A/N: Wow, three chapters in 24 hours? What is this, Christmas? It's probably just because other than writing, I've done square root of fuck all this summer because I forgot to get a job. As always, reviews and constructive criticisms are well-received. Chapter 4 is probably going to be the last explicit sexy times scene, but there will be implied fornication in later chapters as well. So, without further ado, let's see what's in store for the Baker st. boys today!
Chapter 5
John was woken suddenly several hours later by a loud crash and a string of curses streaming from the kitchen. He sighed deeply, rolled out of bed, throwing on his clothes without much care, and went to see what Sherlock had done, already expecting some sort of science experiment having to do with severed body parts. What he did not expect, however, was to see Sherlock scrambling to clean the kitchen from a jar of tomato sauce that he had dropped, with what looked like a toilet brush, and what could once have been pasta boiling over on the stove. He tried, and failed, to hold back his resulting fit of laughter. "Sherlock, what are you even doing?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sherlock looked at him like a kicked puppy. "I was trying to make lunch…" "How long has the pasta been on the boil?" "Half an hour." "Did you read the package?" "No, the instructions frustrated me." John sighed, and smiled at Sherlock, shaking his head. "Sherlock, the longest that you would cook spaghetti is eight minutes, and when the water boils you stir in the pasta and turn the heat down. No, not that face again, I know you tried. Now come on, I'll help you start it again."
Half an hour later, the kitchen was clean, John was more properly dressed, and the boys had invited Mrs. Hudson up for lunch. (John had decided that it would be more prudent to make sandwiches.) They were just finishing up and thinking about putting the kettle on for tea when Sherlock's phone rang, and he left the room to answer it. "Lestrade?" "Sherlock, you're going to want to come down here, there's been a murder, and a nasty one at that. Arnold Hatherly and his wife, Jacqueline. Their son, Hamish, witnessed the whole thing from a closet and called us the second he realised what was going on, but the killer got away anyway. You might want to bring John." "Alright, what's the address?" "60 Sancroft st." "15 minutes." "Alright." Sherlock returned to the kitchen. "Was that Lestrade?" "Yes. There's been an incident at Sancroft street. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but tea's going to have to wait until later. We've got a real witness this time, John! I just hope he's not still in shock, that would be unhelpful…"
And so, fifteen minutes later, the consulting detective and the ex-army doctor crossed the caution tape at 60, Sancroft st., and walked inside. Lestrade walked up to Sherlock, and asked, "So how do we want to do this? Do you want to speak to the son first, or do you want to see the scene?" "I think I'll see the scene first, it'll give me a better idea how to handle the boy." "Yeah, good idea." So the three of them started up the stairs, stopping on the second flight to examine the body of Mr. Hatherly, sprawled across the stairs as though he had been pushed from standing and landed face-first. "Didn't die here, though. There isn't enough blood, he was killed upstairs and his body was thrown down here after… strange, his wedding band is missing. Why is it missing? He obviously didn't take it off much, if at all, while he was alive, see how there's no tan where it should be? And his glasses were put on his face after he was thrown here, see how his nose has been broken, but there's hardly any blood? That was done after he died, probably when he was thrown here. If his glasses had been on his face then, they would definitely be broken. But they're not. Put on later then. I think that it's safe to say that Mr. Hatherly died before his wife, and quietly, too, or she would have heard… Alright, on to the next, then!" they carefully stepped over the cadaver, careful not to disturb the evidence. As they stepped into the master bedroom, John took in a sharp breath. There was broken glass and blood on every surface but the ceiling, and what must have once been Mrs. Hatherly lay next to the window and was one of the most badly damaged corpses that John, an ex-army doctor, had ever seen. Her legs lay bent the wrong way at the knee as well as having the tibia breaking the skin at the back of the leg. Her head was bashed in at the orbital cavity and the wound had glass from the broken window in it. "Before you ask, we've no idea where the murder weapon went, though it was obviously quite large and heavy… the murderer most likely threw it out the window…" "Her wedding band's missing as well… trophies, then? The legs were also broken post-mortem, so the killer is out for a grudge, inflicting as much damage as possible. It is unlikely that this is a serial killer, as Mrs. Hatherly here is the only one that is damaged in the extreme apart from being dead. The killer probably only killed Mr. Hatherly because he got in the way… You're looking for someone that Mrs. Hatherly would have known either personally or through business, someone who she had seriously wronged at some point in the past… Suspect will most likely have a history of violent tendencies and is possibly psychotic. You said that the son witnessed? Can I speak to him? He may have seen the killer's face, it'd be useful information for obvious reasons." "All right, but please be gentle with him, he has just seen both of his parents murdered. He's downstairs in the kitchen, Donovan's having tea with him, we're just trying to soothe his nerves at this point." "All right. John? Come on, we'll talk with him."
