Here you go, guys! So sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy this little fluffy, filler chapter! Also, I'm not quite sure what happened with the beginning bit, though I had quite a bit of fun writing it. =) Thanks everyone for all of your constant support! (Also, I'm still taking suggestions and would certainly love some!)

Thank you everyone! =)

Chapter Fifty-Four: The Little Doctor

"Daddy?" Hamish asked the next morning after he had crawled into his father's bed and had caught sight of the gash across the detective's alabaster skin. "You has ah ouchie, Daddy," he stated with a gasp.

"Wha... Mm. Goodmorning, love. What are you... Oh." Suddenly remembering the goings-on of the previous night, Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position and then crossed his legs under the covers, allowing Hamish to sit in the hole they made. "Yes, I... I'm afraid I did get a bit hurt, didn't I?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed, the frown clear in his tiny voice. "Big. Not is teeny."

"No, I suppose not... But I'm all right, Hamish. Really."

"... Prom'kiss?" the little boy asked skeptically.

Sherlock smiled. "Promise."

"'Kay. Oh!" Having quite clearly decided his father's promise was sufficient enough reassurance that the detective was well, Hamish quickly changed the topic of conversation. "Did catch all ah baddies?" he asked eagerly, gripping ahold of his father's larger hand.

"Indeed," Sherlock chuckled, crawling out of bed with a groan. "Though there was only one to catch this time. But yes. John and I both got him," he added with a smile, settling his son safely on his hip. "And I hear you and Uncle Mycroft had quite a good time, as well, hmm?"

Resting his head atop Sherlock's shoulder, Hamish nodded and a content little smile spread across his lips as he was carried into the kitchen. "'Es, Daddy. I does 'oves My lots."

"Hmm. I know you do," Sherlock whispered fondly. "Tell me. Do you know if John is up?"

"Not is, Daddy," Hamish concluded with a firm nod of his head.

"Very good. Thank you."

"Wel'c'min, Daddy. Oh." Now in proper light, the gash dancing brightly across his father's face seemed far more prominent than it had before. "Daddy," the little boy sighed sadly, touching several tiny fingers to the cut.

"I'm all right, Hamish. Really. I promised, remember?" When he was met with a skeptical frown, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Suddenly realizing he probably should have allowed John to tend to the wound last night, Sherlock reached a hand up to his cheek, where he covered his son's much-smaller on, and urged his fingers away. "How about we have a go at patching me up, hmm?" he suggested with a smile.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed. "Much 'es. Down 'ease."

"Much yes? Well, that's quite a lot," Sherlock laughed as he obeyed and set Hamish on the ground.

"'Es. 'Kay. Stay 'ease, Daddy," Hamish instructed.

Sherlock watched fondly as the little boy toddled over to the cabinet where they kept the first-aid kit. The detective suddenly realized he was rather saddened by the fact that his son even knew where the safety kits were kept... Hamish was growing up. Something Sherlock knew he was not yet ready to face.

"Oof! Can helps 'ease?" the little boy grunted when he found the first-aid kit was far heavier than he had originally anticipated.

A warm grin. "Of course." Once again obeying, Sherlock crouched down next to the cabinet in question and pulled out the first-aid kit. "Where to, Doctor Hamish?" the detective asked, attempting to sound serious, though he was unable to conceal a smile at the way his son's features were suddenly lit by a grin.

"Daddy, Daddy! I has ah-ah doct'mor!" Bouncing up and down on his chubby legs, Hamish toddled away into the sitting room, murmuring and gasping excitedly to himself.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. He could hear the sounds of Hamish digging through the toy bin in the next room.

"You two up already?"

Sherlock turned around to find John, clothed in a robe, standing in the doorway. "Indeed."

"And what's Hame doing, then?"

"Well, he was quite upset upon seeing this—" the detective gestured to his cheek, "—so he's quite determined to have a go at healing it."

"Ah. Doctor's kit, then?"

"Precisely."

As if on cue, Hamish toddled back into view, the little toy doctor's kit he'd received as a gift from John in hand.

"Good?" Sherlock chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy. Lots is be good," Hamish reassured, quite excited at the prospect of being a 'doctor.'

