Hey everyone! Okay, I just want to say : wow! It just never ceases to amaze me how kind and thoughtful all of you are when it comes to your reviews! Truly, thank you so very much to everyone who takes the time to write a review at the end of a chapter. You all mean the world to me, and I cannot possibly express my thanks enough. Also, just wanted to apologize for the angst in the last chapter, but, after a few more bumps in the road, it will get better, I promise! Just thank you all so much, guys! I really do appreciate all who read, review, favorite, and follow. Thank you! Enjoy! And have a great rest of your week! (And please excuse all mistakes, per the norm!)
Chapter Forty-Three: Changes
"Hamish? Hamish, are you up?" Sherlock asked gently as he entered his room with a quick rap of his knuckles against the wood.
"Not, Daddy," the little boy whispered from the dimness.
"No? Well then how are you speaking, hmm?" the detective chuckled half-heartedly as he sat down on the bed, trying to make out his son's tiny form.
"Oh. Don't know, Daddy. Was."
"You were sleeping?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Well why aren't you any more?" Sherlock asked sadly, as he could finally make out Hamish's form, wrapped tightly in John's blanket.
"Don't know, Daddy," the little boy sighed, rolling over and onto one of Sherlock's hands as he carefully untangled himself from the blanket. "I wake up."
"Yes, you did... How are you feeling?"
"... Tiny no good."
Sherlock may have laughed if it wasn't for the sad frown and dried tears on his son's face.
"Tiny not good," he echoed as he brushed his fingertips over Hamish's forehead and pushed a few stray curls from his eyes.
"How is Daddy?" the little boy asked hesitantly, eyes fluttering open and shut with each stroke of his father's fingers.
"How am I doing? Well... I suppose I'm all right... I'd be a lot better if you weren't sad," Sherlock whispered with another feather-light touch of his fingertips.
"Me, Daddy?"
"Yes, you. I don't like it when you're sad."
With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish rolled out of the warm confines of John's blanket and crawled over his father's limbs until he was seated in Sherlock's equally-warm lap. "Hame is sorry, Daddy," he whispered into Sherlock's chest, burying his small face in the fabric.
"No, no, no," Sherlock whispered hurriedly, fixing Hamish with a frantic look. "Don't you apologize. You have done nothing wrong, all right, Hamish? You are perfect, and the emotions you're feeling are completely normal and understandable. Just, please… Don't apologize, love… You've done absolutely nothing wrong and have nothing to be sorry for, all right?"
A sniffle. "'Kay, Daddy."
"Oh, Hamish." Frowning sadly, Sherlock pulled his legs onto the bed and wrapped his entire body around his son's much-smaller form, entrapping and enveloping him in a warm hug. "Oh, love… I'm so sorry," he whispered into Hamish's silky curls, stroking a hand up and down the little boy's back.
"It is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, turning his head out of the safety of his father's chest and instead pressing his cheek into Sherlock's bicep. "Now both are sad," he mumbled, daring a quick glance up towards Sherlock's face.
Chuckling sadly, the detective gave a single nod of his head. "Yes, I suppose we are, aren't we?"
"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. Bad, John."
"Bad John?"
"'Es. He 'eave an' give Daddy an' Hame sad," the little boy whispered sadly, snuggling further into Sherlock's safe hold and closing his eyes as he heaved an airy sigh.
Frowning slightly at the conclusion Hamish had come to, Sherlock pressed soft kiss to his son's head, wanting desperately —feeling desperately—like he should be defending John… Yet, no words of such defense came to mind… He supposed, in a way, that Hamish was correct; John had left. And in doing so, had not only caused his son distress, but in turn him, because of Hamish's sadness. So, technically speaking, he supposed it was John's fault that both of them were sitting, curled around each other, clutching desperately for the comfort of each other's hold. "We'll be okay," was all he could think to finally say.
"T'ink so, Daddy?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered honestly, leaning back just enough so he could stare into Hamish's incredible eyes. "I do."
It took two days before John called the flat.
"Hamish!" Sherlock called from where he was trying to make an edible sandwich for the little boy in the kitchen, mobile held between his cheek and shoulder.
