A/N: We're jumping forward again, Hamish is now three years old. They grow up so fast. Thanks for reading.
John stretched and squinted his eyes at the morning sunlight coming into his bedroom window. He really needed to get some heavier curtains. He and Sherlock had just finished a very intense murder case, and he had barely slept over the last 48 hours.
John would have preferred to stay in bed and doze off again, but then his stomach started rumbling. With a yawn, he sat up and ran his hand over his short blonde hair. Maybe he could grab a piece of toast and take a nap in front of the telly. He shrugged on his robe and headed downstairs.
The sight in the kitchen startled him for a moment. Hamish's crib, which was normally in Sherlock's bedroom, had been pushed in front of the refrigerator, and Hamish was attempting to climb out of it. The little boy froze when he saw John.
"Hi, Uncle John," Hamish said, smiling and holding his arms up to be lifted out.
"Good morning," John chuckled and stepped forward to lean against the table. He gestured towards the crib. "Don't let me stop you. Go on, get out."
Hamish gave John a sideways look, unsure for a moment if he really was allowed to climb out of the crib, but then he went back to work. He was a very good climber, but cribs have no good foot or handholds. He was also hindered by the fact that he was very small. Although he had recently turned three, there were taller children six months younger than him at the park. Eventually he hit on the technique of jumping and trying to lean over the crib rail. He jumped, tottered for a moment on the top rail, and tumbled over the side.
John had anticipated this result, and caught Hamish before he hit the floor. "Gotcha," he laughed, kissing the surprised little boy's head. "Why are you in the kitchen?"
"Dad put me here," Hamish said.
"And why did he do that?"
"He wanted to go to sleep."
"Ah, and you didn't want to sleep?" John asked. Sherlock had gone without sleep much longer than John had during the case. The detective was probably exhausted.
"Dull!" exclaimed Hamish.
"Well, I hope you got some rest," John said. "We have a busy day today." Hamish widened his blue eyes in excitement, and John continued. "We're going to get you a big kid's bed, and your own bedroom, and you're going to start learning to sleep at night."
"No!" Hamish howled.
"Oh, yes," John chuckled. "But first, breakfast." He placed another kiss on the little boy's thick black curls before setting him on the floor. Hamish scampered off to the lounge to play, and John pushed the crib into the hallway to see if they had any milk in the fridge.
OOO
John wandered through the department store, looking left and right for the children's furniture department. Hamish trotted along beside him, holding tightly to his uncle's hand.
"Why do I get a new bed?" Hamish asked.
"Because you're growing into a big kid," John answered. "Cribs are for babies. You need a bed you can get out of without hurting yourself."
Hamish thought for a moment. "Can't I have two beds?"
"No," John laughed. "You'll like your new bed. Besides, we're giving the crib to Inspector Dimmock."
"Why?"
"Because he and his girlfriend are going to have a baby, and the baby will need a bed."
"Where are they getting a baby from?"
That question caught John off guard. "Um," he started. "Well…"
Luckily they had finally found the furniture department, and Hamish saw a set of bunk beds, with a ladder on the front. He stared at it in wonder and excitement.
"Can I have the climbing bed?" he exclaimed, jumping up and down. "Yes, yes, yes?"
"No," John answered firmly, steering the boy towards the twin beds. "You can have a normal bed, like Dad and I have."
Hamish pouted, but didn't put up an argument. The extra long twin beds were on sale, so John purchased one to be delivered to Baker Street that afternoon. Who knew, maybe one day Hamish would get the Holmes growth spurt and end up as tall as his father or uncle Mycroft.
"So which blanket do you want?" John asked, gesturing to all the bedding displays.
"The one with ankylosaurus on it!" Hamish answered excitedly.
The sales girl raised an eyebrow and looked at John. "He means the dinosaur one," John translated.
