Hey guys! So, I don't know how many of you saw my update in the notes on the last chapter. But, just in case you didn't, I would like to apologize for not updating like I said I would. Saturday night, my computer totally freaked out, and I lost this entire chapter. I spent most of yesterday desperately trying to re-write it from scratch. =/ Anyway, but because of my stupid computer, I wasn't able to finish it in time to get it posted on Sunday. I'm so sorry about that guys, especially since there was such a huge gap between Chapter Twenty-Seven and Eight. So I sincerely apologize for that, and I greatly appreciate your understanding!
As a result, I've made this one extra-long, my longest yet, actually (which is hopefully a good thing), and I've already started writing the next chapter, so that one will be up on Thursday because I can't update on Wednesday, unfortunately. And then I'll get my updating back on track; it's been a crazy past two weeks, so I apologize for that. But thank you all so much for reviewing and just being wonderful! I really appreciate it! =) Thanks, guys!
Hope you like this chapter. =)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Snowed In
"Phone, Sherlock," John sighed, clearly annoyed by the ringing.
"Mmm. Yes."
Rolling his eyes, the doctor shoved himself up from his comfortable position in his chair and snatched his friend's phone, gazing at the caller ID. "Mycroft."
"Ignore it," Sherlock answered tersely, pressing his fingers closer to his lips as he thought, sprawled across the couch.
"Please. Hello? Ye—Yes, this John. Well it would appear your brother," John sighed, giving the detective a quick glare. "Is far too busy to speak with you at the moment. Yes... Oh. Well—I mean I suppose. Sure... Yes... Yes... That should be fine. Wonderful. They'll see you then." Chuckling smugly to himself, the doctor quickly ended the call, gazing at his flat mate. "You," he drawled slowly, "are going to take Hamish to—"
"No. I am not taking Hamish to his... Estate. No."
"How did—"
"I saw the text message. The answer is still no."
"Sherlock," John sighed, exasperated. "Come on. He just wants to give Hamish his Christmas presents, seeing as he won't be here for the actual occasion."
"John, no. I just—"
"You know how much it would mean to Hamish," the doctor countered quickly, glancing towards the door to Sherlock's bedroom, where the little boy was napping.
With a dramatic sigh, the detective opened his eyes, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gazed unhappily at John. "... Fine," he huffed eventually, holding his hand out for the phone.
"Good." With a smug smile, the doctor passed the mobile to his flat mate, dropping the phone into his open palm.
Sherlock waited as the phone rang, lips pressed into a thin line. "All right. I will bring him on one condition... I need specific details on a case; anything you have. And I must have full access of the library. Yes. Fine... Satisfied?" he asked, handing the phone back to John.
"Library?" the doctor asked, setting the mobile on the arm of his chair. "What's that about?" In response, Sherlock's gaze promptly fell to the ground as he absentmindedly pursed his lips. With a deep breath, as if he was going to say something, the detective cleared his throat, keeping his eyes downcast as he hurried into the kitchen, suddenly very interested in his microscope.
"Hey, wait a minute!" John called, hurrying after his friend. "What was all that about? I only asked about the library—"
Refusing to look at the doctor, Sherlock stared into his microscope, "adjusting" the magnification. "Mycroft now lives in the estate I grew up in as a young child. And, as you can imagine, there are some... Memories... I would rather not relive," the detective mumbled, eyebrows pulling together as he frowned into the lens. "That's all."
"Oh," John sighed quietly, suddenly feeling very guilty at inadvertently forcing his friend into going back to the house in which he suffered years of abuse at the hand of his father. "I'm sorry," he whispered, staring awkwardly at the ground. "I didn't know."
"I understand, John. It's all right. Hamish will enjoy it... So I can go," Sherlock murmured, gaze quickly flicking towards his door.
"You're sure?"
"... Yes." The doctor couldn't help but notice the slight pause of hesitation.
"Right... Well, I should probably go and wake him up," John said quietly, nodding towards his friend's bedroom.
"Thank you." The detective waited for the sound of his door gently bumping shut before pulling away from the microscope. Face drawn together into an almost pained expression, Sherlock slowly walked over to the window, placing a hand in his pocket as he gazed out at the grey afternoon, mulling over the inevitable trip. "For Hamish," he whispered determinedly, giving a firm nod of his head as he steadied himself, clearing his mind of the memories and thoughts threatening to take over.
