It is in times like these when we try to hide

our feelings. We try to stay strong for the

people around us. We try to comfort

them when we are the ones who

need it most. We try

to build them up but we cannot.

Not when we are unable to even hold ourselves up.

Hamish was eight when he was diagnosed with cancer. It was slowly eating away at him. At his body. At his mind. At his heart.

Six months ago he was playing rugby with his friends. He was working with his parents and solving cases with them. He was doing everything any normal eight-year-old would do. He was so happy then, always smiling. There was nothing anyone could say or do that would tear him down. Now, looking at him, he was a stranger to most. He was no longer truly happy. He would act it, put on a face for family visits, but it was never real. How could a little boy in a hospital bed be truly happy?

Sherlock and John had spent many sleepless nights in that hospital room. They had hoped day after day that Hamish would beat it. He had put up a good fight, but his chances were slim. And he knew it. He knew it would take a miracle to pull through, but he stayed positive for his family.

One of these nights, Sherlock insisted that John go back to the flat and get some sleep. Hamish was barely hanging on now. He was sleeping and Sherlock sat next to his bed, holding his hand. He had been sitting like this for a long time. A tear escaped and rolled down his face. It was his first tear in years. He had tried to stay strong for John and for Hamish, but he knew his son did not have long and he could not hold himself together much longer.

"Hamish, you are my life. You are everything to me. You and your father have made me who I am. I would do anything for you." Sherlock's heart dropped to his stomach as he forced out the rest.

"I love you, son."

He fell asleep holding his sons small hand, as he had for countless nights, hoping for a miracle. Hoping that his pride and joy, the one person who had made him happy above all else, would make it.