Hey all! So, first off, I just want to apologize for all the mistakes you may find in this one; I have absolutely no idea how horrible they may be! Spellcheck is literally my worst enemy! Anyway, I hope everyone who is on break now has had a lovely one thus far, and I want to wish everyone a Happy Christmas Eve and a Merry Christmas! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. Also, thanks to all the lovely people who have reviewed on the last few chapters. You all are literally my motivation, and they are always appreciated, even if I don't have the time to tell you that personally! Thanks to all my readers! You're the best! Merry Christmas, guys!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Apologies

John was awoken by a gentle tugging at the hem of his jumper. "Hmm… Hamish? Are you all right, bud?" he asked, sitting up in the chair as he noticed that Hamish was staring expectantly up at him. "What's wrong, hmm?"

"Owie, John," the little boy mumbled, wobbling slightly as he gripped onto the doctor's jumper.

"Owie? What hurts, hmm?" John asked gently, bending down and scooping the little boy into his arms and then onto his lap. He shot a quick glance towards Sherlock to find that the detective was still sleeping soundly on the couch, his fingers resting where Hamish's form had been.

Running a tiny fist under his nose, the little boy whined sadly to himself and tucked his head under John's chin. "Ouch," he stated, gently tapping his throat with a single, chubby finger. "Owie, John."

"Your throat hurts?" John asked tenderly, placing a comforting hand to his tiny flat mate's back.

"Mmm-hmm. An' ouch here." Sniffling and beginning to shiver in the doctor's arms, Hamish placed a hand over his stomach. "Tum'ny ouch."

"And your tummy hurts..." John mused aloud, frowning slightly as he wrapped his arms around the little boy's body. "Are you cold?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Yeah... Okay... Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up," the doctor called as softly as he could, gently cradling Hamish's form close.

"Uhm... Hmm? What? Yes... Wh... Where's Hamish?" Sherlock asked tiredly, pressing a palm to his eyes as he shifted on the sofa.

"He's over here with me. But he saying his throat hurts and his stomach. If it doesn't get better in the next few days, I think we might want to take him to A&E, all right?"

"What, John? What is?" Hamish inquired, eyes drooping slightly as he gazed up at the doctor.

"Oh, uhh... It's just a doctor's office, bud," John reassured gently, giving the little boy a warm smile and a quick ruffle of his curls. "It's open all the time for emergencies, that's all."

"Oh. 'Kay... John?"

"Yeah?"

"Go Daddy?"

"Oh, yes of course! Sorry, Hame." With careful movements, John slowly left the chair and deposited Hamish's weak form in Sherlock's lap.

"Oh," the detective gasped quietly, having still been in the process of waking up. "Hello there."

"Hame have sick, Daddy," the little boy groaned softly, wrapping his arms around his father's neck.

"Yes... I'm sorry, Hamish. How do you feel?"

"Not."

"Not... Do you feel worse?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Sherlock shared a quick glance with John as he gently stroked a few fingers over the back of his son's neck.

"I'll get some water for him," John said softly.

"Yes." Frowning down at Hamish, Sherlock stood and tucked his small form close, gently swaying from side to side. "Shh," he soothed gently, pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's temple. "John, he's burning up."

"Yes, I know," the doctor sighed sadly, returning from the kitchen with a sippy cup of water in his hand and a thermometer in the other. "Poor thing," he whispered, passing the cup to his flat mate.

"Hamish, love, are you thirsty?"

"No," the little boy moaned, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's neck as he took a deep breath, scrunching his little eybrows together.

"Hame, you need to have a drink, okay?"

"No, John. No want," Hamish persisted weakly. With a tiny whine, the little boy placed a hand atop his father's and gave a gentle shove, pushing the cup away.

Frowning sadly, Sherlock gently bounced Hamish on his hip. "Hamish, you need to have a drink, okay? I know you don't feel well, but I promise, this will help."

"No. No, 'ease, Daddy?" Sniffling and with his tiny chest heaving, the little boy shivered in his father's arms and closed his eyes, snuggling further into Sherlock's warm hold.

"Hame," John tried gently, crossing to the other side of his flat mates. He gestured for Sherlock to sit and quickly followed suit, thermometer in hand. "Please, bud?" he asked, placing a hand on the little boy's leg.

