Chapter Thirty-Seven: Daddy's Sick
"John," Sherlock groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes as he tossed himself into the corner of the couch. "I'm sick!"
"Oh please," the doctor sighed, walking in from the kitchen with Hamish on his hip and a sippy cup full of juice in his other hand. "You are not really sick. You just have a little sinus infection and some nausea."
"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered under his breath, snatching a blanket that was resting on the back of the sofa and throwing it around his lean form as he curled further into the corner.
"John?" Hamish asked quietly, tugging at the collar of the doctor's jumper as he stared worriedly after his father's curled up form.
"Yeah, Hame?"
"Daddy 'kay, John?" the little boy whispered, gazing sadly at his father.
"Oh yeah," the doctor chuckled, sitting down in his chair and handing Hamish his cup. "Daddy's fine, he's just a drama queen," he added, whispering playfully into the little boy's ear.
"Oh," Hamish giggled, taking the cup and sliding off the doctor's lap. "Hame go see?" he asked, gently tapping on John's knee.
"Of course. Besides," the doctor whispered, lowering down to whisper loudly in Hamish's ear. "I think he could use a little help and support, hmm? Why don't you go give him a hug, see if you can help him feel better, yeah?"
"Oh," the little boy murmured seriously, nodding his head as he stared at his father's pathetic form with sad, worried eyes. "'Kay, John. Hame help." Clutching his sippy cup close to his tiny chest, Hamish toddled over to Sherlock's form, and paused as he reached the sofa. "Daddy?" he asked quietly, releasing his grip on the cup to gently tap the detective on the back.
"Hmm? Yes Hamish?" Sherlock mumbled groggily, curling his head backward to gaze at his son.
"Hmm." Humming frustratedly to himself, and pressing his lips together, Hamish dropped the cup onto the floor and clutched two fistfuls of his father's trousers, hoisting himself onto the couch with a tiny grunt. "Uh," he huffed, haphazardly falling over Sherlock's long legs as he shifted on the sofa.
Blinking groggily, the detective turned, careful not to move his legs and placed a hand on his son's tiny arm.
"He'o Daddy," Hamish whispered, deep green eyes quickly scanning over his father's pale face. "Daddy have ouch?"
Despite his sickness, Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at his son. "Yeah. A little. I'm just sick," he explained gently, running a reassuring thumb up and down the small boy's arm.
"Oh. Ouch?"
"Well… Sort of. But I'm all right. Promise," he added, giving a feeble wink.
"Mmm. 'Kay," Hamish hummed skeptically, giving Sherlock a tiny, reassuring smile. With a quiet breath, the little boy crawled forward, and slotted himself between his father's curled up form and the back of the couch. "Mmm," he hummed, wrapping his arms around the detective's neck and giving them a tight squeeze. "Hame help Daddy 'ettter," he murmured into Sherlock's neck, leaning up to kiss place a tender kiss to the underside of his father's jaw. "'Kay, Daddy?"
"Okay," Sherlock whispered, smiling in spite of himself at the warmth that was spreading through his cheeks from where Hamish had kissed. "Thank you."
"'Etter yet, Daddy?" the little boy asked hopefully, pulling away from Sherlock's neck to stare up at him with hopeful eyes.
"No, not yet," the detective chuckled, lovingly ruffling his son's curly hair.
"Oh," Hamish frowned. Squeezing his eyes together, the little boy tucked his head back under Sherlock's jaw and squeezed his arms again. "'Etter?"
Pausing to stare down at his son with soft eyes, the detective couldn't help but smile at the earnest, hopeful twinkle in Hamish's impossibly green eyes. "Yes," he chuckled quietly, giving the little boy a reassuring smile. "I'm much better now, Hamish. Thank you."
"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. "Good, Daddy. Help?"
"Very much so."
"Good, John?" Hamish called, voice muffled by the fabric of his father's shirt.
"Very good job, Hame," the doctor replied, smiling fondly at his two flat mates.
Sniffling and then frowning slightly at the twinge in his head upon doing so, Sherlock snuggled further into the couch, pulling the blanket around both their bodies, huddled so closely together.
"Oh!" the detective cried softly and suddenly. "John?" he asked, turning around the glance at the doctor. "Will I get him sick?" he asked earnestly, making a gesture towards Hamish, who had closed his eyes and was resting comfortably between him and the couch.
"Oh. No, he should be all right," John reassured.
Needless to say, three hours later, Sherlock felt a gentle tugging on the hem of his robe. Turning around from where he had been standing in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, the detective found Hamish, looking utterly miserable, wiping an arm across his nose.
"Hamish? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked gently, kneeling down on the ground with cup of tea in hand.
"Ew, Daddy," Hamish replied sadly, voice sounding raw and strained.
