It’s Hamish’s Birthday today.
This is his Dad. I had Hal’s father help me hack into his blog so I could let you 927 people know…
Wait…how the HELL does his blog have more followers than mine?
And you can get rid of that smug look on your face, Sherlock Holmes.
At least I don’t blog about 427 different types of tobacco ash, do I?
At any rate, if you followers have any Hamish-related memories or stories or anything to share, I’ll be posting things like that here for him to see when he gets home this evening.
All the Best,
-JW
“Thank you for allowing Hamish to go to dinner with me, Mr. Holmes. I promise to have him back no later than ten tonight.”
“Of course you will, Alan.”
“And thanks for trusting me.”
“Not at all. I’ve no need to rely on trust.”
“Sir?”
“If our son has not returned by precisely one minute past ten, you will be contacted by several large, muscular members of the Secret Service. I’d advise you not to resist; they tend to be excitable.”
“Mr. Holmes, I would never —”
“Then at five minutes past ten, every contact in your mobile phone will receive a rather graphic photograph of you taken in the men’s toilet at Paddington station last week. You appear to have been suffering considerable intestinal distress.”
“I —”
“Anything to add, John?”
“I still have my gun from the Army, and I’m a very good shot.”
“Do have a lovely dinner, Alan. We look forward to seeing you tonight.”
221b drabbles - Boy, Belittled, Beneficial
So I meant to write one drabble, but three came out. Have some Hamish, some angst, and eventually, some fluff. Cut for length, hit the Read More if you’re curious :)
After clamoring about in the kitchen, Sherlock stuck his head into the sitting room where John was helping Hamish with some homework.
“Have either of you seen the plate of kidney slices I left in the fridge?”
Hamish looked up, somewhat guiltily. “Sorry, father, I thought that was spoilt food, I threw it in the bin out back.”
Some Hal fanart for valeria2067!
Anonymous asked: Dear Hamish, when/how did you discover about the incident when your Father had jumped off a building and went absent for years before he returned? Granted, it did occur before you were born, but you must have found out eventually. Do you think it has affected the way you perceive your parents? (Feel free to ignore this question if it is too personal.)
Thanks for the question.
It is a painful subject, certainly, but it isn’t one I’m afraid to talk about on my blog.
Two of the stories involving this may are “Make it Better” and “Remembrance”
I hope you like them!
Sincerely,
-HWH
221b drabble - Bollocks
Someone on FF.net asked for more Hamish fluff, and, well, who am I to refuse Hamish fluff?
“Damn!” The exclamation is punctuated by a chubby fist flinging a sippy cup onto the floor. John turns to look at Hamish, who’s smiling rather smugly.
“Excuse me, little man?”
Grinning, he hurls a small stuffed giraffe from his high chair. “Damn!”
John rubs his eyes, realising that Hamish is merely imitating his own bad habit of swearing whenever he drops anything. He’s been trying hard to curb it, but years of ingrained cursing are hard to break.
Gently, he lifts the wriggling, giggling toddler out of his chair and guides him into the sitting room. John settles onto the couch, his son leaning against him.
“Now Hal, I want you to listen to me. Sometimes Daddy says things, but he’s trying to stop, because they’re not nice. Can you promise me you won’t use that word around Father?”
Hamish looks very serious for a moment, his tongue running across his lower lip in an imitation of one of John’s other habits, before considering the question.
“Okay.” He smiles, and John ruffles his hair.
“That’s my boy.”
They sit in peace for a while, John watching the telly and Hamish playing intently with one of Sherlock’s good shoes, when abruptly he lobs the shoe across the sitting room. Looking directly at his dad with a huge grin, he proudly exclaims “Bollocks!”
Based on this ficlet by valeria2067: http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/post/19651761426/hamish-1
(via valeria2067)
“Stars” - featuring Hamish Watson-Holmes
“Hurry up, Hal, and don’t disturb your Father; he’s working. Here, let me help you with that jacket, Okay?”
John knelt down and fastened the toggle-and-loop buttons on Hamish’s jacket - the one he couldn’t help call ‘Paddington’s Coat’ no matter how much it upset a certain Consulting Detective.
A few feet away, Sherlock looked up and caught John’s eye.
“What’s this? Hamish should be in bed asleep, John. Where are you two going?”
Hamish offered a broad grin that showed off the new gap at the bottom. “We’re going to look for my TOOF!” he announced.
“Your tooth?”
“Yes, Sherlock, that’s right. We won’t be a minute. Come on, Hal, here we go,” Despite his best efforts, John wasn’t able to drag Hamish out of earshot in time to end the conversation.
“Hamish, your tooth is -“
John made a loud “whiiiishhhhht!” sound through his teeth and shook his head at the man who shared his life, and who was now sitting on the leather sofa, surrounded by stacks of files and (most likely gore-filled) photographs.
In only three bounds, Hamish was halfway to the coffee table, bursting to share his happy news: “Daddy says that the Tooth Fairy takes our baby teeth away and uses them to make the stars!”
“SOME of the stars, Hal.”
“Some of the stars! We’re going to see if we can see mine tonight!”
Piercing silver eyes darted from Hamish to John. “Is that what your Daddy says?”
“Sherlock….” John’s voice was filled with warning.
The eyes shot back to Hamish. “And what do you think, Hamish? Do you think that sounds possible?”
Hamish frowned for a moment, looked down, then looked up at his Dad. “I don’t know.”
“Right. Okay. Remember, Sherlock Holmes, you brought this on yourself.” John bent down, tousled Hamish’s dark curls, and said, “Hal, ask your Father to tell you what the stars really are, and how they got in the sky, and why they don’t fall down on us. Oh, and why they make different patterns depending on where you are when you look at them.”
Big, silvery-blue eyes turned on Sherlock. “Father? What are the stars REALLY, then? How did they get up there in the sky?”
If it hadn’t been for the strict ‘no-swearing-in-front-of-the-boy’ rule in their house, Sherlock Holmes might have impressed even his ex-Army partner with the phrases that seemed to be forming on his lips. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut for a few seconds, narrowed his eyes at the smug, sandy-haired object of his rage, and picked up another file from beside him on the sofa.
He opened it, began reading, and did not look up when he answered.
“It’s possible some are baby teeth.”
Hamish nearly jumped up and down with happiness. “Will you come help us look for mine?”
“No. Thank you.”
John took Hamish by the shoulders and bundled him toward the door. He turned to look over his shoulder at Sherlock.
“Be right back, then, my darling, my love,” he said with a devilish wink.
As he turned back he thought, though he couldn’t be sure, that he caught a glimpse of the world’s only Consulting Detective sticking out his tongue.
Apparently, I’m on a Hamish kick today.
I know his violin should be electric, but I couldn’t find a decent workable photo of a man with the proper-looking hands playing one, so have a weirdly-coloured acoustic instead. It’s to keep Father happy, he’s a stickler for tradition. Or something.
221b drabble - Biter
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.”
