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Chapter Text

      John Watson had seen the magic shop from afar many times.  He’d always fancied he’d seen it around the corner or further up on Regent Street, perhaps even as far as Piccadilly Circus.  But today, as he and his six-year-old son Hamish walked in the cold, watery sunshine of a spring day in London, the shop surprised him.  It suddenly stood between Granny’s Greeting Cards and the Foxy Nails boutique.  It was a narrow, little shop, full of the standard magic shop items.  There were magic cards, tricks, baubles, boxes and even the inevitable rabbit in a hat. 

     Amused, John stopped for a moment to look into the window and something stirred deep in the back of his memory.  He’d been to this shop before, as a child… No, he’d have remembered coming to this particular place, surely.  Also, it didn’t look like this shop had been here that long.

     Hamish, a well-mannered and very bright boy, didn’t ask or beg his father to take him into the shop at all.  However, John could tell by the slight tug on his finger that the boy wanted to go in. 

     “Look at that, Hamish,” John said and pointed to a trick that showed a pencil being pushed through a quarter. 

    “And that,” the boy said breathlessly, his large blue eyes looking in wonder at wide variety of magic tricks on display.   In the window was a tiny guillotine cutting a fake finger in half.  “How do they do that, Daddy?” he wondered aloud.   “Could we go in there?  I’ve got some birthday money.”

    “Oh really?  You’ve got birthday money left?” his father said with a smile.  “I thought you’d spent it all already.”  John ruffled through his light blonde hair, hair so like his mother’s.  His mother, Mary,  had passed away two years ago and John still felt a stab of sorrow when he thought how much of her sweet son’s life she was missing.  He hadn’t remarried and often times he felt so guilty to have been the one who got to raise Hamish. 

    “No, see.  I’ve still got twenty pounds.  And, I want to buy the quarter trick there and that cut finger trick, there and that!  He pointed to a very old-fashioned ventriloquist dummy.  John was surprised to see it in the window.  He’d thought they’d stopped making those things years ago.  Who did ventriloquist acts anymore? 

      “You sure you want that, kiddo?  It seems a bit scary.”

     “No Daddy, I could show it to Jess, next door,” he answered.  But it’s okay.  We don’t have to go in if you’re in a hurry.”

      That tugged at his heart a bit.  “We have time, Hamish.  Let’s go in,” John said and pushed open the door to the little shop.

     This was no ordinary toy shop.  It was a genuine magic shop.  “You know, Hamish.  There used to be a lot of these magic shops around, but you don’t see them much anymore.”

     “Why not?” the boy asked.

     “Well, I think it’s because people just don’t believe in magic anymore.”

     “Do you, Dad?” Hamish asked tugging his hand again and pulling him even deeper into the shop.

     “I used to when I was your age.  In fact, I remember something about a shop just like this…”  John was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of déjà vu and had to stop walking a moment to get his bearings straight.

     Hamish hadn’t noticed his father’s distress and had moved over to some magic mirrors standing in the corner.  One mirror made them both look squat, short and pinched in the middle, while another made them long and drawn out.  While his son stood in front them laughing at his reflection, John took a moment to shake off the weird feeling and look about the compact shop. 

     It appeared to be overstuffed, crowded and very cramped.  In other words, just like every other magic shop he’d ever been in as a boy.  Along one wall many cheap, gaudy tricks displayed fantastic claims like, “Astonish your friends with the disappearing finger trick” or “this magic box will make anything you put in it disappear.”  One wall held nothing but a wide array of playing cards in every color of the rainbow.  John laughed at most of these and remembered his own fascination with all things magic. 

      They had been in the shop a few minutes and John hadn’t seen anyone working.  He stepped up to the counter to see if there was a bell to ring in order to get someone’s attention.  He saw a silk, top hat sitting next to the register shamelessly showing it’s springs and false bottom.  Suddenly, a deep voice resonated next to him and with a start, he became aware of the shopkeeper.  A tall, elegantly dressed man appeared just behind him.  John had no idea where the man had been hiding in the tiny shop but there he stood.  

     “Pleasure to meet you,” he said with a keen, one sided smile.  “I’m the owner of this shop and would be pleased to offer any assistance you need.”

     “Yes, my son would like to buy a few tricks,” John said openly gaping at the man in front of him.  He had the most stunning aqua-blue eyes, high cheek bones, dark curly hair and a chin like the toe-cap of a boot.  He didn’t want to appear rude, but the man’s sudden emergence almost out of thin air, had unsettled him a bit.  But, that was probably the shopkeeper’s way to maintain a magical atmosphere for his customers. 

   “I believe,” the shopkeeper said with a short bow, “You’d like the “Pencil through the Quarter” trick and the “Finger Guillotine” trick? 

     “How did you know I wanted those tricks?” Hamish asked tugging on the shopkeeper’s dark, well-fitted suit coat, blue eyes wide. 

     “Hello, Master Hamish,” the shopkeeper said.  “I know because this is a genuine magic shop,” he said and drew a business card from his elbow with a flourish and held it up for John to see.  “You see, it says, The Genuine Magic Shop.  All goods and services of the highest quality and completely authentic.  Genuine,” he said, with his long, pale finger on the word, and added, “There is no deception, John.”

     John looked at his son and then back at the shopkeeper.  He had said his son’s name aloud.  He must have for the man to know it.  But no one had said his name out loud and he certainly hadn’t given it.  “How did you know my….”

     “Magic, of only the genuine sort,” the shopman repeated and John huffed.

     “Right, magic,” he was beginning to think something was going on and he wasn’t sure magic was the right word. 

     “Check your pocket, Master Hamish,” the shopman said.

     John gasped despite himself when his son patted his jacket pocket and found the two tricks inside.  He pulled them out with a round-eyed look of awe on his face.

    “Wow,” he exclaimed and handed them to John who took them wordlessly.  He placed them on the counter by the door so they could be rung up. 

     “It’s only fair that since I know both of your names, you should know mine.  Call me, Sherlock.”

    Of course a dealer of magical items would be named Sherlock.  John imagined him in a classic suit and tails with a top hat.  “Sherlock the Magnificent!” he said with a chuckle.

     Sherlock leveled a stare at him so severe that John instantly stopped laughing and swallowed nervously. 

     “I do not perform on stage, nor will I ever.  I merely provide the stock and trade of conjurers.  I can obtain any trick, no matter how elusive or impossible to obtain.  I’ve worked with all the best magicians in the world.  They come from every corner of the Earth to buy from my shop. If they can find it.”

