"John, come here." Sherlock said, his voice low. "Sherlock, can't you see I'm busy?" John said, his eyes focused solely upon his small computer as he clicked away at the keys. "John." Sherlock said again, his tone afraid. John looked up, the tone catching him off guard. Sherlock was not looking at John, his eyes fixed outside of the window. John got up, abandoning his work. Nothing gave Sherlock a scare, John had to see what the big deal was. Peering out of the window, John saw a nightmare playing before his eyes.
"So you think you're cool because you can see things we can't? Soon you won't be able to see anything!" The bigger of the two said, punching Hamish in the right eye. He could feel the throbbing in his skull, hearing it over the warning that meant another punch was coming his way. The smaller one held him tight behind the arms even though he was not planning on fighting back. Unlike the heroic underdog the film industry pushes, Hamish knew he was far too small to even give a scrape to his bully.
"You're right, Vincent. I can't see." Hamish said, weakly smiling. The smile and sarcasm earned him a shove into the wall from the small one, Charles. Hamish felt his spine crack in a few places. The tuft turned to a beating, Vincent and Charles not having enough satisfaction from a simple bruise or two.
By the time Sherlock noticed, Hamish was already crumpled upon the sidewalk, bruised and bloodied, the two boys still slamming him into the wall. John saw the blood and the dislocated bones even from afar, his medical sight shifting into gear. "Sherlock, why didn't you get him?!" John screamed, running to grab his coat. John grabbed the door handle, turning to see Sherlock staring at him, his eyes glimmering with innocence and understanding.
John did not give it time to sink in, his mind on Hamish alone. He ran down the stairs three at a time. Throwing the door open to the street, John sprinted to the scene. Hamish saw him and warned him to run from him, but John did not hear his own son past his fear. Vincent turned around, knife in hand. The knife was alarming enough on its own, but the fresh blood upon it hit John's eyes was all he could take. John pulled out two guns, pointing one at Charles and one at Vincent. "Put down the blade." He ordered Vincent, his eyes ablaze. Vincent, with the look of a scared puppy, shakily put down the reddened blade. "Get out of here." John ordered both of them. Without a second glance, the two boys ran from the scene with remarkable speed.
John got to his knees, taking account of his son's injuries: four broken ribs, two black eyes, broken left arm, fractured spine, broken nose, dislocated right shoulder, deep knife wounds on the right cheek, left leg, and lips. John popped Hamish's shoulder back into place, his son crying out in pain. John cringed and his son smiled grimly whispering, "Thanks dad." John glanced at his son, knowing how much Hamish wanted to say more, but it pained him to speak. "My boy…" John whispered, slipping his right arm under Hamish's back, his left under his knees. With little effort, John picked up the limp body of his only son. Hamish groaned in pain, biting his lip to keep from screaming. His whole body felt like it was on fire. John sharply inhaled as he pursued his way up to 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock opened the door to his husband and his son, both bloody, John from holding his injured son. John laid Hamish upon the sofa, laying his head upon a soft cushion. John ordered Sherlock to grab various gausses and tools as he took it upon himself to give his son repairs faster than the hospital could, with more efficiency and with the help of Sherlock's immense drug and medicine store, with less pain. Just as John sewed the last stitches and tied the final bandages upon his crumpled shell of a son, Hamish spoke. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't want you to see." He whispered, nodding off into a deep sleep from the medication John shot through his veins.
John looked down at his son, swiping his hair to the side and wiping the last of the blood away from his forehead that had smudged. "John." Sherlock said, his voice strained. John turned to Sherlock, his eyes filled with anger. "What, Sherlock? Apologizing for not saving him from at least half of his injury?" John said vindictively. "John, please. Not everything is what you think and you know it." Sherlock said, glaring at John, slicing his gaze into his husband. John remembered the look Sherlock had given him before he ran to Hamish and it stung to know something was wrong not only with his son at school, but with his husband inside. "Tell me, Sherlock." John said, his voice lingering in the air.
Sherlock was alarmed that John knew something was wrong, something he needed to tell. Most people would not identify his pain, but John was different and that's why they got married so long ago. Sherlock bid small smile to John, knowing John would not see it. John was looking down at his hands, guilty for his icy tone and words. Sherlock cleared his throat and began to speak, "When I was young, fourteen just like Hamish in fact, something similar happened to me. I had bullies, as I am sure you could guess. They were bulky boys yes, and they took no notice to the pain I went through under their torture. One night, they found my address and stole me from my bed in my sleep, binding my mouth shut with cloth and dragging me to a cold, dark alleyway. There they proceeded to bash into my body with their fists and hammers. They brought metal hammers with them, beating me senseless with them. When they finally left, my body was in tatters. I felt blood everywhere. I felt how broken I was, how helpless I was, lying in the alley. In that moment, I vowed to never be in a state so vulnerable. I made that vow and kept it true, just to see Hamish in a similar state to my past one… I was frozen in memory, John. I could hardly break free to say your name. I could hardly…" Sherlock began to shake violently, falling upon the floor.
His hands came up to his face, covering his tear-filled eyes. John glanced at Hamish to make sure he was alright, and he was sleeping calmly, his chest heaving as it normally would. Seeing Hamish was alright, John pried Sherlock's hands from his face, seeing his husband's tears flow freely down his chin. He bent down to Sherlock's level, delicately wiping the tears from his cheeks. Sherlock looked into John's eyes with desperation, begging him to understand just what made him freeze. "Sherlock," John said firmly, "I know. You thought Hamish was dying, just as you nearly did. You didn't see Hamish, you saw you. I know. It's all going to be okay, I promise. I won't let either of you die." John said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back. Sherlock tugged his arms up around John's back as well.
With every second they remained in their embrace, Sherlock felt more and more secure, and John more and more of a true and loving husband. Sherlock, emotionally spent, slumped into John and said one last thing before he dozed off, "Please keep us safe, John?" and John smiled grimly, "I always will." Sherlock proceeded to fall into a light slumber, John leaving him with a warm throw blanket upon the floor.
Even though death was beating at their doorstep, their son becoming the latest of the tormented, John was going to protect the Hell out of his family. Nothing would get past John and nobody he loved would die, not again. Not after his father.