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Glimpses of sunshine attempted to break through the overcast sky above Greg Lestrade's home. He walked across the inches of fluffy white snow covering the ground, crunching it under his boots as he moved around a heap of it in the middle of his yard. Every few moments, there was a sound of tiny, gleeful footsteps as Hamish followed him around, watching his movements closely and following instructions the best he could.
"See, there we are," Greg said a while as they finished up the details of the project they'd been working hard on for the past twenty minutes. A small snowman stood in front of them, no more than four feet tall. The body was a bit lopsided, and there was no carrot nose to go with the small rocks that made up its face, but it would have to do. "There he is, Frosty the Snowman. Can you say Frosty?"
"Fosty," Hamish said excitedly as he clapped his gloved hands together. The brown crocheted hat with ears he wore gave him the appearance of a carefree little bear. His eyes were alight with happiness and his cheeks rosy from the cold as he stared at the newly-built snowman.
Greg smiled, hoping for a last ditch effort. "Yeah, that's it! Now will you say my name?"
"No," Hamish replied, grinning wildly as his lashes fluttered against the chilly wind.
It had been this way since Hamish first learned to speak.
Over the past year, he had quickly learned new words and phrases with praise all around him each time he did. Greg remembered the joy in John's voice over the phone the first time Hamish ever called him 'Papa.' He would never forget the look of pride and warmth that cast itself upon Sherlock's face the first time Hamish called him 'Dad' during an investigation. Greg, who bonded with the boy and saw him multiple times a week, waited patiently for his turn, as they say. However, though he was young, there was a stubborn streak in Hamish a mile wide. Time went on and he learned everyone else's name, but would downright refuse to say Greg's for reasons unknown.
"I have hope for you yet," he said, pointing at Hamish. "Ready to come inside where it's warm? Come on, then."
Once inside, he helped Hamish out of his bundled layers, hanging his coat, hat, and mittens over a dining room chair to dry. A good part of the day had been spent outside in the snow, and light outside was dwindling fast. Between the building of the snowman, a bit of sledding, and an ill-attempt at showing Hamish how to make and throw a snowball, they had both certainly worked up an appetite. Greg flicked on some cartoons for Hamish before about making them some dinner.
There wasn't much to choose from, really, so he settled on a couple of sandwiches and some crisps. He had just finished making their sandwiches when a low buzzing sound overtook the room, a split second warning before the power cut out, leaving them in the darkness.
"Uh oh," a whispered young voice said.
Greg scrubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Uh oh is right." The power in his neighborhood, unfortunately, always cut out for hours at a time, it was never a short thing to be dealt with. He saw Hamish's face lit in the dull grey light from the window staring at him, his eyes wide and almost frightened. "Right, then," he said as he headed over to the cabinets, "looks like we'll be getting out of here." He put the sandwiches and crisps neatly into a tupperware container before bundling Hamish up once more.
By the way of Greg's car, they made it to a nearby petrol station to fill up and grab some milk and a few napkins to go with their dinner. Hoisting a small child in and out of a car seat on icy ground was more difficult than he'd imagined, but they managed through. Traffic wasn't too bad, thankfully, but the snowy conditions did slow them down for more than necessary. To pass the time, he popped in an old familiar CD. The sounds of a classic guitar mixed in with the beats and familiar lyrics and the tiniest bit of static, and he saw it catch Hamish's attention from the rear view mirror. The boy smiled, and soon began dancing from side to side to the rhythm of the song. Sherlock is going to hate me for this, Greg thought fondly as they played through the tracks.
"Here," Greg said, grabbing Hamish's attention from across his desk at Scotland Yard. He stirred his straw around in his bottle of milk. "If you blow into it, you'll get bubbles." He blew into the straw as Hamish watched, bubbles making their way up the plastic container. "You try."
Hamish leaned forward with his palms pressed firmly down on the desk. He blew into the straw and small chocolate bubbles formed along the inside of the bottle. He pulled away and stared with wide eyes as they burst one at a time. "Oh," he said in a drawn out whisper of surprise. He looked up at Greg from under his messy brown curls and smiled.
