Like Father Like Son
The cold evening drew close around the warm yellow windows of the appartment. Inside, supper had been laid on a square foot of space cleared from the mess on the dining table, and the family were gathered round, talking cheerfully.
Sherlock was grilling Hamish ruthlessly on German grammar, while John put in a word here and there to try and keep them from each others' throats. Their pasta was growing quickly cold, forgotten in the irritated flurry of voices and gestures and scowls.
The scene was almost aggressive, but this was just normal for them. Silence was not unusual, but always marked trouble; peace, however, was completely unknown.
With its usual lightening swiftness the conversation had moved on to the detective's latest case. He was now baiting Hamish and John through a complex net of frail hints and false clues, leading them towards his own conclusion. He had got into the habit keeping the solution from John and even from the Police until the boy had worked it out for himself.
" – so the engineer's son claims to have been in Bristol by two, " added Mr Holmes, talking fast.
"He's the left-handed one?" interrupted Hamish,
"Yes, of course the left-handed one. Keep up."
"I'm doing my best, Father," snapped the boy. "I'm tired."
The detective sighed deeply. "Oh, you were doing so well."
"I'm sorry Father! I'm doing my best!"
"Oh no, really?"
"Sherlock!" muttuered John forcefully. "Leave him alone.!"
"John, do you think he really is this slow, or is he just trying to rile us?"
"Stop it. You know you're being unfair."
"Oh don't be so objective, John" said the detective dismissively.
"Stop arguing! I'll figure it out!" Hamish cut across them.
John glared at his husband, ignoring Hamish. "Objective?"
"Stop it!" scream Hamish suddenly, and suddenly there was a deafening bang from the area of the fuse-box, and all the lights went out. In the sudden dark silence, a stark contrast from the bright anger of moments ago, there was a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock.
"The streptococcus," he muttered, then leaped to his feet and darted to the incubator.
"Right." John grimaced. "Fine, you check on your damn bacteria, and I'll sort out the lights, shall I?"
Hamish followed his Dad to the fuse box. In the anaemic glow of a phone-screen, the old soldier's face looked weary and lined.
"Why are you two always arguing over me?" said the boy quietly, toying with the defunct light-switch.
He was tall for a nine-year-old, thin but angular, with sweeping cheekbones that recalled his Father's, despite there being no actual genetic link between them. His dark hair was closely cropped, and in the half-light he looked blue and pale.
"It's not you. It's your Father," explained the soldier brusquely. "He's very logical, and sometimes we have differing opinions."
"About me," murmured the boy. Then, almost a whisper, "Is it my fault?"
"What? God, no." John looked at the boy in shocked amusement. "No, it's not anybody's fault. It's just the way it is, and that's, that's fine. Okay?"
"I guess."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"We both love you, alright? Promise me you know that?" John hugged his son quick and hard, and then leaned back and looked searchingly at him. "It's not your fault. Never think that."
"Okay, okay, dad, I promise."
"Good. When I get the power back, you watch some TV or something. Don't let him guilt you." He pointed at Hamish in mock-sternness, and the boy smiled a little.
"Okay."
Later, when Hamish was fast asleep, John padded out of his room to find Sherlock still hunched over his microscope by torchlight, making minute notes in perfect handwriting on the back of an envelope.
John carefully pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him. It was a long moment before the detective dragged his gaze away from the eyepiece. John spoke first.
"Are you going to call Natalia?"
"Do you really think it was just a power outage?" asked the detective sardonically.
"It could have been."
"Of course it wasn't."
"Then that's the third time. First that poor boy at Highgate, then the theft fiasco, now this. Sooner or later he is going to notice that something's wrong."
Sherlock blew a long meditative breath through his steepled fingers.
"I don't want to call it too soon. The deal was, until he's fifteen," continued John. "He deserves a chance, at least, at being normal."
"Normal is an illusion, normal doesn't happen. He is not normal. And technically, he has the potential to become a public menace."
"He's just a boy."
"Do we have to wait until he kills someone?" the detective's voice was cold and empty.
"Sherlock, please. Don't pretend he doesn't mean anything to you. Surely you've noticed he's more than just - a necessity. He's been here nine years! He's practically your son."
"John, please try to remember that we are not a family."
The soldier inhaled sharply, noticing the slight even though he didn't show it. The detective continued.
"Call Natasha. I believe we could at least make use of her advice."