A Birthday

The next few days at 221B went by rather smoothly. John and Sherlock had managed to put away the many, many bags of shopping, and found a home for each item. They had gotten a few additional items, as well, such as books and coloring utensils for Hamish.

The flat mates had also baby-proofed the flat; they had cleaned up and gotten rid of (most of) Sherlock's experiments, covered all of the electrical outlets, gotten a gate for the stairs, and made sure anything and everything that could potentially cause harm to little Hamish had been discarded or taken care of.

John took a few days off work to help Sherlock start to get a schedule in place, as well as to get Hamish acquainted with him and more used to him being around.

Over those few days, Mrs. Hudson had returned from holiday, to be met by a very sheepish-looking Sherlock. At first, Mrs. Hudson was quite furious with Sherlock (and John for letting him do such a thing), but as she saw the little boy for the first time, she became much more keen on the idea of having Hamish around, and agreed to the let the little boy stay on the one condition that she wouldn't have to babysit too much.

There had been no new leads with the case, and Sherlock was becoming slightly antsy. He was currently pacing across the floor of the living room, twiddling with his fingers, as John sat in his chair reading a newspaper. Hamish was seated on the floor just in front of John's seat, coloring a picture with his new crayons.

Sherlock passed by John, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. John was becoming more and more on edge by Sherlock's pacing. Hamish was not fazed, though, as all of his attention was currently focused on the drawing in front of him; his bottom lip protruded slightly as he concentrated.

Sherlock passed by again, his robe fluttering slightly as he did so.

"Bloody hell!" John declared, thrusting his paper down onto his lap. Sherlock stopped his pacing at the doctor's outburst and turned to look at John.

"What?" he asked, the agitation clear in his voice.

Upon hearing his father's tone, Hamish briefly peered up from his drawing, but, concluding that there was nothing interesting going on, returned to scribbling clumsily on the paper.

"Could you please stop that pacing?" John asked, exasperated.

"I need something to do, John! I can't stand it!" Sherlock ran his hands through his hair; the tendons popped out as he flipped his hair with much more gusto than was necessary.

"Well," John began, trying to think of something for his flat mate to do. "You could always play with Hamish," he suggested.

With a loud huff, Sherlock fell onto the couch. "I would, but—really John, I had hoped your observation skills would be better by now—he's currently preoccupied at the moment." Sherlock gestured lazily towards Hamish, who was still drawing. John rolled his eyes.

"All right. Well… You could… Um…" he trailed off, his eyebrows coming together as he tried to think of an activity to give Sherlock.

"See!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "You can't even come up with anything!" He pressed his hands over is face as he groaned dramatically. "John, what are we supposed to do if—"

"A birthday!" John shouted triumphantly, and startling Hamish in the process.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and turned to stare at John with a look on his face that clearly said, "Dear god, you have officially lost it, John Watson."

Seeing the look, John shook his head, and quickly began to explain himself. "No, no, no. For Hamish." Upon hearing his name, and still startled by John's outburst, Hamish forgot his picture and reached his arms towards Sherlock.

"Daaa," he stated. He had started to try and use Sherlock's chair to pull himself up onto his chubby legs. Situated, he turned and looked at Sherlock as John waited for the detective to get up and pick up the little boy. When Sherlock made no effort, but rather just kept staring at his flat mate incredulously, John rolled his eyes, scooped up Hamish and carried him over to the couch, where he sat him down on Sherlock's chest.

He continued explaining as he stepped back slightly.

"It just occurred to me!" he said enthusiastically. "So Hamish just turned one a little while ago, right? And I seriously doubt it was celebrated or even recognized. So we should give him a party of our own! Right here. It could be really fun, and it would give you something to do!" John said cheerfully.

Now understanding John's meaning, Sherlock began to absentmindedly play with Sherlock's hair, contemplating the suggestion.

Over the last few days, Hamish had taken quite a liking to playing with Sherlock's neck and collarbone, gently tracing them with his tiny fingers. He particularly enjoyed tracing the little the "V" that formed just below Sherlock's neck. As he listened to Sherlock and John talk excitedly, the little boy began to subconsciously trace the skin with his tiny fingers.

John couldn't help but smile fondly as he watched Sherlock absentmindedly play with Hamish's hair, and, likewise, watch Hamish play absentmindedly with the gap at the bottom of his father's neck.

