Hope I Made You Proud - A Long-Term Study in Family

by raziraphale

After the death of his father - the world's only consulting detective - thirteen-year-old Hamish reflects on his unique upbringing at 221B Baker St., and his very own definition of family. Warnings for major character death. Established Johnlock, with mentions of Mystrade. Parent!lock. Takes place after the events of the TV series.

Some notes on the story:

On Hamish:

Due to his absence in the series, the fan-made character of Hamish changes from writer to writer, and so his background (i.e His biological parents) can be somewhat vague and tends to vary greatly depending on author. For some, he is the adopted son of John and Sherlock, while others claim him as the son of the great detective and Irene Adler. In some stories, he is the son of John Watson and his wife, but (in some universes) raised with the help of Sherlock after Mary's death. In the story I've written, Hamish Watson-Holmes is genetically both Holmes and Watson due to gestation surrogacy, where the genetic material of mother and father are combined in a lab elsewhere and then placed in the womb of the surrogate mother (completely unrelated to the child she carries), where the baby develops until it is born. The mother is Harry Watson, who donated the necessary genetic material to give her brother and his partner a son, and Hamish was carried by another woman, who remains unnamed in the following story. So, Hamish is genetically Holmes and Watson, though John is (technically) his uncle.

On the inclusion of the pairing Mystrade:

Honestly, I wasn't planning on including Mycroft and Lestrade at all, much less as a couple, yet here we are. Their appearances are brief, generally aren't very serious, and their relationship is mostly only hinting at or joked about. Though I'm not a huge supporter of the pairing myself, I have respect for it and those who do, and I'm sorry if my inclusion of Mystrade may have come across as mocking, for it was not my intention at all.

On Harry Watson:

I was a bit lost when it came to writing Harry (as she hasn't appeared in any episodes as I write this), though her few comments on the personal blog of John Watson seem to paint a picture of a kind woman who is genuinely concerned for her brother, that has just made some mistakes (most related to her alcoholism) in her life. Since this story takes place a good decade after the events told in the TV series, I thought it wouldn't be much of a problem to change Harry's character around a bit. Turning more towards alcohol over the years, the Harry in this story is more of a pessimistic, cynical drunk. I apologize if this goes against the personal image you've formed of Harry Watson, but I feel a person can change a lot in ten years (being as she, in this story, is biologically the mother of Sherlock and John's child after donating the necessary genetic material), and this slightly cruel, alcoholic Harry is the result.

So, without any further ado, the story:

---

Hamish walked alone down the hallway. Well, not entirely alone, for the corridor was clogged with a throng of students rushing about every which way, all struggling to make it to class before the final bell. The squeaking of his reluctant steps on the tile floor was drowned out by the chatter all around him, mixed in with the loud banging of slamming locker doors and frequent bursts of cheery laughter. Though he was surrounded by others, Hamish made his way slowly down the hallway, alone in every way that mattered to him.

He could see the looks the others gave him as he passed them by, those quick glances that some tried to hide out of fear of being rude, while others stared unashamedly as if he was some strange curiosity. Some gazes were friendly, sympathetic, while others made Hamish wish he could disappear into the floor, their eyes brimming with questions, demanding answers from him. Some looked at him the way one would gape at a car crash, not wanting to look but unable to tear their eyes away from the tragedy, from the smouldering wreckage. He crushed his school books against his narrow chest, his long fingers digging into his elbows as he lowered his eyes, staring instead at everyone's hurrying feet.

Hamish was fully aware of what they knew, what they all had found out one way or another. It wasn't a surprise to him, for he'd expected it, prepared for it, even. Of course the staff knew, for all his teachers had been informed via e-mail after he'd ducked out of school for a week, which had fast become two, then three. Most of them had known already, being that the reason for his absence had been all over the news, causing the stares that followed him silently down the hall. He was aware that most of the student body wasn't really into watching the news, nor reading the papers, yet the information had found a way to trickle down the pipeline nonetheless, spreading everywhere in the in near month he'd been absent.

Despite all the attention and feeling much like he was under constant surveillance, Hamish Watson-Holmes was completely and utterly alone. He continued his steady stride, making his way carefully through the crowd, ducking his head under the weight of their stares, of their unsaid questions, and unsatisfied curiosity. Alone.

The crowd had started to thin, the overwhelming sound of voices fading, and Hamish stopped briefly in the open doorway of his English class. He closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds – willing himself to wake up, back in his bed at home – until a faint trace of red appeared on his pale face from the effort. With a disappointed sigh and a nervous gulp, Hamish ducked into the nearly filled classroom, retreating to one of the few desks left at the very back of the room, the kind usually decked-out in scribbles and scratches from years of problem students. A good-sized hole had already been gauged from the wood with a pair of craft scissors, from the looks of it, though Hamish's brain – blank and numb – ignored this small detail.

He buried his head in his arms, which he had folded atop his pile of text books he'd slammed rather loudly onto the desk. Nearly everyone's eyes darted to the back of the classroom at the sound, most only briefly, catching sight of Hamish's head of dark, messy curls over his tightly folded arms. They redirected their attention back to their friends, quickly forgetting the small boy that sat in the far corner.

The teacher mostly ignored him, though throwing him a quick, sympathetic glance before he spoke aloud to the class. He couldn't bring himself to call for the boy's attention, catching sight of the large, oversized black coat he wore, which hung off the boy's thin shoulders like a thick blanket. It was much too long – the fabric pooling at Hamish's feet – but he kept it on despite it being nearly summer, with nearly all of his classmates in t-shirts. The teacher also spotted the scarf he wore, the fabric a deep, navy blue tied loosely around his neck. He knew Hamish must be boiling underneath it all, but cast him a pitying look as he started his lesson, knowing the boy wouldn't be paying the slightest attention.

Most of the day passed similarly, a blur of voices and lessons he hadn't listened to, as he feigned sleep on several different surfaces throughout the day. Nobody spoke to him, but that wasn't anything Hamish hadn't been expecting, or wasn't already used to. He didn't really have any close friends who would have missed him during his three weeks "break". No one to come running up to sweep him up in a hug, nobody to ask if he was alright knowing full well he wasn't. He passed like a ghost through the school, his large jacket dragging behind him like a waterlogged cape. He felt slightly guilty for ruining the bottom hem like that, but he felt safe in its familiar warmth, its comforting smell. It carried the unmistakable odour of home, immersing him in its simple familiarity.

He almost didn't notice that the final bell had rung, until the screeching sound of desks and chairs being moved over the tiles pulled him out of his own mind. He looked up to see everyone rushing out the door, trainers slipping on the smooth surface, eager to leave their long day of lectures and work behind them. Hamish blinked a few times, his eyes blinded by the sudden light, before calmly gathering up his things, stacking his school texts and binders neatly in a pile. He made his way to the door almost gingerly, as if afraid that moving quickly would make him sick.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Hamish." Came a quiet voice behind him as he neared the doorway. He paused, looking back to see the kind face of Ms. Joudry, who taught him French, though she didn't make an effort to speak the language to offer her condolences. Her face was sincere, though Hamish didn't know to respond. What was there to say? Later, it occurred to him that he should've probably said thank you, but he decided on giving her a small, pathetic smile instead, before rounding the corner down the hallway.

Once outside, dragging his bag behind him (packed with a lunch he hadn't eaten and a few of Hamish's favourite books his dad had placed in there in the hopes he might read them), Hamish carefully crossed the street in the direction of a sleek black car parked on the other side. Much to his annoyance, Hamish found he had to push his way through a gathering crowd of mostly male students that had it circled. They gaped admiringly at the vehicle, and Hamish could see them trying to work out its massive price tag from behind their widened eyes. With difficultly, he managed to wriggle his way through, forcing back a few boys in his year with the passenger side door as he slipped inside.

There was silence as Hamish dropped his bag at his feet and buckled himself in, leaning back into the black leather seat. He glared straight ahead as the car departed rather slowly down the street, much to the disappointment of the fans it had gathered. Hamish brought his shoes up onto the seat – not caring one bit about mucking up the fabric with his muddy shoes – tucking his long, skinny legs against his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He wrapped his entire body up in his black coat, closing his eyes as he felt the car purr and vibrate beneath him.

"I could've walked home." Hamish murmured after another moment of silence, poking his face out from underneath the fabric he'd swaddled himself in. "It's only a thirty minute walk." His dad made a small noise of protest beside him.

"We've got a car, we might as well use it." Was his reply, no real emotion in his voice, sounding tired. Hamish allowed himself a peek sideways to his right, taking in a face that was equally void of any sort of feeling. Hamish bit at his lip, before returning his gaze to the car in front of them as they drove home. The car continued to hum like a contented animal, a cat being stroked.

"Not really, its Uncle Mycroft's car." Hamish muttered, his eyes flicking back to the man beside him "It's too expensive and everyone ogles it. I'd rather walk home." The older man's attention deviated from the road in front of them for a moment, looking about to argue with his son, before his face softened. He returned his full concentration to driving, turning the wheel hand-over-hand smoothly as they came to Baker St. Hamish could barely make out a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as he parked the car, cutting off the engine.

"What?" Hamish asked, confused, to which he receives no reply. Neither of them made a move to exit the vehicle as Hamish pressed him once more "Dad, I'm serious – what?" He faced Hamish then, almost reluctantly, with a sad expression on his face, along with a slight smile.

"Nothing, it's just… well," he attempted to explain with a rough start before clearing his throat "It's just that I can't argue with you. You look too much like your father." With those words, an uncomfortable silence hung thick in the unmoving car, father and son lowering their eyes to avoid the other's gaze. The ghost of a smile had disappeared from his dad's face completely, and they both exit the car in unison.

In complete and utter silence.

Alone.

...

Dad mumbled an unintelligible greeting to the woman who lived in the flat below theirs when they passed her on their way up the stairs. The young woman smiled warmly back, though she received none in return. She was nice (Hamish had even played with her young son on occasion, until the word 'freak' had become part of the five-year-old's expanding vocabulary), but she felt strangely out of place in the building Hamish had grown up in, despite having lived here for years now.

Hamish was suddenly reminded of the older woman that had occupied the space before. He recalled her equally friendly smile, her comforting hugs, and the huge plate of delicious cookies that usually greeted Hamish when he was younger, sent downstairs when his parents had been coaxed out of the flat by the promise of an exciting case. He wasn't even sure the kitchen he'd spent so many of his days in – his cheeks full of soft, sugary dough as the woman laughed her quiet, familiar giggle – was even the same colour anymore. For some odd reason, that thought added to the weight already draped heavily over his shoulders.

He slumped up the stairs after his dad, his book bag thumping against the wood as he dragged it behind him. He didn't give the woman a second glance.

After a bit of fumbling with the key for a few painful moments, the two of them entered gratefully into the familiar, comforting atmosphere they had called home for as far back as Hamish could remember and, if his parents were to be believed, even longer than that. Hamish watched silently as the older man limped over to his favourite armchair, crushing his Union Jack pillow underneath him as he sunk into it with a sigh.

Hamish shuffled immediately to the bedroom on this floor, his dad not even looking up at the soft sound of the door shutting behind him.

Almost without thought, Hamish instantly collapsed upon the large double bed in the middle of the room, burying his face and tangling his limbs in the unmade sheets. He lied there, unmoving, for an unknown amount of time, his mind a forced blank. He drifted into nothing.

Hamish's brain was heavy with the fog of sleep when he awoke, blinking it out of his eyes as he raised his head from the mattress with difficulty. His eyes moved to the window, the late afternoon sun peeking out from the edges of the dark curtains. He groaned sleepily as he raised himself up, his vision still hazy as he glanced around, still slightly confused as to where he had accidentally fallen asleep.

