The sky was bright and clear, the sun streaming through the trees. The weather was uncharacteristically lovely, not a cloud in sight. John smiled and shook out the blanket, turning to watch Hamish. He was dressed in a pair of adorable but ridiculous short trousers Sherlock had insisted on, and a striped jumper that John was sure Sherlock had purchased because it looked very much like John's.
He was pulling the wagon filled with picnic supplies behind him, but kept getting distracted, stopping to study a worm lying across the path, and then picking up a strangely bent stick, and John grinned, wondering if this is what Sherlock had looked like at four years old.
Eventually, Hamish got to the blanket and sat down, presiding imperiously over John as he set out the picnic.
"Daddy, why isn't Father here?"
"Your father's stuck helping Uncle Lestrade at work, but he promised he'd ring as soon as he was done. But for now it's just us."
He nodded seriously, attempting to stifle a yawn.
"C'mere, Hal. Why don't we relax a bit before we eat?"
John laid back, arms crossed behind his head as Hamish curled up on his chest, settling in for a mid-afternoon nap in the sun. Thoughtfully, he stroked the mop of achingly familiar black curls, ruffling in the breeze.