[The voice message box of Sherlock Holmes]
"Sherlock, it's John. The conference was extended an extra three days. I really wish I didn't have to be here, especially with- Never mind. Anyway, I miss you. Call you again soon. So check your phone you prick."
[End of message]
[The voice message box of John Watson]
"John, do hurry home. We're out of milk again and you still haven't passed me my phone."
[End of message]
[TVMBO SH, a few hours later]
"Then how did you call me, you twat. Did you even listen to my other message?! And I was going to- you're impossible."
"John, the next panel is starting! Cardiac bypasses...!"
"Got to go, I'll call-"
[End of message]
[TVMBO JW, half an hour later]
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Joh-
*beeping of phone in the background, indicates waiting call
Have to go."
[End of message]
[TVMBO SH, 23:56]
"I finally got away from them. My god, I knew med students are inquisitive, but this is ridiculous. They tricked me into playing truth or dare which turned into strip poker?! I was able to escape to the hotel gazebo, but I had to pick the lock to get in here so I can't be too loud. ...hope everything's alright at home. ...I don't know what else to say now that I've gotten the chance to talk to you. God, I just really want to hear your voice. Maybe then we could-"
[This message has been clipped due to length]
[TVMBO JW, 00:51]
*Heavy breathing
"John, everything's fine here and-
*muffled gunshots in the background, followed by a thud and cursing as Sherlock dropped his phone.
"Shit! John- I have to call-
*muffled crying
"No, don't cr-"
[End of message]
[one missed call, John Watson 1:07]
[two missed calls, John Watson 1:13]
[text] Damn it, Sherlock. Answer your phone. JW
[TVMBO JW, 2:03]
*breathy whipers indicate having just run a great distance.
"Battery's dying, can't talk long. I'm fine. The baby's fine. See you when you get home."
*muffled shouting in the background
"Shi-"
[End of message]
[TVMBO SH, 6:23]
"My word. John's in quite a state. I looked through his recent calls and you appeared the most, so I thought I'd give you a dial. He's frantic trying to get train tickets back to London. Kind of embarrassed for the chap, actually. What did you do? Phone sex him? It was far too easy to nick his phone. I'm one of the three sharing his hotel room, by the way. You should have heard what he told us about you last night, before he ran off, that is-"
"Oi! Is that my phone? Give it here, you-"
[End of message]
[TVMBO JW, 6:51]
*Sherlock talking over sounds of a baby crying.
"JOHN COME HOME NOW! HE WON'T STOP CRYIN-"
[End of message]
[TVMBO SH, 9:02]
*sounds of a large crowd and occasional loud speaker announcement*
"You wouldn't believe what a hassle it is to- Ah, there's my platform. I had to transfer a couple of times because the trains were delayed and it was faster this way. And Sherlock... WHERE THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU PICK UP A BABY if you are doing experiments on it, so help me, I'll-"
[signal lost, end of message]
[TVMBO JH, 10:15]
*Exhausted, but triumphant sounding
"Of course I'm not doing experiments on him! And... as to where he came from... a few things... happened during my two years away from London."
*Voice suddenly sober
"Irene named him Hamish, if it makes you feel any better."
[End of message]
[screen display]
Contacts- Sherlock Holmes, call? [10:45]
Action cancelled.
Contacts- Sherlock Holmes, call? [10:57]
Action cancelled.
[text] We'll have to talk about this more in person. I don't know how this will work out, if you wanted to live with Irene, I [message deleted]
[text] Why is he named Hamish? I was just joking about that, after [message deleted]
[text] Irene was alive the whole time? [message saved to drafts]
[text] Make a note, John. Babies like lullabies much more when they are played to them on the violin. SH
[text] Glad you figured something out. Still need me to come home? JW
[text] If you'd like to. SH
[text] already mostly there. might as well JW
[text] See you soon, then. SH
John stared at the text. He was filled with dread. He'd barely glanced at the screen twice when he'd sent the last text. The prospect of returning to the flat had lost its appeal, knowing that there was a difficult conversation waiting for him.
[text] Pick up baby things on your way home will you? SH
[text] Sure. How much. JW
The train pulled in to King's Cross. John drifted his way to the Underground, checking his phone at regular intervals.
[text] EVERYTHING YOU CAN GRAB. SH
Two plastic bags were forced into the limited space in John's baggage. He was able to carry two more in his other hand, though it might him look a bit homeless on the tube to Baker Street.
[text] Is he asleep? I wouldn't want to wake him coming home. JW
Good God it was hard to text carrying so much. John developed a new appreciation for the word 'cumbersome'.
[text] I think so. Are babies suppose to make a strange snuffing sound? SH
[text] Is it a snoring sound or a sick sound? Should I go back for medicine?
