"Ready?" Dad called from the living room threshold.

He looks tired, he probably couldn't sleep last night again…I didn't sleep either. These past three weeks have been awful for us…it all started that day you decided to leave us.

Yes. You left.

I've been trying, really hard, father. I've been trying to figure out a reason of why you did it…but I'm not you. I'm not smart enough, apparently. I still don't know why you did it.

Some nights I don't even notice when I finally fall asleep, I'm so lost on my thoughts, my own theories that I lose track of time and my brain simply shuts down and I just doze off.

I know Dad is going through the same thing; I've heard him, you know? I don't think he realises he does it because he's deep asleep but you may remember how he sleep talks…yes, he's having bad dreams, again…but these are about you. Not the war.

Sometimes when I come down to the kitchen in the middle of the night I hear him, he talks to you…he asks you through sobs the same questions I've been trying to find answers on my own. I think he's got as much progress as myself on that: None.

I stopped crying after the first week…it took Dad a bit longer. He stopped weeping in front of me during the first week but he'd cry in his room, with the door closed but I'd hear him when I'd come down for a glass of water.

The fact that I've stopped crying doesn't mean I'm not sad anymore…I am…but now, I think, I'm more disappointed than sad.

I thought you were the most intelligent man on Earth. Smart people don't do this.

You had no reason to kill yourself…that's a coward move, that's a stupid move and I'm very disappointed at you.

By the second week I realised that Dad was more than disappointed at you…he was angry.

"We're moving out" he said while we were having breakfast during the second week.

"Pardon?"

"We're leaving Baker Street; I've been talking to your uncle Mycroft and he's going to get me a job outside of London" he said but he wouldn't look at me. I just stared at him trying to understand what he was saying "…Sussex, most likely…near Nana Holmes"

"But…" I stuttered.

"I know it comes as a shock, I'm sorry…We'll have to transfer you to another school and I know that sounds tiresome but…we've got to move out"

The thought of leaving Baker Street is scary. This is the only place I truly feel safe (despite that time those Russian smugglers visited us and threaten you…) and also, it's the place where even though you're not really here anymore, it's the place where I can find you.

If I enter the living room I see the wall you shoot at so many times just because you were bored…there's your chair. Your laptop on the desk…your books, your science equipment laying around…I could go on and on.

I wasn't ready to leave all that behind.

"We can't leave!" I sort of whined and Dad finally looked up at me "…this is home!"

"Hamish, we can't stay here" he sighed, he looked so tired "…it's decided"

I felt warm tears running down my face…those were angry tears. The way Dad said that it was decided sounded so…definitive. I wanted to throw my toast away, throw a tantrum in the floor and I wanted to remind John he wasn't my real dad…I wouldn't truly mean it but I knew it would hurt him. That sounds really bad but he was hurting me by making us move out…making us leave you.

"No…we can't leave.." I said while trying to stop the tears "…what about Mrs. Hudson? We can't leave her"

"This is her home, love"

"This is our home!"

"Hamish…"

"What about father?!" I finally said it.

"What?"

"Everything in here reminds us of him!"

"Exactly!" he raised his voice "…that's exactly why I can't be here any longer. I'm going mad…"

He sobbed his last sentence and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to control himself. He's still broken…you broke him.

"I see him everywhere…but I don't want to" he added "…I'm so…angry. I can't forgive him. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I shouldn't be saying this to you. I might f…"

"You don't love him anymore?" I interrupted him.

"Wh-?...No, I…I mean, yes…of course I love him. He's my husband, of course I do. It's just…it's going to take me some time to get over what happened and…staying here is not helping me. I don't expect you to understand everything but…"

"If we still love him…" I cut him off again "…and if we leave, it'd be like we're abandoning him. I don't want to do that"

Dad took a deep breath and smirked but it was a sad smirk, I had never seen him do that before.

"He abandoned us first, son" he said and it just hit me.

It finally hit me. Dad was right and I was wrong (I, unlike you, can admit when I've been wrong) – Dad did, in fact, had some progress on understanding what you did. He looked at the obvious and I should've known, I should've observed Dad more carefully, after all he was the last to spoke to you, he knows more about this than me.

You were selfish. You didn't care about us…you didn't care how we'd feel after your death. You simply didn't think of us. You didn't think about your loyal husband and you didn't think about your only son. You just jumped, you left…you abandoned us. Dad is right.

