"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing? It's four in the morning."

The detective gave John an annoyed look over the top of his laptop and said. "Researching."

"And it can't wait another two hours?"

"No it can't. In another two hours, we'll be up in that attic, John. Time is of the essence."

John ran a frustrated hand through his hair and said, "What are you talking about?"

"The attic, John! Hamish's room. We must have it cleaned out and ready for his birthday. We have less than a month now."

"Well, what are you… researching?"

"Beds, toy boxes, shelving units, wardrobes, paint colours, curtains, light fittings…"

"Okay, okay. Just… keep it down with your noisy typing and pacing. You woke me up and I really don't want you to wake Hamish up, you know what he's like when he doesn't sleep properly."

"Daddy, what you are doing?" Hamish had wandered all the way out of his room, up the stairs, past John's room, up some more stairs, and into the attic where Sherlock was sitting on the floor, sifting through boxes.

"I'm cleaning this room out."

"Why?"

"Because when you turn two, this is going to be your bedroom."

"Oh. Daddy too?"

"No. This is just going to be your room. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Hamish thought for a moment. "No."

"Right. Well I'm sure you'll warm to it. Is John up?"

"No. I hungry, Daddy."

"Let's have some breakfast then."

Hamish lived for Sherlock's meals. The ridiculous detective seemed to have little understanding of what foods were considered 'normal' to eat at certain times of day, so while Hamish was usually stuck with a porridge breakfast from John, a Sherlockian breakfast was far more exciting.

This morning the toddler was presented with a small, roasted (and slightly overcooked) potato, a cold sausage left over from last night's dinner, and a cupcake.

"Morning, lads," said John as he sauntered down the stairs. "Hamish what are you… is that a cupcake?"

"Mhmm. Cakey!" he said enthusiastically.

"Sherlock, it's half-six."

He looked up from his 'research' which was currently being conducted on the IKEA website, and said, "Mmm, so it is. Good morning, John."

"Did you dilute that juice you've given him?"

"What? No. Why would I have done that? Diluted with what? Don't be stupid, John."

"Oh, Sherlock… Hame can I have that drink for a minute, little man?"

"It yummy."

"Yeah, I bet it is," John said, rolling his eyes.

John topped the remainder of the juice up with water and Hamish looked thoroughly unimpressed when it was handed back to him. "You can't just give it to him straight, Sherlock, it's too much sugar."

Sherlock glared at him. "You should appreciate that I made his breakfast without waking you up, John."

"Yucky now, John," Hamish pulled a face and slammed his cup on the table.

"Are you two planning on getting dressed today?" John asked, standing in the doorway to the attic, watching his flatmates rifle through whatever the hell it was Mrs. Hudson had stashed up there.

Well, Sherlock was sorting through the boxes and would hand Hamish their contents with a shout of, "Throw!" or "Keep!" or "Ask Mrs. Hudson!" and Hamish would place whatever it was in the respective pile.

Mrs. Hudson rushed up the stairs and stood next to John with her hands on her hips. "Sherlock, what are you doing to my attic?"

"Tidying, Mrs. Hudson."

She scoffed and said, "You? Tidying? I shouldn't think so."

"Nan?" said Hamish, Tenth Doctor figure in hand. He pointed to the pile of designated, 'Ask Mrs. Hudson' items and said, "What?"

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock. "What would you like to be done with those?"

"Let me go through it." So she joined them on the floor and John ran off to make tea. Things were added to both the 'Keep' and 'Throw' piles and eventually John returned with three cups of tea and a cut up apple for Hamish.

"Is that a new toy, Hamish love?" Mrs. Hudson pointed to The Doctor and Hamish nodded.

Sherlock frowned and, seeing this, John sighed.

"Bloody Mycroft keeps buying him things. He's a spoiled brat. I've spoken to him but he won't listen to me. This is exactly why he and I are so… John do mind not rolling your eyes at me?"

"Sorry, I've just heard this speech quite a few times lately."

"Well do you want him to end up a pompous arse like my brother?"

"Stop 'ighting now," said Hamish, waving his little hands in the air. "John, I not want apple."

"Fine then, go hungry."

Hamish huffed and Sherlock said, "See? Spoiled."

"Sherlock… That there was the opposite of spoiled. He was being fussy so he doesn't get morning tea. End of story. If he's hungry he'll eat it."

"I have a cakey, John?"

"No, mate. It's the apple or nothing."

"Why?"

"Because that's what I've given you, and that's all you're getting."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Why?"

"Because you need to eat healthily if you want to be big and strong, Hamish. You can't just eat cake all the time. Cake is a treat."

