?"
Sherlock paused for a moment. He waved his arm in the air as if he were signaling a helicopter. Benjamin followed with his eyes. "Synesthesia? You don't see that quite often. Auditory, is it? I bet that's fun. Hmmm... You got dressed in a hurry just now. One pant leg is flipped up." Sherlock gestured to Benjamin's ankle, then squinted at Ben's face for a moment. He frowned. "You've been crying." He said, concern lacing his words.
John was shocked a bit, Sherlock only ever showed concern for him or Mrs. Hudson. He looked towards the boy. His hair was still damp from the rain, and his skin was flushed from how cold it was outside. He didn't particularly look like he was crying, but Sherlock's deductions were usually (if not always) correct.
"You were kicked out, weren't you?" Sherlock stated pointedly. His tone was gentle though, something John rarely saw.
Ben stared at Sherlock and nodded. For some reason he was unfazed.
"How did you do that?" He asked.
"The bruises," Sherlock pointed to Ben's left hip and then to his elbow. They both were obviously covered by his clothes, and he looked down at it, confused.
"How did you know I was bruised there..?"
"I didn't. You just confirmed my inclination."
Benjamin only stared. He was confused, but thoroughly intrigued. John — being a doctor as well as perpetually concerned about everyone's well-being — fought against the urge to inspect Benjamin's wounds straight away. He knew Sherlock was trying to do something, but he didn't know what and he didn't dare interrupt.
Sherlock, meanwhile, took a short peek into his microscope. "Stop trying to read me, love, it won't work." He said to Benjamin.
Ben had, in fact, been trying to read him. He was exceptionally good at "reading" people's energy and emotions, better than anyone he knew. He'd been good at it ever since he was little, gathering small insights into other people's thought processes. His combined knowledge of psychology and his natural inclination to human emotion gave him a distinct comprehension of the human mind that others might lack. He'd always thought it a bit of a superpower (Of course he was nowhere near as good as Sherlock. Honestly, was anyone?) He'd never really told anyone before, feeling as though it wasn't exactly relevant.
Ben's attempt to read Sherlock was not, as Sherlock had said, in vain. But it wasn't very fruitful either, it was more of an in-between. (You see, he was only very good at reading people's emotions rather than their specific thoughts, and Sherlock didn't exactly have many emotions, did he?)
He could tell Sherlock was deep in thought (But, then again, it was Sherlock. He was always doing that.) Ben could also tell he was troubled, but it was caused by something internally rather than externally. Something he'd thought of was bothering him. As he gazed idly into the microscope again, he seemed to forget that he had been having a conversation. He shook his head and blinked, then looked back towards John and Ben.
"Sorry... The way you were walking gave it away. It seems you've been pushed over. The clothes you were wearing when you came in were soaked completely through at your hip and arm. Now, tell me... What happened?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, shifting his position.
John, seeing how they all might be in the kitchen for a while, offered Benjamin a seat and pulled up a chair in between Ben and Sherlock for himself. "I'll put the kettle on," He said, and did just that. He was in desperate need of that cup of tea he'd set out to make earlier.
Ben, despite not knowing if he could trust the two men, sat down. He was tired and cold, and they had been nothing but kind (if you could call dissecting one's appearance kind) to him.
Benjamin took a deep breath and looked down towards his shoes, which were still very wet. He didn't exactly want to tell the two men anything, but he decided against lying, given that Sherlock would most definitely pick up on it with relative ease. After a moment of internal debate, Ben decided to just come out and tell the truth.
"I'm- I was living with my boyfriend. In his flat, just me and him... He's a little older than me. Anyway." He heaved a sigh. "It was a little hard to pay rent, because only he worked. But it was fine..." He took a deep breath. "So I've... I've been seeing these weird... Hallucinations? I dunno. They've just come and gone. I told him about it, my boyfriend. He was high at the time. He likes to get high sometimes when he's tired and stuff... I thought he might take it better if he wasn't completely, uh... what's the word? Aware. So I told him and he thought I was cheating, or schizophrenic or something. We got in a fight... We- we've had worse ones before. But he pushed me out the door after I got my stuff together. That's how I got the bruises."
John and Sherlock sat in silence for a moment, exchanging a look. Benjamin, mistaking the silence for confusion, went on.
