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Chapter Forty-Four: Growing Up

"Ohh, I'm coming to get you!"

"No, Daddy!"

"No? Oh, we'll see about that!" Sherlock laughed as he chased a very naked Hamish around the flat, desperately trying to get him into a bath. "Oh, my goodness, you crazy little boy!" he exclaimed. And with a lunge forward, the detective had Hamish in his grasp and was quickly toting the little boy to the bath.

"Oh, Daddy," Hamish sighed in defeat, letting his head fall against Sherlock's shoulder as they entered the bathroom.

"Uh-huh," the detective smirked, giving his son a cheeky pat on the bottom. "Told you I'd catch you. Never doubt your father." Grinning, Sherlock gave Hamish a playful wink and then lowered him carefully into the full tub.

Accepting defeat, and quite clearly glad to do so, Hamish merely returned his father's grin with a precious smile of his own. "Good, Daddy," he praised.

"Mmm. I quite agree."

Giggling, Hamish quickly found several of his bath toys, which had taken permanent residence in the tub and started to drive and push them through the water. Sherlock watched with a small smile as the little boy began having a very animated conversation with a toy boat.

"Now, Hamish?"

"Mmm, Daddy?"

You remember that I'm going out today with John, right? Remember when we talked about that last night?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good. And that you'll be staying with Aunt Molly while I'm out?"

"An' baby Rose?" Hamish gasped, though he had already known about the encounter.

"Yes. And baby Rose," Sherlock chuckled. "You'll be all right?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good."

"Come along, Hamish. Time to get out."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Deserting his toys, and quite anxious to get out of the now-cooling water, Hamish decided that he would try to crawl out of the bath himself, and save his father the trouble. With a tiny grunt of effort, and a quick check to make sure his father was busy with the towels, Hamish hoisted himself over the edge of the tall tub. But with the combination of the moist tile and his own slipper body, Hamish quickly slipped from the side of the tub and landed in a squishy-sounding heap on the tiled floor.

"I was most appreciative, by the way for the lack of splashing tod—Hamish!" Sherlock cried as soon as he heard the slippery speaking of Hamish's grip releasing itself from the side of the tub. The detective turned on his heel just as his son's little body hit the floor with a smack. "Oh Hamish, are you all right?" Kneeling down, the detective quickly scooped his son's dripping wet form into his arms, paying no heed to his suit, and snatched a towel before hurrying into the bedroom.

Hamish, who seemed confused, more than hurt, merely gazed up at Sherlock with rather dazed eyes; he'd fallen, hit the floor, and then been whisked away by his father all in a matter of seconds, so he quite disoriented at this point. "Daddy?" he mumbled in confusion, the word quickly turned into a whimper as he tried to tap Sherlock's shoulder, and was met with a jolt of pain. "Owie, Daddy," he mumbled again. Now quite upset with the whole situation, and believing this would make it better, Hamish shoved his face into Sherlock's chest, hoping to find comfort and protection from the confusion, but instead he was met with another sharp pain in his chin. Having had entirely enough, the little boy turned his face to the other side and then promptly began to cry frustrated tears into his father's shirt. "Is owie, Daddy," he cried, not noticing he was being carried into the kitchen.

"Hamish? Hamish, look at me," Sherlock murmured frantically as he stood in the kitchen desperately trying to remember where he'd put the first aid kit. "Damn it," he muttered, feeling panic begin to drain its gripping way into his veins.

"Bad, Daddy," Hamish scolded, too fed up with it all.

"I'm sorry, Hamish. You're quite right," Sherlock agreed, pressing an apologetic kiss to his son's temple. "It's all right."

"Is not 'kay, Daddy," Hamish snuffled. "I is owie, Daddy."

"I know. I know it." Desperately needing John to be here to tell him what to do and how to help, Sherlock decided he should first put Hamish down and assess the extent of the injuries before her panicked even further. He suddenly remembered he was grasping a towel in one hand. "All right, all right, come here little one." Thinking clearly enough to run a soothing hand up and down the subtle bumps of his son's bare spine, Sherlock quickly draped the warm towel over Hamish's—he just realized—shivering body. "Oh, Hamish." Gathering himself, the detective quickly shoved some leftover experiments off the counter, placed Hamish so he was sitting on the now-clear spot, and wrapped the towel further around his body. "Here, let me have a look at you, love."

"No, Daddy." Face splotching pink and sniffling madly, Hamish gave a firm shake of his head and attempted to crawl back into the solace of his father's arms.

"No, Hamish. I need to see what's wrong."

"No, Daddy. Not be good, Daddy," the little boy managed between sniffles.

