Chapter Ten: The Case
It was several days after Hamish's birthday party, and Sherlock and the little boy were sat on the ground together, Sherlock watching Hamish intently as he scribbled on a piece of paper with his new crayons.
Both of their heads turned slightly towards the door as they heard it swing open. Lestrade appeared at the top of the steps, a folder in hand.
"Finally," Sherlock groaned, "something's happened. It's about time!" He stood up off the floor and turned back to Hamish, who was staring intently at Lestrade.
"Do you want to continue drawing, Hamish, or you do you want up with me?" The boy pondered this for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows together.
"Da," he said decidedly. He carefully placed the crayon on the ground, and then lifted his arms up at Sherlock. The detective walked over and scooped up the little boy.
"Hello again, Hamish. Do you remember me?" asked Lestrade, suspecting the little boy probably wouldn't recall their brief time together at the party. Hamish situated himself against Sherlock as he thought; his face contorting into a concentrated took. Both Lestrade and Sherlock smiled fondly at him, amused by his efforts.
Concluding that he did not remember ever seeing Lestrade, Hamish's features relaxed as he let out a tiny, "No."
Lestrade chuckled. "I assumed as much. My name is Greg." The Inspector reached his hand forward towards Hamish, who, suddenly frightened, flinched away, pressing his face against Sherlock's arm. Immediately, Lestrade pulled is hand back, looking at Sherlock with an apologetic face.
"Sorry," he said hurriedly, "I should have known, given the circumstances." Sherlock responded with what he hoped was a reassuring look as he turned his attention to Hamish whose face was pressed against his arm, the little boy's hands gripping tightly onto his shirt.
"Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently, urging the little boy to look at him. Hamish leaned back slightly, though he didn't loosen his grip on his father's shirt. Sherlock quickly became alarmed when he noticed silent tears were streaming down Hamish's face.
"Oh, Hamish…" he murmured, sadly, his eyebrows drawing together, forming a sad expression. Gently, he wiped the tears off of Hamish's face, brushing his thumb and the back of his fingers against the little boy's wet cheeks, clearing them of all the tears. Hamish blinked slowly with each brush of Sherlock's soft fingers against his wet skin.
Sherlock wiped away the last tear from his son's sweet face, and cradled his head in his hand. Hamish leaned into the touch, and closed his eyes slowly. "Daa," he sniffled, eyes still closed.
"I know. I know, Hamish. But you're all right… It's all okay now." Sherlock smiled sadly at the little boy, hoping to reassure him.
"Well…" Lestrade said awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'll just leave the file with you, then. Call me if and when you've got something." He placed the file on the arm of the couch. "Bye, Hamish. Sorry I scared you, bud." He said the last part more to Sherlock, who smiled in return.
"Thank you, Lestrade. I'll let you know when I've got something." Lestrade silently left the flat.
"Come on, then, Hamish. Let's have a look." Gently bouncing Hamish in his arms, Sherlock sauntered over to the couch, and sat down. Hamish balled his hands into fists, and rubbed them against his still-wet eyes, letting out a yawn as he did so.
"Do you want to go and take your nap a little early, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, smiling slightly as the little boy shook his head, contradicting himself as he yawned widely again.
Sherlock chuckled. "All right," he said skeptically, smiling warmly at Hamish, who tiredly leaned back against Sherlock's stomach.
Sherlock reached for the file, and laid back, letting his head rest on the arm of the couch. He was careful to support Hamish's tiny body as he moved. He scooted Hamish gently so that the little boy was now sitting on his stomach, one hand grasping Sherlock's shirt, the other rubbing his eyes tiredly. He moved up and down with his father's breathing.
Minding Hamish's body, Sherlock moved the file so that it was in front of both him and Hamish. He opened the file.
Inside were several papers on the case and three pictures. Sherlock quickly skimmed the information. It seemed that three of the five children had recently been found in three different orphanages, none of which any of the children were originally abducted from. This would mean the kidnapper still had the ten and twelve year olds.
The four and eight year olds had been questioned, but only the eight year old remembered precise details; it seemed the four year old was very traumatized by the whole endeavor.
The little girl said that she had been approached at the orphanage by the kidnapper, who she described as short, skinny man, having short, blonde hair, and brown eyes. She said that the man had told her that he wanted to adopt her and take her home; that everything had been sorted and all she had to do was go with him. Excited at the prospect of finally having a home, she left with the man.
Next, the eight year old said the man led her to his black car, which she said 'smelled new.' He drove the little girl to his house. But, the girl noted, he drove to the back of the house where he quickly ushered her inside and into a basement-type room. He then locked her in. The four year old was also in the basement.
The little girl said that the basement was dark, smelled 'dirty' and had no carpet. There was a pile of blankets in one corner and a mattress in the middle of the room, as well as a bathroom.
The next day, the man came back down, took the four year old upstairs, and left the little girl alone in the basement. The kidnapper would routinely bring down food and water, but would never speak to the child. Several days later, the man had brought a new child into the basement, the ten year old who'd gone missing.
The next day, the little girl said, he came down, brought her upstairs into the house, which she recalls as being 'very pretty' and smelling sweet. She gave a description of how the man was dressed. She was bathed and dressed in new, nice clothes and was then led into a room which contained a woman, whom the little girl was instructed to call only 'mother.' The eight year old noted that the woman she was to call her mom was bald.
Sherlock's eyes lingered on the last description the girl gave... Bald... Cancer… Sherlock thought to himself, his mind whirring with this new information. He began to twirl a lock of Hamish's hair in his hand. The little boy's gaze had moved to the file in Sherlock's hand. He peered at it with heavy eyes.
Sherlock placed the file on his chest, and moved the information away so he could look at the pictures of the kids. He moved the file back to its previous position. Hamish stared at it again.
