Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/894107.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      wee!Sherlock, Older!John, Child_Abuse, Guilt, Pedophilia, Age_Difference,
      Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-22 Updated: 2013-08-28 Chapters: 6/? Words: 15924
****** A little too young ******
by Violencio
Summary
     Who could have expected, that a young medicine student could fall in
     love to somebody as young, as pure, as innocent as the younger
     brother of an old school friend?
     [Starting all cute and fluffy, before it... well...]
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
John would have never said, that Mycroft Holmes was his friend. Sure, even
though he was a few years younger, they have been in the same class for a year,
and John had to admit as well, that he had preferred Mycroft to be his study
partner in any subject, while all the other guys out of their class seemed to
have hated him, but their relationship wasn't anything that John'd describe as
more than school mates.
So it was only more surprising, that the younger one had sent him a text years
after they have last seen each other. Well, Mycroft while was younger by his
age, he definitely wasn't by his mind and acting. While John has been studying
for his A-levels, so he'd get some medicine scholarship, Mycroft joined the
class. Though, he didn't even bother to finish it completely, before he left
already for university. And as far as John knew (or better: As far as the
information on facebook were correct), Mycroft was already working by now,
while John was still occupied with getting a doctor. But then again; What else
did one expect from an average bloke in his early twenties?
John had seen Mycroft one time after he left, exactly five weeks later.
Mycroft's birthday.
The blond had been amazed by a lot of things.
The huge estate they were living in for example.
Or all those paintings of those posh looking people on the walls of the much
too empty corridors.
Or that Mycroft had been so, so happy about the notebook and cake John had got
him – though the notebooks he had laying around his room (which was
approximately as big as the whole flat of John's family) looked as expensive as
one of the Rolls-Royce parking in the front yard.
Or that John has been his only guest expect of all those family members.
And, finally, that nobody seemed to pay attention to Mycroft.
Okay. That again, wasn't that surprising. Not, if John considered, that his
younger brother just has been born three weeks before, and all aunts and
grandmas were busy pampering the baby boy.
Since then, they had loose contact. Very loose contact. It mostly consisted out
of liking each others facebook posts or pictures from time to time. Awkward
five-minutes calls for Christmas and their birthdays in the first two years, as
well as postcards. The next year just postcards and a quick text for such
occasions. The one after, just a text. And by now? By now Mycroft was in John's
mail dispatcher and got the same greetings as everyone else from his eighty
pals, acquaintances and family members he hadn't to do anything lately.
So John had taken some while, to get who had sent the text, by now switched his
mobiles a few times.
I am very sorry for disturbing you this suddenly, John, though might I ask, if
you are planning anything this Saturday? - MH
MH. Shortly his mind wandered of to Molly Hooper, a nice but shy girl from his
biology class, but quickly shrugged the thought of. No. He had saved Molly's
number, and he doubted that she would have signed herself like this. Not to
mention how unlikely it was, that she even would dare to ask John out.
But as he finally remembered who was announcing himself like this, his
confusion didn't vanish for a minute or two, before it turned into slight
consent. He hadn't seen him personally in years. It has been always nice to
talk with him. John had written all his exams for his term, and was just doing
his obligatory classes before their summer break. So some nice beer with an old
friend wouldn't hurt, would it?
Is it you, Mycroft? Haven't spoken to you in ages. But sure, I'm free. - JW
Just a few seconds later his mobile buzzed again. John had barely managed to
roll himself out of bed in the mean time.
Ah, yes. It is very in fact me. My apologies. - MH
John smirked a little. Typical. He pulled up his boxers a little, waddling a
little sleepily over to his kitchen, the mobile reporting itself in midterm.
Though, I am not free. - MH
John had barely time to furrow his eyebrows in irritation, as already the next
text came.
Which is the problem, actually. - MH
Oh. Oh. Oh. Mycroft wasn't asking to hang out, but for a favor. Clever grit.
Now John couldn't back out because 'he hadn't had any time'.
Okay...? Can I help anyhow? - JW
He already knew that this was exactly what Mycroft had been waiting for, but as
the next message came just a second later, he felt a little too convinced. Was
he really that easily to predict? But then again... John was only John, if he
was doing his best to help his friends. Or... whatever they were.
That would be lovely in fact. Do you remember my younger brother, Sherlock? His
nanny has quit a few days ago, and I'm having an important meeting on Saturday
evening, while Mommy is on a funeral. Very important as well. And I couldn't
think of anyone else trustworthy enough to give my little brother in care for.
He can be a little difficult, you should know. But it's only for a few hours,
he'd spent mostly with sleeping anyway. - MH
John blinked a little, putting the kettle on. Baby sitting. It wasn't the first
time he was doing it, of course not. He was a poor student – he needed the
money. And Mycroft always seemed to 'like' the pictures of John showing him
with the twin-girls of Harry's girlfriend's brother. Which could explain very
well, that Mycroft decided him to be 'trustworthy'. For a moment he wondered
though, what happened to all those family members all those years ago, sitting
around little Sherlock's crib, but then again... funeral? Maybe one of those
family members? Or someone else close?
The thing that made him insecure the most was though the mention of Sherlock
being a little difficult. Which could mean anything – from a total brat, to
not-quite-posh-standards. But how hard could it be to put a toddler into his
bed...? John managed with two at one time without any problems at all.
Um. Yeah. Sure. I can manage to keep an eye on him, no problem at all. - JW
Maybe he was a little cheap. But then again, this wasn't a date, so it should
be okay. (And really: It wouldn't be that bad to spent a few hours in a house
with a television bigger than his bed, after the kid fell asleep.) Mycroft
seemed to have expected this as well, sending him a lot of thanks and an
address – the same one John remembered to have asked his sister bring him to
the last time.
John wasn't quite sure if he should feel excited, but all in all, he continued
on his week as if nothing happened at all. Well, with the exception, that he
bought a tube of bubbles casually on Friday, while he was doing his general
shopping, deciding that it wouldn't be the worst idea to get on good terms with
the child right from the start. He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn't have like
a whole wardrobe of bubbles, guessing, that as the liquid was going to run out
sooner or later, chances were higher that he didn't have any, as by some
crayons for example. And he didn't even want to imagine how many toy cars a
young boy with those relatives had...
The medicine student started to feel really uncomfortable first, as he got the
next message from Mycroft the morning after.
I assume that fifty quids will be to your satisfaction? - MH
John haven't even considered to get paid for watching the boy. He never got
anything else than a thanks for watching the twins. And he had thought of it as
self-explaining that he would help out for an evening, if there really wasn't
any other way...
You really don't have to pay me, Mycroft. It's not like I'm having anything
better to do. - JW
Seventy-five quids? - MH
Hell. Not what John had wanted to achieve. Not at all.
No, I mean, seriously: I didn't have anything planned. It doesn't bother me.
You don't have to pay me. - JW
I insist. - MH
Well. Fine then. If he insisted. John rolled his eyes a little, running a hand
over his face, sighing in defeat. Mycroft always got what he wanted. And if
Mycroft wanted to spend some money pointlessly... John was sure he had some
good ways spending it.
***** Chapter 2 *****
“And you are sure that this is the right address?”, the cabbie asked for the
third time in the last ten minutes, but finally pulled over in front of the
tall metal fence in front of the giant, white building. “I am.”, the blond
mumbled, rolling his eyes a little, but had to admit, that he felt out of place
himself. He was dressed in simple, but good clothes, already feeling under
dressed, even as no one was around. (Except for the cabbie, but he didn't
really count, did he?) Dark jeans, ironed at least two times today, a red
brand-shirt (one of his better ones, though not good enough that he'd be
frustrated if he poured something over it), his favorite jacket, only his
sneakers were out of a discounter. Then again, the only shoes which weren't
from one, were the one he wore to his graduation and weddings, and he never has
been a fan of leather shoes in his free time.
Though, after he had paid the cabbie and stepped out of the car, he regretted
it immediately. John looked down at his feet, the originally white sneakers now
being at least two shades darker than the white pebble stone path towards the
house. For a couple of seconds John wondered if there are people who get paid
for cleaning stones, but quickly shook the thought aside. He had more important
things to concentrate on.
As, for example, the question, how it was possible to get the lawn cut this
evenly. Maybe with a pair of nail scissors?
Or, another good question: Where was the fucking bell on this gate, which could
as well be used to hold back a group of rhinos? The last time John has been
here, Mycroft had already been waiting right in front of it, leaded him in,
smoothly introduced him to his family, before he carrying him off to his
bedroom, where they staid for the most of the night, only getting out to eat
some of the cake. If John remembered right, Mycroft's room had been in the
second floor... or the third? Well... there were three to pick out from, if one
neglected the basement and attic, as far as John could tell from counting the
windows. Though, he really should invest his energy in getting into the
building, instead of counting its windows. He sighed, rubbing his hands a
little, before he stepped closer to the gate, trying to take a look at anything
similar to a door bell, growing more and more frustrated. It wasn't even dark
yet, and though he was just failing to find--- oh. With a loud ring the gate
leaped open, making John blink a little confused. Had he pressed something
accidentally? And not even realized it? Not even unthinkable.
The blond stepped through the gates, closing them after him as quietly as it
was possible to close a gate which weighed apparently around five times as much
as John did, before heading to the front door which was opening as he got
closer.
“John! What a pleasure to see you again!”, a familiar voice flooded the front
yard, though the young man sounded more formal than his choice of words would
have implied it.
“Mycroft.”, John greeted back with a smile, shaking the hand the other one was
extending to him, while his gaze shifted quickly over him and the suitcase he
was already carrying. He was in a hurry then, it seemed.
