Hey guys! So sorry for the late update! Recently had a death in the family just last week, and unfortunately that kind of screwed everything up! Please forgive! I hope this chapter can start to make up for it! Homework and extra-curriculars are a bit overwhelming and crazy right now, so just as a warning: expect irregular updates for a while. I'm very sorry, but life is pretty crazy for me right now! =) I wish it wasn't so, but I hope you all understand. Thank you so much! =)

To all who are reading and favoriting, following, and reviewing: THANK YOU. Truly, you all are my motivation and inspiration and everything! Thank you so very much, I appreciate all you do! Please enjoy, and once again, I apologize for the delay!

Chapter Forty-Five: Sad Eyes

"Hamish, you need to go to bed."

"No 'ease."

"Yes, please."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, 'ease?"

"This is not a discussion. And, just for future reference, emphasis on the 'please' does not have much affect," Sherlock chuckled as he swung Hamish over his shoulder and began toting him back up the stairs to his new room.

"Oh. But no want, Daddy," the little boy sighed in defeat as he buried a hand in his father's curls and allowed his body to go limp against the detective's shoulder.

"I understand that. But you need to start to sleep in your own room."

"Why need, Daddy?" Hamish mumbled with a yawn.

Debating his son's question, Sherlock paused on the landing to the little boy's new room. "Hmm. I don't really know, actually… Ask John."

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, with a hint of exasperation feeling its way into his tiny voice. Sherlock merely chuckled in response, and set Hamish down in his bed, tucking him under the covers. "At least try for me, all right?"

"Can't not do, Daddy."

"Well, why ever not?"

"Is black."

"You mean dark?"

"Uh-hmm."

"Well it was dark in my room, and you slept just fine in there."

"Oh. Is much scary, Daddy."

"What part?" Sherlock laughed, taking his son, who had conveniently crawled out from under the covers, and tucking him back under.

With a frustrated little grunt at having been discovered and returned to the confines of his covers, Hamish concluded being close to his father would be good enough for the time being. Heaving a sigh of defeat, the little boy delicately shoved his pillow away and laid his head against Sherlock's hip. "Is be long, Daddy," he tried to explain, not quite able to put his thoughts and grievances into words.

"What's long, Hamish?" the detective asked tenderly, carding a few slender fingers through his son's silky curls, a sensation he now couldn't imagine living without.

In response, Hamish merely pointed to the doorway. "Is be long, Daddy," he whispered again.

"Oh… Ah, yes, I see. It's a long ways downstairs?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Right. Well, I suppose we could—"

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I can go get?"

"Of course." Sherlock stood, waiting as Hamish disentangled himself from the covers and then scooted his little self off the bed. "Come, Daddy."

"Of course." Sherlock smiled as he felt a tiny wrap itself inside of his own. "Lead the way."

Hamish carefully pulled his father through the doorway and then proceeded to hop down each and every step, keeping a careful hold of the detective's grounding fingers. The little boy then led Sherlock into the sitting room and over to the mantle. "Can have, Daddy?" he asked, pointing up to the wood. Sherlock turned his gaze in confusion to where his son was pointing, as that was usually where his skull resided. The detective frowned slightly when he was not met with the sight of his skull, but rather a picture of himself.

When did that get there?" he asked Hamish, who merely shrugged contently in reply. "Well when did..." Sherlock studied the photograph and realized that it had been taken early in the morning, based on the angle of the sunlight streaming in the the window. He appeared to be sound asleep on the couch, one arm draped gracefully over his chest, as he was lying on his side. He was dressed in a white button-up and suit trousers, not unusually.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile when he glanced further down the photo and saw that Hamish, who looked to be a tad younger and smaller, was seated behind the curve of his thighs, playing with several of his long fingers. He was grinning at the camera in such a way that the detective couldn't help but mirror the smile. "Who took this, Hamish?" he asked, surprised he'd not noticed the photo before.

"John did took," the little boy declared proudly. "'Es... Can have, Daddy?" To emphasize his request, Hamish took his free hand and, despite his small size, made a grab for the photo and frame; his little fingers clenched and unclenched as he gazed happily at the picture.

"Well, yes of course. My apologies." Taking Hamish's outstretched hand, Sherlock gave the fingers a tiny squeeze and then grabbed the picture. He carefully took the back off and pulled the photo from the frame. "There you are." Smiling wistfully, the detective offered the photograph.

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy," Hamish hummed. The little boy quickly took the picture in his chubby fingers and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's palm, as way of thanks.

Sherlock watched in amusement as Hamish toddled away, photograph in his clutches, and began to hop his way up the stairs with a few tiny grunts. Laughing to himself, Sherlock followed and watched as his son's much-smaller form began to make its little way up the stairs.

