Hey readers! All right, so this chapter... I do have to give a warning on this one for some pretty heavy stuff; there's violence in this one relating to Hamish. None of it is real; it all happens in the form of a dream Sherlock has, but it's still pretty angsty (and none of the violence is explicitly depicted, it's just implied, but is still pretty heavy). I felt this chapter was necessary, though, given the previous one. Know that it all ends in fluff, though! But just please be aware as you read this. Soooo... Thanks so much guys! Have a great weekend! (Sorry for talking so much!)

Chapter Eleven: Panic

Sherlock had informed Lestrade of his findings; obviously the kidnapper was an attorney (clear from his outfit and car) named Alex Bateman (Sherlock had looked up any attorneys who worked in the local area, contacted their bosses, and narrowed it down to anyone who had a wife suffering from cancer). At that point, he was directed to a Mr. Alex Bateman, whose wife of seven years was suffering from terminal cancer.

Sherlock had also determined that his wife, Dawn Bateman, had persuaded Alex to kidnap the children for her. And the reasoning behind all of this was so that she could 'raise' a child and experience being a mother before she died, hence the similarity between the children's appearance, as well as the gradual increase in age; the children, portrayed a single child—her child— were supposed to be aging, so that Dawn could fantasize that she had at least been able to experience motherhood before she died. So, granting his dying wife's last wish, Alex had found children who looked very similar in appearance, kidnapped them from orphanages where he knew they wouldn't be missed, and brought them home so his wife could 'raise a child.'

Lestrade thanked Sherlock over and over for his findings, and quickly made the proper arrests.

For the first time, Sherlock was glad to be rid of this case; he was still upset about the resemblance between the children and Hamish, and the thought of What if… kept popping into his head. He tried to carry on as usual, though, and was careful not to let his anxiety show through to John; he didn't want to have to share his fears with anyone.

Several days later, Sherlock finally thought he'd gotten over the fright of the case. He calmed down considerably, and spent most of the day playing with Hamish, helping him to draw an uncountable number of pictures, but praising the little boy on each, nevertheless.

However, it was that night that the detective had his first nightmare…

Sherlock was lying on the floor of his bedroom. His head hurt. He reached up, and felt that his hair was sticky with blood. He tried to think straight, sitting up slowly. His breathing stopped as he suddenly remembered: he'd been putting Hamish in his cot when he'd been hit in the head with a blunt object.

Already sensing that Hamish had been taken, Sherlock stood up, and fled down the stairs and out the front door, all the while shouting frantically, "Hamish? Hamish?!"

He ran out onto the street and saw a man, carrying Hamish over his shoulder, getting into a cab. Hamish was screaming with all of his might, calling out for his father. Upon seeing Sherlock run out, an infinitesimal amount of hope could be seen shining in the little boy's dark green eyes.

"Daaa!" he screamed, desperately trying to kick and fight and squirm his way out of his captor's arms. "Da! Daa!" He stretched his arms toward Sherlock, frantically trying to reach his father.

"Hamish! Hamish I'm coming! I'm coming!" Sherlock yelled. He ran as quickly as he could towards Hamish, but just as he reached his hands towards the little boy, his fingertips almost brushing against Hamish's, the man stepped into the cab and it zoomed away, pulling the little boy away with it.

"NO! No! HAMISH! Hamish, please! Please, no!" Sherlock fell to his knees as he felt an unbearable weight crush down on his chest. He couldn't breath. He couldn't' see. The weight changed to pain, and, gasping for breath, and groaning from the unimaginable amount of pain coursing through his veins, Sherlock stood up, and tried to run after the cab, which by now was now long gone.

"No… No… Nooo…" he kept breathing as he ran. Eventually the pain and weight became too much to bear, and Sherlock fell to the ground, crashing to the pavement.

"Daaa!" Hamish's screams echoed in Sherlock's head. He let out a sob at the sound of his son crying out...

