Hey guys! This is just sort of a little fluffy cute chapter for the end of the week. Hope you all enjoy it and have a wonderful next few days! =) Thanks everyone! You all are great!
Oh! Also, want to apologize in advance for the errors! I've had so little time to write, let alone proof it! If you find any that are just awful (the spellcheck on this thing is truly horrendous, so who knows what crazy sentence you may find), please let me know and I'll change it! =)
Thanks! You all are wonderful and I really appreciate it!
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Quiet Day... Almost
When John awoke and slowly meandered down the stairs, still dressed in his pajamas, he found Sherlock, immaculately dressed as usual, sitting at the kitchen, crowded around his microscope as he scribbled notes onto several pieces of paper, face tensed in an expression the doctor had come to recognize as frustration.
"Morning," the detective mumbled, uttering a small grunt of annoyance as he tossed down the pen in his hand and turned back to the microscope.
"Morning," John yawned, crossing to the other side of the table and glancing tiredly at his friend's notes. "Did you even sleep at all?"
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, giving a small shake of his head.
"Three days?" John sighed, clearly exasperated.
"Three days and four hours, to be precise," the detective murmured, adjusting the magnification on his microscope.
"Sherlock, you need to sleep."
"Transport."
"Please," John groaned, rolling his eyes at the detective. "Can I help?"
"Coffee would be lovely, thank you," Sherlock smirked.
Glancing at the ceiling and holding in the choice words he had for his friend, John merely turned and started the machine running. "Hamish still asleep?"
"Yes. Long... Usually he's up by now," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly. Realizing that the little boy rarely slept in this late, and always one to assume the worst, the detective quickly fled from his chair and hurried down the hallway.
Moving as quickly and quietly as possible, Sherlock silently pushed open the door to his bedroom and hurried over to the bed. The detective smiled gently in relief as he saw Hamish, curled around one of the many pillows on the bed, his tiny body slowly moving up and down as he breathed.
Chuckling softly to himself, Sherlock moved forward and sat down on the bed, watching with soft eyes as Hamish shifted slightly in the bed, clearing sensing the movement.
"Hmm," the little boy hummed, stretching as he slowly awoke. "Da…" he started tiredly, voice raw with sleep.
"Shh, it's just me," Sherlock murmured, reaching forward and gently scratching his fingertips over his son's clothed back. "Sorry I woke you… You slept a long time, Hamish."
"Hmm? Lot?"
"Yes. A lot," the detective chuckled, pulling his hand away as Hamish rolled onto his back.
"Oh. 'Kay, Da'ey," the little boy sighed, tiredly scooting himself towards Sherlock and curling against the detective's thigh as he closed his eyes, yawning widely into the soft fabric of his father's trousers.
"Would you like to rest for a bit longer?" Sherlock chuckled, gazing down at his son with an endearing smile.
"Mmm," the little boy hummed in response, rolling over and reaching his arms up towards the detective. "Up, Daddy?" he whispered hopefully, eyes heavy with sleep.
"Of course." Smiling fondly at the little boy, Sherlock bent down and pulled Hamish's limp form into his arms, nestling him comfortably against his chest.
Taking a deep, content breath, Hamish snuggled closer to his father and reached up, draping his arms over the detective's shoulders as he tried to blink away the tiredness.
"Ta, Daddy," he sighed contently, absentmindedly grabbing a handful of curls resting at the nape of Sherlock's neck as they made their way out of the room.
"You're welcome," the detective chuckled, giving Hamish a gentle pat on the back as he rounded the corner and entered the kitchen.
"Hey, Hame," John whispered, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Morning, sleepyhead," he chuckled, hurrying over to give Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Hmm," Hamish giggled bashfully, burying his face against his father's neck. "Morn' John."
"Morning," the doctor murmured again, running a quick hand up the little boy's back before returning to the coffee.
"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked gently, swaying back and forth as he waited for John.
The doctor couldn't help but chuckle to himself. It never ceased to amaze him how his flat mate's entire demeanor always changed the instant he was with Hamish; suddenly, Sherlock would be more gentle, more loving and more kind, not just to Hamish, but to all around him. The detective also seemed to be happier in general. John couldn't help but smile at the thought.
