Chapter Text
Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes was many things. Genius, jazz-lover, all powerful Quartermaster of MI6, tea-drinker, sharp-shooter, and without a doubt his fathers' son.
His relationship to Sherlock was clear to see, unsurprising as he was the genetic father of the two. Their profiles were strikingly similar; tall and skinny, all angles and bones; porcelain-pale skin; a curly mass of dark hair (the difference being Sherlock's efforts to keep it controlled, whereas Hamish was quite content to let it grow scruffy and wild). Both men also had a piercing gaze and a natural air of confidence, which when utilised together to gang up on his other father left John groaning in despair and allowing them to continue with whatever questionable activity they were doing.
What was more, he had inherited his father's brilliant mind, often considered by Sherlock to be his best feature. Hamish was a genius, no question, and this had been apparent from a young age. But where his father made it his business of know everything about people, Hanish had done the same with machines. Whether with computers or hardware, he was fluent in the language of technology, a talent he had used to make his uncle Mycroft's life very difficult on several occasions as a teenager. Of course, no one had ever been able to prove that he was behind that (which had just confirmed Mycroft's suspicions he was responsible.)
Unfortunately, the inherited genius came alongside a penchant for rule-bending as a means to an end, or, in other words, occasional complete disregard for the law. Where Sherlock broke into the odd flat to get what he needed, Hamish broke into the odd file. It was this urge, not his technical prowess, that led him to hack MI6 aged sixteen, if only to demonstrate how terrible their security systems were. This act could have landed him with some serious charges and a long stint behind bars, but the then-M had made a different call. Instead of charging him with treason, she had hired him as a junior techie in the Q-branch, and he never looked back. To this day, Mycroft swears he had nothing to do with it, and Hamish could never tell if he was lying.
But while it was true they shared no blood, John Watson was his father too (in every way that counted at least) and he had never once viewed Hamish as anything less than his son. John had been newly engaged to Sherlock when the baby arrived without warning at 222b, the accidental conclusion of Sherlock's only other attempt attempt at a relationship. Sherlcok had had no idea she was even pregnant until Hamish's mother, who had never wanted him, demanded they take him in.
It had been John who had taken one look at the squirming child with a shock of dark hair and refused on the spot to do anything but raise him as their own. For the second time in his life (although this time he was quicker on the uptake), John had fallen into instant and unconditional love with a Holmes. Or rather, a Watson-Holmes. Sherlock had insisted, as he had insisted on the name Hamish, claiming that if the baby was getting his genetics, he should at least have John's name. And there hadn't been anything the doctor could say to that.
A name wasn't the only thing he shared with John. His love of jumpers and cardigans had been picked up from an early age, through a combination of the permanently terrible English weather and an endless stream of woollen birthday and Christmas presents. Sherlock's general disgust at this, and the fact his favourite jumpers often ended up the subjects of experiments made his fashion choice a matter of pride more than anything else, and a refusal to back down.
That too was a John-trait, he supposed, as was a general sense of national pride and patriotism. "Queen and country" was how Sherlock had often described them, usually with a slight sneer, as if the very idea of serving your nation was ludicrous. He may have been content to ignore any requests from Mycroft to aid the commenwelth (and refuse a knighthood on at least four occasions), but not Hamish. If John Watson was prepared to go to war for Britain, he would have been ashamed to do anything less. It just turned out that the war he chose was of a very different kind. A war of shadows and whispers and tiny lines of code dancing on his screens.
They had tried to stop him, of course. The life of any MI6 agent, especially one as gifted as Hanish, would be fraught with danger, and unlikely to be especially long. But that didn't matter to him. Not when there were puzzles to solve, lives to save and a country to serve. And besides, it wasn't like his parents had any leg to stand on in that argument. By Hamish's memory, he had been six when he first joined them on a proper case, and he had never been far away from danger since. He could never bare to be. One of his colleges in Q-branch (before he took over running it, of course) liked to tell him he had some sort of death wish, but Hamish knew that was far from the case. It was just his little internal compass with, like that of his father's, true north pointing firmly in the direction of trouble.
And then there were the things he shared with both his parents. It made sense he supposed, for two people to be in love and live together for twenty years, they had to have some traits in common, then pass them down to their son. Even two people as unconventional as Sherlock and John. His love for tea, Hamish reasoned was one of these things. The Watson-Holmes household was powered entirely by toast and earl grey, after all. Even now, with all the responsibility and status that being Q entailed, it was a running joke in the branch that England would fall if not for the regular refills placed thoughtfully on his desk throughout the day. Hamish privately thought that this was no joke at all, but a very scary likelihood.
His resolve had to be another. While Sherlock would eventually get what he wanted out of almost anyone, he happened to be living with the only man in London more stubborn than he was. John Watson was the definition of an immovable object when he wanted to be. Unfortunately for the two, their son grew to outstrip them both. When Hamish decided to do something, there was simply no stoping him, no room for compromise or even argument.
This skill turned out to come in very useful when dealing with the 00's and their general lack of respect. Whether it was ignoring his instructions over the comms or failing to return equipment in less than seven seperate pieces, they all fell in line one by one. Whether it was out of fear, reluctant fondness or grudging respect for the Quatmaster, each agent would never tell, but he supposed it didn't matter. Winning over the 00's was a miracle as far as Hamish (and the rest of MI6) was concerned, and he didn't spend too much time worrying about just how he had managed it. Well, winning over all of them except a certain agent with a knack for smooth talk, disobedience and resurrection.
There was something about James Bond that Hamish couldn't quite pin down, except for the sense that 007 had never really warmed to him. He had no choice but to trust Hamish, of course, with everything from CCTV reports to laying an illegal cyber trails across the country. But there was something hostile, almost predatory, he would occasionally catch in Bond's glances across the room or his voice through the earpiece.
Which was fine by Hamish, really. As long as Bond didn't get himself killed (permanently), he honestly couldn't care less about the man or his attitude. And if Hamish occasionally kept tabs on him during missions when it wasn't strictly necessary, or occasionally considered his outlandish suggestions for gadgets, then he was just taking extra initiative and being thorough in his job, that was all. Really.
When Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes stopped to consider it, he was many things. He was his own man, his own unique person, but he was also his fathers' son. He had been told he had ended up with the best of both men who had raised him. To this day, it was the highest compliment he could imagine.
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(And after Silva, after the explosion and Skyfall, and a new M in office, and all the hurt and recovery that came with it, Hamish realised he had one more thing in common with his fathers. John had spent years in denial stubbornly ignoring what his heart was telling him, and it seemed his son was destined to repeat his same mistakes. Fortunately neither Hamish or John were too late to fix their mistakes. And as for Sherlock, well, his son seemed to inherit a love for a sharp-shooting blue-eyed soldier-boy, and all the dangerous beautiful chaos that followed in his wake.)