Hamish was always far smarter than what his age called for. Even his structure and appearance led people to believe that he was in his late teens rather than his early teens. He was tall; far taller than any other boy of his age, towering a good foot over the littluns, his cheeks hollowed and attractive, his wide eyes a soft inheritance from his mother. He had skipped several grades by the time he was 12, now in his tenth year of school. He blended in nicely, though not smoothly, for his snappy mouth had earned him several black eyes. He looked like any other high schooler though, for he was nearing six feet and he was lean and handsome, his long black hair accenting his features admirably.
John and Sherlock had learned that day when their boy returned home with a different face that he held exceptional, extraordinary powers: he could shape shift. And he had been doing so to prevent himself from holding the blame, changing into another young boy whilst still abusing his power. He still refused to explain the frost burns on that sorrowful little git, but Sherlock could not find it in him to reprimand Hamish, knowing full well the cruel nature of humanity.
In fact, he secretly admired the young boy's capability to hand out the reparations. He frequently told him in quiet passing that he was proud of that strength to stand up, for he himself was never able to. He did so subtly though, knowing John would never approve of his support as he had never known the fist in school, never known what it felt like to be slammed up against the lockers and screamed at and beaten for being different. But Sherlock did, oh he did. So because of that, he couldn't summon it in him to tell his son off for pushing back, no matter how abnormally.
Truthfully though, John was just as proud to know that his son wasn't like the others, taking comfort in the fact that he fit in with the two of them, the crowning jewel in their potpourri of bizarreness. They were proud of their son for his supernatural abilities, but it never sat well in either of their stomachs, for it meant that he was not one of 'them'. But that thought was on the back burner: it didn't matter, they loved him.
They took the boy to their work, showing him about the crime scenes and hospitals until he was entirely familiar and knowledgeable in the ways of both their works, a quick study as he learned Sherlock's vivid detail and John's brave compassion. He was not easily phased, even leaning closer to the mangled bodies, dead and alive, searching down every detail there was to see, and hitting the snarky remarks of others away with a glint of his eye and witty, if not insulting, response.
But if there was anything that truly made the couple look at each other with their brows creased in worry, it was the fact that he had obviously known that neither of his parents was his real father. Even at the early age of three, when someone would come up and say what an adorable child he was and what proud fathers John and Sherlock must be, Hamish would stop them and tell them:
"No, they are my Papa" he said, pointing to John "and my Dada." a long pale finger pointing to Sherlock. "They are not my father." The person that he spoke to would have simply been shocked at the young boys stunning articulation and sentence structure. But his blunt, honest knowledge clearly sent their heads spinning, making them straighten immediately, looking at young Hamish as if he were a strange growth.
Neither John nor Sherlock had told him about his parentage and he had never asked. Instead, they had all settled into a silent agreement of the truth, lazily anticipating the day when truth would poke its head out.
Hamish turns thirteen in a days time, in Grade 10 of high school
"Hey Da!" Hamish was in the kitchen, his head buried in the fridge as he searched about for some form of food among the experiments and random limbs. Silence. "Daaaa!" he sing songed, lifting his head from the fridge to catch the older man's curly head popping around the corner, rubber gloves and apron on.
"Where's the fire, Hamish?" he asked dryly, a smirk on his lips.
Adopting a very Jack Sparrow-esque accent, he replied:
"Why is the milk always gone?" Sherlock gave him a cheeky grin. "Also," he continued, reverting to his usual-unusually deep voice. "Pa used the rest of the jam this morning."
"That man! What are we ever going to do with him?" Sherlock joked, walking towards the cupboard as he took off the gloves, tossing them onto the science filled island. He popped open the small door and reached inside, withdrawing a jar of homemade blackberry jam. "Or, more precisely, you. You know Mrs. Hudson gave this to us yesterday. You're slipping, Hamish." he needled as he passed the jar to his son. Hamish took the jar and leaned back down to place it on a shelf separate from his Da's supplies.
"Yes, well seeing that the final exams of the first semester are coming soon, I would think that my mind should be occupied by that, don't you think?" he challenged.
"We both know that's not quite true though." Sherlock countered in all seriousness. His son sighed heavily before taking out a block of cheese and butter, making a rare grilled cheese sandwich, cutting the cheese and spreading the butter before plopping it down into the heated pan.
Like his Da, Hamish had the bad habit of eating only when completely necessary, which sometimes meant he didn't consume anything but water or tea for days. John was constantly trying to force food into both his boy's bodies, succeeding on occasion. But, to his relief, they had started to eat more frequently, leaving only a day or two between actual meals.
Sherlock put a hand on Hamish's shoulder, making him look up to see a small observant smile on the detectives face. Hamish's eyebrows went up in a thoughtful glance even though he was used to his Da knowing everything with a sweep of the eyes: he was surprised to see that he could survey him at the moment. He had been getting better at hiding himself from Sherlock, but obviously he had let his guard down. The magic that flowed within him had been moving in a different way of late, and he wished to keep that knowledge from his dads.
Ah yes, the magic. It had been a shock at the start, making the men look at their son in an entirely different way, making them wonder and question the world. But they never lost their love for the boy. In fact, his abilities made them love him even more. They couldn't exactly pin point it. Maybe it's the honesty that makes love even the more appealing, because then you can love the person entirely for who they are, and not who you like to think they are. Who knows truly; the human heart is funny and bizarre and beautiful.
