It was a dark and stormy night. Sherlock limped up the 17 steps to 221b, doing his best to stay silent despite the ache in his side and the splitting pain in his head. I know what you're thinking- a silent Sherlock? One that isn't moaning for John to stop the slow trickle of blood down his brow? And you'd be right for thinking this behavior odd. Except for the small matter of Hamish. And a small matter he is. Small, but extremely bright. At times John wonders if somehow Sherlock managed to swap out the sperm cup, Hamish is so much like the consulting detective. This small matter, born nearly four years ago, had learned so much in that time and had taught so much more. And consequently Sherlock now carefully pushes open the door, knowing John would be angry for disturbing Hamish if he slammed it, not to mention his head had started to throb and probably couldn't handle the noise.
"Sherlock, how did it go? Oh shi-shoot, you're hurt!" John softly exclaimed, setting down his book and getting up. (Hamish wasn't just teaching Sherlock, and John's vocabulary was a slow study.) John gently led Sherlock to the couch and felt his side for broken ribs.
"Just bruised," Sherlock sighed. "They weren't that strong of kickers." John smiled weakly.
"Well thank goodness your side seems to be as thick as your skull. I told you to let me go with tonight," he replied, eyeing the cut that had not quite stopped bleeding.
"It wasn't supposed to be dangerous," Sherlock started, ready to defend his request that John stay with Hamish. "It was only-"
"I know," said John, quickly stopping the explanation he knew by heart. "Just sit still, love." He softly touched Sherlock's cleaner cheek before heading to the bathroom for his 1st Aid kit. "And thank you. He had barely gotten to sleep when you got home. I think the rain was keeping him up."
Unbeknownst to John, Hamish had not actually fallen asleep. His acting skills were one thing he had picked up from Sherlock, and he had gotten to know what his dad would look for in certain situations. Therefore he had feigned sleep, listening for the quiet tread on the steps that would signal the homecoming of his taller father. As soon as Hamish heard the bathroom door creak he slipped silently out of bed and crept down to the sitting room.
"You're supposedly sleeping, young one. You have school in the morning," Sherlock admonished when he saw the blonde curls (curls courtesy of the careful surrogate search) peek around the wall, a small smile hinting at his pleasure in seeing his son after his almost disastrous night. He shifted the blanket that John had draped over him and Hamish scurried over and clambered into the offered lap.
"I needed to make sure you came back," answered Hamish. His father hugged him closer, closing his eyes and reveling in the warmth of his most precious accomplishment.
"I will always come back to you," Sherlock whispered, wishing he could mean it. But Hamish knew better. Just as his dad always somehow knew when he was sick, Hamish could always tell when his father was sugar-coating things. And he would have none of it.
"Liar," Hamish retorted in a magnificent display of Holmesian cheek, while snuggling closer and yawning softly. "You don't know that. And everyone dies." Sherlock's heart, having had years of John finding it and then years of both John and Hamish thawing it out, melted even further.
"That may be true. But I will do everything in my considerable power to come back as many times as I can." Sherlock whispered, carding his fingers through Hamish's hair. He rocked gently as the boy's eyelids drooped. "And remember this, my little gift, 'if there ever comes a day when we can't be together, keep me in your heart, I'll stay there forever.'" And hearing these soft words and feeling a tender kiss placed to his honey curls, Hamish let himself be taken by a deep slumber. His parents were both safe at home, after all.
In the doorway, seen only by Sherlock, John watched the affectionate exchange. Once he was certain that Hamish was now sleeping, and knowing that he had no reason to fake it this time, John re-entered the room. He set his kit on the coffee table, offering a loving smile to his partner.
"Let me take him to bed?"
"If you must," Sherlock answered, hand still caressing their son's hair. "I suppose it would be nice to be rid of the blood."
John just chuckled quietly, muttering "you suppose." He wrapped Hamish in the blanket as carefully as he could and, allowing Sherlock one last kiss to the child's temple, carried him up to his bedroom.
After laying Hamish on the small bed, John watched his easy breaths for a moment and then returned to his waiting patient. Wordlessly, the doctor went about his business, and if his cleansing touch lingered slightly over the beautiful cheeks, it was only a silent reminder of the fact that they could never truly be parted.
A/N: This is what happens, apparently, when one reads Winnie The Pooh quotes whilst watching Harry Potter. Thank you, Emily, for being the Douglas to my Martin for this. ;)