Dark curls fell in Hamish Watson-Holmes's face as he bent over his Trigonometry book in an effort to study for his chapter test in the morning. It was becoming increasingly hard to focus on the equations in front of his face, though, as his roommate had a friend over and their game of dorm room basketball was getting louder as more points were scored. The paper hoop was taped to the back of the door, right next to Hamish's desk, and 50% of all shots made hit him the arm. Hamish had asked several time for them to move their game elsewhere, but no dice.
He just sighed loudly and continued to try to work through some practice problems. One shot bounced off the rim and slammed into the picture Hamish had of his dads and landlady, knocking it off it's shelf, into the desk corner, and onto the floor; breaking the glass in the process. The ball rolled to a rest on top of the Trig book.
"Hey! Son of the fags! Give the ball back." The friend called out.
Hamish had finally had enough. He gripped the small rubber ball in his hand, and quickly stood and hurled it into the rugby player's face. It hit with a loud 'crack' and sent the friend reeling into the dresser. Immediately, the friend was on his feet, connecting his fist with Hamish's face and sending him into the door. But before the angry meathead could deal another blow, Hamish was out the door and sprinting down the stairs of Cather Dormitory. He didn't stop running, either, until he was halfway across London.
His run slowed to a walk, then finally stopped all together. Totally exhausted, full of anger and disbelief, and unsure of his location, Hamish resolved to sit down on the sidewalk in resignation, the lamp post above his head casting a yellowish glow over his pasty skin. He balled his fists and tried to fight the tears as they started to fall.
A police car drove past him on the street, stopped, then reversed. "Jesus, Hamish, is that you?!" DI Lestrade exclaimed, "Get in the car!" Hamish got up silently and climbed in the car, which took off immediately again. "What were you thinking, Hal? The streets still aren't the safest place to be. Sure, your Father has put away a lot of people, but not all of them. And even so, Sherlock's reputation makes it especially unsafe for you."
"I know. Thanks for picking me up, Uncle Greg." Hamish smiled through the haircut he so desperately needed.
"No problem. As your godfather, I can't, in good conscious, let anything happen to you. So, why were you in the street?" Hamish told the story, trying hard to keep his voice level. "You ran all the way from Uni?" Hamish nodded, and explained that he didn't want to go back tonight. "Well," Lestrade said, turning onto Baker Street, "We'll get you home."
"No, Uncle Greg, please! Father won't say anything, but Dad dotes on me and vocally worries about me. They won't just let this be, they'll want to talk about it or something!" Hamish just wanted to sleep.
DI Lestrade put the car in park outside 221B. "Hamish Watson-Holmes," He always used first and last name when he meant business, "You're bleeding. You need a doctor AND a parent. You're going inside."
Upstairs, the detective was pouring over his microscopes while the good doctor was adding an entry to his blog, when the doorbell rang. John checked the clock. "It's 11 at night. I really hope that's not a client."
"Shut up, John." Sherlock, who'd been exceptionally bored lately, mumbled.
Downstairs, they heard Mrs. Hudson open the door. "Hello. Oh! Hamish! What happened to you?!"
Immediately, the couple were on their feet, flying down the staircase. John reached the door first, pulling his son into the hall and beginning to examine him. His cheek was cut and bleeding, and the other was showing signs of bruising. "I found him sitting on the sidewalk on St. Mary Avenue. Brought him back here." Lestrade said, stepping inside.
"Thank God the police are good for something." Sherlock drawled lazily as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Sherlock, this is no time for your sass. Make yourself useful and put the kettle on." John snapped, still trying to get a good look at his struggling child.
"I'm fine, Dad. Really. I just want to go to bed." Hamish broke free and brushed past his parents and began scaling the stairs. "I'm also really hungry."
Lestrade broke the silence at the bottom of the stairs, "Kid got into a fight because a rugby player broke your picture, then called him 'son of the fags'. He was punched and fell into a door." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in dissaproval. "I need to get back to my patrol. Call me in the morning?"
John nodded, and the husbands traded a knowing look, before they walked up the stairs and into the kitchen. "Why do we have a shit ton of cereal, but no milk?" Hamish asked, staring into the fridge, a box of Cheerios in his hands.
"Because your father never buys any." John sat down at the kitchen table.
"It's not part of my job description." Sherlock said pointedly, taking a seat next to his doctor. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Why don't you come sit down?"
Hamish sat down at the tiny kitchen table, eating straight out of the box with his hands. A trait the boy inherited from neither of his parents, the boy could eat forever. "I don't want to talk about it. It's over and done. I just want to get some sleep. I have a test tomorrow at 10."
John reached out and petted his only son's head. "I understand. We just want you to know we love you, and we worry about you." Sherlock licked a thumb and wiped the blood from Hamish's cheek.
Tears welled up in the eyes that were clearly John's, and a few escaped down the cheekbones that were obviously Sherlock's. "I love you guys, too. That's why I got so upset tonight." He leaned over and buried his bruised face into John's chest, and Sherlock enveloped both in a hug.
"Well, it's over, Hal. And I'm glad your here for the night, considering the circumstances." Sherlock muttered.
"I'm glad I'm here, too. I didn't really know where I was going to go tonight while I was running through the dark streets." Hamish pulled out of the embrace. "I was embarrassed to come here. Afraid I'd get in trouble for fighting. Embarrassed that I lost the fight." He smiled weakly.
John brushed a curl out of his love's face. "Hamish, you can always come home."