Hello,

Yes, I'm doing this at the beginning again because I need to explain the oddity of this chapter. First off, it started as two chapters but I was not happy with them. Thus, I have decided to do a time jump in this chapter, meaning that I didn't write a month-by-month thing with Elfie raising Hamish on her own. I tried that and I was not happy with it…at all. Also I wanted to keep the cannon as true as possible which means, yes, Sherlock will not be there for Hamish's infancy.

On the brighter side, their reunion will be coming sooner rather than later.

I have developed a little, teeny tiny, wibbley wobbly, timey wimey case so that will be coming as well. (Not really wibbley wobbly, timey wimey, I just like using that phrase. I like Doctor Who. Sue me.)

Thanks as always you guys for all your love and support. The plot will become clearer, I promise.

XOXOX0

I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.

Chapter 10: Don't Stop Now Keep Going

Hamish and I are released from the hospital the next morning and I am more than happy to head home to Baker Street. That mysterious nurse has made me feel a tad uneasy: who was he? What did he want with me? Did he even want anything with me? If Sherlock were here, he would figure it out in seconds. My detective skills, however, aren't as well tuned as his were. Perhaps, there was some obvious clue to that man's identity that I missed. It wouldn't surprise me; I was never really good at the whole taking in details thing.

Maybe I'll never know who Basil Altamont really was.

After John and I are safe and sound in 221b, I lie down on the sofa and lay my son comfortably on my chest. Hamish curls up into a little ball and falls asleep

"Well, he's happy," John chuckles, sitting down in his chair.

I smile and gently stroke my son's back; "He's big, John." I say, "Bigger than most newborns."

"Yeah, but there's nothing wrong with that."

"So says you; you didn't have to push him out." We look at one another and laugh, but quietly though so not to disturb the baby. I then realize the key component missing in this scene and my smile slowly fades; "Sherlock would have loved this," I say, half to myself, "I mean, he wouldn't admit to loving it, but this whole parenting thing…He seemed to be looking forward to it."

"Elfie," John says with a heavy sigh, "I know…I know you feel like you can't raise Hamish without Sherlock, but I assure you that you can."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I know you and I know how strong you really are. Elfie, I've seen you go through a lot of bad things in the surprisingly short time I've known you and you always managed to bring yourself back up again. This little boy is beyond lucky to have you to raise him; He'll look up to you, I know it."

I turn my head and look to John. He always knows exactly what to say and exactly the right time. He truly is amazing. After Sherlock's passing, I don't know what I would've done if I didn't have John by my side: "John, I want you to be Hamish's godfather." I say, holding back tears.

"Really?" John asks, a bit taken back.

"Of course, who else would it be? We did name Hamish after you, you know." I explain, "John, you are my best friend and Sherlock always wanted you to be apart of our family. He told me once, before we knew that I was pregnant, that if he and I were to ever have children, you would be just as important to them as we were. He…he would've asked you to be Hamish's godfather. It's what Sherlock wanted and so do I."

John closes his eyes and looks down at his lap; it's still hard for him to hear that Sherlock cared about him. They were brothers after all: not in blood, but in bond. They were the perfect team but now one is lost without the other. Just like me, I don't think John will ever truly move on from Sherlock. There is no one like him, and there never will be.

"Fee, I'm…I'm touched," he finally says, allowing his voice to crack a bit, "I would be honored to be Hamish's godfather." I smile at him and hold out my free hand for him to grab. He does so and places a friendly kiss on my knuckles: "I miss him, Elfie." He whispers.

"Me too, John." I reply, "Me too."

Over the next couple of weeks, there are visitors to 221b who want to meet little Hamish. The first, of course, is Mrs. Hudson. She actually came up the day we got home from the hospital:
"Oh, Elfie, he's beautiful." She cries, cradling my giggling son in her arms.

"He is," I reply, sitting down in Sherlock's armchair, "His name's Hamish."

"Hello, little Hamish." She says, playfully poking his nose. Hamish lets out a small giggle and takes hold of her finger, studying it intricately.

