“I would like a straight answer, Sherlock. Did you, or did you not, teach Hamish to perform card tricks with the intention of swindling some of my more distinguished guests out of their money?”
John looked back and forth between the Holmes brothers. This was all news to him, of course. The small family had arrived at Mycroft’s home for some kind of fancy benefit. John couldn’t tell you what it was for; all he’d known was that Mycroft had sent them all tuxedos, and Sherlock had been in a mood ever since. He had initially refused to go, but with Mycroft and John’s insistence that it would be good for Hamish to experience some ‘high class’ social situations (after all, being a ‘Holmes’, Hamish would surely be exposed to many), Sherlock had no choice but to give in.
He had, however, already conveniently ‘lost’ his bowtie.
“I may have. What’s your point?” The deep baritone finally answered.
John closed his eyes, “Sherlock…”
“I know you don’t like these events, dear brother, but I hoped that just this once… you would behave like an adult. I’m disappointed you’ve dragged your own son into this childish feud you refuse to give up.” Mycroft huffed.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “A childish feud I refuse to give up?” He repeated aghast. “It wasn’t me th-“
“Alright, alright, that’s enough of that,” John smiled, grasping Sherlock by the arm and steering him out of Mycroft’s study. “We’ve been here for half an hour, you’ve both had your little brotherly spat - in record time too, I might add… and I am not even remotely close to being drunk from the half-flute of expensive champagne you wouldn’t let me finish when this fight started.”
Sherlock frowned as he allowed himself to be led back through the lavish, antique-themed halls of Mycroft’s London home. “You’re not going to yell at me for teaching Hamish how to cheat some of London’s highest government officials?”
“No. I’ll yell at you later. But we’re at a rather important party, and like I said, I’d rather be enjoying that free, unlimited expensive champagne. Lighten up, Sherlock. Stay away from your brother, and try to behave for at least another hour. Then we’ll go home.” John sighed, grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing tray, before handing one to Sherlock.
His partner rolled his eyes, and quickly scanned the room. “Where’s Hamish?”
“Still working the crowd, I imagine.” John grinned. “He might have your brains, but thank god I’ve managed to give him some of my charm.”
Sherlock hummed as he sipped from his glass, “Ah yes. He’ll be a regular ‘Three-Continents Watson’ in no time then?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you? It’s fine if you’re jealous, but really, Sherlock, there’s no need to let it deflate your ego. One day, you may even be able to f-” John began, but stopped speaking with a giggle when Sherlock tipped John’s flute back up to his mouth to prevent him from talking.
John drank half the flute back in one swig.
Both their eyes fell back onto Hamish, who was still across the room dazzling some of the guests with card tricks. It seemed some of the other attendees were betting on whether ‘that brilliant young boy’ could tell which card was in their hand. Apparently, Hamish found no challenge in the task, and met their praise and applause with a sly smirk each time he deduced it correctly.
“You should be proud of him. He’s doing well.” John said.
“I am proud of him, I never said differently.” The sharp, quick answer came almost before John had finished speaking his sentence.
He glanced over toward Sherlock, “Just… re-stating it, that’s all.” John shrugged.
Another silence fell between them while they continued to observe Hamish.
“You don’t think of him as your son, do you?” Sherlock said, perking up as if he’d just deduced an important clue from one of his cases.
John gaped at the consulting detective for a moment before speaking. “Where the hell did that come from?” He asked.
“You think of Hamish as mine, because he takes after me in looks and genetic material.” He continued, “It bothers you. So much so that you say ‘you’ should be proud of him, instead of ‘we’. Why is that?”
John downed the rest of his champagne flute, and put it down (a little firmer than necessary) on a neighbouring antique end-table. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock. Drop it.” He warned.
“Why, are you worried I won’t enjoy your answer?” He snarled. “I altered Hamish’s papers and certificate to read Watson-Holmes, and it would seem that not even THAT gesture is enough to convince you that both Hamish and I see you as a prominent, parental figure in his life.” Sherlock’s tone was a bit defensive, but it always seemed to take that edge when Hamish was the subject of conversation.
John pursed his lips together; his whole body seemed to grow more and more rigid with each second.
“Shouldn’t you proud of Hamish, too?” Sherlock shot at him again.
