First off, this is Slash-If you don't like it then don't read. Also, I am the queen of angst so be prepared. If you don't like the story then don't read it, no one is forcing you to and god knows there are enough other stories on here for you to read. Just don't post nasty comments-Don't be that person. That said, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Actually, I'm a total comment whore so please take the time to review. I'm a latecomer to this fandom and this is my first Sherlock story. I want to do a profile pic for this but haven't quite worked out how to use photoshop yet. In fact, I'm kind of praying someone will fall in love with this story and offer to make me one. If it helps your imagination, in my head I've cast Asa Butterfield as Hamish and Michael Fassbender as 'Sir'. Sherlock is not my property it belongs to the BBC, sueing me will get you nothing but a load of books and a grumpy cat. Oh and our kidnapper? Not Moriarty. Anyway, let's get this show on the road, shall we?

Chapter One-Nothing He Could Stand to Lose

John Watson tossed another pile of sticks into the grate and leaned back in his armchair, turning to watch as outside frost formed at the corners of the windowpane and raindrops chased each other across the glass. It had been twelve years now, give or take, twelve years since Sherlock had faked his death and they had moved under cover of darkness to this cottage on the edge of Harberton, a small village in Northumberland inside the national park and surrounded by woodland; eleven years since they had found a nice middle-aged woman with five children of her own to be their surrogate; eleven years since Hamish had been born.

"So the first rule for answering a quadratic equation is..?"

"That what we do to one side we must always do to the other."

"Yes, that's correct."

He looked up. Across the room Hamish sat hunched over the desk, his school books spread out in front of him. Beside him sat Sherlock, watching their son's pencil carefully as it scratched across the paper. They shared Homework duties-He helped with the Humanities while Mathematics and the sciences were more Sherlock's area of expertise. As he watched Hamish looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. He smiled back.

They'd agreed that they would both donate a sample, because then they would never know who had fathered their child and it would feel more like he belonged to them both; but as John had watched Hamish grow he'd seen more and more of Sherlock in him-the same thick unruly thatch of dark hair, the same piercing ice-blue eyes…and then there was the fact that at eleven years old he was already studying for a GCSE in maths. He didn't know whether these observations made him sad that the boy wasn't biologically his…Or whether he adored him all the more for so closely resembling the man he loved.

"Hey, come on. Concentrate." Sherlock tapped the page of the textbook between them with an insistent finger and Hamish gave him one more smile before looking back down at his work. Sherlock shot him a disapproving glare. "Don't distract him John."

He held up his hands. "I wasn't! He looked at me!" Hamish giggled and Sherlock shot him a look that could have soured milk. "O.k." He turned his attention to the fire. It had been complicated…New jobs, new papers, a whole new identity for Sherlock, but… These eleven years…He reflected…These past eleven years…Have been the best of my entire life. He listened to them talk.

"All done?"

"Ummm hmmm. I like quadratic equations. It's all just logic really."

"Exactly."

"Father?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course. An enquiring mind is essential for all human endeavour."

"What's a faggot?"

And with that one word, the quiet comfort of the evening was shattered. John whipped round in his chair in shock. "That's a swear word Hamish! Don't say it!" Then he saw the fright in his son's eyes and felt guilty. He hadn't meant his tone to be so harsh.

"I'm sorry Dad." Hamish spoke in a whisper. "I won't say it again." He turned back to packing away his exercise books. Beside him Sherlock hadn't even looked up from the homework he was checking.

"It's a derogatory term for men who form romantic and sexual relationships with other men- homosexuals-such as your dad and I. It's an American term, first thought to have been coined in 1914…"

"Sherlock…"

"What?" His confusion was genuine. "The boy asked." Of course he wouldn't know. John sighed. After explaining this, maybe he should take Hamish aside and explain the term 'Asperger's Syndrome.'

"Hamish, come here." Hamish did. He was small for his age and John gathered him easily into his lap, letting him tuck his head beneath his chin as he had when he was a toddler. Sherlock was the parent for homework and discoveries and honest answers for difficult questions, but he'd always been the parent Hamish went to for comfort and sympathy, for those times when he just wanted to be hugged. "I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"It's o.k."

