Hey guys! Okay, so the feedback on the last chapter was positively amazing! I truly cannot express my gratitude to all who answered my question and were kind enough to review ! Thank you so very much for all of your support and being truly wonderful. You all have supported me so much, and my realization of that support was quickly discovered once again with the wonderful, kind, and helpful responses I received on the last chapter. So just: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! I have not words which will properly describe how much I love and appreciate you all! I hope this chapter is fluffy enough to make up for the sadness in the last chapter. If not, there is still plenty more on the way! Thanks, all! Hope you enjoy!

(Please excuse any mistakes! I posted this as soon as I finished.)

Chapter Forty-Seven: First Times and Being Brave

"Molly!" came Hamish's triumphant little cry from where he was seated on the floor in John's lap. Tripping over himself, the tiny boy attempted to scramble out of the doctor's legs and towards the pathologist, who had just ascended the steps. "Oof!" he grumbled, scowling at the ground he'd just fallen onto.

"Oh! Here you go, little man," John chuckled, pulling Hamish back up into a standing position. "Tank'su!" his little flat mate giggled. As way of apology the small boy gave the doctor a precious smile and a tiny pat on the knee, before quickly realizing once again that Molly had arrived. "Oh! Molly!"

"Hello, darling," the pathologist laughed as she set the baby carrier containing her daughter on the ground. "How's my favorite little boy?" she asked as she watched Hamish toddle his little self over to her.

"Much good, Molly," he answered bashfully and with a timid smile. "Want hug, Molly? Daddy say would."

"Oh, did he now?" Grinning and with a blush quickly rising on her cheeks, Molly gazed around the flat to find the detective seated in his chair, legs crossed with his laptop propped atop them, clacking away intently at the keys; clearly he was on a very important case.

"'Es," Hamish giggled, a light pink tinting his own chubby cheeks. He quickly hurried forward and was trapped in a warm hug from Molly.

Giggling herself, the pathologist caught John's eye and, keeping Hamish wrapped in her arms, raised her eyebrows in question. He merely smiled weakly and shrugged in response before turning his attention to Sherlock's focused form and loudly clearing his throat. "Sherlock." More clacking. "Sherlock." Nothing. "Sherlock!" The detective merely continued to type away at his laptop, features creased into one of upmost concentration.

With a sigh and a tiny smile, Hamish turned in Molly's arms. "Daddy?"

Instantly, Sherlock's fingers stilled and his grey eyes lifted, instantly focusing with worry on his son. "Oh," he breathed, chuckling just a bit when he found the little boy, blushing, and wrapped tightly in Molly's arms. "Hello, Molly. I didn't hear you come up."

"Yes. I know."

All eyes turned to John when the doctor mumbled something unintelligible under his breath and threw his arms up in the air. "Unbelievable," he grumbled, which sent Molly into another fit of giggles.

The doctor knew he shouldn't be surprised; John was well aware that Sherlock filtered most everything and everyone he classified as usually unimportant, and that the list was infinite. He also knew Hamish was not on that list. Smiling slightly at the the thought, John couldn't help but chuckle when he saw Sherlock close his laptop and leave his seat.

"Thank you for coming, Molly. I assume you brought everything you'd need?" the detective asked, meandering over to the petite pathologist.

"Yep! Although, admittedly, there's not really a lot to bring," Molly answered, setting Hamish back on the floor.

"Daddy!" the little boy called with a grin. Murmuring contently to himself, Hamish toddled over to his father and settled himself close to the detective's leg. "Molly did come."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock chuckled. With a warm smile, the detective splayed a few fingers to his son's back and gently rubbed them up and down.

"Molly?" Hamish asked, not even realizing he was leaning into his father's touch.

"Yes, love?"

"Did bring baby Rose?"

"Yes, of course."

"I can see?"' Hamish gasped, little legs bouncing up and down in excitement. He was still rather enamored and intrigued with the baby girl.

"Of course, love."

A content, excited smile on his lips, Hamish toddled over to the baby carrier and waited patiently for Molly to lift the covers of the seat. With excited huffs of breath, the small boy leaned over to find Rose was just waking. "He'o Baby Rose. Oh. Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I did stop seep?"

