Hey guys! So I finally proofread this thing. So sorry for all the mistakes! Hope it's better now! =) Also, I was kind of unsure about the beginning with the reading and everything, so some feedback about that would be awesome. ;) Thanks, guys! Have a great rest of your week! =)

Chapter Eighteen: Scars

" 'Will you help me make the flour?' asked Little Red Hen."

"No," whispered Hamish, shaking his head solemnly as Sherlock turned the page of the book.

" 'Mmm... No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog... 'Then I will make it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen."

"An' she did," Hamish murmured.

"And she did," Sherlock repeated slowly, gazing down at the little boy.

Hamish, who was tightly snuggled in between Sherlock's arm, his head resting on the detective's chest, turned around when his father stopped reading.

"Daddy," he giggled, tugging on the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.

"What? Oh no. I was doing it again, wasn't I?" the detective said, smiling down at his son.

Hamish giggled. "'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock chuckled. "Sorry, love. Here. How about we take a quick bath, and then finish the book before going to sleep, hmm?"

"Yay, Daddy! Bath!"

Hamish was practically vibrating with excitement. Bathtime was definitely his favorite nighttime activity. He crawled onto Sherlock's stomach, trying to get his father to move more quickly.

"Come, Daddy!"

"All right, all right," Sherlock chuckled, placing Hamish on the ground. He smiled as the little boy toddled over to the bathroom door, bouncing up and down on his chubby legs as he waited for Sherlock to come and open the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, don't worry," the detective chuckled, reaching over and opening the door.

"Ta, Daddy!" Hamish called cheerfully, running into the bathroom. As Sherlock got up off the bed, the little boy opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out his favorite bath toy, a large plastic toy boat. Toy in hand, he hurried over to the bathtub, moving his arms up and down as Sherlock started the water running.

"In 'ease, Daddy?"

"I'm getting there," Sherlock chuckled, bending down to pull off the little boy's shirt. Trying to maneuver around Hamish's excited bouncing, he managed to remove Hamish's trousers and nappy.

"There you go," he sighed dramatically, placing the little boy in the tub.

Hamish squealed happily as the tub continued to fill up, kicking his feet up and down, and splashing water out of the tub.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried, quickly stepping out of the way of the water, which only caused the little boy to laugh more.

Seeing that there would probably be a lot of splashing tonight, he quickly pulled off his button up, tossing it into the other room, and then knelt down by the tub, reaching one hand in to playfully ruffle Hamish's hair.

"Let's keep the splashing to a minimum tonight, okay?" he chuckled, turning the water off.

"'Kay Daddy. Hame try."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed happily. He reached behind him, opening the cabinet to grab some soap, a washcloth, and a small plastic cup.

"Okay, Hamish. Time to wash your hair."

"Mmm," the little boy grumbled, releasing his toy boat and letting it float in the water. He reached both of his hands out, cupping them to make a sort of cup. Smiling a half-smile, Sherlock dumped a tiny bit of soap into the little boy's hands, knowing he liked to 'wash' his own hair.

Hamish muttered unintelligibly to himself as he threw his arms up, pressing the small amount of soap in his hands to the top of his head.

"Good, Daddy," he said with a nod of his head. He tried to hurry away towards the end of the tub, where the boat was now floating.

"Nope!" Sherlock laughed, reaching towards Hamish. In one swift, though careful, movement, he pulled the little boy back towards the other end of the tub. "Not quite," he said, smiling to himself.

Keeping one hand around Hamish's middle, he reached for the bottle of soap, pouring a small amount of the sweet-smelling liquid onto the little boy's wet curls. Letting go of his son's stomach, Sherlock began to gently wash Hamish's silky hair, running his fingers over the little boy's scalp, tickling him as he did so.

"Mmm," Hamish mumbled, desperately trying to pout, rather than laugh. Giving up, he giggled loudly, trying to shove Sherlock's hands away. "Daddy!" he laughed, wrapping both of his chubby hands around one of the detective's wrists.

Grinning, Sherlock quickly finished washing Hamish's hair and body, and then allowed the little boy to make him something (supposedly a dog) out of bubbles.

"Wow, Hamish. That's beautiful, thank you!" he praised, smiling at the proud look on Hamish's face. "Here you go," he murmured, passing the small mass of bubbles back to Hamish, who then delicately placed it at the end of the tub.

"A few more minutes, then it's time to get out, okay?"

"Mmmkay, Daddy," Hamish replied distractedly, too busy playing with the bubbles to listen to Sherlock.

