So here it begins, I have no idea how long it's gonna be. But it all began in the middle of november...
This chapter is updated and search through for errors by my lovely BETA Cashewkitty. Lots of thanks and kisses to her!
John sat tapping the keyboard furiously; it seemed writing in anger was the new therapy whenever Sherlock was being a dick, as usual. Said man groaned and pulled his hair by the roots, jumping up onto the sofa and curling up like an upset ten-year-old.
"Bored?" John asked, stopping his fingers for a moment.
"Good deduction..."
It was no use, why did he even try to pick up the conversation from before? His gaze turned to the window, which was covered in snowy rain, just serving to make this day even more horrible. Then he remembered that Hamish had a long walk home, without so much as a raincoat.
A good excuse to leave Sherlock to his thoughts.
"You'll have to scream at the wall for awhile," John called out, already up and reaching for his jacket hanging over the floor lamp. "I'm meeting Hamish."
"Why?" the detective exclaimed in annoyance. "He prefers to walk alone."
It was true, and even if he was way too young to be doing such things, the pair both knew that Mycroft was always watching, so Hamish was safe enough. He enjoyed the solitary walk home, understandably, for the time alone after an awful day. Which was every day. When it came to school, Hamish had a distinct lack of friends, not to mention the teachers all despised him for his massive intellect. And, the school psychologist was an idiot, according to him. She had always asked stupid questions, but these last couple of weeks she seemed to have given up on her lousy facade of trying to help him, and the hours were now passed simply sitting quietly. facing each other in their respective armchairs. Hamish had told John about all of this, who had decided that they should keep this a secret from Sherlock for now, just until he had a case to relax on.
John reached for the umbrella resting in its stand just as he felt something hit him in the back. A glossy magazine hit the floor and he turned around to Sherlock, staring at him in anger.
"Don't you dare ignore me!"
John picked up the magazine, turning it over in his hands to see the easily recognizable image of his husband in a deerstalker.
"Sherlock, you need to calm yourself. And don't throw things at me!" He knew that he also needed to keep himself calm, but right now John just wanted to punch the taller man in the face.
"Calm down!?" Sherlock shouted incredulously and jumped up off the couch, stepping agilely over the coffee table to reach his desk. Soon, papers and files were flying through the air, making the snowy rain outside seem more tempting than staying the storm inside.
"No... Sherlock! Don't you even!" John shouted back, making his way across to Sherlock.
"I need it, John."
The desk was being taken apart in whole drawers now, tossing with it a package of paper clips, which landed and burst at John's feet, exploding in a colorful show of metal and plastic. John bit down on the flesh in his cheeks, struggling to keep down the growing ball of reciprocated anger in his chest.
"You're doing really well, don't spoil it now!"
The detective payed no mind to this comment, simply shouting back "Where are they!?" He was crawling around on the floor, lean limbs moving like a cat with an itch, checking the sofa, chairs, and every other piece of furniture in the room. What he didn't know was that John had never even bought any emergency cigarettes this time, he was simply watching the show, knowing the man could look forever and never find anything.
"Yeah..." John groaned and buttoned his jacket, and readied himself for an escape for his husband began to beg. "I'll be back in twenty." He shut the door quickly and hurried down the stairs to the corridor, which was currently overrun by the decorators Mrs. Hudson had hired to change the wallpapers. About time was John's thought, thinking of the many years he had spent passing by bloodstains and nail scrapings instead.
"Popping out, Mrs. Hudson!" She jumped a bit at his voice, purple dress swaying at her ankles as she spun around to greet him. As always, she carried a wonderful smile on her brightly painted lips.
"You meeting Hamish?" she asked lovingly, pushing the dyed hair out of her eyes.
"Yeah." he groaned. The woman had always been able to read him like a book. John loved the way he never needed to tell her anything, she always just now.
"Domestic again?" she asked, turning her head as John stepped of the stairs and stopped before her.
"Could you please keep an eye on him? He's at it again. Please call me if he leaves the flat." He felt Mrs. Hudson place a hand on his shoulder as comfort, eyes earnest and full of pity.
"He'll come around," she said. "Soon a nice murder will cheer him up."
"Yes, I know." he sighed with a smile and patted her back.
"JOHN!?" The workers turned when they heard the scream, and John frowned as he made himself ready to run.
