So I've written a ridiculously long oneshot. This is dedicated to and for starrysummernights, a huge thank you for all you have done and continue to do for me as a writer. You've helped improve my self-belief and confidence as well as given me advice on my writing and generally been a lovely reviewer and person. As well as this, your exceptional talent at writing as helped me get through my school exams without completely losing it and freaking out! Haha =)

Thank you so much. Have some parent!lock.

Much love,

-sparrow-

The cursor moved to Inbox and John breathed in sharply. Balling his fist below his chin and subtly crossing the fingers that lay over the mousepad.

4 New Emails

Promotional Offer - MensWearLtd

No.

Missed Appointment (Again) - Dr Moore

Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock. Not again.

No Subject - Anthea Smith (Mycroft Holmes)

No.

In Reply to Dr John H Watson-Holmes - London Adoption Agency Officials

Holy fuck. It was here. It had arrived.

John let out the breath he'd been holding and shakily clicked on the Open button. His heart hammered against his ribcage, a tiny twinge of excitement waiting to burst. He wet his lower lip and frowned as the email loaded and his eyes frantically searched it's contents for the crucial parts.

We are pleased to inform, based on the positive response from our team after three consecutive meetings; including full inspection of accommodation, location, occupation, criminal and medical records and personal files, 4 letters of positive recommendation-

Wow, four? John grinned in disbelief.

and individual interviews with both potential parents, that your request to be granted legal allowance of adoption has been accepted. We are delighted to congratulate Dr John Hamish Watson-Holmes and Mr Sherlock Holmes-Watson on your acceptance and grant of this request. We feel you are adequate candidates for adopting a child into your home and family and look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind Regards,
Mrs Barbara Kelly
From The LAAO.

John's grin couldn't spread any wider even if you held him by the shoulders and asked him nicely.

They'd been granted. Him and Sherlock could now officially, legally, properly, with cherries on top, adopt a child. Together.

He sat back in his armchair, leaving the laptop on the coffee table, and wiped his fingers down the sides of his grinning mouth to meet at the centre of his bottom lip and pinch together as he shook his head, still in disbelief.
He couldn't believe they'd done it. He was certain Sherlock would've blown it somehow. When the greying woman had told them both that they'd be undergoing private interviews John had practically given up there and then. If Sherlock's complete lack of respect for society hadn't done it John was certain his lack of knowledge on the things he disliked, like the solar system and other people would've knocked it on the head nicely.
So it definitely came as a pleasant shock to see the interviewer leave the flat with a warm smile, a nod of thanks and a firm handshake from the otherwise-cold consulting detective. It needed not to be said that Sherlock was very much thanked that evening by John for 'whatever it is you did or said you bloody amazing idiot'.

'John, I need to borrow your phone again? Mine's completely dead and I've lost the charge cable- ... are you alright?' Sherlock entered the flat, shook off his coat and scarf as he spoke and then noticed his husband sat back with a look of deep thought etched across his features.
'What? Oh, err, yeah. Yes, here.' John remained detached while he fumbled in his jeans pocket for his phone and held it out for Sherlock.
The detective walked straight past the outstretched arm and instead crouched in front of the doctor, concerned. John pulled his arm back and his eyes remained fixed on a point on the wall opposite.

'What did it say?'

'Hmm?' John met Sherlock's eyes.

'The email, what did it say?'

'How do know you it's an email?'

'Oh please, I thought I didn't have to explain to you any longer. Just tell me what it said. Is it terribly bad news? Mycroft visiting?'

'No, no it's...it's not bad news at all, Sherlock.'

'So you're shocked then? Good news. What good news could it-? Ah. Oh! It's not, is it? Not this soon, they said within a few weeks. It's only been five days. John? Is it? Did they? Have we?'

John had to resist the urge to let his mouth drop open. Sherlock, crouched before him, was bumbling with uncharacteristic excitement. Fucking hell.

John smiled up at the detective and Sherlock grinned crookedly.

