Hey guys! Okay so just a warning, this has not been proofread yet, so there are probably going to be many mistakes! Just please be aware and excuse; I will fix them as soon as possible. =) Thanks! Also, this one may or may not be changing a lot, so if you're interested, check back in to see if there have been changes or not. You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thanks so much! See you guys! =)
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Shooter
Sherlock was awoken by the loud, unwelcome ringing of his mobile ringing in his ear. Hoping the shrill noise would not wake Hamish, the detective hurriedly found his phone and pushed it to his ear.
"What?" he asked groggily, not bothering with social graces.
"Sherlock?" came the serious voice of Lestrade. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Instantly alert, he rolled over, gently letting Hamish slide off his chest.
"Mmm," the little boy grunted in his sleep. Momentarily, jostled, Hamish's face scrunched up in discomfort. Hoping to regain his comfortable position, Hamish tucked his arms and legs inward, curling up against Sherlock's side.
Anxiously awaiting Lestrade's news, Sherlock moved upward ever so slightly, placing his free hand on Hamish's bare back.
"What have you found?" he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Hamish's skin. He could hear Lestrade take a deep breath on the other end of the line.
"Well," he started and Sherlock could tell the Inspector was weary of the information he was about to convey. "It appears our bloke's name is Harold Schuester. He's forty-two years old, is divorced and has three kids, ages seven, ten, and fifteen. Two days ago, he lost custody of all of the kids, reason being, he's an avid drinker. I guess his wife felt uncomfortable leaving her kids with an alcoholic, one who has violent tendencies, or so it seems... Anyway! He lost all custody of the kids and that clearly just threw him over the edge." Lestrade paused, taking a deep breath.
"And?" Sherlock prompted, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the phone. Sensing something was coming, he pulled Hamish closer to his side feeling fiercely protective of the little boy.
"And... It appears up until about four months ago, he was the manager of an orphanage. An orphanage that just happens to be the one Hamish was living at. Yeah, it seems a certain Mycroft Holmes had it shut down shortly after you adopted Hamish." Lestrade stopped, bracing himself for anything that may be coming from the other end of the line.
Sherlock paused, mulling over Lestrade's words. "I'll be right over," he said eventually. "And I'll bring John."
"Good. See you guys when you get here."
The detective took a deep breath and clicked the phone off. He glanced down at Hamish, who was sleeping soundly, snuggling against his side. Despite the anxiousness he was feeling, Sherlock smiled at the sight, and bent down to press a tender kiss to the top of Hamish's head.
Still smiling, he pulled away and leaned back against the headboard. He quickly dialed John's number and put the phone back to his ear.
"Sh'lock?" came the groggy voice of John.
"Yes. Listen, John, Lestrade just called and they have the shooter in custody and he wants us to come in to talk to him."
"Oh! Oh, right... Um... Okay." The sound of rustling could be heard and Sherlock guessed John was crawling out of Mary's bed.
"I plan on coming to pick you up as soon as Hamish wakes up. But, John—Um—There's something else."
There was a pause. "What is it?"
"The shooter? It appears he used to run the orphanage Hamish was living at." Sherlock couldn't help as his mouth twisted into a snarl.
"What?" John said quietly from the other end of the line. Though Hamish was not his child, John still shared a connection with the little boy and he felt anger start to burn in his veins. "I'll be ready when you get here," he said firmly.
Sherlock sensed the change in John's tone and gave a terse nod of his head. "Good. We should be over soon... John?"
"Yes?"
"Umm... Thank you. I appreciate it."
John smiled. "Of course."
Without needing to exchange any more words, both the detective and the doctor hung up at the same time, each having a mutual understanding of what was awaiting for that day.
Taking a deep breath, Sherlock quickly tossed the phone to the other side of the bed and gazed down at Hamish. Smiling to himself, he gently patted the little boy's bottom.
"Hamish?" he whispered gently, pulling his son's small form into his arms.
"Mmm," Hamish groaned unhappily, frowning as he opened his eyes. "Daddy," he whined, leaning forward to press his face into Sherlock's collarbone.
"Morning," the detective chuckled, gently ruffling Hamish's wild curls.
"No, Daddy," the little boy mumbled in reply, rubbing his forehead against Sherlock's shirt.
Chuckling happily, the detective leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Come on," he said cheerfully, wrapping his arms around the little boy as he slid off the bed. "Time to get dressed."
"No 'ease?" Hamish asked tiredly, peering up at his father from where he was resting.
