What Lies Beneath

The sun couldn’t have been up for two minutes before I heard my bedroom door slowly creak open. I was lying on my side, facing the window, but I didn’t dare roll over to check and see who was coming. I’d become a light sleeper over the past year or so, and I could hear exceptionally well, so the slow, shuffling steps teetering towards my bed had snapped me out of my rest.

I held perfectly still, not wanting to give away that I’d woken up. I evened my breathing and then braced myself as I felt a weight come onto the comforter. Someone slowly slid across the mattress and paused at my back, then slumped down over my side and stuck their face into mine.

“Boo!” I exclaimed, startling Hamish into a flurry of giggling. His cheeks burst into red and his blue eyes crinkled up with his laughter. I sat up and pulled him onto my lap, staring down at the little boy that had somehow managed to become the center of my life.

“Scary,” he giggled, and I grinned.

“That’s what you get for being a little sneak,” I teased. He shook his head and squirmed to sit upright. I tickled him down onto his back again.

“No Laicee, weasel,” he corrected between his laughter. I picked him up with one arm and pushed the covers back with the other.

“Are you a hungry weasel?” He managed out a yes as I climbed out of bed and walked us to the kitchen. “Right then. Let’s feed the weasel.”

I deposited Hamish onto the counter to keep him close to me; not that he wasn’t more than adept at entertaining himself, he just had a knack for creating chaos, and I hadn’t mastered being in two places at once.

Raising Hamish had become an experience all in its own. He was nearly two now, and he was, in every aspect, a Watson. He was bright and charismatic, and loved adventuring. Every now and then, though, he’d take on a serious demeanor, and I’d swear I was talking with a mini-John.

He’d been injured in the car wreck. Besides the permanent scar along his right cheekbone, his mental abilities had suffered. Though he was walking before ten months, and talking shortly thereafter, speech could be a problem for him. At times, it took him longer than normal to form a sentence or think of the word he wanted, and if he got excited or upset, he couldn’t talk at all. Every now and then, I’d have to repeat things several times to make sure he understood me, and then it took him a while longer to think of his answer.

He was brilliant though, and he didn’t let his disabilities hold him back. He was overly inquisitive, and had a knack for getting in trouble. When he first started walking, it had taken him only a brief, unsupervised moment (I swear, I had my eyes off him for one second) to get himself on top of the fridge.

His disability wasn’t that noticeable, considering he strictly only talked to John and myself. He wouldn’t even say hello to Mrs. Hudson, and even if John and I were both with him, he refused to speak in front of other people. He made up for his moments of silence when he talked with me, though.

“Ice cream,” he said, making a face at me as I pulled the eggs out. I looked over at him.

“No ice cream, Hamish. Do we eat dessert for breakfast?”

He thought about his answer for a moment, so I took the time to start beating the eggs.

“Yes, ice cream,” he confirmed, and though I tried to give him a stern look, my mouth turned up a bit. It was hard not to smile around him. I buttered down the pan and sat the container on the counter as I shook my head.

“No, we have eggs for breakfast. If you’re good, we’ll get ice cream.”

“I’m good,” he assured me as he stuck a spoon into the butter, making me immediately regret my decision to leave it in his reach. It kept him busy while I cooked, though. By the time that John came downstairs, nearly half our utensils were handle-deep in the margarine dish. Hamish looked up the second John set foot in the kitchen, and his entire face brightened.

“Daddy!” he exclaimed, dropping the spoon as he reached out to be picked up. John obliged immediately, lifting Hamish to him and hugging him as he came up beside me.

“How are we today?” he mused, noting Hamish’s buttery work. I glanced over and gave him a wry smile as Hamish tugged on one of my curls; he giggled as it bounced into my face.

“We’re decent,” I told him, starting on the toast.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked as he sat down at the table- at our new table. We’d finally retired the giant, pointy-ended death surface we’d been eating meals on after Hamish nearly split his head open on one of the corners. We’d finally decided on a smaller, round table we stuck in one corner. Hamish and I ran into it far less.