Upon hearing his friend chuckle to himself, Sherlock looked towards the doctor, automatically assessing his facial expressions and body language. "What is it?" he asked quietly, as Hamish was starting to fall asleep in his arms.
"What? Oh. Nothing, I was just thinking."
"About?"
"You," John replied instantly blushing when he saw the smirk on Sherlock's lips and realized how that had sounded. "No, no, not like that. I mean about how you've changed... How he's changed you."
"How do you mean?" the detective murmured, genuinely interested.
"I don't know... You've gone all... Soft," John replied, with a quick gesture of his hand. "You're much different when he's around. You become gentle, and more kind, not only to him, but those around you."
"Really?" Sherlock murmured, absentmindedly running his fingers through his son's soft curls. "I suppose I've never really thought about it."
"It's nice. I think everyone appreciates the nicer version of Sherlock Holmes," John chuckled, giving his friend a warm smile.
"Soft," the detective murmured, clearly lost in his own thoughts. "Yes... Yes, I suppose he has changed me, hasn't he?"
"Yes... It's not a bad thing, you know," John added softly, knowing Sherlock was contemplating what he'd just told him.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes. I... I just couldn't image being my "normal self", as I suppose you would call it, around him. I suppose it's because I feel he's too sweet and gentle to treat him with anything less, that's all," the detective murmured, cheeks flushing a light pink at his own words.
John paused, staring at Sherlock, almost frozen in his spot at his flat mate's rare show of verbal affection, and he couldn't help but smile to himself. "No need to feel embarrassed," he said quietly, gaze momentarily falling to Hamish's sleeping from in the detective's arms. "It's nice."
"Right. Yes. I... Suppose it is," Sherlock mumbled quietly, glancing down at his son. His lips quirked up into a small half-smile as felt the small boy's breath against his skin.
"Right. Good. Uhh, breakfast. Yes. Any for you?"
"No. Thank you."
"Of course," John chuckled to himself, turning around and pouring a mug of coffee both for himself and Sherlock. "Here we are," he mumbled to himself, quickly dropping two sugars into the detective's black beverage.
"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, managing to shift Hamish's limp body to his left side to take the mug from John. He chuckled quietly to himself as he realized how good he'd become at balancing and holding items with a single hand, and, careful not to jostle the little boy held up by his left arm, made his way to sitting room, followed closely by John.
"Any luck on the case?" the doctor asked, sitting in his own chair as he watched Sherlock move onto the couch.
"No," the detective sighed, suddenly agitated at being reminded about how frustrated he had been with reaching a dead end.
"Well... Maybe you just take a quiet day," John tried carefully, raising a hesitant eyebrow at his friend.
"A what?"
The doctor couldn't help but laugh out loud at the positively stunned look on his flat mate's face. "A quiet day," he chuckled. "You know, take a break, step back. We could just rest here, and spend a day with Hamish. Just sort of... Lounging around."
"Take a break?" Sherlock asked aloud, daring a quick glance at Hamish.
"Yes. Trust me, sometimes it helps."
"But—"
"Ah. It could even help Sherlock Holmes."
Poised to respond, Sherlock suddenly paused and closed his mouth, taking a pensive sip of his coffee as he absently stroked his fingertips up and down his son's back. "I suppose... Spending a calm day with Hamish... Wouldn't be too awful," he sighed dramatically, though he was already settling back into the couch and pulling Hamish close.
"Good." Smirking smugly to himself, John leaned back into his own chair and crossed his legs, grabbing the newspaper from the day before and scanning for anything he'd missed.
"So... What does one do on a quiet day?" Sherlock asked, glancing around the flat, as if the answer was resting with the walls.
"Anything, really. You can just lounge about, read a book... Let him sleep for as long as he wants," the doctor chuckled, nodding at Hamish, who was completely passed out against Sherlock.
"Interesting... But no working on the case?" the detective almost whined.
"No. Not allowed."
"Fine... Do you think he's getting sick? He rarely rests this long."
"Does he feel warm?"
