Hey guys! Okay, I'm not going to say much except that this chapter turned out to be far sadder than I intended I am so sorry for the sad feels you will probably experience And I do mean that sincerely. However, this is the peak of the sadness, and all will get much better from here on out, I really do promise. Please don't hate me for this chapter, all! I apologize! =(
Chapter Forty-Six: Mary
The car was almost completely obliterated on the side Mary would have been seated.
John and Sherlock merely stared at the steaming wreckage of what had once been a cab, now reduced to a crumpled heap of metal and glass.
Though Sherlock never claimed to know much, if anything about human nature, he knew enough to realize this was bad. Hands in his pockets, the detective dared a glance to his friend. Tears were quickly pooling in the doctor's eyes, though he was not staring at the wreckage, but rather to his right, at the quickly-disappearing lights of the ambulance carrying his wife.
"John?"
The doctor didn't appear to hear him.
"John, come along. We'll need to go now if we plan to catch up with the ambulance," Sherlock murmured carefully, knowing John was probably rather fragile at the moment.
"What? But she's... Oh." John's brows tugged together in confusion. "What?"
"Come along. Mycroft has a car waiting." Sherlock carefully put a hand on John's shoulder, and turned him towards the waiting car.
"Oh, yes. Right, I..." John blinked a few times, as if to clear away the tears— though it only made a few spill over—and then cleared his throat. "Yes." The doctor shrugged away from Sherlock's hand and began to dazedly make his way towards the thin, impossibly shiny black car.
Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Sherlock quickly made his way to the other side of the car and stepped in. He felt his heart twinge—almost painfully—in his chest as he saw Hamish, little legs dangling over the side of the large seat, dressed only in a pair of pajama bottoms, clutching desperately to a blanket that had managed to find its way into the car.
As soon as he saw his father enter the car, the little boy whimpered slightly and then scurried over and onto the detective's warm, familiar lap.
"Shh, it's all right, Hamish," Sherlock whispered soothingly.
"Not is good, Daddy?" Hamish whispered into the detective's chest as he snuggled inside the warmth of his father's coat.
"A bit not good, yes," the detective whispered. With a sad sigh, he wrapped the coat further around Hamish's tiny body, tucking him closer to his chest as John finally—and rather hazily—entered the car.
Mycroft who was seated in the front, turned back to gaze at his brother. The two shared a wordless agreement, and then the car was speeding away towards hospital.
It was clear Hamish, though he did not understand what was happening, was terribly frightened. Throughout the entire ride, the little boy clung to Sherlock as if worried he would be taken away. His tiny hand grasped onto his father's dark purple shirt, while the other remained safely wrapped in the detective's reassuring grasp. He kept his head pressed against Sherlock's chest, and was merely staring at John, who was seated on the far end of the car.
Sherlock, knowing Hamish was frightened and did not understand what was going on, pressed his lips to the little boy's auburn curls and began to run his thumb over and through the little fingers resting in his palm, moving in a very slow rhythmic motion. He placed his free hand to Hamish's back and could feel the curve of his son's tiny spine against his fingertips; they seemed to move with each breath beneath his hold.
"Daddy?" came a sudden whisper. Sherlock stopped his rhythmic movements and glanced down to find Hamish staring up at him, dark green irises growing watery with tears.
"Yes, love?"
"What nap'ned, Daddy?" the little boy whispered with a wobble in his voice. He dared a glance towards John, and then, with a shiver, huddled even closer to Sherlock.
"Well... We don't know yet, Hamish. Something may have happened to Mary," the detective answered cautiously. He began to slowly trace a few fingers up and down the bumps of his son's spine.
"Mmm," the little boy hummed, almost managing a smile at the ticklish feeling of a hand running up and down his back. "John is be sad, Daddy?"
"Yes... Yes, he is, Hamish..."
It was nightfall by the time they arrived at the hospital. Hamish had fallen asleep, practically inside his father's long, spacious coat.
With Mycroft in the lead, Sherlock carefully stepped out of the car and waited for John, who slowly followed. The detective quickly snatched the blanket Hamish had been using earlier, and then followed his flat mate and brother into the building.
