Work Text:
Hamish Watson Holmes loved suprising his parents, especially of he’d caught Father off-guard. As a younger child, he’d run round the flat looking for ways to impress his Father and Papa, more often than not with success. The look of surprise, then immense pride made Hamish love his parents even more. They supported him in everything.
One evening, when Hamish was ten, he surprised his parents for worse. To be fair, he hadn’t brought it upon them himself. To an extent, it had been Father’s fault.
Hamish had sat in the living room with his violin, plucking out a simple tune to pass the time when he heard footsteps approaching the door to their flat. He assumed it was Papa home from St. Bart’s, but instead found a concealed burly guard with bandanas and a large sack. Before young Hamish could call out to Father on the other side of the flat, he had been gagged and thrown into the sack. He squirmed, but the kidnapper was strong and muscular, stronger than Papa even in his army days. The sack began to swing with the kidnapper’s footsteps.
All Hamish could do was pray for Father to notice his absence and find him. Father had told Hamish all the things one ought to do if they are kidnapped, and Hamish had learned them. But now being taken away with no idea of where he was going or if he’d see his parents again, he couldn’t remember any of Father’s tips. All the rationale and logic Father had instilled went out the window, and it scared Hamish. He wasn’t used to feeling like a scared little boy.
After some stairs, Hamish heard a car door, the trunk he imagined, then was suddenly jolted to a halt and thrown in the trunk. Hamish started to hyperventilate. Father, find me! Papa! Come home! Take me home! Can I breathe in this trunk? How long until I run out of oxygen and pass out? Will they kill me? What do they want? Don’t kill me! Save me Papa! Take me home Father! His stream of consciousness swirled his brain into a panicked hurricane of irrational thought. After a while, he just sat still, crouched in a fetal position, silently whispering for his parents to find him and take him home.
At last, the car stopped and the trunk opened. Hamish saw the shadow of the kidnapper through the bag he’d been tied in. The figure picked up the bag forcefully and carried it a ways before setting him on a table. The bag was ripped open, and Hamish was taken, still blindfolded and gagged, to a chair, where he could feel cable and rope being wrapped around his wrists, feet, and waist. The gag was ripped out of his mouth and the blindfold cut off his face.
Hamish saw nothing. He was sitting in a pillar of harsh white light surrounded by inky blackness. Like the movies, Hamish tried to tell himself. If it looks like the movies, it must be fake. But his instinctive childlike side let loose a scream of “Help!” to anyone hiding in the shadows.
A voice came from directly behind his left ear. “There’s no one here to help you.” Hamish practically jumped (to the fullest capacity, given he was tied to a chair) when he heard the voice. The owner of the voice appeared as a man in a black suit with short black hair and an odd face. Hamish looked at this man with confusion and incredible fright. The man laughed. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” No response. “Daddy didn’t tell you about me? Tsk tsk, surely he has. After all, now he owes me.” Owes. The word rang in Hamish’s ears. And then he remembered a story Father had told him about a message: IOU.
“Moriarty,” Hamish quivered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sherlock was completely focused on the case at hand. Tuning out all that happened around him was simply a better way to get to the answer faster. Suddenly he realized that Hamish had stopped playing his violin. What had happened? He walked to the living room. “Hamish, what’s wro-” He had entered the living room to find no one. The violin had been placed haphazardly against the arm of the couch. Hamish knew better than to put down his violin like that. He was in a hurry. But he didn’t have plans. So who was making him hurry? John wasn’t home yet. Mrs. Hudson would let him take his time, Mycroft as well. And then Sherlock saw the scuff marks of little boy’s shoes across the floor, stopping abruptly. “Kidnappers. Bloody hell.” He ran to the other side of the flat, rummaged around in his coat pocket, and extracted his phone. Quickly, he dialed John’s number. No time to text. The phone rang.
John was sitting at his desk, awaiting his second to last appointment when he heard his cell ring. Sherlock. Sherlock always texts. Must be an emergency. “Sherlock?”