[text] Snoring, but it doesn't matter. He's awake now. SH
John stumbled his way up the stairs to the flat. It didn't look like Mrs. Hudson was in. One look into the sitting room and it was very apparent that Sherlock plus one was in.
Sherlock stared at the baby sitting on his knees. Hamish was about a year old, old enough to support himself, though his father did keep a steadying hand on his back.
It was obvious that Hamish was Sherlock's son. They shared the same head of cury hair and sharp features, though the baby's was padded by his baby fat, making him seem less intimatdating and more adorable.
The baby was too busy staring at his father to look up at John's arrival. He reached out and tightly grasped Sherlock's shirt, tugging it and playing with the buttons before releaseing it again and staring back up at Sherlock.
The bags were dropped with a thump to the floor. John marched to the sofa where the two curly-haired exasperations were situated. He stopped abruptly to stand beside the couch, unsure of what to do next. He felt very out of place.
"Hello John," Sherlock rumbled, eyes not leaving Hamish.
The baby made a soft cooing sound before lunging forward to grab his father's nose.
"Hi," John said lamely. "Um. This is Hamish?"
He was rather adorable, John couldn't help but notice. Letting his face be squished like that. Normally Sherlock despised physical contact, unless it was in a fight. He supposed Hamish was a little cute as well.
"Yes," Sherlock replied as he detached himself from Hamish, who was now interested in chewing on Sherlock's sleeve. "Hamish," the baby looked up at the sound of his name and was plopped into John's arms. "This is your namesake, John. Try not to drool on him."
"Ah, hello... Hamish," John said softly, like the baby was a primed bomb. "I'm John Watson. I'm friends with your father. Um. It's nice... to... I'd appreciate it if you didn't stare at me like that."
Hamish continued to look curiously at John before reaching out to grab his nose.
"Bbbblllll," he squealed happily.
"He wikes nozes," John decided. He found himself doing an awkward shuffle-dance. It felt like a thing one did whilst holding a child. Hamish gurgled in a positive manner, so he must be doing something right.
Hamish released John's nose suddenly so he could lunge at Sherlock, who had moved quickly to be able to catch him.
At John's stunned look, he explained, "He likes to do that."
"Jump," John said. He gave a few shallow nods, lips pressed in a hard line. "Just like his father." Any hint of being okay with this situation was deteriorating quickly.
Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line, but he refused to comment, focusing instead on Hamish, who, being the adorable little shit he was, had snuggled into Sherlock's shoulder and fallen asleep, little fist clutching the fabric of his father's shirt.
"I'm sorry," John managed after a silence. "That was out of line. I can wait." He took a calming breath and went back to the groceries he'd left by the door.
"It's fine," Sherlock offered quietly. "It's all fine." He gently rocked Hamish and wandered over to watch out the windows.
Where would they even put all of this? It wasn't like they had a designated diaper spot in the flat.
"I know it's fine," John said weakly. They continued to face away from each other.
"I've made space in my room," Sherlock murmured. "And I understand... if you want to leave."
"Leave?" John spun around faster than he previously thought he was capable. "No, I didn't intend- No. I don't want to get into an argument in front of him," he gestured to Hamish. "That's all."
"So, you're not moving out?" Sherlock turned to look at him, Hamish breathing contently against his shoulder.
"I wasn't planning on it," John confirmed. "Unless you wanted me to. Is Irene... still in the picture?" He didn't know if he could bare sharing the flat with her, even if Sherlock loved her. Especially if Sherlock loved her.
Sherlock stiffened and turned away again. "She's dead, John. That's why I have Hamish."
"What?" He immediately felt guilty for his jealous thoughts. He wasn't fond of her, but he didn't want her dead. Again. "How? Is that what happened while I was away?"
Sherlock nodded, looking down. "She called- that was the call waiting- and said that someone was trying to break in. I went there and-" he swallowed and glanced at the sleeping Hamish. "She had put him in the closet to hide him, but she was-" he shook his head.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry." John was across the room in a second. He didn't know what to say; his mouth hung useless. After a moment of indecision, he pulled Sherlock into a hug with Hamish tucked between them.
Sherlock sighed and leaned against John for a moment before straightening. "I'm going to go lay him down, then... then I'll explain everything."
John nodded silently and let him go. The last thing Hamish needed was a recount of how his mother had died haunting his young dreams.
Sitting or pacing wasn't any good. John stood where Sherlock had left him and flexed the muscles in his left hand on instinct.
Sherlock pulled open the door to his room and moved to carefully set Hamish down on his bed, gently brushing his fingers against his head before leaving, not quite shutting the door behind him, in case he started crying.
John looked up expectantly when Sherlock reentered. Just as quickly, he cleared his throat and looked away. He had no idea how to go about this.
"She thought that someone was after her," Sherlock stated bluntly, coming to plop down on the sofa.