"What's not, Hamish?" Sherlock asked confusedly, though he was quite surprised at how calm he sounded.

"No is John, Daddy."

"Well, no of course I'm not."

"No is John," Hamish repeated earnestly, sound utterly confused and heartbroken at the same time.

Not understanding, Sherlock placed a hand to one of Hamish's tiny arms, put him back on the counter and managed to disentangle himself from the little boy's grip. "What does John have to do with anything?" he asked gently, catching his son's watery gaze. "Hmm?"

Sniffling and wiping at his tears one tiny fist, Hamish gave an airy sigh. "'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my boy." With an encouraging half-smile, Sherlock gently lifted Hamish up by the armpits and set him on a kitchen chair, so that he could kneel down to his son's eye level and appear less intimidating with his height. "Right, then. Go on. Tell me."

"'Kay, Daddy… Daddy not can."

"And why's that?" Sherlock asked with a raised brow.

"Is not John, Daddy And John say is doct'mor. Doct'mor fix ouchies. Daddy is not. No can."

"Ah," Sherlock sighed in understanding, dropping his brow as his gaze grew soft. "I see, then. You think that because I am not John, who you know to be a doctor, that I cannot take care of your injuries."

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, dark green eyes traveling over his father's face, as if to asses the detective's reaction.

Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile as he saw his son's impossible eyes, and realized he was being deduced. "Well, Hamish… I must say, your logic is very sound." Sherlock chuckled when he saw Hamish's downcast eyes rise up to meet his own. "Now. Although you are correct when you say I am not a doctor, I do happen to have some experience with mild injuries. So, although I may not be as skilled as John, would you mind too terribly if I had a go?" Sherlock asked with a soft gaze and a smile.

Returning the smile with a sweet one of his own, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head and then crawled into his father's waiting arms.

"Good boy." Giving his son a reassuring pat on the back, Sherlock quickly squeezed Hamish close, giving him a hug, and then set him back on the counter once again, still wet and cold. "Right, then. What seems to the problem, old fellow? Tell me where it hurts."

"Ouch, Daddy." With a solemn nod of his head, Hamish lifted his arm hesitantly, and pointed to his wrist.

"Your wrist hurts?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Would you mind if I… Just had a look?" Sherlock asked with raised brows.

"No, Daddy," the little boy sniffled. "Is 'kay."

"Thank you." With a delicate touch, one seemingly too soft for a man with such calloused and worn hands, Sherlock reached forward and wrapped a few fingers around his son's tiny wrist. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, sending Hamish an apologetic wince when he saw the little boy grimace. "I'll be more gentle." Staying true to his word, the detective's grasp softened impossibly more. "Better?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good. Now let's see here…" Sherlock carefully moved around Hamish's wrist, careful not to move his hand from its spot. "Right. I'm just going to give it a little tap. Is that all right?" the detective inquired with a questioning brow.

"No, Daddy," Hamish breathed frightfully, attempting to pull his hand back.

"Hey, hey, shh… Apologies." Pressing his lips together to form a small smile, Sherlock loosened his grip even more and then pressed a soft kiss to the gentle curve of his son's wrist. "Now, then… Did that hurt?" he asked, smirking when he saw the realization he'd been bested cross Hamish's eyes.

"Oh. No, Daddy," Hamish whispered, sounding incredibly shocked at his own words. "No did ouch, Daddy."

"Hmm. I thought so." Smiling fondly, Sherlock pressed another quick peck to his son's cheek before continuing. "Right. Now I'm just going to…" With a slight movement, the detective rolled the little boy's wrist just slightly to the right and then down, quickly pausing as he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a whimper. "Ah. That hurt, didi t?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sniffled with a pout. "Did ouch. No is good."

"Mmm. I quite agree. Most sorry about that. But," Sherlock breathed in relief, "there appear to be no broken bones." Chuckling sadly at his son's quivering lip and downcast eyes, the detective gently lowered the little boy's arm and rested it atop his small towel-covered leg. "That's a good thing, Hamish," he reassured, taking Hamish's good hand in his own and giving it a squeeze.

Sniffling, Hamish merely scowled at his injured wrist. "I be 'kay, Daddy?"

"You will be perfectly fine, my love. Now. How about you let me have a look at the rest of you, hmm? Where else hurts?"

"Here is ouch, Daddy." Keeping his hand settled safely under the warmth of his father's, Hamish lifted his chin and made a sort of humming sound.

"What's… Ah. I see." Sherlock frowned slightly when he saw that the skin just to the left of Hamish's chin had broken, and there was a small amount of blood that had trickled and traveled down the curve of the little boy's jaw. "Oh, Hamish, I'm sorry," the detective breathed, feeling a strange, rather paralyzing, tightness begin to coil in his chest at the occurrence that he'd never seen Hamish's blood. He wasn't supposed to. "Does it hurt?"

