Chapter Text
In Sherlock Holmes’ long, diverse and sometimes traumatic fifty-eight years, he’s sworn very rarely. The occasional damn or Jesus Christ has been known to slip past his lips when the pain had become too much, or the idiocy too great. Not a living person had heard the F-word pass his lips, and he was confident that, if he hadn’t slipped by now, he’d see out his remaining days leaving that expletive to the province of the more common people.
That’s not to say he hasn’t thought it. In fact, he’s thought it three times. Only three very special, rather extraordinary moments…and they were all caused by members of the Watson family.
For John
The first of these moments came, quite unexpectedly, while he was doing everything in his power to save the life of his friend.
Standing on the roof of St Barts, the body of James Moriarty laying on the stained concrete behind him, he stood looking down at John fidgeting on the road below and thought, “I’ve misjudged this.”
As John’s increasingly frantic tones expressed his bewilderment, and the tremor in his leg became visible even at that great a distance he thought, “I missed something.”
As John tried to push through the crown surrounding him, seemingly dead on the sidewalk, his shattered voice barely able to articulate the words, “He’s my friend, let me through.” He thought, “He’s not going to be OK.”
And as John’s legs gave way and he was supported by members of his homeless network, clustered around him and preventing John from discovering the ruse designed to keep him safe, he thought, “Fuck.”
For Mary
As she turned around….Not Lady Smallwood….and Sherlock was faced with the unimaginable, his thoughts scattered for a few brief moments.
Mary……The pistol calmly pointed at him, steely determination in her eyes. So very different from the woman who’d stood beside his friend….His best friend …at the wedding a month ago.
Charles Magnusson knelt on the carpet behind her, hands clasped behind his head. That should have been a clue. To see a man so unfamiliar with submission, bowed to her, should have told him that she’d be unflinching in her resolve. He thought, “I know Mary.”
As he stepped closer and she threatened him, he remained convinced of his deductions, he thought, “She won’t hurt me.”
As the minute twitch of her finger was followed by the muffled sound of a shot, he thought, “Unexpected. I misjudged this…too.”
As he looked down and saw the bloom of blood on his shirt, and the realisation that it was his own, he thought “I missed something…again.”
As pain seared a path through the receptors in his brain, he thought, “I’m not going to be OK.”
And as his legs gave way and he began to fall backward, shock setting in and the edges of his vision beginning to fade, he thought “Fuck.”
For Hamish
In Sherlock’s opinion Hamish Watson, John and Mary’s son, was nothing short of a walking, talking delight.
For all of his twenty-one years, he’d taken only the best from his mother and father and mixed them together, stealing errant parts of Sherlock to blend into the mix and through some inexplicable alchemy, turn into a steady, wise, and intelligent young man.
From Hamish’s viewpoint, the triumvirate of John, Mary, and Sherlock provided the ideal, if somewhat bizarre platform from which to grow and explore in whatever direction his life drew him.
The troubles of the past long behind them, John and Mary had put aside their differences to focus on the raising of their son, the only child of an otherwise dull yet content marriage.
Sherlock meanwhile, provided insight, logic, a safe-haven and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on as the boy became a man. Whilst John and Mary would forever be his parents, Sherlock and Hamish had made the uncoordinated, sometimes ungainly transition from child and adult, to friends and allies.
Flitting from science to languages, from art to athletics, Hamish had finally narrowed down his field to Bio-Chemistry and Engineering and, with Uncle Mycroft’s help, had completed his double-degree from Oxford only a month before.
Sherlock heard the key turn in the front door and the light, springing steps on the stairs identified the visitor before Hamish pushed open the door of 221B.
He turned to the man in the doorway. Blonde hair tousled from the wind, he stood slightly taller than his father, but no less broad in shoulder. The casual jeans and sports jacket was a good look on him, and for a brief surprising moment Sherlock thought, “He’s grown up to be very attractive.”
Hamish grinned at him, “God, It’s good to see you.” The honesty in his words, open and unguarded were paired with sparkling eyes.
“You too.” Sherlock replied, laying down his violin and bow. “I’m missing something …..AGAIN.”
Hamish stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, “I saw you at graduation…in the audience, next to Mum and Dad. Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Sherlock took a step forward. He thought, “What IS it…..he’s…different.”
“It meant a lot..” Hamish took a step into the room, closing on Sherlock, “..that you were there.”
“Yes…well, you’re important to me.” Sherlock huffed out.
“Am I?” Hamish took another step, something flickering in his dark blue eyes.
“Of course…” A frown creased Sherlock’s brows, “..of course you are. The vague trailing tendrils of deductions started coalescing at the edges of his mind, “Come on..come ON…What have I missed?”
“Because, Sherlock….you’re important to me. You’ve become very important to me.” Hamish was no more than an arms-length away now, struggling to hold Sherlock’s gaze, awkward and trying to be brave.
“I understand…” He began, all the while thinking, “I don’t understand…..I…..OH!”
“Do you? I know there’s a big age gap between us…and I don’t know how you feel about that…” He looked away before returning to catch Sherlock’s eyes, “…or if you feel anything at all for me. But….just….I want you to think about it, OK?”
Sherlock nodded dumbly, “How…how could I have missed this…THIS?”
Taking his chance Hamish stepped in and, before Sherlock had a chance to respond, took his face in both hands an kissed him soundly and thoroughly. When he pulled back, he simply leaned their foreheads together, running his thumbs over Sherlock’s still sharp cheekbones.
Fuck!