"Hello Uncle Sherlock. I decided to drop Ara home after… Hamish left. Sorry we took forever. We did need some catching up." Elizabeth said with an apologetic smile. Sherlock was deeply fond of her, almost helping to raise her when they were still back in Baker Street. She was an absolute reflection of Mary in terms of physicality, but with John Watson's resolution and bravery.

"That's alright. How's John and Mary?" he asked, gesturing for them to come in. Arabella kissed her father happily, her arm hooked on Elizabeth.

Elizabeth beamed at the question, sitting comfortable on the Holmes' living room. "Well, they are wondering when you'll come over. Daddy is quite impatient these days. Probably missing the sight of cadavers and police tapes." she replied with a chuckle. Sherlock smiled before turning to his daughter.

"Any idea where your brother might be?" he asked.

Arabella shook her head. "I asked the network already. No one has seen him."

Sherlock saw Elizabeth wince a little, not as noticeable but not hard to miss as well. He knew she was thinking of Hamish as well, her suddenly distant green eyes giving her thoughts away.

/

Hamish leaned on a lampost, watching the nearby coffee shop from across the street. His blazing grey eyes scanned the perimeter actively, giving his black curls a quick tousle before walking in. If there was one thing he learned most about his parents, it was the idea of meriting logic over sex and the other way around. it wasn't just sex as an act but rather the things that go off with it, may it be manipulation, lust, or emotions.

The past few months had been difficult, his heart trying to overrule his head. He found a solution, a game of sorts, something Arabella called cruel but had also seen necessary. He was fading away, out of his usual league, fixated of fixing a problem that caused him to malfunction in every way possible. People had told him he had lost some weight, the old sarcastic remarks he used to give no longer heard, only to be replaced by a piano piece he had written, the sound of lament hidden on the notes.

He was a head-turner, his dark hair falling carelessly over his stormy grey eyes. Sharp cheekbones from his father and thin, menacingly seductive lips from his mother made it easy to play around without even showing the slightest interest. Picking the low-lighted corner of the coffee shop, he saw in his periphery a redhead who was eyeing him. He turned to her, a fake flirty smile forming in his lips despite the seething in his head.

"Are you with someone?" he asked, flashing his sultriest grin.

"No. Are you?" the girl asked, her finger tracing the edge of her coffee cup. Her brown eyes darkened as he sat across her, a playful smile caught in her mouth.

He swayed her with his sweet words, one that was easily tailored by the mere study of her body language. Whispering in her ear, she easily came with him, hand snaking up his arms as they headed to the nearby alley, giggling like preschoolers. She grabbed him by the lapel of his coat, dragging him to her dorm room, shushed sniggers escaping their lips. He kissed her, his hands exploring her body and she invited him freely.

Hamish was disgusted with himself.

After what seemed like a daze, a scornful whim of adrenaline drugging them sexual desires, he lay there, the girl sleeping soundless in his arms with her head resting on his bare chest. If Sherlock Holmes believed that he was once cold and heartless, Hamish now thought he was something much worse. He was done with this girl, her name already deleted in his hard drive, and now it was his cue to leave. Without a note or a noise, Hamish got dressed and sneaked out of the dorm, rubbing his hands against the cold of night… or was it dusk?

His mind fleeted, the look on Elizabeth's green eyes revisiting him. He remembered once, when they were merely children, the first time he looked at her differently.

His father had a client, a manic one at that and he and his sister were only six years old. At an unexpected turn of events, he was suddenly held at gunpoint, the deranged look on the eyes of the man still haunting him in his dreams at times. He could remember the cold feel of the gun against his neck, the fear in his youthful frame reverberating.

Despite the resolution of that incident, he found himself unable to speak, haunted by the experience. Until she came.

Lizzie Watson, as they all fondly call her, knocked on his room with something in her hands, that kind smile reaching her twinkling green eyes. She was already a young lady, a girl of 10 years going on 11 and the pride in him that seemed to be a Holmes trait somehow diminished, feeling like a mere child in front of her.

She told him it was okay to be afraid, for one could never be truly be brave without having fear. She then handed him a red scarf, telling him that the shade means courage, and if ever he was in fear or in doubt, the scarf shall give him warmth and strength. He remembered how he rolled his eyes at the sentiment she was implying, but took the scarf anyway. When she left, he held the scarf to his face, the scent of her perfume clinging to it, and that night he dreamt of her, green eyes and kind smile one of the first memories ever to get stored in his very own mind palace.

Snapping back to the present, Hamish tugged onto the scarf on his neck, tightening it to shield himself from the cold. He must have looked so stupid earlier, he left her see his sentiment, showing up wearing this bloody piece of cloth after what had happened. Hamish cursed.

Suddenly, he stopped in his heel when a gunshot was heard, coming from the direction of the dorm he just left.