What Lies Beneath

A giggle came from the floor beside the couch, and I lowered my book, glancing down to see what had merited a snicker out of my weasel. Hamish was sprawled on the carpet, a coloring book in front of him, boxes of crayons ringing him and the book.

He’d just begun to color in the little duckling in thae pond before he felt my gaze and looked up. He saw me watching, and he grinned widely. His chubby finger pointed at the three stick figures on the bank of the scribbled-in lake. One figure was tall and wearing a sweater, the next was a little shorter and had a mop of brown squiggles for hair, and the last stood between the two tall figures, yellow squiggles and blue dots for eyes.

“Family,” he told me. “Daddy. Laicee. Hamish.”

“And duckies?” I asked, a contentment spreading over me as his words lingered in my mind.

“Yes,” he told me, and immediately went back to coloring. The rain continued to fall, and only a few rolls of thunder had rumbled through the flat. John was still at work, and Mrs. Hudson was out on the town with her man, so Hamish and I had been relaxing all day.

A couple of minutes passed, and then a small hand tugged on my shirt. I rested my book on my stomach and looked over at Hamish. He clutched the picture in his hands, holding it out to me.

“Present.”

“It’s lovely Hammy,” I told him, sitting up and ruffling his curls. He beamed at me and trotted behind as I walked into the kitchen, pegging the picture up onto the fridge, front and center. He giggled bashfully and then turned and raced back for his coloring book.

I smiled to myself as I glanced at the picture again.

“Hamish, do you want lunch?”

“Peanut butter, yes please,” he told me, making an effort to put together a semi-complete sentence. He’d been getting better with his words, and had even merited a few seconds of humming in front of Mrs. Hudson. I could hear him humming now, a miscellaneous tune that stuck in my head as I worked. I hummed quietly along with him, idly moving about the kitchen. I’d just poured the milk when I heard the floorboards squeak in the living room.

“Hamish?” I asked, setting the milk down. It had sounded suspiciously like the floorboards of the stairs leading to John’s room. “Don’t go up there.”

“Am not,” he told me, almost indignantly. I sighed, and the squeak came again.

“Hamish, get off the stairs-“

“Not me!” he argued, and I frowned towards the living room. He never lied o me when he knew he could get into honest trouble.

“Hamish-“

“It’s Sherlock.”

I sucked in a breath as my body went numb. My chest tightened and I struggled to keep my brain from swimming as I rushed into the living room. Hamish had climbed onto John’s chair and was staring up at the stairwell, a curious expression on his face.

“Hamish, what did you say?” I asked him slowly, and he turned to look up at me. He saw the alarm in my expression, and his face began to grow uneasy.

“Not me,” he promised, and I nodded slowly, coming forward. I perched on the edge of the chair and stared down at him.

“Hamish, who was on the stairs?”

He looked down, reaching out and taking hold of my shirt. His little fingers picked at the hem, and he didn’t answer for quite a long time. I gently pulled him onto my lap and settled onto the chair. Nearly ten minutes passed before he sat up just a bit and pointed his finger towards the mantel.

“Sherlock.”

I followed his gaze, and I immediately relaxed, realizing my mistake. He must have been trying to climb onto the mantel (like he’d done on numerous occasions) and had been explaining what he’d found. He hadn’t been telling me Sherlock was there, he was telling me he found Sherlock.

So why was he looking at the stairs? my mind immediately challenged, and I immediately shut it down. I wasn’t doing this, not today. Hamish is Hamish. He looks at the stairs and talks about the mantel. That’s all there was to it. I let out a slow breath.

“Yes, that’s Sherlock.”

He shifted in my lap and looked up at me. His lids had grown a little heavy in our silence, and I could tell he was becoming sleepy now. He studied my face and then turned his finger to himself.

“Sherlock.”

For a moment I paused and had to think of what he was saying. I opened my mouth to say, “No, you’re Hamish. Not Sherlock,” and then I pieced his thinking together.

“Oh,” I said to him, and gave a smile. “Yes Hamish Sherlock Watson. That’s you.”

Hamish nodded eagerly, and for the first time, my comprehension didn’t seem to be satisfaction enough. He tilted his head to the side and frowned.

“Why…” he paused to think of his next words, and then looked back up at me. “Why Sherlock?

He had never once asked why. He had always taken the world in stride. The sky was blue because it was. My name was Laicee because it was. His hair was curly because it was. It had always been as simple as that with Hamish. And now he wanted to know why the world was the way it was.
So I sighed and settled in, because John and I both knew this was going to happen eventually. Really, it should have been John explaining it, but I figured I had enough qualifications to handle it.

“Sherlock was mine and your daddy’s best friend,” I explained. Hamish leaned into my shoulder and continued to stare up at me. “He was a detective. He worked at Scotland Yard with Uncle Greg and Uncle Mycroft. He was Uncle Mycroft’s brother.”

“Where’s Sherlock?” he asked me quietly. I looked down at him.

“He’s… gone.”

“Gone…” he began again, his brows pulling together, and then I saw the realization light up in his face. He took on an understanding gaze, and he looked so much like John it brought a lump to my throat. “With mummy.”

“Yes, Sherlock’s with mummy. He and your mummy and my mummy are together keeping their eyes on us.”

