Chapter Text
The Watson-Holmes family wasted no time in leaving the house. John, holding the basket in one hand and Hamish’s clammy hand in the other, felt quite optimistic about the rest of the day. The little boy had displayed remarkable eagerness and helpfulness while preparing for this outing, which really warmed John’s heart. Granted, Hamish’s assistance was as useless sweet as it was sweet, but the intentions were what counted. The way they all had prepared the picnic together – dusting the basket found somewhere in the recesses of Mrs Hudson’s basement, peeling the fruits (bananas in Hamish’s case, so that he wouldn’t get hurt), and making sandwiches among jokes and laughter – would become a fond memory. Sherlock seemed happy as well, despite his initial reluctance to go outside. All was well.
As soon as they entered the park, Hamish let go of his parents’ hands and dashed to find a good spot for their blanket. Of course he knew not to stray too far from his family, Papa and Daddy had taught him the rules of safety outside.
John took Sherlock’s warm hand, liking how their fingers seamlessly interlocked with one another. They had stopped paying attention to occasional unkind stares ages ago.
“His stores of energy are boundless. All this frantic running, manic state… he kind of reminds me of someone,” John said with a smile, far too amused to even attempt any chastising.
“Ah yes, that senseless bumbling about, I do indeed see a similarity,” Sherlock shot back with a smirk.
“Arse,” John laughed, squeezing his hand a little. Their banters and little jabs were never for real. They never meant those things and didn’t want to really hurt the other. And woe to anyone trying to truly insult one of them. The last person who called Sherlock a freak in John’s presence ended up with a dislocated jaw.
The park was full on this sunny Saturday morning, so they had to walk for quite a while until they found a relatively peaceful and quiet spot.
“Papa! Daddy! Here!” Hamish pointed happily to the patch of recently mowed lawn a little farther from the pathway.
“Good choice, Hamish. No one will bother us,” said Sherlock, forever vary of strangers.
The little boy didn’t need to hear anything more. He sprinted to his Papa and grabbed a fistful of his striped T-shirt, wanting him to move faster.
“Don’t expect too much with Papa’s short legs,” warned Sherlock teasingly.
“I’ve never heard you complaining about my legs when I spread them for you,” John replied in a murmur to Sherlock's ear, so that Hamish wouldn’t hear.
“True, but your legs weren’t my main focus then.”
“Less talking more walking,” ordered Hamish, causing both of his fathers to laugh.
When they reached the right spot, preparations commenced. Everyone was occupied with an important task. Sherlock laid out the blanket, making sure that no twig or stone would cause them any discomfort, John pulled out the food in plastic containers from the basket and Hamish ran around chasing a dragonfly.
“Come on, let’s eat,” said John once everything was ready. Hamish plopped on the blanket, sitting between his parents, and reached into the offered box full of chunks of apples, bananas, pears and grapes. The boy never had any troubles with eating. Despite having his father’s genes when it came to his body type – thin and lanky – he never skipped a meal and often enjoyed a snack between them, rarely disliking something. Both John and his son were omnivorous. Sherlock was a far more fussy eater. This situation had improved after they got together and John forced him to actually eat sometimes, but in the past he'd often wondered if Sherlock was secretly a plant, thriving on photosynthesis alone. John was curious to see what effect the fresh air would have on his husband's eating habits.
Just as expected, Hamish munched on his pear eagerly, the juice dripping on his chin and fingers, and Sherlock picked on one single grape as if it was burning his teeth.
“It’s a fruit, not torture, you know?” John forehead creased. Sherlock cast him a miserable look. John sighed. “You’re such a baby.” He took the grape from Sherlock’s fingers and put it unceremoniously into his husband’s mouth. The look on the detective’s face was undoubtedly triumphant. Arse.
John turned to his son, ready to offer him a tissue so that he could clean himself up, but Hamish was faster – the boy wiped his face on his sleeve and his sticky fingers on his trousers.
“Well, never mind then…” John sighed, thinking about the ever-expanding heap of clothes to wash.
“Papa, I want to see a squirrel!” Hamish decided, scrambling up to his feet. He didn’t run off, actually waiting for permission. John smiled. Good boy.
“Sure, just don’t go too far, yeah?”
“Yeah, just to those trees!” he said, pointing to a few dainty hazels a couple of yards away. John nodded and the boy skipped in that direction. It was unlikely that he’d find a squirrel there any time soon– or at all – so he and Sherlock had a bit of time to one another. Sherlock immediately used it to lay down with his head in John’s lap.
“If you want to take a nap, go ahead,” John said, twirling one curl around his finger. He loved playing with Sherlock’s hair. It was so soft and smooth. And it seemed Sherlock liked it as well.
“Waste of time.”
“Oh?” John raised an eyebrow. “And what other important things do you have to do instead of napping?”
“Anything else. Even staring at you seems like a more interesting alternative.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Wow, I’m floored by your romanticism. You know how to charm the pants off a guy.”
For a moment they just stared at one another intensely. And at the same time they started to laugh. They were both utterly ridiculous.
“If it weren’t for Hamish I probably wouldn’t be able to get you to go to the park with me and relax like this,” John said. “You’d be rotting at home, growing mould on my jumper or something like that.”
Sherlock smirked.
“Mhm, probably, yes. Although you're so tiny, that I'd need at least two of your jumpers for my needs.”
John gave him a look.
“I’m glad that we have Hamish then. For that and many other reasons.”
The detective hummed when John placed a kiss on his forehead.
The boy, as if summoned by his name, materialized right next to them. His eyes were glistening with excitement.
