A/N: This is for one of the sweetest fanfiction writers on the planet, fantasybean. Someone gave her what could have been some fantastic constructive criticism, but they decided to be a bully and were really rude to her. If you haven't read any of her stories, I recommend them. Most of them are longer and are on , but they're definitely worth popping over there for a read. She is a great writer who has done nothing but improve in the year or so that I've followed her stories. I know you're feeling better now, doll, but I'm sorry you spent over two weeks with shaky confidence. Take this as a peace offering of sorts for me being a moron and not noticing that you hadn't bounced back from critics as quickly as you normally do. xoxoxo

To review: there are potential triggers in this story for bullying, physical assaults, verbal abuse, a quick mention of drug use and self-harm, and a small section filled with cursing and homophobic language. If any of these things may set you off, I recommend you avoid reading this. If you do need to talk, you are always free to comment on any one of my stories to have a chat or you can leave me your Tumblr username and we can have a chat on there.

As always, I make no profit from this, and I extend my sincerest apologies to ACD and Mofftiss for touching their things and proceeding to ruin them.

This is such a working title, y'all. I'm so stumped on what to call this. Any ideas are greatly appreciated.

Update: thanks to fantasybean for helping me think of the title for her gift. You da bomb diggity.

John was worried. Hamish had been withdrawn for the last few days, which was uncharacteristic of him. At first, he suspected that there may be some sort of bug floating around his school, but as it wore on and Hamish wasn't complaining of any illnesses, he felt more troubled. Sherlock became withdrawn as Hamish did, as if he was trying to figure out what was happening to their son by imitating him.

On the third morning, as he was walking back to 221B after dropping Hamish off for the day, John received a phone call.

"Dr. Watson-Holmes?" The voice on the other end was clearly that of a young female.

"Speaking," John replied.

"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time," the woman said. "This is Marcie Draper, Hamish's teacher."

"Of course, of course. How are you?" John asked. His hand gripped a bit tighter around his phone wondering if he had missed something this morning and preparing to kick himself for letting his sick son go to school.

"I'm well, thank you. I was wondering if I could trouble you and your partner with coming in a little later in the day. I have a few concerns that I would like to discuss with the two of you."

"Has Hamish done something?" John asked.

"Not at all," Miss Draper amended quickly. "On the contrary, he's a delight to have in class. I hate to say this, but my concerns are more about bullying."

John felt sick. He had just reached the steps of 221B and sat down on them. "Neither of us are working today. What time can we come in?"

"The children have music at 10:30. I feel awful for not talking to you before you left a few minutes ago, but I didn't want to draw any attention to the fact that I've noticed. I don't want them taking anything out on Hamish because they think that he's gone for help."

"Please, don't worry about it. We'll see you then."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson-Holmes."

John hung up and stared at his hands. Bullying. His son was being bullied. Someone was making the child who was the light of his life feel bad about himself. He had sworn to protect him from that. Four days after he was born and the adoption papers had officially been signed, John had vowed to his infant that he would make sure he didn't know the dangers of the world that he had had to face.

He had failed.

It was with a frankly Herculean effort that John managed to avoid crying in the middle of Baker Street. It took him about ten minutes to compose himself, but John finally stood up and walked into the flat.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were in the kitchen drinking tea and chatting over pieces of toast, which was where he had left both of them. They both smiled at him when he walked in, but both of their faces quickly fell when they saw how distraught he was.

"John, dear, you look like you've seen something dreadful," Mrs. Hudson tutted.

"More like heard something dreadful," John sighed heavily. He turned to Sherlock. "Love, we need to go to speak with Hamish's teacher at 10:30. She thinks that he's being bullied."

Mrs. Hudson clicked her teeth. Sherlock dropped his toast, folded himself into a ball on his chair, and wrapped his arms around his legs.

"How did I not see it?" Sherlock muttered.

"He's spent his whole life around you. If anyone would know how to hide something from you, it would be Hamish," John pointed out.

