John tucked his head against the crook of his husband's arm, feeling Sherlock's chest expand with a happy huff. The head of curls moved downwards until the doctor felt lips on his temple. He sighed and smiled vaguely into the detective's skin.
"Do you have any idea what day it is?" the baritone of the man he was against rumbled.
"Not a clue." John baited.
Sherlock chuckled and his kisses trailed to his companion's mouth. "Well then I suppose I'll just have to take Hamish and go to the party without you."
"He's probably already up, it's a big day you know." John replied, turning his face up so that his husband was cradling him comfortably. "Not every day our only son turns eleven."
"How is it that as the years pass you just grow more attractive?" Sherlock asked no one in particular as he busied himself with allowing his hands to wander. "I don't think I was cast a fair lot in life, a son and a husband. God knows Mycroft thought I'd die alone in a cocaine induced coma."
The doctor frowned; he hated it when the taller man made such remarks. "Well we showed him didn't we?"
"Yes, in fact, I think I've won again. A healthy heir when my brother has yet to even marry." Sherlock seemed too smug. "Now I shall bask in the glory of my fortune." He said, delighted, as he dipped his head down to John's neck in a sensuous manner.
"DAAAAAAAAAAD! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHER! GEEEEEEEEEEEEEET UUUUUUUUUUUUP!" the sudden screech and banging on their closed door made both men jump horrendously. They barely had enough time to get into a more suitable position when Hamish burst through the door with wide eyes and a heaving chest.
Sherlock seemed rather disgruntled by the interruption but John couldn't begrudge the boy when such a day was upon them. "Er, good morning Hal." He said.
Their son clambered onto the bed, clad only in a button down nightshirt and boxer shorts. "Do you know what day it is?" he demanded, seizing his dad's face.
"The day we don't get to sleep in?" Sherlock guessed, ruffling the boy's hair good-naturedly and scooping him into his long arms to be mercilessly tickled.
"Perhaps the day we finally send you to the coal mines?" John added, joining in the assault.
Hamish's face was turning red from his laughing. "No!" he gasped. "It's-," gasp "my-," gasp, gasp cough "birthday!"
The detective stopped suddenly, furrowing his brow. "Birthday? I don't recall you ever having a birthday. John?"
The ex-soldier shook his head dutifully. "No, I don't think so, seems like he's pulling our legs. I recommend we send him to bed early with no supper." He said.
Hamish scrambled out of his father's arms and onto his dad's back. "No you guys! I'm eleven today!" he insisted, pulling a bit on John's ears.
"I'm sorry Hal, but I just think we would remember if it was your birthday." The man with the child on his back said sternly. "Sherlock, burn those fancy wrapped boxes in the closet, we won't be needing them."
The detective did a mock salute, standing up and attempting to make his way over to the door. Hamish squeaked and intercepted him, throwing the door open to have something bowl him over quite forcefully in a flurry of limbs, fur, and slobber.
Their son had been knocked over by a rather large bulldog with a bow placed haphazardly on its head.
"NO WAY!" Hal yelped, pushing the animal off to inspect it.
John stood up and moved to Sherlock, twining a hand through his own and grinning. "We know how much you've wanted a pet, he's yours so long as you walk and feed him."
From the floor, Hal put the animal in a chokehold. The dog wiggled a bit, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth but it seemed content. The detective made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like disgust as it drooled on the hardwood.
"What are you going to name it Hamish?" asked Sherlock, trying to avert his attention to the fact that the dog had only been officially his son's for a few seconds and he was already making a mess.
Hamish frowned. "Is it a boy or girl?"
"Boy." John replied.
The boy seemed deep in thought for a few moments, pulling away to search the bulldog's eyes for the answer to the question. "Bruce." He announced. "No, Jack… No! No, Samson. No wait I like Percival-,"
"The dog's name will not be Percival!" Sherlock interrupted loudly, shooting John a glare as though he put the child up to it.
Hamish didn't even hear him, he was too busy cycling through names. "Trevor, Frank, Gordan," the dog's ears pricked at the last one and Hal decided to follow the trail. "Gordan, Gary, Gladstone-," the animal consented with a loud, happy woof!
