He'd been just a boy then.
December 13. It was a chilly day, and Hamish was shut up inside the flat. His father was out on a case, but Papa had stayed. Father got anxious after being inside for so long. He said the light snow was covering footprints of the murderer in the latest case, and before John could protest had run out the door. His papa had sighed, resting a hand on their son's shoulder.
"Just you and me now, Hamish." He shook his head slightly; they both knew how Sherlock was. John would have liked to rush out right alongside him, the thrill of the chase filling him as he and his husband flagged down a murderer. Oh how he would love it. But they couldn't leave Hamish alone, not when he had his father's curiosity and tendency to get bored. John didn't want a repeat of the fire two years ago. Mrs. Hudson had fallen asleep after an herbal soother, and Hamish had nearly burned down the building. From his perch at the window, Hamish nodded. His eyes fervently scanned the street below, hoping for a sign of Sherlock's return. His eyes flicked towards movement in the middle of the street. A car had pulled up to the curb, and a dark haired woman stepped out. She was dressed in dark blue and gray, her thick boots clunking as she stepped out. From behind her she lowered a small girl to the floor. The little girl had golden curls, and bright eyes. Her pink dress was rumpled, as were her leggings. She looked intelligent enough, as far as children went, Hamish thought. Once he finished cataloguing their appearances, he began to deduce. The girl was his age, seven. The mother was in her twenties or thirties and, judging by the way she glanced around, she'd been to London before. Hamish judged though, that she was originally from Brixton. They had just gotten off a long flight, the girl was tired...they'd left early in the morning, somewhere in North America. Toronto? Their clothes were wrinkled and their bags were sloppily packed, items brimming over the open tops. So they had left in a hurry. Why?
Hamish was distracted as the rumbling from the engine was cut and a tall, lanky man exited the driver seat. He loped over to the girls, twirling the keys around one finger. "Well," he asked in a disinterested, deep, yet slightly nasal voice. "Is this the old biddy's place?"
He couldn't hear the woman's response, the man was just habitually loud, but he read her lips. "Uh, yea..." she responded."Looks like it, Fee." She patted her coat pocket, before turning to him. She was armed, then! Hamish smiled in excitement. What next!
John's brow furrowed. He had looked out the window at the people his son had been observing as well, and though he was not his husband, he was a soldier. John knew a weapon when he saw one. John placed a protective hand on his son's shoulder, a shiver running down his jumper-clothed spine. "C'mon, Hame. Let's go watch Doctor Who."
Hamish sighed, but relented. He took once last glance outside, meeting eyes with the small girl for a moment. Her gaze bore into his fearlessly, and her mouth twitched at the corners a tad, as though she wanted to smile at him but was wary. His eyes widened as he noticed something he had not before. There were cuts on her face, large scabs and bruises. One was bandaged by a white rectangle. It appeared to be a car accident but...he shook his head, breaking their contact, to clear his mind. No...no. Not possible...his deductions had told him that the impact of the car had been powerful. Too powerful, in fact, her trauma suggested that it had hit her hard enough to kill her. She shouldn't be standing there now, and yet...she was. His silence was scaring John, who dragged him to the couch, wishing Sherlock would come home.
Yes, he was just a boy then...but he still remembered the first time he'd met Kira.