"You should consider putting him into a proper school."
"I'm perfectly capable of carrying out Hamish's education."
"Of course you are, love. I'm just concerned he won't...develop."
Sherlock Holmes stood at the fireplace mantle, toying with the skull which now fills the spot of the burned picture. Mrs. Holmes sat on the couch across the room, her hands folded in her lap and her brow scrunching in concern.
Sherlock's parents had arrived at Baker Street an hour earlier, and it was their first visit since Rebecca's funeral. Being five days before Christmas, Mrs. Hudson had put up a small plastic tree in the flat, in an effort to get the boys in 221B into the holiday spirit. Sherlock, however, was becoming antisocial, and Hamish was beginning to follow suit.
Mycroft had grown concerned for his brother and his nephew, but he could not attend to them himself. Therefore, despite being in the middle of diffusing an international crisis in the Middle East, Mycroft arranged for his parents to pay Sherlock and Hamish a visit.
Sherlock should have known something was amiss when his parents showed up at the door unannounced, and he should have protested when his father offered to take Hamish out to buy an early Christmas present.
Now, Sherlock was standing in his flat five days before Christmas on the verge of calling Mycroft, and his mother sat on the couch with pure concern for her son and her grandson.
"I know Rebecca wanted him in public school, but perhaps he could go to Wetherby. Mike gives a donation every quarter, so I'm sure-"
"I don't need Mycroft putting my son through school," Sherlock practically growled, startling his mother, "He'll be fine being home schooled."
Mrs. Holmes pursed her lips and shook her head, "But Rebecca took him out into the world. They went to the park, she had him in a playgroup at the library, and she made sure he focused on his reading. You're always so focused on your work."
"Hamish can read just fine, and I can focus on more than my work," Sherlock huffed, becoming unnerved by his mother's casual use of his wife's name, "He'll be fine."
"He's five years old, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes pleaded, "He needs to have social interaction."
"Why do you think he has me?" Sherlock quipped, his fuse growing increasingly short.
"I know, but Rebecca-"
"Is dead!" Sherlock shouted, slamming the skull onto the mantle and rushing towards his mother, his eyes wild, "You talk about her like she's still here, like she still matters!"
Mrs. Holmes tensed as she watches her son fly into a fit of rage, but she kept her voice even, having seen such fits before, "Because she is...was Hamish's mother, and she was your wife."
"And she's dead," Sherlock replied, forcing himself to calm down and chastising himself for flying off the handle, "There's no reason to mention her."
"Is that why you took down the photos then?" Mrs. Holmes asked, "Are you trying to just erase her? Because that's not right to do to Hamish...or to yourself."
Sherlock didn't answer, but he allowed himself to stare at the mantle when his mother gestureed towards it, "Hamish will be home schooled until I see fit."
Mrs. Holmes nodded, knowing she wouldn't get an answer from her son, "All right, but please, Sherlock, consider putting him into a proper school. You might not realize it, but he needs it."
Sherlock hummed and glanced at the window, moving towards it watching as a cab pulled up in front of the flat and seeing his father and Hamish step out. He clicked his tongue as he saw Hamish clutching a box of Legos to his chest, and he muttered softly, "He loves those damned toy bricks. Useless."
Mrs. Holmes frowned at her son's words, standing and going to open the door, "Let him be a boy, Sherlock. That's all I ask."
As Hamish bounded up the stairs to proudly show off his new Legos to his father, Mr. Holmes walked up to his wife and whispered in her ear, concern furrowing his brow. Sherlock smiled briefly at Hamish before watching with narrow eyes at his parents conversing in hushed tones. Hamish frowned and glanced nervously between his father and his grandparents, believing he was the reason for whatever was going on.
The night before Christmas Eve, Hamish was sitting on his bed clutching the picture of his mother tightly in his hands. In the weeks since the picture was slipped beneath his door, Hamish had studied it very night before he goes to bed, fearful that if he didn't, he would forget what she looked like. Hamish tensed as he heard his father walking towards his room, and he quickly stuffed the photograph back into his pillowcase.
