Chapter Text
"Christ, Sherlock, it's a child!"
John couldn't keep the shock out of his voice as he stilled and stared into the corner of the dingy room − the locked door of which Sherlock had just put his shoulder through. When something had first caught his attention he had assumed that it was an animal, a stray dog or cat, sheltering in a deserted building on a cold winter day. And it was cold for London, not at all nice weather for Christmas Eve.
"A what?" Sherlock asked.
John deliberately lowered his voice, "There's a child in the corner of the room, Sherlock."
He took a step toward the small cowering figure, wanting instinctively to comfort and protect. But the child was terrified, covering its head with its arms, trying to make itself a small as possible. John stopped, knowing any movement on either of their parts would only terrify it further. He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, it was too young, or too small, he wasn't sure which, and very dirty.
Sherlock, who had been scanning the room for possible exits from the building they were trapped in, stopped and turned to look. He stared into the corner with an intent expression on his face, the one that indicated he was thinking rapidly. When he finally spoke it was to say abruptly, "John, do something." He then resumed his appraisal of the room, his coat whirling in dark circles around his long legs.
John interpreted, correctly, Sherlock’s request to mean that he should manage the child while Sherlock continued to look for an escape route for them. Unfazed by Sherlock’s blunt manner, he nodded in agreement and took a tentative step toward the corner of the dim room. He crouched on his haunches to say in a coaxing tone, "Hi there. Don't be scared, we want to help you… you need help right?"
Silence. If possible the form shrank even more.
"You know what?" he tried again, "I'm a doctor and you probably know that doctors help people, right? If you look at me you'll see."
There was a small sound from the child which John chose to take as an indication of progress. He persisted, "I'm not coming any closer, so you'll have to look up if you want to see me.”
He spoke in a gentle tone, allowing none of the anxiety he felt to appear in his voice. He knew they didn't have much time before the gang members he and Sherlock had startled away from the warehouse might return with reinforcements. It could be at any moment.
The child's head lifted slightly and John realized that he or she had been watching them all along from under one thin arm, wanting not to be surprised by an attack should it come. He felt his heart twist painfully.
The child was a boy. About four years of age he judged.
"Hi," John repeated, "I'm Dr. Watson." He thought it best to use an authority figure approach to build trust with the child. "What is your name?"
The boy didn't look away, he watched John carefully, his eyes large in his small face.
"Chicken-shit," he said finally, in a small, obedient voice.
John winced and suppressed the sudden fierce rage that flooded his chest from the knowledge that anyone would refer to a child in such a manner.
He said, "But that isn't your real name, right?"
The boy stayed silent.
"Well, boys aren't chickens, so may I call you something else? A real name? Like December maybe." It was the first name he could think of; Mike and his partner had just named their newly adopted baby girl September. And it was Christmas Eve after all so it seemed appropriate. He certainly was not about to call the child anything derogatory.
The name seemed to intrigue the boy for he nodded slowly.
John smiled. "Okay, December, I'd like to help you leave this place, would you let me do that?"
To John's concern, the boy shrank back into the corner once more and whispered anxiously, "You won't tell Joe will you?"
"No, I won't," John promised firmly. He added silently, but if Joe is your caregiver, I will be telling him a great many other things while he contemplates the barrel of my service pistol between his eyes!
At that moment Sherlock re-entered to the room. "Two men dead in the north corridor. Shot," he stated flatly.
John, his eyes on December, warned quietly, "Sherlock."
Sherlock had entered quietly enough, remembering that noise might scare the child, but too quickly. He heeded John’s caution at once, stopping where he stood.
It was then to their surprise that the child said in a clearer voice than John had heard so far, "He's not Therlock, he's Batman!"
For a moment there was only a startled silence from both men until… of course, thought John, the overcoat!
John glanced at Sherlock who was wearing a look of such confusion on his face that it would have been amusing under any other circumstance.
Seizing the moment with sudden inspiration, John said, "Yes, December, I just call him Sherlock sometimes, you're right, we should call him Batman. And he's here to help you."
With this reassurance, the boy scrambled to his feet and made straight for Sherlock, who was still standing perplexed, in the centre of the room. John made a silent plea to Sherlock to understand and play along, but he had no such luck. Unfortunately, Sherlock being Sherlock, he was deaf to silent pleas of any sort and remained motionless.
The boy slowed as he drew near the unresponsive Sherlock, not as certain of himself as he had been a moment earlier. He stopped, and suddenly, before John could say anything, his small face crumpled and he sobbed, "They were right! Batman doesn't like 'chickens' and he doesn't like me!"
Dear God, thought John as silent tears began to slide down the child's face.
"No, no that's not it at all, he does like you…" John said hastily, "He's just planning what to do next to save us, he's thinking."
There was a tense silence for several long seconds more before Sherlock seemed finally to catch on to John’s plan. When he did, he lowered himself cautiously into a crouch in front of the boy, his coat draping both sides of his tall frame − just like the bat-cape noted John absently.
The boy stopped crying and gazed in wonder at the tall figure stooping toward him. Sherlock grasped him awkwardly, not at all sure of himself, but December settled against him easily, reaching up with his own thin arms to hold Sherlock's neck. Settled, he then looked at John and said, "Okay, Doctor Watson, I'm ready now."
John glanced quickly at Sherlock's face, wondering suddenly how he was going to cope with an unknown, filthy child clinging to his neatly pressed blue silk shirt − the bat-shirt, mused that part of John's brain which seemed to be taking on a will of its own. Strangers, dirt and small children − as far as anyone knew, Sherlock disliked all three in equal measure.
However, Sherlock was returning his concerned look over the child's head with an expression as if to say, What!? Really John, sometimes I think you don't know me at all!
Aloud, he announced "Hurry John! There's a door at the end of the hall that looks as though it leads to the river." With that he whirled and strode out the doorway and down the hall with his small burden clinging to his neck. A bemused John followed, thinking to himself that wonders never cease.