Careful not to spill his coffee or jostle Hamish, Sherlock slowly transferred his mug to the hand that was currently holding the little boy around him, and then pressed he back of his fingers to his son's forehead. "No. He feels normal… Perhaps he hasn't been sleeping well the past few days duet to the fact that I've been working on a case."
"Could be. Anyways, he'll be fine sleeping a little while longer… Though we may regret it tonight when he can't sleep," John chuckled.
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response, focusing only moving his coffee back to his free hand.
"Right. Well, I'm starving so I'm just going to go get a quick bit to eat," the doctor sighed, setting the newspaper back down and taking another sip of his drink as he made his way into the kitchen.
"Yes, good. What? Oh, John, no there's—"
Sherlock's statement was cut off, though, by a frightened exclamation from John in the other room. "Fingers," he finished, chuckling to himself as he heard the doctor stomping back towards him.
"I thought," he spat, glaring at his flat mate as he re-entered the sitting room. "We had a greed that there were to be no more body parts… In the fridge!"
"Sorry," Sherlock smirked, gazing at the doctor over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a sip.
"Sorry? Sherlock, what if Hamish had found those?"
"He wouldn't have. He's not tall enough to reach the handle, and of course I knew they were there, and, as you just proved, if you were to get something for him, you would have seen them before he would. It's all fine. I need them to solve this case, and then I'll get rid of them," the detective promised with a noncommittal wave of his hand.
"Ugh. Just—Fine. Fine, just make sure they're tossed the moment you solve this bloody case."
"Yes," Sherlock murmured quietly, watching with a small smirk as the doctor turned on his heel and stormed back into the kitchen. "Ohh," he sighed softly, leaning further into the comfortable cushions of the couch as he allowed Hamish's sleeping form to slip down until the little boy was leaning against his side. "Could be fun, hmm?" he murmured absently, wrapping a delicate arm around his son's slumbering form and curling his slender fingers around Hamish's little ones, running the pad of his thumb over the soft skin.
With a tiny sigh, Hamish awoke at the movement, scrunching his eyes shut as he curled his fingers and toes, yawning widely.
"Hello," Sherlock chuckled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the little the scrunched-up hand held in his own.
"Mmm. He'o, Daddy," Hamish sighed, blinking slowly as he gazed around the flat, frowning slightly when he realized he was not in bed. "Mmm," he hummed confusedly, falling to his side and wrapping an arm around his father's.
Chuckling, Sherlock gently pulled Hamish onto his lap, which received a very disgruntled pout from the little boy. "Sorry, the detective chuckled, giving his son a quick kiss on the cheek in apology.
"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled contently, nearly falling off his father's lap as he yawned again.
"Oh! There we are." Smiling fondly at his son's sweet little features, Sherlock carefully stood up and placed Hamish on the ground. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asked softly, wrapping his slender finger's around his son's and giving them a gentle squeeze.
"'Es 'ease," Hamish whispered, rubbing a tiny fist into his eyes.
"Excellent." Smiling down at his son, Sherlock slowly guided the little boy into the kitchen, keeping a gentle hand on his back.
"An apology for scaring the blood hell out of me would be greatly—Oh! Hey, Hame!" the doctor cried apologetically upon turning and seeing Hamish, staring up at him with an utterly confused expression, meandering into the kitchen.
"What, John?" the little boy yawned, cocking his head at the doctor.
"Oh, nothing. Sorry, bud, I thought you were still asleep."
"No, John. Hame up," Hamish giggled tiredly, giving John a bashful smile before pressing his face just above his father's knee.
Chuckling down at his son, the detective felt a strange fluttering in his stomach as he gazed down to see how small Hamish really was in comparison to his own form; the small boy really was still quite tiny, especially when standing next to Sherlock's incredibly tall and lean form.
Wrapping a protective hand around Hamish's middle, Sherlock bent down and pulled the little boy onto his lap, holding him close. "What would you like to eat?"
"Mmm," Hamish hummed thoughtfully, resting his head against the detective's shoulder as he contemplated. "P'cakes?" he asked hopefully, glancing at John.
