Hello there guys! Sorry about the wait, but I've had extracurriculars that just recently picked up, and as such I've had no time to write! But thank you all so much for your patience, I truly do appreciate it! =) You guys are so wonderful and lovely, and I cannot believe how much support this story has received; your reviews and follows and favorites always make my day. So thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy! =)
P.S. This is in response to the guest who left the comment yesterday about all my fluff. As I cannot respond to you through a PM, I thought I'd just do it on here. =) Thank you for the constructive criticism, I do appreciate it. And I mean that, I'm not trying to be sarcastic or anything! As such, I will try to include a little more drama and "real life" in the story. =) However, with that being said, I not only write this story for all of the lovely people reading, but also for my own personal benefit and joy. And to me, writing so much fluff—and excluding all of the drama—is a way to escape from the drama in my own life. And I know several readers have commented similarly. So yes, there will be much more fluff in this story, as opposed to the drama that happens in everyday life. I hope this does not sound rude, or snobbish, I am merely trying to explain my reasoning for having so much happiness, fluff, etc. My intention for the fanfic is also for it to be more of a fluffy fic, rather than an angsty one, so I write it as such. =) I do appreciate the advice, however, and the compliment at the end. Once again: apologies if I sound rude at all; it is not my intention! Thank you!
Sorry all! But I wanted to respond to that review! Please enjoy, and I apologize once again for the wait! You all are fabulous and I send a great big THANK YOU to each and every one! =)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Suggestion
"We are taking a break!" John declared cheerfully as he entered the kitchen, where Sherlock and Hamish were seated at the table, eating dinner.
"What?" Sherlock asked mid-bite, sending his flat mate a look of clear confused, disbelief... And maybe a tad of worry that the doctor had lost some sensible part of his mind.
"No, no. I mean it... We are going to be taking a sort of holiday," John began to explain as he sat down. "You know, to get away from all the craziness that has been happening around here lately. I know I could certainly use a break, and I'm sure Hamish here would love a chance to see something new, and expereicne some new things, yeah? Hmm?" the doctor added with a playful ruffle of the small boy's curls. Though it went unnoticed, as Hamish was too busy scowling at the food on his plate.
"Here you are." Still gazing worriedly at his flat mate, Sherlock leant forward and scooped a bit of the egg his son was desperately trying to eat onto a spoon. "Open," he added, lips twitching into a smile when Hamish took the utensil from him and haphazardly shoved it into his mouth. "That works as well. Now. John. We are not going on a holiday. Hamish is perfectly fine, I have absolutely no interest in leaving the flat for any length of time, and if you want to go on a holiday, go out and... go to a pub or something with Lestrade."
John merely raised an unamused eyebrow in response. "No."
A sigh. "John."
"It's not up for negotiation. Besides, I've already booked it. We head out next week."
"John!" Sherlock groaned, pressing a palm to each temple. The detective barely noticed when Hamish uttered a tiny, "B-bye, Daddy. I is done. Talk nice 'ease," before hopping off his chair and toddling away into the sitting room. "We do not need to go on holiday, and we most certainly to not need to go on holiday to whatever absolutely ridiculous theme-park you've booked us into."
John merely smirked in response and crossed his arms over his chest. "Too bad. We're going." Deciding he would not wait for further verbal assault, the doctor quickly left the kitchen table, leaving his frowning flat mate. "Hamish?" he called, quickly checking in the sitting room, where the little boy had wandered off into.
"He'o, John!" came said boy's voice. John turned to his right to find Hamish was slowly hopping his way down the stairs, little arms full of stuffed animals and blankets from his room.
"What are you doing, bud?" John asked with a chuckle at the sight.
"I make ah—oof!" Hamish scowled when several stuffed animals fell free and tumbled down the stairs.
"How about some help, hmm?"
"'Es 'ease, John. I can't not do."
Smiling, John quickly ascended the stairs, picking up the fallen toys as he went, and then took the pile from Hamish's tiny arms. "There, now. That's better isn't—"
"John!" came Sherlock's voice suddenly. The doctor heard rapid footsteps, and then suddenly his flat mate was at the landing, clutching his mobile, and glaring up at him.
"Problem?" John snickered, feigning innocence.
"How did you know I would call? You told them to expect a call from me, and as such I am unable to cancel the room!" the detective huffed.
