Mycroft gave a smarmy smile that could be approximated as a genuine smile of congratulations. Tapping the papers on his side of the desk, he smoothed them down and placed a fountain pen on the edge. "Sign on the dotted line, if you will, and that's the end of it," he said, indicating the papers to the two men seated across from him.

John looked at him incredulously. "What, no abundant paperwork? Aren't these things supposed to take hours?"

"Sherlock expressed to me that this was a matter of the utmost significance, and when my brother comes saying 'please', I certainly will not ignore the opportunity to use it against him at some point."

John ignored this and looked over at his husband, who was sitting silently with his hands folded and pressed to his lips. Sherlock stared at the papers with a fierce sort of concentration, as if staring would make them sign themselves. John took the pen and signed the papers with a shaky hand, and he handed the pen over to Sherlock, who didn't acknowledge it.

"Sherlock," he said softly. "Sherlock, it's your turn."

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and pretended like he'd been interacting the entire time. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"You've got to sign them, too—even if I can forge your signature at this point." John sighed. "Listen, darling, I know this is scary, but if you don't want to—"

"Who said I didn't want to?" he snapped. He snatched the pen and scrawled his signature on the dotted line. "And you'll process this right away? I don't want any bureaucratic nonsense, Mycroft, I want these papers to go through and get all the seals they need to be official."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Your son will be delivered to the office, paperwork all in check, by tomorrow morning at the earliest. Congratulations, you two—you're officially parents. Best of luck to you both."

Sherlock and John let out simultaneous sighs of relief and Sherlock cracked a huge, genuine smile. John rubbed his tired face with his hand—he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, worrying that something would go wrong before this moment. "I can't believe it—bloody hell, I cannot believe this is happening. I just adopted a child with Sherlock Holmes."

"What exactly about that situation is so unbelievable, might I ask?"

"Oh, you sod, I didn't mean it like that," John said. "I only meant—blimey, I just became a dad. I get to be a dad with Sherlock Holmes, the most bloody brilliant husband I've had the pleasure of having."

"Not to be indelicate, but you'd better get to 'having ' me tonight," Sherlock said with a wicked grin. He pulled John up and out of his chair and tugged him out of the room. "From the several books I've read on the subject, most couples don't get a lot of alone time after a baby enters their life, and I'm curious to test the validity of that theory."

John just chuckled as they left the government building with a thank-you-wave to Mycroft and hailed a cab. Sherlock opened the cab door for John. "After you, Doctor Holmes."

"Thank you, Detective Watson." John scooted to the end seat and waited for Sherlock to slide in next to him, and he only had time to order the driver to take them to 221B Baker Street before Sherlock pounced on him, peppering his face with kisses.

"Er, Sherlock—ahhh, Sher—Sherlock, we're in a cab…"

"Has that ever stopped us?"

"Perhaps," John said, pulling away from Sherlock's lips but keeping a hand on the detective's leg, "we could show a bit more reverence for the occasion. Hamish is going to be here tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled. "Hamish will be here tomorrow."

"Why'd you clam up before you signed the adoption papers?" John asked, concerned. "I thought you were backing out."

"Me? Back out? Is that the man you married?" Sherlock scoffed. "No, I was just…well."

"Well?"

"Well." He paused. "I was worried. About the whole 'parent thing'. Apparently several people at the Yard have a bet going on how long it'll take before I throw the baby out the window."

John's eyebrows shot up. "The ignorant clods. Forget them, Sherlock—you're going to be a brilliant father."

"What if they're right? What if I get bored or upset or I end up being a horrid dad?" Sherlock avoided John's eyes and said softly, "I'm glad he's going to have you. You're more understanding. I hope he turns out like you."

John shook his head and put a finger under Sherlock's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. Without warning, he gave him a passionate, warm kiss. Resting his forehead against Sherlock's when it was over, he said, "You know, all this time I've been hoping he's going to be just like you. A mini-Sherlock. I know he's not related to you, but when I saw his picture for the first time, he looked so much like you…I want him to be happy, most of all. I don't care about anything else. Just healthy and happy."

"For once, I think, we're in agreement."

"And you're going to be a great dad. I just know it."

"I'll have to learn from you, I think. But the vote of confidence is appreciated."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"Are you just going to keep ignoring that?"

"Ignoring what?"

"The piercing wails that have been drilling into my brain non-stop for the past ten minutes?"

"If you're referring to my son, then yes, I am ignoring him," Sherlock said, rolling onto his side to face John. "It's 3 in the bloody morning. If we indulge him, he's going to think that this is appropriate behavior."

John rubbed his temples and threw off the covers, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting up. "He's four months old, Sherlock. He's not going to adhere to your behavioral experiments—babies cry."

"I've noticed, John. He seldom stops crying, especially when I hold him."