Finding it was colder inside than it was outside, Sherlock draped the blanket over Hamish's bare back, tucked it under his legs and bottom, and then wrapped him even further into his coat. All that could be seen was the top of the little boy's head; his usually pale cheeks were flushed a light pink and, as they made their way to a waiting area, Sherlock could feel the little boy's tiny hand clench and unclench where it was resting against the bare skin of his neck; he could feel every scratch of his son's small fingernails.
The three adults quickly settled into the uncomfortable chairs, each waiting, as if for something to happen.
For lack of anything better to do, Sherlock occupied himself by adjusting the blanket draped around Hamish's body. He pulled the fabric away and then quickly replaced it.
"Does he normally go without a shirt?" Mycroft drawled rather distastefully. His tense expression soon softened, however, upon receiving a stern look from his younger brother. "Apologies."
"That's quite all right," Sherlock murmured, not even noticing he'd begun rocking back and forth.
"Mmm. So, tell me, is there a reason Hamish is half-naked?"
"Well, I..." Sherlock turned his gaze to John, hoping the doctor would answer. However, when he merely continued to stare at the floor, Sherlock parted his lips slightly and turned back to his brother. "From what I could make out, John got the call, but was not informed of what at happened at first. As such, he started to get Hamish ready for bed, and about half-way through got the news about Mary, and I assume he was unable to complete the task due to the shock of the information. I'm... Not quite sure what all happened after that. John was... Not thinking problem."
"Mmm," Mycroft merely hummed in response, giving a small nod of his head.
With a sad frown, Sherlock turned back to gaze at John, whose eyes seemed to have gone blank. For lack of anything better to do, the detective turned his attention back to Hamish and began to play with his tiny, curled-up toes, as his fingers happened to be directly by them.
As he held the little boy's entire foot in his own hand, the detective was struck with the realization of how tiny, vulnerable, and untouched by the evils of the world Hamish was. If Mary were to die, how would he...
No, he silently scolded himself. We don't even know the extent of her injuries.
With one last, quick glance to his friend, Sherlock pressed Hamish closer and hoped with all his might for the best.
Several hours later, John was seated with a hand covering his mouth, Mycroft was twirling the handle of his umbrella with his slender fingers, and Sherlock was sound asleep with Hamish dozing lightly against his chest, still wrapped in the blanket.
Eventually, a young nurse hesitantly stepped her way into the sitting room. "Doctor John Watson?"
"Hmm... Oh. Oh, yes?"
"I assume you're... Mary's wife, yes?" the nurse asked quietly. John merely nodded dumbly in reply.
"Right. Come with me, please."
With no regards to either Sherlock, nor Mycroft, John took off down the hallway, following after the nurse.
Clearing his throat, Mycroft awoke his brother by giving him a firm tap in the knee with his umbrella. The detective awoke with a small gasp, hands momentarily clutching Hamish closer before relaxing and sliding to their previous positions.
"Has he been summoned?" Sherlock murmured, rubbing a few fingers into his eyes.
"Indeed."
"Right, then... You follow him," the detective told his brother as he attempted to wake himself up. "I'll follow in a moment."
"Yes." Clutching his umbrella, Mycroft slowly stood and, using the device as a cane, began to follow after the nurse and doctor.
Still in the process of rubbing sleep from his eyes, Sherlock yawned widely, trying to be quiet, so as not to wake Hamish, but to no avail. With a tiny shudder, the little boy shivered slightly under the blanket and then, murmuring something unintelligible, blinked open his deep green eyes, gazing tiredly—if not a bit confusedly—up at his father.
"Mmm. Well, hello, there," Sherlock chucked slightly when he saw Hamish yawn, which was accompanied by a rather adorable stretching sound. "Sleep well?"
"'Kay, Daddy." Clearly content with going back for a rest, the little boy turned his head, clearly settling himself in for another rest. Realizing for the first time that he was not home, but rather in a bright, foreign building, Hamish gasped, eyes quickly widening as he desperately tired to remember how he'd gotten to this new place.
"Hamish?"
"Where is here, Daddy?" the little boy questioned, sitting up on his father's lap to glanced worriedly around him.
"We're at the hospital. Remember, Hamish?"