“A family,” he observed, and I smiled softly.
“Yes, they’re a family. Like me and you and daddy…” and after a pause, I added, “and Mrs. Hudson,” because I realized how my first comment had sounded.

“And duckies,” he reminded me. I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat and trying to put aside the emotions welling up in my chest. Hamish curled up a little more, and I wrapped my arms around him. Hugging a two-year-old usually made most of my sadness disappear. It worked a bit.

“Sorry,” Hamish said, and I leaned down to give him a kiss on the head.

“It’s okay Hamish. I’m okay.”

Hamish nodded and yawned heavily, and I found myself doing the same. The rain hit the window softly, and before I knew it, Hamish was snoring softly. I wrapped my arms tighter around him and leaned my head back, squeezing my eyes shut.

You are brilliant. Sherlock had told me so many years ago, right here, just the two of us. Just one rainy fall day in 221b, nothing important at the time, but now just the thought of his curls brushing against mine made tears fall down my cheeks. How insignificant that moment had seemed, ad now how badly I wanted it back…

It’d been so long since I’d truly let myself relive my memories of Sherlock, and now they were starting to come back.

The afternoon he’d been sick, the two of us sitting on the couch drinking warm milk and watching a movie. Sherlock coming home at midnight, bloodied and bruised after taking care of the thugs that attacked me. Sherlock giving me a kiss on my birthday, Sherlock hugging me to him, handcuffing me to the mantel, sitting with me as I studied, playing the violin…

It was like he was with me then, sitting with Hamish and I as the storm raged on and I began to fall asleep. I opened my eyes one last time before I went to sleep. For just a moment I thought he was there, leaning against the doorframe, his sea green eyes resting on me, watching me. Just there, with me.

But then I blinked, and Sherlock in fact wasn’t there, and I turned my head away. Sherlock would never be there, no matter how many times I looked.

***

Very slowly, very carefully, Sherlock moved away from the hall, his steps slow as he approached Laicee and the boy. They both laid curled on John’s armchair, Laicee’s legs tucked up under them and the child cradled to her chest.

Cautiously, he came around the side and stared down at them. She had grown so much in three years. Her face had aged softly, her almost childish rounded face had narrowed a bit. She wasn’t any taller, wasn’t any different, not really, but her eyes held all her age in them. Even in sleep, he could see the heavy burden of the past weighing her down.

Her thick curls had swept into her face as she slept, and Sherlock gently reached out and brushed them back. He moved slowly, knowing she was a light sleeper now. Twice he’d tried to visit her and twice he’d woken her accidently. So he moved without a sound, pushing the curls gently back to take her in just a bit more.

His fingers swept over her cheek as he did so, and he had to fight the urge to keep his hand there, to press his palm to her face and tilt her head back, to wake her and let her know he was okay…

He forced himself to pull away and step back. It was so dangerous to be so close to someone that had this affect on him. He had never loved anyone, not really. Irene had come close, but even then, he didn’t long for her like he longed for Laicee. He missed her so much it made him ache; him, the one so oblivious to love and emotions.

He had talked briefly with Mycroft, only briefly, but he had mentioned his desires, and Mycroft acknowledged it as love immediately. Was it love? Was this what it felt like? To hold someone so close to you that just the mention of their name, just the sound of their voice or the touch of their skin to yours sends your mind into a paralyzing ache that cannot be satisfied?

If so, then yes, he loved Laicee. He loved her so fiercely that just the thought of having to leave again now brought tears to his eyes, and he couldn’t think straight. He had to leave now, before he slipped up. Had to leave before Mycroft texted him that John was on his way home, or that Mrs. Hudson was in a taxi on the way to the flat. Had to leave before he had the chance to ruin his three-year plan.

Sherlock turned away from Laicee, his shoulders turned in and his head bowed. He turned to leave. He had to get away. Missing her was becoming his weakness, but he had to fight the urge to pull her to his lap and sleep along side her once again.

“Sherlock.”

The small voice made his entire body freeze. He stopped his retreat mid-step and held his pose. It took his mind a moment to register that it hadn’t been Laicee’s voice, but the voice of John’s son- what was his name?

He turned slowly and his mind raced back through the evening’s earlier conversation. Hamish Sherlock Watson. Sherlock stared down at the blonde haired boy, whose bright blue eyes were keen on him. Sherlock knew the boy was mentally impaired, but the knowledge behind his stare was saying otherwise.

“Sherlock,” he said again, and then looked down at Laicee. Hamish hesitated for a second, and Sherlock tensed. If he woke her now-

Hamish turned back to Sherlock and gave him a curious gaze. It was as if Sherlock shared a moment with the two year old version of his dear Watson; the boy gave a nod, more to himself, and settled back into Laicee’s hold.

“Quiet?” Hamish asked.

Sherlock, after a brief hesitation, nodded slowly. Hamish shrugged, rested his head on Laicee’s shoulders, and murmured into her curls,

“I be quiet.”

Sherlock left instantly, his steps rushed. He didn’t stop moving until he was several blocks away, nearly to Molly’s home. The boy had seen him. He’d identified him and had seen him.

Hamish knew he was alive, and Sherlock had a feeling he couldn’t keep a secret for that long. Not as long as he needed to.

They could all be endangered now, all because of love.

Sherlock was right; it was the ultimate weakness, and he was vulnerable.