"Need to go." he said, almost in a whisper, and Mrs Hudson pushed him out the door before Sherlock made it down the stairs.
The rain was still pouring hard and it had begun to pool beneath John's feet. Poor Hamish must be soaked by now. The phone in his pocket buzzed for the third time since leaving the flat, and with a sigh John fished the old thing out and read the most recent message.
We need to talk. MH
He placed it back in his pocket and instinctually glanced upwards, to be greeted with the familiar sight of the street camera across the road following him. With a shake of his head, he carried on walking down the street. The phone soon buzzed again, and this time it was ignored, John simply quickening his pace at the realization that he should have met Hamish by now. He was more than half-way to the school by this point. Had Hamish taken another route?
His phone rang again, and John didn't bother to suppress a loud groan upon answering it.
"Yes, hello?" he sighed into the receiver, expecting the lazy voice of Mycroft. To his surprise, he was greeted by a much crisper voice, that of a man who hated to use the phone for making calls.
"John?"
"You're calling? You never call." The corners of John's lips were threatening to lift into a smile as he listened to the silence on the other end. John stopped in the middle of the street, rather abruptly, and asked "You okay?"
Two seconds of silence were followed by the detective clearing his throat, and a statement John hardly ever heard.
"I'm sorry."
The doctor was left speechless for a moment, in shock over the words he'd just heard from his ever-stoic husband, as his heart began to race.
"Really?" he responded happily, beginning to walk again.
"Yes. I treated you badly, and I'm sorry." John felt his heart skip a beat with every word, as the fight from earlier faded from his memory.
"In the future, just don't throw things at me. Alright?" Even if he couldn't distinguish it, he knew that Sherlock was snickering on the other line. "Hey, can you call if Hamish turns up? I haven't met him yet."
"Really? Should I be worried?" He asked because he didn't know, as always Sherlock was clueless when it came to emotions.
"No, not yet." John answered, and stumbled slightly, causing him to bump into a rather large passing man. He lost his footing and watched as his phone fell into a nearby puddle. Dirty water splashed onto his shoes and the ankles of his jeans, and he didn't have to get any closer to know the thing was ruined.
"Ah, jeez." John muttered in anger as he reached down for the device. It was lying screen-down to the pavements, and as he flipped it over in his hands, it gave a dying flash before going dark.
"Daddy?" A familiar voice called out, and John looked up to see the face of his seven-year-old son, dark hair plastered against his pale skin and striking blue eyes.
"Hamish." he cheered, pulling the boy into a hug, as he was still crouched. His embrace was returned, with a loving squeeze, leaving John thouroughly soaked. "Oh, Jesus, look at you. We need to get you home and in a warm bath before you catch a cold." He stood up, and Hamish gripped his hand steadily as he joined his father under the umbrella, feeling more than pleased to get out of the heavy rain.
"What are you doing here?" Hamish asked, in a rather nasty, albeit inadvertant, tone. "I mean, you never meet me normally." he added hastily.
John grinned down at him, watching the water droplets fall from the ends of his hair and the tip of his nose. "I needed to get out of the flat for a while." The boy closed his eyes in response, which John sadly recognized as the fact that Hamish was clearly anticipating an angry father back home. "But don't worry, I think he calmed himself down. He called and apologized, can you believe that?" His son clearly couldn't, lifting his head to meet John's gaze.
It was at that point that the elder first noticed Hamish's swollen eyes, instantly alighting his paternal instincts as he reached the logical conclusion; Hamish had been crying.
"Hamish... what's wrong?" The father asked tenderly, but couldn't even get the question out before his son turned his gaze back to his feet. John stopped, but the boy kept on walking, pulling at his father's arms. "Hamish?"
"Daddy!" Hamish shouted indignantly. "It's raining, I'm freezing, and I wanna go home."
Recognizing a lost cause when he saw one (He'd been married to Sherlock for quite some time now.) John laid the matter to rest, for the time being, and continued on with his son.
"Okay, let's get home before Dad tears the flat apart to get his cigarettes." Hamish smiled in response, his brightness surprising and delighting John, as his son put his hand down John's pocket for warmth.
"There are none to be found, right?"
John answered with a smirk and a nod. His son understood. After all, he was a very clever little boy.
"We're back!" John shouted, taking Hamish's wet jacket in his hands. The storm that John had so gladly left inside had calmed in his absence, but left the flat in a most disturbing state. The mess all over the floor, and every surface, reallym would probably have given poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack upon seeing it, if she had decided to make her way up here.
