What Lies Beneath

“Laicee, castle,” Hamish told me, tugging on my jeans and pointing a stubby finger at his pile of blocks beneath the table. I grinned down at him.

“Do your duckies live there?” I asked him, flipping the grilled cheese and stirring the soup. Hamish nodded eagerly, clutching his stuffed duck and scampering back to his toys. I smiled to myself; he was such a sweetheart. It was a lazy Sunday in Baker Street; Mrs. Hudson was downstairs watching reruns with her husband, while John and I had been spending our day fixing up the flat. It had been at least a year since our last fix-up on the stairs, and our renovating skills were much needed to keep the flat livable.

I’d only taken a break from my task – piecing the broken kitchen chairs back together – to whip up a quick meal for us. Hamish had been napping all morning, for the most part, but was now wide-awake and eager to create buildings with the blocks Lestrade had surprised him with last night. I hadn’t seen much of my favorite Detective Inspector; he’d been busying himself at the office, and had now twice declined my offer of dinner.

“Lunch time?” John called to me from the living room, interrupting my thoughts. I leaned out of the kitchen and gave him a wry smile.

“It’s been five minutes since you last asked,” I teased; he laughed. He gave me a wide grin, the corner of his mouth tipping up a bit and making my heart beat just a bit faster. “I’ll come get you when it’s done.”

“Hurry up, I don’t pay you to stand around and talk with our construction man,” John teased, slipping back out on to the balcony to fix the loose railing. Rolling my eyes and smiling to myself, I continued with lunch.

The events of the other night, though surprising, weren’t unwelcomed by either of us. Both John and myself had been alone since losing Sherlock and Mary, and sharing the couch and a few kisses had made our night –and day- substantially better. We didn’t speak about it, but the smile we gave each other the morning said enough. It had been several days since, and each night we ended up on the couch, talking until one of us passed out.

Hamish, if he noticed the change, didn’t say anything. During one of our late-night talks, I asked John if we should bring Hamish into our little intimate circle. John had considered, but in the end he decided not. ”It’s not serious enough to confuse him about,” he had decided, and I’d agreed. Hamish didn’t notice, and we didn’t speak about it.

Remembering my little weasel, I grabbed up a piece of cheese and turned to hand it down to him. The blocks, however, were abandoned. Popping it in my own mouth, I flipped the sandwiches as I called out for him.

“Hammy? Where’d you go?”

“Living room!” he told me excitedly.

“What’re you doing there, little weasel? Come back where I can see you.”

“Playin’ daddy’s toy,” he told me dismissively, ignoring my request. With a heavy sigh, I turned the heat down on the soup and set aside the spatula. Knowing my weasel, he’d found John’s toolbox, and all I needed today was a set of sockets down the toilet. Again.

“Come on, you,” I scolded half-heartedly, wiping my hands on my jeans as I walked into the living room. “We don’t play with daddy’s things-“

My eyes fell on Hamish, and my heart stopped. I nearly toppled over as I watched Hamish turn John’s gun over in his hands, examining the barrel.

“Hamish Sherlock Watson, you put that down this instant!” I exclaimed, panic taking over as I rushed forward. Hamish’s eyes widened; afraid of being in trouble, he did what he usually did and held the item in question up for me to confiscate. Only he’d turned the barrel towards me, and his fingers were resting over the trigger.

Immediately, my body seized up. The image of both my dad and Oliver aiming guns at me surfaced, and I slumped back against the wall, paralyzed with fear.

“Laicee, what on earth-“ John began; he froze when he saw the object in Hamish’s hand. Immediately John launched forward, pulling Hamish back as he skillfully maneuvered the gun from his son’s hands. Hamish burst into tears, terrified himself, as John threw the gun onto the couch.

“Hamish, are you okay?” John demanded, looking his son in the eye and examining him viciously. Hamish barely managed a shaky nod as he sobbed. As he cradled Hamish to his chest, I slowly stood upright on my shaking legs. I turned to John to praise him on acting quickly, but stopped when I saw the expression on his face.

“What the hell where you thinking?” he shouted; I blinked in surprise, ignoring the startled tears that immediately sprung up at his harsh tone.

“John, I-I’m sorry, He had thegun-“

“And you didn’t take it away? You just let him play around with it?” he demanded, his face reddening with fury. “Why did he even have it in the first place?!”

