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Sherlock inspected the boy while both he and John was sleeping. Those tubes in his nostrils had sent shivers down his spine when they were plugged into his sons face, but he knew that they helped him breath properly. Skin was still pale, clammy and hot. Hamish was fighting a fever that got higher for each hour. But the doctors said it was good, that it burned out the pneumonia that threatened his lungs at the moments.
He played with the dark hair on his head, watched carefully as his chest moved. He took his pulse by holding his hand not letting a single second pass without being completely sure that his son was alive. Those few seconds on the pier had been the worst seconds of his life. Seeing Hamish lying lifeless on his back with a vessel going colder he really thought that this was the end for him. What would life be if Hamish disappeared from it? What would Sherlock and John be without him?
He turned his gaze to John who laid on his stomach on the sofa, drooling on the pillow and softly snoring. What would John have done if it was to late to save their boy?
Sherlock's mind was travelling to deep in these thoughts and he didn't notice the time pass, he didn't notice the nurses walking in and checking Hamish's vitals and he didn't notice the sun rise over the rooftops. Thought of how life would be without his son was all around him and the world outside his head was black at the moment. If Hamish had died, what would they had done with his room? Had they kept his toys, bed, clothes? Had they thrown it away as quickly as possible as an attempt to forget? Would John's nightmares start again? Would they leave each other?
John woke up on the hard cushions and forced his eyes open in the bright light. The first thing he saw was Hamish on the bed, tubes in his nose and arm and tucked in under the thick cover. Then he saw Sherlock, staring into nothingness and a line, that was proof if him being deep down in thinking, between his brows.
"Sherlock?" he asked and sat up on the sofa, saw the detective's arms hugging his own body like he was in deep pain. He knew what he was thinking about and he needed to snap out of it before he dug to deep. "Sherlock?" He hurried over the plastic floor that squeaked by the contact of his shoes and cupped his husband's face. "Love? Where are you?" There was no reaction from him, not a glance, not a blink. "Sherlock?" He stroke his cheek and moved the curls put of his eyes, watched as tears started to well up. The detective suddenly closed his eyes, tears fell down his cheeks and his face bundles up into an expression of pure pain and John pulled him into his warm embrace. His first little sob was muffled by the doctors shoulder and John held him tightly.
"What would we have done, John?" he asked with a low voice, like he was afraid to ask the question that haunted his mind. "What would we become without him?" The doctor cradled his head to his shoulder and let him cry out some of the fear that been cooped up in him for hours now before he opened his mouth to speak.
"You saved him Sherlock." he whispered. "You didn't let death take him. Not today."
"I didn't save him." he growled and swallowed hard. "I should never have let him fall in the first place." John managed to chuckle and kissed his temple, he knew that his husband would blame himself eventually.
"And what would you have done?" he asked. "Put him on a leach? There was you, me and ten officers on that pier and none of us notices him leave our side. These things happens Sherlock." Sherlock gave up a grunt and nailed himself to John's shirt. He didn't know the answers to that question.
"Maybe to normal folks." he fumed and sniffled. "But I should have noticed." Another sob fled his lips and John hushed him gently. "I should have noticed. I should..." He cleared his throat and turned his head to John's neck took a deep breath of the sent that hid there. "What would we have done, John. What would we do without Hamish?" John sighed loudly and stroke his back, he didn't want to hear it, he didn't want to think about that.
"I don't know Sherlock." he answered. "Because I don't think about those things as long as Hamish is with us. If, and I say if, the day would come when he leaves us, then would those thoughts be important. But not now. So don't think that, Sherlock. Please." His husband groaned and wound his arms around his neck, John was right. Hamish was still here, alive and here he sat crying over something that never happened. He lifted his head and looked at the sick boy on the bed.
"When can we take him home? It's hateful to see him like this."
"I know." John whispered and sat down in his lap. "He'll be able to leave soon." Sherlock held him tightly and leaned to his head to his chest, took a deep breath of his scent. "He's a strong little boy."
The next second Hamish's shoulder twitched and his head fell to the side on the fluffy pillow. A horrible cough left him and John tossed himself to the bed to place a hand behind his neck when the wheezing breathing started.
"It's okay." he whispered softly when he saw his son panic of that something usually so simple suddenly was so hard. "Deep breaths. Come on." Tears started to fall and Sherlock appeared on the other side of the bed to hold his hand. Hamish opened his eyes and looked around the room to search for his fathers in his feverish state. Lungs sounded weak, the coughing painful and Sherlock closed in on his side and kiss away the tears. He looked scared again.
The painful coughing came to an end and Hamish swallowed and blinked tiredly.
"Daddy?" he wailed and started to sob. He didn't like this way of waking up one bit.
"It's okay." John whispered and stroke his hair. "Don't worry. I know it's bad, but this is the down side about falling into cold water." He started hiccuping by the awful cries that teared through his sore throat.
"It hurts!" he cried and slammed his eyes shut. "Daddy, make it stop!" His little body twitched with every cough that left his chest and Sherlock looked up at John with panic written all over his face. He never wanted to see his son suffer like this.
