A/N: I know its been months since I've updated, but I really have been trying to get back to this! Real life has been busy, but thank you so, so, very much to everyone who kept reading and reviewing this. You kept me motivated to keep writing.

"Bless your heart" is a Southern (US) insult, it means something between "You're an idiot" and "Fuck you."

Bits of this story came from a "Scandal in Belgravia" and "His Last Bow," by Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern characters are Moffat and Gatiss'.

"Aww, man!" Hamish exclaimed in disappointment. The tower of blocks he had been building had been almost as tall as him when it tumbled down.

In the kitchen, Sherlock winced at the sound of his son's drawl. "I think this American stunt has ruined his speech," he muttered. Sherlock had been speaking in an American accent for the last few weeks (when he was home, he had been disappearing for days at a time). Hamish had started to imitate his father's accent.

"To say nothing of your own," John laughed.

Sherlock gave John a big smile. "Bless your heart," he said.

John gave Sherlock a sideways look. "So is everything ready? We're still leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"All arrangements made? Plane tickets purchased? Hotel booked?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Go away."

"You talked to Irene?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock snapped. "I am fully capable of preparing for a complex engagement such as this."

"You know you're not as clever as you think you are," John said, placing his empty mug in the sink and walking into the lounge, stepping around the scattered blocks. "Come with me, Hamish, we need to pack your suitcase. We're going on a trip."

OOO

Of the three of them, John thought he was the most nervous about the trip. Sherlock and Hamish may have to face Irene, but John first had to get them to New York in one piece. Sherlock stormed through the airport, his long coat flapping behind him. His face had a permanent scowl, and he rudely berated anyone foolish enough to speak to him.

John and Hamish trotted along behind, trying to keep up with the detective. Hamish was bursting with excitement, turning to look at interesting things or people, jumping up and down, and constantly asking questions. He would have run off several times, if John hadn't kept a firm hold of his little hand.

John had expected this behavior from both Holmes', and had tried to prepare himself mentally for the task of keeping them both out of trouble. Getting through security had gone easier than he had expected, but mostly because John had made Sherlock watch Hamish while he presented their passports. Sherlock still rattled off embarrassing deductions about the security agents, but the energetic three year old distracted everyone enough and they were able to pass through.

Sherlock flopped down in one of the seats in front of their gate and scowled at the crowd. He stretched his legs out, forcing others to give him a wide berth as they walked by. Sherlock had chosen a seat by the windows, and John was more than happy to let Hamish run back and forth, watching the planes. He hoped the little boy would use up some energy and be ready to sit still on the plane.

"Raffles?" John asked, looking at Hamish's passport. "Hamish Raffles Holmes?"

Sherlock sighed, ending his scowl to answer. "It's Irene's last name."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Not Adler? Wait…so is Irene her real first name?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Sherlock said, giving John his most innocent smile. John snorted.

"I suppose her name could be Irene Norton now," Sherlock continued. "She did marry Godfrey Norton some years ago."

"What?" John yelled. He glanced at Hamish, who was completely focused on the airplanes out of the window. John lowered his voice and asked, "Who is he? When was that? Why didn't you say anything?"

"It wasn't important," Sherlock shrugged. "He was a person of interest in a case we were working on together, about five years ago. She was undercover as his lover, and the imbecile proposed to her. He whisked her straight to a clergyman. She couldn't decline without breaking her cover. I actually signed the marriage license as a witness – I was disguised as a homeless person seeking shelter in the church." Sherlock chuckled. "We still laugh about it."

"That doesn't bother you?" John asked, still making sure Hamish was out of hearing range. "Her being with other men?"

"Dull!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Performing sexual acts is simply a tool to achieve one's goals, a tool that Irene is particularly skilled at using. Her application of it in her work is completely different than that which occurs in our relationship. Should she be jealous that I deduce people other than her?"

John just shook his head. "Yeah, well, when the time comes, I'm going to be the one to teach Hamish about relationships. When he comes home in twelve years or so upset over a girl, don't say anything, just send him to me."

Sherlock shrugged. "You certainly have the experience. Getting upset over a female does seem to be something you do quite regularly."

John scowled at his friend. "Why didn't she divorce Norton?"

"Married couples cannot testify against each other," Sherlock answered simply. "As long as she remains his wife, certain bits of evidence against Norton cannot come to light. And he pays for her medical treatments."

"She's married for the health insurance?" John gaped.

"America has wonderful medical treatment, if you can afford it," Sherlock said. "Norton works as a prosecutor for the American government. Irene has found it helpful on occasion to have access to a powerful lawyer. We keep track of him, to ensure he doesn't cause us trouble, but we rarely see him."

John shook his head, but wasn't able to respond. Their flight began boarding, so he grabbed Hamish's hand and followed Sherlock onto the aircraft. John had to tell Hamish to sit still three times before he was able to buckle the little boy's seat belt. Sherlock had resumed his scowl.

Hamish kept his face pressed to the window as they took off, watching the city grow smaller below them. Once the aircraft was too high to see anything interesting, Hamish flopped back in his seat.

