Hamish has questions.
John sneaked into the bedroom an hour later to check on Sherlock. Still deeply buried under the cover, shivering and sweating. The thermometer was forced underneath Sherlock's tongue without him noticing and John sat down beside him again to stoke his hair.
"John?" said the weak voice and John hushed him gently, it wasn't his intention to wake him.
"Go back to sleep, I'm just doing a checkup." But Sherlock groaned angrily and just wanted him to leave. Sleep would heal him, and here John were, keeping him from it.
"I'm fine." he sighed and frowned when he saw the digits on the clock. "Oh gods.. I should get up." But John pushed him back in the bed as he tried to sit up and he landed on the soft pillow that almost smacked back into dreamland.
"Don't be silly. You're not going anywhere today." Sherlock groaned in anger again and John took back the thermometer. "38,7. You need to sleep this out. I'll make you some soup."
"No, no soup." he moaned and dropped his head to the side, neck glossy by cold sweat. Hair sticking to his forehead, throat sore, eyes burning and neck throbbing in pain.
"No arguments. You need something in you to fight this."A third groan left the detective and he pulled the cover up to his nose. "Don't be such a baby. I'm a doctor remember, I only want to help you."
"You're my husband." Sherlock corrected him and blinked tiredly. "I don't need a doctor."
"Then listen to your husband." said John with a teasing smile and pressed his lips to his temple, tasting the salty sweat and heat. "I'll bring you soup, and you will eat it." His husband pouted and tried to look more miserable than he really was.
"Broth is just fine." he murmured. "Don't make me chew."
"Oh, now you're just lazy." John giggled and stroke his fingers through the damp curls.
"Dad?" Just as last night, Hamish was standing in the doorway. Out of his pyjamas and dressed in his favourite t-shirt and soft cardigan. Something was in his hand and John came to the conclusion that the game of show and tell continued. "What's this?" It was a pile of coasters decorated with pictures of old maps of the world. Sherlock reached his hand out of the cover to sign him to come closer and the boy jumped up in bed and held up the objects.
"It's coasters." Sherlock groaned and swallowed painfully, not really up for this game today.
"Yes, I know. But what's on them?" Nothing in the world could beat the sweetness of Sherlock's smile in that moment as he changed is mind about playing. So many times those coasters had been shown to him and he had never understood that it wasn't just the coasters that interested Hamish. It was deeper than that. The other hand appeared from underneath the cover and he received the small little plates. Hamish crawled down under the cover beside him and placed his head on his shoulder, to listen to the vibrations of his fathers voice in his chest. It brought him some kind of safety.
"This is Russia." Sherlock began and held up the coaster, pointing at it with a trembling finger. "And here's their capital city, Moscow. And all this." His finger travelled over the darker parts of the map. "Is the mountain chain Siberia. It's really cold up there. They have to close down schools sometimes 'cause it's so freezing that if you spit, your saliva turns to ice before it hits the ground."
John tipped his head to the side and listened just as eagerly as little Hamish. Sherlock's voice could make anything sound interesting and amazing.
"Is that where the Siberian tiger comes from?" Hamish asked and sneaked his hand up Sherlock's hair to twin the curls.
"Yes it is." said Sherlock proudly and sniffled. "And they are white as the snow so they can camouflage as they scout on their prey." The coaster was pulled out of his hand, Hamish was done with that part of the world for now.
"Australia." said Sherlock and pointed at the red dot. "There's Sidney, they have a big famous opera house. It was on the telly last night, d'you remember." Hamish nodded. "They have spiders that bark like dogs you know." John chuckled and shook his head.
"You're just making that up." he smiled but Sherlock looked at him, dead serious.
"It's true." he said as sharp as he could with his tired voice. "Well maybe not like dogs, but they shriek at night."
"Really?" John asked with a frown and Sherlock raised his left eyebrow as he nodded.
"Yes, really. If you're going to make wild accusations about me being a liar you might as well redraw to the kitchen and make me that soup." The smile on John's lips turned into a thin line and he sighed.
"Fine." he groaned and leaned over him to catch a kiss.
"And no peas." Sherlock called after him as he left the room.
Small steppes was hear behind him and he just had the time to turn before Hamish jumped up in his arms and he stumbled backwards to the stove.