Not understanding, the pathologist turned to Sherlock, who knelt down, a small smile twitching over his lips. "No," he translated, "you did not wake Rose up, Hamish."

"Oh. 'Kay. Good Daddy!" Content once again, Hamish plopped himself on the ground, just barely able to reach into the seat and play with Rose's fingers.

Smiling, Sherlock stood and slowly backed away, hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock?" John asked suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"What are we doing? What did Molly bring and what is it for?"

"Oh. Hamish is getting a haircut today. Molly was kind enough to volunteer."

"Ah, okay..."

"What, Daddy?" Hamish asked, having heard his name.

"Nothing, love," Sherlock chuckled, sharing a smile with his flat mate.

For some reason, Rose had taken quite a liking to Sherlock and quite enjoyed being held by the detective, much to his uncomfortableness and Hamish's delight.

The three were currently seated on the couch, Rose resting in Sherlock's lap, her back against his stomach, and Hamish snuggled close to his thigh, talking unintelligibly about something that appeared to be rather exciting. He had Rose's small hand in his own and was playing contently with her little fingers. Molly and John were in the kitchen, each with a up of tea, chatting.

"Right, then." Deciding he could no longer avoid the inevitable, Sherlock carefully placed his hands under Rose's armpits and turned her so she was facing his chest. "Come along, Hamish," he murmured fondly, settling the tiny girl against his chest. She soon began to giggle and, having not yet shaken away the waves of sleep, began nuzzling the detective's neck, which instantly made him tense.

"Daddy," Hamish giggled, noticing the utter look of worry on his father's face. "It is 'kay, Daddy," he reassured with a tug to his father's fingers. "Rose not does be mean. Is nice."

Placing an unsure hand to Rose's back, Sherlock turned his attention down to his tiny son, who was smiling preciously up at him. A tender smile ghosted over his lips and his gaze softened. "I love you, Hamish," he chuckled suddenly, giving Hamish's fingers a squeeze.

"I know, Daddy. I 'ove lot, too."

Sherlock merely smiled in response. Fingers wrapped around his son's, and other hand occupied with keeping Rose against his chest, the detective carefully walked into the kitchen. "Molly?"

"Hmm? Oh. Are we ready?"

"Yes. Well... We'll see, rather."

With a knowing smile, Molly carefully found the bag she'd brought in with her and set in on the recently-cleared kitchen table.

"John?" Sherlock asked, hand having been removed from Hamish's fingers to be placed under Rose's bottom.

"Yeah?"

"Could you... Take her? Please?"

"Oh! Yeah, of course!" the doctor laughed, quickly hurryring forward. Sherlock eagerly transferred Rose into his flat mate's waiting arms.

"Well hello there," the doctor cooed fondly, a grin spreading across his lips when the baby girl began giggling up at him. Sherlock watched with a bittersweet smile as John gently bounced Rose up and down in his arms and meandered to the other end of the kitchen. He could vaguely hear the doctor cooing to the giggling baby, his voice just a whisper. The detective was pulled from his thoughts by Hamish's voice and a tug on his trousers.

"Daddy? What is doing, Daddy?"

"You," Sherlock answered as he bent down and scooped Hamish into his arms, "are getting a haircut." To further make his point, the detective brushed back a few stray curls that had grown long enough to fall just into his son's eyes.

Not understanding, Hamish's bottom lip pushed out just a bit and his light eyebrows tugged towards each other. "No stand, Daddy."

"We're going to cut your hair. Just there. It's getting far too long, love," Sherlock chuckled, taking a few stray locks between his fingers. "See? And Molly's going to help us." The detective gestured to where the pathologist had laid out a pair of scissors, a spray bottle, and a comb.

Deciding this situation had quickly taken a turn for the worse, Hamish frowned and scrambled in his father's arms, until he was situated on the hip that was was farthest away from the seemingly-frightening looking tools Molly had laid out. "Daddy," he whispered, tugging on a lock of the detective's curls.

Sherlock could hear the fright in his son's tiny voice. With a fond smile, the detective leaned down, allowing the small boy to whisper into his ear.