Sherlock moved to stand by the fire, watching their son curiously. "Where did you hear that term Hamish?"

"This kid at School-Oscar Lytton. He said that you were both faggots and that I must be one too. He said that you were evil and disgusting. Then he spat at me."

"And what did you do?"

"I hit him-hard."

"Ah…" John sighed. "That would explain the letter requesting a teacher conference that I found in your blazer pocket."

Sherlock shrugged. "The boy insulted his parents so he hit him-seems a reasonable course of action to me. I fail to see what there is to discuss."

"He can't just hit other children Sherlock!"

"Why?"

"You're not though?" Hamish looked up at them both appealingly. "You're not evil, are you? It's not evil to have two dads, is it? Is it? Father!"

Sherlock moved to crouch in front of him. "No, of course it isn't."

"Then why would he say it?"

"What have I told you about other people Hamish?"

"That the vast majority of them are incredibly stupid."

"Exactly." He ruffled their son's hair while above him John rolled his eyes. "Now come on. It's time for bed."

"Aww father!"

"It's not up for discussion. Goodnight." He pushed the thick dark fringe aside and kissed his forehead, then they both watched him snatch up his schoolbag and leave the room, probably to sit on the staircase and listen in, John guessed.

"You need to stop telling him that."

He turned to Sherlock who leaned against the mantelpiece once more and shrugged. "Why not? It's true."

"No it isn't! And if you keep saying it to him then he's going to say it to someone much bigger than he is in that school and he'll get himself beaten up!"

"Why?"

"Because…because people don't like to hear how stupid they are!" How could he have loved Sherlock this long and still be this frustrated by him? He stood up and pushed past him. "I'm going to bed myself. I'm suddenly very tired." He reached the hallway and added loudly. "AND THERE BETTER NOT BE ANYONE OUT OF BED UP THERE BEING NOSEY!" The frantic thump of running feet above his head told him he'd been right. He left Sherlock behind him, staring bewildered into the fire.

He was in bed reading when Sherlock entered. He put down his book as his partner kicked off his shoes, and began to unbutton his shirt, his back turned to him. "We're going to have to talk to him Sherlock."

"About what?"

"About everything…About how he came to be. About his mother, about us…He's a good kid Sherlock and he's accepted it all-having to call you a different name outside the house, not being able to have friends visit…"

"He doesn't have any friends."

"Well maybe he would have if it weren't for us. Jesus, being the only kid in the class with two dads…That's hard, that's a hell of a lot to put on an eleven year old. He's different Sherlock. We've MADE him different, we've made him stand out, and now that the other children are starting to notice we have to make him aware of how people might view us, tell him what they might say, teach him how to handle it without hitting out…"

"The pressure to conform is merely a means of social control…"

"Well HE doesn't know that." John hesitated, trying to think of a way of making Sherlock understand…Then it hit him. "Don't you remember being bullied at school?" Sherlock didn't turn around but he paused in the act of taking off his shirt, just for a moment, and John fancied he saw him flinch just a little. "Because I do. The fear, the humiliation, the isolation…And all the while you just kept thinking "Why me?"…"

Sherlock turned, tossing his shirt to the floor irritably. "…Because I was more intelligent than them and they knew it." He sat down on the end of the bed with a thump and John smiled inwardly. He'd obviously stirred up some painful memories.

"Yes. And I was bullied because I was the quiet nerdy kid they all knew was gay. But we didn't know their reasons why at the time. And so they could hurt us."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "I see…I've been thoughtless towards him. Again. I got it wrong. Again." And John worried he'd somehow gone too far.

"Shhh." He leaned forward to gently kiss the point of his bare shoulder. "Hamish knows you love him. He just needs to be reassured that he is part of a loving family, told how people will view us but that their version of 'normal' isn't necessarily right, that he has no need to be ashamed. We need to give him the confidence to stand up for himself. That way their words can't hurt him…And I won't have to go to any more teacher conferences."

He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, but he didn't smile back. "I'm glad for you John. I don't know how to relate to the boy. I don't know how to be a father."