"Why?"

"Because it isn't healthy."

"Why?"

"Because there's lots of sugar in it."

"Why?"

"Because… Hamish… Because that's just how cake is, okay?"

"Fine. I have ah apple." He sat next to Sherlock and begrudgingly ate his morning tea.

"Did he just… Did he say 'fine' to me?"

By lunchtime, Sherlock was bored of cleaning, so decided to go furniture shopping instead. They had a quick lunch and bundled up for the weather, ensuring Hamish went to the toilet just before they left.

"Hamish, you can only bring one toy."

"No!"

"Hamish. You may bring one toy or no toys, it is your choice."

"Two, Daddy," he said. "Woody ah Buzz."

"No. Woody or Buzz."

Hamish held them tighter to his chest and frowned. "No!"

"Hamish, I'm going to count to three. If you have not chosen one toy to bring by the time I get to three, they'll both be spending the afternoon at home."

"No!"

"One…"

"No, Daddy! John," he turned to the doctor. "I can have two, John?"

"Hamish, if Daddy says you can only bring one, then that's how many you can bring."

"Two…"

"No!" Giving up on John, Hamish grabbed onto the leg of Sherlock's trousers with one hand and jumped up and down.

The detective ignored him and said, "Hamish, I'm almost at three. If you want to bring any toys at all you need to stop this."

He sat on the floor with a defiant glare and held Woody and Buzz in his lap. "No!"

"Three. That's it. You can't bring anything. Give them to me." He held out a hand which was not filled with the toys as requested.

Hamish drew himself up to his full height of two feet and nine inches, looked his father straight in the eyes and said, "No."

With a nod at John, Sherlock grabbed the toddler around the middle and pinned him back against his chest while John wrestled the toys from his little hands. Hamish kicked and screamed and wriggled so forcefully that Sherlock almost dropped him. "Hamish, stop that right now. You are being very silly. You're going to sit on the step until you've calmed down, alright?"

After a grumpy two minutes on the naughty step, Hamish seemed to have regained control of himself and said, "Sorry, Daddy. I can have Buzz?"

"It's alright, Hamish, but no, you can't bring Buzz."

"Why?"

Sherlock steered him out the door as he answered, "Because when I asked you to choose between the two toys you wouldn't. Because you disobeyed me, Hamish. And that was naughty."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"It's fine, Hamish."

The sight of Sherlock Holmes on the tube with a toddler on his lap, pointing out the window and laughing with the little boy was perhaps one of the most ridiculous things London had ever seen. But it was John's reality. John's happy little domestic reality. So he smiled.

"Now, Hamish, today we're going to see if we can find some things for your new room," said Sherlock, whipping a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to his son. "This is our list of everything we need. Can you tell me how many things there are?"

"No," said Hamish, not even bothering to look at the list. "You say, Daddy."

"I'll tell you what they are if you count them for me."

Hamish gave in and counted "Ten. Now what it say, Daddy?"

So, Sherlock read it out:

· Bed

· Mattress

· Mattress Protector

· Bed Linen

· Curtains

· Rug

· Wall hooks

· Lighting

· Storage

· Table and Chairs

"Daddy?" he said as they walked past the play area. "I can play?"

"I'm sorry, Hamish but you're too young. You have to be three."

"Oh."

John nudged the detective and pointed to the list Sherlock had promptly removed from his little hand when they got off the train. "Here, if you wish to be helpful, you may hold the list for me."

"Sherlock, do you have some sort of plan or are we just going to wander around until one of us murders somebody?"

"Of course I have a plan but…" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Hamish can't know that I do. He has to think he's chosen everything. There's no way we're getting him out of that cot unless he thinks he's decided to do it himself."

"Come, Daddy. We go now."

"Yes, we're going now. Come along, John."

"What do you think about this bed, Hamish?"

Sherlock had clearly thought more thoroughly about this than John had realised, firstly pointing out a bed that Hamish would most definitely say no to, knowing he'd say no to the first option no matter what it was.

"No, thank you, Daddy."

"What about this one?" Sherlock pointed to a different one, clearly the one he actually wanted to buy.

Hamish cocked his head to one side and said, "Why?" apparently needing to be convinced.

"Well, it's a nice colour…"

"It brown, Daddy."

"Yes, but brown is a very good colour for furniture, Hamish. And it has these excellent barriers on the side so you can't fall out. Isn't that a brilliant idea?"

"Mhmm. Okay."

"You like this one?"

"Yes. It ah good."