Grinning fondly, Sherlock brushed his fingertips over the little boy's forehead, pushing some of Hamish's curls off his forehead.
"How about I go get dressed and you can keep sleeping, hmm?"
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish mumbled sleepily, nodding against Sherlock's neck.
"Excellent," the detective chuckled, turning back to the bed. Smiling fondly, Sherlock lowered Hamish's sleepy form onto the bed and gently pried his chubby fingers from around his collar. He pulled the duvet around his son's body.
"Hmm," he hummed, quickly brushing his thumb over the little boy's cheek before turning away from the bed to get dressed.
After having finished getting dressed in his signature suit and putting Hamish's bag together, Sherlock slowly crept back into his room.
"Hamish?" he whispered, gently pulling the covers away from Hamish's small body.
"Hmm?" the little boy murmured, opening his eyes to gaze at Sherlock. "Uppey tie?"
"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "Up time."
"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." With bleary eyes, Hamish lifted his arms up towards the detective, yawning widely as he waited to be picked up.
"Here we go." Keeping Hamish on his hip, Sherlock quickly moved around the room, grabbing some clothes as the little boy started to wake up. Clothes in hand, he set Hamish on the bed, and quickly changed his nappy. "Which one?" he asked, holding up two of Hamish's favorite shirts: a purple button up and a dark blue t-shirt with an orange dinosaur.
"Daddy's!" Hamish called happily, pointing at the purple button up.
Sherlock grinned. "I agree! Excellent choice." Practically beaming, the detective quickly pulled on the shirt, followed closely by a pair of trousers.
"Ohh," he groaned quietly as he placed Hamish on the ground. "You're getting so big! Soon you'll be as big as I am!" he exclaimed comically, squatting down to gently tickle the little boy's stomach with his fingertips.
"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, trying to shove his father's hands away. He fell forward, wrapping his chubby arms around the detective's neck.
"Come on then," Sherlock chuckled, retuning the hug. "We've got a big day ahead of us." After a quick kiss on the cheek, the detective straightened, and lowered his hand for Hamish. Once he felt his son's chubby hand safely in his own, Sherlock closed his slender fingers, wrapping them around Hamish's.
"Ready?" he asked, grinning lovingly as he saw the likeness between him and his son. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish said sweetly, giving a tiny squeeze back.
"Good."
After picking up John, the trio of flat mates were on their way to the Yard, with Hamish talking happily to John all the way.
Both Sherlock and the doctor exchanged several knowing glances during the cab ride, smiling fondly at the little boy settled between them.
"Unk Greg!" Hamish cried happily, releasing the hold he had around Sherlock's hand to toddle haphazardly towards the Inspector.
"Oh! Hey there little man!" Lestrade said happily, scooping the little boy up into his arms. "How are you doing, Hame?" he asked, giving Hamish a tight hug.
"Hame good!"
Lestrade chuckled, setting the small boy back on the ground. Grinning happily, Hamish hurried back over to Sherlock and John. He reached up, gently tugging on the detective's hand.
"Up, Daddy?" he asked hopefully.
"Of course." Smiling fondly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms placing him onto his hip. Both he and John turned their attention to Lestrade.
"Umm, if you could please tell me where—"
"Hey, hey, hold on, hold on," Greg interrupted quickly, hurrying over towards the two friends. "I know. I know you're anxious to see him, but listen." He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "There's a man in my office—very nicely dressed and—uh—with an umbrella... He claims he knows you?"
The smile instantly leaving his face, Sherlock turned his attention towards Lestrade's office, frowning as he saw Mycroft happily twirling his umbrella back and forth around the air.
"Yes," he sighed unhappily. "That would be Mycroft, my brother."
"Wait—Your—"
"My! Daddy, Daddy, My!"
"Yes, yes I see. Here you go." Almost reluctantly, Sherlock placed Hamish, who was practically bouncing up and down in his arms, on the ground, allowing the little boy to run over to Mycroft. For some reason, though Sherlock couldn't possibly imagine why, Hamish had taken quite a liking to his brother, always enjoying the umbrella he carried with him and his funny-looking suits.
"Hello, Hamish," Mycroft exclaimed happily, leaning down to give Hamish a quick pat on the head while the little boy wrapped his arms around his leg.
"Please," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Sherlock," John warned, giving his flat mate a sideways smile.
"Yes, yes I know. Lestrade. Where is he?"
"Oh! Right! Umm... Just over here." With a quick smile, the Inspector hurried past the two men.