     John wrinkled his brow.  The shop occupied the corner of one of the busiest streets in the middle of downtown London.  How hard would it be to find?  But, that thought was soon driven out of his mind.  The shopkeeper, Sherlock, John reminded himself, had turned his attention to his son who appeared to be mesmerized by the charismatic man. 

     “Of course, I’d be delighted to help you.  But first,” he said, and while scratching his dark curls, he drew a glass ball from the side of his head.  John had seen this trick countless times in magic shows as a kid but here, the action was unexpected.  Sherlock bowed and extended the glass ball to Hamish who tried to take it in wide-eyed wonder.  But, when he put out his hand, he found only a blank palm.

     “That’s amazing,” John said almost as wide-eyed as his son.

     “Isn’t it?” asked the shopman with an air of amused confidence.  “It’s also in your pocket.”

     Hamish patted his jacket pocket and pulled out the glass ball.  He held it in his hand with an ear-to-ear, face splitting grin on his face.  John looked at this man in gratitude.  Since his mother’s death, Hamish hadn’t often displayed such joy in the little things most other children enjoyed.  He seemed much too serious for such a young boy.  Visiting this shop and discovering the marvelously talented owner had been an unexpectedly happy accident. 

     “How much will that be?” John asked nodding at the glass ball.

     “I don’t charge for glass balls,” said Sherlock politely.  “I get them,” he picked another one out of his elbow as he spoke, “free.”  He produced another from the back of his neck and laid it beside its mate on the glass counter.  Hamish regarded his glass ball in delighted silence, then directed a look of inquiry at the two on the counter, and finally brought his eyes back to Sherlock, who smiled.

     “You may have those too,” he said with a light shining in his unearthly, blue eyes, “and, if you don’t mind, one from my mouth.  So!”

     Hamish looked at John silently for a moment seeming to steel himself for the next event.  He was absolutely hooked.

       “I get a lot of my smaller tricks that way,” Sherlock remarked smugly looking at John with knowing smirk.

     John laughed a bit nervously, “Yeah, instead of going to the wholesale shop for magic goods.  Of course, it’s cheaper.”

     “In a way,” Sherlock said leaning close into John’s personal space and speaking in that conspiratorial manner he’d used earlier.  “Most of my simple tricks I get out of that hat.” And, he nodded in the direction of the ridiculous magician’s chapeau on the counter.  Then, his voice dropped even lower, almost a baritone rumble and he said, “You know John, there isn’t a wholesale shop, not for Genuine Magic goods.”

     John felt something stir then, the memory of himself as a boy coming into a magic shop just like this.  There had been a tall, dark haired man who’d said, “Only genuine tricks….”  He shook his head.  That feeling of having been to this shop before intensified and he looked again at the shopman.  He seemed so familiar.  Could he have met him before?  He would have remembered meeting someone like Sherlock, surely.

     “I guess not,” John chuckled weakly.  The man certainly seemed to be carrying the joke a bit far. He guessed the art of performing magic depended on a certain air of mystery but he hadn’t expected it to feel so….real.

     Sherlock seemed to sense his unease and turned back to Hamish with a bright smile.

      “I have been gifted with other powers as well.  Of the more mundane sort, I’m afraid.  I also have the power of deduction.”

     “What’s de-duck-shun?” Hamish asked happy to be the center of attention again.  John really was pleased at the reaction the unusual shopman produced in his son.  He hadn’t been this invested in anything in so long.

     “It’s the ability to use observation to figure out specific details about a person without them telling you.  For example, I’ve deduced that you and your father are having a day out on the town, and you have just come from eating lunch at the deli across the street.  You had fish and chips, and your father had a corned beef sandwich.”

     “Exactly. How did you know?” John asked incredulously. 

      “Easy, John,” Sherlock said grinning devilishly at him.  He really had a cheeky grin, John thought.  “You’ve got a drip of mustard on your collar and a fleck of pepper from the corned beef on your cheek.”

     John absently brushed off his face.

     “Hamish, here has traces of vinegar on his sleeve and a distinctive odor of fried haddock about his person,” Sherlock said hovering over the boy’s head and scrunching up his nose comically causing Hamish to giggle.

     “That’s incredible,” John said.  “You got all that from a few drips and a smell?”

     “Most people look but they do not see,” Sherlock leaned in towards John and continued in a low confidential voice.  “I see a young father who is on his own trying to raise his son.”  Here Sherlock’s eyes flashed down to John’s empty ring finger.  “It’s been about a year and a half?”

     “Two,” John answered mechanically. 

     “Of course, always something,” he said lightly hitting his forehead in consternation.  “Two.” 

     “You gathered that from observation, did you?” John asked feeling Sherlock’s eyes lock on to his and stay there as if he could see right inside to his inmost secrets.  At this point, he half believed he could.

     “I see many things others miss.  Such as,” he said and pulled a wriggling little demon creature off of John’s coat.  He held it between his thumb and forefinger as though it were a disgusting bit of vermin, shook it a few times and tossed it over his shoulder so it landed behind the glass counter.

     “What was that?” John asked both startled and concerned.  He hoped Hamish hadn’t seen the horrible, little thing.  No doubt it was a piece of cheap rubber fashioned to look like a creature from Hell, but for a moment it had looked so real.  Just another one of Sherlock’s little, magical jokes. 

     “Not one of mine,” Sherlock said suddenly serious.  “You probably brought it in with you.”  He said and nodded at Hamish.  “You two seem to be carrying some distressing things around.”

     “Yeah, well.  It’s been a difficult two years since…Mary..”

     “Your wife?” Sherlock asked gently putting a hand on his elbow.  His expressive face showed concern and John felt like he wanted to lean in and unburden himself.  He got the idea that Sherlock would listen patiently to all his worries and griefs and know exactly what to do about them.  Then, he shook his head.  It almost felt as if he’d been hypnotized for a moment.   He stepped away from the shopman and had decided it might be time to go. 

     Sherlock noticed the change in John’s demeanor and a brief look of alarm passed across his features. But it instantly vanished.  He turned to Hamish and said,

     “You know, you are the Right Sort of Boy.”

     John looked up sharply at Sherlock.  He’d always thought the same exact thing about his son.  He was sure all parents thought their child was something special, but John suspected there might actually be something really extraordinary about his Hamish.  He usually tried to keep it a secret even at home.  He’d noticed how unflinchingly brave, sweet, honest and generous his son was to all his friends.  He’d even had the presence of mind to comfort his father and pull him through the worst of the depression of losing Mary.  Yes, Hamish was the Right Sort of Boy. Undoubtedly.

