I was in the mood for some Hamish fluff today.
"John! John! Thank goodness you're home!" Sherlock stood at the door, looking frazzled. Hamish was balanced on one of his father's bony hips, fussing sleepily.
"Your son won't stop crying. I've tried everything. I fed him, I changed him, I played the violin, I read to him..." Sherlock trailed off, weary and exhausted, bouncing the baby instinctively. Hamish continued to grumble, his face red and blotchy.
John held his arms out, dropping into a chair.
"C'mere, Hal. Have you been mean to father today?"
He balanced Hamish on one thigh and held his hand out, allowing the infant to inspect it. He wrapped his chubby baby fingers around John's index, pulling it insistently towards his mouth. Momentarily distracted, John's attention was brought back down to earth when Hamish chomped down on his finger.
"Shi- er- drat." He'd been trying to curb his swearing habit around the baby, who had a freakishly advanced comprehension of language. He leaned forward, carefully peering into Hamish's mouth.
"There's your problem, Sherlock. He's teething."
"What? Already? He's only four months old! All the literature I've read has-"
John cut him off. "Bollocks to the literature. Each kid develops at their own pace. Hal's always been a bit ahead of the curve." He looked down at his throbbing finger. "Unfortunately for us, he's also a biter."