Hey guys! So sorry for the cliffhanger with the last chapter, but I felt we needed a little action. Also, sorry for the extra day; I finally got off for Thanksgiving today, so I've been really busy writing this chapter! (I've re-written it several times because it just wasn't working out the way I had wanted it to.) But, I hope this version lives up to your expectations!
Also, I've got finals coming up in a few weeks and, have such been studying like crazy, so finding time to write has been very difficult as of late, hence the extra day between updates. And I feel awful about that, because I had mentioned updating on Tuesday (which did not happen) and because you all have been so supportive and wonderful. (I also have a tendency to feel guilty really easily!) But I truly appreciate you guys. So please just bear with me these next few weeks. =) Thank you all so very much! Words cannot possibly express my immense gratitude I have for you all. So just thank you so very, very much! You guys mean the world!
Hope you enjoy this chapter! (Sorry for the angst in the beginning, though it all ends well, I promise!)
Have a great Thanksgiving everyone!
Chapter Thirty-Three: Recovery
When Sherlock awoke, he could feel strong fingers around his ankles and wrists, as well as several hands supporting his back. Clear he was being loaded into some sort of vehicle, and not wanting his captors to realize he was conscious, Sherlock remained completely still, fighting every urge that was screaming at him to break free and run into the flat, pull Hamish into his arms, and tell his son that everything was going to be all right. But, knowing that doing such a thing could very well result in his own death, as well as the deaths of his loved ones, the detective forced himself to remain completely still and limp; forced himself to keep the tears burning behind his eyes from slipping out.
Sharp mind quickly thinking of an escape plan, Sherlock allowed himself to be tossed into the back of what he soon realized was a large van. The detective couldn't help but flinch slightly at the sound of the large double doors slamming shut. Knowing he was in the back alone, but unsure of whether there was a window that led to the driver's compartment, Sherlock quickly shifted, moving his wrist until it was positioned by his ear. He sighed in relief upon hearing the quiet ticking of the seconds passing by, glad that his watch had not been taken or broken. So far so good.
Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as he heard the van start up, felt the gentle thrum of the engine. Knowing it would not be noticed, the detective' allowed a few warm tears to slide down his cheeks. An unbearable amount of sadness started to burn in his chest as he felt the car start to drive away, taking him further and further away from his son... Away from Hamish.
Chest heaving with saddened breaths, Sherlock leaned back on the floor of the van, allowing his head to rest on the side. Focus. Focus, Sherlock. Trying to calm himself, the detective closed his eyes, and focused on Hamish. Almost smiling at the thought, Sherlock recalled the sweet sound of his son's laughter; focused on the feel of his lips against the little boy's smooth skin.
"Okay," he sighed aloud, too quiet for anyone to hear. Mind quickly becoming more and more clear, as he was soothed by the reassuring thoughts of his son, Sherlock returned to his thoughts, already preparing a way of escape, though he knew it would only work under the proper circumstances.
Knowing that Mycroft would be watching and following them as long as the CCTV had eyes on van, Sherlock waited, mentally keeping track of each road the car took.
As soon as he noticed they had left the familiar streets of London, Sherlock blurred out the sounds of the world passing by around the car and focused on the ticking of the seconds hand on his watch. Noticing the way the car was bouncing around more than it had in the previous minutes, the detective knew they had left the city and were traveling on a much less-traveled, more worn road.
Listening to the ticking of his watch, Sherlock counted each second, noting until there was a change in the road.
One, two, three... Ten, eleven, twelve... Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. Left turn.
One, two, three... Six, Seven, Eight. Left turn.
One, two. Right turn.
One, two, three, four. Left turn. Change of pavement. Gravel.
Forty-nine seconds. Right turn. Change of pavement. Concrete. Old. Worn.
Stop.
Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the car turn off; the gentle thrum of the engine quickly dissipating. He waited, not bothering to close his eyes, until the back doors open, flooding the van with a dim light.
"Ah," came the voice of the man he head heard earlier. "You're awake. Get him out."
Squinting slightly at the light, Sherlock pushed himself up. "I'm more than capable of doing it on my own," he said cooly, sliding out of the car and straightening his scarf as he stood to his full length, fixing the captor with an icy gaze. The detective's eyes quickly flicked around him, taking in as much information about his surroundings as he could.