“He’s gone.”
“Hamish?” A wave of terror crossed his face.
“Kidnappers. Drop everything and come.”
“I’ll be there.” John ended the call, grabbed his coat in haste, and burst out of his office at St. Bart’s, quickly telling his boss his child had gone missing. She let him go.
Ten minutes later, he was standing outside 221B with Lestrade, no one else. Sherlock knew the forensics team would get in the way, but he needed Lestrade’s official authority to lead the search himself, despite being the emotionally compromised parent. Lestrade knew this would only make him more thorough and let Sherlock do whatever he wanted.
“I’m here. What’s happened?” John huffed nervously.
“Kidnapper. He took Hamish away within the last hour-“
“Sherlock you bloody idiot! How did you not notice him being kidnapped?!” John was furious. He couldn’t deal with the idea of having lost his son forever. “He’s our SON!”
Sherlock tried to be rational, but the anger in John’s words and on his face and the guilt he felt inside for letting his son get taken away overcame him. A single tear slid down his cheek as he managed, “I was working on the Lee Miller case, and I suppose I got wrapped up in it and didn’t hear him stop.”
“So, who did it?”
John was frustrated. “Lestrade! Now is neither the time nor the place-“
“The neighbor Mrs. Keith. It’s fine.” Sherlock tried to pull himself together. He had to put all emotions aside and focus. The tear was wiped away, and Sherlock retreated to his mind palace. John and Lestrade stepped away to give him space, Lestrade to his squad car to finish the paperwork to pull Mrs. Keith in for murder.
Who would want Hamish? Someone who wanted me. Who would want me? All recent criminals are dead or miles away in high security prisons. Nevertheless, he scanned through everyone who had held grudges against him. The list trailed on and on in his head, until it ended with Moriarty. But that’s absurd, he’s dead. Wait. Sherlock flicked through the mind palace to find an old newspaper talking about Richard Brook’s death. No body, but blood, and he was missing from all surrounding areas. Everyone else was accounted for but Moriarty. Sherlock hated to have to say it, but that was where he would have to find his son. “John? Lestrade?”
They came running over. “Who was it?” John asked anxiously.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock quivered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Good. Good good good, Daddy did tell the story to you. Hamish, I assume.”
“H-how do you know my name?”
“Well I’m not dead, and I have men working for me.”
“But, Father said you were… dead.”
“Ahhh… So he did. And I thought he was dead. Looks like your Father and I have some explaining to do. Oh,” Moriarty remembered, “and not just his faked death, but obviously I’m like to know how the family is.” Moriarty walked right up to Hamish’s face with smug pride. “Daddys finally figured out their emotions, I suppose. Watson-Holmes, right? You know, that’s what makes people weak,” Moriarty sneered as he began to circle Hamish. “That’s why your father’s ordinary. I thought he was me, but he wasn’t. Obvious from the way your dads drool over each other. Positively disgusting.”
“You know what I think?”
Moriarty turned around in exaggerated surprise and interest. “And what is that?”
“Having love and being ordinary are two very opposite things. Father is not ordinary. He loves Papa extraordinarily.” Hamish felt a surge of family pride and continued. “You are the boring one because you do not know what it is to love.”
Moriarty began to laugh. “Been reading Harry Potter? Here’s a tip, from me to you: don’t smartass to a consulting criminal who has you tied in a chair under his control.” Moriarty pulled out a gun from his right hand pocket. “Where are they?”
Hamish’s eyes had grown huge. “Who?”
Moriarty sneered in disgust. “Your parents, for God’s sake, keep up! Being a child has nothing to do with it.” The gun was being pointed straight at Hamish’s heart. “I still owe him something.”
Hamish, fearful and timid, asked, “What do you owe him?”
“Didn’t Father tell the story? A FALL. He backed out. I’m going to make an honest man out of him and kill him. Then John will actually have something to mourn.” Moriarty smiled.