It had been many years since Sherlock had made such a rave over cigarettes. The man himself laid on his stomach on the couch, face buried in the pillow, and still in his night clothes. "I'm going to go run a bath for you. Are you hungry?"
"No." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, causing gigles from both Hamish and John.
"I was talking to Hamish," John smirked, watching the ears of the lazy detective turn pink.
"We need to shop." was Sherlock's only response, earning a groan from John, who was not in the mood to step out again in this weather.
"You couldn't have said that before we got home? We walked right past the shop." Sherlock finally sat up and turned around to face John, dark curls hiding his features.
"I called you. You didn't answer."
John then remembered the earlier incident, and full of dread, retrieved his phone from his pocket. "Oh... yeah," John sighed, trying and failing to turn the devide on. "I dropped it, it's dead... Can't you go?"
John was cut short as he noticed the shivering eminating from the small boy to his left, trembling from the cold, teeth chattering.
"Jesus, Hamish, let's get you warm." He bent over and picked up his son - with difficulty; he was seven, although John seemed to forget this at times - and carried him into the bathroom. "I'll wrap you up in some towels until the bath is ready, alright?
The towels where newly washed, hanging over the heated rack and Hamish disappeared in the soft fabric as he stood on the middle of the floor. A warm mist covered the room as the hot water filled the tub and John rubbed his son to get the warmth back into him.
"I want bubbles." he stammered, causing John to grin.
"Of course." he said, and pulled the shirt off his son's head. "Bubbles are mandatory, aren't they?" Hamish nodded, jumping where he stood to get his blood flowing again, pants made heavy by water falling to his feet, before getting in the now full tub. It didn't take long before he was covered in hot water and bubbles, making bubble beards and bubble wigs while John emptied the washing machine, keeping him company.
"Daddy?" he said, breaking the comfortable silence as he looked up at him from the tub. In response, John was met by a face that make his heart break. The bubble wig flowed down the boy's cheeks and he stared into the water with emotionless eyes. "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?" The words reminded him of the sad face his son had been wearing earlier, and he came over, letting out a deep breath through his nose and kneeling beside the tub.
"What happened earlier today? Was someone at school mean to you?" Hamish just shook his head and concentrated on the mountain of bubbles. He swallowed, and let out a small tremble, no longer from the cold, but out of sorrow.
"It's just... Mrs. Tennant wants me to play wiith the others, but I... I don't really want to." he stammered sadly, John's eyebrows knitting together in response.
"Why not?" he asked, and cupped his hands under the water to wash the soap from Hamish's hair. "Don't you like them?" All he got in way of acknowledgement was a small shake of the boy's head, accompanied by a sudden sneeze. "Bless you."
"It's not that they're mean to me. I just want to read and some of my classmates can't do that yet so no one understands my interest in books, I have nothing in common with anyone. They avoid me and I avoid them, but Mrs. Tennant wanted me to stop reading during recess and play, so she took my book." John twitched.
"She took your book?" Hamish nodded and was a bit surprised by his daddy's reaction. His blue-green eyes pierced and John could see the small ounce of fright.
"Why?"
"She said I could have it back by the end of the day." John shook his head in disbelief, as he washed his son's dark hair, and felt a hatred start to grow in his gut.
"Then what have you been doing all day?" he asked and Hamish shrugged his thin shoulders. John knew there was something he wasn't telling him. "Hamish?"
"She tried to force me into some game with the others. I was planning to escape when she wasn't looking but... she just stood there. Guarding me like a dog, and when I didn't participate she told me what to do, even if I didn't want to do it." A knot was tightly tied in John's stomach, as he wondered how someone could treat his son this way.
"Like what?" he inquired, and bit down hard in an effort to control the growing rage that he knew scared little Hamish.
"She forced me to hunt the others while playing tag. I hated it, Daddy." he said, and his chin began to tremble. "Imagine, being forced to run after people that you don't like and knowing that they don't like you. She wanted me to have fun but... it was the worst thing that has ever happened to me." Even if his face was wet by the bathwater, John could see the tears falling down those blushing cheeks. It was heartbreaking, awful to see him like this and John didn't know what he could to to comfort him, his own son.