"Daddy?" came the soft call of Hamish, voice cracking with sleep.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile fondly at hearing his son's voice. "I'm just here, Hamish," he called back, turning around to see John, the little boy resting tiredly on his hip, coming in through the kitchen.
"Mmm... Da'ey," he sighed sleepily, practically falling out of the doctor's grasp as he leaned forward, stretching his chubby arms towards Sherlock.
"All right... All right," the detective chuckled, pulling his hand out of his pocket as he reached forward, taking the little boy from John's arms. "There we are. Did you have a good rest, Hamish?"
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, snuggling against the base of his father's neck as he yawned, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"Good." With a small smile, Sherlock gave his son an affectionate pat on the back. He quickly glanced at John, raising his eyebrows in question. The doctor replied with a reassuring smile and a slight shake of his head.
"Right, then. Hamish? I have a question for you... Mycroft has requested that we come over to his house so that he might give you your Christmas early, seeing as he will not actually be here Christmas morning." Both John and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle out loud at the utterly lost look on Hamish's face, unable to keep up with his father's rapid speaking.
"My?" he asked confusedly, desperately trying to sort through Sherlock's long dialogue.
"Yes," John chuckled, gazing fondly at the little boy. "Daddy's going to take you to Mycroft's for presents," he translated, giving Hamish a warm smile.
"Oh. My, Daddy," he informed Sherlock cheerfully, cheek bumping against the detective's shoulder as he leaned forward, still tired.
"Yes, thank you Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, brushing his hand over his son's auburn curls. "What do you think? Would you like to?"
"'Es 'ease Daddy! Unk My!"
Despite his uneasiness, Sherlock smiled down at his son, subconsciously pulling him closer in an effort to calm his worries. "Right... Let's go get ready, then, I suppose," he said, giving Hamish a cheerful pat on the bottom.
"'Kay, Daddy."
"Good. How about you go with John and I'll get everything we'll need, hmm?"
"'Kay," Hamish replied cheerfully, stretching his arms towards the doctor.
"There we are," Sherlock sighed, passing the little boy to John. "Here we go," he added, watching as the two disappeared into the kitchen.
Nearly thirty minutes later, after dealing with a tiny fit from Hamish at being forced to wear clothes, Sherlock and the little boy were loaded into a cab, two large bags placed on the floor.
"Have everything?" John asked, leaning into the cab.
"I think so. We should be back later tonight, but there's a chance of snow, so I've brought an extra pair of clothes just in case—Hamish do not pull off your shirt. We've already talked about this; you must wear your clothes until we get there." With a small pout, the little reluctantly released the fabric, staring at the ground. "Thank you." He turned back to John. "Yes, I do believe we have everything we need. Thank you, John. Enjoy the quiet," he chuckled, giving his friend a knowing look
"Hmm," John hummed contently, already reveling in the idea. "Trust me. I will."
"Right... Well then! I think we'd best be off," Sherlock said, trying to sound cheerful as he turned back to gaze at Hamish, who was now on the other side of the cab, his chubby face pressed against the window.
"Hmm? Oh! Go, Daddy?" he asked excitedly, haphazardly crawling back towards his father.
"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy onto his lap. "Ready?"
"Mmm-hmm! Go, Daddy!" Hamish cried bouncing on the detective's legs.
"Yes, yes, okay. Goodbye, John." Sherlock managed a warm smile, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.
"Bye, you two. B-bye Hamish!" John called softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Have fun at Uncle Mycroft's."
"'Es, John. Ba-bye!"
Smiling at his flat mate's son, John stepped back and quickly pushed the door shut.
The cab ride to Mycroft's estate was long and isolated.
Though bouncing with excitement at the beginning of the journey, crawling back and forth across the cab to get the best view, Hamish was now weary from the long time spent in the car, and was huddled close to his father's side, deep green eyes gazing tiredly out of the window as he grasped onto the detective's arm.
"Daddy," he groaned quietly, burying his face in fabric of Sherlock's soft coat.