"Very good. So then. Where would you like this?"

"On ah table?"

"Excellent choice... Doctor Hamish," Sherlock replied with a coy smile and a wink, more than happy to play into his son's game.

Giggling madly, Hamish hurried over and wrapped his arms around his father's legs. "Tank-su, Daddy," he hummed into the detective's thigh.

"You're very welcome, love. Now, then..." With a playful groan, Sherlock set Hamish and his toy set on the table, next to the first aid kit. "Where would you like me?"

"Sit 'ease." Scooting over to his things, Hamish gestured to a chair.

"Very good, then." Sherlock obeyed with a fond smile.

"'Kay, Daddy. Not 'eave."

"Oh, wouldn't dream of it," the detective murmured.

"Good." Grunting just a tad, Hamish scooted his little self to the edge of the table and then set his legs over the edge, allowing his feet to dangle just about his father's thighs. "'Kay. I needs ah pastor."

"Plaster," Sherlock corrected fondly.

"'Es. John?"

"Yeah, Hame?"

"Can help?"

"Yeah, of course!" Taking a seat next to his flat mate, John clicked open the first-aid kit and pulled out a handful of plasters. "There you go, little man."

"Tank-su, John. 'Kay, Daddy. Ah goes."

The detective's lips quirked at the corners.

After sorting through the many different shapes and sizes of plasters, the little boy eventually decided upon a plain bandage that was just slightly too small for the cut. "Good, Daddy?" he asked, delicately holding the plaster up between several tiny fingers.

Sherlock exchanged a smile with John before murmuring, "Perfect."

"'Kay. I is ah do put on now."

"Okay," Sherlock smiled, quite amazed by his little son, yet saddened by how qwuickly he seemed to be learning. "Okay..."

With the unique delicacy of a two-year-old Holmes, Hamish leaned forward and rather haphazardly placed the plaster over the gash across his father's cheek. "Done, Daddy," the little boy whispered, leaning back. "'Etter?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "Much better, my love."

A grin graced the little boy's lips. "Kisses?"

"Oh, if you would be so kind," Sherlock thanked graciously and with a smile.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." Giggling contently to himself, Hamish hopped off the table and into his father's lap. Holding his breath, as if worried that an exhale of breath would harm his father, the little boy wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pressed a tender kiss atop the plaster. "Kisses," he repeated with a whisper.

"Kisses," Sherlock agreed.

"Now is much 'etter?"

"Mmm. Indeed I am. Much better."

"Good!" Quite bubbly once again, Hamish released his father from his tiny grasp and then crawled back atop the table. "'Kay, John," he sighed, as if the workload he'd just finished with was terribly taxing. "I is ah doct'mor. John is sick?"

Concealing a smile, but sharing a glance with his flat mate, the doctor turned his gaze back to his little flat mate.

"Does has ah ouchie?"

Seeing as it was quite clear Hamish was wanting him to answer yes, the doctor did so. "Well, come to think of it..." The doctor playfully gestured that Hamish was supposed to lean in, which the little boy did with the utmost seriousness. "I've got a terrible ache right here." John gestured to his middle.

"Oh. Not is good, John," Hamish concluded with a sad little sigh.

"Quite so," the doctor agreed.

"'Kay. I has ah look."

"Have a look?" Sherlock mouthed to himself with a mild frown, so unused to hearing his son use such advanced vocabulary.

Now immersed in his task of 'fixing' John, and with a small grunt, Hamish clicked open his doctor's kit and then pulled out a tiny, brightly colored stethoscope which he then-after a tad of struggling-managed to properly wrap around his neck. Then, end of the stethoscope grasped in his tiny, chubby fingers, the little boy crawled into John's lap and pressed the plastic device to the doctor's chest. "Uh-oh," he gasped with a frown.

"Not good?"

"Not good," Hamish agreed with a solemn nod of his head. "'Es. John is sick. But it is 'kay. I has a... oh." Realizing he wasn't quite sure what he needed, the little boy hopped back atop the table and then, after rummaging through his tiny doctor's kit, pulled out a small cup, clearly for liquid medicine. Plastic in hand, Hamish scooted over to his father. "Daddy?" he asked, whispering.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock responded with a smile, also whispering.