"No tank'su, Daddy. I not want to have Hame cut. 'Ease can say Molly?" Pulling away, Hamish kept a few fingers curled around the shell of his father's ear.

"No, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled fondly. "It doesn't hurt, love. I promise. But your hair is getting a bit long and we just need to trim it."

"No 'ease."

"Yes, please."

"No, Daddy." Quickly becoming anxious as he dared another glance towards the worrying tools his father was speaking of, Hamish buried his face in Sherlock's suit-clad shoulder and mumbled, "'Ease no, Daddy. Not want. Ouch."

"Hamish, we need to cut your hair," Sherlock chuckled. With a tender smile, the detective pressed his lips to his son's temple, hoping to be reassuring, and then began to card a few fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "I promise Hamish, it doesn't hurt." Sherlock could feel Hamish's little fingers curl against his ear; his weak grip tightened. "Do you believe me?" the detective murmured against his son's skin.

Hamish clearly thought for a moment. Sherlock could feel the little boy's short bursts of breath against his skin. "No ouch, Daddy?"

"Not at all."

"… Prom'kiss?"

Sherlock smiled against Hamish's temple. "Promise."

"'Kay." Taking a deep breath of bravery, Hamish turned out of the safety of his father's shoulder and glanced once again at the hair-cutting devices on the table. "Does look scared, Daddy."

"I know it does," the detective chuckled with a genuine smile. "But they're not scary… Nor do they hurt."

"… 'Kay," Hamish whispered, still sounding frightened. "Daddy will stay," he stated. Clearly there was no arguing the point.

"Certainly." Sharing a smile with Molly and with a glance towards John, who was still rocking Rose in his arms with a warm smile on his lips, Sherlock pulled up a chair and sat down, setting Hamish on his lap. Instnatly, the little boy scooted himself back so he was touching as much of Sherlock as was possible for his tiny body.

"You're all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently. The detective noticed Hamish's tiny toes were curling and uncurling, something the detective had learned to mean his son was anxious. With a deep rumble of a chuckle, Sherlock reached forward, took the tiny boy's foot in his hand, and rubbed the pad of his thumb against the smooth skin, which instantly sent Hamish into a fit of giggles.

"Daddy!" he laughed, pulling his foot from his father's gentle grasp. "Why doing, Daddy?"

"I'm trying to make you feel better."

"Oh. Was nice, Daddy," Hamish hummed, settled himself once again on his father's lap, though much more relaxed this time.

With a fond, somewhat triumphant smile, Sherlock took his son's foot in his hand again, unable to hold a smile at how tiny the appendage was against his palm.

"Right, then. Are we ready?" Molly asked, spray bottle and comb in hand. Sherlock nodded, not wanting to draw Hamish's attention back to the matter at hand. "Very good. Hamish love, look at me."

Green eyes wide and vaguely curious, Hamish turned his gaze to Molly, glanced at the items in her hand and, concluding they were safe, gave the pathologist a tiny smile and a nod.

"There's my boy," Sherlock whispered with a chuckle.

With a smile of her own, Molly took a slender hand and placed it over Hamish's eyes, so as not to get any water in his eyes, and then sprayed the auburn curls that were hanging in his eyes. She then took the comb and ran it through the little boy's fine hair. "Right. Now I'm just going to cut a little bit off, all right?"

Sherlock could feel Hamish's toes curl against his palm. "You're all right, Hamish," the detective reassured with a chuckle. He could hear the little boy mumble something unintelligible. "Not want, Daddy," Hamish added when Molly turned back to him, scissors in hand.

"I know you don't." With a smile, Sherlock placed his hand over Hamish's stomach and gave his son's belly a gentle pat. Bottom lip protruding with worry, the small boy nodded in response and then wrapped a few of his tiny fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

"Ready?"

"…'Kay," Hamish whispered with a feeble nod.

"Very good."

With a warm smile, Molly took a small bit of Hamish's auburn hair between her fingers and then, in several swift moves, was finished.

When Hamish made no sound and didn't move, Sherlock leaned around his son's tiny form to find the little boy had his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth pressed into a tight line, as if waiting for some sort of pain.