"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish answered cheerfully as he toddled in from the sitting room. Sherlock refrained from telling his son, if just for a moment, so he could revel in one of the first smile he'd seen on the little boy's face since the wedding. "There's someone on the phone for you."
"Is is, Daddy?" Hamish asked, hurrying over to be swiftly picked up by Sherlock.
"Here you are." Smiling, and feeling a sort of reassuring warmth spread through him as he held Hamish's cheery form close, Sherlock carefully moved the mobile from its holding place to press it against Hamish's tiny ear.
"He'o?" the little boy asked confusedly, sending Sherlock an alarmed look. The detective merely smiled encouragingly.
"Hey, Hame!"
Green eyes growing incredibly wide, Hamish shuddered a bit in excitement and released a soft gasp. "Daddy!" he exclaimed breathily. Tapping at the detective's cheek, the little boy pressed himself closer to his father's form. "Is John!" he gasped. "Is John, Daddy!"
"Yes, I know! Why don't you say hello?" Sherlock encouraged as he John's laughter make its way through the phone.
"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Now grinning uncontrollably, and with his tiny chest heaving up and down with elated breaths, Hamish turned his attention back to the mobile Sherlock had pressed against his ear. "He'o, John! Is come back day?"
Sherlock chuckled sadly and then, not even noticing, pulled his son's form closer.
"Oh, uhh… No, little man. I'm sorry, bud."
"Oh." The smile slowly slipping from his lips, Hamish leaned his head atop Sherlock's shoulder, as if in defeat.
The silence on the other end of the line quickly prompted John to continue. "But how about if I make a visit tomorrow, hmm? How does that sound, Hame?" the doctor suggested, sounding far more energetic than he felt.
Perking up a bit at the mention of an actual visit, a small smile returned to Hamish's lips, though he kept his head resting heavily against Sherlock's shoulder. "Come morr'mow?" he asked hopefully.
"Sure! I will certainly try my hardest."
"Good, John. Daddy an' Hame need John."
"You do, hmm? And why's that?"
"Must do, John. No good."
"You just do, hmm?" John echoed in a bittersweet way. "Right, then. Well now I will most definitely need to pay you two a visit, hmm?"
"'Es. Good. 'Kay, John. Say he'o at Daddy." Bye-bye. 'Ove." And without further word, Hamish moved his head just slightly, prompting Sherlock to pull the mobile away, and then quickly settled himself again on the detective's shoulder.
"Oh, uh—oka—bye, bud, I love you, too!" John cried hurriedly, hoping Hamish had heard him.
Chuckling, Sherlock pressed the mobile to his own ear. 'Good afternoon, John. So I hear you will be paying us a visit, then?" the detective smirked as he gently bounced Hamish up and down on his hip.
"Well, I—yeah I guess so. Your son is quite the convincer."
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed with a playful eye roll and a wink to Hamish, which sent the little boy into a fit a bell-like giggles. "Not unlike his father, I suppose."
"And don't I know it? Anyway… How have you been? Both of you, I mean."
"We're fine, John," the detective answered, now rather tense. "Both fine. I mean…" Heaving a sigh, Sherlock pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, moving Hamish to his lap. "Hamish is… Adjusting," he lied. "He's just trying to get used to the idea of only having one adult around; only one to ask for help and turn to. As am I, I suppose. But, umm… Yes, we're getting on. Hamish will be most pleased to see you."
"Oh ,well… Good, then! I miss the little guy."
"Yes, well…" Holding back the somewhat biting remark poised on his tongue, Sherlock merely transferred the frustrated energy to his hand, and tightened his grip around Hamish's little body. "We'll both be anxiously awaiting your visit."
"Right, then. Good! Well, I'd better get going; Mary and I are going out for lunch. Can I say goodbye to Hame?"
"Of course. Oh." Sherlock glanced down to see that Hamish had fallen asleep against his chest, mouth hanging open, with a tiny hand buried in the fabric of his shirt. "I'm afraid he's fallen asleep. Poor thing had a rather restless night," the detective murmured as he felt his son's warm breath against him.
"Oh. Sorry to hear that."
