Chapter Text
It had happened after the fall, when he was alone and hiding.
"Sherlock, we need to talk. IA"
He'd been alone. Presumed dead. He'd been vulnerable and lonley and more than a little lost. So who better to spend his time with then someone who was also "playing dead?"
"I've got some rather exciting news. IA"
It was never supposed to go as far as it did. He just needed some comfort and company. He'd gotten used to having John around and he needed a new friend.
"Or a bit devastating, depending on how you look at it. IA"
"Are you going to tell me, or are you simply going to vauegly allude until I lose interest? SH"
"Hmmm, titchy, Sherlock. Fine, I suppose I'll tell you, if you're so impatient. IA"
"You're going to be a father. IA"
It was only one night. It was never supposed to go this far.
"I see. And I suppose you intend to make me take care of it once it's born? SH"
"Quite the opposite, dear. I don't think I'll be letting you see the child at all. IA"
"Ah. May I inquire as to why? SH"
He'd never wanted a child. Or never thought he had.
"You've got a secret soft-spot, Sherlock, we all do, and I think raising your own little genius will make you just a bit /too/ happy. We both know, you and I, that you dont deserve to be Happy. IA"
A large revenge for a small wrong.
"You'll never get to meet your son or daughter, and that will just tear you apart. IA"
And that he'd been it, all he heard about the child he'd never know.
Well, almost all. The final text had come several months later, in the middle of the night, Eight years ago.
"It's a boy. Think I'll take John's advice, and name him Hamish. IA"
Maybe it was the fog. It hung heavy and low on london's alleyways that day, concealing all but the boldest of movements and the brightest of colours. Maybe it was the semi-darkness of the alleyway, sarounding Sherlock as he stood a few meters away front the rest of the group, magnifying glass in hand. Or maybe the boy was just so cold and tired that he'd stopped paying attention to where he was going until he collided hard with Sherlock, falling to his knees on the pavement at the impact.
"S-sorry, sir." The small form mumbled, pulling himself to shaking feet. "I didn't mean to...." He turned on his heel and tried to sprint away, as though he thought the man before him would attack. Sherlock reached out a quick hand and grabbed the boy's ragged jumper with little to no effort, pulling him back. "What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, there's tape and policemen on either end of the alleyway. Surely you must have seen."
The little boy wrapped his arms around himself, shivering with what was clearly a mixture of cold and nerves. "I came through the sewers." He admitted. "Not the awful ones. An old dry one. It's good to sleep in."
"You live on the streets, then." The boy quickly shook his head. "No sir. No, I've got a family! They, uh....I just.....I....please don't turn me. I can't go back to the orphanage, please!" To Sherlock's surprise, tears were forming in the boy's eyes. Sherlock hurriedly waved his fears away. "Of course I won't report you. You might be of use to me on the streets, especially if you know how to get around underground. What's your name?" The boy kneeded his hands together, and Serlock recognized the expression of someone trying to compass an alibi. "You can tell me the truth. I'll know If you lie."
The little boy's eyes grew wide, and Sherlock was sure he had never had an adult see through him before. of course. A boy so small, living on his own for what had obviously been a long time, judging by the warn jumper, must be an experiances liar. The boy took a shaky little breath."Hamish, sir."
Oh, but this might just be Christmas. "Hamish? Is that so?" It wasn't a common name, after all. "I have a friend who's middle name is Hamish. Quite the coincidence, don't you think?" Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences. "Come with me. I need to talk to my...coworker." Hamish had blackcurly hair and blue eyes soft lips like Irene's. His eyes were wide an curious, a subtle sign of intelligence. Should he even dare to hope?
They reentered the more brightly kit part of the alleyway, where lamps and flashlights scared away the fog that would otherwise have entirely hidden the body lying on the ground. Lestrade, peering into the alleyway and waiting for Sherlock's return, was the first to notice that the detective's tall silouetted had been joined by another one, a smaller one.
"Well hello, there. Who's this?" Lestrade smiled at the boy, crouching down next to him.
"I need use of this crime scene for a few moments. You can return to your work in a moment." Lestrade's straightened up, and Hamish wadered away from Sherlock's side, staring unblinkingly around the crime scene. "Sherlock." Lestrade hissed. "You can't just pick up some entirely random child and bring them to look at dead bodies."
"Oh, but I can. And if theories are correct you'll find that he is anyhing but random. Five minutes, lestrade. Please." Greg stared at him for several seconds before slowly, reluctantly nodding. "I hope to god you know what you're doing."