"I knew you'd somehow manage to figure out which hotel I'd called, and would probably attempt to cancel the room. Sorry," John laughed.
"Daddy! Daddy help!" Rather oblivious, Hamish attempted to dash down the stairs—now John was carrying the heavy load—though his small legs only permitted him to do so much. Once at the bottom, the little boy tugged on his father's trousers, signaling he wished to be lifted up.
Still scowling at his smirking flat mate, Sherlock bent down and settled Hamish against his hip. He was about to start another well-planned rant when he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his neck. "Oh." Sherlock's gaze softened as he heard Hamish murmur cheerfully into his skin, "He'o, Daddy."
"It's only been a few minutes," the detective chuckled. After sending one last scowl towards John, Sherlock toted Hamish into the sitting room, where he set the little boy on the ground. "You've missed me that much? In just those few moments?"
"Mmm-hmm!"
"Well... That's very kind of you, Hamish." With a smile, Sherlock placed a kiss to the little boy's brow. "Now," the detective continued, crouching down and gently placing a hand to either side of Hamish's abdomen. "May I ask why John is currently holding every blanket, pillow, and stuffed animal you own?" he asked with a raised brow.
"Oh. 'Es, Daddy!" Oblivious once again to the hint of sarcasm lacing his father's voice, Hamish—grinning and giggling—pulled out of his father's grasp and quickly retrieved a book that was almost bigger than him. With a soft grunt of effort, the little boy set the children's book on the ground.
Sherlock watched in fond amusement, as his son began to slowly flip through the large pages, chewing absently on his tongue. "Do you need help, Hamish?" the detective chuckled when the little boy kept trying to turn the pages, but was getting them stuck against his legs, as he was kneeling on top of the book.
"Uhh... No, Daddy?"
"Here, love." Chuckling fondly, Sherlock left his seat on the couch and, after playfully hoisting Hamish into the air above his head, sat back down and placed the small boy in his lap. "Now," he breathed with a smile, taking a moment to press a ticklish kiss to his son's bare stomach. "What are we looking for, hmm?" With a hand wrapped around Hamish's small middle, Sherlock began slowly flipping through the pages, waiting until the little boy tapped on his knuckles.
"Is, Daddy."
"This one?" Sherlock asked, gazing at one of the two pages.
"'Es, Daddy." With a smile, Hamish leaned forward and placed a chubby hand to one of the colourful pictures.
"Oh," Sherlock chuckled in understanding. "You're wanting to build a blanket fort?" The detective gazed at the picture in the book; several blankets draped over a series of chairs, in turn creating a sort of fort.
"'Es, Daddy! Will help I an' John?"
"Yeah, Sherlock, want to help us?"
Sherlock turned to the doorway to find his flat mate smirking at him, arms still full of blankets and stuffed animals.
"Oh, uhh... No thank you, Hamish. Blanket forts are not really my—"
"No is help, Daddy?" Hamish asked suddenly, tugging at the expanse of shirt covering his father's stomach.
Sherlock turned his gaze to the little boy. "Well, I... Hamish, I have work to do, love, and I'm sure John's experience with such things is far superior to mine..."
"'Ease, Daddy. Not is be hard. Hame an' John can help, Daddy."
Sherlock stared down into his son's wide, pleading, impossibly earnest eyes. With a fond eyeroll and a huff of breath, the detective brushed the back of his hand across Hamish's forehead and allowed himself to cave— just as he had expected he inevitably would. "Fine. But I am not staying in it."
"Insufferable," Sherlock muttered as—thirty minutes later—he lay on his back in the blanket fort, eyes closed, fingers pressed to his lips. "Said I wouldn't…"
Nearly every sheet, blanket, toy, and pillow in the flat had been transported into the tiny sitting room. The blankets and sheets had been draped over John's chair, Sherlock's, and the chair from the sitting room table. All of the pillows and blankets were then shoved into the space provided, that John, Hamish, and eventually a very-grumpy-Sherlock had managed to squeeze into.
"Insufferable," the detective muttered again with an unhappy twitch of his lips.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John laughed as he began propping pillows against the hearth, so as to prevent Hamish hitting his head.