Hamish, who had slid down his father's torso and was now leaning heavily against the detective's chest, turned and gazed at John for a moment, contemplating. "'Kay, John," he whispered eventually with a feeble nod of his head.

"Good job, Hamish," Sherlock encouraged gently, running a few fingers up and down his son's warm back.

Blinking slowly, Hamish reached a tiny hand towards his father's. "'Kay, Daddy..."

"There you go," the detective murmured, handing the cup to the little boy's outstretched hand. "Very good job."

Nodding, Hamish took the cup and hesitantly took a sip. He frowned, wincing slightly as he swallowed. "John," he coughed, pressing his face to Sherlock's chest as he touched his throat. "Ouch."

"I know, I know it hurts. But I've put some honey in it, so just a few more sips and soon it will feel better. Promise."

With a skeptical sniffle, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head and moved the cup back to his mouth. "Good man," John whispered, sharing a worried glance with Sherlock.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed, eyes slowly sliding shut as he continued to sip from the cup, a protective film having dulled the pain when he swallowed.

"Poor thing," Sherlock murmured, staring sadly down at his son's limp form.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed in response, nuzzling against his father's warm skin. Murmuring unintelligibly to himself, the little boy grabbed ahold of a fistful of the detective's robe and quickly fell asleep, the cup of water still in his mouth.

"He's asleep," Sherlock's murmured to himself, carding his fingers through his son's silky curls. "He's so warm, John..."

"I know," the doctor replied. "But he should be all right... I'm guessing it's just a 24 hour bug. Are you feeling any better?"

"I feel fine, just a little tired," the detective mumbled absently, giving a submissive wave of his hand before returning to fretting over his son's slumbering form.

"Here. I'll go get a wet wash cloth; we'll try and bring his temperature down. Take it for me?"

"Yes." Giving his friend a thankful smile, Sherlock took the thermometer from John's hand. "Up we go, love," he whispered, gently tugging Hamish's shirt off before tucking the instrument under the little boy's armpit.

"Here we are," John murmured, entering from the kitchen with a wet cloth in hand. "What's his temp?" he asked, plopping back down on the couch.

"101.2," Sherlock mumbled, frowning at the number.

"Here, take his trousers off as well. We'll try to cool him down a bit while he's still sleeping."

"Yes." Moving slowly and gently so as not to wake him, Sherlock gently laid Hamish on his lap and pulled off his pants. With a tiny moan, the little boy curled into a ball on his father's lap and rolled over, pressing himself into the detective's stomach. "Mmm," he hummed, eyes fluttering open and then shut again as he buried a fist in Sherlock's trousers.

"Shh," the detective soothed, placing a tender hand to the back of his son's head. "Shh..." Knowing it always seemed to comfort Hamish, Sherlock began to gently stroke his fingertips through the little boy's auburn curls, down the length of his spine and then back again.

"Here you go," John whispered, passing the cloth to his flat mate.

"Thank you." Smiling sadly at his son's sleeping form, Sherlock carefully pulled Hamish's head away from his stomach and positioned him so he could place the cool flannel over the little boy's forehead. "There we are," he murmured, running a few more fingers through Hamish's curls as he adjusted the cool cloth.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock," John almost chuckled.

"Oh, I... Yes, I know, I'm just... Worried. And saddened by the fact that I can't stop it."

"I understand. It's a parent thing. Instincts to protect and take away pain. I get it." Smiling fondly to himself, John turned his attention back to his flat mate and couldn't help but laugh out loud at the look on his friend's face. "What?" he chuckled, shrugging in confusion.

"Instincts?" Sherlock inquired confusedly, furrowing his brows at the doctor.

"Well, yes. Hamish is your son, just as you're his father. Paternal instincts tell you to try to help and protect him."

"I have paternal instincts?" the detective gasped, parting his lips slightly at the thought.

"Well, of course you do," John chuckled, giving Sherlock a quizzical smile. "Anything you do for him without really thinking it through—holding his hand when you go down the stairs, talking to him in a gentle voice when he's upset—things like that. It's all your paternal instincts kicking in, telling you to do that. Just like they're telling you to be protective now. It's all right," the doctor added upon seeing how confused his friend seemed. "It's just nature."