"And she was right?" John asked. He took his place beside him on the sofa.
"I believe so."
"Are you...?" Sherlock sounded so hollow, dead. He'd acted unaffected when he'd heard of Irene's death after the Scandal. Now that she was really dead, well. "Do you need anything?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm just... worried about Hamish."
"He seemed really happy to see you," said John. And he seems to make you happy as well. "...How old is he?"
A small smile quriked Sherlock's lips. "He'll be turning one in a few days."
John couldn't help but return the smile. "His first birthday. We'll have to do something about that."
Sherlock dipped his head in a nod.
"Hey," John ducked his head so he could look up under those curls. "You know it's not your fault, right?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course it wasn't my fault." He shook his head. "It's just... sentiment. She was so excited for his birthday."
"Then we'd better not let her down," John concluded.
Sherlock shot him a suspicious look. "What do you mean?"
John sat back into the couch with his plate perched on his knees. "Sentimental or not, if Irene wanted a special birthday for her kid, Hamish will get a damn good party."
Sherlock's lips twitched slightly and he leaned back. "And what sort of party do you suggest?"
John chewed thoughtfully. "The fun kind," he said with a jab of his fork. "With balloons and cake and- wait, choking hazard. Scratch the balloons."
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by the sharp cry of his son. He stood.
John stood on reflex as well, although he didn't know what to do after that. It was Sherlock's child after all, he shouldn't overstep his boundaries.
After swiftly entering his bedroom and moving to Hamish's side, Sherlock immediately saw that he didn't need a change and tried to backtrack to the last time he knew the baby had been fed.
"John," he called over his shoulder. "Make a bottle, would you?"
"Acknowledge," said John. He walked quickly to the kitchen and located the formula, having to read the package to remind himself how it worked. The last time he'd seen it done was when Harry was a baby.
Sherlock entered the kitchen, a red-faced Hamish on his hip.
John handed him the just-finished bottle, in standby mode in case anything went wrong.
Shifting Hamish into a more suitable feeding position, Sherlock offered him the bottle.
Hamish, with a happy coo, clumsily clutched at it, working furiously to take in its contents.
John smiled and at the unlikely family picture of Sherlock and his tiny counterpart.
The detective's lips quirked as he gently bounced Hamish, trying to mimic the actions he had seen Irene do many times before, not noticing his partner watching him.
"You're a pro at this," John said, amazed. "I wouldn't have expected it."
He glanced up. "I... ah- looked up some things before I came to see them." He glanced back down when Hamish turned away from the bottle, little eyes finding John.
"Ja!" he exclaimed, reaching out.
"Ja...? Who, me?" he said, comically pointing at himself in disbelief. "You're a fast learner," he glanced at Sherlock, "but it's John. J-o-h-n."
"Ja," Hamish repeated happily, little fists making grabby hands at John as he nearly launched himself out his father's arms in a move similar to the one he had done earlier.
Sherlock handed him over and grinned as Hamish immediately curled his hands into John's jumper, cooing happily.
"I think he likes you, John."
As a doctor and friend of a few married couples, John had held many other babies before, but none that had taken such an immediate liking to him. To see such a small person be so content was doing things to his heart and face that he wasn't entirely in control of. He grinned up at Sherlock, completely happy to hold Hamish indefinitely.
The baby seemed equally content, nuzzling his head into John's shoulder, bunching the fabric of the jumper in his hands.
Sherlock looked at the two before him, eyes softening.
John rubbed a thumb over the back of Hamish's little hand. "He's not ever going to let go, is he?" he said quietly, not wanting to ruin the peace of the moment.
"Not until he falls asleep," Sherlock responded softly. "But he'll go right back to clinging when he wakes up."
"This could be a bit unpractical," John realized. "I can't go into the clinic tomorrow with a miniature Sherlock attached to me."
John couldn't help but laugh.
A thought struck the careless laughter right out of John's mouth. "Sherlock..." he started.
"Hmm?" Sherlock had moved to rummage through the bags John had brought home.
"Are we really going to do this?" John asked. "Raise a child?" He funneled all his concentration into keeping his balance; he didn't want to drop the baby.
"I don't see why not," Sherlock replied, sticking things away. "We've done crazier."
"That's true," John said, letting out a calming breath. Hamish had dozed off, fists still tight on the fabric of his jumper. "It's... such a big change. We'll need a crib, and a babysitter for when we're on case... There's no going back to our old lives, is there?"
"Mrs. Hudson will babysit," Sherlock pointed out, perching on the arm of John's chair. "And I can put a crib together."
"She'll love that! ...looking after a child, I mean. Going by the way she fusses over you."
Sherlock shot him a withering glare, but didn't dignify him with a verbal response.
"This might just work," John said, directed more at Hamish than the brooding Sherlock.