"Oh! Careful," Sherlock chuckled as Hamish lost his balance and began to tumble backward. "There we are." The detective quickly reached forward and splayed his hand over his son's back, giving him a little shove forward to allow him to regain his balance.

With a sweet smile of his own, and for safety purposes, Hamish took ahold of Sherlock's thumb and finished his way up the stairs. "Ta, Daddy." Picture in hand, the little boy crawled under his covers, curled himself around the waxy paper, and heaved a content little sigh.

"Better?" Sherlock murmured fondly as he slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Lots be 'etter, Daddy," the little boy hummed with a tiny nod.

"Well, good. I am glad to hear it."

"Nigh' night 'tisses, Daddy?"

"Oh, always." Smiling, Sherlock took a step forward and planted a hand on the bed before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Hamish's curl-covered forehead. "Goodnight. Sleep well, hmm?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy yawned as he fought to keep his eyes open.

"Mmm," Sherlock chuckled fondly. With a smile, the detective stroked a few fingers through his son's silky curls and then carefully, slowly backed away as he heard Hamish's breathing even out and watched his eyes slip shut.

Worrying his bottom lip and hoping that tonight would be the night Hamish actually slept, the detective left the room and practically tip-toed his way down the stairs. When he detected no sign of movement or consciousness, Sherlock grinned, pleased with himself, and went to his microscope to finish a case he'd been working on. "Right, then."

As he glanced into the lens, Sherlock tried desperately to ignore the exhaustion he could feel creeping into his veins. This would be the fifty-second hour he will have been up without rest.

Unfortunately, though, without John there, working cases was becoming more and more difficult; the only time Sherlock would have to completely devote his time to the cases would be through the night, as his all of his attention was focused on Hamish during the day. And, for the duration of the case, the process would only repeat itself, which resulted in endless tiresome days for the detective. He was finding that the lack of sleep, and devoting all of his time to cases, and trying to entertain Hamish was even more exhausting than he'd previously realized. It hadn't really occurred to him how much John helped out until the doctor was gone.

When the pull of exhaustion became too prominent to ignore, Sherlock left his stool with a grumble and made himself a cup of coffee in the hope that it would wake him up.

As the detective was waiting, he heard a tiny squeak of the stairs. "Hamish?" he called in a warning tone. When no response came, but rather another creak, followed by another, Sherlock chuckled quietly (so Hamish would not hear and take it as encouragement), and then quickly poured his coffee, dropping in the three sugars.

Mug in hand, the detective sauntered into the entryway and gazed at the stairs, expecting to find Hamish daring a worried glance at him, or attempting to scurry back up to his room. What he found, however, was the little boy, his body resting over the span of three steps, sound asleep with his Thomas covers making a trail back up the rest of the stairs, up into his room behind him. Heaving a fond sigh, Sherlock transferred his mug to his left hand and then carefully scooped Hamish into his arms, which caused the little boy to shudder and stretch his small limbs for a brief moment, before settling back into the familiar hold of his father's arms.

"Shh. There now," Sherlock rumbled as he placed Hamish's tiny body back in the bed before quickly retrieving the covers. As he was placing the sheets over his body, the little boy stirred. "What be doing, Daddy?" he whispered, exhaustion lacing his tiny voice.

"Putting you back to bed," the detective chuckled."

"Oh. Why do, Daddy?"

"Because you climbed out."

"Oh. 'Kay... 'Es, t'ank-su, Daddy." Hamish then proceeded to roll himself out of the bed.

"Ah, ah. No thank you, little one."

"No t'ank you, Daddy."

"Exactly." With a smile, Sherlock gently tucked Hamish back under the covers.

"Oh. 'Kay, Da'ey." Too tired to protest, Hamish gave a tiny nod of his head, accompanied closely by a wide yawn.

"See? You're tired," Sherlock laughed as he pressed his lips to the tip of his son's nose.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Right. Goodnight," Sherlock rumbled with a whisper before silently letting himself from the room, and taking a much-needed sip of his coffee. "Right, then."

Mug in hand, the detective removed his jacket, pulled off his shirt, and stretched his long form out on the couch. He quickly grabbed his laptop and took several more sips of his caffeine-filled beverage. Hoping to make some headway in his newest case, which he had not yet found decent time to work on, Sherlock ignored the absence of his son's form snuggling against him, and the extremely loud silence as he entered the password to his computer. He hadn't had the heart to remove it yet, though he knew there was no longer anyone at the flat to attempt a guess anymore.

"Daddy... Daddy? Is up, Daddy?"

