A huge hello and thank you to all of the wonderful readers of this story, to whom I also owe a huge apology. Not only for the shortness of this chapter, but also because of the lack of updating recently. I've been in a musical production, one which I did not realize would require 6+ hours of rehearsal every day. =( Between classes and this rather crazy musical practice, time to write, eat, sleep, get schoolwork done, and be prepared on my musical material has been rather crammed and sorely lacking. So, I do sincerely apologize! So sorry, all! But, luckily it closes on Saturday, so I should have much more free time. I also apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but I wanted to get something out to you guys. So here's a little start to the holiday this trio of flat mates will be going on. Please bear with me this next week, and once again, so sorry for my crazy musical schedule that has literally consumed the last two months of my life! Thanks, all! I cannot possibly express the love I have for each and every one of you!
Chapter Forty-Nine: Holiday
"What," Sherlock spat, staring in disgust at the article of clothing John was holding before him, "the bloody hell are those?"
"Swim trunks."
"No… No! Oh, my dear Lord." Presing the heel of his palms into his eyes, Sherlock sat down on his bed, managing to avoid the various bags and articles of clothing that were strewn about. "Swimming," he whispered. "You're taking us to a bloody swimming park."
"Mmm. Not quite," John chuckled with a smile.
"I hate you."
"Daddy! Not nice."
Sherlock parted his hands just enough so he could see his son's small form toddle into the room. "Apologies," the detective grumbled. With a huff of breath, he allowed his hands to fall onto his lap.
"Tank'su, Daddy. Up 'ease?"
"Of course." Forcing himself not to glad at his flat mate, Sherlock hoisted Hamish onto the bed.
"John?" the little boy asked once he was properly settled.
"Yeah, bud?"
"I still not does stand," Hamish explained, growing at the half-full suitcases around him.
"Well, we're going on a bit of a holiday, Hame."
"Oh. Why, John?"
"Sherlock, stop smirking. Why? Well, because I thought it might be rather fun to get away for a few days."
"Is be 'eave, John?"
"Well, not permanently. Only for a few days."
"Oh. 'Kay. Down 'ease, Daddy?"
"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock chuckled, rather fondly, as he set his son on the ground, removing him from the bed he'd just placed him on moments ago.
"Ah'cos I needs ah say b-bye." Deciding this was enough explanation, Hamish gave a content little nod of his head and scurried out of the room. Sherlock watched with a loving smile as the little boy's form escaped through the door.
Both flat mates paused when they heard Hamish's tiny voice. "B-bye, wall. I be back soon. John say go on ah hol… Uhm… Hol'miday? 'Es. Hol'miday. So be gone. But come back. 'Kay. B-bye." A few light footfalls. "B-bye, TV. Keep Tom Tank on 'ease."
Sherlock allowed himself a few chuckles before rather grumpily returning to the packing. "Oh, cheer up, Sherlock. You might even find yourself having a bit of fun."
"Doubtful."
"Mmm. Perhaps." Deciding to confuse his friend even more, John pursed his lips in an unamused fashion and silently left the room, to help Hamish with his goodbyes.
"Perhaps? What on earth am I supposed to…" Sherlock turned to find his flat mate had left. "Insufferable." Frowning and mumbling to himself, the detective continued all of the packing that would be required. All of his clothes had been more or less packed, and all that was left was everything Hamish would be needing. And, despite hating having to admit other people were right, Sherlock knew John was correct when he said Hamish would have a good time. "Again. Insufferable."
Throwing the top of one of the suitcases shut with more force than was probably necessary, the detective quickly finished the rest of the packing, finding some humor in listening to his son's 'goodbyes' to practically every part of the flat.
"No, Daddy. I stay now 'ease." With a frown, Hamish promptly seated his little self on the floor and crossed his legs.
Sherlock merely raised an unamused eyebrow in response. "Hamish," the detective started, gesturing to the item that was currently resting on the floor next to his seat, "you are being rat her ridiculous. It's only a car seat."
"Not like, Daddy. I wants ah stay Daddy. Like in—"
"Yes, Hamish, I understand that you would prefer to sit with John and I like we do in the cabs. But—unfortunately—John has apparently rented a car for this rather ridiculous endeavor, meaning I—unfortunately—am required to drive. Therefore, you are rather unable to stay with me anyway."
"No 'ease, Daddy."
"Hamish. This is not negotiable. We are traveling a ways, we are not taking a cab, I am unable to sit with you, therefore you must be seated in a carseat. My sincerest apologies, love, but there's nothing I can do," Sherlock rather chuckled, quirking his lips in a sympathetic fashion.