Morning came to 221 B at 4:23am with the piercing wail of Hamish, who had been sleeping in a makeshift crib. Sherlock, who had been getting actual sleep for once, didn't stir at the cries.
"Bugger," John muttered, rolling out of bed when the cries from Sherlock's room didn't stop. He was sure such noise would wake the dead.
Hamish continued to wail, fists balled up and waving, his face turning red.
John didn't bother knocking when he entered Sherlock's room. The doctor part of his mind was looping, "patient, heal, now" and formalities were the last thing he was worried about. John quickly scooped up Hamish and held him on his shoulder in case he needed to be burped or bounced.
Hamish quieted down once he was in the doctor's secure grasp, soft hitching breaths and tear streaks on his red cheeks the lingering remainders of his cries.
"Sh, shh, it's okay," John whispered, swaying to keep Hamish calm. It didn't seem like he needed a change, so it must have been something else that woke him.
"Da," the baby mumbled, hiding his face as he nuzzled John's shoulder. "Ma."
John's stomach dropped, thinking of how Hamish would never see his mother again. "I'm here, I'm here," he said for reassurance. There wasn't much else to say.
"Ja," Hamish agreed.
"John," he corrected automatically. He then reminded himself that even the offspring of the world's smartest man and most cunning woman wouldn't pick up speech overnight. John chewed that thought, then decided to test Hamish a bit.
"Sherlock," he enunciated, pointing at his sleeping friend.
"Sa."
"Good, good," John praised him. "That's good for now. Sherlock's a mouthful for anyone."
Hamish clapped. "Sa! Sa!"
"Sherlock," John said a bit louder. "Yes, Sherlock's your daddy, Hamish. That's you, Hamish," John continued, bringing the baby off his shoulder to his arms like he had not many hours ago. "Hamish," he said again, tickling his belly.
"Ja!" he squealed, hands waving.
John continued speaking nonsense to Hamish in increasingly hushed tones until the baby's eyes got droopy.
He yawned and snuggled into the good doctor's neck before finally nodding off.
John weighed his options for getting Hamish back into the crib without waking him and doing so before he drooled too much down his neck.
The choice was made for him when pale hands deftly stole Hamish from his arms.
"Got 'im?" John yawned, glad for a chance to stop swaying.
Sherlock nodded, moving away to place the baby in his make-shift crib.
John looked into the crib at Hamish's peaceful sleeping face. He really was cute.
Sherlock wandered out of his bedroom towards the kitchen.
John followed, making sure to leave the door open so they could hear if Hamish started crying again.
"Breakfast," Sherlock mumbled as he squinted at the formula mix and reached for a bottle.
"It's not even five," John groaned, reading the clock on the stove. He kept his voice down but not his disappointment.
"He'll be up again around 5:30," Sherlock told him. "Making the bottle now will make getting him back to sleep faster."
"Efficiency," John nodded. "Good."
"Going back to bed?" he asked when Sherlock finished the bottle and put it in the fridge.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Of course not."
"Hm, yeah, silly of me to ask," John grumbled. He made his way to his chair, a renewed wave of sleepiness overtaking him once he sat down.
Sherlock watched him for a moment before carefully saying, "You are not obligated to stay awake, John. Feel free to go back to bed."
"Nah, I'll be off the clinic in a few hours anyway," John punctuated with a yawn. "Hope you don't mind if I use your baby as an alarm clock..." His eyes fluttered shut.
"That's not a problem," he answered absently, clicking away at something on his laptop.
"Hm," John made a half-understanding grunt.
They remained that way, one detective at a laptop and one doctor half-asleep in his chair, until Hamish's promised waking time of 5:30 when his cries had Sherlock sighing and moving toward his bedroom.
John jolted awake and stood up too fast. After a bit of wobbling he went to the kitchen to retrieve Hamish's bottle from the fridge.
A rumpled looking Sherlock came in with a red-face Hamish clinging to his shoulder.
"Here," John handed off the bottle. It wasn't too cold after being in there barely half an hour.
"Oh, sorry," John mumbled at Sherlock's pointed look. He looked around for something to warm the bottle up. Microwave?
Sherlock gave Hamish a few bounces when he started fussing again, waiting for the bottle to warm up.
Finally the timer dinged and John tested the temperature before handing the bottle off again.
Hamish reached for the bottle as Sherlock offered it to him, making happy sounds once he started drinking.
"Mission accomplished," John announced. "Breakfast?"
Sherlock nodded wearily, holding the bottle steady as his son tried to take it from his grasp.
John took a box of pancake mix down from the shelf and checked the expiration date. He gave it a nod and began getting out ingredients and mixing bowls and the like.
"Hamish," Sherlock warned as he once again tried to pull the bottle away. "Don't."
The baby sent him a glare, but did settle down.
John tuned them out and got the first batch in the pan, the sizzling sound making him sigh in content.
