At 10:00 A.M., the day after Christmas, a cab was sitting outside with Hamish slumping over sleepily in the back seat and a small bounty of presents in the boot. Sherlock was in his parents room, rushing as he shoved the remaining clothes back into the bags he and Hamish had brought with them. Mrs. Holmes stood in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her and worry furrowing her brow.
"I don't understand why you're leaving so soon, Sherlock. I haven't seen you or Hamish in ages," Mrs. Holmes set her arms angrily at her sides, "You can't go speeding off after only two days. I want to see my son and my grandson more than just a few times a year."
"I've got an arrangement with the Detective Inspector and with a pathologist down at St. Bart's to do some vital research for a case," Sherlock replied quickly, "And besides, you know I keep a busy schedule. Additionally, you've already given Hamish his presents. He'll be sure to remember you."
Mrs. Holmes sighed, "That's not the point, Sherlock. I only-"
"I'll be here for New Years," Sherlock hummed, zipping the bags and shouldering them as he kissed his mother on the cheek, "Promise."
Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes and grabbed Sherlock's arm as he tried to slip past her, "I know you're keeping busy, but please, look after Hamish. Promise me that."
Sherlock huffed, "Mother, the cab-"
"Promise me," Mrs. Holmes repeated, her eyes narrowed.
Sherlock paused before kissing his mother on the cheek once more, "Fine. I promise."
With a quick farewell to his father, Sherlock rushed out the door and into the cab, giving the address to the cabbie and beginning the journey back to Baker Street. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes watched the cab drive off, worry settled deep in their hearts.
"I'm not crazy, right? Lots of people talk to themselves when they're alone. I am normal, plain and simple. God, I sound like a loon right now."
Molly Hooper was leaning against the counter in the kitchen of her flat, holding a mug of tea in her hands and seemingly talking to the muted television across the room. The news was on, and some insane man was running naked through London and somehow evading the police. It was a slow news day, apparently.
"Well, I mean, I'm normal in the sense of 'not going to kill someone for kicks.' But, I've seen dead bodies, is that normal? I mean, it's a job isn't it? Plausible...pays well...oh Molly, get a hold of yourself."
The young pathologist shook her head, looking thoughtful as she took a sip of her tea. Molly didn't talk to herself very often, but it had become a habit as of late. She was alone rather often now, her only communication occurring at work, and 50% of that communication involved horrendous and hurtful and utterly gorgeous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, the man who lost his wife, the man who had to single-handedly raise his son, the man who refused any help whatsoever.
Molly sighed and set her mug down, reaching for her phone and firing off a quick text:
Belated Merry Christmas :)
Not very merry. SH
You're supposed to say it back, even if it is belated. :(
I don't abide by such social construct. SH
Molly set her phone back down with a frown, whispering softly, "He's horrible. An absolute arse. Social construct...bullshit."
She walked towards the television, lifting a picture off the top of it. She lovingly ran her fingers along the smooth wooden frame, then over the young face next to her own; two women almost identical, one mousy and the other bubbly. Molly sighed and bit her lip, tracing the loose and wavy hair of the other woman, "God, Becca, he's so lost without you. So am I."
On one side of London, Sherlock Holmes couldn't talk about the woman he lost. On the other side of London, Molly Hooper couldn't stop talking to her.
"Who're you texting?" Hamish asked, looking up from the string he was pulling on his jacket. The boy was nearly silent for the cab ride, still sleepy from the events the night before.
"Molly," Sherlock replied coolly, closing his phone and pocketing it, "She says Merry Christmas. Belated, of course."
Hamish smiled to himself and returned to the string, his voice soft as his fingers twirled, "I miss Auntie Molly. I haven't seen her in awhile."
Sherlock nodded, glancing at his son, "Would you like to come with me to Bart's? I'm sure she'd mind you while I do my research."
Hamish nodded, "Mhm, I'd like that." His eyes drooped slightly, his hands falling to his lap.
"Still tired?" Sherlock hummed, reaching out and combing his hand through his son's hair.
Hamish, incredibly knackered and craving warmth, leaned against his father and buried his face in his chest, "I miss home. I wanna go back."
Sherlock hummed in agreement, wrapping his arm around his son and pulling him close, "I know."
It was the closest they had come to talking about Rebecca since that fateful night weeks ago.