"Can help wif' is?"

"I would love to." Knowing what his son was wanting, Sherlock took the small cup from Hamish's hand, and then scooped the little boy into his arms. "By the way," he whispered fondly as he padded over to the fridge, "the word you're searching for is 'medicine.'"

"Mmm. Tank-su, Daddy," Hamish hummed. A content smile on his lips, the little boy rested his head atop Sherlock's shoulder and waited patiently while the detective filled his plastic cup with grape juice.

Cup in hand and cuddling Hamish close, Sherlock once again resumed his seat at the kitchen table and then set his son on John's lap. "There you go," he stated, passing over the small cup of 'medicine.'

"Tank-su, Daddy."

"You're very welcome, Hamish. Lovely manners, by the way," Sherlock praised with a wink.

Giggling, Hamish carefully passed the grape juice to John, who accepted it graciously. "Why, thank you," the doctor chuckled. "And this will make me better, yes?"

"'Ep! Is what John says. 'Ep!"

"Excellent," John laughed, quickly downing the juice. "Thank you for that... Doctor Hamish," he added with a wink. "Anything else?"

"Oh 'es," Hamish sighed seriously. "I has lots ah do."

"Ah... On both of us, right?"

"Well," Sherlock sighed loudly as he stood, "you've done an excellent job of patching me up, Hamish," he chuckled happily, ignoring the glare he knew John was sending him. "But, seeing as that's all you needed to do, and I have work to do, I think I'll just slip out and leave you to tend to John, yeah?"

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish declared contently, smiling up at his father. "Has ah case ah do?"

"Mmm. Indeed," Sherlock hummed seriously. "But you'll take good care of John and fix him up, won't you?"

"Bloody git," the doctor mumbled under his breath.

Sherlock merely chuckled to himself.

"'Es, Daddy! I will..." With a nod of his head, the little boy turned back to his little doctor's kit, indicating that he was going 'back to work.'

"Excellent." With a quick kiss to the top of his son's head, and a coy smile to his scowling flat mate, Sherlock quickly slipped from the kitchen, chuckling to himself when he heard Hamish give some apparently grave news to John. "Sorry, John," the detective whispered with a chuckle as he threw himself onto the couch. "My sincerest apologies."

Several days later, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin while he pondered the details of a case Lestrade had just handed him when he felt a tapping on his leg. Glancing down out of the corner of his eyes, the detective saw Hamish, clothed only in a pull-up, and with an empty sippy cup in his hand, "Daddy?"

"Yes, love?" Sherlock asked, quickly pulling the little boy onto the couch with him. "What's wrong, Hamish?"

"I is out." Frowning slightly, Hamish held up his cup.

"Ah. I see. So you are." Smiling apologetically, Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and then pulled his son onto his lap. "Apologies, love."

"It is 'kay, Daddy. I jus' needs ah help."

A smile. "Right. Well, then. Up we go." Taking the cup from his son's little hands, Sherlock stood, hoisting Hamish up with him. "Juice or water?" he asked as he padded into the kitchen.

"Zeus?"

"Excellent," Sherlock agreed with a chuckle. Playfully patting his son on the bottom, the detective swung open the refrigerator door. "Oh," he hummed with a frown upon finding the fridge was practically empty. "It would seem a trip to the shops is long overdue, hmm?"

Also examining the practically-empty contents of the fridge with his deep green eyes, Hamish nodded in agreement. "'Es, Daddy. Shops," he agreed with a serious little quirk of his lips.

Laughing at his son's solemness, Sherlock closed the door and then set the little boy on the counter. "Also, I've an experiment I need to conduct and do not have the items I need in the flat. Would you care to be my helper?" the detective asked with a fond twitch of his lips.

"Real, Daddy?" Hamish gasped, green eyes widening.

"Of course! But first, we must get dressed, yes?"

"Oh." Frowning at the prospect of having to put on clothes, Hamish lowered his gaze. "I has, Daddy?"

"Yes. You have to," Sherlock chuckled, gathering the little boy into his arms once again. "I fear we would not be graciously welcomed if you were half-naked."

