Hello readers! I would like to apologize for all the writing mistakes in these, so please excuse! =) Thanks! Maybe I should read these before I post them…

Chapter Four: Food, Bath, and Bed

Hamish and Sherlock were startled by the sound of John opening the door. The detective relaxed instantly, but little Hamish tensed in his father's arms and fearfully looked towards the stairs John was now walking up, hands full of bags.

"Nah, don't need your help at all, Sherlock, thanks for offering, though," the doctor huffed sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Sherlock chuckled in reply, standing up, putting Hamish on his hip, and crossing over to his flat mate.

"Here, just a moment, I've got to go get the cot and the rest of the bags," John muttered as he began to job back down the stairs to get the rest of the shopping.

Bouncing Hamish slightly on his hip, Sherlock walked over to one of the bags and opened it. Inside was a blue baby grow with trains covering it. The detective rolled his eyes, but looked back at his son and the tattered clothes he was wearing, and decided trains on a onesie were perfectly fine. He plucked the garment out of the plastic bag, quickly tore the tags off, snatched a nappy and wipes, and then walked back out of the kitchen just as John was coming up the stairs once again, a large box tucked haphazardly under his arm, his hands carrying the last of the bags.

Sherlock laid all of the items he had snatched on the ground and then sat down, lying Hamish on his back. The tiny boy squirmed slightly, but relaxed as his father began gently tugging off his dirty shirt. The detective pulled the tattered pants off, too, and threw the two garments towards the kitchen where they hit the wall and fell with a light 'thud.'

Sherlock looked back at Hamish and only then did he realize how truly filthy the poor boy was; his whole, little body was covered in patches of dirt and grime, and his nappy hadn't been changed for far too long. Sherlock quickly took the soiled nappy off, and tried to put a new one on. It was lopsided, and not quite done all the way, but it would work, he decided with a nod of his head. The detective made to reach for the onesie, but then stopped mid-way. "John?" he called.

"Yeah?" The doctor entered from the kitchen, and his eyes fell to little Hamish. "Oh," he whispered sadly as he saw how truly dirty the child was.

"John," Sherlock repeated, pulling his flat mate out of his thinking. "Should we just leave him in his nappy until we can give him a bath?" he asked. "Or should I change him?"

"No," John replied, " leave him in the nappy; he'll be fine." With a bittersweet smile, the doctor sauntered over to his new tiny flat mate. He crouched down, a smile dancing over his lips. Hamish flinched away, trying to reach for Sherlock. The detective reached his hand out for his son to grab onto; instantly, the tiny boy curled one tiny hand around his father's finger.

"It's all right, Hamish. This is John." Sherlock pointed with his free hand to John, then looked back at Hamish. "He's a friend." With a reassuring smile, the detective pulled the small boy up into his lap. Hamish scrunched back, pushing himself against his father's stomach, still shying away from John.

"No, Hamish. He's nice. See?" Hoping to help his son see he was perfectly safe around John, Sherlock took one of the tiny boy's hands like he had done earlier with the examination of the flat, and reached out so Hamish's little hand was touching John's. The small boy whimpered slightly, but allowed the contact when Sherlock pressed a reassuring kiss to the top of his head.

Sensing his little flat mate's anxiety, John smiled reassuringly and whispered, "Hey, little man." The doctor felt a warmth flutter in his chest when Hamish's hand relaxed against his own, and the small boy began tracing a single finger over the planes of his palm.

Sherlock and John smiled down at the new, additional flat mate between them, but the sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of Hamish's stomach grumbling. The little boy looked down at his middle, and then turned his gaze expectantly to the two men.

"Right then," John sighed, pushing himself up off the ground. "Let's get some food in you, hmm?" The doctor quickly sent Hamish a reassuring smile and then turned towards the kitchen, gesturing that his flat mate should follow. Sherlock nodded and the trio entered the kitchen.