'Incredible. You know, I knew we would. Why wouldn't we? We're perfect. It was probably the high possibility that the child will earn a good education in biological science what with both of us being so intelligent at it and with hands-on experience for when he grows up a bit-'

'Sherlock.' John interrupted his husband's rambling with a light laugh and a hand on his forearm. 'Just slow down a bit, love.'

Sherlock grinned at him once again before shooting up onto his feet, eyes still locked on John's. 'Name. It'll need a name.' And with that he darted off in the direction of the front door, presumably to buy a Baby Name book, though John had a feeling they wouldn't need one.

'I've told you, Sherlock. We are not naming him Arthur, I actually point blank disallow it.' John made stern gestures with his hands and rubbed his forehead. He never knew Sherlock would become this excited over the new baby. He pushed the idea that Sherlock saw it as just another person to call him 'amazing' out of his mind.

John sat with pen poised at the ready to fill in the rest of document they'd been sent. All that was left was the name of the child and John decided it was now or never to speak his own idea.

'Well what then, John? Arthur is a highly intelligent name. It'll suit him, you'll see.'

'Yes but it's also a name that's likely to get the kid beaten up in the playground and laughed at in class. Besides, it has no personal meaning to either of us.'

'Dont be absurd, John. Our child is not going to attend school. We can teach him here. There's no need for him to learn how to draw a cat when he can be here with me learning the decomposition rate of plant material in acids.'

John sighed heavily.

'And how will he learn about things other than science? You know, how to read, write, interact with other people?'

Sherlock visibly stiffened and John suddenly felt extremely guilty.

'Look, Sherlock I didn't-'

'No, no it's fine, John. We both know people skills are more your thing. You can teach him the rest, you're more of the mother figure anyway.'

There was an awkward silence then. John chose to ignore the feminine remark and instead said one word.

'Hamish.'

Sherlock looked up at him for the first time since the book had been opened and his eyes were suddenly warm with realisation.

'Yes, Hamish. Is actually a much...better name than... Arthur. I prefer it.' Sherlock managed.

John smiled softly. 'Come here.'

Sherlock rose and moved to the kitchen where his husband kissed him sweetly. His eyes flicked to the paper and he noticed that Hamish Watson-Holmes was already written where Name: was printed in ink.

'Ugh!'

Another nail slipped out from under the screwdriver and Sherlock fell short of cursing loudly. An instruction manual lay torn to pieces on the floor beside him and he had a plastic packet of screws clenched between his teeth.

His curly fringe had fallen in front of his forehead and his brow was damp with sweat from concentrating. No other single job in his life had ever caused him to become so wound up and sweaty.

Burning hair to exactly four centimetres long? Easy.

How about metal rods to record melting points of the elements used? Piece of cake.

Measuring how long it takes a snake to shed it's skin on the kitchen worktop while John sits in the living room and trying to keep said blogger completely unawares? Simple as anything.

But attach a babygate to the top of the staircase at 221B? Hardest thing he'd ever faced.

John suddenly emerged in the doorway to their flat, a small, white, square cloth laid over his shoulder and a very tiny baby Hamish cradled in his arms to be winded. He bounced gently and subconsciously side to side while simultaneously patting baby Hamish on the back to encourage him. He smiled at the sight of his frustrated detective.

'You know you can get ones that don't need screwing don't you? They come with these knob things that you just fix and- ... what?' John stopped explaining when he notice the fixed glare he was recieving from his husband.

'That's not what I want. I want praise.' Sherlock grunted after letting the packet drop from his mouth to the floor.

'Well done.' John replied cockily and readjusted Hamish on his shoulder.

'Praise with conviction.' Sherlock added. 'Look at me. I'm not typically the type of person to do this. I'm a person who finds it incredibly dull, I hate, despise, loath DIY. The least you could give me is an 'Ooh, that's looking good, Sherlock. Thanks for doing this.' The dark-haired man shot him a flash of a fake smile and turned back to balancing the gate on his shoulder whole attempting to screw the blasted thing to the wall.