     Hamish received this news in silence. 

     “It’s only the Right Sort of Boy who gets through that doorway,” Sherlock said and nodded at the front door of the shop. 

     And, as if by illustration, there came a rattling outside the shop's door.  They all heard a young boy’s sour, squeaking voice say, “But Dad!  I want to go in.  I want. To. GO. IN!  the voice shouted getting more petulant with each word. 

     “Edward, it’s locked,” the boy's father said resignedly.  “It won’t open, I’m afraid.  I’ll take you to get ice cream, instead.”

     “No, Dad.  I want this shop.”

     John moved helpfully toward the door to see if he could get it opened.  He tugged on it but it wouldn’t move. “What’s wrong with the door?” John asked looking at Sherlock who stood firmly in place not moving or even seeming concerned in the least that he might be losing a potential customer.

     “It’s always locked for that sort of child,” he said stiffly. 

     As the pair gave up on the door, they moved away down the sidewalk.  John could make out the pale faced, sallow looking boy glaring back over his shoulder at the magic shop’s door.  His expression was that of a spoiled child who hasn’t gotten his way.  He father gave him a swift swat to his rump and dragged him away howling.  

    “Hurmph,” Sherlock said frowning.  “It seems the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”

     “Yeah,” John said, giving the door another tug and finding it still firmly stuck in place.  No doubt the immovable door was a temporary issue, John thought. In a few minutes, Sherlock would ring up their purchases, and they would freely be allowed to leave, wishing them a pleasant day. 

     “You both however, are apples of a different colour,” he said with a smile.

    “Daddy,” Hamish said taking a firm hold of John’s hand, something he hadn’t done in a long while, “I like this shop!”

     “Me too,” John said smiling despite the oddness of the encounter so far.  “Shall we pay up and go home?  Maybe we can come back another day?”

     Hamish nodded.  It was obvious he loved the little shop and wanted to stay, but as usual, he obediently complied with his father’s suggestion.  “Sure, I want to go home and try out my new tricks.”

     Sherlock’s face smoothed itself into a neutral mask as went around the glass counter and stood behind the cash register.  If you believe you are ready to leave, we may conclude our business.  However, I believe you wanted to buy the ventriloquist dummy?”

     Hamish shot him a hopeful look at those words and ran to the display window.  He stood by the dummy not touching or even pleading with his father but just waiting to see what would happen next. 

     “Oh, I doubt we can afford that friendly little customer,” John said with a laugh.  Frankly, the dummy kind of disturbed him and he really didn’t want it in the house.  The thought of his son having conversations, real or imagined, with the spooky doll unnerved him. 

     He saw the look of disappointment on his son’s face and that almost made him change his mind.  But, the thing was probably an antique and cost a fortune.  Even on a doctor’s salary, he had to watch his budget.  Being a single parent really ate into the disposable income.

    “Very well,” Sherlock said as he leaned over the counter, he really had an extraordinarily long body, John thought, Sherlock produced a piece of brown paper which he got from the empty hat with springs.  He placed Hamish’s tricks in the center of the parcel and he individually wrapped each glass ball in tissue paper; “string” he said and he drew an unending thread from a ball which he apparently had concealed in his mouth.  Then, when he tied the package off, he bit the string, and it seemed to John that he swallowed the ball.  Next, he produced a lighter and lit the end of his index finger until it glowed sealing wax red, and sealed the parcel.  He handed the package to Hamish and the boy clasped it to his chest looking up in admiration at the shopman. What an incredible performance!  This guy should be on TV.  John began to feel just a little resentment at his son’s obvious adoration of this amazing man.  How was he supposed to compete with an illusion that incredible?

     Once again Sherlock made eye contact with John and this time he didn’t break his intense stare after the proper interval.  “John, the same goes for you, too.”

     “What do you mean,” John asked.  He felt nervous now.  He wanted to leave and this shop, this man, brought memories to the surface of his mind that he thought he’d buried long ago.

     “Only the Right Sort of Boy gets through that door,” Sherlock said evenly still keeping his azure gaze on him.

     “Yeah, we established that,” he said feeling as if he were missing something.

     “You, John.  You wouldn’t have been able to open that door if you hadn’t been the Right Sort.”

     “Well,” he laughed uneasily. “I think we both know I’m not a boy anymore.”

     “No, but not that long ago, you used to be,” Sherlock said arching an eyebrow.  “You know what I mean, don’t you?  You used to believe in magic.”

     The uncomfortable feeling grew worse.  John shuffled his feet and dug into his trouser pocket for his wallet.  “How much do we owe you?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

     With a start, John felt something moving around under the driving cap he’d placed on his head that morning before going out .  He whipped it off and discovered a small, white dove sitting comfortably in his hat cooing softly.  He stared at it in absolute amazement.  There was no way Sherlock could have placed it there without his knowing.  Hamish laughed and clapped his hands.

    “Tut, tut.  Careless bird.  And, as I suspected, nesting!”  Sherlock relieved John of his headdress and carefully took out the dove and placed him somewhere behind the counter.  Then, he shook John’s hat and out fell two small eggs, a large marble, a pocket watch, about a half-dozen of the inevitable glass balls and then crumpled paper.  Sherlock kept pulling out more and more wads of crumpled paper talking all the time about how people neglected to brush their hats inside as well as out.  “Not you, John, of course,” he said winking at Hamish.  “All sorts of things accumulate…nearly every customer….Astonishing what they carry about with them…”

     Hamish giggled as Sherlock continued to pull more and more crumpled wads of paper from his father’s cap.  The paper rose and billowed on the counter until Sherlock was nearly hidden from view, until he was hidden, and still his voice when on and on.  “None of us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conceal, John.  Are we all then no better than brushed exteriors, marble statues--?”

     His voice stopped—exactly like when you hit a neighbour’s stereo with a well-aimed brick, the same instant silence and the rustle of the paper stopped, and everything was still.

     John and Hamish looked at each other and after an interval John asked tenuously,  “Are you done with my hat?”

     There was no answer.

     John felt his heart speed up and his nerves went on high alert.  He looked around the shop hoping to find an answer to this newest spectacle but found nothing except for their distorted reflections in the carnival mirrors, looking very queer, and grave and quiet…  “I think we’ll go now,” he said.  “Will you tell me how much all this comes to?”

