This is an angsty chapter indeed. Read at your own risk and try not to hate me!

Far away humming pulled him out of the welcomed darkness and bliss and the white light from the lamps flicking in the roof amongst the many pipes penetrated his closed eyes. The humming turned into a soft melody that in any other situation would have a very soothing effect, but right now it was only threatening. He fluttered his eyes open and met the red brick wall, listening to the song that slowly straightened his thoughts into the memory where he was and what had happened. He closed his eyes again.

A loud clonk and a creak echoed between the walls as the door slid open and he held his breath, trembled by the thought that at one point he had to turn around and look at the human that had put him here.

"Oo' Hay." The voice was soft, wounded in cotton but cold as ice and Hamish shivered when it reached his ears. It was the same voice that had hummed from the other side of the door and the melody suddenly triggered something in his mind.

That song. He had heard it before

"Ooo' Hay." he kept singing and stepped across the room. "No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfy me but your soul." The soles of those shoes dragged against the floor and Hamish tensed up when he heard how close he'd gotten. "Well I am death none can excel, I'll open the door to heaven or hell. Ooo' Hay." The fabric of what the man was wearing strained as he crouched beside the mattress and Hamish bundled up his face and did his best to keep himself away from reality. "Ooo' Hay." The singing came to an end and the man behind his back took a deep breath. "It's a pleasure to meet you little Holmes." Even if it wasn't a melody it still sounded like singing. That voice was merry but evil, there was no good to be found in it and Hamish quaked by the thought of the man's looks, he didn't want a face to haunt his dreams.

"You better turn to face me little one, or this little game of ours wont be played fair." Hamish swallowed with his dry mouth, worked his still numb tongue and choose carefully what words to use.
"I never liked playing games." he croaked and clenched his fists over his chest, felt the scabs over his knuckles crack and it burned all the way out to his fingertips.

"Oh this isn't just any game, little Hay." the man chimed. "This isn't supposed to be a fun one. But I'm telling you, if you don't play, you'll lose. And you don't want to lose this game. So, you better turn to face me, little Hay."

The boy took his time, held his breath and cleared his mind to make himself prepared for whatever he was going to meet and what face would be hunting his head for months to come, if he ever lived that long. It took much energy to open his eyes and he stared into the brick wall, saw the shadow hunting the red paint and the outline of the squatting man behind him started to get a shape. Tall, thin but muscular, already threatening. His neck throbbed as he turned his head and he laid his eyes upon the man. A shiver ran down his spine as those dark brown eyes stared at him, those thin lips curled into a hostile smile and the back-combed dark hair smelled of pine tree and his face of aftershave.

"Look at you." he smirked and tilted his head to the side as he inspected him. "You look so much like your father. The same razor blade-cheekbones."

He blinked, the black suit the man wore was clean, not a single hair or stain on the white shirt. He looked like a collectable toy from a Bond-movie, a classic villain and Hamish was almost disappointed by his evil radiation. He'd expected some freakish normality. A villain shouldn't look like a villain, it was to obvious, where was the mystery in that?

"I will cut you with those if you come to close." Hamish warned him and the man's eyes widened in surprise by his words.

"Oh look at that." he smirked excitedly. "There's some sass in you. There's something I never expected." He smiled and showed his glistening teeth, just as sharp as his stare. "This will be more fun than I imagined." The man raised and put his hands down his pockets, pulled his shoulders to his ears as he stood hunched over him, eyes shadowed making his icy stare more intimidating and Hamish felt his insides twist and turn as he laid curled up on the floor, arms around his legs and chest and an incredible thirst burning his throat.

"You better get used to where you are, Hay." the man chimed. "You'll be here for some time."

"What is it that you want?" Hamish asked hoarsely and was ashamed of how weak he sounded, drugs was still in his system and he was still exhausted.

"Why don't you sit up?" the man asked. It wasn't as much a question as and order, one that Hamish didn't plan to follow. Nothing this man had to say would be something he would listen to. He stared blankly at the man, sight going blurry and limbs going slack.

"SIT UP!" the man growled and his face... his face twisted into something evil and Hamish changed his mind quickly about villains. This man was something more than that, something dark, someone with power. Hamish started to understand that this man would always get what he wanted one way or another with either threats or smiles, he would be crazy not disobeying his words if he didn't want this to be the end.

He heaved himself up, felt his body burn and his head go heavy by the effort and he leaned back against the hard wall.

"There we go, much easier to just do as the grown up says, isn't it? No needs for violence that way." the man giggled and his voice was muffled by a loud ringing in the boy's ears, distorted into a rough tone and he blinked painfully as the blood started to leave his head. "Oh don't faint! We have much to talk about you and me!"

That's when he saw the skull. It stood beside the mattress, the hollows of its eyes staring at him and just the sight of it brought some happiness to the boy.

Please let it stay, he begged silently. Please just let me have something to keep me company. Just something so small would mean the world to him. Then he felt his stomach twist and in made a threatening growl as the blood left his head and he closed his eyes as his head hit the wall.