"Why, Daddy? Why Hame does have?" Hamish asked with genuine inquiry. The little boy permitted himself a quick glance up at his tall father.
Heaving a sigh, Sherlock crouched down so he was more or else eye-level with his son. "You must use the car seat so that, should we get into an accident, the likelihood of injury and/or death are greatly reduced," the detective answered solemnly.
"Oh." Clearly contemplating this new information, Hamish began to play with his foot, slowly rolling it back and forth against the wood floor. "Not does like ouchies, Daddy…"
"I quite agree," Sherlock answered with a rumble.
"… 'Kay."
"Good. That's what I thought. Either way, I wouldn't have taken no for an answer." Pressing his lips into a fond smile, Sherlock quickly lunged forward, swiping Hamish up and over his shoulder, where he held the little boy in place with one hand. "As I said" not negotiable." After placing a cheerful kiss to his son's temple, Sherlock picked up the carseat and made his way down the stairs, Hamish still over his shoulder, down to where John was waiting with the rental car.
"Ah. I see your tactics worked far better than mind did, hmm?"
"Logic, John," Sherlock merely answered, a smirk on his lips. "And honesty. Very powerful."
"… I don't want to know."
"Probably not." Merely chuckling, Sherlock quickly placed the car seat in the back of the rental car, and then proceeded to pass Hamish to John. "Have fun."
Some minutes later, a once again unhappy Hamish was getting strapped into the car seat by a smirking Sherlock and a frustrated John. "Don't like, Daddy."
"I know. But it's only for a few hours," the detective chuckled, as he finished doing up the last of the straps. "And John will be seated back there with you the whole time."
"Oh. Stay, John?"
"Sure, if that'll make you happy," the doctor chuckled in exasperation.
"'Es, 'ease. Lots happy."
"Excellent."
Soon after, the three flat mates were on the road, Sherlock driving, John seated in the back with Hamish, watching Thomas the Tank Engine on his flat mate's mobile.
"I cannot believe you downloaded this many episodes," the doctor muttered with a hint of a smirk.
"I cannot believe you aren't thanking me," Sherlock answered, equally snide. John merely scoffed fondly in response. "I must admit, he's distracted."
"Of course he is."
"What, Daddy?"
"Nothing, love."
"Be done soon?"
"Just about another hour or so, and then yes, we'll be done."
"Daddy?"
"Hmm?"
"Foods 'ease."
"Oh. We're getting a bit hungry for dinner back here, I think," John chuckled upon hearing his tiny flat mate's stomach rumble.
"Ah. Right."
"Hamish, we've had this conversation before. You don't like spaghetti. I promise. Fish and chips?"
"Can Hame try spla'hetti?"
Despite being rather used to this conversation, Sherlock found he quite enjoyed the new tactic Hamish had tried to persuade him with. The detective heaved a sigh. "… I suppose you can try it. But only because you're so very clever," he added with a playful bop to his son's nose.
"'Es! 'Kay, Daddy! Tank'su!"
"You're very welcome. But. I'm also ordering the fish and chips for you to eat when I'm proved correct, all right?"
"'Kay, Daddy."
"Right, then. So, he'll have the spaghetti, as well as an order of fish and chips. John?" The waitress, who'd been listening in amusement to the dialogue between Sherlock and Hamish quickly jotted down the order, and then turned her attention to the other, more quiet member of the trio. "And for you sir?"
"I'll just do the pasta, thanks." The waitress hurried away.
"So, you're not going to tell me anything you've got planned?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow, pushing Hamish's drink closer toward him when he saw the little boy struggling to reach it.
"Nope. I've got everything all planned out."
"Mmm. And how, may I ask, are getting the money to pay for this lovely trip?"
John merely pursed his lips.
Sherlock had to stop himself from allowing his eyes to roll back into his head. "Mycroft," he muttered, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
John merely smirked.
"And?" Sherlock asked with a quirk of his lips after feeding Hamish a small forkful of spaghetti. The little boy chewed for a moment, expression one of mild confusion.
After finishing, Hamish swallowed, and—bottom lip protruding slightly—glanced between the two meals in front of him. "'Kay, Daddy." Having made up his mind, the little boy leaned forward, making an eager grab for a chip. "Fishies 'ease, Daddy."
"Told you so," Sherlock whispered with a smile as he pushed the plate closer to Hamish's tiny seated form.
"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled with a tiny smile.
"Hmm."