"Tiny bit, Daddy."

"Tiny bit… Yes… I'm sorry, Hamish."

"Why is be sorry, Daddy? No did," Hamish whispered earnestly.

"But you're hurt. And I should have been watching. My fault by association," Sherlock muttered, licking his thumb and frantically trying to wipe away the drying traces of dark red blood.

"No is, Daddy," Hamish responded, eyes deep with fret and worry at the panicked movement of his father's fingers. "Daddy!" he whispered loudly, pulling his head back and taking a gentle hold of his father's frantic fingers. "Is be 'kay, Daddy?" he whispered, lowering their hands onto his towel-clad pa. "What is be wrong?"

"You're hurt and… Bleeding," Sherlock whispered, smiling sadly down at Hamish's hands clasping his own.

"No is… Good, Daddy?" the little boy asked, not understanding.

"No, it's not good, love. We prefer to keep this, " a gentle, barely-there kiss to the cut, "inside… Yes?"

"But…" Hamish clearly seemed to be thinking very hard; his light brows were drawn together, his lips pressed together in a fashion so similar to his father's that the detective, himself could help but smile. "Daddy has," the little boy tried, unable to phrase his words quite the way he wanted, before pointing to his chin as further explanation.

"Oh. You mean I get hurt and bleed, too?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ah. Right, I see. Well, I'm much older than you and far less valuable," Sherlock explained with a matter-of-fact smile. "See? You, however, are far more precious, and as such should be protected more. You're far more important than I, Hamish, and that's why it makes me sad to see this. It doesn't matter if I get hurt, but you," Sherlock accentuated the statement with by pressing his fingertip gently into Hamish's tiny chest, "matter far more, so it's much worse when you get hurt… Oh, Hamish, what on earth is the matter?" the detective chuckled upon seeing the completely and utterly shocked look on his son's face.

"Say no is matter, Daddy," Hamish gasped, gripping onto the fingers his father had still placed in his lap.

"Well, yes."

"But… Matter at me, Daddy! No could be 'kay if Daddy got hurt," the little boy continued, gaze traveling back and forth in frantic movements across the floor, as if to even entertain the thought of such a thing was positively terrifying. "Hame not be good more, Daddy. Bad to say," he concluded, scolding his father for even saying such a thing with a scowl. "No is good say. Bad. Not say. Hame 'ove an' need, so is be not good to get ouch at Daddy. Bad. Hame need, Daddy."

Sherlock was positively beaming, with a warmth beginning to flutter beneath the skin of his abdomen upon feeling so loved, so needed. He'd never felt like he actually had someone depending on him; someone to miss him if he was ever gone. And, he had to admit to himself, it felt quite nice to know Hamish felt so strongly and adamantly about his safety and well-being.

"Well, then… You have my promise: I will most certainly try to do my best at staying as safe as possible, hmm? Yes?"

"Oh," the little boy breathed in relief, slumping back against the mess of scattered nothingness behind him. "Good, Daddy." The look of sheer worry and horror quickly replaced with a precious smile, Hamish uttered a kind of hum and then gave his father's much-larger hand a tiny pat with his own. "Good."

"I'm glad you think so," Sherlock laughed heartily, suddenly finding so much joy in situation, he'd nearly forgotten the task at hand. "Now," he chuckled, and smiling, leaned forward to once again examine the cut on Hamish's chin, which, without the blood surrounding it, seemed much less severe. "Oh," he tsked. "I think we can easily take care of this, hmm?" With a reassuring smile, Sherlock gave Hamish a gentle pat on the knee. "Oh, come here, you precious thing." Unable to shake the warmth still dancing and blooming through his chest, the detective reached forward, and minding his son's hurt wrist, gathered the little boy into his arms. "Let's find us a plaster for that cut, and then maybe some sort of wrapping for your wrist, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy." Quite content once again the whole situation, Hamish allowed his head to rest heavily against Sherlock's shoulder as he was carried about the kitchen while the detective searched for the bandages

"Ah! Finally! Here we are." With a reassuring smile, Sherlock strode into the sitting room and set Hamish down on the couch. "My goodness, you are still soaking wet, aren't you?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled weakly, managing a smile for the detective who had now kneeling down in front of him.

"Well. First things first. Let's take care of that wrist." Though he knew the pain was probably now gone, Sherlock knew his son would be more at ease if he wrapped it anyway. "Doing all right, love?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Good. Now, I'm just going to wrap this around your wrist, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my boy."

