AN – I AM WRITING THIS IN SPAIN! So, so, so sorry for not updating in so long, but I do have (reasonably) good excuses. I was doing GISHWHES for one week (which was AMAZING, and I highly recommend it) and this past week I have been in Spain, which is very hot and sunny and has given me some nice, relaxing writing time. Thanks for this one. I played with quite a few ideas when I started writing it, you gave me so much freedom. Here's what I've come up with. It's a bit bloody, so don't read if you have problems with that sort of thing. Hope you like what I did with this.

Parentlock ~ottersinthetardis221b

TW – Violence

Hamish paused at the door, staring at the handle. They might be home, they might be on the case. He swallowed thickly, then immediately regretted it as a burning pain shot through his throat. He took the tissue from his nose and found a quarter of an inch that wasn't soaked in blood, then pressed it to his nose again. Blood still seeped out in a steady stream. He was soaked to his battered and bruised skin, but blood still clung to his hair and clothes and crawled into every painful fibre of his body. And every cell hurt.

He'd awoken in a ditch, his whole body aching, rain and blood and pain blurring his vision as he pulled open his eyes. He'd taken a mental inventory of the damage done – nose broken, stomach thoroughly beaten, suspected cracked rib, covered in bruises and cuts, scratches across his face, arms and back from the ground amongst other things. And pain. Shooting, aching, stinging pain, everywhere. The rain was pissing down when he awoke, but he just lay there, thinking over what the hell had happened and why he was lying in a ditch in the rain, beaten half to a pulp and overwhelmed with pain. It took him a minute to be sure he wasn't dying. However, as he lay semi-conscious, drenched by rain and blood, the memories flooded him, and soaked his mind more than the rain did his body.

This is fucking shit.

There was no point staring at the door. There was no point trying to hear if they were home – if his dad was thinking, things would be silent. There was no point putting it off any longer. Hamish ran his tongue over his swollen lips and reached for the door handle, just hoping to God or whoever that his parents weren't home.

The flat appeared silent, other than the sound of the rain beating against the window. He looked about him as he stepped inside, thinking over his plan, which happened to be one of the simplest plans in the world – painkillers from the cupboard, then upstairs for a shower and change of clothes, then try to sleep again. That was almost painful in its simplicity, but Hamish knew all too well that the simplest plans could fail. The only thing that had to happen for his plan to fail was the presence of his parents.

The crime scene pictures were stuck on the mirror, the case file lay open on the coffee table, notes scribbled on pages of information and pictures, an experiment was in progress on the oven, but there were no other people in the flat. Hamish let out a sigh of relief as he read the note on the kitchen table.

Just gone to investigate something with the case. Don't know when we'll be back, you might have to get your own tea. -Papa.

Hamish limped to the cupboard where they kept the medicines (STRICTLY NO BODY PARTS THAT GOES FOR BOTH OF YOU) and riffled through it until he found some painkillers. He struggled a little with the packet, his hands still shaking and bleeding slightly, until he managed to get two small pills. The pain wasn't even beginning to relent, which made the process of getting a glass of water annoyingly long. He downed the pills as quickly as he could, and was just limping towards the door to go upstairs and have a shower when there were two pairs of footsteps on the stairs outside.

Shit.

Hamish considered trying to get upstairs before they could stop him, but the idea was idiotic. They were almost at the door. Besides, he'd have to tell them about it sometime. They'd notice – he wouldn't exactly be fixed up by one shower. His papa would, of course, insist he be taken straight to Bart's to get the nose at least fixed, while his dad would be fixated on finding the people who did this to him and thinking about what to do about it. He'd have to do it sometime, so why not see them still blooded and covered in mud? He reminded himself it was probably best not to bite his lip, backed against a counter and waited for the door to open.

"Mish? You in your room?" Hamish heard his papa call.

Shit, shit, fuck, shit.

More people than himself would be in pain by the end of this. He took a deep, rather painful breath as the door opened.

Sherlock walked in, drenched but smiling to himself as he glanced about the flat. He froze completely as he saw his son, his eyes flicking over him, reading every minute detail. John followed Sherlock's gaze as he entered, and the wet bag of shopping he'd been carrying dropped to the floor.

"Oh, God, Hamish," he breathed, walking to his son, his gaze taking in every battered and blooded part of him. John had Sherlock's ability at spotting things when it came to injuries, and Hamish was sure he'd be able to see every tiny thing that was wrong with him.

Shit.

"Sit down," John ordered, his face set. Hamish gazed at him, completely still. "Hamish, sit down," John repeated. His eyes were flashing in a way Hamish had never seen before, and most certainly didn't like. He obeyed, glancing between his papa and his dad, trying not to bite his still bleeding lip.