"Hamish," Sherlock laughed, pressing a series of fond, loving kisses to his son's cheeks. "You can open your eyes, Hamish. It's all over."

"What, Daddy?" Unbelieving, Hamish opened his eyes, confusion now creasing his precious features.

"You're all done. I promised it wouldn't hurt."

"Oh." Quite clearly surprised, Hamish's eyes fell down to his lap, where Molly had just finished picking up the cut locks of hair. "Molly?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I can see?"

"Oh. Sure." Molly carefully placed the fair, auburn locks into Hamish's outstretched hand.

Mouth falling open, Hamish settled into his father's lap, now that any and all tension had dissipated and, with precision unique only to a toddler, examined the hair that had previously been on his head; the small boy took a single finger and gently ran it over the soft lock of hair. "Look, Daddy," he whispered, clearly amazed.

"Yes, I see… I told you it wouldn't hurt," Sherlock chuckled.

"Is soft, Daddy."

"Yes, it is. Excellent observation, Hamish. You're so clever." Sherlock stood, sending Molly a thankful smile, and then moved Hamish to his hip. "So," the detective chuckled with a fond smirk, "that didn't hurt at all, did it?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish giggled, pulled from his wonder by a kiss to his cheek. With a bashful smile, the little boy ducked his head under Sherlock's chin, giggling into the detective's neck.

A warm smile of his own gracing his lips, Sherlock carefully took the lock of hair form his son's tiny fingers and deposited it in the trash; he was not one for such tangible sentiment.

"Done, Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish. You're all done."

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Where is be Baby Rose?"

"Oh, I think she's with John," Sherlock answered with a nod towards the pacing doctor.

"Oh. Can go see Baby Rose?"

"I'm sure John would be more than happy to have the both of you in his company," the detective murmured with a fond twitch of his lips.

"'Kay, Daddy. Down 'ease."

With a chuckle, Sherlock set his son's little form on the ground and felt a flutter of paternal love bloom and travel down his spine when Hamish's tiny fingers lingered against his own. He could vaguely here the small boy's tiny voice float its way into the sitting room, followed soon by John's deeper, more gravelly one.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock sat, knowing Hamish and John would both be well occupied, and pulled out his laptop.

"Where is going, Daddy?"

"To the doctor's office," Sherlock explained as he tugged a tiny pair of jeans onto Hamish's legs.

"Oh. John?"

"No, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled. "John's just there. See?" The detective gestured to the doctor, who was putting together some snacks, should the wait be long.

"Oh. Not stand, Daddy."

With a smile, Sherlock finished dressing his son. "We're going to the doctor's office for you, love; we need to get you checked up."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Just to make sure all is well," the detect chuckled. To further his point, the detective gently prodded Hamish's stomach.

"I has sick?" the small boy giggled as he was lifted onto his father's hip.

"No, not at all. We're going to make sure you don't get sick," Sherlock explained, hinting at the shot Hamish didn't know he would be getting.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Still rather confused, Hamish settled into his father's hold, and wrapped a hand around the detective's coat collar.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you gotten everything ready."

"I do believe so," the doctor murmured, tucking the last container of snacks into Hamish's diaper bag.

"Right. Well..." Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish. "Let's be off, then!" he exclaimed, with a gentle pat to either side of his son's stomach.

"'Kay, Daddy." Now excited himself, Hamish ran into the sitting room to find his coat. When he discovered it lying atop the desk, and too far out of his reach, however, the little boy frowned and turned back to the two adults. "Hame can have help?" he called, leaning against one leg of the table.

"I've got you, Hame," John chuckled, slinging the diaper bag over his shoulder. "Now," he chuckled, walking into the sitting room and over to the desk, "what seems to be the problem, little man?"

"I can't not get," Hamish mumbled, pointing a tiny finger towards the out-of-reach jacket.

"Oh." Placing the bag on the ground, John reached over and, jacket in hand, squatted down in front of his little flat mate's form. "Here we are." With steady hands known only to a doctor, John took Hamish's arms and gently looped them through the holes, before pulling it tight over his middle. With a fond smile, the doctor zipped the tiny jacket halfway up. "Better?"

"Lots be 'etter," Hamish giggled, placing a few short fingers atop the hand John had resting against his middle.

