CHAPTER 68. THE PIRATE and THE GHOST
FOUR ½ LONG YEARS LATER
Sherlock knew it would be very unsafe to return to the flat at 221B no matter how tempted he had been, this plan of action was the better choice. He would first talk to Mycroft and as much as he hated it, he needed to rest somewhere familiar. He placed a hand over his left side, the bullet had gone straight through and he'd patched it up himself but the pain was exhausting.
He pulled his brown cardigan closed covering up the spreading blood stain on his white button up shirt beneath. He needed to clear his head, all this running and he had almost had Moran! Almost! If it weren't for the idiots that Mycroft employed. He just needed to rest for a minute, damn his transport!
After this whole thing was over he could then figure out how he was going to approach John. He hoped John would understand, although his conscience warned this time he'd gone too far. That their friendship couldn't be salvaged and Sherlock prepared himself for this outcome. Promising himself he would understand John's decision. Besides nothing mattered as long as John was well and alive. Safe and sound.
The weary consulting detective sighed glancing over his slumped shoulders, the grass was cut green the summer was almost at its end but the sun was still warm on his chilled face. He'd dyed his hair blond and wondered if he would be recognized wearing the wire spectacles, and faded blue jeans. He missed his suits, the messenger bag slung over his shoulder gave him the appearance of a University student or a book salesman.
He considered knocking or just making his way to the staff entrance when he thought he saw a ghost running between the trees near the garden wall.
The ghost was weaving in and out of the trees laughing easily glancing behind him every few seconds as if expecting to be chased.
Sherlock found himself moving towards this blond streak, this kid was dressed in jeans and stripped blue t shirt. The shade of the large trees rustled their leaves at Sherlock and the clean country air was giving him a headache. Just when he thought the apparition was gone,
"Arg. What be this, a trespasser perhaps?" came a young voice from behind him and Sherlock turned slowly hands up facing a blond boy carrying an old familiar wooden sword.
"Am I to walk the plank? I see no ship?" Sherlock couldn't help but reply breathlessly, he bit back the pain in his side.
The young boy giggled and put his sword down. "Hello." A pair of blue eyes, haunting blue eyes looked up at him curiously.
"Hello." Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to say but the boy only smiled warmly.
"Are you lost?" the boy asked lowering his sword he tilted his head curiously looking up at Sherlock "You seem lost."
Sherlock decided he was hallucinating; all the blood loss had finally caught up to him.
"That's a very nice sword you have there."
"I found it in the garden shed." The boy replied shrugging leaning it against the old tree.
A memory of a dark haired boy using that same sword to hack into the tree flared up and the exhausted man fought to lock it back into the room of his mind palace.
"I'm on an adventure with my first mate but he had to go. His grandfather said it was time to go home." The young blond boy frowned toeing at the grass with his scuffed up black and white converse. The shoes were new, the boy wore a pair of jeans, grass stained at the knees, it was the way he smiled that made Sherlock falter and his thoughts short circuit.
This hallucination was a miniature replica of John, except this boy was loved. Loved from the tips of his new converse to the dinosaur plaster at the corner of his forehead. This was something else, there was no black eye but the young boy had bruising just beneath his plaster and scrapes on the right side of his face. John had sported a black eye for most of winter holiday one year. Why was this figure haunting the detective? Was this really what his mind wanted to dredge up now? Old sentiment long since kept locked away, only ever brought out in between missions and before sleep truly overcame the dead man.
"We were supposed to bury a treasure. He was going to make the map." This hallucination stated with great disappointment.
"How old are you?" Sherlock asked his mouth suddenly dry.
"Four, I'll be five soon." He straightened his shoulders proudly. "Uncle Myc rented a big jumpy thing that looks like a pirate ship for my birthday! He showed me pictures on a website. "
"Uncle Myc?" Now Sherlock knew he was hallucinating.
"Yes. We're going to the museum tomorrow! Have you been to the museum? They have human skulls and-" he stopped as if remembering something. "Oh-uh sorry. Are you here to visit Uncle Myc?"
Sherlock nodded suddenly feeling the need to sit down.
"Do you have an appointment?" the young boy was suspicious now, "I hope you're not selling stuff. The last salesman that came to the door Royce set the dogs on him."
"You don't have dogs." The young boy giggled in response to Sherlock's eye roll.
"I know but it would have been funny. Uncle Myc's min-min-"
"Minions?"
"Yes! That's what daddy calls them. Mini-ons." The boy struggled with the word "They usually don't let anyone get this far. Uncle Myc is important. "
"Really?"
"Yes." The boy replied in an as a matter of fact tone. This irritated Sherlock for some reason he couldn't help but curl his lip in disgust.
"And where is your father?" Sherlock followed the boy towards the house.
"He had a conference." The boy shrugged "He always works. He's a doctor." The boy smiled proudly.
Sherlock felt sick, so John was married and had a son, nice of uncle Myc to leave this bit of information out.
The young boy had a good scrape just above his eyebrow, and at his elbow he was walking backwards facing Sherlock openly curious about the stranger. When he noticed the not salesman's attention to his plasters he thought this stranger had the same face uncle Myc did. The one uncle Myc made when he was listening to Lilith explain how Hamish fell off his bike.
"I fell. See." He lifted his shirt and showed similar scrapes. "It was off my bike at the park. Don't know what the big deal was. It hurt but only for a minute and I didn't cry." The young boy glared up at Sherlock as if daring him to say otherwise.
"Well that's good of you." Sherlock mumbled in reply the boy smiled again and continued to walk towards the staff entrance.
"Yeah. Except daddy blamed Lilith and Mr. Troy."
"Lillith?" Sherlock inquired.
"The nanny." The boy made a face. "I dont need a nanny. Anyway Mr. Troy worked for Uncle Myc. They both got sacked. I didn't much like her anyway she always made me take a nap when Mr. Troy came around." Sherlock's eyebrow arched. "And gran thought she was uppity?" He shrugged "Gran cant always watch me she has a sick sister and has to travel a lot. She makes the best scones. But don't tell Sylvie."
"I wont." Sherlock moved slowly glad for the boy's distracted pace while he spoke.
"Gran has the best stories, so I don't mind taking a nap. But no one's stories are better than my dad's. He has funny ones and scary ones. There was one about a big hound. That one is scary and it's my favorite. "
Sherlock didn't reply he was trying to concentrate on moving his feet. "Uncle Myc has good stories too, he told me one about a boy who came to meet the queen wearing a sheet." the blond giggled into his hand.
Sherlock stiffened, "Oh, what other stories does he tell you?"
"He mostly reads to me. I hate naps but it's not so bad."
"You speak very well for someone your age."
Mini John smiled again turning over his shoulder "Uncle Myc says that too. Do you work for the government too?"
Sherlock snorted and the boy rolled his eyes shaking his head in response.
"What about your mother, she was working as well?"
"No. She died when I was born. It's just me and Dad." Again a shrug and the matter of fact tone.
"Do you have a name?"
"Yeah of course." This lightened the mood, they reached the kitchen's door.
"Hamish Sigerson Watson at your service." The boy turned with his offered hand. Sherlock shakily accepted it, Hamish had the same polite smile John often wore. "The pirate of the seven seas."