"Is that what this is about? You have a petty grudge against your son and you won't rock him back to sleep because you think he doesn't like you?" John rolled his eyes. "Come on, get up, you lazy arse. I've taken care of Mish all night, every night since he came home—you are going to rock him to sleep, and I am going back to bed. I have a double shift tomorrow."

Sherlock groaned. "Dull."

"Our son isn't dull—you're making excuses. Go on," John encouraged him. "Go be a dad."

Sherlock, with a melodramatic sigh, swung his legs over the bed and stomped all the way to the nursery, which used to be Sherlock's chemical closet but had been converted into a baby-friendly space. The walls were a light blue and a white bookcase covered a particularly bad burn spot that they hadn't been able to paint over. Over the crib, a mobile model of sucrose molecules spun slowly over the screaming baby, who was rolling from side to side and thrashing his limbs. Sherlock reached into the crib and scooped up the baby. "All right, now, Hamish," he said in a clipped voice, "come now. Crying is useless. You either want food, changing, or attention, and John fed and changed you an hour ago, so I can only assume you want attention. Well, you have it. Stop crying."

Hamish ignored his father's logic and continued to scream, piercing cries that made Sherlock's brain buzz and echo with the volume. "Hush, now," he said a bit awkwardly, bobbing Hamish up and down in his arms gently, "there's no reason to cry. We're trying to get some sleep, Mish—do you understand? Oh, of course you don't, you don't have any cognitive development above screaming your head off, precious dear."

Hamish started to dribble all over Sherlock's dressing gown, squealing like a stuck pig. Sherlock was feeling a deep sense of inadequacy, when it came to fatherhood. John was so much better at this, John always made him stop crying after a few minutes… The best he'd been able to do with his son was keep him from getting into any hazardous materials. He loved Hamish, he did—as soon as Hamish had been delivered to their waiting arms a few weeks ago, Sherlock had felt his heart swell and grow into something big, some sort of target that everyone could see. He was half afraid that Moriarty or someone would realize that a new weakness had entered his life, but so far, everything had been fine. Except that his son wouldn't stop crying.

"Come on, Hamish," he said softly, embarrassing himself with the tenderness of his voice. Ah, well, John couldn't hear him from here. "Come on, love—there's nothing to cry about. Let's look at something fun, eh?" He shifted Hamish into his right arm and cradled him close while reaching onto a shelf for one of the stuffed dinosaurs he'd consented to buying Hamish. Bears were tedious, puppies were too pedestrian—dinosaurs he could appreciate.

"See?" he said, brushing his nose against Hamish's fluffy dark hair. "See, this is a dinosaur. I used to love them when I was a kid—they were my first mystery, you know. I wanted to know why they all disappeared."

The baby was still crying, but he had started to take huffy breaths in between wails.

"Imagine, Hamish—these were walking around the earth a million years ago, as huge as houses, and one day they were all gone. Can you say 'dinosaur,' Mish? 'Dinosaur.' Say 'dinosaur'!" he said in a sing-song voice, shaking the stuffed dinosaur in front of Hamish's face. " Dinosaur, dinosaur, dinosaur…"

Hamish sniffed and reached for the soft dinosaur, grabbing at a button eye. He gurgled when Sherlock made kissy noises and softly bumped Hamish on the head with the stuffed beast.

"I didn't have a lot of these, when I was a kid," Sherlock explained. "Well, I had a lot of teddy bears, but let's be honest, those are dreadful. Completely unrealistic. No real bears are cuddly and cute—it sends a deceiving message to children. Isn't that right, love?"

Hamish only giggled in response.

"I didn't have a lot of anything, as a kid. All the furnishings in my nursery were so expensive that I wasn't really allowed to play with anything. I didn't see my parents much, actually. I had a lot of nannies. If you want to go into the psychology of that, don't try, it's useless—John's tried and he keeps coming up with all these ideas about abandonment issues when really, I've just always been on my own. Well, that's not true. I had my brother."

The baby pulled the stuffed dinosaur to his face and sucked on the tail.

"Mycroft was there, before he went to uni. He taught me how to play chess. I don't know if you'll be so lucky—or unlucky—to have siblings. John and I haven't discussed that yet. Mycroft might be an enormous arse—sorry, Mish, git—but he was a good brother when we were young."

Hamish stayed quiet for a moment before he started whimpering again, and the cries returned. He dropped the dinosaur on the ground and began to cry in earnest, and Sherlock moved him so Hamish's head rested on his shoulder. "Hush, Hamish…hush, my love. Father loves you, he loves you, he does. He's rubbish at this whole dad thing, but at least he knows that. He's going to try, for you." Sherlock patted Hamish rhythmically on the back. "I'm not good with things like football, or girls, so your dad can teach you that. But I can teach you how to look at things and learn from them. I can teach you how to make things explode. Boys like that, yeah? Explosions? Would you like that, Mish? Things that go boom?"

Hamish hiccupped.