"Oh, don't be such a disappointment." the man groaned and tossed his head back. "What's the fun if you're planning to spent our time unconscious?"

"Then how do you intend we spend them?" Hamish asked and opened his eyes again, the room spun around them. Whatever was in that syringe, he was sure he was allergic to it. "What business of yours am I?"

"You use so big words for a small boy, Hay." the man beamed and swayed back and forth where he stood. "Your vocabulary is certainly more complexed than other seven-year-olds. But with a father like Sherlock Holmes I guess you wouldn't be accepted as a son if you sounded like an idiot."

The nausea became more and more intrusive and he swallowed continuously to calm his stomach. If he was unable to stop it, he would aim for the man's shoes, a good plan.

"When do we start to play?" he asked, just wanted to have this conversation over with. He wanted him to leave. The man scoffed and looked down at his shiny black shoes, raised his eyebrows to the hairline and gave him a crocked smile.

"We began a week ago." he answered. "D'you remember your friend? Seb the sub?" Hamish closed his eyes hard, tried not to remember. "Of course you do. You liked him, didn't you? I made him." He grinned at his own words and bounced in the heals of his feet. "Well, I didn't make him. But I made his character. He appealed to you, didn't he? The resemblance he had to your father, Johnny-boy I mean."

A whimper fled his lips and he suddenly felt more stupid than ever. Of course. His father, the broken solider that the lonely detective befriended. The boy, the lonely child saved by the broken teacher. It was all an act. Bits and pieces puzzled together into a perfect recreation of his fathers meeting. Why hadn't he noticed? How could he be so easily fooled. The world had been all made up like a scenery and he was the main character without even knowing it. He was Truman from the Truman show. What a joke he was.

"I knew what you craved and I gave it to you." the man said like he'd read his thoughts. "The friend you always wanted. The sad but intelligent young man with and abusive family, something for you to dig your teeth into. Do you wanna know who he really is?" He really didn't. He lowered his head to his knees and felt the tears again, burning in the back of his eyes as they promised to soon start falling. "Maybe I'll tell you someday. Even introduce you properly. Sebastian the mercenary. He's a good boy. Follows orders the same second they're given."

Hamish had never felt so small, so humiliated and embarrassed as the world started to clear around him. It was nothing more than a fairytale with a perfect twist. He just hoped this one had a good ending. Hopefully this was a comedy, and not a tragedy.

"Did you like the part when he searched for his pills?" he asked smirking and took a step closer to the filthy mattress, forcing Hamish to crawl closer to the rough wall. "Always searching for distractions and relief. Just like your father and all his cases. Those cases will always be more important that you, little Hay. Am I right? Just like money was for Sebastian."

Don't let him into your head, Hamish demanded himself and felt his shoulder blades flat against the bricks. Whatever you do, don't let him play his mind tricks on you.

"Both of them will leave you for what the brain truly craves."

"Shut up." he hissed and felt his blood freeze as those words left him. He never planned to argue with the man.

"Oh, banged a toe, did we?" the man sang and took another step to the bed. "Am I trespassing a sensitive area in that little head of yours?"

"What d'you want?" Hamish asked with a dark growl and pierced his eyes deep into the dark eyes above him, stared with as much hatred as his little body could contain, but the man didn't as much as flinch. The smile already splitting his face in half grew wider and his eyes turn into thin slits as he observed him hungrily.

"No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul." he sang with his quirky accent and Hamish already freezing blood turned colder. "Your fathers are probably going to put a death sentence on me for this. They'll assure my death as certain as the inventible apocalypse which will lead us all to our death anyway so..." He bent over him, his face hovering in the boy's eye level and he could see his own reflection on those dark irises that could burn through his soul that this man so hungrily wanted to posses. "Why don't we have some fun until then?"

He flinched as the man pulled his hand out of his pocket, ready for a slap or anything else that could hurt him but it never came. Instead he pulled something up from the chest pocket inside his jacket and Hamish went pale when he saw it.

His book. His leather notebook with the string tightly tied around its cover. It was waved before him and Hamish nearly reached out to pull it out of his hands, but he knew his secrets had already been read. There was no use in trying to save them now.

"My first plan was to just keep you as a catch on your father, making him dance after my commands, but you, dear Hay, made this game a little more interesting." he smiled and placed the book on top of Hamish's knee, left his there barely balanced. "You have a superpower, don't you?"

He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't find the words. There was nothing he could say to save himself from what he'd just so stupidly revealed in that book. He should have left it at home were it was safe. If it still was safe that is.

"Hamish, the invisible boy." the man chuckled. "I've got use for you, little Hay. You just made this so much more interesting than I could have ever imagined."

What? The boy felt lost, what use could this man have with his ability? It wasn't like he could just teach him what he knew about the uncovered streets of London when he doesn't even know how he knows. But he didn't have time to ask before the man stood up, kicked the skull closer to the mattress before turning on his heal to walk over to the heavy door. That's when he decided to ask the question that had bothered him since the moment he woke up.

"Who are you?" he asked with his raspy throat and the men stopped in his steps, stared at the door before him.

