The day before Sherlock's birthday, the three headed down to the hospital to have the Holmeses' casts removed. Hamish made his father go first, and even then was absolutely not keen. Sherlock sat him on his lap, both arms firmly around the boy's middle. John sat next to them, holding his cast arm at the hand and the shoulder, and Hamish had brought Teddy for extra bravery. None of these things stopped him from screaming at the top of his lungs and violently wriggling around in his father's hold when the cast-saw made its way towards his arm.

"Hamish. Hamish, it's alright, look at me." Sherlock spoke soothingly into his ear and he calmed down a little. "It's not going to hurt you, Hamish, I promise. I've got you, alright? Everything's okay. You're okay." He cradled the boy's head against his chest and the nurse tried again, with a little more success this time. Eventually, the cast was off and Hamish stopped trembling. He winced and whimpered a little as the nurse pulled his arm from the cast, grabbing onto Sherlock with his other hand.

"You're such a brave boy, Hamish," said the nurse as she wiped his arm clean.

"It's okay, little man," said John, running a hand over his dark hair. "It's just going to be a little bit sore today because it's been stuck in the cast, okay?"

"A bit?" Hamish asked.

"Yeah. Just a tiny little bit."

Sherlock's leg thankfully did not have to be recast and John nearly wept with joy.

"Daddy?"

The detective was huddled around his microscope and looked up when he heard his son.

"Hamish, why are you up?"

"I awake up," he said slowly, apparently a little confused, "you not in bed, Daddy. Why you are up?" he challenged.

"I'm doing some work for Lestrade."

"It ah day now?"

"No. It's still the nighttime."

"John is up?"

"No. John's in bed. It's the middle of the night. About two o'clock."

"Oh."

"You need to go back to sleep."

"Want bed ah you."

Sherlock made his way over to the toddler and picked him up. "You want to sleep in my bed?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, you can't, because I'm not coming to bed just yet."

"Need Daddy." He bit his lip and frowned.

"You'll be alright, Hamish. You're a big boy, aren't you?"

"No. I little man," he said adamantly.

A smile. "Yes, you are a little man. But you're a big boy. You're not a baby boy are you?"

"I just one," he told him, showing him exactly what one looked like on his fingers.

"Yes, you are only one but you'll be two very very soon won't you? And you don't need my help to go to sleep because you're a big boy."

Hamish started crying and grabbed tighter onto Sherlock's dressing gown. "Not want ah be big boy. Want ah be little boy, Daddy helps me asleep."

"Come on, Hamish. You're alright. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to be out here in the kitchen."

"No!"

"Hamish, shush. Don't shout, you'll wake John up."

"I not ah bed! I up now!" he shouted as Sherlock lowered him into the cot.

When his head hit the mattress, the real tantrum started. He kicked and screamed and immediately started climbing out of the cot, only to have Sherlock lay him back down.

"No, Daddy! Not ah bed! No!" The screaming continued and Sherlock lowered the side of the cot so he wouldn't hurt himself, waltzed out of the room and closed the door, returning to his microscope.

In less than ten seconds, Hamish was back in the kitchen and pulling on his father. Sherlock instantly started to implement the techniques he always used when this happened. Techniques he claimed he hadn't learned from the Supernanny, although this was a complete lie. He gave Hamish no eye contact, but said, "Hamish, it's bedtime," and carried him back. The next time he would simply say, "Bedtime," and every time after that, be it three or three hundred, he said nothing, simply carried the toddler back to bed.

For an hour they played this game and Hamish still didn't look ready to give up. The problem was that Hamish was a Holmes which meant that not only was being ignored just about his least favourite thing in the world, but he was also one of the most stubborn, determined, and persistent human beings on the planet. He had been screaming non-stop at the top of his lungs the entire time and Sherlock was surprised 221B's other residents hadn't woken up yet. As if on cue, John wandered downstairs, bleary-eyed and messy-haired.

"What is going on down here?"

"I not ah bed!" Hamish shouted at him.

Sherlock almost snapped. He knelt in front of the boy and grabbed his hands, a little rougher than he meant to. "Hamish! Look out the window and tell me if it's still dark."

