From a letter brought home by Hamish Watson-Holmes, October 6th, as attached to a crayon drawing:
Dear Messrs Holmes and Watson,
As Mr. Holmes has continuously ignored my calls and I suspect he has had my number blocked from Mr. Watson’s phone, I am forced to send this note home with your son. I would like to draw your attention to a number of worrying things in a drawing your son recently created during our allotted ‘individual exploration’ time.
First off, please note the dour expression drawn on the face of Mr. Holmes, as compared to the cheerful grins on Hamish and Mr. Watson. The severity of the Hamish’s depiction of Mr. Holmes is quite alarming, and I worry about the attitude he normally displays to the boy. While Hamish is an exceptionally bright, positive child, he often falls into quite alarming sulks, and is a terror to myself and the other children in the class.
I should also point out how much larger Mr. Watson’s head is than Mr. Holmes. This causes me to suspect that Mr. Watson does the majority of caregiving in your household, and while there is always some imbalance to be expected, it is worth contemplating whether or not Mr. Watson is dominating Hamish’s affections as a result.
Honestly, this notion is supported by the fact that Mr. Holmes is rendered as a dark mass at the side of the image, and does not make contact with the other two figures. The drawing of Mr. Watson, however, displays affection towards Hamish. This worries me greatly, Mr. Holmes.
Please, I feel this discussion would be much more appropriate in person, and I implore you to arrange a meeting with me at your earliest convenience. I expect you to send a note to me with Hamish by the end of the week, if I do not receive a phone call sooner.
Failure to contact me will result in me contacting higher authorities, in the boys best interest.
Hilda Brown Year 2 Teacher
From a note attached to the note attached to Hamish’s drawing:
Dear Ms. Brown,
You are, irrefutably, an idiot.
From a note attached to a note that was previously attached to the note attached to Hamish’s drawing:
From a new note attached to the note attached to Hamish’s drawing:
Dear Ms. Brown,
Your concern is noted and appreciated, though very much unwarranted. I can assure you, we have the most warm, loving household imaginable, including Mr. Holmes, who has never shown another living thing the kind of devotion he shows Hamish.
I apologize for your difficulty in reaching me, as does Mr. Holmes, who has given me his word he will no longer block numbers on my phone without my permission.
I would also like to extend an invitation to you to join us for tea this Sunday, so that you may see for yourself what a loving family we are. Mr. Holmes promises not to work that day and will have the body parts cleared from the kitchen.
Hamish worried his lower lip with his teeth as Greg Lestrade held his small hand, quietly leading him through their offices toward the interrogation rooms. Something was wrong. Hamish knew something was wrong. The environment was somber and bleak; no one was talking, really. Some were clumped in smaller groups whispering, but seemed to stop when they saw him.
He couldn’t remember his heart ever beating so fast – and briefly wondered if there had been an experiment done at some point to determine if a heart could actually beat right out of someone’s chest…
They came to the doorway of an interrogation room and stopped. Hamish looked up to see his ‘uncle’ Lestrade looking right back at him. There were dark, tired circles beneath his eyes, and his eyes themselves were not a lively, sharp or bright. Not like usual. They were burdened, heavy with what appeared to be… grief?
He reached up, and rested his hand atop Hamish’s head for a moment, before rubbing his hair gently and ushering him inside the room without a word. Only a nod. The young boy was confused, but tentatively stepped in.
There was a single light on which provided a bit of light, a table in the middle of the room and two chairs. But he wasn’t alone.
His father was there… standing right beside the table. His posture was stiff, his face full of a kind of… internal pain… that Hamish had never, ever seen before.
Consequently, Sherlock’s detached demeanour was not the only thing that Hamish noticed wasn’t right…
“Wh… Where’s da?” Hamish asked in a whispered voice, eyes already welling up with fear as he wrung his small hands together anxiously.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Hamish could have sworn he saw his jaw clench tighter; his eyes grow harder, despite the fact that his father, too, had liquid pooling in the ducts of his icy-coloured orbs…