John chuckled. "Gladstone it is then?" his son's grin was in danger of falling off his face as he pushed the dog off to go inspect the rest of the gifts. The shiny wrapping paper glistened invitingly and the boy went down the line, collecting and then dumping them on the floor outside the closet.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Sherlock interjected, separating Hamish from the gifts with his hand. "You're not opening anymore until the party tonight."
"What?" Hal exclaimed, displeased. "But it's my birthday morning!"
"Yes, and we bought you the presents." Replied John evenly, steering his husband and son out of the bedroom. Gladstone trotted alongside Hamish, breathing heavily. "However you can have a birthday breakfast."
Hal frowned, but eventually seemed to decide that birthday breakfast really was the best course of action and nodded slowly. "Will there be lots of whipped cream?" he asked suspiciously, trying to weigh his options. His father snorted, but didn't answer him; instead he sat him down at the kitchen table.
John took in the inventory of available ingredients and figured out pancakes was the best direction to move and so he gingerly began mixing together the eggs, flour, water, and milk. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the back of his waist and put his chin on his husband's shoulder. The doctor hummed blissfully, leaning slightly into him whilst Sherlock guided his hands through the motions.
Hamish had slithered out of his seat and was now on the floor, poking and prodding at Gladstone experimentally. The dog didn't appear to care much and simply flung all its weight onto the ground, his tongue lolling out as he panted. The boy thought it comical how the animal seemed to have a blatant disregard for anything that didn't immediately concern him.
There was a sizzling in the pan and it appeared Sherlock had untangled himself from John and was making bacon. Gladstone's ears perked and he scrambled to haul himself up and go sit loyally by the detective's leg, waiting expectantly for a piece. The tall man raised an eyebrow at the animal and went about ignoring him while the dog whined softly until Hamish plucked a piece of the cooked meat from a dish on the counter and gave it to him.
"You shouldn't feed the dog human food." John commented, flipping a pancake. The frilly apron was on now and he was quite absorbed in his work.
"It's my birthday though." Hal complained. "Can't he have at least a little treat?"
"We'll buy him treats, but the pork can't be good for him." His dad replied evenly, looking at the animal who was sprawled back on the ground, licking his chops of the grease.
Hamish seemed delighted. "He's endearingly lazy!" he declared happily, scooping Gladstone up (as much of Gladstone as he could anyway due to the fact that Gladstone probably weighed well above what Hamish's threshold for weight lifting was.) and snuggling him.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, amused. "John we should've gotten him something a little more active. How do you expect this pitiful creature to keep up with the boy?" he murmured to his husband.
"He'll learn to manage." The army doctor said, watching Hal now slip Gladstone over and rub his stomach, much to the animal's enjoyment.
Once breakfast was all dished up and eaten, Hamish was more than content to dwell in the living room, attempting to train his new dog. Gladstone was defiantly sleeping in the sun that was beginning to leak in through the windows, much to his new master's frustration.
Sherlock had drifted to the couch in pursuit of John, who was typing on his laptop. The original blog he had started had evolved into what appeared to be a very intimate look at the life behind the consulting detective and his assistant, not only were cases recorded but many photos and updates of Hamish wormed their way into the blog as well. The sidebar proudly read "The Blog of John H. Watson-Holmes" as well, with a photo of a cranky Sherlock being kissed on the head by John.
The photo had been taken after they were first married, and the doctor had dragged his husband out to a pub with Harry to celebrate his sister's birthday and the taller man had been less than pleased. Harriet had snapped the picture with her phone, thinking the moment cute as John tried to cheer up the slightly intoxicated Sherlock and had emailed it to her brother. It was John's favorite photograph of them (well, except for the photos from their wedding, with their matching tuxedos and the detective's teary-eyed mother hugging John to the point where he was in danger of suffocating).
The text post he was putting online currently was about Hamish's eleventh birthday, attached was a photo of Gladstone and Hal laying on the floor in the sunlight. Sherlock was always curious as to how his son was so photogenic.