"Woah! Hamish! Not when I'm cooking!" But Hamish didn't care, just giving him a teeth showing smile and giggling. "What's with you?" The boy tossed his arms around John's neck and hugged him hard enough to strangle.
"Daddy." he said with lips pressed the his neck. "It's christmas in a week." He didn't need to say anymore to make his father understand that there was a question on it's way, and he put him down on the counter so he could accompany him while he cooked.
"Yes, and?" he teased with a smirk and continued to chop the carrots that was going into the broth. Hamish swayed his legs over the edge and reached for the jar of sugar to put his finger in, but John quickly put it away. "Not before lunch. And not after either. You can't just eat sugar like that." There was no protest from the Hamish, only a smile as he reached for the wooden spoon to stir the soup. He wanted to help.
"Can I wish for something?" John shot him a look and saw the twinkles in his eyes. This was the first christmas when he would really understood the concept of it.
"Of course." said John and put the vegetables in the pot. "Let's write a list for Santa after lunch." A banging sound started and John saw how Hamish kicked his heals to the cabinet. Making the pots and pans inside rattle.
He was a very helpful boy when it came to cooking, he was like John in that way. But when it came to cleaning he was just as sloppy as his dad. There were many times John needed to clean up after them both. Hamish wasn't the only child in the house sometimes. Todays mess was the jar of coffee beans that hit the floor with a bang when John wasn't looking. The beans rolled over the whole floor and Hamish pulled his hair when he realised what he'd done.
"I didn't mean to!" he exclaimed as John sighed loudly over the mess he'd made. "I was just..." The smell of coffee was probably his favourite, and he was just having a whiff in the jar when it slipped out of his hands. "I didn't mean to!"
"Oh Hamish." John groaned and bent down for the metal jar. "Well, you know where the broom is." He lifted him by the waist and put him down on the floor, sure of that Hamish would help him.
"No I don't!" said Hamish quickly and ran out of sight, leaving a shocked John in the kitchen in the middle of a mess.
"Hamish!" he shouted and ran after him. Barely keeping his balance with the beans under his shoes. "Come back here! I'm not cleaning this up after you!" Taking two steppes at the time up the stairs he reached Hamish's room. The door was weakly bolted with the desk chair that easily slid away when John pushed it open. But he found the messy room empty. Where was he hiding? "Hamish?" He searched behind the door, under the desk and then he fell to his knees to search underneath the bed when the door of the wardrobe flew open and Hamish tossed himself on top of him. Laughing loudly he wound his arms around his neck and John sat up with him clinging on his back. "Hamish? What are you doing?" he asked giggling and grabbed him by his wrists that pressed to his adam's apple.
"I want to play." he explained and John groaned loudly.
"Not until you've cleaned up the mess in the kitchen." he answered and stood up, Hamish still clinging to his back. "You're not leaving it like that. And I am not cleaning it up." He walked out of the room and heard Hamish pout behind him.
"But I don't know where the broom is." he whined and pushed his forehead to his shoulder. "I don't want to." Hamish first day talking, and he was already talking back.
"Neither do I!" said John and hurried down the stairs. "Let's do it together." This time, Hamish just nodded but he still pouted. Then there was a sudden loud thud in the kitchen and next a loud groan. "Sherlock!?" He pealed Hamish off his shoulders and put him on the floor and ran through the flat. For the second time today he found Sherlock on the floor. Swaddled in the sheet and surrounded by black coffee beans on the kitchen floor.
"What the hell is this!?" he groaned and tried not to move. Every bean under him pained and poked his back. "Why are there beans everywhere!?"
"You shouldn't be up!" John shouted and ran over to help him on his feet. "Did you slip?"
"Of course I slipped!" answered Sherlock angrily and sat up with his help and cursed. "I knew it was just a matter of time!"
"For what?" asked John and placed his hands under his arms to pull him up.
"Hamish's always smelling those bloody beans, I knew he would dropped them eventually! Hamish!?" There was a scared Hamish in the doorway, hiding half his body behind the slide door and biting his nails. "Clean this up!" The fury growled inside him and John needed to calm him before it exploded over the little boy.
"Okay, Sherlock. Let's get you back to bed." Another growl torn through him as the beans pressed to his soles.