"Well," Sherlock began, still contemplating, "I suppose that doesn't sound like a bad idea. It hadn't even occurred to me to celebrate Hamish's first birthday, to be honest. But now that I think about it, it sounds like an excellent idea. Very good, John! Yes! I agree with you, we should throw a tiny party for him."

"Great!" John said. "We should start inviting people. Let's see… There's Mary, Lestrade…" John began to count the people off on his fingers making a mental list of who to notify. He continued, "Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, of course, Mycroft and—no, Sherlock. Don't' roll your eyes at me! Mycroft should be able to see Hamish. I mean, after all, he is his uncle."

"Poor boy," Sherlock muttered under his breath, which received a slight chuckle from John. He continued speaking.

"Well, I think that should do it, then. I'll start contacting everyone." John whipped out his phone, and hurried to the kitchen to begin making calls. Sherlock watched as John left, and then turned his attention back to the little boy sitting on his chest as he noticed that Hamish's finger was no longer moving, but rather just resting against his skin.

"What's the matter Hamish?" Sherlock asked as he saw the confused look on his face. He couldn't help but smile at how precious the little boy looked. Hamish pointed to himself, and then looked into the kitchen, in the direction of John.

"We're going to throw a party for you," Sherlock said excitedly. He stood up of the couch, and began to walk around, gently bouncing Hamish as he went. "That means we're going to celebrate your birthday, which is the day your were born. You're going to meet several new people like Molly, and Lestrade, and unfortunately, my brother." Sherlock's features scrunched slightly as he made a disgusted look when he said his brother's name. Looking back at Hamish, who was clearly overwhelmed by the information Sherlock had just thrown at him, the frown left his face, and was replaced with a smile.

"You'll see in a few days," Sherlock chuckled. Satisfied with this last comment, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. He took the silky fabric of Sherlock's robe between his fingers and began to tenderly move his fingers across the smooth surface.

Several days later, the air was practically buzzing with excitement. John, who'd essentially arranged and planned the entire event was very pleased with his work, and excited to celebrate Hamish's first birthday with him.

Sherlock, though excited for Hamish, was slightly anxious when it came to all of the people John had invited being in tiny flat at once; he hoped Hamish wouldn't be overwhelmed by the whole thing.

Hamish had no clue what was going on. He had a sense that something exciting was going to happen, but he didn't know that it had anything to do with himself. Still, though, sensing the change in mood, the little boy had been happy all day, giggling, laughing and smiling much more than he usually did.

Mary was the first to come, arriving slightly early so as to get a little time with John and to meet Hamish; the two had not seen each other yet.

John and Mary laughed as they walked up the steps into the flat. Upon hearing the two, Sherlock, who had been watching television with Hamish, scooped the little boy up, and turned the TV off, much to the chagrin of Hamish.

With Hamish in his arms, Sherlock moved towards the entrance to the flat just as Mary and John, still laughing, reached the top of the stairs.

"Hello, Mary," Sherlock said as cheerfully as he could. Mary smiled back in reply. "This is Hamish. I don't believe you've met him yet." Upon hearing his name, Hamish, who had been looking back over Sherlock's shoulder, willing the TV to turn back on, turned back so he was facing forward. Upon seeing Mary, he instantly snuggled back into Sherlock, gripping onto his father with two tiny hands.

"Hamish, this is Mary. She's John's..." He paused slightly before continuing. "Significant other. She's nice. Would you like to meet her?" Hamish peered at Mary, who smiled warmly at the little boy. Slowly, he gave a tiny nod.

Sherlock began to pass Hamish over to Mary. The little boy allowed it, but made sure to hold on tightly to Sherlock's hand the entire time he was in Mary's arms.

Eventually, Hamish concluded that Mary was nice, and became much more relaxed. After Hamish was no longer frightened of her, Mary passed the little boy back to Sherlock.

"He's a darling," she said, still smiling sweetly at Hamish, who was now back in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock smiled in reply as John led Mary into the kitchen. Sherlock sauntered back into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

The two continued to watch cartoons until the rest of the guests arrived. First Lestrade, then Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, a rather large chocolate cake in tow. Mycroft arrived next, impeccably dressed as always.

When Molly finally got to the flat, Hamish was drawing on the floor, while Sherlock was looking something up on his phone.

Molly entered the flat, and Hamish turned up to look at her, expecting her to be another nice guest. Upon seeing her, though, Hamish's eyes widened with fear.

"Da!" he screamed. Drawing forgotten, he desperately tried to crawl towards Sherlock as quickly as he could.

