“It’s a new low.”
“I’d be speechless if I wasn’t so pissed.”
“I’m sorry, Greg.”
“I mean Christ, John! What the hell were you both thinking?”
“There’s some blood spatter on the floor near the downstairs bathroom.” Hamish interrupted bluntly from the bottom of the stairs. John and Lestrade slowly peered over the railing to gaze down at him.
“…I figured I should say something, since none of your men sectioned it off. Are there a high number of new recruits in this unit? Is this some kind of training program?” Hamish asked, tilting his head a bit.
Greg shot John a glare.
“Hamish I told you to stay outside on the front porch.” John reprimanded half-heartedly. This scenario was already as bad as it was going to get. He knew he shouldn’t have let Sherlock talk him into this.
“I see Sherlock’s already teaching your son how to criticize my unit.” Greg growled. “I’m sorry John, I can’t do this. You’ve gotta get ‘em out of here. It’s bad enough I have to listen to Sherlock’s condescending commentary. But a twelve year old?!”
John winced, “Greg. I promise. He won’t say another word.”
Both men seemed to heave the same, heavy sigh when they heard the familiar voice of Anderson bellow up from downstairs. John and Greg headed back down and into the living room, which was littered with police, blood, folded paper air-planes and three victims. It was a strange case, and John would have been more than happy to document the event, like usual… but unfortunately, Sherlock had insisted upon bringing Hamish along with them this time. They’d been out enjoying dinner when Sherlock had gotten the call from Lestrade.
He had been a solid ‘no’ from the start, but it was hard to argue (let alone win) against a man and a boy who were both smarter than him.
“This is ridiculous! This kid shouldn’t be here! He’s disrupting the team and insulting our work.” Anderson complained furiously.
Sherlock barked a quick laugh from the opposite side of the room. “He was merely asking you a question. I, for one, am also interested in hearing your answer.”
“What… was the question?” John asked hesitantly, glancing between his partner and son.
Hamish crossed his arms petulantly. “I just asked him if the reason he misses obvious signs of evidence is because his eyes are positioned too close together. It looks strange considering the size of his head, but it’s obviously a genetic problem.”
“…Hamish.” The ex-army Doctor mumbled, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘Here it comes.’ He thought.
“You’re a disrespectful little brat.” Donovan piped in with her two cents. “He’s getting in the way, sir.”
Lestrade barked, “Enough.” He turned to the Doctor, “John, take him out of here. Now.”
“This is completely unfair!” Hamish shouted, pointing at Anderson accusingly, “This is my first crime scene, and he’s ruining it.”
Sherlock huffed and quickly pulled off his blood-stained latex gloves as he walked toward the center of the room, “Eventually you’ll learn to just tune them out, Hamish.”
“This is no place for him, Detective Inspector.” Anderson continued with a sneer, choosing to shoot Sherlock a glare rather than respond to his insult. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are THREE dead bodies in this room! He shouldn’t be anywhere near this crime scene, and you know it!”
Hamish piped up, “Three dead bodies! Even if you can’t collect the right evidence, at least you can count…” He teased childishly.
Anderson’s hand swiftly clenched around Hamish’s small arm, “Listen you little-“
He never was able to finish his threat, of course… because Sherlock’s hand was around his throat in a flash; slamming him back against the nearest wall, while applying just enough pressure to his windpipe to inhibit him from speaking. “If you touch my son again-“
“Sherlock!” John’s voice silenced his partner. The consulting detective could feel John and Lestrade grip onto his shoulders, and tug him away from Anderson - who immediately bent over to catch his breath.
“That’s it! Out!” Lestrade boomed.
Sherlock didn’t even blink. He just grabbed Hamish’s hand, and tugged him along at a quick pace - right out the front door and out of sight.
An awkward silence seemed to hang in the room as John stripped off the blue, disposable one-piece he’d put on when they arrived. He left it in a pile on the floor, and nodded to Lestrade as he took his leave.
There was already a cab loitering outside the house when John emerged from the crime-scene. Walking right over to it, he slipped in without a word. Sherlock was seated against the left-side window, and Hamish was seated against the right. So John took a seat across from the both of them.
For a while, no one said anything. Sherlock and Hamish were glancing at John uncertainly; both well aware that they were going to be put in their place by Captain John Watson.
Taking a deep breath, John finally slid over so he was sitting directly in front of Hamish. The boy kept shifting his eyes around; only able to face the disappointment in his dad’s eyes for a few seconds at a time.
“I want you to tell me what you did wrong. Take me through it.” John said. His tone wasn’t overly angry, or overly kind - it was just neutral. Firm, but neutral. “I need to know that you understand why I’m upset with you.”
Hamish’s eyes moved over toward Sherlock,
“Don’t look at your father, look at me.” John instructed.
His son sheepishly looked back toward him. “I… I… they were missing everything!” He complained, deciding to change tactics at the last minute.
“Hamish.” The doctor warned. As Sherlock Holmes himself could tell you, ‘changing tactics’ didn’t work on John Watson.
Hamish frowned. “I shouldn’t have insulted them. I was supposed to stay quiet, watch, and not interrupt.” He recited; clearly having no trouble remembering John’s earlier warning to him before they’d arrived.
“It was the only condition I set for you. And you broke it.” John clarified. “Just because your father insults and belittles Lestrade’s team, doesn’t mean you can. I’ve told you before, Hamish: LEARN from your father’s mistakes, don’t imitate them.”
Sherlock perked up at that, and glared at John, “…Mistakes?!” He repeated.
“I know.” Hamish agreed; guilt painted all over his face.
Despite how much the boy clearly wanted to emulate and impress his father… he cared a great deal about whether or not John was pleased and proud of him too. Sherlock had noticed this early on, and was rather relieved that John’s empathy and moral center seemed to be rubbing off on Hamish.
“You’re grounded for three days.” John said.
Hamish winced and thudded his head against the cab window in defeat, but uttered not a word, nor a protest about the decision.
John nodded, and slid across the seat so he was now across from Sherlock.
“If he touches Hamish again, I’ll remove his large intestine: I’ll use a dull spoon for the incision and chopsticks for the extraction.”
“Sherlock!” John hissed.
His partner regarded him with a dark gaze.
“I want you to tell me what you did wrong. Take me through it. I need to know that you understand why I’m upset with you.” John began once more.
Sherlock “Don’t repeat the same speech to make your point. I am not a child!” He argued.
“Nope. You’re raising one.” John answered without missing a beat.
The cab fell silent, and the frustrated look on Sherlock’s face slowly morphed.
He seemed almost taken-aback… as if that simple fact had somehow eluded him up to this point. He looked to his right to see Hamish staring back at him. The boy wasn’t frightened, or anxious, or upset that his parents were bickering. He was just… observing them.
“I…” Sherlock parted his lips for a minute or two, before he closed them again.
It was a good sign. John could always tell when he’d gotten through to Sherlock, because more often then not, it left him speechless.
With a decisive nod, John heaved himself up from his seat, and moved over to sit between Sherlock and Hamish.
Five minutes later, Hamish rested his head on John’s arm as he stared quietly out the window.
Ten minutes later, Sherlock’s hand had somehow slipped around John’s, settling between them on the seat.
John didn’t seem to mind.