Hamish
Sherlock Holmes had been called many different names in his life. Freak, psychopath, and maniac just to name a few. Judgments, all of them, just like the deductions he made about others. One thing people never pegged him for, however, was a father.
He was a father now. John and him had adopted an infant boy whom they named Hamish Socrates (because Sherlock insisted) Watson-Holmes. That was three years ago after Sherlock had returned and he and John had gotten married.
People would also assume that if Sherlock was a father, he'd be a terrible one. A child needs constant attention and care, much too tedious for a highly functioning sociopath to handle, right? Absolutely not.
Sherlock had decided early on that the best way to care for Hamish would be to be near him at all times. That way, Sherlock could always watch him and keep him safe. (This logic, as John had pointed out on countless occasions, was greatly muddled by the fact that Sherlock spent much of his time running through the streets of London chasing after dangerous criminals. Or else in a morgue, somewhere a small child really shouldn't be.)
Despite these perfectly sound arguments, Sherlock went about his life normally, though always carrying Hamish. Running down a dark alleyway after a murderer in the dead of night? Take your toddler along! Brooding over any case had become child-inclusive, too. Instead of spending hours talking to the skull, Sherlock would pull up a chair aside Hamish's crib and talk to his son instead. (This had eventually resulted in the boy's first word being "murder", which had made John furious and put Sherlock into hysterics.)
Molly would always look after Hamish when Sherlock took him to the morgue. She was extremely fond of the child; he called her Miss Molly. Sometimes she would talk to the child about Sherlock saying things like, "Oh, your father is using his riding crop again. He's awfully weird, Hamish," then after a pause "but also brilliant. I used to fancy him so! Imagine that." At this point she would get a bright smile on her face and look the child straight on. He would smile, clap and try to repeat her words "'Im-maj-in that! Im-maj-in that!"
This was the day-to-day life of Hamish Watson-Holmes. Currently, the child is three and half and walking around 221B, while his father is lying in his signature thinking pose on the couch. John left them alone to go get the milk, giving Sherlock specific instructions to "Talk to Hamish while I'm gone! And not about your latest murder case!" Sherlock has systematically ignored those words, as usual.
Hamish came running up to his father holding something in his hands. Sherlock paused his thoughts to look over at the child.
"Father, look what was on the table!" Hamish said excitedly holding out an eyeball from one of Sherlock's experiments.
Suddenly the man sat bolt upright, snatched it out of his son's hands and seized the boy's shoulders.
"Hamish, you haven't put your hands in your mouth since you touched that, have you? Or near your eyes?" Sherlock inquired in what he didn't realize was a very intense, loud, and serious tone to speak to a toddler with.
"N-no," Hamish stammered and burst into tears.
Sherlock set the boy in his lap and hugged him, rocking back and forth.
"Shhhhhh," he cooed, "I'm sorry Hamish. I didn't mean to yell at you. I just don't want you to get sick."
"Like the people where Miss Molly works?" the boy asked, sniffling.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked looking at his son.
"Miss Molly says the people in the hos-pi-tal," Hamish responded sounding out the long word, "are sick. She says the people who don't move like the ones you look at aren't sick anymore, though. Do I have to go to the hos-pi-tal?"
"No, Hamish. You'll be fine. What were you talking about when you said 'the people I look at'?"
"The ones on the tables that don't move anymore. The ones you look at. Miss Molly says they're not sick anymore. She says they aren't going to move again. What does she mean?"
"Those people are dead, Hamish."
"What's that?"
"It's like sleeping, only they won't wake up."
"Why not? It's no fun to be asleep all the time."
"They can't wake up anymore. People who can't wake up anymore are called corpses."
Hamish took all this in then asked,
"If you look at corp-ses," the boy said trying out the new word, "what does Daddy do?"
"Your daddy is a Doctors. Doctors try to make people not sick anymore."
"But if Daddy makes everybody not sick anymore, then everybody will dead. Then there will be more corp-ses for you to look at!"
Sherlock laughed at this and eventually responded,
"Oh Hamish, it doesn't quite work that way."
"Do you love Daddy?" Hamish asked out of the blue.
Taken by surprise, it took Sherlock a moment to answer.
"Yes, of course I do. I love him very much," here Hamish started to yawn though Sherlock didn't notice, "he loves me too. I hope he always does, because I will always love him. I know I can be difficult at times though…" Hamish blinked a few time before closing his eyes and leaning his head against his father's chest, "And we both love you very much. You are brilliant, Hamish. Never forget that."
Sherlock looked down and saw Hamish was asleep. Carefully, the detective lay back down and resumed his deductions, holding his son to him.
A few minutes later, John walked into the flat.
"Sherlock, Hamish! I'm home. I could use some help-"
He cut himself off when he saw, on the couch, his husband and his son both fast asleep. The doctor smiled to himself, and contentedly observed the two most precious people in his life so at peace.