"Call the nurse." John begged him and signed for the button on the wall. "He needs some painkillers." They heard the alarm start in the corridor the same moment as Sherlock pushed the button and the cries got louder i the room. John cradled his head and hushed him gently. The more he cried, the harder it was for him to breathe. "Calm down. It's okay. The pain will stop, I promise." Sherlock mimicked the massage to the boys chest that John did yesterday and squeezed his hand.
"Come on Hamish." the detective trembled. "Calm down. You're only making it worse." Quick footsteps echoed in the hallway and a young red haired nurse hurried into the room.
"Good morning." she sang and Sherlock wanted to murder that woman for looking so happy when his son was in the room, suffering in pain. "Let's ease that pain for you, Hamish." She popped up the cap of his IV and emptied a syringe into his hand. The pain eased quickly, but it didn't help the panic that made poor Hamish toss back and forth in bed. He did not like this on bit.
"Hamish!" John called out and cupped his shoulders. "Please love, look at me!" He screamed and grunted, wanted to leave this place right in this second, didn't understand why he was here.
"Stop it!" he shouted and clenched his teeth. "Stop it!"
"Hamish!" Sherlock stroke his hair and tried to get caught in his gaze but the boy was delusional. Fever had taken over his mind. "Please Hamish. It's okay! We've got you!" He finally locked eyes with Sherlock, stared into the dept of the blue-green colours and reached out his shaking arms, begging to be picked up and Sherlock leaned over him to press him to his chest. The boy buried his face in the crock of him neck and let out a loud shout of pure fear.
"It's okay." the frightened father whispered and stroke his hair. "There's nothing to be scared of."
"It hurt when I breath!" he shouted and coughed painfully. "Make it stop." Sherlock didn't know what to do, he couldn't help, John couldn't help and it pained him greatly to see his small boy suffer. The nurse checked his vitals and increased the dosage of morphine that blended with the IV.
"It will stop soon, little one. Don't worry."
"Deep breaths, love." John murmured and kissed his temple. "It's about to go away." He coughed loudly again, a raspy cough filled with fluids John pushed Sherlock out of the way so he could help Hamish sit up. Green mucus dripped into the basin and Hamish whimpered by the sudden change of position.
"Dad!" he wailed and spat. A shiver travelled down his spine and Sherlock sat down beside him and held him to his chest. The foul taste turned his stomach painfully and he puked silently into the bowl. "I'm dizzy." he cried and his head fell back to Sherlock's shoulder.
"I know, handsome." he whispered and stroke his damp hair out of his face. "It's hateful being sick, isn't it?" They wound the blankets tighter around him, avoided all the tubes and needles before Sherlock scooped him up. He gently rocked him in his arms, stroke his cheek and John couldn't help the smile twitching the corners of his lips. Sherlock was holding him like the infant he once was, looking at him with the same loving eyes.
"Go back to sleep." he whispered and placed a hand on his forehead. His skin was clammy, burning and pale, Hamish had never been this ill. "We'll be here." John hurried over to the sink and filled a paper cup with water, found a package of straws on the counter and returned to the bed.
"Here you go, love." he murmured and tickled his lips with the straw. "Some cold water." One sip was all it took for him to have another fit of coughing, the liquid burned all the way down his throat and John hushed him gently while he fought the pain. "I know it hurts, but you need it."
"I can't." he cried and pressed his cheek to Sherlock's chest. "Don't make me." John bit his lip and sighed.
"Okay." he whispered and stroke his hair. "We can try later."
Hamish went back to sleep in Sherlock's arms, whimpering in his sleep and cooing in his dreams. The detective took a deep breath before he asked the question that had hunted his mind for a long time now.
"Can this kill him?" John twitched by his side where he sat on the bedside, holding Hamish's little feet that still was cold as ice.
"Don't speak like that." he warned and knitted his eyebrows together. "Please don't." But Sherlock shook his head, he needed to know.
"Can it?" John was silent for a moment.
"We won't let him." he answered and placed his head on Sherlock's thin shoulder. "So it wont happen." Then they were silent. Just watched the boy sleep, listened to him mumble in his sleep and his body tremble. Time passed quickly and Sherlock started to notice how much his little son had grown since the first time he held him. One again he found himself examine every crease in his hand, noticing everything that had changed since he was a newborn. He noticed how much his hair had darkened, how his eyelashes had grown longer and thicker, the features in his face was sharper just like his own. He really was a handsome boy.
"What are you smiling about?" John asked him with a tired chuckle and placed his arms around his shoulders. Sherlock snickered and traced a finger over his boy's jaw.
"He just looks so grown-up." he smiled and kissed his little fingers. "He looks more like me for every day."
"He really does." John laughed and touched the hair on his head. "He's getting more and more handsome."
"He already is." the detective said and bowed his head, pressed his lips to his forehead and sighed loudly. "We're very lucky to have him." Those were words John never thought he would hear his husband speak. He had never been modest about human relations. It glad him to hear Sherlock speak so wonderful about their son.
"We truly are."
An hour before visiting time was over Greg stepped in through the door, carrying their dinners and Sherlock groaned loudly when he saw the pizza-boxes.
