Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Sherlock came running in presently, his face sparkling with the delight of his orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding himself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, he halted confusedly inside the door. He certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the new dress Greg had bought him, below which his thin legs seemed ungracefully long. The wind had ruffled his hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked wilder than at that moment.
“Well, they didn’t pick you for your looks, that’s sure and certain,” was Sally Donovan’s emphatic comment.
Sally was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favour.
“She’s terribly skinny and homely, Mycroft. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did anyone ever see such wild, unruly curly hair!”
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“I’d love to call you Uncle Mycroft,” said Sherlock wistfully. “I’ve never had an uncle or any relation at all — not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can’t I call you Uncle Mycroft?”
“No. I’m not your uncle and I don’t believe in calling people names that don’t belong to them.”
“But we could imagine you were my uncle.”
“I couldn’t,” said Mycroft grimly.
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Mycroft retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Greg.
“Greg Lestrade, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and taught him something. He’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that he never said a prayer in his life till tonight? He’ll have to go to Sunday School just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for him.”
“Girl’s clothes,” Greg reminded him. “And we’ll have to get used to calling him her.”
“I foresee that we shall have our hands full.”
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“Greg Lestrade, I believe that child has bewitched you! I can see as plain as plain that you want to keep him.”
“Well, he’s an interesting little thing,” persisted Greg. “You should have heard him talk coming from the station.”
“Oh, he can talk fast enough. I noticed that at once. It’s nothing in his favour, though. I don’t like children who have so much to say. I don’t want a boy, and if I did he isn’t the style I’d pick out. There’s something odd about him. No, he’s got to be dispatched straightaway back to where he came from, and exchanged for a girl.”
“We could hire a girl from the village to help with the housework.”
“We’ve discussed this, Greg. We cannot afford to have some local girl carrying tales back to the village about how many beds have — or have not — been slept in. That last one we hired was too inquisitive by half. No, an orphan girl is what we need. Someone who is completely dependent on us, and so won’t talk out of turn. Someone with no connections on the island, so even if she does venture to say anything, there will be no one to pay her any heed.”
“It’s just as you say, of course, Mycroft,” said Greg rising. “I’m going to bed.”
To bed went Greg. And to bed Mycroft followed him, frowning most resolutely.
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“Call you Sherlock?” repeated Mycroft. “Is that your name?”
“It’sone of my names.”
“What is your full name?”
“William Sherlock Scott,” reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name. “But — oh, please do call me Sherlock. It can’t matter much to you what you call me, if I’m only going to be here a little while, can it? And William is such a boring name.”
“Nonsense!” said the unsympathetic Mycroft. “William is a good, plain, sensible name. You’ve no need to be ashamed of it.”
“Oh, I’m not ashamed of it,” explained Sherlock, “only I like Sherlock better. And it is my real name, only it comes in the middle. Please call me Sherlock.”
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Over a year went by before Sherlock’s hair grew long enough for him to look like a proper girl once more. It didn’t affect anything other than his vanity, though. Of course no one in Avonlea ever suspected him of being a boy. How would such an idea have entered anyone’s head? For a boy to go about wearing girls’ clothes was unheard of and unimaginable; therefore, the good folks of Avonlea did not imagine it. Any lack of femininity in Sherlock’s behaviour was put down to being raised by a couple of bachelors. As for his looks, well, if he kept on growing taller without growing any curvier, he must simply be a late bloomer.
Though Sherlock might be short on curves, he was never short on imagination — or trouble. He did his best to share the former with his friends, often unintentionally sharing the latter in the process.
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