'Hamish, come here. Daddy needs to tell you something.' Sherlock tried to sound as casual as possible.
Neither Sherlock nor John had slept after the call. Instead they had lain awake, cherishing every precious second they had left together, locked in the tight embrace of each other's arms. And now, here they were; the cruel morning sun has arisen and it was time to break the harsh truth to their son.
'What is it Daddy?' Hamish smiled a crooked smile. Just like John, Sherlock noted with a sad smile. The boy's round blue eyes peered up at his father, filled with excitement.
'Why don't you sit down.' John said, gesturing at the little round table with its three wooden chairs.
'Okay.' Hamish chimed. Any adult would have grown to dread those words, but the boy sat down gingerly and looked up expectantly at his parents.
John and Sherlock glanced across the table at each other, unsure what exactly to say. How do you tell your child he may never see his father again? How could a six-year-old's mind even begin to fathom the gravity of the situation? The silence dragged on endlessly, but Hamish didn't seem to notice. He swung his tiny legs back and forth as he waited. In the end, it was Sherlock who spoke. 'Hamish, your father is going away for a while.' He said the words slowly, letting each one sink in.
'Where are you going?' The boy's eyes widened in excitement, 'Can I come?' John sat in silence, staring out the window, trying to compose himself. He could not let his son see him this broken.
'No, not this time. He's going somewhere dangerous.'
'Where is he going?' Such an inquisitive boy.
'Afghanistan.'
'How long will he be gone?' He asked with another lopsided smile.
'I don't know.' Sherlock looked down at his feet for a moment, trying to find the words to make him understand. John reached across the table and put his hand on Sherlock's. Then John nodded to him. It was time to tell the harshest of truths.
'Hamish,' Sherlock began, 'Your father might not be coming home.'
You could almost see the words running through his young mind. As each syllable sank in, his grin seemed to droop just that little bit more. 'Wha-What do you mean?' He stammered, his lower lip trembling. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand, readying himself, 'Because, son, I could very well die while I'm there.'
They could see their son shattering to pieces before them. Each tear that rolled down his pale cheek was like another cold shard of glass, stabbing into their chests. His pain was their pain. 'Please don't go.' He pleaded to John. 'I won't let you go.' And in that moment, John would have done anything to stay, anything. But he was helpless. His fate was decided. And there was nothing he could do to change it.
They arrived at the military base at noon. It was sunny, which seemed a cruel twist considering it had rained almost everyday of Sherlock and John's nine years together. They had spent the entire cab ride in silence, seated with Hamish between them. He had begged to come. The cabbie dropped them off at a landing strip, where a sea of uniformed men and women were saying their teary farewells.
'Well.' John said as neutrally as he could. His hands shook as he fiddled with a button on his shirt, 'I best being going then, eh?' He feigned his usual crooked smile. His son peered up at him with bleary eyes, mirroring that same sad smile. Hamish clutched onto the father's leg and buried his face into the camouflage pattern.
'Be careful, okay Daddy?' He mumbled into the fabric.
'I will be.' He promised, his eyes blazing as he fought to keep control. 'I will be.' He whispered, more to himself, looking up towards Sherlock.
'Hamish, I need to say bye to your father now, okay?'
'Okay.' Hamish released his grip and sniffled as he stepped back.
It was funny how John had changed. When they had first met, when they had first started to realise the extent of their feelings for each other, it had been an uncomfortable process to say the least. They had kept a safe distance in public, and limited their affection to the safe confines of 221B. But now, in their last moments together, John felt no embarrassment at all. All he could think about was how much he loved this man, and how much he didn't want to leave him.
He spent a while, staring from a distance, just drinking in the sight of him, trying to memorise each inch of his being. He was so tall, especially in that coat he was so fond of. The collared was frayed and battered from wind and foul weather, and their many adventures together. Yet it still stood up the way Sherlock liked it. God, how John would miss that coat and its dusty smell. His eyes flicked up to the scarf. The scarf. That long, slightly scratchy blue scarf. The one that matched his eyes perfectly. Sherlock refused to go anywhere without it. This was exactly how John wanted to remember him; in all of his mystery, beauty and etherality.
He walked slowly towards him, wrapped his small hands around that scarf and pulled gently so that he could reach those pale lips. It was not a lingering kiss, but he tried to pour all of his endless stores of love into it. Then they tore themselves apart, though they wanted that moment to be infinite, and settled for a tight embrace. 'I love you, John.' Sherlock whispered in his ear. John could feel the warm breath on his ear. He closed his eyes and relished in the moment. 'I love you too.' He whispered back.
Then he had to break away, before the goodbyes all became too much. John could feel the eyes upon him as he turned and walked away. He knew they were judging him, maybe even disgusted, but he found that he didn't care. He loved Sherlock more than anyone could ever hope to love another person, and no amount of disapproving glares could change that.
AN: Okay I really hoped you liked this chapter...This one means a lot to me, but if you didn't that's okay too. As a child whose own father went off to military service, I really wanted to capture the whole experience as best I could. Reviews are always greatly appreciated.