"Mhmm. It dark."

"Well then, you'd better be in bed."

"No! Not ah bed!"

"Hamish!" John shouted over the wailing. "Hamish, stop. What is the problem?"

"Want ah Daddy."

"Daddy's right here, Hame."

"No. In ah bed."

"You want to sleep with Daddy?"

"Yes." He pouted and folded his arms.

"You're a big boy, aren't you, Hame?"

"No!" he shouted. "I not big boy. I little."

A look was exchanged between the two adults and John said. "Well, if you're only a little boy, you won't get to try out the new things I bought for you."

"What things?"

"You remember the other day when you asked Daddy if you could stop wearing nappies?"

He looked suspiciously at Sherlock. "Mhmm."

"Well I went to the shop and I got a special seat for the toilet for you, and I got some big boy nappies."

"Nappies?"

"Yeah, but they're ones just for big boys, and they're for just in case you don't make it to the toilet in time."

Hamish still was not convinced. "I see it?"

John went to the bathroom and rummaged around in the cupboard for a moment before returning with the seat and pull-ups.

"These are the pants, Hame. They're not quite like big big boy pants, but they're not like nappies, and I think you'll only need them for a little while and then we can get big big boy pants, yeah?"

"Okay. I put it on?"

"You can try them out tomorrow, okay? But only if you're a big boy now and go to bed by yourself."

"Daddy ubfday 'morrow."

"Yep. It is Daddy's birthday tomorrow, that's right. Quickly off to bed now." He was asleep again in less than ten minutes and John turned on his flatmate. "And why are you still up?"

"Experiment."

Hamish thankfully slept in the next morning, eventually dragging himself out of bed at nine o'clock. Breakfast was well under way, and he appeared to have forgotten what day it was.

"What tresent ah for, John?" he asked, pointing to the small pile of gifts on the table.

"Can you remember what today is, Hame?"

He stood still for a moment until, finally, his little face lit up. "Daddy ubfday!"

"That's right."

"Where Daddy went?"

"He's having his shower."

"John, I has my big pants now?"

"When Daddy's finished in the bathroom, you can put them on, okay?"

The second the bathroom door opened, Hamish run to Sherlock, hugged his legs, and said, "Happy Ubfday, Daddy. I can has my big pants now?"

"Of course."

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked as he pulled his little trousers on over the pull-up.

"Good," said Hamish.

"Now, Hamish, if you need to…" Hamish was not paying attention, instead admiring himself in the mirror they had leaning against the wall, originally to distract him while they were dressing him after his bath, still a bit of a struggle. "Hamish, look at me. Thank you. Now if you feel like you need to go to the toilet… Hamish, look at me."

"It me, Daddy!" he said, pointing at the mirror.

"Yes, it is you. Well done. I just need you to listen for a moment. If you need to go to the toilet, you have to tell me or John so we can help you, okay?"

"No. I not need help. I a big boy. See?" he said, pulling his trousers down. "I has big boy pants."

"Yes, you are a big boy, but you might need some help at the start. So you must tell me or John, alright?"

"Okay, Daddy."

They had four false alarms before breakfast, all of which involved Hamish saying, "Daddy, I need ah toilet," being rushed the bathroom, completely removing his trousers and pull-up, sitting on the toilet for a minute, and then saying, "Oh. No wees."

"What are you going to eat, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, gesturing at the breakfast John had set out.

"I'll sort him, Sherlock. You just eat."

"I'm not…" John kicked him under the table, and he started shovelling eggs into his mouth.

"What would you like, Hame?"

"Egg, packnake, juice, please."

"Do you want the egg on the pancake?"

"No! No no no." He waved a little hand in panic and shook his head. "On ah side."

"Okay, okay. It's alright, mate. One pancake with an egg…"

He was cut off by Hamish reminding him, "On ah side."

"Yep. On the side."

"Thank you," he said as he was passed his plate. "Daddy tresent now?"

"When we've finished eating."

