A/N: So what I'm doing with this story is I'm going to make one chapter for each year of Hamish's life, up to age 15. Why am I stopping there? You'll find out. :) Enjoy! (Also I'm really proud of myself for remembering "pyjamas" instead of "pajamas" and slightly frustrated Mycroft Word says it's spelled wrong.)


They had been married for nearly a year when the Doctor first broached the subject of adoption.

The question took them both aback. They hadn't really discussed the possibility of kids amongst themselves; both assuming the other didn't want them. And anyways, their hectic lifestyle was hardly a proper environment in which to raise a child.

John was quick to point this out to the Doctor. "You've seen the state of our flat. You've seen the body parts in the fridge, the experiments on the table. We can't possibly take care of a kid when we're running off to grisly crime scenes every other minute!"

"That's what you think," the Doctor responded. "What do you want?"

But at that point Lestrade called with an urgent case and they had to dash away.

The question was forgotten in the rush of adrenaline surrounding the investigation, but it began to niggle at John in the nighttime. He was never losing sleep, necessarily (whatever little sleep he got, with their erratic schedules), but he would contemplate it before drifting off or when waking up in the morning.

What do I want? I've always thought and, yes, anticipated I'd grow up to have children, but then, I'd thought I'd grow up and marry a woman. With Sherlock…I don't know what to think.

He sighed and turned over. Sherlock made a little snuffly noise beside him. Sherlock. Sherlock would never want kids. He can barely tolerate adults as it is, how would he cope with little children with a fraction of their intelligence? It'll never work. Baker Street is the worst place for children.

John rationalized this as his answer and allowed it to recede into the back of his mind. It went with an odd feeling of dejection.

Life passed as usual. Cases were solved. Criminals were apprehended. The occasional off-planet jaunt lightened the mood. The Doctor continued to be the only person, aside from John, Sherlock would socialize with. He took great pleasure in their long, broadening talks of quantum physics and the mechanics of timespace.

It was after a particularly grueling case – John was still sore from falling out that window, and Sherlock had broken his wrist – that Sherlock had decided John needed an impromptu date at Angelo's. Aside from Mrs. Hudson, the restaurant owner had had the most ecstatic reaction when the two had announced their relationship, and delighted in placing a single candle on the table as soon as they came in.

As they had just finished a case, Sherlock did not object to eating. His appetite had become a bit better since returning from his Absence, as they referred to it, half-starved and mentally and physically exhausted. John suspected he wasn't really hungry for a good portion of what he ate, but it was his way of apologizing for faking his death for two years. I'm so sorry I worried you, I'll do my best to never cause you to worry again. Not that Sherlock would ever say this out loud, of course.

The bell jingled noisily as a man and a little girl entered the restaurant. The girl was skipping happily, pulling the man along to the counter. "Ice cream, Daddy, you said we could get ice cream!"

The man laughed at the girl's eagerness. "I did say that, I also said you had to eat supper first, remember?"

"Ummmm," said the girl, pulling an exaggerated thinking face, "no. I think you probably said I could have as much ice cream as I want."

"I think I didn't."

"I think you did."

John felt himself grinning as he watched the two. Wouldn't it be nice…

Nice to what?

Maybe…I don't know…

A sudden, unbidden image burst into his mind. Him and Sherlock, holding the hands of a small dark-haired boy. The boy was grinning up at them, John was laughing, and Sherlock had a look of pride on his face similar to the one that appeared whenever John made an intelligent deduction of his own.

I do…I do want kids.

Involuntarily, he glanced over at Sherlock. His brow was furrowed, thinking, and he radiated annoyance.

John's smile dropped abruptly. But we simply can't have them.

However, the Doctor's next visit resulted in a rather unexpected turn of events.

Seated comfortably in his armchair, John listened appreciatively as the Doctor recounted his latest adventure. Of course, the Doctor, who was physically unable to sit still for a period of more than five seconds at a time, was waving his arms overdramatically about and leaping onto the couch whenever they reached a good part in the story. He would occasionally lapse into a different language John tentatively identified as German, at which point Sherlock would lean forward intently and absorb a private addition to the tale. John didn't mind. He was rather certain he wouldn't have understood it had it been in English, either.

