What Lies Beneath

“Again, John, I apologize for deceiving you-“

“Three bloody years, Sherlock,” John snarled, balling his fist again and taking a step forward. Sherlock risked tilting his head forward again; blood dripped down and pooled above his upper lip, and he winced from the throb in his forehead

“I’ve already explained, I had to keep it secret until I could dispose of Moriarty’s web-“

“Just one word! One! Do you have any idea what it was like, three years think you were dead and buried? Do you have any idea what it did to me? To Laicee? Jesus, Sherlock, we were going to visit your grave-“

“Brilliant. I’ll go with you. Drop out of a tree or something-“

John lunged for Sherlock again, face drawn into a snarl. This time, Mycroft and Lestrade –who had shown up not five minutes ago – managed to slip between the two men. As Lestrade wrestled John back against the wall, Mycroft gave his younger brother a look.

“I believe I expressed several times that John would not take well to humor.”

“It was worth a try, I suppose,” Sherlock sighed, taking the damp cloth Mycroft held out and dabbing at his lip. Once the room had calmed much more, Sherlock gave another heavy sigh.

“John, really, I cannot begin to express how deeply sorry I am. But before we can focus on my return, we need to focus on keeping Moran from gaining the upper hand. He’s been too close, and I need your help now. You and Laicee.”

John gave Sherlock a long, deep look. For once, Sherlock struggled in reading the expression in his eyes. There was anger, yes, and disbelief. A spark of happiness shone in his soft gray gaze, but there was something deeper. Something that hid behind his guarded frown that set Sherlock on edge.

“Things are… Things are different Sherlock, and I mean, we had no idea that you were still-“

“John.”

“Laicee missed you more than I did, I know that, and had she known you were still here-“

“John-“

“Sherlock, you have to understand we didn’t know, and the past couple years have been-“

“I know, John. I know everything.”

John and Sherlock both fell silent; Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a wary glance. John stood rigid and tense, waiting for Sherlock’s anger. Sherlock knew everything; of course he did. He knew the late night exchanges between his best friend and the girl - no, woman - he cared about. He knew about the stolen kisses and the flirtatious looks. He knew his best friend had gone behind his back and betrayed him in one of the worst ways a best friend could.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry-“

“This isn’t the time nor the place to discuss this,” Sherlock said dismissively, shaking his head and turning away from his closest and most dear friend. “We need to focus on Moran. We need to be together, though. I need to ensure you and Laicee are safe. You both are his main targets, and I haven’t done this all for nothing.”

John cleared his throat, ducking his head for a moment and then looking up and taking a breath. Sherlock had spent the last three years protecting them and making their future a possibility, and he’d spent the last three years snogging his girlfriend. But the look on Sherlock’s face didn’t hold anger, no disappointment or regret. There was only determination and a gleam of bemusement as the men stared at one another.

“Laicee should be at the flat. She went straight home, so we can gather there.”

“Yes, it’s time I went back to Baker Street,” Sherlock agreed, nodding briefly and turning on the sole of his shoe. For the first time, Sherlock had to swallow the excitement that shot up through his being.

Because after three years, three long years, he would be able to see Laicee face-to-face. He would be able to walk through the front door, not the window. No more late night visits, no more observations from behind trees or under disguise. He would be able to see Laicee, to speak with her. To tell her he was sorry. No matter what had happened between her and John, no matter her reaction to his return, all that mattered was that he could finally say the things that he had held for so long.

He could thank her for the hundreds of visits to his grave. He could let her know he’d heard all the words she whispered to him, seen all the time she’d devoted and the faith she put in him even after his name had been ruined. He could thank her for the pictures and the stories she shared, thank her for keeping him alive in her heart and for never letting go of him.

Finally, he could tell her the three words that he’d worked up the courage to speak to her.

“Lestrade and I will head to Scotland Yard and gather what we need,” Mycroft said, straightening his jacket. “Sherlock, John, catch Laicee up to speed and be expecting us in half an hour.”