"... No, Daddy," Hamish murmured, turning his gaze back to Sherlock with a tiny frown on his lips.
"Mary may have been hurt. And we're here with Uncle Mycroft and John to see if she's all right," the detective murmured carefully, brushing some of his son's curls out of his eyes with a bittersweet smile.
"Oh." Brows pulling together to form a look of confusion, Hamish turned and laid against Sherlock, placing his cheek against his father's pale neck. In response, the detective ducked down and pressed the curve of his cheek against his son's temple.
"Mary does have ouch, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, pressing back against his father's warm cheek.
Taking a deep breath and choosing his words carefully, Sherlock stood, deciding he should join John to give him whatever support he may need, and hoping that the rhythmic movement of walking would put Hamish back to sleep; he wanted to spare the little boy from as much as he could. "Mary may have been in a bad car crash, Hamish," the detective murmured, adjusting the blanket that was covering his son's tiny body, as he began to walk slowly down the hallway.
"In Tom Tank?"
"No, love," Sherlock whispered sadly, hugging the little boy close, and wrapping his fingers around the hand Hamish had placed against against his neck. "Not like the crashes in Thomas the Tank Engine, I'm afraid. Mary might be very badly injured, Hamish."
"Oh... John is hurt, Daddy?"
"Well... Not physically," Sherlock answered.
"Not is stand, Daddy."
With a sad exhale of breath, Sherlock carefully switched Hamish's body to his other side. Not wanting to attempt to explain death to his son-and hoping he wouldn't have to-Sherlock merely answered, "John is sad right now, Hamish. But no, he's not physically hurt."
"Why?"
"Why is John sad?"
"'Es," the little boy yawned, wrapping his arms tiredly around his father's neck.
"Because he loves Mary, Hamish... And when loved ones get hurt, it makes you sad... Do you understand?"
"Tiny bit, Daddy."
"Tiny bit..."
"Hame can... Can see, Daddy?" Hamish whispered. Sherlock could hear that the little boy was quickly losing his energy.
"You mean see Mary?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Well... Maybe, love. Maybe."
"'Kay, Daddy..."
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he felt Hamish's body go limp, signaling he'd fallen back to sleep.
Now that he could walk at a normal pace, the detective quickly found Mycroft, twirling his umbrella, waiting outside of a room.
"How is she?" Sherlock whispered, so as not to wake Hamish.
"Not well."
Sherlock gave a solemn nod of understanding. "I'm going to go in. Would you be able to take Hamish?"
"Of course." Putting his umbrella away, Mycroft opened his arms.
"Right, then... There you are." With a sad sigh, the detective tenderly transferred his son's sleeping form into his brother's waiting arms. "Got him?"
"Yes... Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"Mary's not going to make it, Sherlock."
Eyes downcast, the detective pursed his lips and gave a nod of understanding, before pushing the door open and entering the stale-smelling hospital room. Any hope he'd been clinging to instantly slid away as he caught sight of Mary.
It was clear she'd been sitting on the right side of the car, where it was hit; the right side of her face-and, he assumed, most of her body, though it was mostly covered with sheets-was covered in bandages, parts of which were stained with drying blood. Sherlock could only guess that most of her skin on the right side of her battered body was either missing or badly torn. There were too many IV's, drips, cords, and needles hooked up to her, that Sherlock didin't even attempt to count them. Though she was breathing, it was clear to the detective that his brother was right. Considering Mary's body would have absorbed much of the impact of the oncoming car that had hit the cab, the detective had not doubt that she was probably suffering from massive internal bleeding.
"John." Realizing he'd been staring completely at Mary, Sherlock turned his gaze to Joh'n's form, and felt suddenly incredibly sorry for his friend.
The doctor was staring, clearly heartbroken, at his wife's form. Tears were streaming freely down his cheeks as he held Mary's hand, and pressed it close to his cheek, placing the occasional tear-wet kiss to her fingers. Sherlock didn't even know if his friend knew he was there. Deciding he should say something, the detective opened his mouth and took a breath.
"The doctor's keep telling me that I should allow them to wake her up so I can say goodbye and... Sort through everything," John murmured before Sherlock could say anything.
"But you don't want to," the detective answered cautiously. Though he already knew the answer as to why, he allowed John to answer for himself.
