An older Hamish now. Already four. Times moves so quickly...

Days passed faster than they had time to blink. Every day, Hamish did something to surprise them. One morning John had woken up to the shouting of Sherlock and he hurried out to the kitchen, prepared for the worst, but was met by the sight of Hamish walking across the room. The child was laughing, clapping his hands at himself as he accomplished something he'd trained for for weeks. Not long after that, he started running. He was impossible to keep up with and he was always up to something. Sherlock loved to sit back at just observe as Hamish reached for everything close by just to examine it. Ripping newspapers and documents, as long as he didn't touch the books. This meant that John often came home to a flat full of bits of papers that he would have to clean up, but he never complained. At lest, this mess wasn't even close to the clean ups he needed to do before he was born. Blood and chemicals.

There was just one problem. More than four years passed and Hamish still didn't speak. He hadn't uttered a word, not as much as a squeak. This worried Sherlock who feared he would never speak, but John was sure Hamish had selective mutism. To afraid to speak in some situations. With a father like Sherlock around it wasn't surprising if Hamish was shy since he often used complicated words and long sentences. But, John never told Sherlock that, he just said that Hamish might be late in his speech. This, of course stared an argument. Hamish was so quick with everything else, why would he be so slow with the most important way of expression? Sherlock was annoyed.

John folded the newly washed sheets as Hamish rushed across the sitting room with the glass box containing a dead beetle, proudly showing it to Sherlock who laid sprawled on the sofa.

"Yes Hamish. It's a beetle." he said and Hamish was off again. The child enjoyed bringing him things to hear the name of them. Everything in every room had probably been shown to him more than twice. He reached the desk and climbed up on the chair to reach the pencil sharpener.

"Sherlock, please." said John and nodded to the boy. Sherlock turned his head and saw Hamish's sticky fingers on the device.

"Hamish, it's a pencil sharpener. Now, get down from there, please." But Hamish slipped with his hand on the desk and the chair rolled away under his feet. Sherlock was quick as a cat and left the sofa, caught the boy in his hands before he hit the floor. He landed on his knees with the boys back pressed to his chest.

"Hamish!" John rushed across the room, tipping over the laundry basked and all the folded clothes and sheets spread over the floor.

"He's alright." Sherlock breathed and put him down on the floor. The boy quickly ran away, exploring something else and John let out a big breath of relief. "See what he's up to now." And so, John was out of the room as well, leaving Sherlock on his knees on the floor.

For days now, a sharp head ache had come and gone and none of the remedies he'd tried helped. And standing up quickly to toss himself after Hamish had left him dizzy and nauseous. His limbs were about to give up on him, he could tell. Movements weren't as smooth as they should and he looked down on his shaking hands. Should he tell John? Hamish came running again with a book in his hands hand holding it up to his face.

"I think he wants you to read it for him." John shouted as he walked out from the kitchen. His smile faded quickly as he saw Sherlock still on the floor, pinching his nose bridge. "You okay?" The answer was no, but he was to proud to confess it. It wasn't a good time to be sick, it had to wait.

"I'm fine." he lied and looked at the book in Hamish's hands. "The bird that turns up the world?" He was utterly surprised about Hamish's choice of literature, he was way to young for a book like that. "Maybe we should choose something else." But Hamish shook his head and pushed the book to his chest. The small hand reached over his head and into Sherlock's hair so he could twin the curls with his short fingers. It was a custom to them all by now. Ever since Hamish was three months old he liked to bury his hands in his fathers strands. "But look." He flipped the pages of the book and Hamish watched with big blue-green eyes. "There's no pictures. I don't think you will enjoy it." Yet again, Hamish pushed the book to his chest and gave him a sharp look which he had inherited from John, and Sherlock started to understand. Hamish didn't care about pictures or content of the book, he wanted to learn new words from him. This brought a proud smile to Sherlock's lips and he stroke his long fingers through his sons dark hair. "Alright." He remained on the floor, leaning back against the seat of the sofa and Hamish placed himself between his legs so he could see the pages as Sherlock read them. To his benefit, Sherlock traced the sentences with his finger so Hamish could follow every word and suddenly he grasped his finger and traced him back to a word. Above his fingernail was the word 'fallacy' and Hamish turned his head to give him a questioning look.

"Fallacy?" Sherlock asked him and Hamish kept staring. "It means mistake, or that something's wrong." And Hamish nodded, but Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Could you read it or did you just guess?" He didn't expect a verbal answer from him, just a wink or a smile and that was exactly what he got. A mysterious smile and the boy turned back to the book, showing him that Sherlock needed to continue, so he did.

John returned to the laundry, keeping an eye on them both since this was an unusual sight. Hamish never turned to Sherlock for story reading. Probably since John liked to voice act when he read the story books. Maybe Hamish turned to Sherlock this time because he had grown tired on his squeaky voices and wanted to hear something different for once. But something was wrong in Sherlock voice, it was going husky and tired. A doctor could easily see the signs of an upcoming cold. With Hamish around it wasn't odd that John caught every cold and flu from him, but Sherlock was always able to elude it, lucky bastard. So, with the lack of proof, John decided not to dig into it any further.