Sherlock entered Hamish's room with a small sigh, moving to stand over his son, "You're usually asleep by now. What's wrong?"
Hamish shrugged, pulling down his sheets and covering his legs, "I dunno. Stuff."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and perched himself on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheets up to Hamish's chest, "You enjoy going to visit Gran and Gramps. Why is this visit bothering you?"
Hamish frowned, knowing his father could see right through him, and hating it, "It's nothing."
"It's never nothing," Sherlock quipped, combing a hand through Hamish's hair before standing.
"Fine," Hamish huffed, nestling closer into his cocoon of sheets, "It's nothing I want you to know about."
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, taken back by his son's remark, but quickly shut it. He stepped back across the room, moving to close the door, "Goodnight, Hamish."
The door closed, leaving Hamish to his thoughts and Sherlock to his own. Holmes men should never be left to their own thoughts; they notoriously overthink everything.
The day began at 9:00 A.M., when Hamish stumbled sleepily from his room to find the kitchen a complete and utter mess. His father sat in the middle of it with his lab goggles hanging around his neck and a look of pure annoyance of his face.
"Dad?"
"Experiment," Sherlock mumbled, "Reactive properties of human fingers in corrosive acid at varying temperatures."
"Eww," Hamish replied, scrunching his nose, "How did it explode?"
Sherlock shrugged and glanced around the kitchen, looking as if he didn't know how he got here, "Mixture of unstable chemicals. Accidental, of course. Mrs. Hudson will be livid."
Hamish smiled softly and scratched at his head, his stomach growling softly, "I guess I'm going to her for breakfast, huh?"
Sherlock nodded and worked the goggles over his head, tossing them into the sink and beginning to clean the countertops, "Bring back some biscuits. She usually bakes enough to share. It is Christmas Eve after all." Sherlock says the last part with a tone of bitterness, and Hamish picks up in it.
"You used to like Christmas, Dad," Hamish replied, a slight frown on his face.
Sherlock glanced at his son, his eyes hard, "It's different now."
Hamish bit his lip and turned away, leaving the flat quickly and shutting the door behind him. Of course it was different. Christmas was only enjoyable when there were three people living in 221B.
"Do you want milk, dear?"
"Yes, please. Thank you."
Hamish watched as Mrs. Hudson filled his glass with milk while he cut the pancakes on his plate into bite size pieces. He kicked his legs back and forth beneath the table, a small smile on his face as he dipped a piece of pancake into maple syrup before putting it into his mouth.
Mrs. Hudson smiled as she watched Hamish eat, her heart aching for the boy. She hadn't been able to talk to Sherlock about Rebecca's death because the man absolutely refused to mention her. Mrs. Hudson had watched "her boys" suffer silently over the past few weeks, and Mrs. Hudson simply knew that Sherlock was suffering more than he let on, and that Hamish was virtually alone.
"How's your father, Ham?" Mrs. Hudson asked nonchalantly, moving to set the milk back in the fridge.
"Blew up the kitchen again," Hamish hummed, using one hand to push his hair out of his eyes, "I'm glad you made pancakes."
Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head, "I just knew something would happen. Your father would never let Christmas just be Christmas," she straightened up and moved toward the sink, cleaning the dishes she had used earlier, "Don't you ever be like that."
Hamish smiled as he ate, but as he stabbed his next piece of pancake, he paused and frowned, "He didn't used to be like this...all angry. It's just been since...y'know," he trailed off, his brow furrowing.
Mrs. Hudson sighed and dried her hands on a dish towel, moving towards Hamish and wrapping an arm around him, "It's all right, love. I know."
Hamish nodded and resumed eating. He glanced up from his plate when Mrs. Hudson moved back to the sink, and he watched her as she puttered around the kitchen. Hamish couldn't help but remember how his mother used to do the same.