"Is that a yes, then? Boom?" Sherlock snickered in spite of himself and started saying it over and over, dancing around the room in an odd waltz with his infant son. "Boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom…"

Hamish stopped his crying again for the moment and joined his father in laughing, a happy coo that calmed Sherlock down a bit. This wasn't so bad. "Father loves you, and Daddy loves you—he's much better at this than me, but don't tell him I said that. Our little secret. And the explosions will be our little secret, too, won't they? Won't they?" Sherlock nuzzled Hamish's head. "You're going to be your father's little secret keeper, aren't you? Yes, you are, my love."

Donovan's eyes bugged out of her head on her way to the coffee machine—she could not, simply could not, believe her eyes. She ran to Anderson's office and rapped on the door before opening it and saying, "Freak's brought Freak Junior. Get out the camera, this is going to be brilliant."

The rest of the workers at the Yard couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as Sherlock Holmes walked in with John Watson, both men looking as focused as they always did on a case. The only difference was that as they strode into the office with a sense of purpose and cool, analytical gazes, they were walking a boisterous toddler between the cubicles straight to Lestrade's office. The little boy held tightly to each man's hand with chubby fingers, letting go occasionally to reach into his pocket for a Cheerio and cramming it into his face.

Lestrade opened the door for them and ushered them in, giving them an incredulous look of his own when John scooped up the little boy and carried him into the office. "Are you sure this is the time or place for a kid, gents?"

"We couldn't get a babysitter, and Mrs. Hudson's been with her sister for the week," John said by way of explanation. "Besides, he wanted to say hello to Uncle Greg. He's absolutely barmy about it."

Hamish waved at Greg and offered him a Cheerio. "Sorry, buddy, I'm going to have to pass on that. Maybe we can eat cereal later?"

Hamish nodded and greedily ate it himself. "Faver?"

That was the best he'd been able to manage of Sherlock's name—the little two-year-old couldn't manage 'th' yet, to Sherlock's chagrin and private amusement. Sherlock dutifully ate the Cheerio Hamish offered him. "Brilliant, Mish. Lestrade, he's not going to cause any trouble. I brought some old books for him to color, and he's my son—if anything, he'll help with the case."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "If you say so."

Sherlock put him in the corner and gave him an old neurology study and a pack of crayons. "There you are, love. Impress me."

John shook his head. "We could just give him coloring books. He has piles of them at home."

"He doesn't like those. He likes neurology textbooks. The pictures inspire him." Sherlock straightened up. "So, double murder, found in a sweet shop next to St. Philip's Church, underneath the floorboards. The floorboards haven't been breached or removed, but the bodies are fresh. Let's see the pictures."

Lestrade blew air through his teeth and shoved a set of photos in front of Sherlock. "No one's been in to clean them or reset them—those floorboards had been there for at least five years, untouched. Then the owner notices a bad smell, pries a board back, finds the bodies, calls the police. We're holding the owner for questioning, of course."

"Don't bother, he isn't the killer."

"But how could the bodies have gotten there? What if he pulled a board that morning, put the bodies there, and then called the police?"

"These pictures," Sherlock said, pointing to a few photos of the corpses, "show that they've been dead for days. How long would you say, John?"

John squinted. "Rigor mortis had definitely set in at that point, and they were beginning to bloat. At least 12 hours, maybe an entire day. Hamish, dear, don't," John chided as Hamish left the messy pages of the textbook and began to run underneath the desk.

"Exactly! Rigor mortis, lying down straight—these bodies wouldn't freeze that way if they were being manhandled into a small hole made by one loose board. No, they'd been put there with enough time to freeze that way. But if they didn't get in from the top and the floorboards have been there, unremoved, how did the bodies get there?" Sherlock sighed. "Were there any other people on the scene?"

"Janitor, old guy. Not strong enough to drag bodies around. But we have his number if you want to call him."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "The answer isn't in the floorboards. Where is it? Where?"

Hamish bumped the table underneath them, hitting his head on the underside of the desk but getting it over quickly as two-year-olds do. "Up!"

"Quiet, Mish, Father's working," Sherlock said. "Go and color."

"Up!"

"I'm sorry," John apologized, scooping Hamish out from under the desk. "He's usually not one for interrupting. I'll take him outside."

"Wait." Sherlock held his hand out, making John pause. "Say that again."

"I'll take him outside?"

"No, not you, you idiot—Hamish, say that again."

Hamish, unsure of what his father was saying, smiled and clapped his hands for him. "We go play now! Bring crayons!"

"No, no, no, no, no…." Sherlock removed Hamish from John's arms and set him on the floor. "Do what you were doing, Mish. What were you doing before?"

Mish rolled onto the floor, pulling at Sherlock's hair, but Sherlock batted his chubby hand away. "Come on, dear. Off the floor." He rolled off his back and hid under the table for a few seconds while Sherlock gasped. "Oh. Oh. That is brilliant, that is just—brilliant!"

Hamish grinned. "Up!"