Sherlock gave a swift nod and John thanked Mycroft and Lestrade as he followed his very un-dead best friend out of his workplace. He and Sherlock walked step-for-step down the sidewalk, completely silent. But when Baker Street came into view, John cleared his throat.

“I should warn you, since you seem very oblivious as to how one will react to you returning from the dead,” John began, and Sherlock glanced down at him. “I can’t guarantee Laicee will be overly thrilled. If anything, she’ll be furious like me if you just stroll in there and act as if it’s not a big deal.”

“So I shouldn't go for an element of surprise, you suggest?” Sherlock mused, and John sighed.

“I’m just saying to take it easy-“ John’s words broke off and he blinked in furious confusion as he came to a startled halt. Sherlock took several steps before he realized John was no longer at his side.

John took several sharp breaths as he stared at the scene in front of him. Hamish, perched on the knee of a shabby, rugged man he didn’t recognize, eating an ice cream cone and sporting a wicked bruise on his cheek.

John moved faster than Sherlock could have anticipated; in an instant, he was ripping Hamish from the man’s hold and again scrambling for a gun that wasn’t there. The man held up his hands in defense as he shot Sherlock a startled look.

“John, John, it’s alright, it’s fine, he’s in my homeless network-“

“A homeless man is holding onto my injured son, and you want me to believe it’s fine-“

“Yes, please, John. It’s alright, he’s only doing what he was assigned-“

“And what was he assigned?! Kidnap my child and give him sweets?!”

Hamish turned his startled gaze up from Sherlock to stare at his daddy. John’s shaking hand brushed over Hamish’s cheek as he glanced between his son and his undead friend.

Hamish reached up and rested his hand on John’s stubbly jaw and gave him a concerned frown. John tilted his head down and murmured very quickly,

“Hamish are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Hamish shook his head and furrowed his brow; John knew that look. The look of determination lighting behind his son’s bright blue eyes. The same look that mirrored his beautiful wife’s fiery smile.

“Laicee,” Hamish said; there was more, but that was all the startled boy could piece together under the circumstances.

“Laicee?” John said, louder than Hamish had. Laicee had hurt him? No, that couldn’t be it. Laicee would never hit him. So then-

“Yes, where is Laicee?” Sherlock asked the homeless man as he got to his feet and brushed off his permanently dirtied cargo pants. The man scrunched his face.

“Short thing? Curls? Leather jacket?”

Sherlock gave a terse nod.

“Walt seen her in a cab passin’ the barber shop, jus’ round the corner from where I seen the kid wanderin’.”

“Wandering?!” John almost shouted as the man held up a battered phone with a blurred picture. A cab sped past the frame, a figure that was mostly distinguishable as Laicee in the back window. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Track her,” Sherlock ordered immediately, and as the homeless man hurried away with startling speed, tapping away on his phone, John’s stomach began to sink. He watched silently, rubbing Hamish’s back gently as Sherlock pressed his hands together and lifted his fingers to his lips. Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut and he let out a slow breath. He held perfectly still for half a moment, and then his eyes flew open and he was off.

He whirled on the spot and came up to John and Hamish. Sherlock’s sea green eyes studied the young boy, and John suddenly realized he’d forgotten an introduction. Hamish stared up at Sherlock and Sherlock down at Hamish, and John cleared his throat, anxious to how his best friend would treat his son. Because Hamish, as brilliant as he was, wasn’t on Sherlock’s level, and Sherlock wasn’t good with children.

“Sherlock, this is-“

“Hamish, I need you to think for a moment,” Sherlock requested, and Hamish raised his brows, listening. John gaped at his son. Because Hamish didn’t like strangers. He didn’t respond well to being talked to by people he didn’t recognize. He shied away from new people and refused to make eye contact with those he didn’t know. And Sherlock was a very intimidating stranger. But here Hamish was, on the brink of smiling at a man he’d just met.

“He’s not very good at talking,” John said in a hushed tone, and Sherlock silenced John with a glance.

