A Worried Mind (Chapter 1)
Takes place: about eleven years after Reichenbach.
Sherlock can't sleep and finds that his son is awake as well. They sit together for a long time. John wakes up eventually when it's time for Hamish to go to school. It's not until later when they get a call from the principal that Sherlock and John are worried about him.
A blurry red light came from the far side of the room on a small table. Sleepy and eyes groggy, the mat sat up in bed and rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. His eyes adjusted to the dark room and then to the window and small street lamps blazing lazily outside. He stood up, careful not to wake his partner, and stared down at the street below. His long, graceful fingers pulled the curtain back ever so slightly.
The street down below was completely deserted; not one taxi cab was in sight. The sky was black and blue and was still littered with stars. The city of London was fast asleep, but soon its' heartbeat would soon be heard again and the streets would be abuzz with talk. After all, the flat from which the man stood in the window was only a tiny fraction of the city.
221B Baker Street stood in the middle of London, smashed between Mrs. Hudson's restaurant and another flat. The man turned his gaze away from the window and stared at the blurry writing he saw when he arose from bed.
Sherlock could now read the bright red numbers on the alarm clock. It read 4:27 A.M. This was a habit of Sherlock's; not getting enough sleep and waking up at a dreadful time in the morning. But he could not go back to sleep now; he was already awake.
Instead of crawling back into bed, Sherlock located his blue dressing gown and quietly closed the door behind him. He rubbed his eye again, walking down the hall as his bare feet scraped the carpet. His dressing gown flew a few inches behind him as he walked.
His eyes were blinded when he flicked on the kitchen light so suddenly. He shut his eyes tight, blinked a few more times, and began to search for his coffee mug. He found it among all the beakers and test tubes on the dining room table, and went to boil some water in a kettle to make tea.
He jumped when the kettle suddenly let out a screech. He took it off the stove quickly before he awoke anyone. It still spat out steam and hissed at him as he poured the water into his mug. The tea bag sank into the mug like a feather when he put it in, and Sherlock took the cup with him into the living room.
He set the mug down on the coffee table and went to sit on the couch. He caught himself, however, because he noticed a small yet bulky object lying on top of the cushions.
Hamish, Sherlock's eight year old son, had left his book bag for school on the couch again. The number of times Sherlock found it there, he lost track. He took a deep sigh and slightly rolled his eyes, wondering when that boy would ever learn. He picked it up and dropped it on the floor. It landed with a loud thud on the opposite side of the coffee table. Sherlock let his body sink onto the couch and folded his hands over his chest.
A hard object hit Sherlock's hip and he reached for his bathrobe's pocket. He pulled out his shiny black iPhone and read the text that glowed on the screen.
Found some new evidence. Scotland Yard. Come later today if you can. –Lestrade
He slapped his phone against his leg and completely ignored what the message said. He wasn't in the mood to figure out a case today. For once in his lifetime, he didn't feel like doing his job. The phone slid across the coffee table and clinked against the side of the coffee mug. Steam still rose from the opening, so Sherlock didn't take the risk in taking a sip.
From behind the steam, something had moved in the kitchen. A small figure moved in the shadows of the hall leading to Sherlock and John's bedroom. Sherlock stared at the ceiling and thought why John would be awake at this hour. He thought he had possibly woken John when he stepped outside the room, but John wouldn't hide in the shadows like that…The only other explanation would be for his son to be awake, but it was too early in the morning for him to get ready for school…
The figure moved again, this time trying to get a peek at Sherlock. The detective knew who it was when he spotted the same curly brown hair as his own on top of the little boy's head. He sighed again and couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Hamish…" He tilted his head on the couch so he could see better. The little boy slipped quietly and slowly out from the shadows, and there he stood, Hamish, dressed in his pajamas with his hands behind his head.
"Hamish, what are you doing up at this hour?" He stopped to think for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No. Couldn't sleep." Hamish's voice cracked and he stared at the floor, drawing little circles with his big toe. He frowned and looked up into his father's eyes. Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position and placed his elbows on his knees. He shook his head slightly and ruffled his messy hair in his hands. He realized that his tea was still resting on the coffee table, and he picked up the mug and slowly brought it to his lips. The liquid was still quite hot, and Sherlock almost burnt his tongue.
He set the mug back down and looked back up at his son. Hamish stood there, not moving, nor talking. His face was sad and his eyes pierced Sherlock with even more expression. Sherlock scanned him up and down. Hamish looked like himself when he was young, only he had the exact same eyes John had. He also seemed to act a year younger than any of his friends. He was growing up to become more like John than Sherlock, except for the fact that he was always curious about everything. He wanted to be like Sherlock, only he had the same bravery and loyalty as John had. John and Sherlock didn't understand how he grew up to be just like them. After all, Sherlock and John had adopted him several years ago.
Sherlock gave in. He didn't want to stare into his son's eyes any longer. "Come here," he said, in a gentle voice, motioning for Hamish to sit on his lap. The boy did not hesitate, but instead walked casually over to his father and sat down.
Sherlock was never good at talking to Hamish; John was always the better father. He got up the courage and decided to try anyway. 'Hamish Watson-Holmes," he said, pausing after he said the name. "I really don't know why you're up at this hour. Why couldn't you sleep?"
"I…I…" Hamish stuttered and tried to find words. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in confusion at him. "I…well…I don't really know why. I guess…I've just been thinking, that's all."
"Thinking?" Sherlock's eyebrows contracted even more. "Thinking about what?"
Hamish breathed a deep sigh before continuing. "School."
"What about it?" Hamish refused to say more. "Hamish," Sherlock said, his voice becoming a little sterner, but he went back to his usual calm voice before speaking again. "You can trust me. You can tell me anything."
