Chapter Text
Sherlock heard the front door open slowly, followed by slow stumbling footsteps and the heavy thud of someone leaning into it shutting it.
From the gait and the thumping of the feet, he knew it was Hamish, but something was wrong. His son was not taking the stairs two at a time, his long legs were moving much slower, and as the boy reached the first landing, Sherlock could hear his labored breathing.
Unfolding his long legs from the chair and tossing his laptop aside, he crossed the living room floor and threw open the door.
Hamish had just reached the top of the stairs, his winter hat pulled slightly back to reveal his curly black hair, the snow just beginning to melt off.
He looked up, one hand cradling his other arm, a crude splint made from several branches and covered in packed snow. He was not crying, as most other boys would be doing had they broken their arm, but he was obviously in pain.
Several emotions hit Sherlock in the chest as he crossed the landing.
A burst of irrational fear, his child had been injured and he had not been there.
A stab of panic. How was he going to comfort his son?
Pride. His son had made a cast out of sticks and snow to keep the swelling down. Clever.
He identified, catalogued them and noted calmly how he experienced more emotions as a father in the last 14 years, than he had in his first 30 years of life.
Hamish knew exactly what his father meant to do, and held out his arm with a grimace.
Pulling the flannel winter jacket off as gently as possible, Sherlock noted Hamish's forearm was beginning to discolor. It was slightly bent at an unnatural angle, but no bone pushing at the skin.
No protruding skin or bones, indicating simple fracture of the ulna. No growth plates located near the break, growth patterns not affected. Set bone, wrap and rest.
“I take it your sledding expedition was eventful.” Sherlock didn't bother to pose it as a question.
“Yea well, my angle of descent was steeper than I had calculated.” he gritted his teeth as his father removed the snow and splint.
“Look at me.” Sherlock stared into Hamish’s green eyes. They both knew what was coming, but Sherlock felt the twinge of regret as he pulled hard, setting the broken bone with a crack.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding and a moan of pain erupted from the boy’s mouth.
"Good. Good lad." He rubbed his hand over the boys good arm. "Let's go to Uncle John and he'll put a cast on it. Hm?"