"Yup, that's ankylosaurus," Hamish said, pointing out the bright red club-tailed dinosaur on the navy blue bedspread. "And that's hadrosaurus, and stegosaurus, and tyrannosaurs rex. Raawwwrrrrr!"
"And brontosaurus," the sales girl laughed.
"But he's make believe," Hamish mumbled, frowning at the large green dinosaur.
The sales girl gave John another confused look. He didn't bother to explain, he just purchased the bedding set and headed home.
OOO
John tossed Hamish's new sheets in the washer, and draped the comforter over some chairs in the lounge to air it out. Hamish took his toy dinosaurs and crawled into the new blanket fort to play.
Sherlock came stumbling out of his bedroom, yawned, and flopped down on the sofa. The detective was still wearing his pajamas, and his dark curly hair was sticking out all over his head.
"I'm glad you're up," John said to Sherlock. "We have a busy afternoon."
"Do we have a case?" Sherlock asked hopefully, sitting up.
"No," John answered. The detective pouted and flopped back onto the sofa.
Hamish stuck his head out of the blanket fort and made a face at Sherlock. "Meany," he said.
"Brat," Sherlock answered. They both glared at each other with narrowed eyes.
John tried not to chuckle. The two of them must have had a big fight before Sherlock finally exiled Hamish to the kitchen last night.
"Since you've decided to evict your tiny roommate, we should start moving him into his own bedroom," John explained.
"Yes, in the basement," Sherlock answered in a deep, dramatic voice, still staring at Hamish.
"No!" Hamish squeaked, and ducked back into his fort.
"No, not in the basement," John agreed. "Mrs. Hudson and I were discussing how to arrange things a few weeks ago. We can move him into the room next to mine."
"The storeroom?" Sherlock asked, giving John a confused look.
"It's a small room, but it will be a good place for a boy," John explained. "It has a window that looks out from the back of the building, and a small closet. Since no one wants the basement apartment, we can just move all the stuff in the storeroom down there."
"There are three flights of stairs between the storeroom and the basement," Sherlock whined.
"Well, its either that, or you spend another night with him," John said. Hamish had regained his courage and was now glaring out of the fort again.
Sherlock looked down at Hamish and groaned, "I need coffee."
The storeroom may have been small, but it was stacked floor to ceiling and wall to wall with boxes, crates, and old furniture pieces. With a sigh, John and Sherlock grabbed the first boxes and began down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson came up to watch Hamish as the two men cleared out the room.
Hamish stood on the landing, watching. "I want to help!" he announced.
"Help by staying off the stairs," John answered. "Go back inside."
"I probably should have gotten rid of all that junk years ago," Mrs. Hudson said, dragging Hamish back into the room.
"I recommend leaving it down in the basement forever," Sherlock muttered, ascending the stairs again. "Or at least moving it when I am not around."
After a few more trips, John peeked into the lounge to check on Hamish and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was not able to join Hamish in the floor under his blanket fort because of her hip, so she was sitting in an armchair while the little boy dragged the blanket and chairs up to build the fort around her. John had to smile.
A few hours and dozens of trips up and down the stairs later, and the small bedroom was empty. Sherlock collapsed onto his sofa with a groan. Hamish came over and climbed up on top of him.
"What did you do today?" Sherlock asked, helping the little boy get settled along his side.
"Played," Hamish answered simply, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Very good," Sherlock murmured. "Playing develops your imagination and abstract thinking abilities."
Both father and son were asleep on the sofa by the time John came back from washing his hands.
"I'll just leave these in the fridge," Mrs. Hudson whispered, handing John a sandwich as she carried a plate to the kitchen. "You take a break, too, I'll go mop up the room before you move his things in."
"You're a saint," John said, accepting the sandwich and collapsing into a chair.
John was about to nod off himself when he heard a knock at the door. He sighed and went to greet Inspector Dimmock. The crib was still in the hall.
"Thanks for giving us this crib," Dimmock said as they began to disassemble it. "All of this baby stuff is expensive."
"It doesn't get cheaper when they get older," John answered.