The bottle finished, Sherlock brought Hamish up to burp him.
Easily winning the "Fastest Pancakes made by John Watson" award, the steaming cakes were set on the (remarkably clean) table, plates and forks to follow.
Sherlock sat at the table, a curious Hamish in his lap, and grabbed a few of the pancakes.
John added a few to his plate in comfortable silence, keeping an eye on Hamish all the while.
Hamish reached out towards the pancake curiously. Sherlock ripped off a bit and handed it to him.
John smirked and took a bite of his own pancakes.
Making happy coos once he finished the piece, Hamish reached out for more, which Sherlock, with a roll of his eyes at John, gave him.
"You like my cooking, Hamish?" John asked, pointed ignoring the box still sitting on the counter.
"Ja!" he squealed in obvious agreement, munching on his pancake.
"Good, I'm glad," John cleared his throat, not knowing what else to say to someone only capable of a handful of syllables.
As Sherlock handed Hamish another piece, his phone vibrated. Picking it up, he quickly scanned the message, lips quirking into a grin.
"Case?" John asked, the glint in Sherlock's eyes proving to be contagious.
"Triple homicide," Sherlock responded, standing and exiting the room, presumably to get ready, Hamish on his hip.
"Wait wait wait," John protested, abandoning his pancakes. "You aren't bringing Hamish, are you?"
A now fully dressed Hamish and Sherlock came back. "Of course. Coming?"
"Ah, no!" John put himself in the Holmes' path. "I can't condone taking a child to a bloody crime scene!"
"Well the idiots at Scotland Yard need to get use to seeing him, so now's as good a time as any." Sherlock scowled, fixing Hamish's jacket slightly. "Now are you coming or not?"
John huffed in exasperation. "Fine! But we're finding him a babysitter. Today!"
"Later," Sherlock grumbled dismissively, securing his hold on the squirming baby. "Now, crime scene."
"Let me get dressed," a very grumpy John replied. He stalked up to his room and got ready as quickly as possible, worried Sherlock would run off without him.
Impatiently tapping his foot, Sherlock glanced down at Hamish, the baby grinning in response.
"Da!" he giggled.
Sherlock brushed his free hand down his back. "Hamish."
"Alright, let's go," John emerged and didn't hesitate to exit the flat, knowing Sherlock's patience was a finite thing. He'd stand with Hamish away from the scene if he had to.
Following quickly behind the doctor, Sherlock caught up with him as he was hailing a cab.
John only realized after they were in the cab that they probably could have asked Mrs. Hudson to look after Hamish. Maybe not, it was obscenely early.
Sherlock bounced Hamish on his knee in the cab, watching as his son watched the London scenery pass them by. He grinned as the cab came to a stop.
John paid the cabbie and got out of the cab on the street side, rushing to catch up with Sherlock and the about to be traumatized baby.
Sherlock ducked under the crime scene tape and walked briskly toward Lestrade- and the bodies.
"Sherlock!" John hissed, casting a worried look at Hamish and straining to see what damage had already been done.
But there was no damage to be seen as Hamish just giggled the sight of some nearby flowers.
"Here, I'll take Hamish, you go look at the scene," John insisted.
"Nonsense, John" Sherlock dismissed as they came to Lestrade. "Now, Lestrade, this is Hamish. Hamish this is Lestrade."
"Hullo," Lestrade said, equal parts stunned and concerned.
"La!" Hamish enthused, little hands waving about, nearly smacking his father in the face.
John found this inappropriately adorable.
"As to the obvious question you are thinking about asking me: where did I get a baby- he is my son, so I suggest you get use to him."
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, an impressive feat with his new haircut. He glanced at John, apparently rethinking everything he'd learned in high school health and biology.
Sherlock had stopped paying attention, looking over the bodies with a critical eye, racing through the different scenarios that could have taken place.
"Really Sherlock, I can take him," John insisted, his leniency wearing thin. "Go take a closer look."
"Ja!" Hamish agreed, reaching for the doctor. Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed him over.
John was relieved. At least this way he could entertain Hamish with something other than corpses. Although as Sherlock's child he didn't know how long that would last.
Hamish looked around the crime scene curiously, giggling every so often, causing a few heads to turn in their direction
"Oh god," John mentally face palmed. "It was bound to happen sometime."
"What?" Lestrade asked. "You and Sherlock-"
"Hamish liking mur- hang on, what are you on about?" John asked.
"Well, who else would Sherlock have a kid with?" Lestrade asked, confusion mixed with amusement obvious on his face.
"Well, Ir-" John stopped himself. "I really don't know."
"Ja!" Hamish cried, nearly lunging himself out of John's arms trying to catch a wayward butterfly.
"Hamish!" John said more in surprise than anything. He adjusted his location so Hamish could follow the butterfly in a nonviolent manner.