" – when Roma shows up with the TARDIS and says that the rusalka was Maelin all along! So we took Maelin – poor thing – back to Kavité and Roma decided to stay with her." The Doctor slipped on the arm of the sofa and fell heavily into its cushioned softness, legs flailing lankily. "Say, John! Have you decided what you want?"

John's voice stumbled over the syllables, completely unprepared. "Have I – what?"

"Decided. You know. About adopting."

"I haven't really – thought about it much, I mean – "

"Oh, tell the truth! Saves us all time."

John stopped and closed his eyes, marshaling his thoughts.

"Doctor – listen. While I think it would be nice to adopt sometime, we simply can't. It would never work. Just…221B isn't a good place for kids. Kids who need caring, and attention, and a nice, stable environment to grow up in. And…and Sherlock won't ever want kids. Which is okay. It really doesn't matter. So I think it's time you dropped the subject."

The Doctor was silent for a while before asking quietly, "Sherlock? Do you want children?"

Sherlock, who had been staring with his arms curled around his legs, blushed wordlessly and buried his head in his knees.

John was speechless. He crossed over to Sherlock's chair and gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm – I'm sorry, Sherlock, how long have you…"

"For a rather long time actually," came the muffled reply.

"Well…why didn't you tell me? I felt the same, I just assumed…"

"Because logically," the detective shot back, head whipping up, "it's completely foolish! Do you have any idea how vulnerable this child would be to kidnapping, assassination, blackmail? It's for the best that the only people we are close to are capable of defending themselves, which entirely rules out any possibility of children in the future! And besides," his head drooped, temporary fury exhausted, "I'd make a terrible parent. You as good as said so yourself."

"Something I've found," interjected the Doctor softly, "is that those who doubt their own parenting skills have a higher chance of being improbably brilliant at it."

"How so."

"Well, you'll treat the baby as human, won't you? And not fall into that stereotypical realm of goo-goo-ga-ga baby talk. For a child of yours…I'd say that's a definite advantage."

"Yes, well, the question is still moot, isn't it?" John pointed out. "Like Sherlock said, this hypothetical kid wouldn't last a week without being kidnapped twice and held for ransom. I don't suppose you've got some magic solution you can just pull out of that box of yours?"

The Doctor mentally winced at how clichéd this was going to sound. "Actually, yes, I do."

"What – so, you're telling me, you've got a way of taking a human baby and making it – what? Invincible?"

"Well." The Doctor licked his lips. "If you're not opposed to having an extremely…remarkable child…there's a species called the Tenza. They are a species of alien with no home world. Instead, baby Tenza drift through space, looking for a couple that for whatever reason cannot have children. They then adapt their DNA to match that of their host family or species. Like a cuckoo bird, but they don't push the other chicks out of the nest, because there weren't any to push to begin with."

Sherlock leaned forward. "An alien?"

"Technically, yes. But, see, they mold their DNA so it's human. There are only two major differences between a human-Tenza and a real human; otherwise they're nearly indistinguishable. One, the Tenza will have some sort of tic – an irrational fear, a learning disorder, an odd physical behavior. And second – they always possess some form of strong psychic power."

"So – they'd be able to defend themself?" John supposed.

"Correct!" The Doctor bounced excitedly. "Now normally, a Tenza expends a huge amount of its power on altering the memories of its family to prevent either of them from realizing its identity, because it would cause chaos and one thing a Tenza fears horribly is losing the ones that love and protect it. But imagine – if one could be allowed to grow up as a Tenza, to be accepted for what it was, with its strangeness and brilliance and blossoming powers, to be taught to control them and use them, which most struggle with immensely – just imagine!"

"That would be…incredible," mused John.