The detective turned his attention back to Hamish, grinning warmly as the little boy began to murmur to himself, running his chubby fingers through the water. A wide grin spread across his small face as he scooped up a small pile of the bubbles, thrusting his arms into the air. Then, now with a very concentrated look on his face, he stuck out his bottom lip, and threw his arms back down, splashing them against the water. The smile returned to his face, and he squealed happily, running his chubby fingers through the water.

"Mmm," he murmured happily to himself, pressing the palms of his hands together.

Sherlock watched the little boy with a serious face, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his veins.

"Come on, Hamish," he murmured, moving forward. "Time to dry off."

The little boy pulled his attention away from his hands to gaze at Sherlock. "Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," he said sadly, using the side of the tub to pull himself up into a standing position.

Sherlock waited patiently while the water drained from the tub. He grabbed the plastic cup, turning around towards the sink to fill it with warm water.

Cup in hand, he turned back to Hamish, who was still standing, gripping tightly onto the side of the tub.

"Okay. Time for the rinse. Ready?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied, giving a small nod of his head before squeezing his eyes shut in preparation.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock squatted down and placed his free hand just above Hamish's eyes, creating a sort of wall so Hamish wouldn't accidently inhale any of the water or get it in his eyes.

"Ready? One, two, three." The detective quickly dumped the water over Hamish's head, rinsing away the last of the suds.

"All done," he said happily, brushing some of Hamish's wet hair away from his eyes.

"'Es," the little boy answered, gripping onto the side of the tub as he shivered.

"I'll get a towel." Sherlock quickly turned around, dropping the cup in he tub, and then made to grab a towel for the cold little boy. He spun around on his heel, though, upon hearing a loud gasp from Hamish.

Instinctively, he thrust his arms out, thinking the little boy had slipped and fallen.

"Oh," he sighed in relief when he saw Hamish still standing, perfectly fine. The detective's brows pulled together, though, upon seeing the worried look on his son's face.

"Hamish?" he asked, concerned. Bending down he quickly scooped up the little boy and pulled him close to his bare chest, not caring about whether or not he got wet.

"Hamish, please. Tell me what's wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked frantically.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed in awe, tears filling his eyes.

"What—"

"Daddy!" Hamish quickly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the space at the base of his neck.

"Hamish, I don't understand. What's wrong?" The detective knew that Hamish had a tendency to become very moody at night, and he hoped the little boy was just suffering from tiredness or anger at having been taken out of the bath.

"'Ook, Daddy." Teary-eyed, Hamish looked up, pointing at the mirror behind Sherlock. He let go of the detective's neck with one arm and placed his chubby hand just above Sherlock's shoulder blade.

"Oh, Daddy," he sighed sadly, staring at the mirror as a single tear fell from his eyes.

Not understanding, Sherlock quickly turned his head around to see what Hamish had told him to look at.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in relief, upon seeing Hamish's small hand covering a large scar on his back.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish cried, curling his hand into a fist as he tucked his head back into the detective's neck.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, reaching down for the towel he had dropped. "It's okay. It's just a scar; it doesn't hurt anymore. There's no need to cry," he whispered, wrapping the towel around the little boy's small body.

"No, Daddy," Hamish cried, clinging to his father. "'Ook." Sniffling, he pointed to his own collarbone with a shaking finger and peered up at the detective with watery eyes.

Squinting at the spot where Hamish had pointed, Sherlock left the bathroom and sat down on the bed. He looked carefully at his son's collarbone. His breath suddenly caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon a very tiny scar spreading across Hamish's clavicle.

"Hamish," he breathed, trying desperately to catch the breath that had suddenly escaped him. He couldn't believe he had never noticed the scar before.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, staring sadly up at Sherlock. "Hame ouch an' Daddy."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, an unexplainable wave of sadness crashing over him. "You've been hurt like me, haven't you… Hamish can you tell me how you got that?" Sherlock murmured quietly. Gently, he moved the little boy to his lap, splaying one of his large hands across his son's back to keep him from falling backward.

Sniffling, Hamish dropped his own small hand, letting it rest on the detective's leg. "No, Daddy," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "Bad." Tears brimming in his eyes again, he looked back up at his father.

"Bad," the detective echoed quietly. Brows drawn together, he slowly moved his hand towards his son's neck. Still supporting the little boy with his other hand, he quickly brushed his thumb over the tiny scar, struggling to contain the strange sense of guilt he felt. He stared at the small white slash that traveled over his son's otherwise smooth skin.

Gently, almost as if he was trying not to hurt the little boy, Sherlock let is finger slide across Hamish's pale skin again. "Hamish," he whispered sadly, staring into the watery eyes of his son.

"Ouch, Daddy..." Hamish murmured back, his mouth pulling down into a sad frown another wave of tears threatened to fall. "Da'ey," he cried, leaning forward, sniffling as he let his head gently bump against his father's stomach.