"He likes to do that," John points out from his chair, "Study things."

"Of course he does." Mrs. Hudson says, "He is Sherlock's son, after all." I chuckle slightly and suck on my lower lip; she's right, of course. He may only be a few days old, but Hamish does look like Sherlock. His skin is that delicate pale tone, his eyes are that unique combination of blue and green, and even the peach fuzz of hair on his little head is that dark luscious color.

He is, very much so, Sherlock Holmes' son.

A few weeks later, surprisingly, Lestrade stops by. John was out to the store when he came by, which maybe is a good thing; I don't think John is ready to see anyone from the Yard, just yet. I heard the detective inspector coming up the stairs and, when he reached the archway to the living room, we just stare at one another. Neither of us knows what to say, or how to greet each other. It feels like we're complete strangers.

"I…I understand if you don't want me here," he finally says, nervously stepping into the living room, "I just thought…Well, I mean…You and Sherlock were like family to me and-No, I'm sorry, that's a bit much. What I'm trying to say is that-"

"Greg, it's alright." I reply, rising from the couch and giving him a hug, "Thank you for coming."

We haven't truly spoken since Sherlock's death because, I think, he feels partly responsible. Yes, he did arrest Sherlock on the kidnapping allegations, but only because he was forced to; Greg didn't know that that was all apart of Moriarty's plan. I don't hate him for what happened. After all, he did drop the charges against John for punching the police chief in the nose as well as keep Sherlock's name with the police as clear as possible. That, above all, is what I am most grateful for.

"So, um, where is the little man?" Lestrade asks when we part. I smile and show him too the small swing seat that is set up beside the couch; Hamish is fast asleep in it with his pudgy hands curled up under his chin…like a true Holmes.

"Oh, look at him," Lestrade whispers, kneeling down in front of Hamish, "he is the spitting image of his father already, my God."

"I know." I say, sitting down the couch, "That seems to be the first thing people notice about him."

"People?" Lestrade asks, "Who else have you told about him? I mean, not that you don't have a right to tell others about your child, but-Don't you think that, considering who his father is…was, he should be kept a secret?"

"Well, by people I mean John, Mrs. Hudson and my mother. They are the only people who've met Hamish. Mycroft…he hasn't come by yet." I bite my lower lip and there is an awkward silence. I honestly don't know why Mycroft hasn't seen his nephew yet. As mad as I am at him, I want him to meet Hamish. They are family, doesn't that mean something to Mycroft?

"Your, uh, mom flew in? That was nice of her." Lestrade says, breaking the tension.

"Contrary to popular belief, my mother does have a heart." I jest, "She apparently grabbed the first flight over right after John had called her. You know, she even offered to stay in London to help out. I, of course, told her that it wasn't necessary but the gesture still touched me. I told her that I'd be alright."

"And how are you…truly?" he asks, turning to face me, "Raising a kid all on your own and everything, can be a bit daunting."

"I'm fine, thank you." I answer, quite shortly, "Don't ask me that again."

"Oh, right." Lestrade says a bit taken back by my sudden coldness, "Do you want to…talk about it, maybe?"

"No."

"Not even just to…"

"No."

"Oh, well, then…"

"I mean…I'm tired of talking about it." I say, apologetically, "I don't mean to be so cold, Greg. It's only that…well, for seven months, I had to deal with Sherlock being suddenly taken away from me. No, he wasn't taken…he left. I was two months pregnant and he-he decided to leave me." I feel the tears developing in my eyes and the emotions I've kept bottled inside since my husband's death start to break free; "If I could go back to that day, Greg, I'd ask him why. Why did he do it?" I sniffle, looking down at my lap, "Why would he take his own life like that? That wasn't like him; that wasn't my Sherlock."

"Hey," Lestrade sighs, sitting beside me and setting a comforting arm around my shoulders, "I miss him too, you know. He was…the greatest man I've ever known and I won't stop believing in him, I promise you that. If there is anything you and this little boy ever need, you let me know. I owe it to Sherlock's memory." I look the detective inspector in the eyes and I can see the truth in his gaze. "Here," he quickly says, getting up, "I brought you something."

