Hey, guys! SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT ON THIS ONE! I've been traveling a lot, and as such have had little to no time to write. In addition I've been trying to recover (though so far I've been failing) from being sick. I keep sleeping most of the day! Ugh! Anyways, just wanted to apologize for that. Here's Hamish's second birthday! Yeah... It's pretty long. Apologies. Anyways, thank you all so much for understanding and also: Happy New Year! Anxiously awaiting Season 3 of Sherlock! (Really wish I lived in the UK right now)
Thanks again to all my readers, followers and reviewers. You all are wonderful! Happy (late) New Year, guys! Hope your Christmases were lovely, as well!
Chapter Forty: Happy Second
Sherlock was seated at his microscope, fingers anxiously twitching over the knobs and then to a pen resting on the table and then back to the knobs again. "Now, John?" he whined, pressing his face to the lens and then glancing in to look at the same slide he'd been looking at all night… And the night before.
"Nope," John replied, scanning the newspaper held in front of him.
"Why?"
"Because it's his birthday! Let the poor boy sleep in."
A pause. "Fine," Sherlock eventually huffed, returning to twirling the pen between his slender fingers as he drummed the fingertips of his other hand against the table, much to the annoyance of his flat mate.
Thirty minutes later, Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the sitting room, hands twitching as he clasped them together behind his back.
"I'm going to go check on him."
"No you're not," John sighed, exasperated. "Why are you so anxious?" he cried, tossing down the paper he was still reading.
"I just… It's his birthday. Second birthday. And I want it to be perfect, that's all," Sherlock mumbled, collapsing onto the couch while simultaneously unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Uhh," he sighed, running his hands over his face and through his raven curls. "Apologies."
"That's all right," John chuckled tiredly, picking up the paper again and returning to the story he'd been reading.
Mumbling in frustration to himself, Sherlock pressed his hands together and steepled them against his lips. Deciding he needed something to take his mind away from his anxiousness, the detective turned his attention to a case Lestrade had handed him a few days ago, and started running the details through his mind.
Nearly an hour later, John was preparing breakfast in the kitchen while Sherlock was lost in the confines of his mind, vigorously working to solve the case, now he'd begun. He barely noticed the gentle tapping on his leg as a tiny voice giggled, "Up now, Daddy."
"Up…" Sherlock murmured absently, brows tugging together as he was pulled from his musing. "Up, yes. Up… Up!" he cried, quickly shooting up from his position and pulling Hamish's form onto his lap. "Oh, you brilliant boy!" Sherlock laughed, pressing his lips all over his son's cheeks. "Up, of course! He went up! Oh, how could I have missed it?" the detective chuckled between kisses, grinning as his son giggled in his arms.
"No, Daddy!" the little boy gasped, snuggling against the crook of his father's neck in an attempt to escape and catch his breath.
"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, pressing one last, tender kiss atop Hamish's head.
"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his father's pale neck and smiling against the skin. "Oh! Up now, Daddy. Come, come!" he called suddenly, pulling away to tug at the collar of his father's shirt.
"Oh! Oh, Hamish, happy birthday!" Sherlock cried, suddenly remembering. Now grinning once again, the detective quickly stood and clutched Hamish to his chest, wrapping him in a tight hug. "Oh, you're so big! Two years old… My goodness," he sighed wistfully, staring out the window and quickly getting lost in his thoughts as he ran a few fingers through Hamish's silky curls.
"Mig?" the little boy asked quietly, voice muffled by his father's chest.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes!" Sherlock chuckled. Smiling fondly, he situated Hamish on his nonexistent hip and pressed a soft kiss to his son's temple. "Yes, you're a very big boy. In fact, you're practically as old as me!" he exaggerated fondly.
"Mmm!" Hamish giggled, nuzzling contently against Sherlock's shoulder as the detective made his way into the kitchen. "Morn', John!" the little boy called, much louder than was necessary, causing Sherlock to wince slightly.
"Oh! Hey, Hame! How's my birthday boy?" Grinning, the doctor hurried over to his flat mates and planted a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek. "How're you feeling?"
"Mig!" the little boy giggled, throwing his arms out and spreading them wide, nearly falling out of his father's arms in the process.
"Oof! Yes, you're very big aren't you?" Sherlock chuckled, placing a protective hand over his son's little stomach to steady him as he translated for John, who had shot him a questioning look.
"Ah, I see," the doctor chuckled, quickly returning to his cooking.
"Mmm. What does that smell like, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured as he sat down at the kitchen table, which he'd cleared and scrubbed clean a week in advance, much to the entertainment of John. The little boy thought for a moment, using the table to hoist himself into a standing position on Sherlock's thighs. "Cakes?" he guessed quietly, absentmindedly playing with the fingers his father had wrapped around his middle.
"Yep!" John chuckled, finishing with the plate he was preparing. "And… As a special birthday bonus, I've put some strawberries and syrup on the top!" Grinning at his giggling flat mate, the doctor set the plate down with a flourish and then quickly brushed his hands up and down his jeans.
Grinning and clapping his little hands together, Hamish plopped down on Sherlock's lap, and made an eager grab for the plate of pancakes.