“Ice cream,” Hamish interjected before I could answer. I gave him a look as I slid John’s plate to him. I’d given up on making Hamish his own dish; he never ate his own things (besides ice cream and sweets) and he did just fine scavenging off of mine and John’s plates.

“Hamish Sherlock, we are not having ice cream for breakfast,” I told him in mock sternness as I sat down and began to eat.

“Can you do me a favor today, since you’re off?” John asked as he began to eat his meal. He’d lost a lot of weight in the past couple of years, but I was slowly getting it back on.

“Sure, what’d you need?”

“Could you drop off some files with Lestrade? I forgot to swing by New Scotland Yard last night.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, intercepting Hamish’s hand before it dove into John’s coffee. He opted for grabbing a fistful of eggs instead. I sighed and handed him a spoon, which he promptly threw to the ground. I made a face at him.

“Honestly,” John chuckled, checking the time. “I’ve got to get going. Oh, I was figuring we could do take-out tonight. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” I admitted, lugging Hamish to the sink. “Cooking sounded too troublesome.”

John chuckled and headed back upstairs to get dressed; by the time he came back down, buttoning his coat, I had washed most of the food off of Hamish. We walked down with John, seeing him off as we did every morning. John gave his son a kiss on the forehead, and then pulled me into a hug that smooshed Hamish between us; he giggled.

“See you both tonight,” he said, adding, “I love you, Hamish. Be good for Laicee.”

“Love you daddy,” Hamish said, waving vigorously as John got into his cab. Once he was gone around the corner, I went back upstairs and sat Hamish on the couch while I dressed him for the day. We’d set up his bed in the living room, which worked best for all of us. After his near fall down the stairs from John’s room, we made sure to keep him in one area and lock the doors at night.

“Adventure?” he asked me as I wrestled his arms into his jacket. I pulled on my own coat, then tucked the files into my bag.

“You bet. Are you ready to go adventuring?”

Hamish climbed off the couch, took my hand, and we ventured down the stairs. He absolutely loved cab rides, and though he wouldn’t say anything while we were with the cabbie, the second the car came to a stop and we were out walking, he burst into talking. Most of his words didn’t make sense; he was too excited to think of his words, so mostly he just babbled. I caught cab, bike, and something about ice cream again as we got into the elevator.

He was still going strong when the elevator stopped, but the second the doors opened he shut his mouth. We passed by the secretary on the way in; she didn’t even stop me anymore for ID. I gave her a nod as we headed down the row of cubicles.

Things weren’t as bad for Lestrade as they had been right after Sherlock’s fall. I imagined most of it had a lot to do with Mycroft’s influence over nearly everyone, but I knew a part of it was that Lestrade had started developing more of a backbone. He’d needed to as of late; he and Mycroft’s wedding was set for next summer. Not everyone was thrilled about it, but most had returned their respect to Lestrade and kept their rude opinions to themselves.

In fact, all but Anderson had returned their respect. Donovan was even friendly towards me now, obviously having put my attack on her off to the side. She attributed my rage to the trauma of losing my friend. I let her think that.

“Greg’s just in,” she told me, giving a smile as she looked up from her paperwork. “He shouldn’t be that busy.”

“Thanks,” I told her, returning the smile. It was weird being nice to her. Almost always, a civil exchange between the two of us threw me off. However, I managed to regain my snide remarks in time to pass by Anderson.

“Are you allowed to be in here?” he demanded, storming towards Hamish and I as he returned from the bathroom.

“Are you allowed to be unsupervised?” I shot back, slipping inside Lestrade’s office before Anderson could threaten to have me detained. Lestrade looked up as I shut the door, and he gave me a humored smile.

“Not here five minutes, and you’re riling up my workforce,” he sighed, giving me a mock-angst look. I snorted and deposited Hamish onto his desk as I fished out the files.

“It’s not even fun bothering him,” I complained as Hamish stared up at him. Lestrade gave me a look as he turned to Hamish.

