The duo walked down the road in near silence for quite some time. Sherlock craved a cigarette, but refrained after remembering how smoking displeased the boy during their last encounter. The night was getting chilly. Sherlock popped his collar up, and found himself wishing that the boy were wearing more than just a light jumper. That type of thinking wasn't usual for him. He would hate to be a noisy worry-wart like his brother.
"Since you didn't ask, my name's Sherlock," he said.
"Hamish."
"Hamish," Sherlock mused. The name didn't quite taste right. "Well, Hamish, you haven't eaten today, but I think that diner downtown should still be open."
Hamish paused. "It's a little weird you know… this, stalking business."
"I do not stalk. I observe, okay? And it's simply not that hard to tell. You have the sort of stalky body type that wouldn't be so thin unless you were malnourished, and I heard your stomach roar like the King of bloody Narnia a block back. Now, I know you spent your money on those snacks for your sister, so I'm buying you dinner."
"You're pretty kind. For a stalker, that is," said Hamish.
"I am not a stalker! Listen, I happen to be a detective."
"A detective?" Hamish said skeptically, but warmly (he had a way of making everything sound strangely warm, Sherlock noticed.) "You're only what, 15?"
"I'm 17."
"Right. Great. Does the government care so little about me that they throw my case onto an intern?" he joked.
"I'm more… freelance," Sherlock clarified.
"Oh, even better then! Has it ever occurred to you that there's a reason nobody other than a 'freelance kid detective' has ever looked into me before? I'm just an ordinary bloke. That's all. Just a bloke who buys fruit snacks for his sister. This is all just…mad. I should go."
Sherlock caught him by the shoulder. Hamish half-spun, half-cringed at the contact. But when the shorter teen established his footing, he also established his eye-contact.
"Hamish," said Sherlock calmly, holding his gaze. "I'm here because there's something you can't tell me, something you can't tell anyone. You'll keep your mouth shut to protect your sister, isn't that right? Because love's a viscous motivator, you won't tell. Lucky for you, I will figure it out, and you don't have to say a thing. All you have to do is join me for dinner."
Hamish stared back at him back for a long time, long enough for Sherlock to appreciate the mix of colors in his eyes. He somehow knew that this was the moment Hamish was deciding whether or not he trusted the lengthy stranger. After the most uncomfortable silence of the night, Hamish finally said, "Alright, Nancy Drew, but only because I heard the raspberry maple syrup there's delicious."
Sherlock laughed. "Then shall we?"
…..
"Red head behind the counter, naturally brunette, is a recovering anorexic. She moved out of her abusive fiancé's house and into her grandmother's, who got her this job from an old bowling friend."
Hamish glanced at the attractive lady serving an old trucker a slice of pie.
"How do you figure?"
"Her clothes are hanging off her body, but they don't appear to be extremely old. I'd say by the condition of the fabric, it's been less than a year since she bought them. Recently, then, she's lost a lot of weight unnecessarily. But look at her complexion. She's healthy as of now. Her boyfriend bruised her near her collarbone, see? She's hiding the faded bruises with that orangey make-up. I also noticed when she brought the drinks that she still has the tan line on her ring finger, so she left him recently. She's glanced at that picture on the wall of the elderly bowling team approximately four times since our arrival. Oh, and her roots are beginning to show."
Sherlock smiled as Hamish's mouth hung open with amazement (also, with pancake).
"That's incredible, you know that?"
Hamish had said a variation of the word "incredible" at least 30 times since Sherlock had begun his deductions. Honestly, it was a welcomed change from the words his classmates usually spat, like "freak" or "arse".
Hamish was almost through with his third stack after Sherlock had generously ordered him endless pancakes. Sherlock, meanwhile, enjoyed his coffee.
Hamish boxed two pancakes, presumably for his sister. Sherlock paid, and then they were on their way.
"Thanks… but I really don't know how I feel about this," said Hamish, staring at the ground.
"About what?"
"About you, showing up out of nowhere, buying me food, telling me you'll figure out all my secrets."
Hamish's side-profile was silhouetted by the street lights. He looked… confused and conflicted. Sherlock found himself wishing there was a way he could make those concerns all vanish.
"Well, I just finished my third cup of coffee since sunset, and I'm going to take a walk through the park to avoid going home to my arse-brother. You can join, or you can return to your trailer, in which case I will promise to never bother you again."
Sherlock turned to leave, holding his breath. It was precisely four seconds later that he heard the sound of Hamish's footsteps as he followed close behind.
The park was ill-lit in an orange-ish gloom. Although Sherlock had expected a few potheads or groping teenaged couples, the park was empty.
"I haven't been here in forever," Hamish mused, running his hand along the handrail to the playground set. "My parents used to take Harry and me every Easter. You know, for that big Easter Egg Hunt."
"Never been," said Sherlock. Hamish continued up the steps and Sherlock followed.