"Ah, ah! Not so fast," the detective chuckled, quickly pushing the plate, and its incredibly messy toppings away. "Just a moment there." Smiling at the pout and glare he was receiving from his son, but ignoring the small grunt of protest, Sherlock spun Hamish around on his lap and quickly tugged off the little boy's shirt and pants, knowing they would get terribly messy during the meal. "Okay," he sighed, placing a firm hand around his son's middle as he repositioned Hamish on his lap. "Have at it."
Humming happily to himself, the little boy eagerly reached forward and started to tuck into his specially-made birthday breakfast, much to the not-so-hidden disgust of his father. "Have, Daddy," Hamish stated happily, and holding a tiny piece of strawberry coated in syrup between his chubby fingers, offered it to Sherlock.
"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish," the detective thanked theatrically, leaning his head forward to eat the food from his son's little fingers.
"Good, Daddy," the small boy hummed, giving Sherlock an approving smile and a quick pat on the shoulder.
Chuckling and smiling warmly at his little boy, the detective tightened his grip around Hamish's middle, before pressing a soft kiss to his son's temple.
By the time Hamish had finished, the little boy was, admittedly, not as filthy as John had expected, but was still quite dirty.
"Okay," Sherlock sighed, scooting away from the table to place a very happy Hamish on the floor. "Let's go take a bath, hmm? My goodness, you are absolutely filthy," he chuckled, kneeling down to wipe down his son's face and hands.
"Mmm. Go bath, Daddy?" Hamish giggled softly once the detective was done, taking a hold of his father's hand and pressing it to his cheek.
"Love to," Sherlock murmured, brushing his fingertips behind his son's tiny ear.
"Good!" With a wide grin, Hamish tugged his father out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.
"All right, all right. Just a moment… Silly boy," the detective murmured fondly, quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing the fabric, as well as his shirt, away, which sent Hamish into a fit of giggles. "Oh, you think that's funny hmm?" Sherlock asked, feigning seriousness.
"'Es!" the little boy laughed, bashfully pressing a few fingers to his mouth.
"Well… Then I see I've got no choice," Sherlock murmured seriously, raising an eyebrow at his giggling son. Forcing a straight face, the detective knelt down in front of Hamish and placed both of his hands on either side of the little boy's arms.
"What do, Daddy?" Hamish asked, suddenly very serious as he stared earnestly into his father's ever-changing grey eyes.
"I'm afraid… I've got no choice… But…" Lowering his eyebrow, Sherlock suddenly broke into a wide grin. "Give you a bath of kisses!" he laughed suddenly, reaching forward to pepper Hamish's little face with several soft pecks. "That's what you get for laughing at me!" he scolded playfully, tugging the little boy's nappy off before placing him in the tub as he started the water running.
"Silly, Daddy!" Hamish giggled, plopping down on the floor of the tub as it began to fill with water.
"Do you think so?" Sherlock murmured fondly, crouching down until he was face-to-face with the little boy before draping his arms over the edge of tub.
"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed. Smiling, the little boy used Sherlock's arms to pull himself into a standing position, so their faces were just inches apart. "Silly, Daddy," he whispered happily, placing a tiny hand to the corner of his father's lips.
"Mmm," the detective hummed, pressing a soft kiss to his son's chubby fingers. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I am a bit silly, aren't I?"
"'Es," Hamish giggled leaning forward to place an equally soft kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Good, Daddy," he stated contently, giving a tiny nod of his head before sitting down in the now-full tub, murmuring to himself as he started to play with the water.
Smiling lovingly, Sherlock quickly turned the water off and grabbed a bottle of bubbles. "Here we are," he chuckled, dumping a good portion of the sweet-smelling liquid in.
"Bubblies!" Hamish cried excitedly, hurrying over to the other end of the tub to mix up the solution.
Sherlock watched with warm eyes as the little boy was quickly swamped by a large pile of bubbles, squealing happily as he flew his tiny hands through the clouds of foam. "Come, Daddy," Hamish hummed, crawling to the other end of the tub to escape the pile of bubbles. Smiling, Sherlock quickly scooted down to the other end, keeping his arms in the tub and waited patiently for whatever his son was wanting to show him.
"Hap bif'hay, Daddy," the little boy said quietly, smiling as he held out a little pile of bubbles.
"It's not my birthday," Sherlock chuckled, reaching forward to take the foam in his fingers. "It's yours," he whispered, plopping the little pile atop his son's nose.
"Oh," Hamish giggled, scooping up another handful of bubbles. "Hat?"
"I would love one."
"'Kay. Hap bif'hay," the little boy whispered, standing up. With complete seriousness, Hamish transferred the little pile from both of his hands to just one. "Mmm," he hummed, deep green eyes scanning over Sherlock's face. The detective watched with soft eyes, waiting patiently as Hamish started to murmur to himself. "What do you need, love?" he asked quietly.
In response, the little boy gave a tiny shake of his head as a sudden, tiny smile danced over his lips. Remembering the task at hand, Hamish reached up, tangling a small fist in his father's curls. Understanding, Sherlock bowed his head to allow his son better access.