"Come along, Hamish!" Sherlock called, giving his son a quick smile.
"'Kay, Daddy!" Grinning widely, Hamish released the hold he had on Mycroft's leg and hurried over towards his father.
"'Es, Daddy?"
"Here. Can you go with John for a moment so I can speak to Uncle Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, bending down so he was eye-level with Hamish.
"Oh. 'Es Daddy. Come?"
"Of course. I'll be right behind." Upon seeing the small frown that was forming on the little boy's face, Sherlock quickly tickled the soft skin under Hamish's chin. "Promise."
"Mmm," the little boy giggled. "'Kay, Daddy." With the smile slowly returning to his face, Hamish hurried forward to John, who was holding his hand out for the little boy.
"Come on then, Hame," he said gently, leading Hamish in the direction Lestrade had gone.
A small smile playing in the corner of his lips, Sherlock watched Hamish toddle away with John as he waited for Mycroft.
"Why did you come?" the detective asked as he felt his brother walk up behind him.
"Please," Mycroft scoffed. "Despite what you obviously seem to believe, I am rather fond of Hamish and John. So when I get news that my little brother, his son and closest friend have all been shot at... Well, needless to say, I do want to help in some way."
"Mmm... Fine. You want to help?" Sherlock asked tersely, turning back so he was facing his brother.
"In any way that I can," Mycroft answered, sticking his nose upward indignantly.
"Very well. Answer me one question..." Almost blushing at his own actions, Sherlock leaned forward, not wanting to admit how much he actually trusted his brother.
"Do you know... if he hurt Hamish?" he whispered, staring into Mycroft's eyes as he waited nervously for the answer, daring, if just for a moment, to bare his vulnerability.
Mycroft paused, seeing the serious look in his brother's eyes, and sensing how worried he actually was. "I don't know," he murmured truthfully, gazing back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry."
Backing away, the detective gave a quick nod of his head as he regained his composure. "Thank you." Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to slowly make his way after Lestrade, Mycroft following closely behind.
Eventually, the two found John, who was now holding Hamish on his hip and Lestrade, all three of whom were waiting in a hallway right out side of a door.
"Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed happily upon seeing his father. He leaned in John's arms, stretching his hands out towards Sherlock.
"Oof! There you go," John groaned, passing Hamish to the detective.
"Hello," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.
"Mmm. Hi, Daddy!" Content to be back in his father's arms, Hamish started to talk to Sherlock, babbling happily and with mostly unintelligible words. The detective smiled as he felt Hamish start to play with a lock of his hair.
"Ready?" Lestrade asked, his hand already covering the doorknob.
"Yes," John replied, giving a firm nod of his head.
"Yes... Oh! Really?" Sherlock murmured in reply to his son's babbling, smiling as Hamish nodded earnestly, and continued to talk, completely oblivious to what was happening around him.
With Lestrade holding the door open, John, Sherlock and Mycroft all made their way into the room. Instantly the air seemed thicker, different, and far tenser, though it seemed to go unnoticed by Hamish as he continued to talk happily to Sherlock, gently twirling a lock of the detective's raven curls in between his chubby fingers.
Sherlock quickly glanced around the room. There were two windows, or panels, on opposites sides of the wall. One was black, due to the lights in the room next door being off. The panel on the right, however, was bright with an almost-yellow haze.
"That's him," Lestrade said, almost sounding disgusted as he gestured to the window.
Taking a deep breath, and subconsciously pulling Hamish closer, Sherlock quickly placed a light kiss to the top of the little boy's head before turning his attention to the panel. His eyes fell upon an incredibly untidy, greasy-looking man. Instantly, the detective recognized the details he'd noticed the night before.
Hungry for any new information, Sherlock's eyes quickly darted back and forth over the man's chubby form, analyzing all new details his eyes fell upon. Without even being in the room, he could clearly tell that the man was intoxicated. His balding head was greasy and glistening with sweat. His suit, which at one time had been quite nice, was now wrinkled, stained with sweat and alcohol. He was incredibly chubby, which only added to his unkempt appearance.
Sherlock's eyes fell upon his arms and hands, which were scarred, bruised and cut. It was clear he was a violent individual. It also become clear quite quickly that he had a sort of nervous tick; Sherlock noticed how he would drum three of his fingers against the table and then clench his hand into a fist before repeating the process over and over.
What upset Sherlock the most, though, was that it was clear that drinking was not a new thing for this man. It was obvious to him that he had been drinking long before the orphanage was ever shut down. Which would mean he was most likely drunk, or at least never fully sober) during the time Hamish had spent at the orphanage.
