One More Miracle*

levineh:

Vampires—LOKI & Sherlock

Two of my favorites~~

seki0930:

winnie the pooh again..

dramatis-echo:

John huffed in exhaustion as he slugged himself up the stairs of 221b Baker Street. He’d had a rather long day at St. Bart’s. Lot of trauma, for some reason; panicked, bleeding, dying patients. It could take a lot out of a person. Granted, John Watson had seen his fair share of gore and death when he was serving overseas.

Though just because he could handle it, didn’t mean he enjoyed dealing with it. It only served to remind him how fucked up people could be; hurting other people for money, love, stupidity - over heated arguments or simple misunderstandings.

But as he reached the top of the stairs, John found himself slowed to a halt at the sound of beautiful, violin music. Could be worse things to come home to, He thought bemusedly to himself. Then he heard a familiar baritone speak,

“Good.” Sherlock praised calmly. “But you hit a few incorrect notes a few bars back.”

John frowned, and peeked forward around the doorway to see Sherlock sitting in his chair - and their son Hamish standing near the arm of it, peering over his father’s shoulder as Sherlock took him through the proper technique of the alleged ‘incorrect’ notes.

The doctor couldn’t help a small, warm smile from growing on his lips. It was not often that he was privileged enough to see these rare, picturesq father-son moments between the two. Sherlock and Hamish were always running at full speed; they argued and teased one another, just as much as they tried to one-up each other. Hamish was always seeking Sherlock’s approval in the hopes of proving just how intelligent he was. Sherlock would act unimpressed, of course, but John could see the pride in Sherlock’s eyes.

Each time Hamish aced his school work, each time Hamish solved a puzzle or mystery Sherlock had challenged him with, each time Hamish excelled in his violin lessons…

John could see the bond and love between them, though predictably, both were experts at hiding their true feelings. They pretended it didn’t matter. But here and now - he was able to see it. They were close, and strikingly similar. ‘I guess this is how they behave when I’m not around?’ He mused to himself.

John was always the mediator. Sometimes it felt as if he were raising two children instead of one. But this was a clear example (and proof) that Sherlock Holmes could be a responsible parent when the situation called for it.

Still. He wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

“Again.” Sherlock’s voice brought John out of his thoughts.

Hamish pouted, “What for? I’m not going to be as good as you.”

‘Ah, there it is. That petty, Holmes stubbornness when their genius is threatened…’ John smiled.

“Nonsense. You’re already better than I was at your age.” Sherlock tossed the comment aside as if it were merely just one of his many, daily deductions. Hamish seemed just as shocked as John by the off-handed compliment, and stared at his father in awe for a few seconds - before he carefully tried to hide his gratitude for the praise behind another pout.

“Again.”

Hamish took Sherlock’s violin in hand again, and positioned it beneath his chin.

“Wait.” He smirked knowingly.

‘Shit. Busted.’ John cursed mentally.

“Perhaps your dad would like to hear you play the next piece. Of course he’s perfectly free to remain standing in the hallway with all the grace of a homeless man on Oxford Street.”

Both Holmes boys looked over to the doorway as John sheepishly stepped forward. “Thanks for that, Sherlock.” He slipped off his coat, and gave Hamish a weary smile. “Sounded great to me, Hamish. Your father’s just jealous. Worried you’re going to swoop in and become and musical prodigy of the household.”

“Oh please.” Sherlock scoffed teasingly. “Hamish neither has the dexterity, nor discipline to surpass my musical genius.”

“I can too!” Hamish fumed, stomping to the middle of the flat with his violin.

John smiled and flopped down into his chair, situating Hamish between both his parents.

“Had a rough day at St. Bart’s.” John nodded to his son. “Wouldn’t mind playing something soothing for your dad, would you?” He sighed.

Hamish smiled and nodded.

#parentlock

dramatis-echo:

His first clue had been the footsteps on the stairs.

One set. Small feet. Light body-weight. Familiar.

Hamish.

But not John.

Sherlock was up from his chair, tossing John’s laptop aside haphazardly and already moving to the door when his son burst in; tears streaming down his face, which was set in the most horrified expression Sherlock had ever seen.

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, crouching down to look Hamish in the eyes.

Hamish inhaled a shakey breath amidst his tears, “D-Dad did what they asked… we… we were j-just coming h-home…” Sherlock tightened his grip on the boy’s arms, hoping to cease his trembling.