"Sounds lovely," the doctor replied, giving his tiny flat mate a warm smile. "I will need to head out right after, though; Mrs. Hudson needs more milk by noon today and I promised her I'd go get some. So hopefully I can finish these fast—"
"I could make them," Sherlock said suddenly, glancing around the cluttered kitchen, just as John was about to pull out a skillet from one of the cabinets.
"What?" the doctor asked, freezing in his spot at the proposition.
"I could make them. The pancakes. So you could go out and get the milk—do keep up, John."
"Oh. Well… Do you even know how to cook? Or make anything other than tea and coffee?" John countered, expression frozen into one of utter disbelief.
"Of course, John," Sherlock scoffed, raising a disapproving eyebrow at his friend. "I have taken care of myself for quite some time, and that includes cooking, thank you." Brushing past John, who still looked both shocked and confused, and keeping Hamish settled firmly on his hip, the detective flew about the kitchen, pulling out various utensils and ingredients.
"Oh. Hamish, can you go to John for a moment, please?" Sherlock asked as he remembered the fingers (as well as other various body parts which had been well hidden) were still in the fridge.
"'Kay, Daddy." Smiling contently to himself, Hamish waited patiently until he was placed on the ground and then toddled over to John, wrapping a chubby hand around a few of the doctor's fingers.
Smiling to himself, Sherlock turned back to the fridge and quickly pushed aside a series of bloody body parts to grab the carton of milk. "Yes. Good," he stated contently, raising his eyebrows expectantly at John. "Well?"
"Well what?" the doctor asked, glancing around the kitchen.
"Go on. You can go get the milk," Sherlock sighed, giving his flat mate a dithering look. "And Hamish and I will make the pancakes," he added, squatting down and opening an arm towards the little boy.
"Go, John?" Hamish asked, giving a gentle tug at the doctor's fingers.
"Yes, of course!" John chuckled, giving the tiny boy a quick pat on the back.
Smiling to himself, and quickly giving John's leg a tight hug, Hamish turned and toddled over to his father, tripping over his own feet in the process, only to be caught by Sherlock's careful hands before he hit the ground.
"Oof! Soh, Daddy," he apologized quickly, haphazardly splaying his fingers over his father's lips as he regained his balance.
"It's alright, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled under his son's touch, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's chubby fingers before hoisting him onto his hip.
"You're sure you'll be okay? And you won't… I don't know. Burn the entire neighborhood down?" John asked skeptically, placing his hands on his hips as he glanced around the disheveled kitchen, gaze eventually falling back to the detective, as he raised an eyebrow.
"I promise. We'll be fine," Sherlock assured lightheartedly, returning the eyebrow raise.
Squinting for a moment at his flat mate and worrying his lip with his teeth, John eventually took a deep breath and gave a minuscule nod of his head. "Alright. Just… Careful? Please?"
"Always."
"Right. I'll be back in a few." Giving Hamish, was was preoccupied with delicately tracing the curve of his father's jawline a warm smile, the doctor hurried over and gave the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Keep him safe for me, hmm?" he asked playfully, gently poking Hamish in the stomach.
"Hmm," the little boy giggled. "'Kay, John. Hame keep."
"Good. Thanks, little man."
With one last worried look towards Sherlock, and deciding he was not even going to bother with changing out of his pajamas, John pulled on a coat and hurried out the door, calling one last, "Be careful with him!" before shutting the door behind him.
"Finally!" Sherlock cried dramatically as soon as he heard the loud clink of the door shutting. "I thought he'd never leave!" he chuckled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach with his fingertips.
"Daddy!" the little boy laughed, turning around in the detective's arms and tucking his tiny limbs inward as he curled closer to Sherlock's chest, trying to escape the gentle tickling. "'Ease not, Daddy!"
"Okay, okay. No more tickling," the detective laughed, placing his son on the ground. "Okay, then. We need to go change, alright? Would you like to come?"
"Mmm-hmm. 'Ease, Daddy," the little boy giggled, giving his father a sweet smile. Murmuring happily to himself, Hamish hurried out of the kitchen, toddling into Sherlock's room.
Following slowly with a fond gaze, the detective left the kitchen and made his way into the bedroom, chuckling to himself as he saw Hamish, bouncing up and down near the dresser.
