Behind Closed Doors

1.3 - The Birthday Party

Hello all! This is part three (of four) of the Birthday Party sequence in Behind Closed Doors. This is where it all really takes off. And, for the person who sent me the message, part four, coming soon, is a bit with lots of Sherlock in. It's dedicated to AccioSherlock because he/she was the first person outside my non-internet life to comment. As usual, please vote and share, comment if you like, I'm ever grateful. Thanks, Jamie. =]

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‘Come on you,’ John said, unclipping Hamish’s seatbelt. ‘We’re going to be late.’

Hamish hopped to the ground, and took John’s hand in his. He bore a garishly wrapped present under his arm. Sherlock had, of course, refused to come.

Alex’s party was being held at an outdoor activity centre. The nine boys would be rock climbing. They found the meeting point easily, and Hamish pulled free of John’s grasp in order to join his friends. John greeted the other parents, and went to stand with a couple of those he knew best. Once the boys had all been given helmets, harnesses and a safety briefing that John was sure went in one ear and out the other, they were led to a large plastic ‘rock’ peppered with artificial hand and footholds.

They climbed three at a time, with the remaining boys pulling on ropes. A lot of the activity was about teamwork. John was pleased to see how easily Hamish worked with his partner. He would never have said so, but he had always worried about whether or not Hamish would turn out like Sherlock. He loved his husband, obviously, but he knew his life had been filled with problems that were rooted in his personality type, and he had agonised over the possibility of Hamish being the same. It would be easier for Hamish (and anyone he came into contact with) if he grew up to be more like him. There were many good things he could take from Sherlock, and did: Hamish was very bright, and fascinated by anything out of the ordinary, and his sense of loyalty to the people he loved was already strong. All the same, the inheritance of normal social skills outweighed a lot, if not all, of those. John smiled and gave Hamish the thumbs up sign. Hamish smiled back.

Hamish’s turn to climb came in the last cycle. He trembled with excitement as the instructor checked all the ropes attached to him, and grabbed enthusiastically at the wall in almost the same second the instructor nodded his approval. John watched him climb. He was quick and surprisingly agile considering his childish physique.

‘Your boy’s good at this.’

John smiled at the fellow parent’s compliment, and made a similar remark about the mother’s own son. He continued the pleasant small talk as they stood behind the safety fence, and realised how glad he was not to have Sherlock there. There had to be times where he could have normal but pointless conversations with other adults.

The scream brought his gaze back to Hamish with a jolt. He had slipped and let go off the wall. He hung from one handhold, completely safe, thanks to his harness, but panicked.

‘Daddy!’ he cried. ‘Daddy, help me! I’m going to fall!’

Old memories flooded John’s head. With the command of mind only a soldier can really have, he pushed them back, and tried to move forward. An instructor held him back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Health and safety. You have to stay here.’

The other instructor was busy trying to calm Hamish.

‘It’s alright,’ he said, pointlessly. Hamish was beyond that sort of soothing. ‘Hamish, you just have to calm down, and hold on to the rope. You’re fine, I promise. Keep your eyes fixed on me!’

John winced at the words. Those words. Things he never wanted to hear spoken ever again. He desperately wanted to be with his son. Hamish didn’t listen, and screamed again as he lost his grip on the rock. John watched him fall, and it seemed to play in slow motion. The rope caught him quickly, but that was enough time for his head to flood with thoughts he had pushed away and tried to move on from for almost a decade. He held back his own tears as Hamish was let down and brought to him.

‘Daddy,’ he cried, reaching towards him. John picked up the small warm body, and held him.

‘You can take him into the store room if you want,’ the instructor said, and John nodded, and the man led the way.

When they were alone, John let his own tears fall silently, hoping Hamish wouldn’t see. The small face of the child was still buried in his shoulder. He moved his hand and wiped the damp lines from his cheeks.

‘It’s OK,’ he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m here. I’ve got you.’

Hamish’s wails turned to sobs which turned to snivels, and then subsided into nothing.

‘I thought I was going to fall, Daddy,’ he murmured. ‘I thought I would fall. And I thought I would hit the ground. And I thought there would be blood everywhere. And I thought… I thought… I would be...’ he broke off, and began to cry again. I thought I would be dead.

‘I know what you thought,’ John said quietly, swaying Hamish a little from side to side, in a way he hadn’t since he was a baby. ‘But I would never, ever let that happen. OK?’

He felt Hamish nod into his jumper, and held him a little tighter. He bit his lip to avoid making any sound which might alert his son to the fact he was crying. He moved the opposite hand to the one he had the first time, and made sure his own pain would be hidden to Hamish. He didn’t know about what had happened so long ago. He and Sherlock had had one very long but very strained conversation about it just after they brought him home, and decided they wouldn’t tell him until they knew he could understand. They had said ‘they’ would tell him, but John knew it would be down to him. He didn’t mind. That was what he did. Sherlock could be amazingly hands-on with Hamish, but some things he couldn’t cope with. He just didn’t have the right emotional tools to ever explain what had happened, and how things had been afterwards.

Once he had calmed Hamish down completely, they agreed it was time to go home. John went and made their excuses. They held hands as they walked back to the car park, saying nothing. John made sure Hamish was properly strapped into his booster seat, and they began the drive home. It didn’t take long before they were stuck in the inevitable traffic of a Saturday afternoon.

John was thinking about what to tell Sherlock when Hamish broke their silence. He knew he would have to say something, because Hamish would mention it, and if he told him he couldn’t say anything about it that would only make him more confused and curious, and therefore more likely to mention it.

‘I messed everything up, didn’t I?’ Hamish said.

John looked up at him in the rear view mirror, and saw him staring at his trainers.

‘No,’ he said forcefully. ‘Mish, you didn’t mess anything up. I promise. It wasn’t your fault.’

There was silence for a few moments.

‘You used to say I Mish-mashed things if they went wrong and there was a mess,’ Hamish said, faintly smiling.

‘I remember. But it wasn’t when things ‘went wrong’, it was when you were naughty, and you threw all your toys and made a mess,’ John told him, grinning. Hamish saw in the mirror. He was pleased. He knew he had upset his father. He wanted to make it better. ‘You didn’t do that very often though. You told me to stop saying it just after you were six, because you were a big boy now.’

Hamish smiled; then looked back at his trainers. ‘I’m sorry I made you sad.’

John wasn’t entirely surprised Hamish had noticed his upset, even though he had hidden his tears. He turned away from the traffic jam, and looked at him.

‘You didn’t make me sad,’ he told him. ‘I was just worried, because I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ Hamish told him.

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Author's note: I know I'm taking my time with chapter four, and I'm sorry, but it will come. Soon.