221b Drabble featuring Hamish - Breeze
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.
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.”
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!”
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.