“Good morning Hamish,” he said, his voice taking on a fatherly tone I only ever heard him use with Hamish. Alone. In closed-off rooms. Where absolutely no one outside of Mycroft, John, and I could hear. Ever. Hamish gave a timid smile. He didn’t scoot away, but he didn’t reply either. He took the files from me and tucked them into his desk as Hamish busied himself upending the paperclip tray.

“What are you two doing today?” he mused, watching the little boy make a mess of his desk.

“Run a few errands, get someone a haircut, and then head to the diner for lunch and ice cream.”

At the mention of a certain frozen delicacy, Hamish’s head snapped up, but he didn’t say anything. Lestrade grinned at me.

“Mind coming by Mycroft’s office after your lunch and bringing us some as well?”

“Can do,” I told him. “Mycroft likes vanilla, and you take mint chip, right?”

“You’re good, Bennett,” he said as I scooped up the toddler and removed the paperclips from his jacket pockets.

“We’ll be by about two,” I told him, waving as we stepped out of his office. “Have fun, and keep Anderson’s leash short.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes as Hamish and I headed out. I enjoyed the peeved look on my least favorite investigator’s face as I got back into the elevator. The moment we were alone, Hamish burst into talking about ice cream, and I let a smile creep onto my lips. Some days were very, very good.

***

“If you want your ice cream, I’d suggest getting it now before the weasel eats it all,” I called to Mycroft and Lestrade as I pushed the office door open. The two of them looked up from the papers on the desk. Hamish had finished his cone and was starting on mine. The only thing saving the boys’ frozen treats were the fact that I’d thought ahead and had them put into lidded containers.

“I’m on a diet, Laicee,” Mycroft sighed, a friendly gleam in his eyes. “You’re not helping my endeavor.”

“You know I’m not much use with anything,” I told him, trying to wrestle Hamish away from my cone as I passed off my bag to Lestrade. “How’s the wedding planning?”

I looked down at the papers strewn over the mahogany surface; a gruesome killing was pictured on one of the sheets.

“Well that’s a cheerful theme. I’d avoid wearing white if I was you,” I advised, and Mycroft gave me a dry look.

“The color scheme is black and red, if you must know,” he informed me. I gave a cheeky grin and nodded at the picture.

“I gathered that much.”

He rolled his eyes as I finally gave up and handed Hamish my cone.

“He’s getting bigger,” Mycroft noted, and I gave a snort of amusement.

“Try carrying him around all day. He likes to walk, but he manages to grab way too many things. We almost made off with a ladies purse at the diner.”

“He has your influence, I assume.”

I gave Mycroft a look.

“We’re having take-out tonight. Will you two be joining us?”

“Greg can, but I’ve got too much paperwork to put off.”

Lestrade started to argue, but I shook my head and snagged his arm.

“Nope, no backing out. You haven’t been by in nearly a week, and I need help carrying everything.”

“Take care of him,” Mycroft called to us as we headed out of the office. I gave him a warm smile over my shoulder, and he returned it. I knew what the simple, sad gleam in his eyes was, but I ignored it. We all did. We were all happy on the outside, and that’s what counted.

Mostly.

***

Dinner had been delicious, and Lestrade even brought Hamish an entire gallon of ice cream, which made him almost shriek in excitement. I made sure to lock (yes, I said lock) the freezer before bed.

Hamish began to nod off around nine, and Lestrade left shortly thereafter. Once the flat was cleaned, John scooped Hamish up off the couch and settled down with him on his lap, and I curled up on the cushions beside him as John switched the channel.

“Thank you for watching him,” John told me quietly, rubbing Hamish’s back softly. Hamish’s blue eyes fluttered shut, and soon enough they stopped opening. I smiled up at John.

“You don’t need to thank me. It’s no trouble.”

“You do so much for him, and you don’t need to,” he continued, and I reached out to pat John’s leg.

“I love him, and you’re my best friend. I’ll always be there to help.”

John put Hamish to bed around ten, and with work looming in the morning, I bid him goodnight and slipped into my room, leaving the door cracked for Hamish. I crawled under the covers and wrapped myself in the comforter, burying my face in the pillow.

