SECRETS IN SILENCE
Author's notes: In this verse, Hamish Watson-Holmes is the biological son of Sherlock Holmes and Harriet Watson. He was introduced to me by valeria2067, who gets all the credit for creating an amazing character.
Mia Donovan, Sally Donovan's daughter, is the brain-child of devinleighbee and shoydragon, two of the dynamic trio who run FYJFF on Tumblr. I saw Mia as an O.C. with a lot of plot potential. In my (slightly different) head-canon, Sherlock and John haven't reconciled with the now D.I. Sally Donovan, when their kids meet unawares and become friends. I thought it would be fun to have them be instrumental in patching up their parents. The story started as a drabble on Tumblr, but now I have written the back-story, it desperately needed. The following stories will be more plotty.
I'm sincerely grateful to wellingtongoose on Tumblr for her awesome meta write-up on Sally Donovan and her guidance in helping me understand Scotland Yard hierarchy. That said, any subsequent screw-ups are my own. Kindly chalk them down to artistic license.
(Dec, 2014)
Gregory Lestrade shifted from one foot to another in a bid to warm himself as he stood in front of the door. He rang the bell, which warbled like a robin. He hoped he had the right flat.
When a heavily pregnant Sally Donovan answered the door, both pairs of eyes widened in momentary shock before she almost shut the door in his face. But the Detective Inspector was quick enough to wedge a shoulder in.
Sally didn't let up the pressure however. "What the hell are you doing here, sir?"
Lestrade was tempted to shove the door open, but that would involve manhandling a pregnant woman. He was already standing on wafer-thin ice with regards to his ex-Sergeant. "Will you please let me in?"
"No," her voice could have cut glass. "I'm done talking. You saw what you came here to see. Now you can go. Give your unofficial report to that turd. That'll make his day."
"What the hell are you talking about? I had no idea about…just let me in, Sally. Five minutes, then you're welcome to throw me out, if you want."
There was a defeated sigh from the other side as the door was pulled open. Sally stood with her head bowed, nose pinched between thumb and forefinger.
As Greg shut the door gently to keep the cold out, she looked up tiredly, "You're here on your own?"
"Yes of course, you simply disappeared after the…" he trailed off uncertainly. Sally was going to be a mom. He found it difficult to wrap his head around the fact. She had been as married to the 'work' as Lestrade was. And apart from that one embarrassing time when Sherlock had revealed her dalliance with Anderson, he had never seen her dating or having a roaring social life.
She led the way into a neat, cosy living room, "I was the one who was nearly sacked, sir. You don't need to sound so sorry." She gestured to the worn sofa, "I'll put the kettle on. I'm afraid that tea's all I can offer you at present. To keep anything stronger around is too bloody tempting."
He draped his coat on the back of the sofa before sitting down. He chose the safest subject he could think of. "It's a nice place."
There was no reply and Greg shut up. When Sally finally joined him with two steaming teacups, he firmly kept his eyes away from her swollen belly.
"Before you start, you should know that there are two things you better not mention," her voice was still hard. "It's none of your business who the father is and no, it isn't Daniel. And the second is Sherlock Holmes. If that's acceptable, go ahead."
Greg took his time, sipping the hot tea slowly before he returned the cup to its saucer. Then he looked his former sergeant in the eye as he asked kindly, "How have you been, Sally?"
She chuckled, but the sound had lost its sarcastic edge. "You know, you're the first person to ask me that since Sherlock fucking Holmes' miraculous return."
"I thought we weren't going to talk about him."
Sally laughed mirthlessly. "How do you think I'm doing, Greg? I only did my job. I went where the evidence told me to go. I was wrong, yeah. But you know that I could very well have been right. Look where all my hard-work and integrity landed me- subjected to that fucking farce of an enquiry orchestrated by freak senior, kicked out of Homlcide, shunted aside to start right at the bottom all over again in a completely new division. The only reason why I haven't quit altogether is because I need the job, now more than ever. Besides, what is a disgraced ex-cop supposed to do next?"
