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It had been only a little over one week since Sherlock Holmes had a certain incident. It was a normal case, (well, normal for Sherlock anyways) and it led both John and Sherlock to an old abandoned warehouse. A scientist, Dr. Morovo, was stealing highly experimental chemicals from the lab he worked in and taking them for his own experiments. Once one of his colleges found out what he was doing, Morovo killed him and tried to cover his tracks.
It only took Sherlock a few hours to discover the motive and who the killer was, but Morovo ran before they could catch him. In the warehouse, they finally had the suspect cornered and were near to apprehend him, when he suddenly brandished a syringe filled with a vile looking liquid. He lunged forward, plunging the needle deep into Sherlock’s upper arm before he could react.
John easily took the doctor down with a single blow to the face before turning his attention to Sherlock who was just pulling the syringe out of his arm. After the police came to handle the rest, the flat mates both headed home, Sherlock ignoring John protests of not going to the hospital. Satisfying John with a quick check over once they got home to see if he was all right, he went to sleep.
But by the morning, the world’s greatest detective had turned into a helpless toddler. He had no memory of people in his life prior, but seemed to be immediately drawn to the doctor. John quickly met up with Mycroft, thinking it would be best to explain in person of what exactly happened to his brother. They both decided that it would be the best for Sherlock to stay with John and to keep the matter private for now. Mycroft even got it worked out so John wouldn’t have to work while Sherlock was still in need of him. Of course, John didn’t mind having to take care of the little detective; in fact, he was looking forward to a break from work and cases for a little while.
After returning from a morning shopping run with the little detective, John put a bag of groceries on the clean counter top in the kitchen. It was actually clean for once since John had to put away all every experiment and dangerous item so little Sherlock wouldn’t mess with them.
“Alright,” John said as he turned to look down at Sherlock, “I’m going to use the loo. I’ll be right back.”
After John left, little blue eyes looked over to what lay on top of the counter, a plastic package of biscuits could be seen peeking out from the top of the brown paper bag. Sherlock smiled as he pulled a chair away from the table and pushed it until its side touched the white cabinets below the counter. Climbing on the chair was simple enough, and he hoped the next climb would be too. He laid his hands flat on top of the counter and lifted a knee so it was just on the edge to help get him leverage to get himself up on top.
After managing to pull himself up he peered over the edge to the floor and carefully lifted himself to his feet not wanting to fall. Grabbing the side of the bag with one hand he stretched out his other towards the biscuit package, but just as the little detective was about to reach his goal, large hands wrapped around his waist and lifted him in the air.
“No climbing onto the counter Sherlock,” John said as he placed Sherlock on his hip and having one of his arms wrap around the boy.
Sherlock squeaked in surprise as he was suddenly lifted from where he stood, he hadn’t even heard John come up behind him. The surprise only lasted a few moments and the little detective then looked beyond John’s shoulder at the biscuits that was almost his; he was so close he could literally almost taste them. “But why?”
Sherlock had been asking ‘why’ more and more the past two or three days. The little detective was smart for his age and he usually knew how some things would work, so he didn’t ask as much as other children his age (his age that he appeared now, that is), but he still would, especially whenever he couldn’t get what he wanted.
“Because, what if you fell or what if you accidentally turn on the stove? I don’t want you to get seriously hurt, Sherlock.”
“I would be careful!” Sherlock protested as he looked to his best friend, “I’m a big boy, John.”
“Yes, I know you are,” John smiled as he tapped the little nose of the detective with his index finger, “but that doesn’t mean big boys can’t get hurt too.”
Big blue eyes looked up at him. “You got hurt. Your shoulder has a big scar on it, from when you were fighting.”
“Yes I did, and I’m a big boy, aren’t I?”
Sherlock looked down in for a few moments in thought, and then lifted his head to nod to his friend.
“I’m glad you understand, now,” John then had serious, yet gentle appearance on his face as he looked at the boy, “no more climbing on the counter. I mean it, Sherlock.”