Hearing Hamish's cry, Sherlock looked up, concerned. He saw Hamish hurrying towards him, a terrified look on his face. Worried, Sherlock picked the little boy up, and held him close to his chest.

"What Hamish, what's wrong? What is it?" he asked frantically. The little boy was shaking in Sherlock's arms. In response, he pointed towards Molly, who was now frozen at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock understood instantly. Molly was of medium build, medium height, and had light brown hair… To Hamish, she looked like his abuser.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly. He pulled the little boy to his chest. Still shaking, with tears threatening to spill over, Hamish leaned into Sherlock's embrace, resting his head against his father's chest.

"Hamish, that's Molly. She's not the one who hurt you. And she's not going to hurt you. I promise, I promise. I will never, ever let anyone hurt you…"

Hamish let out a quiet sigh. As he gripped onto Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you understand, Hamish? No one is ever going to hurt you again. You're safe," Sherlock whispered into the little boy's curls.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in reply, soothed by Sherlock's words, and quickly forgetting his scare with Molly. Sherlock began to rub circles on Hamish's back.

"Shh, it's all okay. Nothing's going to happen." Hamish nodded against Sherlock's chest and looked up. A single tear had fallen down his cheek.

With a sad smile, Sherlock gently brushed the tear away with his thumb.

"There," he murmured, "All better." Hamish let his head rest against Sherlock's hand.

"Mmm," he agreed.

Hamish had eventually gotten used to Molly, and actually enjoyed her quite a bit once he got past the initial fright. Though he didn't mind being held by everyone else, he preferred being in Sherlock's arms, so that's where he spent most of his time.

The adults sat around and talked – meaning John, Mycroft, Mary, Lestrade, and Molly all talked together, and Sherlock sat off to the side, bouncing Hamish lightly on his knee, playing with the little boy's auburn curls.

When it came time for Hamish to blow out the candle on his cake, the little boy was very excited, practically bouncing in Sherlock's' arms as he bent forward and attempted to blow out the single candle. Chuckling at Hamish's efforts, Sherlock blew slightly at the same time Hamish did and the candle died out.

Very proud of himself, Hamish clapped his hands together, and turned around to look at Sherlock who was beaming with happiness.

Next were presents, which Hamish had received a ridiculous amount of.

Everyone placed all of his or her presents in a big pile on the floor of the sitting room. Sherlock sat down, and set Hamish between his crossed legs. The little boy seemed overwhelmed by the large pile of boxes in front of him, and, at first, had no idea what he was supposed to do. But upon guidance from Sherlock and John, who opened the first present for him, the little boy began to eagerly tear away the wrapping with his chubby hands.

After the many, many, presents had been opened (which ranged from baby garments to stuffed animals to books on parenting), Hamish was worn out from all of the excitement. He slept in Sherlock's arms as everyone continued chatting happily.

By the time Hamish woke up again, it had been suggested by Lestrade that everyone go out for a pint. The other guests, though enjoying themselves, were slightly anxious to be able to do something more 'adult.'

Everyone got their coats, and said goodbye to Hamish, who waved a happy goodbye to everyone as they scurried out the door.

John and Mary left last.

"Bye, Hame. Happy birthday, little man. Hope you had a good time." He pressed a little kiss to Hamish's cheek and turned to leave, holding hands with Mary.

"See you, Sherlock. Be back later." He waved a goodbye.

"Goodbye, John, Mary." Sherlock called after the two as the door shut.

Sherlock turned to Hamish, who was resting on his hip. "Ugh! Finally!" he exclaimed, over-exaggerating the words, which made Hamish laugh. "I thought they'd never leave!" Smiling as Hamish giggled, Sherlock bounced the little boy a few times.

"Well, then, Hamish, what shall we do? Do you want to draw, or play with some of your new toys? We still have a while before you should go to bed, we can do anything."

Hamish thought for a moment, holding onto Sherlock's lapel for balance.

"No," he said decidedly, giving a little nod of his head.

"No? Okay," said Sherlock. He moved over and sat on the couch. "Well what do you want to do? Watch television?" He made to grab the remote, but Hamish reached and lightly held onto his hand.

"No, Da."

"Well then what do you want to do?"

In response, Hamish moved both of his hands to Sherlock's chest and gave a gentle shove. Obeying Hamish's request, Sherlock laid back on the couch, stretching out over it. Hamish gave a satisfied nod of his head as he sat atop Sherlock's stomach.

