The eldest Holmes son took one look at the small child, perched drowsily on Sherlock’s lap, and narrowed his eyes. “What have you done…”
“This is none of your concern.” Sherlock answered. “Moran is in captivity, I trust? I’d like some time to ‘speak’ with him. Hardly need to tell you this is his handy work, do I….” He asked.
But Mycroft pressed, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Sherlock? Leave. The. Boy.”
“You know who he is, you know what he is; one look at him confirmed it.” Sherlock snarled at his brother. “Now… tell me to leave him. Tell me to leave him where I found him, in the master bedroom closet five feet away from his murdered mother.”
“How in God’s name could you let this happen?” The government official sighed in disappointment. “You have no idea what this means. You’ve created a weakness. A living, breathing Achilles Heel. Your partnership and fondness for Doctor Watson was bad enough. But this…” He shook his head.
Sherlock tensed, “So I say again: it’s none of your concern, Mycroft.”
His eyes drifted back to the boy, who still hadn’t made a peep. He didn’t even give any indication that he was listening, either; he was just staring off into space.
“It happened when you saved her, didn’t it?” Mycroft deduced, more calmly now than he was when he’d initially laid eyes on the child. “She ‘thanked’ you the only way she could. And in return, she was granted your DNA. Charming. You would’ve been better served allowing her to be executed. Shall we change your honorary title from The Virgin to The Father?”
“Enough!” Sherlock hissed.
“And our dear Doctor Watson. How do you suppose he’ll react? His best friend comes back to life, risen from the dead… and brings a boy with him. Will you tell him about your… ‘passionate endeavours’ with the late Miss Adler?”
Sherlock turned to gaze out the window. Looking at his brother was only infuriating him more with each passing minute. “He… will understand. John will understand.”
“What’s the boy’s name?” Mycroft asked after a brief silence fell between them.
He noticed his brother’s icy eyes shift down to look at the child, who was still contently seated in his lap. “We didn’t get to that yet…” He admitted quietly.
“What is your name?” Mycroft asked.
The boy slowly drew his eyes toward the eldest Holmes across from him, but remained silent.
“…Is he alright?” He drawled, glancing back toward Sherlock. Children were not his area.
“He just saw his mother lying dead on a rather expensive Persian rug. No. I don’t think he’s alright, I think he’s in shock.” Sherlock snapped, sarcasm and tension leaking into his tone.
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. “What is your name?” He repeated, keeping eye contact with the child.
“H… Hamish.” He answered softly. His tone wasn’t timid, just somewhat bewildered. Soft. Distant.
The brothers exchanged a look.
“She has a sense of humour. I’ll give her that.” Mycroft made a face, clearly not sold on what he considered a ‘stale’ and mundane name.
Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts, however, as he murmured, “John Hamish Watson… in case you’re looking for baby names.” He recalled.
“What was that?” Mycroft interrupted.
“John. John Hamish Watson.” He said a bit louder, so Mycroft could put two and two together.
His older brother sighed, and turned to look out the window. “Marvellous. You can always hope the small tribute to your Doctor will soften the blow when he discovers you have a son.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything else.
He was too busy staring at the boy; his boy. His eyes repeatedly scanned him and took in as much information as possible. Hamish’s relation to Sherlock was as clear as day. They shared the same eyes, dark hair and calm disposition. After all, most children would have probably been wailing uncontrollably after such a devastating and damaging ordeal. He could see some of Irene in him too; his nose and lips were a gift from his mother, that much was certain.
And despite only knowing the child for an hour (at most), he felt a strong, protective urge bubbling inside him. A connection. In fact, it caused him to instinctively (and very carefully) tighten his arms around the boy in his lap; further sheltering him in the cage of his long arms. Hamish didn’t protest, and actually seemed at ease with Sherlock. Did he know? Was there a sixth-sense acquired in children, that allowed them to sense when a guardian or parent was close? It required some scientific research… he would begin once he was home. Once THEY were home…
“Mycroft…” Sherlock uttered his brother’s name while keeping his eyes on a sleepy Hamish. “How… how am I supposed to do this?” He questioned in a daze.
The eldest Holmes felt himself twitch and his features soften. He had never bothered with a family. He’d had relationships, of course, but Mycroft’s love was his work; Queen and Country, and he’d been content with that choice his entire life. Sherlock had been on the very same path – though Queen and Country was replaced by Mystery and Adventure.
A child changed everything. They were both intelligent enough to recognize that simple fact.
“Doctor Watson has changed you, Sherlock. You’re not the man you once were, and it seems to be for the better. The old you might have simply left the child in the house, or turned him over to the authorities without a second thought. The old you might not have even bothered to rescue Irene Adler from execution, for that matter.” He paused, absorbing the rare picture of his brother holding a child. No, not just a child. Sherlock’s son. His nephew. “As much as it pains me to admit it… I believe of the two of us… you are the most suited to parent a child. John will help you. He will be upset, of course, and this is going to take him some time to digest. But together, I’ve no shred of doubt that you’ll be able to raise little Hamish into a Holmes we can all be proud of. It’s already apparent to me that you won’t be as ‘removed’ as our own father was in his parental duties.”
Sherlock scoffed quietly in agreement.
Hamish stirred, released a long sigh, and nestled further into Sherlock’s arms as sleep overcame him.
Mycroft didn’t miss the faint, affectionate gaze in his brother’s eyes.
“It’s over.” Mycroft reassured him. “You’ve successfully dismantled Moriarty’s web. Moran was the last link. Congratulations are in order.”
Sherlock’s jaw tensed. “Take us home.”