"Now Hamish." he said and returned to his room without the tea that he'd been craving. He left the kitchen, muttering as he walked through the hall and John turned to little Hamish behind the door.
"Dad!" he called suddenly and ran after him. Swiftly avoiding every bean on the floor to get to him as quick as possible, and Sherlock turned to him before entering the bedroom. The sheet around his shoulders wound a little tighter as he looked down on his son. Hamish bowed his head and swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. It was a fallacy. I wish I could tell you I'm innocent." It was just as easy as blowing out the candles on a birthday cake to get rid of Sherlock's anger in that moment. His lips curled into a smile and he placed a heavy hand on Hamish's head and sighed. "I will clean it up now. I promise."
"Apology accepted." he smirked and stroke his cheek to tilt his head up. Their eyes met and wore the same colours in this lighting, green and grey. "And you can continue to smell the coffee if you want to. Just make sure you don't drop them again." He turned to get back to bed when he heard the small footsteps follow him.
"Do you have a favourite smell?" the little voice asked as he fell back amongst the sheets and pillows. The fever tried to keep him from answering his sons questions but his mind told him otherwise. He wanted to play this game. Neck throbbed in pain as he rolled over to his back and met Hamish's eyes. It was easy to tell that Hamish had many questions on his mind. Questions he'd been to scared to ask before, but today they all needed out.
He thought hard about the first question. There were many smells he enjoyed. John's shampoo and after shave, gasoline, the pages of a new book. But in the end there was one scent he really loved.
"Wet asphalt." he said and pulled the cover up to his nose, seeing Hamish frown.
"Wet asphalt?" he repeated and climbed up to lay down beside him. "What does it smell like?"
"You've smelled it." Sherlock murmured and saw how his son crawled down in bed beside him. "But the smell is stronger during the summer. The rain falls and leaving the streets wet. Then the sun breaks out of the clouds and vaporises the water. That's when you can smell it." Hamish closed his eyes and tried to think back six months.
"I can't remember." he said and looked up at Sherlock. A small ounce of disappointment trapped in his eyes.
"Of course you do." said Sherlock with a groan and lifted his arm so Hamish could crawl a little closer. "Just think. We were on our way home from the yard and it rained from the moments we sat down in the cab. But it stopped quickly and when we came home the sun was shining, d'you remember that?" It took some few seconds, but Hamish nodded. "The whole street smelled like wet asphalt that day. You must remember." Sherlock could almost hear Hamish's brain work, but not as much as he could see it. A little wrinkle between his eyebrows, chewing his bottom lip, eyes focused on the crack in the roof.
"No." he sighed with a sad voice. "I can't."
"Well. Maybe you were to young." said Sherlock with a yawn and Hamish titled his head to get a better look at him.
"Do you love daddy?" Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted at him.
"Of course I do." he answered and felt his inside turn. What in the world could make him ask a question like that?
"Whenever daddy says he loves you, you just say 'feelings are mutual'. What does that mean?" So that's where the problem was founded for him. Sherlock smiled.
"It means I feel the same thing for him."
"Oh." said Hamish simply and he seemed to be relieved by his answer. "Good. Do you love me to?"
"More than anything." his father said with a smile and pressed soft lips to his temple. "I tell you every day. Don't I?" Hamish nodded shyly and nibbled his nails. "And don't bite. It's leaves you with very unattractive hands."
"What does that mean?" His father gave him a dark chuckle and closed his eyes again.
"It means that if you bite, you'll have ugly fingers." Hamish wrinkled his nose and took a good look at his fingers. Squeezing them a couple of times until the blood coloured his fingertips.
"There's nothing wrong with my hands." he said suddenly and they returned to his lips. "You're just being silly, dad."
John peaked through the crack of the door and saw and heard his two little darlings communicate on a level he didn't have the heart to interrupt. Hearing little Hamish asking his intelligent father such questions made his face split in half by the great smile. Sherlock answers were magnificent. If John had asked those exact questions he'd would be declared an idiot. This was the first time John had heard Sherlock talk to a child that talked back. He never knew Sherlock would be this good at raising their son. He couldn't send Hamish to do his chores in this moment.
John was the one to clean up the coffee beans that day.
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