"Can you imagine that eleven years ago we were sitting in a hospital, nervous wrecks, waiting for our son?" John said, looking down at his husband.
Sherlock sighed, standing once more to go retrieve the book he had been reading (John was trying to find alternative things for the detective to do in-between cases besides shooting the wall and endangering his life via cocaine. The effort was hit-and-miss, as per usual any effort to get Sherlock to do anything) on the psychology behind serial killers. "I can do more than imagine because I was there, riding in the cab as you tore yourself apart, worrying that you would end up destroying our child's life before it was even born yet."
Hamish rubbed Gladstone's ears, closing his eyes and tuning out whatever conversation his parents were having. He was thinking about the presents that were sitting in the other room, and gauging by weight, height and general volume what they could be. He had been hoping for a chemistry set, and judging by the rattle from one larger box, he was guessing that maybe he had gotten it. His dog yawned, opening his mouth unfeasibly wide before looking over at Hal, his jowls sagging low and lubricated with saliva.
The day passed in this fashion, lazy and quiet while Sherlock read, John researched on the internet, and Hamish lounging on the floor with his new animal. The sun began to set and the army doctor stood, stretching with a wince.
"Right," he said, clapping his hands together. "Time to get dressed, your grandmother's probably got a ton of gifts for you and I know you're excited for that so let's get a move on!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, marking his book and heaving himself up. "Hamish I hope you know that you are the most spoiled child in all of London." He stated. His son grinned, dimples showing as he scurried out of the room. The men heard the bathroom door shut and the shower begin to run.
"He's never lacking in enthusiasm when it comes to visits with his Gran." John sighed as the pair entered their room. He pulled his ratty jumper over his head and began inspecting his closet for suitable restaurant wear.
Sherlock exchanged his current shirt for the tighter purple one that he knew his husband was a fond of. Hamish was heard banging about upstairs and the detective wondered what he could be doing that involved such a degree of noise.
There was heavy breathing as Gladstone dragged himself into the room and tried unsuccessfully to scrabble onto the Watson-Holmes men's bed. John intervened, still trying to do up his buttons with one hand. "Oh no you don't!" he said, steering the animal towards the door again. "Go on! Get!" Gladstone shot him a very mournful glance as he looked up the steps where their son was located, huffing dramatically as it took them one at a time in a lazy trot.
With a quick look at the clock, the couple finished the necessary altercations in good time. Sherlock turned to look at his husband, raising an eyebrow. "You look rather dashing Dr. Watson-Holmes." He commented.
John blushed, smoothing the lapels of the detective's jacket. "I could say the same of you, Mr. Watson-Holmes." He replied teasingly.
"What about me?" both heads turned to see Hamish leaning in their doorway, dressed in black trouser with a blue button-down and his hair immaculately combed and curled. Gladstone was sprawled behind him with a bowtie on his neck, slightly skewed.
"Handsome."
"Splendid." The parents each took turns complimenting. The boy smirked, pushing off the wall and sticking his hands in his pockets. Sherlock frowned, pointing at the dog. "He is not coming with us."
The smirk disappeared off of Hal's face. "What?"
John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry but I have to side with your Father on this one, no dog."
"But he's my dog! My dog my rules, you said he was mine as long as I fed and walked him!" the doctor's son complained. The boy folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. John looked at Sherlock and sighed.
Much to the men's chagrin when they hailed a taxi cab and boarded a slobbery but excited Gladstone jumped up with them, firmly fitted between Hamish's knees. The detective rubbed his temple, looking at his husband with a sour expression. "Really John, I've seen cucumbers with stronger wills than you when it came to parenting." He quipped.
Gladstone answered for John by drooling onto Sherlock's trousers. The detective was already plotting with ways to accidentally have the animal ingest poison when they stopped outside the restaurant. John's smile didn't dim even when his husband aimed the full force of his scowl at him.
Hamish decided that this had been the best birthday by far, and he hadn't even gotten to open all his presents yet.