"I- I was afraid, y'know, and I only had a little bit of money... It was really terrifying, the way he screamed at me..." Ben ran a hand through his damp hair. "I was afraid he'd come back outside and beat me up or something, so I- I got in cab and gave him my money. It didn't get me really very far, but it was far enough. I got out a couple streets away from here, and I walked around for a while. Y'know, trying to figure out what to do. But when I got out it was still raining, and I didn't know what else to do... I would have waited in the cafe downstairs, y'know, but it was closed."
"What were these 'hallucinations?'" Sherlock asked, rather pointedly. Benjamin contemplated for a moment.
"They were of my mom. I would find her sitting in a chair, or in the kitchen making dinner or something... Usually in another room. But I think it was just my mind, I guess. Every time I would look back, she'd be gone."
"Did she die?"
"Um, no... the, uh... Foster system took me when I was young."
"Hm." Sherlock hummed.
John stepped around the table form where he was, leaned in towards Sherlock from behind and whispered in his ear. "Subconscious made it up to cope."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, it's not that..." He said aloud, without looking at John. He then leaned back slightly and whispered back to John, "Chamomile."
Sherlock turned back to Ben once more. "Had anyone else visited the flat recently?" He asked.
"No, i- it was just me and my boyfriend. He didn't really like me having people over."
"Interesting..."
"What is?" Ben asked.
Silence.
"I'll take the case." Sherlock answered. Before Ben could say anything, the kettle began to boil. John got up and fixed three cups of tea for himself, Sherlock and their guest. Ben watched as he poured the water carefully.
"Sugar?" John asked, looking at Ben.
"Just a teeny bit, please." He answered. He watched as Sherlock's eyes darted around his clothes and shoes. "What case?" Benjamin asked.
"Your case." Sherlock answered once again. John handed Sherlock and Ben their cups of tea wordlessly.
"Thank you." Ben said quietly, then took a sip. It was Chamomile. His favorite. "What do you mean my 'case', though?"
"Well, it's a mystery, isn't it? Don't you want it to be solved?" Sherlock asked eagerly. His eyes shone. He was obviously antsy for an interesting case, as he hadn't had one for quite some while.
"Well, yes, I s'pose..." Ben said. The day had taken a rather odd twist.
"Wonderful." Sherlock flashed an unnervingly large smile for a split-second and went back to his work without another word.
John, assuming that was all Sherlock would say for a while, turned to Ben from where he was standing behind Sherlock. He stepped forwards tentatively.
"Could I... See where you got hurt?" He asked gently. He was afraid they might've broken the skin.
Ben hesitated for a moment (as he often did), but eventually nodded.
John advanced and pulled his chair up across from Ben's. Ben slowly tugged on his left sleeve, pulling it up until it reached his elbow. His elbow was swollen rather badly and was already beginning to turn a dark shade of purple, as well as yellow around the edges.
But suddenly, John was more concerned about something else.
All along Benjamin's forearm were pink scars. They were all rather uniform, one next to another in short rows. They resembled tally marks in a way.
Just above the wrist were deep crimson cuts. An angry cross-hash, covered hastily with a couple small bandages. The bandages, of course, didn't do much, and John immediately was startled at the severity of the wounds.
"Did you do this?" He asked again very gently, pointed to the cuts. They were dangerously deep, but they had stopped bleeding. John guessed they were made a day or two prior.
Ben nodded slowly. "Yes, but..." He started, then stopped abruptly. "Yes."
"Told you." Sherlock muttered. John ignored him.
John reached out his hand to hold Ben's steady. It had begun to shake slightly. "Why did you do it?" He asked.
"I was angry."
"...Angry at him?"
"No..." Ben answered. "Angry at me."
"Hmm.." John hummed. "Why were you angry at yourself?"
Benjamin drew in a breath slowly. He bit down on his lip to keep it from quivering. He sat in silence for a moment, considering. "I... I just was. I just... am."
John thought for a moment. It was rather a vague answer and yet... It made perfect sense. "Well then..." John started, "Let's not do this next time you're angry, hm? It can get to be dangerous. Can I put something on it to help it heal?" He asked.
Benjamin only nodded.
He started peeling off the old bandages on his wrist as John stood up and began to rummage through kitchen drawers. He pulled out some rubbing alcohol, a package of much larger bandages, and a couple cotton balls. John brought them back to where Ben was sitting and places them on the kitchen table. He poured a small amount of rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and took hold of Benjamin's arm tenderly. John gingerly dabbed the cotton ball on Ben's cuts. It stung. Ben drew in a quick breath.