He noticed, with dull surprise, that he was in his parents' room. He sat in the exact middle of the large bed, the very same bed he'd crawled into so many times at the unexpected rumble of thunder, or the haunting, lingering shadow of a scary dream. Even though his lanky frame could now lie with his toes nearly at the foot of the bed, he still felt incredibly safe swaddled in the dark red comforter bunched around him.

His eyes scanned the room out of habit, letting his mind be soothed by the well-known surroundings. His keen eyes observed every detail without much thought, a skill he had picked up unconsciously from his father. His gaze fell on the end table to the right of bed, where a single picture frame lay beside a plate littered with day-old crumbs from jam and toast. Two smiling faces stared back at him, looking impossibly alike. Two pairs of ice-blue eyes, alight with amusement, upon two equally pale faces, topped with similar mops of dark, curly hair, looked giddily up at him from the framed portrait. Atop each head of unruly hair sat an ugly, brown hat with ear flaps.

Hamish recognized his own face, the deerstalker on the head of his eight-year-old self nearly falling over his eyes, tufts of hair escaping from underneath the large hat. His father, with his nearly identical features, wore an expression that was clearly supposed to be a pout, but his eyes shone brightly even in the still photograph, his lips caught twitching upwards in the corners in the barely-there smile Hamish knew so very well. It was one of those smirks that he fought so hard to keep under control, failing miserably when the muscles in his face eventually rebelled against him.

Hamish tried not to notice the spatter of smudged fingerprints across the glass that pressed the photograph into place, but he saw them all the same. The prints left by frequent stroking of the photo, most likely followed by a hushed wish goodnight mumbled to the happy faces of father and son, before retreating under the covers, seeking relief in sleep that wouldn't come. Only nightmares came in sleep. Hamish tore his eyes away before the image of his dad, curled up alone in the empty bed, could make a permanent home in his brain without his consent.

His parents' bed had never seemed so big until that moment, void of everyone except a lanky thirteen-year-old.

His attention was then drawn to a large, bright yellow poster taped somewhat insecurely to the wall opposite with clear tape. It was dusted with a ridiculous amount of sparkles, stickers, and bright colours that seemed out of place in his parents' room, filled with dark shades and muted hues. Hamish slid off the side of the bed, rewrapping himself up in the large coat he'd fallen asleep in, before shuffled sock-footed over to the wall for a closer look.

Upon closer inspection, he recognized the poster immediately with faint horror. It was one of those stupid projects he'd been forced to complete in primary school, those All About Me posters that were customary on the first day. He'd almost forgotten about it, and hadn't noticed it'd been put up. The slightly crumpled, canary yellow Bristol board was covered with questions typed out in large font in Comic Sans, the strips of paper messily glued and stuck haphazardly across its surface by his six-year-old self. His answers, written and drawn sloppily with crayon, were almost impossible to decipher.

HAMISH WATSON-HOLMES was scrawled clumsily across the top in blue crayon and a handful of backwards letters, splashed with an alarming amount of sparkles and a few stickers of random zoo animals.

Hamish passed quickly over the questions such as How old are you?, Where were you born?, and What's your favourite colour?, for he already knew the answers, so it really wasn't worth trying to decode the shaky, often backwards, and misshaped letters. His eyes rested on one of the crookedly pasted phrases, Draw a picture of your family here, his eyes on the bottom corner where seven stick figures had been scribbled.

Without warning, he recalled the night he'd brought this project home, after finally taking it down from the classroom wall to make room for his next masterpiece (a scribbled self-portrait Hamish was sure still resided in some drawer somewhere). He remembered Father and Dad bent over the large piece of paper, grinning and chuckling as they sat together on the couch, the page resting on both their laps. Hamish had been sitting in the corner with a few of his toy cars, but had quickly abandoned them in favour of watching his parents, both intent on his project. He remembered Father's smile best of all, for it had been one of his rarest, full-fledged grins, which Dad had mirrored to perfection.

"John, I know I'm rather tall, but still," Father grinned, pointing at the family of stick figures in the bottom corner "I look capable of crushing Tokyo." Sure enough, the stickman clothed with a doodled black jacket, an uneven blue line for a scarf, and a black, scribbled mess of hair was most definitely not to scale, and was double the height of the other six. SHERLOCK was scrawled shakily underneath in red. He smiled smugly, his finger trailing down to a small stickman about half the size, holding stick-Sherlock's hand, with a scribble of blond atop his circular head, wearing what a rather familiar jumper.

"I look like a Hobbit!" Dad wailed in horror, though wearing a matching grin, staring at the stickman labeled JOHN in blue crayon, where he stood beside stick-Sherlock and stick-Hamish, completely dwarfed by the former and almost level with the latter. "This is entirely unrealistic, you Sasquatch!" They both chuckled in unison.

"Oh, I think it's pretty accurate..." mumbled Father, his lips twitching, fighting to keep his face composed as he rested a long finger on the drawing with the words UNCLE MY written underneath. They burst into a fit of giggles. While all the other stick figures were, well – sticks – Mycroft's was humorously round – almost completely circular – holding his trademark green umbrella with one hand. Stick-Mycroft's other hand held that of a grey-haired stick figure labeled UNCLE GREG, which brought upon other howl of laughter from the two men.

They continued to study the drawing, their gaze passing over one identified as MRS. HUDSON by a scribble of purple and a tuft of brown hair, who stood a little ways away. A stickwoman with pink lips and long, brown hair pulled into a ponytail had been messily branded as AUNT MOLLY in pink. Dad pointed it out with a smile, though it had a hint of sadness to it that even six-year-old Hamish could pick out from across the room.

"Funny how is actual aunt – the one who blessed him with her Watson genes – didn't even make it on the picture," Dad sighed, and a brief silence fell upon the room. After a moment, Father shrugged.

"It's not like she blessed us with anything else, like her presence, for instance." he pointed out, though it did nothing to soften his partner's expression "How many times has Hamish seen her? Twice? Once when we first brought him home – which he can't possibly remember – and the another visit last Christmas, where she'd been so drunk I doubt she even knew who you were, much less Hamish or I."

"I still think she only donated the genetic material so she couldn't be guilted into buying me Christmas presents every year," Dad added. Though his tone was hard, his words made the younger man laugh, one short, emotionless chuckle that faded into an uncomfortable silence.

Father broke the stillness after a while, gesturing to another area on the poster with a smile "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Sherlock read aloud with a tentative smile reappearing "A Doctor." he finished, gesturing to the Hobbit-sized stick figure, now complete with a white coat and a tangle of lines that appeared to be a stethoscope. "Hmm, a doctor, John. Just like you."

"He'll need to be," he laughed without humour, staring at the picture intently "Someone will need to patch you up after every case when I'm gone." The effect of those words was immediate, and more than a little frightening.

"John?" exclaimed Sherlock, letting the Bristol board fall to the floor as he twisted his body on the couch cushion. He was now facing Dad, hands gripping his shoulders tightly. "John, where are you going? What have I done? JOHN!" Father crushed the other man's shoulders fiercely in a white-knuckled grasp, trying to force the answer out of him much like one would squeeze ketchup from the bottle.

"Ow, Sherlock... my shoulder–" Hamish heard Dad nearly whimper, his eyes wide in surprise and pain. Father let his hold fall immediately, the regret of his impulsive action clear upon his face, though still stared, fixing his pale blue eyes on John's. He impatiently waited for an answer as the older man slowly recovered from the shock.

"I'm not... going anywhere," Dad assured Father, rubbing his aching shoulder with a wince "Just, you're more likely to outlive me, that's all..." He gritted his teeth as he rolled his shoulder, trying to work out the kinks. "You know, if I haven't strangled you to death. Christ, Sherlock! Calm down!" He attempted to sound joking, but his voice was riddled with worry.

Father let out a strangled – though very much relieved – sigh, tension falling from his body as it started to sag. Hamish watched silently as Dad gathered his arms protectively around him, pulling the taller man to him, his head of wild curls now resting on his chest.

"Shhh, it's okay, Sherlock," he hummed under his breath, rubbing the detective's back soothingly "Hey, calm down, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

"Not yet," Sherlock mumbled sadly, his words muffled against the fabric of one of John's ratty jumpers "I'm still not entirely convinced you won't eventually tire of my more irritating habits and storm out, dragging Hamish behind you, afraid I'll experiment on him." The two men glanced over at Hamish then, who wasn't even pretending to be focused on his cars anymore, still watching the situation unfold with curious eyes.

With a deep breath, Hamish recalled speaking up then, his soft, high-pitched voice clear in the silent room.

"Dad," he warned with utter seriousness, his gaze hard "If you ever leave Father, I'll burn your favourite jumper." There was silence for a moment, before it was pierced by a loud guffaw of laughter from his father, who couldn't hold it back any longer, despite his eyes shining with tears he hadn't let fall. Dad eventually couldn't keep up the serious expression and he, too, shook as giggles erupted from him.

...

Hamish stood in front of the poster on the wall, still staring at the family of stick figures. Stick-Sherlock, John, and Hamish looked back at him with wobbly smiles. He suddenly remembered, somewhat vaguely, of how he'd noticed how the other children at school didn't have quite the same family as he was used to.

They had a father who walked them to the park on lazy, weekend afternoons to fool around with a football in the grass. They had a mother who welcomed the laughing pair home in the evening, the smell of dinner rising to meet them as they tracked mud through the house.

Hamish's world was filled with racing around, of late nights with the walls of the living room covered in crime-scene photographs and details (covering up newly acquired bullet holes), his parents staring at it intently for hours, running on several cups of Dad's coffee. The flat he'd grown up in that shifted from peaceful to chaotic in minutes, at the arrival of a new case or a sudden explosion from one of Father's many experiments he'd scattered about the room. His father-son time consisted of playing lab-assistant, an oversized, white lab-coat hung over his thin shoulders as he mixed various substances together in beakers, his parents eyes following his movements carefully.

It had surprised him, upon going to school, that other people didn't live quite like Hamish did. He observed their mothers and fathers come the final bell, and marveled at the sense of routine and stability. Hamish Watson-Holmes wasn't jealous, though – far from it – and he would smile widely from his position on his father's shoulders, the detective running about recklessly as his partner followed, halfway between laughing and shouting for them to stop it this instant, before Hamish broke his neck.

Hamish loved his family.

Studying the crayon portrait, his eyes fell on the rounded figure of his Uncle Mycroft, complete with his umbrella and his very favourite Detective Inspector. Hamish smiled before he could stop himself, letting his mind wander as it takes him back again, grateful to be anywhere but here.

...

Hamish was nine when he'd finally been (officially) allowed to accompany his parents to work for the very first time. He'd asked so many questions, curious about the job that forced his father to eat nothing, refuse his body sleep, and turn him into a machine filled with facts, deductions, and biting insults. He always wondered about the kind of work that could bring out his dad's excited smile, mirrored by his partner as they fled the flat at a moment's notice.

Sometimes, when he was alone, Hamish would sometimes even borrow his dad's laptop (his passwords were so easy to guess), and read his blog late into the night. He recognized the more exciting ones from when he was small, Dad having altered them slightly before presenting them as bedtime stories, which Hamish always paid rapt attention to. The Adventures of Sherlock and John, the Detective and his Doctor – they were Hamish's very favourites.

So, at the age of nine, and no Mrs. Hudson downstairs to pawn him off on, Hamish had excitedly accompanied his parents to the crime scene, to mixed reactions. Father had been thrilled, knowing Hamish was quite clever and would enjoy his impossible deductions. It would be just like his favourite bedtime stories come to life. Dad wasn't pleased, to say the least.

"You can't just go around showing a nine-year-old dead bodies!" he'd insisted as they neared their destination, Hamish pressed between his parents in the back of a cab "You'll scar the poor boy for life!"