The boy grabbed his finger again and traced it back to the word 'innocence'.

"Innocence." Sherlock repeated and circled the word. "It can mean that if something bad happens and it's not your fault, then you're innocent." Hamish nodded again and flipped the page for him. So Sherlock continued his reading, and thirty pages later Hamish didn't trace back to any more words for an explanation. Sherlock hadn't noticed when he fell asleep to his chest and a warm feeling appeared in his stomach when he looked down on the boy who was breathing deeply against him. "Hamish?" He hadn't just dozed off, he was in deep sleep and Sherlock envied him. He was probably just as tired as him.
"He's asleep?" John asked returning from the kitchen, Sherlock hadn't even noticed him leaving the sitting room. He gave him a slight nod and felt the smell of chicken pot pie spreading in the flat. How many minutes had passed since he sat down on the floor? "Put him our bed. We can carry him upstairs later." It was hard to get up from the floor when his limbs was weak. Holding himself up was heavy enough, but he managed to get up with Hamish in his arms. He had grown big and was not even close to the baby they once brought home from the hospital, he looked so different now but to Sherlock he would never stop being that little baby that he had once cradled. He placed him on the bed and watched him squirming around on the bedspread to get comfortable. The skull sat on Sherlock bedside table and had been there since this night. Now and then, Hamish would walk down the stairs from his room, the skull tucked under his arms and quietly enter the room without waking them. The morning after John and Sherlock would wake up with Hamish between them and the skull on the bedside table, watching over them all. Just as Sherlock, Hamish had grown attached to the skull and saw him as a friend. But Hamish never wanted him in the bed with him, no, the skull had to be placed somewhere that it could have a good lookout over the room. There was one time when John had plucked it away and placed it back on the mantlepiece while Hamish was sleeping. He was two. The skull had been away from his room less than an hour when a loud shriek was heard from the upstairs bed room. Not a cry, just a loud shout of anger and Sherlock ran up the stairs to find his son standing in the bed, pointing to the bureau where the skull was supposed to be and giving him the death stare he'd learnt from his him. The skull had never left his side since then and Sherlock made sure John apologised for his rudeness. Sherlock tucked him in under the blanket and carefully lifted his head to place a pillow under it. The boy sighed and opened his eyes to look for the skull.

"He's right there." Sherlock whispered and stroke his hair while he pointed. "He's got a good lookout for you while you sleep." Hamish smiled and looked at his dad with misty eyes. "I'll read more for you tomorrow." He kissed the top of his head and Hamish tossed his arms around his neck. "Good night, handsome." But Hamish shook his head and pushed him back, he pointed to the armchair where his pyjamas laid folded on the seat and Sherlock pressed his lips together. He knew he's forgotten something. "Dad can be very ignorant sometimes, can't he?" Hamish nodded and mirrored his face to look just like him. He untucked him and unbuttoned his dark green cardigan. "Sit up." Hamish hoisted himself up and lifted his arms to the roof so Sherlock could pull the t-shirt of him. There was a birthmark on his right shoulder which Sherlock fancied. It had the form of a feather, but only if you squinted your eyes. John said leaf but Sherlock said feather and it got more alike it for every inch he grew. He dressed Hamish in his soft pyjamas and the boy helped him to button it. The small finger fumbled, not close to the motor that Hamish wanted and it annoyed him sometimes when his finger didn't obey him. But the boy noticed something, his fathers finger fumbled almost as much as his and he gave him a worried look that reminded Sherlock of John.

"Don't worry." Sherlock whispered and kissed his cheek. "I might come down with something. But we wont tell daddy, okay?" Hamish crocked his head, looking more and more like John as his eyebrows knitted together. "It's just the flu, love. Nothing to worry about, alright? Dad's fine." Some few seconds went by before Hamish finally nodded and laid back in the bed and Sherlock tucked him in again. "We're out in the kitchen, okay?" His big eyes fluttered and he snuggled into the pillow, quickly falling asleep again.

He returned to the kitchen and saw John uncorking the bottle of wine. Wine was a tradition for every saturday evening together with good food.

"He's asleep?" John asked and filled the two glasses. Sherlock stood in the doorway, trying to get the blood back to his hurting head, that someone seemed to have filled with sand, before he nodded.

"Yeah." he sighed and tried not to wobble as he walked over to the table. He fell down with a thud on the chair and even if his stomach growled for food, he wasn't really hungry. Something was clearly coming down on him.

"There are no peas in 'em this time." said John and sat down on the other side of the table. "I know you don't like 'em." He gave John a thankful smile and looked down on his pie. "You don't need to eat the whole thing just... try it at lest." Even if the pie didn't call for him, he wasn't going to let John's feelings down by leaving the food uneaten. So, he crushed the shell down in the soup underneath and ate spoonful, only to feel the nausea return to his stomach. But, Sherlock was an expert at looking past his body signals and swallowed the food.

"Too much rosemary." he said and John chuckled.

"I'm glad you like it." he said, he knew that this was as modest as his husband would get. Sherlock stirred the soup with his spoon and felt a drop of sweat tickle his temple, a fever had begun.

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