Hamish looked for a moment as if he would argue, but a stern look from John changed his mind. Sherlock's gaze moved from his son sitting across the table, to the wall behind the toddler. "Hamish, did you do that?"

It appeared that the living room wall had been redecorated with stickers and crayon.

"No."

"Do not lie to me, young man. Did you do that to the wall?"

Hamish shifted a little and shook his head. "No."

"Well who was it then?"

"Don't know, Daddy."

Sherlock remained absolutely calm and stared the boy down. "Hamish Watson Holmes," he said slowly. "We do not lie in this house. You know that's the rule. We only tell the truth. Hamish, you're going to be in more trouble if I find out that you have lied to me than if you just tell me that you did the wrong thing. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now did you do that to the wall?"

"No."

"Think about what you're doing, Hamish. If I find out that you're not telling me the truth and that you did draw on the wall, you'll be in much more trouble than if you just tell me now that it was you who drew on the wall. It is my job to find people who do the wrong thing, Hamish, and I am very very good at it. If you're lying to me I will find out. I'm going to ask you one last time. Did you do that to the wall?"

There was a lengthy pause as the toddler considered his options before he said, "Yes, Daddy. Sorry, Daddy."

"Thank you, Hamish. Now you'll have to sit on the naughty step and you'll have to have a dot because you know that we don't draw on the walls."

"No! No, Daddy! Not ah step!" He kicked and squirmed in his seat but stopped when Sherlock pulled him out and placed him on the ground.

"Off you go and sit on the step, Hamish."

"Not want," he huffed.

"I don't care if you want to or not. You did the wrong thing and you know it. Go and sit on the step. Hurry up or your breakfast will be cold."

So, Hamish stomped his way to the naughty step and sat himself down, looking very grumpy. He barely moved for the entire two minutes, and grinned when Sherlock said he could come back to the table.

"Good boy, Hamish. Thank you for telling me the truth, and for sitting on the step until your time was up, that was very good. After breakfast we're going to clean that wall."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"It's alright, Hamish. Finish your food."

"Tresent now, Daddy?"

They'd finished breakfast and cleaned the wall (an irritatingly regular occurrence in 221B), and Hamish was about to lose his patience.

"Come up here, Hame, and you can help Daddy with his presents."

He clambered up onto his father's lap and reached for the gift on the top of the pile. "This one?" He looked at John.

"Yep, that one's fine."

"Open now, Daddy, please." He thrust it into Sherlock's hands with a little grin.

A new pair of gloves, a magnifying glass ("Ah find clues, Daddy"), new slides for his microscope, a jar of tongues (human) which John had managed to weasel out of Molly, and a little photo of Hamish for his wallet (sentiment).

"That's wonderful, thank you," he said, trying out his new magnifying glass on the tongues.

"We've got a bit of a special day planned, haven't we, Hamish?"

"Mhmm."

"Do you want to tell Daddy where we're going?"

"See ah fishies, Daddy!" Hamish ran off to find the tickets to the aquarium he'd been keeping secret for almost a week now.

"I figured you really just wanted a day with Hamish. He picked it. He saw an ad on telly and said you'd like to go."

"You see fishies afore, Daddy?"

"No, I've never been to the aquarium before."

"But you are big. John, you has seen fishies?"

"Yeah, I've been before, little man. Now quickly let's get dressed so we can get going."

Hamish wore his overalls from Mycroft, a blue shirt underneath them, his green jumper, red coat, Winnie the Pooh shoes, and red beanie.

"Daddy, I need ah toilet," he said as they pulled the front door closed behind them.

"Hamish, five seconds ago I asked if you needed to go and you said no."

"Need ah go now."

They opened the door again and rushed Hamish up the stairs and into the bathroom. He did legitimately, and finally, need to go this time, although was a little nervous. "It not coming, Daddy."

"Just be patient, Hamish."

"Stop look ah me, Daddy. Go out, please."

So Sherlock stood in the hallway, waiting until he was allowed to go back in.

"Inish now, Daddy!" he finally said. "Look, Daddy. I did it!" he was still sitting on the toilet, pointing excitedly into the bowl.