"I was seven when I snuck into my first crime scene," was Father's quiet reply, the words immediately attacked as they escaped his lips.

"And you turned out just fine," Hamish's dad retorted with sarcasm. Father smiled as if he'd been complimented.

"He'll be fine," the younger man assured his partner while running his long fingers through Hamish's curls "It's not like he doesn't already secretly watch those stupid crime dramas on the telly every time we're out." Hamish's cheeks flushed with pink, but he didn't confirm nor deny his father's accusations. Father and son both knew he'd seen far more than that on a few occasions, but now really wasn't the time to bring it up to the grumpy ex-army doctor who squirmed nervously at the thought of what lay ahead.

The arrived at the scene quickly after, and Hamish's first through was that it resembled nothing like it did on TV. It was both calmer and more chaotic. There were a lot more people than he'd expected (how many did they really need to study a dead body in an empty alleyway?), and very few of them were dressed like any police officers Hamish knew. They all went about their business quietly, each person clearly knowing their task and worked steadily to accomplish it.

The body of a dead woman, her limp form sprawled out on the pavement face-first, was surrounded by a dozen different people. Some wore full-body suits as they examined her closely, others stood back to take notes while some were questioning a few nearby residents, and a few simply stood by, chatting happily despite being in the presence of the dead.

Hamish instinctively gathered the fabric of his father's coat in his fist as they stepped under the bright yellow tape and into the circle of adults that strode importantly around the scene (even though he wasn't nervous, for he was nine years old, and certainly not a child anymore). He followed closely as his parents made their way to the cold corpse without hesitation.

They were met by a familiar man with grey hair before they could reach her however, a man they greeted with friendly smile from his dad, and a curt nod of his father's head. The grey-haired man's gaze fell on to Hamish then, whom he presented with a warm smile.

"Hey, Hamish. Haven't seen you in a while." the man said, glancing back up at Hamish's parents. "Haven't seen him since he was what, six? Seven?" John nodded, though the muscles in his face were taut in distress with his son so close to the deceased woman lying in the alleyway. Hamish smiled up at the man, eased by his friendly air. His studied his familiar face, and the name that went along with it came back. Greg.

"Hello, Greg." he smiled up at the taller man.

"Nice to see you again, Hamish" he said sincerely, before adding jokingly "But that's Detective Inspector Lestrade to you, Mr. Watson-Holmes" Hamish allowed a small giggle to escape his mouth before sobering up. Despite what his parents so often did, it wasn't good to giggle at a crime scene.

"So, how's Mycroft's diet coming along?" Father asked suddenly with a faintly amused expression, causing the DI's face to turn bright pink. Hamish looked up in confusion. Clever or not, there were just some things that still went over the nine-year-old's head.

"Uncle My?" he asked innocently, interest piqued, bewildered when Lestrade's cheeks darkened to red.

"Uh, fine," he muttered awkwardly, not willing to have this conversation with a kid, let alone Sherlock as well, who was having trouble hiding how utterly entertained he was by the DI's discomfort. Hamish's eyes widened in sudden realization, sifting through the dim memories of his younger, more unobservant self.

"Oh," he breathed, everything suddenly making sense "I remember, you're Mycroft's boyfriend!" He stated it loudly, enough that every officer on the scene looked over to their small group with mild interest. Detective Inspector Lestrade's whole face turned a deep, beet red, Hamish watching as his father finally let out the burst laughter he'd been holding.

As if summoned by the detective's deep chuckle, a woman with dark skin and a head of long, tightly curled brown hair strolled over. Her high-heels clicked steadily against the pavement as she approached, a smile twisting her lips upwards.

"Hello, Freak." she greeted Father with an unpleasant smile that didn't resemble Greg's warm, friendly one in the least. It more of a smirk, the kind that forced her nose upwards into a near sneer. Father met her expressions with cold eyes, but otherwise ignored her. Only then did the woman notice what was essentially a smaller copy of the great detective, nervously clutching at Sherlock's sleeve. Hamish suddenly felt a comforting hand on his shoulder – a quick look revealed it to be Dad's – which squeezed him reassuringly as the woman approached. She lowered herself to Hamish's level, bending at the waist with her hand on her bare knees, before speaking.

"So, you must be little Freak Jr. then, eh?" her tone was patronizing, as the sergeant gave the nine-year-old that smile of hers that sent a small shiver down Hamish's spine, the grip on his shoulder tightening almost to the point of pain. Her sweet breath tickled Hamish's face uncomfortably as she spoke, but he fought the impulse to shrink back behind his father's coat. "Just perfect little copy of your father, aren't you?"

With those words, the sergeant should've been expecting what fell next from Hamish's mouth, the line delivered with an innocent smile. "Did you enjoy your sleep over last night with than man from forensics over there?" His nine-year-old self asked with false politeness, gesturing over to a dark-haired man in one of those full-length cloth suits (complete with booties), who knelt with his body bent over the deceased. "Though, I'm guessing you did more than just sleep."

The sergeant's sneer dropped from her face, her eyes widening in shock and rage. She shook slightly, shoulders tensed. She was unable to let out the tension, to find any sort of release, for the source of her anger was still only a nine-year-old. A nine-year-old who continued to meet her gaze innocently, as if he'd simply commented on her outfit.

"How – how did you…?" she demanded, straightening up, now towering over Hamish intimidatingly. Hamish raised his chin in an effort to hide the fear her fiery gaze had sent burning into his belly. Her hard glare fell then on Father, who was looking oddly proud, a smug smirk on his face. "Why would you tell him that?" Sherlock shot her his best are you really that much of an idiot? look, scoffing as he replied.

"Yes, because I sit around discussing the affairs between my coworkers with my son, Donovan," he replied with heavy sarcasm, contempt clear in his expression as he stared down at the sergeant. To her credit, Donovan did not cower under his glare, which Hamish himself had been at the receiving end of too many times and knew its deadly potency. "He just observes! Just like me, indeed, as you so obviously pointed out. Though, like his other father, he also has no patience for your insults!"

It was then that the most unexpected of things happened, one his dad never would never have thought he'd live to see. With a whoosh of his coat, the great detective spun round on his heels, grabbing Hamish's hand roughly as he strode away from the crime scene without another word, pulling the boy from his partner's hold on his shoulder. After a moment of shock that left the ex-army doctor blinking stupidly, he jogged after his partner and their son with a murmured apology to Lestrade. The three spoke not another word as Father hailed a cab, fleeing the case for good.

Later, once again sandwiched between his parents in the backseat of a cab as they returned home to Baker St., Hamish leaned against his father's side. He pressed his face against the coat that smelled comfortingly of home (of tea, tobacco, and experiments gone awry), peering at the screen of his father's mobile phone. He sat, texting furiously, and Hamish managed to make out the tiny, typed out message before it was sent with a hard press of the 'enter' key.

I have to admit, I thought calling a nine-year-old 'Freak' would be below even Donovan. Apparently, I was mistaken. If you so desperately need my help in the future, refrain from having your sergeant insult my son. Better yet, make certain I never have to see her again, I might not be able to restrict myself to simply shouting at her next time. -SH

They received no new cases for nearly two weeks before they were finally called in again. The great detective and his blogger weren't surprised in the slightest at the absence of one face in particular, a certain annoying, female whine missing from the din of the crime scene.

…

Hamish brought his finger to the page, letting it brush the waxy crayon. His hand trailed over a wobbly line that appeared to be Mycroft's umbrella. He laughed softly – not quite loud enough for Dad to hear on the other side of the wall – finding it amusing that, even at six years old, he had figured out that the two were inseparable. A man and his umbrella.

He stared at the picture a while longer, of Mycroft's plump form on the paper, letting his mind wander.

…

Hamish's head hit the pavement with a crack, his vision blurred for an agonizing second before it cleared, the seven-year-old blinking away the tears of pain that had sprung involuntarily to his eyes. He struggled to pull himself upright into a sitting position, propping himself up on his skinny elbows as the world tilting sickeningly. He swallowed back the vomit.

"Do you have anything to say now, Freak?" a cruel, high-pitched voice taunted from the edge of his hazy sight. He heard scuffs of shoes against the ground as two pairs of feet stalked towards where he lay on the ground, their fuzzy images becoming clearer as they approached.

Hamish tried to reply – with a biting comment, a clever retort, or yet another incredibly personal deduction, he wasn't sure – but his head swam, facts and words jumbling in his mind. Only a huff of air escaped his lips as he struggled to catch the breath the hard ground had stolen from him.

He peered upwards at the two forms looming over them, squinting through the haze in his brain. One was James Anderson (unrelated to the Anderson his father worked with that he always seemed to complain about, though he was certainly stupid enough, according to the consulting detective's many rants), a thick boy two years his senior, with his large head and dull-looking eyes. Hamish searched him up and down. Even without his father's refined deduction skills, he could read his life story on his face.

Suffers from childhood obesity, and diabetes.

Raised by a single mother.

Father left after a nasty divorce.

Currently failing school.

The other blurry outline of a boy belonged to Joel Masters, with his bright, cruel eyes and mess of dark hair that spiked up every which way. He searched the older boy's tall body as he stood over him, information flooding into his clearing brain.

Wealthy parents.

Only child.

Alcoholic father, beaten regularly.

Snuck a few sips of whiskey last week from the cupboard without anyone knowing.

Still sitting on the pavement beneath James and Joel, Hamish lifted his chin as proudly as he could manage, trying to show them that he wasn't afraid, that he wouldn't be bullied like this. His shaking fingers and his wide, frightened eyes gave him away.

"What – what are you going to do? Beat me?" Hamish asked shakily, glancing around the schoolyard for anyone who could help. The other students played on, continuing about their business, ignoring Hamish's silent cries for help. "Like your father does to you every night?"

Hamish watched Joel's expression falter a bit before an angry spark lit his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, intimidatingly, before replying with a harsh whisper.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Joel peered down at the younger boy, pinning him to the pavement with his eyes. "I wonder where you get it from, seeing as your father's nothing but a fake." Hamish's vision flashed red for a split second, anger beginning to unfurl in the pit of his clenched stomach.

"Yeah, he's a fake!" James repeated stupidly with a loud chuckle, backing up his partner in crime with a smirk "Mum says he does those crimes himself, then solves them just to show off. He tried to kill himself once, Mum told me, when his secret hit the papers."

Hamish's blood boiled. He had heard the story before, the one of the great detective's suicide. Father had told him a tale of riddles, deception, friendship, and a clever plan. He knew other people had seen it differently, a tragedy seeped with lies and shame – the detective's dirty secret revealed. These boys knew nothing of his father, accepting the facts second-hand from their parents. The opinions of the ill-informed shouldn't bother him, but they did. Hamish's eyes narrowed.

Before he could act, before Hamish could defend the consulting detective's name with a biting comment or a punch to the face, the seven-year-old's attention was attracted by an image settling in the corner of his eye. He turned, smiling as he took in the sleek, black vehicle that had slowed to a stop on the street on the other side of the fenced-in school ground. A moment later, a police cruiser had pulled up as well, parking behind the expensive car. Hamish broke into a grin.

"What's so funny, Freak?" Joel pressed, the confidence in his stare wavering at Hamish's brightening mood. When Hamish didn't answer, James jerked his large leg, his trainers connecting with Hamish's ribs. The younger boy hissed at the pain, wincing as he curled in on himself, shutting his eyes. He heard the sound of car doors opening and closing in the distance. Two sets of footsteps, and a clunk of metal approaching the three of them. They stopped, presumably reaching the fence.

"Is there a problem here, boys?" a bored-sounding (though somehow authoritative) drawl called from its position on the other side of the chain link. Hamish forced his eyes open, his watery gaze falling upon two men. He recognized them easily. His uncle, Mycroft Holmes had been the one who'd spoken, his umbrella firmly grasped between his fingers, holding it like a cane. Closely beside him stood a tanned man with greying hair, his mouth a hard line – Uncle Greg.

