The rain fell the hardest in London on the day Sherlock Holmes laid to rest. After the scrutiny caused by Moriarty, barely anyone arrived at Sherlock's funeral. The only people to come were John, Sherlock's best-friend, and Mrs. Hudson, his former landlady. John teared, wishing Sherlock would be alive, knowing in his heart that Sherlock's last words weren't true – the deduction and conclusions Sherlock brought out were real and not orchestrated. Despite any possible hurricane, storm, or increased rainfall, the rain that fell hardest in London on this day, at least to John. As he would tell his psychologist, he was a wreck, and distraught over losing his best-friend in this way. He couldn't stay in the area much longer; the memories were too powerful for him to stand living in London, not to mention Baker Street.
John had received a rather large loan from Mycroft, mostly in apology for his secret leading to Sherlock's death, which John decided to use to get some time away from his flat. As he walked down to the door, Mrs. Hudson stopped him, a bit of worry. "You know, John, I understand… the pain you must be feeling… but you cannot run away from your emotions," she regrettably told him. She wanted John, a former member of the military, to understand that only time heals these type of wounds, not running. If John kept running, he would never get over the Consulting Detective's death. "I- I know, Mrs. Hudson… I just need to know he's alive… and I can't," he said, looking down, pained. He gripped tightly to his cane, biting his teeth with a quick breath, looking back at her. "I'm… going to my sister's for the week, let me know if anything strange happens," John said, knowing undoubtedly that it would.
Not surprisingly, late in his time off, John gets a call from Mrs. Hudson. "John, did you say Sherlock went after that man that was found innocent before he jumped?" She asked rather inquiringly. After a hesitation, John confirmed it, asking why it mattered right now. After all, John wanted to forget about Sherlock's death. "Well… they found a bit of blood on the rooftop, which I suppose is Moriarty's… but no body," Mrs. Hudson said. Those words really struck John like a bullet, unlike during the war, as this struck his very mental capabilities. The very thought that Moriarty was still alive was spitting in his face, and he couldn't go along with such an idea; he had to go back, and make sure Moriarty was finished. However, John had to stay back at his sister's hoping to rid himself of the grief to an extent that allowed him to work efficiently on the day of his return.
John returned his flat with a rather perplexed look, finding his door partly open. He held his cane as defensively as he could, turning to see a ghost standing before him. To the side, there sat a child, dressed finely, eating a bowl of oats quite timidly, obviously new to all this. "There's no way…," he said, astonished to see the man standing before him. However, tears in his eyes, he ran over to hug the dead man standing before, getting a heartfelt embrace in return. "Sherlock," John said softly, astonished to see his best-friend still in the world of the living. As the hug ended, John merely stepped back in awe, asking the question on everyone's mind, well aside from the boy and Sherlock: "How did you do it?"
Sherlock breathed in, beginning his story. "You see, before going after Moriarty, I made a call to Henry Knight, the man we helped with that demon hound case not too long back, telling him I needed to call in a favor," he began, patting softly on the child's head. He looked down with a slight smile, looking back up to continue his story. "When I went after Moriarty, I made a call on my cellphone to Henry, hiding the call so Moriarty would tell his entire plan to me, and Henry as a result," he said, Sherlock quite proud of his own cunning. He pat the child on the back, nudging him to go sit on the couch, John inattentive as he listened. "Knowing I had to jump, Henry brought around a truck of pillows, allowing me to land safely, minus a few cuts," he said, rubbing his arms earnestly. He looked back, missing his apartment after so long. However, he finished the story, simply stating that: "After bribing the paramedics, I was pronounced dead after faking it on the floor, and there we have it."
Sherlock didn't really enjoy such obvious explanations. The man obviously faked it, so why did John need such an obvious explanation. This made Sherlock become a little disappointed by John's lack of increased deduction, which he thought his friend would be working on. "My boy, come here," Sherlock said, beckoning for the child, which proved successful. "His name is Hamish," Sherlock introduced, the fine-dressed Hamish holding out his hand. He had a black dress shirt, and red bow-tie on, obviously to Sherlock's specifications. Likewise had gone for his dress pants, socks, and dress shoes, as Sherlock wanted to make sure his child dressed well. "H- Hello, Mr. Watson, I- I really liked your blog for your services," Hamish said shyly. He was shy around new people, even around Sherlock. John was a bit baffled, wondering why he was here with Sherlock. After-all, Sherlock wasn't… in to children, so why else have a child of such a young age around.
"Uh, Sherlock-," John whispered awkwardly.
"Yes?" Sherlock responded in with little interest.
"Why is Hamish here?" John asked with a bit sass. Sherlock pulled his glasses down, sighing rather loudly, obviously not enjoying John's attitude. Though, it is kind of natural to be curious about someone showing up in your house. After all, John never knew of Sherlock having children, or family of that age. "Well, I found him rummaging through garbage, and… deduced he was living in bad conditions… So I decided to take him in," Sherlock said with a smirk. That, I was being a good guy smirk. John hated that smirk, but knew Sherlock did the right thing. He couldn't believe they were going to be fathers.
A thought immediately crossed Sherlock's mind. "Hamish, go sleep on my bed for a bit," Sherlock said instructionally. Hamish didn't mind; he was just glad to get this treatment. John had a bad idea about what Sherlock was doing, however. Once the door shut, Sherlock turned to John, beginning his deductions. "When you walked in, John, I was able to tell all the sorrow and pain you've been feeling… all the cries over my passing," Sherlock said, cracking his bones as he stood there. His heart rate was beating fast, probably as fast John's, and it took less than a second to deduce to what was going on. "Th- that's true," John said with a tear, smiling with joy that Sherlock's still alive.
Sherlock approached John with a smile, taking both the man's hands, his body firmly pressed against John's. With his face pressed close, he whispered: "Thank you." Sherlock kissed John, feeling like fireworks to both, or even an electricity that no sexual act could provide to one's body, no matter how dirty or kinky it could get. They just stood there for a moment, kissing, as they both knew how they felt; nobody cared more for Sherlock, and Sherlock had nobody but John.