Another ordinary night at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was awoken from his trance by an abrupt knock on the door. The consulting detective had been playing his violin alone, and had not been expecting someone at the late hour - it was almost midnight. He suspiciously broke his gaze from the window viewing late night London and strode towards the door. Opening it, he found himself looking down on none other but Dr. John Watson. But the doctor wasn't alone; he was carrying an infant in his arms. John looked raggedy and pale as he hushed the baby boy.
"Sherlock, you've got to help me. Mary's away for a friend's wedding shower and I've been here with Hamish crying his head off all night. Please." John sputtered.
Sherlock stifled a chuckle. "You named your child Hamish? I thought you despised the name. Oh, well, it must have been Mary's doing then. Why did you let her choose that name?"
"Yes, it was Mary, and she liked the name, and I thought, if she's giving birth to him, she might as well name him. Now, back to the point. He hasn't been quiet all day, and I honestly can't deal with this shit anymore. I need your help." John muttered worriedly, saying the word "shit" in an undertone so Hamish wouldn't have any bad influences.
"You came to me for help with a child? You must be very desperate. I will agree to assist you, if you allow the, uh, baby," Sherlock struggled with the word. "To be a test subject for some of my experiments. None permanently harmful, of course."
"Permanently harmful? Honestly, Sherlock, just watch him for a few minutes while I sleep for a bit, please. I haven't gotten rest in ages, and Mary will be with her friends for the whole damn weekend." John pleaded.
"Of course, go ahead." Sherlock said. He was not normally this kind, but John was too sluggish to notice.
"Thanks, mate." John mumbled, and fell asleep instantly.
Is that all he thinks of me? As a mate? Sherlock thought. Oh, be quiet, he has a wife and child, now. Certainly he wouldn't be interested in me. He's heterosexual, after all.
Sherlock had many of these conflicting thoughts every day, and with each thought he loathed himself more for having a silly school-girl crush on his blogger, when John was clearly married. But still, his love for John could not be easily extinguished.
He pushed these thoughts aside as Hamish began to cry furiously. "Oh, hell," Sherlock muttered. "Can't you shut up?"
The baby giggled slightly as Sherlock began to pick him up to take him to the kitchen. He needed to test something, to get his romantic feelings aside.
"How would you like to be the first to test this new salve I've been studying? All that's required is a lighter, goggles, and the salve. It's supposed to make you fire-proof." Sherlock said eagerly.
At the mention of fire, the infant sobbed spontaneously. "It's remarkable that you comprehend distinctive words at such a young age." Sherlock noted, and wrote down on a piece of scrap paper left behind from one of his previous experiments. He couldn't show his pyromaniac side here.
He glanced over to John sleeping soundly on the couch and then forced himself to look away. John's face would only spark feelings inside him.
"All right, then. Obviously you don't want to be tested on. You can at least help me research murders and suspects." he said to the baby.
Hamish giggled and nodded. Hmm, maybe Hamish won't be that much of a burden, Sherlock pondered.
Sherlock ran over to get his laptop, avoiding John for emotional reasons. As the laptop surged on, he placed Hamish in his lap.
A rugged, bearded, Spanish man flickered onto the screen. "This is Francisco Montoya. Anderson, an idiot that you hopefully won't have the misfortune to meet, thinks that he killed Miss Claire Rouge." Sherlock then pulled up a picture of a prim, blonde woman in a white skirt and blouse wearing pink lipstick, Miss Claire Rouge. "Obviously, this is incorrect. You can tell by the way his shirt is wrinkled. He doesn't take great care in the way his clothes look, but if he were to murder Miss Rouge at the banquet she was found dead at, he would've worn something socially acceptable so he wouldn't stand out. Simple one, really." Sherlock deduced swiftly.
Hamish just smiled and bobbed his head contently.
John would be ecstatic if I taught the child a word, his first word. Sherlock settled for a certain word. "Idiot, idiot, idiot. Say idiot, Hamish Watson." Sherlock instructed with a clear voice.
The baby did nothing but stare into the detective's eyes.
"Id-i-ot. Say it, id-i-ot." He repeated, getting aggravated.
"Ido," Hamish murmured, then started crying because of his babysitter's harsh tone.
Sherlock glanced at the clock on his mobile phone. It was only 12:30. This was going to be a long night.