It'd been a fleeting night years ago, but Irene would never regret what resulted from that one little night. Nine months after, she gave birth to the most perfect little boy. She'd named him Hamish, in respect for that dear army doctor that had control of Sherlock's heart, and she liked the name. He wasn't there to sign the certificate, she'd never told him. She didn't want to burden him, and she knew that John thought that she was hardly the mothering type. She could see where he came from, however. In the short time they'd known each other, she hadn't shown him much in regards to her motherly instinct. Much of what he'd seen had been hardly masked sexual banter, but that was how she'd wanted it at the time. Ever since then, she hadn't done much to contact either of them, but had regularly read Dr. Watson's blog. She'd felt sympathy for him when she'd learnt of Sherlock's suicide, but had the suspicion that it had all been a hoax. Moriarty, on the other hand, she'd known was dead and six feet under; presumably in the grave belonging to Sherlock, because not even the Government would waste money on slime such as him. She knew James thought living was boring, that life was. She knew he wouldn't object at all to dying himself, so that he had. She'd felt a sick satisfaction at that.
Eight years later, Hamish Adler-Holmes was eleven years old. It was nearing Christmas, so he was on break from school. He was the smartest in his class, she'd expected that, what with his genes. He was also sassy, quick-witted, and mischievous. She'd been called in because of his words and actions multiple times, but she knew he was getting better at suppressing that urge to let his tongue flow freely. She'd given him permission to rant and rage at home to her, and if the matter was serious, she'd do her best to help fix it for him. He loved science, literature, and music. He had shelves full of books in his bedroom, all avidly read. He had science kits, with which he'd nearly blown up the kitchen on numerous occasions. She'd bought him a cello for his seventh birthday, and ever since then he'd been working hard to become well versed in musical talent. He had, but she'd expected nothing less due to Sherlock's own musical talents. She couldn't play an instrument, but she had a lovely singing voice, if she did say so herself. What had shocked her about him, was his creativity. Hamish loved to write, and usually when he wasn't writing little stories, he was either working on playing the cello or painting. She loved his paintings, and she had several framed and hung around the house. She loved everything about her son, and wouldn't change him for the world.
Striding through the house, she came to his bedroom door and rapped her knuckles upon the door a few times before entering. It was late, so she was dressed for bed. As it was the festive season, she was wearing her more festive pajama bottoms, and her reindeer slippers. Her hair was down, flowing in waves down her back, and her dressing gown was wrapped around her and tied snug at the waist. Looking around his room, she saw that he'd begun a new painting, and had started work on learning a new piece for the cello. She smiled when he'd finally turned his eyes on her, having been engrossed in writing a new little story or poem. "Bedtime, Hamish. It's Christmas tomorrow, so Santa should be coming tonight. He won't if you aren't asleep, better get ready and settled," she told him, chuckling as he rolled his eyes.
"But mummy," he whined, "I was just getting to the good bit, and it's not even late yet. Plus you know Santa isn't real, I saw you placing the presents under the tree last year," he told her, smirking smugly. Even so, he closed his notebook and set down his pen, climbing down from bed and going to fetch his pajamas. He left the room, going over and into the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later, holding the pile of clothes he'd been wearing, teeth brushed and relaxed for bed.
Irene moved aside, walking in and pulling the covers back for him before he climbed in. She tucked him in, leaning to press a kiss to his wild curls. She gave them a ruffle afterward, chuckling when he pushed her hand away. She yawned, smiling at him afterward, "Yes, yes I know, but it doesn't hurt to pretend. You do enough of that as it is, why is this any different? Oh, and it is late, don't play that with me," she said sternly, raising a brow as if daring him to challenge her on this.
Hamish opened his mouth to argue, but soon closed it when he saw his mother's expression. He nestled lower into the covers, looking at her with bright eyes, "You ruined the magic, mummy. Once you do that, there's no point in believing, and pretending that it's still real would be painful," he told her, reaching a hand out and pulling her to lay with him. "It's Christmas eve, mum. Is this a good reason for snuggles?" he asked, already nuzzling in close to her.
Huffing as she was pulled down next to him, she wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair gently as he snuggled close. Even though he was older now, he still loved her snuggles. "There never has to be a /reason/ for snuggles, but I suppose. It is Christmas, so they're festive cuddles, that's all. Oooh, speaking of festivity, how about instead of tea tomorrow, I make Hot Cocoa in the morning? Sound good?" she asked, smiling and pressing another kiss to his hair.
Hamish grinned, his head pressed against her neck. He knew she'd never object to snuggles, and he loved it when she got all festive around Christmas. It made the season much more fun. He nodded at her question, "With peppermints and whipped cream?" he asked. He liked Hot Chocolate best that way.
"Of course, love. When have I ever made it differently?" she replied, smiling and closing her eyes. "Come now, get to sleep. You can continue your writing, painting, or whatever else you please tomorrow after present opening and breakfast," she told him, gently beginning to rub his back. She fell asleep soon after, hugging him close against her.
She was awoken by the deep tones of a cello, and looked around the room to find Hamish had already up and vanished. Yawning, she swung out of bed and padded out into the living room. She found him sitting at his cello, deep in concentration as he played what sounded to be "Carol of the Bells". She chuckled, noticing everything was all lit up on the tree and around the room. She went and made up their mugs of Hot Cocoa before disappearing to fetch his presents. Upon returning and leaning to push them under the tree, she saw two wrapped presents under the tree, both addressed to her. Pulling them out, she made her way back over to the sofa and set them aside, "That music is lovely, Hamish, but come on. Time to open presents, and that's always much more exciting," she grinned, laughing as he stopped, placing his bow down and rushing toward the tree.
Sitting himself down in front of the tree, he reached over and picked up a gift, soon tearing away the paper. He grinned as he set aside a new set of notebooks, having needed a few new ones. He had a laptop, but liked to write things out rather than type them. If he had to, he typed them up later, making subtle revisions as he went. He'd soon made quick work of his other presents: a new chemistry set, four pads of paper for his easel, a pile of new books, and four different art kits, all well made. After he'd finished, he stood and ran over to where his mum was seated, sitting next to her and hugging her gently, "Thank you, mum. Now open yours!" he told her, practically vibrating in his excitement.
Irene pushed his mug over to him before setting hers down on the table and picking up one of the packages. They were both rectangular, and looked larger than she would have expected from him. Carefully tearing the paper away on the first, she found it to be a portrait of herself. She smiled, carefully setting it aside and picking up the other. It turned out to be a painting of the two of them together, and she felt her eyes mist over at the sight. Setting it down, she leaned over and hugged him, whispering. "Thank you," against his hair.
Hamish set his mug down and hugged her back, moving closer and situating himself in her lap. He smiled, leaning comfortably against her as he watched her face, "Merry Christmas, Mummy," he told her joyfully, giving her another squeeze.
Irene was still emotional as she watched him move over and settle himself within her lap. She wrapped her arms more comfortably around him and gave him a tight squeeze, chuckling quietly and peppering his face in kisses. She grinned, her eyes still slightly watered as she replied, "Merry Christmas, Hamish."