“… I’m bait. They’ll find me, and you’ll kill Father.” Hamish knew now that he would never say goodbye to his parents. He now wished with all his might that he might never be found so his parents might live. “Do you have plans for me?”
“Not really. Use you as bait like you said. Standard hostage stuff. Maybe a little torture to make things interesting. It’s boring to wait for Daddy.” The gun lowered to Hamish’s foot. A shot was fired into the top of his left foot.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But, you told me he shot himself on St. Barts.”
“I’ve been so stupid, I’ve ignored the signs.”
“What signs?”
“Did you read the newspaper when he died? No body, but blood. Not tested blood, so probably fake. He faked his death too so he could actually watch me die in disgrace. He’s the only criminal with a strong enough vendetta against me who isn’t behind bars or dead. It’s Moriarty. The question is where?” Sherlock paced along the curb, trying to think of where Moriarty would take his son. “He wants to get to me, so he’d make it an obvious place to me to catch me.”
“The chocolate factory where we found the kids with mercury poisoning?” John wondered. “He kidnapped their kids, he got ours.”
“Brilliant bastard. The tire tracks indicate going down the street that way in the direction of the factory. Lestrade, you’ve got a gun?” Sherlock grabbed his phone from his jacket to check the time.
“Course I do. Need a lift?”
“Yes, and your assistance if needed once we’re there.” Sherlock slid into the squad car, something he’d never find himself doing, but waiting for a cabbie wasn’t in the question. John slid in after him, and Lestrade started up the engine and headed for the factory.
In the car ride, Sherlock’s head was still racing with motives for taking Hamish. Information? Bait? That was more likely. Bait for information… About his faked death? Did he want to finish Sherlock off for good? He had promised John he wouldn’t leave again. He would have to, though, to spare his and Hamish’s life. Moriarty wanted Sherlock. To taunt him, to play games, to humiliate him. He wouldn’t play along.
John sat in the car not focused on Moriarty’s motive, but what he might be doing to his son. Torture? For information? How far would he go to get information? How badly would Hamish be? Could Hamish be possibly… No. NO. John refused to even think about it, but soon tears were in his eyes. Sherlock noticed and wrapped an arm around his husband. Sherlock might not have that much time left with John. Might as well spend it in each other’s arms.
They finally arrived. There was a single car, inconspicuous to the unknowledged mind. A simple white truck; looked like a worker of some sort, but it was Moriarty’s worker’s car.
They entered the same way they had when the other children had been here gorging themselves of mercury-coated chocolates. Sherlock hurriedly took one of Lestrade’s flashlights and began searching. He stuck next to John, for if he was right, this would be his last time being with his husband. In the darkness, unseen by John’s flashlight, a single tear rolled down Sherlock’s face. And suddenly they came upon a pillar of light at the far end of the factory, a silouetted chair, and voices. He waved Lestrade over intently, who came to his side looking at the light. The standing sillouetted figure was pointing something at Hamish, a gun Sherlock supposed as he, John, and Lestrade began surrounding the man who was Moriarty. And then, the shot was fired. Hamish screamed in agony as his injured foot began to bleed.
Moriarty smiled. “This should entertain me for a while.” Hamish looked up in a mixture of miserable pain, intense anger, and great fear of worse things to come.
John and Sherlock couldn’t watch their son in so much pain. Sherlock immediately stepped out of the shadows with his gun pointed at Moriarty’s head. “I think you might find something else here more entertaining than my son.”
“Well hello there, Sherlock. Just talking to Hamish here about you. And your husband. Oh look, here he is.” John had appeared out of the darkness with his own gun flanked by Lestrade, who covered for him while John attended to his son. “Ah ah ah. I’m afraid we can’t let your son go. He needs to learn the price of love.”
Through the tears of pain, Hamish shouted, “You’re a monster! Father did NOTHING to you and you’re just going to KILL HIM!”
Kill him. John saw Sherlock’s face, resigned and sad. He knew Moriarty wanted to kill him. He planned to sacrifice himself for John and Hamish. John’s heart ached at the thought of life without Sherlock again. He wouldn’t let him do it. John shot Sherlock a look. Please don’t leave again. You promised. If you even think about leaving your son to watch you die, you have another think coming.