"Oh good lord." he hissed. "Junk food?" But Hamish seemed perfectly happy with that. It wasn't very often pizza was served in their household. Just once, and that's when he was left alone with Molly at the morgue for two hours. She ordered him lunch when she heard his stomach growl, by then he had been hungry for a long time but he didn't tell her how much he even wanted to. He liked Molly.
"I like pizza." he murmured with a croaky throat and Sherlock pursed his lips. "But I'm not hungry."
"Who ever fed you with pizza?" he asked and Hamish just smiled, to tired to laugh.
"I'm not telling you." he answered and breathed in the smell of the food.
"Do you think you could manage to eat a small bite?" John asked and picked up his wallet to pay the nice DI but Greg just shook his head.
"Oh don't be silly." he smiled and tossed his coat over the chair. "I've got money of my own." He turned to the boy still swaddled in blankets on the bed and even a hat pulled over his ears. "Feeling any better?"
"Worse." Hamish corrected painfully and coughed, but just the sound of his voice put a smile on Greg's lips.
"His fever's going up and down." John explained and pressed the oxygen mask to his face when the levels changed on the pulse ox machine. "He'll probably be here for two more nights." Hamish made a tired grunt when he heard that and scratched the tape on his face that held the tubes on place.
"Well." Greg sang and placed his bag on the table before poking around in its compartments. "I got you this." A dark green, plastic dinosaur emerged from the bag and flew through the air in his grip with a animalistic roar that made Hamish frown. He wasn't used to see grownups acting so childish but it still made him smile when he saw Greg do it. The beast landed beside him in the bed and its open jaws nibbled his ear underneath the hat and he laughed.
"Stop it." he croaked and pulled away. The DI chuckled and put it in his hands. "Thanks."
"Do you know what species it is?" he asked and showed him that the tale could wiggle.
"Obviously its a t-rex." he croaked and touched the plastic teeth with a shaky finger. " Sherlock scoffed when he saw the toy but didn't say anything about it, he had never been a fan of extinct beasts. They had no importance now a days.
"So, when are you planning to get better pocket-Holmes?" Greg continued and put on his parental roll and tucked the cover a little tighter around the boy, his own girls had grown up a long time ago and he missed these sorts of things more than anyone could know.
"As quickly as possible." he mumbled and looked up at him with those big eyes that could make anyone melt. "Why? Is the case confusing you without our help?" Once again Sherlock scoffed, but this time at his sons comment. Even the DI laughed and brushed away the strands of hair peeking out under the edge of the hat and felt Hamish's burning skin.
"Of course. I'm helpless without my Holmes's close by." he answered and heard the awful cough tearing through the child throat. The sound of it made the old man ache of sympathy and he bit down hard so he would squeak. "You poor tosser. I hope this doesn't hold on to you too long."
Hamish whimpered and looked miserable very quickly after the painful fit and turned his head.
"Daddy?" he croaked and his eyes went shiny by tears. His father hurried to the bed just in time before he started coughing again and John turned on the oxygen tank.
"Here." he murmured and held the mask before his face, but Hamish was scared of the thing. He might be intelligent for his age, but he was still a four-year-old. With weak arms he pushed it away but continued to fight for his breath. "It will help you, love." John stroke his cheek calmingly but his son started to cry in panic and shook his head. He didn't like it.
"Hamish." Greg called and took the mask out of John's hand and pressed it to his own face, took a couple of deep breaths. Tears fell down the boy's face and he coughed painfully again while watching him. After a moment he looked somewhat calmer, but still in massive pain, lungs was failing him greatly and he feared something people his age should never fear. Death.
"If I can do it, so can you." Greg said with a smiled and put the mask in Hamish's weak hand. "Come on. I will help you. Promise."
The four-year-old guided the mask to his face with John's help and he kept his eyes on Greg, ready to pierce him with the look of death if he was lying. But it did help, his breathe turned from whimper into calm, long breaths. His throat cleared and lungs filled to the brim with oxygen leaving him exhausted on the bed.
"There you go." John whispered and kissed his little hand. "Not so bad after all, was it?"
"It's hateful." he croaked into the mask and Greg snickered when he saw his eyes slowly drift shut. It was only a matter of seconds before he was asleep again and John could finally strap the mask to his face so he could breathe properly during the time he rested.
"Ruth screamed like a manic when she was having he tonsils removed." Greg explained. "She just wouldn't breath in that damn narcosis so I had to do it first, then she did it. I wobbled out of that room like a damn drunkard." He laughed at the last bit and John just chuckled.
"I wish I could see that." he said and Sherlock turned in the chair.
"We did a couple of weeks ago." he said and surprised the both by holding a piece of pizza in his hand. "Don't you remember? You walked John home after that bar round and none of you could use your legs properly." Greg twitched and looked up at John again.
"I walked you home?" he asked and John just shrugged with a marvelled face.
"I actually can't remember." And Sherlock scoffed for the third time before grabbing another piece out of the box.
"You don't like pizza." Greg said and moved over to dig in as well.
"I also don't like hospitals, but here we are." the detective answered and gave John a slight kick in the shin. "John, you need to eat. You've been peckish for hours and I'm done with your complaining."
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