"He shouldn't feel the need to hide it," Sherlock pointed out.

"No, he shouldn't," John agreed. He saw his same fear reflected in the eyes of the other two people in the room.

What if Hamish felt the need to hide it because it wasn't about him?

When 10:30 rolled around, Sherlock and John were waiting in the office of the primary school. They sat next to each other, gripping each other's hands so tightly that their knuckles were white.

At 10:32, Miss Draper walked in. "Dr. Watson-Holmes. Mr. Holmes-Watson." She stuck out her hand as she addressed them. "I'm sorry I'm a tad late. I didn't want any of the children running into either of you as I walked them to the music room."

"Not a problem. Thank you for calling," John smiled weakly.

"I only wish I could have called sooner," she sighed, looking down at the floor. "Why don't we make our way to the classroom?"

The three of them walked the fifty feet to the room. Sherlock and John still held hands as they stayed a few paces behind the young woman who taught their son.

"I brought in some adult sized chairs for the two of you," she smiled, gesturing to the two seats in front of her desk. Never breaking contact, John and Sherlock sat down.

"You're concerned our son is being bullied?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm beyond concerned," Miss Draper sighed. "Again, I wish I had seen it earlier. To my knowledge, there haven't been any incidents before two days ago, and I only found out yesterday afternoon."

"What has happened?" John swallowed nervously.

"A student's parents are getting married next weekend, and the children were discussing what their parents weddings were like based on photos they've seen or, in some cases, what they remember of the event," Miss Draper began.

As soon as she said that, Sherlock bowed his head.

"When they asked Hamish, he said that you two had worn matching tuxes, and was going into detail about what color bow ties you had worn when someone asked what his mommy had worn. He explained very rationally that he was adopted and he had two daddies. One of the boys asked if it was okay if someone had two mommies or two daddies, and I told them that there was nothing wrong with any type of family, as long as everyone was loved and happy. Most children seemed okay with this, although some were quiet. I just assumed that they were trying to wrap their heads around the idea."

"But they weren't," John stated.

Miss Draper shook her head. "Again, I feel terrible for not keeping an eye on things, but apparently at recess, one of the boys told Hamish that – and please bear in mind that I do not agree with or approve of what this boy said – having two daddies was wrong and that he would be going to Hell for being raised by two people who were wrong. Hamish fought back a bit at first, which I'm very proud of him for. He argued that there was nothing wrong with the two of you and that you both worked to keep people safe and healthy. The other boy said that he felt sorry for Hamish because he was going to end up perverted and that he would regret being that way later."

Sherlock's shoulders were shaking from rage. John was drawing in deep breaths and trying to calm himself down.

"What can be done to stop it?" John finally managed.

"There are a few options. I can talk to Hamish, or I can talk to the boy in question directly. Or, if you would like, the two of you can speak to Hamish when he gets home today and then we can do something tomorrow. I prefer that, because I don't want him to be blindsided when he realizes that someone has noticed what is happening and there are potential repercussions."

"We'll talk to him this afternoon," Sherlock stated. "If anything else happens today, I expect you to step in and take appropriate measures to discipline the boy and anyone else who may be involved, and I would like you to call us if this happens so we know what we're going to be dealing with."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes-Watson," Miss Draper agreed. "Again, I am so sorry that this wasn't brought to my attention sooner, or that I wasn't looking as hard as I should have. I will be sure to alert the recess monitors to the bullying so they can keep a close eye on him and the boys who have been doing this."

John and Sherlock both stood. Sherlock turned and was gone with a swish of his Belstaff. John shook Miss Draper's hand again, and with that they were off.

Hamish's day was fairly miserable. He was on edge, worrying about the boys who had been picking on him for the last few days. If they were in his class, he could have shut them up, but the problem was that they weren't even in his grade. They were four years older than he was. One of the boys who hadn't liked the idea of him not having a mother had told his older brother, who was a hall monitor, what he had found out.