Mycroft wasn't exactly tall, maybe a little over the average, but of course
taller than John. Who wasn't now a days? He had gained a little weight, John
could tell, which was reassuring, though. He quite remembered how he had
claimed not having to eat anything else than cake or cookies to keep his mind
working... His shoulders and chest seemed broader, which could be an effect of
his far too expensive suit though, too, his scrubby hair was now gelled back
sternly, making its natural reddish looking seem rather like a light brunet.
His freckles had vanished mostly, leaving more place for his thin lips and
calculating cold gaze, which glimmered a little, the corners of his mouth
raised into a polite smile.
John's lips were decorated with a genuine one, but as far as John hoped to
tell, Mycroft considered it to be a real pleasure to meet him again – even if
only to watch out for his little brother. Not that John was giving himself the
illusion that Mycroft was looking for anything else in him. He always had been
only eager and willing to do anything, when he got anything out of it, which
was worth his effort. This was as well the crazy little image the suited man
had about friendship, John could imagine. But he wasn't here to complain or to
move his thoughts to get correct again.
They exchanged a few words. The general 'How are you doing?', 'What is the job
doing?', 'Hope you're fine.', 'It has been a long time, hasn't it?'. Nothing
complex, nothing deep. No apologies. If they have met casually on the streets
like this, the conversation might have been even pleasant. Under those
circumstances, it seemed to be a little stiff, though. A little too formal, a
little too planned, a little too much as if Mycroft had written a screenplay-
script. He even seemed to look a little cross as John didn't laugh immediately
at a pun he made. Though it was always hard to tell how Mycroft was looking,
and even harder to say what he meant to say in the end.
“Ah, well...”, John said after a while, his hands moving down his shirt to
fumble with the zipper of his jeans pockets with his thumbs. “Where is the
little one...?” At least, toddlers weren't meant to be taller than John.
Mycroft nodded, his face falling just a little bit, sighing slightly through
his nose. “I hope so much you two will get a long... If anything happens,
you've got my mobile number, and a few emergency ones are laying in the
kitchen. He has to be in bed by eight as well, so I just hope he won't be too
much trouble...”, he explained quietly, waiting for John to react, who just
nodded, before shrugged his shoulder, not quite sure what to reply to a
statement like this. Had been his parents this worried about him and his sister
making their babysitter’s life hell that much time ago as well?
Just then, he took a deep breath, before shouting a loud: “Sherlock!”
“Sherlock is not here!”, a squeaky, childish voice replied from upstairs, and
it really didn't need much to count one and one together and figure out that
that just had to be Mycroft's younger brother.
While Mycroft let out an annoyed grunt, John couldn't help and let a small,
awkward chuckle escape his lips, earning himself a roll of his eyes, which the
older of both just answered with a small shrug. “Excuse him. He is always a
little--”, he cut himself off with with a dismissive hand gesture, shaking his
head a little, before taking a deep breath in, to raise his voice again: “Get
down here! I don't have the time to play your silly games, brother dear!”
Just as Mycroft ended his sentence, an answer shot back from upstairs: “Brother
dear isn't here!” The sentence was turned into a little tune, emphasis put on
every single of the words, making it rhyme, followed by a giggle. “He is
gone!”, the boy shouted in addition a little more serious now.
“Sherlock Holmes, if you don't-” Now it was John's time to cut Mycroft of
though. He rose his hand a little, which made Mycroft's eyebrows furrow and
stopping in mid sentence with his mouth still open, even though the blond
didn't really bother.
“Oh, that's a pity... And I've been looking so forward to meet him... Might I
ask, though, where Sherlock is?”, he asked, his voice playfully sorrowful.
It was quiet upstairs for some while, and Mycroft was just about to start
shouting again, as both of them heard the shuffling of tiny feet., holding
their breath for a second.
“Who wants to know?”, the same squeaking voice asked, and just for a couple of
seconds a small head poked out behind the heavy, wooden stair railing, just to
hurry up and hide itself behind the corner, its dark curly mop of hair bouncing
with its quick movements.
John gave Mycroft a small, insecure glance, just to meet the others
disbelieving gaze on him, quickly figuring out that he wasn't to expect any
advice of him.“Um... John.”, he replied, and after another moment of hesitating
he started to rummage around in his jacket pockets. “I've got... er...
bubbles?”, he said, a little quieter now, as he finally pulled out the tube.
Once again a few curly hair tips appeared behind the decorated poles, but
vanished just as quickly as they came.
“Oi!”, came the exclamation from upstairs, and for another couple of seconds
this was the only reaction, all three of them staying silent, until Sherlock
once again started to speak: “Well, what a coincidence... He might be just
coming back, now.” Another short break with silence. “But of course not because
of the bubbles, but because he just finished and is now coming back, and not
only because of the bubble, but because he is home now. Clear?”
John chuckled once again, this time not as awkward as before, clearly amused by
the boy's behavior, replying a 'clear!', only earning another roll of Mycroft's
eyes, as well as some muttered words John wasn't even sure if he wanted to
understand them.
Just as the child received his assurance, he finally stepped out behind the
corner, one of his small hands trailing over the poles of the railing as he
started to climb down the stairs, watching his own feet to not stumble down.
There were two things John noticed at instant: The first one was, that the
small boy moved with a incredible gracefulness down the stairs. Of course he
rather toddled than walked, like every little child did, but John has never
seen a kid being able to walk down a flight of stairs with making it look like
it wasn't any effort at all to hold its balance. (The twin girls, for example,
would have stepped down the first three steps, then started to fight, pushed
one down in their rage, before trying to run away to not get in any trouble,
but ending up falling down the stairs as well.)
The second thing was, that Sherlock was the exact opposite of Mycroft.
While Mycroft's face was just round, Sherlock's still managed to be oval,
though it was covered with his baby fat, and wasn't old enough to have formed
any significant jaw lines or cheek bones. His cheeks were chubby and covered
with a natural flush children tended often to have, standing out in his
otherwise pale skin, but still nothing in comparison to his deep red cupid
lips. Only his big and icy blue eyes were more prominent, just above his small
snub nose, his eyebrows skeptically risen towards his own feet. On top of all
was the wild mop of hair, and no matter how tousled it was, it still seemed to
be an actual hairstyle, framing his small face and covering his ears. And to
cover all of the cliches, it had to be ebony black as well, making him an even
prettier, boyish copy of Snow White.
And while Sherlock was still short, maybe tall enough to reach John's waist,
his long limbs and neck indicated, that it was only a matter of time, until
he'd be able to spit on John's head, and surely wouldn't be as broad as Mycroft
was, even if he gained as much weight.
The boy stopped midways on the stairs, right where a little platform was build
in the middle of them, making John wonder once again how intimidating old this
house had to be. He held a crooked cardboard sword in his right hand, in the
left a small Jolly Roger-blanket, it trailing over the ground behind him,
already dressed in his baby blue pajama, a cartoon pirate sitting in its pirate
ship, waving out of it. Even the loose pants were covered in darker blue shapes
of small swords, skulls, eyepatches, treasure chests and ships.
Sherlock shifted a little shyly from one leg to the other, one of his feet
dressed in an orange sock, the other one bare. “Hullo.”, he murmured quietly,
pursing his plump lips a little.
***** Chapter 3 *****
“Sherlock, greet our guests properly!”, the criticism followed quickly out of
Mycroft's mouth, which shortly after mouthed a silent 'Sorry' towards John, his
arms crossed, eyebrows risen.
The young boy huffed, and John did his best not to furrow his eyebrows or
mutter anything towards Mycroft, to tell him that it was quiet okay for a boy
Sherlock's age to greet him like that. He was a child, and no money or
reputation would change his natural shyness towards a stranger. But John
wouldn't interfere with the upbringing and education family Holmes had picked
for their youngest offspring.
With a small 'fine', the boy slumped down the other half of the stairs, his
eyes never leaving his feet, just stopping right in front of the taller men.
And, John was wrong. Sherlock didn't reach his waist, but the top of his head
was a little taller than his hip. (Well... Sherlock reached Mycroft's waist.
Damn John's legs. They were just so short...) A few centimeters higher than the
girls, then, though John doubted, that he weighted more. He just seemed to be
this thin...
“Good evening, Mister. It's nice to meet you.”, Sherlock almost spat out,
extending his left hand towards John, and the blond wasn't exactly sure if he
did it, because he couldn't differ between the hands for a handshake right now,
or, because it was possible to shake hands with a blanket, but not with a sword
in his hands. “I'm Sherlock.” Just now John even realized, that the boy has
been altering his voice before at the top of the stairs, now sounding at least
one octave deeper than before - still childish, but not as annoying and quite
calming even.
In all this time of his greeting, Sherlock didn't even bother to even take a
look at John, but just glared at his brother, who looked sternly down at him.
“Wrong hand, Sherlock.”, Mycroft reprimanded him with a sigh, taking a look at
his pocket watch – rummaging just long enough in the inside of his suit jacket
for Sherlock to stick his tongue out towards him, though he obediently placed
the sword into his left hand, then holding John out his right one.
John just decided to make the best out of it, and crouched down to be at the
same eye level as the black haired, who actually seemed a little surprised by
it, and though he looked insecure, didn't take a step back. “It's nice to meet
you as well, little Captain.”, he greeted him, taking his hand formally and
shaking it a little too euphoric. This as well as his words made the boy grin
widely, giving John a look on his shiny white milk teeth. The doctor in him
already told him, that he would start to gain his permanent ones in around a
year at first, and though he found it rather surprising to see two lines of
perfect ones. At Sherlock's age John had already broke one of the front ones in
a rather fiery duel with his sister...
“That's Mister Watson, Sherlock. He will take care for you for the time I'll be
gone. Behave yourself, will you?”, Mycroft told him, face and voice still
serious, though he turned slightly around to fetch his umbrella. And it didn't
even look like rain.
The boy hummed and nodded, smiling towards John, still holding his hand. Or
maybe John was holding his? Who would even be this quibbling?
“He is already dressed ready for bed, only has to brush his teeth... Ah, well.
