The Funny Hats of Father and Son.
They'd been in Moscow, looking like just another family when they'd encountered the bobble hat. Adlock fluff with baby Hamish. Based on that scene in TEH so I guess spoilers for that.
A/N I'm shortly going to publish a multi-chapter story that is set during the Hiatus, but with a twist as Irene has already had Sherlock's son Hamish. This one-shot is technically a part of it but not until the very end and I couldn't wait that long to publish this. I wanted to publish at least one thing upon reflection of the newest episode.
Disclaimer: Sherlock doesn't belong to me…if it was we'd have steamy flashbacks to Adlock during the Hiatus.
It had only been a month previously when it had happened. They'd both known that the end of drawing closer. It had been nearly two years since Sherlock had fallen from St Bart's and turned up at Irene's door in New York. Moriaty's network had all but fallen and there only just a few loose ends to tie up in eastern Europe before he was free to return home to London.
Sherlock was not so oblivious to emotions to realise that this was hard on Irene; she hadn't said anything per se but it was evident in her eyes when she thought Sherlock wasn't looking. She understood she couldn't return to London with him and she hadn't expected too anyway. Everything was going to change in such a short space of time; Sherlock felt a tinge of emotion collect in his throat as he looked at Irene and their son Hamish. He realised he'd be sad to leave them, but instantaneously he pushed such a thought to the back of his mind. He couldn't think like that, but he couldn't help it. Whether he liked it or not, having Hamish had changed him. He often disappeared to undertake the more dangerous aspects of dismantling Moriaty's network, but he always returned, to wherever that might be: a mansion house in Sydney, a penthouse in Hong Kong, a lakefront property in Switzerland or an apartment in Moscow' most fashionable district. This time Sherlock had finished his business in the Middle East much quicker than he had anticipated and had arrived in Moscow a fe hours shy of Hamish's second birthday.
Sherlock hadn't been present at the birth of his son, but he'd learnt from Irene- in hushed conversations at three in the morning, post-coital, when she was feeling most vulnerable- that it had not been an easy birth. Irene had almost died, twice, but luckily Hamish had come out relatively unscathed. For Hamish's first birthday they'd all been in Buenos Aries on the run for most of the day and they'd quite simply forgotten until halfway through sex in the late evening. Irene's eyed had widened and she had inappropriately whispered their son's name before tears escaped her eyelashes. They'd forgotten their own son's birthday. Hamish's second birthday however had been different, Sherlock would even go as far to refer to it as normal. He had woken up to a face full of auburn-hair, Irene's. His arm wrapped around her tightly; anybody watching would have had a field day, it was just so unlike Sherlock. But then again Sherlock Holmes was dead. On that day he was Alexander Delectorski: Russian, but educated in Britain, obsessed with British culture hence the unusual name of his son Hamish, inconspicuously middle class and a family man. A disguise was always a self-portrait and Sherlock found himself wondering that first morning of waking up as Alexander of how exactly Alexander reflected Sherlock Holmes. Slowly he unwound his arm from around the woman and pushed back his side of the covers. There was a baby monitor on Irene's mahogany side table and despite no cries, Sherlock was aware that their son was also awake.
When Sherlock entered his son's bedroom, Hamish's eyes instantaneously looked up intent at his father.
"папа?"
Sherlock smirked. Of course Irene would've taught him Russian. For a just turned 2 year old Hamish already had a wider than normal vocabulary in his native english and an apparent knack for picking up languages, just as his father and uncle had.
"да. С Днем Рождения."
Hamish gave his father a questioning look at the unfamiliar words, he had after all only been in Russia for a few weeks.
"Happy Birthday."
Sherlock translated to english for him and his son nodded. He lifted the boy out of his bed and went about changing him. Hamish Holmes was advanced in so many ways, but the one thing he had yet to grasp was the concept of, was toilet training. He'd kicked, screamed and even bitten Irene when she'd tried. They'd given up momentarily, the boy after was still only a toddler. Sherlock then dressed Hamish in clothes suitable for the colder than usual October day in Moscow, as the child babbled away in Russian, stumbling on some words and asking Sherlock if he didn't have a clue. Sherlock was secretly proud of his son, who could hold such an intellectual conversation in this foreign language, at such a young age. Of course it wasn't perfect, his sentence structure was abysmal and had a tendency just to shout of nouns, but then again every two year old struggled with coherency and correct conjunctions in their own native language, let alone in a second or third language. Hamish Holmes was very much the genius of two remarkably intelligent people, but he was also just turned two.
An hour later, Irene walked into their living room to find both father and son playing a word association game of sorts in Russian.
"С Днем Рождения Hamish." Irene called and both boys turned at her voice.