"Right, yes… Uhh… Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled absently, twirling a lock of Hamish's silky hair between the pads of his fingers. "I suppose I do do those things without really thinking, don't I?" he mused aloud, though it seemed he was speaking more to Hamish than his flat mate.

"Mmm-hmm," John hummed, smiling in a knowing way at the detective. Lacing his fingers over his middle, the doctor settled further in to the cushions of the couch and closed his eyes, eager to resume his afternoon nap. "Mmm," he hummed contently to himself.

Too lost in his thoughts to notice, Sherlock began to absentmindedly rub a few fingers over his bottom lip as he pondered, keeping his free hand buried in Hamish's auburn locks. "Instincts," he mumbled aloud, smiling down at his son. The detective froze momentarily as the little boy shifted on his lap, rolling onto his back. "I'm sorry you're sick, Hamish," he murmured, brushing a few unruly curls from Hamish's flushed forehead. His gaze fell down to the little boy's feet and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw his son's tiny toes curl and uncurl against the couch. Lips quirking up into a loving half-smile, the detective bent down and gently ran his thumb over Hamish's curled toes. "So tiny," he chuckled, feeling a flutter of reassurance in chest as he saw a small smile tug up the corners his son's lips.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in his sleep, clenching his fingers together and further around his father's trousers.

Chuckling softly to himself, Sherlock gently tickled the bottom of the little boy's foot, smiling at the feeling of the soft skin against his fingertips. "Get better, love," he whispered, releasing Hamish's toes and wrapping his much-larger hand around the little boy's tiny fingers, enveloping them safely in his own before closing his eyes and settling into a comfortable nap.

Hamish and Sherlock more or less slept the rest of the day away and, much to the chagrin of John, in various places around the flat. Hamish: twice on the floor, three times on top of Sherlock, once on the couch, and twice curled up in either John or Sherlock's chair. Sherlock: four times on the couch, twice in his chair and once in the bathroom with Hamish after false-alarm wave of nausea. The two had only slept in bed once, and it was per the command of John, who was tired of having to walk around their limp forms.

It was on the second day, after having ordered Sherlock to take his son and actually sleep in the bed, that John awoke to a completely quiet flat. Unnerved by the silence, the doctor quickly hurried downstairs in his pajamas and opened the door to his flat mate's bedroom and couldn't help but chuckle in relief to himself. Over the past 24 hours, John had discovered that Sherlock, who almost always managed to look professional and proper, when sick, slept in the most unusual and unattractive poses he had ever seen him in. At this particular moment, the detective's long limbs were splayed about the bed, with Hamish sleeping half on his chest and half-tangled somewhere under one of his arms. Both of their mouths were hanging open and John couldn't help but find the look on Sherlock's face, which was mirrored on his son's, to be somewhat precious and comical at the same time.

Deciding to give them more time to rest, and with a small smirk on his lips, John silently left the room and shut the door behind him, deciding to make breakfast for Hamish, knowing that Sherlock would probably not eat.

Sherlock awoke to the feeling of hot breath on his cheeks. Chuckling slightly, as he knew it was Hamish, the detective slowly opened his eyes to find the little boy was practically on top of his face, his little limbs wrapped tightly around his neck.

"Mmm. Hamish?" the detective mumbled, gently ruffling his son's silky curls.

"'Es, Daddy?" the little boy sighed, eyes fluttering open and then closed against as he settled further against Sherlock.

"We need to get up," the detective chuckled, pressing his lips to Hamish's temple and couldn't help but frown as he noticed that the little boy still had fever. "Okay?"

"Hmm… 'Kay, Da'ey…" Hamish hummed, moaning softly as Sherlock removed his arms from his bare back. "Daddy," the little boy whined, curling inward in an effort to regain the warmth lost by the absence of his father's embrace.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked. Wrapping his arms around Hamish's bare middle again, the detective sat up, and carefully deposited the little boy in his lap.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ah, I see. Well… Let's see if we can't fix that, hmm? Besides, it smells like John's been cooking… Hmm? What does that smell like?" Hoping to lighten Hamish's mood, Sherlock pr etended to sniff the air, over-exagerating the movement. "Do you smell that?" he asked dramatically, gently tickling his son's bare stomach.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled half-heartedly, trying to hide his smile by hiding under Sherlock's arm.