"Yes, well.. That's quite all right. We got through. Anyway… See you when you get here?"
"Yea, of course!" John answered with false happiness. "Good."
"Yes." Sherlock silently ended the call. "Oh, Hamish," he sighed, splaying his long fingers over the little boy's steadily rising and falling back. "What are we going to do with you?"
That night, when at half-past three, Sherlock felt a gentle tugging at the hem of his trousers and a tiny voice whisper, as if scared, "Daddy," the detective was willing John to melt out of the walls and appear.
"What seems to be the problem, little one?" Sherlock responded sadly, leaving his position at the microscope to scoop Hamish, who had plopped down on the ground and was rubbing at his eyes, into his arms. "Hmm?"
"Need you, Daddy," Hamish murmured in exhaustion. With a tiny sigh, the little boy fell forward, grunting when his head bumped against Sherlock's jaw, and then yawning again as his head slipped down to settle in the space between his father's neck and shoulder.
"Anytime." Features drawing together in a rather sadly pained expression, Sherlock silently carried Hamish's exhausted form into the his room. "Ah. Here we are," he sighed in a soothing tone as he gently lowered both Hamish and himself onto the bed. "That's better now, isn't it?" Careful not to roll onto his son's settling form, Sherlock found the blanket and managed to wrap it around Hamish, while keeping himself out. "Good?" he murmured, laying down on his side and waiting for the little boy to get properly settled and comfortable.
"'Es, Daddy. Is much good," Hamish whispered with a yawn, stretching his tiny limbs out and uttering a kind of squeak or moan at the effort, the sound of which caused an affectionate smile to grace Sherlock's lips. "Good, then."
"Da'ey?"
"Yes?"
"John is be coming ah'morrow?"
"Yes."
"'Kay, Daddy… Good."
"Yes, I… Suppose it is."
"Mmm-hmm." Too exhausted to utter anything more, Hamish merely snuggled his little self close to Sherlock's chest, wrapped a hand around several of the detective's fingers, clutched them to his chest and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning, Sherlock awoke to the sound of Hamish's tiny voice mumbling into his chest. Opening his eyes just a crack, the detective quickly gauged his surroundings, to find that he was now on his back, and that Hamish was lying perpendicular to his longer form; the little boy's small head was resting on his stomach. Glancing down, Sherlock found that Hamish had taken one of the buttons of his shirt between two tiny fingers and seemed to be having a sort of conversation with said button.
"What are you doing down there?" Sherlock rumbled fondly, giving Hamish, whose fingers had now stilled, a welcoming smile.
"Oh! Morn, Daddy!" the little boy called cheerfully, quickly forgetting the button as he threw his tiny form towards Sherlock.
"Oof! Well good morning to you, too!" Sherlock laughed, returning the tight hug his son now had him trapped in. "Feeling better?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the curls covering Hamish's temple.
"I is good, Daddy," the little boy reassured with a nod into the detective's neck.
"Well, good. I'm quite glad to hear that."
"Mmm-hmm… Daddy?"
"Yes, Hamish?"
"I 'ove, Daddy."
Pausing slightly to give his son a fond sideways glance, Sherlock pressed another kiss to the little boy's curls. "I love you, too, Hamish."
"Mmm," the little boy giggled, pressing his nose into Sherlock's raven hair. "Good, Daddy."
"Indeed it is… Breakfast?"
"Ver'my good!"
"My thoughts precisely!"
"Daddy?"
"Mmm?"
"When John come at?" Hamish asked from where he was lying on his belly on the sitting room floor, trying desperately to complete rather difficult puzzle.
"Oh, huh… Well, I'm afraid I don't know. Sorry, Hamish," Sherlock apologized, quickly sliding off the couch and scooting over to his son's form. "Try there," he whispered with a playful wink as he pointed to the proper spot for one of the pieces.
"Oh." A tiny grin now lightening his precious features, Hamish gave a tiny mumble, scooted himself forward, and with incredibly delicacy, dropped the puzzle into its slot. "Ta, Daddy!" he cried t triumphantly, grabbing ahold of Sherlock's knee and giving it a thankful hug.