"Now, it won't be easy," the Doctor cautioned. "Tenza are more likely to experience things like severe existential crises, depression, perfectionism, separation anxiety…sometimes they lose control of their abilities and someone gets hurt. It's sort of dangerous, living with a Tenza…but I think you could handle it. In fact, it's probably better than traditional adoption, for you. What do you want?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Sherlock, leaping from his chair. "A thousand times yes, yes, YES! That is," he turned to John hurriedly, "if you want to?"

His partner could only grin with wordless joy. "When?"


John was awoken by a press of soft lips against his own. "John!" exclaimed Sherlock, and kissed him again. "John, wake up!" Kiss. "John, wake up, it's today!" Kiss, kiss.

His eyes blinked open. "I'm awake, you know."

"I know." Sherlock grinned. "Your breathing changed. Also, you started reciprocating. But I wanted to keep kissing you."

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pinned him to the bed in a long, deep kiss. "It's finally today. I can't believe it."

"Finally," Sherlock echoed.

"What time is it?"

"Two hours and forty-two minutes until we meet Hamish."

"Hamish William," corrected John.

"Hamish William Holmes-Watson. It's got a lovely ring to it, don't you think?" His voice shook ever so slightly.

John noticed this and pulled Sherlock into a crushing embrace. The detective was trembling against him. "Nervous?"

"Terrified."

"Me too."

Sherlock breathed out, slow and faintly unsteady. "So…Hamish William. He'll be genetically ours…"

"Have to be a boy, because the Tenza will combine our DNA," John continued.

Sherlock looked worried. "The Doctor said they haven't tried this before, with two males. What if something – "

"Shh, love." John soothingly stroked the side of Sherlock's face. "We said we wanted a remarkable child. And we will love him whatever form that remarkableness takes."

Sherlock smiled. "Let's take him to cases. Only the nonviolent ones, though. Like thefts."

"And no chasing criminals."

"Until he's at least three."

"The Doctor will stop by for weekly lessons in controlling his…whatever happens…"

"That's the part I'm most nervous about!" Sherlock burst out suddenly. "I don't understand psychic ability! It can't, by Earth physics, exist! I'm terrified this thinking will drag me into being a horrible parent! I'm terrified the temptation to know will plague me and plague me until I'm driven to experiment on him, I'm terrified he'll become just a lab rat to me and…John, have you read Carrie?! I don't want that to happen in real life!"

"Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock." John placed a calming hand under Sherlock's chin and tilted the tearstreaked face up to meet his eyes. "It won't. We don't believe the power is wrong. We're fascinated by it. You'll learn about it as Hamish learns about it. In a few years, it won't be this big mystery. It'll be everyday. And listen. I have faith in you. You won't be heartless. You know how I know that?"

Sherlock blinked.

"You're crying. You're so upset and afraid that you'll be some sort of unfeeling Dr. Frankenstein that you're crying. That isn't the mark of a monster, is it? And I've only seen you cry twice before now. You'll be brilliant, you hear me? Brilliant."

"Th-thank you."

Sherlock buried his face in John's chest. His breathing slowed to a hypnotizing tempo, and John could feel himself relaxing into the other man. They drifted into a peaceful, somnolent half-doze.

Until the silence was finally shattered by an unearthly, clanking wail that rent through the serenity like a bullet through glass.

John's eyes snapped open and he looked down at Sherlock, who gazed back with bright, shimmering eyes and wildly dilated pupils.

"He's here," Sherlock breathed. He violently threw off the covers and leaped out of bed. "He's here!" They scrambled out of the room, tripping over each other in an attempt to reach the source of the noise.

"Helllooo!" the Doctor beamed as they arrived in the kitchen, breathless and euphoric. "Ready to leave?"

"Let's go, let's go!" Sherlock demanded, bouncing up and down like an overexcited 5-year-old. (Which, John reflected with a grin, he sometimes was.) "Of course we're ready, let's go!"

"You're still in your pyjamas."

"Oh, sod it all, does it matter?"

"Were you even awake?"

"Does it matter?"

The Doctor laughed. "No, I suppose not today. Come on!"