“Where’s John!?” The detective’s voice boomed.

Hamish jumped and tried to shrink away from his furious father, but Sherlock pulled him back and wrapped his arms around him; holding him close to his chest.

“I’m sorry, Hamish, but you must tell me! Where is he?! I need to go help him! He’s in trouble, isn’t he? Is he hurt? Is that why you’ve returned alone? Hamish, TELL ME!” Sherlock urged. He’d hoped to keep his tone free of desperation and fear, but that was impossible now.

“N-Northumberland Street…” Hamish wept.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. Street harassment, attempted assault or robbery, perhaps. “Alright, stay here. Don’t move. I’ll bring him back.” He spouted quickly, lifting Hamish in his arms to set him down in John’s chair. Sherlock paused just before he pulled away from his son, “Are you alright, Hamish?” He remembered to ask; eyes quickly scanning over the boy for injuries.

“F-F-Fine…” Hamish seemed to be trembling and shaking more and more with each passing minute. Sherlock hesitantly placed an awkward kiss atop Hamish’s head, unsure of what else he could leave the boy with.

He must have seen it - high possibility of assault, John is hurt - alone now - made Hamish run home…

“Ms. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled as he raced from the flat. Charging down the stairs while tossing on his coat, his landlady scuttled out from her flat in confusion. “Stay with Hamish! Calm him down, I need to find John…” He instructed.

He could hear her tutting away in worry, but he was in no place to humour her or give her more information. He had to get to John.

Sherlock was almost certain he’d never run so fast. He pushed aside shoppers and Londoners who happened to step in his way. They cursed him, they looked at him like he was crazy… but it was all a blur.

Reaching Northumberland Street, Sherlock finally reigned himself to a stop and whipped out his mobile. He clicked the second speed dial number listed in his phone, and waited impatiently for Inspector Detective Lestrade to answer.

“Lestrade, send a unit to Northumberland Street…. I don’t know WHERE! John is hurt, and I need to find him! Do something useful and send an ambulance as well!” He barked, quickly hanging up without waiting for an answer.

He clicked the speed dial for the first number in his phone.

“….S… Sherlock…”

“John! Where are you! What do you see? I’m here, I’m looking!” He shouted into the phone, as if it were all John’s fault.

Luckily, his partner knew that was just the fear talking. “Mm… I… f-few feet from Angelo’s… I think…” He could hear John panting and groaning in what was presumably pain. “I-I… I can hear jazz music… in… I’m in… an alleyway…” He coughed. “S-Sherlock… Hamish! Is… is Hamish…”

“He’s fine, John, STOP talking for godssake man!” He snarled, tearing back through the streets. He checked every alleyway he came across, listening for the sound of wafting jazz music.

He had to find him. His John. His roommate. His partner. His best friend. His…

Finally, he heard it. Wafting jazz music.

“John?!” He called; eyes frantically darting to each corner as he barrelled down the closest alleyway.

Sherlock heard a weak cough, and noticed a pair of legs lingering from behind a rather large garbage bin. Sherlock dove to that spot, and found John propped up against the brick wall. “John!” He exclaimed, kneeling close. “John, can you hear me?”

He looked awful. His eyes were already beginning to bruise from where he’d clearly been punched, his mouth was bleeding, and there was a sizable gash along the side of his left temple. John’s clothing was rumpled and somewhat dirty, so the struggle had taken him to the ground.

“K-Knew you’d turn up…” John winced with a weak smile.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “Conserve your energy. Three, maybe four offenders. Robbery, was it? Or just London’s unfavourable youth taking the piss out of you and my son?!” He hissed out his deductions as he tried to help John stand. He wrapped one of John’s arms around his shoulders, while he wrapped one of his own around the Doctor’s waist. “You still have your phone, so mugging seems likely, but just for your wallet. Or did you hide it? Did you fight back, John? Did they touch Hamish? TELL ME!” He boomed.

John coughed, “If… you’d…” He stopped, the sounds of sirens pulling up nearby catching his attention. “You… called… Lestrade.”

“That’s an idiotic observation, John. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, and chalk it up to that blow to your head.” Sherlock growled, helping him back out of the alley and onto Northumberland Street.

The ambulance was just arriving alongside an unmarked car. John was immediately taken out of Sherlock’s grasp, and into the hands of the medics on scene. Lestrade stepped out of his car, “What the hell happened to him?”