After unpacking at Baker Street, Sherlock and Hamish took another cab to St. Barts. Sherlock sent Hamish down to pathology while the genius himself went off to a separate lab. Hamish bit his lip as he walked down the empty hallways with busily silent people rushing by. A few of them looked at Hamish, and he smiled when they smiled back. They all knew him of course, Holmes's boy. Far sweeter than his father, by a long shot. But when they smiled at him, Hamish wasn't blind to the subtle sadness behind their eyes. He knew they felt sorry for him. Hamish hated it.
When he got to Molly's section of the hospital, he peeked in the doorway and knocked softly on the doorframe, smiling as he saw Molly pop up her head from her work. He always liked how Molly became so focused, yet even a knock on the door could spook her. It reminded him of his mum.
"Ham!" Molly cheered, quickly covering the body she was working with and turning to the young boy, "Your dad didn't stop by yet. Did he send you as his charge?"
Hamish shook his head and stepped further into the room, "No, he's doing other stuff, I don't know what. He sent me here."
Molly chuckled and rolled her eyes, moving to wash her hands, "I'd tell him I'm not your babysitter, but I like you too much. There's a chair in the corner, pop a squat."
"Watcha workin' on?" Hamish asked, slowly walking over to the chair and sitting down.
"That man was in a bad place at a bad time," Molly hummed, "So your dad and I have to find who's responsible for him getting hurt. I find out what happened physically, and he finds out what happened scientifically."
"That's cool," Hamish grinned, bouncing slightly, "Is it a cereal murder? Like Cheerios?"
Molly laughed and shook her head, drying off her hands, "No, serial, like a series. Think Doctor Who, it's a series, meaning there's lots and lots of episodes. So a serial murder is lots and lots of murders."
Hamish nodded, chewing his lip in thought, "Daddy doesn't watch Doctor Who. Mrs. Hudson lets me, but she thinks it's scary."
Molly nodded in agreement, "It can be a little scary. I'm surprised you watch it."
Hamish puffed out his chest, arms straight down at his sides, "I'm a big boy, Mrs. Hudson and Grams and Gramps say so."
"Ooh, sorry big boy," Molly teased walking over and leaning down to tap his nose, "I remember you when you were a baby, you know?"
Hamish nodded and smiled, but it quickly fell and he looked away, "Yeah, I know."
Molly cocked her head and furrowed her brow, "Ham, what is it? Did I say something?"
Hamish shook his head quickly, "No, just...I love you, Auntie Molly. Lots."
Molly sighed and bent at the knees, scooping Hamish up into her arms and squeezing him tightly, "And I love you too, Ham. Lots and lots. Practically the size of the whole world."
Hamish huffed a small laugh in spite of himself, "Nah, that's too big. No one loves anyone that much."
"Says who?" Molly asked, pulling back and acting scandalized, "Are you calling me a liar?"
Hamish cocked his head and pursed his lips, "But you can't love someone the size of the world."
"Course you can," Molly hummed, running her hand through Hamish's hair, "I can list lots of people I love that much."
"Name them," Hamish huffed, crossing his arms, "I bet you can't name three."
Molly smirked, "Well there's you of course, my dad, and well-" she trailed off.
Hamish deflated slightly, sounding bitter, "See?"
"No, no," Molly shook her head, "The third person is your dad, yeah? I love him, too."
Hamish blinked, simply staring at Molly before he whispered, "Do you love him like Mum did?"
Molly blushed furiously, her eyes widening. Damn the Holmes boys for being so keen.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Molly and Hamish both turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, a piece of paper gripped in his hand, "I've got what I need to run tests. Are you done with Mr. Taylor's body?"
"Just about," Molly chirped, standing quickly and adjusting her hair uselessly, "Let me just log in a few more notes than he's yours."
As Hamish sat in the chair, watching Molly and his father work, arguing about different aspects of the notes, Hamish decided that yes, you could love people as much as the whole world. He loved Auntie Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Grams and Gramps as much as the whole world. He loved his Mum maybe more than that; he loved his dad and his uncle a little less. Hamish also decided that yes, Molly did love Sherlock like his Mum had. She looked at him the same way, stood next to him the same way, and smiled in the same way his Mum had.
Hamish, remembering his promise from a few weeks ago, believed Molly would be the one to make his father happy again.