A/N: Hello! This was just a short one-shot I wrote one day when bored, and I figured I'd post it. Please, let me know what you think! I want to improve, so reviews are greatly appreciated. Thank you.
Also, I was lacking creativity with a name, and everyone always seems to go with Hamish, so I went along with it. May change it later, but probably not.
Anyway, enjoy!
X
Hamish Watson-Holmes sighed, and pulled on the jacket his father had set out for him. Even though he was 17, he insisted that he wear this one. It was old, smelled odd, and not to mention was straight up ugly. Hamish had protested against wearing it until his father had threatened to burn all his nice ones if he didn't. Reluctantly, he had agreed. I'm hideous, he thought, tugging at the sleeves that were a bit too short. He looked in the mirror and sighed again. He wouldn't let his father get away with this.
"I see that glint in your eye," Sherlock said, coming up behind his son. "What are you up to?"
"Oh, nothing," Hamish said, turning around. "Just plotting on how to get back at you for wearing this hideous jacket," He laughed. "But I know you already know that."
"Mmmm. Saw it the second I walked in. Figured I'd at least ask. That's what polite thing to do, isn't it?"
"Sherlock Holmes, my father, was trying to be polite? Someone mark it in the history books!"
Sherlock chuckled. "We should be leaving soon. We're meeting your sister at eleven."
Hamish groaned. Billie would never let him live this down. "Father...don't make me wear this around her. You know I'll never hear the end of it. She'll probably take pictures!"
"Hamish Watson-Holmes, you are wearing that jacket. It's not up for discussion." There was a sternness in his voice that surprised Hamish. He wasn't used to his father being so persistent with something, especially something as silly as a jacket. "Let's go."
They traveled in silence to the cemetery. It'd been five years since John's accident, but it still didn't get any less painful. Especially since they never actually caught the man who had strangled him. To know that his Dad's killer was still out there caused an anger to boil up inside Hamish; an anger that one day he was afraid he wasn't going to be able to control. But today, all he felt was sadness. Five years to the day. It was surprising how quickly time could pass.
They met Billie at John's grave. But to Hamish's surprise, she didn't pick on him for the jacket. He could tell she wanted to though. As to why she wasn't, he was clueless. It was the perfect ammunition. Still, he didn't question her. Maybe she was finally learning to control herself.
After a sad twenty minutes, they left. It was still too painful for any of them to stay there for longer than that. They went out to get a late breakfast. They were all mostly silent, remembering John; missing him. Billie left for work, and Sherlock and Hamish headed back to the flat.
Hamish tore off the jacket as soon as they got in the door, rather violently.
"Careful, Hamish!" His father yelled, a certain venom in his voice.
"Why? It's just a ratty old jacket! It's hideous, and it smells disgusting! I don't know why I even agreed to wear the damn thing!" Hamish screamed, very angry with his father.
Sherlock stared at Hamish. After a minute, he said quietly, "That jacket used to be your dad's."
Hamish stopped on the stairs, and slowly turned around. He saw the jacket crumpled in the floor at his father's feet, and the sadness in his eye's. "I...father...I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"Just go to your room."
"But-"
"Go!"
He turned back around, and headed to his room. He let his father down. That jacket had been one if the few reminders of his dad that his father had, and he just...he ripped his heart out.
From that day on, Hamish wore the jacket as much as he could, without any question.