     They both heard a small sniff from behind the paper pile,  “I say,” John said on a louder note, “I want the bill; and my hat….please,” he added the please out of a forced sense of politeness.  The uncomfortable silence stretched on and John finally said, “Let’s look behind the counter, Hamish.  He’s making fun of us.”

     John led Hamish around to the other side of the counter and they discovered…nothing.  Just a common conjurer’s white rabbit lost in meditation and looking as stupid as a conjurer’s rabbit can look.  Until it looked up at John and seemed to smile a lopsided grin before it decided to hop away and squeeze through a slightly open door that John could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. 

     “Daddy!” Hamish said in a guilty but awed whisper.

     “Yes, ‘Mish?” John answered keeping his voice neutral and even.

     “I do like this shop.”

     “Me too,” John agreed.  “It’s making me believe there might be a bit of magic left in the world after all.”  He would, however, like the shop much better if it didn’t appear to him that the glass counter had suddenly extended itself, effectively trapping them and cutting them off from the door.  He could leap over the thing but just then the other door he'd just noticed, opened wider and there stood Sherlock once again.

     He smiled the lopsided grin and his eyes met John’s with something between amusement and defiance.  “Before you go, I wonder if you’d be interested in seeing the show-room?  Only a select few ever get to lay eyes on what’s in here. I don't invite just anybody, John.”  

     “We don’t have a lot of time, this afternoon,” John began but once again he felt the little forward tug of his son’s hand in his.  He looked down at the achingly young face and saw the delighted expression there.  Hamish would never beg or whine for something he wanted, and he very clearly wanted this.  What harm could there be in it?  He’d be here with the lad the whole time, and he so clearly wanted to see what was in the shopman’s show-room.  If truth be told, John wanted to see inside the show-room as well.  He didn't know if it were just his son's excitement of the place, or if his own sense of wonder was being restored, but dispite odd nature of all he'd witnessed so far, he really, really wanted to follow Sherlock.

     “You’d both like to see the show-room, then?” Sherlock asked innocently. 

     “Yes, we’ll take a peek.”  No doubt they’d be allowed to leave once the “show” was over.  He had to admire Sherlock’s tenacity as a salesman.  At this rate, Hamish might just be a customer for life. 

Chapter Text

     They entered the room and the first thing John noticed was its immense size.  Surely there wasn’t enough physical room for this place to exist.  The Foxy Nail boutique stood next to this shop.  Unless, Sherlock owned it too and used it as a fake front that housed this merchandise without drawing attention to the fact.  He looked toward the front of the show-room and didn’t see any windows facing out to the street.  Odd. 

     Sherlock led them into the well-organized, gleaming showroom with an air of smug superiority.  “Do you see anything you fancy here?” he asked Hamish.

     There were many things Hamish fancied there.

     “Is that a magic sword?” the boy asked drawing it from a scabbard that hung on a peg.  To John’s eye, it looked to be a very well-made replica of a real broadsword.  The craftsmanship was exquisite.  Hamish brandished it in front of him with a gleam in his eye as if he were already imagining real battles on top of grassy knolls.  John smiled at him fondly.  He remembered having those exact fantasies when he played with plastic swords as a boy.

     “That is certainly a magic sword," Sherlock said bending near Haymish's ear.  "It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts fingers.  It renders the bearer invincible in battle against anyone under eighteen.” Here Sherlock cast a eye towards John and leaned in towards him to say quietly, “Don’t worry, it's not sharp at all and it will collapse when pushed or hit too hard.  Completely harmless.”

     “How much?” Hamish asked already wondering if he was going to have any of his twenty quid left over after paying for his other tricks.  Sherlock still hadn’t given them an actual figure to pay for their purchases.

     “Half-a-crown to seven and sixpence, according to size,” Sherlock stated quickly.  John shot him a curious look.  Who still spoke like that?  He mentally tried to add that figure up and came up very confused. 

     “Here, to go with your sword, a shield of safety, sandals of swiftness, and a helmet of invisibility.”  Sherlock gathered theses items, all of the same exceptional quality and laid them out on a table in front of them.”

     “Oh, Daddy!” gasped Hamish.  “These are…This is way better than any toy store.”  He held out his twenty pound note to Sherlock and asked in the sweetest way possible, “Is this enough?” 

     John chest almost exploded right then and tears sprang to his eyes.  If it weren’t, he thought the look on his son’s face might very well encourage him max out his credit card to ensure that the boy took home every single enchanted item.  And, John saw the genius of Sherlock’s plan.  Get the kids into the show-room and that was it for the parents.  He thought he might want to get his son out before he became attached to all of Sherlock’s confounded stock.  Granted, it was a lot of high-quality items, but he wasn’t made out of money. Now that Hamish had seen it all, there was no way the boy wouldn’t yearn to have it.  Hell, he wanted half the stuff he’d seen so far even though he was a grown man.

    Sherlock smiled right back and bent over to pluck the note from the boy’s hand.  He pushed it gently back into Hamish’s front shirt pocket and said, “You might want to wait a bit and see what else I’ve got to show you before you decide which one you want.  I’m sure you will have just the right amount,” Sherlock assured him with a smile.

    And Hamish surprised John by nodding his head sagely at that advice. He walked past the enchanted toys laid out on the table without a second glance and again took hold of his father’s hand.  John breathed a sigh of relief.  Perhaps now that Sherlock knew the amount they had to offer, he’d lead them to some items more in their price range. 

     “Carry on,” John said with a smile.  So far, Hamish seemed to be enjoying himself.  And even if he didn’t come out of the shop with an armful of new toys, John had some very definite ideas for Christmas presents this year. 

    “This way,” Sherlock said and waved them over to another part of the show-room.  John was taken aback at the size of the place.  It was a long, rambling warehouse, that show-room.  It appeared more a gallery broken up by stands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other departments.  It was then that John noticed the other employees.  A couple of young men, assistants obviously, who loafed about casually arranging merchandise, and stared at him as he passed by.  They all resembled Sherlock a bit in that they were tall, dark haired and striking. He nodded and they nodded back, keeping their eyes on him and Hamish they walked past.  He wondered at the size of the place and the expense of hiring extra help when they appeared to be the only customers.  Perhaps Sherlock had a thriving online presence?  Who knew in these times.  After walking further back into the enormous show-room, John discovered that he was unable to make out the door by which they had come.