'Wow, that's bloody brilliant, Sherlock, does it come with a doorbell and letterbox?' John replied sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock paused in his movements but didn't respond or look at his husband.

'No, seriously.' John amended. 'I think it's a good thing, what you're doing. It's great. A really great thing for Hamish, you putting yourself out of your comfort zone like this.' He said truthfully and Sherlock slowly went back to screwing.

'... Thank you.'

'...and next time, I'll show you which screwdriver you should have used that would have fit the screws properly.' John added with a laugh and ruffled Sherlock's hair before disappearing back into the flat with a sleepy Hamish.

The next morning, Sherlock had agreed to go to the shop and restock on milk and baby powder so long as John changed Hamish's nappy in return.
He really didn't like the smelly end of his son. Everything else was fine and easy to deal with, except the end that insisted on secreting muck every 20 minutes. To be honest, Sherlock was looking forward to the days when Hamish could walk and speak properly, feed himself and take himself to the toilet, help him with experiments and accompany them both to crime scenes.

Those days could not come fast enough for Sherlock.

He was heading back up the stairs, taking them two-by-two, shopping bag in hand to find John and Mrs Hudson stood at the top, the babygate swinging from John's hand and four screws discarded at his feet, one still dangling from the gate itself. He looked up guiltily when he noticed Sherlock had arrived.

'I'm sorry, it was my fault, Sherlock. It fell off in my hand.' John apologised and held the gate up in reference.

It had taken Sherlock a total of 7 hours, 48 minutes and 32 seconds to finally get that damned thing screwed to the wall and working.

'...You're an idiot.'

'Well that's a bit unnecessary, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson protested, 'He has apologised and I'm certain he didn't mean-'

'Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock interrupted harshly and grabbed the door from John's grip before stalking past them both and into the flat without another word.

John was about to rage back into the flat to argue back at his husband for being unreasonable, but his face fell when he heard the strangled starts of Hamish as he was woken from his sleep by the shouting and began to wail helplessly.

'...I'll go.' John said to Mrs Hudson when she began to follow the cries. He didn't want Sherlock shouting at her again.

He had expected this. It wasn't something he'd completely never thought of. It had occured to him, of course.

However the thought that Sherlock was, after all, a genius and therefore might not fall into the very large category of 'My Baby Changed My Life'. Even worse he never predicted the detective to fall under the subheading of 'My Baby Changed Me' and the sub category within that heading of 'Help Me My Husband Is Mad At Me Because I Can't Seem To Be Myself Now There's A New Baby In My Life.'

Of course, every new parent found themselves acting differently once a new baby was around. Their routines slipped into alternate ones to fit in the new life, eating habits changed so that you didn't feel ill eating at stupid hours of the morning when the baby was up crying and you were too busy feeding it earlier to find time to eat for yourself without your eyelids falling completely closed, and even your opinions of normal day-to-day things changed to fit the abstract bodyclock of your child.

Now, Sherlock being Sherlock, John had assumed that the detective wouldn't find too much difficulty in any of the above. His sleeping routine was virtually non-existent anyway, he didn't eat every day either, and his opinions of anything other than John, himself and The Work were few and far between let alone positive.

So naturally it came as a shock when John realised just how much Hamish had changed the stoic, dark-haired 'machine'. Instead of not being affected very much at all, Sherlock had become even more solitudinal and cold towards others. For some reason, instead of acting as the missing piece of steel-work to Sherlock's mechanical heart, Hamish appeared to be a piece that Sherlock was trying desperately to fit but couldn't find a place for, and as a result was scratching up the other pieces and causing them to jolt out of line with eachother.

John could see that Sherlock's drastic change in behaviour was due to him trying too hard to fit Hamish in to his life. John'd tried explaining that he didn't need to try so hard, it was something that would come naturally, if he just let it. Obviously cases affected Sherlock's attention span for poor little Hamish, but it was no excuse at all in John's eyes.

