"Sherlock can you come in?"

"It's Tuesday, Lestrade, you know what that means." Sherlock was simultaneously on the phone with Lestrade and battling his toddler, who was very eager to have a word with the Detective-Inspector himself.

"What does it mean?"

"John's at work and Mrs. Hudson's out. I have Hamish. No, I can't come in. Hamish, will you let go of my arm, I am trying to make a phone call."

"No! Ubstred!"

"Can you bring him?"

"To a crime scene?" Hamish was tugging at the pocket of his father's trousers and jumping up and down in an attempt to gain his attention.

"No, no, no, Sherlock, there's no crime scene, I thought I said that. He was murdered at the local primary school; we had to clear it all out really quickly. All the evidence is here at the Yard."

"Oh. Well in that case, yes I can come. But I'll have Hamish with me."

"Not a problem, see you in a bit."

Sherlock hung up and looked first at himself, then at his son, then around the flat. Despite the fact that it was almost three in the afternoon, they were both still in their pyjamas. The aftermath of breakfast, morning tea, and lunch was scattered across the living room and kitchen, and Hamish's toys were littered throughout the flat and down the stairs.

"Hamish, it's lucky you had an early nap today because you're coming to work with me. Now, we need to get you dressed."

"Ubstred there?"

"Yes, Lestrade will be there."

"John too?"

"No, John's at his other work today." He carried him into their bedroom and dressed himself first while he continued answering Hamish's questions.

"Where John work?"

"At the surgery, remember?"

"Mhmm. What John does?"

"You know what John does, he's a doctor."

"Make better?"

"Yes, that's right, he makes people better."

"Ham better."

"Yes, John makes you better when you're sick. Which shirt would you like to wear today, Hamish?"

He held up each of Hamish's t-shirts one-by-one, most of which were given a "No," or a "Bad," until finally he held up the Postman Pat shirt John had bought the week before.

"Yes! Pat!"

"Excellent."

"Daddy?" Hamish asked as Sherlock was pulling his tiny jeans on.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Ubstred Pat?"

"No, Hamish, DI Lestrade is not Postman Pat."

"No. Ubstred watch Pat?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

"Walk, Daddy?"

"No, we're getting a cab. It's too far to walk."

"No shoes?" he asked hopefully.

"You'll have to put shoes on because we'll need to walk while we're at Scotland Yard, alright?"

Hamish pouted. "Okay."

"Good boy. Which ones would you like to wear?"

Hamish picked out his brown pull-on boots with a set of Thomas the Tank Engine socks and, once he'd been bundled up in a coat and had a blue beanie wrenched on over his curls, they were ready to leave.

"Daddy, stop!" Hamish said as they started walking down the stairs.

"What is it?" The toddler ran back into the flat and returned a minute later with his Bob the Builder backpack. "Oh, of course. One minute, Hamish, just let me pack it."

"Okay, Daddy."

Sherlock dashed about the flat packing nappies, wipes, a change of clothes, some first aid supplies, afternoon tea, a couple of books and some toys for Hamish to play with.

"I'm sorry, I completely forgot that I'd need to bring things for you."

"It okay, Daddy."

Hamish insisted on walking down the stairs so it took about four times as long as usual, but they eventually reached the bottom and were soon standing on Baker Street hailing a cab. He was rather thrilled by the prospect of going in a car, having only ever travelled in one once before, and spent the entire trip staring wide-eyed out of the window and holding Sherlock's hand in excitement.

When they reached the Yard, Hamish, once again, insisted on walking so they meandered into the building and up to Lestrade's floor. Once there, Hamish got a little overwhelmed by the people and noise and grabbed desperately onto his father's hand. "Daddy, up?"

Sherlock pulled him into his arms and continued walking to Lestrade's office.

"Hey, Freak!" Sherlock wheeled around to find Sally Donovan, looking at them with a bemused expression. "Who's the kid?"

"Ham," Hamish introduced himself.

"This is Hamish. He's my son."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Your son?"

"Yes."

"Why are you here? Is that a baby?" Anderson came up to stand beside them, staring at Hamish in confusion.

"It's his son, apparently."

"Who in God's name would have a kid with you?" Anderson sneered, looking down his nose at the two of them.

Hamish looked quite unimpressed by these two new people and demanded an explanation. "Daddy, what is them?"