"Bored." he whined.

John tried not to sigh. It was an eight hour flight, and Hamish was bored less than thirty minutes into it. "We talked about this last night," he said. "Remember?"

"Is this is the part where we do nothing?" Hamish pouted.

"This is the part where we sit still," John corrected. "Remember, we brought some toys and storybooks in your pack for this. Why don't you get them?"

John handed Hamish his little backpack, and the boy reached in and pulled out a slim box in bright wrapping paper. "What's this?" he asked.

"It is in your bag, so one would assume that it is yours," Sherlock answered. Sherlock managed to keep a straight face, but John couldn't stop himself from grinning.

"Open it," John encouraged.

Hamish tore open the paper, and stared in awe at the new iPad. He was always taking his father's smartphone to play with, and had no trouble turning on the tablet. He immediately started playing a video game, all boredom, whining, and fidgeting gone from his mind. John smiled in relief, and even Sherlock grinned.

Hamish eventually fell asleep, and Sherlock retreated to his mind palace for the duration of the flight. John relaxed, and they made it through the flight without angering any passengers or flight attendants. Once in the airport in New York, Hamish was again energetic and Sherlock surly, but they were soon in a yellow cab heading towards their hotel.

000

Flying always made John feel worn down, so he had no trouble going to sleep in the hotel. The sun was already up when he awoke the next morning. He found Sherlock and Hamish in the adjoining room, looking out the window at the view of the city. Hamish was asking questions about it, which Sherlock patiently answered. John had long ago realized that the detective's love of his own voice came in very handy when around children: Sherlock could spend hours answering a child's questions.

"We should leave soon," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and walked into the bathroom, leaving John and Hamish alone without another word.

"Dad says we're going to see my mum," Hamish said.

"We are," John answered as he looked through Hamish's suitcase for some clean clothes.

"Is she nice?" Hamish asked, looking up at his uncle and squeezing his blue monkey.

John had to think for a moment. He really wasn't sure how to describe Irene Adler/Raffles/Norton/whatever-her-name-was to a three year old, much less her own son. He hadn't really spent much time with her, just when they were working on her case, and that had been years ago. John looked over at Hamish, and realized the little boy was nervous. Meeting new people usually never bothered him, but he had never flown across an ocean to meet someone before. And this was his mother.

"Of course she's nice," John said, planting a kiss on Hamish's head before pulling off the boy's pajama top and replacing it with a shirt. "She's nice, and clever, and she likes to tease your dad, which is always fun."

Hamish giggled in agreement.

OOO

Sherlock had taken Hamish's hand as they walked through the city towards the coffee shop. He entered the door and stopped, scanning the crowd for where the Woman was seated. John almost walked into the detective's back. Sherlock spotted her, and with a tiny squeeze to his son's hand, strode forward.

Irene saw her tall detective approach. His dark hair was cut short and he had grown a goatee for the case, but she had seen him in far more elaborate disguises. His pale face was emotionless as he walked towards her, but his blue eyes were bright. Irene smirked up at him, but her flirtatious greeting died on her lips when she saw the little boy holding his hand.

"He's so big," she gasped, tears in her eyes.

Hamish grinned and proudly puffed his chest out. Of all the words people used to describe him, no one ever called him "big." He was shorter than other children his age, and skinny, and his large blue eyes and dark messy curls only made him look smaller. Adults called him little, or smart, or cute, or bratty, or messy, or good, or bad, but never big. He liked it. Big boys at the park got to do lots of fun looking things that Uncle John said he was too little to try.

John muttered that he was going to get some coffee, and left the three to their family reunion. Sherlock motioned Hamish towards a chair, and took one of his own.

"Irene," he greeted her.

"Sherlock," she replied, giving him a smile before returning her gaze to her son. "And my darling Hamish," she breathed.

"Hi, Mummy," Hamish chirped. He was no longer nervous. Uncle John had said that she was nice, and she thought he was big. He liked her.

Irene gave a little yelp of surprise when she heard Hamish call her "Mummy." She laughed at herself. Hamish giggled.

"Just wait until you hear him use John's vocabulary," Sherlock said, but he grinned.

John returned with coffees and pastries. "This is very hot," he said, placing a hot chocolate in front of Hamish. "Eat your muffin first."

John noticed that Irene was a lot thinner than the last time he had seen her, and she had been slender then. Her skin was pale, but she was still quite beautiful. John wondered for a moment how she had managed to keep her long hair through the cancer treatments, before he realized that she was probably wearing a wig.

Hamish got muffin crumbs all over the table, and leaned over his steaming cup of hot chocolate to lap it up like a cat. John scowled at him, Sherlock shrugged, and Irene smiled.

"So, is the plan for today all set?" John asked.

"Well, we have a very nice zoo in the city," Irene answered. "I was thinking of visiting it today."

"I like zoos!" Hamish squealed, bouncing in his chair.

"Perfect," Irene said, smiling at him. "You and John can come with me. I believe your father has to work." She couldn't resist giving Sherlock a wink.