Sherlock had been bouncing off of the walls at first, at the thought of a new little person, a fresh hard-drive, that he could develop and progress however he liked, filling the boy with only details he thought mattered. Except he hadn't taken into account the fact that Hamish would be 'unfile-able' at first. A baby, far too young to be drilling scientific information into just yet. He could tell Sherlock would be a lot more comfortable once Hamish was old enough to speak, ask questions, praise his father.

In a sense, John was looking forward to that too. As any parent would. But he couldn't help but feel that Sherlock wasn't acting like a parent yet. Whatever he'd told the interviewer to persuade them obviously was not happening yet. And it annoyed John a little bit. He'd tried hard to get Sherlock to warm to the baby version of their son, helping them to bond and grow closer in Hamish's most vulnerable and crucial stage in his life. He tried explaining it to Sherlock in scientific ways, as if it would help. That Hamish was a helpless little new life, he needed moulding in the right way so that the direction in which he took when he grew older and was able to speak, walk, laugh, understand his fathers, was the right one.

'It's a bit like an experiment, Sherlock. Except this one can't afford any mistakes.' At this point Sherlock had shot him a hurt look. 'This experiment is a one-chance thing, the only way to get the desired outcome is to really aim for what you want. We want Hamish to be happy, healthy, have good relationships with both of us and be able to understand everything around him, yeah? So we need to really work to be close to him, help bond with him, so that he can have all that later on. As much as you think he is a lump of life that is yet to grow properly...he's not. In fact, he nearly pulled himself upright the other day.'

Sherlock at this point had looked up at John in surprise and his eyes flicked past the doctor to Hamish who was sat in the middle of the carpet in the living room, trying desperately to bite, or gum rather, at a plastic toy.

'No! Hamish! Don't put that in your mouth!' Sherlock shot up and darted straight past John, retrieving the toy from the baby and chucking it over his shoulder before picking Hamish up and resting him on his hip. 'We need to be more careful.' He pointed at Hamish and looked at John with raised eyebrows.

Then it hit him. Maybe just a little bit.

John was smiling at him, looking both impressed and shocked.

He was getting it. Slowly, but finally getting the jist of this.

Thank bloody god.

It was evening. Sherlock was laid out along the sofa, a magazine placed over his face and his hands folded on his stomach.

'Is your Father sleeping, Hamish? Is he? Shall we wake him up so he can change your nappy for Daddy?' John bounced a giggly Hamish on his knee and held him tight so he didn't bounce off.

'Absolutely not.' Sherlock mumbled from beneath the magazine and John sighed.

'You know, you are going to have to do it one day, Sherlock. I'll teach you if you like. But you're not getting away with never changing his nappy.'
'Hmm.' Sherlock grunted and shifted over to his side, facing away from his husband and son.'Come on. What's the problem? You see blood, gore, dead bodies on a daily basis. What's wrong with a little bit of baby poo?'

'It's disgusting, that's what's wrong.' Sherlock's words were partly muffled by the sofa but John could still make them out. He continued to keep Hamish occupied on his knee while he fought to get his husband involved in some part of their son's babyhood.

'Okay, fine. You don't have to change him yet. But I bet he wouldn't be partial to a cuddle.'

Sherlock rolled back onto his back and turned his head to fix a confused stare at John.

John nodded his head in beckon and eventually Sherlock rose from the sofa, stepped over the table and stopped beside John's chair.

John stood, smiling at Sherlock. The detective took the baby, surprisingly naturally, and gently manoeuvred him into a cradled position, resting his head on his jacket-clad shoulder. Hamish breathed in a shaky breath as he relaxed against his Father and eventually snuggled his head closer.

'See? He's loves your cuddles, Sherlock. You've even made him sleepy, which is a godsend. He had a longer nap than usual earlier, thought he'd never go down tonight. But look at you both.' John stroked the back of Hamish's head soothingly.