Suddenly, Hamish's cries still ringing in his ears, everything began to spin, and then Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. The Inspector was talking to him, someone, probably John, was rubbing his back, but none of that was registering in Sherlock's mind. All he heard was Hamish's cries repeating over and over, and all he saw was the utterly broken look on Hamish's face just as he was pulled into the cab… Pulled away from his father. Sherlock could see all of the emotions that had flashed through his son's eyes in that moment: fear, sadness, terror, and brokenness… Pure and utter brokenness…

Somewhere a phone was ringing, the noise loud and obnoxious. It made Sherlock's head pound. He barely noticed as Lestrade hurried over to it and picked it up. Sherlock saw the Inspector's face drop, his eyes filling with regret.

No… No… Please, please... He can't, can't be... No...

"No," Sherlock whispered. He stood up and stumbled over Lestrade, fear gripping his whole body. He grasped onto Lestrade's jacket with both hands and began to beg, "Please… Please, no. Please!"

In response to Sherlock's begging, Lestrade pulled the detective into a tight hug, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. You did all you could."

"No," he gasped. A pain rippled through him. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his chest. Sobs were ripping though his body, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't breath, he couldn't think. Couldn't feel anything but a completely unbearable amount of sadness and pain.

"Hamish," he choked. "I'm so-sorry… I'm so sorry!"

Everything began to spin around him again, and then he was no longer in Lestrade's office, but lying on cold concrete. His eyes fell upon a small mound a few feet away, covered with a sheet.

"Oh no… NO!" Sherlock moaned, another sob ripping through him. His heart seemed to constrict. Cries shaking his body, Sherlock crawled towards the little mound. With shaking fingers, he pulled away the sheet.

"No," he whimpered as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his son—his Hamish.

A sadness and pain that no words can describe filled his entire being, and he yelled out, sobs shaking his body as he stared at the little boy.

Tenderly, as if he was afraid he would hurt him, Sherlock scooped up Hamish, cradling him in his arms. Impossibly, the little boy's already-tiny form seemed even smaller in Sherlock's arms. His eyes had shut, almost giving him the appearance that he was sleeping peacefully.

Sherlock ducked closer to Hamish, and began whispering into the little boy's silky hair, "It's okay. It's okay, Hamish. Daddy's here now… I'm here. You're safe, you're safe. It's okay. It's okay," he whispered, placing tender kisses to Hamish's hair and forehead.

"Daddy's here, daddy's here. It's all okay." He began gently rocked back and forth on the hard floor, as if to console both the little boy in his arms and himself. Knowing, though, that his efforts and his words were fruitless, Sherlock's features contorted as he dared to look at Hamish's face. He fell onto the ground, and clutched Hamish to his chest, weeping into the little boy's hair. His cries echoed in the room as he sobbed over and over again, "I'm so sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry..."

And then, just like that, Hamish disappeared from his grasp, leaving Sherlock all by himself on the concrete floor. He heard one last "Daa!" before…

"NOO!" Sherlock was jolted awake by his own scream. Instantly, he threw himself to the other side of the bed, and frantically looked into the cot.

Upon seeing Hamish sleeping soundly, Sherlock quickly slid out of bed, and pressed both of his hands over his eyes, as he sobbed out a quiet, "Thank God." He began to cry, relief rushing through him. He sat back down on the bed, hands still covering his eyes as he sobbed silently. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Eventually, his breathing began to return to normal, and his heart rate slowed.

Wiping his eyes with both hands, Sherlock turned and reached into the cot. Gingerly, he pulled a still-sleeping Hamish out of the cot, and hugged him to his chest. He placed one hand on the back of Hamish's head, and began to gently play with the auburn curls.

Sensing his father's embrace, Hamish leaned into the detective, resting his tiny cheek against Sherlock's chest. Glad to be safely tucked in his father's arms, Hamish took a deep breath and let out a small sigh as he exhaled.