There is something to eat for you and him in the kitchen, and it'd be great if
he ate a little, though it will be fine as well if he doesn't... Don't bother
about it.”, Mycroft nodded, now hurrying a little, not eager to turn up late.
“Mh, yes... Bedtime is at eight- “ “Nine!”, a small voice shouted in,
interrupting Mycroft, who didn't even pay attention “- you've got the phone
numbers for emergency, I'll be back around eleven, he doesn't get any sweets
anymore-” a disappointed growl of the boy, who now took back his hand and
glared up at Mycroft once again “-and no more TV as well.” Sherlock made a
face, while John continued to nod along at Mycroft's instructions. Most of that
wasn't even surprising after all.
“Very well.”, John said, pushing back to his feet to shake Mycroft's hand once
again, after they have cleared that John hadn't had any other questions and the
older Holmes brother hadn't had anything to add. “Good night, brother dear. I
hope you and Mister Watson will have a good time together. Don't forget to
brush your teeth and be nice, do you hear? I'll be back soon, and we can
breakfast together tomorrow morning, yes?”
“Bye.”, Sherlock just said with small shrug, not impressed by Mycroft's offer,
not even reciprocating the awkward, one handed sibling-hug the red haired gave
him, just waving a little as he left, before turning once again to John.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John blinked in confusion, his eyebrows furrowing towards the small figure in
front of him as the door was closed, just barely able to hear another sigh of
Mycroft behind him. “Pardon?”, he asked, tilting his head a little, trying to
wrap his mind around the question. Had he missed something...?
“Your shoes.”, Sherlock stated, widening his eyes a little and pursing his
lips, speaking the words as if they were the most obvious and logical answer on
the whole world, just making John open his mouth a little in question.
“My shoes...?”, he repeated more than just a little confused. He knew that
children tended to just babble sheer purposeless sentences, maybe to boast a
little, or maybe because Sherlock just thought that this actually made some
sense. Or, perhaps, it actually did. Just not for John.
“Yes. Are they from Afghanistan or Iraq?”, he asked then, placing his sword
back into his right hand, kneading his blanket a little with his small fingers.
As John still didn't answer and just looked at him in question, the boy sighed
a little over dramatically, the way itself just shouting that it was inspired
by his older brother, before the boy shook his head and started to explain:
“Your shoes. They are made from cheap rubber, leatherette and the filling is
made from nothing else than foam material. Though, the materials are cheaper
than a cup of diesel, the working is surprisingly neat done on the inner side
of the shoes, though not at the downside, thus, handwork. Considering, that
your monthly salary will be around nine hundred pounds a month, and the faked
brand mark on the inside indicates that they've been bought in a discounter,
the assumption isn't far, that the handwork had to be cheap as well. Child
labor, then. As the most employed children are living in Asia, and India is
focusing on other textile products, the two most likely countries that come in
consideration are Afghanistan and Iraq. So...?”
John blinked, barely able to comprehend all the words the little child had
thrown at him, his mouth now opened a little further, tilting his head. “Child
labor?”, he asked a little breathlessly, and Sherlock just shrugged, hummed and
nodded then, making John shake his head. Maybe, he should have picked the other
shoes... “I didn't... I mean... I don't know.”, he admitted then still looking
down in disbelieve at the child, who just gave another disappointed sigh.
“Thought so.”, the boy shrugged, his gaze now fixing on John's shoes again,
tilting his head a little to examine them further.
“But that... was amazing.”, John said, still wrapping his mind around the
tantrum. He should get rid of those shoes. And invest in better ones. And check
where they came from...
Sherlock's head snapped up, looking at John in disbelieve, while a small smirk
crept onto his chubby features. “Do you think so?”, he asked with a little
gasp, a kind of hopefulness in his voice that made John shudder ever so
slightly, while the boy's eyes glittered in glee just from that simple praise.
And John'd be damned if he was about to slip another opportunity to make him
look this sweet and cute and innocent with not confirming his statement.
“Of course it was, it was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”, he said,
smiling now himself down at the boy, whose little smirk turned into a wide grin
once again.
“That's not what people normally say.”, he almost singsonged, his chest
swelling in pride, his little hand swinging the cardboard sword a little,
trailing its tip absently over the floor, which quite explained why it's tip
was crooked.
John's eyebrows furrowed a little. “What do people normally say...?”, he asked.
Of course, if they didn't praise him often, it would explain why Sherlock was
so happy from a few simple words. Which was, John had to admit, rather sad for
the boy. It'd be a shame to depress such a young, clever mind like him this
quickly, just by starving him from affection.
The boy's face fell in between seconds, and soon he looked back onto the
ground, his fingers fidgeting, though the sword staid still, biting his full
lips a little in shame. “Go to your room and think about what you've done.”, he
mumbled, embarrassment clear in his voice.
John just let out a small 'oh', licking his lips a little awkwardly. “Well...”,
John mumbled after a while. “Maybe we should go to your room together, and
think what we are going to do, hm? We still have got two hours until you've
gotta go off to beddy-byes, and I'm sure we can do something fun?”
Sherlock looked up at him again, giving him a small smirk once again, though
his eyes remained embarrassed. “Beddy-bye?”, he asked skeptically, chuckling
then slightly, before grabbing John's hand – or better said, his finger,
enclosing it with his owns fully, the blanket still in his hand, tugging
slightly. “Come. I'll show you my room!”, he said cheerfully now again, rocking
a little on his heels.
The blond answered the chuckle with an own, letting himself being tugged and
followed the boy, hooking two of his fingers around the small hand holding him,
not letting go of him, just stopping as Sherlock halted abruptly in the middle
of the stairs, looking up to John over his shoulder. “You said something about
bubbles, Mr Watson?”, he asked, bashing his sinfully long eyelashes, his
shining blue eyes lightening.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Right, bubbles.”, John said, pulling them once again out of his jacket pocket,
holding the small, yellow tube in front of boy, who immediately rose his small
hand to grab it, though John held it a little too highly.
“Gimme!”, Sherlock squeaked in excitement, bouncing up and down a little,
trying to grasp it with stretching his short limbs and standing on his tip
toes.
John chuckled a little, nodding, but still not giving him the tube, just making
sure that he wouldn't fall down the stairs with grasping his other hand a
little tighter. “You'll get it, you'll get it. Calm down.”, he said clearly
amused, though Sherlock didn't listen to him, continuing to bounce up and down.
“You'll get it, if you promise me one thing.”
Now, Sherlock got skeptical and stopped bouncing, though his arm was still
risen, pulling up his shirt a little, giving John a look on a thin line of his
pale skin just over his waistband. “What?”, the boy asked, his eyebrows
furrowing, a 'This was not what I've agreed onto.' easily readable on his
pouting face.
“Don't call me Mr Watson.”, John stated his condition, eyebrows risen and
unfitting to the rest of his still soft and smiling face. “I'm John. Okay?”
Now, the boy rolled his eyes – okay, he tried to roll his eyes, ending up
rolling his whole head – but giggled a little then, once again reaching for the
tube, which John gave him now without any complaint. “Kay, John.”, he hummed,
holding the bubbles now between his middle finger and the sword, eying it
carefully, though his most interest seemed to be fixed on the small puzzle in
the lid, where a tiny marble was meant to be guided through a maze into a small
notch.
However, soon the boy tugged once again on John's hand, smiling up to him,
humming a thanks, before he lead him up the stairs and down the hall to the
last door on the right. The door itself looked exactly like every other in the
hall as well, high, white and strikingly clean, a thin golden line shaping two
squares on it – all together the precise reflection of the inside of the room.
It was big, bigger than John's bed- and living room, and filled from bottom to
top with toys. Though, nothing actually laid on the ground, but everything was
neatly shoved in the shelves and boxes. While John had expected to face a
pirate theme in the room, the walls were painted in a breathtaking illustration
of the solar system, every planet and quite a few star gotten their English and
Latin name written neatly below them, making the clearly hand crafted work even
more astonishing and educating. Also the shelves and the wardrobes standing on
almost every side of the room were decorated in decent stars or astronauts, and
the giant king sized bed was shaped like a rocket. (Though, John really had to
wonder why such a little boy needed such a huge bed, before he remembered, that
Mycroft's one those few years ago has even been a bit bigger.) The rocket stood
in the corner of the side where also the balcony door was, and for a second
John has thought that it was placed beneath the roof slope, before he
remembered that roof slopes weren't usual in the floor beneath the attic
itself. A second look cleared rather quickly though, that the big, wooden
thing, painted and shaped like a shooting star, wasn't the floor but something
similar to a tree house – filled with books, pillows and blankets, as well as a
star constellation projector shaped like a telescope.
And, if it was really necessary to mention: John's inner child was jealous,
snotty and sulky as soon as he stepped into the room.
John's inner teenager already thought about how easy it'd be to sneak in and
hide his girlfriend in here. (The one time he had tried at home, it had ended
up in a lot of trouble for both, three months in which John has been grounded
as well as Harry getting his pocket money in those, and a broken mirror, which
was of course John's fault, because he had ducked himself as his father threw
an empty beer bottle after him.)
John's inner and even outer adult though was rushed by a wave of
disappointment, even as he couldn't quite figure where it came from at first.
But, as he realized that Sherlock had let got of his hand as they have reached
the door, he could raise his eyebrows in confusion at himself, and ask his
inner John what the hell was wrong with him. Inner John just shrugged a little,
before nudging the real John to concentration again, reminding him, that he had
a child to take care for.
“Do you like the space?”, John asked, humming a little as he stepped in and
closed the door, smirking slightly as he saw a cartoony alien on the door,
waving towards him, already expecting an excited yes, as well as the happy
bouncing from before, maybe followed by another tantrum, this time not about
child labor and John's shoes, but about the mysteries of the universe?
“No.”