About an hour and a half later, Sherlock and Hamish were sitting silently in the back of cab, respectively staring out of their own windows. Their overnight bags were cozily stored in the boot, and a small collection of Christmas gifts sat in the space between them. Sherlock and Hamish had grown increasingly distant over the past few weeks, and the onset of Christmas had made things even worse. When their family was still whole, Sherlock and his wife took Hamish out to see Santa Claus, and they would sit together in Speedy's, drink hot chocolate, and write Hamish's Christmas list. They could stay there for hours, laughing and making merry, Sherlock practically glowing as he watched his wife and son sing along with the Christmas carols over the radio. Then they would mail Hamish's letter and go home to set about to make cookies for Santa, which always ended with Rebecca chastising Sherlock for forgetting to buy milk for the jolly old man, "You simply can't leave Santa cookies without milk. The man needs to have a clear throat to call out to his reindeer."
Sherlock glanced towards his son, sighing inwardly. It was different now, and it would never be the same again.
He cleared his throat and smiled weakly as Hamish turned to him, "Are you excited then? For Christmas?"
Hamish shrugged, "I guess so."
"Did you write your list for Santa?" Sherlock asked, digging his fingernails into his palm as he spoke. He didn't like letting his son believe in such a foolish Christmas tale, but ignorance is bliss.
Hamish nodded, but bit his lip, "I don't wanna mail it."
Sherlock pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow, "Do you want to mail it when we get to Gran and Gramps? You always-"
"I'm sure," Hamish cut in, looking increasingly nervous, "I just...it's silly. It's not like Santa can give me everything, right?"
Sherlock watched as his son turned away, looking out the window once more. Sherlock sighed, hating that he felt so helpless, and merely contented himself with reaching out and running a hand through his boy's hair.
"Hamish, don't you like turkey?"
"I do, Gran. I'm just not very hungry."
Hamish sat with his ankles crossed beneath the dining room table, poking at that turkey on his plate with his fork. Sherlock, sitting across from his him, picked at the glob of sweet potatoes on his plate. Sherlock's parents sat at the opposite heads of the table, their plates already half empty. The table, adorned with a festive red and green cloth, is strewn with steaming bowls of vegetables, a golden brown turkey, and a small tender ham.
Mycroft, unfortunately, was still in tangles in the Middle East, so it wasn't a true family Christmas. And anyone who had been to the funeral a few weeks ago would know that even if Mycroft was there, the Holmes family would still be missing a rather important member.
Mr. Holmes cleared his throat before glancing at his son, reaching over and cutting a thin slice of ham, "So, Sherlock, how are your cases going?"
"Remember your cholesterol, love," Mrs. Holmes scolded, pointing her fork at her husband, "You have the doctor next week."
"Slow season," Sherlock replied, ignoring his mother and not making eye contact, "Criminals have some code of honor, it seems."
Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes at his wife's comment but nodded towards his son. He set the ham slice onto his plate before turning to Hamish, "And what about you? Are you excited for Santa tomorrow?"
Hamish shrugged, a common response now, before setting his fork down, "I dunno. May I be excused?"
"Why you've barely eaten," Mrs. Holmes cut in, frowning, "You need to eat at least half of that."
"But I don't want to," Hamish replied, crossing his arms, "I want to play with the Legos that Gramps got me."
"Listen to your Gran, Hamish," Mr. Holmes sighed, "And she's right. You need to eat."
"But Dad doesn't," Hamish whined, "So why do I have to?"
"Because you're still a boy," Mrs. Holmes replied, cutting into her slice of turkey, "Eat. It's final."
"Go play with your blocks," Sherlock said suddenly, picking up a forkful of peas, "It's fine."
Hamish beamed at his father and bolted from the table, running towards his room where the Legos lay strewn on the floor. Mr. Holmes watched his grandson leave, and Mrs. Holmes dropped her utensils and stared daggers at her younger son.
Sherlock met her gaze and slowly set down his fork, "He's my son."
"Rebecca would have never allowed that. And if it had been her saying what I said, you would have agreed with her."
Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet, "You're not his mother, and neither is she. Not anymore."
"Perhaps if you started acting like a father-"
"I am," Sherlock hissed before storming away from the table, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Holmes to finish their meal alone.