But now, Hamish was able to strengthen it at home, John and Sherlock encouraging him to discover who he was, telling him they were all for it as long it was kept within the walls of reason.
They would often come home to find a different being sitting at the table poring over notes and books, a cup of tea at hand. The child or adult, and even sometimes animal, would look up with an expression of pure elation as he watched the shock register on the men's faces before they were able to smile and admire his dexterity. They would often have fun with his shape-shifting, carrying out plays at times, playing out their favourite books with great zeal and knowledge.
Often, Hamish would shift into a dog or cat of some sort and find his dads on their way home, following them diligently, persisting, simply to see how they reacted. At first, Sherlock was baffled if not annoyed at the creature, telling it to shoo, be gone. Hamish would watch as John scolded him while picking the 'animal' up, asking it/him pointless questions before putting him down then watching the little animal scamper away, so that Hamish could make it home before them. But eventually, Sherlock would bend down and offer his hand out to the poor little animal that Hamish had shifted into, at first with sympathy in his eyes. But it wasn't long before, one day, he crouched down and winked at the animal as it leaned into the hand that petted him. Hamish had frozen and looked at his Dad, searching the familiar, elegant face. Slowly he approached Sherlock, shrugging out of his form with a golden shimmer, eliciting a gasp out of John. His pa had almost started to lecture his son on the dangers of exposing his craft like that, but Sherlock silenced him with a hand before scooping up his then eleven year old overly long son into his arms and carrying him home, picking up merry conversation with his son and John, like they had not just discovered Hamish's after school activities.
Hamish looked back up at Sherlock, who had dropped his hand from Hamish's shoulder and was at the island, gloves in hand and flipping through a case book, his sandwich sizzling in the pan. He picked up the block of cheese he had left out, turning it over in his hands.
"Watch this, Da!" he said exuberantly. Sherlock brought his head up and looked at Hamish from the book out of the tops of his eyes, taking in his stance and the block in his hands. He nodded and Hamish smiled before closing his eyes and going inside of himself, searching for and grasping the golden tendrils fluttering about. We worked them thoroughly, though still quickly, forming them into ropes until he could manipulate them to his fingertips. This all happened within two seconds, so when he let go of the block of cheese, Sherlock hadn't expected the block to stay in place, let alone move as Hamish flicked his fingers upwards. It was invisible to everyone but Hamish, the golden shimmering ropes holding loosely onto the block.
"Hamish… That's…. Amazing! Just extraordinary!" Sherlock exclaimed, his mouth slack in awe. Hamish chuckled, knowing that his Da got those phrases from Pa, John being the only ever to praise him.
"It surprised me too." Hamish explained absently, sentences less structured as he concentrated. Moving his long nimble fingers in big, smooth movements, he made the cheese block jerk back and forth or fly smoothly across the room and back. "The usual gang was trying to corner me, so I could feel it inside me ever stronger. I flicked my hand, concentrating on a table and BAM! It nailed them! Oh, it was sweet! You should have seen the pricks face's. You could taste the justice! They ran away like pathetic little lemmings." He said with an air of righteousness.
"Hamish…" Sherlock warned, more as an after-thought. His eyes followed the cheese block as it danced across the room with dazed interest, a child-like smile playing on his lips.
"Oh, Da. You know you love it." Hamish teased, his emerald eyes flashing gleefully, raven locks falling into his eyes despite the lazy styling.
"Obviously." He responded, his eyes meeting Hamish's, a grin blooming true across Sherlock's face. Hamish threw back a fervent smile.
"OK, I'm going to try something new." He told his dad. He had finally gotten the handle of holding conversation whilst toying freely with his new found telepathic type ability, but he was about to add in a new dimension to it: multitasking.
"Go for it." Sherlock offered. Hamish shut his eyes again, taking a deep breath and stretching the magic about him, forming a new length, separate from the block half way across the room. He was in his own mind palace so he did not notice when John walked in then pause when Sherlock gestured for him to be silent and watch, standing in the kitchen doorway.
Hamish made the block stay still, his pale fingers rigid in its direction. He dropped off his right hand with some difficulty, threading new magic into the fingertips there. Once confident that the block would stay where it was, ten seconds after John had arrived, he reached towards the fridge door. After he felt the golden tendrils grasp it, he clenched his right hand, feeling the door pop open at will. Squeezing, the door swung open until he stopped it. Keeping it there and taking another deep breath, he flicked his left fingers, and the cheese block flew into the fridge before he paused it and directed it softly into its proper place. Letting go of the magic around the cheese, he slowly let go of his clenched fist and made a sweeping motion with his fingers, swinging the door closed. Once he heard the reassuring bump of the door, he released the magic, mistakenly, and felt it wind viciously back into him, causing him to wince.
"Hamish… John breathed, calling the boy's attention to him. Hamish's face lit up and he grinned.
"Pa! You saw that, obviously! Wasn't it something?!" he pressed eagerly. John was at a loss of words, his mouth gaping like a fish on land.
"That wasn't something." He started, watching his son's face fall. He shook his head, smiling. "You are something else." Hamish let out a laugh in relief and walked over to his dad's, hugging them tightly then turning back to the sandwich in the pan, threading his magic back out of himself and lifting the bread out of the pan, flipping it and letting it flop back down onto the heat. Behind him, Sherlock let out a guffaw, pride beating through his chest.