"Sorry," John breathed. He quickly took out a bandage and unwrapped it, placing it onto Ben's wrist. "There," He sighed, "All fixed up."
"Thank you." Ben said quietly.
"Oh! And for this..." John pointed at Ben's elbow (which was beginning to swell) and stood up once more. He walked over to the refrigerator quickly and opened the freezer drawer, pulling out a small ice pack. As he brought it back he said, "Let's sit somewhere more comfortable, hm?"
"Right..." Ben answered, standing up slowly. John then lead Ben back to his and Sherlock's chairs next to the fire. He needed to know a little more about the strange boy in order to figure out how to help his situation.
John offered his own chair to Ben and sighed as he eased down into Sherlock's armchair. He folded his hands comfortably in his lap. The sun had already set, though it hadn't been very bright out to begin with. The rain outside continued to pour, beating against the windows. The only light filtering through them being from the pale moon and street lamps on the concrete below.
The firelight illuminated Ben's face as he sat staring at it. The fire danced and licked at the walls of its confinement, like a wild animal in a cage. The orange and yellow flames blended into each other seamlessly.
John watched as Ben's leg began to bounce up and down, just as Sherlock had mentioned it doing before. It was steady and repetitive rather than erratic.
John drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out his nose. He stuck out his bottom lip, as he often did while he was thinking.
"You mentioned your boyfriend didn't really let you have anyone over, but did you... Have any friends at school? Or are there any distant relatives you know of?"
John watched as Ben shook his head. "I, um... I dropped out of school a few months ago... And I don't know of any relatives."
John nodded slowly. From what he could gather, the boy was afraid to say one thing straight out. "Who were you living with before your boyfriend, then?" He asked, though he could have guessed the answer easily.
Benjamin's eyes shone with a sudden fear. He avoided eye contact (as he often did), gazing down toward his bouncing leg. He sat for a long moment considering, his leg's steady rhythm growing more and more erratic as time wore on. His eyes darted between the fire and his shoes. Seeing no way out of the truth, he began.
"A foster home, sir."
"Ah." John said.
A sudden sense of desperation came over Benjamin. "Please don't send me back, sir, please!" He cried. The words seemed to burst out of him. It was quite sudden, startling John as well as himself. His eyes widened, realizing what he had done. "I- I'm sorry, sir. I'm... I'm sorry."
"No no no, it's alright." John assured him, leaning forward. "Why don't you want to go back?" He asked, though again he knew the answer.
Ben looked up at John. "It was just... I... I'm not sure. It wasn't horrible. But it wasn't good either. It just... was. I hated it."
John decided it best not to pry. The answer Ben had given was good enough for the time being.
John considered his options. What was he to do? He couldn't just throw the kid back on the streets without a place to go. And he certainly couldn't pay for a hotel for him; him and Sherlock needed to conserve every bit of money they had since Sherlock hadn't gotten any large cases in a spell. He made eye contact with Sherlock from where he was sitting. He could tell Sherlock had been listening the entire time, though he didn't look like he had. Sherlock looked up from his experiment and to John. They both knew what the other was thinking.
"Well," John started, "I can assume it wasn't ideal."
"No..." Ben agreed timidly.
What to do... John thought to himself. His mind only presented him one option. He glanced at Sherlock and caught his eye once more. Sherlock held it for a moment, then shrugged. The proposal appeared to be alright with him.
"And seeing as you've no place to stay tonight... You can stay here if you'd like. Only if you'd like, though, we can always figure out something else if you want."
The fear from Ben's eyes melted away and he lifted his head to stare up at John. He bore a strange resemblance to a doe — his eyes were big and dark, his hair was smooth and soft. John would never had forgiven himself if he had decided not to help the boy. He figured he'd let him stay for a day or two, all the while he'd work things out with Lestrade. Given that Ben had been away from his previous foster home for much more than a couple weeks, the fact that his foster parents hadn't reported the incident yet must be a violation.
Ben let the words process in his mind for an instant. He knew he should be afraid, but the two men seemed relatively harmless (At least, the one in front of him did). Besides, he knew Sherlock Holmes was an avid solver of crimes. That created a bit of security, didn't it?
"Are you sure?" Ben asked. He didn't want to intrude on anything.
"If you're willing, love." John answered.
"I am, sir, thank you. Thank you so much." A weight seemed to be lifted from Ben's shoulders. An invisible heaviness left the boy, producing an air of calmness.
"Please," John said, "Call me John."