"No... Because once we're done, she'll be gone. And i wont' get anymore time to love her, or hug her, or kiss her... She'll be gone and... And... That... She..." Unable to continue, John clutched his wife's hand to his chest and began silently sobbing into her skin.
Unsure of how to help, Sherlock merely took a step forward and placed a hesitant hand to the doctor's shoulder, which only seemed to make him sob harder. "I am sorry, John," he murmured. "...Would you prefer me to leave you alone?"
"No!" John answered almost immediately, turning away from Mary to look at his friend and reveal his bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I just, uhh... I'd rather not be alone, mate."
"Of course," Sherlock whispered with a reassuring smile. "I'll pull up a chair, then." Releasing John's shoulder from his grasp, the detective turned and grabbed one of the plastic chairs, pulling it up next to the doctor.
The two sat in silent with John gently caressing the parts of Mary's face that were not bandaged, and Sherlock merely watched his friend with sad eyes, hoping the doctor would be all right at the end of this.
Eventually a doctor silently let herself into the room. Knowing John was not going to, Sherlock stood and walked over to the middle-aged woman. "Good night, doctor," he greeted, linking his fingers behind his back. "I'm Sher-"
"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, I know who you are," the doctor assured with a sad smile. "I know the both of you from the papers... And your brother gave me quite an earful on what would happen to my reputation, should I try to remove you from Doctor Watson's side."
"Ah, right. Well, John's a bit... Subdued at the moment."
"As is to be expected... Mr. Holmes, would you be able to relay some information for me?"
"I can certainly try."
"Excellent. Right, then. I know that this is going to be very difficult, but Mary has a very narrow window of time left where we'll be able to keep her conscious. That window is quickly closing. As such, we need Doctor Watson's approval to momentarily awaken Mary. We don't... We believe her heart will give out shortly after."
Mouth drawn into a line, Sherlock debated for a moment. "I'll tell him."
"Thank you... And my sincerest condolences... To you both."
"Thank you." Sherlock watched as the doctor silently let herself from the room. Taking a shaky breath, Sherlock turned to find John had stood and was gazing at him with watery eyes. "You heard," the detective sighed quietly, averting his gaze. John merely nodded in reply. "John, I am so sorry. I won't-"
"Tell me what to do," John whispered suddenly, hands clenching at his sides. "Please, Sherlock... I... I don't know what i'm supposed to do."
"John, I'm not sure I should be the one who-"
"Sherlock. You always know what to do... Please just... What do you think I should do?"
Unbelieving, Sherlock quickly scanned his friend's emotionally over-worked form, searching for any signs to suggest the doctor's questions were being asked when he was not of a sound mind. But he found no such things; John was positively serious. "John."
"Yes?"
"I think we need to wake her up and then let her go." Sherlock saw a single tear slide out of the corner of John's eye.
Inhaling slowly, the doctor closed his eyes.
The two waited in silence, Sherlock gazing sadly at his friend, and John taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. "Fine," he agreed eventually, giving a terse nod of his head before settling back at Mary's side.
"Right, then."
Eventually, there were doctors and nurses flying about the room, plugging and unplugging machines, replacing and changing medicines.
Once the room was finally free of the noisy hospital staff, and Mary was just beginning to awaken, Sherlock silently excused himself, not only to give John and his dying wife some privacy, but to check on Hamish.
Closing the door behind him, Sherlock turned his attention to where Mycroft and Hamish had been to find the little boy, wide awake, and looking quite upset, sitting on the floor, and clinging to his uncle's leg. Upon spotting his father, the little boy immediately hopped up and toddled his half-naked self over to the detective, frowning deeply.
"Hamish?" Sherlock asked worriedly, scooping his son into his arms, where the small boy quickly grabbed ahold of the collar of his coat and began glancing wearily around.
"No does like here, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, mouth curling even further downward as another wave of nurses and doctors began to hurry their way down the hall towards them, bustling and noisy.
Cranky both from the lack of sleep and inability to have the comforts of his home, Hamish turned and buried his face in his father's neck, tangling a tiny hand in the detective's curls. "Go home now, Daddy," he whined into Sherlock's skin, tightening his grip around the detective's neck.
