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Hamish wiggled around on Sherlock's lap as they sat at the kitchen table, both of them donned in old, worn out t-shirts and dark trousers. The table itself, as it usually was, happened to be in a state of utter disarray. There were beakers, magazines, and stacks of files scattered across the surface. Sherlock's microscope, however, had been pushed away from its usual position to make way for some unfolded newspaper, a few sheets of blank white paper, and a few colorful jars of paint.
"Now see here, Hamish," Sherlock said as he guided the toddler's fingers into the blue jar of paint. "If you mix blue with the red that's already on the paper," he murmured as he moved his little hands over to the paper, using swirling motions to mix the red and blue together, "you get an entirely new color."
"Oh!" the two year old exclaimed as he drew he hands back in surprise, staring at the swirl of purple on the previously blank canvas.
Sherlock glanced down at him, sideways. "Do you know what color that is?"
"Um..." Hamish placed his paint covered hands onto his shirt in thought, leaving prints. He turned his head and looked up at Sherlock and flashed a shy grin from under his messy brown curls. "It's pretty."
Sherlock smiled at him. "Well, it's purple, but that's close enough for now." Hamish went back to dipping his fingers in the jars to paint as Sherlock carried on. "Your Papa and I once solved a high profile international case by tracking down a man with purple hair. I'll have to tell you about that when you're older."
His text alert went off, and he glanced at his phone at the far end of the table, seeing a message from John pop onto the screen.
I've got a surprise for you when I get back.
Sherlock smirked. "Your Papa will be home soon," he told the busy little toddler on his lap.
"Papa?!" Hamish immediately stopped what he was doing, letting the paint drip from his fingertips and splatter onto the paper in front of him. He squirmed around on his lap, craning his neck towards the living room for any sign of John, who had been gone for over a week at a medical conference.
"Not now," Sherlock spoke. "Tomorrow."
Even from his odd angle, he still saw Hamish's face fall at his words. Indeed, it had been a long period for both of them. The first few days had been fine. However, by the fourth day, Hamish began asking for John and staring at the doors leading out into to hall. By the fifth day, phone and video calls had not been nearly enough contact for the little boy, who began crying almost as soon as they ended. Sherlock tried to draw his attention away from John's absence to the best of his abilities, but odd experiments and lessons and trips through the city could only do so much. Even the cases Sherlock took hadn't been of much help.
The nights were the worst. It took forever for Hamish to fall asleep, only doing so while Sherlock was still at his bedside. After only a couple of repetitions of this, he decided to let Hamish climb into his bed, amused by how such a little boy could take up so much space. But now, Sherlock was relieved there would only be one more night of restlessness, and only one more night of crying. There was nothing in this world that Sherlock wouldn't do to stop the tears from streaming down his son's face, but what he wanted, he just couldn't give him.
"Here," he said, trying to distract him for the time being, "why don't we mix blue and yellow together, hmm?"
They went through the familiar motions of color mixing on the paper. He began to let his mind wander, and if he was truthful, he was missing John as nearly as much as Hamish was. It was only during his time away all those years ago that he figured out separation was not their strong suit. Since then, whenever John had to leave for extended periods of time, Sherlock was brought back to that era in his life. The era was one of loneliness and heartbreak, lasting into his return to London, and it was something he never wished to repeat.
Things were much different now, though. His world - their world - had changed so dramatically. On his lap still painting, Hamish let out a delighted gasp of surprise at making the color green, and Sherlock couldn't help but press a kiss to the boy's temple. Everything had changed from all those years ago, and Sherlock couldn't be more thankful. In short, he had everything he never knew he wanted or needed in his life. And once John was back in their home, everything would be on balance once more.
The paper soon became filled with swirls and splatters, vibrant colors of the rainbow combining into an innocent kind of beautiful chaos.
"Are you all finished?" Sherlock asked a while later. Hamish held his now multi-colored hands away from the table and nodded. One look at the boy's new colorfully splattered shirt, Sherlock was more than inclined to agree. "Alright, then." He pushed the chair back and let Hamish slide off of his lap. "I believe it's time for a bath."
