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It was a crisp Autumn morning when a dark head of curly hair ran up the steps to Baker Street. Hamish Theodore Watson-Holmes, having just been dropped off by his Uncle Mycroft’s black car, was grinning a wide; gap-toothed smile. The oversized jumper he wore was a soft blue, and brought out the striking green in his eyes as he came stomping up the stairs. John could hear him long before he saw him, Hamish excitedly reaching for the door handle with small hands. John smiled to himself as he stood and opened the door for his son. Hamish looked up at him and grinned, a wide, open upturning of lips in greeting that was not unlike John’s answering smile as he spoke. His voice was tinged a tad breathlessly- early onset asthma a curse of the Holmes family that Sherlock had managed to avoid but plagued his son now and again in the colder months.
“Daddy! Guess what, guess what?!"
Instead of waiting for an answer, Hamish ducked inside to go searching for Papa, little body still too-full of energy to quite stay still. The stomping of his feet was like the thrum of an earthquake. Sherlock sat perched on a stool in the kitchen, leaning over a microscope as his skeletal fingers twisted the dials into focus. Upon his son’s entry however he paused in his work to smile at his son, bending down to scoop the boy up onto his knee, much to Hamish’s delight.
"Can you guess what happened today?” Hamish asked his Papa with mischievous green eyes, cheeks flushed in excitement as he turned to look up at Sherlock with a trusting gaze. The detective looked over his son critically, knowing that this was one of Hamish’s favourite games. John stood leaning against the doorframe, happy to make silly suggestions as he sipped his cup of tea.
“Hmm... did you go to the moon?”
Hamish giggled and shook his head no. John feigned disappointment, thinking again.
“Did you... Tame a tiger?”
Again, Hamish rejected his idea. Sherlock’s gaze swept over Hamish’s jumper, noticing how little crumbs rested on it from lunch. Bread, except John hadn’t packed their son a sandwich. Instead it had been crackers and cheese. Yet there was no evidence of crackers on his son's uniform. Hamish also had a sticker on the back of his hand, one of a race car. However, his teacher didn’t give out stickers much, and tended to prefer those in the shape of planets and or stars. Something about positive reinforcement that the detective never quite bothered to understand. Tilting his head, Sherlock deduced the most likely culprit for his son's excitement easily.
“You made a new friend.”
Hamish clapped his hands together in affirmation, smile wide and as awestruck as John’s always was when Sherlock did something clever.
“You’re right!” he exclaimed, all but vibrating in place. Their son launched into a mini-torrent, seemingly unable to keep himself quiet for a second more. It was as if floodgates had opened wide in the wake of Sherlock's deduction.
“He’s new to the class and I had an empty seat beside me, so I let him sit. His name’s James Junior, but he doesn’t like the junior bit much. He can do maths in his head really well, I watched him! He has this trick where he can just remember what multiplies with what nicely. He liked my colouring books, but he can’t draw very well. He likes Doctor Who and The Avengers like me!”
Hamish grinned, and the look was so happy that Sherlock’s chest tightened with love. Drawing his son into a warm hug, the detective rested his chin on the boy’s wild curls. Affection was not something that Sherlock often openly displayed, but the soft spot he had for the two people in his life could be seen if one only peered into a quiet moment in the relative safety that was 221 B. John smiled at the image, man and boy very alike in both looks and the focused way in which they both turned to gaze at him. Hamish straightened as Daddy spoke.
“What’s his last name; 'Mish? Maybe we can organise a play-date with his parents. We could all go to the museum.”
His son’s face fell slightly, and he looked at the floor.
“Oh. James doesn’t have parents.” Sherlock and John looked at one another, and in that look was a mixture of concern and unease. Turning his son to face him, Sherlock looked Hamish in the eye. His voice was deceptively calm.
“What do you mean by that, Hamish?”
The little boy shifted, wringing his hands before carrying on at a slightly less animated pace than he had before. He had sensed the change in the atmosphere, however brief it had occurred.
“James is in Foster Care? I think that’s what he called it….He lives in the care home a few blocks away from school….”
Now the detective was worried. Mycroft had told him of that boy… but he hadn’t realised he’d be put in the same class…
“What’s his last name; 'Mish? I’m afraid we didn’t catch it.”
Trying to sound nonchalant, Sherlock stroked his son’s curls. Hamish’s expression brightened slightly. He grinned in relief at knowing an answer, unaware of how Sherlock would react to his revelation.
“James Moriarty junior. His name is Moriarty.”
****
Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, the noise startlingly loud in the silence of night. For a moment neither he nor John moved as they both froze, listening for hint that they had woken up their son on the floor above them. However, when no evidence came, the detective hissed through his teeth and made as if to hit the table again. His eyes were hard with rage. John stopped him just in time, stepping forward and saving the table from further abuse with a firm grab towards his husband's bicep.
