Darkness is a whisper away
Whence it came
On paper wings
And he was gone forever
Leaving the diapason of blindness to guide me home
"Come on, Hamish!" John shouted. His son, a mess of dark curls was darting around the football field with skill. Getting Hamish out of bed had been getting difficult in recent times, so seeing his son so exuberant on the field was pleasing to John.
"What's the point of this?" A particularly recalcitrant and rugged up Sherlock asked.
"It's a great social outlet, Sherlock. It's good for him to expend some of that restless energy he inherited from you." John quipped, squeezing Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had been married for nine years now. Hamish was seven years old, and a perfect juxtaposition of both his parents' qualities.
"Must I shout like that?" Sherlock asked.
"Hamish would probably fall over in surprise if you did." John responded.
Sherlock smiled into his scarf.
The commotion of the grand final match came to a sudden stop.
Hamish had fallen.
Hamish didn't get back up like he always did.
John ran across the field, his heart in his throat. Sherlock followed swiftly.
The gaggle of seven year olds stood back, knowing the reputations of Hamish's parents.
"Hamish? Hamish, are you alright?" Sherlock asked his unconscious son.
John felt for his son's pulse at his radial artery. His pulse was fast and irregular.
"John, is he alright?" Sherlock asked, hiding his fear well.
"He's alive if that's what you're asking. Call an ambulance."
"Don't bother." Hamish said, his eyes opening wide.
"Hamish, don't move. What happened?" John asked.
"I was running; I couldn't breathe and my heart was beating really fast, and then everything went black." Hamish explained.
"What do we call a really fast heartbeat, Hamish?" Sherlock asked. They'd been studying human physiology together.
"Sherlock," John shot him a warning look. There was no need to interrogate the boy in such a context.
"Tachycardia, father." Hamish indulged, sitting up.
"How do you feel?" John asked, displaying a desperately concerned expression.
"Dad, don't worry. I'm assuming you're going to take me home? Father, please tell him I'm alright." Hamish implored. 'Dad' was John, and Sherlock was 'Father'. It cleared things up.
"Yes, we're taking you home. Have you got your kit at home or is it at the clinic?" Sherlock asked.
"It's all at home." John said.
"Excellent." Sherlock responded, standing up.
Sherlock gave Hamish a hand up and wrapped his scarf around his son's neck. Sherlock walked Hamish to the car while John had a quick word to Hamish's coach, who was understanding. The family of three drove back to 221B to settle things.
John went up the stairs first, in order to watch Hamish's response to physical activity more closely. Sherlock went last in case Hamish lost consciousness again. Sherlock partially cleared a table for John, who propped Hamish up on the space left. Sherlock stood back, his arms limp against his side, staring at Hamish.
"Sherlock, under the bed is my kit. Can you go grab it please?" John asked as he began to analyse the percussion of Hamish's thorax. Sherlock remained unmoving, as though he had not heard John.
"I think you're going to have to get it yourself, Dad. Father's probably in his mind palace, judging by the way he's pouting and doesn't appear to be looking at anything in particular." Hamish deduced.
"You're getting too good at that; you're seven years old." John said as he went to fetch the equipment.
John wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Hamish's thin arm. Since Hamish was born, John had made sure he kept the child sized ones in his kit as well as the adult size. John measured blood pressure manually, which pleases Sherlock to no end – it was so John to do so.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked.
"He's hypotensive." John said, releasing Hamish's arm.
"Which means what, Hamish?" Sherlock turned to the boy.
"My blood pressure is low." Hamish stated.
"Yes. Good boy." Sherlock said, ruffling Hamish's hair.
John began to auscultate Hamish. His heart was beating far too fast, even for a child.
"Breathe in Hamish, nice and deep, please, and exhale." John instructed. Hamish obliged. John didn't find anything concerning as of yet, thank goodness. He continued to examine his son and documented everything – Sherlock would want to look through it all later.
"Are you feeling all right, Hamish? Any chest pain, shortness of breath, any other syncope?" John asked, folding his stethoscope over his neck, and crossing his arms.
"Sometimes it hurts here," Hamish said, gesturing to areas of his chest. "Sometimes I can't breathe, like I'm being choked; it's rather uncomfortable."
"Any palpitations?" John asked.
"Once or twice. I hate it." Hamish said, dropping his gaze to the floorboards.
"Hamish, you should have said something." John said, softening his body language.
"It was easier to not say anything, and father hasn't been here to deduce things about me, so I thought I'd just leave it." Hamish confessed. John spotted some bruises on Hamish's shoulder, and assumed they were from the soccer match.
Sherlock had been spending time in Cardiff, consulting on a serial murder there. He had been spending days away at a time, and it was putting strain on their marriage, admittedly.
"We're going to take you to a paediatrician, all right, Hamish?" John said, slipping a shirt over the boy's head. John made some phone calls, and booked an appointment with the best in the commonwealth.
