“Kiss and Tell” - a ficlet featuring Hamish Watson-Holmes
John opened the door to the flat, shucked his black hunting-style coat and walked over to where Sherlock was seated. He kissed him lightly on the cheek and looked round the room.
“Afternoon. Where’s Hal?” he asked.
Sherlock didn’t look up or move his steepled fingers from his chin. “In his room.”
“Oh. Is he in trouble?” John smiled, but in his head he saw a hundred dangerous scenarios flash by. He’d gotten over most of the new-dad nerves during the last five years, but every now and then the image of Sherlock and his son playing ‘scientist’ with beakers of highly-toxic and corrosive liquids leapt to mind. Sherlock would never do that of course. Of course. Right?
“I had a conversation with his teacher when I collected him after school, John.” Sherlock looked up. “It seems your son spent some time today kissing his female classmates in the cloakroom.”
A Pleasant Surprise
Sherlock is very seldom surprised; after all, his superb observational skills make it difficult for anyone to shock him. John’s managed it a time or two (OK, perhaps more than a time or two, Sherlock admits—the fact that John stays being the biggest and most ongoing shock of Sherlock’s life). But Sherlock is surprised late one Wednesday night when he looks up momentarily from his latest experiment on the effects of acid on the corrosion of human tissue and finds a pyjama-clad Hamish standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, clutching the ratty, eyeless teddy bear he inherited from Sherlock (via Mycroft’s annoying interference and gross sentimentality) and rubbing his eyes against the brightness of the overhead light.
“Father,” Hamish says and moves farther inside the door, “The sky is crying very loudly.”
First Words, a Hamish Watson-Holmes ficlet
Valeria asked for Hamish’s first words yesterday when she was away at work.
”What were yours, then, Sherlock?” John looked down at Hamish and smiled, the boy grasping tightly to one of his index fingers as John bounced him on his knee.
”Oh, I don’t remember. Hardly an important thing, the first words that come out of your mouth. Children’s mouths form the simplest words they are capable of. It is completely arbitrary, the only sounds a child knows how to make.” Sherlock turned his face back towards the sofa, curling in on himself even more. John tilted his head slightly and smiled.
The Only Sight (A Hamish Watson-Holmes Poem)
Our son, on your warm chest, in the middle of the day, is the beautiful sight. Our son, on your soft chest, rising and falling like the sun and moon, is the only sight. Our son, on your tanned chest, his tiny hand curled around your broad fingers, is the wondrous sight. Our son, on your brave chest, his sleeping mouth the pink of your scar, is the aching sight. Our son, on your kind chest, your heart his only lullaby, is the blessed sight. Our son, on your sweet chest, your eyes locked with mine, is the love sight.
Boxing Day A Hamish Watson-Holmes Fan Fiction by mozartsgirl and inkgeek
As John Watson climbed the last flight of stairs up to 221B he breathed a heavy sigh. Sarah had gone too far this time. Pawning all her patients for the week off on John so she could go on a cruise with her new fiancé was just unprofessional. True, it wasn’t her fault a mild chicken pox epidemic had hit the nearby school system, but it was still rotten luck for John.
He didn’t quite feel up to playing cowboys with an overexcited 3-and-a-half-year-old, but he was going to give it his best effort. He paused momentarily before turning the doorknob, took a deep breath, then opened the door.
“Hal, Dad’s home!” he called. He just had time to brace himself before he was nearly knocked off his feet as Hamish collided with his legs.
“Dad!” he squealed, “Guess what Father taught me today?”
“He taught you how to…” John glanced over to Sherlock. He was standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded and a smirk on his face. “… fingerprint cats?”
“No!” giggled Hamish.
“He taught you how to… get the milk? Oh, of course not! Father doesn’t know how to get the milk.” John laughed at his own joke and Sherlock stopped smirking and took a step forward.
“Nooooo!” said Hamish. “Something better than that!”
“He taught you how to… I give up. What did he teach you how to do?”
“He taught me how to box!” Before either of his parents could stop him, Hamish spun on the spot and executed a spectacular right cross. Unfortunately, Sherlock was standing too close and caught the full force of Hamish’s fist square in the goolies.
Sherlock didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. The only indication that he was in any pain came when he spoke.
“Hamish, that was very well done,” he said hoarsely, “but would you mind letting me and Dad talk alone for a minute?”
“Alright, Father!” Hamish replied happily and scampered off to his room.
“Sherlock?” said John tentatively, “Are you alright?” Sherlock did not reply. He dropped to his knees and clutched at his crotch. He wheezed and bent over until his forehead was also touching the carpet.
“John. Ice!” To John’s credit he didn’t burst into laughter until he returned with a bag of frozen peas.
When Hamish returned to the room, he found his father sitting awkwardly on the sofa with the bag of peas on his lap.
“Father?” he asked giving the peas a suspicious glance.
“It’s for an experiment.”
“Kiss and Tell” - a ficlet featuring Hamish Watson-Holmes
John opened the door to the flat, shucked his black hunting-style coat and walked over to where Sherlock was seated. He kissed him lightly on the cheek and looked round the room.
“Afternoon. Where’s Hal?” he asked.
Sherlock didn’t look up or move his steepled fingers from his chin. “In his room.”
“Oh. Is he in trouble?” John smiled, but in his head he saw a hundred dangerous scenarios flash by. He’d gotten over most of the new-dad nerves during the last five years, but every now and then the image of Sherlock and his son playing ‘scientist’ with beakers of highly-toxic and corrosive liquids leapt to mind. Sherlock would never do that of course. Of course. Right?
“I had a conversation with his teacher when I collected him after school, John.” Sherlock looked up. “It seems your son spent some time today kissing his female classmates in the cloakroom.”
“On Call”
(Thanks to Valeria for the help!)
“John, you must come back. I am completely unfit for this.”
“No, you’re not. He’ll be fine.”
“I will kill our son. You can not do this to us.”
“Soft” - A Sherlock/John ficlet featuring Hamish
“We’re back. – Wait, wait! Hamish, no running in the flat—“ John knew it was futile to yell after his five-year-old son. Hamish had an uncanny sense that told him when Sherlock was at home; even before they’d climbed halfway up the steps, the dark-haired boy had shot ahead and opened the unlocked door so he could race into his father’s arms.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair surrounded by piles of papers. By now, he’d mastered the art of placing everything safely to one side when he heard the light, rapid footsteps heading his way. Hamish launched himself up and was caught in a pair of elegant, slender hands.
Hamish settled onto his father’s lap. “How was your exercise, Hamish? Did your Dad manage to create a violent football hooligan out of you, today?” He smiled pleasantly and smoothed his son’s hair.
“No, we just walked today, Father. And we talked to a nice lady.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?”
John finished putting away their light jackets and walked back into the sitting room.
“Father, why don’t you have lovely round breasts?”
John stopped in mid-stride.
“Make It Better:” A Reichenbach Tale
Young Hamish asks about a special scar on his father’s temple, and learns the meaning of healing. Potential spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall (if you’ve seen That Photo, you know what I mean).