Seven men. All armed. Abandoned industrial building in the background. Makeshift headquarters. Leader: 47 years of age. Unmarried. Expensive suit; values appearance. Ring on left index finger—
"Mr. Holmes," the man in the suit drawled, taking a step closer to the detective. "If you would please stop your deductions, I would greatly appreciate getting to work." With a quick nod of his head, the six other men quickly dispersed, two moving back towards the van and the remaining four heading towards the building. "Come along, Mr. Holmes."
With a quick twitch of his lips, Sherlock followed the man, eyes quickly scanning around him for any clues as to a way out. He knew that with each man armed, simply attempting to escape would most certainly result in his death, or worse.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked calmly, linking his fingers behind his back as he followed the man into the old building, coat billowing behind his long strides.
"Someone in need of help," the man chuckled.
Sherlock's lips quirked up in mild interest as he entered the building and quickly followed the much-shorter man down a series of long hallways until they eventually reached an old, grey room. Following a gesture from the man in the suit, the detective entered, sitting down at a large, metal table and linking his fingers on the tabletop as he waited for his captor to follow suit.
"Mr. Holmes, I need your help," the man started, shutting the door behind him. "My name is Salem Zorack. And I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a clench."
Sherlock watch carefully as Zorack sat in the chair opposite, pulling a picture out of his breast pocket. "You know this man," he stated plainly, tossing the image across the table.
Sherlock made sure to keep his expression completely emotionless as he stared down at an old photograph of his brother. "Obviously," he murmured plainly, raising an eyebrow at the man.
"Obviously," Zorack chuckled, smirking at the detective. "Good. Well, your brother, Mycroft Holmes, has something I require and I need you to get it for me."
"Oh? And what exactly has he taken?" Sherlock asked smugly, raising a curious eyebrow.
"Something of deep importance. That's all."
"Of course." Rolling his eyes and heaving a deep sigh, the detective leaned back in the chair, letting his folded hands slide onto his lap. "No."
"No? Are you sure?"
"Quite."
"Well... That's unfortunate," Zorack sighed dramatically, pulling Mycroft's picture away and tucking it back into his pocket. "I will return in three hours to see if you have changed your mind."
Giving the detective sad smile, Zorack turned, and quickly exited the dismal room, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Taking a deep breath and attempting to sort through his thoughts, Sherlock stood, knowing that, for the time being, he was just going to have to remain captive and wait.
Releasing the breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, the detective slipped a hand in his pocket, feeling around the phone he knew wasn't there. Sherlock stopped however as his the back of his fingertips brushed a cross the smooth surface of glass.
Trying, to stop the new wave of tears threatening to fall as he felt the magnifying glass Hamish had given him for this birthday nestled safely in his pocket, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as he wrapped his hand around the gift, glad to have a little something of Hamish with him. Twirling the smooth glass in his fingertips, the detective closed his eyes, loweing his guard and allowing himself to, if only for a moment, escape to his thoughts.
"Damn it," Mycroft muttered angrily as he saw the man hit his brother alongside the head; saw the detective quickly tumble to the ground. Eyes glued to the man CCTV screens in front of him, Mycroft quickly dialed another number and waited impatiently for an answer from the other line.
"Mycroft?" John asked, surprised to be receiving a call from his flat mate's brother, of all people.
"John, he's been taken," Mycroft said plainly, the stress evident in his voice.
Expression suddenly going serious as he understand, the doctor's attention immediately flew to Sherlock's room, where he knew Hamish was sleeping. "What happened?"
"There's a series of men who... Believe I have stolen information from them that is rightfully theirs. However, when I refused to expose said information, they retaliated, turning to the one person they thought would be able to get them their way."
"Sherlock," John inputted quietly, gaze still lingering on the detective's door.
"Yes... John, I'm sorry."
"That's all right. It's not your fault," the doctor murmured, his attention now turning to Sherlock and all of the possibilities of what could be happening to him. "Do you know where he is?"
"Sort of. I have them as far as my cameras can see... However, I have my people out and searching in all directions... We will find him, John."
"Sure... But what am I supposed to tell Hamish until then, Mycroft?"
A pause.
"Tell him Sherlock's helping me with a very important case, and as such, had to leave suddenly, but will be returning home shortly."
"Yes, fine. But what if he doesn't return home, Mycroft? Then what am I supposed to tell him?" John hissed, anger and fear burning in his chest at the thought.
"I'm sorry. I'm trying everything I can, John."