     Haymish had let go of his hand and now walked alongside Sherlock as he pointed out different displays.  His son was a very quick learner and decided to reserve judgment on his final choice after he’d seen all there was to offer.  John walked behind them a few steps pausing here and there to look over items that caught his eye, and the pair strayed ahead of him.  He kept an eye on them both and never let them get too far away.  Something inside him wanted to make sure he never let them get beyond his sight.  No doubt when the time came to go, Sherlock would show them back to the cash register to check out.  After all, a shopkeeper’s bottom line kept him afloat. 

     Sherlock had stopped near a table set up as a battlefield complete with historical themed toy soldiers, cannons, small trees and farmhouses.  The set was magnificent.  Each solider looked as though it were individually crafted and painstakingly detailed.  John marveled over the stalwart company.  He imagined Hamish spending hours of quality time with this set imagining battles and plotting skirmishes against enemy soldiers.  Did kids today still play pretend?  He’d avoided getting Hamish a video game console hoping he’d spend his days outside playing.  John didn’t want his son turning into a video game junkie or a couch potato who never used his imagination. 

     “Brings back some memories of my military days,” John said as he caught up with the two of them hunkered down over the miniature battlefield. 

     “Yes, I’d say Army,” Sherlock said.  “Judging by your stance and bearing. You were in the military at least ten years and you’ve had medical training.”

    “Once again, you're right,” John said astounded at how accurate Sherlock got his personal information.  “I’m a practicing doctor now.”  He got on bended knee and picked up one of the sturdy, little soldiers.  This one is a corporal, Hamish.  See his insignia?”  Haymish nodded and picked up another.

    “Would you like to know a secret about this merry company?” Sherlock asked looking both of them directly in the eye.  John found he liked it when Sherlock’s glance fell his way.  He didn’t think he’d spent much of the past two years letting anyone else inside his inner defenses.  He knew he kept everyone at bay since Mary's death.  That way no one else could hurt him by leaving him.  But, for some reason, he felt Sherlock actually saw through those barriers and to the real "him." 

     “Yes, I would,” Hamish said looking back and forth between his father and Sherlock. 

     “Well, if you put them all back in this box and say this special word ------, they will come alive.”

     John didn’t quite catch the word Sherlock said.  It was tongue twisting sound that hurt his brain when he tried to make sense of it.  But Hamish got the word instantly and repeated it.

     “Let me try!” he said enthusiastically.  Sherlock put the soliders into the box, put the lid on and Haymish said, “-------.”  Once again John couldn’t make out the sounds but when Sherlock lifted the lid, the little toy men were all moving their arms and legs.  He took them out one by one and set them on the battlefield, they began marching around and to John’s surprise, they began to form themselves into organized lines. 

     Sherlock waved his hand and said another tounge twisting word and the soliders fell still.  They must be controlled by some electronic gadgetry, John thought and picked one up to peer closely at it.  They appeared solid and made of pewter or some other base metal and didn’t appear to have battery compartments. 

     “These are incredible,” John said in awe.

     “This is what I want,” Haymish said with quiet nod.  “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.”  Sherlock smiled exactly as if he hoped Hamish would have said that very thing.

     “Wise choice, Master Hamish,” Sherlock said and quickly piled up the troop of men, put them back into their box, and popped the lid on top.  They are yours,” he said with a flourish.  He stood abruptly and one of his asistants came forward with a more brown paper and string.  Sherlock quickly tied up the bundle and presented it to Hamish with another of his lopsided smiles, which made the corner of his glittering eyes crinkle happily.  John looked down at the package and noticed Haymish’s full name and address written across the top.

     “How?”

     Sherlock simply laughed at John's amazement.  “Only the genuine magic.”

    Yeah, well maybe the magic was a little too genuine for his tastes.  “What’s the damage on that set?” John asked and Sherlock waved the question away.  It had not escaped John’s notice that whenever price was mentioned, Sherlock simply didn’t respond.  He’d been to shops before where customers weren’t allowed to ask the price because usually that meant that if a person had to ask, they probably couldn’t afford it.  He sincerely hoped this wasn’t that kind of shop.  Well, he’d find out at the end of this expedition wouldn’t he?

     They all stood and John said, “We really do have to get back now.  Which way out?”

     Sherlock walked forward, but to John they seemed to be going deeper into the warehouse rather than back, and waved him to follow.  “Come along, John.”

     John sighed and followed and then noticed with a sharp pang of jealousy that Hamish had grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hand, and was holding it exactly as he usually held hold of his!

Chapter Text

John panicked for a moment and called out, “Sherlock, wait a moment.”

     Sherlock turned back to him and waited expectantly.  Hamish also looked back at his father with trusting acceptance and then looked up at Sherlock the same way. 

     “How is this possible?  How much more of this place is there to see?”

     Sherlock turned to look at him fully now.  A wooden bench sat near them and Sherlock gently lowered himself onto it.  Hamish instantly crowded in next to him, completely comfortable and at ease.  Usually, it took a while for his son to warm up to people but he seemed to have no reservations with Sherlock. 

    Sherlock warmly glanced down at the tow-headed child and put a wide fingered hand on his head for a moment before removing his hand and placing both of them demurely into his lap.  “John, you may not remember.  But, you and I have met before, when you were a child,” he said looking into John’s eyes and smiling secretively.  “You and your sister, Harriet, came into my shop when you were about twelve.”

    John’s breathing hitched as a memory flooded back into his front brain from somewhere deep inside.  “Yes, I do remember coming to a shop like this...” 

     They had come to London on a shopping trip and his teenaged sister had been in charge of him that day.  He recalled his own voice calling out to Harry, “Come on, the shop’s right here.  Let’s go in.”  He’d pulled at the door handle and pushed his way inside.  His sister had just managed to grab hold of his hand and almost pulled him back out.  She was in a hurry for some reason and didn’t want to go into the magic shop.  John remembered how much she hated going into them and thought they were stupid.  But, he proved stronger that day and pulled her inside the shop instead.  It almost felt like an invisible barrier wanted to keep her out but John’s sheer force of will brought her in. 

     “You do remember, don’t you,” Sherlock said stroking his long-fingered hands up and down his trouser clad thighs.  “Your sister wasn’t supposed to enter, but you somehow managed to drag her into my shop.”

     John looked at Sherlock in awe.  He remembered meeting a tall, dark haired shopman who told him he was special and would be able to do magic tricks only special little boys could do.  He remembered a man with eyes that changed color like the sea.  It could have been Sherlock or a man who resembled him, his father perhaps?

     Harriet had stood behind him and fumed the whole time.  The shopman had tried his best to convince young John to purchase some tricks to take home. 