Sherlock looked up at the commotion and scowled before turning back the bodies.
"There's Molly, I guess," John continued. He was more worried about what would happen when that distracting butterfly flew off than whatever the DI was talking about.
"Mol!" Hamish echoed happily, clapping.
"Molly?" Greg suddenly wasn't joking anymore. His brow creased. "I suppose... that would make sense."
"Good cover, Hamish," John whispered and gave the child a subtle high five.
Hamish giggled and looked up as Sherlock rejoined the group.
"What's the verdict?" John asked in place of Lestrade; he was still puzzling over the possibility of Sherlock and Molly actually being a thing. Were they still a thing?
Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Moriarty."
John felt something inside him crack. "That's not possible."
Sherlock scooped Hamish into his arms and held him close, images of Irene's bloody body dancing before his eyes. "Very possible."
"You're serious," Lestrade said in disbelief. "My god..."
The inspector went into full war-mode like flicking a switch. "Alright you lot," he yelled to his crew. "I want whatever you're doing right now to be done with three times as much attention to detail. And you-" He carried on, whipping his team into shape.
Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I'm going home."
John followed wordlessly. Even Hamish sensed the gravity of the situation.
Once they arrived back at Baker St. Sherlock placed Hamish in John's arms and went to work on putting together the actual crib, ignoring the questioning look on the doctor's face.
"Sherlock," John said quietly, standing in the doorway to his room, child in his arms.
He didn't look up, tightening the legs to the frame.
"Can I come in?" John asked.
He grunted, connecting the bars.
John took that as a yes and paced over to sit beside him on the ground. Hamish settled in the center of his crossed legs.
"Sherlock," he said slowly. "There's something you should know."
He tossed the mattress in the crib and waited to see if it would collapse. "And that is...?"
John winced. "No matter what happens," he cleared his throat. "I'll be here. With you. In case you forgot somewhere down the line that we're a team, and you can count on me for anything."
Sherlock's tinkering fingers stilled and his shoulders slumped. "I... appreciate that John."
John felt like he should do something more, but he was at a loss. He reached out, his hand hovering at Sherlock's knee for a moment before letting it fall back to the ground.
Hamish suddenly piped up, "Ja!"
"Yes Hamish?" John said. "Do you want to try your new crib?"
The baby clapped his hands and tried to lunge out of John's arms.
"He really never stops doing that," John muttered, hoisting Hamish the rest of the way into his new bed.
"He's use to having someone there to catch him," Sherlock mused, eyeing the crib. "There was always someone ready to catch him. Molly like to joke that it was Hamish's 'version of a trust fall'."
"That's why he recognized her name," John realized. "I should have know. By the way, Lestrade thinks that Molly is the biological mother."
Sherlock snorted. "Step-mother is more accurate," he muttered.
"You mean," John said, a little incredulous, "Molly and Irene? Got dumped fast, didn't you?"
John snickered a little.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched. "Irene asked me to be their surrogate, John."
"Oh," John said.
"Oh," he said again.
Oh.
"'Oh' what?" Sherlock demanded.
"I thought... You and Irene..." Sentiment? Human error? What was the Sherlock equivalent of a romantic relationship?
"Hardly," Sherlock looked away, a frown tugging at his lips. "It was never about that."
John put up his hands. "Unless you really want to talk about it, I'd really rather not know about Irene's sex life."
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "We didn't have sex either."
"She must have been disappointed," John stated.
"I believe she was far more happy with the fact that she was in a stable, committed, monogamous relationship with Molly."
"Oh god," John said, realizing something that should have been painfully obvious. "Molly. Does she know that Irene is...? And that Hamish is here? We have to see her!"
"She knows," Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping again. "She asked that I watch Hamish for the time being and leave her alone."
John frowned. Person who had just suffered great loss alone for an indefinite period of time. It didn't take a doctor to know they should at least call.
"Da!" Hamish exclaimed, holding onto the bars of his crib as he jumped. "Mol, Mol, Mol!"
"Could we?" John asked his friend. "I'll stay back if you want me to."
"I suppose," Sherlock said slowly. "With Irene's... killer still free, Molly would be safest with us."
"It'll be like a slumber party," John said. "But with more imminent threat of injury or death. Brilliant."
"Mol!" Hamish agreed cheerfully as his father sighed.
"I'll call her."
Molly adjusted the knocker and let herself in. She gave a wave to Mrs. Hudson and showed herself up the stairs to the flat, dragged a kitten-patterned suitcase behind.
Hamish bounced happily on Sherlock's knees, giggles pouring out of his mouth as he waved his hands about.
Molly peaked around the door. "Hello...?" she said, a faint smile emerging at the sight of little Hamish.
He turned at the sound of his mum's voice and squealed, "Mol!"