With a small smile, Hamish placed the little pile of bubbles atop the detective's head before giving a small, triumphant nod of his head. "Hat," he stated cheerfully, beaming at his father.
"Very good," Sherlock praised, planting a quick kiss to Hamish's temple. "Thank you," he chuckled fondly. "It's lovely."
"Hame one, Daddy?"
"Sure, I can make you one." Smiling, the detective rose so he was balancing on the balls of his feet, reached down to the other end of the tub, and grabbed a small handful of the suds. "One hat for the birthday boy," he chuckled, plopping the pile on top of Hamish's soapy curls.
"Ta, Daddy," the little boy giggled, giving his father a wide grin before quickly returning his attention to the water and bubbles.
Eventually, after having been soaped up and thoroughly washed of the syrup by Sherlock, Hamish had decided the water was getting too cold. Abandoning the toy boat he'd been playing with, the little boy pulled himself up with a quiet grunt. "Out, Daddy?" he called to the detective, who was busy getting a towel from under the sink.
"Hmm? Oh, of course. Sorry. Ahh... Here we are. Nice and warm, hmm?" Sherlock murmured contently, pulling his son's small body from the tub and wrapping it safely in a towel as the little boy shivered in his arms. The detective placed a warm hand to the exposed skin of Hamish's back as he leaned forward to drain the tub.
Humming contently to himself, Hamish nestled himself further into the warmth of the blanket. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder and settling comfortably into the detective's arms as they left the bathroom.
"You're most certainly welcome," Sherlock chuckled softly, rubbing a few fingers up and down his son's bare, slightly moist back. "Mmm," the detective hummed as he slowly inhaled the sweet scent of Hamish's wet hair. "Lovely."
"What be, Daddy?" the little boy asked faintly, lulled by the gentle pacing of Sherlock.
"You are," the detective murmured, sitting down on the bed. "My beautiful two-year-old birthday boy," he chuckled, brushing some of the little boy's wet hair out of his eyes. "You're positively lovely."
"Mmm," Hamish giggled, sliding down Sherlock's torso to press his smaller form against the detective's stomach. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered against his father's bare skin.
"Hmm. I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, splaying his fingers over his son's tiny back as he hugged him close. "Happy birthday," he spoke into the little boy's curls. "Now! Come along, then! We must get ready; we've got a big day ahead of us, hmm?"
Hamish giggled, laughing into the skin of his father's stomach. "'Kay, Daddy."
Grinning warmly, Sherlock stood and placed the little boy, still wrapped in a towel, on the bed. Moving swiftly, the detective found his discarded button-up and suit jacket, and pulled them on with fervor, much to the delight of his son. Chuckling, Sherlock rummaged through Hamish's clothes and eventually pulled out a tiny pair of jeans. Quickly grabbing a nappy, he hurried back over to the bed, where Hamish was distractedly playing with his own fingers.
"Ohh. Up we go," he said, gently pulling the little boy's body from the towel.
"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Still seemingly entranced with his own fingers, Hamish stood, sticking his bottom lip out as he traced his palm, while he allowed Sherlock to dry him down and put on a nappy.
"Ahh. Here we are," the detective sighed dramatically, tugging the little jeans onto his son's legs. "Hamish? Come pick a shirt, hmm?"
"Baa-hmm... Oh. What, Daddy?"
"I need you to come pick a shirt," Sherlock chuckled fondly, placing the half-dressed little boy on the ground.
"Oh. 'Kay!" Giving a tiny shake of his head, Hamish quickly forgot the fascination with his hands and toddled over to the closet, where all of her shirts were now hanging with Sherlock's. (The little boy had insisted that, if he was going to be a big boy, his shirts needed to be hanging with his father's, seeing as the detective was a "big boy.")
"Which would you like?" Sherlock chuckled, hoisting Hamish up and onto his hip, so as to give him a better view of the clothes.
Opening his mouth slightly as he thought, the little boy turned, glancing at Sherlock's attire (signature suit with his purple shirt), before turning his attention back to the closet. "'Es," he stated firmly, falling forward to take ahold of the little purple button-up that was so alike to his father's.
"Excellent." Smiling, Sherlock pulled the tiny shirt from its hanger and set Hamish on the ground. "There you are," he said, handing the fabric to his son's outstretched hand.
"Ta, Daddy." Grunting and muttering slightly to himself, Hamish almost managed to get the shirt on entirely by himself, but ended up getting his second arm stuck in the hole just as he pushed the first one through. "Daddy?" he huffed with a small frown tugging down his sweet features. "Help 'ease."
"Of course." Laughing softly, Sherlock knelt down and gently guided Hamish's hand through the hole. "There you are. Clean and dressed! Ready?"
"Mmm-hmm! Go, Daddy!" Grinning, now that he was situated, the little boy started to make a dash for the closed door.
"Oh! Ah, ah! Wait, just a moment, I almost forgot!" Sherlock laughed, quickly wrapping his slender fingers around Hamish's arm and tugging him back towards the bed. "I have a quick present for you!" he said excitedly, beaming as he plopped the little boy down on the bed.
