Sherlock didn’t appear to have moved an inch during the past couple of hours, his focus still very much fixated on his phone – as is frequently the case recently – even as John entered the flat. He did, however, look up briefly as John was putting the groceries away, and made some seemingly offhand comment about the suboptimal route his flatmate had taken (obvious from certain stains on those shoes, apparently). His thumbs quickly resumed tapping away at his phone again, but the barest hint of smugness in the way he enunciated the concluding syllables did not go unnoticed. Git.
His deduction was spot on, of course. Brilliant. Yet this time, not unparalleled. John considered informing the great Sherlock Holmes that he had been beaten to it, nearly word for word, by someone many, many years his junior.
It was rather an interesting encounter, to say the least. John was stopping by Baker Street Station on his way back, to pick up a copy of the Evening Standard, when the small boy who’d been standing next to the stack of newspapers spoke suddenly, politely, in a tone that made it clear he was only kindly pointing out a few overlooked facts for John’s benefit.
The youngster could not have been that much older than Ro, and his accent slightly American, yet John – the part of him that wasn’t too busy being distinctly impressed – found it almost comical, how much he was reminded of a certain other clever-and-knows-it sod in his acquaintance. Though thinking about it, the diplomatic air this boy seemed to practise closer resembled another Holmes instead.
John did not get a chance to respond in any meaningful way before a smooth voice made its way to their ears, and the boy turned at the call of his name – John presumed. Possibly Noel or something similar, he did not recall. Reluctantly the boy took his mother’s outstretched hand and was led away from the station and into the busy street, though not before looking over his shoulder once more, at John.
John remembered smiling back.
He took another glance at his best friend, still busy tweeting, or texting, whichever it was, and went to put the kettle on.
He decided not to share his encounter from earlier in the afternoon after all. Perhaps it was because of the final flicker of boyish smugness he’d seen on the fresh-faced youngster, the same brand of expression that Sherlock still let show from time to time after being particularly clever. Or perhaps because, somehow, he was certain they would meet the tiny detective again. The precocious boy with the unusual name. Some day.
Sherlock would probably like him too.
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