"Hamish! Hamish!" Sherlock called into his sons bedroom. "have you got those shoes on yet?"

He never realised just how tiring the morning run was. He had helped out on the odd occasion, but this was usually John's area. Up bright and early, no problem at all, prepared his son for playgroup, before dropping him off on the way to a days work at the surgery.

He made it all look so easy. But now that John was gone…

Now that John was gone

It still didn't quite seem real. Hadn't quite sunk in, even after all this time.

"Hamish! We're gonna be late, hurry up!" Sherlock grew tired of waiting, and took it upon himself to find out what was taking so long.

Pushing back Hamish's door, Sherlock was more than shocked with the image that greeted him.

"what the hell are you doing?!" Sherlock screeched, reminded of the countless times John had bellowed those very words at him.

Hamish was sprawled across his bedroom floor, closely examining what appeared to be a human eye. Thankfully, he was already dressed, shoes on and raring to go. Although now Sherlock was panicking slightly about whether or not his clothes were dirty – which would mean repeating this charade in its entirety.

"where did you even get those from?" Sherlock questioned

"the fridge, obviously," came the innocent response.

"the fridge? Our fridge? You mean you've used my –" Sherlock stopped himself continuing, very aware of the fact that Hamish had to leave for pre-school any minute now. "We haven't got time. We'll talk about this later."

The sound of footsteps ascending up the stairs were soon heard.

"Sherlock?" Molly called, as she entered the apartment.

"Molly's here now. Quickly, get your coat," he instructed, as Hamish finally did as his Papa asked of him.

"coming!" Hamish called out to Molly

Rushing through to the living room, Sherlock ushered Hamish towards Molly. She stood waiting in the centre of the room.

He hated the way she looked at him. The way everyone looked at him and his son now.

Pity.

"Lestrade's on his way up. Mrs Hudson stopped him at the door – something about tea"

"I don't need a babysitter, Molly"

"I never said you did"

She smiled back at Sherlock, before taking Hamish's hand, and helping him fasten his coat.

Lestrade entered the room, addressing his friend "Sherlock."

There was that degrading look again. Sherlock wondered if anyone will ever look at him in the same way. Weirdly, he missed those judgemental looks towards him and his sociopathic brain.

"any news on John?" Lestrade continued.

"Why should I tell you if there was?" Sherlock snapped back, in response.

"where's his bag, Sherlock?" Molly asked, straightening Hamish's hood.

"right there, in front of you," Sherlock pointed at the little rucksack in propped up against the door frame. "Do pay attention, Molly."

Sherlock was now getting highly aggravated by all these people in his apartment, getting under his feet. He knew he would no longer be able to return to his bed, as he so desired. Realising this only increased his temper.

"Papa?"

"not now, Hamish!"

"come on, Hamish, you'll see Papa later," Molly interrupted, trying her best to ensure that Sherlock's arrogance didn't get to Hamish too much. Living with the detective alone these past few months must have been a nightmare for the poor boy.

With that, Molly took a hold of Hamish's hand and the pair of them headed down the stairs. As she passed him, Molly tapped Lestrade on the shoulder.

Good luck she thought

Now that the pair of them were alone, Lestrade hoped Sherlock would be more honest with him. He knew this wouldn't happen. He'd been friends with the sociopath long enough to know that the expression of feelings doesn't exactly come naturally to him – even if honesty does. Even so, he gave it a try.

"Sherlock," Lestrade began, "talk to me, mate."

"I am talking to you," came the reply, "but I am not your mate. I don't have friends"

"is that what you really think, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighs and tries his best to ignore Lestrade and his need to share feelings.

"Sherlock, please-"

"unless you're here to finally offer me a case, Graham, I suggest you leave," Sherlock interrupted.

"its. Greg." Lestrade is obviously pretty irritated now. "and you're not fit enough to be on a case right now, Sherlock."

"still got a higher IQ than you and your squad put together," Sherlock mutters to himself, as Lestrade reaches the door.

The DI grunts, exasperated, as he storms out, somehow still being surprised at the sociopath's insufferable behaviour.

…

John is at his own flat, pottering around the kitchen. He is putting the last few bits of his shopping away. Sliding the milk in the door of the fridge, placing a bunch of bananas in the fruit bowl. He bends down to empty his washing machine, when he hears his phone bleep. It's a text.

Morning, John. Just wondering if you had time for a chat at all? I'm at work all day, but try and pop in briefly, if you can. My patients don't mind – they're a bit quieter than yours. Lol! Get it? Anyway, see you soon, hopefully. Love Molly x

…

Fuming from how unaccepting Sherlock is, when all those around him just want to help, he cant help himself.