"Oh. Pants?"

"Indeed."

"Hurt?"

"Shirt," Sherlock corrected with a chuckle as he padded up the stairs and into Hamish's room. "And yes. You need a shirt, too." Running several fingers up and down his son's bare back, Sherlock set the little boy on the ground and then hurried over to the tiny dresser. An outfit in hand, the detective knelt down in front of Hamish, laughing aloud upon seeing the frown on the little boy's lips. "Oh, cheer up, love," he chuckled. "Clothes aren't all that bad."

"Is," Hamish muttered with a frown.

"Not. Now, arms up." A playful eyebrow raised, Sherlock quickly pulled a shirt and pair of pants onto a now-grumpy Hamish. "Thank you."

"Welc'min."

"Excellent manners, love. Now, seeing as I'm still in my pajamas, and I chose your outfit, would you care to help me with mine?"

Attempting to conceal the eager smile now threatening to pull at the corner of his lips, Hamish dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a bashful nod of his head, trying to appear non-chalant.

Seeing right through his son's attempt at concealing his excitement, Sherlock quickly swooped down and then hoisted the little boy onto his shoulder, toting him back down the stairs. "I saw that smile," he teased playfully, tickling Hamish's back.

"Not did, Daddy!" the little boy giggled, muffling his laughs in his father's silky robe.

"Yes, I did!" Now in his own room, Sherlock playfully but gently tossed his son's mall form onto the bed. "You know," he added more seriously, taking a seat, "I think you should know something." The detective waited while Hamish made his way over to him and allowed the little boy to settle against his thigh. "Mmm. Hamish..." Sherlock waited, taking a slow breath while he gazed into his son's impossibly deep green eyes.

"'Es, Daddy? What is?" the little boy whispered.

"I just... hope you know how much I love you," Sherlock murmured with a hint of a smile. "That's all, I suppose... You're quite something else, you know. And growing up so quickly."

"Hmm," Hamish hummed to himself, a bashful smile gracing his lips. "I 'oves too, Daddy." Gazing up at his father, the little boy quickly crawled into Sherlock's lap and wrapped his small arms around the detective's neck.

A smile. "And I'm quite glad to hear it," Sherlock hummed, returning the hug by wrapping both of his arms around his son's small form. "Right, then. Clothes. Yes." With a tender peck to his son's forehead, the detective released Hamish from his grasp and then padded over to his closet. Reaching in, he pulled out two shirts—one purple, and one blue—and then held them up for Hamish to see.

"'Tis one!" the little boy declared, almost instantly pointing to the purple one.

"My thoughts exactly." Smiling fondly, Sherlock pulled off his robe and t-shirt and tossed them playfully towards Hamish, who dodged them with a giggle. After having re-hung the blue button-up, the detective pulled on the purple one and began threading each of the buttons through their respective holes.

"Oh! I can help, Daddy?"

"Of course." Releasing the fabric from his deft fingers, Sherlock padded over to the bed and sat, once again allowing Hamish to take a seat in his lap.

"'Kay, Daddy... 'Tis one... Uhm..." A button in hand and with the utmost concentration, Hamish very carefully began to do up his father's buttons, one by one.

And, though putting on the shirt took several minutes longer than it would have had he been doing up the shirt, Sherlock was more than happy to watch as his son managed to do up each and every one on his own, tiny fingers moving incredibly slowly.

"Done, Daddy," Hamish whispered once he was done, tugging absently at the bottom of his father's shirt. "Good?"

"Mmm. Quite. Thank you very much, love," Sherlock whispered, smiling down into his son's precious features. "Now, then... Any idea where you shoes may be?"

"Oh..."

"Now, Hamish. Remember, we stay together at all times, correct?" Sherlock asked as the taxi approached the tube station.

"'Es," Hamish agreed seriously.

"Right. And you must make sure that you either keep ahold of my hand or that you can see me at all times. If you get lost, you are to do what?"

"'Tay."

"Exactly. Stay. Very good remembering, Hamish. That was an excellent job."

"Tank-su, Daddy," the little boy hummed.

