Chapter Five: Nightmares

Just as Sherlock shut the door to his bedroom, he heard a quiet knock from downstairs. Hurrying down the stairs, the detective opened the door to find a very nicely dressed man holding a large envelope.

"Delivery for Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, quickly taking the envelope from the man's hands. Already opening the envelope, the detective shut the door and walked back up the stairs, pulling a stack of papers out of the large envelope. Papers in hand, he plopped down on the couch and began reading the file on Hamish.

Sherlock read and re-read the file on his son for several hours, becoming more and more angered every time.

Hamish was not even 16 months old yet as Sherlock had previously thought; the little boy was only 12 months old; a mere year. He was abandoned at the orphanage when we was just days old... Which meant Hamish had spent the entirety of his little, innocent life at that horrible orphanage.

There had been evidence of physical abuse, as well; Mycroft had found medical records. Hamish had been brought into surgery one time because he had gotten ill. While there, the doctor noticed bruises on the child's face. When the doctor inquired about what had happen, whoever was with him replied that Hamish had just fallen over and hit his head in doing so. But when the little boy was examined further, he was found to have bruises peppering his arms and legs, as well.

Sherlock was infuriated. Mycroft had managed to find out that the abusers were both the orphanage workers as well as children there. Lips pressing together to form a tight line, Sherlock felt an incredible amount of anger boiling in his blood for the supposed 'caretakers' at the orphanage, not only because they had hurt the beautiful little boy sleeping in the room across from him, but because they had also allowed others to hurt him, as well.

With a soft huff of anger, the detective threw the papers down, and tried to calm himself. It's okay now. He's here with John and me, and he'll be much better. We can show him that he's safe and always will be... It's all going to be okay, Sherlock kept telling himself. Anger still burning through his veins, the detective picked up the file, crumpled up the pages that spoke of Hamish's abuse, and threw them as far away as he could; the words were now permanently seared into his mind, and he didn't need to become more and more angered each time he read those pages, anyway.

With a deep breath, Sherlock pulled the rest of the papers out and decided to focus on the happier things in his son's tiny file.

Hamish was reported to have been very bright, and have an interest in drawing. Duly noted, Sherlock thought. He had yet to speak or form words, but his motor skills were very advanced.

He hadn't been adopted because every time a potential family would try to approach him, Hamish would react the same way he had when Sherlock tried to approach him earlier that day; he would scream and cry and in a desperate attempt to get away. All the families who thought about adopting him then decided against it because they didn't want to have to try to 'deal with a child like that.'

Although it made Sherlock terribly sad to think about such a thing happening to his son, he was also secretly relieved the little boy hadn't been adopted; it was strange, but now that he was here, the detective couldn't imagine his life without little Hamish in it. And, though he knew it was selfish, the detective was glad that he was the one who had gotten to take the little boy home to love and care for him.

Smiling at the thought, Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the arm of the couch, until he heard the little boy stir in his room. Opening his eyes, the detective remained still and quite for a moment, listening for more movement or sounds.

Upon hearing a soft shuffling followed by what sounded like a quiet groaning sound, Sherlock quickly slid off the couch and slowly and quietly moved towards his room.

"No, no!" Upon hearing his son's muffled cries, the detective quickly bolted for the door. "Da! No! Noo! Daaa!"

"Hamish?" Sherlock called frantically, throwing open the door to his room and rushing over to the bed. "Shh, Hamish. I'm right here, I'm right here," he whispered, quickly pulling away the pillows and wrapping his arms around the little boy's body.

"Daa!" the tiny boy sobbed, scrunching his eyes together as he failed his little arms about, desperately trying to reach out for Sherlock.

"Shh," the detective soothed, hurriedly scooping his son's shaking body into his arms, and clutching him to his chest as he wrapped his arms protectively around the little boy. "Hamish, shh. It's all right. It's all right. I'm here," he murmured quickly and in a hushed tone. "What, Hamish? What's wrong?" he asked frantically, fingertips quickly running over Hamish's back.