Lestrade pivots himself around, on his heels, and burst back through into the living room. He is met by rolling eyes from Sherlock, who has also quickly spun around himself, to very obviously hide something behind his back.

"I don't know what's got into you lately." Lestrade begins to lecture him. "You were fine. Taking it all in your stride. You recognised it's just you and the boy now and dealt with it. But then… what changed, Sherlock?"

"yes, thankyou for dropping by, Lestrade," Sherlock ushers him out of the room himself this time. "Your lack of compassion has been noted"

Struggling against the pushy hands of the sociopath, Lestrade continues to argue his case. "This self-pity or wallowing or whatever the bloody hell this is, has to end, Sherlock. Its been 6 months already; grow a pair!"

But then, just as he is almost out of the door once more, Lestrade realises what Sherlock was trying to hide. The decanter on the fireplace, with only half of its whiskey left in it; the suspected glass cradled in Sherlock's hand, still hidden behind his back; the stale smell of cigarettes.

He is not an idiot. Greg already knew about the cigarettes – that was inevitable with Sherlock's history. He has even caught him turning the flat into a crack den more than a few times, when he and Molly have taken little Hamish for the weekend. The amount of mess poor Mrs Hudson has had to cover up.

…

Molly is stood over a corpse, with a clipboard in her hand. She is scribbling away, looking up and inquisitively looking at the body, before jotting down more of her findings.

"Another doctor hard at work, I see," John jokes, as he enters the room.

She smiles and drops the clipboard onto the legs of the deceased body in front of her, before rushing over to hug him.

"John!" she grips him tight. "It's been a while, how are you?"

"Yeah, I'm alright, thanks," he half smiles back at her.

She is quick to recognise that he is holding back a little, so she tries to distract him.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she offers, with that genuine smile.

"sure," John replies, as he follows Molly across the room.

She clicks the kettle on, as John pulls a drawing off the front of the fridge. He cant help but smile as he knows immediately where it came from.

"He drew that for Lestrade and I the other morning," she points out, watching John, as she drops tea bags in the mugs. "He says that its all 5 of us playing together in the park. I asked him where Mrs Hudson was, and he replied 'making the tea, of course, Molly!' he's a cheeky little monkey," she laughs to herself.

"and how's Sherlock?" John asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, but he had to know.

Molly sighs a little, as she leans her back against the counter, looking over at John, still waiting for the kettle to boil. "honestly? He's not good, John."

"and has he…?" John couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. "I mean is he…?"

"yeah, he is back on it all," she confirms. "Tobacco, Cocaine, Heroin – you name it, he is taking it."

"shit."

"I'm pretty sure he is drinking too, but Lestrade doesn't see it," she testifies. "You have to talk to him, John."

…

Still stood in the doorway, just a few seconds from being thrown out by the sociopath, Lestrade is feeling pretty disappointed in his friend.

"really, Sherlock? Smoking, drugs, now alcohol too?" he cautiously enquires, his concern growing by the second.

"its none of your business," Sherlock shuns him away, as he downs what's left in his glass, and strolls over to the fireplace to fill it once more.

Lestrade takes the opportunity and follows him back into the apartment.

"I'm not leaving here until you tell me what's going on in that insane head of yours," he insists, as he sits in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"OUT!" Sherlock flips. Just two seconds ago he was quiet with self-pity, and now he flips to pure rage, quick as a switch.

"I told you, I'm not leaving!" Lestrade stands his ground.

Sherlock stands up, glass still in his hand, and towers himself over the still-seated DI.

"get out. Of. His chair." Sherlock states, through his teeth. A quiet, sinister voice, his authority being asserted for the first time since John left him.

…

Molly has finally finished making that tea and her and John are now sat opposite one another, at a small coffee table squashed in the corner of Molly's lab area. They are sipping at their drinks, as they open up to one another, with a half-eaten plate of biscuits in front of them.

"I cant," John shakes his head. "A powerful mind like his, its only going to make me feel even more useless."

Molly takes a hold of John's hand, "you're not useless, John. None of this is your fault."

But he just looks at her with a dead serious look. She does remember who walked out on who in this family, right?

"well, yeah," she realises what she said. "The split was your decision, but nothing else here is your fault. What's happening to you is totally normal. You're not alone with this, John."

But John just ignores her. He hears every single word but doesn't believe any of it. As she said, its his fault the three of them aren't together.

…

Lestrade gets up from the chair, staring into Sherlock's eyes, until the sociopath looks away, drinking yet more of his neat whiskey.

Lestrade continues to watch him a little more, quizzically.

"you thought he was coming back," he finally concludes.

He can see Sherlock cheeks clench, as he grits his teeth again with annoyance; that usually means Lestrade is right.

