Sherlock never wanted kids. Kids were brats. Kids smelled funny. Kids always ran around with messy fingers, sticking their snotty runny little noses into everything that wasn't their business. Kids were naïve and stupid and they couldn't tell hydrochloric acid from water. Kids were like annoying dogs, always begging to be fed or taken out, neither of which Sherlock would EVER be willing to do.
John always wanted kids. Kids were beautiful. Kids had cute, innocent eyes and the cheeriest smiles. Kids were adventurous and clever and creative in all sorts of ways adults weren't. Kids could be helpful around the house and they always brightened everyone's day. Kids were squishy and fun to hug and even more fun to love.
When they first got together, neither of them once mentioned starting a family. When the paper was signed and the mutual golden bands slipped onto each of their ring fingers, having children hadn't even crossed either of their minds.
So when one a widow was viscously murdered and an infant found at the crime scene, neither of them had expected to keep it. "He's got to go to an orphanage," Lestrade had informed them somberly, to which John had instantly protested. "No! No, we'll take him. Please, just give us the adoption papers, we'll take care of him." And Sherlock had pressed his lips tight together, not once uttering a word because it was at that point he finally learned how bad John had wanted a child of his own.
"What's his name?"
"The birth certificate calls it Hamish."
"What a coincidence!"
"Sure."
"And he's not an 'it', Sherlock."
"Fine."
To say Sherlock was a terrible father would be an understatement.
It was John to feed and clean the infant when necessary. It was John to wake up at three am when Hamish began to cry, even though Sherlock was already up and peering through his microscope. "I can't be bothered to lose concentration while I'm experimenting, John," would be his excuse. "You're the one who wanted that thing."
"He's not a thing, he's our son," John had whispered sharply. And Sherlock would not utter another word.
Once, John had convinced Sherlock to take Hamish in his arms. "Just hold him for a minute while I get his bottle ready, okay, love?" And he pushed the child into Sherlock's tentative arms.
Sherlock had hated every second of that. Immediately after being placed in Sherlock's arms, Hamish began to cry. Sherlock looked upon the bawling infant and twisted his face into disgust.
"Oh my god Sherlock! That's not how you hold a baby!"
Their sex life disappeared.
"Sherlock," John gasped as Sherlock pressed his lips to John's jaw. He could feel Sherlock grinding his hips against John's side, his intentions quite clear. "Sherlock," he repeated, taking Sherlock's head in his hands and gently pushing the detective away. "No. Hamish might hear."
Sherlock's response was to tighten his jaw and roll off his side of the bed.
"Where are you going?" John asked, propping himself up on his elbows.
"I forgot, there's an experiment I left unfinished." And with that, Sherlock walked out of the room.
John let out a frustrated groan and flopped back on the bed, throwing an arm over his face and wanting very much to scream.
Hamish grew to be a curious, squirmy boy. His eyes were always wide and full of adventure and his little fingers were always grasping at everything he could reach. "What's this, daddy?" was his favorite phrase, and John never grew tired of sitting Hamish on his lap and explaining why the sky was blue or how an aeroplane flew through the air even though its wings didn't flap.
John had only left the room for a minute to get a book to read- "daddy, read the one about the talking trains" and when he had gotten back, Sherlock's microscope was on the floor and a glass slide shattered into a million pieces.
"Oh, Hamish," John breathed, immediately dropping the book and running over to the small child. He took Hamish and held his small little hand, leading him away from the mess so the child would not be inclined to pick up glass. "Papa's not going to be very happy."
As if on cue, Sherlock was storming into the room, his eyes a sort of fury John didn't see very often. Upon finding his precious scientific instrument on the floor, he furrowed his eyebrows at Hamish. "How dare you!" He shouted, raising his voice. He lounged at the child as if meaning to give him a good slap across the cheek, but John stood between the two of them.
"He was only playing!" John insisted.
"You know he's not allowed to touch my things!" Sherlock snapped.
John picked Hamish up into his arms for protection. "Well, perhaps if you quit leaving all your shit all over the house!"
Sherlock shook his head furiously, his fists clenched at his sides and his entire body fuming. "Get that kid out of here."
"He's our son!"
"Your son," Sherlock interrupted without a thought. He watched John's face turn from shock to utter disbelief. Sherlock's face softened upon realizing how he had just severely hurt the one he claimed to love most in the world. Still, his nature would not allow him to apologize. He opened his mouth as if to speak, before shutting his mouth tight and turning to walk away.
Hamish stopped asking if papa would ever come to school.
"He's busy," John said, fixing Hamish's collar.
"No he's not. He hates me."
John gave his son a sympathetic smile and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Of course he doesn't hate you. Papa's just not good with children."
Hamish gave his father a doubtful look and shook his head. "He hates me."
"Hush," John commanded, giving the boy a gentle whack on the forehead. "No more talking."
Hamish came home beaming. "Look, daddy!" he cried out, waving out a single sheet of paper. "I got the highest mark in the class! Mrs. Danni says she wants to give me third year work!"