He was lucky that they hadn't done anything physical to him yet, but he didn't know if that was to come. He had managed to keep his head high and defend his Daddy and his Papa, but when they started talking about him, he had lost the ability to fight back. He had just cowered against the wall and listened to the horrible things they said.

Hamish didn't have many friends, so he didn't have a safe group to travel with at recess. He tried his best to hide, but there weren't many hiding places on the playground and soon the boys found him.

"Hey, faggot! Come on out!" That one was Colin, the hall monitor and Jack's older brother.

Hamish kept his back towards them and pretended he couldn't hear them.

"Did you not hear him? He said he wants you to come out," another one, James, called. "If you don't come, we'll have to go in there and get you. Do you fucking want that, you spawn of fags?"

Hamish tensed at the use of that word. There was no reason for them to be insulting his parents, especially not with such offensive language.

"Fine. We're coming in for you now," Colin said.

Hamish was dragged by his armpits out from under the jungle gym. He felt the concrete scraping the bottom of his back where his shirt was riding up, and he winced before one of Colin's friends whose name he hadn't bothered to learn hauled him up and pinned him against the side of the structure.

"Next time we ask you to come, you had better fucking come," Colin growled. He stepped up so he was nose to nose with Hamish, and punched him in his stomach.

Hamish grunted, and the boy who was pinning him up (what was his name? Darren? Unimportant.) pressed his hand harder around Hamish's neck. It wasn't enough to completely cut off his air, but it was definitely more constricted than he would have liked.

"Please let me down," he choked.

Colin laughed and punched Hamish again. "I'll let you down if you admit you're living a fucked up life."

Hamish tried to kick out, but James caught his leg and punched him in the cheek. Hamish quickly ran his tongue around his jaw. No teeth missing. He would certainly bruise, and he was sure that nothing had been broken.

"There's nothing wrong with my dad's," he growled.

Colin took a turn at punching Hamish, getting him in the same spot James had hit him. "Fucking perverts have you brainwashed," he spat. "I bet they're training you to be just like them."

"You can't be trained to be gay, you moron," Hamish sighed, rolling his eyes just like his Papa did.

This was the wrong thing to say.

"Queers shouldn't be allowed to have kids," Darren snarled. "What example are they setting for you if they're not able to have kids of their own. They couldn't even have you. They had to go out and find some lowlife slut who fucked up and needed to unload a little whelp on a couple of desperate homos who were too busy ramming their cocks into each other's bums to find a real woman to fuck." He punctuated the last four words of this speech by ramming Hamish against the back of the jungle gym.

Hamish was getting dizzy from his head ramming against the metal behind him. He was about to call for help when the recess monitor, hearing the noise, ran up.

Darren dropped him, and he landed in a heap on the ground. The lady was calling for help, and a minute later Miss Draper was jogging out, parting the children gathered around him.

"Hamish, can you hear me?"

He nodded, "Didn't hit m' head too badly," he slurred.

"You dads are on their way," she said. "They should be here within the next ten minutes or so. I just want you to stay sitting right now, and your Dad is going to look you over." She turned to the recess monitor. "Take the three of them to the headmistress' office." She then turned her eyes to the rest of the kids. "I want you all to line up along the school wall. Mr. Smith will be out in a moment to lead all of you to the gymnasium, where recess will be continued."

The other kids shuffled slowly towards the wall, and were quickly retrieved by another teacher who shuttled them into the gym.

Hamish leaned his head gently against the jungle gym and breathed deeply. He had seen his Daddy do this sometimes when he'd had a bad dream or if there was something that was really bothering him. He hoped it would hold off any really bad feelings before his Daddy and his Papa got there.

Sherlock ran.

He left John and Lestrade, who had stopped by the flat to talk about some evidence that Sherlock had "borrowed" when he got the call from the headmaster.

All she had said was, "There has been an incident-"

Sherlock was gone.

