Kind of an angsty chapter, be warned, and don't hate me.

Boe. Little Boe the cat.

Sherlock stared at it as it made his way through the sitting room with his left back leg sticking out at its side, still tightly splinted. John had done a good job. The cat limped across the floor to the bowl of water and lapped up the clear liquid with its rough tongue.

He still couldn't understand the company of it though. So far it hadn't made a larger impact on the family, it was hardly noticeable.

"Boe?" he tried as he sat in his armchair and observed it. It didn't react. "Boe!?" It was clearly stupid. Unintelligent. He sighed disappointedly and lowered his hands from his chin. This cat had proven to be just as interesting as the other two animals he'd owned in his life. So far, the only thing the creature had done to impress him was how much hair that little thing could shed but still have such a thick fur, it seemed improbable. John's chair, the cat's favourite, was a mess. The pillows on the sofa had picked it up too and even if he never picked up the damn thing even he was covered in it. Just this morning he'd spent thirty minutes plucking it of his shirt. But he couldn't hate it. The smiles that appeared on Hamish's lips when he held it and played with it, was worth it. Hamish loved it. HIM! Him. And so did John. Well, maybe he didn't love it but he liked it at least. Right now, Sherlock biggest fear was that the thing would grow on him too.

"Boe!?" he tried again and to his surprise the cat turned. Stared at him with his yellow eyes and licked his black nose. He felt a smile twitch his lips and he knotted his hands as he decided to make a little experiment. "Come here." The cat opened his mouth and sneezed, twitched as he did so and Sherlock snorted when he saw it. To his disappointment, he found it kind of adorable. "Bless you." The cat made his way over the floor again, clawed the carped and Sherlock didn't care one bit. He had made more damage to that carpet than that cat could ever do. When it was done with its claws, he made his way over to his chair, leaned close to his legs and stroke himself against them. Sherlock stiffened and groaned irritably when it happened, knowing that it would take for ever to get the hair off his trousers.

This cat had started to show affection after only two days it this flat, evolved from a aggressive beast into a wimpy house cat. And now it purred. Sherlock looked down on it at heard the weak sound of a mew as it bumped his head to his shin, possibly begging to be picked up since it couldn't jump. The detective pursed his lips and cleared his throat.

"No..." he said softly but the cat looked up at him and made the same silly sound. "I am not gonna pet you." The next second, the cat sprawled out across his feet and pawed the floor as it purred. Sherlock sighed loudly again and leaned forward to look at it from above. This thing could really stretch out, it was five inches longer all of a sudden.

"How do you do that?" he heard himself ask. "What's wrong with your spine?" He reached down and seized it under his front legs. As he lifted it the cat was limp, and it got even two inches longer. Still purring, the cat seemed to be asleep in this awkward position. Front legs pointing right at him, back legs just hanging under him and the tip of the tail whipping back and forth. "Are you supposed to do that? Or is something wrong with you?" He put it down in his lap and the creature shrunk, curled itself together in a circle and the broken leg ended up across its neck where it stayed. Sherlock looked at it and chuckled at the sight of that leg being so straight when the rest of it could bend however it wanted.

Damn, he was starting to get fond of it.

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded through the flat and Sherlock panicked. He would not be seen cuddling with this cat. Quickly he picked him up and placed him in the chair across from him, fell back in his own and tried to slap the fur away from his thighs. "Sherlock?"

John appeared in the doorway on the other side of the kitchen, dressed in his pyjamas and a robe, newly awake. Sherlock came to the conclusion that a night had past. The doctor scratched his scalp and yawned big enough for his jaw to dislocate before he made his way to the coffeemaker.

"Did you get any sleep tonight?" he asked with a morning-hoarse voice.

"No." Sherlock answered and and smiled as the cat tried to bite itself between its toes.

"Is Hamish up?"

"No." The cat jolted and hitched eyes and ears as the coffee grinder started, looked around in panic and Sherlock chuckled. As he thought, this animal had become a wimpy house cat. It calm itself as quick as the machine stopped and slumped down on the cushion again. "Coward." he mumbled.