“I don’t know all the details, I arrived only a few minutes before you did.” The consulting detective huffed. “John is too dazed at the moment to answer questions coherently.”

Lestrade nodded. “Well, uh… I don’t mind stayin’ with him, of course. The medics will give him a look-over, and when they’re done, I’ll bring him back to your flat, yeah?”

“I’m staying.” Sherlock insisted.

“No.” The older detective grasped his elbow firmly. “You’re going to go home, and stay with your son. If you’re both here that means he’s alone, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes petulantly, “Ms. Hudson’s looking after him. He’s fine, just shaken up.”

“Shaken up?” Lestrade repeated. “Christ, Sherlock, was he with John when this happened?”

“Yes. He came back to the flat alone, and I knew something was wrong. GOD! I need details!” Sherlock shouted.

“Oi, enough!” Lestrade yelled back to him. “Go home, Sherlock. Go home and stay with your son, and I’ll bring John ‘round. If he needs to be admitted, you’ll be the first to know. But you need to go home. Hamish is probably scared shitless, and Ms. Hudson won’t be enough to calm him down. Not with both you and John gone.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock knew Lestrade was right.

“Bring him home immediately once they’ve finished. And they better do a sound job of it too.” He warned darkly.

Taking one last glance toward the ambulance that was currently hosting his injured partner – Sherlock turned and began to storm back toward Baker Street. This was unacceptable. He hated not knowing. But what he hated even more was seeing John hurt. No one had any right to hurt that man; he was the most saintly human being Sherlock had ever had the privilege of knowing (not that he’d ever say that out loud).

He was a war hero. He was a doctor. He was an army captain. He was moral, and loyal, and…

His phone chimed; incoming text…

# parentlock

|| Ok so this ficlet became waaaay too long. I’ll post the rest of it along with the other ‘parentlock’ stories on AO3 when I get them up. CLIFFHANGER ftw! x

nightowl81:

The Golden Snitch

+ Sherlock / Harry Potter crossover, based on one of my old pictures
+ you can buy it as a postcard or a print here

~ dedicated to Sandra ♥

nellafantasiaa:

on my dA~♥

shooting-stetsons:

buttergin:

sherlockismyholmesboi:

theinsultingdetective:

somepeoplesayimpotato:

whatsbadwolf:

idk why but i’m picturing him on the train going to hogwarts

WHAT IF HE IS A PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS

Finally, a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

oh god yes

John is the new flying instructor and Quidditch referee, who retired from his professional Quidditch career after some kind of accident

Lestrade is the Transfiguration teacher

Molly is a nurse

Jim teaches Potions 

Anderson and Donovan are the annoying as fuck prefects

Mycroft holds a minor position in the Ministry of Magic

Boom. Someone fic this. 

It seemed to be some sort of tradition that Hogwarts had to have at least one professor no one could stand. Before, when Harry Potter was around, it was the infamous Professor Snape. After that, there had been an Arithmancy professor named Wiggins who was so unbearable that most students blocked him out of their memories completely. Now there was Holmes.

He wasn’t so bad - at least according to the girls who sighed and fawned over him. And some of the boys. Certainly enough, Holmes was good looking, but that seemed to be a running trend among the staff lately. Professor Lestrade, in Transfiguration, couldn’t go more than an afternoon without a student coming in for extra practice, usually with form. Professor Watson, who doubled as flying instructor and the dueling team’s coach, had more broomstick and wand jokes aimed at him than anyone cared to hear in a lifetime. But he had an easygoing personality that made him easy to joke around with. Even the teensy-bit unbalanced potions master, Professor Moriarty, had a sort of deranged charm to him, and Nurse Molly was sweet and remembered all her patients’ names.

There was no longer a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but after the first week with Holmes, most students wished it would come back. He showed up five minutes late for the first lesson and then burst in with a swish of his trailing cloak, mouth going at a thousand miles a minute.

“Wands out, everyone, and you’d better behave responsibly if you’ve been trusted with them for three years. That means no poking, no unauthorized spells, and no being idiots, understand? Most professors like to say there’s no such thing as a stupid question - I disagree; there are a lot of stupid questions, especially if you don’t listen. Take every word I say as gospel and don’t fall asleep or I’ll throw the nearest projectile, and don’t think I’ll pity you if you can’t deflect it in time. There will be no skiving off, because I’ll know if you’re lying, and random pop quizzes through the term. We’ll start with Shield Charms, something even the most inadequate first-years can grasp, shall we?”