Sherlock titled his head down slightly, but looked up at John so his blue eyes peered behind his eyelashes. “Okay, John.” He stuck out his bottom lip and blinked innocently a few times up at his caretaker.
John smiled down at the little bundle in his arms. It was hard enough to say ‘no’ to a persistent adult Sherlock, but like this, Sherlock was just so cute. It was just an internal struggle every day for John not to just give in and give the toddler anything he desired, but he couldn’t do that. No matter how adorable Sherlock could be as a three-year old, he couldn’t give everything a toddler wanted, especially a Sherlock toddler, who knows the chaos that would happen! John was the adult here for the time being and had to stay firm.
“And no,” John began as he opened a cabinet with his free hand, “it’s lunchtime, so you can’t have a biscuit.” The doctor picked up the package and put it inside the cupboard, so they would be well out of a grabby little toddler’s reach.
As the little door closed, a small huff of disprovable escaped from the pint-sized detective in John’s arms. The doctor smirked to himself as he crossed the room and set Sherlock down on one of the chairs at the table. A hand came to ruffle the dark curly locks, “Nice try though.”
A few days later, John was cleaning that day’s lunch dishes as Sherlock sat on the ground of the kitchen and tinkered with an old wall clock. As it was already broken, John didn’t see a problem of handing it over when Sherlock asked about it.
“It says 3:04,” Sherlock said after he manually winded the clock to a random time.
John only hummed in response as he placed a clean dish on a towel off to the side of the sink to dry.
Sherlock winded the clock to a different time again, “Now it says 7:37!” He held up the clock proudly for John to see.
“Yes it does,” John replied, not looking away from his work.
“You’re not even looking, John.”
The doctor turned his head to look at Sherlock, but the plate in his hand slipped and fell into the water-filled side of the divided sink. Dirty water splashed onto John’s trousers and the bottom of his shirt, immediately seeping to the undergarments underneath.
John sighed to himself. Grabbing a towel, he started blotting the water, but already knew it would have little effect. He needed fresh, dry clothes. Tossing the towel to the side, he twisted off the sink and turned around to face the little detective.
“I need to go change,” he looked from his clothes to the boy sitting on the floor, “I’ll be right back, Sherlock. Stay right there.”
The doctor walked out and left Sherlock to still tinker with his clock, but a constant sound caught the detective’s attention. The sound was easily recognizable, but he had to stand up to see exactly what it was. The faucet wasn’t properly shut off and was creating a rhythmic drip, drip, drip, sound in the metal sink basin. Sherlock looked to the corner John had just disappeared around and then back towards the sink.
The attention drawn to the sink reminded him of the unclean dish that still lay there.
John would easily finished doing the dishes when he came back down, but…what if Sherlock did it for him? He also thought of how John told him not to go on the counter, but maybe if he got down before John saw, he could see the clean dish first and realize that Sherlock can be responsible. Being thought of as responsible would get John to let him do more stuff that he wouldn’t let him do before. John had seemed to be extremely unaccepting of Sherlock asking to play on the roof, so maybe he could ease into certain things like that.
Both John’s shirt and trousers were splashed with water, with most likely his under shirt and pants also wet. Adding the time of how long John might be upstairs in his head, he also added a few seconds from the variable of doing extra stuff in his room like comb his hair or check his phone. Hesitating only a few moments, he then quickly pushed a chair to the cabinets and climbed to the top of the counter.
After climbing into the unfilled side of the sink, he sat on the small edge of the counter in front of the sink and placed his feet in the bottom of the empty metal basin. Leaning over, he fished the plate from the murky water of the other side and placed it in front of his feet. Sherlock grabbed the dish soap bottle and poured a generous amount over the plate, noticing the bottle was empty when he was done. Tossing the empty bottle off to the side, he then grabbed the yellow sponge and leaned forward to scrub the plate making suds soon replaced the liquid soap. Once satisfied with the amount of bubbles, Sherlock turned the faucet on to wash the traces of soap away, the cool water revealing the plate underneath.