“Have you found a squirrel, Mishy?” John asked.
“No! But a lady over there has a puppy!”
John’s gaze followed in the direction Hamish was pointing. Yes, indeed, on a bench nearby sat a woman in her twenties reading a book. She held a leash in her hand attached to a small, yellowish furball which was at least partly a golden retriever. For a puppy, the dog was surprisingly calm, only sniffing around the bench lazily, preferring to rest in the shadow.
“Yeah, you’re right, Mishy.”
“Can I pet the dog, Papa?” the boy asked.
John cast a brief glance at Sherlock. He knew that his husband had a history with dogs, a bittersweet one. The detective's face was unreadable, but he nodded his assent.
“I don’t know, we should ask the lady,” decided John.
Hamish beamed at him and pulled at his hand to make him hurry up. Sherlock sat up, freeing John. He seemed a little uneasy and John wasn’t sure how to interpret that.
“Maybe Daddy wants to go with you?”
Sherlock shook his head, avoiding John’s gaze.
“No, go with him, John. I’ll stay and make sure that no one steals our things.”
There was little else to say, so John briefly squeezed his husband’s shoulder and let himself be dragged towards the dog and his owner.
Hamish was a curious child, who didn’t make friends easily, but who had no problems getting what he wanted, using his charm and his boldness. A chip from Sherlock’s stone. For better or for worse.
The boy marched straight to the reading woman.
“Hello, lady, can I pet your dog?” he asked bluntly.
The woman lifted her gaze from the book and looked at the little boy with surprise, but being confronted with a pair of blue pleading eyes, she had no other choice but to smile. She glanced at John, who shrugged his shoulders in a ‘Kids, yeah?’ kind of way and smiled at her, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. He had always had a way with women, so it wasn’t a big problem.
“Yeah, sure,” she said to Hamish. “His name is Frankie. He’s very friendly, likely to lick you to death.”
Hamish knelt right next to the pup, who sniffed at his extended hand. A few seconds later the boy and the dog were best friends, the dog jumping around Hamish as far as the leash allowed and barking happily.
“He’s a sweet boy,” said the woman. John, as any parent, wasn’t immune to praises aimed at his child, so he puffed out his chest a bit.
“Yeah, he is.”
They chatted for a while about this and that while Hamish played right next to the bench with the puppy whose personality resembled that of a cuddly toy. John was actually glad that it was he and not Sherlock who had come here; his husband had little patience for small talk. After some time John noticed the woman checking her watch discreetly. That was their cue to leave.
“I think it’s time for us to go, Mishy,” John said. Hamish responded with a disappointed whine.
“Do we have to, Papa?”
Before John could reply, the woman crouched in front of the boy to be at the same level as he was.
“I’m often in the park with Frankie. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon. I think he likes you.”
Her words made the parting of ways easier. Hamish simply nodded with a small smile, treating her words as a promise of future fun. The Watson-Holmeses stood there for a while, watching the woman and the pup go, and then they returned to the blanket. Sherlock lay casually in a languid and affected pose, but his eyes were attentive.
“Daddy, I played with the dog!” Hamish informed him with a grin, falling on his knees right next to him. He spoke so fast in his excitement that he swallowed some letters. “He’s small, and yellow and his name is Freddie!”
“That’s very nice, Hamish,” Sherlock said, running his hand through the boy’s curls, but the glance he gave John told the man that something was wrong. Having years of experience in dealing with his problematic husband, John immediately figured out what it was. Honestly, he was slightly flattered. Annoyed, but flattered nonetheless.
“As much as you look lovely in green you really have no reason to be jealous,” John said, sitting beside Sherlock with his legs extended. “We were just chatting about the weather and such.”
Sherlock huffed.
“I am not jealous.”
Yeah, right.
John leaned closer to him and pecked his cheek affectionately.
“You know that I love you and only you.”
“Except me!” Hamish protested with the look of adorable indignation on his face. John had to laugh. Ridiculousness and a flair for drama both ran in the Holmes family.
“Except you, Mishy,” he agreed and gave them both a warm hug. “I love the two of you the most.”
‘Placated and feeling loved’ Sherlock was a happy Sherlock, so the whole incident was quickly forgotten.
Gray clouds had crept up into the sky, a silent threat of oncoming rain. It was time to head home. They ate the leftovers of fruits and cookies granted graciously by Mrs Hudson and gathered their things. All in all, the picnic turned out to be a huge success, matched only by the radiant grin on Hamish’s face as he ran and sprang a couple of yards in front of his parents on the pathway as they ambled through the park towards Baker Street.
“I’m glad that he was able to play with the dog,” Sherlock said suddenly, his hand holding John’s firmly.
“Yeah, he looked very happy.” John hesitated. Dogs were kind of a taboo topic, but if Sherlock brought it up first… “Maybe we can think of getting a pup for him.”
Sherlock tensed, alarmed. When he looked at John his eyes were full of worry and probably some residues of past sadness.
“Dogs don’t live very long. He’ll have to say goodbye to his beloved friend eventually.”
“True, goodbyes are painful,” John agreed with a nod. “But the years they would spend together will leave him a lot of memories that even the sadness can’t erase.”
Sherlock was silent for a long while.
“You’re right, John.”
“I usually am,” John said with a smile, but without a triumphant note. “Well, except for the cases, I’m an idiot when it comes to solving crimes.”
“You’re never an idiot.” There probably wasn’t a bigger compliment that Sherlock could pay someone. The detective let go of John’s hand and wrapped his arm around his waist. John put his head on his husband’s shoulder. Sometimes height differences weren’t that bad.