I always knew you weren't the kind of father most kids at school have. You never played cricket with Dad and me. You hated going to Nana Holmes with us to hunt for Easter eggs. You didn't cry when we watched Marley & I and you never said I love you first, you always waited for either Dad or me to say it first – but I didn't care, that was the way you were and I still loved you. But this, just like Dad, I can't forgive you. I'm so upset.

Dad noticed and his expression changed to sudden concern.

"Shit…Hamish…I didn't m…"

"No…you're right, Dad. He abandoned us…he didn't care about us"

"No…wait! I didn't mean it like that. He loved us very much!" he stammered, "…He really did, you know that. Look, what happened is still confusing; I'm still trying to understand…I didn't mean it! I'm so tired, I don't know what I'm saying anymore…"

He thought his words had hurt me and they did but it was the truth…and I will always be grateful to him for being this honest. Unlike you.

"…I haven't slept properly" he kept rambling "…I'm sure…I think…your father had good reasons to…I mean, he was really clever and…"

I knew I had to do something to make him stop. He was still trying to defend you, even though he was still angry at you. I got up from my chair, took a few steps until I was standing next to him, leaned down and embraced him, burying my face on his shoulder…I don't recall hugging him that tight before and he held me even closer and placed a soft kiss on my hair before speaking again.

"Please. Don't hold grudges against him…Don't…don't hate him"

"I don't" I said and I meant it.

I don't hate you…I just don't care about you anymore.

We packed our few belonging in a couple of days during the third week – most of the stuff in the flat was yours. We're leaving it there; Mrs. Hudson said she'd take care of it (I don't know if she'll give it away or keep it, I don't care)

Uncle Mycroft sent us one of those moving vans and Dad was going to drive it to our new place in Sussex. From that day on it was going to be just the two of us. Away and starting from scratch; I was starting to love the idea.

Dad was trying to place carefully some last boxes into the van while I just stood in the middle of the living room at 221B, taking a last glance around. I'm not going to lie and say I'd never miss that place, of course I was going to miss it…I grew up there.

My eyes suddenly met your chair, at the same spot as always just gathering dust. I slowly walked towards it and, I don't know why I did it but I jumped to it and crouched on the seat like you used to, folding your legs to your chest and your arms embracing your knees. I looked up and saw the kitchen…Dad had placed pretty much all of your science equipment on the table. I couldn't stop the memory of you sitting there, looking through the microscope, mumbling to yourself.

"Ha! Calcium carbonate!" I remembered you exclaiming excited at me once.

"What?" I was very confused.

"Chalk, Hamish. Chalk!"

I still don't know what were you talking about then but the memory made me feel this heavy weight on my chest. I had promise myself never to shed a tear for you again…but I couldn't stop it. I lowered my face to my knees and silently cried.

"Ready?" Dad called from the living room threshold.

I didn't hear him coming up the stairs. He just stared at me, waiting for an answer and ignoring my puffy, wet eyes. I think he knew why I was crying but by then I think we were just tired of talking about it and it's fine that he didn't ask me because I didn't want him to start crying again – ah, yes. I had heard him cry the night before…more quietly this time, but still crying.

"Yes" I sniffed and rubbed my eyes.

"Got everything?"

"Everything's in the van, already" I said as I got up from your chair.

"You're not taking Billy?" Dad said as he pointed at the skull we kept on the mantelpiece.

"That's Sherlock's…" I said and Dad scowled at me "…it's father's"

"Well, yeah but you like it too. You could place it on your desk at…"

"No" I firmly said "…you take it if you want to"

"Ok" he said and took the skull on his hands. I didn't think he'd really take it "…let's go, then"

We walked out of the flat and Dad closed the door behind him.

"I'm going to miss this place" he said as we walked down the steps.

"I'm going to miss Mrs. Hudson" I said.

"Oh but we'll come visit her! You'll see…" he said as he tighten his grip on my shoulder "…we'll come visit her and …we'll also visit your father's grave"

"Ah, yes. Yes, of course"

I know that would happen the first couple of months but I also know Dad…he gets lazy. The visits will decrease…eventually he'll forget about it and you know what?... I won't remind him"

Hamish Watson-Holmes

Hamish Watson