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Chapter Twenty-One: Stars

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of someone bustling up the stairs. Moving slowly, he rolled to the side and carefully placed Hamish on the bed. Smiling sweetly at small boy, the detective quickly slipped out of his room, shutting the door behind him.

"Lestrade, there was-"

"I know. John already called and told me."

"Oh... Good. Well, have you found anything?"

"Well... Sort of but—" he began, upon seeing the detective tense up. "I can't really tell you yet what we've found."

Sherlock froze. He could already feel his blood begin to boil. "What do you mean you can't tell me? We were shot at, my son was threatened—could even have been killed and you just can't tell me?" the detective hissed. He hurried over to Lestrade, giving him an icy glare.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" the DI answered hastily, throwing his arms up in surrender. "But we just need to... Check some things out first." He gave the detective an apologetic smile.

Sherlock stopped, eyes narrowing as they quickly raked up and down the Inspector, analyzing him. His head slowly pulled back as he understood. He straightened up, interlocking both of his hands behind his back.

"What's his name?" he asked, suddenly very calm, as he stared at the DI with an expectant gaze.

"What? How—"

"You clearly have the shooter in custody and do not wish me to speak to him. What is his name and when will I be allowed to speak with him?"

"Now hold on," Lestrade began, very uncomfortable by how calm Sherlock was being. "You know I can't tell you his name and at this point, I'm not sure I'm going to allow you talk to him. I mean—I do kind of need him alive to press charges."

Sherlock chuckled darkly, giving the Inspector a sly half-smile. "Okay... Very well... I trust you'll inform me of any new information you discover about him, though," he stated, not even bothering to make it a question.

"Umm... Sure. Right! Of course I will... How's Hame doing? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, luckily. Shaken by the whole ordeal, but physically... Unharmed."

"Well that's good, isn't it?I'm glad to hear he's okay. John mentioned you actually got shot?"

"No, no. Just grazed," Sherlock said nonchalantly, now slightly embarrassed.

"Right," Lestrade said slowly and with a sly smile. "Well then, I'd best be off." Suddenly, and now very serious, the Inspector leaned forward towards his friend. "Don't worry. I'll make sure he gets put away... For good." He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile and a quick clap on the shoulder. "Be sure to tell Hame I said hi. Oh! And don't worry; I'll find a way to let you talk to him... I know you really want to. And technically speaking, you do have a right to see him." He gave Sherlock another warm smile upon seeing the detective tense ever so slightly at his words. "Besides!" he added cheerfully. "If I don't allow you to see him, I know you'll find a less... Let's say a less "orthodox" way of getting what you want, right?"

Sherlock managed a small smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward, as he knew the Inspector was correct. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said sincerely, truly grateful for the Inspector and all of his help. "Text me as soon as you learn anything," he added.

"'Course. See you later." With one last quick smile, the DI turned around and hurried down the stairs and out of the flat.

As soon as he knew Lestrade had left, Sherlock hurried over to the window and looked out, staring down at the many police cars in front of the flat. His eyes quickly scanned the scene, desperately hoping to get a glimpse of the man who had shot at his family.

He felt his heart stop as he saw Lestrade ushering a man, whose hands were handcuffed behind his back, into a squad car. Forcing himself to think straight, Sherlock quickly raked his gaze up and down the man, looking for any clues he might be able to find about the man.

His mind began to quickly sort through all of the details he could see about the man: Balding; short in stature; very self-conscious; wearing an old, very worn-out suit; means he recently lost job; lost custody of his children approximately eleven months ago; heavy drinker; has no—

Sherlock's thoughts were cut off as Lestrade quickly pushed the man into the car and out of sight. He couldn't help but smile as he noticed the amount of force the Inspector used, understanding that fierce sense of protection.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock backed away from the window as he heard the squad cars come to life, sirens blaring.

"Right," he muttered to himself, thoughts racing with possibilities. His mind was quickly separating all of the details he had noticed about the man, trying to form a coherent picture, a story, anything, about the man.

"No... No... Possibly," he murmured, sorting through scenarios as he slowly paced back and forth around the flat, hands steepled against his lips. He was pulled from his thinking by a small call from his room.

"Daddy?"

"I'm just here, Hamish," Sherlock called gently. Fighting his instincts, he pushed aside all of his thoughts and speculations and hurried into his room.