Hamish waddled over to his mother, who was carrying lots of delicately wrapped presents in her arms.
"For me?" He asked politely.
"Indeed." Irene nodded.
Personally, although he knew Irene had no qualms over buying their son lavish gifts, indeed she relished in it. Sherlock was certainly under the impression that she was overcompensating from last year. As their son ripped bows and ribbons and the fancy wrapping paper off of: clothes, books, toys and a child sized violin, Sherlock began to feel guilty. He hadn't had time to go gift shopping as Aleppo, although great for intelligence fathering, left a lot to be desired i the retail department. As if sensing what he felt, or rather having deduced it, Irene placed a delicate hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear.
"We'll go out in a minute, buy him something then."
They looked like just another Russian family, strolling through the city on a colder than usual day in october. Irene pushed the top of the range stroller, whilst Sherlock walked in stride. Hamish talked away in fairly coherent sentences, he learnt fast, pointing out new learnt words as they passed objects asking his parents if he encountered something interesting that he was yet to learn the word for. To strangers, Hamish looked like just an average toddler, learning in his his own native language, when actually he was far from average, speaking like his parents with a perfect Russian accent in his third language.
"Stop." Hamish commanded as they turned the corner into the shopping district.
Irene silently raised an eyebrow at his tone, but stopped nonetheless.
"What is it Hamish?" Asked Sherlock.
"I want it."
Irene glanced around. They had stopped awkwardly in a pedestrianised street with busy shoppers surrounding them. She was confused as to what her son was referring to, his view from the stroller, of the shops on either side was obstructed, what could be possibly be referring to?
"шляпа."
Irene blinked and turned her head slightly in the direction Hamish was pointing in. She was fractionally slower than Sherlock to piece together what he was saying. A few feet away was a tacky tourist stand, selling Moscow memorabilia…including the ugliest bobble hats on the planet. Irene rolled her eyes with a smirk, of all of the things her son could want, he chose the tackiest hat in all of Moscow.
"Hamish, are you sure you don't want something else?" Irene asked.
"нет!"
Irene rolled her eyes again Hamish was becoming as stubborn as his father and his mother combined.
"How about a book Hamish?" Tried Sherlock, he'd been expecting to buy a fairly expensive gift, similar to the ones Irene had given him earlier. Hamish just frowned and shook his head. "Chemistry set?"
"нет."
"Just face it darling, your son wants the funny hat. Like father like son." Irene smirked and Sherlock frowned at her reference to the deer stalker that he had been infamously linked to in London.
"Hamish." Sherlock tried again, ignoring Irene's words.
"нет." Hamish yelled. "I want the hat." He added in english now.
Sherlock eyed the child up, ready to disagree when Irene gave him a stern look. "It's his birthday and he wants the hat darling- you did promise him a gift afterall.:
Sherlock breathed deeply and dug out his wallet from his pocket, approaching the stall holder with roubles to pay for the damn hat. It was a blue, red and white hat to match the colours of the Russian flag and had big stitched writing on it, reading "Moscow" in english for the tourists. There was a big pom pom on the top and two on the strange of knitted wool trailing from the ear flaps. Overall, it was an overpriced, tacky, hideous hat. Irene giggled as Sherlock grumpily shoved the hat into Hamish's outreached hands, who promptly put it on his own head. It was adult sized however and Hamish was suddenly lost under the knitted fabric. Irene adjusted it slightly, pushing it up so Hamish could at least see.
"You know Hamish, your Dad likes funny has too, you should let him try it on."
Before Hamish could agree to his mother's idea, Sherlock- as stubbornly as his son had sounded moments ago- growled "нет!"
Sherlock smirked at the memory. He hadn't stayed very much longer before leaving for Belgrade, he hadn't seen either of them since. Although he had texted Irene his location, she'd replied back with a picture of Hamish outside of a café. Sherlock deduced from the architecture of the building, his sons clothing and the edge of a menu in french that they were in Paris. Sherlock smiled at his own deductions and toyed with the bobble of the hat that he and Mycroft had deduced from earlier. The case was over, the bomb had been diffused and Sherlock was now alone in Baker Street as John had returned to Mary. Without really thinking he picked up the hat and placed it on his head once more before taking a picture; he did look rather dashing in it did he not? He sent it to Irene, who almost immediately sent one back of Hamish fast asleep in his new bed, still wearing that riddiculus bobble hat from Moscow, his dark curls poking out from beneath it. The picture was accompanied by a message: "Like father like son."
A/N I'll be posting the series that this accompanies soon but I honestly just needed to write something because Sherlock just looked far too cute in that episode when he was wearing that hat.