"Bubble bath!" Hamish grinned excitedly.
In the bathroom, Sherlock placed Hamish in the tub and started to let the warm water flow before grabbing a new bottle of bubbles from the cabinet. He poured some into the tub, underneath the stream of water. "Is that enough?"
Hamish looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. "No."
Sherlock poured in even more of the solution as the white, foamy bubbles began to form on the water's surface. "How about now?"
"More!"
The cycle repeated until, eventually, the bottle was empty and the entire bathroom began to smell like the bubblegum scent labeled on the bottle. "Oh," Sherlock remarked, staring at the empty bottle in his hand. "Well, you did say you wanted bubbles. I suppose you could always guilt your uncle into buying you some more." He disposed of the bottle into the bin next to the tub.
Hamish giggled, scooping up a mass of bubbles and clapping, causing a frothy explosion, most of it landing upon his hair and nose. Within minutes, they began to overtake all of the bathtub, climbing up the tiled walls and overflowing onto the floor. Hamish was more than happy with the situation, for it was like a paradise for him. For Sherlock, however, as Hamish let out trills of laughter, began to realize why there was usually a limit to how much of the solution was used. As a mountain of bubbles rose up, they were both lost in an avalanche of foam.
John frowned as he made his way up the staircase of his home on Baker Street. An odd commotion of sound seemed to be coming from 221B, and he could faintly hear Sherlock's deep, baritone voice mixed with Hamish's light giggles and random bangs and thumps. We walked through the living room door and sat his suitcase down on the floor. It was only when he glance down the hallway that he noticed the open bathroom door and the bubbles seeping out of the room, as well as the source of the commotion.
"Sherlock?"
Instantly, the noise came to a halt. Only seconds later there was a pounding on the floorboards as Hamish, so covered in a mass amount of bubbles that he resembled a snowman, came bounding down the hallway. "Papa!" he exclaimed as he nearly plowed into John with a force.
John had bent down before the collision, and his jacket and clothing was now covered in the foamy stuff as Hamish hugged his neck tightly. "Hamish!" he laughed. "Why -"
"Daddy made bubbles!"
John let out another huff of laughter as he drew back, wiping some bubbles away from Hamish's face. "I can see that."
"John." Sherlock stood before him, unblinking. The frothy bubbles covered most of his clothing as it did with Hamish, and there were dark areas from where water had splashed onto him. His face was softened, one of astonishment and warmth. "I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow."
John hoisted a very slippery toddler up into his arms and walked over to Sherlock. "Didn't you get my text? I said I had a surprise for you and well..." He stopped just in front of Sherlock and smiled slowly. "Surprise." He looked down at Hamish. "Though, to be fair, with our son evolving into the abominable snowman, I think I'm the one surprised."
"Yes, well..." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence, instead opting to reach out his hands, and John handed Hamish over. "Come on, we need to finish your bath."
As the two of them disappeared into the bathroom, John opted to change out of his now soaked clothing and into some dry pajamas. As he dressed himself, John could hear splashing and muttering coming from the bathroom. He smiled at the sounds, happy to be home where he belonged with his son and husband, and not in an over-sized room filled with mostly strangers, chattering on about endless things. As he passed by the bathroom door, he could hear the faint sounds of Hamish softly singing.
"But why on earth would a submarine be yellow?" he heard Sherlock ask the toddler.
John smiled to himself and shook his head as he walked towards the living room. Indeed, home was where he belonged. Home was the place filled with love that came in the form of his husband's warm smiles and messy habits, and his son's sweet laughter and endless curiosity. He didn't realize how much he would miss it until he'd left, a cycle which seemed to be repeating itself every time a new conference came up. He walked over the fireplace and kindled a new fire to bring more warmth into the flat on that particular autumn night. He eventually settled on the sofa with his laptop. It wasn't too long after that, fresh out of the bath, Hamish came bouncing down the hallway in his pajamas, his fluffy hair bouncing as he ran with his arms wide open. John sat his laptop on the coffee table moments before Hamish reached him.
He pulled the boy up onto his lap and hugged him properly. "Miss me?"