Joel and James glanced over at the two men with disinterest. They were, after all, on the other side of the fence. They failed to make the connections – from their vehicles, to their clothes, to the way they were dressed – that would lead them to the conclusion that they meant business.

"I don't see how that's your business, Mister" Joel replied with a sneer, the fence between them overdosing him with overconfidence. James smirked at his side, nodding vigorously in agreement. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, his eyes cold.

"I do," he informed them simply, examining his umbrella almost absently "Seeing as that's my nephew you've got on the ground there." He gestured casually to Hamish with the tip of his umbrella. "Though, I'm sure young Mr. Watson-Holmes can resolve this conflict on his own, I wouldn't be above exploiting my rather… close relationship with this Detective Inspector to ensure it does not happen again."

Though his uncle had spoken the threat calmly, without raising his voice in the slightest, both boys paled in response, as if he'd shouted at them. Mycroft's subtle air of authority had finally crept into them, and they cowered, slowly backing away until they'd disappeared into the crowd of children playing.

Hamish struggled into a standing position, rubbing his sore middle, before walking to join his uncle and Greg at the chain link barrier. His thin, pale hands clutched the metal, peering up at the two men.

"I could've handled that myself, you know," Hamish pouted, brushing loose dust and gravel off his trousers, not liking being babied one bit "I don't need you watching over me when I'm at school." Mycroft's lips quirked up in an almost smile.

"I'm sure," he replied, and Hamish wasn't quite sure if he was being sarcastic or not "but your father and I have a sort of… agreement." Hamish sulked, not quite helping to prove his capability and maturity to the man in front of him. "I witnessed your little scene on the CCTV."

"Thank you," Hamish muttered rather reluctantly as the two men turned to leave. Before he had reached his car however, Mycroft spun round, twirling his umbrella with an amused smirk on his face.

"By the way, Hamish," he added, "Have you reconsidered my offer, by any chance?" Hamish rolled his eyes, a small smile creeping up his face at the words.

"No matter how many toys I'm promised," the seven-year-old said, "I won't spy on father for you, Uncle My." Mycroft sighed before turning back around.

"It was worth a try," he called over his shoulder "You are definitely a Watson as much as you are a Holmes, Hamish." He stepped into the dark interior of his vehicle, disappearing down the street as quickly as he had appeared.

…

Hamish ran his finger along the crudely drawn family portrait, his finger passing over his two uncles, resting on his honorary aunt. She was more of an aunt than Dad's sister, at least, and seemed pleased with the title. Hamish recalled the warm, friendly smile and nervous laugh of his Aunt Molly, and immediately found himself falling into yet another memory.

…

"Where are we going?" he remembered asking, in the high-pitched whine of his eight-year-old self's voice. He fidgeted in his seat, staring out the cab window as London went rushing past in a blur of grey. He turned then to Father, to whom his question was directed, pouting as the older man ignored him in favour of whoever was currently texting him. His long fingers flew over his phone's keypad in a blur of digits, oblivious to the word around him, for once. "Father!"

Sherlock peered up at the small cry with feigned interest, taking in the comical scene of his miniature sulking on the seat beside him. Sending one last text, he stuffed his Blackberry back into his coat pocket, turning his attention back to his son.

"We're going to St. Bart's," he answered calmly, turning to look out his own window "I require the mortician's help with a case." Hamish bit his lip nervously at the words, twiddling his fingers in obvious discomfort.

"Dad doesn't like me being around dead bodies," he reminded Father, as if he thought he'd forgotten. The detective merely smiled, returning his gaze to his son. He started working his fingers into his black gloves as they drew nearer to their destination.

"Yes, but he's off on that reunion with some of his military friends," Father pointed out, folding his gloved hands on his lap "It'll be our secret. Besides, I know very well you want to see Aunt Molly." Despite the hesitation to deceive his dad, Hamish brightened at the mortician's name. With a barely repressed giddy grin, the consulting detective and his son strode into the hospital.

"Molly!" Hamish shouted excitedly upon entering the morgue, his face brightening at the sight of the woman standing in the back, eyes intent on the clipboard she held. She lifted her head at the sound of her name, smiling as she saw the dark-haired boy rush up towards her. He wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her into an unexpected hug. Molly let out a small squeak in surprise, before ruffling Hamish's hair affectionately.

"What are you doing here, Hamish?" she asked with a hint of worry colouring her tone, though her gaze fell upon the boy's father standing in the doorway as she spoke. Hamish released her, looking up at his honorary aunt with a grin.

"John's out of town at the moment," Hamish heard Father answer from behind him as he approached, hands deep in the pockets of his coat "And I require access to some cadavers. For a case, of course." He smiled politely, in that way he knew would get Molly to do as he wished. Even settled down (or as settled as Sherlock Holmes was capable of) with a son, he still wasn't above fiddling with Molly's emotions as he pleased.

Molly raised an eyebrow, knowing fully what was going on, but still effected by the hypnotic qualities of those eyes, those silvery, blue-grey orbs she so often lost herself in. She shook her head briefly, but forcefully, dispelling the thoughts before they settled in her brain. Not only is he gay, but he's married, for God's sake! She cleared her throat loudly before speaking.

"Why couldn't you just drop Hamish off somewhere first?" she inquired, gesturing over to the eight-year-old, who had made his way to the other side of the room, reading the name tags of the deceased on every drawer with a curious expression. "Couldn't Mrs. Hudson watch him? The morgue's not exactly the best place to have him running around."

"Mrs. Hudson's still… otherwise occupied," Hamish heard Father reply as he studied some shiny instruments on the counter with wide eyes, the detective's voice heavy with uncharacteristic discomfort as it carried across the room. Hamish could almost hear Molly desperately backtracking at the words, trying to spit the figurative foot from her mouth.

"Oh, that's right… sorry," Molly stuttered, her cheeks coloured with an embarrassed blush as she starting to nervously toy with the ponytail that hung down her chest, twirling the brown strands in her trembling fingers. Her eyes fell to her clipboard again awkwardly, uselessly flipping through the pages without absorbing the words upon them. "So, who do you need to see, again?"

After nearly a half an hour, Molly gave up and essentially let the consulting detective loose in the morgue, studying body after body as he pleased. Molly sat quietly in the corner, watching as Hamish paced around the room, reading the small, instructional posters on the walls and examining every surface with the same intensity as the man who shared his steel-blue eyes. Though, while the great detective's eyes were cold and calculating, Molly remarked that Hamish's were filled with wonder and endless curiosity, like a blind mind who had woken up one morning to find that he could suddenly see.

While she kept a worried eye on the man currently making a mess of her morgue, Molly happily provided Hamish with the names of everything he found, filling him with information about procedures and her job in general, and giving the tiny detective the names of the silver tools he held in his curious fingers while praying desperately that he wouldn't cut himself. The boy seemed genuinely fascinated, and it wasn't long before he asked the question Molly had been dreading since he ran in.

"Can you show me?" Hamish asked excitedly, flashing Molly that same manipulative grin he'd learned from his father, no doubt. While Sherlock's grin made Molly flush and stutter, Hamish's was beyond adorable, and would made stronger women than her crumble at his will. Molly briefly worried about the poor girl who would find herself at the receiving end of that smile sometime in the future. She wouldn't know what had hit her. Hamish observed the silent war behind her eyes until Molly sighed audibly in defeat.

"Fine, go after your father," she replied with a half-smile, gesturing to the other side of the room where Sherlock stood, bent over a corpse much too comfortably to be normal "It's not like I can stop you anyway." Hamish grinned, as though she'd supported his wish whole-heartedly, before racing off to his father's side.

"Whatcha doing?" Hamish inquired as he stood on his tip-toes, resting his chin on metal roll-out surface, where a dead man lay in a crisp, white bag. The compartment containing the dead man was rather high, coming halfway up his father's chest as he studied the cadaver. Hamish tried to peer up at what he was doing, but failed miserably to get a good glimpse. He pouted, looking up at his father for some sort of solution.

"I'm looking to see what kind of stress smoking puts on the heart," he mumbled absently, Hamish wincing as he heard squishing sounds as his father's hand disappeared into the chest of the deceased. He struggled for a better look before sulking off.

Molly, absorbed in her papers once more, didn't even lift her head as Hamish returned to her side of the room, rifling through random things with an odd determination. He searched through the contents of every cupboard as she worked her way silently through her paperwork.

Moments later, he returned to his father's side with a newly-emptied cardboard box (its contents now strewn across one of the counters) with a triumphant grin. Placing it upon the cold, tile floor, Hamish stepped up tentatively. The cardboard bent under his weight, but held firm. Hamish smiled, leaning over the body alongside his father.

Sherlock ignored him as his gloved hands rummaged around in the dead man's open chest. Hamish swallowed back the bile in his throat as his took in the sight in front of him, Father searching the man's chest cavity. Though the scene in front of him made his stomach turn, Hamish was oddly intrigued. He searched the man's insides for organs he had learned from reading one of Dad's medical textbooks late into the night.

Hamish reached across the table to point out a blob of red, fleshy tissue he found familiar, the question "Hey, is that the -" starting to form before he was abruptly cut off. The box underneath his feet had collapsed as he shifted his weight, and Hamish – suddenly unbalanced – was thrown backwards. With a cry, his chin slammed the metal table hard, the impact bringing tears to the young boy's eyes. Hamish's body hit the tiles with a soft thud, one of his feet still stuck in the overturned box.

Father spun around at the sound, his gloves still covered in blood and bits of tissue as he stared down at the floor with a surprised look on his face. Hamish look up at him with watery eyes, and a bewildered expression that's would've been comical if not for the bruise blooming on his chin, along with an angry-looking cut that had started to drip blood all over his white shirt. The genius was reduced to moving his lips with no sound coming out for a few moments, completely lost as to what he should do, before crying out.

"Molly!" he shouted across the room, the mortician immediately looking up to meet his gaze. Dropping her clipboard on the counter, the mortician ran over to where Hamish lay on the floor, tears now streaming steadily down his pale cheeks before he could fight them back. Getting over the shocked confusion, Hamish watched through watery eyes as Father shook off his bloodied gloves, bending over to hoist his son up by the armpits. Hamish stood shakily, trying to blink back his tears as his father's worried, panicked voice reached his ears. "Are you okay, Hamish? Where does it hurt?"

Hamish tried to stop the tears that gushed stupidly from his eyes without his permission. He attempted to hide those silly waterworks that had caused the almost hysterical expression on his father's face. He didn't want to get fussed over, despite how much it stung, and clearly his childish display wasn't helping a bit. He blinked rapidly.

"'M fine," was his mumbled reply, before his wince gave him away. Knowing he couldn't hide from his father's rapidly deducing stare, Hamish allowed himself to admit with a sob "My head hurts." His whimper sent another pang of anxiety through the detective, who looked pleadingly at Molly for help. Molly seemed taken aback by the uncharacteristic flood of emotions in the detective's usually cold stare. Worry, confusion, panic – they were present in his gaze for all to see.

"What do I do?" Hamish heard his father ask Molly with only a hint of reluctance. What the boy didn't know was that it wasn't his usual aversion towards asking for help, to appear inferior, but rather an unwillingness to worry Hamish that his father – the man who knew everything – did not know how to fix this. "This is John's area, not mine! Molly, what do I do?"

Surprised by his honest admission to having no clue for the first time Molly had observed in their long friendship, she struggled with her words for a few moments before replying, though she still stumbled over them when they finally tumbled from her mouth.