Sherlock was awoken by a loud whisper, undeniably his son's. Groaning as he opened his eyes and was met with a bright stream of light, the detective pressed a hand over his eyes and then tried to rub away the exhaustion there. He could hear a worried hum emit from where he assumed Hamish was, and then felt the little boy clamor his way onto the couch and then onto his thighs.

"Is up, Daddy?" he whispered loudly with a gentle prod to his father's bare waist.

"Mmm. Unfortunately."

"What, Daddy?"

"Yes, I am up, Hamish," Sherlock murmured as he opened his eyes once again.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. Good."

"What is?"

"Now is up. No I be 'lone."

"Alone? How long have you been up?" Sherlock asked worriedly, afraid he'd overslept and left Hamish to fend for himself for several hours. He could tell by the angle of sunlight, however, that it was still early. In fact, it was a rather ungodly hour.

Hamish merely shrugged happily in response. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the content little grin on his son's lips. "Come here." With a wide yawn, the detective patted his chest and carefully placed his laptop, which had miraculously not fallen off while he slept, on the ground.

Giggling at the sound of his father's yawn, Hamish climbed atop Sherlock's chest and plopped himself down. "Oh. Daddy?" he asked when he realized that the bare skin of his legs were also touching bare skin.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock responded tiredly. With another yawn, the detective tried to blink away the tears clouding his vision.

"Why is not on?"

"Why am I not... Oh! Why do I not have a shirt on?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled in delight, not even noticing as he began to trace the delicate contours of his father's abdomen with a few tiny fingers.

"Well, that's an excellent inquiry, Hamish. I suppose I was just hot, or tired... Truly, I think I just felt like taking it off, and was quite tired," the detective added with a chuckle.

"Oh, was hot, Daddy?" Hamish asked, as that was really one of the only parts of the explanation he had understood fully.

"Sure, that's fine," Sherlock laughed. With a warm smile the detective gently brushed a few stray curls away from the little boy's forehead and then tickled behind his small ear.

"Daddy!" With a bell-like laugh, Hamish placed a tiny hand to Sherlock's lips. "Daddy?" he sighed, attempting to catch his breath.

"Yes, love?"

"I can hug?"

"Oh." Sherlock's brows tugged together at Hamish's question. "Of course you can, Hamish. You never need to ask me for a hug, all right? I will gladly give them whenever you want."

"'Kay, Daddy." Hamish's voice had dropped to a whisper. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and his dark green eyes seemed to grow impossibly more green. With a tiny sight of contentment, the little boy tucked himself under Sherlock's chin and into his arms.

The detective felt his heart twinge in his chest as it occurred to him that he'd not hugged his son in over a week; he'd been desperately trying to solve as many cases as possible, seeing as that was now their only source of income, that he'd really been too busy to spend the quality time he usually got with Hamish. With this thought, the detective pressed the little boy's smaller form even closer. "Oh, Hamish," he murmured into the little boy's curls. "You precious little thing."

Several days later, John arrived at 221B to find Sherlock, looking half-dead, seated on the floor and working on a puzzle with Hamish, who looked much more alive, energetic, and overall content with the whole situation.

"Long night?" the doctor joked with a smirk as he leaned against the doorway. John couldn't help but grin as he heard a tiny gasp of joy at the same time he saw Sherlock turn around to give him a glare that clearly spoke the words he could not currently say aloud.

"John! Daddy, is here John!" Hamish quickly began to run to the doctor as fast as his tiny legs would allow him to.

"Yes, I can see that. I'm glad one of us has the energy to greet him," Sherlock rumbled with a yawn.

Hamish stopped his toddling mid-step and almost fell down in the process, upon hearing the tone of his father's voice. And, despite his exhaustion, Sherlock's hand was out in a moment, catching and preventing his son's tumble with skilled fingers.

"Oh. Daddy." Mission momentarily forgotten, Hamish hurried back to his father and wrapped his little arms firmly around the detective's neck. "Ta, Daddy." He pressed a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, and then promptly started to giggle at the scratchy feeling of his father's stubble. "Has itch, Daddy," he laughed, giving the detective's jaw a pat, and then scratching at the stubble with his tiny fingernails.

"Yes, I suppose I do need a shave, don't I?" Sherlock chuckled as he smiled under his son's delicate touch.

"Well I could take him for a moment while you go freshen up."

"That... would be delightful." With a grateful groan, Sherlock stood, and, swinging Hamish onto his hip, pressed a sot kiss to the little boy's incredibly soft, chubby cheek.