"Up, exactly, exactly up, yes, my darling!" Sherlock said, pulling Hamish out from underneath the desk and peppering kisses onto his forehead. "Oh, Father is going to buy you your first chemistry set, you wonderful boy."

"Sherlock. What the hell?" Lestrade asked angrily, but Sherlock shook his head and grabbed the crayons and textbook on the floor.

"The reason the floorboards weren't touched until that day was because that wasn't how the murderer got in—release the owner, it wasn't him, like I said. It was the janitor all right."

"But how could he have put them in there? He's nearly 80 years old!"

"He didn't go down—Hamish had the answer all along." Sherlock grinned cheekily. "He went up. The sweet shop is on the same street as St. Philip's, built back in at least the 1600s, a historical landmark that attracts enough tourists to finance a sweet shop in this day and age. Churches in that century often had catacombs beneath them, tunnels that led to different tombs and places that the monks and priests could use. I'll bet you anything that you'll find catacombs under the floor of the sweet shop, ones that the janitor knew about. All he'd have to do was have the right key. A trap door up from the tunnels to the original floor of the sweet shop, and they put floorboards over it when they opened the shop. Case closed—Hamish and I are going shopping."

John followed them out the door, arguing the whole way. "You can't buy him a chemistry set—Sherlock, you can't! He's two!"

"He's the most brilliant two-year-old on Earth," Sherlock said triumphantly, kissing Hamish's hair. "Aren't you, my boy?"

Hamish giggled. "We go play now?"

"No, Mish, first—science."

He wrinkled his nose. "I don' wanna. I wanna go play. Science is dull."

John heard the crunch before he saw the damage, but even he could tell the storm that was coming when he heard that sound. It had only been moments before when he was cooking pasta in the kitchen, listening absently to conversation going on behind him.

"What's that?" Hamish had asked.

"It's a blow-torch," Sherlock had explained in his Don't-Bother-Me voice.

"What's blow torch?"

"It's a tool that makes fire come out of the end of it. Highly useful, especially right now, since I'm trying to replicate the results of fire on balsa wood at certain temperatures and angles. I have several good leads, thanks to Mr. Blow-Torch."

"Can I have it?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Can I please have it?"

"Hamish, I'm working. John…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," John had said, giving the pasta a stir. Before he'd hand the chance to turn around, he'd heard the crunch and a deep, rumbling groan from Sherlock's chest. "Oh, no."

Hamish held several pieces of splintered wood in his hands, staring at them in concentration. "Not really strong—it broke when I touched it."

John moved to take Hamish away—Sherlock's face was white with anger, and he glared at Hamish, who turned around and looked at him in confusion. "Father?"

"Hamish," he said slowly, "I needed those for a very important case. They were highly fragile."

That was a word Hamish had heard a lot. "I'm sorry."

John was sure that Sherlock would blow up at him the way he had when John had broken pieces of Sherlock's experiments—all accidents, of course, but still, Sherlock had been absolutely furious.

Sherlock swallowed once and turned away from the little boy. "I'm going to take this to our room, I think." He took the blow-torch and the remaining pieces of wood to his room and closed the door quietly.

John breathed out a sigh of relief and scooped up his son, who had started to bitterly cry. "I didn't mean to, Daddy!" Hamish cried into John's shoulder. "Is Father mad at me?"

"Oh, just a bit, love," he replied soothingly.

"Does he…" Hamish sniffed. "Does Father hate me?"

John blinked in surprise. "Blimey, Mish, where'd you learn that word?"

"Alex Jameson is nursery school. He said it on the swings—he said it means to really not like someone. Does Father hate me, Daddy?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," John reassured him. "No, your father doesn't hate you. He loves you a lot—he loves you the very most."

"But I ruined his 'sperimens!"

"Your father will cope with his experiments. Everyone gets angry sometimes, Mish, and he handled it better than he usually does, for you. And you know what?" John said, propping Hamish on his knee. "Remember when I accidentally threw out your moldy toast?"

Hamish frowned. "It was my 'speriment!"

"Right—I didn't notice it was in the petri dish. And you were so mad that you started crying?" John leveled his gaze with his son's. "Did you hate me then?"

"No!"

"Exactly." He affectionately ruffled Hamish's dark hair and kissed him on the forehead. "You love your dads very much, yeah?"

"Y-Yeah."

"And we love you. Do you know that?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his runny nose on his shirt sleeve. "I know."

John nodded. "Off you pop, then. Go apologize to your father."

Hamish got off his seat on John's knee and toddled over on shaky, skinny legs to the door to Sherlock and John's room. Timidly he knocked a few times, looking to John for encouragement. "Father?"

John heard Sherlock through the door, pushing his chair and getting up to open it. He breathed in relief again when Sherlock opened the door and crouched down to look Hamish directly in the eyes. "Hamish, I have some work to do, all right?"

The little boy nodded tearfully. "I'm sorry for breaking your 'speriment." He hung his head in shame. "Do you…do you hate me?"