Hamish nodded against his chest. "I missed-ed you, Papa."
John kissed the top of his head. "Yes, well, I missed-ed you, too." he echoed. "Did you have a good time with Daddy while I was gone?"
Hamish began babbling onward all about his adventures during his absence, and john listened intently. Sherlock was soon sat next to them on the sofa as they talked, dressed in a t-shirt, pajama bottoms and his favorite royal blue dressing gown. He reached forward over Hamish and pressed a kiss against his lips. The start of a smile crept upon Sherlock's face as he drew back, and then he coughed awkwardly. "How was the...?" Sherlock said, gesturing his hands to finish his sentence.
"It was... Not much to talk about to be quite honest. Pretty dull and boring, as they usually are. Definitely nothing you'd find remotely interesting. I'm just glad to be home," he remarked.
Sherlock hummed in agreement as he leaned back on the sofa. John lay one arm across the cushions, his hand coming to rest at the base of Sherlock's neck. He began to lightly caress his nape with his thumb.
On his lap, Hamish turned and looked up at him. "Boring?"
"Yes, very boring." He playfully ruffled his hair. "Oh! I did run into Sarah, though. She's doing well. Had breakfast a couple of days. It was good to have a familiar face around."
"Oh." Sherlock demeanor changed in a heartbeat, shifting from open and relaxed to sitting up straight, visibly uncomfortable and on alert. "Well, that's... nice." He blinked a couple of times without turning to John before he changed the subject. "Hamish, do you want to show your Papa what you made?"
Hamish slid down onto the floor and ran off into the kitchen, and Sherlock followed him to the table and began shifting around the items, seemingly in an attempt to put the mess into some sort of order. Hamish went to the edge of the table and reached up on the tips of his toes, to grabbing a colorful piece of paper. He immediately brought it over to John and grinned so widely that his eyes nearly disappeared on his face.
"Did you paint this? For me?" John asked as Hamish handed it over. The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, that's lovely," he said, hugging him. "Thank you." He stole a glance at Sherlock. "Do you know where to put this?" He asked Hamish.
"Fridge!" Hamish ran off into the kitchen once more, heading straight for the fridge which had been covered in bright magnets, along with vivid coloring pages and drawings of squiggly lines.
John stood up and walked over to Sherlock as Hamish was preoccupied. He fell into his usual parade's rest, placing his hands behind his back. "Sherlock? You okay?"
"Fine," he answered, decidedly purposefully not looking in his direction.
"You were fine," he remarked, "up until a couple of minutes ago." He crossed his arms in front of his chest in thought. "What -" Sherlock glanced up at him briefly with a flash of hurt in his eyes, and everything clicked into place. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed in relief, "you're not honestly jealous are you?"
Sherlock's frown deepened, telling him all he needed to know.
"Papa, I put it up!" said Hamish, suddenly at his feet.
Opting to not be ignored, he picked up the boy and went back to the sofa, leaving Sherlock in a temporary sulk.
"Were you singing in the bathtub?" he asked as he sat them both down. Hamish nodded. "What were you singing?"
"Singing 'low sub'mine," he said, "like Uncle Greg."
"Oh," he said, smiling fondly at the thought of Greg teaching Hamish the lyrics of records he himself grew up with. "Can you sing it now?" Hamish brought his hands up to obscure his face, his cheeks turning pink in an unusual burst of shyness. "How about if I play it, will you sing it then?"
Slowly, he nodded in agreement. With Hamish still on his lap, John leaned forward and flipped his laptop around on the table. He woke it from sleep and ended up on a video site to search for the song. Once playing through the speakers, Hamish began singing along so softly that he was nearly whispering the lyrics, and his cheeks turned pink once more as he avoided John's gaze.
"That was wonderful," he said after it ended. Hamish smiled, still turned away. Suddenly, he was off of his lap and dashing out of the room. "Where are you going?" he called out in confusion.
"Gladstone!" Hamish hollered back, already climbing the stairs to his room.
John stood and shook his head. Sometimes, in moments like this, he swore Hamish was an exact clone of Sherlock.