"Do it again," he encouraged. Hamish did just that, and Greg followed right along with him.
Screeching door hinges pulled him out of his bit of childhood fun. Sally Donovan immediately appeared before him with a wide smile on her face. She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. "Good to see you're hard at work," she laughed.
Having made no attempt to move away before, Greg slowly sat himself upright in his seat and felt a blush creeping up his neck. "His idea," he said, inclining his head towards Hamish.
"Sure," she said, eyeing Hamish for a moment. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"Power cut out, I couldn't let him run around in a cold house."
Hamish paid no attention to their words, focusing on the quick rise of the bubbles. It had only taken a moment or so for the bubbles to overflow the bottle. Chocolate milk came dripping down, coating Greg's desk in its sweet form. Greg leapt up and made his way around to the other side, pulling a few tissues from the box to clean it up.
Hamish stared at his mess, then turned quickly to Sally. "Hi, Sally," he said in a small, eager tone.
"Hi," she replied to him, smiling sweetly.
Greg frowned and looked up at Sally as he finished wiping the desk. "He knows your name?"
"Of course he knows my name! Doesn't he know yours?"
"He knows it, he just won't say it." He dropped the tissues into the bin before turning to the boy, bending down to be at eye level. "Hamish, will you say my name?"
"I don't 'ink so," he replied in a soft sing-song voice as he grabbed one half of his sandwich.
Sally laughed. "Bit like his Dad, isn't he?"
Greg groaned and leaned back against his desk, facing Sally. "You've no idea." First, he'd gone through years of Sherlock conveniently forgetting his name. Now, he was seemingly going through years of the same man's son flat out refusing to say it. Greg would never admit it, but the fact hurt him a bit. He rubbed tiredly at his temple. "You know, just for this, I'm going to tell him the story of his name when he's older."
"Oh? There's a story?"
"Oh yeah. Hamish was never supposed to be his name."
Hamish turned, watching them with curious eyes as he munched on his sandwich.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Sherlock and John had agreed on an entirely different name, but Sherlock went around and changed it on the birth certificate at the last possible second without John knowing."
Sally's expression spoke volumes. "Well that is -"
"Well no," he clarified, knowing he hadn't explained it properly, "it wasn't like that. When Hamish was born, he was practically a miniature version of Sherlock. Dark hair, bright eyes, and a disgruntled face and all," he said, smiling at the memory of Hamish being as small as a baby doll. "Anyway. When John found out what Sherlock did, he was angry at first."
"I'll bet he was."
"Oh, like you wouldn't believe. But Sherlock insisted on this one," he said, motioning to Hamish, "having at least some part of John. And well, you know the rest."
Sally smiled softly. "That's actually sweet."
"It is, but don't tell him that." Greg looked down at Hamish. He seemed entirely focused on the conversation. So, to shake things up a bit, he took one hand and gave his chair a quick push, making Hamish giggle as the chair spun in circles.
"You know," Sally began, "if those two had gotten together a lot sooner..."
"Tell me about it," Greg laughed as he stopped the chair.
Hamish moved in the chair and leaned over the desk, his clumsy hands slipping and spilling milk everywhere. "Oh!" he cried out in surprise. Before Greg could jump in, Hamish draped his napkin over the mess, watching as the chocolate soaked through the thin layers.
"I'll just leave you at it then, shall I?" She walked over and ran a hand through Hamish's hair. "Bye, Hamish," she said.
"Bye," the little boy replied, half distracted.
Greg cleaned up the mess and they eventually finished up their dinner when he got an idea.
With Hamish on his lap, he scrolled through the workings of John's blog and found various photos.
"Who are they?" Greg asked, pointing to the people in the picture.