"Tres'tent?" Hamish gasped, scooting back towards the pillows, and the many, many stuffed animals he and Sherlock had placed there the night before.
"Mmm-hmm!" Grinning, the detective hurried over to his dresser and rummaged around in the sock drawer until he pulled out a wrapped gift. "Ah. Here we are." Practically vibrating with excitement, he hurried back over the bed where Hamish was now buried in a ridiculously huge pile of stuffed animals (which he knew would only grow in quantity today), and sat down on the duvet. "Hmm. I seem to have lost my son," he murmured, a coy smile spreading over his lips as he tucked the present behind him. "Tell me Mr. Turtle," Sherlock chuckled, ignoring the soft giggles coming from under the pile of pillows and animals. "Have you seen my son, Hamish? He's about this tall, has curly dark brown hair, and impossibly green eyes. You haven't seen him? Hmm... How about you, Peter? No? Well then..." A huff. "I suppose I'll just have to let John open his present, then."
"No, Daddy!" came a sudden, muffled cry. "Hame here!" the little boy called, emerging from the pile of animals.
"Ah! There you are! I was beginning to think you'd disappeared!" Sherlock cried in mock surprise, before grinning warmly as his son crawled towards him. "Here you go," he chuckled, pulling the gift out from behind him and offering it to Hamish. "Open it."
"Oh... Squish, Daddy," the little boy murmured, crawling into his father's lap and leaning back against Sherlock's stomach as he carefully moved the gift around in his chubby fingers.
"Very good observation, Hamish," the detective praised quietly, smiling as he felt Hamish place the present on his shin and heard the gentle tearing of paper.
Concentrating very hard on not ripping the paper, Hamish carefully tore open the wrapping to reveal the present underneath. Sherlock knew his son had finished when he heard a tiny gasp and felt the small weight lift from his leg. "Bunny!" Hamish gasped, pulling the stuffed animal to his chest as he turned in his father's lap to stare up with pure joy at Sherlock. "Like 'Ter!"
"Yes, she's just like Peter, isn't she? I thought he might have been getting lonely. So I got him a friend. Do... You like it?" the detective asked carefully, not entirely sure if the expression on his son's face was one of happiness or mild horror.
"Hame 'ove bunny, Daddy," Hamish whispered, releasing his hold on the animal to place a tiny hand to his father's cheek. "Like lot. Ta, Daddy. 'Ove!" Grinning, the little boy launced himself forward, trapping Sherlock's face in a tight hug.
"Oh! Oh, thank you, Hamish," the detective whispered in relief, placing a hand on his son's smaller back, returning the hug. "I'm glad you like it, love. Now! Come along. John's waiting outside the door, about to come in and get on me for keeping you so long," he added, whispering in Hamish's ear so the doctor wouldn't hear him.
"Mmm," the little boy giggled, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's cheek to stifle the laugh. "'Kay, Daddy. Oh! Nana come?" he asked, sliding from the detective's lap and onto the floor.
"Yes! In fact, I think she's in the kitchen. Smell that? John's not capable of making food that smells that's edible, let alone that smells as good as that. Conclusion: It could only be Mrs. Hudson. Oh. Hello, John. Didn't know you were there," Sherlock said seriously, placing a hand to Hamish's back, who was grinning playfully to himself as he stared up between the two adults.
"Yeah. Uh-huh," John scoffed, rolling his eyes as his flat mate raised an eyebrow at him. "Come along, Hamish! Mrs. Hudson's here, and she's quite anxious to see you!" Shooting his flat mate one last glare, the doctor held out his hand for Hamish nodding towards the kitchen entrance.
"Told you," Sherlock whispered, winking playfully at his son, once John had turned and was beginning to lead the little boy into the kitchen. The detective could already hear Mrs. Hudson's excited chattering, a few, 'Oh, you lovely darling!'s floating through into the hallway. Smiling to himself, Sherlock smoothed down the front of his suit and hurried in after his flat mate and son.
Eventually, after convincing Hamish to wait to open his presents until people started arriving, the little boy was practically bouncing out of his skin by the time Lestrade arrived.
"Unk Greg!" Hamish cried excitedly, almost tripping over his own feet as he made a dash for the Inspector.
"Oh! Hey there, bud!" Lestrade laughed, bending down to gentle ruffle the small boy's hair as Hamish wrapped his arms around his leg. It had been nearly a month since the little boy had really seen Lestrade, Molly, or his Uncle Mycroft, due to the busyness of both John and Sherlock. As such, seeing his family members today, after such a long break, was even more of a treat and surprise.
"Mmm. Miss you, Unk' Greg," Hamish whispered into the Inspector's thigh.
"I missed you, too, bud," Lestrade chuckled, sharing a smile with John and a quick nod with Sherlock, who was too busy watching Hamish to really even notice or acknowledge his presence.
"Open tres'tents?" the little boy asked, hurrying back over to the pile of presents resting by the couch.