"Ready?"
"Mmm-hmm. Hame."
"You first?"
"'Es, Daddy." Grinning, Hamish reached his arms up towards Sherlock in preparation.
Knowing the little boy was expecting him to tug off his shirt, the detective knelt down, lips quirking up as he saw Hamish scrunch his eyes shut as he pulled the tiny shirt off. "Okay. Pants."
"Hame do Daddy?" the little boy asked, laying down on his back and waited patiently as Sherlock gently tugged off his trousers, leaving him only in his nappy.
"You'd like to pick what I wear?" the detective asked, setting his son back on his feet.
"Mmm-hmm."
Smiling, Sherlock placed a tender hand to the side of his son's face, cradling the little boy's head in his hand. "That would be lovely, thank you."
"Good, Daddy." Giving his father a gentle pat on the shoulder, which received a deep chuckle from the detective, Hamish turned and pointed to the bottom drawer, which was promptly opened by Sherlock.
Leaning over the wood and nearly pulling out the drawer in the process, the little boy reached in and pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms, which happened to be the detective's favorite. "'Es, Daddy," he stated, giving the fabric a small smile and then passing it towards Sherlock.
"Ah. Thank you," the detective murmured, reaching down and taking the pajama bottoms from his son's tiny hands. "Would you like to pick a shirt now?" he asked, quickly shedding his own trousers, as well as his button-up and jacket, and pulling the pajamas on, which received much giggling from Hamish.
"No, Daddy," the little boy giggled once his father had finished.
"You don't want to pick a shirt?"
"No, Daddy. Up 'ease?"
"Of course." Mildly confused, yet interested as to what his son's reasoning was, Sherlock bent down, settling Hamish on his almost non-existent hip. "Why not?"
"Hmm? Oh. 'Etter," the little boy stated simply, pressing a hand to the detective's collarbone.
"What is?" Sherlock asked, not following. He watched with fond eyes as his son tried to think about how to phrase his thinking, smiling to himself at the likeness between him and the little boy.
"Daddy 'etter... Cud... Uhh... Cud'mul'wy," Hamish tried, sweet features scrunching together at the mispronunciation.
"Daddy better... Oh! Cuddly?"
Glad that Sherlock had understood, the little boy sat up in Sherlock's arms, grinning cheerfully at his father.
"'Es, Daddy! 'Etter cud... Mul'wy!"
Unable to help the happiness and love that fluttered across his abdomen, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish's tiny body, giving him a tight hug. "More cuddly," he murmured into his son's curls, smiling fondly at the thought.
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed against Sherlock's bare skin. "'Es, Daddy. Hame like 'etter cud'mul'wy."
"Yes. As do I, Hamish," the detective murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his son's temple before meandering out of the room and into the kitchen.
"Right!" he said excitedly, placing Hamish on the counter and keeping a firm hand around his tiny middle. "Pancakes. Ready?"
"'Es, Daddy!" Throwing his arms up in the air and giving his father a wide grin, the little boy waited patiently swinging his legs back and forth and bumping the cabinets as he did so.
"Right," Sherlock sighed, giving a quick nod to the ingredients. "Ready?"
"Mmm-hmm."
When John returned home, the soft bell-like twinkle mixed with Sherlock's deep, baritone laugh could be heard floating down the stairs. Just relieved that the little boy sounded like he was fine, and glad neither the neighborhood nor the flat had been burned down.
Chuckling to himself, John hurried up the rest of the stairs, taking them two at a time, and rounded the corner, bags of shopping in his hands. The doctor froze, however as he entered the kitchen, mouth literally falling open at the sight in front of him.
It looked as if the entire bag of flour had been dumped about the room; on the floor, the counters, the table, the sink. Bits of egg and shell were scattered about the counter, and there were several globs of the pancake mix, now morel like a paste, strewn next to the stove. The entire kitchen was filthy—not even to mention his flat mates! Hamish's auburn curls were now white, coated with a thin layer of flour, as well as a few puffs of the white powder on his nose. Sherlock had managed to keep everything away from his face, yet his pajama trousers and bare chest were coated with everything from milk to flour to the pancake paste.