Sherlock frowned at the shorter man.

'Why are you so naturally good at this and I just-...can't?'

John had been expecting this, but he remained as if unawares. 'What do you mean? Of course you're good at it! You just haven't let yourself try properly yet. Things like this, cuddles, little conversations with him now and again, feeding him, bathing him, changing his bloody nappy! They'll all help you bond with him, Sherlock.'

'Yes but I don't have time to do all that, John. The Work takes up most of my time, you know that.'

'Okay, so when you'd usually be shooting at the wall or destroying a game of Cluedo, come and get Hamish and sit with him for a bit. Play with him if he's awake enough or just cuddle him so he can sleep if he's tired. You'll have to let your world revolve around him, Sherlock. Especially at this age when he's so dependant.'

Sherlock looked at his sleeping son. His hair was beginning to grow thicker. It was dark, like his, but his nose and mouth were very much like John's. Which was surprising seeing as they'd adopted the child.

'You seem so much more experienced than me, John.'

John smiled and reached up to hold Sherlock's neck lovingly, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb and bringing their foreheads together.

'You'll get there.' He whispered before kissing him softly.

'Come on, come to me Hamish.' Sherlock held his arms open for his son.

Hamish had now successfully begun pulling himself up and holding onto things; like John's chair or John's leg or the coffee table. (Which John wasn't very happy about when he saw the half-used petri dish that Hamish had narrowly missed with his chubby fingers the first time he'd done it.)

Hamish wobbled on his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the sofa seat and the other now dabbing his fingers just inside his open mouth. He pulled his hand away and grinned a wide, open-mouthed grin at his father, at the same time waving his saliva-covered hand up and down.

'That's it, come on Hamish. Come to me.' Sherlock beckoned again. He was beginning to grow impatient. 'Come on, Hamish. All you have to do is put one cottoned-shoed foot in front of the other it's not that hard.'

'More gentle.' John encouraged as he walked past them and into the kitchen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his arms out further. 'Come on, little one.' He put on a fake voice. 'Come and walky over to Daddy.'

'I thought I was Daddy?' John spoke from in the kitchen where he was dishing out tea bags into two mugs.

'What?' Sherlock never took his eyes off his son as he answered John. 'No I'm Daddy.' '

We can't both be Daddy. You're Father.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'Look, you want me to bond with him-' John shot him a glare. 'I want me to bond with him. I just don't think Father is a good name for me. Its very...detached.'

'Okay, how about Papa?'

'We're not French.'

'Dad?'

'Too similar to yours.'

'How about Daddy One and Daddy Two? No prizes for guessing which of you is which.' Came a snarky suggestion from the doorway to their flat.

Sherlock grit his teeth and turned back to his son who was now slumped on his bum, his fingers back in his mouth.

'Brother, dear. How wonderful you could drop by.' He almost snarled and picked Hamish up.

'To see my nephew. I presumed you'd be doing nothing?' He made a comment towards Sherlock's lack of cases recently and the detective pulled a face at his brother. He bounced Hamish up and down a bit, turning his attention back to him instead and whispering to him about how Uncle Mycroft was a snob and he didn't have to like him if he didn't want to.

'Tea?' John offered.

'No, thank you. I don't intend to be long.'

'Oh, isn't that good, Hamish?' Sherlock pretended to be talking to his son. 'Uncle Mycroft's leaving soon! Is that good?' John had to stifle his laugh when Hamish innocently nodded once, eagerly, unknowingly agreeing with his father. 'Yes it is!' Sherlock smiled at Hamish as he walked past Mycroft towards the bedroom, glared at his brother then smiled at Hamish once again once they'd passed him.

John chuckled and went back to making the tea.

Mycroft adjusted his balance on his umbrella, 'I see he's making progress with him. I supposed he would.' He inspected the end of his umbrella before placing it on the floor again. 'Terribly out of character for him, but still. It's what's best for the child.' He flashed a sort-of smile at John before reaching into his breast pocket. 'Here, Dr Watson.'