"Is this what you've been doing all night?" He looked up and saw John standing in the doorway with a glass of juice in his hand. "Talking to... Boe?"

"No." he answered quickly and realised that he'd been smiling at the little thing in the chair. "Of course not." John smirked and gulped his juice.

"Anything going on today?" he continued and turned back to the kitchen to make some toast. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and eyed the cat, sighed loudly and crossed his long legs.

"The Thames." he answered and heard the movements the floor above, Hamish was up.

"Okay." John groaned. "When are we leaving?"

"After breakfast." the detective answered and shot a glance at the door as the boy entered. "Good morning." Hamish yawned and stretched his arms over his head, hair in every direction.

"Morning." he answered and ran over the floor and jumped up in his lap to give him a hug. Fingers tangled his curls and he placed his arms around the thin body. "Have you been up all night?"

"None of your concern." Sherlock answered him and pressed his lips to his cheek. "Ask daddy for some breakfast. Lestrade's summoned us." The boy became very eager by those words and pulled back to look at his father.

"Murder?" he asked and eyes grew, making Sherlock proud that his son became just as excited as him when a good murder came up.

"Of course." he answered and straightened out the messy strands in his hair. "What else?"

"Kidnapping, poisoning, burglary." Hamish smiled and looked down on his trousers, seeing something he thought would be weeks before it happened. "Have you been cuddling with Boe?" Sherlock stiffened where he sat and opened his mouth to speak but had no idea how he was pulling himself out of this one.

"No." he lied but Hamish looked up at him, almost proudly.

"Yes you have." he chuckled and realised that his father had grown found of their new pet. "I told you you'd like him." Sherlock pursed his lips and let out a groan.

"I don't." he said and put Hamish down on the floor. "That cat is just as boring as any other animal." But he knew that his son would never fall for those lies. "Now hurry up. We wont leave until you've had a proper breakfast."

They arrived at the crime scene an hour later. Weather was colder, ice was still covering patches of the river and they saw the group of officers gathered out on the pier, all of them dressed in the thick winter coats.

"Maybe you should have worn your overall today." John said and looked down at Hamish who buttoned his coat all the way up to his neck with his clumsy little fingers.

"It's not that cold." Sherlock argued and squatted. Hamish jumped up on his back and he rose with his hands supporting under his sons legs, Hamish loved to ride his back. "Okay there, handsome?"

"Absolutely." he answered and wound his arms around his neck, holding on for dear life since he knew how quickly his father could forget him if this case was interesting. "Forward!" he said and pointed to the pier, and that was the last thing Hamish said as they reached the officers. They weren't aloud to hear his voice yet. But even if Hamish never spoken as much as a word to the DI, the man was always happy to see him.

"Well hello!" he cheered when he saw the little creature on the detective's back. "I see you've brought pocket-Holmes. Hello Hay." Hamish just waved, smiled weakly and stared at the blue swollen girl on the wooden deck. Lestrade looked between the victim and the boy, gritting his teeth as he thought about how horrible this scene would be to other kids. "I told Sherlock it was messy. You think Hamish's okay with this?"

"Oh, his fine." Sherlock waved away and stepped closer to the bloated girl. Once again he squatted and Hamish jumped off his back to stand next to him, as alway he saw this as a lesson. Every piece of information his fathers could give him, he put in his memory bank for future needs.

John kneeled beside the body and roamed over her, noticing everything out of the ordinary.

"We found her chained to the pillar right there." Lestrade began and pointed. "Thirteen years old, last seen leaving the sub at Piccadilly, then she.." he paused and took a deep breath of ignorance as he shrugged. ".. magically disappeared from the security cameras. Her mates made it up to the streets, she didn't." Sherlock started to examine her school uniform, emptied her pockets on their contents.

"Check the stations doors to the underground system. The killer took her out of the crowd, brought her down there where he couldn't be seen."

