Sherlock hailed a cab and slid silently into the backseat, already lost in his thoughts. With the exception of giving the cabbie the address, John was silent, lest he disturb the detective and be evicted from the cab.

The case was interesting, Sherlock had to admit. Possibly an eight, but he couldn't concentrate on it. He usually had very little trouble ignoring everything and focusing on what he chose to think about, but occasionally he did find himself inexplicably preoccupied. He had decided that the only way to eliminate the distraction and avoid frustration was to answer his question: Should he have kissed Hamish goodbye?

John had suggested emulating his parents. It did have a certain logic, that one would learn to be a parent from one's own family. But Sherlock had usually tried to avoid his father, an action aided by what Sherlock considered the likelihood that Father also tried to avoid him, after giving up on trying to understand his youngest son. Mummy was much nicer and more patient, but she too was more likely to provide a wan smile rather than comfort.

Sherlock frowned. There was another memory darting around his head, one that he wished would just go back into the room he had designated for it in his Mind Palace. He would always claim he had deleted that memory and all the others like it, but it was a lie. He didn't know why he hadn't really deleted it. Sentiment, probably. And because of sentiment this memory was now taunting him.

He was five years old, and he had woken up after a nightmare. In his bare feet he silently padded to the bedroom next door to his own. He knew he was supposed to knock, but he didn't want to make a lot of noise, so he slowly opened the door and looked inside.

"Mycroft," he called out, just loud enough so that hopefully his brother would hear.

"Mmmppphh," was the only response he received from the mound under the blankets on the bed, but the acknowledgement was close enough to an invitation to enter. Sherlock had quickly scurried over to the bed, but stopped and stood nervously at its side. Mycroft was still laying under the covers, eyes closed, not looking at his little brother.

"I had a bad dream," Sherlock explained in a small voice. Mycroft did not respond, and Sherlock felt his lower lip start to tremble involuntarily.

Without a word, Mycroft raised his arm, creating a warm, dark tent with the blankets. Relieved, Sherlock quickly climbed under them and curled up into a ball. Mycroft lowered his arm, covering Sherlock with the smooth sheet and heavy blankets. Sherlock felt a kiss press into the top of his head, before Mycroft's breathing became heavy and regular again.

After indulging in the memory, Sherlock shoved it back in the room where it belonged. There were similar memories, when Mycroft had kissed him after he had skinned his knees or Father had yelled at him. Yes, at one time he had found comfort in such a sentimental action. He had reciprocated the behavior with Mycroft, kissing him after Mycroft had been lectured by Father or when he rolled his ankle on the staircase.

Those memories were childish, literally. He would never interact that way with Mycroft again. For most of his life Sherlock had been alone, and sentiment brought nothing but pain and weakness. He had learned to overcome such emotions, and functioned much better for it. But Hamish was a child (or would grow into one). Should he engage in childish sentimentality with him, or teach him early that sentiment was a weakness?

Without moving his head, Sherlock took a quick glance of John with his peripheral vision. John was looking out of the cab window, a small smile on his face. John had suffered and been alone, too. His family had disappointed him, his career had been taken by a sniper's bullet, and his best friend had (so he thought at the time) died in front of him. Yet John still embraced all of his emotions, and was even still smiling.

The cab arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock climbed out and went inside, still without a word. John followed him up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in an armchair, watching the telly and feeding Hamish a bottle. When he saw his father enter the room, Hamish turned and smiled, spilling milk down his chin. He held up his arms, reaching for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson handed over the baby, and made to return to her own flat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John told her. Sherlock stared silently at Hamish.

"Anytime, boys, he's such a sweet little dear," Mrs. Hudson replied as she left. "And I'm right downstairs if you need me again. I know how you like to run in and out when you're working."

Sherlock stared at Hamish a moment longer, then brought the baby up and placed a small kiss on his forehead. Hamish smiled again and wiggled happily. Sherlock catalogued the response – evidently Hamish enjoyed sentiment.

John chuckled, and Sherlock realized he was being watched. He rolled his eyes. "Here," he said, handing over the baby, "drool milk on your uncle."

Now he could finally focus on the case! Sherlock spun and flopped down onto his sofa, settling into his thinking pose once more. John wiped Hamish's chin and fed him the rest of the bottle before deciding to take the baby out for a walk to allow Sherlock to think in peace.