"I'd like you to come take a look at this man, Hamish." Lestrade sighed in exasperation, but Sherlock may as well not have heard him for all the atention he payed. Hamish walked slowley over to the man, looking nervous "I want you to look at him and tell me whether he worked inside or outside." The boy's face screwed up In concentration. Sherlock watched him intently, making note of everything: the way his eyes moved over the body, the way he bit his lip when he was thinking, how he closed his eyes and murmured to himself for a few minutes before standing up and declaring with complete certainty "He worked inside." Sherlock felt another flutter of hope. "Good. How do you know?" Hamish pointed to the man's feet. "His shoes. The bottoms aren't all scuffed. I don't think they'd look that nice if he was outside on that street all day."
"Can you tell anything else from the shoes?" Hamish paused a moment. "I....They look nice. But they're not really. I don't think they were very expensive. They're only meant to look posh." The flutter had turned into a flame. "Hamish, can you tell me more from this man's body? Can you tell...what his profession was?" Hamish screwed up his face again. He lingered on the shoes for a few more moments, until it seemed he had gleaned every scrap of information he could from them, and moved on, talking as he went. "He's got a tie. That means he wants to look nice, right? And it's probably for his job, but I don't know. And the shoes were the same. So he needs to look nice for his job. But they don't pay him a lot, or he'd have better shoes, right?" He sat down on the floor next to the dead man's hand, and reached out to brush a finger across his palm. "Its very dry. Like he's been in the cold. But...he works inside. So what makes his hands so dry?" He looked to Sherlock for help, but the detective wasn't offering any. Hamish went back to studying the man's hand, still resolved to answer Sherlock's question. "So he's got to look nice at work. But he doesn't make much money. And he uses stuff that makes his hands dry." Suddenly, Hamish's eyes widened, and he pointed frantically to a white streak on the man's hand. " Chalk! It's Chalk! He's a teacher!" He nearly shouted it, beaming with pride, and Sherlock let out a loud, triumphant laugh. "Lesteade, have you been listening to what just happened?" The DI turned around from a conversation with one of the other Yarders. "No, sorry. I've sort of got a murder case to solve, Sherlock." He waved it away. "Oh, I already soleved it ages ago. It was his daughter. But come listen to this."
He hastily explained what Hamish had done, but Lestrade only looked confused. "So...you're saying he made a deduction?like you do? Someone must have tought him, right?" Sherlock was growing more and more excited now. "No, lestrade, what I do is more than learned behavior. It has to do with the way a brain functions. The ability to observe, make conections in the blink of an eye, the ability to reason backwards, if you will, is deeply embedded in a person's psychology. besides, the boy can't be more than eight or nine! When would he have had the time to learn such a thing? No, this talent must have been passed down from his parents. His PARENTS, Lestrade! Oh, don't you understand what this means?"
"I don't quite-"
"Oh, this is brilliant, this is unbelievably brilliant. I shall require the rest of the day off. Lillian Brown is your killer. You'll find her at a used car dealership in Kent. Good day."
Sherlock crouhed down next to the little boy again. "Have you got anywhere to go, Hamish? Do you have a home other than that opehanage you ran away from?" The little boy shook his head, and his eyes were so wide and pitiful that Sherlock made up his mind on the spot. "Come with me." He tool the boy, and started off towards the main road. "You're going to stay with my friend and I for a little while, alright?" Hamish looked surprised, but nodded happily. "Alright." He murmured, hurrying after Sherlock.
"John, we're leaving." The doctor turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He'd been talking to Anderson and missed Sherlock's discovery of the little boy, and his little deduction session. "What, already? We're just getting here."
"Now, John."
"Right, fine. Coming." He ran after Sherlock, panting slightly as he caught up. Working in the surgery didn't give him much cause to run, and even he had to admit that he was out of shape. Upog reaching Sherlock, however, he stopped stock still.
"Um, Sherlock....Who's this?" Sherlock laughed softly. "Our new houseguest."
"I...what?" He lowered his voice and took a step closer to Sherlock so that only they could hear. "Sherlock, you can't just take other people's children! His parents are probably around here somewhere looking for him." Sherlock's smile grew wider, and John couldn't help but think that there was somethig rather dishonest about the grin. There was somethig he wasn't telling John. "One of his parents is."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Hamish is going to be staying with us for a while, as I said. Please trust that I have my reasons."
"I-Hamish?" John stared at the little boy. "Your name is Hamish?" He asked, his voice a bit gentler that it had been when he was adressing Sherlock. Hamish nodded, curls bobbing. "Yes sir." John took a step back. It had to be a coincidense, of course. He wasn't entirley sure what else it could be. But for some reason, It was enough to make Sherlock decide that this boy needed to stay with them. And who was he to question the motives of the great Sherlock Holmes?