“Ah, but I owe your father that fall, don’t I?”
“And you owe me your fall, too,” Sherlock sneered.
“I never promised my death. You, however, did promise yours. And this time, there’s no funny business.” Five burly guards emerged from the shadows, two pulled Lestrade and John away from the chair, two surrounded Sherlock, and the last one stood in front of Moriarty as a bodyguard. “There is no escape from this death, because I’m gonna do it.” Moriarty, flanked by his bodyguard, began a slow pace towards Sherlock. Hamish cried out in pain, fear, and desperation.
Then, all of a sudden, he locked eyes with his father for a single nanosecond, undetectable to anyone but Sherlock and Hamish. Hamish winked slyly through his tears. Suddenly, he gathered his courage and stood up as far as he could, still bound to the chair. He swiveled around, knocking out the guard’s knees around his father. In a split second of distraction, Sherlock was free to grab his gun, and he shot Moriarty through the forehead. Quickly, he shot the other guards in the leg, wounding them, but not killing them.
The harsh pillar of light was bloodstained. Sherlock and Hamish were breathing heavily, John and Lestrade stood in absolute silence and awe. John finally snapped out of his daze and tended to his son’s foot. The bullet was in sight, it hadn’t gone all the way through his foot. There would be scar tissue, especially after standing on it funny in the chair. A few broken bones. John ripped his shirt to wrap his son’s foot. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital, Lestrade, and quickly.” Lestrade nodded, then picked up the little boy and chair. “I’ve got wire cutters in the squad car to undo this.”
John shot Sherlock a look of “We will talk about this later, but not now.” Sherlock acknowledges this taciturn information and said aloud, “I’ll tend to the bodies. You go with Hamish.” John followed Lestrade out of the pillar of light.
It was just Sherlock and the moaning guards. Save one corpse. Sherlock bent over his once-breathing foe, checking his pulse. Dead. And he was the one who did it, so he was sure when no pulse was detected that it wasn’t a trick. Some nagging feeling he couldn’t quite place bubbled up through his system. Just to make sure (even though he ought to have been sure), he shot him a second time through the heart. There, he thought. That’s what you deserve for using my son. He left the groaning bodies and still corpse alone in the pillar of light as he dialed the police to pick them up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night, John and Sherlock sat beside Hamish’s hospital bed. He was asleep and had a brace on his foot. Stitches lined the upper part of his foot, and an IV dripped painkillers into his left arm. John stroked his son’s dark curls away from his forehead, relieved to see his son away from danger, from pain. Sherlock stood up to take a nicotine patch out of his coat pocket. His nerves had been too frazzled, his brain wasn’t used to this many emotions coursing through it during a time of need. He stuck it to his left arm in the same spot his son’s IV dripped on his arm. John turned his gaze from his sleeping son to his tired, concerned husband. “You were going to take the bullet.”
Sherlock said nothing.
“You were going to leave me again, and this time, leave your son. You promised.”
“I was presented with an option to keep you two from harm, and…” The words were not flowing easily from Sherlock’s mouth. He wasn’t quite so eloquent with emotions. “… I suppose, in my mind at the time, it was the only option.”
“Then what was that little stunt you did with Hamish? By the way, how did you plan that?”
“It was a last minute back and forth. His idea. Brilliant kid he is.” Sherlock stared at his son’s resting face. “Can you believe he’s our son?”
“Yeah,” John sighed as he turned to the sleeping boy in the hospital bed in front of them. “Promise me again you won’t leave.”
Sherlock turned to face his husband. “There’s no one now to make me leave. I wouldn’t go in a thousand years.”
Hyperbole. He means it. “Good.” And John squeezed Sherlock’s hand as their little boy’s eyes opened groggily. Hamish smiled a drug-induced lopsided smile, and the familial pride in the three boys’ eyes was indicative of the joy in their hearts.