"He'o John!" Hamish held onto the collar of Sherlock's shirt as he was carried over to and transferred into the arms of John. "Daddy say nee to save," he declared proudly before quickly reaching forward and pressing his fingers to Sherlock's cheek once again. "See, John?" he giggled delightfully. "Is itch. Feel?"

"What? Oh! No, Hame, that's okay. I know what stubble feels like, bud."

"Oh. 'Kay, John. B-bye, Daddy. Go at ready."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock chuckled, giving the hand Hamish had pressed to his cheekbone a gentle pat, before quickly slipping away down the hall.

John could hear the familiar sound of the shower turning on as water noisily filled and travled through the pipes. "Well! How are you, my little man?" Grinning, John pressed a series of fun kisses all over Hamish's face. "Oh, I've missed you!"

"John!" the little boy half-giggled, half-sighed. "See last-er-day!"

"I saw you just yesterday?"

"'Es!"

"Well, I suppose you're right. It seems far longer than that, however."

"'Es, John... Oh! Come see!" The little boy more or less bounced his way out of the doctor's arms and then hurried over towards the couch. When it was clear he was supposed to follow, John laughed joyfully and then followed.

"See, John!" Hamish quickly then pulled down the elastic of his tiny jeans, eyes twinkling with utter pride.

"Oh, uhh..." Not understanding, the doctor squatted down and examined what he was supposed to be seeing. "I'm afraid I don't..."

"Big boy pants!" Hamish explained, giving the pants a little tug for emphasis. "See, John? I is big! Has pants!"

"Oh... Oh! Oh, yes I see now! You mean you've started toilet training?"

"'Es! Is what Daddy say. But I is big!"

"Yes, yes! Oh, you're growing up so quickly!" Grinning, John quickly pulled Hamish's tiny form to his chest and wrapped him in a firm hug. "Oh, my goodness! And are you doing well?"

"'Es! I did one!"

"Ah, I see," John laughed, pressing a peck of a kiss to the little boy's curls. "Well, that's as good a start as any!"

"Mmm, John... I 'ove."

"I love you, too, little man."

Thirty minutes later, John found himself listening to Hamish give an extensive description of what he had done the past few days... Or at least, he assumed that was what was happening; he honestly couldn't understand many of the words. Though, what Hamish lacked in coherency, he most certainly made up for in adorableness.

It was only when the little boy was about to launch into an entirely new conversation about what he and Sherlock had done together that John realized the detective was absent.

"Hey, Hame?"

"Hmm?"

"Why dont't we go check on Daddy, hmm? He's been gone a long while."

"Oh. 'Es, John... Where is?"

"I don't know; let's go find him."

"'Es."

Hamish quickly stood up and began hurrying away towards his father's room. Chuckling, John quickly followed suit and had caught up with Hamish in a few strides, just as the little boy was entering Sherlock's room. He quickly re-emerged and toddled back to the doctor.

"Shh, John," he whispered, tugging on the doctor's trousers. "Daddy seeping."

"Ah, I see." John carefully popped his head back into the room to find Sherlock, half-dressed in his robe and a pair of suit trousers, sound asleep on the bed. His long limbs splayed out every whic way, covering the bed, and his hair still appeared to be wet.

"John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"Can give Daddy a nigh' night kiss? Did not go nigh' night last."

"You mean Daddy didn't get any sleep last night?"

"No, John."

"Oh... Well of course you can give him a good night kiss. Come here." With a warm smile, John scooped Hamish into his arms and carefully crept towards the bed. He lifted the little boy up and then angled him down, aligning his smaller head with Sherlock's.

"Get seep, Daddy," Hamish whispered as he pressed a tiny kiss to the detective's ear. John noticed his friend's fingers subconsciously curl and uncurl against where they were resting on the sheets.

"'Kay, John. Daddy is be good."

"Good." John placed Hamish back on the ground, and then turned back to his former flat mate-who was actually snoring! "Poor git," the doctor practically giggled.

"What is say, John?"

"What? Oh-oh! Nothing, Hame." Smiling, the doctor carefully shut the door.

Sherlock emerged some forty-five minutes later, fully dressed, clean shaven, and looking much better than before.

"Daddy! Is 'etter?"

"Mmm. Much!" Sherlock exclaimed with his usual fervor. The detective squatted down in front of Hamish. "I'll be back in a little while, all right, Hamish? I've got to go to St. Bart's, remember?"

"'Es. Is gone, Daddy," the little boy sighed in response, sounding almost sad.

"What's gone, love?"

"Is gone." As further explanation, Hamish placed his palms to Sherlock's alabaster cheeks, and delicately curled and uncurled his fingers. "All gone."

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "Yes... All gone," he echoed.

"Is soft, Daddy."