"Of course," Sherlock chuckled, sliding down to the floor and pulling out his phone, so as to film Hamish opening his gifts. "Go ahead," he encouraged lightheartedly, clicking record on the screen.
Grinning and humming to himself, Hamish made an eager grab for the presents, picking up a tiny one from the top of the large pile and setting it on his chubby, extended legs. The adults all shared a quick smile as they settled into different spots around the flat, watching the little boy behind them with a smile on all of their lips.
By the time Hamish had gotten halfway through the gifts, the little boy had received a total of three stuffed animals, seven books (one of which he had insisted Sherlock read to him then and there) and about twelve different toys ranging from a set of tools with faces on them that spoke (which received a royal eye roll from Sherlock), to a twenty-piece puzzle set, matching body parts to their names (which the detective highly approved of).
It was just about this time, when Sherlock was urging John to see the academic value of such a puzzle (which he, of course, had bought), when Molly showed up, baby Rose in tow, followed closely by Mary, who quickly settled herself next to John.
"Molly!" Hamish cried as soon as the pathologist cleared the landing and he saw the baby carrier in her hand. Instantly forgetting all of the gifts (and too distracted to notice Mary), the little boy toddled as fast as he could to the stairs, desperately trying to peer over the side of the baby carriage.
"He'o baby Rose!" he whispered loudly, even though the baby wide wide awake.
"Hello, love," Molly chuckled fondly, gazing between her baby and Hamish.
"Very good manners, Hamish," Sherlock praised from where he was seated, quickly gathering up the wrapping paper his son had forbidden him from crinkling and tossing it into a garbage bag.
"Rose tres'tent at Hame?" Hamish asked suddenly, still staring in awe at the baby girl, who was gurgling happily up at him, stretching her little limbs towards him.
"Oh. No, sweetie. I'm sorry, darling, but I'm afraid you can't have Rose as a present for your birthday; it doesn't work like that," Molly chuckled lightly, giving the little boy a sad smile as the other adults chuckled at his request.
"Oh. 'Kay, Molly," Hamish hummed, still content to be this close to Rose.
His chuckle rumbling throughout the flat, Sherlock shoved himself into a standing position and strode over to Molly and Hamish, giving the pathologist an apologetic smile, as Hamish was blocking her entrance to the flat. "Come along, Hamish. Let's allow Aunt Molly to actually enter the flat before we crowd her, hmm?"
"Oh. 'Kay," the little boy hummed, smiling as he was gently pulled away by Sherlock's slender fingers on his shoulders, though he stared contently after Rose and her carrier as Molly sat down on the couch. "Go see now, Daddy?"
"If it's all right with Aunt Molly," the detective chuckled softly, giving him a light pat on the back as he glanced at Molly.
"That's all right. You can come over, Hamish," the pathologist laughed, pulling Rose out of the seat and settling her safely on her lap as she beckoned to the little boy.
"Go on," Sherlock urged, giving Hamish a small push.
Sighing in happiness, the small boy made a quick dash for the sofa and crawled up with help from Lestrade, before settling himself between the two adults with a small huff. "He'o baby Rose," he sighed, a wide grin brightening his features once again as he caught sight of the little girl. "Can?" the little boy asked, reaching towards Rose's hand and giving Molly a questioning look.
"Of course, love. Go ahead."
With a happy exhale of breath, Hamish scooted himself closer to the pathologist, nestling himself close to her thigh before reaching forward and taking Rose's tiny hand in his own. "He'o Rose. Hame 'ove," he stated happily, gently shaking the small girl's hand as he raised his eyebrows expectantly. After nothing happened, he slowly shook her hand again. "She no say back," he frowned, glancing to Sherlock who was watching the scene, hands in his pockets, with a fond look in his eyes.
"Well no, Hamish," the detective chuckled, smiling sadly at the utterly disappointed look that momentarily crossed his son's features. "She's not old enough to form words yet; therefore she cannot respond back. But look," he smiled, nodding to Rose who was desperately trying to grab Hamish's face as she gurgled happily. "She's still communicating. See? She likes you."
"Oh. 'Kay!" the little boy stated, all trepidation forgotten as he stood up on the sofa. "Good, Rose. Daddy say no talk. But it 'kay; Hame like."
All of the adults chuckled to themselves in unison, gazing fondly as Hamish continued to babble unintelligibly to Rose, who merely stared at him in sheer amazement, a tiny smile constantly playing over her small lips as she listened intently, her tiny hand wrapped safely in the little boy's.
The day went by with lots of chatter, and munching on Mrs. Hudson's food, though there was no more opening of presents, as Hamish was either preoccupied with Rose, or busy playing with the toys he'd already opened. And, no matter how much Sherlock and John insisted, the little boy had no more interest in opening the rest of his pile of presents, or the many bags from Greg, Molly and Mary.
Eventually, Mycroft appeared with only a single gift in his clutches, which, after much coercion, Hamish opened. The little boy was absolutely delighted to have gotten his very own little tie, which he then insisted be worn immediately, much to the (secret) excitement of his uncle.
"Here, Daddy! On 'ease?"