"I still can't believe I got Jackie pregnant," Dimmock sighed.
"Well you do know how that happened, don't you?" John teased. "I'll be explaining things to Hamish later, you can join us for a remedial lesson if you need to."
"I know," Dimmock scowled. "I'm just not sure I'm ready."
"You were talking about getting married a few months ago," John said.
"Yeah, but that would have been just the two of us," Dimmock explained. "Jackie and I are great together. A baby might change all of that."
"Change doesn't have to be bad. Honestly, its not as scary as it sounds," John said. He nodded to Sherlock and Hamish napping together on the sofa. "Besides, if we can manage it, you'll be fine."
"Yeah," Dimmock laughed. "There were a lot of bets placed at the Yard on how long you two would last as parents. Lestrade made a lot of money."
"Ha! Lestrade knows better than to bet against us," John crowed. "How much did you lose?"
"Not half as much as Donovan or Anderson," Dimmock said, blushing.
They got the crib pieces loaded into Dimmock's car, and the deliverymen arrived with Hamish's new bed. John had Dimmock help him assemble it before collapsing into his armchair once again. Once again, just as he was dozing off, John was awoken. This time it was by Sherlock and Hamish stirring on the sofa.
"Do you still want to help with your room?" John asked Hamish.
"Yes," the little boy replied, nodding his head.
"Take all your toys up there, so we can play there," John said.
Hamish quickly scurried off, grabbing up handfuls of toys. John collapsed on the now vacated sofa. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and began looking for a new case on the computer.
John was exhausted, but his body refused to fall asleep. He just laid on the sofa staring in front of himself. He realized he would probably be more comfortable, and have more peace, in his bedroom, but he couldn't face the stairs again right now. Sherlock whined about not being able to find a case, and snapped the laptop shut. He picked up his violin and began picking at it. Hamish found his large plastic bumble, and ran over to Sherlock with it.
"Bee dance, bee dance, bee dance!" he demanded, jumping around.
Sherlock complied. "Bee dance" consisted of Sherlock playing Flight of the Bumblebee on his violin, while Hamish ran around the room frantically, holding his plastic bee aloft. It usually ended with Hamish getting dizzy and collapsing. Sherlock had promised to take Hamish bee watching in the spring, so he could study the bees' flight and more accurately imitate it.
While not the most relaxing lullaby, bee dance managed to make John finally fall asleep.
Waking up later that evening, John still felt stiff and sore. He sighed, sat up, and turned on the telly. It was almost eight. He felt terrible, and he was sure he had no patience, but he still felt that Hamish should learn about bedtime. He expected it to be a challenge. The mothers he spoke to in the park had several horror stories about trying to get their children into bed.
John was suddenly surprised that he had turned into someone who discussed child rearing in the park. He ignored it, and told Sherlock to give Hamish a bath. He could rest a little while longer while they did that. Hamish didn't mind baths. John suspected it was because of the boats in the tub.
After his bath, Hamish came scampering into the lounge, completely naked.
"Where are your pajamas?" John asked.
"Upstairs," Hamish answered happily. His dresser had been moved up to his new room.
"Oh, right," John said. "Are your story books up there too?" Hamish shook his head no. "Go get them," John told him, "and I'll read you a story in your room."
Hamish ran around, grabbing his favorite books and his favorite blue monkey. Blue Monkey was an important friend to have for story time. John groaned as he got off the sofa and headed to the stairs.
"Its cold up here," Hamish whined.
"Its winter and you're naked, you'd be cold anywhere," John reasoned, getting some pajamas onto the little boy.
Hamish didn't mind climbing into his new bed to listen to the stories. John read him three, and asked if he was tired and wanted to go to sleep.
"Nope," answered Hamish, and he started to climb out of bed.
"No, wait," John said. "You're a big kid now, and big kids need to go to bed at night."
"Why?"
