30 Years Can Go By (Sequel to 60 Ways-ParentLock-BBC Sherlock)

Chapter Three

What do you picture me doing when I'm writing? Just curious.

This chapter took me a while but here it is.

Vomment, fan and other stuff.

-BB

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Chapter 3

"No, Hamish, stay away from Daddy for a bit," I could hear John's voice echo in my head.

"What's he doing?" Hamish asked.

"He's thinking."

"Why is he always thinking, Papa?"

"Daddy thinks differently from you and me, Hamish. But he might be like this for a bit...we've got a case," John explained.

"A case? Can I help?" asked Hamish excitedly.

I took this as my cue to cut in.

"Hamish, you're still too young," I told him.

"I'm four," he said as if arguing his case.

"Yes and these cases are very dangerous. Papa and I have both come far too close to dying," I glanced up at John, who gulped.

"How did you almost die?" Hamish looked scared.

I opened my mouth to tell Hamish about everything, but John cleared his throat. "Daddy and I will tell you about it when you're old enough to understand."

"Ok," Hamish agreed. Then he asked, "So did you solve the case yet, Daddy?"

I smiled, "No, not yet, Hamish, but I will very soon."

"You're a genius, Daddy," Hamish said.

I smiled. "I know, Hamish."

Then I retreated back into my mind palace.

All the evidence pointed towards David Day committing suicide, but I knew that wasn't the case.

The police thought he had hung himself after his significant other walked out on him. However, when so took a look at the bruising on his neck, there were clear finger-marks. I wasn't surprised that the idiots over at Scotland Yard had missed that.

When I told this to Lestrade, he suggested that the victim had choked himself. How ridiculous. The bruise marks from the fingers were above the bruises from the thumbs. If he had suffocated himself, the bruises from his fingers would have been below the thumbs.

The police had found David slumped against the wall of his closet. I had gone to the house. There were trails on the stairs from where the killer had dragged David up his stairs. David had been killed outside the house, an brought back so it would look like he had strapped himself up in the closet.

Fortunately, it had been raining on the day he was killed. I could tell because he had tracked slight mud into the house, leaving the carpet brown wherever he stepped. This told me the type of shoes he wore. I could see that they were a nice brand, but they were worn out on the edges (the tracks got lighter on the edges). He wore his shoes quite a lot. He wasn't wealthy if he could not afford more than one pair of shoes. He was also strong if he was able to drag David all the way through his flat.

Then I remembered the slight cuts on the victims. He wasn't mugged. Why would they cut his fingers? No that showed that he was wielding a knife.

Then it hit me. The man was harassing a poor man. A homeless man. He was threatening the man with a knife, so the homeless man was simply defending himself.

How the man knew where to bring David back? It was simple. David had been wearing a very expensive coat. One that he would not have wanted to lose. He had put his address into it so it could be returned if lost.

The poor man was smart, but not enough. He checked the coat for the address and brought David to his home and even make it look like a suicide, but he was not smart enough to take off his shoes so as not to make a mud-trail.

I opened my eyes and whispered "Of course!"

"You figure it out daddy?" I heard Hamish ask.

I looked to my right and saw him leaning on my shoulder, reading a book. I hadn't even noticed him there.

"Yes, I've got it," I told him. "What are you reading?"

Hamish looked back at the cover of the book. "The Hobbit."

"That's very advanced, Hamish," John contributed.

"Reading is easy," Hamish said proudly.

"I guess he gets that from you," John smiled over at me.

"Daddy can you read to me?" He asked, yawning.

I stared at the book a moment.

"I will Hamish, just give me a moment to tell the police about the case an I'll come right back," I patted the top of his head. I went into the kitchen o retrieve my phone.

I texted Lestrade what I had figured. He rarely questioned me anymore. All he replied was: Thank you, Sherlock.

When I got back to the sitting room, John was on the couch, reading to Hamish.

"Haha, I like the way you do the Hobbit voice, Papa," Hamish laughed.

"I think Daddy should be Smaug," John smirked up at me.

"Smaug?"

"Yes. The dragon," John told me.

"Alright," I commented skeptically.

I sat back down on the other side of Hamish and read whenever the dragon spoke. It was ridiculous. None of these things were possible. Dwarves? Hobbits? Wizards? Dragons? Much less talking ones. But Hamish enjoyed this and if he was happy I was not going to complain.

About half an hour later, Hamish was asleep leaning against my shoulder.

I whispered to John, "Should we take him to his room?"

"Yes, I'll carry him," he replied.

John stood and gently picked up Hamish, carrying him away to his room. The little boy looked like he was concentrating very hard, even when he was sleeping. That's my boy.

In ten minutes, John was back in the sitting room with me.

I was sprawled out on the couch. John came over and lied directly over me, resting his head on my chest. I kissed the top of his head.

"We're good at this, Sherlock," he mumbled.

"Yeah, we are, aren't we?"

"Yeah, and before we know, Hamish will be starting school and time will fly by after that," John sounded a bit sad.

"And you do know we have to tell him eventually - about my almost death and yours. If he finds out from someone else, he'll never trust us," I reminded him.

"Yes, I course, I know. But if we tell him now, he won't get it. We haven't said anything about Moriarty in his presence," John said.

"No, obviously we can't tell him yet. We'll wait a few years and then we'll explain everything."

"Sounds like a plan," John yawned.

"Tired?" I asked.

"A bit."

"Do you want to go to bed?"

Johns arms tightened around me. "No. I want to stay right here."

He reached behind him and pulled a blanket over the two of us while I reached up and clicked the lamp off.

"Goodnight John."

"Night, Sherlock."