"Oh. Hello, John," Sherlock stated calmly from his seat at the table as he took a quick bite of a pancake, which, John noted, did not look too bad.
"Hello? That's all? The whole kitchen is a bloody mess, Sherlock! My goodness, look at you two!" he exclaimed fretfully, dropping the plastic bags to the floor as he stared around the filthy kitchen, knowing how long it would take to get everything all cleaned up again.
"What about the—Oh. Yes, that. We sort of had a little accident with the flour," Sherlock said slyly, giving Hamish a quick wink as the doctor moved behind him.
"Little?"
"You were the one who suggested a quiet day," the detective smirked quiet, taking a sip of the tea he had made as he reached forward, trying to help Hamish with a piece of the pancake.
"Fine. New rule. No more cooking by yourself on quiet days," John sighed, running a quick hand through his hair.
"Fine. Come along, Hamish. Let's go take a bath, hmm? Get us all cleaned up?"
"Bath tie?" the little boy asked hopefully, food suddenly forgotten.
"Yes. Oh, come here," Sherlock groaned comically as he pulled Hamish from the chair. "My, you're getting so big," he murmured, tenderly brushing some of the flour away from his son's nose.
"Hmm," the little boy giggled at the sensation, draping his arms around the detective's neck as he was carried to the bathroom.
Sherlock gently washed Hamish's hair, gently running his fingers over his son's scalp and through his silky curls in an attempt to get all the flour out. "Are you doing okay?" he asked softly, running a delicate finger down the little boy's nose as he washed the bubbles from Hamish's hair.
"Mmm-hmm, Daddy," the little boy hummed, preoccupied with playing with his bath toys.
"Good," Sherlock chuckled, getting a handful of soap and washing the powder from his son's tiny chest and arms.
After his bath, Hamish went back into the sitting room to spend time with John while Sherlock quickly took a shower of his own, cleaning himself of the messy ingredients.
After deciding the kitchen was a lost cause, and wanting to just spend the day relaxing and spending some quiet time with his flat mates, John joined Sherlock and Hamish in the sitting room, who were currently sitting on the ground, working on a puzzle about cars.
"How's the kitchen coming?" the detective asked cooly from where he was seated on the ground, as he guided Hamish's hand to drop the piece into its proper place.
"Piss off," the doctor mouthed, glaring at his flat mate.
In response, Sherlock's lips merely quirked up into a pleased smirk as he tapped an empty space on the puzzle.
The trio spent the next several hours just lounging around the flat, watching everything from Thomas the Tank Engine to Doctor Who, which had received a soft huff of a scoff from Sherlock, though he had agreed to sit down on the couch and watch the show, much to John's secret pleasure.
Eventually, upon glancing at the clock and realizing how late it had gotten, John hopped up from where he had been resting in his chair. "It's far past lunchtime. Does leftover Thai sound all right?" he asked, though the question was directed more at Hamish, rather than Sherlock, who he knew would probably not eat very much, if at all.
"'Es, John!" Hamish declared happily, bouncing up and down on where he was resting on top of Sherlock's chest.
"Oof! Hamish," the detective chuckled, placing a hand to his son's back in an effort to calm him.
"Oh! Soh, Daddy," the little boy apologized quickly, laying down and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, focus quickly returning to the telly.
Sherlock waited patiently on the couch, the little boy's head resting in the gap just under his shoulder, while he gently stroked his fingers over his son's auburn curls, twirling the silky hair between his thin fingers.
Though the two had been winding down by watching TV shows, Sherlock's mind had been wandering, and he was barely watching the telly.
Coming to a conclusion, the detective's fingers stopped and he let his hand slide down until it was resting on Hamish's back.
"Hamish, may I ask you a question?" he asked softly, pulling back slightly so he could gaze down at the little boy, who still had his arms draped around his neck.
"'Es, Daddy. What?" Hamish whispered, turning to give his father a puzzled look. Curious as to what the detective was wanting, the little boy slowly sat up on Sherlock's chest, splaying his fingers over the detective's bare chest.