"Not just yet, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss his son's forehead. "I'm sorry, but we're going to need to be here for a little bit longer." Hearing and feeling the tell-tale signs of exhausted tears quickly approaching, the detective quickly hurried in the opposite direction of the swarm of hospital staff, shooing Mycroft an apologetic smile.
"What is doing, Daddy?" Hamish asked, turning his head just enough so he could peer out of the safety of his father's arms and skin to see where he was being carried.
"We're going someplace quiet where we can cool you off," Sherlock answered, gently stroking a few fingers over and through the little boy's auburn curls.
"I is hot, Daddy," Hamish mumbled, sounding positively miserable.
"I know," the detective chuckled. "That's why we're going to cool you off." Finding a bathroom in a rather uninhabited part of the hospital, Sherlock opened the door, checking to make sure it was empty, and then stepped in, locking the door behind him. Pressing another reassuring kiss to Hamish's curls, the detective strode into the middle of the too-clean bathroom and gently set Hamish on his feet.
With a sniffle, the little boy took a tiny fist and rubbed it into his eyes, mumbling something that sounded to Sherlock like, "Tired want home, Daddy."
"I'm sorry, Hamish," the detective apologized truthfully, taking his son's tiny hand in his own and giving it a squeeze.
"Ah what, Daddy?"
"I'm sorry that you have to be here... Experiencing this," Sherlock explained, even though he knew the little boy wouldn't fully understand. "I'm sorry that we're not home right now, sound asleep..."
"Not stand, Daddy."
Sherlock merely smiled. "I know you don't, Hamish. But that's okay. I wouldn't want you to."
Now even more confused than before, Hamish plopped down on the ground, taking his father's hand with him. "Oh. I is sorry, Daddy."
"That's quite all right, Hamish. Nothing to be sorry for." Smiling sadly, Sherlock turned his hand, briefly cupping his son's warm head in his palm before gently pulling away and turning towards the sink. Listening carefully to make sure Hamish was all right, the detective quickly grabbed a decent amount of paper towels and began to wet them down with cool water. Towels in hand, he turned back to find Hamish was watching him, eyes drooping slightly. "Let's see if this helps." Placing a hand to the back of his son's hand, Sherlock crouched down and, turning the little boy's head to one side, gently placed the cool cloth to Hamish's cheek, wetting and cooling it, before repeating the process on the other side.
"There, now. I imagine that feel much nicer, doesn't it?" he murmured. The detective barely noticed he'd begun to twirl a lock of Hamish's hair between his fingers.
"'Es, Daddy. Lot 'etter," the little boy sighed in relief, allowing his eyes to slide closed.
Sherlock's gaze saddened as he realized Hamish should get a chance to say goodbye to Mary before it was too late. "Come here, Hamish." With touches far too tender for a man such as he, Sherlock reached forward, effortlessly pulling his son's sleepy form into his arms. Delicatley touching the cool cloths to Hamish's cheeks as he made the slow walk back to Mary's room, the detective simultaneously placed his lips to various parts of the little boy's face; his cheeks, his forehead, his curls, the corner of his tiny lips. "Hamish? Do you want to see Mary?" At the mention, Hamish's eyes fluttered open.
"See Mary?" he asked, pulling his head up and away from his father's shoulder.
"Yes. We... You may not get another chance to."
"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Not understanding, but in fact now rather giddy at the prospect of finally seeing Mary, Hamish straightened in the detective's arms, and a small smile graced his features. The sight broke his father's heart.
Forcing his fingers and feet to move, Sherlock pushed open the door to Mary's hospital room and walked in. He felt his eyes begin to burn with tears when he walked over to the bed and saw the smile immediately fade from his son's lips, to be replaced by an utterly heartbroken open-mouthed frown.
"Daddy," the little boy gasped almost inaudibly, leaning out of the detective's arms to place an incredibly-impossibly gentle-fingertip to Mary's cheek. "Mary..."
Sherlock could see his son's eyes quickly filling with frightened, worried tears.
"Hame," came John's gravelly voice.