Yes, we were happy. But happiness has its flaws, and the biggest flaw in my contentment was that Sherlock wasn’t lying down beside me.

***

“It was the security guard,” Sherlock Holmes said dismissively, pacing slowly back and forth across Mycroft’s office. The elder Holmes sat in the overstuffed desk chair, hands folded neatly on his significantly smaller stomach. He’d been sticking to his diet, Sherlock noticed.

“You’re sure of this?” Mycroft mused, leaning forward just a bit and quirking a brow. Sherlock snorted and paused his pacing, shooting his brother a glance. Mycroft held up an apologetic hand. “Greg and I already looked into that option, but I see we should look again.

“Look at the growth pattern of his green bean garden,” Sherlock sighed, making his way to the chair across from Mycroft, perching himself on the edge. Mycroft let out a heavy sigh, observing his younger brother. The wear of stress over the last three years had done a number to him indeed. He had lost a lot of weight, his features gaunt and almost fragile, his face dark with the shadows that had followed him since his fall.

“How’s Molly?”

Sherlock flicked his brows up and glanced away from his brother’s inquisitive stare.

“Fine, as she has continued to be since you began asking that.” As the room fell into a tense silence, Sherlock looked away, and his attention turned to the garbage bin; he nodded towards it.

“Ice cream cup,” he noted, and Mycroft tensed. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been out for dairy treats on your own accord since we were children. Lestrade could have gotten it for you, but there would have only been one spoon- you two would have shared, you always do.”

“It’s only ice cream, Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to interject, a meager attempt to derail his brother’s investigation. As always, he didn’t stand down.

“No, Lestrade didn’t buy it for you. It wouldn’t have been your new secretary- she’s still too nervous to project any personal favours towards you, and John isn’t the one to bring treats.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, and Mycroft let out a slow, heavy sigh. Sherlock’s face drew into a cold frown, and he sat up a bit, his hands clenching the arms of the chair.

“You didn’t mention she had been by.”

“I thought it best not to.”

Sherlock swallowed and looked away. He missed John terribly, more than he wanted to ever admit, but it was Laicee that made his throat tighten and his vision swim with unwanted tears. He missed her, and he knew the pain she’d experience the past couple of years had been solely his doing.

Mycroft knew the pain this girl caused him. He couldn’t explain the feelings Sherlock had for her- he’d never loved anyone romantically. Irene had been the closest, but even that short-lived romance couldn’t scrape the surface of the feelings he held for Laicee.

He made a point not to bring her up, not to mention her to Sherlock ever. If he knew she was coming by the office, she’d have Sherlock run undercover investigations far away from his office. He never intentionally brought her up in subject. He always switched his conversations to John, or Greg, or hell, even Mrs. Hudson, but never Laicee Bennett.

Sherlock took in a slow breath, forcing his chest to release the tense pain of her name. Once he looked back up at his brother, it appeared as though nothing had happened.

“We have an opening on our American investigation team,” Mycroft began carefully, and Sherlock stared at him. “They need help solving some of their cases. Your flight, accommodations, and luxuries will be paid for in full.”

“I cannot leave, not yet Mycroft. I’ve tracked down nearly all of Moriarty’s men, but the last one is one I cannot leave to chance.”

“Sebastian Moran? He is not as big of a threat as you assume he is. I can have my most… thorough men set after him the moment you leave. I will keep tabs on Baker Street – you know I already do, regardless, and I can keep you up to date on anything you need to know.”

Mycroft held Sherlock’s gaze, and slowly Sherlock got to his feet. For a brief moment he hesitated on his decision. Leave London? He’d never thought of doing so permanently. Sure, he’d been all over Europe to track down Moriarty’s web of criminals, but he’d always come back. He’d always come home.

“You cannot stay for much longer, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “You cannot avoid everyone forever. Go to America, for now at least. Get away. Renew yourself, and then come back. The plane leaves tomorrow night.”

Sherlock turned to leave, pulling on his coat and making his way for the door.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. He bowed his head, his shoulders turning down as he said his parting words.

“I will see you tomorrow night, then.”