However, unlike Sherlock, Hamish wasn't upset at this moment.
Though they both knew Sherlock had nothing to be jealous of, for some reason, John's previous relationships were a bit of a sore spot for him. Though he would never admit it, every now and then he needed reminding of how important he was.
He made his way into the kitchen where Sherlock sat at the table peering through his microscope. John held his hand out in front of him in an offering and waited. After a moment or two, Sherlock glanced down at his hand and then up to John's face, his eyebrows lowering in confusion.
"Dance with me?" John offered.
He turned his head away. "John, I -"
"Please?" He wiggled his fingers about to entice him, and then, after a pause, Sherlock placed his hand in John's.
Back in the living room, John searched for the perfect song to dance to, one that would sing out the reassuring words Sherlock needed to hear.
After hitting play, they quickly took up their dancing position in the living room. The music that began filling the room was a bit slower, as John had clicked on a cover version. Sherlock interlaced his right hand with John's left as he placed the other securely on John's waist.
Sherlock stared down at their feet. "John, you don't have to -"
He hushed him as he placed his right hand upon Sherlock's shoulder. "Just listen to the words, will you?"
A soft guitar melody came strumming through the speakers as they slowly moved about the room. Downward cast eyes and a frown were still plastered on Sherlock's face as the first verse played through. However as the second verse began, Sherlock met John's gaze, and the warmth returned to his eyes.
By the end of the song, they had moved in closely to each other, and John gently cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. "Alright?" A half smile played upon Sherlock's mouth, and john reached his arms around Sherlock's neck, placing them mere inches apart. Sherlock's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him forward. Softly, he kissed Sherlock's lips. "I missed you," he murmured. "Even if you are a bit daft." Sherlock chuckled lightly and kissed him again, managing to speak volumes without actually saying a word.
It was soon after that the sound of little footsteps came puttering into the room. Hamish was soon at their feet with his brown and white floppy eared plush dog in one arm. "Gladstone missed-ed you, Papa," Hamish beamed at him.
John bent down and picked Hamish up, Gladstone and all, in his arms. "Oh, is that so?"
"Uh huh!" He paused. "Papa, do another song."
"You want to sing again?" Hamish gave him his best impression of Sherlock's 'obviously' face. He glanced between the two of them, and handed Hamish to Sherlock. "What song?"
The toddler pressed a finger to his lips in thought before exclaiming, "Oc'pus song!"
Sherlock frowned. "The what?"
John waved a hand in his general direction as he situated himself in front of his laptop. "It's - well, you'll see. But before you say anything about it, you should know he learned it from Greg."
"Oh, joy," Sherlock remarked sarcastically.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
John glanced up and Hamish almost immediately clammed up. His focus stayed on John as he leaned in close to Sherlock's ear, whispering something with his hand in front of his mouth so John couldn't see.
"Yes," Sherlock simply said.
Sherlock sat Hamish down, and he ran over to John, placing Gladstone in his arms. He then toddled back over to Sherlock, who took the boy's two tiny hands in his own, and proceeded to lead him to stand on top of his feet. Hamish stepped on them carefully, looking downward as he did so until he was positioned just right. Then, he looked up at Sherlock with a smile so shining and bright, it would surely overtake the sun. John started the music up, and the two of them - Dad and son - danced together happily, no matter how much Sherlock's facial expressions indicated confusion at the song. John couldn't help but snap a picture, marveling at them as Hamish and Sherlock danced around, grinning.
"Papa!" Hamish exclaimed as the song ended. "Dance with us!"
John shook his head. "What, all three of us?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No."
"No?"
"All four of us, John," he said, indicating Gladstone. "Obviously."
After finding a few more songs, they did just that. Hamish was gathered up into John's arms while Gladstone was within his, and Sherlock was somehow managing to embrace them all with his overly long arms. They may have tripped and laughed a bit, but they found their rhythm. Yes, this was where John belonged - on Baker Street with the two greatest joys of his life, and he couldn't bare to think about being anywhere else. The three, rather, four of them danced into the night to memorable melodies, forming their own memories and living within a beautiful chaos.