John sighed and climbed from beneath the covers to sit beside him, sliding an arm around his bare shoulders. "Yes, you do. You've been there Sherlock-through the night feeds, the colds, the scraped knees. You do his homework with him. You taught him to read when he was four. You take him out on bug hunting adventures in the woods. You do chemistry experiments with him that I'm still not certain aren't too dangerous because every time I pass that room there seems to be a bang followed by you both cheering, and when you tell him how intelligent he is I can see him all puffing up with pride. Yes, yes you are a difficult, stubborn, distinctly odd man, but you are unique and he admires you. And he loves you Sherlock…" He caught his chin, turning his face so he could look into those aquamarine eyes. "Just like I love you."

And then he leaned forward, muffling any further protestations with a kiss. He pushed his lover back onto the bed and finished undressing him, before tracing the familiar contours of his body first with his hands, and then with his mouth, until he felt Sherlock moan and shudder beneath him, until his thighs parted so that John could crawl between them and make love to him.

When John woke the room was dark and Sherlock's side of the bed was empty. Hearing the low mutter of voices, he slid from beneath the sheets, dressed, and wondered out onto the narrow landing. Warm light spilled from the half-open door opposite so he tip-toed over and peered inside…And the world went soft.

Inside Hamish's bedroom- littered with discarded clothes, books, and half-finished experiments-Sherlock sat on Hamish's bed, leaning back against the pillows as Hamish rested his head on his shoulder. One hand stroked Hamish's thick black hair gently, while the other danced in front of the glow of the bedside lamp, making shadow-puppets with its long graceful fingers for the boy to watch as they talked.

"Soooo…You and Dad solved crimes like superheroes or something."

"Well no, superheroes don't exist."

"But you did solve crimes?"

"Yes."

"And you faked your own death and that's why Dad calls you Matthew when we're in the village and stuff?"

"Yes."

"And you love Dad? Even though he's a man like you, and even though stupid people say it's wrong because they read it in the Bible which is nothing but some old book they say was written by God but it wasn't because God doesn't exist and it was really written by a bunch of old priests and scholars thousands of years ago?"

John had to stifle a laugh at that.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. And it's not wrong. All my life I've never loved anything else…except you of course."

"I love you too." Hamish reached for Sherlock's hand, twining his little fingers through his long ones. "Will you read to me?"

"Why? You can read."

"Yeah, I know…but I'm tired and I like it when you do. Please?"

He looked up at Sherlock pleadingly and Sherlock gave in, as John knew he would. "Alright then. What are you reading at the moment?" Hamish lifted a thick book from his cluttered bedside table and handed it to him. Sherlock hesitated before opening it.

"And Hamish?"

"Umm hmm?"

"Those boys… Don't cry in front of them, don't get angry and don't lash out. I know it's hard. But bullies want a reaction, don't give it to them. If you do, then they've won. So next time, and there will be a next time, be strong and stay calm and silent. Nothing angers a bully more than silence."

"O.k Father."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the book and sighed. " 'The Lord of the Rings' again? Hamish, this is a fairy-tale. I'll never understand why you love it so much."

"I don't know…I guess it's because, with Frodo, he's just a hobbit but he's the hero…It's like…even the smallest person matters. And I'm small…"

At that Sherlock's lips twisted into a smile and he turned to plant a soft kiss on Hamish's dark head. "And you matter. Very much."

And he didn't know quite why, but something about the way Sherlock said it, the conviction in his voice, made tears prick the corners of John's eyes. Unwilling to disturb their quiet intimacy he closed the door softly and crept downstairs to put on the kettle for a cup of tea. As it boiled he turned to gaze through the kitchen window into the back garden and the woods beyond. It had stopped raining and the winter night was crisp and still, almost as if holding its breath, silvery moonlight making the overhanging trees and bushes seem almost ghostly. He looked up at the moon itself-A waning moon. He'd known an Islamic soldier in Afghanistan who placed a lot of importance on the phases of the moon. A waning moon, he'd said, was a time of endings, a time of loss, a time to get rid of things that no longer serve you. But, for the first time, there was nothing he needed to get rid of, nothing he could stand to lose. The kettle finished boiling and he tugged the curtains closed and turned to fetch milk and a tea cup.

Outside, in the dark, just at the edge where the garden met the wild wood, a figure lurked, watching. And when the light in the kitchen went out it turned its attention to the one that was still burning in the bedroom window above….