"That's excellent, Hamish. Very well done."

"You see it?"

"Yes, I can see it, that's very impressive. Now hop down, pull your trousers back up, and wash your hands so we can get going."

"Did you go?" said John as the toddler ran out of the bathroom.

"Mhmm."

"He did."

"Great job, Hamish. You're such a clever boy."

"I have a star?"

"You can definitely have a star for that."

Eventually, they were on the road again, walking to Baker Street station, or at least trying to. Hamish kept stopping to interrogate a fast-wearying Sherlock.

"Daddy, what birdie it is?"

"That is a pigeon, Hamish."

"Daddy, what lady is doing?"

"She's just buying a coffee, Hamish. Keep walking please, or we'll never get there."

"I have one?"

"No, you can't have coffee, Hamish."

"Why?"

"Because the last thing you need is caffeine."

"What?"

"It's a grown-up drink, Hamish."

"Daddy, what that is?"

"It's just some rubbish, Hamish. Please don't touch it."

"Daddy, what ah time?"

"It's almost half-ten."

"Daddy, what we will has ah lunch?"

"I'm not quite sure. Maybe we'll get something at the aquarium."

"Daddy there is toilet at fishies?"

"Yes, Hamish, there are toilets at the aquarium. Keep walking, please."

"Daddy, what that is?"

"That's a pub, Hamish."

"What it is for?"

"Men go there when they have unhealthy home lives."

"What?"

"It's for drinking grown-up drinks."

"Oh. Daddy, what that is?"

"It's just a shop, Hamish."

"What they have?"

"Clothes."

"Uh-oh, Daddy. Mine shoe is wet."

"Well, Hamish, that's because you purposely jumped in a puddle, isn't it?"

"Daddy why your hair not flat like John?"

"Flat?"

"Mhmm. You's is up."

"Oh, you mean John's is straight and mine is curly?"

"Mhmm. Why?"

"Your hair is curly too, Hamish."

"Oh."

They finally got on the train where Hamish was cooed at by the elderly woman sitting next to them while Sherlock frowned. Since Sherlock had walked with Hamish, "All the way from the flat to the station," John had to walk with him from Waterloo to the aquarium, and almost lost him when the little boy let go of his hand and jumped out of the train the second the doors opened.

"Hamish!" John grabbed the hood of his coat before he was completely out of sight, and picked him up with a frown. "Hamish, you must not run off like that. You know that when we're out, especially on the train, you have to hold our hand, okay? You frightened me."

"Sorry."

"It's alright, just make sure you stay with us, okay?"

"Okay. I see ah fishies now?"

John had never before seen his flatmate smile so many times in one day. He and Hamish hurried around the aquarium, peering into all of the tanks, Hamish pointing and asking questions, while Sherlock ran through all of the information there was on each plaque for him. They thought he might have been frightened of the 'Shark Walk', a glass tunnel through the shark tank, but rather they spent a ridiculous amount of time in there, standing by while Hamish stared at the sharks. He lay on the floor on his stomach, his little face pressed against the glass, kicking his legs in the air while he watched the fish swim around him.

He nearly fell into one of the touch pools and they didn't even have their backs turned. Sherlock had simply let go of the back of his coat for a moment, and Hamish had taken the opportunity to throw himself headfirst towards the water in order to reach a starfish.

"I hot," he said, already trying to shrug off his coat and jumper which Sherlock quite happily stuffed into the Bob the Builder backpack John was holding, not bothering to ask if he'd like to take turns with it. "I need ah toilet," Hamish added.

Once they were back from their toilet break, Hamish tried to steal a sting ray from their hands-on tank, and got lost three times.

The penguins were by far his favourites; they struck them right on feeding time so the little boy stood on his toes, looking in the window, until Sherlock lifted him up so he could actually see. Some poor penguin-keeper was wandering through the crowd during the feeding to answer any questions people had, and made the mistake of finding Hamish cute, getting stuck answering his questions until John pulled him away with apologies.

"What they are eating?"

"What one ah boy?"

"That is baby one?"

"Where his bed is?"