"Good… Right, then. Ready?"

"'Es!" Excitement returning, Hamish hopped away from John and over to a smiling, chuckling Sherlock. "'Kay, Daddy?"

"Okay. Let's go." Giving his son's back a fond pat, the detective turned, so he was facing the stairs. "Well, then… By yourself or with help?" he asked with a chuckle.

"… Not help, Daddy," the tiny boy concluded after much thought.

"Right, then. Off you go."

"'Kay." With a tiny 'oof,' Hamish hopped onto the first step and slowly hopped his little self down the stairs, grunting every few steps, with Sherlock following closely and fondly behind.

"So," John murmured so Hamish would not hear as he followed his flat mate's down the stairs, bag in hand. "Does he know what's to come."

A fond smirk. "Fortunately, no," Sherlock chuckled.

"Probably for the best."

"I quite agree."

"He'll never forgive us," John laughed suddenly as Hamish turned back to grin at the two of them with a proud little grin.

"I'm sure with the proper amount of apologies and promises, he'll be just fine," Sherlock laughed as well, sharing a warm, genuine smile with his flat mate.

"What, Daddy?"

"Nothing, love," the detective chuckled.

"Oh. 'Kay. Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"I does want help now. Mired." With a little quirk of his lips, Hamish tapped his thighs with a tiny finger.

"Oh, you're tired," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "Well, we most certainly cannot have that, can we?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish giggled, quickly settling into his father's familiar hold.

"There's my boy."

After a short cab ride to the doctor's, and then a short wait, during which Hamish could barely contain his excitement, the little boy's name was called.

"Hamish?"

"Daddy!" the little boy had gasped as soon as a nurse had called his name. "Hame, Daddy!"

"Yes, yes, I know." Attempting to match his son's enthusiasm, Sherlock took the bag from John and allowed the doctor to carry a now-ecstatic Hamish into the hall, where they were then quickly ushered into a room.

After Hamish's decision that he would rather sit with him, Sherlock hopped himself onto the paper-covered cot and then allowed John—with a smirk—to set the little boy on his lap.

"Have fun," the doctor mouthed.

"Oh, shut up, John."

"Daddy! Not nice."

A sigh and an eye roll. "Quite right."

"No, Daddy. Has pol'omize," Hamish tried.

"… Fine. John I'm sorry I told you to shut up. There. Better?"

"Good, Daddy," Hamish concluded with a small smile.

Eventually, after a series of nurses had measured and listened to and recorded everything they needed—much to the wonder and delight of Hamish—the doctor finally entered. She was a middle-aged woman and, as far as Sherlock could deduce, had no qualms at home, which rather pleased him.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson." They both nodded as she glanced at her computer. "So, we've got little Hamish here, hmm?"

"He'o!" the little boy chimed, upon hearing his voice.

"Oh! Well hello there," the doctor chuckled, sending the boy in question a warm smile. "So you're Hamish, hmm?"

"'Es! I is Hame. Is Daddy," he stated matter-of-factly, giving the detective's knee a rather adorable pat. "And is my John." A point to the sitting doctor.

"Ah. Well, how lovely." With another smile, she gave Hamish's knee a little pat of its own before turning to Sherlock and John. "Well, his speech seems to be quite advanced," she chuckled, typing once again on her portable computer. "And he seems positively lovely."

"Thank you," Sherlock and John stated at the same time. The detective merely continued to gaze down at Hamish, checking for any signs of anxiousness, while John was now blushing profusely.

"So you two are raising him together?"

"Yes," they once again answered at the same time. Suspecting the statement that would soon be coming, John took a hand and covered his eyes, kneading few fingers into his temple.

"Well… You two have done a wonderful job thus far. So. I'm just going to do a few extra check-ups, then. Is that all right?" she asked, more to Hamish than to his father.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked, leaning his head backwards and up so he could gaze at his father. When he was met with a warm smile and a nod, Hamish dropped his head back down and smiled preciously at the doctor. "'Kay. I is good."

