Chapter Text
It was another lazy afternoon at 221b Baker Street. John was still at work, saving people from the evil clutches of the flu. Sherlock, hunched over a microscope, mumbled his discoveries to himself in the absence of his conductor of light, and little Hamish sat on a couch with his drawing pad, crayons spread all around him and Mr. Bee perching faithfully on his thigh. His art teacher at school had given him a very specific homework assignment - to draw a picture of your whole family.
It was very easy; child's play. Hamish had a knack for painting just like his Daddy, who for some reason preferred not to show his talent very often. The youngest Holmes was an artistic soul, so he got down to business with gusto. First, he drew himself in the middle of a page. He looked bigger and more self-confident than in reality, but, after all, he was the artist here, and no one should tell the artist how to do his work. Then Hamish drew Papa. He was only slightly bigger than his son and wore a beige jumper, one of those that Daddy often teased him about, saying that they were hideous. Hamish actually quite liked them, since they were soft and cuddly. Papa had a big smile on his face like he usually did. In one hand he held a stethoscope – he was a doctor, obviously, and the teacher would probably frown if Hamish painted him with a gun – and the other was coiled around his son's small one. Hamish felt satisfied. Nearly there! Now was the time to draw Daddy. He definitely needed to be the tallest; the deerstalker – the hat he hated, but Hamish thought was cool – making him even bigger. He wore a coat and a scarf like always; Hamish wanted to own the same attire once he got older. The boy decided to draw him with a phone and the other hand put into his son's as well. Everything was almost ready. He just added Mr. Bee in the corner. He wasn't a family member, but just a friend, so he needed to stay a bit away.
“Sorry, Mr. Bee. You're very important, you know, but rules are rules,” Hamish said apologetically, patting his toy on the head.
Yes, the picture was ready, Hamish concluded with pride. He quickly sketched the violin, a microscope, Papa's laptop and a few other things essential to life at 221b Baker Street in the background. Then, however, a sudden thought occurred to him. He whipped his head around to look at his Daddy, making his dark curls bounce adorably on his head. After a moment of hesitation, the boy slid down from the couch and padded across the room towards his father. He grabbed a fistful of the fabric of his shirt and tugged gently to get his attention.
“Daddy, can I ask you something?” Hamish begged warily, knowing that Sherlock didn't like to be disturbed while conducting his experiments. Still, it was urgent and couldn't wait. He really wanted to make an accurate picture!
Sherlock huffed through his nose in exasperation. His research was going nowhere.
“You already did,” Sherlock pointed out tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed. No need to take his frustration out on the little boy. “What's the matter?” he asked, picking Hamish up and putting him on his lap. Most of the time he was actually extremely pleased that his boy was so inquisitive, and the detective was more than happy to answer his every question as correctly as he could. Seeing the spark of admiration on his offspring's face was the greatest reward the parent could imagine. Sherlock was all ears. “Tell me what you want to know.”
“Is Papa pregnant?” the boy asked hopefully.
Sherlock was fairly sure his heart stopped right in his chest. His eyes widened like saucers and his jaw nearly dropped. If his self-control wasn't so flawless, he might have even blurted ‘What?’ - the word that irritated him to no end because it proved how stupid and clueless everyone around him was. Still, Hamish managed to render him speechless for a few seconds. Not many have succeeded in such a feat.
“Excuse me?” he ventured to say, maintaining some dignity.
Hamish rolled his eyes. For such a smart man, his Daddy could occasionally be so dumb!
“Does Papa have a baby boy or a baby girl inside his belly?”
Sherlock's confusion only increased. How was Hamish even familiar with the concept of pregnancy so soon? Did he learn that at school? Unlikely. Did John tell him something? Even more unlikely.
“No...” he replied carefully, having a bad feeling about the direction in which this conversation was heading.
“Are you pregnant then?” He frowned. Funny, he was almost sure it would be Papa. Somehow he seemed more fitted to that role. More fat and more warmth.
“Of course not!” Sherlock scoffed, truly baffled. From where did Hamish get this preposterous idea?
“You're not? So I won't have a little brother or sister?” Hamish pouted in disappointment, scratching his dainty nose thoughtfully. “That's weird, though.”