Shaking slightly, the little boy turned his gaze to the doctor and a single tear slid out of the corner of his eyes upon seeing the doctor's own tear-stained cheeks. "No, Daddy," he whispered, shuddering. "No like. No. Out! Out, Daddy!" Tiny chest heaving with uncontrollable sobs, the little boy frantically turned in his father's arms, scrambling for a way out.
"Hamish?"
All movement stopped upon hearing Mary's weak, broken voice.
Face scrunched into a positively heart-breaking expression of pure sadness, Hamish turned in Sherlock's arms, turning his watering, deep green eyes to Mary's broken form. "Mary?" he whispered, voice quivering and frightened.
"Yes, darling." She managed a small, yet incredibly warm and reassuring smile to the terrified little boy.
Sherlock saw John's head drop in sadness.
"Mary is ouched," Hamish sniffled.
"Yes, love. I'm afraid I am... Would you be willing to give me a hug to help?" Sherlock knew he was the only one who had heard Mary's voice break.
"'Es," Hamish whispered frantically, eager to do anything to help. With his father's help, the little boy crawled out of Sherlock's arms and onto the bed, on Mary's good side.
"Thank you, darling."
"Oh, Mary," Hamish sighed sorrowfully, gazing at her battered and broken body. "Mary?"
"Yes, love?"
"Mary does need a cud'mle?"
Averting his gaze, Sherlock turned away and felt warm tears spilling from his eyes.
"... Yes, Hamish."
"'Kay." Giving a stoic little nod, Hamish carefully crawled under the covers, careful not to touch Mary too much, and then, once he was settled, the little boy ever so gently snuggled close to her chest. "'Etter, Mary."
"Yes, Hamish. Thank you, my precious darling."
Sherlock watched the scene with impossible sadness. All was silent. The room was merely filled with the sound of the heart-monitor, keeping track of Mary's dying heart.
"I love you, Mary," John breathed suddenly, breaking the silence.
"I know, sweetheart... I know you do," Mary whispered back, and, just before her eyes slid shut, she and John shared a silent exchange that said more than any words possibly could have. And then, with a distinct exhale of breath, the heart monitor went blank, filling the room with a loud, long, never-ending beep, known to all as the end of a life...
Hamish had ended up falling asleep with Mary, his tiny body finally giving out on him. And Sherlock knew that was for the better. With Mycroft staying to keep an eye on John, the detective silently took his son home, the ringing of the heart monitor prominent in his ears.
After tucking Hamish into the bed, Sherlock pulled a chair up next to his bed and gently stroked the back of his knuckles over the little boy's forehead and cheeks, simply listening to him breath.
When the little boy awoke the next morning, the detective said nothing, and Hamish didn't ask. Though he didn't even try to understand how, Sherlock knew his son somehow understood that Mary was not coming back...
John showed up at the flat two days after Mary's death, unable to face the flat they had shared. Sherlock immediately let him in, and gave him the spare bedroom downstairs.
Knowing that the doctor would soon transition into the second stage of the grieving process, Sherlock merely waited, completely unsure of what would happen. He found out just after dinner, on the fifth day John had been staying at the flat.
Sherlock was helping Hamish, who was seated contently in his lap, complete a kind of simple, child's version of a Rubik's cube, when suddenly John murmured, "We'd been trying for a baby, you know."
Hoping this was some sort of venting process, Sherlock kept silent and allowed his freind to continue.
"Months... Nothing. And you? You just happen to stumble upon an orphanage so bloody decrepit it's a wonder the thing hadn't collapsed in on itself, and you just happen to find the only bloody perfect child in the world!"
Quickly realizing where this was going, Sherlock stood and turned Hamish towards his room, attempting to usher him up.
"No! How is that fair? You-the most cruel, vile, rude human being on the entire planet! You manage to find a child who not only loves you back, but who can do no wrong! Months, Sherlock! Nothing... And now she's dead! And you're still continuing on your merry way with perfect bloody child!"
Sherlock had never seen John so unwound. The detective's expression was one of pure shock. He could feel anger boiling in his chest, but managed to suppress it, knowing this was not really John. This was John in grieving... It was the irrational part of his mind, telling him to lash out at the closest and most vulnerable thing he could find.