"I know," the detective whispered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as they drew nearer and nearer. "Almost there. Would you prefer to sit on my lap?"
"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy." With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish released his grip around Sherlock's arm, and pulled himself onto the detective's legs. "Good, Daddy," he sighed in response, resting contently against his father's chest as he continued to stare out the window, watching as the countryside whizzed by.
"Mmm, "Sherlock hummed in response, eyes anxiously flitting back and forth between the windows.
Hearing his father's lack of response and feeling the detective's tense form, Hamish's eyebrows pulled together in worry. He gazed up at Sherlock, using his shirt as a way to pull himself into a standing position. "Ah!" he cried upon releasing the fabric and nearly falling backwards from the bumps in the road.
"Oh!" Instantly, Sherlock reached forward, grabbing his son's arm with one hand and supporting him from the back with the other. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, giving the little boy a weak smile.
Sensing that something was clearly wrong, Hamish frowned, falling forward with another bump. His chubby fingers splayed across Sherlock's cheek and neck as he examined the detective with worried eyes. "What, Daddy?" he whispered quietly, staring earnestly into his father's light eyes.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing Hamish, I was just—"
"No, Daddy," Hamish said firmly, moving one of his hands to cover the detective's lips. "What?"
Sherlock paused, staring sadly into his son's observant eyes. "I'm just nervous," he murmured, pulling Hamish's fingers away from his mouth and wrapping them safely in his own. "The place Mycroft lives... That's where I grew up with my Mummy and Daddy. There were just some bad things that happened there, that's all. And I'm only a little worried about it... I promise. I'm all right," Sherlock reassured, pulling his son's fingers back to his lips. "See?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's palm. "I'm okay."
"Mmm," Hamish hummed skeptically, clearly unconvinced. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, absentmindedly playing with a lock of his father's raven hair.
"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, thanking and paying the cab driver. He watched, worrying his lip as the car drove away, leaving him with several bags and a wide-eyed Hamish in front of his brother's large estate.
"Daddy," the little boy sighed, almost fearfully, as he gazed up at the large mansion-like home. Intimidated by the sheer size of his uncle's estate, Hamish scooted closer to Sherlock, who had the bags slung over each of his shoulders, and gripped tightly to the fabric of his trousers, hiding behind the detective's legs.
"It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently, looking back and down over his shoulder to give his son a reassuring smile. "I'm just here. You can take my hand." Shifting the large bags ever so slightly, the detective reached down, feeling a strange twinge of sadness as he felt the little boy grip onto his fingers with both hands, still hiding behind his leg.
"Here we go." With a deep breath, and giving his son's hand a gentle squeeze, Sherlock moved forward. He couldn't help but feel the urge to protect Hamish as he noticed how tiny, how innocent... How vulnerable the little boy seemed, hiding behind his leg as they made their way up the steps. "I'm just here," he repeated softly.
With frightened eyes, Hamish followed closely behind his father, clinging to the detective with both of his hands.
Not bothering to knock, as he knew his brother was already expecting them, Sherlock pushed open one of the large double doors, holding it open so Hamish could hurry inside.
"There we are," he murmured, quickly placing the bags on the ground so he could pull the little boy into his arms, opting to have him close, rather than on the ground, though the action went almost completely unnoticed by Hamish, as he was staring wide-eyed at the interior of the estate, which was much less ominous than the exterior. The walls were decorated with intricate gold designs, and several antique chairs and couches were scattered across the large entrance room.
"Ah. Excellent. I see you made it here safely," came the drawling voice of Mycroft. Sherlock turned in the direction of his brother's voice, gazing in the dim light at Mycroft's dark form, sitting in one of the chairs.
"Yes," the detective murmured, moving Hamish, who was still amazed by his new surroundings, to his hip. "We're fine. I understand you have some presents you wish to give Hamish?"
"Now, now, no need to rush. I trust you'll be staying for dinner?"
"I don't really—"
"Unk My!" Hamish gasped suddenly, seeing his uncle for the first time. He tugged at the collar of Sherlock's coat, silently asking to be put down. With a tiny eye roll, the detective gently lowered his son onto the floor.
"Hello there, Hamish!" Mycroft called cheerfully, pulling the little boy into a tight hug. "What do you say, hmm? Would you like to stay for dinner?"
