Chapter Eight: A Little Conversation
At some point while Hamish and Sherlock were watching cartoons on the television, the little boy pointed at his stomach, a slight frown on his face, prompting Sherlock to quickly make a bottle.
Sherlock carried Hamish back in from the kitchen, bottle in hand, and plopped down on his chair. He placed Hamish on his lap, and then scooted the small form back, so that he was once again leaning against Sherlock's stomach. Situated, Sherlock then wrapped one hand around the little boy's belly, and used the other to bring the bottle to Hamish's mouth.
Hamish sucked happily at the formula, relaxing into Sherlock as the two continued to watch the cartoons, Sherlock occasionally rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the shows, but always smiling again at the look of wonder in Hamish's eyes.
As Hamish drank the last of the milk in the bottle, he sighed contently, letting his head fall back and gently rest on Sherlock's chest.
The detective barely noticed as he began to play with Hamish's toes; subconsciously counting them and moving them back and forth as he watched the cartoons. It wasn't until he felt Hamish giggle against his stomach that he even noticed he had been playing with his tiny toes.
"Daaa," the little boy giggled happily, his toes curling slightly as Sherlock began to playfully tickle the bottom of his foot. He stood up on Sherlock's lap, and turned around, trying to crawl up Sherlock's abdomen to escape the tickling.
Sherlock laughed heartily at Hamish's efforts. He scooped up the boy, lifting him into the air, and ran over to the couch where he laid the squealing Hamish down and began blow raspberries on his stomach, not caring how foolish, or how out of character it was for him.
Hamish giggled and squealed happily as Sherlock tickled the little boy's bare stomach and his toes and behind his ears and under his arms until both were gasping for breath.
Sherlock fell onto the couch, pulling a still-laughing Hamish onto his chest. The little boy bounced lightly on Sherlock's chest as he laughed.
Eventually the two calmed down, catching their breath. In the background, the cartoon could be lightly heard.
Tired from all the laughing, Hamish collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, one tiny fist clutching the collar of Sherlock's white button-up. Gently, the other hand began to play with one of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his tiny, curled finger delicately tracing it and spinning around it. Sherlock grinned tenderly as Hamish continued to play with the same button, his attention now turned back to the television, his fist still clutching his father's collar. Moving his hand to rest on Hamish's smooth back, Sherlock stared at his son, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
When John returned home from work, and got no response after calling out, "I got takeaway! Hope Chinese is okay!" he began to panic again and scurried up the stairs.
"Hello, John!" Sherlock called from his spot on the couch as he heard John hurrying up the stairs. "And yes, Chinese sounds lovely, thank you. Come on, Hamish," he grunted, sitting up, and receiving a small, unhappy grunt from Hamish and a disapproving look, having been moved from his comfortable position.
"Good," John smiled, placing the food on the already too-full table.
"John, could you please make Hamish a bottle while I check his nappy, quickly?"
"Sure," John replied, trying to clear off the table.
The three ate dinner slowly, John sharing anything interesting that had happened at surgery that day, then Sherlock briefly summing up his day with Hamish.
"Well, sound like you two had a busy day," John cooed towards Hamish, who looked at him warily from behind the bottle, still unsure if he could trust the doctor. John chuckled lightly, reaching for a second helping of Chinese.
Sherlock hadn't even started his meal yet, the plate of food sitting untouched in front of him.
Hamish downed the rest of the formula, and then, once the bottle was removed from his mouth, he reached two chubby arms up to Sherlock, who picked Hamish up and tried to lay him over his shoulder, but he was met with a very determined, "No, Da'."
Confused, Sherlock moved Hamish back down so he was in a standing position on his lap. Hamish, with one hand firmly against Sherlock's chest turned around slightly, and made to reach for Sherlock's plate of food.
Sherlock tried to move the plate away quickly, but Hamish had already picked up a noodle and now held it precariously in his chubby fingers.
"No, Hamish. I'm sorry but you can't have that. It's Daddy's food," Sherlock said, reaching to take the noodle away.