"Uh, it doesn't look too, too serious, um -" she gently lifted Hamish's chin, and saw as his face tighten in pain "We'll just have to – er – stop the bleeding, I guess. It'll bruise horribly, and he'll most definitely have a sore neck, but he should be okay, I think." She carefully gathered Hamish's hand in her own, leading him across the room with his Father in tow, following them with a concerned look Molly had only ever seen in the presence of his blogger. "Let's take you down to my office, okay, Hamish?"

Hamish nodded slowly, biting down on his lip at the soreness in his neck as he did so. "Okay," Hamish muttered instead, and let himself be steered into a smaller room by Molly's hand entwined in his, and his father's reassuring hand resting on his shoulder, long fingers twitching anxiously.

"And… there!" said Molly proudly after pressing a Band-Aid firmly to Hamish's chin, the boy spressing a whimper under the soft pressure of her fingers. Hamish sat with his feet dangling of her cluttered desk, and the mortician took a step back to admire her handiwork. She fought back a giggle at the sight of the bright pink, heart-covered bandage (they were the only ones left) that covered the chin of what looked exactly like what she imagined Sherlock would've at that age, give or take a few hints of Watson genes in the boy's features.

"It still hurts…" Hamish complained, rubbing his tender chin with his palm. Molly gave him a kind smile.

"That's because it hasn't been kissed better, silly!" she answered lightly, pressing his lips to the bruising area on his face despite the eight-year-old's protests. He glowered at her much like his father would in a similar situation, and Molly forced back another giggle that had started to bubble in her throat. Hamish folded his arms over his chest.

"It still hurts." He stated again with a scowl, which clashed horribly with the girly bandage covering his chin. Molly responded by shooting a glare at Sherlock, who still hovered protectively over his son with a foreign, agitated expression. He met her stare with a raised eyebrow, instantly deducing what she was hinting at.

"I don't see how that would help…" Hamish heard Father trail off beside him, as he perched himself up the corner of Molly's desk on his right. Aunt Molly narrowed her eyes, and the sound of his father's heavy sigh filled the room, followed by a murmured "Fine."

Father scooted over to his side, and he felt himself lean up against him without much thought, pressing his face – still wet with tears and smears of blood – up against his shirt. To his surprise, Father didn't object, instead winding his long fingers into his son's hair. He massaged his head comfortingly, causing Hamish to nuzzle closer, closing his eyes.

He felt a slight pressure on his forehead, and Hamish knew instinctively that his father had lowered his head to plant a soft kiss there, just below his hairline. His thoughts still hazy from banging his head, and his shoulders sagging as the tension left his body, Hamish started to drift in and out of consciousness, careful fingers rubbing slow circles on his back.

"You remember me saying that this would be our secret?" Hamish heard his father whisper from what seemed like far away, "Let's try to keep it that, okay? John would kill me if he got word. Though, I suppose I do deserve it." Hamish gave a small shake of his head before drifting off, regretting the action immediately as a dull spasm of pain shot down his neck. Though in answer to which of his question was unclear.

"I love you, Father," he managed to murmur against the detective's coat before nodding off for good. He must've have been carried home after that, because he awoke much later back in his own bed, to the sight of his father fast asleep in the chair in the corner.

…

Hamish's outstretched finger passed over the empty space between Aunt Molly and Mrs. Hudson, the blank space somehow occupied by his actual Aunt Harry, who seemed to glare at him from the paper, angry at being left out. He could almost hear her obnoxiously loud, drunken slur yelling in his head, and it sent a shiver down his spine. He was reluctantly thrust into another memory, one that made him tremble visibly at the thought of it. Still, anything was better than here.

...

Christmas had always been Hamish's favourite time of year. During that wonderful week between Christmas and New Year's, there was an unspoken agreement that work would be ignored for those precious days in 221B. Hamish always smiled in disbelief as he heard his father's phone ring and beep constantly, but never drawn from the pocket it lie trapped in for most of the holiday season.

Dad had made it tradition since Hamish was young for them all to sit down and watch the Doctor Who Christmas special when it aired, even after Father's constant protests. After a few years, the consulting detective had eventually given up his pleas to put a stop to the ridiculous science fiction show. He sat down on the couch with the rest of them, using the time to curl up beside his partner like a giant cat, and get some much needed sleep in this rare day off from thinking.

By the end of the night, they were all fast asleep in the sitting room, the television still alight with some random Christmas film none of them had stayed awake long enough to see. Hamish, sprawled out in his father's chair, his dad's Union Jack pillow clutched to his chest as he dozed. John, sitting on the couch with his head lolling back, snoring softly. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's dark curls, the detective stretched out along the length of the couch, his head resting on his blogger's lap. Their faces both slack with the calming haze that clouded their brains in unconsciousness.

It was the days that came after that that Hamish dreaded. It was in those days that Aunt Harry was known to call, mostly to check in on her brother, but also to rid their fridge of any alcohol they may have, and mutter scathing comments about Sherlock under her breath. The whole family openly loathed the time spent with Dad's sister, and it was one of the few times Sherlock wished Mycroft would request they have a holiday gathering with him instead.

Aunt Harry decided to stay at Baker St. for the whole weekend following the holiday one year, when Hamish was ten. She was visibly drunk when she staggered in with her bags, already "into the holiday spirits" as she herself had put it with a chuckle. She demanded a bed to herself, like every year, forcing Hamish's parents to once again sleep rather uncomfortably in the other room. They usually slept on the couch, bodies pressed tightly together, mostly to piss Harry off.

"Ugh, get a room!" muttered Harry grouchily as she emerged from the bedroom, passing the two men on the couch on her way to the kitchen. She sent them a glare with her bloodshot eyes as she passed, nursing a hangover, and rubbing her forehead as if that would somehow stop the looming migraine.

Sherlock bit back the comment he'd been about to utter (reminding her that she, in fact, had taken said bedroom), but held his tongue at the sight of Hamish, perched up on his seat at the kitchen table, stirring his Froot Loops with a tired expression on his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Hamish watched as Father just held his blogger more firmly against him, pressing his lips to his greying blond hair as he settled back into the sagging cushions.

Harry glared at Hamish across the table as she waited for the kettle to boil, rubbing her temples slowly using her index fingers. The Harry Watson his dad had told him stories about could not be seen here, and Hamish only saw the pessimistic alcoholic she'd become during his own lifetime. She wasn't the woman who'd left kind messages on some of Dad's older blog posts, suggesting they get it touch, commenting enthusiastically about his new job. No, she was the alcoholic who'd left her wife in a storm of a heated argument induced by a fair bit of booze.

Hamish was aware that she was Dad's older sister, but the toll life had taken on her made her seem much older than she actually was. Her face was heavily lined, and prematurely darkened, her mouth stuck in a permanent scowl as her green eyes, so unlike her brother's, burned into his. Hamish couldn't see the girl his dad had spoken so fondly about, the sister he'd looked up to.

"So I heard you skipped a grade of school recently," Harry rasped, her voice rough from sleep as she spoke to Hamish from across the table "How many teachers did that uncle of yours have to pay off to make that happen?" Hamish lowered his gaze, ignoring her as he pretended to be utterly engrossed by the soggy bowl of brightly coloured cereal in front of him. He prodded a sticky clump with his spoon.

"Oi, I'm talking to you!" His aunt reminded him loudly, forcing Hamish to look reluctantly up from his cereal "You might want to treat your biological mother with a bit of respect." Hamish narrowed his eyes at her, forgetting his breakfast in front of him.

"I don't have a mother!" the ten-year-old retorted, with a hint of pride in his voice at the fact. Harry laughed a cruel laugh, acquired from years of drinking and not caring about a damn thing.

"God, if it wasn't for the 'do you have going on, I would never have marked you down as a Holmes," she smirked, her expression causing Hamish to shrink back involuntarily, the sour reek of alcohol on her breath causing Hamish's nose to wrinkle in disgust. "Didn't get your father's brains, did you? How did you manage to skip a grade, again?" Hamish fought the impulse to sink even lower in his seat, feeling strangely small.

"I don't have a mother!" He protested once more, rather weakly. He knew she was telling the truth, and he'd even heard his parents admit as much when they thought he wasn't listening, as if it was some dirty secret. Though the woman in front of him greatly resembled her brother in the other room, she was most definitely not the same. No matter how many genes Hamish shared with the woman in front of him, she was most definitely not his mother, in the same way that John Watson was his dad, Molly Hooper was his aunt, and how Mrs. Hudson was practically his grandmother.

It was that very moment, peering up at his hungover, biological mother over his soggy breakfast, Hamish decided his own personal definition of family. His own explanation definitely did not include Harry Watson, who only came around during holidays to nick some spirits. Hamish's family currently lay curled up the couch together in the other room, holding each other close as they drifted back into unconsciousness.

Hamish's family was made up of people who loved him. A large family that included the world's only consulting detective, an ex-army medic turned blogger, a mortician with a sweet smile and nervous giggle, a landlady who insisted she wasn't a housekeeper, nor a babysitter, a detective inspector who neared retirement, and a man who was – all by himself – the entire British government.

Harry was oblivious to the boy's sudden revelation as they continued to shoot daggers at each other with their eyes, his aunt's own bloodshot gaze meeting the pale blue of Hamish's. She spat more facts about how he had come into this world, but Hamish ignored her. He watched with a smile as her jaw wagged with what he correctly assumed were insults, Hamish not getting a word of it.

...

The smirk that had crept onto Hamish's face at the memory of his minor epiphany fell suddenly, his eyes meeting the brown-haired stick figure dressed in rose. He bit his lip, wincing a bit at the pain as he fought this particular memory back, the dark shadow he felt creeping at the back of his brain.

He reluctantly surrendered to its prodding behind his eyes, feeling the memory crawl out of the cage he'd locked it in, down in the basement of his Mind Palace, like his father had shown him. It burst from its chains, stretching its limbs that had lied dormant for years. He saw the dark shape of the event flash a sinister grin before wreaking havoc on his mind, seeking revenge.

The monster consumed him whole.

…

Hamish's head fell back, hitting the wall behind him as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

White.

He let his head loll lazily to the side, his vision blurred slightly from the motion. Behind the curtain of messy hair that had fallen over his eyes, he glared down the hallway with a groan.

White.

Hamish hated hospitals, not just when he was the one confined to an uncomfortable bed with metal rails, unable to move while random strangers fussed over him. No, Hamish just hated the atmosphere. It was too clean, for one thing. It was oddly bare (and startlingly white), smelling strongly of every cleaning product under the sun (Hamish was sure Father would be able to name every one after only a whiff), much unlike the ever-present clutter, disarray, and generally unkempt flat he called home. The neatness was unnatural and, Hamish admitted with a shiver, a little unsettling.

It was also full of sick people. Hamish could almost feel all the unnamed illnesses swirling in the air, ghosting over the bare skin of his arms, another added every time he heard a muffled cough from somewhere nearby. Hamish wasn't afraid of germs, but he certainly wasn't open to the idea of being infected by some strange virus that had been born from the cocktail of pathogens mingling in the air around him. He grimaced.

"It'll only be a bit longer, Hamish," he heard Dad assure him quietly from his position on the bench beside him, misreading the expression on the eleven-year-old's face as one of impatience. "We'll be let in any moment now." Hamish nodded, twiddling his fingers absently as his eyes continued to scan the hall where they sat, searching for some small detail to distract him.

It was unnecessary, however, as the two suddenly stood up, the door across from them pushed open. A middle-aged woman dressed in white (expertly camouflaged to blend into the walls around her) emerged, pen between her teeth, gnawing at the plastic cap. Hamish and his dad immediately invaded her personal space, rising quickly from the bench to meet her.

She smiled warmly, but the kind of smile obtained from years of practice, and not the presence of any actual sentiment. She was exhausted, Hamish could tell that much easily, trying to stumble half-conscious through the day, putting on a brave, happy face for patient after patient. Patients who had it far worse than her, and she reminded herself of that fact several times a day, judging by her strained smile. She peered at her notes, flipping through the pages quickly before speaking, her voice blanketed by forced friendliness.

