What Lies Beneath

Hamish

​The sand was nice and warm today. Hamish tilted his head back a bit, squinting up at the sky. Dark, looming clouds were pressing down on them, and he studied the rays of sun peeking through to him.

​Cold up there, warm down here, he mused to himself. It interested him. How could it be cold enough for his jacket, but warm enough for him to sit comfortably without being chilled? His hand scooped up the sand and he studied the beige grains intently.

​How are you warm? he asked himself. His fingers squeezed shut, and then opened. The sand filtered down through his hold and piled back with the rest, leaving only a small pile in his palm. Unable to figure out the mystery himself, he turned and sought out his constant companion.

​His Laicee sat just beside him, her curls just like his but colored like chocolate and not like sun. He liked Laicee. She was kind to him, she liked being with him and she colored and played in sand and she took him for ice cream and duckies.
​She put down her own pile of sand to watch his face. Hamish took a breath to try and prepare for his sentence. His brows furrowed and his face puckered up just a bit. Laicee waited. She was so patient with him.

​Why is the sand warm and the sky cold? he tried to ask; his mouth wouldn’t move, and a prickle of irritation rose up in him. This was an important question, and he couldn’t even ask it properly. His mind put forward too many words and his mouth wasn’t able to string them all together. But still Laicee waited, and her patience soothed the frustration he felt. Knowing the whole question wouldn’t work, he quickly sought out the most important word of the sentence.

​“Warm?” he offered, and Laicee studied his outstretched hand. Now it was her brain’s turn to work, and he could sit there and enjoy the warmth of the sand and the chill of the breeze. Laicee quickly figured out his musing, though and she grabbed her own handful of sand. Unlike the others who tried talking to him, she spoke with honesty and she didn’t minimalize her explanation.

​“It was sunny earlier,” she began. Hamish nodded; he could still see bits of the sun poking through. “The sun got to sit up in the sky all day and make the sand warm. It’s getting colder now, but the sun did such a good job of warming the sand earlier that it will stay warmer for a little while longer.”

​This made sense to Hamish, and his mind quickly acknowledged her answer as correct. He nodded, satisfied, and dumped his handful of sand back with the rest. A shrill voice caught his attention, and he glanced up. A little boy was crying and a very distraught lady was pulling him after her.

​“Jonathon I told you, it’s going to start raining and you’ll catch a cold!” she shrieked. Hamish wrinkled his nose at her tone. He watched them leave. The boy looked upset and the lady looked unpleasant, and Hamish found himself very glad to be sitting here in the warm sand with Laicee.

​“We should get going, weasel,” she said, and he caught the bit of sadness in her voice that told Hamish she didn’t want to leave either. Unlike the lady and the boy, Laicee was always gentle. She had a soft, comforting voice and when she lifted him out of the sand he felt warmth come over him. Warmer than the sand, warmer than his blankets at night, even warmer than the sun. Even if they had to leave and he didn’t want to, Laicee was with him so it was okay.
​
It started raining just as they left the park, and once on the streets, Laicee led them underneath an awning. She sat Hamish on his feet and he stood off to one side, studying the sharp droplets as they fell. He ventured forward –just a bit– and stuck his hand out. The rain was chilly, just as the air was, and he shivered.

​Something warm wrapped around him and he was hoisted up into the air. He looked down at himself. Laicee’s jacket was bundled about him, and she tucked the hood up over his head. He was warm now, but Laicee would be cold. His hand ventured out and rested on her bare arm.

​But now you’re gonna be cold he fretted, but all his voice would allow was,

​“You.”

​Laicee nodded, her head bobbing against his as she stepped back out to continue the walk home.

​“Yes,” she agreed. She always knew what he tried to say. “So when we get home, let’s get all dried off and we’ll have a nice hot cup of cocoa and watch a movie.”

​Hamish nodded again, not needed to force out any more words. They got home rather quickly, but even so Laicee was still very wet; his hand felt her skin again and he frowned. She was cold.

​“Come on, weasel. We’ll warm up,” she promised. She carried him to her room and sat him on her bed, taking the wet jacket. She hung it on the back of the door and then slipped into the bathroom, returning with a big, fluffy purple towel. She wrapped it around Hamish and dried his hardly-damp hair. When she pulled the towel back away from his face, she was inches from him. She gave him a wide smile and said,

​“Hello Hammy.”
​
He giggled unexpectedly, and a smile came to his face as he sat and studied her. Most other people he was with didn’t get him like Laicee did. The only other person who was just as patient and just as kind was Daddy. She and daddy knew he wasn’t good at talking like they were. They listened to what he said (and most of the times what he didn’t say) and they didn’t care he couldn’t say everything.

​Laicee pulled off his shoes and socks and damp pants and damp shirt and dried him all the way off, then helped him into his footie pajamas. She was the nicest lady he had ever met. Mrs. Hudson was kind, of course, but she wasn’t Laicee. No one was just like Laicee, and he loved her all the more. She let him speak in his own time and play with the duckies and ask all the questions he wanted to without getting mad.

​She was wonderful.