He goes to the living room archway and picks up the large brown bag he had left there when he walked in; "It took a bit of negotiating, but I managed to get them away from evidence." He explains, handing me the bag, "They are all cleaned, of course. I just thought that, well, if anyone needed these it would be you."

I dry my eyes on my sleeve then take the bag. However, when I remove the contents, I immediately start to tear up again. It's Sherlock's coat and scarf, looking as fresh as the day I last saw him wearing them. Running my fingers over the fabric reminds of my love's touch, his scent…everything. "Thank you, Greg." I cry, "Thank…Oh, God." I bury my face in the coat and start to sob again. Lestrade sits beside me again and pulls me in for a friendly embrace.

"I miss him too," he whispers, "I will always miss him."

That night, I walk around the bedroom, dressed in my grey pajamas and Sherlock's blue dressing gown, cradling my infant son. A storm is brewing outside and he can't seem to settle down. There is a bright flash of lightening and another rumble of thunder, accompanied by the howling wind. Hamish lets out a cry and nuzzles up as close to my chest as he possibly can.

"Hey, its alright." I coo, "Mommy's here." Hamish lets out small hiccup and ceases his crying. His sea foam eyes stare up at me, pleading me to make the storm go away. Those eyes. Just like his father's. Just like Sherlock's. I begin to hum 'Moon River' to him and he immediately starts to drift back to sleep; it is, after all, his lullaby. I sing it to him every night, just like I promised Sherlock I would. I gently lay Hamish back into his crib. Beside his head is Sherlock's scarf. He clings to it every night; it's his security blanket, his favorite toy, and his world. It's almost as if he knows it been his father's.

I watch his little face as he drifts off into a dream. I place a soft kiss on his forehead then crawl into my bed. I close my eyes and I can see my Sherlock, dressed in his grey t-shirt and pajama pants, is lying beside me.

"You see, I told you so," he whispers, stroking my arm, "You are a wonderful mother."

"Yes, but he needs a father too," I reply, "He needs you."

"You tell him about me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. Every chance I get."

"And is he or is he not clutching my scarf right now?"

"He is."

"So I don't know what you're making a big fuss about. I'm with him all the time, don't you see? He'll know me, you can make sure of that. My memory won't fade because of you and Hamish. I'll always be by your side; you know that, my darling. I love you."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Go to sleep, love. I'll see you in the morning."

"But you won't."

"But I will."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Weeks turned into months.

Months, shortly, turned into years.

John's life and mine have begun to move on. He even started seeing someone, which is a huge step forward for him. Me, I don't want to start seeing anyone because I don't want any one in that way. I can't stress it enough; No one will ever be my Sherlock.

Hamish has grown into the most wonderful toddler, the spitting image of his father. For almost being 2, he has exceeded his development milestones: stared walking on his own at 8 months, solving his little puzzle toys with easy by his first birthday and has even begun to formulate little sentences. I'm not surprised really. Who else, but Sherlock Holmes' son would advance that quickly?

I'm still working at the museum and quite happily as well. True, everyone expected me to be in a slum, but how could I be? No one knew what I had to endure the day I lost Sherlock, but I was in no rush to linger on those emotions, not when I had a kid on the way. Mrs. Hudson claims I still haven't had a 'good, long, cry' over Sherlock and, to an extent, she's right. I have a son now, though, and I must be strong for him. No more tears. No more wishing that he'll walk through the doors of Baker Street and…no! No more!

On this foggy, January 6th morning, the kettle hisses as a signal of its readiness. Hamish is sitting in his high chair, happily babbling away and clapping his hands together while Mrs. Hudson rushes in and turns the heat off and fixes herself a cup of tea.

"I'll have to work sort of late tonight, Mrs. Hudson," I say, pulling on Sherlock's long black coat and entering the kitchen, "John is at the clinic until about 6 and Hamish will be with Greg today until about 4-"

"Never you mind that, dear, he can stay here with me." She replies setting her cuppa down and walking over to the highchair, "What do you say to that, Hamish? Would you like to stay with me today?"

