His Return and Her Fall ((Parent!Lock))

Chapter Eleven - The Watsons and The Woman

They ran, more like sprinted, down the staircase. Thankfully Haley's slips weren't high heels or both of them would have toppled down the flight and to their possible deaths. Moriarty would have wanted that, especially now, for he was ho on their trail. He had noticed her absence when Sebastian had let of his hand to find their little slave when she was no where to be found, a waiter saying she had been pulled away by a lady in a blue dress.   

On the other side of London, John was pacing about the flat with Hamish hiding all of the sharp objects in view. Usually, when John got pissed, as he was now, he would stab at things. Last time it was the scissors in the couch's arm. Ms. Hudson gladly patched it for him, but he was never the same from that. He saw the pain he could inflict and Sherlock saw it as a plus as he saw it as a deformity to his person.    

Hamish sighed, finally able to get all of the pointy or bladed objects from him and sat himself at the table as John sat in anger, huffing curses under his breath.  

"Dad?" the boy questioned. "Are you okay now?" The sight of his father's dismay would make someone want to jump, but it held the boy in his place. Irene was watching the window for her daughter's safe return, but there wasn't any sight as of now. Later, she thought.  

"Dad, please talk."  

"She's dead, isn't she? The both of them," he mumbles, coughing on his tears. Hamish gasps in surprise of the man's words. Dead? How could he ever think that? "He killed Sherlock, too, didn't he?"  

"Dad, stop it," Hamish cries, standing and glaring down to his father. The only thing John did was look up to him before sniffling and looking back to his mug. The tea was still a bit steamy, as Irene had made it fresh. The woman thought it would calm his mind, make him less irritable about the whole situation, but it was a failure.   

"But, they're dead. They are both dead, Hamish. All of them. Dalton, Lela, Haley, Sherlock... Sarah-"

 "Don't say my mum is dead!" he screams, picking up the butter dish and throwing it at his father. It hits his arm but he doesn't flinch. The pain was no comparison to the pain of knowing his family was dead, even the mother of his child. His husband, his daughter, his friends, the children that were the only ones to protect Haley and her all, dead. Deceased. Gone. Well, in john's mind, really. Irene made her way back into the main of the flat, picking up her book and walking into the kitchen to see Hamish pushing John's shoulder and yelling at him to get up.   

He wanted to die himself, the man. But Irene would never let that happen. She loved that man like her child, as he was acting like it. He was acting as if Sherlock was in one of his moods, angry and sole.   

"Johnathan Hamish Holmes-Watson," Irene growls. Hamish looks, but not John. She was yelling to the man, not the boy as he had -seconds later- understood. The middle name thing was confusing at times. "Stop your moping and get to bed. It's late and I will make sure they get back, safely."  

"On the news it said 'dedicated to the passing of Sherlock Holmes-Watson'. He- is- DEAD."  

They both stood silent, Irene feeling as the cool, salty tears fell down her face. Hamish only growled and ran upstairs, the wind of his speed breathing heavily in his ears. Then the doorbell rang, sending chills up John's back. No one would come so late to a flat, especially theirs. Anderson and Lestrade were doing all they could to get paparazzi and hat not away from the street, other then business reasons and to see them. Those were only therapists and Mr. Collins who kindly opped to tutor Hamish. The whole scene was a bit much for him at the schools now.

"How dare you say my daughter is dead. Sarah is saving her, and you should be thankful we all even still care, John," Irene chokes, feeling the tears tug on her throat and muffle her screaming that she was already trying her best to hide. 

John sat quiet, huffing as his face went red before mumbling, "I'm going to bed" and leaving the room, pushing his chair back a bit to harshly. The metal frame his the counter hard and made the others flinch, the sound a bit too loud in the quietness of the flat. Hamish runs to Irene's side, hugging her tightly and refusing to let go. This would be his new family for as long as she could stay, which hopefully was long enough.  

"How about we read a story and you get into bed?" she offers, looking down to him and running her hand across his cheek to wipe away his tears. She felt him nod and that made her smile. "Brush you teeth, take a piss, get your jammies, get into bed!" she calls, just as John used to. The boy always found the greatest joy in it, as he did now. Off he went, Irene looking into Sherlock and John's room to see the man curled up in the bed like a child missing his mother. Instead now it was a army doctor missing his loving consulting detective of a husband.

 He was holding the blankets, the salty taste of his tears ignored. It was as if he wasn't even there anymore, John. If Sherlock wasn't, he wasn't, and it wan sure as hell an impact upon them. Leaving the man to the dark, silence, loneliness of his room, Irene walks up the next flight to see Hamish darting past and into his room that was past shared with Haley. Her things still remain untouched by the family. They didn't want anything to be out of place when she returned, for she never like that. They wouldn't want to upset her. 

Hamish squirms his way into his bed, taking off his glasses, folding in the arms and putting them on his table. Irene takes her spot on the end of the bed, grabbing his book, The Hobbit, from the little shelf against the wall. She opens it, smiling at him.

"'Good morning!' said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, and the grass was very green. But Gandalf looked at him from under long bushy eyebrows that stuck out farther than the brim of his shady hat. 'What do you mean?' he said. 'Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?' 'All of them at once,' said Bilbo," She read aloud to him, not knowing of the little red dots starting to swarm the room. As warm and comforting the situation was, the dots were burning into the room, the scene become fearful in an instant.

"Irene?" Hamish shudders, seeing the blurred array of the red beams, "I think we should go back for some-"

"Hamish, you've had enough tea for the night," Irene protests, Hamish biting his lip as she closes the book, her finger still in the page.

"But, I'm hungry for human flesh," he says in a spur, not really caring of what he said at all. As long as Irene got out of there, he would be happy. "Please, let's go have tea!"

"So, you're a cannibal?" she asks only seconds before the silent blare of a sniper rifle across the street makes him jump and the blood splatter. Her blue eyes were ice cold, the life running from them and down her face in the form of deep red and thick blood. He couldn't scream. He was too scared to. 

She falls to the floor, the blood pooling and a cry finally coming from his young body. For eleven years old, he could scream pretty loudly. But quickly and quietly, he was silenced by another bullet that lodged into the wall. John could hear it from his room, shutting his eyes to block it all out. They were dead. His son, and his friend. Dead. 

Moriarty's trained snipers were just cross the street, celebrating silently as they left their perch to head back to the mansion. James would be pleased with their work. Black jackets hiding their weapons and cases packed into the bags upon their backs, the four of them defended the staircase, stopping instantly to the eye of a barrel of a handgun in their faces.

"Boys," Haley says with a slight smirk, her breathing tight, but loose enough to speak and walk about. Sarah was behind her with another gun, shaking to hold it. 

"You don't have the guts to shoot me," the first one says, grinning with a slight scoff. However, Haley was on the opposite of his words. The trigger pulled and the bullet lodged itself right into the mans forehead, right between the eyes. As if a bomb went off, the other three scrabble to get their own out, but we're side shorted by the two girls, scared, but happy now that they were all dead. John would be safe.

But that was beside the point. The girls had no idea what they had done to Irene and Hamish, not at all. John was still in bed, crying silently to himself. Any noise and they would know he was there. Truth was, they wanted to wait to kill him, actually. But as John was sitting up, Moriarty was on his way to the flat, including three other snipers trailing behind and running through the ally ways to grab hold of Haley and Sarah, John if they could manage.