Sherlock's eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead, and he glanced at John to see who'd planted the idea in his head. John only shrugged and waved at him to prompt an answer. "Mish…oh, darling, no. I don't hate you, not at all."

"Not even…not even a tiny bit?"

"Not an atom's worth. You know what?" Sherlock said. "I think I'll leave the blow-torch alone for the night. Let's go help your dad with pasta, eh?"

Hamish was trying his best, in the way that six-year-olds often do, to both tune out the yelling going on in the flat and figure out what was going on. He sat hypnotized by the screaming going on in his parents' bedroom, trying to read his comic book quietly but distracted by the noise.

"How can you just say that, like that's the end of it?" John said angrily. A red, throbbing vein was prominently beating away in his forehead. "You don't get to have the final word on these things, Sherlock. We're a team, okay? We discuss things. We work together, damn it!"

"If we're a team," Sherlock sneered, "shouldn't you know what I'm capable of doing and what I'm not? This is something I'm not willing to budge on. There is no compromise."

"But if you would just listen—"

"We're not adopting any more children, John. I can't do it. We already have one perfect son. Why do we need another?"

"Because—blimey, we're a family, Sherlock, that's what we do and it's what I want!"

"I'm not increasing the number of targets potential enemies have to threaten. End of discussion. Why can't you be satisfied with Hamish?"

"Satisfied with Hamish? I'm not just satisfied with my son, I LOVE him—I love our son, Sherlock, and that's why I want more! I want another kid, I want a million more, and I want them with you! Can't you see I'm trying to give you a bloody compliment? You knew what I wanted before we got married!"

Sherlock crossed his arms and paused for a horrible second that made even Hamish wince. Finally, in a low voice, he said, "Perhaps I should have thought of those things back then. Taken them into consideration before I asked you to m—" He cut himself off, but not before John could hear the majority of the sentence.

"What?"

"Nothing."

John shook his head. "Never mind. Don't bloody say it. I know what you were going to say, Sherlock Holmes. You know, maybe you should have taken that into consideration before you bloody married me. Bleeding hell, I can't believe…" He took a deep breath. "I'm going out. Staying at Greg's for a few days. Don't wait up."

Sherlock blanched. "I can't…you can't just leave. Who'll take Hamish to school?"

"If you're so unwilling, I'll make sure he gets there. I won't make my son suffer because his father is the hugest prick in the universe." John slammed the bedroom door on his way out and took two steps out of the room, jaw locked tight in fury, when his phone beeped. "Bloody hell," he groaned, pulling out his phone and reading the text.

Sherlock silently opened the door and showed his phone. "Lestrade. Needs both of us."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Serial killer, looks like he was in the army. We'll need your help. John, please—lives are at stake. Forget your argument with me and just come. You don't have…you don't have to talk to me." He flushed with what might have been shame. "Just come. I need…I need you to come with me. Please, for me."

"Not exactly the most convincing argument."

"Then for Hamish—you're the good dad. Set a good example for him."

John fumed and dialed a number on his phone. "Molly? Hi, this is John—yeah, I know it's on the later side, but listen, I need a babysitter on short notice. There's a really big case and—oh? Thanks so much, I owe you one. See you in a bit." He shut the phone and announced, "Molly's coming to watch Mish."

"Thank you, John."

"It's not for you. It's for him. Remember that next time you 'take things into consideration.' "

Hamish had felt fitful all night after seeing his parents fight. Most of it had gone right over his head, but he'd heard the important words—worse, he'd seen how angry they'd been.

But Aunt Molly was kind. She came, looking flustered, and sat down on the floor next to him while he watched his cartoons on the telly. He'd wrapped himself up in his favorite green blanket. "Hello, Space Explorer Hamish," she said by way of greeting. "I would have brought your something, dear, but I was in a bit of a hurry."

"That's okay," he said.

"Why are you all covered up in a blanket? It's June."

"I was hiding."

"From what?"

"The yelling." Hamish drank from a juice box his dad had given him before leaving, not touching Sherlock on his way out. "Aunt Molly, are my daddies going to get a divorce?"

Molly coughed in surprise. "Sorry?" she said with a shaky smile, the one she used when she was nervous—Hamish was beginning to notice these things. "Who—who said they were getting a divorce?"

"Alex Jameson said in school that his parents are going to live in new houses and that they're getting a divorce. He says it means that two people don't love each other anymore and they get unmarried." He rolled into a ball and asked fearfully, "Do you think they're getting unmarried?"

"Er, no, no, sweetie," Molly said soothingly. "Oh, people fight sometimes. It doesn't mean they don't love each other. Everything's going to be okay, you'll see."

It was the last thing she said for a long time. They both silently watched the telly, giggling at the silly shows and animation that enthralled Hamish so much. Eventually Hamish climbed onto Molly's lap and rested his head on her shoulder.