"Wit Nan!" he squeals, reaching his arms up to signify that he wants up and out of the chair, "Up, mum, up!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," I say, lifting my anxious boy up into my arms, "you don't have to spend all day with him; I don't want you to get worked up."

"It'll be fine," she assures me, "now get going before you're late."

Mrs. Hudson is too good to me. Despite allowing me to stay at Baker Street while only paying half the rent, she's become a second mother to Hamish as well as to me. I'll admit, being a working, single mother is not an easy act but I manage…sort of. Without Mrs. Hudson, I'd be a complete wreck and unfit to raise Hamish; the woman is a saint.

"Alright you," I say, adjusting Hamish on my waist, "You be good for Nan, alright?"

"Oh-tay." Hamish replies with an excited nod.

"And if you're good, I'll tell you an extra bedtime story tonight." I promise,

"Bow Dah?" he asks, his eyes getting wide with excitement.

"Yes, of course about dad." I say with a proud smile, "Which one do you want to hear so I can remember when I get home?"

"Big dog!"

"The one about the big dog? That might be a bit too scary for you, little one."

"Not-uh, Dah get big dog in da' end."

"That's right, he did." I say with a warm smile, "Well, we'll see when I get home okay? Now, give you're mummy a smooch before I go."

Hamish reaches his chubby arms out to grab my cheeks and giggles. We give each other a quick, sloppy kiss then I set him back down his high chair.

"I love you, Hamish," I say as I rub his curly mop of hair. 'It would be,' I think, 'he's got the eyes, so why wouldn't he have the hair?' "I'll call when I'm on my way home," I call back, as I make my way downstairs, "Bye and thank you Mrs. Hudson."

The streets of London are, as usual, busy with taxis and people rushing to work. Tourists stand on street corners, trying to find their way to the biggest attraction. Businessmen and women are lost in the world of their cell phones and or newspapers. Locals are just passing by without a care. Life is normal; no obscure individuals with mysterious plans afoot. All is calm and…normal. It's taken at least a year for life directly outside 221B Baker Street to be like this.

After Sherlock's death, reporters with cameras would be stationed outside the flat, daily, trying to get a glimpse of me in distress. They'd yell out their questions while I'd squeeze through to reach the door:

"What did he say to you, Ms. Stegerson?"

"Did he tell you about Moriarty?"

"Who's Richard Brook?"

"Why did he do it?"

I desperately wanted to turn around and scream at them to shut up, but I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of a headline. Eventually, just like the headlines claiming Sherlock to be a fraud, the reporters went away; got bored, I guess. I never let them see Hamish and as far as I'm concerned, only a select few know he exists. I'd like to keep it that way.

I shove my fists into my pockets as I wait for my ride. Its mornings like this that I take in how odd of a place Baker Street is. It is just a little pocket of London to most, but to me it's a safe haven. There are not suspicious neighbors, at least, not anymore. Those assassins Moriarty had hired to "get" Sherlock are long gone (the only fact the papers got right out of that whole mess) and the flat where they all stayed is abandoned. Nobody goes near it. Why: who the hell knows. I glance over at the flat and wonder for myself. Why is that flat empty? Surely somebody owns it, so why not rent it out. It would be nice to have neighbors, I guess. At least, it would be nice to have neighbors that aren't trying to kill you every other day. Maybe even some little ones so Hamish could make a few friends. That would be nice.

Sherlock would call it dull.

I glance down at my wristwatch: 8:25am, my ride should be here soon. I look back at the abandoned flat to wonder some more and am taken back by what I see. There is a silhouette in the window. I blink to make sure my lack of sleep isn't fooling my eyesight; nope, there is definitely someone there. Curious, I look both ways and cross the street to get a better look.

