Johnlock Oneshots

the story

"Hamish!" John shouts. "Hamish Scott Holmes!" He hears a faint scuttling of feet on the hardwood floor before he steps into the kitchen. "Hamish, come out from under there. Your father is trying to experiment, and I swear, if he spills acid on you..."

"Oh, shut up, John." Sherlock mumbles into the microscope eye piece.

"Daddy's experiments are cool," Hamish says, staring up at the detective from under the table. John rolls his eyes. Like I need a mini-Sherlock. But he almost laughs at the thought, too. A mini-Sherlock...he could imagine the dark-haired Hamish with his clear, blue eyes sporting a Belstaff and deducing people at the bright age of eight.

Good thing he had Violet. Named after Sherlock's mother, the blonde-haired, green-eyed girl was a recent addition to their family. She was only three, but frankly the cutest thing John had ever seen.

"Sherlock, seriously. Be careful," John warns.

"Hamish knows better than to disturb my experiments, don't you, Mish?" Sherlock sneaks a glance down to his son who is nodding excitedly. John sighs in defeat. He had this argument with Sherlock six years before, before they had signed the adoption papers and recieved their first child. John had tried to convince his husband to stop with the experiments, once and for all. But no. Sherlock, being the whiny child he was--that was how John described it--, couldn't "live without his severed eyeballs and heads in the fridge."

John just rolled his eyes. He had been doing that a lot lately...but he would shake the worry off and walk away.

"Violet, sweetie." The blogger turns into the living room to find his daughter biting on one end of his laptop. She stops, teeth still bared into the plastic as she looks up at John. Her thin, pink lips stretch into a wide smile before she totters over into his arms.

"Not the laptop, beautiful." John pokes her button-nose, and she lets out a high-pitched giggle that always made John grin with delight. It was hard work to be a parent, but Hamish and Violet were worth it all.

Before either of the grown men know it, the London sky fades from its baby blue to its ebony black, from John's eyes to Sherlock's hair. Violet was already in John's arms, eyelids fluttering like delicate butterfly wings. Hamish sprints over and collides with the couch cushions, erupting into yowls of temporary pain. Violet erupts into the most horrendous scream.

"No. Shh. Violet. Hamish, stop." John says in a string of rambling. He almost lets a curse word slip, but he quickly bites his tongue. And Sherlock...Sherlock is still peering into that stupid microscope eye.

"Sherlock!" John hisses through clenched teeth. There's isn't even a flurry of a curl. "Shh, it's okay, baby. It's okay." The blogger starts to rock Violet back and forth, back and forth in his protective arms. She eventually quiets, and so does Hamish. The small boy climbs up on the couch next to his other father and snuggles into his torso.

"I'm sorry, dad," Hamish murmurs, "for making her cry."

"It's okay. Just an accident," John reassures him, running his fingertips over Hamish's growing curls.

"Can you and daddy read us a story tonight?" The boy pleads.

"What would you like?"

"Hmm...how about your blog?"

John laughs. "Oh, you've heard those far too many times."

"Nuh-uh! I still haven't heard about The Elephant in the Room."

"Mish, I told you. That is top secret stuff."

"Ughhhhh." Hamish draws out the groan dramatically, just causing John to laugh more.

"How about The Hobbit? You like daddy's voice in that one, don't you?" John suggests.

Hamish's eyes light up with pure happiness. "Yes!"

"Then go get it. If you dare to complete the quest of travelling into your messy room," John teases.

Hamish giggles and jumps up to retrieve the book. Sherlock looks up now, galaxy eyes bright with appreciation for John. He slides the kitchen chair back with a creeeaak before striding over to the couch to join his husband.

Hamish returns, dilapidated book in hand. He crawls into Sherlock's lap, flipping the pages to his favorite part--the part where Bilbo first meets Smaug. Sherlock takes the novel carefully into his nimble hands before starting into the deep accent. John can't help but watch his facial features contort to match the different words; he can't help but notice how extremely deep Sherlock's voice range goes. John thought it was impossible for a human to speak that low. But then again...Sherlock wasn't...very human-like.

John and Sherlock play off the written words, allowing Hamish to read the actions of the characters. Once they reach the part where Smaug goes flying to Laketown, John interrupts the bedtime story.

"Off to sleep, you two!" He announces, Violet already breaking into a wide yawn.

"But daaaad."

"Hamish, you have a big day tomorrow, remember? It's your first crime scene," Sherlock pokes his son's side. Hamish nods and jumps up. He gives both Sherlock and John a hug before running up the stairs to his bedroom he shared with Violet. John carries her up behind Hamish, making sure Hamish brushes his teeth and Violet has her stuffed hedgehog. John tucks them both in, squeezing the sheets into their torsos, making them feel protected, or so Hamish had put it so long ago.

"Night, dad," Hamish whispers once the room is flooded into darkness.

"Night, Mish. Don't let the criminals bite." Sherlock had started the phrase, and it caught on fairly quickly.

John shuts the bedroom door behind him, leaving it open only a small crack. He proceeds down the stairs, cautious of the one or two creaking steps he makes sure to pass. Once he's in the living room, he sighs heavily.

"Tired, are we?" Sherlock inquires, but of course he already knew the answer.

"Duh." John sits beside him, moving the book out of his husband's lap.

"So. Hamish isn't the only one who likes my Smaug voice, is he?"

John's ears flush crimson. "What?"

"Don't play dumb..." Sherlock stops to lower his tone, "John."

The blogger shivers. "Stop that."

"Why? You like it."

"No."

"It turns you on."

"No."

"You're just in denial."

"Oh, shut up," John groans, grabbing the back of Sherlock's head to press their mouths together. His fingers latch into those ridiculous curls, and Sherlock's fingers latch into the small dips of John's flesh that were placed everywhere on his body. And not even Smaug could produce as much fire as what was in that night in Baker Street.