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked him when Hamish suddenly pointed at her shoes and Sherlock stopped in mid-deduction and stared at his son. The boy looked back, nibbling his bottom lip as his mind worked like clockwork.
"The dirt on her shoes." Sherlock snickered and felt his stomach tighten. His son was on his way to become something big, just like him. "That is ground metal, very common close to the tracks. The sub passes a hundred times a day, the metal grounds together with the oil." He smeared the dirt between his fingers and smelled it. "She was dragged over the tracks." He held out his finger to Hamish who smelled the black dirt to put it in his memory and John smiled when he saw them. "How long has she been dead?"

"Six, maybe seven hours." John said and forced her lids open to look at her eyes. "Suffered a major blow to the head, pupils are different size. Possibly unconscious as she drowned because there are no signs of struggle. No bruises, cuts or anything of the chains. Frostbites on her skin, probably been in the water for an hours before the tide reached her nose." Hamish moved over to his side to get a better look over what he was pointing and talking about. He reached for her head and turned it, water flooded out of her mouth and the dirty blond hair was tainted with blood on the back of her skull. "Hit with a blunt object. Possibly a pipe, maybe a bat."

Sherlock saw how Hamish started to nibble his bottom lip again, his eyebrows met above his nose and he crocked his head while he observed, mind lost in the learning.

"What is it?" he asked and his son reached for the blue hand, picked it up from the soaked deck and looked at her fingers. All nails was in perfect shape, except the thumb. There was a crack from the tip to the cuticle but no bruise was formed. The magnifying glass popped up and Sherlock stared at the nail for a long minute as he tried to deduce what had happened to the young girl. John kept searching her skin and limbs for marks when they suddenly heard a loud thud followed by a splash. Both Sherlock and John woke up from their concentration and looked for the source of the sound when they realised someone important was missing from their side.

"Where's Hamish?" John shouted and flew up from his squatting position, looked around in panic and tried to find his little boy that had suddenly disappeared. Sherlock eyes grew and shot up from the floor, ran to the railing stared down in the icy water, quickly coming to the conclusion what had just happened.

The officers, who'd turned their backs since they knew what kind of yelling they'd be exposed with if they interrupted the detective's concentration, quickly faced them again. Fear written all over their faces as they realised who was missing from the scene.

"What happened?" John heard Lestrade asking in a distance and the next thing he saw was his husband tossing himself into the cold water. Even if it wasn't the doctor who had hit the water, it was still his blood that froze.

"Hamish?" he shouted and felt the panic press the air out of his lungs. Every possible scenario bombarded his mind and he followed Lestrade to the railing to look down in the dark water, seeing the bubbles break the surface and John knew, he knew that this would end badly.

"GET THE BOAT OUT THERE!" Lestrade shouted to the officers who John never seen so quick on their feet.

Boat? And then John realised that the only way out of the cold water was the 50 yard swim to the shore. The pier was to high up for them to get up on again, and John whimpered i fear. Should he jump too? No, he needed to be the one who could keep them warm when they came back up. "DID ANYONE SEE WHAT HAPPENED?"

"A BOAT WON'T BE FAST ENOUGH!" John shouted in panic and remembered the chain on the pier that had held the young girl put to the pillar. "That water's ice cold, Sherlock might manage the cold, but Hamish wont as easily." The chain hit the dark water and he held it tightly in his shaking hands, this was the only lifeline they had.

The bubbles started to lessen, Hamish's clothes had gotten heavy with water and with his lack of swimming skill he must have sunk like a rock. John caught himself praying, but he would never put the words in his memory. When this was over, he was going to make Sherlock learn him how to delete things from his mind.