Both adults froze, however, upon hearing a tiny sniffle, followed by a quite, "John?" Two sets of eyes turned to find Hamish, eyes flooded with tears, staring up in complete shock at the doctor. "John..." Unable to bear looking at him anymore, Hamish turned, clutching onto his father's slacks, and pressed his face into the detective's thigh as he cried.
"Do you feel better now?" Sherlock whispered accusingly, glaring icily at John.
Trying to suppress his emotions, the detective quickly bent down and toted Hamish to his room, whispering unintelligible soothings into the little boy's ear.
John merely stood frozen in the sitting room, shocked at the words that had passed his lips...
He would never know what Sherlock had told Hamish, or how the detective always knew what he was feeling, but when his friend emerged from the little boy's room, her merely told him, "You can go and see Hamish now," before slipping away into the kitchen.
Nodding dumbly and with an unimaginable amount of guilt flooding his chest, John slowly made his way up the stairs to Hamish's room, so familiar with the tread that he felt strangely at home while he was ascending them. "Hame?" he asked gently, with a knock.
"'Es. It is Hame," came the little boy's tiny whisper. John couldn't help but smile. And with that tiny movement of muscles, he felt an incredible pressure release itself from his muscles. "May I come in?"
"'Kay, John."
The doctor carefully pushed open the door to find Hamish, curled up under his covers, playing with the ear of his rabbit animal. "He'o, John."
"Hello, Hamish... Hamish?"
"'Es?"
"May I talk with you?"
"'Kay." With a tiny, hesitant smile, the little boy sat up and patted the space next to him. Feeling a fluttering in his chest, John gladly obliged. "Hame... Hamish. I... I'm so sorry," the doctor breathed. "I am so sorry, Hamish. I didn't mean anything I said down there. I love you... I think you are positively brilliant, and beautiful, and I would never take back our finding you. You have a very special place in my heart, Hamish. And I would never-never-want that to go to anyone else. Do you understand? I am so sorry... Please, just... Forgive me, Hame... I'm so sorry..." Guilt once again rising painfully in his chest, the doctor dropped his head, gaze falling to the ground. "I am so sorry."
All was silent for a few short moments and then, suddenly, there was a tiny pair of arms wrapped tightly around his neck and a head snuggling against his neck.
"It is 'kay, John," came Hamish's tiny voice. "Daddy did talk and now I stand. John is sad, so say mean, but not mean ah'cose are sad... So it is 'kay. I still 'ove... Have miss, John."
"Oh, Hamish, I missed you, too." Clutching the little boy close to his chest and wrapping him in a hug, John pressed his nose to Hamish's curls and inhaled. All of the doubts, worries, sadness, anger, fear, and hate from the past week momentarily dissipated.
"I 'ove, John."
"I love you, too, little man. Do you forgive me?"
"'Es."
"Oh thank God," John breathed, pressing a thankful, forgiving kiss to Hamish's temple.
"John?"
"Yes, yes Hame, what is it?" the doctor murmured in response.
"Will stay 'night at I? Stay, John?"
Pulling away so he could just stared into Hamish's eyes, John felt a relieved, truly genuine smile of his own cross his lips as he found a tiny smile gracing the little boy's features. "Of course I will... Of course, Hamish."
"Good, John." Smile widening into a tired grin, Hamish crawled into John's strong, distantly familiar hold and quickly settled in. "John?"
"Yes, Hamish?"
"I like lot..."
"Me too, Hamish... Me too..."
"John?"
"Hmm?"
"Will stay for-ev-more?" Hamish asked softly, nuzzling against the doctor's neck.
"Forever," John promised. And, as he felt Hamish's body go limp in his arms, and felt the smile still fresh on the little boy's lips curl against his skin, John knew that he meant it... And suddenly, with Hamish sleeping in his arms, he knew everything was going to be all right... Everything would be all right...
Hey all! Once again, I'm sorry if this chapter really upset some readers, I truly am! However, I am boycotting sadness from here on out! As such, the next chapter will be nothing but adorable, sweet, HAPPY, Hamish-filled fluff! Promise! I'm debating going back and making this chapter less sad. Maybe I'm just overreacting... Some feedback on what YOU think would be wonderful, guys! Thank you! Hope to get the next chapter up quickly!