It is a tall figure and thin by the looks of it. A squatter? No, impossible. The doors are all padlocked and boarded up tight so nobody could get inside. The figure isn't moving. Is it looking at something? Is it looking at me? As I get closer and closer to the window, a hand suddenly appears on the glass. I nearly fall over at the sight; Shit, it is looking at me. I squint to see if I can catch a glimpse of a face, but the window is too dirty and dark. Slowly, I raise my hand in response to it's. As it presses against the glass, I can see that the figure's hand is caked in…blood. Yes, that is definitely blood.

I can feel the color fall from my cheeks as my heart begins to race. Who is this? Why are they hurt? Is that their blood?

"Hey!" I call out, tapping the window, but just as soon as it appeared, the figure is gone, "Wait! Come back! I want to help you!"

"Fee!" a familiar voice calls out, but I ignore it. I'm much more interested in who was that in the window. "Fee?" The voice calls again. A hand is placed on my shoulder and I shutter in surprise. "You alright?" I face the speaker: Mary Morstan, my co-worker and, more importantly, girlfriend to John Watson.

She was hired at the museum as a secretary but it's only a part time job for her. She also works in the pediatrics section of the clinic John works at; it's where they met. Mary's often been Hamish's babysitter and has become a very close friend of mine. It's been so long since I've had a genuine gal pal to talk with and I couldn't ask for anyone better than Mary.

"You see that?" I blurt out, pointing to the window.

"What? The dark, padded up window?" she replies with a smirk.

"No, no, no," I retort, rather annoyed, "there was someone there!"

"In the window?"
"Yes, Mary, in the window."

"Right…Get much sleep, Elfie?" she jokes.

I roll my eyes and heavily sigh. "Forget it," I say, turning away, "maybe I'm just losing it."

Mary looks at me then back at the window; "You really did see something?"

"Forget it. Come on, we'll be late." I stuff my hands back into my coat pockets and head to Mary's parked car across the street. She quickly follows me and once in the car, we are on our way. As we drive past, I look at that window. For a split second, the figure returns then quickly vanishes again.

"Okay, talk to me," Mary says, "What was that back there? John said that that place was all boarded up. How could you have seen someone?"

"I…I don't know." I admit, biting my nails, "It was a person: a tall, skinny, person. I couldn't make out a face, but it was definitely male. He seemed like he was sick or hurt."

"How can you tell that from just a silhouette?" she asks, becoming more intrigued.

"The shoulders; too broad to be a woman, but not immensely large to be a healthy man." I explain, "Not to mention the blood on his hand."

"Blood?" Mary exclaims, "Oh Lord! Shouldn't we call the police?"

"And tell them what? That a creepy shadow is living in the building across from 221b? Mary, I know what I saw, but I am also aware of how ridiculous it sounds."

Mary bites her lower lip and stares at the road ahead: "Well, can't…you figure it out on your own?" she asks in a quiet voice.

I furrow my brow and look at her confused; "How do you mean?"

"Well, John said-to be quite honest, I've noticed it too-that you do that thing."

"Thing?"

"That thing your husband used to do; that detective thing. Hamish does it sometimes too, I've noticed. He'll pick up an object, study it for a short while, and then immediately figure out what it is and how to use it. He's very bright."

"He's his father's son." I look out the window and gaze at the world passing by: "What are you getting at, Mary?" I ask.

"I'm just saying that maybe you should dig into this mystery, window man." She says, "Solve that case, as it were. You and John use to do that all the time so why not…"

"No." I quickly say, "I'm not a detective. That was Sherlock's job and I…I've put that life behind me."

"But…"
"Mary, can we talk about something else? Please?"

She gives off a heavy sigh then looks out to the road; "I wish I could have met him, you know," she says, turning a corner, "Your husband: The great Sherlock Holmes. John talks so highly of him and so do you."
"He was the love of my life," I whisper, still gazing out the window, "and I miss him. That's all I'm going to say for now."

"I know. I'm sorry I pushed the topic," she says, but think it over Fee Maybe there is something to this man in the window."

"Maybe, but I'm not delving into it."

"Why?"

"Because, like I've always told people, I'm not Sherlock Holmes."