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As the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes has a reputation to uphold, in matters both public or private.
John’s age regression, of course, is a deeply private matter, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from putting every ounce of effort possible into helping.
Now, John isn’t necessarily a chatty child most days, but he does talk much more about his feelings than adult John ever will. The problem? Sherlock has seen neither hide nor hair of small John for well over a month, and he knows this has to stem from whatever is making adult John so bloody moody.
Sherlock has never claimed to fight fair, and today has proved to be no exception. John is due home somewhere in the next five minutes, so Sherlock runs over everything to make sure it’s all perfectly in place.
The telly is playing Postman Pat, the tea is almost ready, and he has John’s favorite gummy snacks conveniently placed out on the counter. There’s enough balance between child and adult that, even if John sees through him immediately, it will put John in a better state of mind.
When John arrives home, he sees through Sherlock immediately.
“For the last time, Sherlock, I’m not regressing on your schedule. It doesn’t work like that.” John takes off his coat and hangs it by the door, but there’s a distinct tremble in his hands that tells Sherlock he’s already winning.
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.”
“No, you don’t. You scheme.” Despite his reservations, John still goes for the cup Sherlock sets out for him. “So what’s the motive today? Itching to run an experiment?”
“Glad to know you’re just as fussy as you were yesterday.” In a fit of boldness, Sherlock nudges the box of snacks into John’s direct line of sight.
While John makes a big deal of sighing and rolling his eyes, he does take them. Wonderful.
“Come sit with me on the couch.” Sherlock offers. He takes his own cup over and sits, nudging the remote out of John’s immediate reach.
“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.” John warns. He still sits, and his eyes remain quite fixed on the television.
Sherlock chats with him about random things, like the weather or work, but he keeps his tone light, and surely, John begins to regress. The real tell is when John places his half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table. John never leaves an unfinished cup of tea just sitting around.
John folds his hands in his lap, a defensive stance. He’s on the cusp of regression.
“Here, love.” Sherlock pulls John into his lap, tucking his head of blonde hair against his shoulder. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”
John shrugs. His eyes flit to the television for a second, so Sherlock wastes no time turning it off. No distractions.
John whines in protest. Oh yes, he must be feeling quite small if he’s whinging over the telly.
Sherlock shushes him. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours?”
John’s face twists into a pout. He turns back to the television, even if there’s nothing for him to look at now. “Don’t wanna be small around you.”
There are few things that shake Sherlock Holmes, but that manages to throw him for a loop. He’s never been a braggart, but it is simple fact that he’s an excellent caregiver. Attentive, playful, and indulgent. What more could John want?
“Why ever not?” Sherlock’s a little embarrassed to admit he’s doing a bit of whinging himself.
“Don’t like ’periments.”
So that’s what this is about. Ever since Sherlock first found out about John age regressing, he’s made an effort to learn about everything he could about John’s smaller self, which usually involved a lot of trail and error. Sherlock jokingly referred to it all as “experiments” as a way to lighten the mood and make it seem like he was doing anything more than testing to see which juice John liked better.
“Love, I’m just trying to learn more about you.”
John’s pout deepens into something that could almost be a scowl.
“Okay, okay. I hear you, love. No more experiments. Now put the pout away.” Sherlock tries placating John by rubbing his back. It works, but barely. “I thought you wanted me learning more about you.”
John doesn’t say anything. He just tellingly points to a pile of papers on their coffee table.
Sherlock has the good graces to blush. It finally hits him how bad this must look from an outside perspective. Thousands of notes and hypotheses, complete with conclusions and further research ideas. Hell, if he were to look at these without any context, he’d probably want to sock the caregiver responsible once or twice. Why the bloody hell did he think it’d be funny to refer to John as “the subject”?
“Oh, I’m so sorry, darling.” Sherlock croons, internally vowing to have these papers shredded before the day is out. Sensitive information like this is better suited for his mind palace anyway. “I’ve made quite the mistake. Can my John find it in him to forgive me?”
John takes an agonizingly long time before finally nodding his agreement.
“No more ’periments.” John says firmly.
Sherlock chuckles and pulls him into a tight, tight hug.
“No more experiments,” he agrees.