"Oh," the detective sighed, eyes quickly scanning over his son's tiny face. "Are you sick, Hamish?"
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sniffled, sticking his bottom lip out and as he fell forward, placing his head against his father's shoulder with a tiny moan.
Sniffling himself, Sherlock placed a gentle hand to his son's little back, running his fingers up and down. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Let's go call John, hmm?"
"'Es." With a tiny sigh, and keeping his head resting on the detective's shoulder, the little boy draped his arms around Sherlock's neck in preparation.
Ignoring the pounding in his head, Sherlock managed to pull Hamish into his arms without spilling his tea and walked into the sitting room, collapsing onto the couch. "Here. Would you like some? It may help," he asked gently, offering the beverage in his hand to the little boy.
"Mmm," Hamish hummed, gazing into the drink. "'Kay," he whispered, giving a tiny nod of his head.
Smiling sadly as his son sniffled to himself, Sherlock passed the cup to Hamish's chubby fingers, though he kept a firm hold around one of the sides as he pulled his phone out of the cushions, watching carefully as the small boy took a tiny sip of the tea.
"Good, Daddy," Hamish whispered, passing the cup back to his father and leaning heavily against the detective's chest as he blinked slowly, green eyes staring off into the entryway.
"Good... John?" Sherlock asked, having already dialed John's number.
"Yeah?" the doctor answered.
"Hamish is sick, too, so I'll need you to get some medicine for him, as well," the detective sniffled, absentmindedly patting his son's back.
"Oh, really? Poor little guy. You two must have picked up the same virus. Where did you two go in the past few... Oh. The mall."
"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning at the thought. "I knew it was unsanitary."
"Oh, come on now... All right. I need to know if his stomach hurts. Does he feel like he's going to throw up?"
"A moment." Tucking the phone between his jaw and shoulder, Sherlock leaned back. "Hamish?" he asked gently.
"Hmm? What, Daddy?" the little boy yawned, eyes heavy with sleep.
"Hamish, I need to know if your tummy hurts," the detective asked, placing a hand over his son's little stomach.
"Ouch?"
"Yes. Does your tummy hurt?" He gently patted Hamish's belly in an effort to further help him understand.
"Oh. No ouch tum'ny, Daddy."
"Good. Thank you. Can you tell me where it does hurt?"
"Mmm-hmm." Nodding and then huffing sadly as it clearly seemed to hurt his head, Hamish took ahold of his father's much larger hand, wrapping his chubby fingers around several of Sherlock's. "Ouch, Daddy," he stated, placing the detective's fingertips to his nose.
"Your nose hurts?" Sherlock asked, tenderly running a finger over the tip.
"Mmm-hmm."
"All right. Anywhere else?"
"'Es." Frowning and gazing up with wide eyes at his father, Hamish took Sherlock's hand and placed it atop his head. "Ouch."
"And your head hurts..." the detective murmured, giving his son a sympathetic smile as he moved the phone back to his hear. "He's just got a cold and a headache," he translated. "But no stomachache, like me."
"Excellent. Thanks, Sherlock. Should be home in a few. Just let him rest for a little bit if he's tired, okay?"
"Yes," the detective rumbled, tossing the phone away before turning his attention back to his son. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured. "That's no fun, hmm?"
"No. No fun, Daddy. Ouch."
"Yes... I know. But at least your tummy doesn't hurt," Sherlock added, trying to cheer the little boy up.
"Oh. Daddy tum'ny ouch?"
"Only a little. But that's all right; I'll be okay," the detective reassured.
"Oh." Frowning sadly to himself, and with his eyes downcast, Hamish appeared to be thinking deeply for a moment.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked tenderly, brushing some of his son's auburn curls out of his eyes as he analyzed the tiny boy's features.
"Stay, Daddy," Hamish ordered determinedly, though his voice was so tiny and airy, the detective couldn't help but smile.
"All right," he chuckled weakly, allowing the little boy to slide from his lap.
Taking a grateful sip of his tea, Sherlock watched as Hamish disappeared into the kitchen, frowning slightly as he heard the sound of drawers opening and shuffling. "Hamish?" he called worriedly, already standing up on the couch.
"Hame good, Daddy," the little boy called weakly, toddling back into the sitting room.
"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief, eyeing something Hamish had clutched between his chubby fingers. "What have you got there, Hamish?" he asked, trying to see.
"Help, Daddy," Hamish answered simply. The little boy paused as he reached the couch. Frowning slightly as he tried to figure out what he wanted, Hamish eventually plopped down on the ground and made a gesture, suggesting his father was to follow suit.
Chuckling at his son, and intrigued by what the little boy was going to do, Sherlock slid off the bed and placed his cup of tea a few feet away. "Good?"