Just a simple no. Nothing else. John's face fell a little with his chin, making
him take a look around the room open mouthed, just to ensure that this actually
was real. And it was. Very real. Very spacey. And by the written 'Sherlock' on
the main pillow on the bed John was quite sure as well, that this was his room.
“No?”, he asked, blinking a little perplexed, not quite understanding.
“No.”, the boy repeated, heading to his white, wooden desk, taking a seat on
the small leather swivel chair, placing the cardboard sword onto a nearby shelf
before just throwing the blanket carelessly to the ground, while the bubbles
were neatly placed onto the middle of the table.
“But... Your room seems to be an own miniature galaxy...”, John stated, raising
his eyebrows a little, following him to stop right behind his chair, leaning
lightly against it to take a look what he was doing.
Sherlock just shrugged and took out his box of watercolours from the drawer of
the desk, as well as a whole bunch of paintbrushes. “My picked my room.”, he
just replied.
“Your what picked your room...?”, John asked once again, heavily having the
feeling, that he missed something.
Sherlock shook his head. “No, no. My. Myc. Mycroft. My brother. The fat one.”,
the boy mumbled, before he giggled loudly, tilting his small neck up to look up
at John and show him his teeth in another wide grin.
John couldn't help but chuckle along at the sight of the boy's beautiful,
gleeful face, though a stern 'Na' escaped his lips. “It's not nice to call
other people fat.”, he reproached, his voice still peppered with small
chuckles.
“Just the truth.”, the boy giggled cheerfully, shrugging once again before he
took out two empty plastic cups, and screwed open the bubbles.
The medicine student rolled his eyes a little, but his eyebrows narrowed
slightly as Sherlock proceed. “Um... I don't know if you should do any bubbles
inside... They are sticky and then we'll have to clean up...”
“Wrong.”, Sherlock squeaked, shaking his head, still concentrating on opening
the bottles. “At first, we wouldn't have to clean up, because we've got a few
housekeepers for that. And for the second, as I am not going to make any
bubbles, the concern is unnecessary.” With that he poured all of the liquid
into one of the two empty cups.
“No! Don't!”, John exclaimed a little louder now, extending a hand to grab the
cup but didn't actually hold it, just held his arm protectively in front of
Sherlock, looking down right into the face of the confused glaring boy.
“Gimme!”, he squeaked, once again reaching up for it, this time not as
cheerfully and happy as before.
John shook his head. “No, no. You can't drink bubbles! You're going to get
ill.”, he tried to explain as calmly as he could, already figuring out, that
Mycroft surely had some nice ways to kill him, if he managed to get his little
brother ill, and sure as hell Mycroft would be even able to make it look like
an accident. As the skepticism didn't fell from Sherlock's face, John added.
“I'm going to be a Doctor. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.”
Now, finally, Sherlock started to shake his head a little, before he giggled
loudly, pushing John's arm away with a playful shove against it with his small
fist. “Silly.”, the boy hummed, still giggling.
John rose his eyebrows in question, and the boy shook once again his head. How
silly adults could be. Thinking that he wanted to drink the bubbles! As if he
was a baby... Of course Sherlock knew, that drinking that soapy water would
only end him in pain and discomfort – which was inappropriate, considering,
that he had a couple of days free from school, as the teachers got some further
education. (Maybe now they would actually say something interesting...?) If,
though, Sherlock had school tomorrow, he'd have drank the liquid happily. “Just
because I filled it into a cup, doesn't mean that I'm going to drink it.”, he
pointed out, opening the watercolour box. “Everything can always have another
purpose if you just forget it original one.”, he hummed further.
The blond's eyebrows narrowed. The boy spoke like... Like a goddamn
philosopher. Gandhi-Junior. Or at least, like an adult. And still he didn't
loose for a second his childish behavior. It was... quite confusing, so to say
at least. “So... What are you doing then instead...?”, he asked a little
insecurely, drawing back his hand.
“Experiment.”
“Ah.”
The boy filled the other cup with some of the water from a bottle which stood
on the desk as well. Just the fact that it was a little smeared with colour,
indicated, that it was quite often used to provide the toddler with water for
drawing. He filled it neatly to the half, before he screwed it shut again, and
placed it – okay, rather threw it into the corner again, now rolling his
sleeves up. And John waited. For some else explanation. But nothing came.
Sherlock seemed to be caught in his own little world, taking one of the
paintbrushes, and dipping it into the water, before taking some of the yellow
color and drawing a small, a little crooked circle on the paper underlay. Just
as John wanted to protest, that it wasn't the best idea to draw onto the table,
he realized, that the whole table was paved with sketchpads, so no matter where
Sherlock drew, it never got onto the wood. Though, now John realized another
thing as well. The only place which wasn't decorated with some painted
characters on the walls, was right over the desk – or better said, he only
could see a little of something which might be an astronaut glimmer through a
layer of white watercolour.
“Have you... have you painted the wall here?”
“Yes.”
“Why...?”
“The drawings are dull, irritating and distracting. Though My forbid me to
paint the rest of the room.”
Sherlock's responses were quite apathetic, which was quite worrying, John's
eyebrows shortly narrowing in sorrow. All in all, Sherlock seemed to mention
and behave in front of Mycroft rather torn. And not as a younger brother
should. Of course John had teased and taunted his sister as well as he was
younger, but there was always a bit of admiration when he spoke of her...
“And what are you doing now?”, he asked, just to keep the conversation rolling.
And maybe, maybe, actually get something out of the boy, which he didn't seem
to speak out reluctantly, or just because he wanted to stay as polite as a
nearly-six-year old boy could be.
The black haired scoffed, looking up again, by now painting already an orange
circle right next to the yellow one. “Experiment. I told you.”
A little taken back, John nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Yes, yes, I know. But
what are you experimenting about?”
“Have you realized, that, if you blow bubbles, they are rainbow-y in the sun?”,
the boy asked, his scoff fading to a stoic expression, which looked so
unfitting on the little boy, that it already was cute again. First as John
nodded, he lowered his head again to continue his painting. “But do you think,
that, if you put colour in it, the colour will be a little rainbow-y as well?”
“Um.”, John replied, blinking slightly. “I... I haven't thought about it.”, he
admitted, following Sherlock's little hand that held the paintbrush tightly, as
he moved it over the paper. “I really don't know.”
Sherlock nodded, and grinned a little. “Me neither.”, he said in a matter of
fact voice, sounding a little too posh, and a little too Mycroft to be actually
considered serious. And though, he stroke a point, that at least.
“Ah, I see.”, the older man nodded, placing his hands onto the top of the
backrest, supporting himself on it, careful not to swivel Sherlock in his
chair, so he wouldn't paint over the self-set edges. “May I help?”
“You don't have to. My pays independent from if you interact with me, or just
read your book.”, the boy said dismissively, waving with a hand.
Now again, John was taken aback and staid silent for a solid amount of time.
“Is that... is that what the other babysitters are doing? Just reading a
book...?” He didn't even have any with him. And he really couldn't understand,
how someone could leave such a cute little boy on his own. John didn't even
want to imagine how Sherlock must have feel, if he assumed, that everyone who
came to watch out for him didn't care for what he was doing, when even his
family didn't have time for him.
Sherlock shrugged, but nodded then. “It's fine. I'm busy now. I won't break
anything. You can even go and watch TV.”, he said as if it was the most natural
thing in the world. Maybe, for Sherlock it was. But for John... The babysitter
he had as he was little has always played some Monopoly with him, and even if
he dreaded the game and always lost, he always had looked forward to their
round together. And not to mention the twins, who already were bouncing and
cheery the morning before John came, pushing their parents out of the house as
soon as they could, so they could be alone with their Uncle John.
“But I really would like to help you, Sherlock.”, he stated, his voice soft,
but not soft enough for a little child to notice the pity in it.
“Do you?”, he asked skeptically, not looking up from his work.
John hummed and nodded. “Yes. I think it is an highly interesting experiment,
I'm curious myself now, and I'd love to be the assistant of the next Albert
Einstein.”, he stated seriously.
The boy looked up to him, his eyes shining now once again. “Really?”, he asked
in disbelieve, his voice hopeful.
“Really.”, John confirmed, though he had maybe expected him to ask who Albert
Einstein was. Then again... This family seemed to have enough influence to
actually have met him those many years ago.
Sherlock grinned widely and slid from the chair, pushing a paintbrush into
John's hand, his movements bouncy and cheerfully once again, as he started to
place down the paints and papers and cups down on the floor. For a second John
wondered why, before he realized, that there was actually no other chair in the
room, and was quick helping the child carry down the things, before both of
them half knelt, half sat onto the ground, and started to paint their circles,
Sherlock glancing up to John every few seconds, grinning widely as he realized
one time after the other, that he wasn't going anywhere. And John? John glanced
and grinned back, copying Sherlock's pattern so he would do exactly as the boy
wanted it to be.
 
“John?”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“I think, I'd rather be Stephen Hawkins, though.”
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, boys and girls. At the very latest, some of the more...
     'hardcore' tags will start to apply at the end of the next chapter
     (if they haven't yet), so now it'd be the time to back down, if
     you're uncomfortable.
     [If you read it though, you can be sure that I appreciate every
     single, little click on this fiction, and am happy about every of the
     kudos, comments and bookmarks :3]
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
So they both sat on the floor, drawing their circles. While Sherlock was half
kneeling, half laying on the ground, his small legs stuffed beneath his body,
his chest on the ground, one small hand supporting the chubby head, while the
other drew its circles, John sat cross legged in front of the boy, his big
hands enclosing the brush fully, his head bent forward, concentrating on
drawing the circles as perfect as he could (which wasn't very perfect, as John
had maybe more experience in drawing circles than Sherlock, but he was still a
fellow doctor, so his handwriting was rather a scrawl than anything else),
though he glanced up quite often to the little boy across of him.