"What you are called?"

"Why big one not fluffy?"

"I can tuck one?" (He hadn't quite gotten the hang of the word 'touch' yet)

"It can fly?"

"He need a coat? It cold in ah there."

"Why it in ah water?"

"Where his toys is?"

"Why you has a hat? It inside."

"Where his bath is?"

"Hamish! Oh, I am so sorry. Come on, little man, it's time to go."

By the time they got to the gift shop, Hamish's sleeves were dripping from all of the touch-pools he'd played in, he was hungry, needed the toilet (again), and was almost ready for a nap, but looked incredibly happy. Likewise, Sherlock was in high spirits, wandering around the shop, being notably polite to everybody while he looked for something to buy Hamish.

"What about this book, Hamish?"

"No, thank you. Look, Daddy, a ping-pin-pingu. A pingu, Daddy."

"It's a penguin, Hamish. And you really don't need any more soft toys."

"I like him, Daddy."

"No, it's silly. What about this shirt?"

"No, thank you, Daddy."

"You want the penguin."

He said nothing, but gave a little nod.

Sherlock sighed and grabbed a penguin from the display. "Fine. Quickly now, we have to get lunch."

"What would you like, Hame? Fish and chips?" John asked, settling Hamish in his chair.

He looked horrified. "No! Not fishies."

"Oh. What about some nuggets?"

"Mhmm. Okay."

"Hamish, you know nuggets have…" Sherlock was cut off when John kicked him in the shin because there were no vegetarian options on the children's menu. "Don't forget your manners."

"Please, John."

They were sitting waiting for their food when Hamish suddenly looked very alarmed.

"Are you alright, Hame?"

"Oh no!" he said, and started crying.

"What's wrong, Hamish? Did you forget to go to the toilet?"

He nodded miserably and laid his head on the table as if he'd completely given up on life itself.

"It's alright, Hamish, there's no need to worry. We can go right now and fix you up, alright?"

"Mine pants."

"I know. It's alright. Come on, we'll go to the bathroom and get some clean pants on you hmm? This was why it was a brilliant idea of John's not to go straight to big big boy pants."

With a lot of cuddles and reassurances about how well he was doing and what a big boy he was, Sherlock was eventually able to calm him down and get him changed.

"I has a dot, Daddy?" he mumbled as they returned to their seats.

"No, Hamish love, of course you don't need a dot. It was just a little accident. It's not a big problem; it's not even a little problem. It was just an accident. Do you understand?"

If he hadn't been sitting down, John would have fallen over at the term of endearment. Sherlock had never even shortened Hamish's name. Not once had the boy been called anything other than his full name by his father, let alone something like 'love'.

"Okay, Daddy. Sorry I 'orgetted."

"You don't need to say sorry, Hamish. It's alright."

"Sherlock, why don't you get your own food?"

The detective was sitting next to his son, stealing chips off his plate. "I'm not hungry enough for my own food."

"It okay, John. I share," said Hamish, offering him a chip as well.

"No thanks, bud. I've got my own lunch."

"You like ah fishies, Daddy?"

"I loved them, Hamish. It was a wonderful idea of yours to come here. Do you like your penguin?"

Hamish grinned and cuddled the penguin closer. "He a pingu, Daddy."

"Right, are you sure about that?"

"Mhmm. I sure. More chippies, Daddy?"

A dismissive wave as Sherlock texted someone. "No, thank you, Hamish. I've had enough."

"Two more chippies, Daddy, or a dot."

"You can't give me a dot."

"Yes. You are bad, you has a dot, and sit on ah step. Two more chippies."

John was served a hard kick under the table following an unsuccessful attempt to stifle his giggling. Sherlock then ate his two chippies with a huff and Hamish looked very pleased with himself.

"What ah do now, John?" He looked expectantly at John. Apparently Sherlock was unable to plan activities as every other type of question was thrown in the detective's direction.

"Well it's nearly time for your sleep, Hame," John told him.

Hamish shook his head. "No. I not tired. Not ah sleep."

