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Sherlock was sulking.

It'd been a long time since he'd been this bored, but somehow he really couldn't stop himself this time. Everything around him seemed so… dull. He sighed and threw an arm over his eyes dramatically from where he was sprawled on the sofa.

Then he heard something and moved his arm an inch, only to see a mop of black curls peering from the right side of the kitchen door, big blue eyes somewhat uncertain. Sherlock sighed and sat up. He was suppose to be taking his afternoon nap, now he was just going to be grumpy all day.

'Father?' the shy, small voice asked.

'Yes?' Sherlock asked, willing Hamish not to be so predictable. He was three years old now, surely he wasn't so shy anymore, right? 'Is everything okay, Hamish?'

The boy moved into the sitting room and stood in the middle, holding tightly to his blankie and sucking on a thumb. He was wearing a onesie with a snowmen pattern which John had thought would look adorable, but Sherlock thought it was ridiculous to subject their son to such atrocity (although he secretly found it precious, but John did not have to know that).

'I had a nightmare…' said Hamish after a beat. His eyes were red and he really did seem scared. Sherlock looked him over and nodded curtly. He wasn't good at this, at making him feel better. That was John's job, but he was working. Now Sherlock would have to make do.

'Come over here,' Sherlock waved at him, and the boy walked over hesitantly. Sherlock then picked him up from his armpits, lifting him up over his head - John did that a lot, and it always got a delightful little giggle from their son - and placed him on his lap. 'What should I do about that?'

Hamish sighed and curled up against his chest, which made Sherlock feel that warmth that was still alien to him, even though he'd been feeling it since he met John. 'Where does snow come from, Father?' Hamish asked, looking out the window. His inquisitive ways pleased Sherlock. He wasn't like other children, he cared about the answers he got, and was more than happy to repeat them. Outside, there was snow falling, and it was already dark, even though it the clock had barely hit five.

An idea! Sherlock gave his son a small smile, then stood up, Hamish in his arms still, and moved towards his chair. He placed Hamish on it and pushed it until it was close to the window, facing the snow, being illuminated by the faint lights of the street lamps. Hamish giggled slightly as Sherlock moved the chair, and the sound was one of the most amazing things Sherlock would never get tired of hearing. On the list were John's laugh, John's moans during sex, Hamish's first word - "fat", when Mycroft came visiting - which was recorded on tape, and Bach.

Now comfortable propped by the window, watching the heavy snow fall, Sherlock leaned back on his chair and laid Hamish on his chest, where he curled up once more, grasping his blankie.

'Father?'

'Yes. Snow, then. When the cloud temperatures are at the freezing point or below, and there is an ample supply of moisture in the air, ice crystals form around a core particle. As water condenses and freezes, the complex pattern of a snowflake is born, one molecule at a time. The hexagonal shape of a snowflake is born at the atomic level, where the water molecules bond together into stable crystal structures,' he explained, deferring from talking too fast, because Hamish was still a bit young to follow his high-speed rants. He looked down his son, whose small hand was grasping his T-shirt under the red dressing gown. He put a gentle hand on Hamish's back and began to make gentle, hopefully soothing circles. 'Do you understand?'

Hamish nodded slightly. He was indeed very clever. He was silent for a few seconds, probably processing the information he'd just been given. He yawned with his face buried in Sherlock's chest, getting him a chuckle from his father.

'Sleep, Hamish,' Sherlock said, holding him tightly against his chest. And Hamish did, warm and cosy, he slept.

And Sherlock followed not long after.

* * *

John got home in time for tea. Well, in time for making tea, because he was absolutely sure Sherlock would never cook by himself. He brushed the snow off his shoulders, put his coat on the hanger and toed off his shoes, sighing at the cold on his feet.

The house was suspiciously quiet. Normally one could never enter 221b without hearing a bang or muttering or a violin screeching. John looked around the darkened sitting room and his eyes landed on two figures sitting by the window, sound asleep. He walked over to them, and saw Hamish holding on to Sherlock tightly, snoring ever-so-slightly, and Sherlock keeping him up with both hands, thumb subconsciously stroking his back.

John smiled enormously, his heart growing warmer every second by the view. He moved over to his chair, where a quilt lay from the night before, where he had sat there, Hamish snuggled on his chest, and read him a story. Well, a description of mitosis from a biology textbook - but he made it fun.

He put the quilt over his husband and son, kissing both their foreheads, before moving over to the kitchen to prepare for tea.