"Right, then. We don't know what kind of nutritional intake he's received—if any," John started, pulling out several bags and cartons of fruit, some sliced meats, and a sippy-cup-type bottle. "So, just to make sure he can digest everything properly, we'll start him off slowly and carefully, and if all goes well, we'll start him on a diet common for one-year old's, okay?"

Sherlock merely nodded.

"Right, then. First things first. Let's try some fruit." The doctor grabbed a peach. "We're going to take off the peel so he can just eat the fruit on the inside. We'll start with this." Sherlock watched as his flat mate carefully peeled the peach, and then chopped it up into smaller, eatable bits, which he put onto a small plate. "There you go." He offered the plate to Sherlock.

"Oh. Oh, right." Making sure Hamish was situated comfortably and safely, Sherlock took the plate and then sat at the table. "Now, how should I um…" He trailed off, trying to figure out how to properly position Hamish, so as to feed him. John chuckled softly, but moved over to his flat mates—who were now seated at their little table with Hamish in Sherlock's lap—and moved the young boy so that he was sitting closer to the table.

"Now just put the plate on the table, close to the edge, and let's see if he reaches for the fruit, all right?"

Sherlock obeyed and nodded, and placed the plate close to the edge of the table, as instructed.

Both adults watched as the small boy eyed the plate suspiciously, and then the flat mates' lips spread into a wide grin when Hamish, with hesitant movements, reached forward and made a grab for the fruit.

Sherlock felt his heart twinge sadly in his chest when he saw the small boy ever-so-carefully place the yellow fruit in his mouth and begin to chew. Almost immediately, Hamish's eyes widened and he made a hasty grab for another small piece.

Sherlock and John exchanged a wary glance.

Obviously has not been fed for longer than originally anticipated, thought Sherlock, looking back at Hamish, who's eyes had begun to roll into the back of his head as he hastily began to finish the chopped peach.

"Poor little guy," John murmured sadly before looking at his watch. "Oh no! Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to go! I forgot I have a date with Mary tonight at 7:30 and it's already 7:20! I've got to run," the doctor mumbled hurriedly as he reached for his coat.

"But John—" Sherlock started, handing Hamish one of the last pieces of peach.

"No," John sighed with a chuckle, "no 'buts.' You'll be just fine, I promise. Just be sure that you don't feed him anything else until we're sure that the peach has settled nicely, keep him entertained, feed him again if he appears to be hungry, give him a bath, and put him to bed. Simple! I'll be back late. 'Night!" And with that, the doctor was gone, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish.

Glaring at the spot where his flat mate had been, Sherlock turned his attention back to the quickly-tiring boy on his lap. "You like that, hmm?" he murmured sadly, taking the last piece of fruit between his slender fingers and then depositing it in his son's mouth. "Probably feels better, doesn't it?"

The small boy hummed tiredly in response.

Sherlock practically jumped upon feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. The detective grouchily pulled out his mobile and glanced at the text he'd just received.

Got everything you wanted on him. Should be there either late tonight or early tomorrow. MH

That's right, Sherlock thought. He'd forgotten that when he'd been on the phone with Mycroft earlier that day, he'd asked him to retrieve any, and all information he could on Hamish and send it to him. Good. With a firm nod of his head, the detective turned his attention back to Hamish, and grabbed the plate, which emitted a tired grunt of protest from the small boy.

"I know, I know you're hungry, Hamish, and I'm sorry, but you can't have any more. Not until it's settled," Sherlock whispered with an apologetic kiss to the small boy's temple. Carefully settling his son over his shoulder, the detective placed the plate in the sink. "Well..." he began, peering at Hamish and remembering how dirty the poor child was. "Let's take a bath, then, shall we?"

With a gentle pat to Hamish's bare back, Sherlock walked into his bedroom then into the bathroom. He started the water running and then it suddenly occurred to him that Hamish would probably want some toys to play with. Leaving the water running, and toting his son along with him, Sherlock hurried back into the kitchen, and looked through the bags until he found the one that contained bath toys, as well as baby soap. Thank you John, he silently thanked, grabbing the items in his free hand.