"Oh, if I must," the detective grumbled, though he couldn't help but smile as he took the tiny tie from his son's small outstretched hand and knelt down on one knee. "Here we go," he chuckled, clipping the tie to Hamish's purple shirt. "Positively dapper!"
"Mmm," the little boy giggled, taking a step forward to wrap his little arms around Sherlock's neck. "Ta, Daddy."
"You're very welcome, Hamish. Why don't you go thank Uncle Mycroft, hmm?" the detective murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple. "Go on."
Grinning and clutching the small tie in his fingers, the little boy released his hold on Sherlock's neck and hurried over to Mycroft, who was leaning against the kitchen doorway. "Up 'ease?"
"Certainly," the elder Holmes chuckled, propping his umbrella against the wall as he bent down to pick Hamish up. "Ohh. My goodness, you're getting big, aren't you?" he chuckled fondly, pulling his nephew onto his hip.
"Mmm. Ta, Unk' My. Like tie!" Hamish murmured cheerfully, giving his uncle a tight hug and snuggling close to his neck as he grabbed a fistful of the government official's tie in his own little hand. "'Ove, My."
"I love you, too, Hamish," Mycroft murmured, sharing a quick smile with his brother, which was returned with a playful quirk of the eyebrow.
"Mmm," Hamish hummed, suddenly very tired and feeling the effects of having missed both of the naps he would have taken. Yawning into his uncle's shoulder, the little boy snuggled closer, keeping a firm grip around Mycroft's tie as his eyes started to droop shut.
"Oh. I think someone's tired," Mycroft chuckled, sharing a quick glance with Sherlock, as he seemed unsure of what to do.
"Falling asleep, are we?" the detective chuckled, moving over and placing a tender hand to Hamish's back, which caused the little boy's eyes to quickly fly open before fluttering almost closed again as he yawned.
"Yes, well… Ahem. Why don't you take him, brother?" Mycroft suggested, somewhat awkwardly, now quite unsure of what to do that Hamish was almost asleep on him, with a tight grip on his tie.
"Come here, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with his brother before gently prying the little boy's fingers away from Mycroft's tie and then pulling him into his arms.
"Wha' do, Da'ey?" Hamish mumbled tiredly, fighting desperately to keep his eyes open.
"Shh. You're going to go have a quick sleep, hmm?"
"No," the little boy protested feebly, reaching up blindly to press his small hand against his father's lips. "Hame 'kay."
"No you're not," the detective chuckled fondly, pursing his lips against Hamish's chubby fingers, giving them a soft kiss. "You're tired, Hamish. It's all right, we'll just go take a quick nap, hmm?"
"No, Daddy," the little boy tried again, giving a firm shake of his head in an effort to wake himself up.
"Well, why ever not?" Sherlock laughed, quickly excusing himself and hurrying into the bedroom. "You're tired."
"No. Hame not."
"Yes. You are are."
"Not."
"Are," the detective countered, raising an eyebrow at Hamish as he set the little boy on the bed. "Why are you attempting to argue?" he asked fondly, gently brushing some of his son's curls out of his eyes as he tried to tuck him under the duvet.
"Hame not want 'eave," the little boy huffed, frowning as Sherlock attempted to place him under the covers. With a quick exhale of breath and a tiny grunt, Hamish shoved the duvet away and quickly crawled over to where his father was standing. "Hame need stay. Bif'hay," he stated, using Sherlock's lapel to pull himself into a standing position.
"Ah, I see," the detective murmured, placing a hand on Hamish's back to keep him steady, as he was wobbling slightly. "You need to stay out there with the guests, hmm? Because it's your birthday, right?"
"'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed in relief, smiling as attempted to crawl into Sherlock's arms. "Oof!" he grunted, as his head gently bounced off of the detective's shoulder when he made no move to hold him up.
"Now, now," Sherlock chuckled, holding Hamish's body to his chest with one hand as he crawled into the bed, managing to tuck them both under the covers, which earned him a very upset glare. "Everyone is still going to be here when you wake up, I promise. I'll make sure of it, all right? You can rest."
Eyes fluttering shut and then open again as he was wrapped safely in his father's arms and the covers, the frown quickly fell from Hamish's lips to be replaced by a calm smile. "Stay, Daddy? Not bad?"
"No, you're not bad at all. Everyone will understand and will still be here when you wake up, hmm?"
"Oh. 'Kay," the little boy yawned, tangling a tiny fist in his father's button-up.
"Shh," Sherlock soothed, carding a few fingers through his son's silky hair in a comforting rhythm.
"Daddy?"
"Hmm?"
"Have 'Ter?"
"Of course you can have Peter. Just a moment." Moving carefully so as not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock stretched a lanky arm over the little boy's small body and grabbed the stuffed animal. "Here we are. And would you like Peter's friend you just got today?"
"Mmm-hmm 'ease."
"Right." Keeping Peter in his fingers, the detective quickly found the new stuffed bunny rabbit and then slotted the animals between their bodies. "There we are…"
"Mmm. Ta, Daddy," Hamish yawned, clutching the new rabbit close.
Sherlock smiled. "Does she have a name?"