But John was at the surgery and Sherlock was the only one in the room.
Hamish swallowed bravely and stepped hesitantly towards his father. "Look, papa," he said in a small voice, holding out his proud work.
"Not now," was Sherlock's response. "Don't bother me, I'm busy."
"Okay." And the young boy slipped away without another sound.
When John came home, he gave Hamish a big hug and taped the outstanding paper to the fridge.
"Sherlock, are you even trying?"
"For God's sake, I never asked for this!"
"You could have said no! But you didn't! You kept your damn mouth shut and let it happen and now you're just making us all miserable!"
"I wanted you to be happy!"
"I didn't need a child to be happy! All I needed was you!"
"You've always wanted a family," Sherlock explained.
"A family would have been a nice plus, yes, but this, what we have right here, is not a family. This is me taking care of my-our son- because you willingly signed the adoption papers, you know. You've never even tried to let him into your life! Did you know he's at the top of his class? Did you know he made a goal last week at football? Did you know he constantly tells me about how much he wants to be scientist like you when he grows up? Do you even know who he is?"
For a while, Sherlock didn't respond. He sat there staring blankly at his laptop as if John hadn't said a word. Then, he parted his lips. "I'm working right now. I can't have any distractions."
John threw his hands up in the air in frustration and defeat. "I give up," he admitted. "I give up on you."
And of course, in the next room over, a little boy laid on his bed with the covers drawn over his face, ears ringing with every word.
It was no one's fault, the accident.
It was late and dark and foggy. John couldn't see the driver and the driver couldn't see him. The driver apologized afterwards. Unfortunately, there are times where not even the most sincere apologies can help ease any sort of pain.
Sherlock was asked to identify the body. He didn't cry.
He didn't cry at the funeral, either.
Hamish, just weeks before his thirteenth birthday, sobbed for weeks on end. To him, he was practically an orphan again.
Sherlock spiraled downward.
Hamish watched his legal guardian take a needle to his skin with a cigarette between his lips. Hamish has become the responsible adult now. Hardly into year nine, he cooked supper and cleaned up after Sherlock's messes. John never liked a dirty house, after all. Every so often, Sherlock would leave a substantial amount of pounds that Hamish would silently take to pick up the shopping.
"Mish, let's go over your place to study."
"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea. My flat has a bit of a roach problem right now."
Hamish never saw his father cry. But sometimes, if he listened carefully enough, he could hear faint sobs echoing down the hall late late at night.
"Mish, how about we do our schoolwork at your flat?"
"I wouldn't advise it. We have a bit of a plumbing issue right now."
"Christ, there's always something wrong with your place, isn't there?"
"He's embarrassed," another boy chimed up. "Because his father's a lousy drug addict."
"Shut up!" Hamish exhaled sharply and walked away from the group as quickly as possible, hot anger boiling through his veins.
Hamish was never in a hurry to get home. It was grocery day, though, which means there should be a couple of pounds waiting for him. He would take a quick trip to the grocery store, pick out things he liked-it wasn't like Sherlock cared what either of them ate anyways-and come back home to start on his schoolwork. There wasn't any money, though. The kitchen table sat empty and Hamish went hungry for the night.
The next day, there was no money to be found either. Hamish came home to his father sprawled out on the sofa, still dressed in his bathrobe, and higher than the London Eye.
Hamish swallowed bravely and stepped hesitantly towards the addict. "Father," he croaked out softly, perhaps the first word he had spoken in his own house for a year. "We're out of food."
It took Sherlock a good five minutes to roll off the couch and slump into his bedroom. He emerged a while later with a plain black leather wallet. From it he drew a few notes and handed it to the young boy, who took it graciously.
Hamish had the audacity to look up at his father the fallen genius. In Sherlock's eyes, he saw nothing but sorrow and emptiness. When he took the notes from Sherlock's outstretched hand, his eyes catch a glimpse of the golden band still slipped onto the ring finger of Sherlock's left hand, albeit a bit loose around the bone. Hamish cleared his throat awkwardly. "You…you should get some rest."
Instead of answering or even acknowledging the boy, Sherlock turned and slumped back to the sofa, collapsing in a heap of skin and bones.
At night, Hamish fell asleep to Sherlock playing the saddest song ever composed on his aging violin.
"Hamish, is your father abusive?"
Hamish stared the counselor straight in the eyes and confidently, firmly, told her "no."
Sherlock sat with John's old laptop across his lap, typing away because his laptop was much too far for him to be bothered to retrieve. When Hamish came home from school, he didn't even falter in his work.
Hamish caught sight of John's laptop quite quickly. He was far from a stupid boy, after all. Sherlock's face was pale and gaunt, his eyes circled and dark. The ring on his finger seemed to fit even less than ever before. Hamish had never seen anyone look like a drug addict as much as his father did. Sherlock coughed.
"Father," Hamish started, playing with his fingers nervously. "You don't look well."