​Laicee toweled off her own hair, leaving her curls frizzy and uncontrolled. Hamish giggled again. She was such a nice lady. Not his mummy, no, because his mummy was up with the sun watching him. Up with Laicee’s mummy too, probably playing in warm sand of their own and drinking nice cold chocolate milk instead of hot cocoa because it would be warm and not cold up there, he rationalized.

​Laicee slipped into the bathroom and returned a moment later in a pair of grey sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt, her curls piled up on her head. She lifted Hamish up and they both went into the kitchen. Hamish was set down and he immediately crawled up onto the kitchen chair, waiting as Laicee made the cocoa.

​When she was nearly done, he climbed down and hurried into the living room. Beside the TV was a shelf of movies, and Hamish sought out one of his favorites. He held it up for Laicee as she came towards him, and she grinned. She set down the big mug of cocoa (they always shared because Hamish didn’t like having to hold onto his own hot cup) and took the movie from him, slipping it into the box under the TV.

​“Pirates,” Hamish said, his mind automatically forcing out the excited word from his mind. The movie began and Hamish was already captivated by the big ship on the screen. He loved pirates. One day, he’d be a pirate. Laicee and Daddy could sail with him.

​Laicee pulled him up onto her lap and settled into the armchair behind them, pulling a warm throw blanket around them. They leaned back and snuggled up with one another, sipping the cocoa slowly and carefully.

​Hamish couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was warm and safe and watching pirates and sitting with Laicee. That was good enough for him. He slumped against her and tucked his head onto her shoulder. She leaned down and gave him a kiss on the head.

​“I love you Hamish,” she told him, and his heart grew even warmer than before. This time he made himself slow down, and one by one he lined up the words and managed to force his mouth into letting them out.

​“I love you Laicee.”
​
***

Sherlock

​It was dark in the flat as he slipped in through the balcony window he’d purposefully unlocked earlier in the day. The doors shut silently behind him, and Sherlock stepped over the creaking floorboards onto the rug that signaled steady floors.
​His instincts pulled him towards Laicee’s room, but a small voice changed his path.

​“Tater tots,” Hamish said from the dark corner of the living room, and Sherlock looked over at him. The little boy was sitting on a small car-shaped bed, blankets pulled up around him, his hand held out. Sherlock paused, so Hamish stood up and held them out again.

​“I’m not hungry,” he told the boy. He frowned, and Sherlock could see the wheels working in his mind. So much this boy reminded him of himself, a little brilliant boy who was too smart for his own good and had to fight his mind to make his thoughts heard.
​Childhood had never been easy for Sherlock; he was smart, but his mind was his prison at times. Not mentally handicapped, but not as gifted with speech and human emotions as he needed to be for a young boy.

​Hamish was very much like him; a brilliant mind constantly at work, and something holding him back. Maybe it was why Sherlock found himself enjoying the late night runin’s with the little Watson boy. He understood Hamish, and Hamish understood him.

​“Saved them for you,” Hamish finally managed, and now that Hamish had taken the trouble the formulate the sentence, Sherlock felt he must oblige. He came forward, kneeling down by the child, letting the couple of tater tots drop into his palm. He took one from the pile and bit into it, and Hamish smiled.
​
“Thank you,” Sherlock told him. Hamish sat back down. He studied Sherlock, and Sherlock studied him. Not wanting to use words, Hamish opted for actions. He reached up, tugged on one of Sherlock’s curls, tugged on one of his own, and then said,
​
“Laicee too.”

​Maybe it was Sherlock’s childhood and stinted speech haunting his past, or maybe it was because he exceptionally deducing the entire story from the faintest of hints, but he pieced together the entire sentence Hamish had meant.

​You have curls. I have curls. Laicee has curls. Why? Why do we all have curls?
​
“Simple genetics,” Sherlock explained. “My mum had curls, so I do. Laicee’s mum had curls, so she does. Your mum had curls, so you do. Quite simple.”

​Hamish listened, and Sherlock could see the wheels turning. It was on simple occasions like this (of the many, many nights he slipped into 221B) that he saw how truly gifted John’s son was. He saw the wheels turning behind Hamish’s eyes, saw the understanding light up in his gaze. The boy nodded, and then asked,

​“Quiet still?”
​
It was the look in Hamish’s eyes that gave away his sentence this time. The serious, furrowed brow that echoed exactly John’s concerned face when Sherlock did something questionable. It made his heart twinge for his old friend.

​Do I still keep you a secret? Can I still not tell Laicee and my dad that you’re not with my mum and Laicee’s mum?
​Sherlock nodded, and Hamish sighed. The boy looked away for a moment, and Sherlock sat on the floor beside the bed. He waited for Hamish to speak again, and when the boy looked back, Sherlock was almost startled by the troubled expression on the boys face. He stared at Sherlock for a long time, the words taking their own luxury at coming out. ​

​“Laicee.. daddy… are,” he managed, and then had to stop and let his mind refuel. The simple sentence had Sherlock’s stomach clenching and his jaw tightening. He knew Laicee and John missed him, but he knew it wasn’t time. Not yet. Hamish had to speak very slowly and very choppily, but for the first time in nearly all his life he managed to piece together a nearly complete sentence.