"She's up, and I assure you she's not in any pain," the woman reassured the pair of them, her voice slightly rough from a lack of sleep. "She appears to be doing better, but I don't want to fill you with false hope. It simply seems to be just a good day, but I'm afraid it's inevitable. It'd give her a week, tops, and I know other doctors have told you as much." Her voice was calm as she delivered the words, the absence of emotion unsettling. "You can go in and see her if you'd like, she's been asking for you since she opened her eyes."

Hamish watched as Dad thanked the nurse with a rigid smile before slipping into the hospital room, following quietly after him.

Mrs. Hudson's face split into a friendly smile when the two of them entered, distracting Hamish from the rest of the picture for just a second as he returned it with his own grin. Her face was thinner than he remembered, her hands unnaturally bony-looking where they rested on the white sheet covering her lap. He skin was paler than usual, her hair a limp, dirty brown. She looked sickly, and the sight made Hamish's heart sink.

Not long now, that sad voice in the back of his mind reminded him, darting away again before it could be punished. She doesn't have much longer, it called.

"Boys!" she exclaimed happily, her voice cracking with disuse. Hamish immediately went to her bedside, and she ran her skinny fingers through his curls as he plunked himself down on the chair beside her. He leaned into her touch, guiltily seeking comfort from the woman who probably needed it the most.

Bits of hushed conversations rose to the front of Hamish's mind, bits like terminal illness, weeks to live, and funeral arrangements whispering their ugly truths in his ear. He pushed them away for now, shoving them in some obscure closet in his mind, focusing instead on the feeling of withered fingers tugging gently through his hair. Hamish sighed, oddly relaxed and content as the sad reality of the situation prodded at the edges of his happy bubble, poking it in an attempt to make it pop.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Hudson?" he heard Dad ask tentatively behind him, the doctor knowing very well the seriousness of her condition (far better than Hamish did), but believing it polite to ask anyway. He knew it was agony, he knew it hadn't changed, he knew it wouldn't go away – but he inquired anyway, as if hoping her answer would be different this time.

"Better, now that you boys are here," she smiled, sugar-coating it like one would for a young child. Hamish saw his dad smile, touched by the words, letting them soothe him despite his medical knowledge screaming the truths of the situation in his ear. "What's Sherlock up to? Another murder?" She spoke those last words with a fond smile.

"Yeah, but he should be here soon," Dad assured her, and his words seemed to brighten her mood considerably "This one won't take much longer. Last I checked, he'd rated it at about a five."

Hamish closed his eyes as Mrs. Hudson continued to massage his scalp as she conversed cheerily and, for one peaceful moment, Hamish could almost imagine this entire conversation occurring back at Baker St. For one brief moment, all the worry had drained from the atmosphere, filled with the laughter and warmth of home, of family. Hamish opened his eyes, and was almost disappointed when those damned white walls greeted him once more.

The silence was broken by the ping of a mobile, and Hamish followed his dad's phone up from his jeans' pocket to up near the doctor's face. He scanned the screen quickly before pocketing the phone. "Sherlock's on his way."

They retreated back into their own thoughts for a few long moments, letting the room fall silent. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done. They just enjoyed each other's company right up until the point the door swung open a good ten minutes later. Hamish raised his head, blinking away the sleep that had started to prick at his eyes as his father strode in, his black coat billowing out behind him in sharp contrast to the white room.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a smile, as if the mere sight of the man in front of her made her day. She looked as though she would be content to pass away right now, knowing her life would be complete with the presence of these three people by her bedside. Father gave the older woman one of his rare smiles, though it was barely visible, weighed down by the sadness that would come. "How goes the case?"

"Solved, rather easily. It was a bit dull." Sherlock walked closer, waving her question away with a flick of his wrist, coming to a stop at Dad's side. "Even Anderson could've solved it. Granted, a lot more slowly than I did, but still. I should've just left them to it." Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"So, those fingers will be out of my fridge, then?" She chuckled, as if it were some sort of private joke. The detective answered with a quirk of his lips, though his eyes did not sparkle with their usual amusement.

"They'll be out of the flat by the time you get home, I promise." He assured her with the smallest of smiles. No one needed to state the obvious, nobody needed to point out that Mrs. Hudson would never step into 221B Baker St. again. Everyone knew, yet Mrs. Hudson grinned at his promise. Long ago was the time when she had popped to and from the hospital for brief moments of peace, of normalcy. It was doubtful she would ever leave her hospital bed.

"They'd better," she warned with a small, sad smile, still sliding her hand through Hamish's hair in slow, soothing strokes. A heavy silence fell upon the room, the weight of everything left unsaid hanging thick in the air like smoke.

I left the building to you, you know.

Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. For everything.

It was my pleasure, dears. Just don't shoot my walls.

The flat will fall apart without you.

Not your housekeepers, boys.

England will fall.

I'm sure. Just take care of yourselves, and Hamish.

We promise. Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson.

Goodbye, boys.

…

Hamish visibly shook from the memory, the dark monster running rampant through his mind, grinning in delight. He shut his eyes, turning away from the poster before collapsing, trembling, onto his parents' bed. He folded his slim body in on itself, trying unsuccessfully to hold himself together with whatever strength he could muster from his quivering limbs.

The monster didn't care as it gloated, parading about his Mind Palace, its foundations shaking. The basement shuddered with an entirely different power, and Hamish whimpered inaudibly against the warm bed sheets, biting his lip to stop himself from crying out for his dad in the other room. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the darkness behind them rippling with another hazy memory.

Don't, Hamish pleaded silently as the shadow emerged from the basement, a dark gleam in its eyes Please, don't. Unsurprisingly, the monster did not listen, facing him with a grin, sending another round of violent shivers down Hamish's spine, alternating between searing hot and ice cold. Taking advantage of his weaken state – his Mind Palace crumbling to ruins around him – the shadow engulfed Hamish's mind, leading him back to the recent memories he'd shut away. The ones that now retaliated with biting vengeance, nipping hungrily at any bright spot behind his eyelids, plunging him into darkness.

…

The cab raced through the streets of London, slipping somewhat dangerously on the rain-slicked streets. Hamish glanced worriedly out the window, the dark pierced by city lights that blurred as the cab darted past. Biting his lip, Hamish risked another look towards his dad, sitting on the edge of his seat.

"Please, just…. Just hurry!" he begged the cabbie, followed by repeated mutters of "Oh God, please, no. No, no, no, please, let him be alright…" It had been the soundtrack of the entire ride, occasionally interrupted by desperate urges for more speed, broken sobs, and tentative questions from Hamish that always went unanswered.

"I'm going as fast as I can," the cabbie assured him for the seventh time, holding back the sound of his annoyance at the heart-wrenching sight in his rear-view mirror. The man in the back seat looked a mess, and the terrified look in his eyes made the cab driver hold his tongue "Unless you want to be dead before we arrive, that is."

Hamish watched as his dad seemed to consider the option, before slumped back into the seat with a sob, and another utter of "Please, God, no…" His face was buried in his hands, his pleas muffled by his calloused fingers. Hamish took in the sight, noticing how his dad's hands didn't shake in the slightest, unlike his own, smaller ones that lay clasped on his lap, trembling.

He opened his mouth to speak before shutting it again, in the knowledge that it would be ignored like all his other attempts. He wasn't even sure what to ask him anymore, the man beside him not knowing much more than himself, but he just wanted his dad to speak the words he so desperately needed to hear right now. It'll be fine, Hamish. Everything'll be okay, just you wait. He'll be fine, I promise.

The words didn't come.

Even officially a teenager, his elongated limbs not quite sure how to position themselves in the backseat, he still needed – craved – those words. He needed Dad's calm voice – always steady in whatever situation thrown at him – to utter those assuring words. He needed to be told that everything would be fine, even when it was growing ever clearer that it wasn't.

"Everything's going to be fine, Dad," Hamish assured the broken man with a whisper, more to convince himself than anything else "It'll be okay, you'll see." Hamish saw his dad nod mutely in response, not letting himself be comforted by his son's words. Hamish could suddenly make out every wrinkle on the older man's face. His dad wasn't a young man by any stretch, but he had never truly looked his age until now. He looked weak, positively brittle under the pressure life could place upon the body, upon the mind.

When they arrived at the hospital, Hamish followed quickly – tripping over himself as he tried to exit the cab – as John leapt from the car. He shoved an unknown amount of bills into the cabbie's face before taking off into the rain, not even looking back to ensure his son was still behind him.

Hamish wiped his soaked curls back from his forehead as he stumbled through puddles almost blindly in the darkened city. His stomach clenched as he watched his dad fall into a full-out sprint towards an ambulance that had pulled in just moments ago. Hamish pushed himself forwards, paying little attention to the weight of his soaked clothes as he pressed on, his gaze intent on the ambulance as it unloaded its charge.

The speed at which they carried the stretcher should've been the first clue, but Hamish shut out the whirring of his busy mind as he fought to catch a glimpse at the body being carried out into the downpour. Two people dressed in clean white proceeded to roll the cot towards the door, the only urgency in their steps to get themselves out of the rain. There were no shouts for assistance, no calls for lifesaving equipment. The facts suddenly seeped into Hamish's mind, his heart sinking as he slowed his pace, approaching the paramedics, though already knowing what he'd be met with.

Dad hadn't come to the same conclusion, despite his medical background, pushing past the white-clad doctors to stand beside the drenched cot. Yet other clue stabbed at Hamish's chest as he observed the paramedics stepping back, in no hurry to reach their destination, no pressure in their mission. Hamish had come to the conclusion long before he heard the sob tearing its way out of his dad's mouth, filling the night air.

"Oh, God…. Please, no…" he whimpered quietly under his breath, nearly inaudible over the sound of the rain pounding the pavement under their feet. His steady hands sought out his partner's wrist, his fingers shaking uncharacteristically as he felt the absence of a thrumming pulse. The doctor's voice changed quickly to a strangled cry "Oh, God no… Sherlock!"

Hamish flinched at the sound of his father's name, screamed in a way he'd never heard before, the tone making his stomach fold in on itself uncomfortably, like something clawing out his gut. Dad did not shout it in the way he did when Father had blown up yet another experiment (with annoyance, frustration, and slight disbelief, with an undertone of affection). He did not cry it out in the way he did, late at night, when he thought Hamish was asleep upstairs (with love, bliss, and contentment, unintentionally letting the whole world – or at least the whole building – know the depth of his feelings without shame). He did not mutter it the way he did when the detective came home battered and bruised from a difficult case (with worry, disappointment, and a panicked spiral of what ifs). No, this was an entirely different sound, a wail. One Hamish had never heard before.

The sound of a man being torn in half.

"Don't do this to me, you insufferable git!" Hamish heard his dad plead, though his voice held no anger, no harsh tone as the insult escaped his lips desperately. His face glistened wetly – whether from rain, tears, or a combination of the two, Hamish didn't know for certain – as he bent over the body laid stiffly on the stretcher. "Don't you dare do this to me again, you bastard!"

"You're just more likely to outlive me, that's all…" His dad's words from when Hamish was only six coming back to haunt him, as he stared at the man, sobbing and broken, in front of him. "Someone will need to patch you up after every case."

Hamish approached slowly from behind, his body and mind shocked numb. He caught his first glimpse of his father's body, hoping uselessly he would not see what he knew would be there.

Father rested, eerily still and utterly silent, upon the surface of the cot, getting pelted with rain as Hamish stood there in shock. He looked – wrong. It was most definitely his father, but he lacked those little details that made him who he was. He lacked life.