"... Right." With a nod of his head, John took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, still staring sadly towards Sherlock's room. "God," he muttered sadly, brows drawing together as he thought of what might be happening to his flat mate... "No," he whispered out loud, quickly clenching his fists together at the thought that the detective might not come back. "Sorry, Mycroft not you."
"Ah. I see. Apologies. John? There is one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Sherlock has... If anything should happen to him, he has give you sole custody of Hamish. I just wanted to give some sort of warning if... If something goes wrong, that's all."
"He... He made me Hamish's guardian?" John asked quietly, clearly shocked. "When did he..."
"Shortly after he adopted Hamish," Mycroft answered softly.
Despite the circumstances, John managed a small smile, amazed that Sherlock had entrusted his son's life with him. "Thank you, Mycroft," he thanked quietly, smiling fondly towards his friend's room.
"Of course. I shall call you if and when I discover anything."
"Yes. Just... Find him, all right?"
"Trying." With a gentle click of the line, Mycroft was gone, leaving the doctor alone in the quiet flat, left only with his worrisome thoughts.
John spent the rest of the night and early morning pacing back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, occasionally kneading his fingers into his forehead as another hour would slip by with no call from Mycroft, dreading each second that passed, as it brought him closer and closer to when Hamish would wake.
Almost exactly ten hours after the call from Mycroft, the doctor was seated in his chair, rubbing circles into his tempe, when he heard a gentle rustling coming from Sherlock's room.
Knowing Hamish had woken, and feeling his heart quicken in his chest, John hurried over towards the detective's door and entered the room.
"Hey, little man," he whispered cheerfully upon seeing Hamish, rubbing tiredly into his eyes as he sat up in bed, one of his stuffed animals clutched close to his tiny chest.
"Mmm... Morn', John," the little boy yawned, quickly collapsing back onto the bed.
"Morning, Hamish," the doctor chuckled. Smiling sadly at the little boy, John moved over and sat down on the bed, placing a gentle hand on Hamish's back.
"Daddy?" the little boy mumbled tiredly, turning his head agains the sheets to stare at John.
"Hamish," the doctor started carefully, making sure not too sound how he actually felt. "Daddy had to go help Mycroft with a case really late last night. So he left to go help Uncle Mycroft, but he should be back here in a little while, all right?"
"Daddy case at My?" Hamish asked confusedly, pressing his face into the sheets as he yawned again.
"Yes, Hamish. He's helping Mycroft with a case and might not be back for several days… Is that all right?"
"Stay at John?"
"Yes. I'll be right here with you the whole time."
"'Kay," Hamish said cheerfully, pushing himself up in the bed. "Good."
"Oh," John sighed in relief, closing his eyes as he rubbed another circle into the little boy's back. "Good…"
"'Es, John. Get?" Hamish asked expectantly, eyes quickly falling to his father's closet.
"Hmm? Oh! Yes, of course. I'll go get one." Giving the little boy a reassuring smile, the doctor left the bed and hurried over to Sherlock's closet. Sifting through the shirts, he quickly found the purple button-up (Hamish's favorite) and hurried back to the bed. "There you," he murmured, handing the fabric to Hamish.
"Mmm," the little boy sighed contently, burying his face in the familiar shirt that smelled of his father. "Ta, John," he whispered.
"You're very welcome, Hamish." John smiled at the little boy
Suspecting it would not take long for Mycroft to find the poorly-hidden headquarters, Sherlock waited out the next several hours, trying to ignore the aching feeling in his chest.
The man, Zorack, kept true to his word and every three hours would enter the tiny room and ask Sherlock for any information on his brother. And each time, the detective would refuse. By the second day, however, his captor was becoming more and more impatient. As a result, each time Sherlock would refuse to release any information on his brother, he would earn a single blow.
By the end of the second day, Sherlock's cheeks were battered and bruised, his arms and back colored with bruises and his whole body ached with want to see his son. Focusing on the comforting thoughts of his son, the detective remained strong throughout the beatings… Even when they doubled on the third day.
By the third day, it was clear Hamish was missing his father. The little boy had started to carry his father's purple shirt with him wherever he went, and had even begun to sleep the fabric, clutching it close as he slept.
John had also started to notice that the little boy was becoming much more emotional, crying more often and becoming upset and flustered with very simple tasks.