John and Lestrade we close behind him.

John had picked up the phone that Sherlock had cast aside and taken the rest of the call.

"The way you look right now, I'm going to guess you need a cop," Lestrade had said, pulling his blazer back on.

They followed, hoping to get there before Sherlock did something stupid.

It took Sherlock four minutes to run from 221B to Hamish's school. He leaped over the fence to the playground without missing a beat, and sprinted up to his son..

"Move!" he shouted at the teacher who was holding his son's hand, and he skidded to a stop and onto his knees next to his boy.

"Papa," Hamish smiled.

Sherlock, not wanting to jostle him too much, pressed a kiss to the curls on the top of his son's head and stroked the side of his face that hadn't seen a fist a few minutes earlier.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, maneuvering himself so he was sitting next to Hamish. Hamish rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock carded his fingers through Hamish's blonde curls. "Daddy and Uncle Greg will be here in a few minutes."

Sherlock, who hadn't engaged in harmful behavior since he had married John, was suddenly feeling the urge to take a hit of cocaine, or to slash his skin until he bled out.

Sociopath, indeed.

John and Lestrade weren't quite as fast in getting to the school as Sherlock had been. John was fairly certain Sherlock had climbed a building as a shortcut.

He was married to a madman.

When they finally reached the playground, John found Hamish propped against Sherlock. Miss Draper was standing nearby, talking quietly with the headmistress.

As John approached, the headmistress moved to speak to him. He ignored her and knelt in front of his son and husband.

Hamish looked up at him and grinned that adorable lopsided grin of his, but John was alarmed to see that it was dimmer than usual and the light had left his eyes.

Swallowing, John managed, "I'm going to see if you have a concussion, baby. I'm going to need you to follow my instructions." Hamish hummed in affirmative. "You're going to need to answer a few questions. Uncle Greg is going to ask them."

Lestrade, who had been waiting in the wings to be called on, pulled a small recording device out of his back pocket and began recording. "Hamish, before I ask you these questions, I want you to know I'm recording this. That way, if your dads want to press charges, we'll have your testimony on tape. Is this alright with you?"

"Yes, Uncle Greg."

Lestrade smiled weakly at him. "What is your name?"

"Hamish Sherrinford Watson-Holmes."

"How old are you?"

"Six."

"Where are we?"

"The playground at school."

"Very good. First three correct. Now Hamish, I'm going to start asking you a bit about what happened." Hamish nodded in assent. "Who did this to you?"

"Clive, James, and Darren. I think his name is Darren. I never actually bothered to learn it. The dumb blond one who is built like an ox."

"Did you do anything to provoke them?"

"They told me to come out from the jungle gym, and I ignored them because I didn't want them to keep making fun of me or my dad's. They dragged me out by my armpits."

"Can you tell me what they said to you and who injured you where as the conversation went on between the four of you?"

Hamish slurred his way through the details of his ordeal. Sherlock buried his face in his free hand, and John placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb in circles on top of it. Greg looked as if he was going to be sick, and the headmistress and Miss Draper looked horrified. Once Hamish was done, Greg gently patted his shin.

"Thank you for answering those questions, Hamish," he said. "Your Dad is going to check you out a bit more to make sure your head is alright."

John knelt in front of Hamish. Greg had taken care of the questioning portion of checking for a concussion, even though they had asked a few more than one would normally ask a potentially concussed patient. He had snatched his medical bag before they had sprinted out, and now that they were there, he opened it up and withdrew a small light.

"Look at the light, baby," he whispered. Hamish stared into the small light and flinched. His pupils were still nearly fully dilated, and his eyes were having some difficulties following the light.

"Right, he's concussed. Greg, I need you to either go back to Baker Street and get your car or call an ambulance for us so we can get him to Emergency. I don't want any injuries undocumented, and I want to check for potential internal abdominal bleeding."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll be back in ten." He then sprinted off in the direction of their flat.

