Chapter Forty-Two: Wedding Bells

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"What is doing?"

"Putting on… A tie," the detective muttered with disgust as he finished looping the fabric through itself. "Unfortunately."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Why is it unfortunate?" Sherlock asked, turning away from the closet to kneel in front of Hamish, who was sitting on the ground, staring curiously up at him.

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, giving an earnest nod of his head.

"Because, I positively detest ties. But, one is required for the occasion, so I must wear it… And Mary might literally pummel me if I don't," the detective added playfully, unconsciously straightening Hamish's own little clip-on tie.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy…" With a content little murmur to himself, and a grunt of effort, Hamish shoved himself into a standing position and reached forward, mimicking the previous move of his father, to straighten Sherlock's tie, though it needed no such thing. "Ahh-mmm," he murmured, little fingers delicately, though in a rather haphazard way, moving the fabric to the left and then back to middle again. Sherlock couldn't resist a smile. "Mmm-hmm," Hamish concluded when he was finished. "Good now, Daddy?"

With a hint of a smile still on his lips, the detective chuckled. "Very. Thank you. What on earth would I do without you?"

"Not good," Hamish answered, pressing his lips together, in a similar fashion to his father, and giving a single nod of his head.

"Quite right," Sherlock laughed, grinning warmly at the small smile that crossed his son's features when he did so. "Come along, then." Giving his son's auburn curls a gentle ruffle, the detective straightened and gestured to the closet, where, hanging next to his own, was Hamish's tiny suit.

Giggling and clapping his hands together, the little boy hurried over, grinning up at his father's tall form as he waited. "Is mine, Daddy?" he gasped airily, attempting to reach up and grab the fabric.

"Of course. All yours," Sherlock laughed, pleased with his son's excitement, and glad that was he was not sharing in his own discomfort and worry. "Would you like it?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, quite literally too excited to form coherent words.

"Very good, then." Gazing down with loving eyes at his son, Sherlock plucked the tiny outfit from where it was hanging. "Would you like help."

"No, Daddy," Hamish answered, immediately reaching up and making an eager grab for the fabric. Sherlock obliged with a rumble of chuckle, releasing the suit from his fingers.

Biting down on his bottom lip in attempt to stifle his excited giggles, Hamish took his outfit from the detective with as much carefulness as he could muster and held it in front of his small face, examining the fabric with sheer amazement and wonder. "'Es, Daddy," he sighed, almost too quietly for his father to hear.

"Yes, what?"

"Hame need—"

"Ah, ah. Who needs?"

"I need," Hamish giggled triumphantly, clutching the tiny suit to his chest as he leaned forward to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"There's my boy," the detective murmured before running the pad of his thumb across his son's cheek in a tender manner. "Of course I'll help you. Oh! And very good grammar, by the way!" he added encouragingly.

"Ta, Daddy!" Hamish declared with a grin, handing the tiny suit in his hands to his father's much-larger ones.

"You're very welcome." With swift fingers, Sherlock pulled the tiny suit jacket, pants and vest from the hanger. "Ohh. Up we go," he groaned as he lifted Hamish's form onto the bed. "You're getting too big. Stop growing," he scolded lightheartedly, though one corner of his lips was quirked upward into a fond smile.

"I can't, Daddy. Can't help," the little boy giggled.

"Ah, that's right, of course you can't. I'm afraid I'd rather forgotten that you can't help how fast you grow… But still! If it was in my power, I'd keep you little forever!" Sherlock chuckled animatedly, gently tickling Hamish's spine with the fingers he had placed there.

"But Daddy," the little boy giggled, quickly rolling off his father's fingers and scooting over to the detective. "I want grow," he sighed cheerfully, placing a hand to Sherlock's temple and pressing down the raven curls that had been resting there.

"As do I," Sherlock murmured, pressing a purposely-noisy peck to Hamish's cheek. "Just not so fast!" Smiling, the detective quickly snatched the tiny trousers resting on the bed and pulled off the jeans that were currently on his son's legs, quickly replacing them with the pants. "There. All set?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Very good, then. Well… How about a quick snack and then we'll… Be off?"

"'Kay, Daddy." Grinning, and completely unaware of his father's obvious anxiousness, the little boy took ahold of Sherlock's much-larger hand and carefully hopped off the bed. "Come, Daddy?" he asked distractedly, trying not to ruin or wrinkle his special outfit.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course I am. Apologies. You go in… I'm just going to… Finish."