"'Es," the little boy whispered, forcing his eyes open to smile faintly at his father.
"Do tell."
Suddenly very bashful, Hamish clutched the animal to his tiny chest and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder.
"What's her name?" the detective chuckled playfully, urging his son to look at him.
Cheeks flushing a light pink, the little boy carefully peered at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "Molly," he admitted quietly, instantly taking cover in his father's shoulder as the blush deepened.
"Ahh," the detective drawled softly, pretending not to notice his son's obvious embarrassment. "Well… I think Molly is an absolutely lovely name," he tried, returning Hamish's cautious gaze out of the corner of his eye.
"Like?"
"Mmm. Very much so. And I think Peter is very lucky to have Miss Molly there as his friend," Sherlock murmured, quirking his lips and an eyebrow up at the blushing little boy. "No need to be embarrassed, love," he whispered lovingly, eyes crinkling at the corners as gave Hamish a warm smile. "Molly is a lovely name."
Cheeks slowly returning to normal, the little boy hugged the new toy closer. With a content little smile gracing his sweet features, Hamish quickly settled comfortably into Sherlock's reassuring hold. "Nigh', Daddy," he whispered, barely managing to stay awake as the detective started to trace a pattern on his back with a few fingertips.
"Sleep well, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, holding his breath as he waited for the little boy to fall asleep.
"Mmm." And with a soft huff of breath, Hamish quickly fell asleep, Molly clutched close to his tiny chest.
Sherlock waited silently, releasing the breath he'd been holding as he felt his son's small form go limp against his own. "There we are," he whispered, almost silently. In one swift, fluid movement, the detective quickly slid out from under Hamish's body, simultaneously tucking him under the covers while he straightened. Smirking proudly to himself that he hadn't even jostled the little boy, Sherlock carefully re-buttoned the front of his suit, as it had become undone, and smoothed down the fabric before silently exiting the bedroom.
"Is he down?" John asked, as his flat mate returned into the sitting room.
"Yes. Poor thing's exhausted."
"He's such a darling," Mary chimed in, sharing a quick smile with her fiancé.
"Yes, I… Suppose he is," Sherlock murmured, clasping his hands behind his back as he gave Mary a warm smile. "Oh. Mycroft?" he asked suddenly. Lips parted as he prepared to speak, the detective made his way over to his brother. "Is it arranged?"
"Well," the government official sighed, raising a hand to stop the onslaught of verbal abuse he knew was coming his way. "Now, now, Sherlock. Calm down. I did the best I could. I can't get you in today, but I've gotten you tomorrow, all right?"
Sherlock, whose mouth was hanging open, the disagreement he had been poised to emit stopping in his mouth. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"How soon?"
"Anytime you request."
"…Yes, I suppose that will be fine. Thank you," the detective muttered eventually, suppressing an eye roll.
"Wait, wait, what are we doing?" John asked suddenly, expressing the confusion everyone else in the room was feeling.
"Hmm? Oh. A birthday gift… For Hamish. Which was supposed to be given today," he added coldly, sending a quick glare in his brother's direction.
"Well, what the bloody hell is the gift, and when were you planning on telling me?" the doctor accused, frowning at his flat mate.
"You'll find out… Tomorrow, apparently," Sherlock hinted slyly. And then, without another word and ignoring the glares and mutters he was receiving from John, the detective sat down at the small table in the crowded sitting room and opened John's laptop, quickly beginning to clack away at the keys, not even noticing the many confused stares from the other guests.
Eventually, Molly decided it was time she and little Rose head home. Seeing as Hamish was still sleeping, and would probably never forgive him if he allowed Molly and Rose to leave without a proper goodbye, Sherlock left the table he'd been seated at and silently slipped into his bedroom, where the little boy was resting soundly, tangled in the bedsheets and the large pile of stuffed animals.
"Hamish?" he asked softly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he pulled away a few toys from his son's resting body. "Hamish, Molly needs to leave now. Would you like to say goodbye?"
"What?" the little boy asked as he awoke with a start and small shudder, quickly coming to consciousness at the mention of Moly and Rose. "Molly an' Baby Rose 'eave?"
"Yes, they're about to leave. Would you like to go say bye?"
"Mmm-hmm." Giving a tired nod of his head, Hamish released the hold he still had around the stuffed rabbit and lifted an arm up in expectation. "'Kay Daddy. Take up," he stated.
Scoffing lightheartedly at his son's request, Sherlock quirked an amused eyebrow, but obliged, pulling the little boy into his arms and bouncing slightly in an effort to keep Hamish awake long enough to say goodbye.
"Ahh. Here we are," the detective sighed quietly as he entered the sitting room to find Molly, baby carriage in hand and Lestrade, holding Rose's diaper bag in hand. "Ah. So I see you're leaving as well?"
"Yeah, I uhh… Got paperwork and stuff to do. You know how it is."
"Of course," Sherlock drawled suspiciously, glancing between Molly and Greg. "Hamish? It would appear Uncle Lestrade is leaving as well. Why don't you say goodbye?"