The headmistress moved to say something again, but John held up his hand. "I understand that you probably need to wait with us until we move him, but I cannot talk to you about this right now. My son in incredibly hurt, and I will not be focusing on anything other than getting him better for the foreseeable future. We will be pressing charges against those three boys, and potentially Colin's brother who set him off on Hamish. Whether or not we take actions against the school remains to be seen. Do not try to talk with me about anything at the moment."

The woman closed her mouth and nodded. "Just let us know if there is anything we can get any of you before his uncle returns."

John nodded curtly.

Hamish was trying to move to his Papa's lap, but he was having trouble. "Papa," he moaned, further burying his face into Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock gently shifted his son until he was cradled in his lap and he rocked him gently. "I'm so sorry this happened to you, my baby. I'm so, so sorry," he whispered over and over.

John rubbed Hamish's back lightly, being careful to avoid places he knew were injured. He kissed Sherlock's cheek and nuzzled it with his nose, trying to calm him down a bit. Sherlock had always been cagey about his childhood, but John was certain there was a significant amount of bullying.

They stayed that way until Greg jogged back up to them. "All ready whenever he's ready to move. Mycroft made a call over to Bart's and they'll be ready for him."

"Hamish," John whispered. "Do you think you can move?"

"C'n Pap' carry me?" Hamish slurred.

"Yes, of course," John smiled, kissing Hamish's forehead. To Sherlock he whispered, "We need to move him fast and keep him awake. I'm worried about him going into a concussed coma."

Sherlock, thankfully, possessed a feline grace that allowed him to propel himself upright and move briskly towards the car without jostling his son excessively. He whispered to Hamish the whole way to the car and throughout the drive, keeping a light conversation so he would stay awake.

When they entered the hospital, a swarm of nurses descended upon them. Hamish was plucked from Sherlock's arms and placed on a gurney. Sherlock and John were ushered to the check-in desk so they could be given proper access to their son, and then they were whisked into the actual emergency ward and sent to the area behind a curtain where Hamish would be brought once he was checked over.

John sat. Sherlock paced.

They waited.

After nearly forty-five minutes of waiting, a doctor drew back the curtain to speak with Sherlock and John. He did not have Hamish with him.

"We found evidence of internal bleeding, and he is being brought into surgery as we speak," the man told them. "We believe his spleen may have been ruptured."

Sherlock paused and wobbled a bit. John grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the chair next to him.

"Where can we wait for him?"

"He'll be in OR 7. Obviously, Dr. Watson-Holmes, you know as a surgeon how unpredictable surgery can be, so I can't tell you how long he will be in. There is a waiting area outside of the OR, where you can stay until we move him to recovery."

John nodded. "Other than the spleen and the concussion, is there anything else severe?"

"His zygomatic arch has been fractured, but it doesn't appear to be serious enough to require surgery. Of course, it may be too soon after the attack to tell."

At the word 'attack,' Sherlock let out a wail and doubled over.

The doctor took this as his cue to leave. "Just leave the curtain open when you leave so they nurses know the space is open. Come up to the waiting area whenever you're ready."

John thanked him, then focused his attention on his husband. "Love, look at me." Sherlock shook his head. "Sherlock, please, just look at me."

Sherlock shuddered, and John rubbed the top of his back, coaxing his upright. Sherlock finally sat up straight. His face was wrecked and he was coming close to hyperventilating. John cajoled his breathing into a more regular pattern, and Sherlock's sobs grew quieter.

"He's going to be fine," Sherlock gulped.

"Of course he is, my darling," John cooed, brushing Sherlock's curls out of his face. "I wouldn't lie to you about something like this. Hamish will be fine. A ruptured spleen is serious, but they caught it barely over an hour after it happened. That makes a world of difference."

"He was never supposed to be like this," Sherlock choked. "He wasn't supposed to have this happen to him. It was just supposed to be me who had this. Not him. Not our baby."