The water start to crush down on him, air escaped as his lungs pressed together in his chest and he reached down in his pocked for the small torch. It shifted green in the icy water and he searched the darkness. That's when he saw the pale shine of his sons face sinking to the bottom and he pinched the little torch between his teeth to free his hands. He swum, not letting the coldness slowing him. Transport, he thought as it bit his skin, nothing more than a transport. When he finally reached the cold boy he grabbed a hold of his arm and pulled him close to his chest. Pressed his lips to his and gave him the last air in his lungs before he kicked himself to the surface. Without that lightening air his body turned heavy, if he didn't swim he would sink, not float. He fought with the last strength within him and his hand was the first thing to reach the air. He caught something cold and hard and pulled himself up. A massive breath invaded his lungs, filled him with life again and the first thing that came to mind was Hamish. His little head rested on his shoulder, lips blue and water and blood dripping from his wet hair. Sherlock had never been so scared.

"JOHN!" he shouted and coughed up all the water he accidentally swallowed. The salty water stung his eyes together with the cold and he heard John's voice shouting above him.

"Hold on! We're gonna pull you up." Then he saw the chain in his hand and he circled it around his arm, tightened his holding around Hamish's unconscious body and then there was pain. The chain cut into his skin, pulled it like a thousand needles and his body screamed to let go and for the first time he was really thankful for how good he was at overlooking his body's needs. With eyes tightly closed he emerged from the cold water, pulled into the icy wind and he and his son became heavy, he grunted in pain as he felt his skin being pulled from his arm when suddenly Hamish was taken out of his grip. Someone grabbed a hold of his coat and dragged him up on the pier and he landed on the floorboards with a loud shout as the chain left his arm. But pain was unimportant right now. Lifting his head he saw John leaning over Hamish, filling his lungs with air and Sherlock tossed himself over the deck to get to them. But his body was to frozen to be controlled, what was going to be a very swift and easy movement turned out to be very clumsy in this state and he fell as he tried to get up, ending with lying on his stomach beside them.
"Hamish!?" he croaked and reached out a shaky hand to stoke his hair.

"Sherlock, get out of your coat." John ordered with a sharp voice as he pressed his hands to Hamish chest and started to pump. Right then Sherlock realised how badly this was and the panic he thought couldn't get any stronger took over completely.

"John." he breathed, all pain and cold had left him by now. All that was important was Hamish and seeing him lying lifeless before him hurt more than any wound on his body.

"Sherlock, get out of your coat!" John shouted and pressed his lips to his son's mouth again, blew in the warm air.

"JOHN! FIX HIM!" Sherlock shouted and didn't even notice how much he was shaking anymore. His life wasn't important, he wouldn't let John put his worries in him when Hamish was the one who needed it. Someone was pulling in his clothes and he was to weak to fight the hands touching him. Hamish jolted for every punch John directed to his heart, water and blood stained the wood under his head and for each second that passed Sherlock new that life was slipping away from his son.

"John." he quaked and took his boy's little hand, cold as ice and stiff like death. "For god's sake, fix him." He couldn't even shout anymore, he was to cold, to weak, to..

Hamish came back to the world with a jolt, water flowed out of his mouth and nose, a weak cough left him and Sherlock saw how John almost fell apart when their son took his first breath. Clothes was torn of the doctor and the child and landed in a wet a pile beside them. John pulled the boy into his naked chest and covered him in his own dry jacket, rubbed the poor boy to get some warmth back into him.

"There we go." he whimpered, still panicked. "Good, Hamish. Deep breaths, deep breaths."

He swayed back and forth where he sat with the cold child in his arms, looked at the pale face with blue lips and wet hair glued to his forehead. But the boy didn't tremble, he didn't shake of cold, he was hypothermic, in shock, possible concussion by the blow to the head.

John held him like a newborn, cradled to his naked chest, rocked him gently and listened to every breath that left his throat croaky throat.
"Can you hear me, Hamish? Can you look at me?" A small cry left the boy and John had never been more happy to hear a sound come from him. Eyes fluttered open and he looked up at his father with unfocused eyes, pupils the same size. There wasn't any concussion then. "Good boy." he praised him and held him a little tighter, felt the cold take its impact on him too sitting here with open shirt with an ice cold body so close. "Move your finger and toes for me. Wiggle them as much as you can and don't stop."

