Work Text:
John had to admit – he'd messed up. There wasn't a lot he could say in his defence. Sure, he didn't have a lot of time, so everything had to be done instantly, and while doing it he had to pay attention to so many other things, overenthusiastic Hamish included. However, no matter how many extenuating circumstances he could think of, the facts remained the same. While going to the seaside on their excursion, John had forgotten to pack up all the chargers.
That misstep had obviously disastrous consequences. Their phones, just to spite them apparently, died on the very first day and the laptop followed shortly after. Sherlock's first reaction was to call his husband an idiot – to which Hamish gasped and told him off, much to John's amusement – then to pout and apologise reluctantly, and then finally he started to almost levitate from boredom, unable to browse the internet for new cases or annoy Lestrade. Sherlock left in search of the nearest shop to purchase a spare charger, but John warned him not to be silly. It was just a couple of days, they would survive. They had a fight about it, but in the end John emerged victorious. Still, the biggest winner was Hamish, who had both his dads at his disposal and as playmates for as long as he wanted. Everything was all right with the world again. At least for a time being. Their being off the grid, however briefly, didn't go unnoticed.
That much became apparent as soon as they stepped out of a taxi and stood before the front door to their home – 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock groaned and made a face as if he had just eaten something rotten.
“What? What's wrong?”John asked, lifting a heavy bag with their stuff. Hamish skipped right next to him, proud with his bee-shaped backpack. Thankfully, the boy was a smart child, so he didn't have any 'brilliant' ideas like running without a word's notice onto the busy street. A small blessing.
Sherlock didn't move, just pointed at the door in an accusatory fashion.
“What? Sherlock, if you're–“
“You see but you don't observe, as usual,” Sherlock grumbled and moved closer to the wooden culprit. Or rather, a metal one, in this case. “Look at the doorknob. Mycroft always straightens it. OCD bastard...”
Sherlock reached to put it askew again, accompanied by a happy squeal resounding on the street.
“Uncle Mycroft is here!” Hamish ran to the door, his little palms slapping the wood excitedly. John sidestepped baffled Sherlock and unlocked the door with his set of keys. A second later their son was dashing upstairs in a frantic rush.
Sherlock and John exchanged glances. Hamish was probably the only living person in the universe, aside from perhaps Sherlock's parents, who was actually happy to see Mycroft. Unbelievable.
“What do you think he wants?” John asked, carrying the bag inside.
“Nothing good, as I can imagine...”
When they both reached the living room, they found a very disturbing sight. Or adorable, depending on the perspective.
Hamish had reached Mycroft, who sat in John's armchair, climbed onto his lap and cuddled to him, retelling him very animatedly what he and his parents had done at the seaside. Sherlock's brother had on his face a strange mixture of fondness and 'what the hell am I supposed to do?', his hand awkwardly patting Hamish's back. However, he assumed his usual stoic expression as soon as the adults arrived.
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked confrontationally as he stepped over the threshold. Mycroft would probably be the scapegoat of all Sherlock's accumulated rage. “I told you not to sneak in here like a thief in the night. In fact, I told you not to come at all.”
Before John could chastise his husband for being rude, Mycroft bristled.
“I wouldn't have needed to come if you had actually picked up your phone. Ignoring my calls is incredibly childish, Sherlock.”
“I didn't ignore your calls, John forgot to take our chargers. Having said that, even if he hadn't, I would probably have ignored you anyway. I was on vacation with my family.”
“This is a matter of national importance!”
“And my family is a matter of my importance. Piss off, Mycroft.”
“Is that the example you're setting for your son?”
“Don't pull Hamish into this!”
“You're doing this yourself by exposing him to your foul language. Mother–“
“And now you're bringing Mummy into it? Shame on you, Mycroft.”
John rolled his eyes. Honestly, sometimes he felt as if Sherlock was less mentally mature than Hamish.
“Both of you, quiet!” he demanded. Then he turned to his suddenly anxious son and spoke to him gently. “Mishy, baby, come, you're gonna help Papa unpack.”
“But I want to play with uncle Mycroft!” The boy whined, his hands clutching Mycroft's expensive shirt.
“You're gonna play with him later. Daddy and uncle Mycroft need to discuss something. In private.” John glared at both men, in full Captain Watson mode, the 'behave or else' kind of stare. “Calmly.”
Hamish reluctantly slid off Mycroft's lap and toddled to John. Surprisingly, the older Holmes didn't seem relieved that Hamish left him. Perhaps there was a heart somewhere deep down in his chest. Maybe bigger than they gave him credit for.
