"Ordinary"
Hamish was in seventh grade when his father first decided to take him on a crime scene. He already knew the Latin names for everything, also knew two other languages(though sometimes he got words mixed up). He had passed his classes thus far with high marks but he still foundered in math. He wasn't a genius by any means but he was smart, perceptive and relatively clever. He had been practicing his deductive skills since he had came into the household permanently at age seven. He wasn't perfect, and most of his practice had been on his dad.
John did not approve of Hamish seeing death so young, afraid it might trigger any lost memories of his mother's murder(which no one knew the exact details of). But, Sherlock had protested, told him to not be so ordinary, that it was merely another test, an experiment.
John didn't like that either; that Sherlock still didn't view Hamish as anything but a social experiment. Sherlock just didn't have the capacity, Hamish was the equivalent of an intelligent house pet as far as the detective was concerned.
So, in the fourth month of his 7th grade school year Hamish was picked up for the first time by his father Sherlock Holmes.
Hamish was experiencing a type of excitement mixed with fear; his heart beat painfully in his chest. Sherlock gestures for him and he trotted obediently into the cab. His father slid in next to him, his gaze forward.
"Been practicing?" His heavy flat voice asked.
"Yes," Hamish smiled just slightly, his hands tucked in his lap, "I know most of the students, and I've figured which teachers are having affairs."
Sex was another taboo topic with his dad, but he didn't know exactly how desensitized little Hamish was to death and sex; his mother being a dominatrix and having been raised somewhat by Jim and Sebastian when Irene was being used elsewhere.
John was trying to preserve an innocence Hamish had never had the luxury of having.
Sherlock knew, the only reason Hamish was remotely interesting was because he was damaged; was because when he looked into his eyes he didn't see a mindless child, but an echo of himself. Intelligence in a different form, the fact that he wasn't naturally a genius made this experiment all the more fun. If he could teach him, a relatively normal person such a skill, perhaps there was hope for the dull public.
The taxi pulled to a halt at the edge of a road on the cusp of the country.
Hamish had dozed from the long drive and Sherlock shoved him awake before he stepped from the vehicle. There was crime scene tape strung like streamers around the front of the building. An audience had gathered, the building evacuated or at least the floor the murder was on. Lestrade waited for Sherlock but immediately frowned when he saw the little boy trailing in the detectives wake.
"Sherlock, you can't being Hamish up there-"
Sherlock paused and whirled on the silver haired man, his colorless eyes narrow, "I thought you needed me, I suppose I can just go home then, I look forward to watching the evening news-"
Lestrade put his hands up, "Fine alright, fine." He set his jaw, glancing to Hamish who knew better than to gape at adults when they were speaking. Lestrade stepped into Sherlock's space, "I thought you and John had an agreement, at least not until high school. Christ Sherlock, can you imagine what the press will say? A child on a crime scene?"
"I don't believe Hamish is your business." Sherlock said, staring straight at Lestrade with that fierce look he only got when he and dad were having a row - or when Mycroft came over.
"He actually is my business when he steps on the crime scene," Lestrade said huffily, "Not to mention he is my nephew."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, losing patience, "What do you think will happen? He'll bounce up and down on the corpse? He'll slip in the blood?" His tone had risen, "He's not an idiot and he knows his way around a corpse."
Hamish had glanced up then, just in time to catch Lestrade's pitying look. Everyone gave him that look eventually; it was nothing new.
Hamish didn't pity himself, he was happy, but no one understood it; no one understood his life at 221B Baker street was the only real good memories he had and he'd do anything to keep them. He wanted Sherlock to look at him with pride, like John did when he got good marks, he wanted his father to notice him. Really notice, and be proud.
Lestrade gave up, swinging his arm dramatically for them to enter.
Sherlock snapped his fingers as if calling a dog to his heels and Hamish quickly followed.
Scotland yard talked behind their backs but luckily Hamish was no longer listening.
They took the lift to the fourth floor to room 308. The door was open, crime scene tape strung up here too. The police had finished, it was just the two of them as they entered.
The smell to hit first was the scent of decay, then the smell of old blood. There was candles everywhere but they hardly helped.
The body was in the center of the room, splayed at an odd angle, face up, naked, a woman.
Sherlock had stood just beyond the blood stain, the most dominant one on the floor. His head was level, his eyes swept the entire space three times. He had seen everything in this room, but there was more to see, surely. Sherlock had his hands tucked behind his back, he tapped his fingers, "What do you see."
The test, it was starting now.
Hamish cleared his throat and tried to make his observations. His soft pitched voice lilted as he spoke, obviously nervous, "Time of death is two days maybe more, rigor," He crouched down, the nudity of the woman not bothering him, but Sherlock had taken him to the morgue many times before to deduce corpses, he was beyond it now. "The paleness of the skin, the blood settle, the pull at the fingernails-"
"Yes," Sherlock nodded slightly, "Approximately two days, could be more or less, the temperature of the room is hardly ideal, the thermostat was up rather high but it has been raining, cold, could be the victim's doing."
Hamish smiled slightly.
"That tells us little." Sherlock said evenly.
Right.
Hamish continued, "Defensive wounds, but not too many, blow to the skull, she may have knew them. There wasn't forced entry."
"No, there wasn't." Sherlock confirmed, "Do you know what object killed her?"
Hamish was quiet, staring at the woman's smashed in skull. Bits of brain matter were in her hair, skull fragments-matted blood. Hamish looked around himself, unable to spot anything that looked heavy enough or bloody enough. Blood spatter told him she had been murdered here and not in another room. "Killer could have taken it with him."
"No, he didn't."
First mistake. Second, Sherlock had already confirmed it being a man.
Hamish frowned, "A man?"
"Of course it's a man. She was a woman before she was a corpse. Her makeup to what you can see of it is fresh, her clothes, they were cut off after death, the fragments are under the bed, you can see the severed bra strap. It wasn't rape, she was dead before the clothes were cut." Sherlock sighed heavily, "A message, she was probably an adulterer, or at least cheating, there's a shadow of a ring on her ring finger. Taken it off, or it was stolen but I believe we'll find the ring in the room. In a drawer, a box," Sherlock waved his hand, "Hamish, tell me what the weapon was."
Hamish floundered, he hadn't gathered so much, his knowledge was basic, surface level. He felt foolish, young, he hid his face from his father. "I don't know. I know it's heavy-"
"No, you assume it's heavy because of the damage. The object doesn't have to be heavy if the user exerts enough force. This is how we know it's a man, muscular, because he used the bottom of that snow globe on her dresser. He cleaned it, but you can see the indentation of that right leg of it, distinct, in her forehead. He didn't notice, just like you didn't."
Hamish was quiet, feeling light headed all of a sudden from the smell of death.
"You can tell me about a corpse but you can't tell me about the murder." It was a damning statement.
"I'm sorry."
"No need," Sherlock waved him off, "It's not something to be sorry over, you're just ordinary, everyone is ordinary." He said in a tight tone before he turned from the room, his disappointment palpable because Sherlock had been so sure Hamish was ready.
He had been wrong. Maybe he would never be ready.
The car ride was long, quiet, they didn't look at each other.
They walked up the stairs to the flat, John was waiting, he was angry. Greg had called, told him everything.
They fought, Hamish went to his room.
He heard Sherlock shout it was all wrong, Hamish failed, he was ordinary.
John left, slammed the door.
Sherlock was in the kitchen, Hamish could hear the sound of glass, test tubes, the angry slam of the fridge.
Hamish sat in the center of his bed and stared at the wall.
Ordinary.
He was ordinary.