"Hamish!" Molly rushed over. She took his outstretched hands in her own and pressed a kiss to each, as was their own little hello tradition.
The baby giggled and made grabby hands, indicating that he wanted to be picked up.
Molly did so, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him over her head a few times before cradling the giggling tike in her arms.
Hamish snuggled into her, tightly gripping her shirt in his hands, making soft happy sounds into her neck.
"Thanks for inviting me, Sherlock," Molly said, not taking her eyes off Hamish. "Was really missing this little guy."
"Of course Molly," Sherlock replied, leaning back into the couch and nodded to Hamish. "It seems he missed you too."
"Hey you," Molly cooed a few times, rubbing her nose on the top of her child's head. She was completely distracted when John entered.
Hamish gave her a few sloppy kisses before noticing John's entrance. He waved and called out, "Ja!"
"Molly, good to see you," John said. "Yes, Hamish, I'm still here. Object permanence, we talked about this."
He giggled and tugged lightly at Molly's hair, planting another sloppy kiss on her cheek. "Mol!" he announced happily.
Molly giggled and planted a kiss on his nose.
Sherlock stood and took Molly's bag, disappearing into his bedroom.
"I was just about to make him a bottle," John said, motioning to the kitchen.
"Oh!" Molly looked up, apparently having forgotten John was there. "I'll help."
Sherlock wandered back in, barely pausing to scoop Hamish out of Molly's arms as he strode into the kitchen.
"He does that," John said.
"I know," said Molly. They followed Sherlock into the kitchen.
Sherlock handed Molly the bottle and asked her, "Did you bring enough clothes for the rest of the week?"
"Yes," she said, taking Hamish back as well. "And most of Hamish's things."
He nodded, hesitating before asking, "How much do you know about-" he glanced at John and changed what he had been about to say, "what's happened?"
Molly's smile dropped. "Irene's dead," she said flatly. "Foul play."
He shook his head. "Moriarty."
"No," she said. "That's not...!" Her grip was so tight on the bottle that John was afraid it might shatter.
"Molly?" he asked.
Sherlock pulled out a chair for her, one hand hovering over her shoulder. "Sit down, Molly. Let me explain what I know."
Molly sat slowly, careful not to disrupt Hamish as she resettled him in her lap.
He knelt before her and explained, "Irene called me last night and asked that I come and pick both her and Hamish up. She told me that she had proof that someone had been following her and needed a safe place to stay." He paused suddenly and looked down.
"And then?" Molly asked.
"She told me to hurry and then hung up. Halfway there, she called again, frantic. She said that two men were trying to break in, that she recognized them from her days working with Moriarty. She paused and-" he broke off, jaw clenching.
"Oh Sherlock," Molly said, voice breaking. She stopped, pressing her lips tight together so they wouldn't quiver.
"She asked me to tell you that she was glad she had been given the chance to know you and to make sure Hamish knew how much she loved him." He hesitantly placed his hand on her knee. "And how much she loved you."
Tears dripped down Molly's face. "I wish," she sniffed, then whipped her nose with her sleeve. "I wish I had... Well, it doesn't matter now, does it." Something hardened behind her eyes. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "It must be hard for you too."
"I am... sorry that I was unable to save her, Molly," Sherlock told her softly.
"You did what you could," said Molly. "You saved Hamish." She looked at the precious child in her arms.
His lips twitched and he ran a finger over Hamish's hand. "He was fast asleep when I found him. Irene hid him in the bedroom closet."
"She was always the clever one," Molly said, tearing up again. "And the pretty one. She knew it would be dangerous to settle down, but she did. For me. Why did I let her do that?"
"You loved her," Sherlock stated. "And she loved you. Seems as good an idea as any." He shook his head. "I'm not sure how they found her, we worked hard to convince the world she was dead."
"Moriarty," Molly snarled through her tears.
He caught ahold of her hand and fiercely stated, "I am going to find him, Molly. And I am going to make him pay."
"We will," Molly corrected him. "Together."
"Me too," John interjected. This was turning into an all out revenge party.
He looked at Molly, taking in her red rimmed eyes and firm expression before turning to look at John's solid stance and determined expression. He nodded and pressed a kiss to Hamish's temple as he stood.
"Together," he agreed.
"One thing's for certain," John said. "The battlefield is no place for a child. Hamish will need a babysitter."
Hamish looked up from where he had been dozing against Molly's neck when he heard his name and blinked sleepily. "Ja?" he yawned.
"I'm going to make a few calls. I think I know somewhere safe Hamish can stay," John said.
Sherlock looked down at Hamish and Molly and asked, "If that's alright with you, Molly?"
"I don't see what else we can do," Molly said, holding Hamish closer despite her words.
He pursed his lips and glanced at John. "Who can watch him?"
"I'll find someone we can trust," John promised.
