Hello! I feel like this could also be subtitled, "in which Missing Triforce finally discovered plot." It's my first murder mystery ever, so reviews are appreciated! Please? Especially if you see plotholes! =D

Disclaimer: I own almost nothing. Sherlock, John, and other characters & places & plots originally had tea with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now with the delightful people of BBC. I do, however, own all original characters.

Warnings: SLASH MCSLASH SLASH SLASHEN SLASH: established relationship between Sherlock/John and hints of another...Also, mentioned violence against queers (which is NEVER okay, btw). Lastly, this contains slight references to my previous Sherlock fic "After." The main thing you need to know is Sherlock has returned from being "dead," and John and he are taking cases aimed at bringing down the mob.

Happy reading!

God Save the Child: a BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Chapter 1

I was a heavy heart to carry

My beloved was weighed down

My arms around his neck

My fingers laced to crown.

-Florence and the Machine

"Bling, bling, bling!" Vrrrrrrrr.

I groaned. What did the universe want now?

Sherlock and I were in bed and I knew at once that the detective was diagonally sprawled across the whole mattress, including a pale arm across my chest and one leg mussed up with my own. I was flat on my back and cracked an eye open in response to the sound.

"Bling, bling, bling!" Vrrrrrrrrrr.

God, the mobile. Somebody was texting me at this God-awful hour and the stupid phone was shaking the whole side unit with its vibration. I closed my eyes and sighed: I had been hoping to make Sherlock sleep in this Saturday. The last case had involved lots of running and Sherlock not eating. Hoping against everything that he was still asleep, I gently unburied one of my arms from underneath Sherlock, rubbed my face up and down to wake up a bit, opened my eyelids (still rather unwillingly), and reached for the twice damned machine before it could make noise again.

Text Message From: Greg Lestrade

Time: 7:02am 26/3/2017

Have a case for you. 3 patches. Clean-cut case except for unclear motive. -LG

I sighed again. We had just caught a master forger on Friday.

Text Message from: Greg Lestrade

Time: 7:03am 26/3/2017

Double homicide and two disappearances. Son apparently murdered both his parents. Wake up Sherlock and tell him. -LG

I began to nudge Sherlock awake. "Sherlock, wake up. Lestrade wants you."

Sherlock's response was to groan loudly (guess the phone had woken him) and roll part way on top of me, making his body cross the bed in the other direction. With effort, he opened his eyes and took the phone from the my hands. As he scrolled through the messages, he muttered, "What does that dreadful man want now?" I just breathed, comforted by the half-weight of Sherlock's cool chest on top of mine. I could feel my eyelids flutter and let them stay there: sleep...

I heard the soft ca-thunk of the phone going back to the side unit. Sherlock shifted downwards so to lay his head on my chest. Almost automatically, I threaded my fingers in his curls. One hand meandered to the top of his head and the other slowly twirling with the small ringlets at the nape of his neck, keeping him to me. Let's just lay here forever...

After a few minutes, however, the phone blinged. Sherlock propped himself up to answer it, but I refused to relinquish hold of his head. Mine. Sherlock texted something back and put the phone down again. "We have to be in Southampton by nine-thirty."

"Why?" I groaned. "Can't Lestrade use his own brain for once?" I said that but opened my eyes in determination to get awake. Sherlock chuckled, a deep rumble in down his chest. He was so like a cat.

"You'll like this one. No mob. Just a domestic."

"Oh shut mmffph-" Sherlock had stopped any further speech by leaning down and pressing a pleasant kiss. I used my hands on his head to make him stay there. Compensation.

Sherlock broke away after a moment and maneuvered so to loom over me, surveying me with his sharp eyes. They were grey right now, but if I turned my head a bit I could see the flecks of green, blue, or even gold. I stared up at him, feeling a crooked kind of smile steel over my face.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

The skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened for a moment and his eyes flicked about more rapidly. "That I love you," he leaned down and nipped my neck before climbing swiftly out of bed. "Come along, John."