Having received no word from Mycroft, the doctor was becoming increasingly worried with the thought that his friend might already be dead… Which would mean Hamish's care would be entirely in his hands.
Trying to shove the thought away and remain positive, John gazed down at Hamish with fond eyes. The little boy had fallen asleep on the floor, halfway through a Thomas the Tank Engine episode.
Careful not to wake him, John crouched down and pulled the little boy into his arms. Knowing he would probably wake up at some point during the night to come sleep with him, as he had the past two nights, the doctor just placed Hamish's sleeping form on the couch, careful not to pull Sherlock's shirt out from his tiny grasp.
"Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, running his fingers over the little boy's cheek and brushing some hair out of his eyes.
Just as he was about to pull away, though, he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Hope swelling in his chest, John quickly pulled the mobile out and held it to his hear. "Mycroft?"
"John, we found him. Get outside; I have a car waiting. Do not bring Hamish."
"Yes." Heart pounding with adrenaline, the doctor quickly rushed downstairs and quickly asked Mrs. Hudson to watch Hamish before rushing outside and into the waiting car.
Expecting that Mycroft had probably identified his location by now, Sherlock leaned against the grey wall, waiting for the next beating he knew would be coming soon.
Though he refused to give his captor's the satisfaction by showing it, Sherlock was absolutely exhausted. He had not slept once since arriving, and in the days prior to the kidnapping had gotten limited amounts of sleep, as well. Not to mention the lack of fluid intake.
Understanding how everything was going to play out, and knowing that Zorack would return in a few moments to ask the same question again, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out Hamish's magnifying glass. Smiling wistfully at the object, the detective quickly brushed the pad of his thumb over the glass and felt a sad constricting in his chest.
Sherlock didn't even bother to look up as he heard the door slowly creak open.
"Now, Mr. Holmes. I will ask you again. Do you—"
"No," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, not allowing his gaze to leave the glass in his hands.
Practically vibrating with anger, Zorack rushed over and threw the small object across the room before turning on the detective, hand clenched into fists.
Sherlock winced slightly as he heard the loud crash of the glass shattering against the wall and felt a strong pang of guilt and sadness course through his veins as he caught a glimpse of the broken remains lying on the ground.
"I have asked and asked and asked!" Zorack screamed, quickly punching Sherlock across his cheek. "And nothing! Do you not want to see your child again? Not that I'm surprised. As if someone like you could possibly love a child," he spat, landing another blow to the detective's face.
Though he had been able to remain completely calm through all of the other beatings, refusing to show pain so Zorack would have the satisfaction, Sherlock felt an anger burning deep in his stomach at the man's words. Knowing John was on his way and Mycroft was already here (clear from a distinct change in Zorack's behavior several hours ago), the Sherlock quickly kicked his captor in the stomach and in one swift move and traveled to the other side of the room and grabbed a large shard of glass, using it as his weapon.
Stunned from the kick, Zorack quickly collapsed onto the ground, clutching his stomach. Anger still burning through his chest, Sherlock rushed over crouched down, getting close to the man's face. "Do not… Speak of my son… Ever again." With another final kick, Sherlock grabbed Zorack's keys and rushed out of the room, gulping in the a large amount of the fresh air circulating through the hallway. Before continuing, he turned and locked the door behind him.
Remembering how they had entered the building, Sherlock quickly turned to his left and hurried down the corridor, prepared to attack if necessary. He stopped however, leaning against the wall for support as the lack of energy started to wear down on him, upon hearing a series of gunshots. "John," he sighed in relief, knowing that Mycroft would have called the doctor.
Using that tiny surge of hope as his energy, Sherlock shoved away from the wall and hurried down the corridor, taking long strides as he went.
By the time the detective found John, near the entrance, he had only come across two men. Glad to see his friend's familiar face, Sherlock rushed over to the doctor. "John," he breathed, eyes quickly scanning around behind him for any more attackers. He could see Mycroft's people ushering several men into police cars.
"Are you all right?" John asked, keeping his gun poised and ready in case there should be any more attackers.
"I'm fine. Hamish?"
"He's all right, just…" John paused upon turning and seeing his friend's battered face for the first time. "God," he muttered sadly, taking in the many cuts and bruises. "Sherlock I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," Sherlock said, waving the thought away with a slight shake of his head. "John, I need you to take me to him. Now. Mycroft can finish everything here."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry." With a quick scan around, the doctor lowered his gun and turned, gesturing for Sherlock to follow as he hurried out the entrance.