“He left the kitchen while I was cooking,” I tried, my voice shaking so terribly I almost couldn’t get the words out. Several tears raced down my cheeks.“I-I told him to put it down, and he tried to hand it-“

“What is wrong with you!” John hollered, making Hamish and myself cry harder. “How irresponsible can you get, Laicee? That’s my two-year-old son playing with a gun, and you ask him to ‘put it down’?”

Immediately my defenses flew up, and I took a step back, sucking in a sharp breath and hardening my shaking features.

“If you hadn’t left it lying around in the first place, he never would have grabbed it!”

“If you’d been responsible with him and focused on more than your kitchen duties, he wouldn’t have wandered away!”

“Excuse me?!” I snapped, tears and terror forgotten for anger. “I was making food for us –like I do every day! I only have two eyes and I was focusing on my original job! Maybe you could take some responsibility over your child once and again instead of leaving me to safeguard him all the time!”

Neither one of us had noticed Mrs. Hudson racing into the flat; as John took a step towards me, she scooped up Hamish and hurried back downstairs, shutting the door as she went. With Hamish gone, John’s last reserves fell and he raised a shaking finger at me, his face twisted into a mask of fury.

“Forget watching him! He’s not being left in your care again, not while I’ve got half a mind!” he snarled, continuing to step towards me. “You’re irresponsible, immature, and you’re useless to have around the house! All you do is play in the kitchen and continue to put my son into danger! You don’t care about him, all you care about it moping around the flat sobbing about how unfair your life is! Grow up, Laicee, and gain some responsibility-“

“Useless?” I shot back, moving up against the wall as John grew ever closer. “I cook your damn meals, I do your damn wash, I babysit Hamish for free, I make your goddamn bed every morning, for Christ’s sake John, and I’m useless? I do more for your and your son than you do! It’s not my fault you were irresponsible!”

“Shut up Laicee, just shut up,” John growled in a deadly, furious voice. His face was now inches from mine; his hands were balled in anger and his eyes were dark. “I’ve had it with you, had it with all your drama and all your goddamn whining! Learn your fucking place in this household. You’re our housekeeper. Not my friend, not my nanny, not my girlfriend. You hear me? You don’t belong in my family-“

“Then you know what?” I hissed, ignoring the ache in my chest as I shoved past John. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore. You hear me? You’re on your own from now on.”

John watched me leave as I marched across the flat and yanked open the door. I paused for a moment, glancing back to merely say,

“And the grilled cheese is burning. Enjoy your fucking lunch.”

I slammed the door behind me, storming down the stairs as more tears fell down my cheeks. Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat, her face worried.

“Laicee, sweetheart, it’s awfully cold outside.” I reached the front door and pulled that open as well; as I ignored her worry, she came forward to reach out to me. “When are you coming home, dear?”

“I’m not,” I told her simply, shutting the door and stepping out into the sharp January wind.

My anger kept me heated and fueled. I didn’t feel the sting of my tears freezing to my cheeks, or acknowledge the loss of feeling in my fingers. I didn’t think of where I was going, I just let my feet lead the way. I didn’t stop walking until I found myself pushing open the heavy metal door of a place I never imagined I’d end up.

I had never been up onto the roof of St. Bart’s hospital, and I had never wanted to be. I had purposely avoided that entire area of London for three years, but in my anger and pain, my heart had led me here.

I crossed the roof slowly, my eyes finding the exact spot Sherlock would have been. I crossed to it quickly and halted, taking in a shaking breath. Just three years ago, the man I loved stood here and made the decision to end his life. Just the thought of Sherlock standing up here alone and lost, thinking his only way out was death, was enough to bring me down onto my knees. I slumped down against the ledge of the roof, shivering harshly as the wind blew relentlessly.

”It was a trick,” Sherlock had whispered to John and I that day. “Just a magic trick.”

Then show me how it’s done, I pleaded silently, squeezing my eyes shut as the last image of Sherlock surfaced in my mind. Of his hand reaching out to us, his face broken and his eyes dark with sadness. Show me the smoke and mirrors, Sherlock. Please, show me, because I can’t take this anymore.