Mrs. Holmes frowned and worried her hands beneath the table, "I worry about them so much. It's just not healthy what they're doing."
Mr. Holmes smiled wistfully and set down his utensils, standing and walking to the other side of the table and wrapping her in a tender embrace, "They've got your smarts, right? They'll work it out, love. We've just got to nudge them along."
Mycroft let out a slow breath as his car pulled up to his childhood home. He bade a fond farewell and a Merry Christmas to his driver before stepping out of the car. He didn't need luggage, as he would be leaving in the morning, and his parents kept clothes for both him and Sherlock in case they ever need to stay the night. Mycroft checked his watch as he made his way to the door, frowning as he saw it was nearly midnight.
Mycroft unlocked the door and did his best to stay quiet, but he gave up all hope for that when he saw his brother perched on the couch with his hands pressed together in concentration. As the door clicked shut, Sherlock's hands parted and the brothers' gazes meet.
Sherlock scowled, sitting up, "I was hoping you wouldn't arrive until after I left. Or at the very least, tomorrow morning."
"Is it so bad I wanted to surprise my family by coming home early?" Mycroft replied haughtily, taking off his jacket and hanging it up, "Really, Sherlock, have a little holiday spirit."
"You hate it too," Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms "All of the mindless merchandising and the uncontrollable toddlers, sniveling for the latest and greatest toy, along with the ceaseless chanting of Christmas carols. November is hardly over when Christmas time begins."
"I might recall that last year you rather enjoyed all of that drivel, or at least you tried to," Mycroft replied, arching an eyebrow.
Sherlock tensed and looked away, his voice flat, "And I might recall that you rather enjoyed Mummy's Christmas feast last year. I must say, you've lost the weight rather well."
Mycroft hummed and walked towards his brother, glancing down at him before walking down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder, "You can bury the body, Sherlock, but you can't bury the memory."
"We'll see," Sherlock replied coldly, rising to his feet and going upstairs to his old room, deciding that perhaps sleep was a more attractive option than speaking to his brother.
After stepping into his parents room for a quick hello (he meant for it to be quick, but Mummy was always asking questions), Mycroft crept back down the hall and into Hamish's room, pressing his lips together when he saw his nephew sleeping. He had been hoping he would arrive before Hamish's bedtime, as the boy kept odd hours like his father, but the trip and the day's rather uncomfortable events must have tired him out. Mycroft moved slowly towards him, pulling up the boy's covers to his chin, and smiled softly.
Mycroft wished he was able to visit his nephew more often. Where Sherlock had cursed his brother's presence, Rebecca had welcomed him with open arms. She was charming and respectful and wasn't afraid to argue with Mycroft if his tone became too judgemental. Sherlock had absolutely deserved her; but he never deserved to lose her, not the way he did.
Mycroft turned to leave and perhaps seek out some rest of his own, when his eyes fell to Hamish's suitcase in the corner of the room. He spied an envelope sticking out, with bright red letters written in a child's tell tale scrawl, and Mycroft allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He grabbed the letter and smirked as he read Mr. Santa Claus: North Pole. He did his best to silently open the envelope, his face slowly changing as he read the letter:
Dear Santa,
This year, I think I've been pretty good. I used to always get really mad at my dad, but I've been a lot better lately. Sometimes I forget that he gets really moody, b̶u̶t̶ ̶m̶u̶m̶ ̶a̶l̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ ̶m̶e̶. I know I'm so lucky to have t̶h̶e̶m̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶C̶h̶r̶i̶s̶t̶m̶a̶s̶ ̶g̶i̶f̶t̶ ̶I̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶.̶ If you're going to bring me something, I would only like these things:
Legos!
A new journal
Maybe my own camera?
m̶y̶ ̶m̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶
Thanks,
Hamish Holmes
P.S. Ignore the cross outs. They're not important.
Mycroft frowned, because he knew that everything his nephew had crossed out was rather incredibly important.
He returned the letter to its envelope and put it back in its proper place before creeping back out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Mycroft, for perhaps the second time in his life, wasn't sure what to do.