"Hamish, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan and this is Anderson."

"Not like," said Hamish, frowning at them.

"Yes, I must agree with you there, Hamish."

"Is he really yours?" Sally's expression had softened a little.

"Yes, he's really mine," Sherlock snapped, his frown deepening.

"How old is he?"

"He's twenty-one months old."

"Can I have a hold?"

"A hold?"

"Yeah, can I… can I hold him?"

"Hamish, would you like to go to Sally?"

He curled a little fist around Sherlock's lapel and said, "Not."

"Hamish, that's a little bit rude. What would John say?"

"Okay." He was reluctantly passed over, frowned for the length of Sally's 'hold', and looked very relieved when he was handed back to his father.

"Is there something wrong with him?" the sergeant asked, an eyebrow raised.

"No, there is nothing wrong with him. He's perfect. What are you talking about?"

"Well, he's a bit weird," Anderson chipped in, frowning.

Lestrade came to the rescue. "Alright, that's enough, clear off you two. Thanks for coming, Sherlock."

"Ubstred!" Hamish leapt out of Sherlock's grasp and the Detective-Inspector only just managed to catch him in time.

"Hello, Hamish," Lestrade smiled.

"Ubstred?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Watch Pat?"

"Postman Pat?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh. No, I don't. Do you watch Postman Pat?"

"Yes. Why you not?"

"Uh… I'm not sure. I suppose I've never thought of it."

"Come mine home watch Pat ah Ham."

"Maybe I will someday when I'm not working, how does that sound?"

"Yes."

"What about this case then, Lestrade?" Sherlock said hastily.

"Yeah, of course. Come into my office."

They sat Hamish in one corner of the room with his books, toys, and afternoon tea, and spoke about the case. The two were interrupted by the toddler about eighteen times during their conversation. Usually this was because Hamish wanted to show off a particular toy to Lestrade, or ask Sherlock a question like, "My eat packnakes?" Sherlock did not actually know the answers to most of his questions so would give him a vague, "I suppose Mycroft eats pancakes, I'm not sure," sort of response. At one point, Hamish decided to share his sultanas with his father and accidentally spilled them all over Sherlock's lap.

"Uh-oh. Sorry, Daddy."

"It's alright, Hamish, never mind," Sherlock said as he began picking them up and putting them back in the container.

Hamish waved his hands. "No, Ham do."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhmm. Ham pick up."

"Alright, thank you, Hamish."

"Okay, Daddy."

It took the little boy close to half an hour to pick up all of the sultanas. This may have been because he stopped at every second one to eat it, and didn't start again until he'd swallowed.

"Inish, Daddy!" He handed the half-empty container of sultanas to Sherlock and returned to his toys.

"Good boy, thank you, Hamish."

Sherlock's phone vibrated, signaling a text.

Where are you? – JW

Apologies. I meant to call you. I had to come into the Yard. I have Hamish. He's just eaten afternoon tea and is playing with his cars. Will be home before dinner. – SH

Did he have a sleep? – JW

We're fine, John. I can cope. – SH

Alright, see you later. – JW

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Who?"

"Who am I texting?"

"Mhmm."

"I'm texting John."

"Ham John?"

"Would you like to call him?"

"Yes."

Sherlock dialled their phone number and waited for John to answer, looking apologetically at Lestrade.

"John. Hamish wants to speak with you." He promptly handed the phone to his son, who proceeded to babble into the phone at a considerable volume for close to ten minutes.

"Bah, John!" he shouted, handing the phone back to Sherlock. "Inish."

"Yes, we'll be home soon. Alright. Goodbye, John."

Sherlock solved the case after only looking at two pieces of evidence, "Lestrade, that was barely a five," and they were, once again, hailing a cab.

It wasn't the cab driver's fault. The Mercedes ran a red light.

John flicked the television on to watch the six o'clock news and immediately wished he hadn't.

"A fatal car accident in central London has killed two and injured four. A sedan ran a red light at high speed and collided with a taxi on Oxford Street just one hour ago. Both drivers were killed instantly. The passengers of the taxi were a thirty-six-year-old man and his eighteen-month-old son," that got John's attention, "who were rushed to The Royal London Hospital along with the forty-five and forty-two-year-old male passengers of the sedan. We have been told that all four casualties are in a critical condition."