"There," Sherlock hummed as he tenderly pressed the plaster of choice (Thomas the Tank, of course) over the tiny gash of broken skin on Hamish's chin. "And, I do believe, you brave sir, are done."

Sniffling, though his tears were mostly gone, Hamish gave a pitiful hum as he stared at his wrapped wrist.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, taking a seat on the couch next to his much-smaller son and crossing his legs. "Come along, old fellow. What's the matter?"

Thinking, Hamish quirked his lips to the side, an action which sent a paternal flutter of love down Sherlock's spine. The little boy's gaze traveled around the floor and then up to his father's lighter shade of eyes, and then eventually settled on his crossed legs. With a small whisper of something Sherlock couldn't quite make out, Hamish shoved himself as far back on the couch as he could, and with a tiny grunt and a glance towards his father's crossed legs once again, the small boy attempted to mimic the position, though he could only manage to cross his ankles. "Is good, Daddy," he stated with a small nod of his head, scooting himself so he was nestled safely against the detective's side, tiny legs almost crossed.

Beaming with pride and love, Sherlock bent down and over and pressed a soft kiss to his son's still-wet hair, chuckling into the silky curls. "Oh, how I do adore you," he laughed, glancing once again at Hamish's towel-clad crossed ankles, and then to his own long, crossed limbs. "You are simply precious."

"Is good, Daddy?" the little boy giggled half-heartedly into his father's waist, burying himself in the detective's suit.

"It's very good. Being precious and terribly fascinating is a very good thing, love. As are you. A very good thing, I mean," Sherlock answered with a playful smirk. Smiling and unable to resist taking a picture of his son's almost-crossed legs, Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone, took the snap, and then wrapped an arm around Hamish. "Come on. How about we get you out of that towel, hmm? And then off to Molly's?"

"'Es, Daddy." All trepidation clearly forgotten, Hamish, smiling, crawled atop Sherlock's legs, and, haphazardly brushing a few curls away from the detective's forehead, planted an incredibly tender kiss to the tip of his father's nose. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered with a smile.

"You, my love, are most certainly welcome."

With a soft, rather beautiful, bell-like giggle, Hamish slid off both his father's legs and the couch, and in the process, managed to slide out of his towel, as well.

"Oh, I swear, Hamish!" Sherlock groaned dramatically as he picked up the discarded towel and followed the naked little boy into his room, where he had plopped himself down on the bed. "You are going to be the death of me!"

"What?" An incredibly alarmed, hurt, fearful, and all around upset look briefly creased Hamish's soft features, giving Sherlock a laugh.

"No is fun, Daddy!" Hamish gasped, appalled by the thought. "Hame not ever be kill, Daddy!"

"Oh." Sobering, and realizing his son had taken the literal meaning, Sherlock quickly gave the little boy a smile. "Well of course you couldn't. I was only joking. Besides, what happens if I get you first?" An outfit in hand, the detective lunged forward and began tickling Hamish while simultaneously managing to get him dressed. "Ah!" he cried triumphantly. "Finally! My… Goodness, you."

Giggling, Hamish stood on the bed, nearly falling over from the speed with which he stood, and more or less bounced his way to to the detective's standing form. "Mmm. Daddy," he half-giggled, half-sighed as he placed a hand to either side of Sherlock's sculpted cheeks. "Daddy…"

"Mmm. Oh, what am I going to do with you, Hamish?" the detective chuckled.

"Uhm… At Molly?"

A laugh. "Perfect."

"Oh, Rose, who do you think this is—Oh. Hamish, darling," Molly crooned as she opened the door to Sherlock, only to find Hamish on his hip, a blue plaster standing out against his pale skin. "What on earth happened—" Molly stopped as she was met with a raised brow from Sherlock which clearly suggested no questions were to be asked. "Ah, uh. Nevermind, love. Do come in!"

"Thank you." Dropping his brow and heaving a sigh of relief, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground and guided him into Molly's quaint flat.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Where is be baby Rose?"

"Ah," the pathologist chuckled. "She's over there in her play pen, see?" Sherlock had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"Oh. Mildly confused, and unused to Molly's flat, Hamish took a hesitant, tiny step around a corner. "Rose!" Sherlock could hear his son's tiny footfalls padding into Molly's sitting room, followed closely by a squeal of happiness from Rose.

"So, uhh… What happened to his…" Molly made a vague gesture to her chin.

"He fell." Eyes downcast, Sherlock gently brushed past the pathologist, promptly ending that conversation.

"Okay."

"Hamish?"

"What? Oh! Daddy!" Beaming, Hamish ran over, grabbed ahold of his father's hand, and tugged the detective to where Rose was sitting. "Look at Rose, Daddy!"

