Sherlock dealt very differently to Hamishs death than he had expected.

He drank more, and the drugs visited him frequently. He would stay out late at night, and not come home for days. John, on the other hand, would often sit in the flat, staring out the window, for days on end. Sherlock was never one to show emotions, but it was getting harder and harder to hide his sadness. He despised seeing John as he was, alone and distant, and he despised all the wishes, apologising for their loss. Hamish was more than a loss. He was his son, and Sherlock was always proud of him. But now that Hamish was gone, Sherlock realised he should have told Hamish more often. The funeral was a week later. Sherlock and John dressed in suits, Ms Hudson, in her black dress. Other attendees including LeStrade, Mike Stanford, Molly, and a few more. The service was one of the most painful things John had ever been through. This was worse than his time in the war. As the small white coffin was lowered into the ground, a single tear rolled down Johns cheek, and fell onto the brown soil. The priest then ended the service, and the guests went back to the flat. After arriving in their flat, John collapsed into Sherlocks arms, and wept any and every tear in his body. He cried for Hamish, and how his life had ended so soon. It was the most tragic event he had ever experienced, and he just wanted today to be over. He needed to sit down so Sherlock guided him to his armchair. He sunk into the couchs soft cushions, and placed his head in his hands. Sherlock stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder. As he glanced around the room, he noticed a small blond haired boy in the corner, wiping tears from his eyes. This boy looked so familiar. His black eyes stood out as he looked up. Sherlocks eyes met the boys, and the boy slowly dissolved into the crowd, as if trying to his. It was then Sherlock knew who it was. It was Alex. Alexander Moran Moriarty.