"it makes sense now!" he is quite happy with himself, having managed to deduce the great detective himself. "the way you dealt with it so well for those first few months, you carried on as if nothing had happened. Because to you, it hadn't. you had convinced yourself he was going to walk back through that door any second and take you back. That's why you didn't go off the rails back then! Of course!"

Lestrade is now grinning with glee, that he has cracked the code.

"but now you realise," Lestrade continues to point out, with a little more sensitivity in his voice. "you know he isn't coming back, because if he was, he would have done it by now." He watches Sherlock try to ignore him, as he tops up his glass once more. "So you're throwing yourself under the metaphorical bus. The smoking, the temper with Hamish, the drink-"

He snatches the drink from the detective's hands. But, quick as a flash, Sherlock grabs a gun from the back of his pyjama trousers and points it at Lestrade.

"I know you wouldn't hurt me, Sherlock," Lestrade looks right down the barrel of the loaded gun, a flash of fear still racing across his face.

…

A long silence has fallen between Molly and John. They are both silently drinking their tea. But the reality of what Molly has said suddenly sinks in-

"oh my god! What about Hamish?!"

"He is fine, bless him," she reassures John. "He is with Lestrade and I most days. Its not fair to keep him around his Papa too much right now. Small doses. We are keeping a close eye on the situation."

She smiles a little, as she sees the fear in John's eyes disappear a little. Its evident he still cares for his family.

"This is silly, John," she insists.

"We've been through this Molly-"

"No, you've been through this," she starts to get a bit more assertive with him now. "Your son needs you, John, they both do."

"I can barely look after myself right now, Molly, let alone a child!"

"so let Sherlock help you!" she is still her usual caring self, but she cant help but get annoyed with John at this point. "He is your husband, for Christ sake; does that mean nothing to you?"

…

"I wondered if you boys might want that tea now," enquires Mrs Hudson, as she enters the flat. "Sherlock!" she screams, dropping the tray of tea and smashing the crockery, as she notices the gun.

"it's alright, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade reassures her, as Sherlock lowers the gun with a sigh of annoyance.

Lestrade forces the glass back into Sherlock's hand. "drink it. Drink yourself into oblivion, because I've had enough."

Sherlock gladly takes the glass, but stares right at Lestrade, waiting for him to leave.

"But if you think I'm ever letting that boy back into this self-loathing pit of yours, think again," he states, the anger evident in his voice.

He walks away, every move observed by the sociopath. Lestrade stops as he reaches the housekeeper.

"if you want to see Hamish, he is going to be staying with Molly and I for a while," he turns back to look at Sherlock, disapprovingly. "But you come alone to visit him. The poor kid doesn't deserve someone as destructive as that in his life."

Lestrade walks out, with his head hung low. He is so disappointed in his friend. He knows what he is like. He knows this is what he would usually do. But that was old Sherlock. He thought being a father had made him realise how his priorities had to change. But evidently not.

"oh Sherlock…" Mrs Hudson sadly exclaims.

But the detective simply turns back around to finish his drink, before slumping into his chair. He sits emotionless, staring into the abyss, subconsciously fiddling with a ring attached to the chain around his neck. John's wedding ring.

…

Molly is now stood over the sink, rinsing the mugs out. John is stood in front of the fridge again, staring at the art work creation his son made. This is just the start - he is going to miss out on so much, if he doesn't sort something out.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you, John," Molly apologises.

"It's okay, I deserved it," John agreed.

"It's just," she puts the cups down, and turns to face John, "you haven't seen him. Anything is better than watching Sherlock act like this."

"I never meant to hurt him; I was trying to do the opposite. I was trying to save him from all the hurt," John tries to make sense of his actions, but after hearing how Sherlock is coping, there's little consolation for his decision.

"He thinks you don't love him, John," Molly declares.

"no! I love him too much!"

"so tell him that," she encourages him.

John finds himself looking back at that drawing for strength. Even after everyone telling him he made the wrong choice for the past 6 months, its still so hard to go back to Sherlock. How could he ever face his detective and admit what he has been fighting so hard to hide from him?

…

Mrs Hudson sighs to herself and hangs her head in shame at Sherlock. She strolls out of the door, simply stepping over the broken cups. She plods down the stairs, looking as though she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.

When she reaches the final step, she peers back up them with another sigh. She nods a little to herself and takes her mobile out of her pocket. She scrolls through her contacts until she reaches: John W. With an intake of breath for courage, she presses call, and holds the phone to her ear.

But of course, he doesn't answer. It rings out, and she gets the answering machine.

"John... That's enough now, you need to come home. You need to tell him the truth."