He finally lifted his gaze and looked and Sherlock. Even he was stripped down, swaddled in and officers winter coat and Lestrade's arms around him, rubbing him while the detective's body quaked. At least he quaked, the grown man could handle the cold better than their little child. "You too, Sherlock. Wiggle toes and fingers." That's when he saw the blood flowing over the deck from where his husband was sitting. "Sherlock?"

"I'm okay." he said with a croaky voice. "How's Hamish?"

He looked down on the poor boy again and saw icicles stiffen his hair. What was he supposed to answer. This was bad, very bad.

"An ambulance is on it's way." Lestrade informed them as John untied the shoes on Hamish's feet and pulled them of. Wound his fingers around the small toes and saw how they'd turned blue.

"Come on, handsome. Wiggle your toes." he pleaded and blew some hot air onto his face. The blue-green eyes blinked, he didn't understand what John was talking about.

"I am." he whispered and John swallowed hard, he was to cold to move them.

"Good." he lied and nodded with a smile. "Silly me." But he held on to the still toes, did what he could to warm them up when sirens was heard in a distance. Help was coming. "You need to stay awake, love. Don't fall asleep. If you do, I will have dad tell you everything he knows about tobacco ashes again, and neither you nor me want that, okay?" To his relief, Hamish kept his eyes on him. "Good boy." He turned to Sherlock and Lestrade again saw his husband getting to tired to be worried about anything anymore. "Let's get moving, we need to get both of them into the ambulance as quick as possible. They need to get warm."

He got up from the deck and carried his son like he did the first time he held him, watching him like this was the most fragile thing in the world. He heard Sherlock moan in pain as Lestrade helped him on his feet, he wobbled where he stood and John hurried over to get a look at his arm. But Sherlock wasn't interested in care at the moment. Shaky pale hands reached out and he touched Hamish's cold face.

"What..t..t happened, hands.. s.. some?" he asked and the boy answered him with a hacking cough filled with left over salt water. "Did y.. y.. you slip?" He just blinked, to far away to understand what his fathers wanted from him, he just wanted to sleep. Just for a moment he drifted off, didn't understand how he could feel so warm after being in the cold water.

"Don't go to sleep, love." John ordered him and shook some energy back into him. Tried his best to sound more like a father than a doctor at the moment. "Stay awake. Come on." Hamish jolted in his arms and eyes shot open again, concentrated as well he could manage on his daddy.

"Listen to your daddy, handsome." Sherlock begged and stumbled back into the DI's arms and John gave their friend a sharp look.

"Help him to the ambulance." he begged him, still slightly relieved that Sherlock was at least feeling the cold. "Don't let him out of sight."

The way back to the parking lot was slow and painful. Sherlock could hardly move arms or legs any more, he could just imagine how Hamish was doing.
An ambulance stopped by them and a middle-aged woman tossed herself out of her seat, a calming smile on her lips and John new by the first look than she was good with kids.

"Took a little tumble in the Thames?" she asked, her blond hair waving in the wind as she opened the backdoors. "Sorry, we're a little short on vehicles so we have to coop you up in the same." She turned and looked at the two soaked boys swaddled in jackets. "These your daddies, little one?" she asked as she leaned over Hamish who tiredly blinked in John's arms.

"Yeah." John interrupted, but secretly amazed of how she'd worked that out so quickly. "This is Hamish, hypothermic, suffered from cardiac arrest for a possible minute."

"Alright, let's get these two warm as quick as we can. You first, mister!" she looked at Sherlock and took his arm. "In you go." And the half naked detective stepped into the back if the van and fell down on the brits. John turned to Lestrade who nodded before he even had a chance to ask the question.

"I'll meet you at the hospital." he said and backed away as John jumped into the van, waving with a calm smile.

The woman was fuzzing around Sherlock, removing the rest of his clothes and that was the first time John had ever seen a woman get Sherlock naked. Well almost, boxers stayed on.

"Put Hamish in dad's arms, we'll warm 'em up together."

The detective shivered uncontrollably in the brits, nearly vibrating and teeth chattering in his skull. Arms flailing as he reached them out for receiving Hamish and John put him down in his lap. A big blanket was wrapped around them and a cable stuck out from one of the corners. John had never been so glad to see a heating blanket.