"Good. Uhh..." Unsure of how he wanted to phrase his question, and knowing John would be returning soon with the heated leftovers, Sherlock sat up and gently let Hamish slide into his lap. "Hamish, I was wondering... If you were wanting a sibling?" he asked carefully, keeping a protective hand resting on his son's tiny back.
Very confused by his father's question, Hamish merely stared back at his father, mouth falling open slightly and fingers curling as he thought, trying to understand. "What is, Daddy?" he asked eventually, voice just a whisper as he gazed earnestly into Sherlock's striking grey eyes.
"A sibling?" A nod. "Oh. Well a sibling is... If you have a sibling, Hamish, it means you have either an older or younger brother or sister... Do you understand?"
Hamish thought for a moment, brows tugging together as he tried to understand. "No, Daddy, "he whispered eventually, gaze galling to the ground as he frowned, clearly embarrassed. "No Hame ub'st'nd. Soh, Daddy."
"What? Hamish, look at me," Sherlock whispered, cupping Hamish's hand in his own and leaning down so they were closer. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's okay that you don't understand, all right? Please don't feel sorry for that, all right?"
Bottom lip sticking out slightly, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head, leaning into his father's reassuring touch.
"Good. All right. A sibling... Oh. Well, Uncle Mycroft and I are siblings. Mycroft is my brother, and I am his brother. Therefore, we are siblings. Do you understand now?"
"Oh!" With a tiny gasp, Hamish suddenly understood, and grinned triumphantly at Sherlock, tapping excitedly on his collarbone. "'Es, Daddy. Unk My si... Uhh..."
"Sibling," Sherlock supplied gently.
"'Es! What, Daddy?"
"Hamish, I was wondering if you wanted a sibling? A little brother or sister... Like Uncle Mycroft and I," Sherlock whispered, anxiously studying his son's face for a reaction.
"What haps, Daddy?"
"Well... I'm not quite sure yet what exactly happens, Hamish. But I know that with others, a mummy and/or daddy will bring home either an older or younger sibling, often because they want to be able to share their love with more children, and then the child, or in this case you, would become a big brother or sister. They grow up and live together. The mummies and daddies share their love for their two children... I'm sorry. That was a bit complicated, and I'm not sure how much sense it made."
Sherlock watched carefully as Hamish's eyes swept across the floor and then back again, clearly trying to make sense of what his father had just told him. The detective started to panic as he noticed his son's bottom lip start to quiver.
"Hamish? Hamish, what's wrong? Have I said something to upset you?" Sherlock asked frantically, running his fingers through the little boy's curls, urging him to look up at him. "Hamish, please look at me. What's wrong, love?"
Sniffling, and mouth drawing down into a frown, Hamish looked up, his watery, deep green eyes staring sadly into the detective's steel-grey ones. "So," he started, voice breaking with the tears threatening to spill over. "So, Daddy... Non 'ove... Daddy want 'nother Hame?" he asked, tiny chest heaving with saddened breaths.
"What?" Sherlock exclaimed softly, brows knitting together and a pained expression tensing his features at his son's assumption. "Hamish, no it's not that, I—"
"No, Daddy!" Hamish gasped suddenly, voice wavering with sadness. Tears quickly spilling over and bottom lip quivering, the little boy pressed himself closer to Sherlock, shoving his face into the detective's shoulder as he started to cry. "Daddy non 'ove Hame!" he sobbed, wrapping his arms around his father's shoulder, as if to ensure he stayed with him. "Da—daddy n—non want?"
"No, no, no, Hamish," Sherlock whispered urgently, feeling a pang of utter sorrow dash through his chest. "Oh, Hamish I'm so sorry," he gasped, placing a comforting hand on his son's head and cradling him close. "Hamish I love you more than you can possibly imagine and no one—no one—could ever possibly come close to replacing you. There will never be anyone else like you, Hamish. You are special. You are individual. And I love you. Just you. I could never possibly..." Frowning sadly as he felt the little boy snuffle against his chest, Sherlock began to rock and back and forth on the couch, simultaneously rubbing soothing circles up and down his son's back as he stroked his fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "Please don't cry, Hamish. I promise, I am not replacing you... I couldn't. You're the only Hamish I'm ever going to have, I promise. You're my son... And... No one else could ever come close to finding a place in my heart like you have. You're so sweet, love. And I'm sorry. Please, look at me, Hamish."