In response, Hamish grinned, giggling madly in his uncle's arms. He reached forward, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck in a tight hug.
"Excellent. Then it's settled," he chuckled, giving Sherlock a sly smile. "You'll stay for dinner. Now. I say we go and get you both settled into a room, yes?"
"I don't need one," Sherlock said tersely, suddenly very tense as he glanced down the long corridor to their left, eyes lingering on one of the many rooms lining the walls.
"Maybe not, but he might," Mycroft said, unaware of his brother's uneasiness as he gently tickled Hamish's stomach. "Would you like to pick your room?"
"'Es, My," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against Mycroft's shoulder.
"Wonderful."
Sherlock watched with tense eyes as his brother started to walk down the corridor, flicking on a light switch as he went. Rolling his eyes and heaving a dramatic sigh, the detective picked up the bags, trying to remain confident as he followed closely behind his brother and son.
"I don't know if you'd like to," Mycroft drawled, approaching a room. "But I thought it might rather fun if you stayed your fathe—"
"No. Absolutely not," Sherlock almost growled. "He will not be staying in that room."
"At least let him see it," Mycroft joked, pushing open the door to the room. A mixture of anger, fear and a strange need to protect Hamish rising in his chest, the detective hurried forward, ready to snatch the little boy away from his brother's arms and take him back to safety and comfort of 221B.
Sherlock froze, though, as did Mycroft upon entering the room. The air seemed very different... Dark. Sad. Hamish, who had previously been chatting away, also froze, features scrunching together in fear.
"Daddy," he whined, eyes frantically darting back and forth around the room as he reached backward, grasping the air in an attempt to find his father.
Pushing aside the painful memories flooding his mind, Sherlock hurried forward, taking Hamish into his arms. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, pressing a comforting kiss to the little boy's curls. "Sorry." Taking one last, disdainful look at his old room, which had not changed since he left, the detective quickly pressed Hamish close to his chest and hurried back into the hallway.
"Yes, Hamish," Mycroft whispered, quickly shutting the door behind him. "I'm sorry as well."
"'Kay," the little boy sniffled against Sherlock's coat, settling further into the detective's embrace.
"Uhh... Let's continue, then, shall we?"
Eventually the three found a room which Hamish felt most comfortable in, after which Mycroft promptly had a cot (which he'd bought in preparation) in.
"We're only staying if we get snowed in," Sherlock reminded his brother warily, walking out of his son's temporary room, with the little boy still nestled tightly against him.
"Yes, I know. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry."
"Mmm."
After moving the bags into the room and getting the cot proper placed (where Hamish had 'required' it to be), the three were on their way to dinner.
After eating, during which Hamish had refused to eat until his father ate nearly all of his own food, Mycroft was ready to give his nephew his early Christmas presents.
"Well. I think I'm going to head to the library, then," Sherlock informed the two of them quietly, as he could clearly sense that his brother was wanting a little alone time with Hamish.
"All of the information you wanted is already on the desk."
"Good. Thank you. Hamish?" the detective asked softly, bending down so he was eye level with the little boy, who had his hand wrapped around on of Mycroft's fingers. "I'm going to go to the library so I can do a little studying on the case, all right? Will you be all right with just Uncle Mycroft?"
"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled contently, hurrying forward to wrap his arms around his father's lowered neck. "Fun!"
"Right," Sherlock chuckled, pulling back to plant a quick kiss to Hamish's chubby cheek. "I'll be just there if you need me, all right?"
"Hmm. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy hummed quietly, bending up to press a soft kiss to his father's chin.
"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, brushing some of the little boy's unruly curls out of his eyes. "Right then. Have fun. And I'm just down the hall if you need me."
"'Kay, Daddy. Fun," Hamish whispered, almost sadly, watching as his father started to make his way down the hallway.
"I'll try to... Thank you, Hamish."
With one quick glance at the papers on the desk, Sherlock solved the case almost immediately. He was just about to call Lestrade when he noticed that there was picture on the top of the desk… A picture of Mycroft and his father. Frowning, the detective slipped the phone back into pocket and reached forward, moving the farm closer.