"They make a big perimeter around the lawn with ribbon, and scatter candy and plastic eggs across the grass. But there's this one Golden Egg—this big egg covered in glitter that's sort of hidden. The person that finds it gets a special prize. I never had much of a sweet tooth, so every year I'd make it my goal to get that dumb gold egg. When I was eight, I finally got it. I swear to you, it was like the proudest moment of my life. This bloke in a bunny outfit gave me my prize, which turned out to be a SlipN'Slide, and I remember pretending he was the real thing because Harry still believed in magic back then."
Sherlock had never seen anyone's eyes look so sad and happy at the same time. "She's what, 10? She doesn't still believe in magic?"
With that, all the light disappeared from his features. Sherlock really regretted the transformation.
"Not so much," he said.
"That's okay. I never believed all that nonsense as a kid. Too illogical. And I turned out fine."
"Oh yes, luring strangers into abandoned parks after nightfall. You turned out fine."
Sherlock faked insult, and nudged Hamish aside as he dissented down the steps.
"Where exactly are you going?"
"The swings," said Sherlock. "Care to join me?"
"God, yes."
Hamish took a short cut, sliding down a fire-station pole. Then he took off in a sprint toward the swings, and for some unspoken reason, both the boys acknowledged the fact that they were now racing toward their destination.
Sherlock was all long limbs and flailing coat. Hamish was sturdy, athletic by nature, albeit out of shape, but he still managed to get to the swing set a fraction of a second faster.
"It was a tie," Sherlock huffed as he sat as his swing. They both laughed breathlessly.
They swung, looking but not quite feeling too big for the swing set.
"I feel like a kid," said Hamish.
"I feel like an idiot," Sherlock confessed.
Sherlock spent a lot of time alone at night, in places like parks and restaurants and sometimes bars. He watched the playground rise up and down, listened to the squeaking of the swing in tune with Hamish's rapid breathing. And regardless of temperature, the night felt warmer somehow.
Eventually, Sherlock couldn't resist it any longer. He skidded his heels along the sand to slow the swing to a stop, and lit a cigarette.
"It feels like I've known you longer than I have," said Hamish suddenly. He wasn't looking at Sherlock. He was looking across the park, as if there were something there. Something more than a crescent moon and bus stop.
"I know the feeling."
"Did you… uh, finish your detective work? Or can we do this again?"
Sherlock smirked. "Tomorrow night?"
"Eager?" Hamish smiled.
"To further my investigation, yes of course."
Hamish laughed and stood up, flattening out the kinks in his tattered jeans. "I really need to get back."
"Right. The bus should be at the stop in a minute or so."
Hamish nodded. Sherlock new waiting for the bus would take longer than walking, which seemed appealing. He didn't want to leave the park or to go back to his house. At least, that's what he told himself, despite the all-too-logical knowledge that Hamish might have had something to do with his hesitation to depart.
Over the past few hours or so, Sherlock had effortlessly learned a good deal about the boy: his favorite foods, books, and taste in music. He deduced some things too, like how he never shared recent memories nor talk about friends the way a normal teenagers would. He was simply different than the people Sherlock new, less obvious perhaps. Sherlock didn't need to spend every moment reading him, as he would a book. More often than not, Sherlock found himself admiring the sandy-haired boy as one would a work of art: beautiful and layered and waiting to be figured out.
Maybe it was clouding his judgment in the case.
When the bus finally arrived, it was empty, so Sherlock and Hamish took a seat near the middle. When Hamish slid in, Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was expected to sit beside him or across from him. He chose the prior, and watched Hamish look out the window.
Maybe it was the silence of the bus, the presence of the bus driver, or the late hour, but the awkwardness finally began to creep in, and the boys remained non-talkative for most of the ride.
And finally, finally Sherlock could think clearly. Finally he could work through all the anomalies he'd deduced about his new rag-tag companion, and almost as suddenly as the bus came to a jerking stop a mile later, did Sherlock come to a realization.
He left the bus with a spring in his step. As a person, the boy had been a wonder, but as a case, things were finally becoming interesting.
"Well it's certainly been an unusual night," said Hamish. "See you tomorrow, then?"
Still buzzed with excitement, Sherlock felt himself jolt forward, catching the smaller teen in a hug. Hamish cringed at the sudden contact, but after a long moment, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin shoulders.
On the norm, Sherlock hated physical interaction, (his aunt's wet kisses or a bully's shove on the playground) so he was nothing short of shocked to find himself nuzzling the boy closer. Sherlock's voice was a fierce whisper in Hamish's ear. "See you tomorrow, John Hamish Watson." He planted a quick kiss onto John's temple before detaching. With a wink, he disappeared around the corner, leaving John awed in his wake.
Yay! This fic is so challenging but fun to write. I'd really love your opinions! And perhaps recommend it to a friend, since I feel like this fic isn't getting much attention. Anyhoo, thanks for reading!