"No, Da'." Hamish said again, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. Sherlock was just about to continue his argument further when Hamish moved his little hand forward to Sherlock's now-closed mouth. Gently, he tapped the noodle between his chubby fingers against Sherlock's lips, a persistent look on his face. When Sherlock didn't open his mouth, still slightly confused as to what Hamish was trying to do, Hamish sighed, exasperated. Trying desperately not to drop the noodle, he haphazardly moved his other hand up to Sherlock's face, and tried to pry his father's lips open. His small fingernails brushed against the skin of Sherlock's lips.
When Sherlock helped, opening his lips slightly, Hamish tried to place the noddle inside his father's mouth.
"Da!" he said triumphantly.
"Ohhh," Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. Thank you very much, Hamish." The little boy smiled, and seemed to become happier at the small thank you from his father.
"Da' 'etter?" he asked, concerned, the small smile, still on his face, though.
"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock smiled. "I'm much better now, thank you."
Hamish reached back to the plate again, and carefully picked up another noodle. John sat, smiling, as Hamish, bottom lip protruding slightly, watched his hand intently as he moved it back to his father's mouth. Now understanding what Hamish was doing, Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed the little boy to gently place the noodle in, a triumphant smile replacing his concentrated features.
That's how dinner went for the rest of the night; Sherlock would eat a few forkfuls of Chinese by himself, and then when Hamish decided that Sherlock needed to eat more, he would pick up one noodle at a time, and very gently pry his father's lips open to delicately place the noodle in his mouth. The smile barely left the detectives lips that night as John watched on happily as the little boy fed his father, one noodle at a time.
Dinner went by very, very slowly, as Hamish insisted on feeding Sherlock each noodle, one by one. And Sherlock let him; smiling more each time Hamish delicately placed the food in his mouth.
John watched the whole endeavor, smiling fondly at the concentrated look on the little boy's face.
As Hamish turned back to grab one of the last noodles, Sherlock glanced at the clock. 8:54. Hamish should be getting tired soon, he thought to himself. Right on cue, Hamish let out a small yawn, his face scrunching slightly. The little sigh that escaped his lips after, made both Sherlock and John smile fondly at the little boy who had just turned back around to place another noodle in his father's mouth, determined to finish what he'd started.
When Hamish wasn't looking, Sherlock quickly scooped the rest of the noodles onto his fork, and ate them hurriedly, trying to speed up the process of getting the little boy to bed. Hamish turned around, reaching for another noodle, but when his little fingers felt none, he quickly spun around, his head moving from side to side as he searched the table looking for the last few noodles, his curls bobbing slightly.
Sherlock chuckled as he lifted Hamish up by his armpits, situating him on his lean chest. "It's okay, Hamish, I ate the last ones myself, seeing as it's time for you to go to bed. "
Hamish opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped as another yawn, much bigger this time, impaired him from doing so. His eyelids fell slightly as the yawn ended. Tiredness sweeping over him, the little boy leaned into Sherlock, his head resting just below Sherlock's shoulder. He reached up and clutched a little fistful of his father's shirt.
"Come on, Hamish. Time for bed." Sherlock began walking towards his door when he remembered that he'd put together the cot. "John?" he turned back to his flat mate who was cleaning up the kitchen. "Could you please carry Hamish's cot into my room?"
John looked past Sherlock and saw the finished cot for the first time.
"Wow," he said sarcastically, walking over to the cot, "you actually did something on your own without being forced to first? I'm very impressed." John bustled past the two, cot in hand, and a smirk on his face. He placed the cot to the left of Sherlock's bed. When he came back out, Sherlock had just finished up putting a clean nappy on Hamish. The detective stood up.
"Thank you," Sherlock sighed. He turned back to John. "I'll probably stay in here with Hamish for a little while, so good night, John."
"All right. 'Night, Sherlock. And goodnight, Hame." He waved at the little boy who tiredly moved his arm to wave back. John chuckled slightly at the little boy's efforts and at the eye rolling Sherlock gave him at Hamish's new nickname.