"Because most people sleep at night and are awake during the day," John frowned. This would be easier if Sherlock didn't keep such ridiculous hours himself. "If you sleep at night, you won't need to take a nap during the day."
"But I want to play now."
"Ok," John sighed. He kept reminding himself to be patient. "Since this is new to you, you don't have to go to sleep now. But you do have to stay in your room until morning."
"No!" Hamish stuck out his bottom lip and scowled.
"Hamish, I said stay here. You have plenty of toys here."
"No, no, no, no!" Hamish stamped his feet and headed for the door.
"Hamish!" John snapped. The little boy froze at the tone. John kneeled down to get on eye level with him. "If you go out, I will be very angry, and you will be in big trouble."
Hamish clutched his blue monkey, and unsure about what else he could do, sat on the floor and started crying. He was screaming words, but John couldn't make them out through the wailing. John pinched the bridge of his nose. He really hadn't wanted a meltdown. He sighed and walked downstairs.
"Go talk to him," John said to Sherlock.
"Wouldn't I be undermining you?" Sherlock muttered.
"I told him he could stay up playing as late as he wanted, as long as he stayed in his room."
"Then why is he upset?"
"Because he's alone in a new room and he's confused and he's three!" John snapped. "He's used to spending nights with you, and he's mad at me now. Go comfort him."
Sherlock went upstairs, and lifted the still crying Hamish off of the floor. Hamish kicked his legs and screamed.
"Well, that's dramatic," Sherlock muttered, and sat on the bed with Hamish, gently rocking him. "Calm down."
"Uncle John's a meany," Hamish hiccupped.
"Yes, he is," Sherlock agreed. "But we still love him."
"I don't want to go to bed at night."
"You don't have to. You can play in here."
"I don't like this room. I want my old bed back."
"No," Sherlock sighed. "Uncle John is right. You are too old for a crib."
"I don't want to get old."
"I don't want you to either," Sherlock said. "When you get old you won't want to be held anymore."
"Will too," Hamish sniffed.
"Good," Sherlock replied, kissing the little boy's head. "But getting old isn't just bad stuff like going to bed. Getting old has fun things too."
"Can I go on cases with you?" Hamish sat up straight, looking expectantly at his father.
"One day, yes," Sherlock answered.
"Let's practice," Hamish exclaimed happily, suddenly sliding off of Sherlock's lap. He grabbed a stuffed bear and layed it on the floor. "We have to examine Bear."
Sherlock looked at the little scene and began pointing out details to Hamish. Hamish crawled around on the floor, staring intently at Bear's stains and torn seams as Sherlock explained them.
OOO
John blinked his eyes in the morning sunlight again. He had forgotten the curtains. He opened his eyes fully, and jumped in surprise at the little blue eyes staring back at him.
"Good morning," he yawned.
"Dad said I could come wake you up in the morning," Hamish said, smiling. "Its morning."
"Yes, it is," John agreed, then flung his blanket over Hamish with a sweep of his arm. "And now its dark again," he laughed, wrapping up the little boy and tickling him. Hamish squealed with giggles.
OOO
"I'm going to work," John said, kissing Hamish's head and grabbing another piece of toast from the counter. Both Sherlock and Hamish had rejected breakfast that morning. "I want both of you to eat a proper meal today." He gave Sherlock and Hamish a stern look. They both made a face at him. He ignored it and left.
Sherlock sighed at looked at his son. "If we do not eat, Uncle John will scold us both. Do you want that?"
Hamish pouted and shook his head no.
"What will you eat?" Sherlock asked.
Hamish thought for a moment, and then ran into the lounge to grab a book. He showed a picture to his father. Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
As they were finishing breakfast, Sherlock's phone rang. The caller ID showed Lestrade. Sherlock scowled. Lestrade knew he preferred texting. He grabbed the phone to answer it. The one thing he hated more than talking on the phone was listening to voice mail. Lestrade knew that, too.
"What?" snapped Sherlock.