"'Es, Daddy! Did make blak'net fort." With an elated sigh of joy, Hamish crawled over to his father's form and tugged at a lock of the detective's curls. When nothing happened, the little boy collapsed onto Sherlock's head with a giggle. "Daddy, up now," he laughed against the detective's nose.
"Oh! Hamish," Sherlock scolded as his son collapsed against him, though his tone was light-hearted. "I am rather incapable of 'getting up' with you on my face," he chuckled. With a fond smile, the detective pursed his lips against the fingers resting against his skin, giving them a kiss.
"Oh! Sorry, Daddy." Hamish quickly slid off his father's face. "Is up now?" the little boy asked, deep green eyes wide with genuine enquiry.
Lips quirking at the corners, Sherlock gazed at his little son out of the corner of his eyes. "Ohh," he sighed, rolling onto his side. "You can be most persuasive," the detective chuckled deeply, emphasizing his point by bopping Hamish on the nose. "Yes," he whispered. "I am 'up.'"
"'Kay, Daddy. Good." With a little exhale of breath, Hamish quickly found the item that had spawned the very idea of building a blanket fort, and dragged the large book back with him, setting it on the ground. "'Kay, Daddy. Will 'ead to Hame?"
"Oh... Well, of course I will, Hamish," Sherlock answered with a loving quirk of his lips. The detective quickly grabbed the book and—before propping it up in front of him—patted the blanket-clad floor in front of his abdomen.
"Will 'ead, Daddy?" Hamish asked with a small smile.
"Well of course I will, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, gesturing once again.
"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" With a grin and a triumphant clap of his hands, Hamish crawled over to his father and settled himself so his back was against the detective's stomach.
"Right, then. From the beginning, hmm?"
"'Es, Daddy! M'course!" Hamish giggled.
"Of course?" Sherlock laughed heartily, having never heard his son use such an expression.
"'Es! M'course."
"Well where did you hear such a thing?" Sherlock chuckled once again.
"Ah Daddy," the little boy explained with a smile.
"Me?"
"'Es. Say at Unc'mel Greg an' John lots, Daddy."
"Ah, I see." Sharing a smile with his flat mate, Sherlock merely pressed a fond kiss to his son's temple and opened the book, ready to read. "Such a clever boy," the detective added in a whisper, taking a moment to stare in tender wonder at the little human being that was his son. When he could tell John was smiling at him, Sherlock cleared his throat an then shook his head. "Good?"
"'Es, Daddy. Oh. John?" Hamish asked softly, attempting to look over the top of the tall book. Sherlock obliged by lowering it. "Here 'ease, John. Help Daddy read." With a small, expectant smile, the little boy gestured to a space next to his father's head. "Can come help."
"What? Oh. No, that's all right, bud, really. I'll just listen," John chuckled with a fond smile. "But thank you for the offer, little man."
"Oh. 'Kay, John." Though slightly disappointed, but overall unfazed by this small bump in his plan, Hamish placed himself once again against his father's stomach, and settled in for the story.
"Right, then... Here we go." With a deep breath, Sherlock lifted the book once again, and began.
"The end," Sherlock whispered, slowly and carefully lowering the book. With careful movements, the detective glanced down at the little boy now sleeping against his stomach. "He's asleep, John." The detective couldn't help but smile as he noticed Hamish's mouth was hanging open and his small hands were curled inwards on themselves.
"Mmm. So he is," the doctor chuckled with a fond smile at his little flat mate. "He missed his nap today, didn't he?"
"Mmm," Sherlock merely hummed in response. With delicate touches, the detective gently stroked the tips of his fingers over Hamish's forehead, brushing some unruly curls out of the way as he did so. "I'll just let him sleep, then..." With a smile, Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his son's temple and then carefully set his small form on the ground—ignoring the smile he knew was John's lips when he began to delicately set the little boy's head up on a pillow, and tuck a series of blankets around him. "There. John, do stop smirking. Now... You have absolutely got your heart set on going on this ridiculous holiday?"
John heaved a sigh. "Sherlock. We are going. It's not negotiable. You're just going to have to swallow that pride and ego for a day or two and allow yourself a little bit of fun."
"Fun?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "Solving crimes—that's fun. Investigating murders—that's fun. Going on some ridiculous holiday? Anything but."
John merely smirked. "Too bad."