Hamish met his eyes, staring emptily upwards, their grey-blue depths getting battered by rainwater without so much as a flinch. Hamish searched his gaze, but found nothing. No flash of intelligence behind them as he took in every little detail of his surroundings, no hint of a sparkle that brewed there every time a smile forced its way upon his face, and it lacked that familiar, warm glow those eyes possessed when he gazed upon some of the few people he held dear.

His father's chest moved no more with his steady breath, seeming to have deflated from the angry, red hole that pierced it, his life having seeped out the bullet wound that had torn through his clothing and flesh. Hamish's stomach rolled painfully at the sight, the wound hastily covered in a bandage now soaked through with red, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. His ears rung, and he was barely able to hear the continuing onslaught of rain and the muffled cries that filled the air.

"Stop it, just stop it!" Dad begged beside him, followed by a broken cry as he was pulled away from Father's body. He fought weakly against the grip the young nurse had on his shoulders, pushing him back far enough so her partner could wheel the detective's lifeless body indoors. The older man sobbed in defeat when Sherlock had been rolled out of sight, his shoulders sagging under his heavy, sodden clothes.

"John?" she asked, shaking him gently, practically holding the teetering man upwards "Are you John?" He seemed slightly confused by the question, briefly distracting him from the pain raging through his body, eating at and hollowing out his insides rather violently. Hamish could see it in his eyes, in the expression he was sure he mirrored.

"Yeah, yes… John," he stuttered, the words just barely escaping his lips.

"And Hamish?" the nurse inquired, her gaze flicking to the thirteen-year-old for a brief second, still standing exactly where he'd been left when the stretcher's metal bars had been ripped from his shaking hands. Hamish felt himself nod without the consent of his racing mind, spinning rapidly out of control in rush of information that turned his vision white for a long moment.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized with a ring of sincerity as she grasped Dad's arms, as if she thought his legs might buckle underneath him any second. Her eyes searched the older man's face for a hint of a response, but he just stared at the door his partner had just disappeared behind moments ago. "There was nothing to be done, we did everything in our power."

Hamish saw his dad rise from his haze just long enough to form a questioning expression. "How did you…?"

The young nurse knew immediately what he was hinting towards, biting her lip before answering with reluctance.

"He passed away halfway to the hospital," she informed him, seeing the man wince at the words "But, before, he was asking for you. He kept calling out for a John, and Hamish." She shuffled uncomfortably as he started to lean his weight against her with a low moan. "We also received an anonymous tip from a government worker who witnessed it on a security camera. He passed along your names as well." Uncle Mycroft Hamish's brain offered helpfully as it continued to whirl uncontrollably in a swirl of facts. The nurse felt guilty as she started pressing him for information, like her job demanded of her.

"So, what is your relation to the deceased?" Hamish heard her ask tentatively, as if her words could shatter the already broken man in front of her. Hamish shuffled to his side, taking his dad's soaked jumper in his trembling fingers. He felt his dad's chest move rapidly as he forced the answer out between gasps.

"Partner," he managed to answer, and Hamish glanced up at the nurse's face, watching as her expression tightened at the words. She didn't ask him to elaborate, the depth behind that title clear in his tone and their combined expressions, conclusions drawn as she glanced apologetically at Hamish as he clutched at his dad's jumper, a perfect copy of her deceased patient's eyes staring back at her, watery and broken.

"He loved you, you know," she uttered after a long, awkward silence filled only with the pounding of rain against pavement "He said as much, before he passed. Both of you." Her information was met with more silence. Hamish shut his eyes, only to have his father's still, lifeless face flash behind his eyelids tauntingly.

Hamish cried. He didn't wipe the tears away, hide them like his parents always did to spare him from worrying. He let them fall, having not felt their sting for a while, allowing them to mix with the rain that flowed down his cheeks, perfectly camouflaged in the rush of water. The only evidence of his tears were in his eyes, sparkling with moisture, turning red with the effort of holding them back for so long. The floodgates burst as he clutched desperately at the fabric between his fingers, the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the puddle in which he stood.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the nurse whispered, but she was mostly ignored, her voice inaudible to Hamish and his dad, the two of them drowning in a combination of grief, tears, and unrelenting rain.

…

Hamish hadn't noticed it had gotten dark out until his eyes flew open, revealing the unlit room, the furniture reduced to hazy, shapeless shadows in the dark. He shivered, despite his heavy coat, taking in the lack of sunlight coming through the blinds, no longer warming his body.

Hamish hadn't known he'd cried out until he heard his dad's feet pounding against the floor, wrenching the door open as he limped into his bedroom. Hamish heard him call his name, but it sounded as if the shout where coming from the end of a long tunnel.

Hamish hadn't realised he'd been trembling until he felt warm, steady hands against his lean arms, his dad's fingers capable of wrapping themselves completely around his wrists. His shaking limbs stilled under their soft pressure as he let out a whimper of pain.

Hamish didn't know he was crying until he felt calloused fingertips brush away the tears from his red-tinged cheeks. Then he only sobbed harder.

He felt himself being pulled onto the ex-army doctor's lap, despite having surpassed the man in height a few months ago (Father had chuckled as they had stood, back to back, a smug smile on Hamish's face. "I wonder where he got that from?" the detective had teased with one of his genuine grins). He pressed his tear-streaked face to his dad's chest, the scratchy wool of his tan jumper irritating his raw, reddened cheeks, but it was comforting none-the-less. He felt a chin rest upon his tangled mess of hair and he burrowed his face further into the abrasive fabric.

Without warning, images flashed behind his eyes, the gates crashing open after being considerably weakened already by the memories he'd tried so hard to suppress, to lock up into he could bear it. His body crumpled at the haunting slide show of the horror of the last month or so. Most were sights he'd seen with his own silver-blue eyes, and some had been formed by his twisted imagination for the sole purpose of torturing him.

Newspaper headlines passed behind his eyelids, squeezed shut in a failing effort to dispel them. He'd seen these himself, too much over the past few weeks, for Dad always kept copies of their media appearances. This story had been no different, it seemed.

Famous Blogger Detective Shot Down in Alleyway

Sherlock Holmes, Famous Detective, Murdered on Case

World Population of Consulting Detectives Drops to Zero Once More

The last one was especially painful. Had the writer thought himself clever, with a headline like that? Was he amused by his father's death? He shied away from the images of black ink against the flimsy, off-white paper, his father's face staring up from every article, face half-hidden by his trademark deerstalker. He would've been irritated that they'd used the hat photograph, Hamish thought for a brief moment, before another image took its place.

His father, lying still upon the hospital stretcher. Unmoving. His body rid of everything that had given it life, everything that had made it the highly animated figure that had been his father. The hole in his chest – a ragged red, easily visible as it stained the hastily applied bandages that covered it – taunting him, causing bile to rise up the back of his throat. His mind swirled with all the different scenarios that could've caused the wound, growing increasingly more terrifying to think about.

His father, his pale face a stark contrast to his dark hair, clothes, and the general blackness of a London alleyway in the middle of the night. His grey-blue eyes shone, but with an emotion he'd never seen upon the detective's face. An emotion that widened their cold depths, and make his lips part in surprise.

Fear.

"Killing me won't help, you know," he heard Father say in an almost bored tone, though anyone who knew the man well enough could see the begging buried deep in his eyes, the pleading expression hidden in his face "I've already notified the police of your identity, and I have a rather special relationship with the man reviewing the footage of the camera there – " he gestured behind him to a CCTV camera, almost invisible in the night " – And there," he extended a hand in front of him, pointing out a camera that was located behind whomever he was speaking to. "Just, put down the gun, and come quietly. It's over."

Hamish heard a loud, cruel laugh that echoed in the dark, and observed the corners of his father's eyes twitch slightly. He heard the sound of a gun being cocked, and the detective's posture stiffened, though only Hamish noticed the small shift.

"You must be much thicker than I thought if you fink I'm gonna, what did you say? 'Come quietly?'" The rough voice behind the gun growled, his tone deep and gravely "Naw, I'd have much more fun shootin' ya before I go. If I'm on my way ta Hell, might as well enjoy the ride, eh?" He chuckled then, a cold sound, the kind only heard from evil villains in the darkest fairy tales. Hamish watched in horror as the last of his father's mask fell, realizing how trapped he was, resulting in a final, last ditch effort to get out of this alive.

"Please," he pleaded, his voice low, and Hamish worried it would crack "Please, I have a family. Don't do this, I have a son at home. John –" His words cut off abruptly as the criminal squeezed the trigger.

Hamish heard the gunshot clearly, the sound ringing throughout his mind as the bullet hit home. The detective, standing so close, didn't have time to dive out of harm's way. It tore easily though his father's thin shirt – missing his coat, hanging open over his chest, entirely – ripping through flesh and muscle as it buried itself deeper inside the detective. It hit him in the chest, just missing his heart, by the looks of it, but undoubtedly destroying various other essential organs and bones as it made its way through.

Hamish watched, shocked, as his father stood there for a quick moment – though those few seconds seemed to drag out longer to further scar him – as the detective teetered unsteadily on his feet with a look of pained surprise colouring his expression. With Dad's name still on his lips, Father toppled over, his body hitting the pavement with a thud and a splash as he landed in large puddle that started to grow as the rain started hesitantly falling from the stormy clouds hanging over the city.

Though still alive, Sherlock made not a sound, whether from the shock of pain, the horror of his probable death, or he'd fallen unconscious, Hamish had no idea. He let a scream tear itself from his dry throat – his Father's name, growing ever louder – trying to take off towards the body, utterly still upon the damp ground.

It was only a dream though – not even a memory. Hamish hadn't seen it happen, didn't know the ugly details of his father's death, but it didn't stop the frantic racing of his heart, the whimper forcing itself from his mouth. It was too real, too real, too real…

"Shhh, Hamish," Dad's voice comforted him, pulling him from his vision, his steady fingers rubbing slow circles into Hamish's back "Calm down, I've got you." He skipped the lies, Hamish noting the absence of the classic It's alright, Hamish. Everything will be fine, for his dad knew he was smart enough to recognize the dishonest ring to the words, too old now to be comforted by the empty promises behind them. He suddenly wished himself younger, so he could have the benefit of those magic words, completely ignorant to the chaos around him.

His eyes stung as more tears fell. He didn't wipe them away, for the person he'd always hidden them from was no longer here. The consulting detective who scarcely let anyone see his rare moments of sadness, pain, or fright, who buried his feelings until they couldn't remain hidden behind his silver-blue eyes any longer. Like that moment, when Hamish was six, when he'd seen his father nearly come to tears for the very first time, the thought of his partner leaving enough to crumble his controlled exterior for that moment. Hamish let himself have his own moment, shedding a tear for every time he'd missed his father in the last few weeks, for every single time he'd turned to speak, only to find that the consulting detective was no longer sprawled out on his usual spot on the couch.

"I miss him," Hamish managed to force out, having never uttered such an obvious statement before, but also never anything truer. "I miss him so much." Dad held him tighter – letting Hamish forget for a moment that he was thirteen years old, that he was at the top of his class a grade level above his own, that he wasn't really genetically the son of the man who held him tight – closer and more intimately than he had in years.

"I miss him, too," he heard Dad murmur against his hair, and fought the urge to look up to see if he, too, was crying as he felt his curls dampen "God, I miss him."

…

"Grandpa!" came a high, excited shriek, followed by a bouncing head of dark, messy curls racing towards him, and a pair of small arms that snaked around his middle, pulling him tightly in a surprisingly strong hold. The head of hair tilted back, revealing the round, pale face that stared up at him, his sister's green eyes boring into his own. Now there's those Watson genes, he thought with a chuckle.

"Hey, Ben," John smiled, pulling the six-year-old onto his lap with a groan at his protesting muscles "To what do I owe this pleasure?" The boy shook his head, his hair flying with the quick movements.