"I'm here," Sherlock murmured, staring sadly down at Hamish as he started to rub soothing circles up and down his son's bare back. As he felt the little boy start to cry against him, he felt an unimaginable anger burning his stomach; now there was a physical reminder of the past Hamish had experienced, something they were both hoping to forget. But now this scar, this incredibly tiny line of discoloration on his son's collar, would forever be a constant reminder of everything the little boy had suffered through.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt an overwhelming burning sensation; he wanted to hurt the people who had abused the beautiful baby in his arms; hurt the person who had given Hamish the scar on his neck.

"Daddy get ouch?" Hamish whispered quietly against Sherlock's stomach, pulling the detective away from his thoughts. "'Ook?" A sad look still on his face, he scooted backward, pulling his head as he haphazardly placed one of his chubby hands on Sherlock's chest, the other on his arm.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock picked the little boy up, keeping him wrapped in the towel, and placed him on the other side of the bed. Then, keeping a watchful eye on Hamish, he laid down on his stomach. "Over here, Hamish." Offering the little boy his hand, he simultaneously scooted to the middle of the bed and guided Hamish onto his back. "Right here," he murmured, pointing to his own, much larger scar.

"Oh, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly. He leaned forward, moving one of his chubby hands towards the detective's back. "Ouch, Daddy," he murmured, pressing his small hand over the scar. Babbling unintelligibly to himself, he began to trace the almost-white skin with one of his chubby fingers. His small features pulled together in concentration as his finger stopped moving. Sticking his lip out, he pressed both of his small hands just behind Sherlock's shoulder blade, trying to cover the scar.

"What, Daddy?" he asked quietly, crawling off his father's back.

"How did I get the scar?" Sherlock questioned, sitting back up. He quickly slid off the bed, and grabbed a nappy for Hamish before sitting back down on the bed.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy answered, giving a tired nod of his head. Sherlock quickly discarded the wet towel and put on Hamish's nappy. He then pulled the little boy into his arms, and set him down in his lap.

"Well, Hamish, you see—" The detective stopped abruptly. "Oh... Um... When I was little, Uncle Mycroft and I were playing together, and I fell down and ended up cutting my back on some sharp rocks. That's all," he murmured quietly, brushing away some of Hamish's still-wet hair.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. Tiredly, he leaned his head against Sherlock's stomach, and peered up at the detective, a content smile now gracing his lips. "So Daddy no ouch?" he asked hopefully, absentmindedly wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

"Yes, Hamish. There's no ouch. I promise."

Hamish closed his eyes, leaning his small body further into Sherlock's torso. "Good. Daddy 'etter."

Sherlock smiled sadly, squeezing his eyes shut as painful images began to flash across his memory. Night. Dark. Alcohol. Glass... Broken... Scar...

"Daddy?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and peered down at Hamish, his mouth hanging open slightly as he quickly chased the memory away.

"Yes, Hamish?" he whispered quietly.

"Umm..." the little boy began slowly, now engrossed in playing with his father's fingers. Sherlock gazed lovingly at the little boy, focusing on his sweet features as he felt the calming sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers running across his own.

Face scrunched up in concentration, Hamish focused all of his attention of his father's hand. "Uh," he grunted quietly, moving Sherlock's hand onto his own lap. Delicately, he turned the detective's hand until it was facing palm up.

"Mmm," he murmured, grabbing two of Sherlock's fingers in his hands. "Ddd... Hmm," he babbled, lifting his father's hand into the air so as to examine it. He quickly moved Sherlock's large hand back into his lap, and pressed the palm of his own small hand against the palm of his father's.

Though it went unnoticed by Hamish, Sherlock leaned down, and gently kissed the little boy on side of his forehead. Using his free hand, he pulled Hamish closer to his chest, smiling fondly as he felt the little boy's hand curl and uncurl against his palm.

"Bbbmmm." Frowning slightly, Hamish hastily pressed both of his hands against Sherlock's palm, trying to spread them apart. He grunted unhappily and began to push harder against his father's hand.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled happily, pushing the thought of the scar away. He wrapped his slender fingers around both of Hamish's small hands, and moved them to his mouth, gently giving each one a light kiss. "It's okay," he reassured happily, keeping his son's chubby hands wrapped in his own.

"But, Daddy—" Hamish argued, scrunching his face together.

"Yes, I know," the detective chuckled. "Your hands are supposed to be small. Besides," he added, upon seeing the frown on his son's face, "I think you're beautiful just the way you are." He smiled reassuringly and began to play with some of the little boy's curls.

"Daddy? What b... batfml?" he asked confusedly.