“You were attacked, weren’t you?” Sherlock asked, and Hamish nodded again, this time a frown shadowing his face. “Men tried to take you. Laicee helped you get away.”

Sherlock reached up and brushed gentle fingers along the boy’s cheekbone. Hamish, being brave, didn’t wince.

“One of the men grabbed you. Tripped you, but you snuck away, didn’t you?”

Hamish nodded, and at the same time he and Sherlock said softly,

“Weasel.”

John nearly dropped his son.

“He just-“ John looked down at Hamish. “You spoke! To Sherlock!“

“John,” Sherlock sighed.

“To a stranger-“

“We’ve met before, John, and we’re on a schedule. Silence would be appreciated,” Sherlock said dismissively, his mind racing as he ignored the look on John’s face. Nine possibilities. Eight to chip away and one to deduce.

There was no time to chat. The area Hamish had been found wasn’t specific enough, and he couldn’t wait for his network to hunt Laicee down. Moran was fast, and he was on a schedule. They had to hurry.

“Hamish, you ran out of the alley. Al found you a few blocks from where you were attacked. Can you remember anything around you? Anything at all?”

Hamish nodded, and Sherlock let out a breath. He watched the wheels turning, watched the little Watson boy deduce the details he’d stored subconsciously.

Hamish scrunched his brow up for several moments; John began to worry about what Sherlock would say. Most people got impatient with Hamish. They marked him off and embarrassed him. But John was genuinely impressed with Sherlock. He stood patiently, observing the young boy as he thought. Finally, Hamish looked up and said with confidence,

“Sand,” he said finally, giving a terse nod. “Apples. Sand.”

“Yes, okay, very good,” Sherlock murmured. Apples and sand. He understood this; it wasn’t what he’d seen today, it was what he remembered about the area. Hamish’s mind worked the same way as Sherlock’s did. He understood. “You’d been there before, been there with Laicee. You played with sand, and you had apples, didn’t you?”

Hamish nodded.

“But which park? Do you know which park?”

Sherlock’s brain was frantic; how many parks had he followed them to? Apples were Hamish and Laicee’s favorite afternoon snack. They’d eaten them dozens of times. So which time was this?

This time Hamish answered instantly, knowing what he had to say to jog Sherlock’s memory.

“Tater tots.”

Sherlock’s face burst into realization. The night Hamish had fed him. The day it rained and he watched Laicee rush herself and the little boy home. Belleview park. And the barber shop- there were two, but he knew Hamish would be able to pinpoint it.

He didn’t have to speak to John to convey the thoughts in his mind. Didn’t need to say a single word for John to understand that Laicee was in the hands of the men Sherlock had come so close to beating. Sherlock hailed a cab and he piled in with Hamish and John, barking directions to the cabby and doing his best to keep the painful anxiety under control.

He didn’t let the cab stop before he launched himself from the backseat. He was pacing back and forth, lost in thought, when John approached with Hamish. The little boy studied the strange man, a bemused look on his face. Sherlock crossed to him and stared deep into his eyes.

“Hamish, does this look familiar?”

Hamish studied the area. He squirmed from John’s hold and made his way down the walk. He paused at the edge of the alley and stared for a long moment. Finally, he glanced back at Sherlock and nodded, pointing his finger to the right. Sherlock was in the alleyway in an instant as John sent out a call to Mycroft.

Kneeling in the dirt, his fingers traced the tire marks. He followed the footsteps, studied the markings on the brick wall.

Blow to the head. Two men, pulling her into the car. Hamish running into the street. Male, late twenties, uneven gait, right arm broken twice..

There was nothing left behind but the past. Nothing to tell him where to go. Nothing to show him what he needed. He studied the alleyway until Lestrade came for him. Until he was forced to look away and accept what he’d figured out the moment he saw the men in Baker Street. Moran was too good.

Sherlock had come so close to winning this time. So close to being reunited with the woman who stole his heart. So close to being home, to being done with his game and back to a normal life.

So close.