There were three pictures, one for each child. The thing Sherlock noticed at once was that the children (all female) bore an uncanny resemblance to one another; each had jet-black hair, light blue eyes, round features, and an all-together-attractive appearance.
Sherlock's gaze focused on the eight year old, then the four year old, and finally came to rest upon the little two year old's picture. His hands froze, and he felt a constricting pain in his chest.
The little girl in the picture, though female, looked strikingly like Hamish. Her eyes were a slightly darker blue than the other girls, making them appear close in color to Hamish's deep, sea green eyes. Her hair was cropped short, and her face shape was similar to Hamish's.
Hamish noticed that his father had stopped gently twirling his hair. Missing the feeling, he turned to Sherlock, about to voice his discontent when he noticed the detective staring at the file in his hands, a stricken look on his face. Now curious as to what had caused this look on Sherlock's face, the little boy moved his eyes and followed his father's gaze.
Hamish stared at the picture of the little girl. The tiredness suddenly forgotten, Hamish moved his hand up to the picture and placed his chubby hand against the little girl's cheek. His mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows pulled together. His fingers gently flexed against the waxy paper as he turned around to Sherlock, clearly understanding the resemblance.
"Da?" he asked, worry etched into his small voice.
Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't breath. The pain in his chest seemed to grow, spreading through him. His mind what racing with "what if's..."
What if this person had kidnapped males rather than females?
What if the kidnapper had gone to Hamish's orphanage first?
What if Hamish had been taken and locked in that cold, frightening basement. He would be so alone and frightened. I would never have found him. He wouldn't be with me right now... Not with me...
All of Sherlock's thoughts crashed into one another as he gasped for breath, leaning up sharply, jostling Hamish as he did so. The boy let out a startled gasp as he was abruptly moved.
His hands shaking slightly, Sherlock tossed the file away.
"Da?" Hamish asked frantically, panicking as Sherlock's breaths came in quick, short breaths. "Da!" the little boy began shouting, though his light, airy voice was not terribly loud. He continued to try to get his father's attention, but Sherlock's mind was racing, thoughts about the case and thoughts of Hamish being kidnapped, and not being here with him were muddling is brain, overwhelming it.
Giving up on shouting, Hamish, now greatly concerned, reached up as fast as he could, and touched both of his tiny hands to each side of Sherlock's face. He could only reach the hollow below Sherlock's cheek, but he tugged slightly, urging his father to look at him.
All at once, Sherlock's thoughts crashed to a halt. The pain that had been spreading through his veins disappeared as Hamish pressed his cool hands against his hot skin.
With that tiny touch, Sherlock thoughts stopped with a sudden realization: that Hamish was here, right now, safe with him. The proof of which was the little boy's tiny fingers resting on his face.
The detective closed his eyes, focusing all of his attention on Hamish's cool fingers against his cheeks.
Here... He's here... Safe... Eyes still closed, Sherlock reached up, and wrapped both of his hands around his son's incredibly small ones, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He gave a gentle squeeze, curling his fingers firmly around Hamish's hands.
"Da..." Hamish sighed sadly. "Da 'kay?" he asked, concerned, but still enjoying the reassuring squeeze from his father.
Eyes still closed, Sherlock whispered, "Yes... Yes, I'm okay. Thank you, Hamish." He opened his eyes to find the little boy staring at him intently. Gently, Sherlock brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek. Just as his father had done moments ago, Hamish closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock's touch.
Sherlock moved some of Hamish's hair from his forehead, smiling slightly at the way the little boy was leaning into his hand. He noticed that all of Hamish's head could rest in only one of his hands. He smiled fondly at just how small the little boy was.
Hamish, still wanting to reassure Sherlock, though, let go of his father's cheek with one hand, moving it to the collar of Sherlock's shirt. Stretching his body, he leaned up and tenderly pressed his lips against his father's warm skin.
Sherlock's chest, previously constricted with pain, flooded with warmth as Hamish gently kissed his cheek. A large, sweet smile spread across the detective's face. "Thank, you Hamish," he said quietly. The little boy peered up at Sherlock, a small, hopeful smile playing on his tiny lips. Hamish then pointed to his own cheek.
"Oh," Sherlock sighed happily. "Right." He leaned towards Hamish, who scrunched his eyes together in preparation. Sherlock gently kissed Hamish's tiny cheek as one thought flashed through his mind again... Here...
Hamish smiled widely, his eyes sparkling.
"Da 'etter!" he cheered, throwing his chubby arms into the air, any previous trepidation forgotten. Sherlock smiled, now almost completely calm. He picked up Hamish, whose arms were still outstretched, and pulled him into a tight hug.
Happy to be held in Sherlock's arms, Hamish wrapped his own around Sherlock's neck (as best he could) and gave a miniscule squeeze, hugging his father back.
"Yes, Hamish. I'm all better now…"
The excitement finally over, and all of the adrenaline now gone, Hamish recalled how tired he was. Arms still wrapped around Sherlock's neck, he yawned widely into his father's dark curls. Sherlock chuckled and gently patted Hamish's back.
"Come on, Hamish. Time for your nap." Another wide yawn. Hamish's eyelids began to droop.
"Do you want to sleep here or in your cot?" Sherlock asked as Hamish's grip around his neck loosened.
Tiredly, Hamish tapped against Sherlock's shoulder in response. Sherlock smiled, and stood up off the couch. He gently moved Hamish up and started to walk around the flat, bouncing lightly as he did so. Hamish leaned into his father's hold, and snuggled against the curve of his neck.
The detective continued to walk around the flat, keeping Hamish snuggled tightly against him as he slept. And though he'd already solved the case, Sherlock opted to continue carrying the little boy in his arms, pressing light kisses into his hair as he slept, rather than call Lestrade to tell him his findings...