Quickly forgetting his clothes, a small frown drew on Hamish's face as he heard the uncertain tones lacing his father's deep voice. "Is what wrong, Daddy?" he asked worriedly. When no response came, the little boy hurriedly toddled over and tugged on the detective's trousers. "Daddy. Daddy, what wrong?" he persisted, using his deep eyes to urge his father to look at him.

Quickly coming back to the present, Sherlock gave Hamish a reassuring smile. "Nothing, I'm just—" The detective paused, however, at the skeptical, unbelieving look of worry gazing up at him in his son's green eyes. "Sorry. I'm a little nervous. Uncertain. Unsure," he murmured, accentuating each with a gentle pat of his fingers. "Sorry for lying."

"It is 'kay, Daddy… But why is?"

"Well," Sherlock sighed dramatically, leaning down to hoist Hamish's small form onto his hip. "I'm rather afraid that I'll ruin everything. This is the most important day in John's life—or so he claims—and I just don't want to… Screw it up for him."

Hamish, who had been carefully studying his father's lips as he spoke, now drew his attention to the detective's eyes, staring earnestly into their lighter shade. "Why think that, Daddy?"

"I suppose it's because I know that I'm not well-liked. And, as such, there's a much higher chance that, due to the general dislike of me, my best man's speech may or may not be taken well, see?"

Clearly contemplating his father's words, Hamish traced a tiny finger delicately back and forth over Sherlock's collarbone. "Well… Hame like you, Daddy," the little boy whispered, giving his fingers a tiny pat of reassurance against the detective's neck.

Pausing the swaying he didn't even realize he'd started, Sherlock turned his head, nearly bumping his chin against Hamish's cheek in the process and merely stared, wide-eyed at his son.

"Did say wrong, Daddy?" the little boy asked after a few moments, worried by the striking gaze of his father.

"Not a thing, Hamish," Sherlock whispered in response, a hint of a smile dancing over his lips. "In fact you couldn't have possibly said anything more perfect."

"Oh," Hamish sighed, relieved. "Good, Daddy." Now smiling once again, the little boy leaned forward and rested the temple of his head against the hollow in Sherlock's cheek as he wrapped his little arms around the detective's neck. "'Kay now, Daddy?"

"Mmm," Sherlock rumbled, pressing a kiss against the silky curls tickling his lips. "Much better, in fact," he answered truthfully, finding a surge of bravery and calm wash over him at his son's words.

"Good. Come, Daddy. Go eat?"

"Yes."

Father and son smiling in tandem, Sherlock obligingly carried Hamish into the kitchen.

"Right, now. If you feel like you must use the washroom, what do you do?" Sherlock asked as the cab rolled to life.

"Ask Daddy."

"Exactly. And if I'm not around?"

"Nana an' Aunt Molly."

"Very good," Sherlock praised cheerfully, giving Hamish's leg a gentle squeeze. "We'll be fine, right?"

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy hummed, crawling out of his seatbelt to crawl over to his father, much to the detective's secret amusement. "You be 'kay, Daddy," he reassured with a precious smile.

"I most certainly hope so, Hamish…"

Hamish sat settled firmly on his father's lap throughout the entire service, and quite frankly the detective was very impressed with how patient and calm the little boy remained, though he suspected Hamish had dozed off against him a time or two, resulting in the calm.

When the service ended, Sherlock stood patiently, holding Hamish's hand while pictures were taken, more so to keep the little boy in once place, as he was quickly becoming quite energetic with all of the excitement of everything happening around him, and all the while trying to ignore the many fleeting, desperate glances he was receiving from all of the single women waiting around.

As soon as the pictures ended, Hamish made a haphazard dash for Mary and John, who quickly huddled the small boy into their arms, giving him a cuddle and a kiss, much to his delight. Holding Hamish in his arms, John turned in the direction the little boy had come from, and laughed aloud as he found a large group of women had crowded around Sherlock, much to his apparent alarm. "Need some help?" the doctor mouthed when he caught his friend's eye.

"PLEASE," the detective shouted back, giving one woman, who was particularly close, a wary scowl.

"Come on, Hamish," John laughed, giving Mary a quick peck on the cheek before linking fingers with her. "Let's go help Daddy, hmm? He looks a little desperate."

"What? Oh." The worry that had momentarily crossed Hamish's features was quickly replaced by a wide grin as he giggled bashfully into John's neck upon seeing his father, so clearly uncomfortable, surrounded by throes of flirting women. "What is wrong at Daddy, John?" he laughed, nuzzling against the doctor's skin and wrapping his little arms around his neck as they made their way over to the Sherlock and the crowd of girls.

"Your father is receiving an excessive amount of female attention and has absolutely no idea what to do with it," John chuckled smugly as they reached the group. "Excuse me, ladies. Bride and groom coming through, thank you, thank you." Grinning, the trio finally made their way to Sherlock.