Rather to Hamish's surprise, John didn't demand to know who did this. Instead, he went to the medicine cabinet and found what he might need, then filled a bowl with warm water. John had been an army doctor, he was used to seeing serious injuries on people he cared about, and used to flicking to doctor mode. He got things done. Sherlock, however, remained standing, gazing determinedly at Hamish. Hamish remained perfectly still under his dad's gaze, all too used to it by now, and just let his papa work his medical skills on him.

"We should get you to the hospital to get that nose fixed," John announced after he'd cleaned up most of the blood on Hamish's face and arms. "And the rib," he added, scanning him again. "Ribs. Do you want to get a shower or a bath or anything before we go?"

The rain was relentless in its pouring, and Hamish wondered if he could just get that shower by standing outside. The sky was slate-grey, dreary and overbearing. People ran along the streets, ducking into shops just for a moment to dry off, some walking under the protection of umbrellas. Cars crawled along the roads. London was a torrent of moving water, the people like fish or whatever lived in the Themes, all swimming along to carry on with their lives because the water wouldn't stop moving. The world wouldn't stop turning. The idiots who'd pummelled him wouldn't really be dwelling on the fact they'd left him in a ditch to rot in the rain and his own blood. This wouldn't really truly affect them. It didn't matter.

And still Sherlock was staring at Hamish, working out exactly how every mark on his skin was made and by whom.

For fuck's sake.

"What do you think?" John asked, pouring away the muddy and bloody water.

"Umm… yeah, I'd like to have a bath first," Hamish replied, his eyes trailing to the floor.

"Right, okay," John nodded. "You can do that in a minute." He sat down next to Hamish, gazing at him with as much intent as Sherlock, but without the slightly dangerous gleam. Hamish kept his eyes on the floor. "Mish?" John began, sighing slightly. "What happened?"

"I got beaten up," Hamish mumbled, trying to shrug off the question.

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, his voice low and slightly dangerous. First time he'd spoken since they'd entered. "Trevor? Hopkin? Was it that idiot Moriarty-Moran boy?"

"No, dad," Hamish interrupted, finally turning his gaze up to Sherlock. "No, Alex had nothing to do with it. Darren Trevor and Reese Hopkin did though, yes. There were a couple more. Don't know who."

"And they just beat you up?" John asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Well, I did fight back a bit," Hamish replied, looking between his papa and his dad. "And when there were too many for me to get out of there, I got in some comments about what each of them was doing last night. They didn't like it, but you know – it was a way to do something to get back at them." Hamish couldn't miss the trace of a smirk that crossed his dad's face. Apparently, he'd done the same, when faced with a similar situation. "Learned from the best," Hamish added, offering his dad a painful smile.

"And the reason?" John persisted, ignoring the mentions of Sherlock's, rather painful, childhood. "I suppose you know why they did it?"

Hamish lowered his eyes to the ground, shuffling a little where he sat. He knew he couldn't make it less obvious that he knew, but there was something to be said in looking uncomfortable enough to not having any more questions asked. Right now, he just wanted a bath, then bed. Or rather, hospital, as John had decided. "Yeah," he mumbled, refusing to look at either of his parents.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Something bigger than the things he got beaten up at school for. Something Sherlock and John really wouldn't like. He moistened his lips, gazing intently at his son.

"And?" John continued, cocking his head to one side.

Hamish took a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and looking up to the ceiling. He moistened his swollen lips. "They, umm…" he began. He shrugged. Might as well say. There was nothing to be done. "They said it was because my parents are gay."

Silence. Hamish didn't dare look at either of his parents, dropping his head down again and fixing his gaze firmly on the floor. Let them do whatever the hell they liked. Let them yell at him, let his dad go and track down the homophobic shits who'd done this, let his papa nurse him like the four-year-old who'd been pushed over at school because only freaks have two daddies. Hamish couldn't really care what they did to anyone else or himself right now. Just so long as they didn't turn on each other. Life was hard enough as it was. They loved each other, but they'd been fighting more and more as Hamish's school life got worse and worse. The yelling had echoed in Hamish's ears he lay on the floor, receiving kick after kick. He didn't care what happened, just so long as it didn't hurt his parent's relationship. Then things would sort themselves out.

"There's hot water," John said quietly, his eyes fixed on his son. "Go and get your bath." Hamish dragged himself up, limped out of the room and up the stairs to his bathroom, feeling worse than he did when he was lying in the ditch. From the way John had been looking at Sherlock when he left, this wouldn't be something that would be forgotten about after tonight.