Throughout the rest of the day, Sherlock often found himself to be staring wistfully at Hamish. The detective found that he was craving the comfort of his son's touch much more than usual; he kept gently brushing his fingers across the little boy's hands, his face, his curly hair, all in an effort to reassure himself that his son was safe. The shooting had jolted him into the realization that just as quickly as Hamish had entered his life, he could be taken out of it...

Sherlock was sitting on the ground, mulling over his thoughts as Hamish was sat next to him, playing with some toy blocks. Feeling that strange sense of panic coursing through him again, the detective leaned forward and gently brushed the tips of fingers across his son's cheek. Suddenly, with that little touch, the feeling of panic was replaced by a reassuring wave of relief. He took a deep breath and began to gently twirl a lock of Hamish's auburn curls between his fingers. Lips turning upward ever so slightly, he began to stare at the little once again.

Blocks quickly forgotten upon feeling his father playing with his hair, Hamish quickly turned towards Sherlock, brows pulled together in confusion. His features softened, to be replaced by a small smile as he noticed the detective staring at him again.

"Daddy?" he whispered quietly, crawling over and into his father's lap.

"Hmm? Oh! I was doing it again, wasn't I?" Sherlock asked gently, suddenly pulled out of his trance as he felt Hamish crawl over his legs. He smiled fondly, scooping the little boy into his arms.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled happily, holding tightly to Sherlock. Smiling widely, the little boy leaned forward, resting his head against the detective's collarbone.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, hugging the little boy close.

"What, Daddy?" Hamish asked, voice slightly muffled, as he spoke against Sherlock's skin.

"Ohh," the detective sighed, standing up off the ground. He started to slowly pace around the flat, holding Hamish close to his chest. "Do you mean why do I keep staring at you?" He playfully tickled Hamish's stomach.

"'Es, Daddy!" the little boy giggled happily, pulling his face away from the detective's collar.

"Well... I suppose it's... Just because I love you so much... And I like to know that you're safe," he murmured quietly, pushing some of Hamish's unruly curls away from his forehead.

"Oh," the little boy responded quietly, not quite understanding. "'Kay, Daddy. 'Ove!" Hoping to reassure his father in some way, Hamish reached forward and wrapped his arms around the detective, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Oh! Well thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around the small boy. "I love you, too." Smiling lovingly, he pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple. "Come on, then. Let's go watch some quick telly before bed, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish replied cheerily, keeping his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck.

Hamish fell asleep in Sherlock's lap, his limp body draped across the detective's legs. Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock gently pulled the little boy into his arms and carried him into his room.

Gingerly, so as not to wake him, Sherlock slowly lowered his son's sleeping form into the cot, and quickly tugged off his shirt and pants. He gently draped Hamish's favorite blanket over his body. "There you go. Sleep well," he whispered. Gazing fondly at his son, Sherlock bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead, feeling that same sense of relief wash over him again.

Smiling to himself, the detective quickly crawled into bed, closing his eyes as he listened to his son's gentle breathing.

At some point during the night, Sherlock had awoken, that familiar feeling of panic gripping his body. He quickly leaned over the side of his bed and glanced into the cot, just to check and make sure Hamish was fast asleep.

After seeing his son sleeping soundly, the detective moved back and tried to fall asleep. But, after having no success, Sherlock once again leaned over the side of the bed, and slowly lifted Hamish out of the cot. He pulled the little boy close to his chest and wrapped his arms around his son's small form, sighing quietly in relief.

"I've got you..."

The detective lay awake in bed, Hamish snuggled tightly against his chest. He listened contently to the sound of the little boy's deep breathing, smiling ever so slightly at the feel of his son's breath against his skin.

His mind began to wander once again to the few seconds he had seen the shooter, mentally pouring over any and all details he may have missed. His thoughts were interrupted, though, as he felt Hamish's body tense in his arms. Brows pulled together in confusion, Sherlock loosened his grip around the small boy's body, worried he'd been holding him too tightly.

"Mmm, no..." Hamish mumbled, his voice sounding small and frightened.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked, now very worried. He hurriedly pulled Hamish back to his chest and sat up in the bed. Already beginning to murmur soothing words, the detective quickly placed his hand on the back of the little boy's head and began to gently rock back and forth, hoping to comfort his distressed son.