Old frame, old picture. Sentiment. Well dusted. Treasured. A favorite.
Sherlock stared with a pensive gaze at the picture, staring into the eyes of his father… With a shudder as he saw the depth of those all-so-familiar irises, the detective all but threw the picture back, the prick of tears stinging his eyes as he thought about those eyes… All they had seen. All the person they belonged to had done...
"No. You are fine," he scolded himself, straightening himself and smoothing down the front of his suit. Forcing himself to clear away the painful memories, Sherlock quickly discarded his coat, and started to walk around the library, scanning the shelves for an interesting book.
Satisfied with his pick, the detective slowly meandered his way back to the desk, trying to ignore the strange feeling of eyes on his back. He opened to the first page, willing himself not to run across the house, grab Hamish and leave. "No. Read."
Sherlock didn't read a word that night.
"Ta, My!" Hamish called happily, rushing forward with a small bunny clutched between his chubby fingers.
"Oh! You're very welcome, Hamish," Mycroft chuckled happily, nearly falling back from his sitting position as the little boy ran into him. "I see you like the bunny, hmm?"
"'Es, My! Hame like!" Hamish called happily, gazing into his uncle's eyes. "Ta, My."
"Of course… My goodness! Look how late it is! How did that happen?" he chuckled, pulling Hamish against his chest as he stood up. "I say we go get ready for bed."
The little boy pouted for a moment, clutching the bunny closer. "'Kay, My," he sighed eventually, not wanting to admit his own tiredness. With a yawn he tried, but failed, to conceal, Hamish leaned against Mycroft's shoulder, lulled into a sleepy state by the warm light of the hallway and the gently swaying of his uncle as he walked.
"How about we go get your father?"
"Mmm-hmm. 'Ease."
Smiling fondly at the little boy in his arms, Mycroft made his way through the large house, watching fondly as Hamish played with the ear of the bunny, murmuring contently to himself.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he entered the library, pushing open the large wooden doors. He quickly glanced around the room, raising his eyebrows as he saw the detective's lean figure, gazing out of one of the few windows in the large room.
"Daddy," Hamish called tiredly, reaching his arms out towards his father.
Upon hearing his son's voice, Sherlock turned, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He managed a small smile, chuckling as he saw Hamish's tiny form practically falling out of his brother's arms.
"I'm here, Hamish," he called quietly, hurrying over and taking the little boy into his arms.
"I'm afraid you two are just going to have to stay here tonight," Mycroft drawled, passing the little boy over. "The exit's been snowed in; we have no way to get you out.
"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, pressing his son's tiny form close, eager for his comfort.
"Mmm… Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, glad to be wrapped in the familiar warmth of his father's arms. With a content smile, the little boy leaned forward, pressing his head into the space at the base of the detective's neck.
"Yes," Sherlock murmured, bending down to take a deep breath, calmed by the his son's sweet smell. He shot a quick glance at Mycroft, who was now peering around the library, taking note of all of the books strewn about the floor and desk.
"Come on, then," the detective whispered, not wanting to face his brother's questions just yet. "Let's go get ready for bed."
"'Es, Daddy."
Pressing Hamish close, Sherlock quickly hurried out of the room, embarrassed by the aftershocks of his emotion. "Ohh," he sighed gratefully, once in the hallway. Pressing his eyes closed, the detective took a deep breath, in an effort to steady himself. He tried to find reassurance in the feel of Hamish's cheek pressed against his skin. With a quiet sniffle, Sherlock reached for his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his sorrow.
"Did you have good time with Mycroft?" he managed after a few moments.
"Mmm-hmm. 'Ny," Hamish replied as cheerfully as he could, holding up a tired arm.
"Wow look at that," Sherlock sighed, feigning amazement. "You got a bunny, didn't you? That's wonderful, Hamish."
Smiling fondly at his son's tired from, the detective started to walk forward, slowly making his way down the dimly-lit hallway. "I'm glad you had a good time," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the little boy's curls.
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, nuzzling against his father's skin. "Got 'ny."
Sherlock chuckled, opening the door to what was, for the night, Hamish's room. He sighed in relief as he remembered that it had absolutely no resemblance to his own room. "All right," he sighed quietly, lowering to the ground, as there was no baby-changing station. The detective chuckled as Hamish's head lolled to the side, overcome by his tiredness as he yawned.