Once the bubbles were washed away, Sherlock turned off the taps and he straightened back up, but with little to sit on and nothing to press his back against his balanced was thrown off. His body wobbled, trying to gain control of his momentum, but ultimately failed and Sherlock began to fall backwards.
After changing into fresh clothes, John quickly checked his phone, preferring having upstairs most of the time so more attention could be kept on his charge…and so Sherlock wouldn’t do who knows what with it. With no new messages or missed calls from Mycroft on finding a cure for Sherlock, John set his phone down and walked back downstairs.
Walking back into the kitchen, he immediately saw Sherlock teetering on the edge of the counter in front of the sink.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins as he saw the balance completely leave the boy and begin to fall backwards to the ground. John leapt forward, managing to catch Sherlock in his arms just in time.
Shaky arms wrapped around Sherlock and brought him to his chest, holding him close for a few moments. He set Sherlock to his feet onto the floor and kneeled in front of him, placing both of his hands on the detective’s small shoulders. “Sherlock, are you alright?” Adrenaline was still pouring throughout his veins and his fast beating heart was pounding in his ears.
The detective’s mouth was agape from the shock of the fall and near crash to the floor below, but he nodded at John’s question.
A look of relief crossed over John’s face after he knew Sherlock was unhurt, but relief rapidly turned into anger. He quickly grabbed the boy and tucked him under his left arm. Holding Sherlock in place with his backside facing out, John rapidly applied three swats to Sherlock’s clothed bottom.
Sherlock barely noticed that he was placed under John’s arm, as it happened so fast, and his mind was still on the fall. But the shock from falling was soon replaced with shock from the first smack. Two more smacks quickly followed in the same spot before he was released from John’s grip.
“What were you thinking?!” John yelled after he placed Sherlock back in front of him. “You could of gotten seriously hurt, Sherlock!”
Eyes widened with fear as John shouted at him. He had never seen him so cross, especially at him. As John continued to yell, Sherlock wondered if the man would ever be the same loving and caring John again, because this one just seemed so different, so angry. John was his only friend and what if since he made him so mad, he didn’t want to be his friend anymore now? Sherlock would hate for that to happen, John seemed to be all Sherlock had right now. The little detective started to tremble as the yelling continued, his vision soon starting to blur over with tears.
“Imagine if I didn’t catch you, your head would probably be split open right now! Now, I thought I tol-“
John’s sentence was cut short by a sudden loud wail from the toddler. Tears began to stream down Sherlock’s cheeks and he sat on the linoleum floor, burying his face into his hands as he continued to cry, saying ‘I’m sorry’ over and over in-between sobs.
Children usually seemed to cry when they are smacked, so John sort of expected as much, but Sherlock seemed to be crying pretty hard. Sherlock should not have gone on the counter, so he deserved a few smacks, right? Then why was John feeling exceedingly guilty and having his heartstrings tugged at as he watched the crying figure before him? Maybe the detective just trying to get out of trouble by fake crying, but John was pretty sure he could tell the difference between real and false tears, and these looked very much legit.
But then Sherlock said something truly heartbreaking.
“Don’t stop being m-my friend, please! I’m so s-sorry John!” Sherlock sobbed.
John stared at Sherlock with disbelief; he couldn’t believe that Sherlock would even imagine saying that. As a doctor, John had seen quite a number of head injuries in children, he was just lucky he got there in time to save Sherlock from such a fate. He was just angry that Sherlock would take such a risk, especially after he told him not to climb on the counter before. But just the scare from the fall could have easily deterred Sherlock from doing it again, the near drop probably being punishment enough. John only lost his temper for a moment, but it was still enough to make little Sherlock think that he was angry enough to not be his friend anymore.
Picking up the toddler, he held him close to his chest and wrapped his arms securely around him. Sherlock immediately took his face out of his hands in favor of burying it into the crook of John’s neck while still saying phrases of apology.
John sat back on his heels and started gently talking to Sherlock, trying to calm him down.
“It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not mad, it’s okay.” He swayed Sherlock back and forth and started to rub the little one’s back. “I’m just glad you aren’t hurt Sherlock.”