"Nooo," the little boy sobbed, pointing a finger in the direction of the wall as he pushed his head against Sherlock's chest, almost as if he was trying to get away from someone. "Ouch, Daa," he cried, body shaking as he turned, clutching his father's shirt between his chubby fists. "Daa!"

Sherlock was about to try to soothe the boy again, still unsure of what was making him so upset, when - just like that - he understood. Hamish was having a night mare about someone trying to hurt him, like at the orphanage.

"Hamish? Hamish, please wake up," he whispered frantically, jostling the little boy ever so slightly in an attempt to get him to open his eyes and see that he was safe.

"No, no, Daa," the little boy protested, pressing his tiny form even closer to Sherlock's chest.

"Hamish you're safe, I promise. Just... Please open your eyes," Sherlock begged, pressing a gentle hand to the back of the little boy's head.

Suddenly, with tears still streaming down his face, Hamish jolted awake with a small shudder, chubby fists clenching around Sherlocks' shirt. With a tiny moan, the little boy suddenly turned in his father's arms, staring with terrified eyes in the direction he had pointed earlier, clearly fearful that whoever he had seen in his dream was going to be chasing him in real life.

"Shh, Hamish, I'm here," the detective murmured, placing a tender hand to the back of Hamish's hand, urging the little boy to look at him. "Hamish, look at me."

Tiny chest heaving with terrified breaths, Hamish turned in his father's arms, instantly relaxing as he saw he was safe in the detective's comforting embrace. "Daa," he sighed sadly, voice raw with sleep and tears as he leaned forward, head bouncing off Sherlock's collarbone as he snuggled against his father's neck, sniffling as a few stray tears slipped down his cheeks.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock murmured sadly as he rubbed soothing circles on Hamish's back, rocking back and forth. The little boy pulled his head away from his father's chest and looked up at Sherlock with watery eyes. He took one of his little hands and reached up towards Sherlock, touching his jaw.

"Da," the little boy said contently as he tried to reach Sherlock's cheek, but still only being able to touch his jaw.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his large hand over his son's small one on his jaw.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm here. It's all okay now." Sherlock heard Hamish's breaths slowing down, and could feel his little chest begin to breath more normally against him.

Sherlock stood and held Hamish close to him, their hands still together on Sherlock's jaw when Hamish let out a large yawn, his face scrunching up.

"Oh, yes, you're probably still tired, aren't you?" Sherlock whispered quietly.

"Mmm," replied Hamish tiredly, now worn out from all of his crying.

"Okay, then," Sherlock murmured, moving Hamish back towards the bed. Hamish still kept his hand on Sherlock's jaw, and when Sherlock tried to pull the little boy's hand from his face, Hamish replied with a tiny, "No, Da."

"Do you want me to stay in here with you, Hamish?"

"Mmm," the little boy replied sleepily.

Sherlock crawled into the bed, still cuddling Hamish close to him, and moved the pillows to the other side to form a wall.

Hamish looked up at Sherlock sleepily. "Daaaa," he sighed, his voice high and airy.

Sherlock smiled and used his free hand to brush some unruly curls from Hamish's face. The little boy smiled slightly and reached up trying to do the same. Seeing how Hamish couldn't quite reach him, Sherlock rolled onto his back, and pulled the little boy onto his chest, scooting his tiny body close to his face.

Smiling sleepily, Hamish crawled up to his father's face, and tried to push away the dark curls. Sherlock chuckled lightly as he felt Hamish's hand fall away from his hair and onto his cheek.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed, as he fell asleep on Sherlock's chest, one hand clutching a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, the other now on Sherlock's cheek.

Though he never imagined himself ever being in a situation even remotely similar to the one he found himself in now, Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of having his son breathing steadily on his chest. He loved how his little, chubby hand still rested on his face.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock moved his hand onto Hamish's back, and, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hamish's small chest, drifted off to sleep…