Once back in the bathroom he put the toys and the soap on the counter of the sink, and shut the water off. He knew Hamish would probably need to have two baths – one to get the dirt off, and then one to actually get him good and truly cleaned.

Sherlock removed Hamish's nappy, and made to put the little boy in the bath. Almost instantly, he began to scream and cry. Deep green eyes suddenly going wide, Hamish began to kick his little legs and several tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes. "Da!" he cried, tiny voice laced with utter fear. "Da! Da!" Cheeks now flushed a dark red, and his small chest heaving up down with frightened gasps of breath, Hamish grasped on to his father's shirt with two tiny fists, crying helplessly as he attempted to crawl away from the water and into Sherlock's familiar arms.

"What, Hamish?" the detective asked worriedly, immediately pulling his son away from the water and settling his quavering form against his hip. "Hamish, it's all right. It's just water," Sherlock explained calmly, wrapping a hand around Hamish's waist to make sure the small boy felt safe. The detective dipped his hand into the warm water and turned Hamish around so he could see. "See, Hamish? It's all right. Nothing's going to happen." When Sherlock noticed the small boy was only sniffling, he made to move Hamish into the water again. "Shh," the detective whispered as he placed a hand under either of his son's armpits and held him carefully above the water.

Though Hamish didn't start screaming, silent tears were rolling down his cheeks as he clutched to Sherlock's hands, which were wrapped firmly around his little middle.

Sherlock's eyes saddened when he saw Hamish's legs and toes curl upwards and away from the water.

"Daa," the little boy moaned, kicking his chubby legs once again.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock whispered sadly, knowing this fear had undoubtedly come from something at the orphanage. "I promise, Hamish. I have you." The detective looked right into the little boy's eyes, and gave a reassuring nod before lowering him into the water.

The liquid almost instantly turned a murky color from all the dirt that came off of Hamish's tiny body. Upon seeing the water turn brown around him, the little boy began to cry again. Sherlock hurriedly got a washcloth and wiped away all the bits of dirt and grime still on his son's small body, all the while whispering soothing words into Hamish's ear. Once finished, the detective quickly drained the water, and then re-filled it with more warm water.

"Right, then. Ready?" he asked, once the tub was full. He could see tears quickly filling Hamish's impossibly green eyes.

"Da," the little boy whimpered with a wavering voice. Fresh tears beginning to stream down his little cheeks, Hamish turned and buried his face in the warm safety of Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shh," the detective whispered, kneelign down and pressing a loving kiss to the small boy's temple. "You'll be all right, Hamish. I promise I will have you the whole time... Don't you trust me?" he asked, allowing his cheek to rest against the top of his son's head.

After several moments of clear, worried contemplation, Hamish pulled out of the safety of his father's shoulder and sniffled.

"There's a good boy," Sherlock murmured with a smile. Before placing him in the bath, the detective used the pad of his thumb to rub away the tears that were still resh on Hamish's cheeks. "Ready?"

"Da..."

"Very good, then." Making sure Hamish felt secure, Sherlock kept his large hands wrapped around the boy's tiny middle and then lowered him into the freshly-drawn bath water.

As he was slowly lowered into the water, Hamish still clung to his father's hands, and kept his eyes squeezed shut.

"Hamish." Upon hearing his father's voice, the little boy hesitantly opened his eyes and glanced down. The water had not turned murky this time... And suddenly, seeing the water clear and clean, all seemed well, and the little boy calmed down considerable. A small smile grace his little lips.

When his son relaxed in his hands, Sherlock sighed in relief and, keeping one hand still around Hamish's middle, reached around and grabbed the soap and began to clean the little boy. The detective couldn't help but smile in fondness when Hamish became very amused with all the bubbles that soon filled the bathtub. Chuckling, Sherlock scooped some of the suds into his hand and placed a little pile of them atop Hamish's wet curls.

