Hey guys! So sorry for the cliffie on the last chapter! Buuuuuuut, I'm done with finals! (YAY!), so writing should be getting back on schedule very soon! Thanks all! Have a great rest of your week! You all are the best! =)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Mummy Holmes

"Well he very well should. I'm his mother. Eloise Holmes."

John froze in his spot, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the frame of the door. "His… You're… No," he breathed, shaking his head at her sharp form. "What do you want?" the doctor asked coldly, not budging from his position.

"Oh, just to… See him," the woman replied with a submissive wave of her hand. "Check up on him."

"How do you know about Hamish?" John hissed, an unusual feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Mycroft, of course. Accidentally let it slip, let me in, Doctor," she said cooly, letting her sentence slide into one. It was clear she was eager to enter the flat.

"I'm sorry, I just… They're both resting right now, so if you wouldn't mind—"

"Oh please," Eloise scoffed. With a huff of breath, she pushed herself past John's smaller form and shoved her way into the flat.

"Agh—" John cried, anger boiling in his chest. He started to form a protest, but Eloise just continued up the stairs, forcing her way into the flat. She stopped in the entryway, curling her lips in disgust upon seeing her son, sound asleep on the floor, long limbs splayed about as he rested. "Where's the child? Hamish?"

"He's out—with our landlady—please," John tried, grabbing the woman by the arm and trying to urge her back and out the flat.

Ignoring the doctor's protests, Eloise took a step forward and around her son's slumbering from. "Oh," she sighed in distaste upon seeing Hamish curled protectively in the detective's arms. "They sleep on the floor, do they?"

"No, no. They just… They're both sick right now, and very tired, now please, could you come back later when they're both better?" John asked hurriedly, once again urging the woman back towards the door.

"Oh, I don't think so, Doctor Watson…"

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock's body visibly tensed on the floor. Humming unhappily, the detective groggily opened his eyes and shifted, pulling Hamish's form closer to his middle. "John?" he asked, deep voice sounding raw and much lower than usual.

"Uhh, yeah… Sherlock?"

"Who...?" the detective trailed away as he opened his eyes fully to see his mother, gazing distastefully down at him. Breath halting to a painful stop mid-breath, Sherlock quickly stood up, straightening so he was towering over his mother, and quickly clutched Hamish to his chest as he glared at Eloise. "What are you doing here?" he spat, curling his slender fingers protectively over his son's shoulder as he tucked him close. "Mycroft…"

"No need for hostility, dear. I've just come to see… If you've gotten yourself sorted out, especially now you have a son," Eloise responded calmly, though the icy undertones in her voice were quite clear.

"Take him to our room," Sherlock whispered, passing Hamish to the doctor.

"Our room?" Eloise questioned.

"Yes," the detective responded, refusing to give his mother the satisfaction of an explanation. Though he did not despise his mother nearly as much as he did his father, Sherlock still loathed her for not protecting him from the years of abuse suffered at the hand of his father.

Glancing anxiously between the two, John turned on his heel, and holding his little flat mate close and hurried into Sherlock's room. "It'll be all right, bud," he whispered, running a few fingers over Hamish's cheeks as he tucked the little boy under the covers before shutting the door behind him and hurrying back into the sitting room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked calmly, closing his robe around his exposed middle. "Tell me."

Sighing, Eloise turned and sat down in Sherlock's chair. The detective watched her with careful eyes, straightening to his full height and crossed his fingers behind his back.

"It's not as if you don't already know," Eloise drawled, and John couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance to Mycroft's voice.

"You think I'm unfit to take care of my son due to my past… Mistakes."

"Very quick, as usual Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes praised, which only earned a glare.

"I am more than capable of taking care of Hamish," the detective all-but-hissed. "You and I both know I am not the same… I don't… We both are well aware that I have not…"

Eloise merely raised an eyebrow at her son, fixing him with a look only mothers can give. "Sherlock. Come now. Think of the boy. What would happen if you were to use again, hmm? What's to say you wouldn't lash out at him? We both know you can have quite a… temper, on occasion."

John's chest was heaving as he listened to Mrs. Holmes all-but-scold his flat mate for something he knew would never happen, and couldn't help but clench his fists at his side as a bout of anger boiled and burned his stomach. Shaking his head and scoffing at Eloise's reasoning, the doctor turned to his friend and felt his heart sink as he saw the look on Sherlock's face. The detective's angular features were creased with what could only be described as brokeness. It was clear Sherlock was thinking very carefully about what his mother had just told him… And underneath those ever-changing blue eyes, John could see… "No," he breathed out loud, giving Sherlock an incredulous look. "You can not be considering this!" he shouted, raising his voice a bit more than usual. "Sherlock, look at me."

