The Start of Something New

A BBC's Sherlock Fanfiction

Sherlock's hands were warm and gentle as they took John's. He could feel the strength in those hands, and the small, nearly perfect calluses formed from years of work. There were slight grooves in the front and sides of the doctor's delicate fingers, to which Sherlock knew were from the uses of a gun. A slight tremor had taken over one deep copper-tinted hand, one that hadn't stopped over the years. The tremor didn't cause Sherlock to let go, but rather, hold his hands tighter in his own.

The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the small flat of 221B; a familiar, calming scent at that time in the morning. Dr. John Watson stood at the stove cooking in his loose pyjama bottoms, the same deep red plaid ones his husband had bought him. "You look good in red," he had said, as explanation. As the pancake turned a deep golden, the doctor carefully placed it on the stack next to him.

Suddenly there were arms around him, snaking around his waist and tugging him close. There was soft, warm breath on his neck that smelled faintly of mint, and a gentle nose nuzzling his hair. A smile drifted to John's face, and he leaned against the embrace. "Good morning," he breathed. He loved waking up this way-especially when there wasn't work or school for any of them to rush off to. The past three years had been bliss, with no danger to speak of. Just himself, Sherlock, their family. "Hamish still sleeping?"

The nose moved downwards in what John took as a nod. Smiling, he gave a chuckle and began working on the next pancake. "That's a good thing. He was up late."

"You're the one who wanted to play that blasted Cluedo," was the detective's only answer, but it was one that made John chuckle as he recalled the previous night's events. "Well, yes, but I wasn't aware you'd stab the board if we did."

A huff passed Sherlock's lips and he moved to John's side, offering him a rare smile. One that John liked to claim were saved only for him. After a pause, Sherlock moved to thump down on the couch, tucking his sheet around him as he shifted into his laying position. John's smile faded and he was about to ask what was wrong, when a tiny bundle of dark curls nearly knocked him off his feet as it hugged his legs.

John was forced to grab the counter for support, trying to keep himself from falling on to the small child. His smile returned. "Good morning, Mish," he greeted, kissing the small, dark head. "Sleep well?" Hamish. His son. The bundle of joy that caused him to laugh each day, to smile constantly. His light.

Deep blue eyes peered out of the dark, rowdy curls. Eyes that took in everything, seemed to know every secret, outsmart any bluff. At the moment, the deep blue looked like the bright London sky after a fresh rainfall, the gold in them shining like brass.

The small boy lying across from them was pale, much too pale. Icy blue veins stuck out and decorated his body like crude lacework. The lids of his closed eyes were a bruised, pale violet. Underneath those lids, the detective knew were blue eyes. Blue eyes as deep and dark as the sea, never to be alight again. A small, rare tear trickled down the man's cheek…

Hamish smiled brightly. "Mhm. Real good, Papa," he agreed. The small boy paused, turning to glance into the sitting room. "Dad's pouting," he said simply, hopping into a chair. "You didn't kiss him-probably." A brow lifted on the doctor's face, and he moved to stare at Sherlock. "Is that what your problem is? Sherlock, for goodness sa-"

"You always kiss him in the morning, Papa. He thinks you're cross with him."

John studied Sherlock for a moment more, before he walked over, seized Sherlock's sheet in his fists and kissed him firmly and deeply. It took a moment, but Sherlock gladly returned the kiss, a small blush lighting across his cheeks. John pulled away, grinning like a fool. The other man's mouth opened to give a reply, or question from the look on his face, when a small, fragile looking woman appeared. "Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson cooed, gesturing downstairs, "There's someone at the door. He's been asking for you and making the most dreadful fuss."

The ravenette rose from the couch, going to the doorway with a loud sigh, muttering irritably about fools. John paused as he watched after him, then turned to dish up Hamish's pancake. He was halfway through cutting it and listening to Hamish go on about his dream that had something to do with ghosts and demons and…salt? When Sherlock rushed in. "John, come. I can't make out a word this idiot is babbling on about."

"And you think I can?"

"There are times where you sound similar."

"Remind me to thank you for that later, you git."

"That wouldn't be in my best interest, I assume. Will you just come?"

John sighed. "Yes, yes, alright. Fine," he answered, straightening. He turned to Hamish before he turned to leave. "Just eat what you got. Wont be a moment, love." He gave his son a small smile and then went to walk out the door, wondering what on Earth this man could want.

Hamish nodded silently, watching. "Okay. Thank you, Papa. Love you."

"Love you too, Misha."

It took several minutes for them to figure out what the man was saying. Sherlock hadn't been kidding¾he hadn't made much sense. Fingers beat five, three times. Fingers beat five three times. Fingers beat five three…Watch him. Watch him! Watch.

They ended up sending him away, not bothering. John headed back to the kitchen, calling to Hamish. Silence answered. Frowning, they called again, louder. Hadn't he heard them? Hamish always answered… "Hamish!" John shouted.

Nothing.

Both men began to search their flat, tearing it apart in their search. Neither men found anything, save the shattered plate on the ground. As John stared at the pearly white shards, he could feel each one pierce his heart.

The boy's hair was neatly combed, some stray strands falling in his eyes. He always hated that, Sherlock recalled weakly. And yet he would never get it cut. The colour was dark against his forehead, much too dark. The ends were slightly curled, as though they were drying from a recent trip through the rain. The detective knew it hadn't been rain that had matted the child's hair, but something richer, darker. He could remember the small ribbons sliding through his fingers as he tried to seal the wound, tried to save him…