"Okay," Sherlock said, smiling at Hamish's cute efforts. "Now what?" Hamish scooted forward, and positioned himself so he was sitting as close to Sherlock's face as he could get.

Curious, Sherlock moved his hand and began to play with Hamish's curls again. "What now?"

Hamish stuck his bottom lip out slightly, and reached behind him, trying to grab Sherlock's hand. The detective moved his hand up and let Hamish grab it with his tiny fingers.

Holding Sherlock's hand in both of his, Hamish moved all of his father's fingers away so that only his pointer finger was sticking out. Then, very slowly, he moved Sherlock's hand towards his face, and pointed his hand at his nose.

Confused as to what Hamish was doing, Sherlock stared at Hamish, a quizzical look on his face.

Unfazed by his father's confusion, Hamish then let go of Sherlock's hand, and moved forward, haphazardly placing one hand on Sherlock's cheek, and one against the detective's lips. Trying to balance, he moved one of hands and placed it on top of Sherlock's nose. He tapped lightly a few times.

"Da?" he asked plainly, as if what he'd just done explained everything.

"What, Hamish? That's my nose. You pointed to your nose. Oh! Do you want to know what this is?" Sherlock reached up and gently tapped the tip of Hamish's nose with one long finger.

Giggling, and nodding fervently, happy his father had caught on, Hamish tapped Sherlock's nose again.

"Nose," Sherlock said slowly.

"Nnnnn… No…" Hamish tried to repeat what Sherlock just said.

"Very good try, Hamish, " he said happily. Hamish smiled widely; glad he was getting praise for his efforts.

Next, the little boy moved his hands to each of Sherlock's cheeks.

"Da?" he asked.

"Cheeks. Those are called your cheeks." Once again, Hamish tried to repeat. Sherlock smiled fondly. Hamish, his face now serious in concentration, moved both of his hands up and down Sherlock's cheek, following the sharp line his cheekbones made. Letting go with one hand, Hamish began tracing one of Sherlock's cheeks with his finger. His other hand pushed down lightly on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock watched as Hamish focused all of his attention to tracing his cheek. Sherlock felt that odd sensation start to make his chest grow warm as he gazed at the wistful look on Hamish's' face. His already-attractive features somehow seem to become even more beautiful as the little boy stared intently at Sherlock's cheek; his hair became slightly darker in the minimal light. His dark green eyes seemed to sparkle and glow. Sherlock noticed for the first time how Hamish's eyes had lines of gold shooting throughout the dark green irises. The sight made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. He noticed the gentle planes of Hamish's face and how smooth and clear his chubby cheeks were, and he felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest.

Hamish stopped tracing and flattened his hand out so that his tiny fingers were splayed across the hollow below Sherlock's cheekbone. Satisfied, Hamish smiled widely; the pensive look replaced by one of sheer joy.

Next, Hamish moved to Sherlock's eyes, gently tracing his eyelids as the detective closed his eyes to allow Hamish to thoroughly examine his eyes. That led Hamish to notice Sherlock's' eyebrows for the first time. He gently traced them, too, running his finger along their shape and then gasped slightly as he realized he must have a pair of eyebrows, as well. Sherlock smiled widely and couldn't help but laugh at the wonder on Hamish's face when he touched his chubby hands to his own forehead and realized he had his own set of eyebrows.

Hamish spent several minutes just moving his hands over his forehead, as if to check and make sure his newly-discovered-eyebrows were not going to leave.

Eventually content, Hamish began to touch the rest of his father's face, curious about what everything was; he gently tapped on Sherlock's ears, and forehead, and hair, and each time the detective would tell Hamish what the body part was and would repeat the name over and over so the little boy could try and repeat it.

Hamish was very excited to learn that his own hair was similar to his father's. He ended up playing with Sherlock's curls for quite a while, a pensive look returning to his sweet features as he twirled a lock of hair between his small fingers. Sherlock was actually enjoying himself. He enjoyed telling Hamish the name of each new body part, and never got tired of the excited look on his son's face when the little boy learned what everything was. Though he never would admit it, Sherlock found the touch of Hamish's tiny fingers against his skin to be incredibly sweet.

Once he got bored with twirling his father's hair between his fingers, Hamish decided it was time to give a thorough examination of Sherlock's hands. He tried to hold them up, but, upon realizing how heavy they were, decided to just let one of Sherlock's large hands rest in his lap.

Once Hamish had positioned everything where he wanted (with a little help from Sherlock), Hamish turned to the detective. He lightly tapped on Sherlock's palm.