"Oh Hamish..." he sighed and cradled his son's head to his shoulder. The wet hair soaked his shirt, but he didn't care one bit. "That wont happen again, I'll make sure of it. And Mrs. Tennant will never take your book again. Of course you're aloud to read during recess."
His son never cried out loud. He hadn't heard him sob since he was four. When he was sad, tears would stream down his face, and were sometimes sometimes punctauated with an occasional sniffle, but never a sob or an agonising cry.
That was the worst part of seeing his son cry. It was like the boy wanted to keep his sorrow secret, and John just wished that he would scream and shout sometimes.
"Promise?"
John nodded assuringly, and kissed away his son's salty tears.
"I promise." After a few seconds of hurtful tears, Hamish smiled again, and sniffled. He had put the awful event behind him and John was a little worried that he'd inherited Sherlock's ability to delete things he didn't want to remember. It was never a good thing to put things behind oneself so quickly.
"Does dad have time to read to me today?" he asked when John wrapped him in a new towel.
"I think so. You should choose something very intimidating, he would like that, and make sure to ask him a lot of questions that he has to answer." Hamish giggled and nodded, tthe tears had long stopped running by now.
"Because dad is a showoff?" he asked, eliciting a small but relieved smirk from John.
"Because dad is a showoff."
He had stepped into his pyjamas, even if the evening was early. Hamish just loved to hop into them after a bath, and just like his dad he would walk around in them all day if he could. Said man was still on the sofa, kicking the cushions and tapping his fingers against his knees.
"Dad?" Sherlock opened his eyes one at a time, to see his son upside down, with the book in his hands.
"Not now." he grunted and closed them again. "I'm thinking."
"About what?" Hamish asked, determined to annoy his dad until he got what he wanted. Sherlock knew very well where this was going, and with a loud groan he sat up and pulled the book out of his hands. Quick as a cat, Hamish was in his lap, leaning against him with his hands inside Sherlock's silky robe for warmth. The detective sank further down in the seat, and took a look at the book.
"I don't understand why you want me to read to you, when daddy's better at making voices." Sherlock groaned, opening one of Hamish's favourite books, "The Jungle Book".
"Some books are better read with only one voice. Daddy has a tendency to ruin my imagination sometimes. Like when he read the story about the red eyed dragon,"
Sherlock snickered, knowing perfectly well that John listened to their conversation from the kitchen.
"And he made the dragon sound like a sick Anderson." the detective smirked. Hamish giggled and nodded, squeezing his hand around his father's thin waist and pressing his cheek to his chest.
"I'll never be able to read that book again without thinking about an idiot." he muttered in response.
Sherlock laughed and ruffled his hair, loving how his boy talked badly about the people he didn't like, but tried not to praise it. John didn't like it when Hamish did so.
The phone on the table buzzed and the detective tried to reach it with his foot, a mission with a bad ending as the pile of magazines slipped to the floor.
"John!" he shouted, and the doctor son emerged from the kitchen with the computer in his hands. "My phone." he finished simply.
The name on the screen blinked fanatically and John groaned when he saw it.
"It's your brother again. He's been trying to contact me all day." He opened the text.
John. Important. Please contact me. MH
"What does he want? And why doesn't he just call?"
"Maybe he's got too much cake in his mouth." Hamish said, causing Sherlock to burst into laughter.
But even if it was funny, and even if Sherlock didn't care, John didn't like it when Hamish talked bad about people.
"Be nice." he said with a smile, and Sherlock ruffled his hair again.
"That's my boy." he said, and started to look for the page they ended on last time. The doctor left the room with the phone in his hand and stepped into the kitchen. The computer was plugged in again and he sat down at the table to finish his post, but was interrupted with another buzz.
Don't make me force you. MH
John had had enough, and angrily tapped his brother-in-law's name in, lifting the phone to his ear. After two signals, someone picked up.
"Dr Watson." Of course he knew it was him, Mycroft knew everything.
"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked tiredly. "What's so important?"
"Why don't you step outside?"
"Because I'm not in the mood to get kidnapped today." John sighed, struggling to keep his eyes open.
"What if I said it's for your own good?"
"Is it?"
Mycroft simply hung up, and John slammed his head against the table. Whatever Mycroft had to say, it would end with John doing something stupid for him, even if he didn't really want to.
"How's dinner going!?" he heard Sherlock shout from the sitting room, and he groaned loudly into the newspaper under his face. Dinner, yes.