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock hard. Sherlock moaned and parted his lips a bit, giving John an invitation to plunge his tongue in and do what he could to relax his husband.

When they broke apart, John rested his forehead against Sherlock's and kept his hands cupped around his cheeks. "He is going to be fine, Sherlock," he said roughly.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he nodded. "Let's go up to wait for him."

Hours later, Hamish was rolled into recovery. He drifted in and out, always grabbing for his parents in his brief snippets of semi-consciousness. John and Sherlock sat there overnight with him. In the end, they both ended up asleep with their faces on the mattress and one of Hamish's hands curled into the hairs on their heads.

When Hamish woke up in the morning, his Daddy was perched in his Papa's lap next to his bed. He smiled to himself. How could anyone think that there was anything wrong with their love?

Sherlock noticed he was away first. "How are you feeling, Hamish?" John stood and moved up to the head of his bed.

"Sleepy," Hamish yawned.

"The medication will do that to you," John smiled down at him. "Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?"

Hamish shook his head, but then looked thoughtful. "I have a few questions."

"What are they, Hamish?" Sherlock asked.

"When Uncle Greg was saying things about a testimony yesterday, what did he mean?"

"Well," John began. He sat in his vacated chair and took Hamish's hand. Sherlock laid a hand on his shin. "We are going to take legal actions against the boys who did this to you. They have already been expelled from school, which will go on their records, but they hurt you very badly Hamish, and if they hadn't been stopped, they could have done much worse things to you. We want to make sure that they're punished so they know that they should never do something like that again."

Hamish mulled this over for a moment, and then said, "Okay. That sounds good. Am I going to have to go to a new school?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a look. "We thought we would discuss that with you. Do you feel up for that right now, or would you like to wait until you're better rested?"

"We can start now. I don't want to move schools."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "There is nothing wrong with wanting that, but Daddy and I need to know the reasons why you don't want to leave so we can come to a decision as a family that is satisfactory for everyone here."

"I really like Miss Draper, and my other teachers. I don't have a lot of friends because I'm shy and I'm a little smarter than everyone, but I like a few people and they like me too."

"Why didn't they come and help you?" John asked.

"They wanted to tell someone, but Colin told them he would beat them up and he would hurt people they liked if they said anything. I told them that I could deal with them and they should just stay away from me to avoid trouble. Andy tried to stick up for me the day before, but they had him up against the jungle gym too. They didn't hurt him though. I told him not to worry, but I think he may have told Miss Draper because he said he forgot his pencil case and doubled back to the room at the end of the day, but I had seen him put it in there so I knew he just wanted to talk to her in private." Hamish shuffled into his pillows again. "Can I rest now?"

"Yes of course, baby," Sherlock simpered. "We can talk more when you feel better."

Hamish was in the hospital for six days recovering from the surgery. His cheekbone was declared fine and he was told to ice it for twenty minutes several times a day to help it heal. His recovery from the surgery took a bit longer and he grew a bit bored, but Sherlock and John were delighted to see that Hamish had a steady stream of visitors. Mycroft and Lestrade came over together a few times, and they both visited separately as well when their hours didn't overlap. Molly, who was just a couple of floors away, came to visit before work, during lunch, after work, and whenever she had downtime during the day. She frequently sent John and Sherlock out for a little while, whether it was for a proper meal or a shower, or memorably once she told them to go while Hamish was napping to have a quick shag ("Sherlock, you are going to wear a hole in the ground and all of the doctors are complaining about what a royal pain in the bum you are. Go home for two hours and have a few rounds so everyone here can get a bit of peace and quiet."). Sherlock would never look at her the same way again.

What warmed their hearts the most, though, was when Hamish's school friends came by. Andy, the boy who had tried to stick up for Hamish, came in with a card he had made and he apologized to Hamish for not stopping them earlier. Hamish told him he was being ridiculous, but he thanked him for the apology.

John had to step into the hallway to have a quick cry at that one.