Sniffling violently, and with tears still streaming down his chubby cheeks, Hamish hesitantly pulled away, though he kept his little arms wrapped firmly around his father's neck, grip tightening ever so slightly. "S—so... Daddy want? An', an'." A sniffle. "'Ove?"
"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, feeling the familiar burn of his own tears burning in the back of his eyes and nose as he stared at his son's tear-stained cheeks. "I love you more than... Than anything, Hamish. And I will always want you here with me. "I love you more than I could have ever thought I was capable of. I'm so sorry I made you cry... I was just... I was only worried that you had been wanting a sibling, Hamish. But it was not because I don't want or love you anymore. Do you understand?" he asked, wanting to make sure the little boy understood his love for him.
Impossibly sea-green eyes growing wide as he stared at his father, Hamish's sobs slowly calmed to just sniffles. "Ah'cause Hame 'ove, Daddy," he sniffled mournfully.
"I know you do, Hamish. I know you do," Sherlock murmured sadly, the horrible feeling of guilt building in his chest as he cradled Hamish's head in the palm of his hand and started to clear away the tears which were slowly beginning to dissipate. "Come here," he whispered, moving his arms and opening them around his son's tiny, shaking form.
Eager for the comfort and physical contact of his father, Hamish rushed forward, falling into Sherlock's open arms and pressed himself as close to the detective as he could possibly get.
"Shh," Sherlock soothed gently, running a comforting hand up and down Hamish's bare back as he continued to rock back and forth. "Shh... See? It's all right... No siblings. Just us... I'm sorry, love. I didn't... Shh... I've got you here."
"Hmm," Hamish half-sighed, half-whimpered into his father's neck. "Not more, Daddy," he whispered sadly against Sherlock's skin. Bottom lip still quivering, the little boy reached down and pressed the palm of his hand to Sherlock's chest. "For Hame…"
Truly shocked once again the by the emotional depth and understanding Hamish had, the detective reached down and pressed his hand over Hamish's. "You're right. I only have room for you in my heart, Hamish. You're my son... My baby... All right? Shh. You're okay. I'm here. Don't worry."
"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, wiping his head back and forth against Sherlock's skin and snuggling closer as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
"'Ove, Daddy," he whispered once more, opening his eyes and blinking slowly up at his father.
"I love you, too, Hamish," the detective murmured, turning to the side to place an incredibly delicate kiss to his son's temple. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, guilty tears beginning to sting the back of his eyes as he rocked back and forth.
"'Es, Da'ey," Hamish whispered, closing his eyes as he nuzzled closer to Sherlock's neck, inadvertently brushing away the rest of the tears resting on his cheeks. "Hame 'etter, Daddy. So no sib at Hame?" he asked hopefully, taking a deep breath and tightening his grip around his father's neck.
"No, Hamish. Not at all. It'll just be us. With our little family of three, hmm?" Sherlock hummed, hoping to lift his son's spirits.
"Good, Daddy," Hamish nodded, absentmindedly clutching a fistful of his father's curls in his chubby fingers. "Stay lit, Daddy?"
"Of course we can stay here for a little while longer... We can stay here as long as you like." Lips turning up ever so slightly into a relieved smile, Sherlock bent his head until his cheek was resting atop his son's head. "As long as you need."
Smiling to himself, and allowing a few of his own tears to slip free, John quickly turned from where he had been listening to the conversation, pressing the heel of his palm under his eyes to wipe away the evidence of how moved he'd been by what Sherlock had said for Hamish. Remembering that he was supposed to be making lunch, the doctor turned and opened the fridge, taking out the leftovers and set about getting it ready, deciding to take his time.
John smiled to himself as he decided not to tell Sherlock he'd heard everything, opting to keep it between father and son.
Still rocking Hamish back and forth and enjoying the feel of his son's smooth skin against the back of his neck, Sherlock continued to hold Hamish close, knowing that John would be giving them as much time as they needed.
Smiling to himself, the detective pressed another gentle kiss to the top of Hamish's head. "As long as you need."