"Jim Moriarty." he answered and opened the door with a loud clonk and a creak. "Bye."

Samples and pictures was all that they could find around the crime scene. Sherlock had found hairs on the armchair and footprints by the desk. The tracks in the snow had given him enough dirt to make an analysis to see where it came from. When they reached the lab some of this crime would be resolved, but for now they were silently sitting in the cab, John staring at his shaking hands and Sherlock searching his phone for god knows what. He hadn't said a word since he started working, unusual even for him. He always threw deductions and nonsense only he understood out in the air when he worked, but this time he'd carried that face carved in stone without emotions and John had never been so worried about him.

"Sherlock.." he croaked, desperate to hear his dark voice that always had a soothing effect on him. He felt so empty inside, like he'd left his soul the flat and the only thing that could fill it would be Sherlock's voice. To hear him talk and deduce was always calming and right now, he needed it more than ever. Maybe Sherlock already knew something about their boy that he didn't tell John. What was really going on in that big head of his? Why didn't he share his thoughts? "Sherlock, please."

"What John?" he asked and lowered his phone as the cab slowed at the crossroad. John closed his eyes hard.

"I need you to talk to me. Please, don't leave me out of this." Sherlock turned, furrowed his brow and stared coldly at him.

"I'm not..."

"You are." John interrupted. "You haven't said a word since we got the phone call and I..." He paused to clear his throat. "I need to know what you think have happened." His throated throbbed as he swallowed and he reached out for his hand, grasped his hard and stroke his long fingers. "We don't even know if it's Moriarty." But who else would it be? It was nothing more than wishful thinking that it weren't. Their boy was right now with the worst criminal they'd ever encountered and John didn't even want to think about them in the same room. "I need you to talk, Sherlock. Take me through your thoughts about this. Hamish isn't the only one who needs you right now."

Sherlock just stared blankly at him, blinking confusedly and opened his mouth to speak, but no words left him. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish for several seconds when the cab suddenly stopped and he fidgeted in his seat.

A small amount of money was thrown to the drivers seat and he heaved himself out, pulling his hand free from John's grip and the doctor stared at the door that was loudly closed behind the detective, making the rosary hanging over the mirror rattle.

The words Sherlock had spoken a few days ago appeared in his mind and John felt his heart clench by the memory of that night.

I don't like being afraid, John.

He stepped out of the cab and felt his stomach twist and turn when he realised which street his shoes touched. Legs went soft under him and he braised himself against the streetlight that stood a few inches beside him. This street would always have a violent impact upon him. He stared at the stone curb covered by white snow and ice, but that was not what he saw. Just a few steps before him is where Sherlock had once laid, flat against the ground with his crimson blood flooding down the drains with the rainwater. His heart pounded violently inside him and he grasped his shirt with his trembling hand.

"Sherlock?" he called out but it was nothing more than a pathetic whimper that left him. Everything overwhelmed him in the matter of second. The feeling of loss would always be an invasive feeling inside him that he would never be able to control. Even if they'd been at Bart's many times they'd never walked upon this particular street, Sherlock had always been kind and beg the driver to stop at the backside. But this day that hadn't occurred to him. So here John stood, breathing heavily with his heart in his throat and eyes and ears burning, shaking and faint by it all.

"John?" He was pulled out of his pondering as a hand grasped him by the wrist and he lifted his heavy head, focused on the man before him and was calmed by the dark curls and sharp eyes. There he was, the man that once left him in the most despicable way that he never thought he would be able to forgive, but then came back and healed him a second time. Sherlock would always be the sign of relief after that. The man who could save him. But this time it was different.

"What are we gonna do, Sherlock?" he whimpered and and felt the tears fall down his cheeks and drip of his chin. "Our little boy, our Hamish is out there in the hands of that spider. How are we gonna get him back?"

"John."

"What if we'll never see him again? What do we do, Sherlock? How do we continue our lives without him?"

"John." Sherlock murmured and cupped his face, stared into his teared eyes and held them there in silence for several second. Suddenly John could feel his breathing calm. The panic soothed by those grey eyes that refused to blink and the iron claw around his heart released its heard grip. "We're getting him back. We'll do everything we can to have him in our arms again. Anything it takes."

John bit down on his bottom lip to choke the sob in his throat when Sherlock pulled him into his arms, cradled his head to his boney shoulder and held him tight.

"What if he doesn't get back?" he quaked and cried into the crock of the detectives neck, didn't bother to care about the passing people that could see him this state.

"That's a barrier we have to get passed if it comes to that." Sherlock mumbled and huffed a warm breath into his ear. "Let's just hope we never need to."

The sobbing was impossible to control by now and he pinned himself to the big coat, refused to let go.

"Please John, pull yourself together. I'm useless when it comes to comforting." And John actually managed to laugh at that, even if it was a weak and terrible laugh he was still amused by Sherlock's true words. He was useless, almost always worsening the problem. "And tears do us no good right now. We have our son to save."

Thank you for earlier reviews, they'll always make me happy even if the chapters are sad. Please, keep 'em coming!