7.20 pm,
24th March,
Baker St. Pub
"John!"
I recognize Captain Patrick Stuart's voice and follow it towards the bar. He's perched on a stool, sipping a pint, and he has also lost a leg since I've last seen him. Had it amputated below the knee three months ago, quite some time after I had left. He greets me with a firm handshake, and dismisses my concerns about his injury.
"Not as bad as it looks, Doctor. Don't worry about it."
The smell of alcohol washes over me as I take my seat. This doesn't appear to be his first pint.
"The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers are lost without you, mate! The new guy's a mess. Wouldn't have lost my leg if it weren't for him." I smile half-heartedly. "Anyway, sorry to hear about your news, John. Divorce isn't exactly a walk in the park."
I freeze.
"Sherlock and I aren't divorcing. It's a trial separation." I correct the Captain, who is currently knocking back the last of his drink. He blinks several times, then begins once more.
"Yeah, well, I hate to be the one to break this to you, mate, but you'll be signing the divorce papers before you know it. My third wife enjoyed our trial separation a bit too much. Her attorney was at my doorstep within a few weeks."
"We've got Hamish, Pat." I inform him. "We can't rush this."
He raises his eyebrows. "A kid only makes it messier, John. Custody battles, trips to court...they take every penny you've got, plus your kids." His eyes are watery. Whether that's because of the alcohol or the reminiscing, I don't know. "You're better off without him, anyway."
"I still love him."
This comes out more bluntly than I'd hoped for, but Pat doesn't take much notice. He's fumbling for the money to pay the barman, searching through his empty wallet. He finally discovers two twenties in his front pocket, and hands them over.
"So, you still love him. That won't last long, Doctor, let me tell you that. Once the settlements begin, love is out of the question. Money will be the only thing on the both of your minds, plus Hamish."
Silence.
"Tell you what..." He begins again. "You're a bachelor now. Free. Ready to take on the world. Move out, find a nice flat, meet a girl. The world is your oyster."
"I'm still married. I'm not giving up that easily." I pick up my jacket. "Nice seeing you, Pat."
8.45 pm,
24th March,
221B Baker St.
Hamish is tugging at my sleeve, his blue eyes curious. He sits next to me on the couch, in his pyjamas and slippers.
"Dad, how was your friend?"
"He was good, Hamish."
"Did he ask about you and Father?"
How the hell do I answer that? Hamish is six years old. Six year olds shouldn't have to worry about half of the things he has to face every day. But Hamish is special, and he handles it well. Better than I could at his age.
"He brought it up, yes." I mutter.
"Did you tell him that you're just figuring it out?"
This was my way of explaining it. Sherlock's definition of a separation was more...to the point. So I told Hamish that his father and I had some problems to work out, but that we still love him with all our hearts.
"I did."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing." I reply.