"Hamish... Shh, it's okay," he whispered as he felt the little boy grab a fistful of his shirt in his tiny hands.

"No... No! Da'ey!" Hamish sobbed, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest, trying to escape his nightmare.

"No, no, no, Hamish. Wake up, love. Please! It's okay, I'm here," the detective murmured hurriedly, desperately trying to wake the little boy and pull him away from his night terror. He brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek, whispering in his ear.

With a loud gasp, Hamish jolted awake, his breath quick and uneven. He frantically searched around the room, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked around for Sherlock.

"Hamish, shh... Look at me, I'm right here. It's okay, love," Sherlock soothed, trying to get the little boy to look at him.

Upon hearing his father speak, Hamish quickly turned back towards the noise, eyes widening as he saw the detective.

"Daddy," he sighed in relief. Closing his eyes, Hamish quickly leaned forward and pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt, flailing his arms forward in an effort to wrap them around his father's neck, though one ended up resting against the detective's collarbone, the other pressing tightly against his lips. "Daddy," he whispered again, squeezing his eyes together in an effort to chase away the memories of the nightmare.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, talking against Hamish's fingers. He quickly pulled the little boy closer and began to rub his hand up and down his bare back. Knowing how it always seemed to calm him down, the detective started to twirl some of Hamish's silky hair between his fingers. "It's okay now... I'm here..."

Smiling gladly as he felt his son relax in his arms, Sherlock bent down, and pressed his cheek to the top of Hamish's head, taking a deep breath.

"Da'ey," the little boy sniffled sadly, turning his head back and forth against his father's chest.

"I know," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sorry... Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Daddy-Da-Daddy ouch," Hamish whispered, snuffing quietly against Sherlock's shirt. "Bad." Slowly, the tiny boy pulled away, sniffling loudly as he did so. "Bad, Daddy," he said quietly, gazing up at the detective with watery eyes.

"Bad..." Sherlock echoed, pulling his head away so he could look at Hamish. Smiling sadly, he began to wipe away his son's tears, pausing to let his thumb rest on top of Hamish's cheek. Thinking, the detective stared at his son with a tender gaze, and began to rub his thumb back and forth across his cheek once again.

"I want to show you something," he whispered eventually, brushing some of Hamish's curls off of his forehead. "Come here." Groaning softly, he pulled Hamish into his arms.

"What, Da'ey?" the little boy asked quietly, staring up at Sherlock with wide, tired eyes. With a wide yawn, he fell forward, his head gently bumping against the detective's collarbone.

"Shh... It's okay." Sherlock murmured quietly, pausing to gaze down at Hamish, who was tiredly snuggling against his neck. He smiled, and pressed a light kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Nothing," he whispered quietly, running the tips of his fingers up and down his back.

Humming quietly, Sherlock wandered out of his room, gently bouncing Hamish in his arms as he lightly rubbed his fingertips up and down the little boy's bare back. "Okay," he sighed quietly, walking over to the window.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, flattening his hand over his son's back.

"Hmm? 'Es Da'ey?" Wanting to listen to his father, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and gazed up at the detective from where he was resting.

Smiling, Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his shoulder against the window. "Here. Look out."

Blinking slowly, with eyebrows pulled together in confusion, Hamish slowly leaned forward in Sherlock's arms and gazed out of the window, staring up at the sky. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open slightly as he stared up at the vast night sky.

"Wow, Daddy," he sighed in amazement, absentmindedly pressing his chubby fingers against the detective's cheek as he leaned even further towards the glass.

Grinning at his son's wonder, Sherlock began to gently sway back and forth, and turned his attention to the sky. "Do you know what those are, Hamish?" he asked gently.

Eyes bright with wonder and amazement, the little boy pulled his attention away from the window to stare, wide-eyed at Sherlock. "No, Daddy... What?"

"Those are called stars," Sherlock murmured quietly, rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "There's billions and billions of them out there. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed in wonder, nodding his head up and down. "Bat'ful..." Sighing deeply in sheer amazement, the little boy leaned back in Sherlock's arms, resting his head against the detective's shoulder. He continued to stare out of the window, mouth hanging open. Snuggling into his father's hold, the little boy began to whisper to himself, absentmindedly wrapping his chubby hand around one of Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, delicately running his thumb across Hamish's small hand. He took notice of the way the little boy's eyelids had started to flutter open and closed.