And Sherlock babbled.
At first it has needed some tries to encourage Sherlock to actually tell him
something, instead of just to answer his questions, but as quick as John
started to praise him for his knowledge of Stephen Hawkins, the boy started to
beam and to tell John almost everything he had in mind.
Why he liked Hawkins more. Why Einstein was scary. Why Sherlock liked the red
colour more than the green one, but the green one more than the pink. That he
painted the astronaut, because it was distracting as well as everything else in
his room. And that was why he didn't like it as much, and rather spent time in
Mycroft's. That Mycroft didn't like him to stay around, though, so Sherlock had
always to sneak in. That it was unfair, that Mycroft's room was plain, but
Sherlock's was overstimulating That he had to wait until he was a teenager,
until Mommy would allow to rearrange the room, but Mycroft already had an adult
one. As John threw in, that Mycroft actually already was an adult, Sherlock
huffed and muttered stubbornly, that it hasn't been Mycroft's gain that he was
older than him. All in all, John found what he has been looking for - a younger
brother idolizing his older one. Though, not in the way that John has it
expected, in the form of Sherlock wanting to be like Mycroft, but in a way of
jealousy, the black haired just wanting to be better than Mycroft ever was. Or
ever was going to be.
And he did well.
Mycroft played the piano. Sherlock the violin. (John wondered, if they have
made him a smaller one for his short limbs, or if he was playing a usual one as
a double bass.)
Mycroft spoke five languages fluent. Sherlock was learning his third.
Mycroft rode a horse. Sherlock did as well.
Mycroft skipped to second grade as he started school. Sherlock skipped to
second grade – a year before the regular age for starting school.
And with every thing Sherlock mentioned, it got a little harder to believe for
John, that he wasn't even six. “Just seven weeks until!”, Sherlock had
announced happily, wondering loudly, if he would get that chemistry set he
wished for. Or a highly destructive robot.
Five years, ten months, a week.
Five years, ten months, a week.
Five years, ten months, a week.
Five years, ten months, a week.
It just took five years, ten months and a fucking week to gift a human being
with more education, more talent and more specific knowledge than John had
gotten to achieve in his almost twenty-five years. Which was pretty...
depressing. As well as fascinating, amazing and utterly brilliant. And John
didn't miss a chance to tell exactly that Sherlock, always making him beam and
bounce and smile more, before he started to babble once again, trying to get
another genuine praise. Something, John noticed, the boy was really starving
for.
Though, soon they have finished to draw circles with the paint, and Sherlock
announced, that it was time to try the same with the bubble-water, reaching
John ceremonially a new paintbrush (so the water in the other one wouldn't fake
the test results, of course), and starting to paint a new, yellow circle with
the highest concentration a toddler could summon up. His eyebrows were
furrowed, his face close to the paper, therefore his little bottom up in the
air, his lips slightly parted so he could stick his tongue out just a little
bit. The blond could first avert his fascinated eyes from the boy, as he
already had painted his third circle, quickly hurrying to draw his own just
beneath the same colour he had just painted before.
“And?”, the childish voice asked, raising his eyebrows towards him as they both
finished.
John just shrugged and shook his head. “I don't see anything different.”, he
stated with a small, pitiful smile.
Sherlock scoffed. “Maybe it needs time to dry? Glue changes its colour when it
dries.”, he stated, and though John wasn't that sure about it, he nodded,
blindly agreeing on anything those plump, red lips were about to say, humming a
little to demonstrate his confirmation.
“Good.”, the boy smiled a little, placing his own sheet of paper next to
John's, who gave him a in question raised eyebrow in reply. “You'll observe
them, and tell me, if anything changes.”, he stated, and it really didn't sound
like he was asking John to do it. Rather demanding. But was John the one to
disagree? Of course not. So he nodded, taking both of the sheets and holding
them up a little, taking his new given task as seriously as one could take the
duty to watch some paint dry.
The black haired nodded, smiling satisfied as he stood up, and went to his desk
once again. “And what are you going to do...?”, John asked a little confused.
“Surprise!”, Sherlock just singsonged, taking another sheet of paper and
sitting down where he said before – this time with his back to John, though.
“Surprise?”, he asked, leaning forward a little, just earning himself a
Sherlock, who glared at him over his shoulder.
“Yes.”, his squeaking voice replied. “Don't look!”, he commanded, before he
turned back to his paper, in the same concentration of before, basically
puffing out his little but directly into John's face. Okay, not exactly, there
still was at least two sheets of paper place between them, and Sherlock wasn't
tall enough to actually reach John's face, but it still was incredibly close.
And John watched. And he observed. And he could have written a two hour long
documentary about it. Not about the colours, though, hell, he didn't even pay
any attention to it, being a rather pathetic co worker, but about the sight in
front of him. The pajama bottoms weren't even tight. Loose and comfy and too
childish to give John an opportunity to imagine that those here wasn't the bum
of a five year old child, but the one of his girlfriend – and besides, John
really didn't spare a single thought about Sarah. Not even anything close to
her. And of course; it was small. Tiny even. John wondered, if it really was as
small as it seemed, looking like he could fit it wholly in his two palms. And,
oh, the temptation was big to just try it out. To just take an own look. Make
his own little experiment.
If that boy's perfect little bum fit into John's palms – how many blood would
make it flow into his groin?
If mathematics had been this interesting at school, John surely wouldn't have
failed it in ninth grade. And if his papers only had contained math text
problems like that, he could have been top of class just by doing it the old
fashioned way – trying it out.
John's thought process was interrupted by a confused, little: “What?”
And it took him quite some time to actually notice what Sherlock had unsettled
like this – one of his hands has magically appeared on the top side of the
boy's ass. And, no, John didn't need both palms to make it fit. Just with one
single hand he could have grabbed it fully.
Which would be a bad idea right now, though.
A very bad idea.
“Ah, well.”, John said, patting Sherlock's lower back soothingly, before
withdrawing his hand and shifting a little, not really eager to explain his
half hard dick if it was visible through his jeans. “Didn't want to scare
you.”, he said with a small smile, which was actually true. “I just wanted to
say, that it is getting kind of late, and maybe we should eat some dinner, mh?”
This part, though, was not.
But Sherlock didn't even seem to notice, sighing a little. “Okay.”, he said a
little over dramatically, saying another stern “Don't look!” to John, and stood
up to hide his not finished picture onto the desk again, before turning once
again to John, extending his hand and waiting for him to take it, before he
lead them into the kitchen.
Of course Sherlock hadn't noticed. He was not even six years old. For him,
sexuality was literally 'You kiss someone when you like him or her, and then
you've gotta marry, because the stork will bring you a baby'. John's touch has
been just as meaningless as a touch on the shoulder would have. And, he didn't
understand sarcasm. He did understand the concept of lying, though, but that
didn't mean it was easy for him to figure out, when someone did lie. Or thought
of an excuse.
They both had eaten some sandwiches (okay, not really. John had eaten some,
Sherlock just a half, with the explanation, that it would just slow down his
thinking process, and John didn't feel like disagreeing with Sherlock, and
forcing him to eat. He was just babysitting. Should Mycroft take a look out for
this.), and before John really could have guessed it, it was already time to
brush his teeth. Which Sherlock claimed to be able to alone.
“Okay, show me, if you've done it right.”, John said, as the bathroom door
opened, pushing from the wall he had leaned on and thought about the general
size of the bottoms he had already touched for the past five minutes.
Sherlock frowned slightly. “How do you want to look if I did it right?”, he
asked, closing the door behind him, and wiping his sleeve over his still damp
mouth.
The blond smirked a little, crouching down to him once more. “Well, just show
me your teeth.”, he said, raising his eyebrows.
“I'm doubting, that it is possible, to see if someone brushed right his teeth
just by looking at them.”, the boy said stubbornly, crossing his arms a little,
as he pouted slightly.
That was true, not to doubt. But John could still see, if Sherlock had done it
at all, if there weren't any crumbs in his mouth anymore. How properly he made
it, though... “Yeah, sure. But you forget that I'm going to be a doctor.”
Sherlock's eyebrows raised at first at the answer, but furrowed then in
concentration, obviously trying to figure out, if John was speaking the truth
and this really was a worthy excuse. He pursed his lips, crossing his small
arms in front his chest, but opened his mouth then widely, tilting his thin
neck towards John, who quickly bent forward to take a look. "Na.", he muttered.
"I still can see half of the sandwich between your teeth.", he only half joked,
though his voice never got really stern anyway. With a hand on the boy's
shoulder he gently shoved him back into the bathroom. "Brush your teeth again,
this time properly, hm?", he coed softly.
Sherlock frowned, still not uncrossing his arms. "Fine.", he sighed, stepping
back into the huge washing room, reluctantly grabbing his small, green
toothbrush, clenching his hand around it tightly.
John chuckled softly, now following the boy inside and not waiting for him to
finish once again, plainly, because his bedtime was getting closer, and John
really had in mind to bed him punctually. Er... Moment... No...
Anyway, John sat down at the edge of the big, round tub, absently running his
hand over the surface, which seemed to be marble, his gaze fixed on the boy,
raising his eyebrows at him expectly, as he scoffed once again, before he took
the pink, strawberry-flavoured toothpaste, seemingly not impressed by the mouse
on the box smiling at him. With another, dramatic sigh he finally put some onto
the brush and lead it into his mouth, starting to rub his teeth in hard
motions, the plastic bending in his hand at the pressure he put on his teeth.
"Hey, hey, hey. No need to be upset, yes?", John said a little alarmed, raising
his hands a little before moving them down again in a soothing motion.
Sherlock blinked a little, clearly visible for John by looking at the mirror in
front of the child, before the black haired turned around, his head tilting in
confusion. "What? Am not upset.", he mumbled, taking the brush out of his mouth
just midway the sentence.