After a few minutes of rocking and the crying dying down to only an occasional hiccup or sniffle, John spoke to the detective in his arms.
“I think it’s naptime now, yeah?”
This wasn’t followed by the usual protest of ‘naps are for babies’ or ‘I’m not tired,’ but only a sad little nod. John got to his feet and made his way back to Sherlock’s room, mindful not to step on any of the scattered toys on the floor.
John pulled back the covers and gently laid Sherlock on his bed. His chest tightened as he saw the look of sadness on the little one’s face.
“I’m sorry,” John said as he sat on the bed beside Sherlock. “I lost my temper.”
“I’m sorry I climbed onto the counter,” Sherlock’s reply came as raspy and quiet.
“I scared you didn’t I?” John asked as he brushed the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s tear-stained cheeks.
The little detective wiped his nose with his arm and sniffed before nodding. “Yeah…you got so mad, and I didn’t, I-I didn’t...” Sherlock’s breath quickened as fresh tears began to also fill his eyes.
John took in the scene before him and began to run a hand through Sherlock’s dark hair, trying to calm him before he started crying again. Since Sherlock had turned into a little Sherlock, he enjoyed having much more physical contact when he was being emotional, something that surprised John, but he didn’t mind giving the cuddles.
“Shh, it’s okay Sherlock, don’t cry,” John cooed, “I shouldn’t of gotten so mad….I was afraid, I guess.”
Sherlock rubbed an arm over his eyes before the tears could fall and then looked to John with a slightly confused look. “You get scared?”
A chuckle escaped John’s throat. Perhaps Sherlock thought of some type of invincible hero who could do anything, but he was only a man. While out on cases before Sherlock’s incident, he was scared more times than he would like to count.
“Everyone gets scared, Lock.”
Sherlock only nodded as John kept running a hand through his hair. It only took two more minutes for Sherlock to drift off to sleep.
As soon as the detective’s breathing evened out, John stood and tucked the covers around the sleeping body. Leaving the little detective to rest, John exited the room, making sure to quietly shut the door behind him. He walked back to the kitchen sink to finish the one dish he had left, noticing it was not still under the dirty water, but on the other side of the basin. It was mostly clean, except for the few specs of dried on food, but John realized this is probably the reason as to why Sherlock was on the counter in the first place.
After finishing the dish, John walked to the living room and sat on the couch by the window. He mindlessly flipped through a few channels on the telly before turning it off and settling on a nearby book.
Only a little over an hour and a half of reading, did John hear the small creak of a door opening and the soft padding footsteps running on the linoleum and then the carpet coming towards him. Lowering the book, John could see Sherlock standing in front of him with a small look of serious on his face.
“Have a nice nap?” John asked as he closed the book and set it aside.
Sherlock said nothing as he made his way to the side of the couch and hoisted himself up onto the cushions. Sherlock crawled to where John was sitting and laid himself on his stomach across the doctor’s lap, looking up at the man almost expectantly.
“It hurts.”
A look of worry came over John’s face as he began to look the boy over for any signs of injury.
“What hurts Sherlock? Tell me where it hurts and I’ll try to help.”
“My bum, John! It hurts!” Sherlock rested the side of his face on John’s thigh, all the while putting up an A-class pout.
A look of confusion crossed over the doctor’s face, “Your-“ he began, before realization of what Sherlock meant came to his mind. He closed his eyes and sighed. Even as a toddler, Sherlock could be so dramatic.
“Sherlock, it does not hurt.” John began scratching the little detective’s back with his right hand, hoping it might ease the drama in the detective.
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when John’s hand touched his back. Visibly relaxed at John’s touch, he closed his eyes for a moment and made John wonder if he would fall back asleep right then. But after a few moments, blue eyes peeked out from some loose fringes out dark hair.
“Yes it does, John.”
The doctor had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but he gently pulled down Sherlock’s trousers and pants to have a good look at his bottom, just to be sure. And, of course, it was; it wasn’t even slightly pink from the smacks from earlier. Sherlock was just being Sherlock.