"Sherlock," he corrected him, supplying his middle name instead "Call me Sherlock." John gave him a tight smile.

"Of course," he amended, swallowing hard before continuing "Hello, Sherlock." The child failed to notice his grandfather's rather miserable tone as he spoke his preferred name, a mix of love and grief that went over the boy's head.

"It's just a phase," came a voice from the doorway, and John looked up at the familiar sound "Apparently, the kids at school teased him for being named Benjamin, so he switched to Sherlock, because that's a normal name, if there ever was one." Hamish gave a laugh that lacked any sort of humour, the joking tone he fought to keep in his voice was lost. John sucked in a breath as he took in his son's form in the doorway.

The sight of him had John torn down the middle, the feeling of both pride and pain. He looked so much like his father it physically hurt the ex-army doctor, made his heart clench in a tight ball, twitching slightly with every faint, stuttering beat.

His tall, stretched-out figure leaned against the doorframe, his long arms folded across his narrow chest. His ice-coloured eyes sparkled with none of the coldness that had lurked in the detective's, though, and a smile tugged at his lips. His face was softer, more rounded than his father's, with none of his sharp angles. The dark curls that had been passed down through the generations sat, tousled, atop his head in an unruly mess.

John swallowed thickly under his gaze, smiling tightly at his son. It wasn't always this bad, this hard to look into that steely gaze. So much like Sherlock's. Today, though, of all days to visit…

When he finally spoke, John still half-expected the tone that fell from his lips to be the familiar, deep baritone he hadn't heard in so long. That voice that had lured him from his normal, boring life, coaxing him into his own world of crime, detection, and adventure.

"Would you mind looking after Benja -" Hamish stopped short, feeling a sharp, green-eyed stare burning into him from across the room "Sorry, Sherlock, for a bit?" He smiled apologetically. "I've got some work to do, and Isabelle's out of town…" Hamish gave his dad a look, a silent plea that said so much more than the words that had tumbled from his mouth. John ruffled Ben's curls.

"Sure," he replied with a sad smile, returning the expression with his own knowing look "Take as long as you like, Hamish." Hamish nodded gratefully, turning away as John called out behind him with a last-minute request "Tell him I said Hello."

…

The air was quiet, save for the muted buzz of life in the distance, the ever-present hum of London that one can never truly escape within the city. The relative calm was suddenly pierced by a voice, high and clear, as it carried enthusiastically through the spring air.

"Remember the case I was telling you about last time? The one with the murdered maid?" Hamish asked excitedly, a slight twinkle appearing in his icy eyes "Well, it was her employer's lover. Took me a week to figure it out, but I got it done. Not as fast as you would, but the Yarders were fairly impressed." He smiled proudly, looking up as if seeking approval and praise before continuing.

"Oh, there's a new bloke on the forensics team," he laughed, a quick, bright sound "I kid you not, his name's Anderson. Not related, I even asked, but they do share a rather unfortunate character trait." He frowned, gnawing at his bottom lip for a moment "Don't worry, I'm fine. Sticks and stones, and all that." He waved it aside with a flick of his wrist, as if someone had started to try and comfort him "Good thing Dad wasn't there, he'd have knocked his lights out." Hamish chuckled softly, his eyes clouding over for a brief second as he contemplated the alternate memory.

"Yeah, Dad comes with me sometimes, for a bit of fresh air and some adrenaline." The dark-haired detective said, answering an unsaid inquiry "Not too often, though, he is getting pretty old, after all." He bit his lip again, a war waging in his head, as he wondered if he should say aloud the words that waited behind his closed mouth. "When I bring him along, sometimes he accidentally calls me by your name, you know." The confession settled uncomfortably in the air, making it thick and hard to draw breath. "I don't know how I feel about that. Sad, I guess, but also honored, in a way, to be considered as good as you. Your equal. I know I'm not of course, but I just hope I've made you proud." Hamish smiled tentatively, before adding light-heartedly "But it's probably just because I look like you. I got asked for an autograph once, but I guess it doesn't help walking about in your clothes, does it?" He chuckled once, the sound promptly dying in his throat.

"Speaking of your name, your grandson started insisting we call him Sherlock recently." His voice was a mixture of sadness and amusement, before he continued in response to another unheard remark "Yeah, some kids were bullying him 'bout his name, so he decided he'd rather be called by his middle name. He's heard about you, of course, which was part of the reason he chose it. All of the stories Dad tells him are about you, as you probably can guess. Just like the ones he told me. I really don't think he even knows any other stories, to be perfectly honest." A fond smile crept up his face "Still, Ben enjoys them, so I guess I shouldn't complain. Just as long as he doesn't get any ideas, clever boy might steal my job." Another chuckle.

"Have you even had a chance to meet Ben? You know, wherever you are?" His questions are met with silence, though Hamish didn't seem to mind "I mean, if you were still here, you'd say I was talking to empty air. I might be, but I like to hope I'm not, that you listen to every single one of my little stories from the work I know you probably miss." He smirked as a sudden thought occurred to him "I wonder how many times you could be following me around all day, trying to scream your deductions in my ear while I stumble hopelessly around. Actually, I can imagine that pretty well, you yelling your head off, marvelling at how someone of the Holmes family be so impossibly slow." A bright, genuinely happy laugh filled the empty air, but with bitter undertone to it "You have to admit, it does sound like you." He quieted his amusement, before his expression turned serious.

"So, sorry I haven't been around much. I'm told it's not healthy, talking to you." His disagreement was clear upon his face "Dad says I should move on, though he hasn't himself. He's worse than me, though. When he thinks he's alone in the flat, he'll talk out loud as if you're still there listening. Sometimes he'll even make you tea. You never drink it, of course, but he never gets offended. That boy I used to play with downstairs can hear him sometimes, chatting away, commenting on things. Remember him? He's getting shipped off to the Middle East next month, went and joined the army. Like Dad." His lips turned downward, a tinge of sadness seeping into his silvery-blue eyes.

"Dad might be by later. He told me to tell you he says 'Hello'." Hamish forced a smile, before continuing on as if prompted by another question "His limp's worse, so he might have trouble walking through the cemetery. He still refuses a cane, says it's all in his head. Whether that's true or not, I'm not sure, but it's hurting him. I might have to insist he move out of Baker St. soon. He can barely make it up the stairs anymore." The last two sentences weighed heavy on Hamish's tongue, as if he'd just described the world's greatest tragedy.

"I don't know if you know what day it is, or even if you can hear me, but it's been twenty-five years as of today. Twenty-five years." Hamish's voice broke as he repeated the words with emphasis. He took a deep, steadying breath before speaking again "Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if you were still around. I imagine your hair going grey – oh, the fuss you'd make! – and maybe even falling out. You'd probably be horrified." He chuckled, though it was a lonely, empty sound "You'd most likely still be working, dragging your aching transport all over the city, pulling Dad behind you with his bum leg. I wonder if you'd bring me along with you. We could've made it a family business." Hamish's voice filled with hope for the alternative that never had been.

"A lot could've happened in those twenty-five years, Father." He stated, rather sadly "You missed my sixteenth, by the way. Dad got me a microscope, a really fancy one, very precise. It would've made you drool." A smirk almost found a place on his face before another event squashed it "You missed my Prom, too. Isabelle showed up at the flat before we left, so I could introduce her to Dad. You would've liked her, I think. Smart, independent, witty." He laughed suddenly, a brief and breathy one "You wouldn't have liked her stealing me away, but I'm sure you'd have gotten over it sooner or later. I think she'd have been more than capable of putting you in your place." Another not-quite-there grin.

"You missed the wedding, too." He continued on, blinking his eyes as he felt the slight prick of tears in the corners of his blurring vision. He pushed them back "I'd been looking forward to you and Dad bickering while trying to deliver speeches. You'd have accidentally revealed the affairs going on between some of the guests, and Dad would've hit you while trying not to laugh for my sake." He laughed then, though his next words were accusatory, his voice uneven with the strain of trying to keep the emotion from his voice "Everything ran smoothly, though, and it's all your fault."

"You missed the birth of your grandson as well. Benjamin Sherlock Watson-Holmes." Hamish beamed proudly, "Dad cried. He thinks he hid it pretty well, but he wasn't fooling anybody. I think we lost him when we told him his full name. He didn't know what to say." Hamish shook his head slowly "You wouldn't have liked it, you would've told me off right there in the hospital for destroying the kid's future by giving him a stupid name." A breathy chuckle "Which, I'll admit, was the reason we made Ben his first name, but all the same. I needed to thank you for all you'd done, and naming my son after you seemed to fit the bill." He immediately shied away from where that train of thought might take him, his focus quickly returning to his son when his mouth opened again "He inherited your hair, you know. I really have no clue how Isabelle tames it every morning, but she does. I have new respect for Mummy Holmes, I think, despite never having met the woman. Does she actually exist, or was she a lie to cover up the fact that you and Mycroft are actually robots?" He tried to speak with a joking tone, but the mention of two people he'd never get to see again stole it away, killing it dead. "Were actually robots," He amended quietly, swallowing thickly before he continued, his eyes shining, preparing himself before uttering his next words.

"So, uh, thanks, Father. For everything. For those thirteen years I had with you. Hope I made you proud."

Hamish placed two fingers atop the black headstone, lightly stroking its surface. He knelt in front of it, not worried in the least about getting grass stains on his best pair of trousers. He was dressed in his very favourite suit, slimming and black, making him resemble even more the late detective, especially with the dark blue fabric visible around his throat, and the large, black coat that still hung on his shoulders. His knees sunk into the damp grass and soil, his head bent forward with his dark hair obscuring his face.

His eyes glistened with moisture behind his unruly mop, though he did not let the tears fall. Not in front of his father, or at least as close as he could get to being in his presence. Sherlock Holmes rarely cried, so neither would he. Hope I made you proud.

Hamish ran his fingers across the smooth stone, noting with an almost-smile that it was much older than the twenty-five years his father had been dead. It was the same grave from when he'd faked his death (Dad hadn't seen a reason to get another one), and the name of the great detective engraved into the stone was over a decade older than the rest of the inscription on the grave.

"Graves aren't for leaving messages on!" he suddenly remembered his father shouting from the sitting room one afternoon, when Hamish had only been twelve. His parents had been working on a case where the quote on a murder victim's headstone had led them to the killer (Hamish and John still hadn't figured out how it had been a message, or how it could've possibly happened, though it was apparently obvious to Sherlock). "It's a place where you name and briefly describe the person buried below, to identify them, nothing more. How is some deep quote about the fragility of human existence going to help anyone? It's infuriating!"

The headstone in front of Hamish now reflected those beliefs, the words below the detective's name carefully chosen by Dad twenty-five years ago.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Partner, Father, and Brother

Detective, Scientist, Genius, Idiot

A Great Mind, a Good Man

And – above all – a Friend

"I miss you," Hamish whispered to the words, resting his forehead against it with a sigh as he let his eyes flutter shut. A lone tear broke free, creating a single wet track down his cheek. He caught the others before they followed, squeezing his eyelids shut "So much."

"I feel like I should've brought flowers or something, to brighten it up, leave you something to show you I…" he gave a soft, sad chuckle "You've would've laughed at the gesture. Thought it silly, unnecessary. Sentimental, even."

With sudden inspiration and achingly slow movements, Hamish reached a hand into his jacket. Carefully, he unraveled the dark blue scarf from around his own neck, the article blowing slightly in the light breeze as he held it out in front of him. The fabric was worn and visibly old, but very well cared for. It was a beautiful, deep shade of blue that reminded Hamish of the night sky. He leaned forward, wrapping the fabric tightly around the black stone, tying it securely in place. Standing, Hamish admired his handiwork for a long moment before turning.

"Goodbye, Father." He mumbled under his breath as he strode out of the cemetery. Hope I made you proud.

…