Sick Day

A/N: Felt like writing a quick Johnlock fic, this is parentlock! Please Read and Review, but please, if you want, I will write more of this one.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?"

"Did you feed Hamish, yet?"

"Really, John, I am the father of a two year old infant with the intelligence of a three year old, with a husband who is an army doctor, do you really think I would forget to feed our son?"

"Sherlock! Hamish isn't getting any younger!"

"Course not. He is an infant, and he doesn't-"

"SHERLOCK!"

The Consulting Detective rolls his eyes, as his husband glares at him pointedly from across the room. Pulling his mahogany robe onto his thin body, he strides out of his bedroom, to head across the hall of their apartment. Knocking softly on the wooden door, he waits a moment, before gently pulling the door open. A soft wind enters the hallway, as he hears slight coughing, and he feels, for the first time, fear strike at his core. Coughing. A cold wind. It couldn't be a fever, as his son had not experienced chicken pox for a year. Pneumonia was rare for children of his age, and his son has not been taking medications. It was not required, though the adoption agency suggested it after interviewing Sherlock. All explicable signs that lead to a c-

"Papa?"

"Hamish!" he exclaims, rushing into the room. He stands there, stunned, as he stares down at his son. Hamish, the young boy he adopted, lay in his bed, coughing his eye. Red swelling eyes stare up at Sherlock; as mucus drip down his cupid's bow. He is covered up to his chest with the homeade quilt had insisted on knitting as soon as it was announced that John and Sherlock would be adopting a child.

"Papa...I-I don't feel so goo."

Without missing a beat, Sherlock strides over to his son, and immediately kneels by him. The pain he felt in his heart when he had returned to John was nothing compared to now, seeing his son suffering from a simple cold. He runs a hand through his son's curly locks, the hair curling around his long fingers.

"Lowered body temperature, excessive mucus," he deduces under his breath as he caressed Hamish's hair, "Coughing, open window...nasopharyngitis..."

"Sherlock, are you alright in there?" John walks after his husband, when he doesn't hear Hamish's usual morning giggling, and Sherlock's voice as he would usually hear. Striding across the hallway, he sees Sherlock kneeling next to the sick boy, a look of complete pain on his face. John, without a thought, headed to their washroom. Picking up the thermometer he kept in cases like these, should this ever happen, he hurries back to the child's room, and asks Hamish to open his mouth.

"Bleh..." Hamish moans, as John sticks the thermometer in his mouth. Holding it there for a few minutes, he gently removes it. As Sherlock hugs Hamish tight, he removes the thermometer. Abnormal. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He had to go to work...but could he trust Sherlock with their child? Especially when he was sick.

John pulls Sherlock aside, after coaxing Hamish to get some sleep. "Sherlock, you need to look after him today."

"But-But it's your day, John!"

"I know. But I have work, and you don't have a case. Please, Sherlock."

John's grip tightened on Sherlock's arm, and for a moment all was quiet, as Sherlock slowly nodded his head. "Alright. But what if-"

"I'll be on call. You know exactly what to do-"

"Nurture, care, keep a regulated temperature, give him hot soup to fight the germs-"

"Yes, you do know. Now, if there is trouble, though I doubt there will be, call me."

"I...alright."

"Good," John gives Sherlock his casual smile, before quietly taking his hand and kissing his cheek. Kneeling next to Hamish, he kisses his son's forehead and whispers goodbye, before heading out the door, leaving Sherlock utterly lost, but determined to fight this cold for his son. Time to be the knight in shining armor once more.

After Hamish had finished his chicken noodle soup Sherlock had so hastily warmed up, he sat next to his son, who, due to a lack of energy, could not play with his toys that Molly, Lestrade and Anderson had purchased for him. The stuffed dog that Hamish doted on lay by his side, and he held it out to his Papa.

"Papa...can we play?"

"Of course…" Sherlock said kindly, unfolding his legs and setting his book aside. He took the puppy from his son's hand, "Yes, of course...let's play."

"Can you get...the dino?"

Sherlock looks to his side, to see Hamish' second favorite stuffed animal, a stuffed blue stegosaurus, and took it in his hands. He stares at the infernal toy, regarding its lack of resemblance to the stegosaurus that had been around before humanity. He places it on Hamish' bedside, and tried his best, though rather confused, tried to play with him. He roared softly, though feeling rather silly, as Hamish made the puppy jump and bark, as the stegosaurus and the puppy had an adventure together. Sherlock never understood the meaning of playing, as 'playing' had been forbidden by Mycroft after Redbeard had died, but now, as he plays with his son, he begins to remember playing with a soft raggedy doll that he had dubbed Bootstrap Bill, and wearing his eyepatch, playing with Redbeard, pretending he was a pirate on the sea. He felt a smile grow on his face, as his son made the puppy tackle the stuffed stegosaurus, and he pretended to roar, and when he heard Hamish giggle, he was sure this is what his childhood was supposed to be. A childhood where he could actually be a child.

Once the pair got tired of playing with stuffed animals, Hamish pointed to the story book that lay on the bookshelf nearby.

"Read."

Ignoring that voice that sounded familiar, like John's, telling him to ask politely, Sherlock obliged, standing up and picking up the colorful storybook that lay on the bookshelf. Images of princesses, princes, knights, dragons and many more cartoons, he recalls his own mother reading him fairy tales like back to his son's side, he asks, "What story would you like? I imagine John had already read to you all of these stories...

"Cindahwella!"

"You actually like that story?"

"Wead!"

Sighing softly, he kisses Hamish's forehead, and crosses his legs. He begins to read the story of the deprived orphan who gets a fictional fairy godmother, and that surely, it is all in her mind, but when Hamish begins to giggle and laugh as Cinderella met her prince, Sherlock couldn't help but recall when he met John. He had never thought of a man to be a Prince Charming, but when he thought about it, he had been Cinderella, trapped in a terrible life, before John had swept him away. Surely, this fairy tale was ridiculous.

John Watson walks into 221B, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Had Sherlock and Hamish had a nice night together, or was it a disaster? Greeting , he continues to walk up the steps, and enters his apartment, calling out Sherlock's name softly. When he was returned with silence, he slowly turns the handle of Hamish's door, "Sherlock…?"

What he sees, however, warms his heart. Sherlock is asleep by Hamish's side, a story book opened between the pair. A stuffed stegosaurus and a puppy lay in Hamish's arms, and his head was laying upon the soft pillow, as was Sherlock's. John walks over to his son and his husband, and gently kisses Hamish's forehead, and then, without a thought, he slowly leans in and kisses Sherlock.

"Wh-What?"

"You did great, love…"

"I suppose so…"

"Want to get some rest?"

"Love to...but my legs are asleep."

John sighs, and, gathering the stray pillows around the room, he creates a sort of soft pad on Hamish's carpet, laying next to his husband. He feels Sherlock's hand slip into his own, and in that warm glow, he slowly drifts to sleep, holding Sherlock's hand, feeling as much love as he ever could.