As he felt Hamish breathe in arms, Sherlock began to weep again, a new wave of relief flooding over him. He pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple, flattening some his son's unruly curls as he did so.

Hamish stirred slightly at the kiss, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Da?" he asked tiredly, talking into his father's shirt.

Upon hearing Hamish's tiny voice, Sherlock scooted the little boy up so his head was resting against his neck. He turned, and pressed another delicate kiss to Hamish's cheek.

"Daddy's here…" he whispered into Hamish's hair. "I'm here. Everything's all right now," Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to Hamish. He let out an unsteady breath, which resulted in his own body shaking slightly. He sniffled, and gently turned his head so he was talking into Hamish's cheek. He whispered to the little boy, who had closed his eyes in an effort to fall asleep again, "I'm sorry I woke you, Hamish."

Upon hearing his father's voice again, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. The moonlight streaming in from the window danced off of the little boy's eyes, making them glow slightly as he opened them. Sherlock gasped, momentarily frozen by the beauty of his son.

As he looked into Hamish's dark green irises, the adrenaline began to leave his body, as he was now fully reassured that Hamish was safe and sound.

"Mmm... 'Kay, Da..." Hamish replied tiredly, closing his eyes once again as he leaned into Sherlock.

Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock leaned in, and placed a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose; letting his lips linger against the soft, cool skin. His wet, tear-stained cheek brushed against Hamish's, leaving a small wet mark against the little boy's cheek.

Gasping slightly at the sensation, Hamish opened his eyes quickly and looked up at his father. For the first time the little boy noticed Sherlock's very wet face.

"No!" he gasped. Frantically, Hamish leaned forward, his little face scrunched up in a combination of worry, sadness and fright.

"Hamish, it's all right, I'm okay," Sherlock whispered, trying to reassure the little boy when he saw the worried look on his face. The detective stopped speaking, though, as he felt Hamish's tiny hands press against his lips.

"No, Da," the little boy said, silencing Sherlock as he tapped his fingers lightly against his father's lips. He then pointed to himself to with one hand, as if to say it was his turn to do something.

"Okay, Hamish. Go ahead," Sherlock murmured quietly against the little boy's fingers. Hamish turned his attention to his father's cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't help put frown slightly as he saw the sad look that filled his son's eyes upon seeing the tears on his face.

Slowly, Hamish moved one hand until it was resting against Sherlock's collarbone so he could balance as he moved his other hand to his father's face. Tenderly, he brushed his chubby fingers over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, wiping some tears away as he did so. He then repeated the action for the other cheek, brushing away his father's tears. He continued to wipe away the proof of Sherlock's sadness as he tenderly brushed each tear from the detective's face.

Sherlock smiled at the sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers against his cheeks, brushing away his tears and sadness. He closed his eyes; his son's tiny, cool fingers felt soothing and reassuring against his hot skin. Not even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock leaned into Hamish's gentle touch. He took a deep breath, and exhaled, another wave of relief washing over him as Hamish's hand wiped away another tear.

Sherlock continued to sit on the bed, keeping his eyes closed as Hamish wiped away each and every tear, until there was just one left resting on his father's cheek. With a determined, yet sad look in his eyes, Hamish took one tiny finger and very gently rubbed away Sherlock's last tear. He let his hand rest against the detective's cheekbone as he turned to look into his father's eyes.

"Oh, Daa," he sighed sadly, brushing his hand against Sherlock's cheek again, as if to wipe away another invisible tear.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked sadly into Hamish's intense green irises. Not satisfied yet, the little boy leaned forward, stretching his body as he did so, and planted two light kisses against Sherlock's eyelids, as if to permanently signify the end of his sadness.

When he finished, Hamish relaxed his body and rested his cheek against Sherlock's. The little boy closed his eyes as he tenderly whispered again, "Oh, Daa…"

Smiling sadly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's dark curls.

"Thank you, Hamish. Thank you so very, very much," he whispered.