“Why do you consider it weird that your fathers are not pregnant?” Sherlock inquired, genuinely curious and stupefied. The ways in which his son's mind operated sometimes were fascinating and utterly unpredictable. But even taking that into account, Sherlock wasn't mentally prepared for the bomb the boy dropped.
“Because I saw you and Papa kissing and cuddling naked under a blanket and people get pregnant from that.”
An awkward silence lasted a few long seconds.
“Oh,” Sherlock managed to utter, feeling the overwhelming need to clear his throat nervously. Judging by the heat spreading on his cheeks, he was blushing quite fiercely. And to think he was so sure that the door had been locked properly every time he and John were getting intimate! Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “I see. And what, pray tell, made you arrive at the conclusion that cuddling under a blanket gets people pregnant?”
Hamish was a little reluctant to answer, but after a little coaxing he divulged his source and betrayed his partner in crime.
“When you were on a case the other day and I stayed with Mrs. Hudson. We watched a film where there was a couple who cuddled and the lady got pregnant and after some time had this huuuge belly,” he explained, showing with his hands how round and big the woman's stomach had been. “So why aren't you?”
“Hamish, only women can get pregna--” he began in a scholarly tone, but clammed up midsentence the moment he realised how grave a mistake he had just committed.
“But you're not women and you still had me?” came the dreaded question.
Sherlock fell silent. Shit. What was he supposed to say? He knew this day would come eventually, but he didn't expect it so soon. He wasn't prepared. What was even worse, John wasn't here. How could he possibly handle this situation on his own? Sherlock was nearly panicking. Should he tell the truth? But what if he involuntarily hurt the boy? Should he lie then? But how? It was too late for stories about the bees and flowers, storks, or children found in cabbage. Besides, he would never insult his son's intelligence by telling him such rubbish. So what then?
“Well, er...” he started tentatively, feeling Hamish's intent gaze on him. “It's actually--” A sudden buzzing cut him off. Sherlock's phone, lying forgotten on the kitchen table, was ringing.
The detective wasn't one to believe in providence, but in that moment he felt like throwing his arms heavenward and screaming “Hallelujah”. Mumbling a half-hearted apology to Hamish, Sherlock picked the boy up and carried him to the couch before he dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the phone.
“Lestrade? How marvellous to hear from you. Tell me everything. Absolutely everything, don't omit even a single detail! Take your time,” Sherlock beamed, his voice elated as if he were to confess an undying love towards the inspector.
Hamish was clearly miffed about the whole situation. He scoffed in annoyance, telling Mr. Bee how stupid Daddy was and how Uncle Greg was even stupider. The boy was determined to wait until the adults stopped talking, but the conversation was going on and on and he quickly became bored and tired. Finally, he dozed off on a couch, hugging the toy closely to his chest.
Sherlock waited another ten minutes just to be sure, keeping the dialogue alive. Lestrade hadn't been so perplexed in his life. Sherlock insisted that he should elaborate about everything that occurred that day in the Yard, the whole ordeal of a broken coffee machine included. The inspector grew to deeply regret calling the detective to remind him about the case Mycroft had given him a week ago. When Sherlock concluded that his son was indeed fast asleep, he ended the call abruptly and sighed with relief. That was really close.
He left the phone and went to the bedroom to grab a blanket, with which he covered the sleeping boy. John chose precisely that moment to return home.
“Sherlock?” he whispered in surprise. Hamish didn't take a nap during the day often. Was he sick? “Everything's all right?”
“Not entirely...” Sherlock admitted, picking up the picture Hamish had drawn before. Staring at it pensively, Sherlock briefly summarized what had happened during his husband's absence. Throughout the whole story his body language conveyed how unsure and lost he felt right at that moment.
“So what now, John?” the detective asked after he finished. He knew that the distraught look on his husband's face was mirroring his own.
John sighed, but didn't lose his head.
“We have only one option, Sherlock. We'll tell him the truth tomorrow.”
“Are you sure about this, John?” He raised an eyebrow, full of misgivings. After all, John would suffer the most if something went awry.
“Yes. It's really better that way,” John nodded, wrapping his arm around his partner. “He needs to know sooner or later. Trust me.”
And Sherlock did, as always. The long and reassuring kiss that was given to him helped in that significantly.
“Tomorrow then.”