"John?"
"Yes, little man?"
"Is almost done? Not like 'tis." With a frown, Hamish poked at the restraint holding him into the car seat.
"Yeah, bud, we're almost there, just a few more minutes, all right?"
"'Kay, John," the little boy mumbled with a frown, quite clearly running out of steam.
Several minutes later, Sherlock had pulled up to what he considered to be a fairly decent hotel, and was trying to console Hamish in the back, while John got all the luggage onto a carrier.
"Hamish, love, listen to me," the detective whispered to his small son, who had plopped himself on the concrete ground and was sobbing into the sleeve of his small shirt. "Hamish, everyone wets their pants. It's all right. Really."
After finding his words were having no effect, Sherlock scooped Hamish into his arms and transferred him into the car, where he managed to—despite his son's protests—get some new clothes on him. Once the little boy had been properly changed and redressed, Sherlock pulled his son's small form onto his hip.
"I is sorry, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, burying his face in Sherlock's coat.
"Hamish, you have nothing to be sorry for. You've done nothing wrong. You're just tired; you've had a long day."
"But… But now I is not big more."
Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I see… Hamish, you're still a big boy. Everyone wets their pants, love. It's just part of the process. But you've nothing to feel embarrassed about or sorry for, Hamish, all right? Do you understand?"
A sniffle.
With a bittersweet smile, Sherlock pressed his lips to the little boy's temple and gave him a gentle pat on the bottom. "You're all right, Hamish," the detective murmured against his son's skin. "It was just a little accident. Nothing to worry about… Hmm? Yes?"
Using the sleeve of his small shirt, Hamish ran his arm under his running nose. "'Kay, Daddy. I is still sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," Sherlock murmured with a matter-of-fact twitch of his lips. "You are practically perfect in every way, Hamish," he added with a series of ticklish kisses from the corner of his lips. "We all have accidents, yes?"
"Daddy did?"
"Of course. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually as perfect as everyone seems to think I am." The detective managed to draw a few meek giggles from his son by winking playfully. "There's that smile I love so much," he added with a kiss.
"So… So Daddy did have 'stakes?"
"Of course I did. More often than I'd care to admit, actually. Everyone makes mistakes. And that's perfectly all right. This is this first accident you've had yet, which is quite an accomplishment, I might say."
"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sniffled with a hint of a giggle.
"There's my boy. Now, then! Seeing as we've let John do all of the unpacking, I say we head inside, hmm?"
"'Es 'ease."
"Very good… Feeling better?"
"'Es, Daddy. Lots 'etter." Settling in, Hamish rested his head atop Sherlock's shoulder and allowed himself to be carried to the back of the car, where John had finished piling up the several suitcases onto a carrier.
"Finished?" Sherlock asked while simultaneously running a few fingers over and through Hamish's auburn curls.
"Uhh… Yeah, I think so. Ready?" John sighed.
"Mmm. Quite."
"Good."
The trio made their way into the nice-looking hotel and to the reception desk. "So," John asked, while they waited in line, "I assume the catastrophe has been resolved, yes?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispered as he adjusted a stray lock of said little boy's hair.
"Good, good… Poor little guy."
"Mmm. But he's a resilient one, luckily. He'll be just fine. He's just overly tired and worn out today, I think."
John merely smiled at his flat mates in response.
"Wow, Daddy," Hamish whispered in complete awe as he toddled around the large room they'd just checked into, clinging to a few of his father's long, slender fingers.
"Remind me to punch your brother when we get back," John muttered with a squared jaw as he stared at the two beds side by side.
Sherlock merely smirked in response.
"Oh! Oh, look!" Releasing his grip, the little boy made a wobbly dash to the mini fridge tucked under one of the desks. "Is tiny, Daddy," he laughed, pressing two chubby hands to the silver surface of the fridge.
"Yes, I see," Sherlock answered somewhat distractedly, as he was busy attempting to organizing both his and Hamish's clothes in the given space provided.
"Oh! Oh, John! Look, like home!" Grinning, Hamish hurried his small self over to the window and tugged happily on the curtains.
"Yes, I see," John laughed, hurrying over and lifting his small flat mate up so he could see out the window.
"Oh," Hamish whispered, as he stared down at the ground. "Lots tall, John," he informed the doctor earnestly.
"Yes, we are rather high up, aren't we?"
"Mmm-hmm?"
Smiling, and so impossibly glad to have such a lovely little flat mate, John pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's brow. "Right, then. Come along, little man. It's late, we've had a long day, and you need to go to bed!"