    He’d shown him one trick in particular that amazed him.  It was a magical mouse on a string so thin it was practically invisible to the naked eye.  The shopman had made it dance, wiggle and scurry about all over his arm and hand like a living creature.  When he’d shown him the trick of it and how it worked, he’d wanted it so badly he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather have in the world.  Harriet had huffed and called it stupid.  She’d chided him for even thinking of wasting his money of a load of rubbish like magic tricks. 

     “I’m sorry,” John had remembered saying trying to apologize to the kind man.  “She doesn’t believe in it.”  He remembered the look the man gave him that made him feel so much better.  Harriet had finally stomped her foot and drug them both outside.  She’d been in quite a snit over something at the time so John allowed her to drag him away.  When he’d left the shop, he’d discovered the amazing trick mouse on a nearly invisible string had made its way into his coat pocket.  John was sure the shopman had placed it there.  He hadn’t given him any money and that bothered him.  He’d played with that mouse until all the fake fur wore off and he regretfully had to bin it.   For years afterward, he’d often looked for that shop and had never been able to find where it was.  It wasn’t until today that he’d remembered that particular memory. 

     John shook his head. “You can’t be that bloke.  He’d be an older man by now.  You look younger than I am.”

     “I’m far older than I appear, John.”

     John inhaled and blew out a great breath.  Sherlock was having him on, he decided.  “Well, you don’t look a day over 35.  I wish I knew your secret.” 

     “You could, you know,” he said leveling at intent stare at him.  “You are still the right kind of boy.”

     John looked down at Hamish who had been following the conversation avidly.  “Daddy, did you used to know Sherlock when you were my age?”

     “Hamish, that’s not really possible.  That man I met in the shop when I was a boy would be much older by now.  Sherlock is much too young and handsome to be that man.”  Handsome?  Why had he said that aloud?

     Sherlock sat up straighter at that and smiled at John.    

     “I assure you, I do remember you and your sister.  Your special nature runs in the family, Hamish.  Your father has your gifts too, he just needs a little push to remind him of how to use them.”

     Hamish took this information in stride and stood up.  He reclaimed Sherlock’s hand and asked, “Would you show me a little more?”

     John rolled his eyes and silently wondered if he would be able to extradite his son from this incredible shop.

Chapter Text

  “This way Hamish,” Sherlock said jumping up.  Haymish had an excited look in his eye and nearly pulled the elegant shopman forward.  Sherlock showed the boy a set of magic rings that were smaller than normal.  All three rings were solid and did not seem to have a break of any kind in them.  “Let me show you,” he said bending his tall, thin body over so he could easily demonstrate the technique of the rings to his son. 

     Haymish caught on very quickly, much quicker than John might have at his age and before long, he had it down pat.  “Watch, Dad,” he said confidently and completed the trick flawlessly.  John was properly amazed and didn’t even have to fake an enthusiastic response.  His son was good at these tricks.  Sherlock looked on at his apprentice with approval.  “Take a look, John.  These rings have no break in them.  They are very special linking rings that only the most professional magicians use.” 

     John took them in his hands and tested them out himself.  None of the three rings had a break or hole in them.  He’d had a set of them himself when he was a kid, and he remembered that one of his rings had had a small opening.  That’s usually how the trick was accomplished, but these rings were as solid as a boulder. 

     “Show me again, Hamish,” John said and his son proceeded to link the rings together effortlessly with just a quick flick of his wrist.  “See?” he said and giggled to Sherlock at John’s flabbergasted face.

     “Remember Hamish, a good magician never reveals his secrets,” Sherlock warned and winked impishly at him.

    The boy grinned and handed the rings back to Sherlock with a grave nod.  “I could teach you many more tricks, you know.”

     John said, “Well, it’s getting late.  Perhaps we could come back for some lessons.  If you give them?”  John asked hopefully.  The more he they hung around Sherlock, the less intimidating he seemed.  Maybe it’s something we could do together, Hamish?”

     Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “I’m not sure that will be possible, John.”  You see I don’t stay in one place very long.  My shop moves around quite a bit.”

    “Really?”  John asked astonished.  “You move all this around?”

     “Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Quite frequently.  I may not be back this way for a long time.  Just one more,” he said turning to Hamish and showed him an intricate trick using a silver string and an Egyptian ankh.  “This is an ancient trick.  It’s over two thousand years old and only three people on Earth know how to perform it.  Would you like me to teach you?”

     Hamish wanted very much to learn the Egyptian trick.  John sighed and wandered away a bit to look around the shop once more.  His son was safe enough with Sherlock and still very much enjoying himself.  As his attention wandered, he began to notice one of the other shop attendants a little way off.

     It occurred to John just how odd this show-room was; it was, so to speak, inundated by a sense of oddness.  There was something askew about the fixtures, about the ceiling, about the floor, about the casually distributed chairs. He had a feeling that whenever he wasn't looking at them straight they moved about, and played a noiseless puss-in-the-corner behind his back. And the cornice had a serpentine design with masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper plaster.

     Then abruptly his attention was caught by one of the angular-looking assistants. He was some way off and evidently unaware of John’s presence.  He saw a sort of three-quarter length of him over a pile of toys and through an arch.   He leaned against a pillar in an idle sort of way doing the most horrible things with his features! The particular horrible thing he did was with his nose. He did it just as though he was idle and wanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a short, blobby nose, and then suddenly he shot it out like a telescope, and then out it flew and became thinner and thinner until it was like a long, red, flexible whip. Like a thing in a nightmare it was! He flourished it about and flung it forth as a fly-fisher flings his line.

     John’s first thought was that Hamish mustn’t see him.  His son was much too young to be exposed to this level of insanity.  His second thought was that he had been a fool not to have believed Sherlock before.  Genuine magic indeed.  He turned suddenly to seek out his son.  How had they wandered so far ahead, and how had he trusted this unsettling shop keeper he’d once possibly encountered as a boy access to his only child?  Had he been in a daze.  Well, he was awake now and they had to get out.

     There they were just up ahead.  Sherlock was once again bent over and whispering in Hamish’s ear.  They both looked back at John conspiratorially.  Hamish had climbed up onto a small three-legged stool, and Sherlock was holding a sort of big drum in his hand.

    Hamish giggled as though he had the biggest secret in the world and nodded at Sherlock. 

    “Daddy, we’re going to play hide and seek, and you’re it!  Try to find me,” he said and before John could do anything to prevent it, Sherlock placed the large drum over his son’s head.