Around 10:30 in the evening (two hours past his bedtime, but Molly didn't need to know that), Hamish heard the frantic jangling of keys and mumbled curses that sounded like they were coming from his father. After a few seconds, he pushed his way through the door and climbed up to the flat, slumping over in the doorway to 221B. "Hamish?"

Molly gasped. "Sherlock, what happened? You're covered in—"

"Not my blood, Molly. I need Hamish, now."

Hamish peeked at him from Molly's shoulder until she deposited him on the ground and ran to Sherlock, and he began to see that something was really, really wrong.

Sherlock's face was completely white, drenched of any color, but it was shiny and wet with tears. He'd been wearing a purple shirt before, but now it was covered in streaks of crimson, and though Hamish couldn't understand what it meant, he knew it was bad. He whimpered and crawled out of his blanket to reach for his father.

"What happened? Where's John? Did you solve the case?" Molly asked, trying to keep calm, but Sherlock didn't answer until he'd scooped Hamish into his arms and kissed him on the cheek.

"All right, then, my love? Good, good, good," Sherlock said in a distracted, far-off-sounding voice. "What did you do with Aunt Molly tonight?"

"We watched telly. Where's Daddy?"

"Telly. Telly, that's good." He faced Molly and delivered the news to her in a flat voice, devoid of emotion completely. "We were hot on his trail, we nearly had him—but he had an accomplice aiming for me, one I was too stupid to notice. I was too wrapped up in—well. He had me in his crosshairs, and John saw, and jumped in front."

"Oh, my goodness!" Molly squeaked. "Is he okay? Is he at St. Bart's?"

"We're going there now." Sherlock turned on his heels and walked right out of the flat.

"Sherlock, you should at least change your shirt, or bring something!"

"Fetch some things for Hamish will you? There's a good girl."

"Sherlock! Sherlock, you can't just—"

He slammed the door and walked out into the warm London night, hailing a cab and demanding the driver step on it. Hamish felt more scared than he'd ever been, but he didn't want to cry. "Where's Daddy?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, instead pulling Hamish onto his lap and absently stroking his hair. "You know your daddy loves you, yeah? And your father too, we both love you."

"Father, I know, you tell me all the time. Where's Daddy?"

"He's just off seeing to something. We're going to see him now."

"Why are you crying? I don't like this, Father, I'm scared."

"I know, Mish." Sherlock swallowed. "I'm scared, too. But sometimes being scared with someone else makes you feel a bit braver. So maybe we can be scared together."

Hamish had been sitting on the hard plastic chair outside the waiting room for three hours, so late into the night that it was already morning, however dark it was outside. When they'd arrived, Sherlock had demanded to be allowed to see John, who was in surgery, and so they refused. Sherlock had opted to sit in the waiting room across from the surgical hall at St. Bart's where John had performed surgery on other patients hundreds of times, and there were no more tears. Just a gaunt expression that he tried to hide for Hamish, whom he refused to let out of his sight.

Nurses came in and out, suggesting that he go home and come back in the morning, and if they were lucky, all he did was give them a disparaging glance. Hamish's eyes began to droop closed and he slept against his father's chest, dreaming of horrible things were his dad never came back.

He was woken by the sounds of faint conversation hours later, and the familiar voice of his uncle.

"Sherlock. I came as soon as I could."

"Yes. I'm sure the nation needed reorganizing first," Sherlock said.

"Don't be snide, Sherlock, be serious for once," Mycroft replied, sitting down next to them in the waiting room. "How's Hamish?"

"Fine—he doesn't understand it completely, but he's frightened. I'd hoped to spare him this… " Sherlock sighed and held Hamish closer. "I should have retired ages ago. I can't take his dad from him, not when he's so young."

"John will be fine. He's been out of surgery with few complications for a few minutes. I've arranged for you to be allowed to stay with him."

Hamish felt Sherlock smile against his hair. "How much did that cost?"

"Just a friendly reminder about where the hospital's funding comes from. No one will ask you to leave, and you can be with John when he wakes up. They're moving him to the second floor post-op—they're expecting you."

"He and I fought," Sherlock said plainly. "Mycroft, we fought—we've never had a row like that before, and then we were on the case and he saw the sniper, and he still took the bullet for me… If I killed him—"

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock. Pull yourself together, for goodness' sake." Mycroft held out a few papers on a clipboard. "You need to sign these to be able to stay overnight with him. They don't usually allow it for patients just out of surgery, especially since visiting hours are long over, so these are liability forms. All they need is a signature."

Sherlock shifted and tried to take the clipboard, but he couldn't maneuver around Hamish. "Could you, erm…hold him, perhaps?"

Hamish, through a sleepy haze, could hear the surprise in his uncle's voice. "Of course." Wordlessly they passed the little boy between them while Sherlock signed the clipboard sheets and delivered them to the front desk. He slipped back into his chair and sighed. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded, patting Hamish awkwardly on the back. By now, Hamish was awake, but he wasn't going to tell anyone about it. He pretended to sleep while they kept talking over his head. "You'll want him back, then?"