It was a beautiful spring evening, and a good time to get some fresh air, John thought. However, he didn't want to wander too far from the flat, in case Sherlock developed a plan and they had to run off again. So he pushed the stroller around the blocks surrounding his home. Hamish didn't seem to mind, looking all about as they went up and down the sidewalks.

On his third trip down Baker Street, John spotted a tall man in a suit leaning against an umbrella and waiting for him in front of the café.

"Evening, Mycroft," John greeted the diplomat. "Shall we get a cuppa?"

"John," was Mycroft's curt reply as he followed the doctor into the café.

"I thought you tried to avoid cafés," John asked as he settled Hamish's stroller next to their table.

"Yes, well, you are more amenable to meeting here than being driven to a more acceptable location in my car," Mycroft answered, giving the table a scrutinizing glare.

"Ta for that," John smiled, raising his cup towards Mycroft. "I'll be amenable then. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing with your new bundle of joy," said Mycroft.

"Quite well, thank you," John replied. Hamish indicated his agreement with some happy squeals and babbles. "By the way," John continued, "Sherlock thinks the only reason you gave us custody was to watch us fail so you could prove we shouldn't be raising him."

Mycroft frowned, considering this. "Well, its certainly not the most colorful conspiracy theory involving me," he stated. "However it is, like most of the others, completely false."

"Then why did you produce the paperwork?" John asked.

"I have underestimated both Sherlock's devotion and abilities in the past, and vowed to not make that mistake again. Besides, I knew you would not let the child be harmed." Mycroft smiled, but it was more reptilian than endearing.

John tried to smile around a mouthful of his sandwich. Each day with Hamish gave him more confidence, but he still felt a bit out of his depth. Mycroft looked down at the baby, who was happily waving an empty cup around, with a look that John would classify as fondness, if he didn't know Holmes' claimed to be above such emotions.

"You know," he said, swallowing his bite, "you are Hamish's uncle. You are welcome to come visit and spend time with him. I would invite you over for Sunday dinner, but I have a feeling I would be the only person eating."

Mycroft had refrained from ordering any food, and hadn't so much as touched his cup of tea.

"Sherlock would only believe I was spying on him," Mycroft scoffed at John's suggestion.

"I thought you two agreed to be less belligerent after the…ahem," John had to pause and clear his throat. "After the Fall." He still couldn't say it without a sharp glare at Mycroft.

"Yes, well, I have removed my surveillance teams from him, and you see what that resulted in," Mycroft nodded towards Hamish. "And I will give my little brother credit for no longer causing trouble in my club."

John chuckled, and felt his phone buzz. He glanced at the text and gulped down his last bit of tea. "This has been great, Mycroft, but I have to go, we're in the middle of a case," he said, standing and maneuvering the stroller away from the table. "Come to tea, you can spend time with your nephew while you and Sherlock argue about whether you're spying or not."

Mycroft frowned and absently waved John away.

John debated leaving Hamish with Mrs. Hudson before going upstairs to rouse Sherlock, but decided he could give the detective a chance to say goodbye properly this time.

Sherlock was still sprawled out on his sofa, just as John had left him. He had formulated a theory, explaining all of the evidence, but he did not like it. Not because of whom it implicated, he had no bias for who was guilty or not. No, he didn't like the familiarity of the case. His theory was that the body with its head blown off was not John Douglas, that the man had faked his death, and that the wife was a very poor actress.

It had been nearly 18 months since he had returned to London, and to John. John claimed to have forgiven him, to understand his reasons, but Sherlock knew not all of the nightmares were of Afghanistan anymore. Would the completion of the case prove to John the necessity of lying to those closest to you, or would it remind him of his anger and sadness?

"Molly's got the results of her autopsy for us," John said, bringing Sherlock out of his trance.

Sherlock got to his feet and grabbed his coat. "Are you coming?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I'd like to," John answered, looking down at Hamish, whom he was holding. "But I do feel a bit guilty imposing on Mrs. Hudson for babysitting so often."

"We could take him with us," Sherlock suggested.

"No!" John yelled firmly. "No, no, definitely not! We are not taking him to crime scenes, or Scotland Yard, or the morgue!"