     John knew exactly what this trick entailed and his heart nearly stopped beating.  A cold chill filled his belly at the thought of what the next part of the trick might reveal. 

     “Take it off this instant.  You’ll frighten him,” John shouted as he strode up to Sherlock. 

     “I don’t think it will frighten Hamish at all.  In fact, I think it’s you who’s frightened, John.”  Sherlock was right.  John was suddenly terrified.

     “Lift it,” John said firmly.  “Now!”

     Sherlock did and held the big drum toward John to show its emptiness.  And, the little stool was vacant.  His son had disappeared.

Chapter Text

      John reached up to grab the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket.  He wanted to shake the impossible man and demand to know how his son had vanished. 

     With a deft movement, Sherlock side-stepped away from John and put some distance between them.  He set the drum down on the stool and John’s eyes flickered back to it.  Maybe it really was just an illusion and his brilliant-eyed, beautiful son would be underneath the it with a gap-toothed grin on his face.  His eyes met Sherlock’s again and he saw in them the answer.  His son was not under the drum and he inherently knew that if Sherlock had his way, he’d never see Hamish again.  He’d been a blind fool not to have seen it before, and he’d blithely allowed this to happen right under his own nose!

     “You can’t have him,” John said.  He didn’t know it, but he stood at military ready, shoulders squared and back ramrod straight. 

     “I already do,” Sherlock said gently and held out one of his infernal glass balls.  This one was larger than the others and tinted blue.  Inside the delicate confines of the orb, John could see his son standing on a wooden stool in a dark room and smiling behind his hands.  He seemed to be elsewhere and nowhere and not worried, nor in pain.  He looked like a boy who was enjoying a very funny joke.

     “Bring him back,” John demanded and tried to snatch the ball from Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

     “Careful, John, you wouldn’t want to break it,” Sherlock said withdrawing the hand and placing the ball inside his tailored jacket.  “He is quite safe and will only experience a few seconds where he is no matter how long it takes us out here.”

     John put his hands over his face and breathed in deeply.  “What do I have to do to get him back?” John felt a sinister hand out of the unseen grip his heart.  It took his common self away from the normal world he usually lived in, and left him tense and deliberate, neither slow nor hasty, neither angry nor afraid.  “I’ll do anything.  I’ll give you anything you want, just please bring my son back to me.  He’s all I have.” 

     “I need an apprentice, John.  I’ve been looking for so long, you really have no idea how long, and I’ve finally found a suitable student in Hamish.  I have much to pass on and my previous attempts,” he said gesturing fitfully at his assistants who all seemed to have stopped their duties to stare lifelessly at John.   “These experiments in trying to produce a suitable assistant have all disappointed me.  I tried creating a being like me who would be able to carry on my work, but none of these creatures have proved stable for very long.  They begin to disintegrate only a few years after their creation, and I have to constantly make new ones.  Unfortunately, they are but pale imitations of their original.”

     “But Sherlock, he’s only six years old!  Sure he can learn a few tricks, but he is far too young.  He still needs his father.”

     “I can be both his father and teacher, John.  Surely you can see the benefits of this arrangement.  I have lived an extraordinarily long time, and I can give him the gift of an extended life.  Would you deny him that?”

     John couldn’t breathe.  “No, I don’t want that for him.  He’s got a rich, full life ahead of him.  He doesn’t need to live forever.  No one does…”

      Sherlock’s face grew grave.  “I’d be willing to consider an exchange.”

     “An exchange…”

     “For what?” John asked hope springing up inside him. 

     “I wanted you all those years ago.  I almost had you but your sister snatched you from me.”

       “Yes, of course,” John said without even considering. “I’d take his place in a second.  But what good am I to you?”

     Sherlock reached out an arm and held out his hand and said, “You’re amazing, John.  I knew you’d grow to be something special and you have.  You’ve produced an extraordinary child who will surpass you in his abilities.  But, I would consider your help in…”

     “What?” John asked pushing down a growing feeling of both fear and excitement.  He felt enraptured by Sherlock.  If he were honest, he felt attracted to him as well.  Each time the man’s blue-green eyes landed on him, he wanted to lose himself in his gaze.  He could see untold universes hiding in Sherlock’s eyes, unsung songs lingering on his lips, and unmade works of art waiting in his hands.  John’s whole life felt balanced on a single tipping point, poised to change.  Something extraordinary might happen today and nothing would ever be the same.  Sherlock stepped closer and looked down at him with an intensity that thrilled him.

     “I could teach you to strengthen your skills, and together, we could show Hamish wonders.  I want to offer you both a place here in my shop. Would you stay here with me?”

     “Sherlock,” John said feeling all the air rush out of his lungs.  “I have a life.  We both have a life and can’t just go off with you.”

     “But, you can, if that is what you choose to do.  I can’t force you, or anyone, to do something against their own wishes. Even now, I’d have to give Hamish back to you if that is what you both choose.  But, I do believe you longed for magic as a boy, and still wish for it today.  I can give you your desires,” he said leaning in, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders and pulling him to his chest. 

     Once again John felt the hypnotizing effect of Sherlock’s presence.  He did want to give in to him.  He wanted to learn as much as he could as the man was willing to teach him.  This, he believed, was real magic.  He no longer had any doubts about the genuine nature of this place.  He looked up and let himself sink into Sherlock’s enticing eyes.  It felt good to let himself drift into this friendly, warm embrace and let all his anxieties go.  Hamish would be just fine, he thought.  He could see the years ahead where he and Sherlock worked together to raise his son to become the most dreaded, feared, respected magician of all time.  His abilities would rival any illusionist, past or present, and everyone would stand in awe of his power. 

     Then, John’s vision shifted and he saw himself enveloped in Sherlock’s incredible world.  Sherlock would protect him and keep him outside of time itself.  He could look forward to endless years ahead to revel in his new power.  The pull of it nearly overwhelmed him.

     “I want you to stay with me, travel with me and allow me to help you raise Hamish.  You would give him love, stability and a human morality, and I would show him a world of untold wonders.  What do you say, John.  Would you have me?”

    John nearly said yes but a sobering thought keep intruding into his head like a dull claxton ringing an alarm. He had to see Hamish.  He needed to see his son safe.  “Bring him back.  Let me see him,” John said trying to clear his head. 

     “John, he’s fine.  He’s waiting for you to decide,” Sherlock said infusing his voice with as much assurance and charm as possible. 