"Was that a smile, hmm?" the detective laughed, carefully pulling Hamish's giggling from from under his armpit and plopping him back down on his lap, taking the genuine smile on his son's face as encouragement that he was on the mend.

"No!" Hamish laughed, giggling cheerfully as he tried to crawl from his father's grasp, tugging the covers up over his head.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock laughed, a genuine smile playing across his cupid bow's lips, the first in nearly a day.

"'Es!" Hamish finally admitted, attempting to wrap his arms around the detective's middle.

"Ah! I knew it! See? Never doubt your father's deductive skills, hmm? Hmm?" Sherlock chuckled, gently tickling the back of his son's neck and back.

"Hmm-mmm," Hamish laughed, giggling into his father's chest. "'Es, Daddy," he sighed, pulling from the detective's robe to smile up at him.

"That's my boy," Sherlock whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles over the little boy's forehead as he gave him a warm smile. "Now! I say we go eat some of John's burned pancakes, hmm?"

"Cakes?" Hamish gasped softly, sliding off his father's chest as the detective exited the bed.

"Yes. Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Come along then." Chuckling lovingly at his son's happiness, but remembering that his son was still sick, Sherlock tugged off his robe and wrapped it around Hamish's tiny body before pulling the little boy onto his hip before turning and exiting into the kitchen. "Mmm," he drawled sarcastically, giving Hamish a quick wink. "Smells delicious as always, John. Lucky for you Hamish cannot yet tell the difference between burnt and… Normal."

"Don't appreciate the sarcasm," the doctor huffed in response, quickly scooping a burned pancake from the skillet and plopping it on to a plate.

"Obviously. Hence my use of it. And it seems to be cheering Hamish up."

"Oh. Hey there, little man," John chuckled, shooting a quick glare towards his friend before hurrying over to the table with a plate of mostly-burnt pancakes. "How you feeling, bud? Better?"

"Hame 'etter?" the little boy asked, frowning slightly as he tried to untangle himself from the silky fabric of his father's robe.

"Yes," John laughed aloud, passing a plate with a pancake and utensils over to Sherlock, who had just seated himself and Hamish at the table. "Are you feeling better?" In response, the little boy just continued to fiddle with the blue robe, desperately trying to fee himself from the fabric.

"Here," Sherlock chuckled fondly, gently shoving his arm's down to his sides. "And yes, John, I do believe he's feeling much better, though he still has a fever," the detective explained, carefully pulling Hamish's chubby limbs from the fabric of his robe and tossing the fabric away as he knew it was bound to get filthy if the little boy wore it while eating.

"We'll take his temperature after breakfast, and if it hasn't gone down a little, we can take him to hospital, all right?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, too busy with situating Hamish on his thigh as he started to cut the pancake into small pieces for the little boy. "Here you are," he chuckled.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish thanked, taking the piece of breakfast his father had just offered.

"So, did you two sleep well?" John asked, smirking down at his food.

"What?"

"You and Hamish. Did you two sleep well?"

"Why are you doing that?"

"What?"

"Smirking."

"I'm not smirking."

"Yes you are," Sherlock countered, frowning slightly as he gazed at his friend, eyes quickly scanning over his face. "Ah. We looked humorous while sleeping?"

"How do… Nevermind. And yes. Well, more like you did," the doctor chuckled, smiling as Hamish hurriedly grabbed another piece of pancake and shoved it in his mouth. "It was rather adorable actually."

"My… Me sleeping was adorable?" Sherlock asked, now genuinely confused.

"What? Oh! No, no, you two together were. You know what? Nevermind. Forget I even said anything…"

Smirking triumphantly at his flat mate's flushed cheeks, Sherlock returned his attention to feeding Hamish, chuckling and smiling in relief at how much the little boy was eating.

After having finished breakfast, both John and Sherlock were relieved to find that though Hamish still had a fever, it had dropped to 100.1, and the little boy clearly seemed to be on the mend.

"Well then," Sherlock sighed dramatically, entering the sitting room with Hamish on his hip. "What shall we do for the rest of the day, hmm?"