"Yes, she's quite lovely, isn't she?"

"Mmm, Daddy."

"Yes… Right, well, I'm afraid I've got to be off, Hamish. So a goodbye hug and a kiss, if I may?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" With a preciously sweet hum that sounded oddly like, "ove you, Daddy," Hamish wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, having to go on tiptoe to do so, and then pressed a soft kiss to the detective's jaw.

"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish." A lingering kiss to the temple. "Right, then." Knowing that if he didn't leave now, he might never, Sherlock pressed another quick kiss to Hamish's cheek, squeezed him close, and then stood. "Go on, then. Say hell to Rose for me, and umm…" Sherlock lowered is voice to a whisper. "Give Molly a kiss for me."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled.

"Very good." Smiling, Sherlock quickly thanked Molly, who was watching fondly from the doorway, and then left her flat, pulling out his mobile. "Right, then."

To: John Watson at 2:34 p.m.

Done. Come to flat. Bring sheets.

SH

"Did you bring them?"

"Yes, I brought them," John chuckled as he entered the flat.

"Good. Bring them up." Paying no heed to his friend's clearly over-full arms, Sherlock quickly strode up the stairs to the doctor's old room, taking them two at a time, and leaving John to struggle on his own.

"Ugh!" Scowling at both the large package containing the requested sheets, and at his previous flat mate, John dropped the plastic container on the ground and then, more gently, placed down the other many bags slung over his arms.

"Ah. Thank you," Sherlock rumbled from where he was now crouched on the ground. With slender fingers, which to John seemed as if they had gotten impossibly thinner, the detective reached over and dragged the plastic package over to him. "Oh, these are simply perfect," he murmured as he unzipped the plastic and pulled out a bit of the cover. "Thank you."

"Yeah, of course." Smiling, and feeling oddly proud at the rare praise, John's gaze turned to the room, and the smile quickly slipped from his face. "You finished it," he stated blankly and with a slight frown.

"What? Oh. Yes. I did a bit of work on it this past week, though last night was when I really more or less finished it; it was late, I couldn't sleep, so I finished it. Logical."

"But… Nevermind."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "What, John?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"Well it's obviously not nothing." Leaving the covers, Sherlock stood and strode over to his friend. "What… Ah. You're disappointed."

"Oh, you reckon?" John drawled sarcastically, fixing the detective with a scowling frown. "This was supposed to be our thing. Our thing for Hamish. Something to include me, too. Could you not have found something else to do last night, other than finish the project which was supposed to be ours for him?"

"Well, my apologies, John. I didn't realize it would affect you this much."

"Well, maybe you should have thought about that. I just… You don't understand it, do you?"

"Obviously not," Sherlock huffed, getting quite frustrated and annoyed with the bickering. He glanced towards the door, expecting Hamish to walk in on them, and shush them, as he had almost always done in the past when they would bicker. But, remembering that Hamish was at Molly's, the detective gave a shake of his head, and returned to John, whose face was flushing a dark pink.

"I need something, too, Sherlock," John explained with an exasperated sigh.

"I don't understand."

"You have him every day, all to yourself. I don't get to see him as often, Sherlock. So I need something besides a phone call to show him I haven't forgotten him. That's what this," a gesture to the room, "was supposed to be. Sherlock? Bloody hell! Sherlock, I need something to connect with him!"

"Well, pardon me John, but it hasn't exactly been easy for me either!" Sherlock countered, glaring. "What do you think it's like, John? Going from a two-parent household to a one-parent? I've put cases on hold, I've made sacrifices, too, so that I won't have to send Hamish to a nursery or babysitter every day; so that I might actually see and communicate with him during the day. It's not exactly been all sunshine on my end of the bargain, either! And how do you think I feel, having to watch while Hamish suffers, knowing that I can do nothing to stop or help it, but be there and attempt to sooth him? You're the one who left, John."

"Well—what about me and—and how I have—have…" The fight quickly draining from him, John released a breath. "I… I just miss him, that's all." Pressing his lips into a tight line, John turned his back and covered his eyes with one hand, simultaneously kneading his fingertips into his forehead.

"Perhaps it's you, John, that needs him more," Sherlock suggested softly, watching his friend with careful eyes, and gauging the doctor's reaction for any signs of hostility. "You have my sincerest apologies. I did not understand the extent of the sentimental attachment you had to the room. If you would like…"

Wiping at the moist pool that had formed under his eyes, John turned to see that Sherlock was holding out the covers in one of his hands.

"It's really the last thing before the room's done, so…" Sherlock managed a small half-smile.