"Where's my brother?" the detective asked tiredly as John led him to one of Mycroft's cars.
"Don't know. He just called me, told me to get in the car, and when I got here all of this—" the doctor briefly gestured to Mycroft's men ushering the captors into a van. "—was already happening."
"I see. Probably not ready to face me just yet."
"How do you mean?" John asked confusedly as the car started up and quickly drove away from the scene.
"Explain later. How's Hamish?"
"He's all right. He was starting to get a little worried, I think. You remember when I told you that when you leave, I give him one of your shirts to hold on to?"
"Yes."
"Well he refused to let of it today and started sleeping with it, which has never happened before. But don't worry, I didn't tell him… You know. He thinks you left to help Mycroft on a case."
"Excellent," Sherlock sighed in relief, though he was still saddened by the thought of his son clutching so eagerly to his shirt, which clearly signaled anxiety.
"Are you all right?"
"Hmm? Me? Yes, fine… Fine," Sherlock murmured, anxious to get home to his son.
"Okay… Could you go a little faster, please?" John asked the driver, clearly sensing his friend's distress.
As soon as the car reached the flat, Sherlock bolted for the door (as well as he could) and entered the flat, desperate to see his son.
"Oh! Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried quietly upon seeing the state of the detective. Hurrying down the stairs, she quickly cradled Sherlock's face in her hand, frowning sadly at the many cuts. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock whispered, giving the woman a friendly smile. "I promise. Where is he?"
"Oh. He's upstairs. Still sleeping." With a quick kiss to his forehead, Mrs. Hudson escaped to her flat, wanting to give them some time alone, as she tried to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.
Using the wall for support, and with a little help from John, Sherlock stumbled up the stairs, trying to fight away the dizziness he felt as he leaned against the doorframe for support.
Sherlock's entire body froze, however, upon seeing Hamish lying on the couch with one of his shirts clutched to his chest, the little boy's form curled around the fabric as he slept.
Both out of exhaustion and relief at seeing his son, the detective collapsed to his knees, bittersweet tears stinging his eyes. "Hamish," he whispered breathlessly, staring at the little boy's sleeping from. Choking something between a laugh of relief and a sob, Sherlock felt a single hot tear slide out of the corner of his eye as he watched his son's gentle breathing, saw how one of his shirts was clutched between the little boy's chubby hands.
Upon hearing his father's voice, Hamish awoke with a tiny sigh, his eyes slowly fluttering open as he subconsciously clutched Sherlock's shirt closer. "Da'ey?" he mumbled hopefully, sitting up on the couch and looking around the flat in an attempt to find his father.
"Hamish," Sherlock murmured again, chest heaving with an overwhelming sense of emotion and love for his son. "I'm here." Smiling sadly and with tears quickly filling his eyes, the detective grasped onto the wall with one hand and opened his arm, silently beckoning for his son's embrace.
"Daddy!" Hamish gasped. Shirt instantly forgotten, the little boy quickly slid off the couch and hurried towards his father, a wide grin gracing his beautiful features. "Daddy!" he sighed, tears steadily filling his eyes as he ran into Sherlock's welcoming arms.
"I'm so sorry, Hamish," the detective breathed, leaning against the doorframe for support as he wrapped his arms around the little boy's tiny body. Somehow his son's form seemed even smaller in his arms as he held him close, frantically running his fingers over Hamish's curls, his back, his arms. "I'm so sorry. I didn't meant to leave for such a long time. I've just... I missed you so much, Hamish," Sherlock barely managed, voice just a whisper as an overwhelming stream of emotions crashed over him; made his heart ache in his chest. "I love you so much, Hamish... And I'm very sorry."
"Da'ey..." Sniffling as a few hot tears slid down his sweet cheeks, Hamish pressed himself further into Sherlock, clutching onto the detective's coat as he sniffled. "Daddy," he sighed gratefully, thankful to be back in his father's comforting arms. "Hame miss," he cried, scrambling upwards in an attempt to move closer to the detective.
"I know. I know you have... I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, using much of the energy he had left to lift the little boy upwards, pressing his small body as close as he could and burying his face in his son's curls, nearly falling over as a new wave of emotions and exhaustion crashed over him. "I love you, Hamish. And I need you to know that, all right? I'm so sorry I left," he breathed, quickly pressing frantic kisses to the little boy's auburn hair and cheeks, wanting to keep his son safely wrapped in his arms, almost as reassurance for both of them that the other was not leaving.