The chair section was a minor issue, mostly because Sherlock and his Aspergers did not appreciate changed plans. The problem stemmed from the frankly adorable miniature chairs and John's swooning over them. "What about one of these, Sherlock?"

"Not on the list, John," he spat through his teeth.

"Yes, Daddy, a chair," Hamish said decidedly.

"John… Hamish, you don't need a chair."

"Yes. Daddy a chair, John a chair, me a chair."

"Right, fine. Which one do you want? Quickly now, we don't have all day."

In just under two hours they were finally out of the "bloody hellhole" as John had called it numerous times on their way around, but stopped doing so when Hamish himself gave it the same term.

The next day the van arrived with a bed, mattress, mattress protector, ceiling light (with clouds), bedside lamp (with clouds), wall hooks, bookcase, shelving units, wardrobe, curtains, two sets of bed linen (one with cars, one with bunting), a striped rug, and a miniature table and chairs. These were hidden away in John's room for Hamish's birthday and the attic-clearing continued.

"Who's this baby, Mrs. Hudson?" John had been on the attic floor, sifting through boxes and boxes of old photographs and held up a small black and white picture of a very young Mrs. Hudson sitting with a baby boy on her lap.

"Oh, John dear. That's my son. Joseph. We lost him not a month after that photograph was taken. Asthma. He was two weeks out from turning two."

"Oh my God. Hamish's…"

"Yes. Hamish's age."

Hamish took interest in the conversation once his name was mentioned and crawled into John's lap to look at the picture. "It a boy."

"Yeah, it is. That's Nan's boy, Hamish," John said, wrapping an arm around his middle, his stomach turning a little at being confronted with the concept of losing him.

The toddler wriggled back against his chest and sighed. "Where he went, Nan?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't look quite ready to speak so John said, "He lives a long way away, Hamish." A lie. A complete and total lie. It was lucky Sherlock was downstairs running the bath. He would have never gotten away with it otherwise.

"Who this is, Nan?" Hamish lifted another photo. One with Mrs. Hudson and a man John knew was her late husband.

"That's my husband, Hamish."

"What a hunsman, Nan?"

"Well, Hame," said John, standing up with Hamish balanced on his hip and walking down to the bathroom. "When two people love each other, they can get married if they want. So when a man gets married, he gets to be his person's husband, and a lady gets to be her person's wife."

"Oh. You are Mary's hunsman?"

"No, matey, we're not married yet."

"You ah be married soon?"

"Maybe."

"When?"

John stood him on the bathroom floor and started stripping him off. "Do you need the toilet?"

"Mhmm. When you be married?"

He put Hamish's seat on the toilet, hoisted him onto it, and said, "I'm not sure, Hame."

"Soon?"

"Maybe."

"How you ah married, John?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Um… are you going to the toilet?"

"I trying."

"Just stop talking for a minute and when you've gone we can talk again, yeah? You're getting distracted from your weeing."

Hamish eventually finished and was sat in the bath with his submarine.

"Now, what was your question, mate?"

"How you ah married?"

"Ah, it's big question time again is it?"

He frowned and stared in his lap. "Sorry, John."

"No. Hamish. Hamish look at me. Don't say sorry for asking questions, okay? I love when you ask questions. Now, when two people decide to get married, they have a wedding, which is kind of like a big party, and there's a special person who says that you can be married and then you say some stuff and then you're married. Then there's a big big party afterwards."

"Hurry now, it's nearly bedtime," said Sherlock from the doorway.

"'Lo, Daddy. A story now?"

"Not if you stay in the bath all evening."

When Sherlock didn't emerge from the bedroom half an hour after he'd been in to put Hamish to bed, John went to investigate.

"Ah."

The detective and his son were fast asleep, curled up around one another, 'Peter Pan' lying open on the bed, Hamish with a fist wrapped tightly around Sherlock's index finger.

Once everything had been cleared out of the attic (most of it was simply moved downstairs to 221C), the attic room had to be painted. Sherlock turned out to be quite the interior designer and explained to John that, "We should utilise that timber paneling on the walls. We need a blue above the half-paneling and then the timber should be white, do you understand?"

The painting day was… interesting to say the least. It had rained all week so Hamish was outlandishly rowdy and borderline unruly. Sherlock took him to the paint shop and came back fuming. "He threw three tantrums inside the shop, and two on the way home. It's your turn to deal with him, John, or I'll have to hit him." This was absolutely and completely unsuccessful as Hamish had decided to be clingy and wouldn't even let go of Sherlock's hand, let alone allow him out of his sight. "Hamish, please let go of my arm, I have to do some work."

"No, Daddy. I up ah you."