Realizing this was his friend's way of saying he was sorry, and that the offering of the blanket was a sort of peace offering, John gave a weak chuckle, understanding that this was the best Sherlock was probably capable of offering by ways of apology. "Thanks." Returning the smile, John took the blue Thomas the Tank Engine sheets from his friend's hand, and ran them through his fingers. "How is he, Sherlock?" he asked, not meeting the detective's gaze.

"He's doing much better. He does miss you, of course, as is to be expected. But we've moved past the mourning period, I do believe. He's thriving in terms of understanding and motor skills, though I fear his speech may be a bit delayed, though we've been working quite frequently on—"

"Sherlock."

"Oh. What?"

"He's perfect," John whispered with a smile to the blanket in his fingers. "He is developing beautifully."

"Yes. Yes, he is… He's so receptive, John. He understands the emotions of others around him, especially myself, far better than I could ever hope to. He's quite exceptional… And, if it's any consolation, you, or rather your name, has been added to his prestigious collection of cars."

"Oh?" John laughed, finally meeting his former flat mate's gaze. "I've made it that far in his list of important people, have I?"

"Oh, yes. You're now up with the likes of Thomas and Peter."

The two friend's shared one of the first tense-free laughs they'd had since the wedding.

"Well… Glad to know I've not been forgotten," John sighed, still smiling as he glanced around the nearly-completed room.

"Never. Now. The covers. If you would; the bareness of the bed is quite distressing me."

"Ah. Of course it is." With a rather unbelieving shake of his head, John moved past the detective and knelt down by the side of the tiny bed. "Here we are, Hame," he chuckled, smiling as he placed the Thomas covers over the white sheets already tucked into the bed, and began folding it in the way he'd been taught in the army, knowing that though Sherlock instantly saw and recognized the folds, the detective was not going to say anything. "Is that satisfactory to your perfectionist requirements?" the doctor asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Quirking his lips, Sherlock squinted slightly at the folded covers before smiling. "Perfectly acceptable."

"Oh, good."

"Yes. Now, then. For the final touches; decorations." Sherlock quickly grabbed the many bags scattered about the freshly-cleaned floor. "Here you are," he stated with a content smile, handing the shopping to John.

"Wait. Why are you giving them to me?"

"You wanted to be a part of it all, you can do the decorating."

"And?"

"… And you live with a woman. You… Understand… These things… This..." A vague gesture to the room. "Yes. Valid. Go on, then." Sherlock promptly shoved the bags of decorations to John, eyes expectant. "You've always been the more artistic one. I'm critical, you're… Not." With a smile and a nod, Sherlock strode from the room. John could hear the detective's footsteps taking the stairs two at a time as he traveled back down them.

Smiling and with a chuckle, John se the bags on the ground, keeping one in his hand, and reached in, pulling out a letter. "H" John couldn't help but grin to himself, as he realized that this was the one bag in which Sherlock had bought the times it contained. Keeping the letter in his hand, the doctor gazed in, and confirmed his suspicions when he found that the remaining letters would spell, "Hamish."

"And you say I'm the artistic one." With a lighthearted scoff, John pulled the letters into his hands, and turned to a shelf, one resting just above and parallel to the tiny bed. "You big softie."

Finished with the decorations, and quite pleased with himself at the result, John skipped down the stairs, and turned into the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock seated with his computer. When he found no traces of the detective, John made to turn into the kitchen, but paused when he saw a flash of red dash across his vision.

Confused as to what the source could be, John took a step closer to the couch and saw that it was a first aid kit. And open first aid kit, as well as a few… Bloody napkins. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"What's this?"

"What's—Oh. Yes. We had a bit of an accident today."

Frown deepening, and with creases forming where his brows had tugged together, John turned his attention from the bright red to Sherlock's form.

"What kind of accident?" he asked in a suspiciously calm voice.

"Hamish had a little fall… From the tub, I'm afraid. He'd attempted to crawl over the side, and slipped in the process. He landed funny on his wrist, though as far as I could tell it was not even a sprain, and then broke open a bit of skin by his chin. That's why there's… Bloody tissues. Apologies, I…" Instantly regretting having not cleaned the mess and evidence of what he was soon realizing was a mistake on his part, Sherlock quickly hurried past John's oddly-quiet form, and gathered the red items into his arms, depositing them in the kitchen.

"Are you sure he fell?" John murmured quietly, not bothering to move his gaze from where he was staring at his chair.

"Yes, of course I… John?" Realization flashed across Sherlock's steel-grey eyes. "You think... John, you think I hurt him?"