Hamish thought for a moment, resting his head on top of his father's shoulder as he contemplated. "Tom Tank?" he asked eventually, absentmindedly tracing the gap at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"Excellent," the detective murmured, pressing a loving kiss to his son's temple.

Sherlock, Hamish and John spent the rest of the day curled up around the living room, watching countless episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine. Hamish remained curled up in a blanket most of the day, seated either on the couch, in his father's lap or with John in his chair.

Eventually, after having coaxed some more food and liquid into the boy, Hamish was finally starting to tire out. "Sherlock," John chuckled, grabbing the attention of the detective, who was currently seated on the floor, leaning against the couch. "Look at him," the doctor mouthed, gesturing to Hamish, who was resting on his lap in a blanket. The little boy was starting to doze off, and each time his head would begin to fall he would jolt awake again with a tiny gasp, only to have his eyes flutter closed again and repeat the process.

"Hmm? Oh," Sherlock whispered, having starting to doze off, himself. The detective couldn't help but smile as a tiny sigh escaped his son's lips. "Poor thing's exhausted."

"That's good, though," John whispered, groaning as he stood up, taking Hamish's sleepy form with him. "Means his body is fighting it and he's recovering."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response, smiling fondly at his son.

"I'm going to go put him to bed, hmm?"

"Yes." Running a hand through his raven curls, the detective slowly pushed himself up from his position on the floor, planting a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek. "Good." Suddenly, however, there came a quiet knock from the door (Sherlock had managed to break the doorbell… again). Both the flat mate's heads turned towards the entryway and then back to each other. "Here, I'll… Take him," Sherlock murmured, opening his arms towards the doctor.

"Oh. Yeah, right. Here." Frowning slightly, as he was suspicious of who might be at the door, John carefully passed his tiny flat mate's almost-slumbering form to Sherlock before hurrying down the stairs. "Ah. Mrs. Holmes," he said cooly, trying to hide the distaste in his voice as he opened the front door.

"Yes, John. No need to sound so displeased. Are Sherlock and Hamish in?"

"Yeah, they're both upstairs, though Hamish is just about passed out now. They're both on the mend, though, so that's good."

"Indeed. May I see them?"

"Uhh… Sure," John sighed, knowing that even if he said no, Eloise would only force her way in again.

"Good. Thank you."

Running a few fingers through his short hair, John started to worry his bottom lip with his teeth as Eloise ran upstairs. Shutting the door and glancing anxiously towards Mrs. Hudson's flat as if hoping she would run out and come save them from the wrath of Eloise Holmes, the doctor turned, steeling himself as he hurried up the stairs. John was almost too lost in his thoughts to notice, however, as he reached the landing that Eloise had paused in the doorway, and was staring at something in the flat. "Oh!" he gasped softly, having almost run into her tall form. "Sorry, but what are…" The doctor paused as he moved next to her and gazed into the flat. A wide grin spread across his face as he saw, or rather heard, what Eloise had paused at.

"Really? Ah… Yes. Well, yes of course," came Sherlock's deep, baritone voice, rumbling with the softness and tenderness he reserved only for conversations with Hamish. Eventually, mingling with his father's deep vocals came the little boy's tiny voice, floating to the entryway as he spoke with the detective.

"Yes… Yes? Good," Sherlock chuckled from where he was lying on the couch, though all that could be seen was the back of his head.

"Mmm-hmm," came Hamish's obviously tired response. It was clear from their position in the entryway that the little boy had lain down on his father's chest and his smaller head could be seen as he tucked his head under Sherlock's jaw.

"Good… Good," the detective whispered, absently running his fingers over and through his son's hair as he waited for the little boy to fall asleep, completely conscious of the forms waiting behind him.

"Mmm… 'Ove, Daddy…"

"I love you, too, Hamish. Goodnight."

"Mmm-hmm. Nigh', Daddy." With a tiny breath and a few unintelligible murmurs, Hamish's form went limp against his father's chest and the little boy swiftly fell asleep, a tiny fist clenching and unclenching where it had landed against Sherlock's lips.

"Goodnight," the detective whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Hamish's chubby fingers. Heaving a sigh, the detective carefully stood up and turned towards the figures in the doorway. "Hello, mum," he murmured, quirking his lips up into a small half-smile as greeting.