Shaking his head a bit as if he was trying to clear his mind of something, Sherlock eventually turns to John and the doctor felt a strange feeling churn in his stomach. His friend looked completely confused. His brows were pulled together in an almost lost expression, and never in their time together had John seen anything in his flat mate's eyes that ever resembled confusion… Or fear. "Sherlock," he began gently, ignoring the scoff and eye roll from Eloise. "You know and I know that you are the best thing that ever happened to Hamish, just as he was the best to you. Come on, Sherlock," the doctor practically begged, making a gesture towards the bedroom where the little boy was resting. "Don't even consider it. He belongs here. With you. Trust me. Besides we both know what would happen if anyone ever dreamed of trying to take him away, hmm?" he added, glancing towards Eloise who had pressed her lips into a tight line.

Releasing a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, Sherlock nearly choked on his own breath. With a few blinks, the detective's face almost immediately returned to it's usual set expression of concentration and John nearly chuckled in relief as his flat mate turned back to his mother. "He's staying here with me," Sherlock stated calmly, raising an eyebrow at her. "Hamish is my son and you will not be taking him away from me."

"John?" Eloise practically laughed in disbelief. "Are you not even concerned for the boy's welfare at—"

"No. I trust Sherlock completely. With both my life and Hamish's."

Scoffing quietly, Mrs. Holmes glanced between the two flat mates standing side by side. "You will not be swayed," she stated.

"No," John and Sherlock answered simultaneously.

"Well then. We'll just have to do something about that, yes?"

"Oh please," John cried, throwing his arms in the air as he rolled his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"You have absolutely no right to come in here and take Hamish away from him! If there were ever two people so perfectly sculpted to fit into each other's lives, I certainly haven't—"

"Save it, Doctor Watson. If you're so keen to convince me, then where's the mother, hmm?" Lips curled down into a frown, Eloise turned her attention to Sherlock, whose usually alabaster cheeks were now flushed a light pink. "Have you really just been sleeping around with—"

"He is not mine by blood," Sherlock spat, a rush of loathing suddenly pooling in his chest as he glared icily at his mother. "I adopted Hamish."

Clearly stunned by what her son had just told her, Eloise Holmes merely stared wide-eyed at Sherlock, mouth hanging open. "Well," she gasped giving both the flat mate's a disapproving glare. "He's not really yours then."

"What?" Sherlock reeled, anger boiling in his veins. Before he could reply any further, however, John had stepped in front of him, his smaller form glaring down at Eloise Homes.

"What?!" the doctor spat, cheeks flushing a dark red as his fists clenched together at his sides. "You think that little boy is not really his, just because they don't share the same DNA? Ma'am, you have not seen the way your son treats Hamish. I've never seen a person with so much love in their heart for one person. Hamish may not be related to Sherlock by blood, but let me say that I have never seen a father and his son who love each other so much. Whether Hamish has a part of Sherlock in him or not, that little boy," he spat, gesturing tersely to his flat mate, "is his son. And what they have is truly beautiful. And do you know why, ma'am? Because they have such an overwhelming amount of love for each other, that nothing else matters. Not who his mother is, not where he came from, not even how he got here. Sherlock is Hamish's father, like it or not. And if you can't see that, you are more than welcome to leave this flat," John finished, chest heaving and face etched with pure anger.

Both the Holmes' stood frozen in their places as they stared at John. A small, almost pleased smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face. Before anyone could speak, though, there came an incredibly tiny voice. "John? Wha' doing?"

Almost instantly, Sherlock was in the hallway, robe billowing gracefully behind him as he hurried to where Hamish was leaning against the doorway to his room, one of his shirts clutched to his bare chest. "Hey there," he whispered gently, keeling down on the ground in front of his son to take one of his tiny hands in his own. "What's wrong, hmm?"

"Wha' John angry, Daddy?" Hamish asked sadly, his little voice sounding raw and stuffy from the sickness.

Smiling in a sad, melancholy sort of way, Sherlock pulled the little boy into his arms and onto his hip, gently taking the shirt from his son's hands. "Hamish," the detective started carefully, keeping his ever-changing eyes glued to Hamish's face. "This is your Grandma Eloise," he said, stepping into the living room.

Hamish, who had been leaning heavily against Sherlock's shoulder gazed around the room, freezing as he saw the stranger sitting in his father's chair. "Daddy?" he asked, tugging worriedly at the detective's collar. "Who is?"

"That," Sherlock stated carefully, huddling closer to John, "is your Grandma. My mummy," he explained gently, giving the little boy a smile of encouragement despite his own feelings. "Can you say hello?"

"He'o," Hamish whispered, mouth hanging open in amazement as he stared at the angular woman.