​“You gotta… come back. Make them… happy. Stop lying.”
​Sherlock stared at the boy, who held his gaze with a challenge. At first, he thought of simply leaving. Just leaving the boy with that… but he couldn’t. He knew it was hard for Hamish to talk so much to a stranger, and he knew that he at least owed the child an explanation for the trouble he’d been going through.
​
“It’s not safe. You, Laicee, your father, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly.. Everyone is in danger, Hamish, and by staying away I keep them safe. I want to keep everyone safe. I cannot let them know I’m alive. Not yet. Can you understand that?”
​Hamish lowered his eyes. Sherlock could tell he understood, but when Hamish looked back, there was a very familiar, very unsettling challenge in the boys clear eyes that made Sherlock feel as if he was staring at a person much older than the two year old boy in front of him.

​“No.”

​“Hamish, you must understand-“

​“Don’t care,” he argued. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. Hamish crossed his arms.

​“Just a few weeks, and then-“

​“Now.”

​“Hamish no-“

​“Fine,” he said simply, and Sherlock blinked in startlement. After all that, the boy would accept-

​Hamish uncrossed his arms, gave Sherlock one last challenging glance, and then tipped his head back. He let out a cry, a pitiful wail that echoed in the living room and shook Sherlock to his core.

​In an instant, the bed in his Laicee’s room creaked, and the door opened. Sherlock only had an instant to throw himself beneath the table before Laicee came hurrying into the living room.
​
In an instant, Laicee had the crying child scooped up in her arms, cradled to her chest.
​
“Hamish, it’s okay,” she murmured. Even now when he was so near to being exposed and having the last three years go down the drain, she still managed to take his breath away. Unkempt pajamas, curls up in a messy bun, half awake, she was still the most beautiful person he had ever met.

​She held the boy close to her and stroked his back, giving his cheek a kiss and wiping off the faked tears. Hamish wrapped his little arms around her neck and leaned over her shoulder. His keen eyes caught Sherlock’s, and he narrowed his gaze.
​It was an ultimatum, and Sherlock had to make a choice.
​
Tell her or I will.
​
Sherlock kept himself tucked under the table until Laicee had put Hamish back to bed and disappeared down the hall. Once the room had been silent for several moments, Sherlock crawled back out. Hamish immediately locked his gaze on him again and began to open his mouth. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender.

​“I will tell them,” he promised. “But you must give me time. I must get rid of one more man, and then I can come back. Please, Hamish. I will tell them, but not just yet.”
​
“Promise?”

​Sherlock hesitated; he hated making promises. He really did. But he knew now was the time to make an exception. Hamish stuck out a pinky and raised a brow.
​
Wordlessly, Sherlock reached out and linked his pinky with Hamish’s. Hamish nodded and pulled back, then settled down into his bed. Sherlock reached out cautiously and pulled the blanket up just a touch, then hurried out into the night.
​One more criminal, one more loose end to sever, and then he could come home.

***

​“I told you,” Oliver growled, passing the binoculars to Sebastian. The older man snatched them away and narrowed his eyes. Sherlock Holmes himself jumped down from the balcony of 221B and flipped his collar up, hurrying down the road.

​“Unbelievable,” he growled, throwing the binoculars to the ground. Rage swelled up through his veins, tinting his gaze red. His best friend, his companion, the one person he’d ever cared for gave his life to end this freak’s reign, and Holmes had once again cheated his way to victory.
​
Moriarty was dead, Holmes was alive, and Moran wouldn’t stand for it. Oliver, the young man he’d gotten to know over the last couple of years, grabbed the binoculars and got to his feet.

​“We need to hurry,” he reminded. “If we don’t act soon, Holmes could get the upper hand, and we’re finished. We need to strike and start this game.”

​“We will,” Sebastian growled, standing as well and following his apprentice off the roof of the building. “We wait until the Holmes boys are distracted, and we strike. Sherlock will break soon, and he’ll cave. Once he makes his mistake we move in. We can’t act until he’s vulnerable.”

​Oliver nodded, following his mentor down the dark streets and into a back alley that led to their hideout.
Sebastian settled himself on his sleeping bag, dropping his head back against the wall. In just a couple of days, Holmes would break. He’d give into his emotions, he’d make his move to Watson, and then Bennett and the kid would be left unguarded.

The second they got the upper hand, Bennett would be taken out, Watson would die in his attempt to save the girl he was slowly falling in love with, and Holmes would get to witness the downfall of the last few people he’d spent three years protecting.
​Moran remembered the day he’d lost Jim, the day his best friend never came down from the roof.

​We’ve done it, Jim laughed, his clear brow eyes bright with excitement. Moran had laughed, clapping his partner on the back. After all the years of being on the bottom, Seb, we’re winning.
​And then he found Jim Moriarty on the roof, a pool of blood beneath his head, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. It had been bearable, because Sherlock had died as well. The mission, at least, had been complete. But then he saw Sherlock alive, had seen him only weeks after his “death”, and he knew that Jim had failed.

​He would make it up to him. He would make sure the mission was completed. Jim Moriarty, his best friend, the only person he truly cared about, would not die in vain.
​
Not so long as Sebastian could help it.