A/N: So this is my first (published) fanfic, written for a sherlock secret santa exchange on tumblr for syupon. Just kind of fluffy Johnlock, featuring their son Hamish.
"Thank you for your time, sir, we'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
Stepping out of the office, John turned to Sherlock and sighed. "Well. That was a disaster."
"Which part, the incident, or the meeting?" Sherlock had assumed his typical aloof demeanor, hands in his pockets and chin tipped at the perfect angle to put the typical person at the end of his nose from Sherlock's point of view.
"The incident, of course. Listen, Sherlock, we need to tell Hamish that he can't just go around knocking little girls out. Speaking of which, I thought I told you that you couldn't teach him boxing anymore. For god's sake, Sherlock, he's seven." John straightened his sweater. It had gotten slightly rumpled after sitting in the principal's office so long.
"From what I remember from that horribly dull meeting, Hamish didn't just 'go around knocking little girls out', he genuinely thought he was under attack. And I'm not teaching him boxing anymore, I'm teaching him karate now," he started absentmindedly shuffling through his pockets as though searching for a cigarette, a habit John had learned was left over from his addiction days, "and I must admit I'm quite impressed. He only learned how to knock a man out two days ago."
"Sherlock," John was curving his eyebrows in a way that Sherlock had learned to mean 'how can you be so smart but still so damned idiotic' "you know what I meant when I told you to stop with the boxing lessons."
"You said that I could no longer teach Hamish boxing. You mentioned no other martial arts."
John was now rolling his eyes, which Sherlock recognized as John's 'why am I in love with this sarcastic smartass' expression.
"You can't just do whatever you like with our son, I'm his father too, I get a say."
"If you want to be technical, only I am biologically related to Hamish." John turned about dramatically in response to this statement, as if looking for a witness to this foolishness.
"Oh, that's rich, seeing as-"
"Dad! Daddy!"
A little blue eyed boy with wavy dark hair was rushing squeaking up the hall at them. Sherlock noted with a casual interest that his son needed new trainers as they were leaving small skid marks on the linoleum, and that the boy had been nervously tugging at his sleeve as one cuff was undone. In a few seconds, Hamish had jumped into John's outstretched arms. He was lifted up with a bit of a huff.
"Ah, how's daddy's favorite boy?" John smiled at his son warmly, but Sherlock saw him subtly check the child over for any injury. Seven years into caring for this child, and Sherlock knew that John would never stop worrying over the boy. Hamish grinned back, a sweet, genuine smile, but quickly grew serious.
"Am I in trouble? Teacher said I was, but I wasn't sure." Sherlock's smile was one that John had learned was, on Sherlock's face, fatherly pride. And of course, John thought, Sherlock WOULD smile at his son's quiet defiance of authority. John might show his love by being overly fussy and worrying over the child, but Sherlock had his distinct way of expressing his affection. It assumed the form of this pride in his son's nonconformity, and in his learning the solar system so he could help his son with a project.
"Well, what have I taught you about proving a suspect guilty, Hamish?" The tall man had to lean down quite a bit to be at eye level with his partner and his son. Hamish's eyes narrowed a moment in thought, a very serious expression on his round face, then his eyes widened happily.
"Go to the scene of the crime and get witness's firsthand accounts! It was just me and Amanda there, so I'll explain on the way. Come on!" He began to speed down the halls, babbling. In this, John thought, the boy certainly did take after his biological father. He huffed slightly as he tried to keep up with Hamish's pace and train of thought. "So we were just walking down the halls and everything was normal and we were talking about the substitute teacher we had in science today-she was awful, dad, not at all as smart as you-and then we got here and she must have gone crazy or something!"
The boy was stopped under a doorway, wide-eyed and breathless from the rushed little monologue he'd just delivered. His parents glanced up for a moment and began to laugh.
"What?" The child asked innocently, before continuing in the same tone as before. "So anyway, we get here and Amanda stops for a moment and I stop too because I don't want to sit alone at lunch, and then she starts to lean up, real close to my face-yes, like that, daddy-and then I get afraid that she might BITE me, and then-dad? Daddy?"
Neither of the boy's fathers replied; each was quite occupied with the feeling of each other's lips as they kissed beneath the sprig of mistletoe. They stayed there awhile, lips moving against each others', mesmerized by the giddy euphoria of the moment, quite forgetting their child's little crisis. All John saw was the ice blue of Sherlock's eyes warming at his touch, and all Sherlock smelled was John's cologne weaving its way possessively into his coat. The feeling was broken when a small, demanding voice pierced the silence of the empty hallway.
"Will someone please tell me WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?" Hamish stood with his feet apart and hands clenched in little fists at his sides, looking up at the two men with faces pressed close together. The boy had inherited Sherlock's talent for looking down his nose at everyone, though this prodigy was several feet shorter than the old master. John looked down at the defiant child, and squatted to speak to him at eye level.
"You see that plant, Hamish?" He pointed up at the mistletoe.
"Yes, I thought perhaps it had released a hallucinogenic spore that made Amanda want to bite my nose."
John resisted a giggle as Sherlock allowed himself a little smirk. "No, Hamish, it's not that at all. In the Christmas season, when two people stand under mistletoe like that, they're meant to kiss." John watched comprehension dawn on his son's face.
"Ohhhh." Hamish frowned. "I suppose I owe Amanda an apology, then." Sherlock smirked. Perhaps Hamish had inherited his quick wit and mind, but his moral compass was all John's doing. The boy brightened a bit as an idea came to him. "How about an apology note? Something like, 'I'm sorry I knocked you out. Let me make it up to you, let's have lunch. I promise I won't hurt you.' And perhaps a Christmas present? Ooh, maybe a necklace, she said something about wanting one the other day... Or maybe chocolates! Or..."
He continued in this strain the entire walk back to the main door as his adoring parents walked behind him, hands held in a rare sign of tender affection. It was Christmas and their family was whole. What more could they wish for?
A/N: Please review! Even if you thought it was horrible, I'm really trying to improve my writing... I know it wasn't very descriptive. Oh, also, in case you were wondering about my headcanons, Sherlock and John didn't just adopt a child, they had a surrogate mother and Hamish is biologically related to Sherlock. He calls Sherlock dad and John daddy... because my brain says so. And yes, I did name Amanda after Martin Freeman's wife. Happy holidays, by the way!