"I need you to come down to the Yard right away," Lestrade said. "Our suspect's defense team is claiming we had no reason to search his place. The prosecutor doesn't understand how you connected carpet fibers on the victim to a house cat to our suspect, who doesn't have a cat."
"Dear lord, its perfectly obvious," growled Sherlock. "Did CPS send an idiot?"
"Well, he is new," Lestrade answered. "But if our warrant gets thrown out, we lose this guy. You need to get down here immediately."
Sherlock made an angry noise and hung up the phone. He looked down at Hamish. "I'll take you down to Mrs. Hudson," he said.
"No!" Hamish wailed. "You said I could come on cases when I was older."
"You are only twelve hours older from when I said that."
"Please," Hamish whined.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the little boy. "No running and crawling under the sergeant's desk when its time to leave?"
"No," Hamish promised.
"Get your shoes," Sherlock shrugged.
Hamish scrambled out of the kitchen. One of his shoes was behind the sofa, the other under the desk. He put them on, tying them like he'd been taught. He even put on his own coat, and hurried downstairs to the front door. He waited at that point though. He knew that if he went outside without holding one of his parents' hands, he would be carried like a baby, and no amount of kicking or screaming would make them put him down again.
Sherlock was only a minute behind him, and they easily caught a cab to New Scotland Yard. Hamish looked around the offices as he trotted along beside Sherlock. He spotted Lestrade as they walked into the large room, and ran over to his Uncle Greg with a huge smile on his face.
"Hey, kiddo," Lestrade exclaimed, grabbing Hamish under the arms and tossing the little boy above his head. "Have you been a good boy today?"
"Yes," Hamish nodded proudly. He had eaten a proper meal and everything.
Lestrade rewarded Hamish by tossing him in the air a few more times. Hamish squealed with delight.
"Stay here and be good," Lestrade said, setting Hamish down beside a desk. "We need to talk to your dad for a little bit." He led a scowling Sherlock and a very young prosecutor into his office.
Sherlock was only halfway through his insults and explanations when they heard yelling, and a high-pitched cry, from the main room. They looked out to see Anderson, covered in bright green vomit, scowling down at a crying Hamish.
"For God's sake, Anderson, he's only a little boy," Dimmock yelled, wiping Hamish's face with a handkerchief.
"Its not my fault," whined Anderson, but even Sally Donovan was giving him a disapproving look. Sherlock growled and stepped forward, but Lestrade pushed him back into his office.
"What are you feeding him?" Anderson yelled, pointing at the bright green mess all over his clothes.
"Anderson, shut up and go clean yourself off," Lestrade ordered.
Anderson spluttered a few times, but gave up and left for the restroom.
"Here you go, little guy," Dimmock said, handing a cup of water to Hamish. "I'll look after him, Lestrade, go back to work."
Lestrade gave his officers one more glare before going back into his office. It took nearly fifteen minutes before the young prosecutor was finally able to understand enough to defend his case. Sherlock took Hamish's hand and headed out of the building. As they passed the hallway to the restroom, Hamish turned his head and saw Anderson emerging from the doorway. Hamish stuck out his little green tongue at the forensics officer. Sherlock kept his eyes forward and continued out of the building, his coat waving behind him.
When John returned home from his shift, Hamish was pushing a toy bus around the floor, while Sherlock explained the history of public transportation from the sofa. John got a hug from Hamish, and went to the kitchen to see about dinner. Sherlock and Hamish's dirty dishes were still on the table.
"Sherlock," John called, "what is this?" He held up one of the plates, which had some bright green congealed bits of something on it.
"You're the one who got him those ridiculous books," Sherlock said.
John looked quizzically at Sherlock and Hamish.
"Green eggs and ham!" exclaimed Hamish with a smile.
"How did you turn it green?" John asked suspiciously.
"Food coloring, obviously," Sherlock answered. "How do you turn food green?"
John looked confused for a moment more, then gave up. "At least you ate," he said.