Work Text:
I apologize for any American colloquialisms, not brit picked.
BBC Sherlock isn't mine, belongs to the Mofftiss and ACD.
Based off this lovely photo: http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m31j4oJ8TW1rnkjf6o1_500.jpg
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Sherlock had never before understood why some parents see their child doing something and immediately panic. Granted, the ‘something’ was almost always undeniably foolish and potentially dangerous, but if every child doing something foolish ended in sudden death as the parent’s reaction implied, the human species would have been wiped out centuries ago.
Nothing had prepared him for seeing Hamish on the side of a building, however. The ledge was barely wider than his body, which in any other situation Sherlock would have found perfectly safe. Children were much more careful than parents gave them credit for. But watching his son’s ankles wobble with each step—however natural that was for a child of his age, lacking refined proprioception— sent stark terror through Sherlock so much that he could only stop mid-stride with his mouth open.
Sherlock and John had noticed something was amiss when John came home and Sherlock was there, yet the flat was quiet. “Is Hamish studying?”
Sherlock barely looked up from his experiment. “How should I know? I’m not omniscient, John.”
“Well, did he mention anything on the way home? Is he alright?”
Sherlock jerked up from the sample he was currently taking. “What?”
“Did he say anything? He’s been having trouble with some—”
“No. Farther back. On the way home? John, it’s Tuesday.”
“No, yesterday was Tuesday, as evidenced by the fact that I am only arriving home n—Oh my god.” The color left John’s face as both he and Sherlock instantly raced through the door and down the stairs.
Hamish took after Sherlock more, perhaps because of the genetics, perhaps exposure over time. Either way, he was given to tangents and exploring things that struck his interest, which at the tender age of seven, was just about everything.
In this case, an owl statue placed outside on the ledge. The same ledge Hamish was now currently walking along. When he came to a protruding column of bricks, Sherlock felt his heart clench painfully and sweat bead on his brow.
Must have told them his father worked there, had someone show him to a room. Idiots, those idiots.
He noticed a window open not far away and his breath finally released. Blond hair (probably ready to sprout grey at this latest stunt) followed by a buttoned shirt and a jumper leaned out and it was obvious even from this distance that John was concentrating on not looking down.
Hamish was contemplating how to safely get around the column, judging by the hesitancy and the glances from the narrowing path to the width of the column. John took advantage of his preoccupation as he stepped onto the ledge and pressed his back against the window.
“Hamish,” his mouth moved, and Sherlock watched their son jump and darted forward, readying to catch the boy, for all the good that would do. John whipped a hand out at the same time, but Hamish had already turned and had backed himself into the corner that the outstanding bricks provided. Coincidentally, also the safest spot for him to stay at. John obviously noticed the same thing and some of the stiffness left him. He was saying something now, and Hamish was probably tearing up, but John was calmly reaching out his arm and smiling at him. Hamish took his hand and allowed John to pull him into his body, and Sherlock watched as broad shoulders slumped and he cupped the back of their son’s head. John carefully guided Hamish around his body until the boy slipped in through the window, and John followed, taking his time much, much more slowly.
Sherlock was waiting in front of the building as they exited, and Sherlock wasted no time before crushing his son against him. He dropped to his knees and pressed Hamish’s face to his shoulder. With his other hand he gripped John’s tightly, pulling it to his face to kiss it. In a rare display of affection in public he pressed his mouth from John’s hand to Hamish’s head, then turned back and forth to repeat the gestures twice more. Finally taking a deep breath, he placed both hands on Hamish’s shoulders and pushed him back far enough to lock gazes. “If you ever do that again, you will be grounded until you can calculate the peak force with which you could have fallen and crashed onto the pavement at. Am I understood?”
Hamish’s eyes were filled with water as he nodded, and John stroked both curly heads. “Let’s go home. I think a day like this deserves those biscuits Mrs. Hudson makes so well. And Hamish?”
Hamish looked sheepishly up at him.
“Next time, just look at the camera and point to the damn bird. Uncle Mycroft will find a way to fetch it for you.” John winked.
Hamish grinned and did just that. “Do you think he will, Papa?”
“Only Anderson would miss that cue, sunshine,” John grinned back.
Identical features of dislike settled under identical dark curly hair, one with light blue mixed with an extra dose of disdain, the other dark blue trying to mimic the rest of the expression on Sherlock’s face.
John laughed at the accuracy and shook his head. “Come on, slugs. We’ll be late for Doctor Who if we don’t hurry up.”
John winked at his husband over their son’s head as the boy picked up the pace, pulling on their hands to get them to go faster. After all, like fathers, like son.