Exactly six hours after Hamish went back to bed, Sherlock Holmes decided he would never cry again. His solution to said problem is to lock away his heart.
At 8:00 A.M., Sherlock removed two pictures along with their frames from the mantle, which had grown pleasantly warm from the roasting fire which had been lit an hour before, and put them in a cardboard box. At 8:05, Sherlock began to collect any stray reminders of his now dead wife and put them into the box as well. By 8:15, the box has been filled with jewelry, a hairbrush, perfume, photographs, and sticky notes with lovingly written reminders. At 8:20, Sherlock shoved the box high up into the closet, hidden where dust builds and spiders crawl. Her clothing is next, and it all goes into another much larger box, which is once more shoved into the closet to collect dust and draw moths.
Sherlock shut the closet door, which resides in an odd little corner between his bedroom and Hamish's. It's filled with linens and other odd household items that hold no true meaning for Sherlock. It's perfect.
There is, however, one final knot Sherlock has yet to tie up. He moved quickly and with purpose to the living room, where in a gorgeous silver frame is a lovely candid picture of a very happy couple.
Sherlock removed the picture from its frame and pressed a gentle kiss to the woman's face before he tossed it into the flames. The picture ignited at the edges, turning charcoal black as the happy faces begin to warp and melt in the heat. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Till death did them part.
In the span of half an hour, Sherlock Holmes had locked his heart and thrown away the key.
Hamish woke at 9:00 A.M. with all traces of his mother gone, save for the piano standing in the corner of the flat, now covered in a thin coat of dust.
His father was nowhere in sight, so Hamish decided to make his own breakfast. He plugged in the toaster, opened the new loaf of bread on the counter, and smiled softly at the fresh smell. Mrs. Hudson had been buying groceries for the Holmes' ever since Rebecca had been diagnosed. Sherlock couldn't even be trusted to buy milk, let alone buy enough food for Hamish and himself, so Mrs. Hudson volunteered for the job.
Hamish slid the slices into the toaster and pushed the lever down; as he waited, he walked towards the living room. He moved first to where he saw his father crying, feeling the seat. It's gone cold, which meant his father had not been sitting there for a long time. Hamish glanced around the room to look for any other evidence, and his eyes finally settled on the nearly bare mantle.
Hamish frowned as he walked towards the mantle, wondering where his father could have hidden the photographs, but his eyes wandered to the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. Hamish bent at his knees and scanned the hearth with narrow eyes, carefully plucking a small charcoal colored corner of paper from the ashes.
As the toast popped out of the toaster, it clicked in Hamish's brain that his father never planned to love again.
Too bad for Sherlock that Holmes men are stubborn, and Hamish has just enough Holmes in him to make sure his father finds someone to make him happy again.
Around noon, Sherlock returned to the flat to find his son curled up in the corner next to the piano with his fist clenched in his soft blue sweater. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Hamish looked at his father with anger in his bloodshot eyes and spoke barely above a whisper, "Why did you burn her?"
Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line before moving towards the kitchen, focusing instead on the mess of crumbs Hamish had left on the counter from his toast, "You know Mrs. Hudson would never approve of such a mess."
Like a hurricane brewing, Hamish slowly rose to his feet with his fists clenched tightly and his face smeared with snot and tears, "You burned all of the pictures. Why?"
Sherlock sighed but didn't look at his son; he looked too much like her. Sherlock spoke slowly, his voice monotone, "I only burned one, and it was an accident."
"Liar," Hamish muttered, stalking towards his father with as much hot-blooded rage as a five-year old could muster, "You did it on purpose."
Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, "Hamish, you don't-"
"I miss her, too."
Sherlock tensed and clenched his fist at his son's words, but remained silent. No, he could never allow himself to cry in front of his son, in front of anyone really.
Hamish, whose rage had begun to simmer with the arrival of fat tears in his eyes, spoke in broken blubbers, "I cried and cried when she died, but I always got to look at that picture and remember her, but now you took it away," Hamish stomped his foot on the ground and swung at his father, hitting him in the thigh, "You burned her!"
Sherlock reached down and scooped Hamish up into his arms, tossing the wailing boy over his shoulder and ignoring the tiny fists pounding into his back and the trails of snot being wiped onto his shoulder. Sherlock moved quickly, opening the door to Hamish's room and setting his son on his bed. He avoided his son's attempts to grab at him and shut the door, holding the doorknob tightly as he heard his son shout, "I hate you!"
In a fit of anger, Hamish pushed over his toy chest, but in a wave of sadness he immediately picked it back up. Hamish let his body be shaken by sobs and wiped his nose on his sleeve, and he wished that his Mum was here to hold him and give him tissues and tell him that Dad was a stupid genius and that they could all go and get ice cream in Regent's Park like they used to.
At some point, Hamish fell asleep curled up on the floor, and at another point, Sherlock slipped the solo candid portrait of his wife under Hamish's door.
That was the last time Hamish and Sherlock had ever so openly spoken of her.