John and Sherlock quickly exchanged a smile. "Yes, I suppose... But not as soft as yours!" With a heart, bartione laugh, the detective lunged forward and tickled Hamish's face with his lips. "Mwah! You be good for John now, all right?"

"'Es, Daddy!"

"Very good. Now, I do believe you owe me something."

"Mmm-hmm. A 'tiss an' hug." With a precious smile teasing the corners of his lips, Hamish gave Sherlock a hug around the waist and then pressed a kiss to the detective's cheek. "B-bye. I 'ove."

"Love you, too, Hamish. Be back soon. John?" The doctor hurried over. "I thought you should know we've started toilet training, so-"

"Yes, I know; believe me, I've been told all about it," John chuckled.

"Ah, excellent. Well, he's not quite got the hang of it yet, as is to be expected, so we've been making "safety checks" at least once every hour. Also, be sure to asked him every thirty minutes or so if he needs to go, as he tends to forget. Do you know the whole "toilet-training" system works?"

"Sure, yeah, of course."

"Excellent. Then there should be nothing further from me. Good. I'm off. Hamish? Do you want me to say hello to Molly for you?"

"He'o Molly!"

"... Close enough," Sherlock chuckled fondly. The detective quickly grabbed his coat, draped his gracefully over his shoulders and then, stealing one last glance towards Hamish, was gliding down the stairs.

"Well, then!" John sighed when he heard the door close. "Tell me, Hamish... Do you know how the system of toilet training works?"

Hamish merely looked at him with a look so similar to his father that John couldn't help but laugh. "I'll take that as a yes."

Sherlock's time spent at St. Bart's ended up lasting a bit longer than usual. As a result, John decided he'd sit down and watch a movie of Hamish's choice with him. They were currently watching Planet Earth, curled up on the couch together, with one of the little boy's hands buried in the doctor's warm jumper, and John's legs created a sort of basket for Hamish to sit in, which the small boy seemed quite content with.

As the show went to commercial on the telly, John, who had been absently playing with several of Hamish's tiny toes, decided to ask a question he'd been musing about all evening. "Hamish?"

"'Es, John?"

"How have you and Daddy been doing? You know... since I left?"

"Is 'kay, John. Just sad."

The doctor frowned. "What's sad, bud?"

"Daddy... An' ah'cose Daddy have sad, Hame get."

"Why is Daddy sad."

"Miss John, John. Has sad." Hamish pointed to his chest.

"In his heart?"

"Mmm-hmm. An' has sad." Now he pointed to his eyes.

"Sad eyes..." For the first time, John finally understood the deeper understanding Hamish had of human nature. He'd not yet experienced it the way Sherlock always seemed to. But now, he understood what the detective had meant... Hamish saw things in human beings, things most adults would have missed. Only a child so innocent as Hamish could view the world, and the people in it, with such deep understanding. And it was, as Sherlock had mentioned, truly amazing. He'd seen the sadness in his father's eyes...

"Are you sad?"

"Ah'ties."

"Sometimes?"

"'Es... I give 'tisses at Daddy... An' no sad... 'Tisses an' hugs have help, John," Hamish whispered, so incredibly serious, that the doctor couldn't help but smile.

"You give Daddy hugs and kisses when he's sad?"

"'Es, John. Ah'cose no like."

"Because you don't like it when he's sad..."

"'Es."

"And what happens after you give him hugs and kisses, Hame?"

"Has happy. Daddy tell Hame 'ove an' have smile."

"Has a smile... You're simply wonderful, Hamish, do you know that?"

"'Es, John. Daddy say lot. But I not know why say," Hamish answered softly, and with a tiny smile. "John?"

"Yeah, bud?"

"No like sad Daddy."

The doctor paused. "I know you don't... Come here, little man."

Hamish crawled over John's shorter legs, and into his arms. "Did good, John?"

"You've done wonderful, Hamish. You have been such a brave little boy... Hamish?"

"'Es, John?" the little boy whispered.

"Does Daddy get sad a lot?"

"Did."

"He did."

"Mmm-hmm."

"But he doesn't anymore?"

"Not... Daddy is good, John. I 'ove lot. Daddy say no seep at Daddy, but Hame has scared ah'ties an' Daddy say is 'kay."

John laughed aloud, still in awe at the wonder that is the little being in his arms.

The two merely sat in each other's holds for a moment, seeming to make up for lost time. John was thinking about what Hamish had said about Sherlock having sad eyes, when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Careful not to disturb Hamish, he quickly pulled it out. The doctor frowned when he was the Caller I.D. read: Mike Stamford. He rarely received calls from Mike anymore.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"Yeah, Mike, how's it going?"

"... John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Mary."