"I don't know why, but I find it easier to talk to dad than to you." Sherlock understood this. He always seemed socially awkward around his son for some reason. Sherlock was also getting used to Hamish's way of addressing him. Sherlock was "father," and John was "dad." This was the easiest way for Hamish to speak to his two dads and know which one he was talking to. Sherlock always thought it was strange when his son called him "father," because it seemed like a name for an older dad, when in fact, John was slightly older than Sherlock. Maybe that's why he was so good at talking to people…
Sherlock snapped out of his thought and returned back to the world. He smiled and looked down at his son, sitting hunched on his lap. "I know. Sometimes he's the only person I want to talk to." He turned his head away and smiled even bigger so that Hamish could see. Then he opened his mouth again to speak. "But you know, deep down, that I care for you Hamish. We both do. Your dad and I love you so much." He placed a smooth hand on his son's cheek and ran his fingers over his face.
Hamish couldn't resist smiling. He nodded his head and answered in his usual childish voice. "I love you too father." Sherlock wrapped his arms around his son as he curled into a tight ball. He hugged him into his chest and didn't want to let go. He found his fingers running through his son's hair and he placed a kiss on top of his head.
They broke apart and Sherlock held his hands on Hamish's shoulders. He stared into his son's eyes for quite a while, and then patted him on the head.
"Come on," he said, rising from the couch. "Better get you back into bed. You still have two and a half hours before you normally get up." Hamish stood up from the couch and hugged his father around the waist. When he let go, Sherlock found Hamish's hand finding his own and he clasped the tiny fingers in his own hand. Hamish led the way back through the kitchen and down the hall, into his bedroom where a flashlight was a light on the bed. The bed stood in the far corner of the room, and the curtains covering the windows had been pulled back.
Sherlock flicked the light switch and a dull light was cast over the room. Hamish gingerly pulled back the dark green covers on his bed and slid beneath them. He clicked the flashlight off and placed it on the bedside table to his right. He laid down in his bed and rested his head on the soft pillow. Sherlock nudged his son's legs so he would move them out of the way. He sank a couple inches into the mattress as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"You try to go back to sleep now, okay? You can think all you want later at school." Hamish smiled. Sherlock returned the message and stroked his son's hair. He sat there, murmuring small words of love and comfort to his son, and then his hand slowly retreated away from Hamish's head. He rose slowly from the bed, but before leaving, bent over and planted a small kiss on his forehead.
Sherlock turned in the doorway and stopped before closing the door and shutting the light off. "I'll be on the couch if you need me, okay?" His voice was calm yet a little shaky.
"Okay father."
"Alright then. Goodnight Hamish. Sleep for a little longer." His hand ran over the light switch and the room was plunged into darkness. The door gave a small squeak as it closed behind him. Sherlock's hand still clutched the door handle as he smiled to himself.
The couch sank again as Sherlock spread his entire body over the surface of it. He didn't realize after a while that he was thinking so much about his son, it brought him happy thoughts as he drifted off into t peaceful sleep.
"Sherlock…Sherlock, wake up." There was a faint voice in Sherlock's ear, but he couldn't make out whose it was at first. It grew louder as he came back to the world around him and the darkness behind his eyelids faded. He felt a hand shaking him, and he twisted his back to his right and managed to open his eyes.
John Watson-Holmes, his partner and husband, stood looming over him. A bright light came seeping in through the open windows, and his coffee mug had been removed from the table. Sherlock's right arm hung loosely on the side of the couch, while the other was tucked into his chest.
John smiled when he saw Sherlock open his eyes. "Morning sleepy." He was already dressed in a pair of jeans and a red plaid shirt. John grinned and started to walk back into the kitchen. "Seriously," John's voice was heard from a distance away, "I think that's the longest I've ever known you've slept for. You got over seven hours of sleep."
Sherlock sat up and rubbed his neck. He regretted sleeping on the couch now, because his muscles were tight and it was very uncomfortable. He stretched his arms out above his head and exhaled deeply. Then, the urging question was launched from his mouth.
"Where's Hamish?"
"Oh I just sent him off to school." John appeared in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. "Had to dash out with a piece of toast in his mouth. Blimey he did not want to get up when I tried to wake him. Here."
"Thank you." Sherlock accepted the coffee without hesitation. "I came out here after I couldn't sleep last night. Hamish was up too apparently. Says he 'couldn't sleep.' I talked to him for a little while before sending him off to bed again."
"Oh," John said, as he sat down in his favorite arm chair. "No wonder he was tired." John rustled the newspaper and began to read the front page article.
"I'll be right back." Sherlock jumped up from the couch and proceeded to his and John's room. He dressed himself and tried to fix his untidy hair. His curls were still slightly a mess as he went back into the living room. He strolled over to John's chair and gave him a small kiss on the cheek before settling on the couch again.
He reached out to grab his phone and found a picture of one of the pieces of evidence from his case. Sherlock, the consulting detective, sat there for quite some time trying to decipher it.
It was only around twelve thirty when John's phone began to buzz. He picked it up and read the name of the person calling him. "Oh no," he sighed, telling Sherlock before he answered it. "It's Hamish's principal at school. Don't tell me he's in trouble…" John left the room and left Sherlock alone in the peace and quiet. After a few minutes, however, John rushed back into the room still talking on the phone. He had a worried expression on his face and he went to grab his coat from the hook on the wall.
There was a silence in which John didn't speak and Sherlock looked at his husband, confused. Then John spoke into the phone, his voice shaky and scared. "Right, thank you. We'll be over in a minute. Bye." He ended the call and Sherlock was inches from John's face in a second. John's blue eyes were filled with fear and he delivered the words from his mouth, still shaking.
"It's Hamish. Something happened at school. He was attacked by a kid in his class."