Knowing Sherlock was too engrossed in his current mini-project, John toted his giggling flat mate into the bathroom and managed to find the little boy's toothbrush and special toothpaste. "Right, then. Here we are. Open."
After opening his mouth, Hamish allowed John to place the brush in his mouth before taking it in his smaller hands and more or less rubbing it back and forth across his teeth.
"There we are," John chuckled once the little boy was done. "Good man. Now. Pajamas."
"'Es!"
"Sherlock."
"Mmm."
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm? What? Yes?" Sherlock turned around from where he was attempting to fit the clothes he'd packed into the small closet provided in the room. The detective turned around to find Hamish seated on the bed, playing with the patterns in the fabric, dressed in his favorite pajamas. "Ah. Bedtime, is it?"
"Mmm. And, seeing as your brother only booked one room, we are rather required to go to bed at much the same time."
"Right." Smiling at his completely amused son, Sherlock grabbed a pair of pajama trousers and a t-shirt, quickly changed in the bathroom and then sauntered back into the large room. "Right, then. Two beds…" Realizing he'd gained Hamish's attention, the detective raised his eyebrows. "Who would you rather sleep with, then? John or myself?"
Contemplating, Hamish chewed on his bottom lip, glancing between the two beds. Coming to a conclusion, the little boy slid himself off the bed, only to be quickly caught by John at the bottom when he stumbled a bit.
"Mine, then?" the doctor chuckled as he lifted his little flat mate up and set him atop his bed.
"'Es 'ease! Good. Is much nice," Hamish explained, patting the blanket with a single hand, even though the two beds were exactly the same.
John and Sherlock merely smiled.
"My bed it is, then!"
"John?"
"Yeah, bud? Oh. Here, Hame, let me help." John laughed aloud when he saw Hamish attempting to pull the severely-tuckied-in blankets and sheets out from the top of the bed and under the pillows.
"Tank'su, John."
Eventually, Sherlock was sitting atop his bed, reading through a series of cold cases Lestrade had handed him before they left, Hamish was snuggled against John's back, with the doctor sound asleep.
Soon, Sherlock heard the scuffling of a tiny body scampering out of a bed and onto the floor, followed closely by a quiet, "Daddy?"
Putting his file down, Sherlock playfully laid down on the bed and leaned over the side. "Yes?"
"I can come up an' seep?"
Smiling and with a chuckle, Sherlock reached down and helped his son up onto the bed, as it was set much higher than what the little boy was sued to at home. "Now then," the detective sighed fondly as he undid the covers from the top of the bed and allowed Hamish to crawl under. "Why the switch, hmm?" After ruffling some of his son's curls, Sherlock soon followed suit and crawled under the covers, shoving away the case files.
"John is be loud ah'night, Daddy."
Sherlock nearly laughed aloud when he realized Hamish was referring to the doctor's light snoring.
"Ah. I see. Well, you are most certainly welcome to sleep with me. After all, it would be highly rude of me to confine you to the floor, wouldn't it?"
"'Es would, Daddy," Hamish giggled, snuggling further under the covers.
Sherlock gazed down at his son, smiling when the little boy's big, green eyes turned their attention up to him. "Oh, Hamish. I do love you," he murmured. The detective couldn't help but rumble a chuckle when Hamish's eyebrows rose and his eyes brightened.
"I does 'ove , Daddy," the little boy whispered, taking a moment to crawl out from under the covers. "Lots 'ove." With a rather precious smile, Hamish placed a hand to either side of his father's face and then placed a haphazard kiss to the detective's cheek. "'Kay, Daddy. Turn."
"Ah, of course. My turn." Smiling when Hamish turned his head to the side and quirked his lips to the side, Sherlock obliged by pressing a kiss to his son's soft cheek. "There. Better?"
"'Etter."
"Good."
"'Es." With a small smile, Hamish once again burrowed under the many layers of covers and sheets and then settled himself close to his father's side, seeking the warmth of the detective's bigger body. "Nigh' night, Daddy," the little boy whispered, eyes quickly slipping shut.
"Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well, all right? I have a feeling we've got a bit of a day ahead of us tomorrow," Sherlock chuckled, voice just a whisper as he began to card a few fingers through his son's curls.
Hamish merely nodded in response. "Ka… 'Kay, Daddy. Hmm."
Knowing the little boy had fallen asleep, Sherlock leaned down, adjusting the blanket so it further covered Hamish's body, and then pressed another kiss to his curls before whispering into the silky hair, "God help us."