"No, Hamish…"

"Yes. Up now please, Daddy."

"What is the…" he pulled him up and held him against his front so they were facing each other, "matter with you?"

"I stay ah you, Daddy."

"Why? Are you feeling unwell?" He touched a hand to his forehead but found no fever.

"I okay."

Sherlock shifted him onto his hip and said, "Well, we need to start painting now, alright?"

"Okay, I come ah you."

They walked hand-in-hand up the stairs with the tins of paint, and Hamish kept hold of his father's left-hand while he stirred the paint. Just as Sherlock was getting the rollers ready, Hamish gave a little cough which turned into a coughing fit, his little face reddening, a hand grabbing onto Sherlock's arm as he struggled to take a breath.

"Hamish, it's alright, you're alright. Just relax for me."

With some back rubbing and shushing, Hamish settled and took some heaving breaths as the coughing stopped.

"Are you alright now?"

"Okay now, Daddy," he said, clambering into his lap.

Sherlock shifted in irritation and sighed. "Hamish, you can't sit there. I have to paint the wall."

"Want ah sit ah you, Daddy."

"Well, too bad. I have to paint the wall."

"No, Daddy. Need ah sit ah you, Daddy, please."

"No, Hamish. Off you pop, I have to do some painting. Go downstairs and have a cuddle with John if you like, he's on his computer."

"Carry me, Daddy?"

He rolled his eyes and huffed but picked Hamish up and carried him down to the living room. "He's fussy and clingy," he announced. "He wants a cuddle but I'm busy." And with that he plopped him into John's lap, turned on his heel and flounced back up the stairs.

"Well," said John, pulling Hamish back against his chest and pressing a kiss into his hair, "That's just fine. Because I was just thinking about how much I would love a cuddle. Are you feeling okay, Hame?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"Don't know."

Sherlock's head suddenly popped back through the door and he said, "Also, he has quite the little cough. Do check that for me, John."

"Daddy ah busy."

"Yeah," John said. "But that's okay. I'm not busy. Daddy's painting your new room."

"I not want new one."

"Oh, come on, Hame. A new room will be great. You can have all of your books and toys up there and you can play up there. And it will be just Hamish's room, yeah?"

"No. Need Daddy."

"Well, if you need Daddy or me we're always going to be just downstairs, okay?"

"Okay." Hamish then sneezed, coughed and frowned, holding a little hand to his head.

"Is your head sore?" John felt his forehead for a fever and also frowned. "You haven't got a temperature. I think it's just a little cold."

"John, when Molly baby ah come?"

"Molly's baby will be here in just a few months, Hame."

"Morrow?"

"No, not tomorrow, bud. I'll tell you when it's close. But we won't know exactly when. Babies are a bit of a surprise."

"Molly tummy big."

John laughed and held him closer. "Yeah, it is getting bigger, isn't it?"

"Why?"

"Because the baby's getting bigger and bigger, getting ready to come out."

Hamish fidgeted a little, getting himself more comfortable, before pointing at the computer screen. "What you are doing?"

"I'm just doing some writing. I write stories about me and Daddy's work because people like to hear about how clever your Daddy is."

"Okay."

"Would you like me to put the telly on? It's a bit boring just watching me type."

"It okay."

"You don't want a toy or something to do?"

He sighed, laid his head back and said, "No, ta."

While John wrote up the latest blog, Hamish sat silently on his lap, sucking his thumb and fiddling with the buttons on the doctor's shirt. Just as the post was being uploaded, Hamish sneezed and his nose gave a little explosion all over John's hand and laptop.

"Oh dear," said John.

"Uh-oh. Sorry," said Hamish, who then fell into another coughing fit.

As John was cleaning his hand and Hamish's face, Sherlock staggered into the kitchen, fairly well covered in white paint. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine. Just a little cold, I think."

"I sneeze ah boogies, Daddy."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Ugh, how horrid. I'll be upstairs if you need me, John."

The detective had flown down the stairs the second he finished painting, scooping a half-asleep Hamish from John's lap and dashing back up the stairs with him.

"What do you think, Hamish?" he said excitedly, prancing around the newly painted room. But Hamish was too busy cuddling himself up to his father to answer. "Hamish."

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Do you like your new room?"

"Mhmm. But Daddy ah stay."

"No, I won't stay up here with you."

"Yes. Daddy ah stay," Hamish murmured, before completely falling asleep on his shoulder.

Sherlock was rather keen to get rid of the cot, so spent the afternoon trying to construct the flat-packed bed in the middle of the living room.

"Bloody hell!"

"Sherlock, I am trying to work."

