Sherlock’s hands closed to gently cup the soft, tender, miraculous creature John handed to him.
"He’s been home for six hours, Sherlock. You can hold him on your own if you want. You don’t need my help. Or Mrs. Hudson’s. Just give it a go."
"He’s more…delicate…than I expected. John, I’d rather not risk…"
John’s voice took on a soothing, reassuring tone. “No, no, you can do this. Look, you’re doing it. See? Just like that. That’s perfect.”
"HE’s perfect. I could never understand before how all those parents went on so. Now it begins to make sense."
Smiling, John put one arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Well, it’s different when it’s yours, they say. And Hamish is most definitely yours. You have the same mouth. Even the same arrogant, impatient expression.”
Sherlock laughed. His REAL laugh. The unguarded, open one few people besides John ever got to see. “Let’s hope he’ll take after you when it comes to personality, then. The world could use more John Hamish Watsons.”
"Still doesn’t excuse you choosing that name."
"He’s your son. Our son. I chose it to honour you, John."
This time, John laughed. “No, you didn’t. You just couldn’t resist being a dick.”
"And do you still hate your middle name, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock asked, his gaze fixed on their son."
"I don’t, no. Not any more. In fact, I think it is the most beautiful name in the universe."