I Would Give Anything

By the time I was your age, I'd give anything

To fall in love truly, was all I could think

That's when I met your mother, the girl of my dreams

The most beautiful woman, that I'd ever seen

She said, "Boy can I tell you a wonderful thing?

I can't help but notice, you're staring at me.

I know I shouldn't say this, but I really believe,

I can tell by your eyes that you're in love with me."

Now, son, I'm only telling you this

Because life can do terrible things.

-Terrible Things, Mayday Parade

They loved the boy. They loved him beyond words.

They had brought him home, wrapped up in an indigo blanket as soft as the little boy's skin with emerald sewing in intricate patterns. His head was a mop of raven locks, small curls shaping it on his crown. His hands were tiny pale fists, his cheekbones already a prominent feature on his face, despite his being 2 months old. And beneath his little lilac coloured eyelids were large almond shaped eyes of emerald, his jet black lashes long and framing.

They knew they loved him by the moment they stepped into the orphanage and wandered the halls with the head nurse. They knew they had found their son when Sherlock paused by a crib with the raven haired little boy staring up at the detective knowingly. John stood by the man with a loving smile as he watched the two have a complete conversation with their beautifully unique eyes. It was almost as though this boy was in fact Sherlock's kin, that he had given his inheritance to the boy. And in that moment, John knew that this boy was theirs: he was meant for them, and they him.

The kindly woman grinned at them and handed them the papers, telling them how amazing it was that they were adopting and just how wonderful it was. Sherlock's heart lifted and the feeling of utter love for the boy deepened as the woman told them his story.

A woman had stumbled into the nearby hospital, large with child and in the early stages of labour. None of that was a problem though, and the fact that the father was nowhere to be seen did little to dampen the nurses' sympathy, for this woman was sickly. What must have ordinarily been beautiful, shining light brown hair was dull and thin with stress and hardship. Her once stunning eyes had become just as dull and a film of despair coated them. Her cheek bones were shadowed by the dips of her cheeks, the circles under her eyes deep and dark. She was unnaturally pale for her complexion and her voice cracked with the effort of talking. It was a pity, for she had a beautiful feminine voice. She had been asked who the father was before they brought her into the delivery room, but her answer was silenced by the contractions, as was she when hours later, when she died while the little boy started to cry. Many of the nurses sobbed with strangling emotion as the little baby cried for a mother who could not comfort him about the abruptness of the new world.

It was later found out that the woman was Jane Foster, a well-known astrophysicist, though the orphanage lady, named Margaret, could not tell John and Sherlock this, for her dying wish was to keep her pregnancy a secret.

The most interesting of things, Margaret told them, was when the mother died, lighting and thunder split the sky suddenly, and the barrage persisted for the rest of the day.

Sherlock felt right taking this boy in, knowing he didn't fit into the rest of society, he was different; special. Much like himself, and John felt that too as the new father held the boy adoringly in his arms.

"Hamish," Sherlock whispered to the sleeping boy in his long, pale arms that matched Hamish's while he swayed soothingly "You are loved and I promise you will be for as long as you live. You are the apple of my eye, little Hamish and I will forever be there for you, I don't care the distance or price; I love you. And I am sure you mother would do the same, if she could. Hamish, we love you." A tear slipped past Johns guard and fell silently onto his arm, a watery eyed Margaret giving the doctor a shaky smile.

That night they brought Hamish home and showed him the flat: 221B, their home at the moment, until the boy grew up. They did not know that they would stay there for far longer than they had thought, none of them having the heart to move away: it was home. They laid him down in the cot after caring for the helpless human, his bright deep green eyes staring up at the men, John's arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist and his head on his shoulder. Hamish stared up at them with the knowledge of the universe before they drifted closed obligingly.

That became a tradition. They brought him to bed every night and gave him a kiss on the forehead, one last smile full of love before those emerald eyes fluttered close against the night. Even as he grew older, stretching taller as he became the dashing young man he was destined to be, his faced carved with bizarre wisdom and mystic, his eyes piercing and strong. He rarely allowed his hair to be cut, letting the dark locks fall to his shoulders in loose, subtle curls at the ends. His face held a kindness though as did his hands, a clear trait of the mystery mother. He was an intelligent and cunning boy, and at the age of five, understood all that a man of sixteen could know. He had a sharp, sarcastic tongue that Sherlock admired and was proud of, despite the soft discipline he was required to give. It wasn't until the boy was ten that he began to show qualities of inhuman ability.

A boy was being a boy on the playground at school, harassing young Hamish for his parents being gay, calling him queer and a faggot. The moment Sherlock had heard that, he wished to hurt the persecutor, but that was until he learned that the boy was suffering from burns that no one knew how he had gotten. All anyone knew was that by the time they had pulled Hamish off the rude little git, he had casual frost burns on his forearms. Hamish would tell them nothing of what happened, causing for the first time ever, Sherlock's wrath.

Every now and again, mysterious incidents would happen involving Hamish and still he would not admit to anything. Sherlock would become aggravated, only calmed down when john would come from the kitchen and handed a tea to Sherlock and Hamish, allowing them to talk coolly of what happened. Still, he said nothing. Soon, these incidents began happening with other students involved. The dads wondered but let it slide. They had known from the moment they laid eyes on Hamish that he was different. Only they hadn't known to what extent. But they knew the day Hamish got back to the flat after school with a plump round face, short brown hair and standing a foot shorter that they knew just how different he was.