"It's gonna get warm now, Hamish." John explained and fell down beside them as the ambulance took off. "Hold on to dad and you'll feel better soon."

"Some nice cups of hot chocolate is waiting for you at the hospital." the woman said and fuzzed around them both with towels and hot water bottles. "Everything to get you warm." John pulled Hamish's trousers of and grabbed his feet again, warmed them up as much as he could. "Are you with us little one?" He blinked tiredly and stared into Sherlock's heaving chest and felt his father's fingers stroke his hair. World was spinning, wherever he was it was starting to get cold. Very cold.

To his fathers relief he started to shiver, lightly at first but his grew harder for every second that passed. Soon, even his teeth started to chatter, he pressed his hand to Sherlock's chest and let out a painful whimper. A warm water bottle pressed to his stomach and a weak shout left his throat.

"I.. it's.. s.. s okay, Hamis.. s.. s.. sh." Sherlock stammered and cradled his head to his shoulder. "It's s.. s.. okay." Hamish answered him with a hacking cough and the woman pressed a stethoscope to his chest.

"Can you take a deep breath for me, little one?" She was given the same hacking cough and Sherlock looked up John with big worried eyes and he knew at once that John had a clue what could be expected by all this. John placed his warm hands around his cheeks and rubbed them gently.

"Daddy?" he croaked, probably not noticing the woman hearing him, or not caring.
"I'm here, love." John answered and saw how the woman started to take care of Sherlock's wounded arm. Usually he would have complained, not let anyone else than his own doctor take care of him, but right now it didn't matter who took care of his wounds as long as John took care of Hamish.

"W.. will he b.. be alright?" he asked and stared at his husband who held the warm water bottle to Hamish's wheezing chest.

"Yes." he answered quickly and heard another hacking cough. "Do you hear that Hamish? You and dad will be alright."

"Daddy." he croaked again and cold tears started to fall down his cheeks. "I d..d.. don't like it w.. w..when Greg calls me Hay." Sherlock scoffed and pressed his lips to his temple, almost sobbing in relief when he heard him say that.

"None of us do." he trembled. "N.. none of us do."

Hamish laid swaddled in a heating-blanket on the hospital bed, Sherlock beside him with arms around his hurting body. Colours started to return to his skin, he could move fingers and toes again but he was still shaking of cold and coughing from the shock the water had given his lungs.

"Here love." John whispered and held out the cup of hot chocolate. "Take a sip of this and your stomach will be warm in no time." He lifted his head and swallowed a mouthful, groaning as it travelled down his hurting throat but it was nice. Not the cheap chocolate from the cafeteria but catered chocolate from some expensive café, Mycroft's doing of course. That man had done everything he could do make their visit comfortable. Private room, the best doctors and done of the rubbery microwave food. No, uncle Mycroft was spoiling them good.

But Hamish was in a bad state, the horrible cold he'd gone through was now showing signs on a upcoming pneumonia and the doctors did all they could for it not to reach full capacity. Sherlock on the other hand was fine, warmed up and arm stitched twelve times. Right now dressed in a hospital gown with a bleak blue robe around his shoulders, waiting for Lestrade to bring them some new clothes from home since this was the ugliest outfit he'd ever worn.

"It's really cold." Hamish whined and Sherlock squeezed his hands in his. "Why isn't it getting warmer."

"It is." John told him and felt his forehead, still to cold and clammy. "We just have to do it slowly or you'll go into shock. But try to get some rest."

Sherlock crawled a little closer to the small boy and buried his nose in the short hair. He was so pleased that his little son was going to be alright and he would not let him go for a long time now, he was not letting him out of sight again.

"What happened, Hamish?" John asked and lifted the hair covering the small wound. No stitches, just taped up and blood drying into a scab.