“Sherlock, your bum is fine, stop being so dramatic.” He said as put Sherlock’s clothes back in their rights and began scratching the little detective’s back again.
“I will never sit again!” Sherlock threw his arms forward, letting his body go completely limp over John’s lap.
John quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock’s show before him, the little guy could really pull out all the stops when he wanted too.
“Oh, really?” John said as he removed his hand from Sherlock’s back and held it high in the air. “Maybe I should make sure of that, hmm?”
Sherlock eyebrows furrowed, trying to understand what the doctor meant by that, when suddenly he saw John’s hand raise from his peripherals, resulting in a little gasp from the toddler.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, noooooo!” Sherlock yelled, instantly regretting the position he put himself in.
John chuckled as he lowered his hand and placed both them around Sherlock’s sides and lifted him up, putting him in a sitting position on the doctor’s lap.
“I think you were just trying to guilt trip me.”
A wave of relief washed over Sherlock once he was sitting on John’s lap and realizing that he wasn’t in trouble, but as he heard John’s words, he wasn’t quite so sure. Sherlock looked up worryingly at the doctor, but the man smiled gently down at him, easing his concern.
“Your deduction might have some truth in it,” Sherlock said as he put a small finger to his mouth.
“Yes, I believe it does,” John replied as he stood, adjusting Sherlock so he rested on his hip and walked towards the kitchen.
When in the kitchen, he stood by the freezer and opened it up. After rummaging a bit, he finally pulled out a pint of chocolate ice cream. Once learning of Sherlock’s love of sweets, John was getting more skilled at sneaking things into the cart without catching the watchful eyes of the little detective.
John held the cold treat in his hand for Sherlock to see. “Maybe you thought you could get me to give you some sort of treat?”
Sherlock looked towards the ice cream pint in John’s hand. Chocolate was his absolute favorite and he knew it was specially picked out for him since he observed that John’s favorite was cookie dough. “That deduction might also have some truth in it.”
John laughed and kissed the top of the toddler’s forehead before putting him in a chair next to the table. Retrieving a bowl, he put three heavy scoops of the treat in the bowl. He decided he probably should have only stuck with two, but was glad to see the expression on Sherlock’s face as he placed to bowl in front of him and handed him a spoon.
He sat in a vacated chair beside Sherlock and watched him put a giant spoonful into his mouth excitedly.
After a few minutes of happily eating his treat, Sherlock began to think of the events earlier that day. John was so mad it frightened Sherlock and made himself question whether John would be the same again. He tried to ignore his thoughts and continue eating, but one question stuck in Sherlock’s head.
Would John always be his friend, no matter what?
Sherlock set down the spoon and looked down, avoiding eye contact, “John?”
“Yes?”
The detective bit his lip and hesitated, not sure if he wanted to ask his question anymore.
The sudden change of behavior and silence of the detective was strange to John, since Sherlock seemed to have been exceedingly happy a moment ago, what would change that? Maybe Sherlock had thoughts that he still might be in trouble. Whatever it was, John wanted Sherlock to know he could trust him enough to tell him anything.
“Sherlock, you can tell me. I won’t be mad.” John said, assuring him.
“…will you always be my friend?”
Sherlock hesitated in case of rejection, not if what he would say would make him angry, John realized.
Taking one finger, he placed it under Sherlock’s chin and gently lifted his head up so their eyes met.
“I will always be your friend, no matter what. You may do certain things that might make me angry or sad, but I will always be there for you.”
Sherlock’s eyes seem to instantly light up at John’s words. He then scurried off the chair to hug John’s legs tightly. “Thank you…” he almost whispered.
John placed a hand on top of the little detective’s wild curls. “You’re welcome.”
“And I promise to be your friend forever too!” Sherlock said after releasing John’s legs and climbing back into his own chair.
John smiled, “Well I’m glad, now you better finish your ice cream before I eat it myself.”
Sherlock smiled and began eating again; happily knowing that he will always have a friend there for him.