She took a deep breath, sounding more tired than he had ever heard her, "What do you want now, Sir? I thought I was doing what you all wanted, paying my dues."
Lestrade was very careful to keep any trace of pity out of his voice as he asked her, "Do you regret what you did?"
"No," the answer was prompt and unhesitant. "I did feel guilty when he killed himself. But, you know what, that was a lie too. What kind of a bastard does that?"
"You were prejudiced-"
"With good reason. The whole of London thought he was a fraud, why am I the only one who's being punished?"
Because it was your job to protect him from people like Jim Moriarty and instead you protected a terrorist bomber and accused an innocent man of attempted murder.
That was John had yelled at him when Greg had tried to defend himself after the fall. But Lestrade knew it was pointless to repeat the words here. The bitterness ran too deep. And he could see where it stemmed from. Sherlock was enjoying a hero's welcome after apparently single-handedly demolishing Jim Moriarty's world-wide network. The press and his higher-ups were falling over each other to forgive and forget, only too happy to ignore exactly who was supposed to be doing the forgiving. Sherlock was supremely indifferent to his sudden 'popularity', while John bore it with a stoic facade, which failed to hide his repressed rage. The formal internal enquiry at work had found Sally Donovan culpable, for which she had been suspended for three months, demoted and transferred to Organized Crime Unit.
Greg had endured a three month suspension as well, but on his return to the Yard, he had found his old office and a new 'still green behind the ears' team waiting for him. Anderson was still in Forensics, though he had himself requested a change to a desk job in the Forensics lab. The whole thing smacked of a Mycroft-directed vendetta.
His first crime scene with the new team had been unreal. The rookie Detective Sergeant had thrown up within minutes of seeing the gutted corpse. Lestrade had barely held on to his temper till the end of the day. But when the forensics guy turned out to be a Sherlock Holmes fan boy; after hearing for the tenth time how wonderful Sherlock was (Mr. Holmes would see the shoe soles and determine exactly where the victim had been two days ago, right?), he had finally snapped. He had needed a stiff drink and had marched his way to her division to convince Sally into coming along.
Where they told him that Sally wasn't back, having taken a leave of absence for personal reasons. He had tried calling, but there had been no response. Lestrade knew that Sally had taken the transfer poorly, but he was equally sure that she wouldn't simply leave without letting him know.
It wasn't as if Sherlock Holmes had known or cared about what had happened to Sally Donovan. The Detective had changed radically in the last three years, if the impending civil ceremony was any indication, but not that much. And John loathed Sally too passionately to ask after her. There was no love lost there.
But Greg thought back to the years of long nights filled with endless paper-work, being called to investigate that quadruple sewer-homicide at midnight in the dead of winter, dozens of cases that weren't 'interesting' enough for Sherlock Holmes, solved through sheer stubbornness and solid team-work. One honest mistake had made it all for naught. Greg didn't think that was fair by a long shot.
"I had come to offer you a place on the team again," Lestrade said, soldiering on against the odds of it actually happening. "You're a good cop, Sally. Nothing that has happened with Sherlock has made me believe otherwise. I really had no idea what was going on with you. I thought if you agreed, I could appeal to the Chief to have you transferred back to Homicide."
Sally's eyes sparkled suspiciously as she looked away. "That's… You have no idea how much it means, to hear you say that. But now that the freak's back, you must be working with him again. Don't you think this is a bad idea?"
"Sherlock's a big boy. He can handle it. Besides, I need someone to keep me in line when I start cutting him too much slack. I trust you, Donovan."
Her voice was much softer this time. "I'm sorry, Sir, but the answer's still no. I'm through with dealing with Sherlock bloody Holmes. I made a mistake and now I'm paying the price. As far as I'm concerned, that's my debt with the freak squared twice over. He's a bloody showman who uses the Yard as his own personal stage. And I'm tired of playing one of his props. I wish I could hate you too for needing him on cases, but you do it for the victims…so that another scumbag doesn't go scot-free and I respect that. But I'm done needing him. That's probably the only bright side to this…exile. I'll never have to see him again. If I ever come back to Homicide, it'll be on my own terms. That is one thing I'm sure of."