"Need to order take out! I'm going out!" The laptop turned off as he closed it and he gave his soaked jacket a quick shake.
"Mycroft summoned you?" Sherlock asked, without giving him as much as a glance.
"Yes." he sighed unhappily, and took a look out the window. Snowy rain was still falling.
He really didn't want to go out there, much less meet with Mycroft.
"I'll be back in an hour, perhaps." There wasn't much of an reaction from the two boys in the sofa with noses buried in the book. "Make sure you both eat something. I don't wanna come home to you both being cranky because you're hungry."
And with that he ran down the stairs, just hoping that this would be over quickly.
The black car pulled up by the curb the same second he stepped outside, and the driver stepped out to politely open his door. All was as expected.
"So, where are we off to this time?" John asked as he slid in on the seat next to Anthea, who, as always, gave him a wondering look, like she'd never seen him before. Why did he even bother to make small talk to this woman?
They drove off, passing the shops and restaurants of London and John roamed across the buildings, observing the "ordinary people" as Sherlock called them. The snowy rain flowed over the window and he traced the drops as they sort of crawled across the glass. Soon, the alleys between the buildings became sparser, like the city dissolved the closer you came to the edge off it. The groups of people lessened and they entered the old industrial area. Thick smoke raised to the already grey clouds above them as the chimneys spewed out the waste, and John felt his nose wrinkle. He didn't like this parts of town.
"Of all the places." he heard himself mumble as the car pulled over by a small office space that looked like a big shoe box fallen out of the sky and landed with a crash and bang on the concrete. He followed the Anthea-lady over the pavement full of dark puddles, minding his shoes, as he was secretly amazed how Anthea made her way with her eyes locked on the phone and waddling in high heels.
"Just through here." she said, and opened the door that made the same sound as a saxophone-solo from the 60th. "Down to the left."
He wondered if he should wait for her, see if she had any business with the man as well but she never so much as paid him a look. Bitting his bottom lip, irritation twitching at the corners, he entered the house. Dust of fallen paint and concrete had covered the plastic floors and he made sure not to drag his feet in the awful mess. The air was filled with the smell of pollution, strong enough to sting his sinuses and he couldn't help the sudden sneeze escaping his nose.
"Bless you!" he heard from the end of the corridor and he lifted his head to see the man in, as always, a fancy suit. "Hello, John."
"Hello, Mycroft." he sniffled and hurried down to the room where his brother-in-law was casually standing, leaning on his expensive umbrella.
The man had placed himself in an old office overrun by damaged desks and wooden chairs. Cloth of ripped curtains overlapped the crushed windows and glass that spread across the room.
"Why here of all places? Reminds me of..."
".. one of your dens during the war." Mycroft finished for him and shifted his weight to the other leg so he was free to give his umbrella a swing. "Yes, I'm quite aware of the state of the schools down there." The point of the umbrella, that John was sure contained some kind of sharp weapon or perhaps some other kind of defence mechanism, smacked the dusty floor again and a tiny mushroom cloud was formed. "I need to speak to you." John pulled the shoulders of his jacket up to his ears and put his hands in his pockets.
"Sherlock's fine." he started. "Almost had a relapse earlier today, but nothing that a cup of tea and a light smack can't fix. Otherwise, he's fine. Bored."
"I did not bring you out here to listen to gossip." Mycroft sang, but he seemed happy with the information John had just given him. John shrugged, but regretted it quickly when the moist air crept into his jacket as he did so.
"Then why did you call me here?" he asked and felt how his nose started to run. Sometimes he missed the warmth of a foreign country.
Seeming to take John's question under consideration, he started to move a little back and forth, almost Mycroft swayed where he stood, John knew he had just watched the whole British government being off balance. Something was clearly wrong, and Mycroft needed him to get Sherlock's help. There were no questions to be asked. He licked his lips, quickly regretting it as the grit flying around in the air stuck to his tongue, leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth.
"You have a file I presume?" he sniffled, and reached out his hand when Mycroft put his down the inside of his jacket.
They both stared at the documents in Mycroft's grip, and John saw how the long-fingered hand clutched to the file until his knuckles went white, like he didn't really want to give it to him. A silence fell to the room and John just listened to the distant sound of cars and machinery and somewhere deep in the noise, he could've sworn he heard the ocean.