"Sherlock," John whispered softly, placing a hand on the detective's shoulder.
"Yes. Yes, I know... John? Please, I... I can't leave him," Sherlock murmured, allowing a few more tears to slip free as he tucked Hamish's head under his chin, running a soothing palm up and down the little boy's back.
"All right," the doctor murmured eventually, smiling sadly at his two flat mates. "Come on. We can bring him with us."
With a quick breath of relief, Sherlock curled forward, wrapping his entire body around Hamish's small form and pressing another quick, loving kiss atop the little boy's curls. "Come on, Hamish," he murmured. With the help of John and leaning against the wall for additional support, the detective stood, and pulled Hamish onto his chest before making his way down the stairs and into the cab waiting outside.
"Hmm," the little boy sighed, quickly snuggling further into his father's hold as they made their way down the stairs. "Daddy," he whispered quietly, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck as they entered the cab.
"I'm right here... I promise," the detective murmured comfortingly, leaning back against the seat of the cab as John slid in behind him. "Look at me," he urged quietly, placing a tender hand to the back of his son's head. Glad that in the dim light his son would not be able to see the cuts he knew were covering his cheeks, Sherlock waited patiently as Hamish hesitantly leaned back in his arms. He frowned sadly as he felt the little boy's grip tighten on his coat.
"Daddy," Hamish whispered softly, staring up at his father with wide, sad.
"Shh... It's all right," Sherlock murmured, running the back of his fingertips across the little boy's chubby, tear-stained cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Hamish. I promise. I'm here. I'm not leaving... Oh, Hamish. Please don't cry. I promise. I'm right here..." Eyes quickly filling with tears again, the detective leaned forward, pressing his lips to the tip of Hamish's nose. "I'm right here," he whispered against the little boy's skin.
With a tiny sigh, Hamish's eyes fluttered closed with the kiss and he fell forward, head bumping against Sherlock's collarbone as he leaned into the detective's chest, chest heaving as he desperately tried to stay awake.
"Shh... Hamish, it's all right. You can rest now. I promise, I'll explain everything later. But for now... Just sleep... You've been such a brave little boy, Hamish. And I am so proud of you. I missed you so much."
"'Ove, Daddy?"
"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, leaning back once again so he could stare into his son's deep green eyes. "I will always love you. I love you more than you can possibly imagine, Hamish." Giving the tired little boy a reassuring smile, the detective reached forward and placed his palm across Hamish's chest. "I love you with all my heart," he whispered. "And nothing—no matter how long we may be away from each other—is going to change that... I love you, Hamish."
"Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, a tiny smile spreading across his face at his father's words. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered, reaching forward to place a tiny hand to Sherlock's chest, covering his heart. "'Ove heart, Daddy."
Unable to stop the huge swell of love fluttering through his chest, Sherlock reached down, taking his son's tiny hand in his own and pulled it to his lips, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's chubby palm. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured against the skin. "I love you."
"Mmm-hmm." Eyes quickly drooping and fluttering open and closed, Hamish leaned forward, tiredly resting his head against Sherlock's chest and snuggling forward into the detective's middle. "See... Seep, Daddy?" he asked quietly, eyes already slipping shut as he rested his weight against Sherlock's chest.
"Of course, Hamish. Sleep. I'll stay right here with you, all right? I love you." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock watched with gentle eyes as Hamish's hand curled in his own, and as the little boy quickly fell asleep, a content smile resting on his lips. "Goodnight," he whispered, pressing his son's hand close to his chest and covering it with his own.
"He's going to be all right, Sherlock," John assured gently, smiling at his two flat mates.
"I know, I know... I just..."
"It's okay. No need to explain; I understand."
"Thank you, John."
When the trio arrived at the hospital, Hamish was still sleeping soundly against Sherlock's chest, a hand clutching a fistful of the his father's shirt as it rested safely underneath the detective's own fingers.
Careful not to wake him, Sherlock slowly followed John out of the cab, keeping Hamish's sleeping form nestled safely against his chest.
"All right," John sighed, returning from the check-in counter. "They just want to do a general check-up, but they doubt you'll need to be kept overnight. They do want to see you immediately, though. So how about I take him while you head in?"