"You are brushing your teeth very aggressively, Sherlock. I'd be afraid that
you aren't taking care of them, but trying to break them out.", John pointed
out, raising his eyebrows a little.
"I'm brushing my teeth always like that.", Sherlock shrugged, turning around
once again, looking up at the mirror which was a little too high for him, so he
was just barely able to see the tip of his nose.
John's eyebrows furrowed a little. "Always?", he asked, blinking slightly,
before he pushed up from the tub, stepping close behind Sherlock, who just
nodded a little. "Come, I'll show you how you can do it better.", he said,
extending his hand and demanding the green plastic quietly.
Sherlock tilted his head up from where he stood, looking up at John. "What for?
They'll be clean anyway.", he mumbled around the brush.
"Yeah.", John sighed a little with a nod. "But doesn't it hurt your gums when
you do it like this?"
"You can make it stop hurting?", he asked in disbelieve, blinking slightly,
before taking the brush out and handing it John. "Because you're going to be a
doctor, right?"
The blond chuckled a little, mumbling some confirming words, nodding along as
he took the brush. "Yeah, exactly that's why.", he smiled at him, placing a
hand onto the boy's cheek, gently coaxing him to open up, before he placed the
brush onto his teeth gently, and started to rub it all around. "See? You don't
have to press it against yourself that much...", he murmured softly, brushing
his teeth while Sherlock listened to John carefully, trying to take a look what
John was doing.
The blond realized that Sherlock had some problems with watching, so he took
him with both hands beneath his armpits, placing his feet onto the cupboard
beneath the sink as he howled him up, letting his tender shoulders lean against
his chest to maintain him standing straight, trying not to make a great deal
about him that close. Which functioned rather good, as the boy seemed to be too
concentrated on his teeth, to actually focus on himself.
John continued to give Sherlock calm advices and commands about brushing
correctly, before Sherlock demanded to do it himself now, taking the brush in
his hands, still leaning against John tightly, as he started to pull in and out
the brush, more clumsily than John had done. The young man watched him making
the brush vanish in his mouth before letting it appear again, closing his soft
lips around it sometimes, before spitting the white foam out, just to start
once and once again.
After a while, John's hands still firmly on Sherlock's cheek and under his
armpit, providing him some additional balance, he shook his head to break his
gaze from the sinful innocent action Sherlock's little hand did. "I think-", he
started, but had to interrupt himself, as his voice died down, and cleared his
throat before he started again:" I think, that's enough." Maybe, John had even
let him brush his teeth for a minute or two longer than necessary.
Sherlock smiled slightly before he spat out the foam once again and cleared his
mouth with a bit water, placing his brush back where it belonged. "And now?",
the boy asked, still leaning against John, not giving the impression that he
would like to hurry to get down again.
"Now it's time for bed.", John replied, raising a hand to stroke one of
Sherlock's curls out of his forhead. The small body slumped slightly with a
sigh, but didn't protest. For a second John lifted him, about to turn him
around to carry him, though he realized quickly enough, that that'd be a rather
bad idea, considering the warm, tingling feeling in his groin, which just
seemed to grow and start twitching at the bare idea. So the medicine student
quickly placed the boy onto the ground, just supporting him long enough so he
wouldn't stumble over his own two feet. Hell.
"Then come.", Sherlock demanded, stretching out his hand to lead John back into
his room with small, slumping steps. Not excited to sleep, then. But which kid
was?
Soon they reached the bedroom again, and Sherlock took a small look onto the
watercolour-bubble-experiment, before he shook his head and crawled onto his
bed, sitting down with his back to the headboard. While Sherlock was busy
making himself comfortable, John placed the colours back onto the table,
thinking about his grandmother in a desperate try to make himself, before
turning back to him. "Do you want me to read you a story?"
The answer came quick and abrupt. "No."
"No? Why not?", he asked, blinking slightly, getting closer to Sherlock,
raising his eyebrows.
Sherlock shrugged and shook his head then. "I can read myself. ", he pointed
out, which John wasn't exactly surprised about, but found it once again
astonishing.
"Well, yes, but reading out a story isn't just abou--", but before John could
explain any further, he was interrupted by the small voice once again.
"Reading is a one player activity. I wanna do something with you, and not just
listen to something you do on your own.", he stated crossing his arms over his
chest.
The blond nodded slowly, wrapping his mind around the idea, and just as he got
it, he sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing his hands in his lap. "Okay.",
he confirmed. "And surely, you have got an idea what we could do...?", he
asked.
Sherlock pursed his lips, tilted his head and shrugged. "No. And don't call me
Sherly."
"I didn't--", John protested, before he shook his head, making a slight face,
thinking. What could they do, without exciting Sherlock too much, and still
doing something he'd enjoy...?
"You can ask me about pirates.", the boy suggested then, as it was quiet, dull
and boring far too long for him.
And so John did. "What do pirates live on?" "And how many were there on a
ship?" "And what is that black flag called?" "And what about the pirate king?"
While Sherlock replied ever question quickly and without hesitation, the last
one made his grinning face frown slightly. "You mean... The Captain?", he
asked, a little insecure through the phrasing.
John smiled reassuringly and nodded. "Yeah. Excuse my uneducated phrasing."
Sherlock giggled and shook his head, making a dismissive hand gesture.
Now John had to think for a second about a question, as Sherlock obviously
enjoyed their small question and answer time. "Well... And how about you?", he
asked then.
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Me?", he asked with a hum, tilting his head once
again.
"Yeah. Are you a pirate - or a captain?", John asked.
The boy's eyes lit up with a wide smile. "A Captain.", he said, sticking out
his chest proudly, his nose tilted up slightly. "Of course."
John chuckled quietly, shaking his head slightly. "You sure?", he asked,
smirking at him.
"Sure I am!", he squeaked, and then raising a hand, crooking a single finger.
"See? That's my Captain hook!"
The blond's smile widened. Too cute... "Mind if I check?", he asked, sliding
closer to him. "If you are a real Captain?"
Sherlock shook his head a little. "Not at all."
With that, John slid even closer, taking the boy's hand into his own, running
his fingers over it, coaxing it to loose, but Sherlock didn't play along,
holding it stiff all the time. "Yes, yes.", John finally said, running a hand
up to his shoulder. "That actually looks like a Captain hook.", he confirmed,
and Sherlock giggled loudly and didn't stop as John's hand moved even higher to
stroke once again curls from his forehead, which fell over his eyes. "And that
looks like a Captain eye patch.", he chuckled along.
The boy giggled as well, letting out a deep “Arrr!” – well, as deep as he could
get with his squeaky, cute voice. Which wasn't that deep at all, but well...
“And what's that?”, he asked, his eyes beaming in glee at John's little game,
and extending his other arm towards him.
“Oh, oh, lemme check...”, John hummed, taking the offered arm and turning a
little on the bed, crossing one leg over his knee, before he started to run his
hands over the small limb, rolling up his loose sleeves as much as he could,
brushing over his skin, dipping a finger deeper beneath the fabric, running it
over Sherlock's armpit. Hairless. Of course. And still John couldn't do else
but to be surprised. Mostly, though, by how much he enjoyed that. He wiggled
his finger a little, tickling Sherlock at that act, making him giggle squeakily
once again. “A real Captain's arm, of course.”, he confirmed them.
“I think, we should check some other things too, don't you think?”, he asked,
and the black haired nodded eagerly, his curls bouncing up and down at the
movement, humming a little. John chuckled, sliding a little further onto the
mattress, before moving his hands to Sherlock's stomach, brushing his hands
once again over his body, scanning it fully with his fingertips, starting to
tickle the boy once more whenever he seemed to get a little uncomfortable with
his moving hands, which always made him giggle and vanish every irritation in
his well readable face. He was a child after all. Every emotion was easily
seen, and even easier read. Though, it didn't really bother John. Not right
now. Not, where a cute, giggling body leaned into his warm touches, as if he
was never tickled. (Then again... Mycroft tickling his little brother was a
really, really weird scenario. Somehow.)
“One captainish rib... a second captainish rib...”, John counted loudly, moving
his fingers over Sherlock's shirt over his chest, a fingertip always running up
and down the whole length whenever he counted the next one. Sherlock looked up
at him proudly, grinning and giggling and writhing a little, though he froze as
John rose his voice again. “Oh, what's that?”
“What?!”, he asked, sucking in his lower lip to bit on it nervously, not even
realizing how beautifully it looked for John. He liked this. It was better than
reading. It was nice to be stroked and tickled and caressed. Sherlock
remembered darkly, that there has been a time, where Mommy would let him sleep
in her bed, and their mornings often used to look like similar to this now. But
it was long ago. Since Daddy has been coming home less and less, even Mommy had
barely time for him anymore. She was always with her family now, or with her
friends, or at some gala or party or any other thing, Sherlock didn't have a
clue of. And Mycroft? Mycroft never actually liked being this close. And
whenever Sherlock got him to cuddle, he would be either already asleep or would
send him 'to play a little', because he was busy after a few minutes. So it was
nice to have John paying him some attention and affection – not as his nanny.
(And it was of course utter coincidence, that she left, and had nothing to do
with Sherlock revolting against her as much as he could.)
But now, now John was scaring him. Was something wrong? He said, he was going
to be a doctor. If Sherlock was ill, he would realize now, right? Maybe he had
been ill all his time? And that was why he hadn't had any friends? Because the
other children could sense his illness? Bees could do that. Bees would kick out
an ill bee out of their honeycomb as soon as they realized.
“Mh...”, John thought out loud. “That could be a pirate rib here...”, he said
quietly, his eyebrows furrowing.
And now, Sherlock giggled once again. “Noooo!”, he singsonged gleefully. “It's
a captain one!”, the boy said determined, leaving one angel-like chuckle out
after the other.
