Like any other animal, Sherlock is malleable to the force of physics.

Once he had grasped her upper arm, hard until there was bruises, shoving her onto the pavement in a gesture that would be aggressive in any other situation, he became no more than his brain's support machine, a mesh of bones and muscle and skin, vessels and tubes, glands and organs about to be exposed to the punch of metal at 40mph.

No more than that.

"I have to look after that?"

Sherlock stared at the child who had just walked into Lestrade's office - its scruffy jeans, brown hair in plaits, quizzical face - and stood up.

"She'll be easy to-"

"Do not even attempt to lie to me. Get one of your employees to look after it - aren't they here to do what you say?"

"It...She, Sherlock!"

Lestrade glanced apologetically at the 8 year old girl, but she was busy staring at Sherlock with a mixed (but mainly scared) expression. Sherlock stared back at the girl, as if waiting for her to morph from an 'it' to a 'she'.

"This is a busy case," Lestrade said, picking up a file off his desk before starting for the door. "The force are stretched as it is." Lestrade stopped at the door, and put his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Just sit with her for five minutes when I get John's witness statement? Please. Honestly," Lestrade said, his hand tightening on the girl's shoulder. "I wouldn't pick you either... But her parents will be here soon when they realize she's wandered off- just for 10 minutes!"

"That time has doubled."

"Walk her to the park or something. You'll be fine!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but, for once, Lestrade was quicker and already out the door.

The hot day melted Sherlock's tolerance as they walked, the girl a few feet behind him, picking at the scab on her arm.

"Don't do that," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"Don't-" Sherlock turned around and pointed at the girl's arm. "You don't want your parents knowing where you went."

"No," the girl agreed, and continued picking.

"And picking at the scab is making it more obvious. I'd learnt by your age that gravelly wounds are the telltale of all adventure. Parents don't like adventure. Or letting you do what you want."

The girl looked up, before smiling slightly and rolling down her shirt sleeve.

"Why couldn't you have run off more efficiently?" asked Sherlock, as the girl lay against a tree, licking at an ice cream. "I could be sorting through my ash collection right now."

"Go then. I've got an ice cream," said the girl, as if that was all she needed in life. "Do you want some?"

Sherlock did not bother to say no.

They sat down on the park bench. Sherlock sat awkwardly, his black coat sucking too much heat from the sunlight. "Next time, don't access Soho via Oxford Street. Foolish."

The sun was bright and the girl squinted as she looked up at Sherlock, her legs kicking, unable to reach the grassy floor. "Are you really an adult?"

Sherlock snorted.

"What are you doing?" asked the girl as Sherlock bent down, running his finger along the footprint at the foot of a tree.

"Working out whose shoe this is."

"A game!"

"The game."

Three minutes later, Sherlock drew back from the print and said it was a 40 year old builder's.

"That was amazing! Do it on me."

Sherlock faltered.

"Maybe later."

The mobile rung, as Sherlock had expected. He turned away from the girl, who was writing her name in the mud with a twig.

"Just got out from the interview,"said the voice quickly from the other end. "Where are you two? Is she still alive? I'll be amazed if-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "This girl is not seeing her parents again."

"What do you-"

"She's being abused."

"Sherlock..." The voice was soft, slightly sad, a lower pitch at the end of the word as if deflating. "Are you sure about this?"

"This is me you're talking to, John."

"Her parents just arrived, though. They seem-"

"Nice?"

"Well, yeah."

"They seem nice. Wonderful! I'm convinced! I mean, we all know that criminals can't lie!"

There was a pause. "Sherlock...are you sure you're not just seeing, well..."

"What?"

"Yourself in her?"

Sherlock lent a hand against the nearest tree and rested his head against it before speaking. "Please do not..."

"Not every child was like you, Sherlock," said John quietly. "They run off, they explore, and it's not always escape... not always because the parents don't...because they're not interested."

"Just interview them."

"Sherlock..."

"Please. John."

Sherlock lent down opposite the girl. "You want me to do it on you?"

She looked up from her drawing. "Yeah!"

"Okay."

Sherlock sat crossed-legged on the mud opposite her, and studied her.

"You should look at me with a microscope," she said, smiling widely. "That would be cool."

"I don't need a microscope...You play the piano."

"Yeah!"

"Badly."

She shook her head. "No. I'm nearly a grade one now."

"Badly," said Sherlock again. "Your favourite food is chocolate, specifically Dairy Milk. You have a rabbit, which you spend more time with than other children - or your parents."

Gently he took her hand and turned it over, so he looked at her palm. He placed her hand on the ground; she complied.

"You dig your nails into your palm when you're upset."

Sherlock pointed to her bare knee through the rips in her jeans; there was a scab there.

"You don't wear plasters." He didn't take her eyes off her. "Most parents make their children wear plasters. Being over-protective, a side-effect of caring. Some parents just don't care, and don't give their children plasters."

"Mine just fell off."

"Hm," said Sherlock.

They reached the road opposite the police station. Before they crossed, Sherlock turned to the girl, crouching down - a practicality nothing more.

"I understand that it's hard," he said, quietly. "But I want you to tell me if your parents hurt you. Or let you run off, because they can't be bothered to follow. Or say things to you that hurt. Tell me now and I can have it that you never have to see them again."

"They don't," she said, and it was almost like she was comforting him.

"You don't have to lie anymore-"

"I'm telling the truth though!" She giggled. "You're silly. What's your name?"

She is looking at him, frowning with dark eyes.

"Sherlock."

"Weird name," she said. "Mine's Rachel."

Sherlock realized that he'd never asked. "Rachel. I knew your favourite chocolate bar, but not that."

She smiled. "Chocolate is more important."

"Are you ready to see your parents?"

She shrugged.

The car came, then. Drunk driver. Swerving off the road.

Rachel is the closest, in the middle of its path.

Sherlock jumped.

It was biology that made the decision. Brain power does not matter in the split second. All he knew is that she would hurt if he didn't.

The car won, and Sherlock fell. He thought he could her screaming. Then no more.

A/N: No idea where this is going, but whump and hurt/comfort are definites.

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