Sherlock could feel his skin crawl at the thought of this man having been with Hamish at one point during his young life. Without even looking around the room, he could tell Lestrade, John and Mycroft were all having identical thoughts, making the same observations he just had. Sherlock had no doubt their faces mimicked the disgusted expression he had on his own.
"What's this guy's name?" John asked quietly, though he continued to stare at the man sitting on the other side of the interrogation window rather than turn towards Lestrade.
"Howard. Howard Schuester."
"'An—" Hamish froze, his conversation suddenly coming to a halt as he heard the name Greg had just said. A deep frown forming on his face, and his eyebrows tugging together, Hamish turned his attention to what everyone else in the room seemed to be looking at.
Sherlock, who had felt the little boy freeze in his arms, turned his attention away from the window.
"Hamish?" he asked, upon seeing the almost confused look on his son's face.
Ignoring his father's question, turned his attention to the window. After several moments, his gaze finally fell upon what everyone had been looking at.
Sherlock could feel what was coming before it happened. He quickly placed his hand to the back of Hamish's head, pulling his gaze away from the window just as the little boy started to scream hysterically.
Heart pounding, Sherlock rushed out of the room, trying to hold Hamish close as the little boy continued to scream and sob.
"No! NO! 'Ease, Daddy! NO! Ouch! Hame ouch! 'Ease, 'ease, Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, flailing his arms around as he tried to grab ahold of Sherlock.
"No, Hamish! Shhh! Please, it's okay, it's okay! You're safe, I've got you. He's not going to hurt you, I promise... Please! It's okay, it's okay!" Sherlock whispered frantically, panic beginning to course through his veins. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry!"
Sherlock quickly hurried into Lestrade's office, taking no notice of the stares he received from the workers around him, and taking no notice as, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft all hurried in behind him, a mixture of fear, confusion and sadness in their expressions.
"Hamish. Hamish, please. Look at me," Sherlock said gently, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He quickly knelt down on the ground, and pressed Hamish close to chest.
"Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, pressing his small body as close to Sherlock as he could possibly get. Sobs shaking his body, Hamish wrapped his arms around the detective's neck, clearly terrified that he was going to be taken away from his father.
Wanting to give his son reassurance that he was safe and was not going to be taken away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish's shaking body, and began to gently rock back and forth and John, Lestrade and Mycroft watched on helplessly.
"Shhh, Hamish, please listen to me. You're safe... You're safe, I promise. I have you. I will not let him hurt you. Please—Just please don't cry. It's okay, shhh..." Keeping Hamish pressed close, the detective slowly rubbed his hand up and down the little boy's shaking back, hoping to console him in some way.
Sniffling violently, and with sobs still coursing through his tiny body, Hamish pulled away just enough so he could see Sherlock's face.
"N—no bye D—Daddy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face.
"No," Sherlock said firmly, feeling a constricting pain in his chest as he stared down at his son's tear-stained face. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here... See? I'm right here... It's okay. I've got you, I promise. I'm so sorry, Hamish..." he murmured, all of his thoughts running together into one. "Please... Shhhh..."
"H—Hame get ouch," Hamish cried, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He freed one of his hands from the detective's grasp and pointed to himself. Unable to see what the little boy was talking about, Sherlock quickly pulled back. He felt his breath stop as he saw that Hamish was pointing to his collarbone... His tiny finger was positioned just over the small scar.
"Hamish," Sherlock breathed, struggling to find his breath. "Did—Did that man give you that scar?"
Hamish sniffled loudly, before giving a sad nod of his head. "'Es, Daddy. Hame get ouch," he cried, more tears trickling down his face.
Sherlock felt a wave of emotions crash over him at once. Immense guilt, incredible sadness, and an uncontrollable hatred burning his stomach. He thought of how he'd once wanted to hurt the person who had given Hamish his scar. And now here was—sitting no less than fifty yards away from him.
Feeling anger boiling through his veins, Sherlock's eyes quickly flicked to Mycroft. Without a word being shared between the two, each knew what the other wanted. With a firm nod of his head, lips turned up into an angry snarl, Mycroft quickly hurried out of the office and disappeared down the hallway.
Pushing aside all else, Sherlock focused his attention on Hamish. He stood up, pulling the little boy into his arms.
"Shh," he soothed. "I'm here... It's okay now... You're safe. I'm here... Shh..." He began to gently sway back and forth, running his hand up and down Hamish's back. "Please... It's all okay. I'm right here, and I promise I'm not going anywhere. You're safe."