The photo on the screen was an older one Greg himself had taken in the middle of an investigation of a cold case. Sherlock and John were relaxed on the sofa in 221B. John was sitting a bit crookedly as he was in the corner, and he was holding a newborn sleeping Hamish bundled up in blankets, smiling down at him as if he were the answer to life. Sherlock was perched sideways next to him, one hand full of case notes. He had his right arm resting on the sofa behind John's head, and his features were softer than ever, all the years of hiding his emotions wiped clean. Sherlock was staring at John with his mouth pulled into a slight smile, his eyes full of warmth and love.
"Papa and Daddy," Hamish answered, staring at the picture.
"That's right!" He clicked on another photo. "Who's that?"
Mrs. Hudson was in this one, holding a very confused looking Hamish up next to her. She was laughing as she held the pose. Why? Hamish, who couldn't have been more than six months old, had a pacifier in his mouth that on the outside made it seem as if he was sporting an antique mustache. Most everyone got a kick out of that, except for Sherlock who deemed it ridiculous.
"Miss Hussin," he replied quietly.
"Good, good. What about him?"
It had been Hamish's first Christmas, and Mycroft was in attendance. He didn't say much at the gathering, but the looks have gave Hamish were nothing less than fond. Hamish sat upon Mycroft's lap, staring at the torn wrapping paper in his tiny hand from the gift Mycroft held out in front of them.
"Uncle Mycof."
"Yep. And her?"
This one featured Hamish and Molly, summer sunshine in their hair as they sat in the grass at the park. Molly sat in front of him, trying to show him how to blow bubbles. The real bubbles, not the ones that come out of milk. Hamish looked intrigued by it all, as he did with most things.
"Molly."
"Uh huh." He was filled with hope as he clicked on the next photo. "And who's that?"
On the screen, a photo of Greg and Hamish popped up. It was taken only a couple of weeks prior on Hamish's second birthday. Greg had knelt down and pulled Hamish in next to him after a round of cake and ice cream, and John had snapped a photo for him. They were both smiling, Hamish's eyes nearly closed from the gigantic grin on his face, a bit of frosting at the tip of his nose.
"You!" he exclaimed as he looked back at Greg.
"Yeah, but what's my name?"
Hamish just giggled.
Eventually, Greg had it checked out, and as soon as he found the power in his neighborhood had been restored, they left the Yard. First things, first, though. While he was out, he really needed to pick up some groceries. So, he had Hamish tag along with him.
The store was strangely busy and crowded, and people were muttering about the snow in mid-March. No attention was paid to them, though. They stocked up on cereal and bread and milk first, and then began looking elsewhere. As they were turning down one of the aisles, they ran into Anderson.
"An'son!" Hamish exclaimed excitedly the moment he saw him.
"Unbelievable," Greg muttered, the last of his hope shattered. "I'm starting to think you and your Dad are in on this together."
He grabbed a few more things he needed, plus a little something extra, and back to Greg's they went.
"No, no, no," Greg laughed as Hamish plowed into the stacks of pillows in his living room, giggling as he fell over. "You see, heroes don't destroy the city..." He trailed off, realizing just whose child he was talking to. "Well, not usually, anyway."
Hamish's only response came in the form of a yawn.
Must be time for bed, then. Greg looked around his living room. Tonight was the first time Hamish had spent the night since he was baby. The original plan was to give him the sofa, but Greg was having second thoughts. The windows near the sofa were old and drafty, and the smallest of chilled breezes could be felt. He sighed, deciding to give Hamish his bed for the night where it was much warmer. He could sleep on his sofa, he would be fine.
He gathered Hamish up and changed him into his pawprint covered pajamas before tucking him in his oversized bed.
"Alright, goodnight," Greg said as he tucked Hamish in, making sure he was covered up and warm. He walked to the door and shut off the light, turning the room completely pitch black.
Hamish began whimpering. "Light," he pleaded.
Of course. Greg walked over and flipped on his dim bedside table, the soft amber glow filling the room. "Is that better?"
Hamish nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the blankets as he visibly relaxed once more.
An idea popped into his mind. "Hold on, be right back." Greg left for a moment and returned to the room with a surprise from the store hidden behind his back. "I'm going to give you something, and it's very special," he told him as he leaned over the edge of the bed. "This will keep you safe when you're scared, I promise."