"It's been a long day, hmm?" Sherlock asked gently, tugging off the little boy's trousers and shirt. Gazing fondly at his son, the detective quickly changed the little boy's nappy. "Ready?" he whispered, pulling Hamish's almost-limp form into his arms.
"Mmm," the little boy sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned into his father's touch.
"Good," Sherlock whispered, smiling affectionately as he walked over to the crib, starting to lower Hamish into the crib. He stopped suddenly as he heard the little boy gasp and felt his tiny fingers wrapping around his own.
"Daddy," Hamish whispered, sounding almost fearful. He gripped onto Sherlocks' fingers, eyes quickly filling with tears as he stared into his father's eyes, silently begging him not to leave.
"Okay, okay," the detective whispered hurriedly, instantly pulling Hamish back to his chest. "What's wrong, Hamish?" he asked worriedly, running a comforting hand over the little boy's bare back.
Clutching onto his father's suit jacket, the little boy started to sniffle, and he pressed himself even closer to the detective. "No 'ease 'eave, Daddy," Hamish whispered, scrunching his eyes shut as he clung to Sherlock's chest.
"Oh, Hamish," the detective sighed sadly, hugging his son even closer. "I won't leave... I'll stay with you. I know; it's a bit scary here, isn't it?" he asked softly, hoping to ease Hamish's discomfort. Gently swaying back and forth, Sherlock made his way to the corner of the room where there sat an old rocking chair. "Here we are... See? I'm right here," he murmured, settling into the cushions.
"No 'eave?" Hamish asked quietly, still clinging to the detective.
"No. I'm not leaving," Sherlock reassured, bending back to give the little boy a comforting smile. "Promise."
"...'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed, relaxing in his father's arms. "Vl'n?" he asked hopefully.
"Play my violin?" Sherlock murmured, running his thumb over the little boy's smooth skin. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I don't have it with me… But I could sing if you'd like. Would that work?" he asked gently.
"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy."
"Of course." With a loving gaze, Sherlock started to rock back and forth in the chair, allowing Hamish to crawl up towards his face. Sighing contently, the small boy wrapped his arms around the detective's neck; he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's jaw, closing his eyes as he got comfortable. "Mmm. 'Kay Daddy."
"Right." With a quiet breath, the detective placed one hand on his son's tiny back and started to hum a soft, airy tune, one he'd written for Hamish shortly after the little boy had come to live with him.
Enjoying the soothing sound of his father's smooth voice, Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut and he breathed in time with the gentle rocking, body moving against the detective's as he shifted back and forth. "Da," he managed to whisper quietly, before going completely limp in his father's arms.
Sherlock slowly stilled his rocking, though he continued to hum the soft lullaby, tracing circles onto Hamish's bare back with one hand and gently twirling a lock of the little boy's silky hair in the other. Smiling lovingly at his son, the detective left the rocking chair, clutching Hamish close to his chest as he moved to the crib. "Sleep well," he murmured, reluctantly setting the little boy's small body in the cot. With a tender gaze, Sherlock bent over, placing a hand to the side of his son's tiny head, brushing his thumb over the little boy's eyebrow. "Wish me luck," he added, leaning down to press a loving kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Goodnight." With wistful eyes, the detective pulled away, finding the little boy's new toy, and placed the stuffed bunny next to his sleeping form. Then, moving as silently as possible, Sherlock opened one of the diaper bag, pulling out a baby monitor. He quickly clicked it on, placing the small box on a side table close to the crib and then tucked the transmitting end into his pocket.
"Sleep well, Hamish," the detective whispered, quickly slipping out of the room and shutting the door behind him.
"I see you found the letter," Mycroft said quietly as he heard Sherlock enter behind him, sliding the last book into its place on the shelf.
"Mmm," the detective hummed in reply, linking his hands behind his back as he moved towards his brother, squaring his jaw in defiance. "Yes." Sherlock frowned as he reached the desk, staring down at the note. "I'm glad father was able to express how proud he was of you," the detective murmured to himself.