"Thank you," the detective half-sighed, half-gasped, placing a hand on Hamish's back as he took a deep breath, huddling closer to John and Mary, as if using them as a shield.

"Oh!" came the sudden cry from one of the women. "Is that—you have a son!" This statement quickly sent the ladies into a new flurry of excited chattering.

"All right, all right. Leave the poor bloke alone, will you? He's overwhelmed enough as it is," John scolded, though the smirk was clear in his voice.

Still chittering excitedly to himself, the swarm of girls slowly dissipated, with many longing glances toward Sherlock, and now, towards Hamish, as well.

"Thank you," Sherlock thanked again, giving Mary a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek.

"Not a problem."

"Ah. I see Hamish found you?" Sherlock chuckled with a nod towards his son's clearly comfortable from.

"Yes. And he's quite made himself at home."

"Yes, well… He misses you," Sherlock whispered, expression suddenly going sombre as he noticed how desperately Hamish was clinging to John. "It's like losing a parent, I suppose… He keeps trying to crawl into your bed." Quickly realizing this was the wrong thing to say with an expression from Mary, the detective quickly tried to recover. "But—I mean, uhm—he's still doing quite well, we've uh—started potty training, haven't we, Hamish?" Sherlock mumbled quickly, giving his son's bottom a quick pat of encouragement.

"Oh!" the little boy cried, quickly perking up. "'Es, John! I is do good!" he declared with a confident nod of his head.

"Is that so? Well, I'm very excited to hear that!" the doctor encouraged, though Sherlock could tell it was with far more happiness and excitement than he was actually feeling. "That's exciting, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm, John." Clearly deciding the conversation was over, Hamish quickly snuggled back under John's chin and a content little smile spread over his lips as he rested there.

By the time Sherlock was to give his speech, he was a nervous wreck, grip around Hamish's middle tight and strained.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked, sensing his father's discomfort. "No be upset, Daddy. Do good," he reassured, twisting out of the detective's hold so he could stand up on his thighs. "I like, Daddy," he whispered before pressing an incredibly tender kiss to Sherlock's nose. "Do good."

"Oh, I do love you," Sherlock whispered, allowing his head to fall forward just slightly until his forehead was touching Hamish's. "Very much," he added as he felt that familiar wave of calm only Hamish could give him settle his rapidly-beating heart. "Let's go do this, shall we?"

"Mmm-hmm. Go an' show how 'ove John," the little boy encouraged as Sherlock stood and he was placed back on the seat. The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at his son's order, quickly clapping a hand over his lips as the sound drew many stares. "That's exactly what I'm going to do," he chuckled as quietly as he could, giving Hamish a wink before turning and grabbing a glass of champaign. "John Watson…"

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock turned to John, looking for reassurance that he had done his speech correctly. He was met with a teary-eyed, thankful, clearly shocked grin. "How was that?" he asked out of the corner of his lips, unsure how to gauge the facial expression.

"Bloody brilliant," John laughed, quickly hopping up from his seat to wrap his arms around his friend's much-taller form.

"Oh, I uhh…" Deciding to return the gesture was the best option at this point, Sherlock carefully wrapped his arm around John's shoulders and gave them an awkward pat. "So it was good, then?"

"Absolutely," John reassured with a pat, pulling back. "That was perfect, Sherlock. Thank you for that."

"Oh, well… You're welcome, I suppose. Though I'm not quite sure what I've done." John merely laughed in response, before sitting back down and taking Mary's hand in his own.

"Good?" Sherlock mouthed to her, knowing whatever Mary said would be the truth.

"Oh yeah," she responded back with a firm nod of her head and a smile.

"Good." Sighing in relief to himself, and glass still in hand, the detective turned around to find Hamish, his little legs hanging off the end of the chair, grinning up at him with nothing but love, adoration, and pure amazement filling his deep green eyes. Sherlock nearly laughed aloud as he saw the little boy pat the chair beside him. "I may sit, then?" he chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered, his small voice quite clearly full of happiness.

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a moment." Taking a sip of his champaign, and with a warm smile, Sherlock carefully sat and transferred Hamish back onto his lap. "Did you like it?" he whispered into the little boy's ear, running a thumb over his son's stomach.

"A lot, Daddy. Did good. An' John an' Mary 'ove lot."

"Did they, now?"

"Mmm-hmm. An' I."

"Oh, phew. As long as you liked it, that's all that matters," Sherlock chuckled lovingly as he pressed several soft kisses to Hamish's temple and cheek.