“Sherlock. You’ll hurt yourself, love.”
His husband responded with a sickly snort, burying his head in his hands and curling in on himself as if to hide from the rest of the world. It was a strange sight to witness, the sharp angles that made the detective angular as if trying to warn off that which might attack him when vulnerable. Those hard lines only softened with John's touch, but it was marginal. The detective was simply too consumed with rage to do more.
“I should have known... I should have warned him...He can’t…”
Sherlock trailed off, looking at his hands with a lost, wandering expression. Even though he couldn’t find the right words, John understood what he was trying to say. It had come to the point where he could read Sherlock as well as the detective could read him, and the guilt in the man’s tone wasn’t exactly subtle. John reached out and took his partner’s hand in his own, brushing his thumb along his thin knuckles. They were already starting to purple, bruise with the force of his strike.
“There is nothing you could have done. Don’t go beating yourself up for something you couldn’t have controlled.”
“Mycroft…. I’ll have his head for not warning me….” His lover growled, leaning into John’s touch even as his mind raced for a way to fix what looked to be a horrible twist of fate. The detective could only see one way that was acceptable, and he rose suddenly and clapped his hands together, a choice reached as he placed a mask of ice on his features. He made as if to go upstairs, a storm that was ignoring John's placid calm. Now was not the time to be calm, now was the time for action, before someone he cared about was strapped to a bomb. Sherlock had learned his lesson years ago when it came to playing about.
“He can’t be friends with him. It’s that simple. Right, I’ll tell him.”
Brusquely, Sherlock turned around-
only to be all but tackled by John as he tried to stop him.
His husband’s voice hissed in his ear, suddenly tight with irritation and incredulity. John had watched Sherlock build himself into a right panic in silence, but now he looked outside in the darkness, knew the lateness of the hour, and refused outright to involve their son or expose him to the detective's fears.
“Are you mad? You don’t just tell a child that he can’t be friends with someone and not give them a reason Sherlock! That’s just asking for trouble later on!”
Sherlock growled, trying in vain to get John to release him, only to have the man’s grip tighten about his skinny hips.
“There is a good reason! One that I plan to divulge to him when he’s old enough to understand! Now release me, John and let me do the job of crushing our son’s hopes and dreams so you don’t have to!”
John scowled, grip only tightening. Stubborn man!
“I’m not going to have you play the villain Sherlock. If we do this we do it together. But I think we should at least invite the kid over before he exile him!”
Sherlock looked at his lover as if he had gone quite mad. His blue-green eyes narrowed mutinously.
“I am trying to protect him.”
“And I am trying to protect you.”
John retorted firmly. His gaze softened as he released his hold on Sherlock only to curl him into a hug.
“Having Hamish hate you even for a short while would break your heart Sherlock. I know how much you love him, and even though you put on a tough act, it would break you. I love both of you, and even when you’re upset with each other it’s obvious that both of you love the other to bits. Hamish isn’t stupid, he's fantastic and brilliant just like you, and he won’t just take our orders at face-value. He’s too stubborn.”
Sherlock didn’t respond, but after a moment, his long limbs curled around John in defeat. His voice was a low murmur.
“That man nearly destroyed everything I hold dear. How can I have his son come in here… and pretend like it never happened?”
John pressed a kiss to his husband’s neck, hug tightening about his shoulders. His voice was calm and firm.
“You don’t. The first visit, we’ll keep an eye on him. If there’s even the slightest hint to Moriarty about him, then we’ll sit Hamish down and tell him. But he is not his Father Sherlock, just as Hamish isn’t us. We can’t hold on to grudges of the past. I learned that the moment you returned to me after...After your Fall.”
John swallowed once, and his lover pressed a slow, desperate kiss to his lips. In it, the army doctor could taste apology.
****
James Junior did not look much like his Father.
For one, he was blonde and tanned, a scattering of freckles over his cheeks making him appear younger than he actually was. He had his Father’s dark brown eyes, but they lacked the edge of madness, still holding deep intelligence. He was taller than Hamish but not by much, and stood uncertainly in the doorway as his friend introduced him to Sherlock and John. During the entire meeting, Sherlock kept a close eye on the boy, searching for any signs of deceit or lies.
He found none.
What he found instead was the wide, sunny smile that Hamish gave James as he lead him upstairs to his room, and the way James looked once up at the detective, large eyes blinking an unspoken apology. It was then Sherlock knew that the boy was aware of his heritage, and that he was ashamed of it. Deeply ashamed.
Though Sherlock couldn’t find it in his heart to trust the boy just yet, he treated both his son and James Junior to a violin concerto late into the night. For the first time, Moriarty’s eyes did not mock him, but filled with wonder and awe as James junior muttered
“Brilliant” Under his breath at the detective’s graceful music.