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John sighed as he entered the head master’s office.
Mrs Willow-Stein was a tall, intimidating woman. She had dark brown hair and very sharp eyebrows, her lipstick was always flawless, as were her clothes. She sat on her desk, hands organising a few papers, looking at the young boy sitting in front of her, when John entered.
‘Good morning, Dr Watson. Please, take a seat,’ she said, as she stood up slightly to show John the chair. He sat down next to Hamish, who looked positively dishevelled.
‘Good morning, Mrs Willow-Stein,’ John replied. They shook hands briefly and John turned to his son. ‘So, what happened this time?’ he asked, the long-suffering parent. He had lost count of how many times either himself or Sherlock had been called to this very office to discuss Hamish’s behaviour. He didn’t get along with his classmates, and he didn’t even care about it. John was only concerned about how his six-year-old was going to deal with high school when the time came. Of course, Mycroft — and Sherlock, too, in fact — that Hamish be sent to Harrow, which meant that he’d be far away and John wouldn’t be able to protect him. Ridiculous nonsense, but apparently a Holmes had to attend public school, then Oxford. It was tradition. John mentally scoffed at that.
‘It wasn’t my fault, Dad!’ Hamish protested, and John saw the head master smiling a bit.
‘It really wasn’t Hamish’s fault this time, Dr Watson,’ she told him. ‘As I’ve been informed by Miss Canterbury, Hamish and a classmate, Edward Giddens, were working on the same desk during art class when it happened.’
‘We were making Christmas cards,’ completed Hamish, and Mrs Willow-Stein chuckled.
‘Yes, they were preparing Christmas cards, and apparently there was a disagreement over the existence of a certain Saint Nicholas which made Mr Giddens angry,’ finished the head master. John nodded knowingly. He noticed his son has a slightly swollen cheek — nothing worrying, definitely just a slight slap — and that his uniform was no longer pristine. They really had fought, then. John sighed and patted Hamish’s head.
‘You told him Santa wasn’t real?’ John asked. Hamish shrugged. ‘How did you even fin—Your father told you, didn’t he?’ John shook his head, already starting to phrase the talk he was going to have with Sherlock when he got home. ‘Why did you do it, Hal?’
‘He was being dull! Going on and on about the presents Santa was going to get him. Then he started saying that because I was a know-it-all and annoying, that Santa had me on his naughty list and that I was getting coal for Christmas!’ Hamish said, talking fast just like his father. ‘But then I told him that Father had explained to me that Santa Claus is a folkloric creature invented by western cultures, and that it is all nonsense, because, really, it’s absolutely illogical for one to expect one man and a sleigh with reindeer to deliver presents to all the children in the world in one night. Besides, that isn’t even accurate, because a great number of those children aren’t don’t even celebrate Christmas,’ he finished his rant and panted, getting his breath back. John stared at him with wide-eyes. It was really impressive that he was so logical and rational at such a young age, but he didn’t want Hamish to miss out on a proper childhood filled with wonder just because of his Vulcan mind.
‘I see,’ John said, finally, then turned to the head master. ‘I should get him home, then.’
Mrs Willow-Stein nodded. ‘I think that would be best. We have already talked to Mr Giddens’ parents, of course, and he will be punished for hitting Hamish,’ she told him and he nodded.
‘Thank you, Mrs Willow-Stein,’ he said, standing up and holding Hamish’s hand. She just waved her hand dismissively.
‘That’s my job, Dr Watson,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
They bid their goodbyes, and John left with his son next to him, walking with his head low. When they were outside of the large buildings that made the school, John kneeled to stay at eye-level with his son.
‘Are you okay, Hal? Are you in pain or anything?’ he asked, sounding concerned. Hamish shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he said. ‘I’ve disappointed you, so I’d like to apologise.’ John chuckled and pulled Hamish into a hug.
‘Oh, Hal, you haven’t disappointed me at all!’ he said, rubbing Hamish’s back soothingly. ‘I’m a bit sad that you won’t enjoy the Christmas wonder that I had when I was your age, that is all…’
Hamish pulled back to look at him. ‘So you’re not mad that I repeated what Father told me?’
‘Well, I would prefer you hadn’t. Seriously, I cannot stress enough how much I don’t want you repeating the ridiculous things your father tells you, Hamish. I know you can take it, but most other kids can’t.’ John pinched Hamish’s nose and got a giggle out of him. He smiled. ‘But I love you, and I am so proud of you, how smart you are… Really, you being yourself will never disappoint me, son,’ he told Hamish in his most earnest voice.
Hamish nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said in a feeble voice, which made John’s heart clench and just forced him to give his son another reassuring hug. ‘I love you, too, Dad.’
With a smile, John stood up and looked down at his son. ‘How about some ice cream, then? We do have a couple of hours to kill, anyway,’ he said. Hamish’s face lit up and he started to jump up and down.
‘Ice cream! Yes!’ he started skipping alongside John, who took his hand with the biggest smile. It was obvious that despite his big brain, Hamish still had that wonder lingering in him.