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Sherlock wasn't a light sleeper, not at all. He didn't usually spend much time in bed, but if he finally slipped under the covers, he was snoozing so soundly that someone could probably fire a cannon in the living room and he wouldn't even flinch. Jolting wide awake at any suspicious noise was John's domain, who after serving his time in Afghanistan was abnormally vigilant, sometimes to the point of paranoia. Sherlock often teased him about that - without any real malice, though – but since this particular skill had proven useful on many occasions, the detective put himself completely at his husband’s mercy when it came to guarding their safety.
That is why Sherlock was so baffled when he opened his eyes in the darkened room, hearing muffled, distant sobs. He froze for a few seconds, just listening intently. His first rational reaction was that he was still deep in slumber, since John - the aforementioned alert one - was infallibly sleeping like a log, his breath steady and calm. Sherlock quickly rejected the initial hypothesis, deciding it was ridiculous. After all, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock rolled to his side, facing his dreaming husband.
“John...” He whispered softly.
No reaction whatsoever.
“John!” He repeated in a more demanding tone, shaking lightly John's arm.
“Mhm...” The hoarse sound that left his throat betrayed blooming irritation.
“John, wake up!”
The doctor groaned, shifted, huffed in annoyance and grunted some more, but finally slightly parted his eyelids, shooting a miffed glance at the clock on the bedside table.
“Jesus, Sherlock, it's three am...” He whined piteously as he rubbed his face. When he came home after a long and arduous shift at the hospital, he was dead on his feet and crawled straight into bed, hoping for a good night’s rest. However, it was an impossibility while living with the mad and insensitive detective, who apparently didn't have better things to do than to wake his partner up in the wee hours. “I'm not a bloody insomniac like you, for God's sake!”
Sherlock completely ignored his complaints, like he usually did. It simply saved time.
“Can you hear that?” He asked under his breath.
“Hear what?” John grumbled, but something in his husband's tone alarmed him, so he pricked his ears anxiously, wondering what this fuss was all about. If Sherlock suspected that someone might have burgled into their flat, he would have behaved differently; the assailant would have been subdued by now in some clever way, and Lestrade's men would have been on their way. John knew that Sherlock would protect his family at any cost. The doctor was both intrigued and apprehensive when he finally heard the noise. John's eyes widened in surprise and his gaze moved to Sherlock questioningly. Was that... crying?
The men sprang like on cue out of the bed and dashed upstairs to their five-year-old son's room, which back in the day used to be John's bedroom.
The moment Sherlock switched on the lights, the situation became crystal clear. Hamish was sitting on the bed with his knees pressed to his chest and wailed piteously into Mr. Bee's cuddly body. He got the stuffed toy from Sherlock on his first birthday, and since then the boy and the bee had been practically inseparable. Right now, Hamish was seeking the comfort of his friend, waves of sobs racking his bony shoulders. The duvet was lying on the floor, the sheets were crumpled with a yellowish wet stain in the middle. The heavy stench of urine was hanging thickly in the stuffy air.
Sherlock just stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Being a father didn't come easily to him; he suspected he lacked the necessary paternal instinct. Fortunately, John took the initiative. The doctor was much better at handling any crises where empathy and emotions were required to solve them. Without hesitation, he ran to their son and knelt beside him, pulling him into a tight but tender hug.
“It's alright, baby. Hush, we're here. Everything's fine,” he kept whispering soothingly, his hands rubbing the boy's back in a reassuring way. Hamish slurred something incoherently in response, far too shaken to make any sense. John kissed his hair over and over again, knowing that the most important thing right now was to calm the boy down.
“Leave Mr. Bee with daddy for a while, okay? He'll look after him, and in the meantime we'll go to the bathroom and change your clothes to your favourite pyjamas. The green ones with Scooby Doo and his friends, alright?” John said, waiting for permission to pick him up. Finally, the boy nodded wanly, put the toy away and wrapped his arms with great force around John's neck, still snivelling. John scooped him up and gestured silently to Sherlock, telling him to clean up the mess while they were away. The detective wasn't particularly happy about it, but he didn't voice his reservations. Better to tidy up than to have a hard time comforting their son. Sherlock knew that when it came to sentiments he was pretty much useless. John was the right man in the right place; Sherlock had to resign himself to being reduced, for now, to the human equivalent of a mop and a washing machine. After a roll of his eyes, an inward sigh, and the straightening of his shirt, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work taking the damp bedding off from the duvet.
With Hamish in his arms, John picked up fresh pyjamas from the wardrobe and carried his son to the bathroom.