"Oh! Well you're most certainly welcome," the detective laughed. Grinning warmly, he gave Hamish's back a gentle pat. Suddenly, Sherlock heard the sound of the front door opening, followed closely by the distinct sound of John's shoes treading up the steps.
"Hamish!" he whispered excitedly, moving into a crouching position before carefully hoisting Hamish up under the armpits. "I think we have a visitor!"
Quite confused, Hamish turned his attention to the doorway, waiting with a tiny hand somehow finding its way to his father's cheek. The little boy nearly fell backward with joy when he saw John's grinning form emerge up the stairs. "John!" he squealed, too overwhelmed with happiness and excitement to even think to run forward.
Chuckling, Sherlock gave his son a gentle push of encouragement, laughing aloud when the little boy turned to him with wide, questioning eyes that quickly widened in understanding. "Oh!" he gasped. "'Es!"
Grinning, giggling, and squealing in pure joy, Hamish toddled forward s fast as his little legs would allow, and then more-or-less fell into the doctor's open arms.
"Oh!" John cried as he scooped Hamish's body into his arms and clutched him close to his chest. Almost immediately, the little boy clasped his arms tightly around the doctor's neck and buried his face in John's neck. "Oh, John," he sighed gratefully, nuzzling against the doctor's skin.
"I'm here, bud. I'm here," John breathed into Hamish's hair as he turned so as to press a series of frantic kisses to the little boy's silky curls. "Oh, how I have missed you, Hamish," he whispered, feeling his heart skip a beat painfully in his chest at the thought of having to leave this tiny being, resting so peacefully in his arms.
"Is stay, John?" Hamish whispered anxiously, showing no signs of releasing the doctor from his grip.
"Oh, of course I am! After all, I have to make up all the hugs and kisses I've missed before I could even possibly think about leaving, right?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"That's my little boy." Taking a deep breath, and still holding Hamish close, John turned his attention to Sherlock, who was staring at the two of them, hands placed gracefully in his pockets. "And how about you, hmm? How have you been?"
"Oh. You know me," Sherlock murmured with a playful shrug. "I get on by trying to see how many ways I can almost burn the flat down." An incredibly alarmed look. "Just kidding," he added with a wink, chuckling and smirking to himself.
"Daddy," Hamish giggled preciously from his perch in John's arms. "No say bad lies at John," he continued, still laughing, but turning just enough so he could smile at the detective.
"Ah, right. Of course. So sorry," Sherlock murmured with a loving twitch of his lips.
John watched the exchange with a somewhat bitter pang of longing. He supposed, or rather, he had expected, that when he returned to the flat, he would find it in complete disarray, with Hamish and Sherlock tearing each other to pieces, or the little boy still dressed in the clothes he'd last seen him, or not properly fed. Of course, these thoughts were completely ridiculous, and of course he knew that. It was foolish to think that, just because he'd left, both Sherlock and Hamish would fall to pieces… Still… The doctor had expected, had almost hoped that there would be some evidence, besides Hamish's form clinging to him, that he was missed, needed.
Shaking away the selfish thought, John pressed another series of kiss to Hamish's face before plopping down in his chair and settling the two of them comfortably into the cushions.
"Oh! John?" Hamish cried suddenly, pulling away and loosening his grip just enough so that he could gaze into John's eyes.
"Yeah, little man?" the doctor replied, equally energetic.
"Want come help I at new puzzle Daddy got?"
"Daddy got you a new puzzle, did he?"
"Mmm-hmm! Go at Angmelo's an' park an' shops. I liked an' was good boy." Finishing the story, Hamish merely pointed to the new puzzle sitting on the floor.
"Oh, well very good for you! What kind of puzzle is it!"
"Oh! It… It, uhm…" Frowning, Hamish turned to Sherlock for help.
"Elements!" the detective declared with a proud nod of his head both to John and his son.
"'Es, John! El'melts!"
"Ohh! Well that's… Very… Like your father," John laughed, shooting the detective an eye roll which was returned by a fond smirk.
"'Es! So want help?"
"I would love to!"