“It's hard to tell like that...”, John shrugged, shaking his head a little.
“You mean... Because you can't really feel it?”, Sherlock asked, his eyebrows
furrowing. There was surely a reason why he had to undress whenever they were
by the doctor. And John was a doctor. Okay. Not yet. But still it was surely
okay. “Wait.”, he hummed, taking the lower end of his night shirt into his
hands, and pulled them up, revealing his pale belly. “Better?”, he asked, and
only got a deep hum in response, before John's hands found his body once again,
his warm fingertips running over his stomach and around his belly button,
giving Sherlock warm shivers and made him giggle once again.
“Much, much better.”, John confirmed, his voice getting a little more husky,
and was already counting his ribs once again. “The first captainish one.”, he
said, and Sherlock laughed once again. “And the second one...”, he said and let
his fingers twirl, tickling the boy who, pushed up his back to get into and out
of the touch at the same time, giggling once again. “And the third one ---”, he
said, and Sherlock took in a deep breath, looking up at him in expectation. “--
a captainish as well.”, he finally stated and Sherlock let out a cheerful
little noise.
“Told ya!”, he hummed in victory, but John's hands didn't stop to roam, now
moving over the imprint his pajama bottoms had done just over his waist, but
had slipped down a little by all the wiggling right now. Just now John's full
palms did touch his body, one covering his belly button, the other laying on
his thigh, but Sherlock didn't bother at all, as his caretaker was believing,
that those were his battle scars, claiming him not only to be a pirate captain,
but a good and brave and strong one as well.
And Sherlock liked it. He liked it as John's hand moved over to his belly
button, one finger dipping into it. He liked it, as John moved his fingers over
his small nipples, his thumb able to cover one of it fully. He liked it, as
John moved over and over over it, telling him quietly, that this was the
perfect space for a Captain's piercing. He liked it, as he moved his hands over
his sides, all down to his feet. He liked it as he tickled him at his soles,
making him squirm and laugh and kick a little.
“And those are a Captain's legs, right?”, the boy asked, grinning at him
widely, as the blond moved his hands over his legs, from his ankles right to
his hips, his fingers staying on the outsides all the time.
“Well, that one is for sure.”, John confirmed, patting his right one at his
knee gently, before moving up to squeeze it a little at the middle of his
thigh.
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “And the other?”, he asked skeptically, tilting
his head slightly. Was it once again a pirate's one...?
The blond chuckled lightly. “A wooden one, of course.”, he laughed, his other
hand patting at his knee as well, this time with his knuckles, making small
knocking noises. “See? Like a door.”, he said smiling.
“Yes.”, Sherlock giggled as well, this time not as full hearted as before, his
eyebrows furrowed. “But it is a Captain one, right?”, he asked. A wooden leg
was all nice and good – as long as it was a captainish one. What should he do
with the one of a usual pirate? Usual pirates were still cool, no one could
doubt that, but they were so much more dull than a Captain.
But before John could really answer that, Sherlock was already speaking once
again. “Check!”, he demanded in his most bossy tone, taking his waist band and
pulling it down over his knees, before kicking it wider down, making him lay on
the bed with his shirt rolled up, and his trousers around his ankles – just his
blue pants still firmly in place.
Sherlock saw John gasp, his eyes widening, his pupils as well and him
hesitating for quite some time. Widened eyes and pupils were usually signs of
people liking what they were seeing, but the other reactions confused Sherlock,
making him a little insecure. But just before he could pull up his trousers
once again, his cheeks already blushing in a soft pink, John placed his hands
once again onto Sherlock's knees – his thumbs on the inside now.
“Okay.”, John said quietly, nodding a little. “Okay.”, he repeated himself, and
his voice seemed to be a little deeper now, before he actually started to
stroke over Sherlock's thighs. Now, he was just concentrating on the upper
half, ignoring everything around his knees and below, just moving his fingers
over Sherlock's white and soft skin, his tanned fingers a huge contrast between
the colours. Just as huge as the finger itself seemed on the small body beneath
them.
He was massaging them carefully, groping them slightly, but never actually
touching Sherlock's pants, though a finger tip trailed around it playfully,
making Sherlock squirm a little more and feel a little... tingly. Though he
wasn't quite sure, why. “And?”, Sherlock asked in anticipation.
“Well.”, John said, and Sherlock huffed, not sure if he'd like the answer.
“That is a very rare and expensive wood...”, he stated, and Sherlock smirked
again. “But it so rare and expensive, that I don't know, if it's a pirate one,
or the one of Captain.”
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed a little. “And what are you going to do get
sure...?”, he asked insecurely once again, which John quickly noticed and
started to stroke him reassuringly once again.
The blond thought carefully, and Sherlock watched him, holding his breath. “We
could always ask the internet.”, he said then, looking to the black haired.
“Just if you like, of course.”
“I like!”, Sherlock squeaked quickly, nodding eagerly. “How you gonna do it?”,
he asked wiggling once again.
“A photo would be the easiest thing, I'd say.”, John nodded, pulling out his
mobile out of his jeans pocket. “Only, if you are okay, of course...? I
wouldn't like to force my little Captain to show his pretty, wooden leg.”, he
said seriously.
The boy giggled once again, showing his teeth, his cheeks flushing a little at
the praise. “Am okay!”, he confirmed, smiling a little awkwardly, his hands
moving up to play a little nervously with his curls.
John hummed, and a few clicks later, the photo was saved securely onto his
mobile. Just some seconds later, his phone buzzed. “Oh, I'm sure that's the
wooden leg-expert...”, John said, his gaze following onto his mobile, who just
showed the screen of the alarm clock he had set, so he wouldn't get Sherlock
too late into bed. After a few seconds he looked up, raising a hand to salute.
“Captain!”, he said respectfully, and Sherlock laughed and writhed in content.
“Haven't I told you? I have, haven't I?”, he smiled, just barely able to
suppress a yawn.
“You did.”, John confirmed, but his hands moved to pull up Sherlock's trousers
and set the shirt back into place. “But it is getting time to sleep, Sherlock.
Sweet pillows.”, he wished him softly, stroking once again over his forehead,
before standing up and tugging him beneath the blankets.
Sherlock made a small disappointed face, but sighed then. “Nighty night.”, he
said, and now finally yawning, and letting his eyes flatter a little.
John chuckled quietly, before he stood up, and shut down the lights. “Sweet
dreams, my little Captain.”, he said softly, as he closed the door after
himself.
Chapter End Notes
     [Edit: Ah, sorry! I've been away that weekend at a convention quite
     some hours away, and I've uploaded this chapter with my mobile for
     the lack of internet on my laptop - and it seems that it had
     destroyed the formation :/ So sorry!]
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Dyon?
Yawn?
Djawn?
Jon?
Jawn, are you mad at me?
There were really weird things to awake to. This awakening was surely going to
be in John's top five weird ones really quickly. Mycroft texting him cryptic
text at – he had to double check on his mobile – quarter past six in the
morning? On a Sunday? Had he missed something? Some codeword or anything like
that...?
He groaned a little as he typed his reply, his other hand moving in gentle
circles over the thin feminine body next to him, stroking her beautiful curves
contently.
Um... No? Why should I? - JW
Oh, yes, Sarah was quite a gorgeous woman. A eight, even his mates had agreed.
Intelligent, funny, good looking – no, screw that, breathtaking looking. They
were studying both medicine, and shared a lot of courses, so there was quite a
lot to talk about with her, even if she was one semester beneath him. At least
John always understood her problems and could help out with the one or other
thing. Sometimes, John wondered, how he had deserved someone like her. Then
again... They only have been two months together, so well.
You left your picture.
The blond's eyebrows furrowed. He wasn't even sure if that was meant to be the
reply to his question in first place. And, what seemed to be even more
surprising; He had to wait for the answer. While the other came just in the
second John had managed to press the send-button, he had to wait solid three
minutes for this. Was anything wrong with him...?
My picture...? Sorry, Mycroft, I really don't have a clue what you're talking
about...? - JW
Wouldn't be this unlikely, considering the time he had chosen to text John. But
why would he text John if he was in trouble...? Was 'leaving ones picture' some
code he should know? Some secret message he was meant to understand?
Not My!
Not his? Not his what...? John's eyebrows furrowed, slowly starting to get a
more little frustrated than just confused. Why was he speaking in riddles after
all? Though before John could send any other confused reply, he got another
message.
Sherlock!
Oh! Right! My. Myc. Mycroft. His brother. The fa-- No. John. Really. Shame on
yourself, that is not a nice thing to even think...
Oi, Sherlock-dear, what are you doing with your brother's phone, mh? - JW
Have you asked if you may use it? - JW
John texted back with a small grin, his hand stopping to move on his girlfriend
as she turned a little around, making small noises. By now John knew, that it
only implied that she would wake up soon. Not that it bothered him much
anyways. It was not like he would just text the goddamn toddler who had got him
aroused bad enough the other night that he had to seduce spontaneously his
girlfriend. Well, okay, fine. He hadn't had to. It was still nicer than to
masturbate in Holmes' toilette he had decided. And a lot of politer as well.
I'm texting you. Obviously.
My is reading the paper. He said I should do what I want if it stops me
bothering him.
“Who are you writing with, pumpkin?”, the still sleepy voice of John's
girlfriend sounded quietly as she turned around, placing her head against
John's bare shoulder, glancing up a little on the screen. It was just quite a
little surprising to the blond, that he didn't find her voice just as soft and
cute and endearing as he just found it a week ago. Maybe she just had a little
cold, John mused silently to himself. He just would make her some tea with
honey later and gain some 'good boyfriend'-bonus-points. Or something.
“No one, Pretty...”, he replied, noticing her skeptical gaze at instant,
adding, mostly to make it fade and prevent her from sniffing in his phone:
“Just the kid I've been watching yesterday.”