"You can hold him for a bit. I don't want to bother him."

"Oh." Mycroft tightened his grip ever so slightly on Hamish. "I'm not used to this, I admit. I'm more of the uncle on the side, who smiles at holidays and delivers expensive presents."

Sherlock paused. "You know…if you wanted to, you could be a bit more than that. If it wouldn't kill you, that is. You could come over for visits. I know he's very fond of you."

Mycroft scoffed. "Oh, don't bother being sentimental now, Sherlock. It still doesn't suit you, parenthood or not. I'm comfortable with my role in Hamish's life."

"I didn't say differently. I was just inviting you to have a bigger one, if you want. Hamish deserves that."

Hamish heard footsteps down the tile hall and saw a shadow on the floor through his partially-open eyelids. Someone had walked up to them. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes?" they said in unison.

"Er, Sherlock Holmes? Your husband is in room 206. I'm to take you there now."

"Thank you." Sherlock lifted Hamish by the arms and took him back. "Next time, then, Mycroft."

"I'll look forward to it. Give my best to John, will you?"

"You know, I think I might. Good night, Mycroft." Sherlock walked swiftly down the hall with Hamish in his arms, taking the elevator up to the second floor. "Liar," Sherlock whispered into Hamish's hair. "You little faker—I can tell when you're awake, you know."

Hamish shushed him. "I wanted to hug Uncle Mycroft."

"I know. You're absolutely devious. Ready to see Daddy?"

"Yes. Will we go home after that?"

"Not yet. Hamish, dear, you must understand, your daddy…he was hurt, very badly. And he has to spend the night here in case something bad happens to him."

Hamish frowned. "I don't want anything to happen to Dad, I want to go home! Make him come home, Father!"

"Mish, love, please—he'll be home soon. And we're going to be with him every minute until he does. Will that do?"

Hamish didn't answer, instead putting his head on his father's shoulder and fuming silently to himself while feeling sleep start to tug at him again from the tired corners of his mind. The elevator door pinged open, irritating Hamish with its tinny sound, and Sherlock carried him down the hall to room 206, where John lay on a hospital bed unconscious, looking not a bit like Hamish's dad.

Sherlock let him down and offered him a hand to hold. "Come on, Mish. Let's say hello."

He shook his head. "That's not Daddy."

"Of course it is—look, he has Daddy's hair and everything. He's just in a hospital gown, so he looks a bit different."

"He has tentacles coming out of his mouth. He's scary. Father, where's Daddy? I want to go home!"

Sherlock grimaced and hoisting his fitful son back into his arms, so he could lean over the hospital bed. "Those aren't tentacles, darling, they're tubes. That's an oxygen mask. Remember when you and I talked about oxygen?"

Hamish carefully reached out a hand and poked the mask on John's face. "What's it do?"

"It helps Daddy breathe while he's sleeping. He can take it off soon."

"Can I have one?"

"No, never. I sincerely hope you'll never need one." Sherlock leaned further in and kissed John's forehead, smoothing down the mussed sandy hair. "I'm so sorry, my love," he whispered. "Please, please, please come back. Don't be so idiotically stubborn that you'd actually die on me to prove a bloody point."

Hamish leaned over as well and placed an identical kiss on John's head. "Yep—that's Daddy. You were right."

Sherlock grinned. "I'm always right. Come on, then, let's sleep for a bit. You've had a long night." He tried to settle them on an armchair near the bed, but Hamish pushed himself out of Sherlock's grip.

"I don't want to sleep on your lap, Father—it's pointy."

"Sorry, love. Do you want to have the chair to yourself?"

"No," he replied drowsily. "I'm going to sleep on the bed with Daddy." After a bemused look from Sherlock, Hamish scrambled up the side of the hospital bed and settled at the foot of the bed, like a cat warming John's feet. "Come sleep, Father."

"There isn't any room on the bed, Mish. I'll stay in the chair."

"Aww, please?"

"You sleep on the end, dear, I'll be right here." Sherlock shed his coat, which Molly had been kind enough to bring for him, and draped it over Hamish's skinny shoulders. The large trench coat dwarfed his small frame in an almost laughable way, especially when Hamish burrowed into it so that only his dark hair could be seen until he thrust a hand out.

"Hold it, Father. So we're all together," Hamish said, holding it out until Sherlock gripped it tightly in his own. "See? When Dad wakes up, he'll see us holding hands and he'll try and join in on it, too. So hold his hand."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gently reached out for John's hand, motionless and by his side on the bed with a few tubes and an IV poking through. He closed his hand. "Does that suit you, Mr. Watson-Holmes?"

"Mhmm." Hamish drifted off to sleep soon after, huddled around John's feet, and Sherlock watched him as he began to softly snore.