However, before John finished that thought and was able to take his son away from the warzone, there was a knock on the door.
“Great, who is it now?” John groaned, but decided to ignore the noise. Perhaps it was someone to see Mrs Hudson, although his gut was telling him otherwise. The Holmeses didn't move, so he stayed as well, waiting.
Unsurprisingly, it turned out that no, Mrs Hudson wasn't the one the stranger sought. And he wasn't much of a stranger because a moment later a familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway.
“Uncle Greg!” Hamish squealed and ran towards the DI, hugging his legs and looking up at him with joy.
“Hey, buddy. I think you've grown again,” Greg said and the praise made the boy positively radiant.
Sherlock wasn't as pleased to see him.
“Oh, for God's sake, you too, Gavin? Did we send out some invitations for a soiree and then forgot about it?”
Lestrade, used to Sherlock's outbursts, didn't seem fazed.
“I tried to contact you, it was urgent, but–”
“Can't I leave for a couple of days with my family without the world collapsing around you?” he said, throwing his arms dramatically into the air.
No one in the room was fooled by that display of indignation. Sherlock loved and enjoyed every moment of attention and the fact that people needed his brilliance. He craved a case and all this huffing and puffing was just for show, to put Mycroft and Lestrade in their places.
Drama queen, thought John, but not without warmth.
Lestrade ruffled Hamish's hair and went to sit down opposite Mycroft.
There was yet another knock, this time at the doorframe, and yet another person entered the room.
“Woo-hoo, boys, I've made some cookies!” Mrs Hudson smiled, holding a tray of freshly baked goods.
“Yay!” Hamish ran to her, always eager to get sweets. He took one cookie when the woman bent down a little and lowered the plate. Putting it into his mouth, he hugged her legs. No one should go around without being hugged, the boy felt. Especially after not being seen for a long time.
“You're such a lovely boy, Hamish,” she cooed and promptly gave him another cookie.
Hamish paid her back with a toothy grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“He'll get cavities,” he said, suddenly very concerned about the boy's intake of sugar.
“Face it, you just want them all for yourself,” John chuckled, not at all bothered by the daggers his husband was glaring at him.
“Oh, there's plenty for everyone,” Mrs Hudson said and walked with the plate to everyone in the room. John and Lestrade took one each, thanking the woman. Mycroft refused graciously, regret in his eyes and a slight blush on his cheeks. Sherlock smirked mercilessly at him, taking two.
Hamish bounced around them, far too hyper to stay in one place for long. It didn't happen often that they had so many guests at the same time.
John sighed inwardly, though a little smile played on his lips. He knew his son all too well – there was no chance in hell that Hamish would leave now without cries and shouts. They had to tire him out.
“Okay, listen up,” John said, addressing all the adults in the room. “I'm going to unpack our things and prepare a bath for Hamish, so that he can go to sleep. Until then, no talking shop, yeah? Whatever it is you want from Sherlock, it can wait,” he said, staring at Lestrade and even more intently at Mycroft. “I'll appreciate it if you keep my boy occupied until I return.” He left the room before anyone could protest.
Half an hour later John was on his way back to the living room, his head full of misgivings. Had they ignored his strong suggestions and was Hamish now listening to gruesome tales of murder and mayhem, not suitable for a sensitive child his age? Or was he bearing witness to a catfight between Daddy and Uncle Mycroft, who couldn't manage to remain civilised for a couple of minutes while being together in the same room? Or was everyone just staring at one another in awkward silence while Hamish dozed off from boredom? Seriously, how emotionally and mentally scarred would Hamish be after today? Perhaps John shouldn't have left the boy with the others, he should have taken him with him, ignoring all pleas and cries, and...
John stopped dead in his tracks, hearing Hamish's happy shrieks coming from the living room. Well, that was unexpected. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, John sneaked through the hallway, and leaned against the doorframe, checking what was happening.
He saw the whole gang sitting at the table, hunched over a boardgame. Monopoly, thank God that it wasn't Cluedo. And it seemed that Hamish, having joined forces with Mrs Hudson, was winning. The boy laughed as he and the landlady, who apparently had an affinity for business, added some new notes to an already sizeable heap, much to the Holmeses chagrin and surprise. Both brothers had the same look of disbelief on their faces, the 'how is this happening' stare. Only Lestrade seemed to take his loss with dignity and even complimented Hamish on his cleverness. The DI was slowly becoming the boy's favourite person ever.
John smiled to himself, feeling warmth swell in his chest. Their family wasn't an ordinary one, but it was still good, still loving, still amazing.
Perhaps he needed to misplace the chargers more often.