"Mmm, Daddy," the little boy sighed in contentment, turning Sherlock's lap and curling up into the detective's arms. "Did much good."

"Thank you, Hamish."

"Welc'mom, Daddy," Hamish whispered into his father's neck, smiling against the skin.

"Mmm."

Eventually, people were dancing, and there was music, though most of it went unnoticed by Sherlock, who was desperately trying to keep an eye on Hamish, who was 'dancing' with Molly at the moment. Eventually, however, the little boy started to attract extensive female attention, and quickly fled the scene, taking cover behind his father's protective legs.

Deciding it was probably time for them to leave with Hamish actually fell asleep on the floor, and nearly got stepped on in the process, Sherlock quickly scooped the little boy up, which in turn, woke him up, and hurried over to John and Mary. "Well, I think we'll be heading home now. We're losing the sugar high," Sherlock chuckled, referring the absolutely monstrous amount of cookies Hamish had consumed earlier.

"Aw, come here, darling," Mary whispered, quickly taking the little boy from Sherlock's arms. "You be good, now, all right?"

"'Es, Mary," Hamish whispered into her jaw as he was hugged close.

"Promise?"

"Mmm. Prom'kiss, Mary," he giggled before being transferred to John.

"I love you, little man," the doctor whispered with a bittersweet smile. "You keep him out of trouble for me, okay? It seems to me you've done an excellent job so far, yes?"

"I do good?"

"Very," John whispered, punctuating it with a kiss to his little flat mate's nose. "Mmm. I'm going to miss you," he sighed sadly as he clutched Hamish's form close, wrapping him in a tight hug. "I don't know how on earth I'm supposed to survive not seeing you everyday."

"Not see more?" Hamish cried suddenly, nearly jumping in the doctor's arms upon coming to the realization.

"No, no, no, of course we'll still see each other," John reassured, quickly realizing he'd said the wrong thing.

"Oh... Good. Go now, Daddy?"

"Yes, love, we have to go now."

"... 'Kay." Bottom lip protruding slightly, Hamish wrapped his arms around John's neck, trapping him in one last, tight hug. "I 'ove, John."

"I love you, too, Hamish. Very much... Mmm... Now you be a good boy now, you hear?"

"'Es." A hint of a smile on his lips, Hamish allowed himself to be transferred back to his father's waiting arms.

"We'll be all right," Sherlock whispered, both to Hamish and John.

"I know you will... Text me or something when you two get home, to let me know you've made it safely. Yeah?"

"Certainly. Good evening, John. Mary. And my sincerest congratulations," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms under Hamish's form and clutching him close as he gave the newly-married couple a warm smile. "Best of wishes."

"Come on, love," Sherlock whispered, setting Hamish upright on the bed as he started to undress the little boy. "Pajamas tonight, or no?"

"Not," Hamish whispered, gazing absently off into space.

"Why am I not surprised?" Sherlock chuckled fondly.

"... Know what, Daddy?" the little boy asked suddenly as he allowed Sherlock to gently pull off the vest and suit jacket.

"No, what's that?" the detective responded with a fond quirk of his lips as he started to undo the tiny buttons.

"I 'ave good fam'ly," Hamish whispered, lips pressed together into a sweet smile.

Fingers momentarily stilling, Sherlock looked up from where he had been previously staring at his son's clothes to gaze questioningly into the little boy's eyes, to find Hamish was staring at a picture that he'd recently put up on the dresser. A picture of John and Mary, holding hands, with Hamish situated, grinning, on the doctor's shoulders. "Yes," Sherlock whispered, now also gazing at the picture. "You do, don't you?"

"We, Daddy," Hamish corrected, not noticing as he wrapped a little hand around several of Sherlock's fingers as he continued to stare. "We 'ave good fam'ly."

"Yes... We do," Sherlock whispered, returning the gesture by enveloping his son's hand with his own. "We are very lucky... You're very lucky, Hamish. You have a lot of people who love you."

"Mmm. Like Daddy?"

"Yes, like me. And John, and Mary... Hamish," the detective started, crawling onto the bed and pulling his son into his lap. "You know that just because John doesn't live here anymore, he doesn't love you any less, right? He still loves you all his heart."

"Hame know, Daddy..."

"And I still love you..."

"'Es... I 'ove, too," the little boy yawned, curling his body backwards and into Sherlock's stomach.

"Good. I just want you to know that you are loved by all around you, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy... An' Daddy?"

"Yes, and me as well. We are both loved by our family... Even though they may not live here anymore... Understand?"

"'Es... But Daddy an' Hame still live."