“I-” John grit his teeth together; aware that his voice was beginning to raise. He took a deep breath to calm himself, before turning his eyes back toward Hamish. “I’ve never been more proud of anyone… I…” He stopped and swallowed back the tiny lump that was beginning to form in his throat. “But I tell Hamish that regularly.”
Sherlock seemed to understand where this conversation was going. His mind quickly filtered through the last five minutes of their argument - right back to John’s exact words when this little tiff started…
“You are proud of him. You never said differently.” John repeated, shaking his head. “But you never ‘say’ it at all, Sherlock.”
Without another word, John made his way through the crowd and toward Hamish. When the boy saw his dad, he lit up, and rapidly began retelling his success to John - who smiled and commented at all the right moments. Sherlock felt like his heart was seizing up with a kind of terror he was unable to identify; a feeling of terror and disappointment that he’d experienced before, but not spoken of. A feeling from his youth.
Slamming his champagne flute down on the nearest table, the tall detective stormed over to his son, and grabbed his hand. “I need to have a word with my son, excuse us,” Sherlock told the bystanders, and John, with a quick fake smile.
Hamish trailed along obediently behind Sherlock as he led them through the cliques of chattering guests – and finally into Mycroft’s library. He shut the door behind them, and brought Hamish over to a Victorian parlour settee where he could sit.
Sherlock knelt down in front of him; his son looked mildly confused, but more curious as to why his father had dragged him away from everyone.
“Did I do something wrong?” The boy asked earnestly.
Sherlock shook his head, “No, you didn’t, you… I…” He always found himself at such a loss of words sometimes with Hamish. Most of the time they were fine, but when it came to expressing his feelings – Sherlock appeared to have a serious mental block. “Your dad. He… tells you that he’s proud of you?” He asked.
Hamish nodded.
“Often?” His father clarified.
“All the time.”
Sherlock worried his lower lip for a moment with his teeth, “Oh.”
A few, quiet minutes ticked by.
“Did you and dad have a row?” Hamish asked.
Sherlock chose to pass on answering that question in favour of asking his own, “Do you wish… I… told you that? More often?”
Hamish regarded his father silently for a moment, before he shook his head.
“I know you are.” He answered. “Dad says that you probably have a hard time saying it, because you weren’t told enough yourself growing up.” Hamish recalled shyly.
Sherlock was almost stunned into silence.
He tried to save face when Hamish’s eyes began to gaze at him sadly.
“Well. When your father shows me his fictional degree in Psychology, I’ll consider listening to his unfounded theory.” Sherlock scoffed, though his voice didn’t carry it’s usual confidence. Hamish seemed to notice instantly, and just remained silent.
“Hamish, you know…. I….” Sherlock stopped himself again; as if he were trying to physically not choke on the words. “I… I am. I am… p-” His face tensed, and Hamish could almost hear his father cursing inside his head. “I’m… proud. Of you.” Sherlock nodded. “I am proud of you.”
A small smile spread across his son’s lips, and he nodded. “I know.”
Satisfied, Sherlock nodded to himself before he stood up from his previous, kneeling position in front of Hamish. “Well… we best g-”
“Do you want to make a run for it?” Hamish interrupted, eyeing the library window across the room.
Sherlock exhaled a long breath, “I thought you would never ask. Come along, then. I’ll go first.” He said, a slight bounce in his step as they approached the window. He unlocked it, pushed it open, and slid out. Luckily, it was not that high – and once on the ground, Sherlock was able to lift his arms, and catch Hamish easily as his son jumped out after him.
With his hand resting lightly on the back of his son’s head, the pair made their way along the side of the house and back onto the bustling London streets.
…
John’s cell vibrated with a new text. He excused himself from a conversation between he, Mycroft and the Chief of Surgery at St. Bart’s to read it.
Made a run for it.
We’ll see you at home.
SHJohn shook his head. He’d wondered where they’d gotten to.
If you’re getting Chinese, leave me some.
I’m starving.
JW
Champagne doesn’t taste as good anymore.
JWThank you, John.
SH
What for?
JWFood is waiting at the flat.
SH
Ok. But why are you thanking me?
JW
Come home.
SH
#parentlock
#I don’t know what I’m even doing anymore