John cleared his throat.

'My apologies, Dr Watson-Holmes.' He amended and dropped an envelope on the kitchen counter in a space where there was no acidic substance or baby food jar. 'Just a little something from the Uncle, please don't mention it.'

John looked inside the envelope questioningly, his eyebrows nearly disappeared above his hairline when he realised how much was in there. 'Mycroft, this is too much. Thank you, but we can't-'

'I said don't mention it, John.' Mycroft interrupted, gesturing with his head in the direction of where Sherlock was emerging from the bedroom, minus Hamish.

'He's just gone down. All it took was a few minutes holding his hand. He's getting better at that.' Sherlock took his usual seat up at the counter and began putting on a pair of rubber gloves. 'How much as he attempted to give us, John?' He asked without so much as glancing at Mycroft or the envelope.

John paused. Of course Sherlock would know what they'd been talking about.

He remained silent for a few more moments, exchanging eye contact with the elder Holmes brother and the top of his husband's head alternately before clearing his throat and answering, 'Ahem, erm...eight hundred...and a bit.'

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at his brother with an odd look. 'Yes well, nice try.' He returned to his microscope and added. 'You can give it back now, John.'

'Sherlock, I really think it'd be handy for us...for Hamish.' John began.

'You do realise what he's doing, don't you? He's only doing it so that we'll end up owing him. Trust me, I've owed people before. Not something I'd like to return to. Especially with my brother.'

'You do know he'll just transfer it straight to our account if I give it back, don't you?' John added slightly mimicking his husband.

Mycroft gave John an impressed look even though the doctor didn't notice it.

'Yes, I expect so.' Sherlock hopped down from the stool he was on and disappeared into the lounge. 'And next time, and the time after that, no doubt.'

John frowned to himself and put the envelope down. He was about to slide it back towards Mycroft when he noticed the elder Holmes had gone.

'So that's how you can tell if an alkali is present or not.' Sherlock sat with a 4-year-old Hamish on his knee at the kitchen counter.

'I'm bored now, Sh'lock.' Hamish attempted to get down and Sherlock sighed and let him.

John walked past Hamish as he toddled towards the living room and smiled sympathetically at the deflated detective. He placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed to top of his curly head affectionately.

'Give it a bit longer, Sherlock. He'll get interested eventually. Just be patient, love.' He spoke softly.

'It's bad enough he's calling me by my name, John. But he's got no interest in me or anything I do.' Sherlock began packing up the kit he'd been using with Hamish. He picked up this tidying habit once he realised it could potentially put their son in danger if he left everything out like he used to. 'This is hastily becoming scarily similar to someone else's childhood I know of.'

John sighed and lifted Sherlock's chin to make the detective look at him. 'You're doing fine. He's four years old, yes at the moment his interests are more in fire engines and puzzles than in chemical science and ionic reactions. But you will get there. If you still don't believe iun yourself, believe in that.' He said almost sternly, desperately trying to get through to the man. 'Okay?'

Sherlock nodded, John half expected his bottom lip to stick out and he momentarily forgot which one was four-year-old he was looking after.

'Good.' He chuckled and pecked him on the lips softly. 'I'm proud of you, you daft genius.'

'I told you, Lestrade. I'm clean. Why on earth would I have drugs around my son?' Sherlock argued with the detective inspector.

John gripped a 5-year-old Hamish's hand tightly, keeping him away from the police crew who were turning the flat upside-down.

'Oi, freak. No eyeballs? Shame that. I was looking forward to those.' Donovan sneered from the kitchen and Sherlock shot her a glare.

'Check the freezer drawers, I'm sure you'll find something satisfactory in there. I think I put some pig testicles in there the other day, should be similar to what you're used to.' The detective quipped, shooting an amused smirk at Anderson and John rolled his eyes.

'Sherlock.' John brought his husband's attention back to their son who was standing beside his Dad innocently watching a policeman empty his box of toys onto the floor.