Shutting the door behind him, Sherlock moved around the bed and gently placed Hamish in the cot. The little boy looked up at his father with tired eyes.
"Good night, Hamish," Sherlock murmured.
"Nuuu... nii… Nigh', Da'," Hamish sighed quietly. Sherlock smiled gently. He reached into the cot, and gently stroked his thumb down Hamish's incredibly smooth cheek. The little boy leaned into Sherlock's hand, closing his eyes briefly.
"Mmm," he hummed. Sherlock crawled into bed and scooted all the way to the left so that he could keep his hand in the cot.
Sherlock sat like that, laying his hand lightly on Hamish's back, waiting for him to fall asleep. But much later, when both father and son were still wide-awake, Sherlock sat up, leaning over to look at Hamish, who stared back with large, green eyes, an expectant - yet tired - look on his face.
"Well, what seems to be the problem, Hamish?" Sherlock asked lightly. He got off the bed, lifted Hamish out of the cot, and pulled him close to his chest. "Can't sleep, hmm? Well... how about a little conversation? That's the best thing for sleepless nights," he murmured quietly. Sherlock began to gently rub circles on Hamish's back as he continued talking. "Well I suppose I should start out by apologizing for the craziness you've been brought in to. I know you don't know it yet, but my life - well, our life, now - can get kind of chaotic sometimes... You'll have to excuse, that I'm afraid. But other than that, it's pretty nice." Sherlock's deep, baritone voice filled the otherwise-silent room. He began walking around the small space, silently pacing back and forth.
Hamish watched his father as he spoke, soothed by his voice and the gentle pacing. He blinked slowly, and leaned in closer, raising his little arms up as he did so. Sherlock scooted Hamish upwards slightly. Tiredly, the little boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck, pressing his tiny head just above the detective's collarbone. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned into Sherlock, resting his head heavily against the base of his father's neck, another wave of tiredness sweeping over him. Tenderly, he grabbed onto the back of Sherlock's collar with one hand, as the other curled into a tiny fist, resting against the skin on the back of his father's neck.
Sherlock continued talking, noticing how Hamish's eyelids started to flutter lightly. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I suppose you'll be meeting other people soon enough. People like Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and my brother, unfortunately..."
Sherlock turned his gaze to Hamish.
Upon hearing his father stop, Hamish tiredly peered up at Sherlock's face. His eyebrows pulled together ever so slightly, and, using his last bit of strength, he reached up with the hand that was not currently wrapped around Sherlock's collar. Very gently, little Hamish touched his father's lips, tapping lightly with one finger, silently asking his father to continue.
As Hamish's little finger continued to tap lightly on his lips, Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest. He stopped pacing, and began gently swaying back and forth. Granting Hamish's request, Sherlock began to speak again, whispering so quietly that only Hamish could hear.
"I'm going to be here for you, Hamish. Always... Always. I know what it's like to be alone... To feel like you're alone... Unloved... And no one, no one, should ever feel like that. No one should ever be alone. I'll be here for you, Hamish. Always. I promise... I promise."
At his father's promise, Hamish silently fell asleep. The little boy's hand gently fell from Sherlock's lips, brushing over them lightly, until it came to rest just below the hollow on the detective's cheek.
"Always..." A hot tear slid down Sherlock's cheek, and landed on the sleeping boy's hand. "Always..."
Gently, Sherlock turned his head, trying not to move Hamish's hand, and pressed a tender kiss to the little boy's forehead. He felt another tear slip from his eyes... With incredible tenderness, Sherlock lifted Hamish's hand from his face, and planted a gentle kiss to the incredibly tiny fingers. In his sleep, Hamish silently wrapped his tiny hand around his father's thumb, and let out a gentle sigh, his finger's tightening ever so slightly.
Sherlock stayed that way the whole night, gently swaying, tenderly holding the little boy close to him as he slept soundly in the detective's embrace. Sherlock never let go of his son's tiny hand, keeping it safely wrapped in his own...
Hamish slept peacefully that night, resting gently against Sherlock, his father's comfort chasing away all the nightmares...