Lestrade grinned inwardly as he remembered the once belligerent new sergeant, who had almost come to blows with Sherlock on her first day on the job. Apparently, Sherlock wasn't the only one who had changed during the hiatus. "Alright, I won't ask again. On a different subject, when's the little monster due?"
Sally smiled and for a moment she was his fresh-faced recruit once more. "Two weeks, it's a girl. And I know what you'll say. This is a stupid idea, to do this on my own…"
"On the contrary," Lestrade interrupted with a grin. "If anyone can raise a child on her own, it would be you. I don't envy you, mind. Having a kid shaves years off your life. You'll see." He made to get up, "I have to leave. Have an early one tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything." There was a beat of silence before he added, "I won't mind baby-sitting on my week-ends off."
"I don't think we'll be bumping into each other all that frequently, Sir. Not your division, remember?"
He was almost at the door, when he turned around to see Sally looking a little lost for the first time that evening. "Not right now, no. But I'll see you when you're back in Homicide…on your own terms. Goodnight, Sally."
(May 2024)
Hamish Watson-Holmes had picked up the Science of Deduction before he had been fully toilet-trained. The deductions didn't endear him to his peers but Hal had been indifferent about it all till one fateful day in his old prep school, a year ago. He still shuddered at the memory.
"Hey freak, didn't your father off himself?"
The taunting wasn't new. He was used to being taunted mercilessly day in and day out for his bony stature, his intelligence, his inability to play any team sport and his lack of a filter while speaking. But Hal found all of it surprisingly easy to ignore, as it was illogical and stupid.
The worst part about this time was that it had been absolutely true. He hadn't gone home that day, hadn't called his parents or left them a message. He sat frozen in front of a screen in his computer lab, which didn't know how to lie. On the contrary, it was surprisingly forthcoming about something that had happened more than a decade ago. He started at the beginning and read each and every story as it introduced him to people like Kitty Riley, Sebastian Moran, Richard Brooke and Jim Moriarty. He now understood why some of Dad's older blog entries were blocked, why Hal's internet time and browsing content at home were carefully monitored. Jim Moriarty, till now, had simply been the name of an old famous criminal his Father had put away. He now knew exactly what that monster had done to his family. It had been a horrifying revelation.
It was only a couple of hours later, when a hand reached around his shoulder to switch off the monitor and his swivel chair was gently turned around to bring him face to face with John, who was kneeling before the chair. He wordlessly eyed the tear tracks glittering on his son's face before Hal had flung himself into his arms and held on like he would never let go.
Father had been hovering behind them, flanked by Uncle Greg. It was the first time Hal had seen his proud father look so defeated.
After a huge argument, snatches of which were audible even in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, they had elected to tell him everything that night. Hamish had a very hard time coming to grips with it all. He knew he should be insanely proud of both his parents for what they had endured and survived, but all he could remember was the photograph of John's old blog-post, he had found on a fan-site.
He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.
He could not forget how it must have headlined the blog for two whole, long, lonely years.
Hamish knew his reaction was illogical; chances that the same set of circumstances would repeat themselves were infinitesimally small. His brain didn't seem to compute the fact. He slept fitfully that night and found himself awake at a ridiculously early hour, waiting silently in bed till he had heard Dad leaving for his shift. He then silently padded his way to the living room to face his father. It was obvious that he too wouldn't have slept much last night.
As expected, father had anticipated Hal's need to confront him without Dad's protective presence. He was awake and waiting for him. But as Hal stood in front of him, he found himself utterly inadequate to express what had tortured him all night, in a logical manner. Father abhorred irrational talk and he couldn't see how to rationalize his fear. To his relief, father spoke first-
"Hamish, you are biologically my son. In this moment, however, you look so like John that it's uncanny." He took a deep breath clenching his fists involuntarily with the effort of keeping his voice calm. Obviously, Hal noticed. He saw everything. He was his father's son first, and was proud to have been considered so, until today. Whatever names the world called his father behind his back, Hal had never had an occasion to call that pride into question, not before yesterday. His father could see that doubt in his eyes. Hal hoped that it hurt as much as he wanted it to. He had so many things he wanted to say, but his voice refused to co-operate with the accusatory stare. Father, simply put looked tired and haunted.