Sherlock turned his silvery gaze to the tiny being next to him, still finding he was quite amazed by his son and all of the information he retained, how intelligent he was. "Mmm," the detective hummed, though the sound was rather bittersweet. He barely even noticed as the cab rolled to a stop.

"Daddy?"

"Mmm."

"Daddy," Hamish giggled. "Is string."

"What? Oh. Staring, again? Was I really?" Sherlock murmured with a shake of his head and a quirk of his lips.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Apologies."

"Is 'kay. Daddy is nice ah look at."

This elicited a laugh. "Am I?" Sherlock chuckled deeply, undoing Hamish's seatbelt and pulling the little boy out of the cab and onto his hip.

"'Es. 'Tis nice," Hamish reassured as he wrapped his arms around his father's shoulders. "Lots is be nice."

"Hmm. Well, I... Yes. Thank you, Hamish. Would you like to know something?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I like this..." A kiss to his son's nose. "And this." Another kiss to each cheek. "And this and this and this." Now chuckling, Sherlock pressed several quick pecks to anywhere he could easily reach while making his way through the tube station. To his son's chin and fingers and hair...

"Daddy! 'Ease stop, Daddy! No!" Hamish squealed, attempting to escape his father's ticklish kisses.

"All right, all right. I'm done... I'm done."

Now free, Hamish quickly buried his face in the collar of his father's jacket, effectively protecting himself from any further tickles. "Daddy," he giggled once again into the fabric. "Is silly, Daddy..."

"I suppose I am, aren't I?"

"'Es. Lots is be, Daddy."

The detective merely smiled, enjoying the feeling of Hamish's grip tightening around his neck.

Once Sherlock had finally managed to tote an incredibly-excited Hamish off the tube and into the store, it was nearly lunchtime.

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish protested as his father tried to place him in the trolley seat. "I is hungry."

"I'm sorry, Hamish. But we've got to get the shopping done today; we've nothing to eat at home. You'll just have to wait." When the little boy continued protesting by crossing his arms and pouting, the detective raised a warning brow. "Do I need to count?"

Heaving a frustrated little sigh, Hamish shook his head and released his arms. "No, Daddy."

"Very good. Thank you. Can I put you in the seat now?"

"But it is for teeny boys. I is ah big boy," Hamish protested with a confused frown.

And Sherlock would have raised a warning brow again had he not seen that his son was genuinely confused and wondering why he should have to sit in the seat. Though he wouldn't admit, the detective was rather quite pleased that Hamish had made a plausible argument for why he shouldn't have to use the trolley seat.

"I not does 'stand, Daddy," Hamish added with a whisper.

Lips quirking at the corners, Sherlock lowered Hamish onto the ground and then knelt in front of him. "How about we make a deal. Yes?" A nod. "Excellent. Seeing as I find your argument to be somewhat valid, I will give you two choices. You can sit in the trolley seat now, or you can walk along with me. Yes?"

Hamish contemplated for a moment, absentmindedly tracing patterns over and across the hand his father currently had around his middle. "I walk," he concluded quietly after a few moments.

"Sure?"

"'Es, Daddy. I not does like ah troll seat."

"Trolley," Sherlock corrected with a laugh. "Fair enough. Right, then. Milk. We need milk."

"'Es. John did say."

"Did he?"

"'Es, Daddy." Grinning contently to himself at having gotten out of using the trolley seat, Hamish hurriedly toddled after Sherlock, who had begun gliding away towards the dairy section, and tangled a hand in the detective's long trousers. "Milk?"

Sherlock turned back and coulnd't help but smile at the sight of Hamish trailing behind him, a hand holding fast to the fabric of his pants. "Milk."

"'Kay."

Several aisles later, Sherlock was knelt down on one knee, attempting to soothe Hamish, who was now in tears over the several boxes of cereal he'd managed to spill across the aisle.

"Hamish, love," the detective murmured, rubbing circles up and down his son's back, "it's just cereal. There was no harm done. Everyone bumps and spills groceries now and again."

The little boy just continued to sob into Sherlock's shoulder, as if the world had come to a halting end. "I did break," he cried, two tiny fists clutching ahold of the fabric of his father's Bellstaff.