"Is there a problem?" he finally asked, when seconds had passed and Mycroft still held the file like lives depended on it. The read-haired eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and he sighed loudly, taking in a deep breath before continuing.
"He's back, John." he quaked. John had never heard his brother-in-law sound so helpless. He was scared. And John felt his blood turn to ice in his vains. He stumbled back a step or two, felt his left hand quiver when he thought about the name hunting his and Sherlock's life, before Hamish even existed.
"That's... impossible." he stammered, and squeezed his hand into a fist before releasing it again. "He killed himself." The man took a step closer to place the file in his hand, but John didn't want to touch it now when he knew what it contained. He didn't want anything to do with that man ever again.
"Yes." Mycroft muttered with dead eyes, like life was about to leave him. "He did."
John didn't take the file, he couldn't even look at it anymore. Mycroft placed it on the desk beside them and took one more step when he saw the doctor tremble before him. "John. I wont let it happen twice."
A drop of sweat tickled his temple and he blinked hard to stop his mind from travelling too far. Every possible scenario played itself before his eyes and he tried to control his breathing. The last thing he wanted to do right now was having a panic-attack in front of Mycroft. Sharp teeth dug into his bottom lip when he lifted his gaze to look at the brother.
"Is he in London?" John heard his voice shake, and relaxed his tensed hand inside his pocket, thinking Mycroft's response couldn't come soon enough. He felt his shoulders sink an inch as the man shook his head.
"No, and he doesn't seem to be making his way here either. But I thought I should contact you. Just to be on the safe side."
"Safe side?" John snorted, and felt a smirk twitch his lips. How on earth would him knowing make the situation even remotely safer? There was a spider on the loose, and the web was knitting tighter and wider for each second his feet touched the ground of this planet, John could feel it.
"Yes." Mycroft replied softly, dragging his voice lazily. "If certain events take their place, you might know what to expect."
The corners of the doctor's eyes began to darken as he concentrated on the brother before him. The words he wanted to speak would cooperate with his tongue, and his lips just wouldn't form them.
"Now." Mycroft continued and crocked his head. "What do we tell Sherlock? We both know he will suspect something as soon you put your foot inside the door."
John blinked, curling his toes inside his shoes and scratching his jaw on the collar of his jacket.
"Well, I always look a little miserable after our meetings, I think Sherlock wont even notice." The man pursed his lips but didn't look hurt by the words, and frankly, John didn't care if he did. "We can't tell him Mycroft. He would run out the door by just the first syllable of the name and... Hamish needs him right now. Things in school.."
"Aren't as they should be." Mycroft finished. "I'll make sure to do something about that."
"N.. no!" Hands left his pockets and he touched his lips before pointing the whole hand at Mycroft. "This is not your responsibility. I and Sherlock will sort this out on our own. Keep your nose out of it." The line between his eyebrows felt deep and he tried to relax his worried face. He wanted to go home, check on his family, lock the doors, find his gun and keep it in his nightstand. A stress he hadn't felt for years started to tighten his stomach and the hunger that had been teasing there was now gone. His body went slack, he lowered his heavy head and closed his eyes.
"I need to go home, Mycroft. Are we done here?" Footsteps closed in and he felt the touch of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. He almost pulled back when it happened. Mycroft didn't like to touch people, and John was so unused to it from him, he didn't particularly like it either. He lifted his head again, looked at the man with the calmest face he could carry.
"It's going to be fine John. We'll keep in touch." he said, and placed something heavy in his hands. He glanced at the black box and managed to give him a thankful smile when he saw it. It was a brand new phone. Of course Mycroft had seen him drop the last one. "I'll call you if he comes anywhere near the streets of London. I'll do everything I can to keep him out."
"Yes, yes, of course." John groaned and scratched his jaw, thinking about how Mycroft handled the man the last time. "I'm sure of it."
He thanked him for the new gadget and returned to the car waiting for him on the parking lot with an awful feeling in his gut. A feeling that hadn't bothered him for so long started to make it's way back into his mind, slowly finding every weak spot and pressing them with awful imagination. Hamish. Sherlock. There was so much at stake right now, so much he didn't want to loose.
He shut his eyes, let London pass in darkness without his observations. All the energy left in him was put to work on calming all the thoughts and feelings. He couldn't afford a panic attack, not now. He needed to get home, hold his family, go on with his life, and try not to live in fear.
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