I pulled my legs to my chest, burying my face into my knees as I began to cry harder. How badly I wanted Sherlock here with me; how desperately I wanted to look up and see him kneeling in front of me, half a smile on his face, his teal eyes glinting as he reached out to pull me to my feet.

“Come back to me,” I whimpered as I sobbed, shaking from the cold and shivering from the pain surfacing. “Don’t leave me here alone. Don’t leave me to live by myself, Sherlock.”

Sherlock never came to kneel in front of me. He never reached out to pull me up, never gave me another smile. I sat on the roof for several hours. I was numb, whether from the pain of the memories or the harsh January weather; I felt nothing, and nothing was frighteningly wonderful.

When two arms wrapped themselves around me, I convinced myself I was imagining it. I didn’t lift my head until a pair of warm, soft lips pressed themselves to my temple. For half a second, my heart screamed Sherlock; when I looked up, my eyes met John’s soft gray gaze.

“You’re freezing, Lace,” he murmured, tugging his jacket off as he spoke and wrapping it around my shoulders. My skin seemed to burn as the sudden warmth was thrust upon me. Immediately I pulled away from his hold. John shifted back a bit, hurt by my action. I tried to push his jacket off as well, but John wouldn’t allow that. “You’re mad, I know, but keep the jacket on,” he said, reaching out to secure it on me. “You’ll die of hypothermia if you go any colder.”

“I’m not mad,” I croaked, my voice rough from my sobbing. John gave me a curious gaze as I burrowed deeper into his coat.

“You should be-“

“I’m not mad, I’m just done,” I told him quietly, shaking my head slowly. “You were right about what you said. I’m not a part of your family.”

“Laicee I never should have said any of that,” John began immediately. “I was wrong to snap at you and lash out. I was terrified; seeing Hamish with my gun pushed me over the edge. I wasn’t… I wasn’t myself, Lace, and I need you to understand that. All of what I said to you was out of anger.”

“I was wrong too,” I apologized. “I-I should have moved faster, I should have taken the gun from him, or watched him better-“

“We’re both at fault,” John said softly to me. “Neither one of us are fully responsible, and Hamish is okay. We both said things we didn’t mean, and I want you to know that I’d never want you to leave, Laicee.”

“You were right though, John,” I croaked, feeling more tears well up. “I’m just your housekeeper. I’m not a part of your family. I lost my family; my mum died, my dad’s locked up, and no one else related to me ever came searching for me. I don’t belong anywhere anymore. My place was with Sherlock, and now Sherlock is gone. Where does that leave me?”

“Laicee Elise Bennett,” John said quietly to me, his voice holding so much more emotion than I thought possible. He moved close to me, instantly pulling me into his arms and lifting me up onto his lap. I didn’t resist this time; I let John hold me to his chest, keeping his warm, steady arms encased around my shivering body. “You’re not my housekeeper. You’re so, so much more. You’re my friend. My rock. My voice of reason. My constant companion.”

He tilted my chin up gently and smiled down at me.

“My smile on a rubbish day, my happiness in a rough patch. You’re my light when I’m lost, a steady hand when I fall. You’re everything and so much more to me, Laicee. I hurt you deeply, and I said things I’ve never believed a day in my life.”

“John-“

“You are my family, Laicee, in one way or another. You’re a part of me. Never, ever feel that you’re alone in this world, because when you do I’ll be right beside you, ready to walk with you until the end of our days.”

I stared up at this man, this incredible man that had become so much to me in such a short time. He’d been my constant in a sea of chaos, pulling me ashore when I began to drown in the sorrow of Sherlock’s death. He’d pulled me through the rough waters, he’d held tight to me when I tried to pull away. He’d stuck with me and made my life liveable again.

“Will you give it another chance?” he murmured, brushing stray curls from my face. “Come home with me?”

In answer, I lifted my head just a bit and pressed my lips to his; John smiled into the kiss, tightening his grip on me. We broke apart, and I rested my head on his chest. The words we’d shouted at each other melted away as we sat on the rooftop, silently soothing one another’s pain.

Sherlock had not come to pull me up and dust me off; he never would. He never could. But John was there, soothing my pain and cleaning up my wounds. He was there to fix me, and I was there to keep him going.

We were each other’s solutions.

Yes, we were each other’s solace in this chaotic world.