With a shake of his head and rather frustrated ruffle of his curls, Sherlock rolled himself onto his back and closed his eyes, deciding to make the most of this time. "Dear Lord..." With a long exhale of breath, the detective placed his hands atop his chest, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and allowed himself a moment to think about the latest case. "A holiday. Absurd."
John rolled his eyes and decided he would just stay and monitor Hamish.
After several long moments of silence, the doctor could hear just the slightest change in his flat mate's slow, careful breathing. And then there was a frustrated exhale of breath, followed by a, "Fine."
John grinned triumphantly. "Knew it," he chuckled, lying down on his side, and settling comfortably into the cushions of pillows, sheets, and blankets.
"Oh, shut up, John."
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts by the feeling of a small body crawling and settling on top of his chest. The detective soon realized that he had fallen asleep, and Hamish's crawling on top of him had caused him to awaken. "Oh."
"He'o, Daddy. Did seep," Hamish whispered as he snuggled against his father's chest.
"Yes... I did. How odd," Sherlock yawned with a frown. "I rarely sleep." Forcing his eyes open, the detective glance down at his son's form and smiled when he saw the little boy toying with the buttons on his shirt. "Where's John—Oh." Sherlock chuckled aloud when he saw the doctor had fallen asleep, as well, with his mouth hanging open rather obscenely, and his arms draped over his own waist and face.
"John did go seep, Daddy," Hamish explained matter-of-factly.
"Mmm. So he did. Now the question is: why haven't you?" With a yawn, Sherlock tiredly ruffled his son's curls.
"No does have seep, Daddy," the little boy explained.
"Oh? Is that so?" With a fond chuckle, Sherlock glanced at the watch on his wrist, and was able to make out the time. "Hamish, it really is rather late. We need to get you to bed."
"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." With a content sigh of breath, Hamish allowed himself to be carried out of the blanket fort by his father. "I is... Not tired, Daddy."
"Not at all?" the detective chuckled incredulously as he settled his son against his chest.
"Nope, Daddy."
Sherlock paused the swaying he didn't realize he'd started to glance down at his quickly-tiring son. "'Nope?' And where did you hear that expression?" the detective asked in fond amusement.
"John does say lots, Daddy," Hamish explained with a tiny nod of his head. The little boy frowned suddenly. "Not like lots," he added, sounding almost confused.
"Well, then don't say it, hmm?" Sherlock rumbled, a hint of a chuckle rippling through the deep sound.
"Oh. 'Es, Daddy." Content once again, Hamish rested his head atop his father's shoulder, and took a deep breath. "Tank'su, Daddy."
"Oh? And for what am I owed such a lovely pleasure?" Sherlock responded with a rather fond—if not sly—quirk of his lips.
"Did make a bla'net fort, Daddy," the little boy explained matter-of-factly, sounding as if he was rather confused that his father did not know what he was talking about.
"Ah. Apologies. Well, you're most certainly welcome." The detective's lips twitched irritably at the corners. "And, I must admit that such a thing was not as awful as I had originally anticipated." This emitted a giggle from the tiny boy resting against his chest.
"Did like?"
Noticing that Hamish was now gazing up at him, Sherlock glanced down at the little boy out of the corner of his eyes and—after daring a 'careful' glance to his sleeping flat mate—whispered into his son's ear, "Can you keep a secret?"
"Uh-huh, Daddy," Hamish answered truthfully with a little nod of his head.
"Good, good. Not that I had any suspicions, of course. Well, with that knowledge in mind, you must promise never to tell John, hmm?"
"Prom'kiss, Daddy," Hamish answered, voice just barely a whisper.
"Right, then. In that case: I enjoyed the blanket fort quite a lot," Sherlock whispered into his son's ear, smiling as the little boy's auburn curls tickled his nose and lips.
Pressing his hands tiredly against his eyes, Hamish began to giggle into his father's neck. "'Kay, Daddy. I prom'kiss. Not will say John."
"There's my boy," Sherlock chuckled deeply. "Now, then. I say we head off to bed, hmm?"
"Mmm-hmm. 'Kay, Daddy. Does sound good."
"Good. Down?"
"'Es 'ease, Daddy."
"Right, then." Sherlock carefully set his son on the ground. "Up we go."
With tired steps and hops, Hamish made his way up the stairs to his room, with a small amount of help from his father. "Up 'ease, Daddy," the little boy yawned with a little tug to his covers.