"Is that what this was about?" Mycroft scoffed, gesturing around the room where, previously, the mess of books had been scattered about the floor.
Sherlock paused, quirking his lips in mild embarrassment. "Perhaps," he said quietly, staring across the room at his brother.
"Sherlock, really," Mycroft scolded, giving the detective a dithering book. Raising a distasteful eyebrow at his brother, the government official meandered over to the desk. "I don't understand why you become so upset every time the topic of our father comes up. And don't you think terrorizing my library was a little—"
"Mycroft," Sherlock began quietly, trying to contain the anger and contempt he felt crawling through his blood. "Did it never occur to you why I may react the way I do? Never occur to you to think about the possibility that I may actually be feeling something?"
"Oh, Sherlock, please don't be a child—"
"Perhaps," the detective continued, acting as if his brother had not even spoken. With icy eyes, he started to take slow steps towards Mycroft, voice suspiciously calm as he continued. "Perhaps... I feel the way I do because I had tried everything—everything—in my power to gain father's trust... His pride, his praise... Anything. Yet," he was nearly to his brother now, "no matter how many times I tried, how many grades I brought home, no matter what I did, Mycroft... You were always the perfect one. You were always the one he would take out to dinner. It was you who got the kisses at night, the hugs, the rewards for good work. And yet—no matter how much I succeeded and excelled—it was always you who was perfect, who was wonderful! Destined for greatness!" By now, Sherlock was practically seething, unable to contain his anger as he glared down at Mycroft, eyes burning with the hatred he felt.
"Brother, please—"
"And all because I was different!" Sherlock practically sobbed, face scruching together in a mix of resentment and sorrow. "You got lavish dinners and gifts and everything you asked for because you were the normal one. And what did I get? I got a father who, just because I was not quite like everyone else, would slip into my room in the middle of the night, unable to form a proper sentence because he was so drunk, and do unthinkable things to me while you slept away in your room down the hall. You got kisses at night, Mycroft... And what did I get? I got years and years of abuse and suffering! How do you think that made me feel every night, brother? Watching from my room as our father would stumble away into yours and plant a tender kiss to your head, after having just finished with me! How can you possibly understand how that made me feel?" Overwhelmed by the emotion flooding his body, Sherlock barely noticed as a few a hot tears slid down his cheeks. His chest was heaving as he spoke, the words and emotions he'd kept bottled inside for years finally spilling out.
"You will never understand! Never know how many times I wondered what was wrong me; wondered if I could somehow pull it out, change myself; make me into you, just so I could make the pain stop! Just so I would be able to go to sleep at night, not fearing if father was going to enter at a moment's notice! You will never know that fear, Mycroft, the helplessness one feels afterwards, the questions you ask about how your own father could do something so horrible and vile to you. You just—how?" Body shaking with anger and grief, Sherlock took a deep breath, all of the fight and anger seeming to suddenly vanish from his veins, as he paused. "How can you possibly know how that feels?" the detective whispered, the anger ebbing away as he stared at his brother's horrified face. He quickly glanced at the note on the desk. The note that congratulated Mycroft for all he had succeeded in doing in life... The letter that told of how regretful their father was that Mycroft would have to deal with a brother such as the likes of Sherlock Holmes.
"Damn it, Mycroft," the detective practically gasped, collapsing into a nearby chair. "Can you really not see that you were always the perfect one? Can you not see that you had the only thing I ever wanted: normalcy... How can you possibly know how that feels?" Embarrassed now by his emotional outburst, Sherlock stared at the ground, taking no notice as a few more hot tears slipped free.
Mycroft, who was stunned into silence, stared with sad eyes at his younger brother, drinking in all that the detective had just confessed. "Sherlock," he managed to whisper eventually. "I... I—I'm sorry, Sherlock... I didn't know. I didn't... I'm so sorry."
The detective sighed, chuckling darkly as he wiped the back of his hands over his cheeks, clearing away the tears. "It's all right, Mycroft, " he whispered eventually, pushing himself out of the chair and straightening his suit in an effort to regain some of his composure. "You couldn't have known."
"But I should have," Mycroft said softly, gazing at his brother's sad form. "I am sorry, Sherlock. Had I known..."