Even if he hadn’t talked to them like babies at the end, everyone hated him.

Holmes was never happy with anyone, never smiled, and never gave praise, even if a student did something truly brilliant and inspired with his lessons. The closest he would get at complimenting someone was to lean back in his chair, feet on the desk, and say, “You could have done worse, I suppose. At least you didn’t kill me.” He only ever looked interested when a student lipped off in class or Professor Lestrade showed up for a word.

That was another funny thing about Professor Holmes. He liked mysteries, but not in the way that most people liked mysteries. He solved them, even mundane ones like missing magical creatures that escaped into the forest, or students who cheated on their exams. Professor Lestrade seemed to have a lot of trouble with cheaters, and Holmes always found them, which only made the student body resent him even further.

His pursuits brought him to dueling club practice one day, where for the first time he met Professor Watson. The moment he entered the practice room a hush fell over the students, causing Watson to look up in alarm; they all knew that one of their number was going to get in big trouble.

“So, the best technique would be to - guys?” asked Watson, turning to see Holmes in the door. His eyebrows rose. “Oh, Professor Holmes, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here for a lesson?”

There were scattered giggles around the room as Holmes scowled. By then it was common knowledge that, though he was a genius in almost every other respect, Holmes was a terrible duelist. “Actually, I was going to correct your form,” he retorted.

Hushed “Ooooh”s spread across the room. Watson smirked slightly. “Really? And what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s - ah - crooked.”

“Crooked?”

More giggles. “Perhaps it could be more improved if you didn’t have a psychosomatic limp.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me loud and clear. Your limp is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, really. But I bet you ten Galleons I can fix it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Flipendo!”

Watson dodged immediately away and shot back a spell of his own. They weren’t even on the dueling tarmac, and students had to quickly back away against the walls as the fight very quickly got messy. Holmes either didn’t know the rules of dueling or disregarded them completely, amplifying his voice and shrieking or shooting off blinding sparks to disorient Watson before shooting a curse. Though even then Professor Watson managed to keep the fight even.

With an almost lazy flick of his wand the spells momentarily stopped flying, and Watson snapped, “This isn’t exactly a fair fight, Professor.”

The taller man grinned. “Oh, come on, Professor, even your Muggle sister could do better after indulging her alcoholism.”

Watson dropped his wand and charged at him. For a moment Holmes’ eyes widened with pure panic before immobilizing Watson with a leg-locker jinx. He knelt at his colleague’s side, handing back his wand. “I told you it was in your head,” he smirked before getting up again to point at Miranda Hodgins. “You. With me to the Headmaster’s office, now.”

He swept out, with Miranda timidly following and the remaining students in awe. Watson reversed the jinx and gaped after Holmes while absently stretching his leg. Holmes was right; he hadn’t limped at all during the fight.

Most students thought the professors would hate one another on principle after that incident, and were taken by surprise when the pair were practically inseparable from that moment on.

(Source: benedict--cumberbatch)

dramatis-echo:

The Origin of Hamish Watson-Holmes

“Darling, I want you to listen to me…”

Hamish peered up curiously at his mother - who was actually crying. He’d never seen that before. She normally kept her face as brave as possible, wise and collected, but he could see the internal uncertainty and fear lingering in her now-glossy orbs.

“Stay hidden. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

Hamish bit his lip nervously. She was scaring him.

“Darling, do you understand?” Irene repeated softly, cupping his sweet, unassuming face in her hands.

Hesitantly, he nodded.

“Good boy.” Her lower lip trembled as she moved in to kiss his cheeks tenderly, but urgently. Repeatedly. A loud bang from downstairs drew Irene’s attention to the closed door of her room. Hamish jumped too, but his mother’s hands held his face more tightly in silent reassurance. “Come on… in here.”

She quickly ushered him into her massive walk-in closet. “Stay quiet, Hamish, no matter what. Don’t come out until I tell you.” Taking one last look at her small, bewildered son - Irene winced and shut the doors, leaving him in darkness. Leaving him amidst countless racks clothes; her armour.

Hamish plopped down to sit on the floor after only a few minutes of waiting.

Footsteps.

Door opening.

Raised voices.

A calmer conversation.

His mother’s voice.

A man’s.

A gunshot. Hamish jumped at the sound in his little dark hideaway.

Everything went quiet.

He waited.

He waited.