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered, running a tiny fist under his nose as he sniffled. "'Kay." With a tiny nod of his head, the little boy scooted himself closer to Sherlock's seated form. With a sniffle, he gently reached up and tapped the detective's shoulder.
"Would you like me to lay back?" Sherlock asked confusedly, eyes scanning his son's face in an effort to analyze what the little boy was wanting, though he had recently discovered that Hamish was very difficult to deduce. Giving up, deciding he would not understanding what his son was wanting until he was told, Sherlock leaned back on the floor, pulling his robe further around his bare middle.
"'Kay," Hamish hummed. Almost smiling to himself, the little boy nestled himself close to his father's side and pulled out his hands, holding them in front of Sherlock's face.
"Oh," the detective hummed, suddenly understanding and unable to stop himself from smiling as he saw what Hamish had gotten from the kitchen. "I see."
Smiling triumphantly to himself, the tiny boy turned himself and stood up until he was hovering over Sherlock's middle.
The detective watched with a tender gaze, the smile never leaving his lips as Hamish gently pulled open the front of his robe. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle as he heard the distinct crinkling of waxy paper and then felt his son's tiny hands pressing a plaster to his stomach.
"Good, Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly, placing a hand over the bandage as he looked back to his father's face. "No Daddy tum'ny ouch?"
Not having the heart to explain to his son that a plaster would not take away his stomachache, but finding the idea incredibly precious, Sherlock placed a tender hand to the side of Hamish's head. "Yes, Hamish. That helped very much. Thank you."
"Real, Daddy?" the little boy whispered hopefully, scooting himself downward until he was hovering over the detective's face, eyes quickly scanning down to the plaster resting on his father's stomach.
"Really. That was very kind and thoughtful of you, Hamish." Smiling fondly, Sherlock bent up and pressed a loving kiss to his son's cheek, smiling at the feel of Hamish's soft skin against his lips. "Thank you."
Beaming at his accomplishment, the little boy gently tugged the corners of his father's silky robe back over his stomach, tenderly patting the spot where he'd placed the plaster. "Get 'etter, Daddy," he yawned, falling onto the ground and placing a hand on Sherlock's chest as he snuggled close to his father's side.
"You, too," the detective chuckled, feeling a warmth travel and flutter through his body. "You're so sweet, Hamish," he added, pulling open his robe and tucking the little boy's tiny body close to his bare chest.
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, nodding tiredly against Sherlock's shoulder as he sniffled. Humming to himself, the little boy moved his hand upwards until it was resting in the gap at the base of his father's neck.
"Sorry you're not feeling well," Sherlock murmured, smiling at the ticklish feeling of his son's tiny hand clenching and unclenching against his skin.
"Hmm. Es 'kay, Daddy."
Chuckling to himself, Sherlock gently ruffled his fingertips through Hamish's silky curls, smiling as he felt the little boy's hand still against his flesh and felt his body go limp against his own as he fell asleep, quickly following suit as he felt his own exhaustion.
When John returned home, he quickly placed all of the medicine he'd gotten in the kitchen and made his way into the sitting room, pausing in the doorway at the sight in front of him. On the floor, completely passed out, laid Sherlock on his side, his back facing the kitchen doorway.
"Hamish?" the doctor whispered confusedly, taking a quiet step towards his flat mate's slumbering form. John paused, lips curling into a grin as he moved closer and saw that Hamish was tangled in Sherlock's long arms and robe, his little arms splayed about and pressing against the detective's lips and the floor. Both father and son's mouths hung open slightly as their chests rose and fell in tandem while they rested, a tangled heap on the floor.
Chuckling fondly to himself at the sight, John quickly found a blanket and draped it over their slumbering bodies, not even noticing as he tucked Hamish's form closer to his father's, finding the scene too sweet to really ponder about why they were on the floor.
"You two," he hummed cheerfully, pulling out his phone and snapping as many photos as he could. The doctor stopped, moving to the other side of his flat mates and paused, eyes softening at the likeness between the two.
John was pulled from his thoughts, however, by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Tugging his brows together in mild interest, but still smiling lovingly at the sweetness of his flat mates, the doctor hurried down the stairs and opened the door to be met with a tall, impeccably dressed woman, her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.
"May... I help you?" he asked confusedly, gripping onto the side of the door.
"Yes," the woman answered with a deep, cold voice. "I've come to see Sherlock... And his son," she added, with obvious distaste.
"Uh-huh," John hummed skeptically, automatically blocking the entrance with his body as he felt a protective urge boiling in his stomach. "Does he know you?" he asked, eyes quickly taking in the sharp, icy woman.
"Well he very well should. I'm his mother."