"Sherlock, put the kettle on, will you?" John asked. Sherlock didn't move. John put the kettle on himself, and sat Hamish down on the couch in front of the television. Hamish put on some old episodes of Doctor Who. He enjoyed debating the plausibility of the occurrences and the possible evolutionary development of the various creatures with his father. John walked over to Sherlock who was plucking absentmindedly at his violin.
"Sherlock. I need you to be present right now, all right?" John said, stepping into Sherlock's field of vision.
"John," Sherlock said. He continued to pluck at the strings for a minute more before putting his violin down and snapping back into reality.
"Tell me your theories." Sherlock said.
"There's any number of things it could be, Sherlock."
"You think it is which terminal illness, John?"
"I don't know if you're mocking me or being serious."
"A bit of both."
"He could be experiencing some kind of influenza or lung infection, in which case, I'd have heard something telling. Maybe he accidentally caused a valsalva manoeuvre. He won't really tell me anything more, so I don't know how bad it is until we see this paediatrician tomorrow. He feels more comfortable telling someone who isn't me about these things." John exhaled. He was so stressed. With Sherlock not around, he had to pick Hamish up from school, at which Sherlock said Hamish had no place, being as incredibly bright as he is, and working at the clinic, it all became rather difficult. Sherlock had learned to deduce John's emotions and the ways in which he externalised and expressed them, so Sherlock reached his arms around his husband and held him. John nuzzled into Sherlock's chest. Even though Sherlock being affectionate was more of a mechanical thing than anything, it was still a way Sherlock showed that he loved John. John's head came to rest right over Sherlock's heart, which beat steadily against his cheek.
"He'll be fine. He does seem to be a little underweight, and he winces when he moves sometimes, when he thinks we can't see him." Sherlock said.
"He internalises things, just like you do. We must get him out of that habit, Sherlock."
Sherlock said nothing in return and dragged John over to the couch where the men sat either side of their miracle child and they watched television together. They ordered Chinese for tea and ate together, making a mess. John put on a record, and the three of them played cards for a while; it was an activity upon which both Sherlock and John agreed, and John made sure he put on a record which Sherlock didn't despise.
It got late, and so they decided a good nights' rest was a good plan, bright and early for the paediatrician tomorrow. Sherlock and John tickled Hamish into his room upstairs, and Sherlock read from one of John's medical school textbooks. After tucking Hamish in, and turning off the lights, Sherlock and John ventured into their bedroom. Hamish would be dead to the world in a matter of minutes. John was getting ready for bed, and he tried to remove his sweater, but it got tangled on his head and limbs.
"A little help, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice muffled by a mass of wool n his mouth.
"John," Sherlock growled, pushing his body against the length of John's, into the wall, pinning him. Sherlock deftly relieved John of the sweater and his shirt. Sherlock slowly and delicately kissed John, savouring every movement of every muscle.
"Sherlock," John panted into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock placed his hand on John's chest, in which John's heart was fluttering frantically like a hummingbird in a cage. He slid his hand further south and undid John's belt. John was completely erect, and he leaned up to kiss Sherlock, and as he did, he pushed Sherlock backward and onto the bed. Sherlock and John undressed each other fully. Sherlock rolled out from underneath John to retrieve lubrication and a condom. John haphazardly splashed lube over his fingers and he spooned Sherlock, buried his face in Sherlock's neck, nibbling, sucking, tasting the heat radiating from him, and inserted a finger. John reached for Sherlock's prostate; a place John could find in an instant. John began to gently massage Sherlock's prostate. He stopped the massaging and pressed on it gently. It pulsed gently, in time with Sherlock's rapidly beating heart.
"John, more." Sherlock moaned.
John inserted another finger and stroked Sherlock inside. Sherlock rolled onto his back, inviting John to go all the way. John stretched the condom over his full length and rubbed lubricant over himself. Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest. John brought his hips to Sherlock whose length was wet with precum. John gently slid an inch of himself inside Sherlock.
"John, more," Sherlock said a little too loudly.
"Sherlock, be quiet,"
John thrust in a little further, which was not enough for Sherlock, who pushed John deeper, in all the way.
"John," Sherlock moaned.
John thrust gently, slowly, like strokes of a paintbrush upon a canvas. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's back, and took control of the movement between the two. John took Sherlock's length in one deft hand, knowing that overstimulation was heaven for Sherlock. The bed started to creak wearily as the two men brought each other closer to the edge. With a few slow and deep thrusts, John came. John worked Sherlock's cock a little harder and he came across his own abdomen. John slid out of Sherlock and dropped him on the bed.
"Come on, time for a shower, Sherly."
"Alright; give me a second." Sherlock lay panting on the bed in post coital euphoria. The men showered and went to bed.