Lying down on the floor, the boy tried in vain to peer underneath in the hopes of seeing whether or not it was clear to come out. It was deathly quiet, and completely dark now. Pulling himself back onto his feet, Hamish gently pushed on the closet door, and peeked out.

All was still. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim streetlight that was flooding into the otherwise dark room through the large window… but when his blue orbs focused, he saw a lump in the middle of the floor.

A body.

Trembling, Hamish crept out of the closet and hesitatingly inched toward the familiar form of his mother. He knelt down beside her, and lightly touched his small hand to her shoulder, shaking her. She didn’t move. Lowering down to sit down beside her, Hamish was unsure of what to do next. His mother hadn’t told him what to do after he came out.

It wasn’t a good feeling. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing. Hamish might be young… but he didn’t need anyone to tell him she was dead.

He didn’t try to be brave now. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he whimpered; continuing to shake her lightly, in the childish hope that maybe it would revive her.

Time was lost on the child. He had no idea how long he sat beside her - and was only snapped out of his foggy, lost haze when he heard the front door open and shut.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Hamish scampered back into the closet, and closed the door, but left it open a tiny crack so he could keep an eye out.

He held his breath, and watched as a tall figure strolled into the room; dark coat fluttering behind him almost majestically. Hamish saw the stranger crouch near his mother’s body. He muttered a few choice swear-words, and then whipped out his mobile.

“Tell me you have him in custody.” He hissed sharply.

Silence; the person on the other end responded.

“No.” He answered. “…She’s dead.”

The stranger suddenly tilted his head at an odd angle… as if he’d just spotted something. Hamish watched worriedly as the man reached down to run his long fingers against the small indent in the carpet Hamish had made when he’d sat there moments ago.

“Someone’s here…” He muttered in a deep baritone.

The child gasped, and quickly covered his mouth.

The stranger straightened, and whipped around to stare at the closet. He pocketed his phone.

Hamish began to shake as he saw the tall intruder advance toward him - drawing a weapon from the inside of his long coat.

Throwing open the door, Hamish jumped back and held his hands up in a feeble attempt to defend himself. He couldn’t stop shaking. The stranger didn’t move, at first. His silence and stillness caught Hamish’s attention, and the boy found himself cautiously looking up at the stranger.

He looked oddly familiar. Hamish couldn’t recall from where.

A picture…

“Are… you alright?” The man asked.

Hamish nodded shyly.

“Close your eyes. Keep them closed until I tell you…”

Hamish did as instructed, and felt himself swooped up into the long arms of the intruder. He was so tall; Hamish didn’t think he’d ever been held up so high. It was warm within the folds of the man’s long coat.

He hadn’t realized how tired he was. His head found a natural position, resting on the man’s shoulder. He kept his eyes closed, as instructed. But he wasn’t scared anymore…

They walked out of the bedroom, and Hamish felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. The stranger was on the phone again,

“Send a car, Mycroft.”

#parentlock - #hamish origin part 1

watslut:

consulting-mcbender:

cumberbuddy:

shamelesslyobsessed:

why is everything he does so perfect?

Oh look he’s on the Hogwarts Express.

Oh. His first year teaching at Hogwarts. SOMEONE WRITE IT!

JAWN CAN BE HIS STUDENT.

SOMEONE WRITE THIS PLEASE I WILL MAKE THEM DELICIOUS CURRY AND BAKE DELICIOUS COOKIES

(Source: benedict--cumberbatch)

dramatis-echo:

“I’m so sorry to have to call you in, Doctor Watson. I know you’re busy.”

John nodded; tension already evident in his body. “What is it this time?”

“I’m afraid that Hamish has been caught fighting. Again.” The principal huffed, moving some papers around on her desk. John took a quick glance, and noticed none of them seemed pressing; just trying to look important, then, He mused to himself. “This is the fourth time in three months. I’m terribly sorry, but he’s going to have to be suspended.”

John pursed his lips, “And I trust the students he’s been fighting with are ALSO going to be suspended?” He shot her a withering look. “There’s always two sides to a fight, so, Hamish can’t be solely responsible. He might be a brat sometimes, but I know he isn’t violent.”

“The students he’s been fighting with have had some problems in the past, that’s true,” The principal admitted, albeit a bit reluctantly, “But the witnesses in each incident mark Hamish as the instigator in every occurrence. He’s proven to be disrespectful in class, he talks down to the teachers and corrects them during  their lessons, he doesn’t interact well with other children, and he doesn’t complete class assignments.”