He slowly pulled the gift from behind his back and held it out to the boy. Hamish smiled when he saw it. He reached out and immediately took it, the plush brown and white dog with floppy limbs and ears cradled safely against his chest.
"What's his name, then? You've gotta give him a name."
He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled. "Gasto," he beamed.
"Gasto?"
Hamish frowned and shook his head. "Glasto," he said, trying to emphasize the 'L' in the name.
"Glasto..." he muttered to himself, wondering why it sounded familiar. "Gladstone?"
Hamish nodded. "Gasto!" He hugged the dog tighter.
"Alright, then," he chuckled, "Gladstone it is." Hamish grinned. Greg stood awkwardly for a moment, not entirely sure about what he should do next. "Would you like me to tell you a story? I don't have any books that you'd like, but I'm sure I can figure something out."
He went around to the other side of the bed, sitting on top of the covers and then swinging his legs up. He leaned against the headboard and tried to tell Hamish about the story of a boy and some magic beans, but he abruptly forgot the ending. The next attempt was about a girl with exceedingly long hair, but he forgot that storyline entirely. Hamish looked at him, his messy hair plastered against a pillow, his face pulled into a frown. Finally, he decided to make one up... Sort of.
"Let's see," he said as he clasped his hands together in his lap. "A long time ago, there was a great man with dark hair and light eyes. He was smart, and everyone around him knew it. But, along with being smart, he was also very mean at times. So, a lot of people didn't like him very much. He was -"
"Bad?" Hamish asked.
"Well, no. He wasn't bad. He didn't mean to lash out," he answered. "You see, the man was very lonely, only he didn't know that. But one day, he met another man, one with dark eyes and light hair - the complete opposite of him! Secretly, he was a bit lonely too. They didn't know what to think of each other at first, really. But, they soon found themselves on an adventure as they ran through London - where we live."
"Ohh," Hamish replied, the blinking of his eyes slowing as his lids seemed to get heavier.
"Anyway, they had a lot of fun together, they laughed a lot, and they became best friends. Neither of them were lonely anymore. The man with the light eyes became a bit nicer, and the man with the dark eyes was the reason for it. They made each other better. No one had ever seen either of them so happy, and everyone one else was happy for them. But one day..." Greg trailed off, knitting his brow at the memory. "One day the man with the light eyes disappeared without telling anyone. A lot of people were sad, of course, but I think his friend was heartbroken. He disappeared and didn't come back for a really long time."
Hamish mumbled, his eyes barely opened, but still focused on Greg.
"When he did come back, he acted as if he hadn't gone away at all. Most everyone was happy. The man with the dark eyes, though... He was really hurt. And it took a long time for them to be best friends again, as they were both set in their ways," Greg laughed. "But you know what? They did make up, and they became best friends again and went on adventures just like before. They became even closer. They needed each other, and always had," he said, reflecting on the events. "After a while, though, they figured out they weren't just best friends. They figured out the universe had made them for one another when they realized they were in love, and had been all along, but they had both been too stubborn to see it."
Greg looked over and found Hamish's eyes closed, his arms clutching the floppy eared dog close to his chest. "And after that," Greg said, softening his voice, "they began a new adventure." He smiled at the boy and slowly moved to get off the bed, the mattress groaning a bit in his shifting. He quietly padded over to the door of the room when he heard a bit of mumbling.
"Wait," Hamish whined, his voice hoarse and full of tiredness.
"What's wrong?"
Hamish fumbled his hands together and looked up from beneath his curls before stretching his arms out for a hug.
He apologized and walked back over to the bed. Hamish's little arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he leaned down to hug him. He was just about to let go when Hamish spoke to him softly.
"I love you, Uncle," he whispered in his ear.
Greg almost froze. Uncle. Well, if that wasn't an honorary title, he didn't know what was. He hugged him much tighter as a grin took over his face. "I love you too, Hamish."