Eventually, after realizing that he was safe and was not going to be taken away from Sherlock, Hamish calmed down considerably, though he refused to let go of his father. A small fistful of the detective's shirt was still clutched tightly in his hand.
"Shhh," the detective continued to whisper, swaying back and forth. He had started to press tender kisses to Hamish's hair and cheeks in a sign of reassurance. "It's okay," he murmured, pressing his lips to his son's cheek.
"Daddy," the little boy whispered sadly, his grip around the detective tightening.
"I'm here, Hamish... I'm here..."
"All done," came the voice of Mycroft. Sherlock as well as Lestrade and John all turned to see the detective's brother coming back into the office, a grim look on his face. "Don't worry. I've had him... Taken care of."
"Good. I'll come later. Thank you," Sherlock thanked, feeling another surge of anger burn in his stomach. He pushed it away, though, as he felt Hamish bury his face in his neck.
"Home, Daddy?" he asked sadly, sniffling as he gazed up at Sherlock from where he was resting.
"Of course," the detective replied gently, brushing some of the little boy's curls off of his face. "Let's go home."
During the car ride home, John had decided he would spend a few more hours at Mary's, allowing Sherlock and Hamish to have some time alone.
"Ni-bye, John," Hamish said quietly, giving the doctor a sad wave as he stepped out of the car.
"Bye, bye Hamish," John replied gently, leaning back in the cab to give the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?"
"'Kay..."
"Thank you, John." Sherlock gave his friend a grateful smile. "I really appreciate it."
The doctor simply replied with a reassuring smile before silently slipping away into Mary's flat.
Hamish spent the rest of the cab ride home snuggled tightly against Sherlock's chest, one hand gripping a fistful of the detective's shirt, the other wrapped safely in his father's hand.
"Almost there," Sherlock murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamish's curls.
By the time they finally did reach the flat, Hamish was practically asleep in Sherlock's arms.
He quickly hurried inside and knelt down on the floor, placing Hamish into a standing position.
"Hamish?" he asked gently, holding the little boy on either side of his arms.
"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish replied sadly, tiredly pressing a fist into his eyes.
"I need you to listen to me for a moment, okay?"
"Mmm-hmm... 'Kay, Daddy." Blinking slowly, Hamish stared up into his father's grey eyes, absentmindedly grabbing ahold of some of Sherlock's sleeve.
"Hamish," Sherlock began gently. "I will never—never—let anyone hurt you. And I will never allow anyone to take you away from me. I promise... I will keep you safe. And no one is ever going to be able to hurt you again." With sad eyes, Sherlock gently pressed his fingertips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone. "No one," he repeated quietly. "I promise... You will always be safe with me."
Eyes brightening ever so slightly, Hamish hurried forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the smooth skin. "'Ove, Daddy. Hame 'ove." With tender hands, the little boy slowly draped one of his arms of Sherlock's shoulder. "'Ove," he whispered, splaying his chubby fingers across the scar on his father's shoulder blade.
"I love you, too, Hamish... So much." The detective felt a wave of relief wash over him as he felt Hamish smile against his skin. Moving slowly, the little boy took his hand, and pressed his chubby fingers to his lips, giving them a kiss.
"'Etter," he whispered as he pressed his fingers back to Sherlock's shoulder, pressing a "kiss' to his father's scar.
"An' 'etter," he murmured again, gently tugging on the detective's hair. He pointed to his own scar on his collarbone.
Sherlock smiled, amazed once again by his son. Gazing lovingly at Hamish, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the little boy's small scar. "All better," he murmured against the skin.
"'Es, Daddy. No ouch." Now, almost as if he was hoping to reassure his father, Hamish gave Sherlock a reassuring smile before wrapping his arms around the detective's neck and bending up to press an incredibly gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek.
"'Ove, Daddy... 'Etter," he whispered against the detective's skin.
"Yes," Sherlock murmured, a fluttering warmth flooding his entire body. "All better... Thank you, Hamish."
"Mmm," the little boy hummed in response, a sweet smile turning up the corners of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his weight against Sherlock. With a single yawn and one more quick kiss on the cheek, Hamish reached up, draping his arms around his father's shoulders.
"'Ove, Daddy," he whispered once more, before quickly falling asleep.
"I love you, too," Sherlock murmured, smiling as he felt Hamish's hand curl against his shoulder blade, resting just over his scar. "We're going to be okay... All better."