"That's right. We still live here together. And I love you very much, all right?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, in a way Sherlock knew meant he was quickly slipping away into the blanket of sleep.

"Good... That's good." Moving his son's now-limp form, the detective carefully finished undressing Hamish before changing his nappy and tucking him under the duvet. "I love you," he whispered as he pressed a loving kiss to the little boy's forehead. "Goodnight, Hamish."

Sherlock was just about the close the door behind him when he paused, having a thought. Turning around, the detective silently moved to the dresser and took the picture Hamish had been staring at in hand. "There you go, love," he whispered, as he carefully set the frame down on the side table, so the little boy could see the picture whenever he woke up in the morning. "It'll all be all right... You'll see," he whispered, brushing the back of his knuckles over Hamish's forehead, enjoying the steady sound of his son's breathing. "You'll see..."

Sherlock was seated at his microscope when he heard the gentle padding of his son's tiny feet against the hardwood floor. Smiling fondly to himself, the detective slid off of his chair and moved to the entry to the sitting room, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe as he saw Hamish's tiny form toddle into view.

"What are you doing?" he asked fondly, taking a step into the room and ignoring the late hour.

"Need... Want say bye-bye," Hamish whispered, sounding rather confused, which Sherlock knew was due to tiredness.

"Well why don't we do it tomorrow, hmm?" the detective asked, taking another step towards his son's swaying form.

"No 'ease, Daddy. I do now. Need to." Not waiting for a response or protest, and rubbing a few tiny fingers into his eyes, Hamish slowly made his way over to John's chair and, with a small sigh of effort, hoisted himself onto the furniture.

Realizing this was about John, and not wanting to interrupt any kind of grieving process his son might be going through at the moment, Sherlock silently sat down in his chair opposite, crossed his legs and steepled his fingers under his chin as he carefully studied his son's movements and actions.

Still looking slightly confused, Hamish managed to find a comfortable spot on the chair. Heaving a tiny, almost sad, sigh, which made Sherlock's heart twinge a bit in his chest, the little boy scooted himself close to one of the arms of the doctor's chair. Clearly thinking very deeply about something, Hamish, took a single, tiny hand and pressed his little fingers to the fabric of John's blanket that was draped over the chair. "Oh, John," he whispered. Eyebrows drawing together to form a positively heartbroken expression, Hamish leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the arm of the chair. "Bye, bye, John," he whispered into the material, pressing his cheek against it and heaving a tiny sigh. And the sight all-but-broke Sherlock's heart. Hamish needed John here...

"John," the little boy choked suddenly, attempting to curl around the arm of the chair. "Want John, Daddy!" he began to cry, clutching desperately to the chair, as if willing the doctor to suddenly appear from the material

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock cried softly, quickly rushing forward and collecting his son's now-sobbing form into his arms. "Come here, little one... It'll be all right... Shh... We'll be okay, I promise. John will be back, love. He's not gone forever." When his words seemed to do nothing to calm Hamish, Sherlock decided that the best thing he could do right now was be there for the little boy... And let him cry.

And cry he did. Hamish sobbed, clutching desperately to Sherlock as tears fell freely from his eyes. His little fingers were buried in the detective's raven curls as he was walked and swayed and bounced by the detective. The little boy cried until his cheeks flushed a dark pink and he started shaking from the force of his sobs. And all the while, though every instinct, every nerve ending, every fibre of his being was telling him to help, to cure to, to wash away the sadness, Sherlock merely whispered soft 'shushes' into his son's ear; stroked his fingers over and through the little boy's hair; rocked back and forth; and cuddled and held him as close as Hamish needed and for as long as he needed.

Eventually, the two ended up in John's chair, with the doctor's blanket draped over both of them, Hamish still pressed as closely as he could be to Sherlock.

"There, now... You're all right," the detective whispered pressing kisses to his son's hair and cheeks and nose and forehead. "I've got you, love... Right here."

Sniffling softly, Hamish gave a feeble nod of his head. "Stay, Daddy."

"For as long as you need," Sherlock whispered, tucking the blanket even further around his son's body.

"Miss John, Daddy," Hamish whispered into the detective's chest, tracing the gap at the base of his neck. "Want here."

"I know it... I know it, love. I'm sorry I can't make it better."

"Daddy..." Thoroughly worn out, and giving a sad little exhale of breath, Hamish's eyes unwilling slid shut, the emotions and tears suddenly rushing away as he went limp, replaced only by the calm and familiarity of his father's form, close by and surrounding him.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed sadly, burying his nose in his son's curls an focusing on the sensation of the little boy's breath against his skin. "We'll make it through. I promise. We will..."