Right. Just a kid. Not someone he would get aroused from. Aroused enough to
call his girlfriend and practically beg her to spend the night with him, before
hurrying home as soon as Mycroft was back, just realizing in the cab that he
had paid him too much. Much too much.
John propped himself up on his elbow after he got a hum of insight from his
girlfriend, leaning over a little to press a peck on her cheek, thinking for a
second or two before asking: “Are we having any plans for today?”
“No, not that I know of... I've promised my brother to go shopping with him,
though.”, she replied, still sleepy, but waking up more and more with each
passing second.
The blond hummed a little, considering, before rolling back on his back. “So
you would not mind me spending some time with a five year old, mh?”
“Of course not, wanna-be-Daddy.”, she teased, before stretched once again, and
then rolled off the bed, just to disappear out of the bedroom and then into the
bathroom, naked as the day she was born.
Maybe, John would have realized that she swung her hips a little too
outstandingly – if he had looked at all. But as soon as the allowance came, his
eyes were glued once again on the little screen, typing.
But would you be a dear and bother him for me for a second? I'd like to text
him... - JW
The delay following made John slightly wary, furrowing his eyebrows concerned,
but soon enough the meek reply came .
Okay...
John has been just about to send his thanks and maybe the one or other
uplifting word, that he was not about to tell on him or anything, that the
little guy shouldn't be worried, as already the next message came – and the
blond really started to wonder how damn fast that man actually could write.
My dearest apologies, John. I haven't realized what Sherlock was up to. Please,
excuse him, I'll have a word with him and he won't be bothering you in the
future anymore. - MH
The blond blinked a little at that, before he shook his head and started to
type.
No, no, it's totally fine. He is not a bother at all. - JW
I just wanted to talk to you, because you've paid me too much last night. - JW
Gave me the wrong envelope or something. - JW
Oh? My apologies. - MH
Um... yeah. Should I come over to sort this out or something? - JW
Wouldn't that be too inconvenient for you? - MH
I believe that coming here for just one reason is quite a bit tedious. I can
always send someone over on workdays. - MH
Well, I could take Sherlock to the park and would have two reasons. - JW
I haven't planned anything today, it's totally fine. - JW
There is really no reason to bother with my brother, John, I know that he is...
exhausting. - MH
He is really no bother, Mycroft. I wouldn't mind at all. - JW
And now, for the first time, John actually had to wait for a reply, his
eyebrows furrowing slightly as he waited for the next text far longer than he
was used to from Mycroft, wondering, what might cause that delay. He just hoped
that everything was alright... Why was he so concerned? There were thousand
reason why one could need a few minutes to rep--- Ah. And there already was the
next buzz.
Alright. Sherlock seems to be delighted. - MH
 
 
Delighted might maybe be a weird kind of describing the feelings of a five-
years-old, but then again Mycroft barely used any vocabulary that would
describe the emotional state of anyone beneath the age of thirty. Not that John
wasn't delighted as he got to the Holmes estate this time to find the gate
opening as soon as he left the cab. He still wasn't totally sure what exactly
made the gate open, but he decided that he didn't care as much as he walked
over the white pebble stone path. This time, though, in his leather shoes.
“He is here! My! He is here!”, John could already hear the squeaky voice as he
approached to the main door, which was thrown wide open, and as he got even
closer even the shuffling of two tiny feet. “Myc! Myyyyc! Come, come quickly!
He is here! John is here!”
John chuckled a little beneath his breath as he finally arrived at the door,
stopping at the threshold and peeking inside, eyebrows furrowing a little as he
couldn't see neither of the Holmes brothers, knocking against the door frame.
“...hey?”
Just a second later the small mop of curly hair appeared once again at the
staircase, this time not shyly faltering but bouncing up and down, his toothy
smile practically shining at John, whose lips curled up just as well as he
heard the boy's voice: “John!”
And just with that he bolted down the stairs in a pace that made John worry
about him tripping every second, but soon Sherlock was downstairs, not having
bothered to actually pay the last two steps any respect and have jumped over
them, to be just a good second later by John, wrapping his small arms around
his waist in something that was surely meant to be a hug – but rather felt like
a tackle.
“Ow, ouch, oh, yes!”, the older one wheezed playfully, stumbling back a step or
two, his hands finding the boy's shoulder blades, holding him close in a try of
holding both their balance. As soon as both of them were standing still again,
Sherlock tilted his head up, shooting John a wide smile up, still holding
tightly around him, his arms too short to actually embrace him completely, his
small fingers clutching to John's jumper somewhere a tad behind his sides.
“You came!”, the boy pointed out cheerfully, squeezing the older one a little
more, giggling.
John rose his eyebrows a little, stroking through Sherlock dark curls, enjoying
their silk touch and fluffy texture. “Of course I did.”, he ensured him with a
chuckle. “Why shouldn't I have?”
Now, Sherlock stepped back a little and shrugged his shoulders, holding them up
for a few seconds, still looking up, fixing John with his grey eyes. “There was
a chance that My only said that to make me shut up.”, he finally said with a
soft sigh, which was so exaggerated that John had no doubt that he was trying
to imitate someone.
“I wouldn't do that.”, a tired sounding voice replied as Mycroft stepped down
the staircase with his usual grace, one hand on the bannister, the other
holding a small backpack, its flashy colors and the fact that it pretty much
looked like a pirate piggybacking its owner if correctly worn indicated that
this wasn't Mycroft's work-suitcase. “And we aren't words like that around
here, Sherlock.”
The younger brother made a grimace at the last remark, huffing, but resigning
his protest as he quickly moved over to Mycroft to pull his backpack out of his
hand, while the red haired extended his to shake John's, who didn't hesitate to
do so.
“Morning, Mycroft.”, John greeted gleefully, rummaging a little in the inside
of his opened jacket, before he took out the envelope he had gotten the money
for watching Sherlock yesterday, handing it over to the slightly younger man.
“Good morning, John... And thank you.”, Mycroft replied, taking the envelope
with a polite smile, his gaze wandering to Sherlock who was already about to
take his shoes out of the shoe self. “...for both of this.”
“It's no problem at all, I promise.”, John dismissed, his gaze glued just as
well on Sherlock who was slipping into his black loafers – which looked quite
like leather as well.
They looked nice on him, what did not, after all? And they fitted well to the
dark purple shirt the boy wore, as well as to his dark jeans, even as John was
surprised that jeans were sold form fitting for children as young as him. Or
were they tailor made just for him...? Either way, John's eyebrows furrowed a
little.
“Um... Is it alright that he wears... this?”, he asked a little hesitantly,
making Sherlock look up a little confused. “I mean... We're going to the park.
Could be that he gets himself a little... dirty?”, he explained further as he
realized that even Mycroft seemed a little uncertain what he could mean.
Now, though, he smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no, no. We already picked some
more casual clothing.”, Mycroft replied, turning John's concern down.
“Myc picked.”, Sherlock corrected with a soft scoff. “But I picked the shoes!”,
he said, smiling once again and jumped to his feet, getting closer to John to
nudge with his shoe against John's. “See? The same!”, he said with quite some
bit of excitement in his voice, making John chuckle once again.
“Oh, you're right!”, the blond acknowledged, his hand soon grabbed by
Sherlock's, being pulled and tugged a little.
The boy was rocking on his heels, straining himself against John's weight,
still too young and too thin to actually get him to move. “Can we go now? Can
we? Now? Please?”, he blabbered, while Mycroft pointed to the backpack, still
being held by his little brother.
It wasn't big, the perfect size for a child to carry, and still John gently
took it out of Sherlock's hand to carry it on his own, giving Sherlock more
possibilities to rock and bounce and being impatient and eager to finally
leave. “I've packed him something to change into, a first aid kit for en route,
something to drink and the most important numbers if anything should happen. Do
you think you'll need anything else?”
John shook his head, and Sherlock replied a blunt 'Uh-uh!', not stopping to tug
on John's arm. “I think we will manage. ...thanks and see you then, mh? I'll
bring him back later.”, he said with a smile, and after a few words of good bye
John and Sherlock were finally leaving, Sherlock still holding onto John's arm,
skipping and bouncing with every step, kicking a few pebbles away.
“What are we going to do, John?”, he asked curiously, his big eyes glued on
John's face, his cheeks wonderfully flushed in anticipation.
The blond grinned a little, leading them to the cab which was still waiting for
both of them. “We're going to the park, hm? There are a few playground you
might like, and we can take a walk, and I've prepared a few things for a
picnic. There is a lake as well, so we can feed the ducklings, hm? And... we
are going to have some fun together, how does that sound?”
Chapter End Notes
     Argh. I'm so sorry, guys! You had to wait for that chapter for like a
     month... for more than a month... damn. Thing was that I've been at
     my grandparents for holiday and I forgot to take my laptop charger so
     it was pretty hard to type any further. And as I'm too stupid to type
     with a tablet (and writing things down on paper while your
     grandparents are around and ask you what you're writing about is a
     little... awkward), it took some while :x Sorry again! T_T [...should
     I even mention that I finished that chapter here on Monday but simply
     /forgot/ to load it up...? No...? Good...]
     But I received a lot of kudos and great comments and a lot of
     subscribers and bookmarks and a fic-rec on tumblr [Kyah <3], and I am
     really, really happy that all of you liked it so far... and I hope
     that you'll stick to it - as chapter will come more fluent now again.
     So sorry again, guys and thank you very much. You're awesome!
End Notes
     I should apologize, I suppose. For the topic, for the story, for
     anything I did wrong, because this is my first fanfiction here, and
     for my horrible English. But then again, it is not like I won't go to
     this special place in hell anyway. (Starting this as a summer holiday
     project, comparable to the NaNoWriMo (means: Chapters are going to be
     exactly posted as I'm writing them each day.) Not quite sure how long
     this is going to be, though the story line is mostly set.)
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