After realizing what his father had done, the little boy began giggling, and took some bubbles in his own hand and tried to reach towards Sherlock's face. Obliging, the detective leaned in towards Hamish so as to give him easier access.

With concentration unique only to a child, Hamish carefully placed a little pile of bubbles on Sherlock's nose. "Da…" he sighed with a content smile, allowing one of his wet, tiny hands to rest against his father's chiseled cheek.

Once again, Sherlock felt that warm feeling spread throughout his chest, and he couldn't help but to smile at the little boy in front of him – his son...

Sherlock soon finished washing Hamish then gave the little boy a few minutes to play with all of the bath toys John had gotten.

After getting Hamish out of the bath and drying him of with a fresh towel, Sherlock walked into the kitchen with the small boy clothed only in the linen. The detective grabbed some nappie and wipes, and then left the kitchen, taking a seat on the ground where he had earlier. The onesie was still lying on the ground where he'd placed it.

Sherlock put Hamish's nappy on (much less crooked this time), put the little onesie on and then pulled his son into his lap. Upon being dressed and seating comfortably in his father's lap, Hamish stuck out his bottom lip, and took the soft fabric between his index finger and thumb, rubbing the cloth between his fingers. It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that the little boy had probably never had nice, soft, clean clothes to wear. The thought made his heart twinge sadly in his chest.

"Poor thing," the detective murmured, scooping Hamish up—which resulted in a startled cry from the small boy boy—and then pulling him into a hug. "You're safe now," he murmured with uncharacteristic gentleness. When Hamish did not protest to the sudden, entombing contact, Sherlock merely continued to hold the tiny boy close, not even realizing he had begun to rock back and forth.

And apparently Hamish was rather content with such a thing, because when Sherlock pulled away, the small boy was fast asleep, his little body curled against the planes of his father's chest; his small arms and legs were tucked inward, as if he was clinging to the detective.

Feeling something flutter up and down his spine at the sight and feel of Hamish curled against his chest, sleeping soundly, Sherlock gently cradled the small boy in his arms and walked into his room. He had debated about putting together the cot, but decided he would just let Hamish sleep in his bed tonight.

Carefully, Sherlock set the now-sleeping boy in his bed, and ever-so-carefully pulled the duvet up slightly around Hamish, who was now fast asleep. Not wanting him to get hurt, the detective placed several pillows around him so he wouldn't roll off the bed.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, not quite sure what to do with himself. Deciding he would check back in on the small boy at frequent intervals, the detective made for the door. Just as he was about to exit, Hamish released a content little sigh.

Pausing for a moment to allow the sweet sound to feel his ears and reverberate through his skull, Sherlock looked back at the little boy, and felt that same warmth spread throughout his chest.

What is that? Sherlock thought, now frustrated that he couldn't understand what he was feeling.

The room was silent. All that could be heard were the tiny breaths Hamish was taking.

Not really knowing what he was doing, but feeling a sudden urge to do whatever it was, Sherlock slowly crept over to his bed, and peered past the pillows to see a very content-looking Hamish, sleeping soundly. His tiny fingers were curled inwards, and resting flat on the bed; the tiny boy's chest rose and fell with each deep breath, which was accompanied by a gentle exhale, the sound of which was too precious for words.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile himself. And, without thinking, he bent over and pressed his lips to Hamish's warm cheek. "I love you, Hamish," he murmured suddenly, allowing his lips to linger against his son's skin. That same warmth suddenly spread throughout him, again. Oh, he thought, realization flashing through his ever-active mind. Now I understand. Sherlock's smile widened and softened even more at the prospect of feeling love – more love than he could have ever thought possible – for this little human being asleep just mere inches from him. My son… My son…

"Oh, Hamish," the detective whispered, brushing several auburn curls away from his son's forehead. "What on earth have you done to me?" he added with a small smile.