Sherlock sighed. "Hamish, it's past one o'clock, and we've had a very busy morning, you must be tired."

"No, Daddy. I not," he said defiantly, picking at his chips.

"Hamish, we're going out for dinner tonight so you'd better be good if you don't want to be left at home, little man," said John. He'd always been better at getting his way with Hamish than Sherlock was. Perhaps he and his son were too similar. Or perhaps he'd simply gone soft.

"Where we go? Annalo's?"

"Yep. We're going to Angelo's. That'll be great won't it?"

"Mhmm. I like Annalo." It was true. Angelo with his loud voice, exuberance, and eccentricity was one of Hamish's favourite people. It also appeared that the petty criminal had quite the soft spot for the small boy, practically jumping for joy every time they brought Hamish for dinner.

"John?"

"Yeah?" He was trying to have a few moments peace to read the paper while Hamish was sleeping. Apparently no such luck.

"I'm worried about Hamish."

"Why?"

"He's been saying things that should be beyond his cognitive abilities."

"Like what?"

"He understands concepts that he shouldn't. They should be beyond him but they're not and it concerns me."

"Concepts like what?"

"Like what makes someone a good father; like the causes of negative emotions that aren't 'I missed my favourite television show', but 'My uncle said some horrible things to me'. He isn't anywhere near two, he shouldn't have even realised that what my uncle said at Christmas was unpleasant or cruel. When he says that he loves us, he isn't saying it because he thinks he should, he's saying it because it's how he feels and he shouldn't."

"He shouldn't love us?"

"He shouldn't know that he does. He's a baby."

"Sherlock, he was born to be clever, you can't expect…"

"John, he was parented by two antisocial psychopaths with severe Aspergers. I don't know when I love somebody and I'm seventeen times his age. What is going to happen to him? He's a freak!"

John slammed his paper down. "He's. Your. Son. Don't let me ever hear you say that about him again. He doesn't have your Aspergers, I can see that already. Not that it would matter if he did. He's a beautiful kid, Sherlock, you know that. And let's be honest with ourselves, Sherlock, you're not antisocial or a psychopath."

"He does have my Aspergers, John. Look at the way he gets obsessed with things. He studies them until he knows every single intricate detail. Are you telling me that is normal for a one-year-old?"

"Sherlock… He's just really curious and interested like you are. He's just like you, there's nothing to worry about." This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock looked more panicked than he'd seen him in quite some time

"John that is the last thing I want him to be. You don't know what it was…"

The bedroom door swung open, revealing a small silhouette with rather large hair.

"Daddy we go ah Annalo's now?" Hamish asked as he wandered from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Hamish, it's three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Hungry now."

"Mmm. You're hungry for afternoon tea."

"Oh." He looked confused for a moment and then said, "Mine pants wet, Daddy."

Sherlock slapped himself in the forehead and immediately set about finding him a fresh pull-up. "I'm so sorry, Hamish. I meant to get you to go to the toilet before you had your sleep. That was completely my fault."

"It okay, Daddy. Just a… attadent."

"It Mary! I get it!" Hamish shouted when the doorbell rang.

When he returned to the living room, Mary in tow, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa looking particularly surly, and wearing a blue woollen jumper Mrs. Hudson had knitted him for his birthday and sent through the post from her sister's with a long apologetic letter about missing the big day. John was not entirely sure what had possessed her to knit Sherlock a jumper, but the detective had at least put it on.

He looked rather ridiculous and Hamish giggled. "Daddy why you have that on?"

"Mrs. Hudson knitted it for me," he said, his frown softening slightly. "Wasn't that lovely?" he added.

"Mhmm. It nice."

"Thank you, Hamish. Good afternoon, Mary, I see that you came here via the West End, I don't know why you would have gone that way at this time of day, the traffic is…"

"Hey, Sherlock," Mary said over the top of him. "Happy Birthday, love. It's just a little something." She said, handing him the gift bag she'd brought.

He took it and looked almost embarrassed. "You really didn't need to…"

"Oh, just open it, you great git," she said with an affectionate pat on the back as she sat next to him on the sofa.

