The air in the social services centre was sterile, too clean — a lie masked in disinfectant and laminated posters about hope.
Sherlock Holmes stood just inside the threshold, coat dripping faintly from the grey rain outside, scanning the room with quiet disdain. The fluorescent lights buzzed. A plastic clock ticked unevenly on the wall. Behind a frosted glass partition, children waited in soft chairs that had seen too much waiting.
He shouldn't be here.
He hated places like this — not because they were sad, but because they were inefficient. Grief smeared over procedure. Files stacked higher than sense. Good intentions, badly executed.
But this case? This one needed infiltration. Deep cover. Something so mundane, no one would suspect it. Sherlock Holmes — the man who couldn't keep a houseplant alive — applying for temporary foster custody.
Ridiculous. But necessary.
The trail of the missing children had led to a private rehabilitation community near the southern coast. Entry was restricted to verified family units only — “non-intrusive” policy, allegedly for the children’s wellbeing. The missing girls were between ages 10 and 16. The last one vanished after being placed with a man registered under a falsified name. No fingerprints. No trace.
Sherlock needed to get inside. Needed an identity no one would question. A civilian. A father.
Hence... this.
The social worker — name tag said "Angela" — greeted him with a clipboard and cautious professionalism.
“You’ve submitted all the forms,” she said, flipping through papers. “We reviewed your background. You were... vetted by several departments. MI5 flagged it for discretion, so I won’t ask.”
He gave a curt nod.
Angela glanced through the glass. “We have one placement suitable for your request — temporary care for the week. It’s unusual, but not unheard of, when clearances are fast-tracked. She’s quiet. Keeps to herself. No behavioral flags, no incidents. Never quite bonded with anyone.”
Sherlock followed her gaze.
You sat alone at the far end of the room, sleeves too long for your arms, legs curled beneath you on the fabric seat. A book balanced in your lap, spine worn, pages heavy with rereading. The other children whispered and fidgeted. You didn’t look up once.
He studied you. Tilt of the head: observant. Fingernail tapping the page: calculating. A small twitch when another child cried too loudly: not nervous, just... overstimulated. Your file said you were fifteen. Your eyes said you’d aged much faster.
“I’ll take her,” Sherlock said, with clinical precision.
Angela frowned. “We encourage bonding before—”
“Is that a requirement?”
She hesitated. “Not strictly.”
“Then don’t waste time.”
A flurry of forms followed — waivers, emergency contacts, suitcase inventory. While Angela explained trauma-response behaviors and bedtime preferences, Sherlock barely listened. His eyes never left you.
You didn’t resist when they called your name. You didn’t smile either. Just stood, collected the battered duffel bag by your side, and walked toward the man with sharp eyes and sharper bones like it wasn’t your first time being handed to a stranger.
He opened the car door for you himself.
As the government-issued black sedan pulled away from the building, rain threading down the windows, Sherlock finally spoke without looking at you.
“You don’t need to speak unless you want to. I’m not fond of conversation either.”
You stared out the window, eyes dark and unreadable.
But he caught the smallest thing — the way your grip on the seatbelt relaxed, just slightly.
It was the first time she had been quiet without needing to brace for something louder.