Sherlock Holmes never wanted a family. Ever since he was a child all his did was hold him back. He distanced himself from them. He didn't need them. He refused to need them. He built a shell, and drove people away until there was no one left. He was never sorry about it. He was never sorry about anything actually. Mrs. Hudson was the first to dig herself a hole in his barrier, she would poke her head in from time to time to check that he was still there. Still breathing. The second to worm his way in was Lestrade. How? Sherlock still wasn't sure.
And then there was John.
John-Bloody-Amazing-Watson. Who called him brilliant. Who would always get the milk. Who wouldn't freak out at a gruesome crime scene. Who was warm and safe and truly lovely. Who kissed him breathlessly in the freezing rain, and then pushed him out of the path of a bullet, with no regard for his own safety. Sherlock found himself caring about John in a way that he had never cared about anyone else before. John broke down all his barriers like they weren't even there, maybe for him they weren't, and for the first time in his life Sherlock wanted somebody to stay with him. John. His John. He would do anything to keep him happy. To keep him from leaving. So on a quiet winter night, in front of a lovely fire, when John suggested they have a kid; despite Sherlock's own inner torture and selfish needs, he reluctantly agreed. How could he deny the one person who ever cared about him at all? He secretly –well I say secretly- hoped that it would be John's child. A sweet blonde boy or girl who would be clever and independent and loving. Eager to learn from them. John hoped it would be Sherlock's DNA that their child possessed. It soon became apparent though, when the chosen surrogate possessed long black hair and sharp features that the detective (sorry: consulting detective) wouldn't get his wish. Perhaps it would be a lovely blend of the two of them, a perfect mix. It was not so. Naturally, the universe was set in its ways to never give Sherlock Holmes what he desired.
Their son was born with dark curls that were in stark contrast with his deathly pale skin, and crystal blue eyes that shone almost grey. There was no doubt in anyone's mind who the father was, no matter how hard or thoroughly you searched, there was not a single Watson feature on the boy. Sherlock couldn't say that there wasn't an intense ache of disappointment in his chest cavity, where his heart was said to reside (although most would argue that he didn't poses one) when he saw the child for the first time. His husband cradled him against his chest, the tiny head of curls nestled where Sherlock's own head used to be. This boy was stealing John away from him, and they had only just met. Then John looked over to him, almost teary-eyed, and asked if he would like to hold their son. Their son. Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, resentment still fresh in his blood, but gave in at last when John smiled gently and kissed his cheek in understanding. Sherlock knew that if he hated the child that John seemed to love so much, he would almost be hating John. And he couldn't have that. Once the tiny bundle lay in his arms it became real. It became Hamish. He felt a twinge of something not unfamiliar in his chest, he felt regret. Not for having the boy, no. It was for cursing the boy with his genes. He knew how it felt to grow up an un-loved freak, and he would never want to condemn any living form of life to the same fate. No matter how much he cared for this child, he would never be able to love him like a normal family could. And for that he was sorry. He was so, so sorry.