Baker Street Boys

18

//SWEETNESS OVERLOAD WARNING//

A bit of parentlock inspired by The Dying Detective.

Hamish's heart hammered as he walked to the headmaster's office. He searched his mind for recent incidents he could possibly be in trouble for, and came up blank. Well, there were three possibilities. Four, if he counted what he'd written on his exam on Monday. Still, none of those things were worth the headmaster's time; at most, his teacher might give him an exasperated talking-to. His heart sunk as he saw his father waiting tensely at the front desk, his brow furrowed in worry and his lips pursed tight.

"Dad?" he asked, uncertainly, as soon as he was close. His instinct was to reach for his father's hand, but he worried that he was cross with him.

John's arm wrapped around his shoulder, his fingers slipping into Hamish's curls; easing that particular worry. "Don't be scared, sweetheart, but Papa's in hospital. I'm taking you home, okay?"

"Is he okay?" Hamish yelped, not caring that he was making a scene. "What's wrong?"

"Shh. He's caught... a sort of... a virus, during a case. The doctors are taking good care of him." John's voice was level, his posture stiff, military training betraying his masking of emotion. "Mrs. Hudson is going to watch you, unless you want to go to Uncle Mycroft's."

Usually, he would jump at the chance to be spoiled by his much loved uncle, but Hamish had no intention of being left out of knowing everything possible about his papa's welfare. His parents led exciting lives, like superheroes or action cops on the telly. He loved few things as much as to hear his dad's stories, which had never seemed frightening. Now, however, it was different. "I want to go home." he insisted.

John nodded, and led him outside, where a black car was waiting. Once inside, Hamish leaned against his father's shoulder. "Can we go to see Papa?"

John shook his head. "He's in a special room, so that nobody catches what he has. We can call him later. I need you to be good for Mrs. Hudson."

"Where are you going?" Hamish asked, sharply.

"I have to meet someone who can help Papa." John avoided his eyes, and Hamish frowned.

"You're going to meet the bad guy, you mean."

"Yeah." John looked directly at Hamish then, and smoothed back his hair. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be back before tea."

Hamish nodded, uneasily. "What's Papa's virus called?" he asked.

"This strain doesn't have a proper name that we know of. It looks like a type of hemorrhagic fever, and the bad guy is going to tell me what I need to know to help cure Papa."

"Hemorrhay-" Hamish muttered.

"No computer at Mrs. Hudson's. I don't want you scaring yourself by looking up things he doesn't have. Promise?"

Hamish sighed. "Promise."

The car came to a halt, and Hamish was deposited at the door of 221A with a kiss from his father and a hug from Mrs. Hudson, who promptly attempted to distract him with a plate of biscuits. He forced himself to eat, although his throat felt too tight to swallow.

---

Several hours later than he'd hoped, John returned to Baker Street. It had taken every last ounce of self control he possessed to plead with Smith. He'd had to flatter him, and outright beg him to treat Sherlock, as he'd been instructed to do, rather than kill the smug man with his bare hands as he'd liked. There would be no police, he promised, no repercussions, and they would admit defeat if only he'd please, please, cure his husband. John had found that he didn't need to act, the tears came naturally, and all too readily. It was humiliating to go to pieces in front of an enemy, but that is what Sherlock had instructed him to do. Get the filth to believe he was desperate, and that Sherlock was on death's door. Only, they had planned for it to be an act. It wouldn't have made him feel so disgusted with himself, if it had all been an act. He had no doubt that Sherlock would see the man in custody by the end of the night, but it might be at the cost of his life, if Smith failed to deliver a cure.