"Yes." Staring down at his son with loving eyes, Sherlock—almost reluctantly—passed the slumbering boy to John. "Thank you."
"Of course."
John waited patiently with Hamish sleeping in his arms, thankful the little boy was actually sleeping peacefully...
"Ah. Here we are," he sighed quietly as he saw Sherlock emerge from the office. "There you go." Giving his friend a reassuring smile, John quickly passed Hamish back.
The little boy stirred slightly at the movement, but, upon realizing he was safely in his father's arms, Hamish quickly fell back to sleep.
"Shh," Sherlock murmured, running his fingertips of the back of his son's head, smiling at the familiar feel of the little boy's curls against his skin and realizing how much he'd truly missed it.
"And?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Free to go home, just need rest, unhealthy eating habits, nothing I didn't already know."
"Right," John chuckled, shaking his head as he made his way towards the exit, with Sherlock following closely behind.
When the three reached the flat, Sherlock felt so exhausted, he wasn't sure he was going to make it up the stairs. After taking a deep breath, and pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple, the detective slowly slid out of the cab after John and made his way to the flat.
Hamish awoke about halfway up the stairs, jostled awake by the movement. "Hmm... Da'ey?" he murmured into Sherlock's chest.
"Yes, Hamish. I'm right here," the detective murmured, quickly clearing the last few steps. "We're home now. It's all right."
"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." Snuggling further into his father's hold as he yawned, Hamish shifted, moving upward and pressing his cheek to the base of Sherlock's neck, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the detective's curly hair between his tiny fingers.
"Right," John sighed, tucking his keys into his pocket as they finally entered the flat. "You need to go sleep. Now," the doctor said seriously, raising an eyebrow at his friend.
"Believe me, I know," Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly, glancing down as Hamish shifted in his arms.
Giving the two a small smile, John moved forward, gently patting the detective on the arm. "Would you like a moment with him?"
"Please."
"Of course..."
Giving his friend a tired, yet thankful smile, Sherlock bent down, resting his cheek atop Hamish's small head as he turned back towards his room.
"Seep, Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, voice muffled against the detective's coat as he spoke.
"Yes, Hamish. We're going to sleep... But first," Sherlock sighed, wincing slightly as he knelt down on the ground. "I need to tell you something." Knowing Hamish would notice the many cuts littering his skin, now that there was more light, the detective slowly eased his son's body away from his own, gently holding the little boy by his arms.
"Hamish," he whispered quickly as he saw his son's eyes widen with sadness upon seeing the gashes covering his cheeks.
"Daddy," the little boy gasped, gripping onto the sleeve of his father's shirt as his eyes frantically flitted over the detective's bruised face. "Daddy!"
"Shh, Hamish, listen to me. I'm all right, just please listen..." Sherlock murmured frantically, running his fingertips up and down his son's small arms. "Here. Look right at me, Hamish. Shh, I'm all right."
Sniffling and with tears quickly filling his eyes, Hamish looked anxiously into his father's steel-grey eyes, tiny chest heaving with worried breaths.
"I'm right here, Hamish," Sherlock whispered comfortingly, reaching up to cradle the little boy's head in the palm of his hand. "And I promise... I am not going to leave you. Hamish, I need you to listen to me very carefully, all right? Can you do that for me?" he asked softly, giving his son a reassuring smile.
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered softly, leaning into the detective's touch.
"Hamish," Sherlock began, eyes quick scanning over his son's beautiful face, drinking in the features he'd missed so much over the past days. "I love you, Hamish... I love you more than words can describe. And I will never—never—leave you. I am always going to be here with you, and I need you to know that... And I am so sorry that I left. But I need you to know that just because I had to go for a little while, it doesn't mean I love you any less. You are my son, Hamish, and I love you so incredibly much, I... I didn't even think it was possible to feel this much love for one person," Sherlock breathed, eyes quickly welling with tears as he stared at his son. "I'm so sorry... I'm not going to leave you, Hamish. I couldn't bear it. I will always be here to love and protect you," he whispered, moving his hand and placing it over Hamish's tiny chest. "Always... I'm not leaving. I'm right here."
"Daddy," the little boy whispered, a small smile dancing across his lips as tears of joy filled his impossibly deep green eyes. "Daddy!" Sniffling, Hamish rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing himself as close to the detective as he could. "Hame 'ove, Daddy," he whispered against the detective's skin at the base of his neck. "Hame miss."