"No, Hamish. You didn't, love. Look at them. They're not even bent or tattered." Frowning when he could feel Hamish was still sniffling and crying against him, Sherlock stood, taking the little boy with him, and began gently bouncing up and down, ignoring the numerous stares and sympathetic glances they were receiving. "This isn't like you, Hamish... What's wrong, hmm?"

"I nots does know, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, taking several quick, gasp-like breaths. "I is 'set."

"Well... Come now, love. You're all right," Sherlock continued to soothe. "Everything is all right... Yes?"

Sniffling, Hamish nodded feebly against his father's shoulder. "'Kay, Daddy. I is sorry."

"No, Hamish. You've nothing to be sorry for. Everyone has accidents, and as yours go, it was very minor," Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly and with a reassuring smile. "Yes? I'm just sorry you're so upset over it."

"It is 'kay, Daddy..." Heaving several deep breaths, Hamish's cries eventually subsided. The little boy remained in his father's arms, however, leaning his full weight against the detective's grounding figure. "I has ah walk?" he asked with a sniffle, wiping at his wet eyes with a sniffle.

"Only if you want to, Hamish."

"... No. I sit 'ease," the little boy concluded, now sounding rather confused, as if he too, couldn't understand why he'd reacted the way he had.

"Right." After several more rubs to his son's back, and kisses to his cheeks, Sherlock set Hamish in the trolley seat, assessing the little boy while he got situated. Other than the tears still wet on his cheeks, he seemed fine; no injuries, no external signs of illness. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked again, wiping away the tears on his son's cheeks with a thumb.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish reassured. "I is be 'kay."

"Right... Sure?"

The little boy managed a small smile. "'Es, Daddy. I is good now."

"All right... Now all we need is some sodium chloride and then we should be set to go."

"What is, Daddy?"

"Salt," Sherlock chuckled fondly. Glad that Hamish now seemed far more calm, the detective started pushing the trolley towards the aisle they needed. He nearly paused, however, upon feeling as one Hamish's hands settled atop his own, feeling several of his small fingers wrapping around his own.

"Salt, Daddy?"

"Mmm. Indeed," Sherlock murmured with a smile, twisting his hand in one quick move, effectively encasing his son's small hand on his own. "Off we go."

"Would you be so kind as to carry this for me?" Sherlock asked as the cab rolled up outside of 221B. The detective passed Hamish, who was desperately trying to undo his seatbelt, a box of cereal.

"Oh. Help, Daddy?"

"If you would."

"Oh! 'Es!" Seatbelt forgotten, the little boy made an eager grab for the item.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled with a smile. The rest of the shopping in hand, the detective leaned over and unbuckled his son's belt.

"Tank-su, Daddy."

"You're very welcome, love."

Soon, both father and son had managed to exit the cab with their shopping bags and had entered the flat. Having seemed to recover from the ordeal at the store, Hamish hopped contently up each of the steps with the cereal box, grunting in effort with each jump. "Come, Daddy!" he squealed, dashing into the kitchen. "Has ah spearment!"

"Quite right we do," Sherlock agreed with a chuckle, glad to see his son appeared to have returned to his normal, bubbly little self. "But we mustn't tell John, right?" he added in a loud whisper.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy. Shush."

"Exactly."

Now giggling at the prospect of keeping a secret, Hamish hugged the cereal box close and watched as Sherlock set the bags of shopping on the kitchen table. "Spearment, Daddy?"

Smiling, Sherlock knelt down next to Hamish, a sly smile on his lips. "An experiment," he agreed, suddenly hugging his little son close.

"Oh!" Hamish gasped as he was pulled into the sudden embrace. "Is 'kay, Daddy?" he asked quietly, gently tapping the detective on the shoulder.

"I'm perfect, Hamish. I just love you very much... And sometimes that sort of... spills over into this." Laughing when it was clear he'd just confused his son, the detective merely pressed a kiss to the little boy's cheek and then pulled away. "Now, then! We've some samples to test!"

"Spearment!"

Sherlock smiled, a playful glint in his eyes. "Experiment."