Then, slowly pulling his hand from the small boy's, he scooted the chair over so the edge was only inches from the bed, with just enough room for his legs. He stood up and leaned on the rails on the sides so he could get closer to John's head and whisper to him. "You can have it your way. No more beakers and test tubes in the bathroom. I'll throw them all out, you daft old man—why in the world did you do that?" He ran a hand through John's hair and kissed the top of his head. "You should have let him shoot me. I deserved it, John. Listen, you've got to wake up, do you understand? Otherwise I will—I will be so cross with you. If you don't wake up, I'm never speaking to you again."

There was no sound except the beeping of the heart monitors, occasionally erratic, the drip of the painkillers into John's system, Hamish's soft snores…

Sherlock smoothed down the bandages on John's stomach and remembered earlier in the evening, when the shot had fired and John had shook with the impact of an unseen bullet, and moved through the air as if it were water, falling backwards into Sherlock who saw the blood and heard the sound but could not connect the signs together, could not believe that his John had been shot.

"It should have been me. It was supposed to be me. Please, John, please—I'm begging now, do you hear? Isn't that enough? Bloody hell." He pressed his forehead to John's and tried to breathe in his scent without the smell of antiseptic and betadyne. "I love you, I love you, John. You win, all right?"

The beeps kept sounding and Sherlock gave up, kissing him one final time before settling back into the chair and resting his head by John's side. He kissed John's hand and tucked it under his chin in his own hand, and he reached back for Hamish's hand as well before falling asleep.

John heard beeping, and it annoyed him. Things were warm and crisp and white, yet the beeping interrupted the hazy bliss he was in. He grumbled in protest.

Logic, John, the voice of his husband smirked in his head. If you can hear beeping, where do you think you are?

Sod off, he thought, dispelling the voice. In times when he was alone, John would often imagine what Sherlock would say, and it was rarely anything but condescending, but at least it was in an affectionate sort of way. Hospital, then. Are you here? Can I see you?

He answered the questions himself and forced his eyes open a crack, groaning at the light that stabbed at his eyes. Hospital, indeed. He was starting to feel the gentle thrum of numbed pain in his abdomen, and he glanced at the machinery around him. Monitors—the source of the beeping noise.

Opening his eyes a few millimeters, he felt relieved before he even had the time to be worried. It looked like Hamish, bless him, was curled up at the foot of the bed, spreading warmth to his legs through his sleeping form. As usual, John felt affection and love swell up in his heart like a balloon. The image of his son was enough to make him feel happy, no matter where he was or what was going on.

And his left hand was asleep, tingling like mad. He glanced down at his hand and saw Sherlock practically wrapped around it, snoring softly. He grinned and squeezed his right hand.

Sherlock was jolted awake immediately at the stimulus, as John knew he would be; he'd discovered what a light sleeper Sherlock was when he unconsciously pulled the covers away from him in the first few weeks of their relationship and got kicked in the jaw as a result. His hair was tousled ridiculously and it stood up at odd angles, and the imprint of John's wedding ring was left on his cheek. He blinked rapidly until his eyes focused on John.

"Hello, handsome," John teased. "You look dreadful."

"John!" he shot out of his seat and reached to wake Hamish, but John waved his hand in protest.

"Let him sleep—poor kid, he needs it. I want to have a minute alone with his father."

Sherlock froze and gulped. Nodding, he leaned over and tentatively put his hands around John's face, stroking his cheek. "John. You can't…you must never do that again."

"Well, I didn't exactly want to get shot. How long have I been out, by the way? Any major complications?"

"Just the night, and so far, no complications. Relatively clean wound."

"Brilliant. Just what every man dreams of—a relatively clean bullet wound." He placed his hand over Sherlock's and breathed deeply. "Really scary, that. I was worried I wouldn't come back."

"You were worried? I thought I'd lost you forever, you idiot!" Sherlock rashly leaned forward to John's surprise and kissed him passionately. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John, I'm sorry for everything I said—"

"Sherlock."

"I didn't need to consider a thing when I married you because I love you, all right? I'm sorry I said those things—forgive me, please. I don't want you to go to Lestrade's, I want you to stay with Hamish, with me—"

"Sherlock."

"And we'll have children. Loads of them. Kids bursting out of the windows of 221B, dozens of them, as many as you want. You were right, you're always right, please don't leave me. I'll retire—"

"You won't."

"I will, John, don't you dare tell me what to do, I'm going to retire and we're going to adopt a million children, or we'll get a surrogate and they can be your kids and look just like you and act as wonderful as you, but please don't leave. Ever."

John chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose. "I'm not leaving. Just try and get rid of me, dear. And we'll talk about the kids later, all right? You're getting worked up."

"I should hope so. Shall I wake Hamish?"

"Go for it. I missed my little guy," John said as he relaxed against the pillows. He jiggled his foot to wake it up while Sherlock gently pulled his coat off Hamish and nudged him on the shoulder.

"Mish, love, wake up. It's your daddy."