Sherlock nodded and told Molly, "Hamish's crib is set up in my room, if you'd like to stay in there."
"Thank you, but where will you sleep?" Molly asked.
"The couch will be fine for me."
John opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He instead went into the living room to make his first call.
Molly and Sherlock were talking quietly, Hamish asleep on her shoulder when John walked over to them a few hours later, tired but triumphant looking.
"I've got the person we're looking for," he said. "Her name is Mary."
Sherlock rose an eyebrow and looked closely at him. "Mary what?"
"Mary Morstan," John clarified. "My mother recommended her."
He spread his hands and asked, "When can we meet her?"
"As soon as tomorrow morning," John said. "I'll text you her number."
"Good, good."
With a firm rap of the knocker on 221 B's door, Mary tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and waited for someone to answer the door.
"That's probably Mary," John said, getting to his feet. "I'll go let her in." He made his way down to the door. "Hello, Mary," he said, opening the door. "I'm-" He stopped.
She tilted her head and grinned. "John, right? It's nice to meet you."
"You're nice to- It's nice to meet you too," John recovered. "Come in," he opened the door a bit too quickly and hit the wall.
She crossed the threshold and watched him close the door. "Is there anything I should know before we go in?" she asked lightly.
"Hamish is my flat mate's," John said. "I'm single." Was that too obvious?
Her lips quirked and she gave him a subtle once-over. "Good to know."
"Mm," John nodded. He gestured to the stairs. "Shall we?"
"Let's." She nodded, heading up.
"This is Sherlock, Hamish, and Molly," John introduced everyone in turn.
Mary gave a genuine smile and moved forward to shake Molly's hand. "Nice to meet you."
"You too," Molly gave a thing smile. "Say hello, Hamish."
The baby looked at the woman before him for a second before giggling and hiding his face in his mum's neck.
"Oh, he's shy," Molly said. "He warms up to people fast. He loved John right away, didn't you Hamish?"
He perked up at the sound of the doctor's name and cried, "Ja!"
Sherlock watched the exchange silently, paying particular attention to Mary.
"Sherlock," John said, "could I talk to you for a second?"
He nodded in agreement and the two moved to the kitchen.
"Is she a serial killer?" John asked without preamble.
"No..." Sherlock responded slowly, obviously thinking about something else.
"Does she have some sort of unbearable habit? A boyfriend? Girlfriend?" John asked in rapid fire.
"She's a cat lover, shortsighted, has a secret tattoo, is single, romantic, a size twelve, a liar, has had her appendix taken out also has a secret, and is an only child."
"She's perfect," John said dreamily. "You think I've got a chance?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back into the living room.
"...and play with him all the time, he loves exploring. The diapers are over here, and the formula is here..." Molly continued explaining to Mary.
"Ah, good, you're showing Mary around." Sherlock moved to stand next to Molly, catching Hamish when he lunged at him.
"Does he do that often?" she asked, amused.
"Yes," Molly said. "You'll have to look out for that."
"That'll be no problem," Mary replied with a grin, giving the baby a wave when she saw him peering curiously at her.
"Hamish," Molly said softly. "Say hello to Mary. She's going to be looking after you while Da and John and I are away."
Hamish looked between his mum, his da, and Mary for a moment, before grinning and launching himself at her.
"Woah!" she laughed, catching him easily.
"I'm sure you two will get along just fine," Molly said with a smile.
Mary smiled at her and gave Hamish a bounce. "What do you think, Hamish? Are going to get along?"
He clapped his hand and squealed happily. "'ry!"
"If you need anything," John told Mary, "don't hesitate to call. Anytime." With a look from Sherlock, he said more quietly, "I'll shut up now."
Mary brushed a lock of hair out off of Hamish's face before locking eyes with John and sending him a soft smile. "I will."
John felt his heart hit his rib cage in the most uncomfortable and thrilling manner.
Mary's breath caught at the smile John sent her and she quickly adverted her eyes, a blush staining her cheeks.
Once the three of them were out on the doorstep, John breathed a lengthy sigh. "She's lovely... Do you think she likes me?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously."
"Really?" John asked, searching his face for tells. "You think so?"
"She blushed and looked away when you smiled at, obviously enjoyed the flirting session you two were having, and continuously showed you her palms, an unconscious sign of attraction."
John clasped his own hands behind his back self consciously. "Oh, good! Good. That's good." He zoned out, lost in thought.
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and looked at Molly.
Molly shrugged. "She's cute. They'd make a good couple," she pulled him closer. "Try not to get too worked up about, okay? He's had girlfriends before, this won't change anything."
"Why would I get worked up?" he demanded. "Of course this won't change anything."
"It's nothing," Molly said. She waved down a cab. "Just a hunch I had."
He narrowed his eyes at her, but followed into the cab without comment.