"That's my hand, Hamish. Can you say that? Hand."

Looking at Sherlock, Hamish began to try and pronounce the word. "Huu... Haaaa..."

"Hand," the detective repeated slowly.

"Hand!" Hamish squealed triumphantly, and, deciding Sherlock's neck was too far away, he grasped his father's hand tightly and clutched it close to his tiny chest, giving it a tight hug.

"Very good, Hamish!" Sherlock said enthusiastically, and giggling slightly as Hamish grasped tightly to his arm. Hamish let go, ending the hug, and placed it delicately back in his lap.

Then, as he had done so many times before, Hamish turned his attention back to his father's hand, inspecting it. He started with the palm.

The little boy's eyes widened slightly as he saw the lines that patterned the inside of his father's hand. Very carefully, as if he was afraid if he touched or rubbed them too hard they would disappear, Hamish traced each line on the palm of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock let him, finding Hamish's gentle touch soothing. He closed his eyes as Hamish began to lightly trace the outside of his hand, moving his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles, and giggling slightly at the little gap that was situated below Sherlock's thumb.

"Look, Hamish," said Sherlock, opening his eyes. He flexed his hand, making the tendons pop up under the skin. Hamish let out a quiet "Ohhh," of amazement as he ducked his head closer to Sherlock's hand, and lightly shook it (as best he could), silently telling his father to do it again. Sherlock flexed again, laughing when Hamish quickly drew his head back, his mouth open in what was clearly pure amazement.

He turned to his own tiny hand, and flexed. But when nothing happened, he frowned slightly and turned to Sherlock.

"Da?" he asked scowling, upset that his hand was not doing the same thing as his father's.

Sherlock chuckled. "It's okay, Hamish. Your hands are just much smaller. They'll do that eventually when you get older." When the little boy, clearly not consoled, continued to glare at his tiny fingers, Sherlock reached forward, took Hamish's hand in his own, and pressed a tiny kiss to the back of his fingers. "It's okay that they don't do that, Hamish. They're not supposed to yet. It's perfectly normal." The little boy turned his attention to Sherlock, as he began to gradually lower his hand, the frown fading away at Sherlock's words. "Besides," the detective added, smiling, "I like you just the way you are." He leaned forward, and blew a raspberry against Hamish's neck, launching the little boy into a fit of giggles.

When Hamish finally calmed down, his hand now forgotten, he remembered what he was doing, and thought about what he was going to inquire about next. Coming to a decision, the little boy pointed at his toes.

"Ah. Toes," Sherlock said, still smiling from Hamish's giggling.

He picked Hamish up and placed him in one arm as he leaned forward to take off his socks and shoes. He moved so he was sitting cross-legged, the placed the little boy between the gap in his legs and gently grabbed one of his chubby hands. Moving the fingers so that Hamish was pointing, Sherlock guided his chubby hand and helped him count each of his toes, saying the numbers out loud.

"One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." Hamish focused intently on Sherlock's words. Next, the detective moved to count Hamish's own incredibly cute and tiny toes. He counted out loud again as he gently touched Hamish's finger to each toe. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

Hamish seemed amazed as he realized he had the same number of toes as his father. The little boy gasped out loud, and clapped his hands together, smiling widely.

Happy at his son's amazement, Sherlock leaned back, resting his head against the arm of the couch again. Hamish was still beaming and playing with his own toes as Sherlock placed him back on his chest.

Calming down, Hamish began to think about what other things he needed to ask his father about. Remembering suddenly, Hamish tried to take his shirt off, but ended up getting tangled in the fabric.

"Daaa," he whined. Sherlock chuckled as he leaned forward and helped Hamish to pull off his shirt. He tossed the garment on the ground.

Shirt discarded, Hamish leaned over slightly and pointed to his bellybutton, then peered back up at his father expectantly.

"That's called your bellybutton, Hamish." Sherlock reached forward and gently tickled Hamish's bare belly with his fingertips. The little boy giggled, and then returned to the task at hand, which, currently, was to find his father's bellybutton.

Hamish scooted his tiny form back slightly, so he was sitting at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach and looked down, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's belly, expecting to find Sherlock's bellybutton. Upon seeing no such thing, though, the little boy began to panic. He hurriedly looked down at his own bellybutton, as if to check if he'd just imagined what he'd seen. But when he saw and felt it again, he turned back to look at Sherlock, tears filling his eyes.