When they got downstairs, they were shocked to see a boy with dark, curly hair not unlike Sherlock's, who barely looked nursery school aged, sitting in the kitchen, sipping a mug of very milky tea and nibbling a biscuit with Donovan. When she saw them come in, she smiled gently at the boy and told him that she would be right back, before getting up from the table and walking over to Sherlock and John, the smile all but disappearing, replaced by a tight-lipped frown. "All right, you can talk to him if Lestrade said you could, but please, please be gentle with him. Try to not… Freak him out too much." "Well, I won't be doing much talking, myself. I think that this situation requires John's expertise, not just mine." He turned to John. "If you could, ask him about what the killer looked like, but if you can't get it out of him without him freaking out, then it's okay. The last thing we need is a traumatised toddler." "Okay." They sat at the table with Hamish, Sherlock pouring them each a mug of tea as John introduced them. "Hello, Hamish, my name is John, and this is Sherlock. How's your tea? Are the biscuits good?" The boy nodded, looking into his crumb-filled tea, a scowl slowly forming over his face. "Crumbs." "Yes, there are crumbs in there, aren't there? Would you like some new tea?" "Yes, please, John. Thank-a', John." John smiled at Hamish and took his tea, pouring it down the drain before returning to pour half-an-inch of tea into the mug, before filling it to half-way with milk and stirring in a cube of sugar, handing it back to the boy. "So, Hamish…" His voice trailed off, not knowing what to say next, dreading the reaction. Apparently he didn't need to think of what to say, because the next second, Hamish was speaking softly. "Mummy's hurt. Daddy's sleeping on the stairs…" He looked up at John, tears in his eyes. "The bad man did it. He was wearing a scary mask." "A mask, Hamish?" The boy nodded, the tears threatening to spill out of his dark blue eyes. "A dolly mask. The bad man was wearing a dolly mask when he hurt mummy." John pressed his lips together, trying to come up with a way to tell the boy that his mum and dad wouldn't be waking up… Suddenly, Sherlock was speaking to Hamish. "Hamish, your mum and dad need to sleep for a very, very long time. Is there anybody that you can stay with? An aunt or an uncle? Grandparents? Godparents?" The boy shook his head. Sherlock looked at John. "John…" His voice trailed off. John nodded, knowing exactly what was meant. He stood, looking at Hamish. "I'm going to be right back, Hamish. You talk to Sherlock, okay? Sherlock, why don't you tell Hamish a nice story or something?" He walked out of the room, looking for Lestrade, who he found talking to Anderson about sweeping for fingerprints. "Greg? Apparently the killer wore a mask." "A mask? What kind of mask?" "Hamish said it was a 'dolly mask'… any ideas?" "No." "Anyway, Lestrade, Hamish says he doesn't have an extended family or godparents that he knows. Sherlock wants me and him to take him in. They get on rather well, actually, Sherlock's really been good about filtering out what not to bring up." "We were actually wondering where he would go… All right, he can stay with you two at Baker st. for a few days. If you guys feel like it would be a good idea after that, you can apply for custody. You have to make sure that Sherlock holds his tongue around him, though, or I'll have his hide."
When they got back to Baker st, they knocked at 221 A to talk to Mrs. Hudson and introduce her to Hamish. "Oh, goodness, and who are you, dearie? My, Sherlock, is he a relative? He looks an awful lot like you!" "No, Mrs. Hudson. Alas, along with Mycroft, I am one of the last two Holmes's." "Hello, lady. I'm Hamish. Sherlock says mummy and daddy need to sleep because the bad man hurt them, so John and Sherlock said I could stay with them until Mummy wakes up." "Oh, dear! Well, come inside, I've just made muffins." "Thank-you very much, Mrs. Hudson, but John and me need to figure out where Hamish is going to sleep, and toddler-proof 221 B before Hamish's bedtime. We'll come by tomorrow when we've had a chance to gather our wits a bit more." "Well, alright, Sherlock, if you'd like I can watch Hamish while you get that together, I'm sure he won't be any trouble." "Could you, Mrs. Hudson? That would be wonderful, we really appreciate it. John, can you please help me with Hamish's things? I think we should share your room upstairs so that Hamish doesn't fall down them in the night, he can have my room. It'll be less moving anyway, I should think."
After they had finished combining their rooms and setting up Hamish's room at least well enough until morning, they kissed for a brief moment before returning to 221A to collect Hamish. "He's very intelligent for two, you know, boys. Told me he had started reading already, so I gave him some of the picture books I was going to donate to the library, and he read them out to me without a problem. And then he looked at me and said the oddest thing after he had read me Peter Rabbit, he said, 'That bunny's mummy in the book is really stupid, it's obvious that he needs to be watched closely if he's running off to the place his father died in', as if it should have been perfectly obvious to any two year old reading it… You're sure there's no relation, Sherlock?" "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, my entire family was dead by the time I turned 8. I'm glad he's intelligent, though, I don't know how long I could stand it if he turned out like Anderson." At that moment, Hamish ran through the doorway and latched his arms around Sherlock's legs. Sherlock smiled and picked him up gently, stroking his hair, and said, "Well, young man, I think it's high time you went to bed, how does that sound? I heard that you read to Mrs. Hudson while we were upstairs?" "Mmhmm. I did. That rabbit has a silly mummy, letting him catch cold like that. She should have given him some mittens and a scarf." "Yes, she should have done, shouldn't she? Come on, we'll get your teeth brushed and your pyjamas on. Say goodnight and thank-you to Mrs. Hudson, now, okay?" "Goodnight and thank-you, Mrs. Hudson," Hamish squeaked. "I'll see you again soon, dears." And with a smile, the three boys went upstairs to get Hamish into bed for the first of many nights he would spend at Baker street.