John's soft and sweet assurances eventually soothed Hamish enough to stop his weeping. He still looked miserable, though, when John put him in the shower, soaped him up carefully, rinsed the suds, dried his shivering body with a towel and put fresh clothes on him as he promised. Only then did John crouch in front of the boy so that their faces were at the same level. For a short while, John just stared at him, marvelling at how uncannily similar Hamish was to Sherlock. He almost seemed like a miniature version of the detective, with the same bone structure, dark messy hair, and his slender – not to say scrawny – frame. The only thing that seemed to be different were his eyes, a little darker and more bluish than Sherlock's. Actually, the colour and the shape were almost just like John's. He was glad that the boy had at least something from the Watson part of his heritage.
John snapped out of his reverie. Now wasn't the time to think about genetics; Hamish's well-being was much more important.
“Are you okay, Mish?”
Hamish nodded curtly, his eyes lowered to the floor in shame.
“What happened, love? Did you have a bad dream?” John inquired softly, taking the boy's small hands into his own.
The boy didn't say anything, only nodded faintly again. He was clearly avoiding his father's gaze. John's intuition didn't fail him. After all, he used to struggle with nightmares for a long time, he knew perfectly well how horrible they were. If a grown up man had troubles dealing with night terrors, how hard must it have been for a sensitive five-year-old?
“Listen to me, Hamish. Whatever you've seen in your dream, it wasn't real. No matter how scary it seemed, it was nothing more than a projection of your mind. A mere fantasy. Your brain was just pulling a nasty prank on you. Don't worry, love.”
Hamish sniffed in response, but didn't seem to feel any better.
“Do you want to tell me what happened in your dream, Hamish?” John was very careful to keep his tone calm and not even show how concerned he felt. Thankfully, years of being a doctor had helped him to master these skills to perfection.
After a heavy moment of silence, Hamish started to speak, making pauses to sniff some more and rub his reddened eyes, his voice faltering at a few points. Seeing his only child in such a state was breaking John's heart.
“I... I saw a big man with a gun... And he... he shot you and daddy. You were bleeding... and you died... and I was alone...” He ended with a pained whimper.
“Oh Hamish...” The doctor sighed with sorrow, embracing his son tenderly. It was truly awful that a little child was already plagued with such worries and gory images. Did Sherlock tell the boy about the cases they were working on again? He needed to give his unruly husband an earful. John hugged Hamish tighter, ruffled his curly hair with fondness and began his explanations. “You know how brilliant your daddy is, don't you? Of course you do. And he specialises in chasing bad men. He is the best. He would know instantly that someone was threatening us, and he would catch that man before he could harm anyone. And I was a soldier, remember? I know how to protect you and your father. We're safe, baby. No one will hurt us. And we'll always be by your side.”
“Promise?” Hamish said weakly, pulling back to look into John's eyes.
“Promise,” he sealed the vow with a kiss placed on the boy's forehead. Hamish smiled at him wanly, feeling slightly better. But then he shifted uncomfortably and blushed, averting his gaze again.
“I'm sorry for wetting the bed...”
“It's okay, love. There's nothing to be ashamed of, Hamish, and we're not mad. Don't beat yourself up about it, it's all fine. Such things happen to everyone.”
“I think Mr. Bee peed himself a little too...”
John couldn't help but smile.
“Well, I'll give him a good wash tomorrow morning then. Come here, Mish, tonight you're sleeping with us.”
That assurance made Hamish return the smile eagerly; he needed that closeness and warmth right now. He let John carry him to his parents' bedroom. Sherlock was already there, waiting. Seeing that the boy seemed more relaxed, his expression softened. He was worried about him as well, even though he had problems showing it. Caring was not an advantage, but he couldn't not care; his family was too precious to him.
John put Hamish to bed and covered him with a blanket. The boy was now comfortably snuggled between both of his guardians. After saying his goodnights and kissing Sherlock and John, he fell asleep peacefully, finally feeling safe. But before he closed his eyes, he turned to Sherlock and asked tentatively:
“Daddy... Do you still love me?” His voice was tiny as if he expected some backlash. He knew how much Sherlock hated to perform any house chores, especially cleaning. After being forced to take care of Hamish's wet bed, the boy was certain his dad must have started to dislike him.
Sherlock's heart sank.
“Of course, Hamish. I love you very much,” he said with conviction, petting the boy's head. “Nothing could change that. You're my son. I might get mad and scold you sometimes, but that love is the only constant in my life.”
“Well, not the only one I hope...” John chimed in with a grin, clearing his throat jokingly. Sherlock responded with a chuckle, hugging them both.
“You're right, John. Now I have two constants in my life.”
John beamed at his husband with true affection.
“Obviously.”