The weather was gloomy out so Sherlock wore his full coat-and-scarf regalia and I had on a jumper and jacket. Most of the train ride to Southhampton was spent with Lestrade filling us in the details of the case via speakerphone. We could hear the police in the background, milling about. Anderson kept coming up with theories, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

"The Devonforts are an old Southampton family so they have all the titles and nice house to go with that. The house itself, you'll see, is a bit away from the city and next to the River Itchen. Anyway, the family consisted of William Devonfort, his wife Abigail Devonfort, his twenty-two year old son James, and his seven year old daughter Alice. James was supposed to get all the money after his father died, but the rumors were not all happy in that camp. William and Abigail were threatening to disinherit him and James thought they did."

"Why would they?" Sherlock asked.

"James hung out with a wild lot: drugs, sex with pretty girls, drink. A footballer. Bringing shame to the family and all that sod. The parents wanted him to shape up."

"He's got a criminal record too. Stealing," quipped Anderson.

"Not all thieves become murders, Anderson," said Sherlock sharply.

"Yeah, but he did have a history of violence and bullying at school," said Lestrade. "Not a very nice bloke."

A pause ensued on the other end. Sherlock looked confused and seemed to listen intensely. "Stop whispering. You're on speaker phone. Out with it."

Surprisingly, Donovan's voice came on. "I would like to say that you freaks had better be careful with this one. He mostly beat up queers." I felt my eyes widen a bit in surprise at the concern, but then I smiled a little. She had changed a great deal since we'd first met, I suppose.

Lestrade seemed to have wrestled the mobile away from his sergeant. "Yeah well. They know what they're doing, don't they? Anyway, last night the kid and his friend..." There was a pause as if Lestrade was checking his notes "Scott came to stay from uni for the Easter holiday. The maid was just going to bed when they came, around midnight. She heard some drunken shouts from James and an argument start, but went to sleep all the same-took sleeping pills. She's addicted to the stuff and has been for years. In the morning she wakes up, can't find anybody about, and then finds the bodies. She checks for Alice, but she can't find her anywhere. No body. No sign of James or Scott. We've left everything for you to have a look at."

"When did the police arrive?"

"About when I called you: seven."

"Anything taken from the house?"

"Some food. We guess that James exited through the kitchen sidedoor. His prints are leading away from there to the road."

Sherlock steepled his pale fingers in thought. His eyes looked likely to burn holes in the empty air they were staring at. Then he said quietly, "But why call me? This seems like an open and shut domestic."

"The funny thing is the kid thought his parents had changed the will. Why kill them when if alive they could possibly change it back? Plus in reality they hadn't changed anything."

Sherlock shrugged. "There could be a multitude of reasons: idiocy, drunkenness, revenge."

"Listen, Sherlock...Something just doesn't seem right about this case. I want you here to check it out."

"Don't look now, Greg, but you're getting old. Talking about feelings."

There was a pause. "Your brother says hello."

I laughed as Sherlock started in surprise, his smug expression (all that authority and deference they were giving him was just feeding his already large ego) wobbled a bit before being replaced by a smirk. "Fine. I'm already coming."

"Good man," said Lestrade. And then the phone went silent.

"Odd how things change over the years," I said.

Sherlock leaned back in his train seat, still in a thinking pose. "Anderson's still an idiot."

I chuckled and leaned back into my own plump train seat. Thinking back to the case, my face drew down into a frown. "Do you think he killed them and ran away with his friend and sister?"

Sherlock's eyes slid to me. "Mustn't theorize before we have all the facts," he said. "And why kill your parents but not your sister? Surely if you have the motive to kill your own caretakers you'd also kill your sibling who would stand to inherit all."

I shrugged, but then shivered. Crime. Murder. Hadn't there been enough? Why did people do this to each other? I looked down at my hands, callused and wrinkled from time and wear. To protect others in my case. To protect the man sitting across from me. Why the Devonforts? As I stared at the city flying by, I wondered what scarlet thread we'd have to unravel this time.