Sherlock didn't once skip a beat on the keyboard.
Hamish tried again, stepping closer to his so-called father. "Perhaps you should sleep-."
The moment his hand touched Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock was standing up abruptly and grabbing Hamish's wrist harshly, holding it above the young boy's head as Hamish let out a surprised yelp. And then Hamish was toppling over onto his back as the force of Sherlock's hand upon his cheek knocked him backward onto the hardwood floor. Falling down hurt just about as much as getting slapped.
Hamish gasped aloud again, a hand instantly meeting his aching cheek. He looked up at Sherlock with a sort of frightened expression that he had never shown before. Sherlock did a lot of things. He left his experiments out and shot up with every drug he could find. He ignored Hamish, but he never, ever, ever hit the child.
When Sherlock met Hamish's eyes, the scared schoolboy scurried backwards as if afraid Sherlock would come at him again. Hazel. Hamish's eyes were hazel. Sherlock could see the fear burning in those wide open eyes. Behind that fear was, as Sherlock would never have suspected, a deep innocence. Sherlock's actions had even surprised the genius himself. Never before had he ever hit the boy. He had come close, once, a long time ago, when Hamish was hardly big enough to reach the bathroom counter without his little stool. He would have struck the toddler, too, if John hadn't been there to stop him. Sherlock suspected John would have stopped him from hitting his-their son this time too, if John had bothered to show up of course.
And then there were tears. Tears streamed down Sherlock's face even as he tried to hold them back. Here before him was an innocent boy, a child, his child, who had never ran away from home no matter how much he probably should have. A child who had faced death more times than any child should. A child that Sherlock had been ignoring for the past fourteen years.
Sherlock drew an arm across his face, shielding his view because he couldn't stand looking into those innocently corrupted eyes any longer. His shoulders began to shake and he turned his back to Hamish.
Hamish watched him for a while, struggling with conflicting feelings of what to do next. He settled on slowly removing his hand from his stinging face and inhaling deeply.
"Do you still love him? Dad, I mean."
Sherlock let out a rude sort of laughter, nearly choking on his own tears. "Unfortunately."
"Do you love me?"
Immediately, Sherlock spun around to face the fallen boy, their eyes meeting again. Hamish's question had caught the detective off-guard. For fourteen years he hadn't even looked properly at his son's face. Hamish had grown up to be a rather beautiful young boy, Sherlock couldn't deny. He couldn't help but wonder how much more beautiful Hamish would have grown to be if John was still there to guide him.
"Fuck," Sherlock hissed, burying his face in his hands. "I told my brother to take you away. I told him I couldn't handle taking care of a child. He told me that you needed a father. Every boy needs a proper father. I'm a shit father. I've been horrible and-and look at you, this is abuse. They need to take me away and lock me up. You need a father, a real, proper father, not an addict like me." With that being said, Sherlock fell to his knees in front of his son and wept aloud.
The confession was slightly overwhelming to Hamish. Perhaps this side of his father was even scary than being hit. He had certainly heard Sherlock break down, but he had never witnessed it before his eyes. He had never seen the man come undone in his presence, falling with his face to the floor and his shoulders violently shaking with each sob.
"Father…" Hamish whispered, reaching out, but not yet brave enough to touch the crumbling man. He drew his arm back to his side and simply watched.
They sat there like that for a solid long while. Sherlock cried until he couldn't possibly cry any longer, and when he was done, he still stayed there with his head to the floor, not daring to make eye contact.
This time, Hamish had managed to muster enough courage to touch his father, taking the man's shoulders and gently lifting him up. Sherlock flinched at the contact, but allowed it nonetheless.
Once again staring deep into each other's eyes, Hamish spoke. "Father," he started, his face completely serious. "Do you love me?" He repeated his question, demanding an answer.
Sherlock's response was to somberly shake his head. And then he slowly parted his lips. "I…I could try."
That in itself was enough to make Hamish start crying as well, unable to help himself from pulling his father into a tight hug. The action surprised Sherlock and he stiffened in the boy's arms. Eventually, however, he found himself able to relax, even going so far as to hesitantly slide a hand around the back of Hamish's head, which of course, only made the child sob even harder.
Sherlock didn't know the first thing about being a father. But for this boy, he could learn.
Sherlock never wanted kids. Kids were hard to manage and out of control. Kids were repetitious and easy to be stepped on. Kids couldn't hold their liquor or solve reaction rates problems or pay for their own cab. Kids had high-pitched voices and their hands were always sticky and gross. Kids got sick way too easily and demanded your love at all times.
Kids were also innocent and bright and lovable. Kids gave the best hugs and the cutest compliments. Kids really knew how to massage out that big giant knot in your back, and they made the sweetest, best lemonade ever known to man. Kids had big, curious eyes and a smile that could reduce you to tears. Kids could cure the heaviest drug addictions and ease the burden on your heart after the death of the one you loved the most.
Sherlock never wanted kids. That doesn't mean he wasn't glad he had one.