"Ah. Hamish," Eloise drawled, managing a warm smile as she stood and moved towards the trio of flat mates. "Hello there."

With a quick gasp, Hamish turned, burying his face in Sherlock's neck. "Hmm," he whined unhappily, head pounding as he bumped against the detective's skin.

"It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock soothed, gesturing in a way that suggested his mother was to stop.

"He should not be frightened of me, Sherlock," Eloise retorted defensively, furrowing her eyebrows at her grandson's reaction.

"He's sick, mum," the detective replied, equally as defensive, covering his son's head with his chin.

With a small huff of breath, Eloise debated for a moment, before giving an infinitesimal nod of her head and taking a step backward.

"Hamish, are you all right, bud?" John asked worriedly, placing a hand on the little boy's back.

"Ew, John," Hamish mumbled, tugging unhappily at a lock of his father's hair.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, little man… How's your head feeling?"

"Not," the small boy frowned, turning to glance warily at Eloise, who attempted a reassuring smile.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," Sherlock murmured.

"Hamish?" Eloise inputted suddenly, taking a step forward. "Would you like to come see me?" she offered, holding her arms out.

Pushing his bottom lip out as he thought, Hamish looked up to Sherlock for reassurance, sniffling.

"It's all right, Hamish," the detective reassured, his son giving a smile with much more reassurance than he himself felt.

With a feeble nod of his head, the little boy held his arms out towards his grandmother. "There you go," Sherlock whispered, gently passing his son into his mother's open arms, though he kept his fingers wrapped around the little boy's chubby hand, an action which John couldn't help but almost smile at.

"Hello, Hamish," Eloise said, a bit more harshly than she had intended to. The little boy flinched slightly at the sound, but then settled more into her arms, clutching his tiny fingers around several of Sherlock's and tugging them close to her chest.

"He'o," he whispered hesitantly, trying to give the woman a smile.

"Hello, Hamish. I'm you're—"

"Daddy mummy?" the little boy inputted softly, absently prodding at her neck.

"Now, Hamish," Eloise started, raising a disapproving eyebrow at Hamish. "We don't—" She was interrupted, however, by a stern "cough" from Sherlock, followed by a quick shake of his head. "Ah, umm… Yes. I am your father's mother. Your grandmother."

"Like Nana?" Hamish asked, though the question was directed towards his father and John.

"Well… Not quite," Sherlock murmured, giving a gentle squeeze of his fingers. "But almost."

"Oh. What name?"

"Grandma Eloise," Mrs. Holmes inputted firmly, ignoring the glare she was receiving from both her son and his flat mate.

"Oh. Uhn… Nan… Nan'ma Elsie," Hamish tried, gazing hopefully towards his father.

"Excellent!" Sherlock praised, pushing the pounding in his head aside as he leaned forward to press his lips to his son's cheek as softly as he could. "Very good job!"

"Mmm," Eloise hummed, clearly assessing the situation, though (thankfully) keeping her observations and thoughts to herself.

"Hmm," Hamish whined, clutching Sherlock's hand closer to his chest. "Daddy?"

"Come here, love," the detective whispered, not waiting for any kind of permission from his mother before he quickly pulled the small boy back into his arms, tucking him under his robe. Sherlock frowned slightly as he felt his son's warm skin against his own. Knowing it would only add fuel to the fire to point it out now, he slipped a hand under the robe and placed it against Hamish's back before turning back to his mother.

"Does he get sick often?"

"No, mum!" Sherlock cried, cringing as he felt Hamish shiver in his arms. "Sorry, love. No. This is only the—what, the second time?" he asked, turning to confirm with John.

"Yes," the doctor agreed, gazing accusingly at Eloise.

"Fine. Good. Well I'll uhh... Just be off then, as it's clear I'm not wanted and you two seem to have it... Under control. Afternoon, Sherlock. John. Goodbye, Hamish. See you very soon."

"Mmm. B'bye, Nam'na Elsie," Hamish managed. Sniffling, he turned in Sherlock's arms and gave a tiny wave of his chubby hand. "Back?"

Mouth hanging open slightly, Eloise stopped where she was standing. Sherlock turned, contorting slightly so he could see his mother's face, and couldn't help but follow suit by freezing in his spot. His insightful detective's eyes expertly scanned over her face; the familiar features of her sharp cheekbones and thin lips. Sherlock's mouth slowly parted as he saw his mother's usually cold and calculating features go soft and warm as something—a smile?—twisted up the corners of her lips.

And with that tiny smile, Sherlock felt a flicker of hope light in his chest.

"B'bye," Hamish yawned again, giving another wave of his tiny hand as he nuzzled against his father's neck, breathing heavily against the alabaster skin.