"You are not working, you're writing that stupid blog."

"No 'ighting, please."

"Sorry, Hamish," they said in unison, silently returning to their work.

"Daddy, what you are doing?" He toddled over from his rocket ship to where the pieces of bed were strewn across the floor.

Sherlock threw an Allen key on the floor and said, "Well I'm trying to put together your new bed. But the instructions are wrong."

"Sherlock, they're not wrong. You just can't…"

"There is nothing wrong with my ability to put this idiotic thing together, John. It is broken, or missing pieces or… wrong."

Hamish stood, holding his little hands together and said, "How I can help you, Daddy?"

The instructions were thrust into his hands and Sherlock said, "See if you can decipher these. It starts at this one."

"Okay," he said, and sat down, looking at the pictures. "No, Daddy," he eventually said. "It wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong way, Daddy." He stood up and pointed at where Sherlock had attached the headboard.

"What?"

"This one. It ah wrong way."

Sherlock frowned and snatched the instructions off him. "Oh. I see."

As the detective began undoing the headboard, John lost interest in his writing and moved to sit on the floor beside Hamish. "How did you know that's how it went, Hame?"

"See?" he pointed at the instructions. "On ah picture."

"What's next, Hamish?" Sherlock had finished reattaching the headboard (the right way around) and looked a little disgruntled that he'd been outsmarted by his one-year-old.

"This one ah there, Daddy."

And so went their afternoon. By the time the bed was finished, they had an audience of three, John, Mrs. Hudson who had brought up some banana bread; and Lestrade, who'd come over for a beer. None of the guests offered to help Sherlock who was gradually becoming more and more petulant and snippy. Whenever a step was completed, Hamish would point out the materials needed for the next one, and gave correct but sometimes rather difficult to understand instructions on exactly how it needed to be attached.

"No, Daddy. Ah big one. Not ah big big one. Just ah big one."

"Wrong way, Daddy."

"Ah up one, Daddy."

"Daddy. You am wrong. It ah this way."

"I need ah toilet."

"No, Daddy. No, no, no, stop. It wrong."

"Daddy, why you did this one? It ah wrong one."

"No. Silly Daddy. It ah wrong way."

"It a bed!" He announced when the mattress was plopped onto the frame.

Sherlock stood up with his hands on his hips and said, "Yes. It's your bed."

"It's a big boy bed," John added.

"I can't believe he just did that," said Lestrade, looking over the cryptic instructions in awe.

John suddenly grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and handed it to Hamish. "What about this, Hame. What do you reckon it means?"

It took Sherlock half a second to realise it was a sheet of codes he'd been trying to decipher for a cold case he'd dug up out of boredom. He snatched it back from his son and glared at John. "Don't you dare. He is not a performing monkey, do you understand me?"

The cot was removed from the bedroom and replaced by the newly constructed big boy bed. Hamish was not impressed. He'd already pulled the duvet and pillow onto the floor and now stood in his Buzz Lightyear pyjamas, frowning at the bed.

"Hamish, you have to go to bed."

"No, Daddy. Want my little bed." Hamish started crying and kicked his pillow across the room.

"Well too bad. This is your bed now."

"No!"

John took over from Sherlock who was about to lose his temper and remade the bed, placing Teddy on the pillow. "Look, Teddy's waiting for you to come to bed."

"No he not."

"Yes, he is. Look. Now hop in and we'll have a story, yeah?"

"No."

"Why don't you just try it out, Hame? Like an experiment."

"Expreriment?"

"Yeah. Test this big boy bed out tonight and see what you think."

Hamish fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a moment and then said, "Okay."

"Great." John scooped him up, pulled back the duvet, and slotted the little boy into bed. "How's that?"

"Mhmm. Okay."

"You like it?"

"Yes," he said, wriggling further under the covers. "It big, John."

"It is big. Now let me tuck you in and we can have your story." John pulled the duvet to sit underneath Hamish's chin and then ran his hands along the boy's sides, tucking the covers in. "There. How's that for you?"

"Good but where woobie is?"

Once he was safely tucked in with woobie, Hamish was read another chapter of 'Peter Pan', but fell asleep before it was finished.

Contrary to expectations, Hamish only got up once in the night. He slipped out of bed, toddled into the kitchen and said, "Daddy, why you are up?"

"Hello, Hamish." Sherlock closed his laptop and picked the sleepy toddler up. "You should be asleep."

"But why you are up?"

"I'm doing some work, alright?"

"It time ah bed, Daddy," he said as he was placed back in bed.

Sherlock kissed his forehead and said, "I'll be in a little later. Off you go to sleep."