Hamish was listening to the radio when it happened. It was a late Tuesday afternoon and he had just gotten home from school, he was sitting in the kitchen consuming a sandwich. It had been a long day, and he still had Physics homework.

There was a moment of silence in the room, and Hamish looked over at the radio and frowned, thinking something was wrong with the signal. Then- quietly at first but growing louder, violin music. It seemed to swell from the speakers and fill the room, lapping at the ceiling and reaching out to him, through him, into him. Hamish wasn't fond of classical music, but this went straight to his chest in great stabbing pains, tugging at his heart strings and drawing him up out the chair and towards its source. He leant over the counter, ear nearly pressing against the speakers.

There was a thud from upstairs followed by the sound of running footsteps, and then his dad was skidding into the room and too his side, apparently more enraptured by the music than he was. Hamishes frown deepened at his father's expression; he'd only seen it on his face once or twice.

It held a delicate passion; a soft tenderness filled every crease in his ageing face. A near smile lingered on his lips, so small you had to know him well enough to catch it. There were tears in his eyes.

"Dad? What's wrong?"

"Bloody basterd."

"Who? What? What do you mean?!"

"It's him. He's back."

"Who?!"

Hamish's father looked very tired for a moment, like he had suddenly remembered some great burden he had temporarily forgotten. He turned towards his son, his tears picking their way downward around the growing smile.

"Hamish Sherlock Watson. Its time I told you where you got your middle name."