Sherlock pouted, and Hamish looked uncertainly from one man to the other while chewing on his little hand. Sherlock huffed and took the baby from John. "One day I will convince him to let you have fun," Sherlock whispered to the baby, before placing another kiss on his head and taking him downstairs to Mrs. Hudson.

OOO

"What?" John huffed, after the fifth sideways glance Sherlock had given him in the cab.

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbled, and stared out the window. Asking John to come along had been an automatic response, because he did so much enjoy having John along on cases. But this time he should have told John to stay home with Hamish. That way he could prevent John from ever knowing the outcome of the case, and avoid any problems. Yes, it would have been fun and exciting to bring Hamish, but if he hadn't been so impulsive he would have realized he had the perfect excuse to avoid hurting John. He would have to remain diligent for another opportunity to protect him.

OOO

The detective and the doctor arrived at St. Bart's as Molly finished briefing Lestrade and Donovan with her findings. She smiled as the two men entered the morgue. Sherlock did not acknowledge her, he just snatched the file containing the witness statements from Lestrade.

"Thanks for calling, Molly," John returned her smile.

"Oh, no problem," she answered. "I'm glad you two have a case again. How's um, how's Hamish?"

Donovan's head snapped up at the mention of the name, and John suppressed a grin. She was probably jealous that someone knew some gossip before she did. He remembered that Molly met Hamish when Sherlock brought him in for the paternity test.

"He's doing great," John replied innocently. "We've got him settled in at Baker Street. You should come by, I'm sure he'd love to see his Aunt Molly again."

"Yeah, sure," Molly agreed. "We could take him to the zoo."

Evidently Sherlock had not been ignoring them as John had thought. He suddenly looked at Molly and snapped, "Zoo? Why would he want to go to the zoo?"

Molly stammered, so John answered. "He loves going out and looking around. He has a great time at the park or even just strolling around the city."

"You're right, we should expose him to as many different experiences as possible," Sherlock said. "Molly, are you free on Friday?"

"Yes!" answered Molly. "Well, I could leave at lunchtime."

"Be at Baker Street by noon," muttered Sherlock, returning his attention to the case file. "This murder may be curious, but it will be solved by then."

Donovan rolled her eyes at the grin on Molly's face and went to wait by the door for Lestrade. John couldn't enjoy her reaction, he was groaning inwardly. He would have to have a long talk with Sherlock before they went to the zoo.

Sherlock scowled at the case file. There was nothing interesting at all. Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker had given predictable answers to predictable questions. They did not know where the gun came from, or why anyone would want to hurt John Douglas. The three of them had been alone in the house, along with the servants, and had not seen or heard anything until the gunshot. Mr. Baker had arrived at the study within 30 seconds of hearing the gunshot, but he saw no one leaving the room. It was customary for the alarm to be set, even while everyone was home during the day. Mr. Douglas had been nervous about crime, but they did not consider it unusual. He did not discuss his family or his past with them. Mrs. Douglas believed it was because his first wife had died of cancer several years ago, and he did not wish to relive that part of his life.

"This is rubbish," Sherlock growled at Lestrade. "You never ask the proper questions, you should start letting me interview witnesses."

Lestrade snorted. "I have enough trouble avoiding lawsuits against the police without you harrassing people."

"Well I certainly hope you at least have surveillance on the wife," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes," Lestrade chuckled. "Her and Baker both. We couldn't get enough to bring them in, but I don't like their story at all."

"There may be hope for you yet," Sherlock remarked, and turned to Molly. "What did you find?"

"Well, the cause of death is the obvious," she smiled. "Tox screen came back negative. He had a few broken bones that healed years ago, but no recent injuries."

Sherlock was leaning over the corpse, his face inches away from the dead man's limbs. "How did you identify him?" he muttered.

"We actually had his DNA in the database," Molly answered. "According to the file it was taken years ago when he was apparently drunk at a pub."

Sherlock stood up straight and stared. A positive DNA identification of this man as John Douglas did not fit into his theory at all. He contemplated what other options he had.

Could the DNA match be incorrect? Was the machine malfunctioning?

A sudden thought occurred to him. The previous DNA test conducted in Molly's lab was Hamish's.