He appreciated the lack of wrapping paper, after all, 'It's ridiculous, I can tell what it is before I open it anyway," and happily moved on to pulling his present from the bag. "Thank you, Mary," he said with a grin, a genuine one at that, as he pulled out a vast collection of papers regarding highly advanced children and their development.

"You're rather difficult to buy for, Mr. Holmes."

"This is perfect, Miss. Morstan, you did very well."

"Uh-oh, Daddy," Hamish said, running over from where he'd been playing with his cars. "Stuck," he said with a finger up his nose.

"Your finger's stuck in your nose?" Sherlock asked.

"No, it a button," he said, picking at it and sounding particularly unconcerned.

Dr. John stepped forward. "A button?"

"Mhmm."

"There's a button stuck up your nose?"

"Yep."

A sigh. "And why, may I ask, did you put it up there to begin with, Hame?" he found a pair of tweezers and washed them because God only knew what they'd last been used for.

"Expreriment. You can get it out?"

Another sigh. "Yeah, I can get it out. Hop up on the counter for me."

Sherlock held Hamish's head still while John swiftly removed the button, having already done it three times that week on other toddlers at the clinic.

"Thank you, John," said Hamish as he jumped back to the ground. "We go ah Annalo's now?"

"Yes!" said Sherlock. "You need to put your shoes and your coat on, go to the toilet, and then we can go."

Mary said her goodbyes and the boys left for Angelo's where all three were greeted with a bear hug, which startled Hamish considerably, before they were able to sit down.

"Now, what would our little lad like to eat?"

"Chippies?"

"No, Hame," John stepped in. "You already had chippies today. What about some spaghetti?"

"Mhmm. Ah mikshuk?"

"Yeah, you can have a milkshake. What flavour would you like?"

"Pink, please."

"We've got one more present for you, Sherlock. It might be a bit too… sentimental… for you but I… anyway…"

"Oh, you really didn't need to, John, I… Hamish, could you please try to eat that without getting it all over your clothes?"

John laughed and Hamish said, "No, thank you. Open tresent now, Daddy."

He was passed a square package wrapped in 'Thomas the Tank Engine' paper.

"It Thomas, Daddy."

"I can see that. Did you choose the paper?"

"Mhmm. Open now please."

Sherlock slowly pulled the wrapping away to reveal a large book. He opened it and his eyes lit up as he glanced at the first page. A photograph of a little baby with a head full of dark curly hair smiled out at him. "Is this you, Hamish?"

"Mhmm. It me ah baby."

"Yes, you're a baby here."

"There is more, Daddy."

The rest of the book was far more empirical, with graphs or tables accompanying each photo of the infant. The album documented Hamish's life up to the day he had left the research facility. John had cried more than once as he was putting it together because of how significantly unhappy Hamish looked in all of the pictures.

There was a lot of throat clearing and stuttering from both men at the table before Sherlock finally managed to say, "How lovely. Thank you, John."

"You like it, Daddy?" said Hamish as he gave up on his fork and started eating his spaghetti with his hands.

"It's brilliant, Hamish. What's on this disc, John?"

"They had cameras in all of his rooms so I got Mycroft to get me the footage from them. It's all of it. Videos they took in utero, his birth, all his time at the facility, and I also put on there all the photos and video I've taken since he's lived with us."

He closed the book and awkwardly said, "Well… thank you… it is… appreciated."

After a far-too-large-for-his-tiny-stomach dessert, Hamish looked ready to fall asleep in his seat and they decided to head home.

"Night, Daddy," he said as he was placed in his cot.

"Goodnight, Hamish."

"Happy Birfday, Daddy."

Sherlock whirled around and leaned over the side of the cot. "Say that again."

"Happy Birfday, Daddy," he said with a proud little grin.

"Excellent talking, Hamish. Very well done. Thank you for taking me out today, I had a wonderful time."

"Okay, Daddy. Night. Love you, Daddy." He yawned and lay down, Teddy in one hand and woobie in the other, contorting one of his arms so he could have his thumb in his mouth.

"I love you too, Hamish. Sleep well."