"Best not to dwell on the past," Sherlock whispered, lips twitching up in a half-hearted smile. "What's done is done... I uhh... Apologize for the books. That was... Uncalled for."
"Not at all," Mycroft said quietly, reaching forward to pat his brother's shoulder in a rare show of compassion. "Don't worry about it." In an attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, the government official straightened his back, giving Sherlock a small smile. "I understand now why the Ugly Duckling was your favorite childhood book now."
The detective couldn't help but utter something between a laugh and a sob. "Yes, that does seem to explain a lot, hmm?" he chuckled, giving Mycroft a thankful smile. "Thank you," he murmured, resuming his tall composure. "I really appreciate it and—"
"Daddy?" came the muffled call of Hamish's tiny voice. Sherlock paused mid-sentence, suddenly remembering that he had the baby monitor in his pocket. "Oh," he sighed, pulling it out as he heard another frantic cry of his son's voice.
"It's all right. Go and see him," Mycroft reassured gently.
"Thank you, brother," Sherlock said sincerely, giving Mycroft a small smile before disappearing into the dark hallway.
"Hamish, shh. I'm right here," the detective whispered, hurrying into the bedroom. Sherlock almost felt as if his legs might collapse out from under him as he saw his son's tiny form reaching for him in the dark. "Hamish," he sighed in relief, quickly pulling clutching the little boy close to his chest. "I'm sorry... I'm here, it's all right now. Please don't cry..."
"Daddy," Hamish sniffled, snuggling into his father's touch.
"Yes..." Sherlock whispered, softening his grip around the little boy's body. "I'm here, Hamish... Now. What seems to be the problem, hmm?"
Content to be in the detective's arms, Hamish's sniffling ceased. "Hame had scared," the little boy whispered, staring up Sherlock with wide eyes, fistfuls of his father's shirt clutched in each of his hands.
"You were scared, hmm?" the detective murmured, cradling his son's body close to his chest. Thinking, Sherlock paused, gazing down at Hamish with soft eyes. "Come on," he whispered eventually, setting the little boy on the ground and quickly following suit so they were eye-to-eye. "Let's have a walk." Smiling wistfully at his son's beautiful face, Sherlock bent forward, pressing a tender, impromptu kiss to the corner of the little boy's lips.
"Mmm," Hamish sighed contently, reaching forward and wrapping his chubby fingers around the detective's thumb. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, a small, content smile spreading across his face as Sherlock pulled back.
"Wonderful." With fond eyes, the detective stood up, simultaneously guiding Hamish out of the room and into the hallway. "What, Daddy?" the little boy asked, though Sherlock knew his son was really asking where they were going to walk.
"Anywhere," he whispered, releasing his grasp around Hamish's hand to place his fingertips to the back of the little boy's bare back. "I'll follow."
A tiny, almost amazed smile on his face, Hamish reached out, grabbing his father's trousers with one hand for balance and started toddle forward, occasionally tilting backward, only to be caught by Sherlock's capable fingers. "There you go. Very good," the detective would whisper each time.
Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish toddled around, walking up and down countless hallways and corridors, always ready to catch the little boy when he stumbled. The detective chuckled to himself when he noticed that Hamish was starting to lose his energy; the little boy was now resting nearly all of his weight against his leg. "Here," he whispered, bending down to pull the little boy into his arms. "Let's head back, hmm?"
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish yawned, wrapping a chubby hand around the collar of his father's shirt. The little boy watched with tired eyes, head resting against Sherlock's shoulder as the two made their way back to the room.
"You did a very good job," the detective praised quietly, gazing at his son's tired eyes in the dim light.
"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish seemed to ask.
"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's temple. "You did an excellent job."
"Hmm... Daddy..."
Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish's eyes started to flutter shut, opening and closing with the gentle rhythm of his father's pace. "Yes?"
"'Ove," he whispered, draping his arms over Sherlock's shoulders.
The detective smiled, a peaceful warmth running across his chest. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, placing a soft kiss to the top of the little boy's head. "I love you, too..."
"Hmm..." With a small smile gracing his lips, Hamish's eyes slid shut, his grip tightening around his father's neck.
"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, pressing his son's sleeping form closer as he planted a tender kiss to the little boy's curls. "I love you."