Good. Hamish wasn't as easily forgiving as Dad.
"I know what you're thinking, Hamish. But it will never happen again."
Hal finally found his voice, though it had never sounded so weird before. "So you say."
"I will never leave you-"
"You left dad for two years. You let him think you were dead. How could you?"
"I had to. Can't you see that?"
"What if you 'had to' once more? If you think your reasons were right then, what will stop you from doing it once more?"
"You," Sherlock whispered as he knelt and gripped his nine year old son's shoulders. "Your dad is strong, Hamish. He's the strongest and the bravest man I know. It was necessary and somewhere, a very small part of me knew that if we both survived, we would be fine. But I cannot imagine doing that to you. I love you too much to stay away. Please, believe me."
"Promise?" Hal's voice wobbled for the first time since this conversation had started and he hated that it did. He wanted to be taken seriously, not thought of as a cry-baby with a childish whim. "You need to promise me, father. No matter what happens, or who comes along even if it's Moriarty 2.0, you will not leave us like that, ever."
"Yes, I promise." Sherlock's eyes stayed on Hal's face as he drew him closer and framed his face between his hands. "I will never leave you and your dad voluntarily, Hamish. I had already promised your dad this before we decided to bring you into our lives. Little did I know that you would turn out to be his biggest security to hold me to my promise. I won't be able to tolerate the separation, Hamish. You have to believe me."
It may not be the reason why Hamish knew that his Father was speaking the truth. But it was important to note that it was the first and the only time he had seen his father cry.
(Nov, 2025)
Hamish was home early that day as their last class had been cancelled. He was still getting used to St. Benedict's, his new non-exclusive (pedestrian in the words of uncle Mycroft) school, where John had adamantly had him transferred against the Holmes' express wishes. John had maintained that it was because he did not want his son to be a right snob, but Hal knew that John was aware that the ragging had only worsened and this was the kind of bullying Hamish took lying down. Dad had wanted him to have a fresh start.
Hamish doubted that he would make any 'friends' as his Dad expected him to. But he had been too relieved to protest the change.
He always stopped off at Mrs. Hudson's for a freshly baked cake or a cookie before going up to 221B but even as he stood in the foyer, he could hear the voices raised in a fierce argument from his living room.
Hal had often heard his parents argue. In fact, he suspected that the arguments he did get to observe were the tip of the iceberg. Father wasn't the type to restrain himself, when something didn't happen the way he wanted it to. There had been plenty of shouting when he did something especially stupid or dangerous. But the person doing the shouting was usually Father. Dad was especially formidable in the way he had perfected the use of 'silent treatment' as a weapon. When father was especially petulant, Dad never let an argument escalate, never even raised his voice. Instead, he took a step back and waited father out. He usually didn't have to wait long.
The most memorable of such incidents had been four years ago, when Sherlock hot on the trail of a suspect had forgotten to pick Hamish up from school. An uncharacteristic frosty silence had reigned in the house for three whole days as Dad had refused to speak to Father till he had apologized to both of them, though Hamish thought the 'apology weekend' away from home was a bit over the top. The car pick-up arrangement with Uncle Mycroft had happened then. Now that Hal was a bit older, he preferred the bus.
He listened astonished as his dad's voice echoed down the stairs. He knew that if they saw him, they would stop and he would never learn what it was all about. He skipped the squeaky fourth step, though he doubted anyone could hear him over the racket Dad was making. He silently made his way into the kitchen through the side-door.
"- you have some nerve, asking Sherlock for help?" His dad sounded breathless with fury.
"John."
"No. Sherlock, you'll stay out of this. I don't care what it's about, or who is involved, you are not taking this case."