Sherlock's gaze was directed towards the chair where Hamish had been, but his incredible eyes were unfocused and moving slightly, as if pouring over all the information in his mind like it was right in front of him. John stared at him in silence, listening to the rain as it relentlessly slashed the window. After some time, the sound of Hamish running the bath joined that of the rain as it poured through their lives. The air was thick and tight, too many unspoken words crushed into the small kitchen. John swallowed thickly, breaking the all too close silence.

"What are we going to do?" he asked simply, his gaze still fixed on his husband.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, dropping his head and running his fingers through his dark curls. "We've seen cases like this, but… I don't know. This is... It's not like the others. This is… it's…"

"Personal," John finished.

"Yeah, personal." Sherlock sighed, turning his eyes to the wall in front of him and leaning his hands on the chair. "What do they want?"

"Who?" John asked quietly.

"The attackers, the attackers," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Why do that? What do they hope to gain?"

John shrugged slightly. "They want to cause pain," he offered.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "A punch in the face certainly causes pain," he commented.

"And I suppose," John continued, standing up and wandering to where Sherlock stood. "On some level or other, they want to break us apart."

Sherlock turned suddenly and stood up properly, staring down at John, his icy eyes melting. "They won't succeed, will they?" he asked, and John was sure he could see a tiny trace of fear in Sherlock's eyes.

"No," he promised, resting a hand against Sherlock's face.

"No?" Sherlock echoed, eyes glimmering with hope.

"No." John pulled Sherlock down a little and pressed his lips to his husband's softly. "No, they'll never succeed. I love you, Sherlock, I completely and utterly love you and those idiots can't change that."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's face, taking in every minute detail. "I love you, too," he said at length. "Forever."

"That's a long time," John commented.

"Not long enough for me to love you for."

John gazed into Sherlock's incredible eyes as silence surrounded them again, swallowing the promise just made.

"We said all that before," Sherlock noted quietly. "When we got married, we promised that. And it meant a lot, I know it meant a lot, but… why does it mean as much now?"

John considered for a moment. "When we got married, we made the vows and we kissed and it was all very happy and very meaningful," he began, feeling Sherlock's eyes searching his face to the smallest detail, letting him. "But it was planned. We knew what was going to happen when we said it. But life isn't like that. We don't know what's going to happen. Now we're promising this when times are hard and 'us' is under pressure. I'm afraid that we were close to breaking apart. We knew the promise would stand when we were happy and life was good, but now we've made the promise when things are bad and hard, we know that we'll stay together through anything. When bad times come again – and I'm afraid that's a 'when', not an 'if' – we have that guarantee that we'll love each other and stay together through all of it. Neither of us ever want to part, and knowing that's still the case when things like this happen is more reassuring. It means as much as when we said it standing at the alter because we have to mean it now. At the alter, we could have just wanted to."

"I meant it then," Sherlock said quietly.

"So did I," John nodded.

"But I understand. I loved you then, and I love you now. Forever."

"Forever," John agreed.

And John kissed him again, his eyes fluttering closed. Sherlock's arms slipped around John's waist, pulling him closer. The rain thrashed against the window as if attempting to reach the couple, as if to try to hurt them more, but they stood, wrapped in each other's arms and lips, and the blows fell harmless and ignored. Upstairs, Hamish washed the mood and blood off his aching skin, ready to patch himself up and face another day. This wouldn't hurt the little, rather extraordinary family. Not while the most ordinary force in the universe held them together.

Sherlock pulled his lips from John's and pressed his forehead against the doctor's. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the two small words echoing through John's ears, weighed down with their full meaning. I'm sorry for letting this happen. I'm sorry for seeming like I don't care. I'm sorry for all the times I've hurt you. I'm sorry for all the yelling. I'm sorry for everything I need to apologise for.

"I'm sorry, too," John breathed in reply. I'm sorry for overreacting. I'm sorry for misunderstanding. I'm sorry for being away so much. I'm sorry for ignoring what I know about you and focusing on what you say rather than what you mean. I'm sorry for letting our situation get this bad. I'm sorry for everything I need to apologise for.

Sherlock joined their lips again, kissing John softly. The rain fell. London moved. Life continued. Sherlock and John stood, perfectly content with their fresh promise.

"Things will get better," John mumbled against Sherlock's lips, slipping his arms around Sherlock's neck and leaning up on his toes.

"Yes, they will," Sherlock agreed, pulling John just a little closer. "I'm going to catch the idiots who did this," he added, his lips still against John's.

"I know, and I won't stop you," John sighed.

"And I'll kill them."

"I will stop you doing that.

"Shame."

"Let's go fix up our son."

"Alright."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."