"Excellent." After running a series of quick check-ups of her own, and asking some questions, the doctor concluded all was well with little Hamish. "Right, then. Now we just have one last thing." She shared a quick glance and a smile with John and Sherlock before turning and gathering the required vaccinations. "Does he know?" she mouthed, to which both adults replied with a fond shake of their heads. "Good. We'll need his shirt off, and then you'll need to distract him for me, all right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Hamish, love?"

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly. Sherlock noticed his son's energy was running out as his eyes were beginning to droop; they'd missed the nap Hamish was supposed to have taken during the time they'd spent waiting.

"I'm going to need to take your shirt off, all right?" the detective asked carefully.

"'Kay. Daddy can do?"

"Yes, I'll do it." With a reassuring smile, Sherlock carefully undid the few, small buttons lining the front of Hamish's tiny shirt with his slender fingers and then tugged it off. "Right, then. Now," he started, as he could see the doctor making her way over, two shots in hand, "why don't you have a look at me, all right?"

"'Kay…"

"You've been very brave," Sherlock praised just as the doctor put the first vaccine up to Hamish's little arm. He could feel Hamish's previously calm body go rigid in his lap. With a sad, rather apologetic smile, the detective glanced down to find his son's eyebrows were pulled together into an expression of utter confusion and shock. "Oh, Hamish," he chuckled, pressing his lips to the small boy's cheek as he was quickly given the second shot.

Quickly realizing that, while the shock of the initial shot did not hurt, the second one the doctor had stuck into his arm hurt quite a lot, Hamish turned around and buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, love," the detective chuckled rather sadly as his son's cries became audible. With a quick nod to the doctor and a glance at John, Sherlock turned his head, so the curve of his cheekbone was resting atop Hamish's head and, while stroking a few fingers up and down the bumps of his spine, began to card his fingers through the little boy's auburn curls. "I know, Hamish," he murmured, pressing tender kisses to his son's hair.

"Ouch, Daddy," the little boy sobbed, voice muffled by Sherlock's coat.

"Shh… I know it did." The doctor signaled with a smile that they were free to go. Keeping Hamish's sobbing form pressed close, Sherlock hopped off the table and, with John close behind, left the pediatric's room. "Hamish," he whispered in a soothing voice, which only seemed to result in more sobs. "Hamish, love, you did a very good job in there," the detective murmured as he allowed John to check them out.

"Let them ouch, Daddy!"

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt twitch uncomfortably in his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered seriously.

"No like, Daddy," Hamish continued, turning his head out of the warmth of his father's chest. "I—I is—has ouched, Daddy," he cried, little voice breaking with his cries.

Despite his sympathetic sadness, Sherlock smiled. "I know you do, sweetheart. Can I do anything to make it better?"

Cries seeming to settle just a bit, Hamish turned so he was once again facing Sherlock's stomach, and curled his little self inward, firmly settling himself against his father's chest and into the detective's warm, reassuring hold. "Can—can I has kiss, D-daddy?" he sniffled after a few moments contemplation.

Sherlock smiled. "Of course you can, Hamish," he murmured, noticing John had finished. He turned and began to follow the doctor out.

Wanting to see if the situation had worsened or gotten better, John turned back and—with tenderness he knew was only reserved for Hamish—watched Sherlock tenderly turn the little boy in his arms, careful not to further harm him in any way.

"Right, then," the detective murmured. "I'll see if I can make it better." Now that he'd managed to settle Hamish to just sniffles and the occasional whimper, Sherlock leaned down and just barely pressed his lips to his son's little arm; just enough pressure for the small boy to know he'd been kissed, but not enough to cause any further pain.

"There," Sherlock whispered as he slowly sauntered down the hallway with John. "Do you feel any better?"

"No, Daddy," Hamish grumbled with a tiny whimper. Face drawn into an expression of utter miserableness, the little boy turned himself once again, allowing his cheek to press against the pale of expanse of skin that was Sherlock's neck. "Was mean, Daddy," he scolded, head lolling miserably back and forth with each of his father's slow steps.

"I know it was," Sherlock whispered with a sad, yet tender smile. "I'm very sorry, Hamish. But you were incredibly brave. I hope you know that."

"Tink, Daddy?"

"I absolutely think so."

