Sherlock’s phone rings constantly at the weekends for cases- a lot of the time, it’s just prank calls which he blocks effortlessly with a roll of the eyes.
But sometimes, children will call Sherlock’s phone number, children who are scared and confused and hurting, and Sherlock will take each call, every time. Often there’s not even something particular that’s happened: John remembers one time when a tearful voice said, “I-I’m s-sorry it’s not an actual crime,” and Sherlock had softly said, “Now, that’s alright. Did you just want a chat? That’s allowed, you know.”
Other times, it’s kids that don’t remember that 999 is the best choice- Sherlock will talk through the steps slowly and patiently, and John’s heart swells with pride listening to him: “Mummy’s fallen, has she? Is she sleeping? Alright, now, I’ve got people who will bring the ambulance to your Mummy, okay? You just need to tell me where your house is. That’s alright, you don’t need to remember the whole address. Is your house a bungalow? Sorry. I mean, is it all just one floor, no stairs? Yes? That’s fantastic, well done you. You’ve done so well. Now, you’ve got to be really brave for me and unlock the front door so the people can get inside to help your Mummy. Your Mummy’s going to be so proud, sweetheart. That’s them arrived? You don’t need to tha- you’re welcome. Bye bye.”
On that particular phone call, it’s nearing midnight when Sherlock hangs up. He’d almost drifted off on the couch but had leapt into action when the phone had rung.
John takes the phone from him, and places it on the table. He smiles. “You’re a good man, Sherlock.”
Sherlock yawns with a shrug, sinking back down into the couch. “They just… someone needs to listen to them. The…they deserve it.” His voice trails off, as he finally allows his heavy eyes to close. John kisses him goodnight.