     John’s mind reared back from this statement.  “No, I need to see him back here, now Sherlock.”  He stepped away from the encouraging embrace and mourned the loss of warmth Sherlock’s arm had provided.  He felt cold and alone now, unsure of his current train of thought.  Was he making the right choice?  He thought of his quiet life with Hamish, and his thriving practice.  His head cleared a bit more.  He had no business delving into the world of magic after so long.  He’d grown up and left this behind.  The only magic he needed in his life was the normal magic of watching his son grow into manhood. 

     Sherlock sighed heavily and made a motion over the large drum.  It bumped a bit and John heard an unmistakable laugh from underneath.  He grasped the drum and lifted it up.  To his indescribable joy, Hamish stood on the stool with a look of relief in his eyes.  “You found me!” he said and jumped off the stool.  He wound his small arms around John’s middle and hugged him hard.  “I missed you,” he said and found John’s hand.

     “I missed you too,” John said squeezing the boy’s fingers possessively.  “Let’s not play that game again, okay?”

     “Sure, Daddy.  I wanna go home now,”  Hamish said looking imploringly up at his father. 

     “Me too, kiddo,” John said.  He looked up from his son’s face to find that Sherlock had once again vanished. All of the attendants seemed to be hiding as well.  His mind felt totally clear now and he didn’t know how he could have ever thought he wanted to stay here forever.  It was time to go.

      Just as he began searching for the way out, he saw another door open up just ahead and wholesome sunlight poured through.  He decided to take his opportunity while he could get out.  He led Hamish to the opening quickly.  He finally let out the breath he’d been holding as he crossed the threshold and landed on the sidewalk.  To his left, he saw Foxy nails and to his right, Granny’s Greeting Cards, but of the Genuine Magic Shop, there was absolutely no trace.  It had vanished.

Chapter Text

     “Pardon me,” an older woman said as she nearly collided with him on the sidewalk.  “You came out of nowhere!” she said in a fluster.  “I nearly ran over you.”

     “Sorry,” John said reflexively.  He looked around for Hamish and found him.  When he took a good look at his son, he saw he was carrying four wrapped parcels under his arm.  John eyed the old-fashioned packages tied with string with a wary eye, but didn’t say anything.

     He held up his hand for a cab and immediately one pulled over for him.  That was unusual for him, usually he had to stand on the curb for quite some time hailing them.  As he waited for the cab to pull up, John felt something unusual in his coat pocket.  He plunged in his hand and discovered one of Sherlock’s glass balls.  Petulantly, he flung it into street and heard a satisfying tinkle of glass. 

  He got in and the driver looked at them from the rear-view mirror and asked, “Where to?” He had unusually blue-green eyes, John thought and pushed it away.  He had to get back to the normal world as soon as possible.  He simply couldn’t be seeing Sherlock in everybody.  It would drive him mad.

     John replied with his address.  Usually he took the Underground, but today, they both just needed to go home as quickly as possible.  He pulled his son into a hug and they sat in silence for a while.

     “Daddy,” said Hamish, at last, “That was a proper shop!”

     John hummed an agreement and pondered the problem of just how the whole thing had seemed to him.  Hamish looked undamaged.  He was neither scared nor unhinged; he was simply tremendously satisfied with the afternoon’s entertainment, and there in his arms were those four parcels.  What on Earth could be in them? He wanted to wait until they got home to open them.

     “You know, it’s not every day little boys get to go in shops like that,” John said trying to determine how his son might feel about the experiences he just had.

     “Oh, I know, Daddy,” Hamish said stoically.  “Sherlock gave me his card, see?”  And Hamish produced a small card from his elbow exactly the way Sherlock had, and handed it to him.

     John’s eyes widened when he saw the inscription, “The Genuine Magic Shop” written on it in elegant, black script. 

     “When did he…?” John began to ask.

     Hamish smiled at his father and said, “When he gave me back my money.  He put it into my front pocket.  Later, he said if I ever want to buy more tricks, I only have to have this card and think about doing magic when I’m walking in London, and I’ll find his shop.”

     “I think I’ll hang on to it for now, hmmm?” John said taking the card from the boy, his heart beginning to hammer a bit in his chest. 

     “Okay, Daddy,” Hamish said without the slightest hesitation.  “But, I have as many as I want.”  He produced another card from his elbow in exactly the same manner, and John groaned a little.  He hugged him just a little harder then, and sat in silence the rest of the ride home.

     When they arrived back at their modest house, Hamish eagerly opened up the parcels with John standing anxiously over him.  One revealed a wooden box containing the splendid company of soldiers.  Hamish’s eyes widened when he saw them again and he almost forgot about the other items. He immediately began setting them up on the coffee table.

    “Let’s see what’s in these as well,” John said amused at his reaction, but watched in anticipation as he turned his attention to unwrapping the others. 

     Packages two and three contained the “Finger Guillotine,” and the “Pencil through the Quarter” trick but a quick search revealed the glass balls had not made it back.  John was secretly glad, especially when he remembered how Hamish had been trapped inside one.  The final package sat on the coffee table in the living room and John suddenly didn’t want to open it.  They both jumped a little when something inside it moved, and the paper bulged a bit. 

    Then, they heard a heart-breaking sound that had Hamish quickly tearing the paper off.  It was the pitiful meow of a tiny, white kitten.  How in heaven’s name had that kitten been so still the entire ride back? John wondered. It emerged from the package as a cute, sleek, short-haired haired feline.  Had it been drugged? Hamish gathered it up into his arms and began petting and cooing to it. 

“We have to keep it, right Daddy?” he asked anxiously.  “We can’t just turn it out.  It needs us.”

     Of all the dirty, underhanded tricks, John thought steaming at the idea that Sherlock had once again manipulated he and his son. 

      “Hamish,” John began warningly.  He wanted to take the kitten directly to the animal shelter, but one look into his son’s eyes and he knew that was not a possibility.

    Again, his son did not plead or beg, he simply stood there with that tiny life purring in his arms.  Then he said, “I’ll take care of him.  I’ll feed and water him.  I’ll clean up his messes.  I promise, he and I will be best friends.”

     John relented.  After all, it was only a kitten and animals were said to be very helpful in treating people who had been through traumatic experiences such as the death of a parent.  “Yes, you may keep him.  But, we will need to get him a litter box, some food and all his shots.” 

   The kitten raised its little head at that last bit and almost looked indignant.  Hamish laughed.  “Don’t worry, I got mine and it didn’t hurt... much,” he said stroking its little head encouragingly. 

     The cat looked up at John yawning, and when the little creature finished, it smiled a lopsided grin.