'Anderson, Donovan, just do your jobs.' Lestrade instructed and Hamish's head whipped round when he saw the two that the inspector had scolded.

'Ander and Don'van.' Hamish worked his mouth around the new words. Long ones he still had trouble with sometimes.

'Ssh, Hamish. Good boy, stay quiet.' John squeezed his son's hand gently.

'Ander and Don'van!' Hamish shouted louder and Lestrade started to laugh, along with several of the crew around them.

'Ander is a man, Don'van is a girl!' Hamish continued.

Sherlock was watching his son intently, knowing full-well what was going through his little mind.

'Good, Hamish. What else?'

'Sherlock, don't encourage him...' John groaned.

'No, he's fine. Come on, Hamish. What else do you see?' Sherlock asked gently.

Hamish paused, his hand in his mouth and frowned intently without speaking again.

'See? He's shy now, well done.' John reached to pick him up.

'Ander is a man, Don'van is a girl but Don'van doesn't think Ander acts like a real man. She thinks he's like a girl too sometimes. She wants him to be more like a man.' Hamish grinned.

Sherlock grinned proudly at his son and looked at Lestrade, boasting his pride. Even John was stifling a smile at Anderson and Donovan's joint shocked looks.

'And Ander had cheese for lunch today.' Hamish added.

At that point, several people burst out laughing, some out of Hamish's adorable innocence and some out of the fact that Hamish had become just like Sherlock, no doubt much to Ander and Don'van's dismay. No prizes for guessing who laughed for what reason.

John grinned into the kiss. His husband's arms were tightly wrapped around his middle and John's own were pinned against the detective's chest. He got a grip on Sherlock's coat lapels and managed to use them to pull himself away a little.

He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a different voice than the one Sherlock had been expecting to hear sounded throughout the flat.

'Do you two have to do that? I thought we were leaving for a case?'

Both men's heads snapped to Hamish, he was stood to their left, his dark hair had very slight curls at the ends, he was wearing his coat and new scarf John had bought him the other day and it was just a shade lighter than Sherlock's. His 10-year-old eyebrows were quirked into a frown and he was carrying a small case with him.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement and he let go of John to step towards his son.

'And what makes you think you're coming?' He played stern, not bending to meet his son's level, instead remaining tall and towering.

'Dad.' Hamish pointed past Sherlock at John who frowned momentarily as if forgetting what Hamish meant.

Sherlock wheeled round to look at John. 'Now?'

John nodded, 'I think so, don't you?'

Sherlock turned back to their son, this time crouching to his level and wiping his fringe out of his eyes.

'Now listen, Hamish. Dead bodies aren't to be poked, prodded, jumped on, hit or anything else of that sort, okay? You'll just have to stand with John and behave, yes? And if-'

'Sherlock.' John interrupted. 'More gentle.'

Sherlock frowned deeply. Rolling his eyes, John crouched down with the detective and took over.

'Your Dad's job...can be dangerous. You might see some things that you won't like, or hear about people who aren't very nice. Now as long as you look but don't touch, you'll be fine. We both promise to keep you safe and out of harm's way.' He paused, glancing at Sherlock. 'Now, when your Dad gets to the crime scenes...he often...goes a bit...weird. Not himself. But because we love him, we just let him do it, yeah?' He chuckled a little and Hamish grinned when he saw Sherlock pull a face.

Their son nodded eagerly.

'Right.' Sherlock stood up and adjusted his scarf. 'Remember what I taught you, Hamish?'

The boy nodded again and John frowned in confusion.

'The game...' Sherlock began.

'Is on!' Hamish replied and high-fived his father.

John rolled his eyes and ushered both of them out of the door.

It seemed he was the mother figure after all.

So just to let you know, I know absolutely nothing about the process of applying for adoption or anything like that. If any facts are wrong then that's why. I actually pretty much made it up from scratch so it probably is wrong! =)

-sparrow-