"Of course." Obliging, Sherlock lifted Hamish up by the armpits and sat him gently on his tiny bed. "Right, then. Under we go." Having noticed that his son was all-but asleep, the detective tucked the little boy under the covers, making sure his pillows were placed properly, and his arms were free. "Good?"
"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered with a tiny nod. "Kisses."
With a tender smile, Sherlock brushed the curls from his son's forehead and—allowing his hand to remain on the crown of his son's head—pressed a soft kiss to the little boy's brow. "Kisses. Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well, all right?"
"Uh-hmm... 'Ka... 'Kay, Daddy."
With a smile, Sherlock silently backed away from his son's bed and, once sure the little boy was sleeping, crept his way back down the stairs. The detective glanced at his sleeping flat mate, and then with a smirk, decided to allow the doctor to sleep on the incredibly uncomfortable floor, as way of paying him back for the blanket fort... And the holiday. "Sleep well, John."
With a smirk and a muffled scoff, the detective glided away into his own room to think about the case. Upon reaching his room, however, and seeing how comfortable his bed looked, Sherlock decided thinking could wait for tomorrow and, after changing into just a pair of pajama pants, the detective crawled into bed, and quickly fell asleep.
"Da'ey?"
"Hmm? Ha... Hamish?" Sherlock murmured groggily. There was the sound of tiny footsteps moving closer.
"'Es Daddy. I is Hame. Daddy?"
"Mmm?" Opening his eyes, Sherlock found his son's smaller form gazing at him, a blanket clutched in his hands. "Hamish, love, why on earth aren't you sleeping?"
"Ah'cose I did have a dream," the little boy explained tiredly.
"Was it a bad dream?" Sherlock asked, sitting up and pulling his son onto the bed with him.
"Mmm-hmm, Daddy. Not was good. I does have scared... Can... Daddy?"
"Yes, Hamish," the detective murmured gently.
"Can I seep in wif'h Daddy?" Hamish asked, voice just barely a whisper. "Ah'cose Hame's room has lots that is be scared," the little boy added hurriedly, as if in explanation.
With a somewhat bittersweet smile, Sherlock patted the space next to him, opening the covers. "Of course you can, Hamish." The detective could hear the little boy release a tiny breath of held air.
"Tank'su, Daddy." Sniffling softly, and with his blanket in hand, Hamish crawled to where his father was holding open the duvet, and carefully slotted himself in. With a subdued shiver, the little boy huddled closer to Sherlock's warmer form, curving his spine into the shape of the detective's abdomen.
"Now, then," Sherlock murmured, as he settled back into the bed, lowering the covers with him. "What kind of a bad dream was this? Care to share?"
"Why, Daddy?" Hamish whispered with a yawn. Sherlock could see the little boy toying with the corner of his blanket.
"Because sometimes it helps," the detective explained. "Sometimes talking makes the dream seem less frightening."
"Oh. Well... No 'ease, Daddy. No I does want to say."
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed. A small frown creased his sharp features. "You're sure?"
"Mmm-hmm. I is be 'kay, Daddy. Was just little bad."
"Little bad... Well, if you're sure..." Sherlock raised a skeptical brow, but moved so he was lying on his back, nonetheless.
"'Es. I is." Clearly deciding this conversation was to end, Hamish rolled his little self over and hesitantly snuggled closer to the side of his father's abdomen. The little boy sighed contently. "'Kay, Daddy. Nigh' night. Tank'su."
"For what now?" Sherlock chuckled. Feeling the pull of exhaustion quickly begin to tug at his eyelids, the detective began to card through his son's auburn curls, using slender fingers to brush away the locks that always fell into place just above the little boy's brow. "Hmm?"
"Will scared away bad 'tings," Hamish replied with a yawn. "Ah-night, Daddy." Having obviously decided this was sufficient enough explanation, the little boy took a deep breath, and then closed his eyes. "'Ove."
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, smiling when he felt one of Hamish's hands had made its way to his chest. "I scare away the bad things..." Quite liking the sound of that—and the fact that Hamish even thought him able to do such a thing—Sherlock stroked his fingers through the little boy's hair once more, placed his large hand atop his son's, and then allowed himself the rare opportunity of sleep. "Love you, too."