"Hamish," said John, looking at his adopted son sadly as he walked through the doorway. Hamish looked up from the couch at his father.
"Yeah? …Where's dad?" he asked, referring to his other father, Sherlock.
"He…" John's eyes became watery and he wiped tears from his cheek. Hamish leaned forward now. He noticed the streaks across his cheeks and his eyes were puffy and red. John had been crying earlier.
"Dad? Are you alright? W-what happened to Sherlock?"
"He-Sherlock…" He breathed shakily. Hamish stood and sat his father down in his armchair. Hamish sat down in Sherlock's chair.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
John took a deep breath and looked at his son's blue eyes. "Sherlock is dead."
"What?" asked Hamish. "No, he can't be…what are you talking about, he's not dead, I just saw him yesterday! He can't be dead!"
"He committed s-su…"
"No…" said Hamish. "No, that's not true, you're lying to me! Tell me where he is!" Be he recognised the anguish in John's face and knew it had to be true.
John watched his fourteen-year-old son's face shatter as he broke into tears. John closed his eyes and clenched his fists together.
They didn't speak for a few hours. Hamish didn't need to ask; he knew it had been because of Moriarty. John didn't tell Hamish what Sherlock had said to him over the phone. He didn't want his son to think that Sherlock had been a fake. John didn't want to think it either.
The next day it was all over the news. "SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS" was the headline for all the papers.
John turned on the telly and flipped through the channels. He reached a local news channel right as they were discussing Sherlock's suicide. He turned it off and sat down at his desk. He opened up his laptop and clicked on the Google Chrome icon. A number of articles about Sherlock's suicide were on the web too. John closed his laptop.
Hamish just sat on the sofa, staring absently at the wall.
There was a knock on the door and Hamish got up to open it. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood in the doorway with Sergeant Donovan. They told Hamish how sorry they were for Hamish and John's loss and that is there was anything they needed not to hesitate to ask. Hamish gave a phony smile, said thank you, and closed the door. He walked over to the window and watched Lestrade and Donovan get in the police car and drive away. He stared out long after they'd gone and then turned back to the room.
"I'm gonna make tea, do you want any?" asked Hamish. John didn't answer. Hamish sighed and went in the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and got out a cup for himself. He frowned at the lack of a severed head in the fridge or eyeballs in the microwave. He did find an arm in the freezer. He smiled a bit and wondered what sort of experiment his father had needed it for. He closed the door to the freezer; he supposed he'd never know.
He poured himself a cup and brought it back into the sitting room. He sipped it quietly. Neither him, nor his father said a word.
Hamish stood and set his cup on the coffee table. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on.
"I'm going out. Be back in a bit."
John nodded at him slightly, watching him go. Hamish walked slowly down the stairs and stepped outside the flat. He hadn't left the flat in weeks; both of his fathers had insisted on him staying there until they'd delt with Moriarty, out of concern for Hamish's safety.
The cool breeze nipped at his face and cars raced by along the London streets. Hamish wasn't really sure where he was going. He supposed he'd have gone to Sherlock's grave if he'd been buried yet, but he hadn't had a funeral for him yet and Sherlock currently didn't have a grave.
He wandered around for a few hours though London. He walked by a group of 19-ish-year-old chavs.
"Aye look!" yelled one of them. "It's that fake nerd's kid! Hey there freak!"
Hamish gritted his teeth and kept walking.
"How's your freak father doing?" yelled one of the chavs. "Oh wait…he's dead, inn't he?" They all laughed and Hamish flipped them off in his peripheral.
"Aye," yelled one of then. "Get over here you little shite!"
Hamish closed his eyes for a moment and kept walking.
"I said get over here," growled one of them, grabbing Hamish by the collar. Hamish wriggled out of the older boy's grasp and took a step back.
The boy swung a punch at Hamish, knocking him off balance. Hamish stumbled back and ran off.
"Yeah you better run away, freak!" yelled one of the boys.
Hamish ran about two blocks away and slipped into a library. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath, closing his eyes. The librarian looked at him, and he glanced through the glass doors at the street. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, and then wandered through the bookcases occasionally pulling a book off the shelf to read the first few pages, but nothing really struck him as interesting.
He sat down in the back corner of the library with a book of poems written by a girl about Hamish's age when her mother had died. He fell asleep while he was reading, his face nestled into the pages of the book.