"Mmm," Hamish murmured against Sherlock's cheek.

The detective placed his hand against the back of Hamish's head, and gently kissed the little boy's cheek.

"Mmm..."

After several moments, after he'd thought Hamish had already drifted off into sleep again, Sherlock heard the little boy speak, his voice just a whisper.

"Da?" he asked quietly, talking against Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, Hamish?" he answered, his voice just a murmur.

He felt Hamish's little hands pressing against his chest. He removed his hand from the little boy's head, and moved it so it was resting lightly against his back. He was careful to support Hamish as he leaned back in his arms.

The little boy's face scrunched together for a moment, deep in thought, and then relaxed again as he remembered his question. He pointed at Sherlock's face, and tapped the detective's jaw with one tiny finger.

"What, Da?" he asked curiously, a hint of worry in his eyes and voice.

Knowing what Hamish was asking, Sherlock let out a sad sigh. He stood up, getting off the bed, and moved Hamish so that he was resting just above his waist. Waiting for his response, Hamish held onto the back of Sherlock's arm with one hand, and grabbed a fistful of his father's shirt in the other. Tiredly, he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and peered up at the detective's face with expectant eyes.

When Sherlock didn't speak, but rather just began swaying back and forth, Hamish repeated his question again. "What, Da?"

Sherlock began to slowly pace around the room, thinking about how he should begin. Eventually, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to Hamish, who was peering up at him from where he was resting, his eyes wide and curious.

"I had a nightmare, Hamish," he began slowly. "Do you know what that is?"

The little boy thought for a moment, pulling his eyebrows together. But, not remembering his own nightmares, Hamish shook his head no.

"All right, then," Sherlock continued. "Well, a nightmare is a really bad dream, Hamish. It's a dream where you experience something scary, or sad, and it makes you scared or sad. Nightmares can be about anything, really, but usually they end in feelings of helplessness, anxiety, or sorrow. Do you understand so far?"

Hamish nodded slightly, rubbing his cheek against Sherlock's sleeve. The detective continued speaking.

"Now sometimes dreams, good or bad, can make you think that something's happening in real life. And if you ever think a nightmare is actually happening, it can be very scary and upsetting. That's what happened to me. I was dreaming that something very bad happened to someone I love, and it scared me, because, for a moment, I thought that it had actually happened in real life. That's why I was crying. Understand?"

Slowly, Hamish nodded, but it was clear that his mind was somewhere else; the little boy was thinking deeply.

Patiently, Sherlock waited for Hamish to continue with his thoughts. He paced slowly around the room, and absentmindedly began to rub the little boy's back.

Eventually, Hamish pointed to himself, and looked up at Sherlock asking, "Da?"

The detective sighed. He had been hoping Hamish wouldn't inquire about the details of the dream, much less deduce that it had been about him; he didn't want the little boy to become upset.

Hesitantly, he answered, "Yes, Hamish. My bad dream was about you. But it's all okay now," he added hurriedly, hoping Hamish wouldn't ask anymore questions. "You're here and safe and nothing happened." He placed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Smiling at the kiss, Hamish grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt once again, as he nodded slowly. "What?" he asked finally.

Sherlock sighed quietly. "Nothing, Hamish," he said quickly. He could already feel his heartbeat quicken at the memory of the horrible dream.

"No, Da," Hamish said firmly. "What?" He gazed up at Sherlock with his large eyes. Sherlock stared back, the corner of his eyes pulled down slightly at the thought of the nightmare.