"Bye, bye Unk' Greg," Hamish whispered, blinking slowly as he gazed at the Inspector from where his head was resting on top of Sherlock's shoulder. With a tiny smile, the little boy raised a single hand and gave it a wave.
"Bye, sport," Lestrade chuckled, reaching forward with his free hand. Smiling warmly, the Inspector wrapped his fingers around the tiny boy's and gave his arm a tiny shake. "See you later, all right? Happy birthday."
"Mmm. Ba' bye, Molly an' Baby Rose," Hamish whispered, transferring his attention to the pathologist.
"Goodbye, darling. Happy birthday, love. You're simply too sweet," Molly chuckled, giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. In response, Hamish quickly pressed his head into Sherlock's neck, and snuggled himself closer, giggling contently to himself.
"Thank you, Molly," the detective thanked, sharing a warm smile with the pathologist before giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. "Be safe, you two."
"Always are, Sherlock."
"Yes."
Eventually, Molly and Lestrade (finally) made their way out, Mycroft left, and Sherlock managed to put Hamish back down, deciding he'd just let the little boy sleep, as he was clearly zonkered out. The detective slowly strode back into the sitting room, where Mary and John were seated.
"What's wrong?" John asked immediately, sensing his friend's tense form.
Pretending that he didn't know perfectly well what John was talking about, Sherlock quickly plopped down in his chair and crossed his legs as he gazed evenly at his flat mate. "I just do not understand the point of tools with faces on them, that's all. Completely illogical. No tools have faces on them. Nor can they talk!" he lied, pressing his fingers to his lips as he stared out the window, attempting to avoid the subject further.
"No. Tell me what's wrong."
Daring a quick glance towards Mary, Sherlock carefully met his friend's gaze. "Uh, fine!" he groaned, crossing his fingers and placing them on his knee. "My mother had said she would come today. I suppose I'm just… Disappointed, is all," he mumbled, eyes quickly flitting to Mary, who was smiling sadly at him.
"Oh," John sighed, now feeling suddenly guilty. "I see… I'm sorry."
"Eh, that's all right. Hamish didn't know, anyway, so there's no harm done."
"Well… That's a theory," John said skeptically, raising a warning eyebrow at his friend. "Are you all righ—"
"Perfectly," Sherlock answered, a little too quickly.
"Yes. Right… Well we're going to be off then—"
"We?" Sherlock gaped, staring accusing at John as the doctor stood and started to put his coat on.
"Yes. We. Mary and I. We're going home… To our flat."
"Our flat? Wh—when did that happen—? Our flat?"
"Sherlock, we've talked about this. I'm moving in with Mary… Slowly, so the transition will be easier for Hamish…? We've got our own flat—bloody hell, Sherlock, we've had this conversation!"
"Have we?"
"Yes!"
"Oh… Well… But what about—"
"Don't worry, I'll be back in plenty of time for whatever the surprise gift is tomorrow. Not to worry."
"…Fine. Enjoy your… Evening together."
"Yes. We will," John huffed, taking ahold of Mary's hand. "I'll be back before he wakes up. Promise."
"Yes, fine, good," Sherlock mumbled, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.
"…Right, then. Bye."
"Mmm."
Smiling in an almost annoyed fashion at his friend, John gave an unbelieving shake of his head, before quickly exiting the flat, hand in hand with Mary.
Ignoring the weird nagging sensation at the pit of stomach as he listened to the absolutely silent flat, Sherlock uncrossed is legs and leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the back, deciding he would try his hand at getting some sleep.
45 minutes later, Sherlock was very much wide awake, and quite frustrated by the fact that he had not fallen asleep. "Too. Bloody. Quiet," he huffed, as he hopped out of the chair, practically vibrating with his irritation at the silence of the flat. "Fine, fine."
Knowing he would not be getting in sleep in the sitting room, the detective unbuttoned his suit jacket and marched into the kitchen. One of the chairs in hand, Sherlock silently slipped into his bedroom, where Hamish was sound asleep and set the chair down, already feeling better with the sound of his son's steady breaths filling the room and breaking the silence.
Waiting a moment, the detective carefully sat down on the bed, making sure not to wake Hamish in the process and took a moment to just stare at the little boy.
"A year," he murmured softly, gently brushing the back of his knuckles over Hamish's forehead and over his faint eyebrow. "It's hard to imagine life without you, Hamish… Two years old… Mmm. You're growing up so fast," he whispered, a bittersweet pang settling in his stomach as he stroked his fingers through his son's curls. "So fast… Happy birthday, Hamish. You precious thing." Smiling in spite of the melancholy feeling cooling uncomfortably in his veins, Sherlock bent forward ever so slowly and placed a tender kiss to the corner of his son's lips. "I love you, Hamish," he whispered against the smooth skin of the little boy's warm cheek. "With all my heart. Happy birthday." Smiling, Sherlock took a deep breath, and carded his fingers through Hamish's silky hair once more before pulling away and plopping down in the chair he'd brought in. Still smiling, the detective listened to the sweet, reassuring sound of his son's deep breaths, falling asleep as Hamish sighed contently in his sleep, father and son's chest rising and falling in tandem as they slept.