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"Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room."
- Harriet Beecher Stowe
“What that?”
“It’s a book. On lichens and their toxic properties.”
John smiled from his position on the sofa, eyes closed but still very much alert to the goings on in the next room despite announcing that he was going to have an afternoon nap, even if certain stubborn toddlers weren’t inclined to lie down with him.
In the kitchen he could hear the glass slides clink under Sherlock’s microscope and the intermittent banging of his daughter’s crayons against the table of her high chair once she got bored of colouring with them. The noises were familiar but hushed as much as a two-year old and Sherlock Holmes could manage for John’s ‘unwinding time’. A few months prior, John used to invite Mrs. Hudson up to babysit or bundle Rosie off to Molly’s for a while so he could have an hour or so to himself without chasing a toddler around but Sherlock had gone over all stroppy one afternoon when he’d watched John try to wrestle a fussy Rosie into her coat and declared that he could certainly manage to watch her long enough for John to go have a pint or read the paper or whatever other dull thing he needed to do. And so John’s ‘unwinding time’ somehow also became Sherlock-and-Rosie’s bonding time.
A shrill whistling cuts through the quiet and John can hear Sherlock’s muttered curse before the noise cuts off sharply. Luckily, Rosie’s more into the questioning phase than repeating what everyone says [“And a good thing too, with the rate you swear around her,” Sherlock had snapped when John teasingly brought up the idea of a swear jar for him. “I’m hardly the one to worry about in that regard.”] and John waits for the little voice to pipe up, right on cue.
“What that, Suhl?”
“That’s the teakettle, Watson. And it’s Sherlock. Shhhhhher-lock.”
The last time John brought up the fact that Rosie wouldn’t be able to pronounce silent consonants until her front teeth came in a little more Sherlock had glared at him witheringly and told Rosie that she was to ignore ‘Daddy’s low expectations and abysmal benchmarks.’ So he let it go and resolved to teach Rosie how to say “Shezza” as soon as those pesky front teeth came in. Would serve him right.
“Suhl. Suhl. What that?”
“Dust motes.”
There was a short pause and then the sound of something being moved, followed by Rosie’s dismayed cry and Sherlock’s chiding voice.
“We don’t lick dust motes, Watson. Your father frowns on it. Despite the fact that it’s mostly dead epidermis, sand, and dander which is hardly toxic at all and quite harmless. Now, this lichen would make you quite sick if you were to ingest it so you must never touch it or put it in your mouth. See the bright colour?”
“Geen!”
They’d been working on colours lately.
“Chartreuse, actually.”
“Geen, Suhl.”
“As ever, you see but you do not observe-”
“It geen.”
There’s a long-suffering sigh and then the light smacking sound of a pair of lips pressing to a (still mostly hairless, John despairs of Rosie ever wearing the ridiculous amount of barrettes Mrs. H had showered her with on her last birthday) forehead, followed by childish giggles.
“Stubborn as your father,” Sherlock said, and he sounded so fond that John couldn’t stand to fake sleep any longer.
He rolled himself off the sofa and plodded into the kitchen with his hair a mess, grinning broadly as Rosie spotted him and gave a wide, gummy-smile in greeting, kicking her feet.
“Da! Green,” his daughter said, pointing triumphantly to the book of lichen propped up on the table.
“So I see, darling. Bright green.”
Sherlock sniffed and pretended to ignore them both in favour of staring into his microscope.
“She’s inherited your appalling sense of colour.”
John nodded seriously, lips pressed together tightly to keep the laughter in. “Dreadful. How will you ever cope with the both of us?”
“Copious amounts of tea. Speaking of which, the kettle just boiled.”
So it had. John noticed that the tea mugs remained resolutely empty though, bags of PG Tips waiting by the kettle, yet to take the plunge. Apparently Sherlock had become distracted before he could pour out his afternoon beverage.
It was John’s turn to fake a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll just make you a cuppa, then, shall I?”
Sherlock declined to respond, apparently lost to the world of lichen now that he wasn’t the sole source of entertainment for the youngest Watson, and John shuffled over to still steaming kettle to make them both a cuppa. As he passed though, he felt a brief tug on the sleeve of his shirt and glanced up into a pair of narrowed grey-green eyes and a creased forehead.
“John, I wouldn’t have let her lick the lichen,” Sherlock said, quietly fervent, and John could feel a lump start in his throat that he needed to swallow around before he could reply. Reaching out, he took hold of a bony shoulder under the expensive silk dressing gown and squeezed tight.
“I know that. I know you wouldn’t,” he protested, shaking his head. “That’s not why I—”
He glanced over at Rosie who was quietly watching them from her chair, a crayon clutched tight in her chubby fist, bright eyes taking in everything.
“I just didn’t want to miss this.”
“This?”
“You. And Rosie. And the tea.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said, though the wrinkle of his brow suggested that this perhaps was one of those sentiment things he couldn’t be expected to put up with. Which was when John decided that he needed, absolutely needed to hug the man before he could say some other ridiculous thing. It was worth the awkward poke of a test-tube against his chest to see Sherlock’s face go slack in shock and then feel his arms awkwardly slide around John’s back in a loose hold, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with them.
Of course I trust you with my daughter, you great stupid git, John wanted to mutter into the folds of Sherlock’s dressing gown. He laughed instead, pulling back once Rosie began to fuss about not being the center of both men’s attention for a record thirty seconds.
“How can I pass up the chance to take tea with my two favourite people?” he said as he hefted Rosie out of her chair and into his arms, bouncing her up and down in time with her giggling. “Although I will be taking my nap later. As will this one.”
Rosie’s giggles turned into pouting once she cottoned on to the fact that she was the ‘one’ in question.
“No nap, Da.”
“Yes, nap. You’ll be cranky by supper if you don’t and I can only handle one sleep-deprived toddler in this house at a time.” John turned to glance at Sherlock, looking the man up and down with a smirk twitching the corners of his lips. “Come to think of it, you should have a lie in too. You didn’t come to bed at all last night and we’ve nothing on.”
Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Sleep. Sleep’s boring.”
“Never said anything about sleeping,” John pointed out.
There was simply nothing better than watching Sherlock’s cheeks warm and flush after John’s managed to fluster him with something. He waited patiently for the other man to process this bit of suggestiveness, busying himself with making tea one-handed with Rosie on his hip. She tried to help out by knocking the sugar bowl over with her foot and then attempting to stuff a dry teabag in her mouth.
“Oh,” Sherlock finally exclaimed as John handed over his tea. “I suppose I could…relax a little. For an hour or so. If you were joining me.”
“That’s settled then. We’ll have our tea and you can finish up with the lichens, seeing as Rosie’s interested in the result.” Or at least her scribbles were of the green variety and could very well look like a poisonous lichen if you squinted. “And then it’s a lie-down for all of us.”
Still blushing, Sherlock took a long sip of tea and then retreated to his microscope, away from John’s suggestive grins. Well satisfied with how his ‘unwinding time’ was progressing today, John eased himself into one of the kitchen chairs and cuddled his daughter on his lap. It might not have been the way he’d imagined his life turning out three or four years ago, but he had to admit that he’d rarely ever felt so satisfied, so grounded.
It was simply perfect.
Even after Rosie decided to decorate his trousers with her green crayon.
Perfect.
/End