"You know," he murmured slowly, gazing at Hamish as he spoke. "Someone once told me a secret about the stars... Would you like to hear?"

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Hamish turned in Sherlock's arms and leaned against the detective's chest, anxious to hear what his father's had to say. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered quietly, gazing up at the detective from where he was resting. Getting comfortable, he tiredly wrapped one of his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck. "Mmm," he sighed contently, gently tracing the gap at the base of his father's neck with his other hand.

"Well," Sherlock began quietly, smiling at the familiar sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers tracing his neck. He continued, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the little boy's hair between his fingers. "Someone once told me that if you ever have a nightmare, when you wake up, you should make a wish. Now the stars, they hear those wishes. And do you know what happens when they hear a child make a wish?"

"What, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, staring expectantly at Sherlock.

"Well when the stars hear a child's wish, a brand new star is formed. And that star, that one twinkling, shining star, watches over that child... Protects them... Grants their wishes... And chases away their nightmares."

"'Eally, Daddy?" Hamish asked in awe, his gaze slowly drifting out the window.

"Yes... Really, really. So from now on, if you ever have a nightmare again, all you'll need to do is make a wish to your star... Would you like to make a wish now?" he murmured, staring fondly at Hamish, who was gazing, wide-eyed at the stars.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish whispered, nodding his head against Sherlock's shirt.

"Good. Now... Close your eyes... And when you're ready, make a wish..."

Sherlock watched, smiling to himself as Hamish shut his eyes, whispering to himself. Feeling that oh-so-familiar warmth flooding his chest, the detective leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of Hamish's head just as the little boy finished making his wish.

"Done?" the detective murmured happily, quickly brushing his thumb across Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy. Hame Star?" he asked hopefully.

Sherlock chuckled, pulling his son into a tight hug as he returned to his room. "Yes, Hamish. Now you have your own star; a Hamish Star."

"Ohh," the little boy sighed happily, leaning forward. All traces of the nightmare now forgotten, Hamish pressed his small form against Sherlock's chest, yawning widely as the detective climbed into bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock whispered, situating the little boy on his chest.

"Umm... Daddy star?" Fighting tiredness, Hamish stared up at his father, waiting to hear his answer.

"Do I have a star?" He smiled as Hamish nodded against his chest. "Well... If you want me to?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Wish." With a tired smile, Hamish scooted himself forward until he was practically sitting on the detective's face. Tenderly, the little boy pressed both of his hands over Sherlock's eyes. "Wish Daddy," he whispered, chubby fingers curling against his father's skin.

"Okay," Sherlock murmured, lips twitching upward into a loving smile as he felt Hamish's fingernails scratch against his skin. "I'll make a wish..." Hamish smiled happily as he heard Sherlock whispering in the dark. He moved one of his small hands, splaying the chubby fingers across his father's lips, giggling at the feel of Sherlock speaking against his palm.

"Good Daddy," he whispered, moving his hands until they were both resting on either side of the detective's face. "No bad..." He smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, curling and uncurling his chubby fingers against the detective's sharp cheekbones.

The detective grinned fondly, and tenderly began to trace his finger over Hamish's eyebrow. "You're right... No more nightmares for either of us..."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in agreement. He leaned forward and gently pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips. Sighing contently, he leaned down, snuggling tiredly against the detective's neck.

"Mmm... Nigh' Daddy an' Hame Star. Nigh' night Daddy... 'Ove," he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open long enough to say goodnight to his father.

"Good night, Hamish... I love you, too. Sleep well, love." Smiling lovingly, Sherlock leaned down and pressed an incredibly tender kiss to his son's forehead. "No more nightmares tonight..."

"Mmm..." And with a quiet sigh, Hamish quickly fell asleep, resting soundly on his father's chest.

Sherlock smiled to himself, closing his eyes as he waited for sleep to come, listening to the steady breaths of his son. He thought about the story he'd just told his son... And knew that if it had been any other person, he would have instantly pointed out all of the inconsistencies and impossibilities with the idea of a wish becoming a star. But, knowing somehow that what he'd just done would help chase away his son's nightmares and fears... For once it didn't matter.