And so they boarded the TARDIS. The Doctor pulled out his psychic paper and sonicked it, causing the texture to momentarily distort into a glimmering, plasma-like substance. "You two, put your fingers on here. It'll scan your DNA and send the data out to space along with an invitation for a Tenza to respond. Once one chooses you, it'll return the signal along with its coordinates so we can go pick it up. Here you are…" He held out the glowing paper and they tentatively pressed their fingers to its surface.

There was a brief flash of light, and Sherlock gasped faintly as he felt an ethereal tugging at his fingertip. Oilslick iridescence raced frenetically across the paper. A tinny voice of greeting smiled in his head and broke away.

"There we go," the Doctor said appreciatively. "Did you feel that? That was Hamish saying hi."

"That was – " John marveled, "I sort of – felt a little happy blob, in my chest – "

"You're lucky. Most Tenza families will never remember when their child first chose them. He should be sending me the coordinates any…" The paper's light suddenly doused and complex, interlocking circular designs bloomed across it.

The Doctor smiled. "Gallifreyan. You've got a smart one, Holmes-Watsons."

He whirled to the console and began drawing the circles with his finger on one of the many screens. "You can follow this, old girl. It's simple, right?"

The TARDIS wheezed to life happily and hardly quaked at all. The Doctor grinned and patted it encouragingly. "See? Easy."

A tense, restless silence permeated the room as they traveled. John stood by the door, bouncing nervously on his toes. Sherlock perched on the railing and swung his bare feet back and forth, glancing around but never settling his gaze.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"I hope so."

"I think we are."

"Mmhm. Doctor, how long…?"

"Depends on when she wants to get there, but she's excited too so I'd say…" A small, vibrant chiming emanated from the controls. "…Now, in fact."

Sherlock's stomach jolted. He hopped off the railing and trotted quickly over to John, taking his face and kissing him briefly. John ran his fingers over Sherlock's arm before ending the kiss, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

"All right. You can go ahead and open the doors now," the Doctor called from the console. "Put your hands out – be ready to catch him as he forms."

As he forms? Sherlock frowned, suppressing another surge of anxiety, but tentatively opened the doors to reveal a stunning, starry canvas. He swallowed – it wasn't technically a height, but it still made him uneasy – and, along with John, held out his hands.

A vortex of revolving, indigo not-quite-light peeled away from the empty space and swirled viscously above their outstretched palms. Sherlock could feel it prodding, tasting at his DNA. His eyes unconsciously rebelled at something so alien and beautiful and he was forced to turn away – it hurt to look at. But he could feel it solidifying gently into a tiny, fragile form, feel a round, precious bulb growing against his whispered the word. "Hamish."

In unspoken unison, they brought their son back into the TARDIS. Sherlock's long, delicate fingers cupped his head, already sporting a few wispy black curls. Crystalline sapphire eyes blinked open as Hamish got his first glimpse of the strange universe around him.

"He's got your eyes," Sherlock murmured.

"Look, though. He'll grow up to have your hair."

Sherlock blinked a few more times than strictly necessary. "He's…amazing."

"Do…do you want to hold him?"

John was entrusting him with care of this tiny, momentous human being? Him? Sherlock's voice caught in his throat. "I can't – I don't know – "

"Here. Put your hand under his neck, like this, and support his body with your other arm. See?" John guided his awkward arms, positioning them so the baby nestled comfortably into Sherlock's chest.

"Oh." Panic warred with joy. "Hello, Hamish."

Clear blue eyes regarded him with penetrating intensity. Sherlock couldn't tear himself away from the baby's bright, mesmerizing gaze. There was – no other word for it – a spark in those eyes. He hadn't seen this spark in anyone – not Lestrade, not any of the police force, not Mrs. Hudson, not even John. Wait –

Moriarty. There had been a spark in his eyes, of course. But that was – twisted, more of a blaze of madness – he had seen this spark somewhere! But where…the Doctor.

The Doctor's eyes sparked with wisdom, with understanding, raw intelligence, caring and love. And so did this baby's.

Hamish saw.

And Hamish smiled.