A little one-shot. Hope you like it. Apologies in advance for my mistakes. Thanks for reading!

H is for Hamish

It was a letter present in their names. In all of them. In John, in Sherlock and, of course, in Hamish's. In the name Holmes. It was the first letter of his name. Their son's name. The name they chose because Sherlock liked it. Because the detective didn't have a second name, but John did. Hamish was John's father's name. It had been present in the Watson family for years and years.

"I want our son to have your name."

"John is very mundane. Not my words," John chuckled. "Yours."

Sherlock pressed a hand to his swollen stomach and kissed his husband's lips. "Hamish. His name will be Hamish."

.

A is for Apple

Hamish loved apples. But he really, really, really loved them. He liked to eat apple sauce with breakfast, a slice of apple pie after lunch and sometimes, when papa Sherlock allowed him to, one apple before going to be bed.

"Why is that you like apples so much?"

The toddler shrugged. "Papa, I wanna an apple. Pwease."

"John will kill me if he knows you've eaten too much apple pie."

There were moments when John reminded Sherlock he was the one to blame about Hamish and his obsession with apples. During pregnancy, Sherlock went through a phase of craving for apples and only apples. Mrs Hudson said they should plant an apple's tree. But the doctors said it was good for him and the baby so Sherlock ate four to six apples almost every day: apple pies, apple sauce, apple juice...

"You ate too many apples when you were pregnant. That's why Hamish likes them so much," John joked.

Sherlock smiled and sat next to his husband in their bed. "I liked cuddling with you when I was pregnant. That's why Hamish likes it so much."

Both men smiled at the sight of a sleepy Hamish cuddling next to John on their bed.

.

M is for Monkey

Hamish had lots of nicknames. But the one he liked the most was monkey because that's the way his daddy John called him every time they were alone, when papa Sherlock was on a case which was too dangerous and there was no one to read him stories and make funny voices.

"What is it, monkey?"

Hamish handed his daddy John the book he had been reading with his papa Sherlock for the past three nights. "Read book, daddy."

"But I can't do the voices."

The little boy pouted. "Your voice is good for Bilbo. But not for the dragon."

"What was the dragon's name?"

"Smaug," Hamish replied as a matter-of-fact. "Papa makes a good dragon voice."

John chuckled. "And how's a dragon's voice like?"

Little Hamish explained his daddy he couldn't do it as good as his papa Sherlock's. But that night, when Sherlock returned quite late that his son was already sleeping in bed, John kissed his husband and asked him to talk like a dragon. In return, Sherlock pulled John's jumper off and kissed him back, roughly.

"Come on, don't be shy..."

.

I is for Idiot

Hamish's first word was idiot.

Both had dreamt their son's first word would be either papa or daddy. But no. They had to go to the Scotland Yard because apparently Greg and his team were far too stupid again and they couldn't solve the case of a poisoned man. Hamish was still a baby, close to his first birthday when, in his daddy's arms, he reproduced Sherlock's favourite word for Anderson.

"Didn't you see the marks on his hands? The poison was introduced through -"

Anderson bit his lip. "I'm in charge of -"

"You're an idiot."

"Idiot."

Everyone went silent.

John's eyes were wide open. "Misha... what did you say?"

"Idiot," repeated the baby boy.

Greg smiled.

Anderson rolled his eyes.

And Sherlock smirked proudly. "Very well said, son."

"Idiot!" Hamish clasped his little hands repeatedly. "Idiot, idiot, idiot!"

.

S is for Silence

When he was pregnant Sherlock liked silence. When John was either working or in the shops, running an errand, visiting his idiotic sister, helping Mrs Hudson with her boiler or simply seeing his friends from the army Sherlock liked lying on his bed, on his side facing the door, his prominent and swollen stomach on the mattress and his eyes closed.

A hand on his stomach. His fingers running on his stretching skin.

Silence.

A kick.

Hamish kicked when there was no one around and when everything was silent. There were a few times he kicked when John was close. But it usually happened when he had been out for long and Sherlock already missed him.

"You're gonna be a good footballer, won't you?" John asked once, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's stomach. "Of course you will."

Sherlock smiled. He pretended he didn't like it when John said their son would be a footballer but he actually liked it. He wanted his son to be good at sports, be good at any sport he liked so he could go and watch him playing.

"You said you wanted him to be a detective like me."

John met his husband's eyes and smiled. "He's going to be a footballer and a consulting detective. A doctor and maybe a soldier too."

.

H is for Home

221 B Baker Street had an extra-room. When both knew they were expecting a baby, John cleaned it, painted it and with Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft's help, they decorated and welcomed Hamish Watson-Holmes. For the first months Hamish slept downstairs in their room because both parents were too lazy and too tired to climb up the stairs and nurse him every time he cried in the middle of the night.

When he grew up, Hamish's cot was replaced by a bed. His soft toys and stuffed animals were replaced by plastic bricks, cars, dinosaurs, football and rugby balls, little soldiers, a TARDIS and, of course, a sonic screwdriver.

And then, the unnecessary furniture was replaced by a desk, a bookcase and several books that were not children stories or fairy-tales but dictionaries, encyclopaedias and biology, science, physics books and novels. All of them filled in Hamish's bookcase.

No more stories were told before going to bed. No more lullabies were sang. There were no monsters Sherlock, John, or both could scare away and protect their son from. The light blue painted walls were all white now, covered with posters of bands and women Hamish's parents didn't know who they were.

And then, 221 B Baker Street that used to be filled with a crying baby, then a toddler, then a child, then a boy, then a teenager and finally a young man's voice, footsteps, rantings, crying, laughter and more was silent. There were no more 'monkey', no more 'idiot', nothing.

The nest was empty.

"We'll miss you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's going to university. Not to Fiji or the deep of the South American jungle."

"See dad?" Hamish said, taking a last look to the building that used to be his home for the first eighteen years of his life. "I'm just growing up, like uncle Mycroft says."

Hamish hugged both of his parents and got into one of his friend's car and left.

That night Sherlock cried in his husband's arms. He said that he still remembered carrying his son inside him, then carrying him in his arms, singing him lullabies, giving him his bottles, scaring the monsters away, wiping his tears away when he was sad and cheering him on during his football matches. John held Sherlock in his arms and told him everything was going to be OK.

"Do you remember Hamish's first word?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

"He still eats too many apples."

The detective smiled. "He's a good footballer. You said he was going to be good at it."

"And I'm sure he's going to be a good detective too."

The end.