"Beautiful," Sherlock corrected happily. "And beautiful is just another word for pretty, it just has a deeper meaning."

"Oh," Hamish replied quietly, trying to understand. "Daddy 'ink Hame bat'm'ful?"

Sherlock smiled fondly, and nodded. "Yes. I think you're beautiful."

The little boy grinned tiredly, and attempted to stand up in his father's lap.

"What is it, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, helping the little boy to stand up and keeping a firm hand on his bare back to keep him steady.

"Hame 'ink Daddy bat'm'ful," he stated happily.

Sherlock smiled warmly. "You think I'm beautiful, hmm? Well, thank you, Hamish," he chuckled contently.

"'Es, Daddy. 'Ook." Gazing at his father, Hamish placed both of his hands on either side of the detective's cheeks, letting them resting in the hollow. "Bat'mmm'ul," he stated firmly. He then tenderly placed both of his hands over Sherlock's eyelids. The detective closed his eyes, smiling as he heard Hamish repeat, "Bat'um'ful."

Keeping his eyes closed, he listened as his son gently touched his hair—"bat'm'ful"—and the gap at the base of his neck—"bat'ma'ful"—and then lastly, each of his hands—"bat'm'ful..."

He opened his eyes and grinned tenderly at his son. "Hame 'ink Daddy bat'um'ful," the little boy smiled. "Umm, Daddy? Hame nigh' night at Daddy?" he added quietly, letting one small hand rest on the detective's bare shoulder.

"You want to sleep with me tonight?" Sherlock asked warmly, already pulling the little boy onto his chest.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Can?"

"Of course you can." He leaned down, gently kissing the little boy on the cheek as he felt Hamish yawn against his shoulder.

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy. Nigh' night." Sighing contently against his father's neck, Hamish snuggled into Sherlock's embrace, closing his eyes as he yawned again, the sound making the corner of his father's lips twitch upwards in a smile.

"Nigh' night, Hamish." Sherlock slowly stood up off the bed and pulled on a t-shirt, trying not to jostle the almost-asleep child on his chest.

"We're going to go out and sit in the sitting room with John, okay?"

"Mmkay, Da'ey," Hamish whispered as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, placing one of his hands on the back of the little boy's head. He exited the room and slowly sat down in his chair, across from John, who was reading a book in his own chair.

"Oh. Hey," John whispered quietly, gazing at his two flat mates. "Didn't want to sleep alone, tonight, hmm?" he asked, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"No," the detective began quietly, staring absentmindedly at the floor. "He uh—" Sherlock quietly cleared his throat. "Saw my scar for the first time. He was quite shaken by it, seeing as he has one of his own." The detective looked back at his friend, a hint of pain in his eyes.

"From the orphanage?" John asked, concerned. He saw Sherlock give a terse nod of his head, and knew that this was obviously a sore subject for his friend. "Right." He paused, putting his book in his lap. "Did you tell him?" he asked quietly, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.

The detective shook his head as he gazed down at Hamish nestled firmly against his chest. "No," he murmured. "He's already experienced enough pain in his life. I don't need to add to it by teaching him that mother's and father's can hurt their babies, too. For now, he just needs to know that he has a family who loves him. For now, that's enough."

John nodded solemnly, and peered at the sleeping little boy. "Well, I certainly can't disagree with that," he murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back. "Besides, he'd become even more distressed if he knew what happened to him was also done to me by my own father. I'll spare him from that for as long as possible."

"Right. Poor thing."

Sherlock nodded again. Smiling sadly at his son, he bent down, and tenderly pressed his lips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone, almost as if he was hoping he could wash away the small slash, and therefore erase the pain of his son's past.

John smiled at his friend, still not completely used to this very different side of Sherlock, which was clearly reserved for only Hamish. "'Night, you two," he whispered, smiling, and leaving his book on the arm of his chair.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock paused, squinting at the doctor. A smug look on his face, he gazed at his flat mate. "And I see congratulations are in order. Best of luck for tomorrow. It's about time. I've been waiting for you to get the courage to ask her. You have nothing to worry about; she's already planning on saying yes."

John rolled his eyes, smiling to himself. "Thanks, Sherlock," he chuckled happily, gazing back at the detective with a small smile. "How long have you known?"

Sherlock smiled slyly. "Long before you did, John," he stated smugly.

John laughed. "Right." Shaking his head, he hurried up the stairs, smiling to himself.

Still smirking, Sherlock turned is attention back to the sleeping little boy on his chest. He listened in the dark as Hamish began to talk to himself in his sleep, making quiet gurgling noises.

Smiling, Sherlock pressed another gentle kiss to his son's collarbone. "Goodnight, Hamish."