"I slipped." he stammered and coughed again, it was a painful cough, tearing his throat and chest. "I wanted to see where she was found and I didn't notice the ice on the railing. Then.. " He looked up at John when he started to remember, and he did not look happy. "You hit me. In the chest!" John smirked and kissed his temple, nuzzled his face and closed his eyes.

"I know, I'm sorry about that." he sighed and took his little hand to kiss the fingers. "But you, on the other hand, scared us to..." he was about to say death but he swallowed the word, but it still found its way out in the air.

"Death?" Sherlock finished for him and John bit down hard.

"Yeah..." he groaned and and lowered his gaze. "Not.. the word I was searching for." Yet, Sherlock chuckled and pressed a kiss to his sons temple as a small forgiveness.

"Well, you scared us, handsome." he whispered, still a bit croaky. "And you know I don't scare easily." Another painful cough tore through the room and John massaged his chest through the blanket.

"D'you hear that Hamish. You scared dad." he smirked when there was a knock on the door. It cracked open and Lestrade put his grey head in.

"Hello!" he greeted them and stepped in with the bag over his shoulder. "How's the little rascal?" He made his way over to the bed, dropped the bag to the floor and leaned to the bed railing. "You okay there?" Another hacking cough and John kept rubbing his ribs.

"We're fighting a upcoming pneumonia." he answered him and Lestrade roamed the scene. Sherlock crawled up in bed, arms wrapped around the little boy and John sitting on the bedside, just holding hands, he'd never seen this family so.. cuddly before. "But, he'll be okay in a week." The DI nodded worriedly but kept the smiles on his lips as he watched the swaddled boy.

"Make sure to boss your fathers around there Hay. They'll do anything for you right now." Hamish smiled and the warmth started to find him again, and with that came the sleepiness. "Met your cat by the way. Cute little thing. What's his name." John opened his mouth to answer when a small voice was heard from the bed, hoarse, but still loud enough for Greg to hear.

"Boe." Hamish answered the DI whose jaw dropped. He quickly closed it, but opened it again to talk but he didn't know what words he would choose to continue this conversation without sounding stupid, and he didn't want to sound stupid in front of the detective. "His name is Boe."

John grasped his hand a little tighter and bit down on his lips so he wouldn't smile ridiculously. This was a big step, a very big step and he kissed his fingers again. Proud filling him and eating all the fear that had cooped up his body for the last hour. Hamish was making progress, and he could not wait to see the faces on all the people who heard Hamish's voice for the first time.

"Boe?" Lestrade said after a long moment of silence. "Like 'the face of Boe' in Doctor Who?"

"Yes." Hamish answered him and blinked tiredly, still trembling massively. "But Boe is just Boe."

Sherlock sighed loudly and pressed another kiss to his temple, decided that this was the perfect time to come clean.

"I do like Boe." he said honestly. "He's... interesting. He can really stretch!" John laughed at the last part and gave Hamish some more of the chocolate. "Have you seen him, his back got five inches longer this morning. Are they supposed to do that or is something wrong with him?" The boy laughed but regretted it quickly as it started the awful coughing again. The next breath entering his lungs wheezed and John placed a hand under his neck to tilt his head back. The wheezing stopped and Sherlock saw the smile disappear from his husband lips and that scared him more than the sound that Hamish just made. But he didn't ask, he knew that if he started questioning John, Hamish would be the next one to worry.

"I'm gonna ask the doctor for a tank." John said and stood up, just making Sherlock more worried. "I'll be back in a minute." Once again Hamish coughed and crawled a little closer to his dad who instinctively held him tighter.

"Greg." the boy croaked and the DI walked around the bed to get closer to him, leaned over to see his face as he was, for the first time, talking to him.

"Yes, Hay?" Hamish managed to smile when he heard him and shot him a look.

"I don't like it when you call me Hay." he explained and Greg chuckled happily.

"Well, is it okay if I call you pocket-Holmes then?"

Hamish seemed to consider that for a moment, nibbling his bottom lip as he let his mind work.

"I guess so." he said after a while and giggled painfully. "It's better."

Thank you so much for earlier review, you are so kind. Keep 'em coming!