"You have a tendency to lose your temper," John murmured, knowing the words he was speaking were utter rubbish, and hating himself for having uttered them. "I… Oh. Oh my… God, Sherlock, I'm…" Shaking himself back into reality, John's gaze left his old chair and traveled to meet his former flat mate's, instantly regretting the possibly horrid thing he'd suggested upon seeing the utter shock and impossible hurt storming behind Sherlock's ever-changing eyes. "How could… Sherlock, I didn't mean that, I swear. Bloody hell, what's wrong with me, I know you would never—could never—"

"You thought I hurt him," Sherlock merely repeated, frozen with shock. "How could you…"

"Sherlock. It was wrong of me to have even thought it. I am so sorry. It's just… God, why can't I just cope and deal with it, Sherlock? What's wrong with me? Why am… Bloody hell, and now I'm attacking you, even though I know how wonderful of a parent you are to Hamish! I just can't deal with the separation, myself." Releasing a sigh, John collapsed onto the couch, staring, ashamed at the ground.

Sherlock merely stared at his friend's rather pathetic-looking form, frowning with confusion at the conflicting emotions he was feeling. Deciding to do what John would suggest doing, the detective unclasped his tense fingers from behind him and took an awkward seat next to the doctor. "I knew you didn't mean it. It was just… Quite a shock to even entertain such a horrible idea… He did fall, you know… And though I didn't cause the fall, per se, I certainly could have done more to prevent it; I was busy getting a towel. I could have, and should have been watching him."

"Sherlock, you were getting his towels, just like we always do at bath time. There's no reason to blame yourself. He's all right, I take it?"

"Oh, yes. He's quite chipper now, actually. And really, the cut on his chin looked much worse than it actually was," Sherlock chuckled, smiling fondly at the thought of Hamish's tiny form sitting cross-legged next to me. "Oh." Remembering he'd taken a picture, Sherlock pulled out his phone. "Here." He passed the mobile to John.

"What's… Oh. Aw, look at that." Laughing aloud at the terribly adorable picture of Hamish's towel-clad, almost-crossed legs, right next to his father's long limbs, John merely smiled at the boy—his little man. "That's quite a cute sight," he chuckled, passing the mobile back.

"It is, isn't it? He seemed quite determined."

"Mmm, yes… I am sorry, Sherlock."

"I know. Sentiment. See why I try to avoid it?"

A laugh. "Yes. It's quite a bloody awful way to feel, isn't it?"

"Quite. Hence my general avoidance."

"Mmm."

"Right… Well… Come on. Let's go get Hamish. He'll be quite excited and surprised to see you; he was under the impression were were out solving cases all day, and I think we all could use the remedy of his smile, hmm?"

"John!" Instantly deserting Rose, Hamish quickly dropped the toy he'd had in his hand and dashed toward the doctor, wrapping his arms around his leg.

"Hey there, little man! How are you?" John asked, picking his tiny flat mate up and wrapping him in a hug, enjoying the bittersweet feel of the the little boy in his arms.

"Good, John. Play at baby Rose!"

"Yes, I can see that!"

"Mmm… Miss, John." Smiling, Hamish quickly buried his face in the collar of John's jumper.

"Thank you very much, Molly," Sherlock thanked, picking up Hamish's nappy bag.

"You're most certainly welcome. He was a delight."

"Mmm. Yes… Thank you."

John would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed when the three of them got into a cab and Hamish almost instantly crawled into Sherlock's lap and began animatedly describing his day to the detective.

Steeling himself, John knew that he would just have to accept that he was no longer a part of their routine anymore; he'd been written out, so to speak. And Sherlock was right; he'd been the one who had left. It was only fair he deal with the consequences.

"Hamish?"

"Hmm, Daddy?"

"I think John may be looking a little lonely. Why don't you go tell him about your day and see if you can't cheer him up?" Sherlock suggested quietly, giving his son a playful wink.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Giggling, Hamish crawled across the cab, with his father's hand on his back the entire way, carefully analyzing the road in case he should need to act in a moment's notice, and into John's lap. "He'o, John."

"Oh. Hello, little man. Long time, no see, hmm?"

"What is, John?"

"Nothing, Hame. Nothing," John murmured, grinning at the little being sitting on his legs.

"Right, now. Keep those hands over your eyes, all right?" Sherlock informed Hamish excitedly, wrapping his hand around one of the little boy's, and allowing John to do the same with the other. "We're going to guide you up the stairs, all right? And no peeking."

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"Right, then. Here we go."

Sherlock and John carefully led Hamish up the stairs to what had been John's room. "Right…" Sherlock carefully pushed open the door, positioned his son in the entryway, and then released his smaller hand, with John quickly following suit. "Go on. Have a look."