"I know. I know, you did... I missed you so much, too, Hamish," Sherlock cried softly, wrapping his arms around Hamish's small body and pulling him closer. "But I'm here now... I've got you."
Overcome with emotion and tiredness, Sherlock leaned against the side of the bed as he ran a soothing hand up and down his son's back, feeling a rush of warmth flood his chest. "I've got you."
"'Es, Daddy... Hame stay?"
"Yes. You can stay with me," Sherlock murmured as he pressed a soft kiss to Hamish's curls.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Hamish?"
With a tiny sigh, the little boy backed away from his father's embrace, a tiny smile brightening his entire face.
Sherlock watched with a fond gaze as Hamish studied his face with concentrated eyes, beautiful features scrunching together as he thought.
"Ouch, Daddy," the little boy murmured sadly. Carefully, so as not to hurt his father, Hamish took one of his chubby hands and moved it closer and closer to Sherlock's cheeks.
"It's all right, Hamish," the detective encouraged gently.
Eyes quickly flitting to his father's light grey irises, Hamish continued placing an incredibly gentle hand to Sherlock's cheek, just under the large gash that flew across his cheekbone. "Ouch, Daddy," he whispered sadly, taking in all of the tiny cuts and bruises. "Ouch?"
Smiling sadly at his son, Sherlock reached forward and brushed his thumb over the little boy's own cheek, tracing up his cheekbone. "Only a little," he lied, not wanting to worry Hamish anymore than he already had.
"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief, fingers gently curling against the detective's skin as he smiled. "'Kay, Daddy. Kiss?"
"That would be lovely, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, watching with gentle eyes as the little boy pulled his hand away and scooted forward. Closing his eyes, the detective lowered his head so as to allow easier access for Hamish.
With one hand on his father's collarbone for balance, Hamish leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock's lips in an incredibly tender kiss. "Daddy," he sighed against the skin, closing his eyes as he reached up, pressing his chubby palm to the detective's neck.
"I'm here, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, leaning forward and wrapping his son in a comforting embrace. "I'm here."
"Seep, Daddy?"
Chuckling softly, Sherlock turned, and pressed a tender kiss of his own to Hamish's temple. "Of course. Come on." Using his last bit of energy, the detective stood, pulling Hamish up with him, discarded his coat, and slid into the bed.
Fighting to keep his eyes open, Sherlock waited patiently while the little boy got situated.
"Seep, Daddy," Hamish whispered, crawling on top of the detective's chest. "Seep."
Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock reached up and splayed his fingers across the little boy's back. "I love you so much," he murmured, giving Hamish a warm smile.
"'Ove, Daddy," the little boy whispered. "Seep now." Giving his father a smile of his own, Hamish crawled forward until he was practically sitting on Sherlock's face. "Seep, Daddy," he whispered, as he pressed a gentle hand to his father's cheek. "Seep."
Smiling underneath Hamish's comforting touch, Sherlock's eyes started to slowly slip shut. "Hamish," he whispered, hand starting to go limp.
"Nigh', Daddy," the little boy whispered, bending down to press another gentle kiss to his father's nose. "Hame 'ove. Heart." With slow, careful movement, Hamish took his father's much larger hand and moved it to his chest, covering his heart, before doing the same and placing both of his chubby hands to Sherlock's chest. "'Ove, Daddy."
Unable to stop the swell of love in his chest, Sherlock reached leaned forward, barely noticing as a few hot tears slid free, and pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead.
"I love you with all my heart," he whispered, lips brushing against his son's smooth skin as he spoke.
"Hmm." Sighing contently and with a small smile, Hamish slid off of Sherlock's chest. "Nigh' nigh," he whispered, snuggling against the detective's side.
"Goodnight, Hamish. Thank you so much," Sherlock murmured, wrapping an arm around Hamih's tiny body and pulling him closer. "I love you."
Smiling as he felt his son nuzzle closer to his side, Sherlock allowed his eyes to slide shut, quickly falling asleep with the comfort of Hamish at his side.
"Hmm," Hamish sighed contently, closing his eyes and draping his arm across his father's chest as he smiled, glad to be wrapped in the comfort of Sherlock's arms. "'Ove, Daddy." With a small smile of his own, Hamish took a deep breath, and with a fistful of the detective's shirt clutched between his fingers, the little boy fell asleep, father and son finally united once again.