So John spent the rest of the day playing games with Hamish, listening to his endless stories, playing some more games, completing puzzles, and eventually eating dinner with his two former-flat mates. Hamish remained seated on his lap the entire meal, and the little boy was, for once, too busy with focusing on John to notice that his father didn't eat.
Having missed his nap, by the time half past nine rolled around, still held safely in John's arms, the little boy quickly fell asleep, a single hand buried in the softness of the doctor's jumper.
"Oh," John sighed softly, pausing the rocking he didn't even realized he'd started. "He's fallen asleep."
"Ah. Yes, well, he missed his nap today, so I suppose he's quite zonkered out from all the excitement," Sherlock murmured, smiling fondly at the sight in front of him as he sat down in his own chair and crossed his legs.
"One nap?"
"Oh. Yes, we've moved down to one nap a day. We both felt the addition of the other one was becoming a bit redundant."
"Oh… And when did you plan this?" John asked quietly, starting the gentle rocking again, which received a small sigh from Hamish.
"About a week ago."
"Ah, I see… Well, it seems to be working for you… Anything else you've changed?" he asked, trying to sound as conversational as possible.
"Well… Let's see… Oh, yes. We've been practicing on sharing, so now I always eat his snack with him, and it has become his job to learn how to offer me some of his food… He's learned to identify the letters "S" and "Z", though I'm not quite sure why, as we have not specifically worked on those… And he's starting to try and tell the time. Although, I must admit, he's still quite rubbish at it." This emitted a chuckle from both adults.
"Well, it sounds like you're doing really well with him."
"Yes, well… As I said. Adjusting." Suddenly averting his gaze, Sherlock found a sudden interest in the arm of his chair.
Noticing the change, John was just about to say something when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He carefully pulled it out and read the Caller ID. "Oh. That's Mary. She'll be calling to tell me to get home… So how about I give him to you, then?"
"Ah, yes." Both standing, John carefully transferred Hamish to his flat mate's arms. Almost instantly, the little boy curled inward, melting in to the familiar shape of his father's chest. And the sight couldn't help but make a twinge of jealously churn uncomfortably in John's stomach.
"Right, then. Thank you for having me over. You'll have to call me with a case some time… Speaking of which, I'll give him a ring tomorrow, yes?"
"Very good."
The two friends shared a genuine smile and a quick pat on each other's shoulders before the doctor placed one last kiss to Hamish's forehead and then slipped out of the flat, while the detective carefully deposited his son's limp body under the covers in his bedroom, praying and wishing that the little boy would actually sleep through the night, now that he'd seen John. He would not, however, get his wish.
And so it went: Hamish would receive at least one phone call from John a day, and was supposed to receive at least two to three visits a week. However, as the days and weeks wore on, Sherlock had started to notice that the phone calls were becoming shorter; the visits less and less frequent. And, just when he'd noticed that things were getting better (Hamish would smile more often, giggle like he normally had, and was almost his normal self once again), it seemed that a little bit of that renewed brightness and joy would slip away with each missed phone call and visit.
And so, as such, Sherlock decided to make it his personal goal to bring back some happiness into Hamish's life, and help the little boy to realize that although John was not living with them anymore, they were still a family… A family which loved and cared deeply for each other.
It was not quite a day after making this personal vow that Sherlock entered from the kitchen, a snack of strawberries and biscuits on a plate for the two of them to share, as they had been practicing the art form of sharing, when the sight of Hamish, seated not-quite-crosslegged on the floor, staring wistfully at John's empty chair, gave him pause in the doorway.
"Hamish?" he asked worriedly, placing the plate back in the kitchen and squatting down next to his son's somewhat dazed form. "What is it?"
"I is 'tink, Daddy," Hamish whispered, incredible green eyes scanning back and forth over the chair.
"What about, love?"
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"I can ask?"
"Well, of course you can."
Sniffling slightly and with bottom lip quivering, Hamish turned his teary gaze to his father's taller form. "John did 'eave ah'cose of Hame?"
"What?" Sherlock cried, suddenly coming to blinding, painful realization of why John's leaving had affected Hamish so much; the little boy thought it was his fault. "No, no, no," he said hurriedly, reaching forward and pulling his son's sniffling form into his arms. "John did not leave because you, Hamish," he whispered, hugging the little boy close. "He did not."