Hamish froze. This was a first. When uncle Lestrade spoke, he was his usual calmly stressed self. "John, you are over-reacting-"
His father's voice was even louder and more furious. "Oh am I? Let me make something very clear. I will not let Sherlock be taken for granted again. It was the one thing you had promised me when you expected him to start taking cases from you after he was back. Do you know why I supported him? Because you made a mistake but you also had the decency to accept it. She… stood right where you're standing and accused him of attempting to murder children, of bombing people. She doesn't deserve to be a detective. And even if NSY has to resort to scraping the bottom of the barrel for its detectives, Sherlock isn't obliged to help someone who doesn't respect him. She doesn't deserve his help. She doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as him."
Hamish took a step back in alarm as his Dad's voice threatened to wreck physical violence on whoever 'she' was.
"John, breathe." It was way more than weird to hear his Father be the calm in a storm. Hal suddenly ached to hug dad, to physically shield him from his anger.
"I'm sorry, Lestrade. I have to respect my husband's wishes in this matter. I cannot take the case."
"John, this isn't about Donovan. It's about the victim-"
"Lestrade, I think you should go now. I'm not likely to change my mind." His father's voice was like cold steel.
There was a sigh before the door closed behind Uncle Greg's retreating footsteps. Before Hal could think about sneaking out to the hall-way again, his father's voice called, "Hal, you can come in now."
Hamish scowled. There was always something. The expression dropped off his face as soon as he saw dad's shell-shocked face when he entered the room. Before either of his parents could say a word he had darted across the room to John's side and wrapped his arms around his dad, "Please don't be mad. You sound terrible when you yell."
John huffed out a tired laugh and returned the hug, all anger drained out of him. "I'm sorry you had to hear that. What are you doing home so early?"
"Who's Donovan?" Hamish countered instead, watching his dad's expression turn dark again. But he simply pressed a kiss to Hal's forehead, before muttering, "She's nobody."
Hal didn't miss the pensively sad expression on his father's face as he hovered above them.
(A week later)
"Detective Inspector Donovan," one of the reporters in the crowd yelled, waving his hand in the air. "How does it feel to crack such a high profile case after being written off by your old bosses?"
"It is really satisfying to see the man behind bars. I can't really take all the credit. As I've already mentioned, my team had narrowed down the possible locations Jason Rhodes had been held to three places but the Met received an anonymous tip yesterday about the whereabouts of Swayne as he left the petrol station at Surrey. We are very grateful to the person who-"
"He's cute, that reporter," Mia proclaimed over the volume of the telly, as she curled up against her mum on the sofa. She had watched news clips of the press conference repeatedly, but she was bursting with so much pride that she couldn't wipe the huge, silly grin off her face.
Sally squinted at the T.V. critically, "You think so?"
Mia nodded. Today wasn't junk food Saturday (which only came once a month even after they had moved to the new place closer to school). They had however decided to make an exception, and now the table was strewn with the remains of a giant pizza and leftover fries. After the arrest and the press conference, Sally was dead on her feet. But Mia had insisted on watching the late-night detailed telecast of the conference. Now Sally was trying her hardest not to doze off, as her daughter peppered her with questions and comments.
"Come to think of it, he was there at all your conferences."
"Hmm, you mean the one where he accused me of doing squat to find Jason?"
"Well, can't blame a bloke for doing his job right? He's not heckling you now, is he? I still think he's cute. You should totally ask him out."
"No, thank you. I would rather have fries wit-"
"Sh..sh..sh..I haven't seen this part," Mia made flapping motions with her hands to silence her mother, as she hiked the volume further.
"Inspector Donovan, how would you respond to the rumours that you are completely against working with Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Is it because of your controversial his-"
The picture flickered off suddenly. "Hey!" Mia yelled. "No fair, you promised I could watch the whole thing."
"It's too late, sweetie. I'm practically dead here."
But Mia could see the tense lines drawn around her mum's eyes, as she forced a yawn.
Later, after Mia was safely tucked below her Scooby-doo blanket, and her mum had kissed her goodnight, she couldn't help but ask, "So mum, who's the bloke with the funny name, they were asking you about?"
There was the barest pause before her mum could leave the room, but Mia heard volumes in it. "He's nobody important. Goodnight, sweetheart."