"Bye, Hamish," Eloise whispered, giving a tiny twirl of her fingers as a wave. "Bye..." Taking a deep intake of breath, and with a few blinks to clear herself, the woman returned her gaze to her son's eyes. Almost instantly, the softness that had warmed her features dissipated and she straightened again. However, not before she'd given a tiny twitch of her lips, impossibly similar to the one Sherlock gives. "Afternoon." With a small nod of her head towards John, Eloise Holmes slipped from the flat.

Sherlock stood, a strange, almost proud sensation forming in his chest. "Bye," he whispered to the wall, not even noticing how he had buried his fingertips in Hamish's curls and was gently swaying back and forth. He was pulled from his thoughts, however, by the sound of his flat mate's heavy footfalls on the wood of the floor.

"She's going to try to take him," the doctor fumed, running his fingers through his sandy hair as he paced back and forth.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock murmured, still lost in the feeling of rare praise he had received from his mother.

"What? What do you mean you're not sure? Of course she is, Sherlock!"

"I just... She smiled. At him," the detective hummed, tenderly ruffling Hamish's curls and then smiling as he felt the little boy's warm breath against his neck.

"So?"

"It means she's going soft on him... I don't know. It's just a feeling, that's all. Oh. John?"

"Yeah. Yeah? Sorry, what?"

"He's asleep," Sherlock murmured, gazing down with soft eyes at the steady rise and fall of Hamish's back.

"Oh. Shoot! We need to get him some medicine." Kneading a few fingers into his temple, John turned on his heel and hurried into the kitchen.

Sherlock could hear the gentle rustling of the plastic shopping bags as his flat mate bustled about the kitchen. "Hamish? Hamish?" he coaxed gently, sitting down on the couch and cuddling his son's small form close.

With a tiny groan of disapproval, Hamish groggily opened his eyes, squirming slightly in his father's arms. "Ouch, Daddy."

"I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry. John's getting some medicine right now to help, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, curling into Sherlock's embrace.

"All right. Here we are." John returned from the kitchen with a series of bottles in his hand and a spoon in the other. "Hame?" he asked gently, kneeling in front of his two flat mates.

"Hmm?"

"Can you turn and look at me, bud? I need to give you some medicine so we can help make you better, all right?"

"Mmm-kay."

Seeing as Hamish was not going to turn himself around, Sherlock gently spun the little boy on his lap until he was facing John.

"All right. First one. One, two, three. Very good!" the doctor praised as he shoved the first spoonful in. "Second one."

"No," Hamish protested shoving back against his father's stomach as he stared warily at the second spoonful. "Daddy?"

"I promise it will help make you better, all right? Last one. You can do it," the detective encouraged, wrapping his long fingers around one of his son's wrists and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Sniffling sadly and with tears steadily filling his eyes, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head and opened his mouth, instantly curling backward the moment he had swallowed the second medicine.

"Good job, Hame," John praised, running an apologetic hand up and down his flat mate's back. "That should help make you feel better, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm. Ta, John."

Both Sherlock and the doctor couldn't help but laugh out loud (feebly, mind you) at the fact that Hamish had just thanked John. "You are something else, Hame," the doctor chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the back of the little boy's head and then awkwardly apologizing when he bumped Sherlock's chin on the way back.

"Do you want me to get your medicine?"

"No, that's all right. I think I'll stay here with him until he wakes up again," Sherlock chuckled, gesturing to Hamish who was practically fast asleep on his chest again. "Thank you, John."

"Yep. You're welcome." John quickly deposited the spoon and medicine back in the kitchen before making his way back into the sitting room and plopping down on his chair. The doctor watched fondly as his flat mate leaned back on the couch, carefully situating Hamish's head so it was just by his cheek.

The two flat mates merely stared at the little boy, each trying to ignore the paralyzing feeling of fear that was staring to creep into their veins.

Despite the doctor's presence, Sherlock began to press soft, tender kiss to Hamish's curls, watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest as a way to ground him. "We'll be fine," he murmured aloud, not even realizing he'd done it. "Yes."

It took a moment for John to even really realize his friend had spoken. "What? Sorry, Sherlock I was..." The doctor smiled fondly as he saw that Sherlock, too had passed out, his long, violinists fingers gently holding a few locks of Hamish's hair. "Poor guys," John murmured absently as he gazed at his flat mates sick figures. "Get better soon," he added, curling back into his own chair. "And God help us with his bloody mother," the doctor muttered before linking his fingers over his stomach and taking a deep breath.

The three flat mates slept silently in the sitting room, their steady breaths the only sound filling the quiet flat, with Hamish huddled close to his father's slumbering form and John resting protectively close by.