"Not Hame. Was not," Hamish grumbled with another sad sniffle.

"Well why ever not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

They'd just left the building; Sherlock waited while John fetched a cab.

"Ah'cose Hame did have sad," the small boy explained, hesitantly pulling away from the safety of his father's hold to gaze up into the detective's pale eyes. Tears quickly flooded his eyes once again as he was met a wave of pain and soreness in his arm. Unsure of what to do with himself, Hamish closed his eyes and simply allowed his head to fall forward; with a tiny mumble of unhappiness, his little fingers found their way to his father's curls where they quickly tangled themselves.

Seeing his son's pink, tear-stained cheeks for the first time, Sherlock smiled sadly. "There is nothing wrong with being sad, Hamish," the detective explained, urging his son back away and then taking the pad of his thumb and tenderly wiping away all traces of tears. Hamish's eyes slowly fluttered closed with each gentle brush.

"And there is certainly nothing wrong with crying," the detective added as he cradled his son's head in his hand. He noticed for the first time that the curve of Hamish's cheekbone fit perfectly against his palm; as if two puzzle pieces were never made to fit more together.

"But… But Daddy not does cry," Hamish reasoned with a sad, tired blink of his eyes.

"That's not true. I have cried many times over the course of my life. I cried when I was very little, I cried when I thought there was even a remote possibility I would never see you again… And I, too, have cried when I got hurt. There's nothing wrong with it… Everyone cries, all right? Even me. And, seeing as you've just been hurt—sort of—I'd say some tears are certainly acceptable."

Clearly contemplating this new revelation, Hamish allowed himself to be toted into the cab. "Oh…" The small boy's brows tugged together. "'Kay, Daddy…" It was clear Hamish was thinking deeply, though his body was quickly giving out on him.

As the cab sped back to 221B, Hamish settled himself against his father's welcoming chest, and allowed John to hand him tiny pieces of fruit, which he slowly and tiredly ate for the duration of the cab ride. By the time he was finally carried out of the taxi, the small boy was all-but asleep.

"I am so proud of you, Hamish. You're a very brave little boy."

"Mmm… I is happy, Daddy," the little boy declared with a yawn.

"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock began to ascend the stairs.

"Ah'cose Hame does has good Daddy."

Sherlock paused his ascending. "Do you think so?"

"Uh-hmm… Does make Hame happy ah'cose got ouch an' is nice' an…" A yawn, which was accompanied by a positively adorable exhale of air. "'An Daddy does give Hame lots of kisses at make 'etter when ouched. Is good, Daddy… And my John is good. I 'ove lot, Da'ey… Hame has… Lots good… Has… Mmm."

Feeling that familiar flutter warming his chest, Sherlock glanced downward to find Hamish had fallen asleep, curled against his chest. His small hands were curled and both resting against the small expanse of skin that could be seen peeking out of his jacket, just above his collarbone.

"I love you, too, Hamish," the detective rumbled with a chuckle, taking one of the little boy's tiny hands in his own and pressing a kiss to the little, curled fingers. "I'm going to take him up and put him down for the nap," he informed John quietly.

"Right, then. Sleep well, little man. You've earned it," the doctor chuckled, pressing a kiss of his own to Hamish's temple.

Smiling, Sherlock slowly and carefully toted his son up to his room. With the precision and tenderness of a father, he laid Hamish on the tiny bed and then carefully tugged of his shoes, socks, and tiny jeans before gathering him in his arms once again, one-handedly pulling back the covers, and then tucking him under. The detective cocked his head to the side as a few fingers absently stroked over Hamish's forehead, while his other hand rested on the little boy's stomach, gently rising and falling with each tiny breath.

Suddenly smiling at the sight in front of him, Sherlock bent down, removing his fingers, and placed his lips to Hamish's forehead. He knew that when his son awake, the incident would be mostly forgotten, and all would return to its normal, somewhat crazy, content state.

"Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Does feel 'etter," Hamish whispered, too tired to even bother opening his eyes. "Tank'su or… Or a kiss."

Sherlock merely chuckled in response, pressed a kiss to the tip of his son's nose and, after hearing his breathing depend and even out, let himself from the room. Thank you for the kiss.