johnlockcat

John Watson's Blog: I woke up this morning much as I had the last. It felt like climbing out of a deep slumber into a lesser one, but I was exhausted all the same. Before my memory came flooding back, I lay under the covers listening to the chink of teacups from the kitchen, and I thought about how Hamish used to help Mrs. Hudson make me tea when he was younger, and how he'd present it to me proudly, even though he'd only told Mrs. Hudson when to stop pouring the milk. I thought for a second that I heard my son's voice.      Then, like a tidal wave washing over me, I remembered the day before. Hamish wasn't missing anymore! It felt like my

John nearly dropped the phone when Lestrade told him. His next sentence jammed in his brain and came out as "ghruika egubvr vjghbhgrragwvhrghv-Sherlock!" The detective looked up, made six deductions and one assumption, and leapt out of his chair to grab his coat. "I'm sorry Hamish, but it's the job of Social Services to bridge the gap between the child and their..." The new woman (This one not dressed as a doctor) looked down at her files, "...Guardians?" "Parents." Hamish continued to stare at the curtain that seperated him from the bed beside him, "They're my fathers. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and I am sorry. I should never have lef

Hamish watched out of the hospital window as the sun pushed the blanket of night away with her purple hands. If the screen of a de-tuned analogue TV was a feeling, that's what his knee and wrist felt like. He'd already tried getting up, calling for assistance, explaining he couldn't be here, but all the nurses smiled sweetly like they'd heard it all before. "Hi, how are you doing?" A woman walked in wearing a doctor's lab coat and carrying a clip board, "You need to get some more calcium in your diet young man, unless you want to break a bone every time you fall over." She pulled out a seat and sat at Hamish's bed, "Now son, I need you to ans

It was like they were following him. Every lamppost, every shop window: Hamish's face staring back at him. He couldn't take it, he spent the rest of the night curled up between a pile of bin bags and a wall, crying into the slightly warm plastic. Rain dripped down the back of his collar as he sobbed. This was harder than I thought it would be, he thought, I thought they would forget- no. I thought they would try, but give up. And never try this hard. He thought about a specific memory, of Sherlock picking him up when he fell over and hit his knee. Hamish only had a little graze on his kneecap and his wrist, but Sherlock took him home in his a

"Right, we've managed to track him right to the edge of London, but then here-" Lestrade clicked to zoom in to the footage, "He goes behind this building but seemingly doesn't reappear." John rubbed his brow and yawned. "John." "Greg." "You need to get some rest." John laughed slightly, but somehow sadly, "I won't be able to sleep. I may as well keep looking." "John," Lestrade sighed and continued to click the computer mouse, "I think we've hit a dead end with this- I mean I'm not saying we can't find him, but the footage has given us nothing. Until we find some new evidence-" "You're right." John said, standing up, "Sorry. Thank you for you

Wind from the open windows gushed into the room, sending various miscellaneous pieces of paper swirling and dancing to the floor. Sherlock lay on the sofa with his back to the world, his eyes clenched shut. "Thinking." Was the last thing he had said to anyone, in response to "What the hell are you doing, Sherlock? We have to find Hamish!" John had gone to speak with Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had gone out to put up the MISSING! posters that John had painstakingly produced.       Sherlock walked through the west wing of his mind palace, amongst all the rooms containing information on how to best conceal your whereabouts and how to remain hidd

Hamish swung his heavy backpack off his shoulder as he walked into the public loos. He unzipped the small pocket and took out a pair of scissors before looking up at the mirror. He looked so tired, and strange in his new clothes. He pulled at a strand of hair, and smiled slightly as he remembered doing the same to Sherlock's as a child, but then squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to rid his mind of such thoughts. He couldn't go back, not now. Hamish snipped at the black curls, watching each lock fall into the sink. It was strangely satisfying, then again he thought, I've always been best at destroying things. One final snip and the bas

"Where would he have gone? Should we check the park? Should we call his school? The police?" John threw questions in the air as Sherlock paced the lounge, his coat in hand. "His phone was in his bedroom." Mrs. Hudson said as she entered the room, clutching the device and waving it so the pair could see. The skin around her eyes was red and puffy from where she'd been crying, and her hand trembled slightly as she gave the phone to Sherlock. "Do you want me to phone Lestrade?" Asked John. Sherlock didn't answer. He hadn't spoken at all in the last half hour. John interpreted his silence as a no. Hamish got off the tube at the end of the line

2:16am. Hamish pushed open his bedroom door quietly, so as not to wake John or Sherlock. He looked back at his tidy room, and to the letter he'd left on his pillow. He quickly unzipped his backpack, checked he had enough supplies, clothes, food to keep him going for at least a while, and tip-toed down the stairs. He pushed open the front door and closed it so carefully that the only noise it made was the little click when the lock found its hole. His breath formed a cloud in front of his face as he stuffed his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold and started walking to the tube station.       As soon as Sherlock woke he knew s

Hamish went straight to his room when he got back to the flat. John wanted to speak with him, "Hamish!" He banged on the boy's door, "Hamish you have to come out! You bunked off- I can't just let that- Hamish?" But he sat at the window staring out at a pigeon that had just perched on the branch that used to scare him as a child by clawing at the window on windy nights. He remembered when Sherlock came in, and told him to be rational, that it was a branch and nothing to worry about. Somehow the way the detective sighed as he said these things comforted Hamish more than a kind word and a 'trust me' could. He thought about the Sherlock he was ar