Eloise, who was still frozen in the entryway merely stared at the small figure in her son's arms. "You love him," she whispered, eventually bring her gaze back to Sherlock.

"Yes," the detective whispered, giving a firm nod of his head. "I do. He's my son."

"Hmm," Eloise hummed, the faint traces of a smile ghosting over her thin lips. "So you do… And so he is."

Something between a small gasp and a chuckle escaped Sherlock's lips. "Thank you," he whispered, giving a small nod of his head.

Though John was still not entirely sure of how all of the Holmes family members were able to communicate without using words, the tradition still clearly held true with Sherlock and Eloise as some sort of silent apology was exchanged between them as they gazed at each other. Feeling as if he was invading on an unusually intimate moment, John awkwardly cleared his throat and hurried over to his flat mate, slowly taking Hamish's sleeping body from Sherlock. "Just… Take him to bed," he muttered, gently bouncing as he hurried into the detective's bedroom.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, though the doctor had already disappeared into his room. "Thank you, mum," he stated, and Eloise couldn't help but chuckle at the sincerity in her son's voice.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. I'm sorry, as well; I was… Out of line… To assume that you…"

"It's all right, mum. I understand…"

"No, not just for… Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes began, clutching her hands together in front of her as she took a hesitant step forward. "I am sorry. For all of it. I know what happened, and I was never there for you. And then… Sherlock, I'm just sorry. Can…"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured in response, taking a few steps forward and closing the distance between him and his mother. "I appreciate it. Really, I do. Thank you, mum." Taking a deep breath of reassurance, the detective leaned forward, awkwardly trapping his mother in a long-limped hug. "Thank you," he whispered, exhaling and smiling at the strangely familiar, yet reassuring smell of her perfume.

"I'm sorry, love," Eloise whispered, giving Sherlock a tiny pat on the back in response to his awkward hug. "And uhh… He seems like a sweet boy," she added, gently pushing him away and giving him a genuine, albeit small, smile.

"He is. He really is… If uhh… If you'd be interested, he's turning two in a couple of weeks. You'd—I mean—if you wanted to, you'd be—"

"That would be lovely. Thank you, Sherlock," Eloise interrupted, raising a hand to her son's lips. "John might take some convincing though," she chuckled half-heartedly, trying her hand at a joke.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, slightly taken aback by this new and foreign side to his mother. "Thank you."

"Of course… I'm sorry for the upset I've caused, Sherlock. But I can see you… You obviously care deeply for him."

"I do. I love him. With all my heart."

"Well… So long as you give him the childhood he deserves… And the one you never had," Eloise added softly, eyes falling to the ground as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "You'll do well," she stated, after a moment's pause. With another quick pat to her son's shoulder, and a small half-smile, Mrs. Holmes turned on her heel and gave a silent goodbye before leaving the flat.

Sherlock stood, momentarily frozen in his spot by the moment shared between his usually cold mother. "Thank you, Mycroft," he silently thanked, running a few fingers over his lips as he chuckled to himself. Smiling, and still feeling an unusual sort of warmth dancing through his veins, the detective slowly made his way into his room, where John was seated on the edge of the bed, having just finished tucking Hamish's sleeping form under the covers.

The two exchanged a quick look as Sherlock entered, before both broke out into huge grins. "Ohh," John sighed cheerfully, after having pressed a joyful kiss to Hamish's nose. "So we're all right?"

"We're all wonderful," Sherlock murmured, gazing lovingly at his son's sweet form.

"Ohh…" Humming happily to himself, John quickly gave his flat mate a smile and a quick pat on the shoulder before hurrying out of the room, giving the father and son a moment together.

Chuckling after his flat mate, Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish. Eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, the detective gently sat down on the bed and tenderly brushed some of the little boy's curls out of his eyes. "You precious thing," he murmured eventually, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's chubby ones and giving a gentle squeeze as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to his son's forehead. "Sleep well, Hamish… You've earned it."

Chuckling at the swell of love growing in his chest, Sherlock placed a quick kiss to Hamish's tiny fingers before gently tucking the covers around him and leaving the bed. "Sleep well, Hamish… We're all fine…"