Chapter 2

Dangerous doesn't even describe it

Despite the fact that most people would have said otherwise looking at him, Mr Sigerson was actually in no hurry that morning. There was no denying of course that he was walking at a very fast pace, but that was simply his normal gait. He was the kind of man who either went somewhere running or didn't move at all. The truth is that he was an easily bored man and when he could not find something to entertain him he would surely plummet in a state of lethargy from which his friends- for he did have some, albeit few- would try to stir him.

This was the case of that morning, when Mr Sigerson was headed to St. James park. It was actually a beautiful winter day, if a bit cold so the park was not as crowded as usual and it was easy for Mr Sigerson to immediately spot the sender of the text sitting on a bench facing the opposite way.

"Good morning doctor Watson" said Mr Sigerson approaching the other man.

"Sherlock! I thought you wouldn't come! I texted you ages ago!" said John Watson carelessly raising from the bench to face his friend. And that proved to be a fatal mistake.

Before any of the men could react a flying object hit the helpless doctor squarely on the back of the head. John froze on the spot, his eyes wide open in horror while from the back of his throat came forth a gurgling sound of pain.

Mr Sigerson, or rather, Sherlock Holmes, as he was once known, peered above John's shoulder, in the direction whence the object had come with a peculiar expression written on his pale features and said "Good morning to you too Mr Samuel Watson".

Samuel Watson, aged 6 years and 3 months, smiled brightly at the older man feeling quite content with himself having just managed to hit his father with a masterfully crafted snowball which was currently melting down his back. "Sherlock!" cried Sam running madly towards the adults bursting with joy at the arrival of his friend. And this turned out to be Sam Watson's fatal mistake.

He had not reached Sherlock yet, that his father abruptly turned towards him and with a feral voice growled "Sherlock Samuel Watson!" and lunged at Sam who, sensing the danger, started running in the opposite direction with his father in hot pursuit.

Having been deserted by the two Watsons, Sherlock allowed his lips to ever so slightly curl upward in what who knew him knew to represent a smile. The source of his perverse amusement was to be found in the degree of anger shown by his friend John, for only in the direst of situations would the elder Watson call his son by his full name and the reason was very simple. John Watson had once come to hate his son's name.

Many years ago, eight to be precise, Sherlock Holmes had been forced to fake his death and had deemed it wise – for John's own protection as he was adamant to remind- to keep his friend in the dark. Needless to say the poor doctor had been devastated by the loss, and when his son was born had decided to name him after the once great detective now fallen in disgrace to show his loyalty to the world. When three years later his friend's death had turned out to have been quite exaggerated the misdeed was done and the innocent infant had already been marked by the peculiar name. Furthermore John had not taken the whole ordeal too well which had resulted in the two friends not talking to each other for quite sometime. When finally the good doctor decided to forgive his friend he lamented that he could not bear to be plagued by two Sherlocks (for his son had already proved to be a real pest) and so it was decided to call the child by his second name, Samuel. John however reserved himself the questionable pleasure of calling him by his full name on special occasions such as the one of that specific morning when his firstborn managed to really make him lose his temper, occasions which were more often than not originally caused by his namesake.

Sherlock himself had never really commented on his friend's choice in names but John suspected he had been pleased by it, if not even touched- not that he ever openly showed it, mind you, but he had taken a sort liking for the younger Watson. The signs were not immediately apparent, but after some time, when Sam wasn't a toddler anymore and to interact with him didn't necessarily entail pulling faces or playing peek-a-boo, Sherlock's interest in the child started to be more manifest. He would teach Sam things about nature and the rudiments of mechanical physics, surprisingly selecting with care topics that would intrigue him. The former detective used to call him "his little experiment" as he meant to ascertain whether a child borne of two specimen of mediocre intellect – "No offence John, I mean-" "I Know, I know, I'm almost flattered!"- could flourish in a fairly intelligent person under the guidance and assistance of a superior mind- "That would be…you ..Sherlock?" "Of course me. Who did you think I was referring to?" "Ah.. I don't know… Mycroft?".

On that precise moment Sherlock was weighting the pros and cons of giving Sam a smattering of practical Chemistry- Mary, John's wife, would probably fuss about the new parquet- or perhaps taking advantage of the chilly weather to explore the typologies of ice, when his musing were interrupted by John who arrived, panting hard, carrying the little experiment on his shoulder.

"Sherlock please help me bring this thing home and give it a bath before it catches pneumonia. We are both drenched to the bone and-"

"Isn't your wife supposed to help you with this kind of thing?"

"Mary is in Cornwall, assisting one of her great-great-aunt-living-all-alone-in-a-god-forsaken-village so I am left alone with the little beast for the foreseeable future so your help would be-"

"Ok. Let's go."

And with that Sherlock took the child off John's shoulder and, carrying him under his arm, like a parcel, sprinted off in the direction of his friend's house, not even waiting for him to regain his breath.

Chemistry, then.