Andy stopped by every day after school, and he usually brought two or three other kids who Hamish was friendly with to come and see him. Miss Draper came by with them a few times as well, and each time they were there, Hamish lit up.

Therapists were brought in, of course, to ensure that Hamish was holding up mentally. They credited his mood to his visitors and the fact that his parents were always there, but gave the two of them signs of things to watch for. They scheduled follow-up appointments, and were told that if Hamish started exhibiting any symptoms of depression, PTSD, or any other mental illnesses that could be brought on by trauma, they should bring him in immediately.

Soon, Hamish was cleared to leave, and two days after he got home, he was back in school. He was taking it easy and wasn't allowed to do certain activities, but he was excited to be back, and it seemed that everyone there was excited to see him back.

Hamish would have nightmares about the ordeal frequently. He would wake up shouting or crying for his parents.

His dad would usually sit up with him and calm him down. After a few days of Hamish sobbing into his pajamas late at night, John began to tell Hamish about his nightmares. Hamish had always know he had had them, but he didn't know why. He didn't go into vast detail about them, but he told him that it was something that happened to people after events like that, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of.

"I'm trying so hard to be brave," Hamish had hiccupped.

John squeezed him tighter. "Having nightmares doesn't mean you aren't brave, Hamish. It just means that your brain is trying to deal with what it has seen. Being able to tell me and Papa about them is bravery. I couldn't tell anyone about mine. Papa only found out when we began dating and we started sharing a bed. I was a coward about them. You are being such a brave boy for talking about them. I wish I could have had your courage.

Sherlock had talked to him about the actual act of being bullied. Again, he didn't tell Hamish details about what happened. He didn't even tell John what had happened ("It's in the past. No need to rehash it and dig up old unpleasantries. Of course, I will tell you if they begin to bother me."). He had catalogued the faraway looks Hamish would get when he would start to think about what had happened and why (they why bothered him more than the actual event), and he would swoop in and distract him. Whether he talked to Hamish about what he was thinking about, or they did something exciting to take his mind off of it, he eased his son back into the present.

It took a while before Hamish went days without thinking about it. One day, they all woke up and realized it had been two weeks since Hamish had had a nightmare; it was a month since Hamish last got the faraway look in his eyes; it was nearly two months since he had panicked about something that he somehow linked to the bullying.

It took hard work on the parts of everyone who loved Hamish and who treated him, but they made sure that he felt loved and accepted. In turn, this meant that he felt secure enough in himself to feel safe from potential bullies.

Every so often, even as an adult, Hamish would get that look in his eyes. Sherlock would slip his hand into Hamish's and intertwine their fingers the way he had when Hamish was just getting over it. Hamish would smile and squeeze his Papa's hand, even as a middle-aged man with a family of his own, and he knew that it was safe to talk as his parents surrounded him and made him feel safe.

In the end, John and Sherlock made sure that Hamish got better. There wasn't anything better in the world that they could have asked for.

A/N: Okay muffins, now that I've stirred up a little bit of angst (where the fuck is all of THAT coming from lately?) let's talk about bullying.

Most of you are pretty smart, so you already know this. Bullying is NOT okay. Ever. Bullying causes extreme emotional damage, and can cause people to do things as drastic as harming themselves or taking their own lives. I think everyone can agree that that isn't okay. At all.

I want you to know that if you ever, EVER need someone to talk to because you think there is no one else to listen or no one else who cares, I will always care about you. I will always love you unconditionally because humans are beautiful, and we all deserve love. If you need to talk, send me a PM. I will do whatever it takes to make sure that you die when you're old. I will make sure that nobody carves into their bodies the way I have. I will give you an ear so someone listens to you.

*steps off soapbox, fixes appearance ruined from passionate point making, pushes soapbox under bed, gives everyone a collective hug*

As always, I love you all very much. Stay strong, my doves.
xoxoxoxoxoxo,
ClassyGirlsWearPearls