John’s hands curled into fists as he tried to keep his cool. “He had a history assignment due last week. I know he completed it, because I was there. He always completes his work… in record time too, I imagine.”

“Actually, Doctor Watson, Hamish has a horrible habit of belittling the assignments he’s given. He will do the work, granted, but then presents an ‘extended’ project in which he believes he’s improved the class syllabus.”

The doctor scoffed, “So, you’re chastising him for doing MORE work than is required?”

The principal sniffed in sharply, and looked back to her desk.

“I understand that parents can be over-protective of their children. And there’s no denying Hamish is gifted, but…” She trailed off, as if waiting for John to fill in the blanks himself.

“What exactly were these fights about?”

She continued on, blatantly ignoring his question, “Respectfully, Doctor Watson… the fact that I need to contact you tells me a lot about Hamish’s home life.”

“…Excuse me?”

“I’m not trying to make assumptions about Mr. Holmes’ occupation or your private life together… but you are of no blood-relation to Hamish. Yet, you are listed as the primary contact in his file, while his father seems to show little to no interest in him. Hamish is on a dangerous path, Doctor Watson.”

John felt like if he clenched his jaw any tighter, his teeth would shatter.

“Well, thank you for your ‘concern’.” He breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “But you won’t need to worry about Hamish anymore. We’ll be pulling him out of this school. Poor kid shouldn’t have to stifle his genius to please you morons.”

The principal looked slightly taken aback, “There’s no need to be hostile, Doctor Watson…”

“I can’t be hostile toward an institution that’s displaying a similar hostility toward my son?” He countered sharply.

She took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Perhaps… if we could contact Hamish’s mother. I realize she and Mr. Holmes ha-”

“She’s dead.” John interrupted. “And trust me, Hamish’s home life isn’t the problem. No. I can see the real problem; clear as day now.”

With a curt nod, the ex-army captain headed out of the office without another word. Once in the hall, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He didn’t need her to say any more; John was capable of reading between the lines and didn’t need ANYONE undermining or questioning his (or Sherlock’s) ability to raise a child. He knew it was probable that the school staff just didn’t like Hamish, but John wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bit of homophobia lingering about in the back of their small minds.

Looking to his left, he saw Hamish sitting silently on the wooden bench against the wall. John sighed and walked over to him; crouching down so he was at eye-level with his son. He still didn’t make eye contact with his dad, but instead, kept his gaze down. Perhaps he was expecting to be reprimanded. He had a bit of dirt smeared on his cheek (the fight took place outside then, John deduced), and his clothing was a bit ruffled.

“Good riddance to this place, huh?” John muttered gently in the hopes of reassuring Hamish he wasn’t angry. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief, and carefully began to wipe the dirt from Hamish’s cheek. It broke his head to see a large tear clinging to the corner of Hamish’s stunning blue eyes. His face didn’t contort, and he didn’t break down… but rather like his father, held in his disappointment. His pain, his frustration.

“We’ll look for a new school. Maybe that private school your father and uncle attended, hm?” John continued, trying to stay optimistic. Hamish still didn’t answer. “Look, Hamish…. I’m sorry. This was my fault. I thought putting you in a public school would be good for you. I just… I don’t know. I wanted to see if you’d take to it. But you’re a Holmes through-and-through. Guess I should have listened to your father, but…” He paused, tilting Hamish’s chin up so he had to finally look him in the eye. “I don’t want you to dumb yourself down. Not for anyone. You’re a genius, Hamish… definitely smarter than me. Er, not that that’s any great feat.”

The corner of Hamish’s mouth twitched as he tried to repress a smile.

John stood back up, relieved that he’d managed a tiny break through. Maybe he could ask Hamish later what the fights were about. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Hamish slid off the bench, and obediently followed John back through the school corridors, and finally out the front doors.

John’s phone chimed, and alerted him to a new text.

Meeting go well?
SH

John shook his head,

You know it didn’t.
Taking Hamish out of this school. They’re idiots.
JW

Told you.
SH

Is Hamish alright?
SH

I will make other arrangements.
SH

Is he upset?
SH

Bringing human brain home for Hamish to experiment on.
I think he’ll like it.
SH

I always hated that school.
SH

On my way home now.
SH

Does ice-cream make children feel better?
I read somewhere it does.
SH

# parentlock