"How do know, Daddy?" Hamish whispered into the detective's neck, voice quavering slightly.
"Because I know that John loves you with all his heart, and nothing—nothing—you could do could ever change that." Frowning, Sherlock sat down in John's chair, ignoring the foreign feeling of it against his body, and sat Hamish on his lap, turning him so they were staring eye-to-eye. "Listen to me. You've done nothing wrong, Hamish. And don't you go thinking you have. Oh, my love, is that why you've been so sad?" he asked, feeling somewhat heartbroken, as he already knew the answer.
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish merely answered, with a tiny nod. "Ah'cose I 'tink John say bye to 'eave Hame ah'cose I say bad or do bad or—or… But say John no had 'eave ah'cose at Hame?" Hamish asked, impossibly quiet, with his bottom lip quivering. His impossible green eyes were glassy with brimming tears.
"No, Hamish!" Sherlock whispered intensely, running a thumb up and down his son's cheek and wiping away a stray tear that had slipped free. "John most certainly did not not leave because of you, do you hear me? John loves you with all of his heart. Oh, Hamish love, you could never do anything to make John want to leave, nor I. You are perfectly wonderful and lovely, and don't you ever think differently, all right?" Sherlock explained rather frantically, accentuating his point by tenderly covering Hamish's tiny chest with his large hand. "John and I love you so very much. And I promise you… He did not leave because of anything you'd done. John left because he got married, and that's what married people do; they live together… Do you understand, love? Oh, Hamish, you did nothing bad. And you said nothing wrong. And John did not leave because of anything you did."
Clearly mulling over his father's words, Hamish pressed his lips together and leaned forward, resting his temple against the hollow in Sherlock's cheek as he thought. "So," he whispered eventually, the corner of his lips brushing ever so slightly against his father's skin as he spoke. "John no did 'eave ah'cose Hame be bad?"
"No," Sherlock answered sincerely, accentuating the word with a press of his lips to his son's nose.
"An' no ah'cose Hame say bad an' no say 'ove lot?"
"Oh, Hamish, my little one, most certainly not."
"John say bye ah'cose haved?"
"Exactly. John said bye because he had to."
Taking a deep breath and releasing it with a tiny sigh, Hamish closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's lips, prompting the detective to press a series of soft, feather-light kisses to the skin. "Oh, Daddy," the little boy sighed opening his eyes and pulling back to stare up into his father's silvery orbs. "So… John still 'ove?"
"With all of his heart, Hamish." And with those words, Sherlock could practically feel all of the tension, the anger, the sorrow, the tears, the confusion, the hurt—every emotion his son had felt as a result of John leaving, suddenly dissipate. Clearly relieved, Hamish's body slumped forward and downward, as if exhausted, and the little boy released a tiny sigh. "Oh, Daddy," he repeated in a voice just below a whisper… "'Ove y'u, Daddy."
"And I love you too, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, body flooding with gratefulness and relief as he trapped Hamish's now-relieved body in a tight, warm, reassuring, and loving hug. "Oh, you poor thing," he whispered into the little boy's auburn curls. "Oh, your poor thing…"
"It is 'kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, closing his eyes and leaning into the comforting touch, allowing it to envelop and protect him. "Is lot 'kay now, Daddy."
"You are most certainly right, my love… So very right…" Sherlock looked down when there came no response from his son, to find that the little boy had fallen asleep on him again, a tiny smile gracing his small lips. "Oh, Hamish." Smiling in a bittersweet way, himself, Sherlock pressed one more kiss to his son's temple before carefully carrying the little boy to his room. "You sleep well, Hamish," he whispered as he tucked the small boy under the duvet. "Everything's all right now, you brave little one."
That night, Hamish had his first peaceful night's sleep since the wedding. And, as he tucked the little boy's tiny, limp form under the covers, Sherlock suddenly realized that they really would be all right. They'd made it through… And would continued to keep pushing on. It would only require patience, understanding, many changes, and lots of love.
"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you. Sleep well, little one." And, that night, he did.