"No, no, Hamish. Don't cry," the detective chuckled. "It's okay. I have one, too. See?"

He un-tucked his shirt from his trousers, and pulled the fabric up slightly to expose his bellybutton to Hamish.

The little boy let out a loud sigh of relief, and giggled as he began to play with Sherlock's belly. The detective couldn't help but giggle as well at the light tickling sensation.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly. "Hamish, listen to this!" Excitedly, Sherlock undid a few of the buttons on his shirt and pulled it open slightly, exposing some of his bare chest. He then gently moved a very confused Hamish so he was lying down on his chest, and positioned him so his ear was placed just above his heart.

"Now be very quiet and still, and listen, and you'll hear what I mean."

All was silent for a few moments, and then Hamish heard a gentle 'thump' come from his father's chest. He jumped up at the noise, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth hanging open. He quickly looked back and forth between his father's face and his chest. Then, tentatively, he leaned back down, placing his ear tenderly against the exposed flesh. He remained completely still, waiting... Thump. The boy let out an excited squeal as he jumped up again. "Da!" he said in amazement. Bouncing slightly, he pointed to his own heart and motioned for Sherlock to listen.

Smiling widely, Sherlock leaned in and placed his ear against Hamish's smooth skin, just above his heart. When he heard the gentle beating of his son's heart, his own seemed to skip a beat, and he stayed where he was, listening to the gentle thumps.

"Da?" Hamish asked, now thoroughly worried that his father hadn't moved in a while, afraid that maybe he wasn't making the same thump his father had.

Feigning amazement, Sherlock quickly pulled back, shaking his head slightly.

"Wow, Hamish! You've got one, too!" he said enthusiastically. He placed his hand on Hamish's tiny chest, covering his heart as he laughed at the amazed look on the little boy's face. Hamish, now smiling widely, did the same and moved his hand under Sherlock's shirt and placed his hand just above Sherlock's heart.

Suddenly, though, Hamish quickly realized he had forgotten one thing, and gasped lightly. He stopped what he was doing and scurried up so he was sitting next to Sherlock's face. He sat up, moved both of his tiny hands and pressed them lightly to Sherlock's lips.

"Daa," he sighed in relief, happy he had remembered about his father's lips.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled lightly under Hamish's hands. "Those are lips, Hamish."

The little boy nodded, not trying to repeat the word this time, and Sherlock watched as that same wistful look returned to his son's face. Slowly, Hamish moved one hand to the hollow just below Sherlock's cheek for balance, and then gently began to move his hand over his father's lips, trailing his finger over the skin.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed quietly. He flattened his hand across his father's lips, and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "Daaa," he sighed quietly, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. He blinked slowly and Sherlock noticed for the first time how long his eyelashes were.

Tenderly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's fingers.

"Happy birthday, Hamish," he whispered.

The little boy smiled slightly. He brushed his fingers over Sherlock's lips, moving his hand so it was now on his father's other cheek. Tenderly, the little boy leaned in and placed a precious kiss to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's breath caught once again. The warmth in his chest seemed to spread through his entire body, his love for the little boy in front of him growing even more.

Then, almost as if he was understanding what his father was feeling, Hamish scooted back slightly, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He moved it and placed it on his tiny chest, then slowly placed his hands over Sherlock's heart. "Daa," he sighed happily. Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of happiness flood through him at the tiny touch and he stared at Hamish, love in his ever-changing eyes.

A wave of tiredness swept over Hamish as he looked into Sherlock's eyes, and he fell forward slightly, leaning into his father's touch. His hand slid away from his father's skin as he laid down on Sherlock's chest.

Tenderly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms, and got off the couch. He pulled Hamish close to his chest, his skin still warm from where the little boy's hands had been, and moved into his room.

He sat down on the bed and rolled over, deciding to let Hamish sleep with him that night. He moved so he was on his side, and clutched Hamish close, breathing in his sweet smell.

Sherlock felt the little boy's weight snuggle into him as Hamish began to fall asleep.

"Ni', Da," the little boy whispered into Sherlock's chest.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock whispered so quietly he wasn't sure if Hamish even heard it. Using his last bit of energy, Hamish moved his hand so it was resting once again over Sherlock's heart.

"Mmmm." With that, Hamish fell asleep, his body snuggled tightly against Sherlock, his hand still resting over his father's heart.

Sherlock fell asleep that night thinking that if he had learned one thing from that day, it was that Hamish had touched his heart... In more ways than one.