With a little hum of excitement, Hamish removed his hands from his closed eyes and his mouth quickly fell open at the sight in front of him. "Tom!" he called, quickly rushing forward and toddling into the room, gaping at his surroundings. "Daddy! Is… Tom! All! What is, Daddy?"

"This, Hamish, is your room."

Hamish quite literally froze his pacing and toddling to turn and gape between Sherlock and John, who were both leaning against the frame of the doorway. "Is mine, Daddy?" He hurried over to the bed, crawled on top and touched the sheets.

"Yes. All yours. And guess what?"

"What, Daddy?" the little boy sighed breathlessly.

"John did all of this for you," Sherlock gestured to the blue walls with Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper, and the many shelves decorated in various knick-knacks.

"Did, John?"

"Well… Uhm—"

"Of course he did," Sherlock inputted, striding over to the bed and scooping Hamish playfully into his arms so as to give him a better view of the taller shelves. "See that?"

"Peter!"

"Yes, it is very much like Peter the Rabbit, isn't it? And there… There we've got some cars."

"Play?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Those cars are for decoration; they're there to look pretty."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. And is mine?" The little boy pointed towards the bed, which he was clearly most excited about.

"Yes! And, if you'd like, you can have a go at sleeping in it tonight. What do you say?"

"'Es!" Hamish squealed immediately, clapping his tiny hands together in sheer joy. "Oh, John! John! Ta, John!" Sherlock quickly transferred his son into the doctor's waiting arms.

"Oh, John. Ta," the little boy whispered into John's rather stubbly jaw. "Best tres'tent. Most 'etter."

"Well, I'm glad you think so," the doctor chuckled, pressing a kiss to his tiny flat mate's cheek. "You're most welcome, bud. It was my utmost pleasure… Do you like it?"

"I 'ove it, John! Is am… am'z… Daddy?"

"That's it, love. You can do it. Keep trying. Amaz…"

"Amaze'ming!"

"Very good!" John and Sherlock chimed in together, causing both to laugh.

"Oh, I'm just glad you like it."

"I 'ove… Lot, John."

"Good… Mmm. I love you, Hame."

"I 'ove, John."

"I know you do, Hamish… I know you do."

"Mmm."

That night, as a way of celebration, the trio had dinner at Angelo's, much to the man's sheer delight. John left shortly after, with much reluctance, and many hugs and kisses from Hamish.

"Right, then. You sleep well, all right? Now, you've got your night light on, okay? And you have Peter, right?" Sherlock asked gently as he tucked Hamish into his new bed, wrapping the Thomas covers tightly around his little body.

"'Es, Daddy," he whispered, sounding rather frightened now the lights had been switched off.

"Good. I'm going to leave the door open, all right? Now, if you need anything and don't know what to do, just yell down the stairs for me and I'll come up… Mmm. My big boy." Smiling in a bittersweet way, Sherlock pressed a kiss to his son's forehead. "Sleep well, love. And remember, I'm just downstairs, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

"There's my good boy. May I have a kiss?"

"'Es." With a tiny, if not desperate, smile, Hamish leaned up, while his father leaned down and planted a soft kiss to the dip in one of the detective's cheeks. "Nigh' night, Daddy. 'Ove."

"I love you, too, as well, Hamish. You sleep well… Remember: I'm just downstairs."

"Mmm-hmm."

With a reassuring smile, and a strange tension in his chest, Sherlock reluctantly slipped from the room, letting his fingertips linger on the doorknob. He paused on the stairs, and could hear Hamish talking to, he assumed, Peter, and the sound of rustling sheets. "Mmm." With a firm nod of his head, Sherlock carefully descended the stairs and made his way into his now-empty bedroom.

Feeling the nagging and annoying (and recently familiar) pull of exhaustion, the detective slipped out of his suit jacket and pants, and pulled on a pair of pajama trousers before crawling into the empty bed, enjoying the comfort it provides for his tiredness… Though Sherlock was rather disappointed when that constriction in his chest ceased to disappear.

Closing his eyes, and desperately attempting to ignore how far away Hamish felt from his protective grasp, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed the tendrils of exhaustion to grasp and pull him into the darkness of sleep.

Several hours further into the night, Sherlock awoke to the sound of tiny footfalls padding into his room. A few moments later, the detective could hear the sound of his sheets moving behind him and then a tiny grunt of effort, the light sound of which made him smile.

There was a small sigh, and then a relieved, "Daddy." Sherlock could feel his son burrowing under the covers and then suddenly there was a tiny form snuggling against the curve of his spine.

Smiling to himself, the detective reached a hand back, and not entirely conscious, gave his equally tired son a soft pat on the leg. "Goodnight, Hamish."

"Mmm-hmm."