"Okay," he whispered quietly, brushing away Hamish's hair from his forehead. "I had a nightmare that someone had broken into the flat, and taken you away from me. And I was so scared that I was never going to see you again." Sherlock felt his breath quicken as he looked into Hamish's eyes, which were now wide with fear. "I chased after the bad person, and almost had you, but then, just like that, you slipped out of my reach, and I thought I'd lost you forever." Sherlock suddenly realized that Hamish's eyes were filling with tears, and that the little boy's grip on his arm and chest had gotten much tighter. Hurriedly, he finished summarizing his dream, changing the ending so as to calm Hamish. "But then I found you, took you back home, and everything was all right again. So it ended up happy. There's nothing to cry about, Hamish. It's okay." He quickly brushed his thumb over the top of Hamish's cheek. He felt the little boy relax once again, the grip on his shirt and sleeve loosening.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed in relief, leaning his head back against his father's shoulder, all fear now washed away by Sherlock's calming words.

"'Kay, Da?" he asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock.

The detective chuckled lightly under his breath at his son's question.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm okay now, thank you." His lips turned up at the corners as he felt Hamish smile against his shoulder.

Tenderly, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss to Hamish's smooth cheek, and then, feeling the little boy giggle slightly in his arms, he pressed another kiss into Hamish's ear, smiling as he did so. His son's light, airy laugh filled the room.

Grinning, Sherlock placed Hamish on his back, lying him down on the bed and began pressing quick, little kisses all over his face as he did so, throwing the little boy into a fit of sweet giggles.

"Da!" he squealed happily, as he pressed his hands against Sherlock's neck, trying to stop the stream of ticklish kisses that were covering his face.

Sherlock laughed out loud as he began to tickle Hamish's belly. He reached down and curled his hands around the little boy's tiny feet. He began to kiss Hamish's toes, sending him into a new fit of giggles. Still laughing, he blew a quiet raspberry against the bottom of Hamish's soft feet.

"Daa!" the little boy gasped, still laughing. "No! No, Daa!" he squealed happily. Sherlock continued to laugh, but stopped tickling the little boy upon hearing his protests. He kept his fingers wrapped around Hamish's tiny feet, and leaned forward so he was above Hamish. He ducked down and his raven curls brushed against his son's cheeks as he planted a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose.

"Shhh," he chuckled lightly, "We might wake up John, hmm?" He scooped Hamish up into a hug, and leaned back on the bed, letting his back rest agains the headboard.

"Mmm," Hamish replied, still giggling. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Hmmm. Da 'etter," he declared joyfully as he leaned back in his father's arms. Sherlock smiled fondly in response as Hamish reached up and tried to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Ohhh," the detective sighed deeply, changing positions so he was laying on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, Hamish resting on his chest, his chubby arms still resting on his neck.

"Let's both go back to sleep, hmm?" he murmured quietly.

Carefully, he crawled back under the covers, and made to place Hamish back in his cot, but he was answered by a very persistent, "No, Da. No," as Hamish gripped onto his fingers.

Trying to hide his smile, Sherlock pulled Hamish under the covers with him, secretly happy to have the comfort of Hamish's small form nuzzling against him.

Carefully, trying not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock moved the pillows to form a wall on the other side of the bed. Getting situated, he found a comfortable position on his side, and settled into the bed, pulling Hamish close to him.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed as he snuggled in closer to Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes.

As he felt Hamish's tiny form lean into him, Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping that he would be able to get some sleep, void of nightmares. He listened to the sound of Hamish's breathing, steady and even...

"Da?" came a quiet whisper.

"Yes, Hamish?" In response, Hamish moved Sherlock's hand, which had been resting on his back, and pulled it up to his face. He pressed a tender kiss to his father's fingertips. "Nigh', Da," he whispered into Sherlock's hand. His tiny fingers began to absentmindedly trace the lines on the palm of his father's hand.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured quietly into the little boy's hair. "I love you...", he added with a kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Hamish continued to trace his palm, and Sherlock found his son's tiny touch soothing. He felt his eyelids become heavy, and then, almost unwillingly, they slid shut.

"Mmm," he hummed, his deep baritone voice filling the room. Subconsciously, he wrapped his hand around Hamish's, and, his son snuggling against him, silently fell asleep...

That night, sleeping soundly against his father, it was Hamish's comfort that chased away Sherlock's nightmares.